So, Philippines again. Some things don't change--all of Kensuli has malaria. The baseball-sized circle of red and purple on my right buttock is evidence that the trail is at least as treacherous as it was when I left. The first scoop of a bucket shower is still a frigid mental barrier.
A lot is different, too. All my friends got married, had new babies, or got married AND had new babies. Kensuli is mostly abandoned, pigs are everywhere, it's messy. It's not safe for me to walk on the trails by myself anymore.
Drying rice at Mirikewbew
Things have been heavy on my mind. I've changed too, and I'm not the same person as I was nekana'in, when I lived here 11 months. After I left Kensuli, I romanticized it so much, forgot all the hardships. Now, I'm back after 2 months of lounging around vacation destinations, and Kensuli is not a vacation destination. Furthermore, it's hard to simply visit without being invested wholly in the people and the work here. I feel guilty being an observer instead of a worker, a taker instead of a contributor.
Di'in and Miri
1. Banwe ni Di'in: (Di'in's house):
Although we're drenched in sweat from toiling up, we quickly become chilled sitting on the drafty bamboo-slat porch. Di'in (younger than me) and her 5 y/o Miri both have selet. (Literally "snot".) Her husband Albin went to the Wednesday market in the lowlands where he's probably gambling money they don't have on volleyball and drinking tuba'. When I lived here, Di'in took her birth control religiously--it's not surprising that Miri has no siblings. If I had a child like Miri, I'd probably do everything possible to never have another, too. She bullies children twice her size, races around the dirt yard harassing puppies and chicks all-the-while shouting the Jollibee Song at the top of her lungs. Then, she lights a cigarette in the cooking fire and pulls on it better than I could. "Anday megsigu!" snaps Di'in, to no effect.
Tamleng River
2. Banwe ni Kiri. Carrie has been a nurse in Kemantiyan since I arrived, and I've been staying at her house. It's morning; mosquitoes swarm up through the datag cracksand attack my feet. Huts here let in more than keep out. I am attempting to make fried rice, but the humidity is inconducive to lighting the burner. After three matches, I give up and let Carrie do it. It lights on her first attempt--the burner AND the emaciated cat crouching on the stovetop. For a brief moment, Missy's entire left side is a burst of flame; the stench of burning hair permeates the house. Remarkably, Missy is entirely nonchalant.
Kikid (Mariliya's daughter), Mariliya, and Patma (Mariliya's niece)
3. Banwe ni Mariliya. Mariliya's got a new house. This is because Bep, their paralyzed son, was playing with fire and burned down their other one. They lost everything--clothes, mosquito net, photos I sent of us after I left, the feathers she'd stuck above the door as testament to her husband's skill with a blowgun. And they were already SO poor. But, regardless of that AND of them all being sick, they gift us a bunch of ripe bananas. I look around me--Bep with his big drooly beautiful smile. The unusually quiet rooster trying to steal newly-harvested rice.
Maribel, Runita, Ruwina
Ruwina
Maribel
4. Du'un Mirakubew. Although I lived in Kensuli, I spent most of my time with the people who live in Mirakubew. Today, the women are home but the men are not. I sit on the porch missing the times when I could keep up with their fast words. Some I can pick out, like, "Mam, nelipaten ke at Pelawan." ("You forgot how to speak Palawano.") Ruwina (24), Maribel (21), and Runita (18) are sisters. They've all had children since I lived here--4 months, 2 months, and 18 months. Maribel also adopted an 8-month-old from a neighboring village. She did this because the mother was possessed and wouldn't care for her child; she weighed only 4 kilos at 6 months. Now the father wants the child back, since it's a daughter and therefore she can be sold. But for now, she's Maribel's. The love the whole family radiates to her is incredible, especially given that they all have babies of their own. They extend their love to me and my students, feeding us sticky rice with tlinu't kumbehang (cassava leaves) we eat with our hands. Maribel sits across from me, cradling her child, shooing chickens out of the drying rice with a long bamboo pole. If someday, I am half the woman she is I'll be doing well.
5. Bagung Te'un (New Year's Eve). Carrie and I walk through the night. The crickets are drowned out by firecrackers. Our destination is a hut where a couple dozen Pelawans have gathered. Lilu'lut (sticky rice cooked inside bamboo) is arranged over the fire; the men are hacking apart a goat on a giant banana leaf. Hopeful puppies gather around. A confused duck alternates sleeping with spastic flapping. A little girl I don't know crawls into my lap. I hold her tight, sensing she needs love. She rests her head on mine--I wonder if she has kutu (lice). She scratches her head--yep, she has kutu. I wonder when I'll get kutu. The stars are as glorious as they were when I lived here.
