Monday, March 5, 2012
“It is not the shine, but the moon and the stars.”
For this post I’m going to switch gears and focus instead on the human interactions that we have had in the citrus. We are in the midst of peak citrus production right now and the groves are filled with pickers of all sorts. They get paid the equivalent of six American dollars a day to pick fruit, which they then take to their local market or street stand to sell. Since we are peculiar white people setting up nets all around them, we get approached by a ton of curious people, each with a motive of their own. Here is a colorful account of some of the more memorable and frightening moments…
As we parked the car at dawn the first morning, we were the only ones in the citrus, but on the walk back to the car a few hours later, I passed numerous people. A middle-aged woman draped in colorful, wind blown clothes was singing hymns as she piled oranges into her cloth bag. A young, sinewy Rasta in a green tank top was scaling another tree, tossing oranges down from the crown, his body barely visible among the branches. As usual, some gave a polite hello, some did nothing, and others simply stared.
A few days ago, I had a man come up to me with a check in his hand while I was taking down our nets. At first I couldn’t understand what he said as he blurted out in Patois to me. It took me a minute to realize that he wanted me to cash a check for him. I told him that I didn’t have any money, that I couldn’t do that, and that was that. He then asked me if I was spraying for insecticides. I laughed and told him no, and then he left. Meanwhile, I was fending off a little kid named Mario, who had been tagging along behind me for the past hour. He followed me from net to net, and as I pulled out each bird, all I heard was “Give me that one. I need it. I need to raise a bird.” Every time he said this, I said “No. Not this one. This is a wild bird, and it’s going to stay that way.” It went back and forth like this many times. “I NEED THIS ONE.” “NO.”
Another day, Laura and I met an old Rastafarian man named Renrick Ellis, who approached us and immediately broke into a performance of his memorized Rasta-inspired poems. I couldn’t understand the majority of what he said, but one phrase that has stuck with me was “It is not the shine, but the moon and the stars.”
Renrick then asked me if I could record his poem performance so that I could relay it to a greater audience for him. I told him that in fact I would love to, and that I would bring my camera tomorrow. To his credit, he then engaged us in a long conversation about birds, and he was very interested about the work we were doing. He nearly feinted with amazement when we showed him a black-and-white warbler, explaining that it flew from somewhere in America down to the same grove of Jamaican oranges every year. We exchanged phone numbers, and said our goodbyes, promising to meet up soon. Unfortunately to this date, I have not recorded his poems. I’ve got to make that happen, and will post it when it does.
One person in particular, however, has become the star of our citrus acquaintance. His name is Andrew. He is a giant young man who first introduced himself by staring mutely at Laura and Ashley for over half an hour, peeling orange after orange with his modified dinner knife. After this he decided to tag along behind us for the morning. At first he was intimidating, but has since revealed himself to be a harmless, over grown boy who grins at you if you engage him. He is mostly silent, but if you encourage him, he will talk – he has pointed out different varieties of oranges to us and told us how to avoid the ants, all the while tromping barefoot across the ground. He doesn’t drink all day; instead he eats about thirty oranges, peeling each one as you would an apple and sucking out the juicy pulp.
The next day the gossiping women at the security gate told Ashley that Andrew was “retarded,” and talked scathingly about his mother, who supposedly didn’t even know how old he was, and in their opinion, was the one responsible for his inability to either read or write.
The only serious downside to Andrew’s presence is that it is very difficult for him to resist pulling birds out of the nets. He is obsessed with white-winged doves, which all Jamaicans love to eat, and every time he sees a bird that looks remotely like one, he runs up to it, tugging on it. As I approached a net later in the afternoon I saw that he was guarding a bird that was caught. It was not a dove, but in fact a white-chinned thrush, a pretty large bird, and as I pulled it out I asked if he would like to hold it, thinking maybe it would cultivate his interest. He grinned and said yes, so I put the bird carefully on his outstretched hand and told him to release it. Instead of doing that, however, he covered it gently with his other hand and insisted that he must go show Ashley. There was no way to get around it. I sighed and escorted him to her, where he presented the bird, waiting expectantly for praise. Ashley obliged, and after another trademark grin he disappeared.
A couple hours later I spotted him walking with two women, an empty orange bag in his hand. He veered off from the women to come over and visit us, but as he did, I heard one of the women say – “Where you gwan? You’re not white!” I couldn’t believe my ears. Her voice then rose even more, almost yelling, “Know your race Andrew!” In response, he turned and headed in the opposite direction.
Thankfully he did not take her words to heart and was back at our side in 15 minutes. He kneeled by us at our banding station, saying nothing. Laura and I sat silently, sitting Indian-style amongst our banding pliers, calipers, cameras and binoculars, pulling biting ants off our bodies. As usual Andrew reeked of body odor and his cheeks were streaked with dust, old sweat, and orange pulp. Though usually barefoot, today he had a pair of dilapidated shoes with his giant toes sticking out through holes in the sides. He climbed up to the top of a nearby tree and pulled down a few oranges to eat. After an hour or so we heard someone screaming his name, which wasn’t an unusual thing to hear. People often exploited Andrew’s strength and got him to carry their bags of oranges for them. As the man kept calling for him, “AnDRUH! AnDRUH” he finally got up and disappeared, having not said a single word to us his entire visit.
As early afternoon approached the workday was coming to an end. We pulled down our nets, packed up our gear, and grabbed a few oranges for ourselves. We pulled out of the citrus, and as we wheeled around the curves, passing houses, schools and food stands, our ears caught the familiar sounds of the street - kids laughing, music blaring, and of course, every minute or so the call of “Whiteeyyy!! White woooman!!!! White man!!!!” We shook our heads, laughed, and continued on towards home.
The materials needed to make some homemade OJ, courtesy of the citrus.
A Change of Scenery
While at our house and working in the Copse plot we are mostly by ourselves, isolated and secluded. The only people we see regularly are the cattlemen and the people who work around the house. Though the solitude is pleasant, it is always nice to have a variety, and thankfully we have been granted that in the form of a new study site. The Citrus.
The valley below us is filled with vast citrus groves, where row after row of orange trees line the rolling hills. In addition to producing copious amounts of fruit for people to eat… many, many migrant warbler species live in this man-made habitat (although few resident species do). Since migrant warblers are what we are after, the citrus is a great study site, providing a contrast to the relatively pristine forest of Copse. What is the warbler density like down here? How healthy are they comparatively? These are the questions that we are trying to answer.
During the first few hours of each day the valley is blanketed by a dense fog. The citrus trees show the effects of this daily gift of moisture; the branches are draped with mosses and epiphytes, and if you look closely, orchids. Parulas and redstarts can be seen gleaning from the leaves and flying out in quick bursts to snatch flying insects while ovenbirds and waterthrushes hunt unobtrusively on the ground.
For the first week in the citrus, I spent my mornings wandering down the misty lines of trees, stopping at set points to survey the birds I could identify. After these preliminary assessments, we have begun capturing birds there, setting up nets within the citrus trees to color-band redstarts and assess the health of other warbler species we catch. Much like our work in the wet limestone forest, we set up 8-12 nets and leave them open from first light until early afternoon. We check the nets every 20-30 minutes, extracting the birds and taking them back to our makeshift banding station. We were able to borrow some extra nets from the other Smithsonian crew down in Whitehouse, and thanks to this, Ashley, Shawn, Laura and I have been able to split up into two separate banding teams, doubling our efforts.
Here are some photographs of some of the birds we have caught so far, with some explanations to boot. Woot woot!
Above is a migrant, a male Cape May Warbler, one of a couple that we've caught this past week.
Here is another migrant, a male Black-throated Blue Warbler. This species breeds in Canada, New England, and down the spine of the Appalachians. Abundant throughout Jamaica, they are the focus of much research on migrant biology down here.
This is an abundant, conspicuous resident of the citrus, the White-winged Dove. The people of Jamaica love to eat white-wings, and have devised a number of genius methods to catching them. Every time someone saw us holding one, they emplored us to give it to them to eat.
Here is the villain of the citrus, the Greater Antillean Grackle. Hordes of these guys maraud through the citrus, eating rotten fruit, bird eggs, and if they're lucky, a bird dangling in one of our nets. Thankfully we've had no grackle murders yet this year.
The Jamaican Mango. This endemic hummingbird is just one of many jewels zipping amongst the trees.
What's fruit without parakeets?! The Olive-throated Parakeet, seen here, is a common species throughout Jamaica, and one that we were very excited to have fall into our nets, provided that we kept our fingers clear of that nut-cracking beak.
And perhaps most shockingly of all, Laura pulled this bird out of the net one afternoon! A Merlin! This medium sized falcon migrates from the taiga of Canada down to the coasts of the North, Central, and South America during the winter. Needless to say, it was an absolute thrill to handle this bird killing machine.
