Wednesday, November 2, 2011

comparative advantage

Someone dared me to write a limerick about comparative advantage, since I said too close together that 1) I'd take suggestions for entertaining limerick topics, and 2) that economics is a tragically unfunny subject. Months later while trying to fall asleep*, this is what I came up with...**

There once was a locavore named Hugh
who learned in an Eskimo igloo:
an advantage comparative
is an advantage imperative
when you only have ice for your stew.

Other suggestions/requests?***

*or rather, the day after while roughly reconstructing what occurred to me while trying to fall asleep... never believe yourself that you'll remember in the morning.

**this doesn't illustrate the most important / misunderstood aspects of comparative advantage, but give me a break, it's a limerick...

***I already did "Darwin's barnacles" but I can't post that one online. Ask me in person ;)

Saturday, September 10, 2011

science is compensation for smallness

The same essay I was just talking about also has this great paragraph stuck in towards the end, fairly separate from the rest of it:
Indeed, one could define science as reason’s attempt to compensate for our inability to perceive big numbers. If we could run at 280,000,000 meters per second, there’d be no need for a special theory of relativity: it’d be obvious to everyone that the faster we go, the heavier and squatter we get, and the faster time elapses in the rest of the world. If we could live for 70,000,000 years, there’d be no theory of evolution, and certainly no creationism: we could watch speciation and adaptation with our eyes, instead of painstakingly reconstructing events from fossils and DNA. If we could bake bread at 20,000,000 degrees Kelvin, nuclear fusion would be not the esoteric domain of physicists but ordinary household knowledge. But we can’t do any of these things, and so we have science, to deduce about the gargantuan what we, with our infinitesimal faculties, will never sense. If people fear big numbers, is it any wonder that they fear science as well and turn for solace to the comforting smallness of mysticism?
Isn't that great? The same thing applies in the social sciences, even though these by definition study things that are on human scales. If we could live for millennia and hold terabytes of information in our minds easily, we could simply see the phenomena we hope to deduce through the social scientific method. Just like we don't need studies to tell us that smiling at people makes them happy, or paying more on rent than you earn will land you broke, we wouldn't need studies or statistics to sort out the subtle interactions between education and social norms and property rights and social preferences (to take a random example...)

Although, I think it'd be a stretch to describe mathematics or engineering in this way. Mathematics doesn't concretely exist in the world; we invent or choose axioms and then discover what truths they imply, and those truths frequently tell us something about the real world, but they don't exist to be observed until after they're created/discovered by mathematicians. Likewise, engineering. When I say engineering I don't mean studying the world with the aim of using that knowledge to build things (that's just science, and the above applies), but building things and studying what we build. Then, once again, the object of study doesn't exist until we create it (whether it's the effect of nuclear waste disposal or of the design of government institutions) and we can't, with large enough brains and enough time, just look at the world and know the answers.

Science vs. anthroposcience? Science vs. quantitative 'art'? I'm not sure how to define that latter category exactly. But you see what I mean.

Tuesday, September 6, 2011

computability and big numbers

I recently realized (through finding a computer version of trivial pursuit, which provides player statistics) that I'm a little less terrible at the geography category than the science category. The resulting minor identity crisis put me on a bit of a science kick, which included reading this great essay a friend of mine sent me (thank you Kenny!) that I can't believe I've never seen before. Read the whole thing if you like numbers or computation in the least. In particular, the relation between computability and big numbers is fun. The idea goes like this:
  • Consider a computer and all the possible programs we could write for this computer (intuitively, don't think of interactive software programs, think of a program you start running, and then you wait, and then it eventually gives you an `answer'. Like a calculator.) Specifically, consider a Turing machine.
  • Computer programs can be written to compute whatever you want them to. The problem is, it's hard to know if it will finish computing that thing in finite time. It might get stuck in an infinite loop, counting all the way to infinity looking for something that doesn't exist. The halting problem is: can I examine an arbitrary program and decide whether or not it will terminate in finite time?
  • It turns out that it is not possible to write a computer program that solves the halting problem. The proof is great but repeating it would take too much length and specificity, so just read at that link.
    • But since I can't resist, it basically goes: Say h(i,j) is an algorithm that returns 1 if program i terminates on input j, 0 otherwise. Then define g(i) to be 0 if h(i,i) is 0, and to loop forever if h(i,i)=1. But then either g(g)=h(g,g)=0, or g(g) doesn't terminate and h(g,g)=1. Either way, you have a contradiction with the definition of h. As Aaronson puts it, "Like a hound that finally catches its tail and devours itself, the mythical machine vanishes in a fury of contradiction. (That’s the sort of thing you don’t say in a research paper.)" *grin*
  • Any program is defined with a certain exact number of rules. Think about all the possible programs that contain exactly N rules. There are only finitely many of these programs, since N is finite and there are only finitely many possible types of rules, so we can hypothetically make a list of all of these programs.
  • Now consider what happens when you run each of these programs. Some might terminate and some might loop forever, but among the ones that terminate, one of them takes the longest. So, you can define BB(N) to be the length of time that the longest-running program with N rules takes (that is, the Nth Busy Beaver number.)
  • Can a Turing machine compute these numbers? If it could, it could solve the halting problem by simply watching a program with N rules run for BB(N) steps, and if it hasn't finished by then, by definition of BB(N), it never will. Therefore, the BB number sequence grows too fast to be computable, because we already know that the halting problem isn't computable.
  • Even more striking, BB(N) grows faster than any computable sequence: Say there is some number sequence that is always greater than BB, D(N)>BB(N). Then if we can compute D(N), we can automatically compute BB(N), because we just run every N-rule program, and among those that stop within D steps, the longest-running one takes BB(N) steps. Therefore D doesn't exist.
    • One minor addendum to that: even if we don't know that D is greater than BB, or even if it was somehow not possible to know for sure, having computational access to D allows us to unknowingly calculate BB, which is in principle not possible.)
  • So in summary: the BB number sequence is really, really big. So big, no computer can possibly keep up when trying to calculate them. And this connection between computability theory and big numbers is cool :)
A side note about amateur interests: isn't it nice learning this stuff in bite-sized chunks instead of in five-minute flurries in math classes that are so dense with mulling-requiring ideas that you can never catch up enough to enjoy how beautiful it is? Sure, at this rate I couldn't never learn enough to be a theoretical computer scientist, but what's the point if it's not enjoyable? Not to say it's not possible to learn enough or work hard enough where that pace would be enjoyable, but I already picked a different niche specialize in, and I don't want to completely lose touch with science just because I can't devote so much time to it.