It's hard to return to a place that you were wholly invested in, find that the biggest way that it's changed is in how you relate to and understand it. The hopes and dreams that I had when I lived there before have transformed, I have time to have hopes and dreams. They still struggle to survive. It's not fair.
(Joe Walsh--I.L.B.T. Watch this if you want the rest of the post to make any sense.)
Uh huh. That's where it's at. Tits. I like big tits.
(Sultan Tits, to be precise.)
Let's throw back to mid-November, when I was living a relatively stress and worry-free life bumming around in Thailand with Hope. We'd lived a fantastic few weeks in reckless spontaneity, but like all good things, we were ending--at least that's what it felt like.
My explosion, cornering, and curry-puff partner. Doi Pha Hom Pok, Thailand.
Saturday, November 21st, Arcade Bus Station: we heft our heavy packs from a tuk-tuk one last time, squint in the bright Chiang Mai sun. Our parting is on the grounds of ideological differences: Hope wants to go north to Pai and hang out with fake hippies. My obsession with Sultan Tits leaves me no choice but to head south, towards Kaeng Krachan National Park. Hope and I place bets on who's gonna be the requisite Pai puker (the vans are not for the weak-stomached). She climbs aboard with the greasy smelly white people wearing elephant pants, and I wave goodbye to her for an uncomfortably long time--so long that people around the bus station must've thought we were lovers separating or something.
I cross the street, climb in a double-decker bus that smells faintly of urine and hand my ticket to a brusque woman in unflattering lilac polyester. I sleep most of the 12 hours to Bangkok. When I arrive, it's about 4AM. The bus disgorges us, and illegitimate taxi drivers swarm like fulmars on a processor. I evade this first wave and head towards the taxi-meter line. Thinking I'm safe, I let my guard down for a moment and am successfully solicited by a more convincing illegitimate taxi driver. The plan is that he'll take me to Victory Monument for 400 baht. He fucks up, however, when he stops to laugh with one of his buddies about the stupid American he's just scammed. The only thing I understand is "taxi-meter hahaha."
"hahaha joke's on you", I think.
"Change my mind. Taxi-meter." I reclaim my bag and march back towards the promised land of taxi-meter, while he follows me, assuring that I'll wait a long time and pay a big sum. I wait 3 minutes and pay just under 100 baht. Sunday, November 22, 4:30 AM, Victory Monument. No, despite being a white tourist, I am not going to Ayhutthaya. The first minivan company I find assures me that they go to Kaeng Krachan, great! We get on the van, I confirm with my huge map that we are, indeed, headed the general direction of Kaeng Krachan. Good. I make small-talk with the adorable older woman next to me until our pigeon-English repertoire is exhausted. In Phetchaburi, I see signs for the Kaeng Krachan turnoff. We keep going. Ah well, Kaeng Krachan is a ways off the main drag. Maybe he's dropping the other passengers and then he'll take me to the park. My seatmate looks at me concernedly and exchanges Thai with the woman in shotgun.
"You miss your stop."
FUCK.
Thai people are generally wonderful, and through the concerted effort of the van occupants, I kind of understand what I'm supposed to do next.
"Motorcycle stop...cross street...van."
Just in case, I have them write in Thai script that I want to go to Kaeng Krachan. Sunday, November 22, 9:30 AM, Phetchaburi (I think?) Right now, my only comfort is that I can prooobably get back to Bangkok if all else fails. A Thai flower-seller coaches me across four terrifying lanes of traffic, and I find the "motorcycle stop". I show the oldest man my paper, he seems to understand, and assures me he'll help me get on the van. I sit there and wait...and wait...for like a whole 45 minutes. Vans that could probably take me to Kaeng Krachan pass by frequently; the motorcycle guys laugh and smoke on the corner. Impatient, I stew. Another van appears, they jump to life. "This one go to Kaeng Krachan." Oh ye of little faith, they were just waiting for the right van.