During the first few hours of each day the valley is blanketed by a dense fog. The citrus trees show the effects of this daily gift of moisture; the branches are draped with mosses and epiphytes, and if you look closely, orchids. Parulas and redstarts can be seen gleaning from the leaves and flying out in quick bursts to snatch flying insects while ovenbirds and waterthrushes hunt unobtrusively on the ground.
For the first week in the citrus, I spent my mornings wandering down the misty lines of trees, stopping at set points to survey the birds I could identify. After these preliminary assessments, we have begun capturing birds there, setting up nets within the citrus trees to color-band redstarts and assess the health of other warbler species we catch. Much like our work in the wet limestone forest, we set up 8-12 nets and leave them open from first light until early afternoon. We check the nets every 20-30 minutes, extracting the birds and taking them back to our makeshift banding station. We were able to borrow some extra nets from the other Smithsonian crew down in Whitehouse, and thanks to this, Ashley, Shawn, Laura and I have been able to split up into two separate banding teams, doubling our efforts.
Here are some photographs of some of the birds we have caught so far, with some explanations to boot. Woot woot!
Monday, February 27, 2012
Canine Introductions
Hey guys. Time to take a break from the birds for a little bit and show you something else. Our house has a wonderful assemblage of dogs, and thankfully these dogs are full of drama. Before I get into the drama, however, I must introduce the characters to you. They are known as follows: Momma Dog, Red Dog, and Silver Dog.
The bottom level of our refrigerator is dedicated to chilled pig guts, which come up from the pig farm once a week or so. These guts are fed to the dogs twice a week, along with the bones and meat scraps that we throw them after dinner. I fed them pig guts yesterday and made the poor decision of grabbing the guts with my hands - after five hand washes I can still smell the charming odor. The dogs love it however, and can gulp down an amazing amount at one time.
All three are adept at howling late into the night, chasing cars, and being overall no count skanks. We have leanred that ticks are big fans of dogs as well, and their eyelids and ear tips are often riddled with them. Here is a detailed photo account of our pooches:
Momma Dog(seen below) is the elder resident, who has given birth to many litters, and has the saggy nipples to show for it. As I said before, she is the mother of Red and Silver Dog. Momma Dog is incredibly spunky, and is sure to wag her whole body for you if you make eye contact with her. As you can see, Momma Dog was quite pregnant at the time of this photo.. but she got even chubbier than this.
Red Dog(seen below) is a female offspring of Momma Dog. She is the largest of the three and full of energy, liking to steal shoes and stash them under the tree in the front yard. When we are gone for a few days, she takes up residence on the back porch, sleeping in our cushioned chairs. She has never given birth, but last year she produced milk for Momma Dog’s babies. She might be sterile.
Silver Dog(seen below) is a female from last spring’s litter and she is very peculiar. She is evasive and cringes, acting as if she has been hit in the past and rarely let’s me touch her. She is submissive to the other two dogs.
So in addition to being no count skanks, these lady dogs excel at getting pregnant. Momma Dog has been obviously pregnant for the past month or so, but only over the past couple weeks have we noticed that Silver Dog is pregnant as well, although not nearly the girth of Momma Dog. Yesterday while sitting on the back porch, I heard a loud rustling from down the hill in the woods. After a few minutes, Momma appeared panting, covered in sticky seed pods. What was she doing down there? I had no idea.
Since then, however, more developments have transpired. We returned from a morning at the Black Morass to find Momma and Silver both missing and Red Dog sitting in the front yard all by her lonesome. Strange. Then Miss Rattay then told us that Silver Dog was under the house preparing to give birth! Ashley and Laura proceeded to crawl under the house and find Silver and Momma Dog had both scraped out dens in the rocky floor, but neither had given birth yet. Oh Excitement!
The following morning, Red Dog was the only dog to be seen once again. Silver and Momma were both still under the house. After another inspection, it was discovered that both had given birth to six puppies, side by side. How cute!
Who's the father? We're not sure, but it mostly likely is Brother-Dad, a dark male that appears here from time to time. From the little I've seen, he likes to hump, and yes... he is both brother and father.
Below is the entrance to the crawlspace where the puppies were birthed.
Here is Silver Dog's litter, deep in the recesses of the house. To get to this spot you must crawl through two very small tunnels. Needless to say, this is the optimal hiding place for pups.
Below is Momma Dog's litter. Since the time of this photo, one of the pups has disappeared. Uh oh!
So anyways, this has been all quite enthralling for us. Now the countdown begins for the emergence of the puppies into the outside world.
Saturday, February 18, 2012
Ticked Off
So, I teased you guys last week about the mysterious duct tape strapped to my lower legs(see picture in previous blog post). Why did I have it on? What was it’s purpose? Surely it wasn’t purely fashion. Well, the time has come to tell you, and it can be summed up in one word. But I’m not going to make it that easy. The story is as follows.
Our main field site is located high up in the limestone hills behind Montego Bay on the property of a British family who, except for the occasional visit, no longer lives there. They allow us to stay there for a modest fee, and in turn we get a wonderfully convenient field station. The vast property, operated by many local employees, consists of a coffee plantation, an enormous pig farm, and grazing land for hundreds of cattle.. as well as one substantial section of mature wet limestone forest. The main house we’re staying in is called the Copse house, and is on the uppermost tier of the property(more on the house and its inhabitants to come in later posts).To start out with, we will to be working in this one section of mature forest, while later on we will do some work in the coffee, as well as at some other sites around the island.
View from our back porch, looking northeast towards Cockpit Country. The coffee farm is sitting unseen below us, and the pig farm is on the distant hills. Taken by Laura.
So, onto the work itself… Our mission is to catch all of the redstarts and black-throated blue warblers that are spending the winter in this patch of forest. We catch them with mist nets, which are eight feet tall and forty feet long and almost invisible. Once caught, each individual is banded with a unique combination of color bands. This allows for each bird to be identified as an individual later on in the field. Other measurements concerning its weight, health, and size are also taken. We spend the rest of our time mapping out the territories of each individual – the details of which reveal that the oldest males are dominant and thus get the highest quality habitats. Females and young birds live more marginal habitats, whether on the forest edge or in less mature forest. What makes one section of the forest better than the other? Well, hard to say for sure, but it likely comes down to, as with most things in this world, to food. The taller and wetter a section of forest the more diverse and abundant the food source. The taller the forest, the more habitats there are, from canopy, to mid-level, to understory and the ground. A young, second-growth section of forest is unlikely to have as many insect niches, and thus less insects as a whole. To study this dynamic further, we are taking insect samples at all of the sites we will be working.
Above is a photo of a male redstart that we caught. You can see the color bands on him which will help us in resighting him.
But, before we could get started on all that, we had to clear the road from the house to the forest plot. No one else drove that stretch, so it was up to us to tame a years worth of new growth. To make the task more daunting, the entire area was inundated with seed ticks, an exotic visitor from Africa. Drawn to the cattle, hordes of these needle-tip sized beasts sit on top of blades of grass in giant balls of hundreds to thousands of individuals, waiting for you to brush up against them. Once you do, they explode and disperse to infiltrate your being. Ashley, having worked here for three years, knew this and warned us, but there was only so much that words could tell us. She recommended that we each carry a roll of duct tape, and each time a “ball” of ticks got on us, to stop and use duct tape to pull them off as quick as possible. We worked for most of the day using machetes to clear the road before returning to the house in the late afternoon.
Despite my diligence, my clothes had become completely infested with ticks and my body was covered in hundreds upon hundreds of irresistibly itchy red welts. Despite a generous helping of Benadryl, I spent the night in a fitful state of self-mutilation. The next day I had to shave my legs so that I could properly treat them. A week later, the welts were still there, with bloody scabs and new welts rising all around them. There wasn’t a single stretch of skin on my body I could run my hand across without feeling lump after lump after lump. I looked like a poorly shaved poodle with lupus.
Above is a piece of duct tape with some seed ticks on it, as well as one giant "silverback" tick. A normal tick ball has about ten times as many as there are on that piece of duct tape. Yes. It sucks. Below is my thigh a couple days after the first attack. My whole body looked like this.
Since then, I have learned my enemy and gotten better in my defense, and in turn by body as healed. A typical field day at Copse consists of a dawn departure from the house. My first order of business after breakfast and ablutions is to prepare my defense against the ticks. This entails tucking my quick-dry pants into my socks, wrapping that junction with duct-tape, putting my boots on, and then putting gaiters on after that. Then I tuck my shirt into my underwear, strap on my belt, and I’m ready to go. I always have a roll of duct-tape in my hip pocket, in case I get nailed with a tick ball. If that happens, I rip off a piece of tape and use it to pull off the ticks before they weasel their way into a crevice. We drive up above the house on the track we cleared(bypassing many ticks) to the Copse forest plot, passing through three gates before we enter the forest. The forest itself doesn't have many ticks, thankfully... even though the cows do escape into it every once and awhile.