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

the circus comes to town

The last two months have been so ridiculously crazy and busy and nonstop in motion that I've barely sat down in front of my computer for any real length of time except to frantically get some work done, and as a result stopped blogging for the longest amount of time in 7 years. And I haven't looked at google reader since May 14. I have no earthly idea what is happening in the world...

Anyway, I finally got around to writing down the third installment in my Gabon travel journal, so here it is.

After Jake finished his conference in Franceville, he had arranged with the Wildlife Conservation Society for logistical support and permitting to collect fishes in the Bateké plateau region, just outside the national park (permits for within the park take many more months to approve…) That itself was a bit of a nightmare of spending hours on end writing emails in French with google translate to communicate with a bunch of separate people who apparently don’t communicate amongst themselves, but one that I thankfully was not involved in. At the last day of the conference Jake was finally able to talk to someone (an English person!) from WCS in person and we got an estimated date of departure of Tuesday the 1st, four days later. It wasn’t until Monday at the very end of business that the details were finalized though, and we found out we were going to have to travel with a local guide and feed him and pay him, etc. However, since we originally were told we might have to travel with a WCS person who doesn’t speak any English and didn’t hit it off all that warmly with Jake at the conference, and pay him $66 per day plus expenses, the much smaller price tag of $22 per day was warmly welcome.

So the next day a guy named Stephen drove us in the WCS landrover from Franceville to Kessala, the small village a couple miles hike from the WCS elephant monitoring camp where we would be staying. That drive was the first time I really felt like we were getting into a remote part of Africa with people who were definitely African: The road, which frequently had rivets and holes and uneven surfaces of several feet vertical differences, was definitely not in the same world as the nice paved highway out of Libreville or the decently usable dirt roads surrounding Franceville. And the driver was utterly unphased by this; he seemed to know every rut and exactly how to hit each one to maximize speed and minimize throwing the luggage in the back on top of the passengers. The reality of the situation seemed so unlikely it felt like I was watching a video game.

We arrived in Kessala, which was also of course a completely different world from the two big cities of Libreville and Franceville. It’s tiny, with probably a few dozen residents, and very poor, with all of the buildings except the church made from scrap metal and local wood planks and reeds. Chickens and stray dogs roam around freely, and while no one was obviously going hungry, they also clearly had only a couple very old items of clothing each.

The arrival of the landrover was a town event, with all of the important men of the town descending on the scene to decide exactly what to do with us, and another crowd of spectators milling around nearby. Stephen’s job was to take us to Kessala, introduce us to various people like the town chief and the guy who would guide us in the woods, and instruct that guy on his job description, which was to guide us around to streams and rivers where we could collect fish for about $22 per day plus food. I’m not sure Stephen successfully communicated any of this besides our names before a group of men took over, chattering in very fast Teké, to decide who would accompany us, who would be our porters, and whether I could go at all. (I’m still not clear what the issue was there… but I’m female, and was wearing shorts since it was at least a 100 degrees in Franceville that day and I hadn’t had a chance to change into jeans yet in Kessala, and they clearly thought I was ill-equipped to walk into the forest if I thought that was a sensible thing to wear. But whatever the issue was, it disappeared from discussion as mysteriously as it arose, with not a single question asked of me directly, and I sure wasn’t going to inquire about it further as long as they weren’t sending me back to Franceville.)

When they had decided our fate, at least 45 minutes later, they led us to the home of the man who would guide us and showed us where we could set up camp for the night. Stephen allegedly sorted out the details of what was happening with them, since they didn’t speak a single word of English, and told us when we were supposed to be packed up the next morning and who would carry what for us into the camp for what amount of money. So we ended up with two porters, and Papa, the old man who was our guide for 9 days.

Stephen left us to our devices, and we hurriedly set up the tent to try to get a short reprieve from the madness. The crowd of milling onlookers had followed us to the lawn where we were setting up camp, and three or four boys insisted on curiously helping me assemble the tent (a magical house-in-a-bag) while many others watched Jake rearrange other camping and scientific equipment while pointing and discussing everything in great depth amongst themselves in Teké (mostly speculating about the purpose of the many mysterious items, it seemed) and investigating in as much detail as Jake would let them get away with. We escaped into the tent for a few minutes to change and hide, but then had to come back out to cook some ramen since we were both ravenously hungry and wanted to sleep as soon as possible (Jake operating on only a short catnap and me on about three hours of fitful sleep; see the previous post for that saga…) Dinner, prepared on our REI camp stove with petrol fuel can, was a whole new episode of the three ring circus, but we wolfed down the food and said goodnight quickly enough to avoid going crazy from all the attention.

In the morning the same crowd showed up to watch us pack up our gear and to decide as a town committee how to pack the remaining gear into two porter baskets and a third for our guide, and then to wave goodbye and watch the crazy white people march into the forest. Two elderly women and a younger girl with her infant son walked all the way to the entrance to the forest to wave au revoir and wish us good luck.