Sunday, November 22, noon. Kaeng Krachan! My destination is Ban Krang, about 30 kilometers from the park entrance. The people at the desk tell me a ride to Ban Krang will cost me 2400 baht. I commit to (but don't yet pay) this price--SULTAN TITS!--and then spend the next 45 minutes trying to surreptitiously divorce myself from this arrangement. I'm not a very subtle person, so I tell the desk people, "I walk," and you know what? They can't stop me!
So, I do just that--walk--until I'm out-of-sight of HQ and then I start to hitchhike. The first pickup I flag pulls over; they say they're going to Ban Krang. SCORE!! I revel in my evasion of exorbitant fees, feeling resourceful and anything but a slave of the system. About 5K into the ride, my revelries are abruptly ended. There's a festival, or a market (are they really that different anyway?!), with a throng of security-type guys. They motion me to get out. They speak zero English; beyond "Thank You" I know zero Thai and I definitely am not feeling thankful right now.
I assume they work for the park and disapprove of my hitchhiking around the fee, so I am frustrated and dangerously close to losing face and we're getting NOWHERE and no one in the fucking place speaks ANY English and the teenage boys are starting to gather to laugh at me. Then I do a skit. I walk, beckon like I'm hitchhiking, and the lights go off in their eyes. I'm not sure what they think I said, but they shower me with water and juice and street meat that is highly sketchy and barely cooked. The guy who ordered me out of my first ride ushers me to his aging Isuzu and we limp up the mountain while I try to allocate my new wealth of food that I don't want to eat.
Sunday, November 22, 1:30. I get dropped off at the family-operated checkpoint 15 km from Ban Krang. Guard dude won't let me walk ("Elephants!"), but says I can hang out until I get a ride. Sweet. I awkwardly make myself at home. We watch boxing.
"Boxing very popular in Thailand."
Then, the wife pushes a plate of food towards me.
"Hot!" the guard warns.
He wasn't kidding. His daughter, giggling at the tears running down my face, runs off for a pitcher of water--all for me. I give them my bag of dried mango in thanks.
Meanwhile, the clock is ticking and I wait impatiently for a ride. This gate closes at 5:30 (elephants), and it was 1:30. An hour and three vehicles pass; he motions me to wait each time I try to get up. My frustration swells again--is he going to prevent me from my Sultan Tits?
Again, I'm wrong and my impatience is telling. Guard dude has simply factored in my rancid-smelling body and glut of gear, and was waiting for a pickup truck. Smart guy. I climb in the truck he's stopped for me, and finally make it all the way to Ban Krang. There, I alternately lay in my hammock enjoying Violet Cuckoos and Ashy Drongos and rush to the bathroom, thanks sketchy street meat.
Near dusk, I get yelled at by a Thai family to come hang out. They force friendship (and beer) on me, and I am all too willing. They cite ghosts, tigers, and elephants as reasons why I should move my tent closer to theirs. The cook, bringing a mountain of "fry rice", supports their opinion, adding porcupine and leopard to the danger list.
"Porcupine? They just dangerous if you sit on them!" I retort.
We drink more beer and I show them pictures of snow and they show me pictures of Great Hornbills further up the road...wait WHAT? With the help of the cook, we hatch a plan where they'll get me a ride at 5AM. I'll do anything for a Great Hornbill.
The cook comes out and grabs me to come to the kitchen and look at porcupines. They're less enthralled with me than I with them, raise their quills and waddle away. I go outside again and drink more beer. About this time, we all forget that I don't speak Thai, but somehow they've convinced me that I really do need to move my tent. We do it together. The beer is gone, but a flask of brandy appears and starts making the rounds. The cook asks me about birds. At this point, the answer to any bird question is "Sultan Tit", so I say "Sultan Tit".
The best part about this is he knows what tits are, he also knows what Sultan Tits are, and he does NOT speak English. I bid farewell to my new friends and pass out until 4:30 AM.
Sea of Fog, Kaeng Krachan National Park
Monday, November 23, 4:30 AM. The cook, true to his word, helps me flag a truck going up. I hop into the back unsuspectingly. This ride is one for the record books, and so is the road. Thailand generally seems overcautious with its classification of "4X4 only", but this one is awful. Stream crossings and steep grades over a moth-eaten surface that was possibly pavement a few lives ago. The driver wants to race everyone else to the top and he wins and I don't fall out so I guess we all win. At the viewpoint, it's beautiful. Unspoiled jungle and undulating mountain ridges filled in by fog. I really want to see Great Hornbill, but placate myself with the knowledge that birding at least takes me amazing places and the view and ride has been worth it. The driver notices I have binoculars and perks up. He starts pointing out birds--mostly phylloscoshits in terrible lighting. AND THEN THE HORNBILLS COME.