Once we had caught and color banded some birds, we were able to start mapping out their territories(and still are), and to do this it takes great patience and attention to detail. In addition to the new birds we've caught, there are already several birds banded in previous years that have returned to the plot. To map a bird, I must stalk quietly down the paths that we have cut, listening for the chip notes of the birds to locate them. Once located, I watch it and plot on a grid where I have seen it, at what height in the forest, and what bands it is wearing. After months of doing this, we will have an excellent data set of the habitat partitioning amongst these birds, and what sort of territories each subset of redstart is getting. Perhaps most remarkable of all is the fact that we already know some of the redstarts on territory here have been returning to the exact same tree for the three or four years, all after a migration of over a 1,000 miles.
Of course, one added benefit of setting up a bunch of nets in Jamaica is that you catch a lot of other things as well! On average we have 10-12 nets set up, and have them open for around seven hours a day. Here are some pictures and captions of some of the things we’ve caught. Remember you can click on a photo to make it larger.
Jamaican Woodpecker. Common in all forest types in Jamaica. Taken by Laura.
Rufous-throated Solitaire. Endemic to Hispaniola and Jamaica. The solitaires are members of the thrush family, and have a haunting ethereal song. Taken by Laura.
Jamaican Tody. Todies are only found in the West Indies. Their closest relatives are the motmots and kingfishers. They are quite the sedate little birds, sitting still for long periods of time before flying out after an insect, audibly snapping its wings. Taken by Laura.
Arrow-headed Warbler. A resident warbler species endemic to Jamaica, most often found in wet mid-level forest, gleaning insects from the underside of leaves. Taken by me with Laura's camera.
A male Jamaican Spindalis. One of a group of closely related species endemic to the West Indies, this tanager is common in wet forests of Jamaica, eating fruit. Taken by me with Laura's camera.
A male Kentucky Warbler. This is another migrant warbler species, and one that is listed as a vagrant for Jamaica. However, they are annual at the Copse field site. They breed in bottomland forests of southeastern North America. Taken by me with Laura's camera.
Our main field site is located high up in the limestone hills behind Montego Bay on the property of a British family who, except for the occasional visit, no longer lives there. They allow us to stay there for a modest fee, and in turn we get a wonderfully convenient field station. The vast property, operated by many local employees, consists of a coffee plantation, an enormous pig farm, and grazing land for hundreds of cattle.. as well as one substantial section of mature wet limestone forest. The main house we’re staying in is called the Copse house, and is on the uppermost tier of the property(more on the house and its inhabitants to come in later posts).To start out with, we will to be working in this one section of mature forest, while later on we will do some work in the coffee, as well as at some other sites around the island.
View from our back porch, looking northeast towards Cockpit Country. The coffee farm is sitting unseen below us, and the pig farm is on the distant hills. Taken by Laura.
So, onto the work itself… Our mission is to catch all of the redstarts and black-throated blue warblers that are spending the winter in this patch of forest. We catch them with mist nets, which are eight feet tall and forty feet long and almost invisible. Once caught, each individual is banded with a unique combination of color bands. This allows for each bird to be identified as an individual later on in the field. Other measurements concerning its weight, health, and size are also taken. We spend the rest of our time mapping out the territories of each individual – the details of which reveal that the oldest males are dominant and thus get the highest quality habitats. Females and young birds live more marginal habitats, whether on the forest edge or in less mature forest. What makes one section of the forest better than the other? Well, hard to say for sure, but it likely comes down to, as with most things in this world, to food. The taller and wetter a section of forest the more diverse and abundant the food source. The taller the forest, the more habitats there are, from canopy, to mid-level, to understory and the ground. A young, second-growth section of forest is unlikely to have as many insect niches, and thus less insects as a whole. To study this dynamic further, we are taking insect samples at all of the sites we will be working.
Above is a photo of a male redstart that we caught. You can see the color bands on him which will help us in resighting him.
But, before we could get started on all that, we had to clear the road from the house to the forest plot. No one else drove that stretch, so it was up to us to tame a years worth of new growth. To make the task more daunting, the entire area was inundated with seed ticks, an exotic visitor from Africa. Drawn to the cattle, hordes of these needle-tip sized beasts sit on top of blades of grass in giant balls of hundreds to thousands of individuals, waiting for you to brush up against them. Once you do, they explode and disperse to infiltrate your being. Ashley, having worked here for three years, knew this and warned us, but there was only so much that words could tell us. She recommended that we each carry a roll of duct tape, and each time a “ball” of ticks got on us, to stop and use duct tape to pull them off as quick as possible. We worked for most of the day using machetes to clear the road before returning to the house in the late afternoon.
Despite my diligence, my clothes had become completely infested with ticks and my body was covered in hundreds upon hundreds of irresistibly itchy red welts. Despite a generous helping of Benadryl, I spent the night in a fitful state of self-mutilation. The next day I had to shave my legs so that I could properly treat them. A week later, the welts were still there, with bloody scabs and new welts rising all around them. There wasn’t a single stretch of skin on my body I could run my hand across without feeling lump after lump after lump. I looked like a poorly shaved poodle with lupus.
Above is a piece of duct tape with some seed ticks on it, as well as one giant "silverback" tick. A normal tick ball has about ten times as many as there are on that piece of duct tape. Yes. It sucks. Below is my thigh a couple days after the first attack. My whole body looked like this.
Since then, I have learned my enemy and gotten better in my defense, and in turn by body as healed. A typical field day at Copse consists of a dawn departure from the house. My first order of business after breakfast and ablutions is to prepare my defense against the ticks. This entails tucking my quick-dry pants into my socks, wrapping that junction with duct-tape, putting my boots on, and then putting gaiters on after that. Then I tuck my shirt into my underwear, strap on my belt, and I’m ready to go. I always have a roll of duct-tape in my hip pocket, in case I get nailed with a tick ball. If that happens, I rip off a piece of tape and use it to pull off the ticks before they weasel their way into a crevice. We drive up above the house on the track we cleared(bypassing many ticks) to the Copse forest plot, passing through three gates before we enter the forest. The forest itself doesn't have many ticks, thankfully... even though the cows do escape into it every once and awhile.
Once we had caught and color banded some birds, we were able to start mapping out their territories(and still are), and to do this it takes great patience and attention to detail. In addition to the new birds we've caught, there are already several birds banded in previous years that have returned to the plot. To map a bird, I must stalk quietly down the paths that we have cut, listening for the chip notes of the birds to locate them. Once located, I watch it and plot on a grid where I have seen it, at what height in the forest, and what bands it is wearing. After months of doing this, we will have an excellent data set of the habitat partitioning amongst these birds, and what sort of territories each subset of redstart is getting. Perhaps most remarkable of all is the fact that we already know some of the redstarts on territory here have been returning to the exact same tree for the three or four years, all after a migration of over a 1,000 miles.
Of course, one added benefit of setting up a bunch of nets in Jamaica is that you catch a lot of other things as well! On average we have 10-12 nets set up, and have them open for around seven hours a day. Here are some pictures and captions of some of the things we’ve caught. Remember you can click on a photo to make it larger.
Jamaican Woodpecker. Common in all forest types in Jamaica. Taken by Laura.
Rufous-throated Solitaire. Endemic to Hispaniola and Jamaica. The solitaires are members of the thrush family, and have a haunting ethereal song. Taken by Laura.
Jamaican Tody. Todies are only found in the West Indies. Their closest relatives are the motmots and kingfishers. They are quite the sedate little birds, sitting still for long periods of time before flying out after an insect, audibly snapping its wings. Taken by Laura.
Arrow-headed Warbler. A resident warbler species endemic to Jamaica, most often found in wet mid-level forest, gleaning insects from the underside of leaves. Taken by me with Laura's camera.
A male Jamaican Spindalis. One of a group of closely related species endemic to the West Indies, this tanager is common in wet forests of Jamaica, eating fruit. Taken by me with Laura's camera.
A male Kentucky Warbler. This is another migrant warbler species, and one that is listed as a vagrant for Jamaica. However, they are annual at the Copse field site. They breed in bottomland forests of southeastern North America. Taken by me with Laura's camera.
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Jamaica
Hey guys! It's Alan, and as you can see I'm back on Goodbye, Me after a long hiatus. Since my last post, I've spent time in Louisiana, Oregon, and Massachusetts, as well as back home in North Carolina. But now, I am in Jamaica and ready to start blogging again. Why am I in Jamaica? Well, my girlfriend Laura and I are first and foremost, studying birds, but adventure is a big part of it as well. We are working for a graduate student at Tulane University, and in turn the the Smithsonian Migratory Bird Center. Our study is focusing on American Redstarts and Black-throated Blue Warblers, two species of warbler that breed in eastern North America and spend the rest of the year here in the West Indies. What's remarkable about those two species in particular is the fact that they hold winter territories, and the dynamics of these territories is what we are studying. A single redstart will return to the same tree to spend the winter, year after year, all after over a 1,000 mile journey! WOWZA! But more on that in later posts... I'll keep it streamlined for now. Basically, Laura and I will be down here until May, capturing and studying birds and exploring the world of Jamaica. SOoooo... without further ado... let's start the journey. Here is post #1...