The walk to the camp was fairly uneventful; we couldn’t understand a word of the Teké that the three men spoke in, of course, and only bits and pieces of the French when they deigned to speak in the language that we at least had a fighting chance to decipher. When we got there we weren’t sure what to do with the porters so I handed them cash (which they looked confused about, oddly enough) and eventually left. The rest of that day we stayed around camp because Jake was still a little bit ill and there was a river right there to do some fishing in. Around 5pm, three WCS scientists showed up, who I didn’t know would be there at all, and seemed confused by our presence as well, although perfectly friendly I suppose. Papa ate with them and talked late into the evening so it was nice to have him preoccupied by something else for awhile.

The next day Jake and I packed up to hike down to the elephant platform to do some collecting there, since we’d been told by WCS that we could use that platform freely (and sleep there if we wanted to, which Olivia, the woman from WCS who spoke English that Jake had been communicating with, highly encouraged because it’s such a beautiful spot along the Mpassa. We headed out of camp and Jake indicated to Papa that we were going to the platform so Papa started walking with us, but then the communication broke down. I still don’t know exactly what he was trying to tell us but there was something about seeing elephants and taking photos of them and paying 20K CFAs (about $45) for the privilege. Jake said no no no, we are paying you 10K CFA per day to guide us through the forest to rivers where we can collect fish. But things were never really cleared up and we just pushed on ahead with Papa rambling on and on in Teké about god knows what, but it basically sounded like a never-ending rant about what we were doing and what we should be doing instead and what he didn’t want to be doing and what we had to pay him. Of course, neither of us spoke any Teké, and he rarely switched to French, but Jake was much more adept at hanging back and ignoring him than I had the stones to be, so I was stuck listening to this monologue and trying to answer “yes ok” or “I don’t understand” periodically.

(This, by the way, is the same day I wrote about previously with the rain storm, and I can’t remember what all I said, so there might be some redundancy.)

When we ran into the elephant, the communication issue became more relevant, because Papa was telling us to back up and put the camera away, which Jake was still convinced was because he was trying to get us to pay him 20K to photograph elephants, but there was obviously an element of safety concern in there too, as much as I’m sure the extortion element was there on some level. He finally succeeded in shooing us back towards a clearly off the elephant path and scouted ahead before taking us on to the platform.

The three scientists at the platform once again looked puzzled by what we were doing there, and Papa talked to them a long time, probably complaining about having to bring us down there despite the elephants etc etc etc. But Jake took some time to write down in French his field work plans for that afternoon and asked where we could work that would not disturb their research, and that seemed to break the ice drastically. One guy in particular was very helpful and nice and said he was there to help us all week and followed us to the streams instead of staying at the platform all afternoon. It seemed like we would be ok as far as communication went as long as this guy was there and on our side.

Unfortunately that didn’t last long… the next day the forest was drowned by the storm the day before so no one went anywhere. The day after that, the three WCS guys walked off in the opposite direction from the platform, and Papa told us we couldn’t go to the platform that day, which we didn’t really understand but figured it was still because of the forest being flooded, so we went to another stream in the other direction instead.

And every day after that, every single morning, we talked to Papa and he tried to explain to us why we couldn’t go to the platform that day, and said yes we will go tomorrow.

As for sleeping at the platform, that we couldn’t even communicate to the WCS guys, who seemed to think that was a crazy idea. Sure, there are elephants, and it’s dangerous to be out in the forest at night if there are elephants around, but the whole point of an elephant platform is they can’t get up it. Staying on the platform at any time is perfectly safe.

This guy, who was hired to guide us to where we needed to go, instead decided he was an authority on where we could go when and that taking us anywhere was a favor he would only occasionally deign to provide. And the elephant platform area (where we wanted to work because, well, there are elephants around, duh! Who doesn’t want to see elephants…) He wasn’t working for us, he was the de facto king of the forest that we were required to follow if we wanted to go in at all.

I cannot tell you how infuriating it is working with someone like this. Every day the same story. “Tomorrow we will go.”

On the 6th of 9 days, time was running out, and we sat down with Papa to very clearly lay out the plan for the rest of the time. I wrote down a calendar, in French of course, with mornings and afternoons and nights clearly demarcated, and we agreed that that night we would fish at beach 2, and that the next morning we would hike to the platform, collect fish there during the day, sleep there over night, continue collecting the next morning, and then hike back to the WCS camp for the last night before hiking back to Kessala. Everything was written down clearly, he repeated it back to us clearly, and we thought we finally would make some headway.

Next morning? Of course, no we can’t go to the platform today. We will go tomorrow.

By this point Jake had started musing out loud things like “Wow, this forest is so dense and remote. It would be so easy to murder someone here and no one would ever have an inkling of what happened...” Ahh, a day without Papa… how nice that would be indeed. Obsessed with this idea, Jake concocted a plan to get rid of him for an afternoon. He sent him with his camera back to Kessala to charge the battery on the solar charger. This conveniently solved a very real power problem and gave us a solid five hours of quiet and freedom. 20 minute in, it was abundantly clear to me that my grumpy, stressed out mood from the last couple days had been solely a result of having to deal with this guy.

The next day, after giving up on the idea of camping at the platform, once again, Papa says we cannot go to the platform today. And at this point the list of reasons he was giving was flat out comical. It is dangerous because of the elephants. I can go fishing with you, Jake, but the lady must stay here (Now THAT pissed me off. He knew I was assisting with research, and I know there have been other female scientists at the WCS camp…). We must stay away from the platform because it will scare the elephants away and the scientists must count them. We must stay away from the platform because it will scare the elephants away and tomorrow many people are coming to photograph them. It was completely ludicrous.

Up until then I’d pretty much left all the negotiating up to Jake since it was his field expedition and they obviously looked at him as the guy in charge (or, The Man, which is just as good) so why get involved. Especially since my French was not nearly as good as Jake’s. But by this point, on the very last day we were there and still being denied to go work where we were told we could work or camp freely by the organization in charge of all six of us there, I was so annoyed that I joined in the hour long discussion with Papa arguing about where we could go. We got as far as agreeing to go in the direction of the platform and fish in a couple of the smaller streams on the way, but not all the way there.