January 14th, 2012
As the plane descended into Montego Bay the stewardess came onto the intercom. She declared that everyone should get ready, because it was 84 degrees on the ground! Roars of exultation came from the rabid tourists who had been ordering cocktails and mini-bottles since the flight had taken off. Not everyone on the flight was so responsive to the weather announcement however. A young, fat rastafari in a wife beater and stocking cap sat quietly and a black man next to me offered me two Halls cough drops after I had sneezed into my hand. He promptly fell asleep against the window after that, which was okay with me, as I preferred to sit in silence as we approached.
Well, it was true. Montego Bay was indeed 84 degrees, and as the plane skimmed just above the coastline, aquamarine water met white sand just as it should. Beyond the coastline strand, verdant hills rose up into lush forest, where small colorful buildings were barely visible, tucked beneath the fronds, fruits, and flowers.
The humidity hit me like a wall as we filed out of the plane and into the airport. Moving through a bare white hallway, I followed the signs towards immigration. I had taken a separate flight than Laura and Ashley, who had arrived on a plane about 30 minutes before I had. Arriving at immigration, I was greeted by a line of 300 people, making switchbacks toward the front . Ashley had informed me that I might get some questioning from the immigration officers regarding the length of my stay, which, at four months, was a rarity among visitors. At long last I arrived at the booth, and answered a series questions – How long is your visit? What will your address be? What is the purpose of your visit? I answered all as I should. I will be here until May 10th. My address will be Kew Park, Betheltown. I am a volunteer on a scientific research project. I am a volunteer. All my expenses are paid. Repeat. I am not getting paid. She promptly asked – Who is your boss? I said she is over there in baggage claim. Her name is Ashley. Then I remembered that I had a sheet of paper with our Jamaican phone number and address printed out – maybe that would be more convincing. I handed the sheet to the young Jamaican woman, and as she glossed over it, she began to laugh and show it to the worker next to her. I had forgotten that on that same piece of paper was a blow-by-blow list of tips to get by immigration, rife with all the “right things to say,” and “what you might expect.” Of course that was hilarious to them. After their laughter subsided, she stamped my passport for 90 days and said I would need to come back two weeks before it expires to get it renewed or face a steep penalty. I was through!
In the airport parking lot we met up with a representative from the car rental company who handed over the keys of a new pick-up for us to drive off in. Our first stop in town was the Mega Mart, a giant store reminiscent of Costco. I, however, did not get to go inside, and had to stay with the pick-up to guard our bags in the back. Not knowing exactly what I was guarding against, I stood stoically behind the truck, switching around occasionally to sit on the back hatch. To pass the time, I nonchalantly watched the bird life around me. Glossy ibis lifted up from the wet grasses across the street, and a pair of mockingbirds danced across the lawn, throwing shadows over insects before they pounced. My attention was drawn to the cars that passed by me in the parking lot – hosting a wide variety of people, all of them either gawking, glaring, or avoiding me. Horrific dramas of assault and murder began to play out in my mind. What a shameful way it would be to go out!
Well, of course nothing happened, and as we continued onward, I learned from Ashley that we would be driving about an hour or so into the hills to where we would be staying, in an old estate of a British family that rarely visits anymore. The road that wound up into the mountains and away from tourist-land was sinuous, narrow, and full of potholes, and when combined with the left-side-of-the-road driving, quite harrowing. We passed through the towns of Anchovy and Rat Trap, where trash blew down the sidewalks and matchstick houses with zinc roofs blurred by.
Ashley’s informative words flowed fluidly into and out of my consciousness – The Jamaican government is bankrupt, they are trying to develop every undeveloped area left in the county - Nowhere is safe - They don’t give a shit about the land – it went on. I lost track of the words, and stared back out the window at the shoulder of the road, where a man and his two sons stood urinating, their backs turned to us. Wow. Ashley then told a story of a kid who once approached her and asked if she wanted to see a boa. Since the Jamaican Boa is an endangered species and rarely encountered, she eagerly asked the kid to lead her to it. There it was. In the chicken coop! Later she learned that they traded the boa so that the kids could get shoes. What can you say to that? We all agreed. Nothing.
Our journey towards Kew Park continued, and I focused again on the scenes passing by. The feeling of being in a 3rd world country started to come back to me, as I smelled the smell of exhaust fumes, burning trash combined with lush green vegetation, foreign signs and foreign faces. We pulled over to a plywood front with “corner jerk” scrawled on it. It was a small shop selling jerk chicken and jerk pork, and as Ashley ran in to grab us some, I watched a young boy wearing a red shirt and athletic shorts walking up the street, kicking a ball. As he launched the ball up the road, he made a gun with his hand and fired three shots into the sky before he ran around the corner and out of sight.
At last we pulled onto the dirt track that would take us to our house where we’d be staying the first few nights, while other researchers cleared out of the main house. It was an old, fortress turned cottage, with slots in the wall for firing weapons out of, and a tower that would fit right into medieval times. I took a moment to sit down. I could here music from Betheltown far below us. Mystikal, Notorious BIG, and Ghetto Superstar played in succession. My favorite music! Where was that music coming from, and what sort of people were down there? I sat back and closed my eyes and slowly but surely, my brain started to tackle my new home. Jamaica.
So... STAY TUNED. Many more posts to come.. hopefully once a week or so. And, maybe you are wondering why I am wearing duct tape on my ankles in that photo. Well, tune in later and you'll find out. IT'S A SCARY REASON. Wowza!
January 14th, 2012
As the plane descended into Montego Bay the stewardess came onto the intercom. She declared that everyone should get ready, because it was 84 degrees on the ground! Roars of exultation came from the rabid tourists who had been ordering cocktails and mini-bottles since the flight had taken off. Not everyone on the flight was so responsive to the weather announcement however. A young, fat rastafari in a wife beater and stocking cap sat quietly and a black man next to me offered me two Halls cough drops after I had sneezed into my hand. He promptly fell asleep against the window after that, which was okay with me, as I preferred to sit in silence as we approached.
Well, it was true. Montego Bay was indeed 84 degrees, and as the plane skimmed just above the coastline, aquamarine water met white sand just as it should. Beyond the coastline strand, verdant hills rose up into lush forest, where small colorful buildings were barely visible, tucked beneath the fronds, fruits, and flowers.
The humidity hit me like a wall as we filed out of the plane and into the airport. Moving through a bare white hallway, I followed the signs towards immigration. I had taken a separate flight than Laura and Ashley, who had arrived on a plane about 30 minutes before I had. Arriving at immigration, I was greeted by a line of 300 people, making switchbacks toward the front . Ashley had informed me that I might get some questioning from the immigration officers regarding the length of my stay, which, at four months, was a rarity among visitors. At long last I arrived at the booth, and answered a series questions – How long is your visit? What will your address be? What is the purpose of your visit? I answered all as I should. I will be here until May 10th. My address will be Kew Park, Betheltown. I am a volunteer on a scientific research project. I am a volunteer. All my expenses are paid. Repeat. I am not getting paid. She promptly asked – Who is your boss? I said she is over there in baggage claim. Her name is Ashley. Then I remembered that I had a sheet of paper with our Jamaican phone number and address printed out – maybe that would be more convincing. I handed the sheet to the young Jamaican woman, and as she glossed over it, she began to laugh and show it to the worker next to her. I had forgotten that on that same piece of paper was a blow-by-blow list of tips to get by immigration, rife with all the “right things to say,” and “what you might expect.” Of course that was hilarious to them. After their laughter subsided, she stamped my passport for 90 days and said I would need to come back two weeks before it expires to get it renewed or face a steep penalty. I was through!
In the airport parking lot we met up with a representative from the car rental company who handed over the keys of a new pick-up for us to drive off in. Our first stop in town was the Mega Mart, a giant store reminiscent of Costco. I, however, did not get to go inside, and had to stay with the pick-up to guard our bags in the back. Not knowing exactly what I was guarding against, I stood stoically behind the truck, switching around occasionally to sit on the back hatch. To pass the time, I nonchalantly watched the bird life around me. Glossy ibis lifted up from the wet grasses across the street, and a pair of mockingbirds danced across the lawn, throwing shadows over insects before they pounced. My attention was drawn to the cars that passed by me in the parking lot – hosting a wide variety of people, all of them either gawking, glaring, or avoiding me. Horrific dramas of assault and murder began to play out in my mind. What a shameful way it would be to go out!