So off we went. After passing by the first two small streams, Papa started in on his perpetual irritated ranting (in French, at least, by this point) about what we were doing. At the third stream, when we knew we were pretty close to the platform, Jake sat down with Papa and said, Look, I know you don’t want to take us to the platform. We will fish here. But you need to take this message to the other people at the platform with my camera, because I need two photographs of the two locations where we fished earlier. Give them this message, and they can take them for us.

So after at least half an hour of trying to get this message across (Papa is NOT the brightest crayon in the box… and only semi-literate. Sure, we couldn’t speak French, but we had no problem at all communicating with the other three guys. Papa was obviously both genuinely slow and deliberately playing dumb because he didn’t want to cooperate.) he finally set off towards the platform with the map and instructions I had drawn, and the camera. We did a little bit of fishing, and Papa returned, bearing the blissful news that we could continue on to the platform. Jake’s manipulative plan to get the message to the WCS guys that we were there and wanted to be at the platform, had exactly the desired effect.

Once at the platform, Jake did his best to make sure that no bridges had been burned and that everyone was clear about what was happening. He wants to work with WCS again, so he was willing to basically be slapped around by these idiots and bureaucracy for the sake of staying on good terms with everyone involved, and since we were not 100% sure that none of the difficulty of going to the platform was coming from the WCS guys via Papa instead of just from Papa’s obstinance directly, he wanted to make sure everything was smoothed over with them when we showed up. He told the scientists that Olivia at WCS had told us that we could work there but that we didn’t know that it might interfere with their work, and that WCS had not given him a formal outline of his research orders, which would have clarified to them what we were supposed to be doing and what they should let us do, and that Papa very clearly had not been instructed properly about his role as a guide rather than a royal pain in the butt, and that all around there had not been good communication and that it was very hard to make that right once we were there since neither of us could speak French. He asked if it would be ok to fish in one location in particular and take a photo in another location, and they were very nice and helpful and told us exactly where we could fish without being in the way of their research and that we could certainly take one photo at the other location. And once again, the friendly WCS guy came along and showed Jake all around and was quite helpful.

The next morning we hiked out, with one of the WCS guys working as a porter for us, since they all had to hike out then too to get more supplies. We took a group photo at the camp, and everyone was very friendly and nice, so at least it seems that they were not unhappy with us.

And we finally paid Papa his 80K CFAs and said goodbye. Hopefully forever. The consulate at the Gabon Embassy in Washington D.C. definitely takes home the award for most awful Gabonese person (or just most awful person…) that I’ve had to deal with. But Papa put up a great fight and gets a very honorable mention.

When we arrived back at the village, once again we were greeted like the circus come to town. The same old lady, young mom, and her young son met us right at the entrance to the forest to welcome us back and tell us good job for making it. We sat down in the yard where we had camped the first night, and about a dozen people pulled up chairs and gathered around to hear Papa’s long tale of the week before. Oh what crazy things these white people want to do!

And you should have seen it when we got out the last few fish samples to process. Why would be want fish so tiny? And how do we put them in magical water that makes them die instantly? And why do we staple little pieces of paper to them, and carefully cut off their back fin with surgical tools and latex gloves, and take hundreds of photographs of them, and wrap them up carefully in formal after putting the fin clippings in tiny tubes of alcohol? And then we burn the surgical tools for some crazy reason before moving on to the next one. Utter mystery. Every step of the way, they wanted to see exactly what we were doing, and listen to Papa’s mystified explanation of it. Even the old old woman who could barely stand up, and who has surely seen plenty of much crazier things in her 80 or so years, stayed put through the entire saga and story.

Finally, at last, the circus shifted focus from us to the truck that showed up freshly laden with supplies for the WCS camp. Suddenly every town resident was there helping unload the boxes of baguettes and manioc and cans of vegetables and salt fish and powdered milk and cookies and more food than occurs in one place than probably any other time. Little kids took pieces of the baguettes and walked around chewing on them slowly and happily. The crowd didn’t dissipate until the WCS guys had all of it packed into their backpacks and the truck drove off with us in it on the way back to Franceville.

I always suspected, but am now definitely sure, that the last thing I want in life is fame and recognition. It is nice to be left alone, and blissful to be ignored.

Monday, June 13, 2011

the tropics

[Part 2 of Gabon trip journaling. Again, not edited...]

Yesterday [June 2, 2011] was a truly tropical experience.

Backing up a bit: for ten days, Jake and I are camping in a tropical forest in a remote corner of Gabon in order to collect fishes* in the previously-unsurveyed Bateké region. Two days ago we caught a ride in a Wildlife Conservation Society (WCS) landrover to the small village of Kessala, about 90 minutes drive (30 km or so) south of Franceville. I’ll write about that journey separately actually, so suffice it to say that we are now camping with three WCS elephant researchers and our guide, an old guy called Papa from Kessala, at the WCS camp located in a rare clearing in this incredibly dense tropical forest. This is not a place you want to break a limb or fall ill with African sleeping sickness.

We got up with the sun at 6:30 and packed up the fishing gear to take down to the Mpassa river, the larger river a mile or so away running next to the WCS elephant observation platform. Papa guided us through the forest, cutting away vines as we went with his machete that seems to be a non-negotiable tool for anyone venturing into the trees, and blabbering a constant stream of Teké and French which, as best as I could tell, was intended to make us aware of each root we might trip on, branches we might hit our heads on, thorny branches not to grab, sturdy branches we should hold on to, and muddy sinkholes to step carefully around. It slowly became clear that this constant stream of words (sorely lacking in clarifying hand gestures) also contained bits of information about the forest itself. That vine over there is good to eat; this pile of dung is from a duiker; these tracks are from elephants this morning; these paths are all made by elephants; chimpanzees and gorillas live here.