Well, of course nothing happened, and as we continued onward, I learned from Ashley that we would be driving about an hour or so into the hills to where we would be staying, in an old estate of a British family that rarely visits anymore. The road that wound up into the mountains and away from tourist-land was sinuous, narrow, and full of potholes, and when combined with the left-side-of-the-road driving, quite harrowing. We passed through the towns of Anchovy and Rat Trap, where trash blew down the sidewalks and matchstick houses with zinc roofs blurred by.
Ashley’s informative words flowed fluidly into and out of my consciousness – The Jamaican government is bankrupt, they are trying to develop every undeveloped area left in the county - Nowhere is safe - They don’t give a shit about the land – it went on. I lost track of the words, and stared back out the window at the shoulder of the road, where a man and his two sons stood urinating, their backs turned to us. Wow. Ashley then told a story of a kid who once approached her and asked if she wanted to see a boa. Since the Jamaican Boa is an endangered species and rarely encountered, she eagerly asked the kid to lead her to it. There it was. In the chicken coop! Later she learned that they traded the boa so that the kids could get shoes. What can you say to that? We all agreed. Nothing.
Our journey towards Kew Park continued, and I focused again on the scenes passing by. The feeling of being in a 3rd world country started to come back to me, as I smelled the smell of exhaust fumes, burning trash combined with lush green vegetation, foreign signs and foreign faces. We pulled over to a plywood front with “corner jerk” scrawled on it. It was a small shop selling jerk chicken and jerk pork, and as Ashley ran in to grab us some, I watched a young boy wearing a red shirt and athletic shorts walking up the street, kicking a ball. As he launched the ball up the road, he made a gun with his hand and fired three shots into the sky before he ran around the corner and out of sight.
At last we pulled onto the dirt track that would take us to our house where we’d be staying the first few nights, while other researchers cleared out of the main house. It was an old, fortress turned cottage, with slots in the wall for firing weapons out of, and a tower that would fit right into medieval times. I took a moment to sit down. I could here music from Betheltown far below us. Mystikal, Notorious BIG, and Ghetto Superstar played in succession. My favorite music! Where was that music coming from, and what sort of people were down there? I sat back and closed my eyes and slowly but surely, my brain started to tackle my new home. Jamaica.
So... STAY TUNED. Many more posts to come.. hopefully once a week or so. And, maybe you are wondering why I am wearing duct tape on my ankles in that photo. Well, tune in later and you'll find out. IT'S A SCARY REASON. Wowza!
Monday, May 3, 2010
DON'T FORGET
Don't forget... hop over to BEER AND TREES!!!!!!!!! New posts are there right now.
www.beerandtrees.com
www.beerandtrees.com
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
I rotate so fast I appear invisible.
Hey, folks. Whether you have been waiting with bated breath or haven't been aware... I haven't been here for a while. I apologize for the month of silence.
What has been going on? Well... First, I have left Puerto Rico. I have nothing but love for the island, but it was time. The work was getting tedious, the people overbearing, the island all too familiar. All signs that it was time to dip and begin the next stage of this life.......
But since then, No, I haven't been idling, and this post has a specific purpose. A purpose that I'll explain now. For the last six months a plan has been in formation, a sort of realization of dreams. It began with my friend Tyler, who approached me long ago with the intention of driving cross-country, something he was determined to do, whether or not he had a posse. After a month or so of waffling I agreed to join the team, along with a 3rd, Michael. Tyler, a budding brew-master, had his sights set on checking out various microbreweries along the way, as well as visiting national parks... all in all an authentically wholesome agenda in my eyes....
Time passes.... excitement builds... thumb-tacks go into maps.... and....
I write this now on the eve of our departure, and still nothing is set in stone... and that is the way we planned it to be. For me, I will be a part of the team until the 22nd of May, when I am jettisoned into the sagebrush desert of SE Oregon for my next job. There I will spend two months performing census of colonial marsh-nesting birds, another adventure entirely. But that will be covered later. Much later.
So, now we have come to it. Tyler, Michael, and I will be operating a blog on our journey. It will be focused, it will be varied, it will be juicy. Appropriately, it will be named Beer and Trees. Yum Yum! Check the link below...
http://www.beerandtrees.com
It will be for nature lovers. Beer lovers. Travel lovers. And most of all, for the dreamers. Lmao that's cheezy.
For now, I'll just leave you with this sick line from Lupe, off his Enemy of the State mixtape.
"I've seen a bunch of fake shit like avid wrestler fans." - Lupe
Lmaooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo, PEACE!
What has been going on? Well... First, I have left Puerto Rico. I have nothing but love for the island, but it was time. The work was getting tedious, the people overbearing, the island all too familiar. All signs that it was time to dip and begin the next stage of this life.......
But since then, No, I haven't been idling, and this post has a specific purpose. A purpose that I'll explain now. For the last six months a plan has been in formation, a sort of realization of dreams. It began with my friend Tyler, who approached me long ago with the intention of driving cross-country, something he was determined to do, whether or not he had a posse. After a month or so of waffling I agreed to join the team, along with a 3rd, Michael. Tyler, a budding brew-master, had his sights set on checking out various microbreweries along the way, as well as visiting national parks... all in all an authentically wholesome agenda in my eyes....
Time passes.... excitement builds... thumb-tacks go into maps.... and....
I write this now on the eve of our departure, and still nothing is set in stone... and that is the way we planned it to be. For me, I will be a part of the team until the 22nd of May, when I am jettisoned into the sagebrush desert of SE Oregon for my next job. There I will spend two months performing census of colonial marsh-nesting birds, another adventure entirely. But that will be covered later. Much later.
So, now we have come to it. Tyler, Michael, and I will be operating a blog on our journey. It will be focused, it will be varied, it will be juicy. Appropriately, it will be named Beer and Trees. Yum Yum! Check the link below...
http://www.beerandtrees.com
It will be for nature lovers. Beer lovers. Travel lovers. And most of all, for the dreamers. Lmao that's cheezy.
For now, I'll just leave you with this sick line from Lupe, off his Enemy of the State mixtape.
"I've seen a bunch of fake shit like avid wrestler fans." - Lupe
Lmaooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo, PEACE!
Thursday, March 11, 2010
The Most Bizarre Behavior
Before you read this post, make sure you read this direction:
This is a narrative about a domestic human situation. Consider its likelihood, its appeal, consider everything about it. And, make sure you stop afterward and read the next bold-faced statement.
Out of all the exotic, tempting places in the world, perhaps the most bizarre behavior of all took place in the suburban gardens of the British couple, Bill and Jane Momsen. To the passing eye, they lived together as a traditional pair… but, little did everyone know, that still didn’t preclude a little infidelity now and then.
Let’s take a look into one May morning of theirs together. Jane is quite pregnant, spending most of her time primping the soon to be baby’s room, decorating the crib, and gabbing to all of her envious, jealous friends. Bill is busy in the front yard, trimming the hedge, keeping an eye on the shady characters. Vigilance is both part of his duty as a husband and as a member of the Community Watch. He still isn’t sure why, but keeps his eye on Jane, makes sure that she is doing exactly what he expects, makes sure that she is where he thinks she is. It’s been that way ever since that scum-bag Jerry came around. Jerry wants his Jane. He can tell it in his eyes, the way he lurks around the trashcans.
Lunchtime arrives and Bill and Jane come together once more, eating together. He compliments her cooking, she rinses the dishes, he asks her if she needs anything else. Bill reflects on how useless she is. Jane reflects on how much he underestimates her. How he has no idea how much he owes her.
Bill watches her walk back up the stairs, and then he goes back out into the front yard to work, and just as he does so he spots that scum-bag Jerry lurking in the hedge. Bill takes off his shirt, breaking into a sprint after Jerry, his muscles rippling beneath his chest hair. Jerry freezes, plants on his back foot, and then lunges to meet Bill. They collide in a mass of testosterone, nails clawing at each others backs, curse words flying.
"You effing wanker."
"You bloody sack of oats."
Jerry begins to hear his glasses crack, realizes he is beat, and promptly flees.
Bill sighs. He has got Jane to himself again. He gets back to work… he is convinced that Jane is at work upstairs, putting up that new wallpaper. But, on the contrary, Jane has just slipped out the back window, has just met up with Jerry, has just declothed and submitted herself to him. Jerry could never resist the sight of a proper lady shaking her fanny like that...
It’s now mid-afternoon, and Bill is about finished working. The yard looks great, much better than all the other yards around. He is truly proud. That is until he sees flush-cheeked Jane sashaying out of the front door, coming up to him, acting like she did 15 years ago, acting like they were still in lust. What the hell, he thinks.