As we got closer to the Mpassa we got deeper into the territory that the elephants had been through just that morning, and Papa was clearly very concerned that they hadn’t left yet. Every 15 steps or so he stopped and hushed us to step lightly, paused his Teké narration, and listened very carefully for the sounds of elephants munching their way through the trees. When satisfied that they must be far enough away not to be bothered by our presence, we proceeded another 20 yards or so.

Elephants do not immediately evoke the impression of vicious attack animals, but in fact they are the 2nd most deadly large animal in the world behind tigers.** Much of that is simply due to size and numbers though. God forbid you should pitch your tent on the wrong river bank or you’ll be trampled to death in your sleep before you even know what’s happening.

In case you’re wondering, by the way, if you should ever encounter an elephant in the woods and startle it into an attack, you should hide behind a very large tree and let it chase you in circles around it until it loses interest. I don’t know what you’re supposed to do if you encounter two elephants.

The sheer power of these enormous beasts is immensely obvious when you find a clearing that has recently served as an elephant buffet. In a forest so thick that sun doesn’t directly hit the ground, this is the only place to see blue sky. Most plants develop defense mechanisms against the smaller wildlife that might eat their foliage, with bristles on the lower levels or no vegetation at all except very out of reach. Elephants have solved this problem by simply felling any tree that looks tasty by smashing their heads into the trunk until it topples. They’re also one of the only animals that can eat wood directly so they aren’t scared away by a few bristly leaves. The wake of a hungry elephant is sheer destruction, just like a miniature tornado toppling and stripping everything in its path. As Papa pointed and chattered in one of these clearings, I immediately learned the words `elefant’ ‘mange’ ‘ici’.

We had approached within a couple hundred yard of the observation platform before we were finally truly delayed. We stopped so Papa could listen carefully, and about fifty yards away through the foliage we could just make out some movement. Staring longer, we eventually could see the huge ears flapping at the insects and the trunk picking through the foliage for the tastiest bits. Each time it took a step forward or yanked down a branch, the crack thundered back to Papa and he waved us to back up. At this point our communication with Papa about the purpose of our visit and his job description were very rudimentary and Jake was convinced that he only wanted to charge us to photograph the elephants, but after more frustrated gesturing and forceful whispers, Papa shooed us back to a large tree a little off the path and continued forward without us to scope out the situation. 20 minutes later, during which time we preoccupied ourselves by photographing the various colorful forms of fungus in the area, Papa returned and led us towards the river, pointing out where the elephants were moving and stopping every minute or so to verify his calculations. The coast was clear, though, all the way to the Mpassa.

Phase 1: reach the Mpassa, complete. Papa climbed up the observation tower to chat with the three WCS scientists, probably complaining about what annoying white people we were, while we sat at the base of the tree sifting through the phrasebook and dictionary to figure out how to explain our plan. Jake wrote down some approximation of “We need a place where we can fish, in slow water, that won’t disturb your research”, “We would like to find earthworms”, “is it ok to set the fish trap up here”, etc. The WCS guys, who initially seemed very perplexed by our presence and unaware of our purpose, were suddenly quite friendly and helpful. One guy, a particularly friendly man whose name I still haven’t figured out, led us to a small stream nearby and helped us dig around in the mud for worms. I was quite enthusiastic about this barefoot squelching in the satisfyingly smooth, sandy mud, but was sadly inept at actually finding worms, so his assistance with slicing away huge chunks of earth with his machete was very beneficial. Soon we had a dozen or so collected and moved onto the next small tributary to the Mpassa, where we could see a dozen or so small fish in a pool. This is where I learned how frustratingly intelligent fish can be.

We blocked off the stream below the pool with one net, buried under the sand under the water, and blocked it off above the pool with the other net. Our plan to shoo them out of the pool into the net, however, was entirely ineffective. They simply hid deep under an overhang on the bank. The handnets were not even conceivably a more productive tactic. We finally gave up and decided that the best bet was to let the dust settle until they ventured back out, and lift up the net when they swam over it unsuspectingly. This plan, more by complete accident than any actual skill on our part, eventually yielded half a dozen fish, including one small catfish that Jake was particularly excited about for reasons lost on me, and the fish trap attracted a couple more tiny ones.

At this point we had to hurriedly pack up because WCS Guy said it was about to rain. No clouds were visible, but through some sort of hooting communication with the 2 guys still at the platform, he had established that a big storm was coming. We rushed out, made it about 100 yards to another little beach on the bank of the Mpassa, and WCS Guy said ok it won’t rain until later, so you can do some cast-netting here.

As it turned out, Jake needed to process the fish we’d just caught quickly, so he showed WCS Guy how to use the cast net, and Papa did some hook-and-line fishing, while we sat on a log a little ways back from the river to anesthetize, tag, photograph, store in Formal, and take tissue samples from the fresh catch.

After skirting around the elephants, this was the 2nd time that day I was keenly aware of being in the tropics.

Gabon is a relatively wealthy country, with GDP-per-capita some four times higher than other sub-Saharan countries. It’s located on the equatorial west coast of Africa, in the heart of the African rainforest. For the last decade or so, former president Omar Bongo and current president Ali Bongo (son of Omar) have been trying to position the country as the Costa Riva of sub-Saharan Africa; that is, as an ecotourism hub. Omar Bongo established a network of 13 national parks to that effect (only one of which, Lopé, is remotely ready for tourism, but hey gotta start somewhere). Prior to visiting, Jake read a report done on the issues involved in developing the ecotourism industry in Gabon. One this noted: “There are a few black flies.”

When we landed in Libreville and took the train to Lopé and spent a week in Franceville with no insect issues except the unavoidable mosquitoes, Jake wrote off this warning as nitpicky hypersensitive worrying targeted at hyperrich royal visitors who prefer to be carried around in air-conditioned, mosquitoe-netted carriages while being fed grapes and ice water. While sitting on this log attempting to process the fish, he was forced to reassess, as, I quote, “Some people might find this unbearable.” Translation: “This is unbearable.”

We slathered ourselves in 34% deet cream to no avail. I wore a mosquito head-net to no avail. These flies, which look like smallish versions of standard house flies, are harmless in the sense of not biting or stinging, but I have never been ambushed by so many bugs simultaneously in my life. And to make up for their non-biting nature, a handful of Tsetse flies joined in the mix and ate Jake alive, deet and all, causing him to yelp in pain every fifteen seconds or so. (In cosmic compensation for having a bloodstream the equivalent of caviar and fine wine to mosquitoes, the Tsetse flies largely left me alone, or at least didn’t hurt much when they bit me.)

Photographing each fish took several tries, since we had to snap the shutter at just the right instant after brushing away the giant black ants and shooing the flies. I never succeeded in getting a tissue sample into a vial of alcohol without drowning a fly or ant or two along with it. My many mosquito bite scabs, accumulated over the last 2 weeks, were each home to an ant trying to bite away some dead skin and some flies trying to drink my blood. I stopped talking after too many flew down my throat, but then they decided to explore my sinuses instead. Breathing between my teeth worked ok, so long as I stopped to pick them out of my teeth and gums every couple minutes.

They were also strangely attracted to my glasses. So many of them coated both sides of both lenses that I could barely see and had to take them off every couple minutes to dig out a few dozen from the back side of each lens where they immune to my constant swatting. In between these massacres, six casualties occurred when they crawled directly into my eyes and were blinked to death.

Lest you think we were stupidly setting up shop directly on their home, no, the entire usable radius at this beach was uniformly infested.

Needless to say, this impediment rather slowed down the fish processing job, so Papa and WCS Guy were left entirely on their own and caught about a dozen more fish for us. When we finally had the last fish in Formal, WCS Guy said he had to go back to the platform, so we waved goodbye and started to pack up at a more leisurely pace.

Unfortunately, part of the relevant message was lost in translation, and I believe the intended statement was closer to “you need to hurry back to the platform and meet me there so we can get back to camp before the storm.” Papa, with his nonstop gestureless chattering that we’d slowly come to ignore, was no more successful in getting that point across.

We eventually got back to the platform, which the other 2 scientists had already left, and WCS guy hurried down and led us down the path home at as close to a running pace as you can get in the thickly-vined woods. About 50 yards into the 1 mile walk, the clouds opened up.

This was the third time that day I was keenly aware of being in the tropics.

It’s not that I’ve never experience a downpour so thoroughly drenching. I grew up in Oklahoma, where the warm spring thunderstorms are equally violent and densely drenching, but it’s a different sort of experience in a tropical forest than on a wide open plain. Especially when trying to get back to camp as fast as possible.

First my glasses completely fogged up with the humidity so that I had to take them off and stumble blurrily closely behind WCS guy, who presumably would warn me by vanishing if I were about to step off a cliff or into a quicksand sinkhole. Within about 15 seconds I was as wet as if I had jumped in a river, most noticeably evident by the pint of water squelching around in my high-top GoreTex hiking boots (which are fantastic for keeping water out, but, it turns out, equally fantastic at keeping it in.) That was all fine though, and actually enjoyable as a welcome cool shower for a hot sweaty sandy body and clothes, but I couldn’t do more than cross my fingers and hold a platic ziplock bag over my pack and hope that the camera, kindle, binoculars, notebooks, phrasebook, etc inside were ok.

Really this talk about the immediate physical consequences of being drenched is beside the point. The truly amazing thing is what the rain did to the forest. By the time the water gets to the ground it is pouring in rivers off of the plant life more than it is dripping from the sky. And such a wet environment to start with hardly has the capacity to deal with a sudden new enormous onslaught of liquid: The rivers rose, the small streams turned into rivers, and the elephant trails we walked along turned into streams up to a foot deep with who knows hoe much mud under that. (The next two days, in fact, the trails were still so full of water that the WCS scientists couldn’t go to the observation station at all.)

The smells of all the diverse forms of plant life melting into the downpour was the other truly amazing thing. I was prepared for the different types of plant life in tropical forests compared to temperate American forests (although its somehow always still stunning to see these things in real life that you only recognize from photographs) but not for the mindboggling, visually obvious, variety of plant life. Looking up almost every tree I can see is distinct, and each gap-in-the-trees is home to countless other species of vines, shrubs, ferns, fungi, mosses, lichens, grasses, and things I can’t even place in any particular category. And they all have their unique refreshing small totally unlike what is found in the Northwestern and Western American forests that I’m most familiar with. My favorite pine and eucalyptus scents are absent of course, but not missed amid the plethora of new equally wonderful odors.

Towards the end of the hike when we had all entirely given up on keeping anything in our possession dry or “beating” any aspect of the storm back to camp, Jake engaged WCS Guy, who is a botanist, to tell us about some of the plants and trees. In particular, he taught us about a tree family (genus? I don’t know…) that have bark that smells very good and very strong. As we passed the different species he macheted off bits of them for us to pass around and sniff and tried to explain how the very slight differences in scent and color identified the different species, but that was pretty much lost on me. All I can remember is that one is called an Okume, which has very nice hard wood and is endemic to Gabon.

We finally stumbled into camp, pouring out our shoes, wrung out and hung up our sopping clothes, put on a dry change, and as soon as we sat down under the big canopy, the rain stopped. All in all, though, I’m very glad we dawdled too long at the Mpassa because the water was incredibly refreshing and I don’t think I’ll see something like that drowned forest again for a long time.