Bill immediately knows something is up, grabs her wrist, and leads her into the den. Here he proceeds to inspect her genital opening with his hand until she ejects some droplets. He knows what it is immediately! It is Jerry’s sperm! They proceed to copulate anew, Jane seemingly content with all that has transpired. She is even waggling her fanny like she did for Jerry! Bill, driven by his instincts, spends no time thinking.
------------------ Years pass -------------------------
Young Ted, the son of Bill and Jane, is experiencing his 17th birthday. From Bill and Jane he receives his favorite CDs and Bill's old car, a BMW. From a mysterious man who claims to be his estranged father, a man he has always kept secret from Bill, he receives access to a bank account of 100,000 dollars(a secret fund for his future), as well as 3 Twix bars, his favorite.
That evening Bill is out working on the hedgerows, thinking of how much his son resembles him. Then he sees the shadow again. His back aching, he runs down to the curb, only to see a rat slip down the drain. God damn it, he thinks.
All the while, Jane is sitting on the upstairs balcony Bill built for her, fondling the jewelery Jerry gave her, smiling at the secure future she has made for her young Ted. What a brave life she has lead so far! She has kept two males happy, both of whom have helped young Ted get to where he is.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The first segment of this post, as I said, described a domestic situation between Bill, Jane, and Jerry, where Jane, the promiscuous wife, tricked two men into taking care of her son. Now for Part II. Part II is taken from the Life of Birds, narrated by David Attenborough. It details the infidelity of one species, the Dunnock...
Most birds stay together as a pair, at least during the breeding season. But… living as a pair doesn’t preclude a little infidelity now and then.
Perhaps the most bizarre behavior of all takes place in the suburban gardens of England, and the common hedge sparrow, or Dunnock.
Picture a female Dunnock ready to lay. Above her in bush is her mate Alpha, singing lustily, declaring his ownership of the nest and the territory around it in which he feeds. The pair often feed together, a devoted couple if you ever saw one.
However, Alpha seldom lets her out of his sight, for she is not as faithful as she might be. There is a third bird around…. Beta, another younger male. He is not popular with Alpha and they are continually squabbling. Sometimes the fights can get quite vicious and feathers fly. But in spite of that, the loner Beta stays around, skulking out of sight in the hedge.
To Alpha, it seems as if he has the female to himself once more. But she has got her eye cocked. Beta is still in the hedge, calling quietly to her. And now while Alpha is preoccupied feeding, she joins Beta in the hedge. She and Beta get together. She begins twirling her tail as an invitation, and in a split second they mate. Beta flies away.
But now, out in the open the female is now courting Alpha with that some old tail twirling. He, however, takes precautions to ensure his paternity. He pecks her genital opening, and she eventually ejects a droplet. Its Beta’s sperm. He persists for up to 2 minutes, until all of his rival’s sperm is gone. And now, he mates with her. It will be his sperm that will fertilize her eggs. She has kept two males happy, both of whom will help to feed the young when they hatch, and Alpha has managed to ensure he will be the father of the eggs she will soon lay, or at any rate, most of them.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
So there it is, one group of humans, one group of birds... well... what else is there to say? Perhaps this...Cough. Cough. Ahem!
Cheers! Vacation time for me... with mother and father. Or so I'm told....*wink*
This is a narrative about a domestic human situation. Consider its likelihood, its appeal, consider everything about it. And, make sure you stop afterward and read the next bold-faced statement.
Out of all the exotic, tempting places in the world, perhaps the most bizarre behavior of all took place in the suburban gardens of the British couple, Bill and Jane Momsen. To the passing eye, they lived together as a traditional pair… but, little did everyone know, that still didn’t preclude a little infidelity now and then.
Let’s take a look into one May morning of theirs together. Jane is quite pregnant, spending most of her time primping the soon to be baby’s room, decorating the crib, and gabbing to all of her envious, jealous friends. Bill is busy in the front yard, trimming the hedge, keeping an eye on the shady characters. Vigilance is both part of his duty as a husband and as a member of the Community Watch. He still isn’t sure why, but keeps his eye on Jane, makes sure that she is doing exactly what he expects, makes sure that she is where he thinks she is. It’s been that way ever since that scum-bag Jerry came around. Jerry wants his Jane. He can tell it in his eyes, the way he lurks around the trashcans.
Lunchtime arrives and Bill and Jane come together once more, eating together. He compliments her cooking, she rinses the dishes, he asks her if she needs anything else. Bill reflects on how useless she is. Jane reflects on how much he underestimates her. How he has no idea how much he owes her.
Bill watches her walk back up the stairs, and then he goes back out into the front yard to work, and just as he does so he spots that scum-bag Jerry lurking in the hedge. Bill takes off his shirt, breaking into a sprint after Jerry, his muscles rippling beneath his chest hair. Jerry freezes, plants on his back foot, and then lunges to meet Bill. They collide in a mass of testosterone, nails clawing at each others backs, curse words flying.
"You effing wanker."
"You bloody sack of oats."
Jerry begins to hear his glasses crack, realizes he is beat, and promptly flees.
Bill sighs. He has got Jane to himself again. He gets back to work… he is convinced that Jane is at work upstairs, putting up that new wallpaper. But, on the contrary, Jane has just slipped out the back window, has just met up with Jerry, has just declothed and submitted herself to him. Jerry could never resist the sight of a proper lady shaking her fanny like that...
It’s now mid-afternoon, and Bill is about finished working. The yard looks great, much better than all the other yards around. He is truly proud. That is until he sees flush-cheeked Jane sashaying out of the front door, coming up to him, acting like she did 15 years ago, acting like they were still in lust. What the hell, he thinks.
Bill immediately knows something is up, grabs her wrist, and leads her into the den. Here he proceeds to inspect her genital opening with his hand until she ejects some droplets. He knows what it is immediately! It is Jerry’s sperm! They proceed to copulate anew, Jane seemingly content with all that has transpired. She is even waggling her fanny like she did for Jerry! Bill, driven by his instincts, spends no time thinking.
------------------ Years pass -------------------------
Young Ted, the son of Bill and Jane, is experiencing his 17th birthday. From Bill and Jane he receives his favorite CDs and Bill's old car, a BMW. From a mysterious man who claims to be his estranged father, a man he has always kept secret from Bill, he receives access to a bank account of 100,000 dollars(a secret fund for his future), as well as 3 Twix bars, his favorite.
That evening Bill is out working on the hedgerows, thinking of how much his son resembles him. Then he sees the shadow again. His back aching, he runs down to the curb, only to see a rat slip down the drain. God damn it, he thinks.
All the while, Jane is sitting on the upstairs balcony Bill built for her, fondling the jewelery Jerry gave her, smiling at the secure future she has made for her young Ted. What a brave life she has lead so far! She has kept two males happy, both of whom have helped young Ted get to where he is.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The first segment of this post, as I said, described a domestic situation between Bill, Jane, and Jerry, where Jane, the promiscuous wife, tricked two men into taking care of her son. Now for Part II. Part II is taken from the Life of Birds, narrated by David Attenborough. It details the infidelity of one species, the Dunnock...
Most birds stay together as a pair, at least during the breeding season. But… living as a pair doesn’t preclude a little infidelity now and then.
Perhaps the most bizarre behavior of all takes place in the suburban gardens of England, and the common hedge sparrow, or Dunnock.
Picture a female Dunnock ready to lay. Above her in bush is her mate Alpha, singing lustily, declaring his ownership of the nest and the territory around it in which he feeds. The pair often feed together, a devoted couple if you ever saw one.
However, Alpha seldom lets her out of his sight, for she is not as faithful as she might be. There is a third bird around…. Beta, another younger male. He is not popular with Alpha and they are continually squabbling. Sometimes the fights can get quite vicious and feathers fly. But in spite of that, the loner Beta stays around, skulking out of sight in the hedge.
To Alpha, it seems as if he has the female to himself once more. But she has got her eye cocked. Beta is still in the hedge, calling quietly to her. And now while Alpha is preoccupied feeding, she joins Beta in the hedge. She and Beta get together. She begins twirling her tail as an invitation, and in a split second they mate. Beta flies away.
But now, out in the open the female is now courting Alpha with that some old tail twirling. He, however, takes precautions to ensure his paternity. He pecks her genital opening, and she eventually ejects a droplet. Its Beta’s sperm. He persists for up to 2 minutes, until all of his rival’s sperm is gone. And now, he mates with her. It will be his sperm that will fertilize her eggs. She has kept two males happy, both of whom will help to feed the young when they hatch, and Alpha has managed to ensure he will be the father of the eggs she will soon lay, or at any rate, most of them.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
So there it is, one group of humans, one group of birds... well... what else is there to say? Perhaps this...Cough. Cough. Ahem!
"Extreme infidelity like polygamy is not widespread among birds. Among most birds, and humans, male and female stay together, and by a combination of bonding with one another, and driving away any who try and interfere with the partnership, they stay together. Male and female conduct their courtship on equal terms, and when they are convinced they are compatible, they work together to build a nest. And once they do that, they enter the most difficult time of their lives, a time in which they'll have to employ all kinds of ingenious stratagems if they are to raise a family."
Cheers! Vacation time for me... with mother and father. Or so I'm told....*wink*
Saturday, March 6, 2010
lips that touch tears lose their taste for kissing... a.k.a... CAT UPDATE!
3/5/10
More workers arrived to our apartment this past weekend. They have moved in, reshuffled the equilibrium, and most importantly, given me reason to tell stories about what has happened. I have been around the Puerto Rican block, know the island, and can sound like an expert...something I love to do, especially since I have been the one constantly asking people questions for the last two months.
Out of the assortment of details I've related, the one that evoked the most emotion involved our saga with the cats... specifically, Don Hawk... the cat who's trials and tribulations have been chronicled already on this blog. For a refresher(I recommend this), read the initial reports, a couple posts down from this one.
I spoke of Hawk in detail, told them how we had taken him away, how he had returned, and how we had taken him away again, to his now presumed death. I had scarcely allowed myself to think about Hawk until then. How the situation pained me! Thankfully, the newbies were full of oohs, ahhs, and most of all, awwwwwwwws. It was the past, it was nostalgic, it was fun.
And so it came to be March 5th...
Phillip, Sarah, and Kim had gone for an afternoon of surfing, a route that takes them through the old neighborhood where we had last released Hawk. As they returned to the house in the late afternoon, I heard Phillip's screams first. "Come look!"
And yes. I knew it. Hawk was in his arms.
They had seen him sitting on the side of the road, not 5 minutes from where we live, and picked him up and brought him back. Just like that he was back. I sat down by the door and stared at him, at his once white legs, now sooty with dust. He ran into my knees, plowed his head into my open palm, and it felt good. Very good.
But a good feeling does not solve problems, especially when it comes to rogue beasts... and that is where I find myself now.
Now that I am around Hawk again, and the initial joy of reunion has worn off, I can see that I am the one that has changed. The ruling fist of Don Walter has poisoned me, and I find myself to be, bluntly, an amalgamation of hypocritical emotionz. Late last night after he returned, I found myself sitting alone with him, cuddling by the door, rough-housing like we used to. But then this morning, I saw him sitting outside the door and felt an uncontrollable rage, and in turn I punted him four or five times in the ribs and butt, making sure that he had fled down the street.
One moment I am in love, the other I am desperate to get him out of my sight. Later, Kim had left the door open like we used to do and Hawk had wandered in on his own accord, weaving through the table legs like he owned the place. Instead of coaxing him, however, I felt panic and let out a tirade of threats.
"If you let this cat in the house again, you're going to have to answer to Don Walter," I shrieked. "I have taken the fall way too many times already, I will not do it again!!"
I picked up Hawk and chucked him out again, shouting obscenities. But then, just hours later, I was out wandering the streets, wondering where he might be, peering into hiding spots for his familiar shape.
................... Yes. Now it is obvious... I am a confused, old friend, of Don Hawk. As I sit now and reflect on the situation, I attempt to piece together the feelings. I want him close, but not close enough to be seen as a relationship... in the eyes of both Don Walter and Don Hawk. He needs to be a casual stopper-by, an independent man... or it is not going to work. I have closed the book on elicit intimacy... and I will not tolerate a battle with Don Walter again, I will not put stress on the friendship we have forged since the initial battles began.
At least for today, that is. :-O
More workers arrived to our apartment this past weekend. They have moved in, reshuffled the equilibrium, and most importantly, given me reason to tell stories about what has happened. I have been around the Puerto Rican block, know the island, and can sound like an expert...something I love to do, especially since I have been the one constantly asking people questions for the last two months.
Out of the assortment of details I've related, the one that evoked the most emotion involved our saga with the cats... specifically, Don Hawk... the cat who's trials and tribulations have been chronicled already on this blog. For a refresher(I recommend this), read the initial reports, a couple posts down from this one.
I spoke of Hawk in detail, told them how we had taken him away, how he had returned, and how we had taken him away again, to his now presumed death. I had scarcely allowed myself to think about Hawk until then. How the situation pained me! Thankfully, the newbies were full of oohs, ahhs, and most of all, awwwwwwwws. It was the past, it was nostalgic, it was fun.
And so it came to be March 5th...
Phillip, Sarah, and Kim had gone for an afternoon of surfing, a route that takes them through the old neighborhood where we had last released Hawk. As they returned to the house in the late afternoon, I heard Phillip's screams first. "Come look!"
And yes. I knew it. Hawk was in his arms.
They had seen him sitting on the side of the road, not 5 minutes from where we live, and picked him up and brought him back. Just like that he was back. I sat down by the door and stared at him, at his once white legs, now sooty with dust. He ran into my knees, plowed his head into my open palm, and it felt good. Very good.
But a good feeling does not solve problems, especially when it comes to rogue beasts... and that is where I find myself now.
Now that I am around Hawk again, and the initial joy of reunion has worn off, I can see that I am the one that has changed. The ruling fist of Don Walter has poisoned me, and I find myself to be, bluntly, an amalgamation of hypocritical emotionz. Late last night after he returned, I found myself sitting alone with him, cuddling by the door, rough-housing like we used to. But then this morning, I saw him sitting outside the door and felt an uncontrollable rage, and in turn I punted him four or five times in the ribs and butt, making sure that he had fled down the street.
One moment I am in love, the other I am desperate to get him out of my sight. Later, Kim had left the door open like we used to do and Hawk had wandered in on his own accord, weaving through the table legs like he owned the place. Instead of coaxing him, however, I felt panic and let out a tirade of threats.
"If you let this cat in the house again, you're going to have to answer to Don Walter," I shrieked. "I have taken the fall way too many times already, I will not do it again!!"
I picked up Hawk and chucked him out again, shouting obscenities. But then, just hours later, I was out wandering the streets, wondering where he might be, peering into hiding spots for his familiar shape.
................... Yes. Now it is obvious... I am a confused, old friend, of Don Hawk. As I sit now and reflect on the situation, I attempt to piece together the feelings. I want him close, but not close enough to be seen as a relationship... in the eyes of both Don Walter and Don Hawk. He needs to be a casual stopper-by, an independent man... or it is not going to work. I have closed the book on elicit intimacy... and I will not tolerate a battle with Don Walter again, I will not put stress on the friendship we have forged since the initial battles began.
At least for today, that is. :-O
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Burnt at Both Ends: The Energy Shot
Ever since ESPN started airing the commercial, it was inevitable.
Long lasting energy without the crash... You don't need energy drinks, just the energy...
These phrases were permanently ingrained in my head, every 3rd commercial, as I sat wondering how the Bobcats(17-6 at home) could lose at home to the New Jersey Nets(1-27 on the road), how the Tarheels could get dominated so mercilessly by Georgia Tech, if the Lakers can beat the Cavs with Jamison(yes), or how glad I was that Johnny Weir was at a safe distance...
5 hour Energy.
Ever since being overexposed to 5-hour Energy, I've been secretly obsessed with giving it a try. Not out of necessity, not as a trial run for future addiction, but to...?
To put a feeling to the name. Would 2:30 really feel like 5:30?
To confirm my suspicions. How much does life suck for people who rely on them? Would Luke Harangody consider it?
5 hour energy. 5 hour energy.
Since I made the decision to do this about a week ago, I have been trolling the supermarkets, gas stations, and finally the Walgreens in search of the small orange bottle. Gas stations? No luck. Supermarkets? No luck. K-Mart? Sold out. 1st Walgreens? Sold out. 2nd Walgreens? Sold out. Apparently Puerto Ricans are super into it... Even more reason to do it!
However, the prolonged search was getting irritating, so I decided that I didn't care that much about the brand, just the effect.. so I settled for the second rate spin-off sitting next to the empty slot on the shelf: the Monster: Hitman Energy Shooter. . I purchased the 3 fluid oz. bottle for 2.99.
In doing so, I was directly defying this statement by 5-hour Energy on their website: Despite dozens of imitators, 5-hour Energy is still number one – by a wide margin. Why? Because it works.
According to the bottles however, they have the exact same ingredients, the Monster: Hitman even one-upping 5-Hour Energy with 400 mg of Panax Ginseng. So, any fears of tainting my experiment were thus assuaged, and I entered the next step at full throttle, dreaming of full throttle.