*`fishes’ is the plural of a species of fish, while `fish’ is the plural of an individual fish. Cool huh. It makes ichthyologists sound like they’re this many years old (hold up three fingers) when they’re talking about their work.

**I learned this fact from trivial pursuit so don’t quote me… I might not remember all the caveats from the question and I don’t have internet to check it right now.

Sunday, June 12, 2011

perils of international travel

So Jake and I have been traveling in Gabon for the last month. He went to a biology conference for a week in Franceville and then did field work in the Bateke plateau region, and since I am always looking for an excuse for an adventure, I went along just for fun and to be his 'field assistant' (in order to get on the field work permit..:) So now we're back in Libreville for two days before flying back to the states and I've been writing some stuff down, but not in chronological order, hence the introductory explanation.

So here's the first chunk, which I wrote on the train and is too long to bother editing, so pardon any resulting nonsense:

This is probably a familiar story to anyone who has travelled in the developing world. But I’m going to tell it anyway because if I can’t at least turn it into an amusing story, there’s no upside at all…

Jake and I were in Franceville, the 2nd or 3rd largest city in Gabon with about 30,000 people in the southeast corner of the country. That’s a far cry from the half million in Libreville 12 hours away by train (if running smoothly, which is frankly never the case), but since the president of the country is from Franceville, it enjoys a great deal of special treatment that makes it seem at least as modernized and wealthy as the capitol. One detail in particular is that the Universite des Sciences et Techniques de Masuku, the premeire technical institution of Gabon, is located there, which is how we came to visit for Jake’s conference on fostering international collaboration in research on Central African biodiversity.

The conference has just ended and we moved to a slightly cheaper hotel to stay for a couple of nights while arranging the final details of the field work trip we were taking to the Bateké plateau. This basically entailed four days of running around like chickens with our heads cut off assembling expedition equipment, finalizing permits and paperwork, working with several undergraduate students from USTM (Jake wanted to teach them as much as possible about field work while he’s here, since they don’t get that kind of practical research experience as part of their education) to build a fish photography aquarium and do some collecting in a river in Moanda about 20 km away.

On Friday I spent the day packing up all of our stuff and doing laundry by hand and lugging it to another hotel, because the list of people staying to do field work and staying in the hotel an extra day got lost in transaction somewhere between the organizer in Libreville and the reception desk of Hotel Poubara. Hotel Poubara claimed they had a big foreign delegation coming in that night and that we absolutely had to leave, so I had to deal with the fallout. (That afternoon they said they actually did have rooms but by then we were all so frustrated by their disorganized anti-service that we left out of spite anyway…) I went to Potos (the downtown market area) to get food but couldn’t find any street vendors selling sandwiches made out of anything but liver so I ate an ice cream cone and figured we get a big dinner anyway.

Unfortunately, by the time we got everything together and spent the evening with another woman who was leaving to do field work the next day, trading tissue tubes and currency and logistical information, there was nowhere with food open near the new hotel and we didn’t want to take a taxi all the way into downtown so we just shared some overpriced hotel French fries and went to sleep.

By lunchtime the next day I was so ravenously hungry we went to our favorite little restaurant in town, a local establishment that was a little too cheap and fast and delicious for the conference to ever have deigned to go there, and inhaled a plate of roasted chicken and French fries and baguette all drowned in oil and fried onions (and of course topped with a big glop of mayonnaise, which seems to be the source of about a third of Gabonese people’s calories). Every artery in my body was instantly slogged down in oily muck but it was oh so worth it.

That night we worked with three of the undergraduates building the fish photography aquarium and then all watched the soccer final championship game between Barcelona and Manchester United. It was a whole lot of fun hanging out with these super-friendly guys (who despite being undergraduates were my age or older – the education system is a little different here) who were extremely excited about this game. Enthusiasm is contagious and makes any activity enjoyable.

We were a little stranger to them than they were to us though, I think: girls in Gabon don’t drink alcohol so they were endlessly amused and not quite sure what to think when I drank a Castel while Jake and the three students ordered cokes. Then the subject of religion came up and it took them a few minutes to regroup and decide they could still associate with us… so long as they spent the rest of the week praying for our souls of course. If I’d been wearing shorts at the time it might’ve been a little to much to handle at once. Judging by the dresses and bathing suits and skirts the girls wear, it’s definitely not a matter of modesty, but there’s a much clearer gender divide here, and shorts on a girl is about the equivalent of a guy in a dress in the U.S.

There’s something to be said for the cultural diversity of the U.S. Other countries are still vastly different of course, but no one from America goes abroad and has their worldview, and their assumption of absolute correctness of their own cultural practices, shattered.

Anyway, it was a very fun evening. We went to bed happy, feeling like we’d accomplished something useful with the aquarium, and on track to have everything in place for the expedition in two days.

That didn’t last long. I feel asleep very puzzled as to how two beers could make me feel so nauseous, and when I woke up an hour later and vomited, my only thought was good grief is my liver on vacation? 24 ounces of 4.5% beer should only act as a mild sleeping aid. When I woke up again half an hour later, and then spent the next five hours laying on the bathroom tile in a delirious half-asleep state for three minutes at a time between intestinal mutinies, I kinda figured something else was going on.

All the next day I groaned in bed with a fever and aches that kept me from staying in one position for more than a few minutes. Jake kindly brought me ginger juice and sherbet, which was the only thing I could think of that didn’t immediately make me nauseous at the mental image, and while he went to collect fish with the students most of the day my great triumph was successfully consuming two ibuprofen and about three bites of sherbet.