Next step? To actually drink the energy shooter. The target was for the early morning of February 17th, selected simply because it was the next day. I glanced briefly at the warning label, cursorily noted the phrase: "no more than 1 every 4 hours," the words "irritability, rapid heartbeat, pregnant women," and read no more. In retrospect, here is what it really says:
But at that moment in time, I didn't care about their warnings. I wanted to make my own warning. And this is how it reads:
6:30 AM. I chugged the small bottle on the way to do point counts with Alcides. Taste doesn't really matter, since it's gone in a millisecond. Only preparation? Make sure I'm not the one driving. For the first hour nothing has really happened, until... I realize that something is happening. While driving to the next point, I discover myself simultaneously attempting to:
- eat yogurt
- remove seed-pods from my pants
- grope for my pen beneath the seat
- change the CD to Kid Cudi
- enter the next point into the GPS
- read directions to Alcides
- grasp his joke about if your friend falls into this plant to say this phrase about a penis, which is a double-meaning, because...
As I said, I try to accomplish all these things simultaneously in about 2 minutes, all while feeling quite nauseous and strung out. I "succeed," but have worked myself into a complete frenzy in the process...
Anyways... we are arriving to the next point, so I have to get out and open a gate. As I get back in the car, I can't open the door because the spoon is still in my hand and then I slam the door on my foot getting back in. I become entangled in the seat belt and by the time I de-tangle it's time to open another gate. Alcides is fully aware of my experiment and is whooping and laughing at me.
The point is up a stream-bed, and my goal is to not fall and at the same time to think of some adjectives to describe my sensations. I create a chant of them so I can remember them until I write them down. They are:
- Nausea
- Over-enthusiasm
- Master of None
- Irrational Anger
- Idly Scatterbrained
- Bodily Functions x 100
Those are pretty accurate, and I'm pleased. Here are the notes I make while also counting the birds I am hearing. Note how large I wrote "close door on foot." Click on it to make it bigger!
So... Time passes... We are finished working, it's about 11:00 and we're driving home. I am crashing(I'm not supposed to be crashing), and it is not pretty, I am extremely hostile, hostile toward every song that is playing, the seat belt, my shoes, everything. Everything is out to get me! I stop moving completely and eat a PB and J and things start to get better.
What to make of this? Well... I'll just put it like this: it confirmed my suspicions...
- After taking it, 2:30 may feel like 5:30, but you'll get splinched in the process.
- Luke Harangody has probably tried it(yet another reason why he'll never be as good as Hansbrough), and yes... you're life would really suck if you took this regularly.
Sigh... As with most things in life, the actual experience did not live up to the fantasy. But then again... I'm not the one writing reviews like this, so you tell me:
Anonymous Anonymous said...
i tried it and the taste is alitle less than expected but all in all pretty good its about 1:00 am i took it about 11:00 im alitle more tired than in the begining but then agian ive had a full can of monster every day for 3 weeks id give it about an 8.5
10:59 PM
Anonymous Anonymous said...
whoever said its pathetic is retarted monster kicks ass NOS sux i was high wen i drank 3 of them hahahahahhahaahah
7:46 AM
Anonymous dean said...
i am now six hours out after my very first energy drink ever...this shot from monster. i took it before a hockey game, and i'm just now recovering. seriously thought i was going to have to call a doctor. shakes were so bad i couldnt type this ten minutes ago. the energy drink experts may chalk this up to my being a rookie at the energy drinks and they may be right, but for me the aftereffects were terrifying. just a word to the wise, and again in fairness i'm a 41 year old guy who is about ten pounds overweight. full disclosure.
1:02 AM
Loll... At least I spent the rest of my day like this:
One love, y'all.
Long lasting energy without the crash... You don't need energy drinks, just the energy...
These phrases were permanently ingrained in my head, every 3rd commercial, as I sat wondering how the Bobcats(17-6 at home) could lose at home to the New Jersey Nets(1-27 on the road), how the Tarheels could get dominated so mercilessly by Georgia Tech, if the Lakers can beat the Cavs with Jamison(yes), or how glad I was that Johnny Weir was at a safe distance...
5 hour Energy.
Ever since being overexposed to 5-hour Energy, I've been secretly obsessed with giving it a try. Not out of necessity, not as a trial run for future addiction, but to...?
To put a feeling to the name. Would 2:30 really feel like 5:30?
To confirm my suspicions. How much does life suck for people who rely on them? Would Luke Harangody consider it?
5 hour energy. 5 hour energy.
Since I made the decision to do this about a week ago, I have been trolling the supermarkets, gas stations, and finally the Walgreens in search of the small orange bottle. Gas stations? No luck. Supermarkets? No luck. K-Mart? Sold out. 1st Walgreens? Sold out. 2nd Walgreens? Sold out. Apparently Puerto Ricans are super into it... Even more reason to do it!
However, the prolonged search was getting irritating, so I decided that I didn't care that much about the brand, just the effect.. so I settled for the second rate spin-off sitting next to the empty slot on the shelf: the Monster: Hitman Energy Shooter. . I purchased the 3 fluid oz. bottle for 2.99.
In doing so, I was directly defying this statement by 5-hour Energy on their website: Despite dozens of imitators, 5-hour Energy is still number one – by a wide margin. Why? Because it works.
According to the bottles however, they have the exact same ingredients, the Monster: Hitman even one-upping 5-Hour Energy with 400 mg of Panax Ginseng. So, any fears of tainting my experiment were thus assuaged, and I entered the next step at full throttle, dreaming of full throttle.
Next step? To actually drink the energy shooter. The target was for the early morning of February 17th, selected simply because it was the next day. I glanced briefly at the warning label, cursorily noted the phrase: "no more than 1 every 4 hours," the words "irritability, rapid heartbeat, pregnant women," and read no more. In retrospect, here is what it really says:
But at that moment in time, I didn't care about their warnings. I wanted to make my own warning. And this is how it reads:
6:30 AM. I chugged the small bottle on the way to do point counts with Alcides. Taste doesn't really matter, since it's gone in a millisecond. Only preparation? Make sure I'm not the one driving. For the first hour nothing has really happened, until... I realize that something is happening. While driving to the next point, I discover myself simultaneously attempting to:
- eat yogurt
- remove seed-pods from my pants
- grope for my pen beneath the seat
- change the CD to Kid Cudi
- enter the next point into the GPS
- read directions to Alcides
- grasp his joke about if your friend falls into this plant to say this phrase about a penis, which is a double-meaning, because...
As I said, I try to accomplish all these things simultaneously in about 2 minutes, all while feeling quite nauseous and strung out. I "succeed," but have worked myself into a complete frenzy in the process...
Anyways... we are arriving to the next point, so I have to get out and open a gate. As I get back in the car, I can't open the door because the spoon is still in my hand and then I slam the door on my foot getting back in. I become entangled in the seat belt and by the time I de-tangle it's time to open another gate. Alcides is fully aware of my experiment and is whooping and laughing at me.
The point is up a stream-bed, and my goal is to not fall and at the same time to think of some adjectives to describe my sensations. I create a chant of them so I can remember them until I write them down. They are:
- Nausea
- Over-enthusiasm
- Master of None
- Irrational Anger
- Idly Scatterbrained
- Bodily Functions x 100
Those are pretty accurate, and I'm pleased. Here are the notes I make while also counting the birds I am hearing. Note how large I wrote "close door on foot." Click on it to make it bigger!
So... Time passes... We are finished working, it's about 11:00 and we're driving home. I am crashing(I'm not supposed to be crashing), and it is not pretty, I am extremely hostile, hostile toward every song that is playing, the seat belt, my shoes, everything. Everything is out to get me! I stop moving completely and eat a PB and J and things start to get better.
What to make of this? Well... I'll just put it like this: it confirmed my suspicions...
- After taking it, 2:30 may feel like 5:30, but you'll get splinched in the process.
- Luke Harangody has probably tried it(yet another reason why he'll never be as good as Hansbrough), and yes... you're life would really suck if you took this regularly.
Sigh... As with most things in life, the actual experience did not live up to the fantasy. But then again... I'm not the one writing reviews like this, so you tell me:
Anonymous Anonymous said...
i tried it and the taste is alitle less than expected but all in all pretty good its about 1:00 am i took it about 11:00 im alitle more tired than in the begining but then agian ive had a full can of monster every day for 3 weeks id give it about an 8.5
10:59 PM
Anonymous Anonymous said...
whoever said its pathetic is retarted monster kicks ass NOS sux i was high wen i drank 3 of them hahahahahhahaahah
7:46 AM
Anonymous dean said...
i am now six hours out after my very first energy drink ever...this shot from monster. i took it before a hockey game, and i'm just now recovering. seriously thought i was going to have to call a doctor. shakes were so bad i couldnt type this ten minutes ago. the energy drink experts may chalk this up to my being a rookie at the energy drinks and they may be right, but for me the aftereffects were terrifying. just a word to the wise, and again in fairness i'm a 41 year old guy who is about ten pounds overweight. full disclosure.
1:02 AM
Loll... At least I spent the rest of my day like this:
One love, y'all.
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