By the next day I could at least move around normally, and by stopping to whimper pathetically and regather some strength for a few minutes after ringing out each item of clothing, I even managed to do some laundry while Jake ran errands. But eating was still not really an option. To make matters worse (injuring my dignity more than anything else, but still…) while Jake was working on the aquarium more with one of the students, I walked up to the gazebo where they were stationed two times in a row and smashed my head on the rim that was exactly at my height and exactly above the peripheral vision of my glasses. This was after the night before when all three students had been there when I stood up from a low brick wall where I’d been photographing the oncoming thunderstorm, and somehow managed to trip backwards and land back on the wall at a rather awkward and painful angle. Based on their hour of interaction with me, they must think I belong performing these clumsy feats in a more professional, circus setting.

Then I walked out a third time without my flashlight, carefully stepping down the stairs to the lawn, but couldn’t tell that the last ‘step’ was actually a two-feet-deep stone-lined hole. They weren’t aware that I was there until the crash and yell, and found me holding onto my hand in agony while blood slowly oozed from a deep hole punctured in my knee-cap. After the initial shock, though, I realized I was incredibly lucky, and only had a jammed finger and dented knee. I limped around for a day and then the knee was fine, and while 12 days later the finger is still sore and swollen up so that I can’t get my class ring off, functional ring fingers apparently aren’t necessary for any everyday tasks so I’ve barely even noticed.

Having established that no bones were fractured, I limped to the gazebo to lick my wounds, and promptly smashed my head on the roof.

I insisted I was fine, but Lionel insisted on guiding me up each step with a flashlight and thereafter yelling ‘attention!’ and pointing wildly at the roof anytime I approached the gazebo. Now I know what being a character in a bad sit-com must feel like.

Jake and I then had dinner with the director of the conference at a wonderful restaurant, and I slowly chewed about half a cup of plain rice, and then immediately collapsed in bed back at the hotel. We were finally definitely scheduled to leave for the field at 10:30 the next morning, and Jake was planning to get up at the crack of dawn to buy 10 days worth of food for three people and run around town with one of the students buying some additional supplies like material to make hand nets, several kinds of bait, and some things for our guide which we had just found out we needed to feed and house as well. I mumbled to Jake to wake me up in time to send a couple important emails and thanked my lucky stars that he would be able to take care of all that craziness while I got a much needed solid nine hours of sleep.

Two hours later, Jake was on the bathroom tiles and I was typing a pleading email to the Wildlife Conservation Society woman asking if we could possibly leave a day later. For the next five hours or so, I half-dozed in between being woken up by the chaos of gastrointestinal turmoil and trying to be comforting, and just as I had finally gotten into a REM state at around 6:30 a.m., after telling Jake that there was no possible way we could make it by 10:30 and that he needed to be more assertive about the need to reschedule our ride into the wilderness, the WCS woman woke up and answered his email and yanked me back into harsh reality saying ‘it’s today or never.’

I’m still not quite sure how I managed to get into town and find a long list of obscure items in a foreign city in a foreign language in about eight separate shops and then buy about 70 pounds of groceries, stuff them into my backpacking backpack, sit down on the floor to stick my arms through the straps, roll onto my front, get my legs under my center of gravity, stumble very very carefully so as not to lose my balance out to the roundabout where all the taxis are, squeeze the backpack into the front seat of the car with myself still attached, squeeze myself into the footwell of the front seat with the remaining handheld bags on the dashboard, roll out of the car in the hotel parking lot, retrieve the cab fare from my pocket, and stumble back to the room where I nearly passed out from doing all that without eating for the last three days and consuming approximately negative net calories over the last five. And still feeling pretty darn queezy and not quite in touch with the ground.

I’m even less sure how Jake managed to drag himself out of bed, at 8 in the morning on zero sleep and just past the peak of illness, go to the university with the conference director to pick up a fish net, vomit in the university bathroom, drag himself back to the hotel room, and deliriously roll around in bed in between groaning at me on the phone “I don’t know I can’t talk about it I have to go back to bed bye *click*” when I tried to find out how many pairs of latex gloves and syringes he needed for processing fish specimens. And even less sure how he managed to get out of bed, stuff the last things that I couldn’t pack myself into his luggage, carry it out to a taxi, and drag it all into the yard of the WCS office.

If we hadn’t had the miraculous help of Lionel, who was originally going to take Jake into town to find all that random collecting gear that there’s no possible way either of us could have located or communicated in French, but who ended it up doing it by himself as our hired help and bringing a taxi to pick us up and directing it to the WCS office, we would never have even made it 90 minutes late like we did.

We stumbled into the yard of the office like the living dead. Jake immediately laid down on the ground to sleep until the truck, mercifully running late, arrived to pick us up, and I miraculously was able to use their wireless internet (first and only wifi we’ve seen anywhere in Gabon) to send a couple emails that absolutely had to go out before disappearing into the field and which I had originally planned on spending the whole morning on.

Jake says when he saw me fall in the brick hole, he was sure I’d broken some fingers or an arm, and said a fast plea to whatever god might be hiding out in the universe that he wouldn’t have to evacuate me instead of going into the field. And that whoever was listening said “Ok, but then you have to get sick instead. Heh heh heh.” Luckily the universe’s cynical sense of humor ended with the WCS office where we had two crucial hours of napping and internet in a fan-cooled hallway before the landrover arrived.

The slow drive to the village of Kessala was so beautiful that it was actually enjoyable despite my lightheaded vertigo combined with carsickness and Jake’s huddling in the backseat half conscious and the fact that the ~30 km drive took about 90 minutes since the ‘road’ is contoured more similarly to a dry creek bed. In Kessala, we luckily had no obstacle to changing plans from hiking into the camp that afternoon to camping in the village and hiking the next day, since the truck was so late we wouldn’t have been able to make it before dusk anyway. And also luckily, Jake bounced back from the worst of the illness fairly quickly, was able to eat that night (as was I, finally), and didn’t collapse during the circus that ensued when we arrived and the villagers decided what to do with us.

But that’s the beginning of a different story for a different time.