It's great. They float by distantly, prehistoric silhouettes against the sea of fog. They glide...glide...glide, eventually coasting to a stop in the top of a mammoth tree. I am ecstatic over this Life Bird experience. Just down the road, Chinese photographers spill out of a vehicle frantically changing lenses as the hornbills glide serenely by. This I enjoy too.
Ironically, the guy I randomly hitch a ride with turns out to be a Thai birding guide, and he finds me a few more life birds on our trip down the mountain. Upon return at Ban Krang, the cook rushes me towards a bunch of just-arrived Caucasian farangs. I help (confuse?) all parties, and sit down to another plate of fry rice. The cook shows me amazing camera-trap captures: tapir, clouded leopards, and porcupine sex. Tuesday, November 24, 5:00 AM. You see 'em on the street Left and right I like big tits
My last morning in Kaeng Krachan, Sultan Tits are anything but left and right. Being a guide, I understand that the more you want to see a bird the lower the chances of that actually happening. Murphy's Law and shit. That doesn't change anything; I can't think about anything but Sultan Tits. In fact, I can't remember the last time I was this emotionally invested in a bird.
I try to look away But I can't resist Every time I try to call it quits I like big tits
I'd like to see big tits. I wander around the campground in vain, then travel the road (also in vain). I see some nice birds--Spectacled Piculet. Orange-breasted Trogon. Dollarbird. Blue-bearded Bee-Eater. But alas, none of them get the attention they deserve, because even though some of them are Life Birds, none of them are Sultan Tits. My fixation intensifies as I retrace my steps back to Ban Krang. I start informing every bird that I see that it is not a Sultan Tit. A few minutes later, I accuse them of the same thing. I try, in vain, to turn every Black-crested Bulbul into a Tit. No dice, and there are like 30,000 Black-crested Bulbuls.
I walk beyond Ban Krang, towards the youth camp. I turn around at the gate that says "Staff Only", and sadly begin working my way back to camp. It's been a beautiful morning. Sun glinting through the jungle off spiderwebs. Gibbon whooping. Good bird action. I shouldn't be as disappointed as I am, but I've built Sultan Tits up so much...
Well they come in twos Hard to choose Your favorite tit Uh huh
Unlike Joe Walsh, I have no problem choosing my favorite tit. A swarm of bees blows by, and so does a honey-buzzard. A flock of Asian Fairy Bluebirds are nice to look at--so are Velvet-fronted Nuthatches and a Common Flameback.
I like tits for dinner Or a noon-time snack I like tits for lunch A big tit attack
Suddenly, I see a yellow-and-black tail. I decide that it's attached to a Sultan Tit (something I've done with the last hundred or so Black-crested Bulbuls). Then, I see the rest of the bird and it actually IS a Sultan Tit, and there are actually FOUR of them, and the rakish things forage eye-level in front of me in perfect lighting.
They give me shivers When they bounce around Puckered up or hanging on the ground Tits.
For at least the next four hours, nothing else matters.
"Says it all for me. Tits." (Joe Walsh). Sultan Tit, Kaeng Krachan (Alison Vilag).
"How many Gyrfalcons you seen before?"
"Just one, on St. Paul."
"Right. Well, there's a few reports from the Gaspe."
"Cool...any white ones?"
He clicked around on the eBird map.
"Gris...gris...guess that means gray."
"Yup."
"Blanche--white?"
"Yup."
The little French I know has been gleaned from reading road signs, menus, and--in this case--Quebec eBird checklists. The words I recognize are probably of little utility (rendered even less useful by the complicating factor that I'm completely lost when it comes to pronunciation), but I can help you order a beer or find a white Gyrfalcon.
We were holed up in a motel room near the Maine-New Brunswick line, headed north with our snowshoes and heavy coats, in search of Winter. Winter, elusive until this evening, had actually dipped south and found us--heavy, wet snow coated the roads. We'd been forced to stop an entire border short of New Brunswick-Quebec. So, stranded, we plotted our next few days. Our goals: poutine, winter, and a white Gyrfalcon.
Perce, Quebec
We toured the Gaspe, spending the night in the colorful town of Perce (and accomplishing our poutine rendezvous). The next morning, we continued around the peninsula towards Ste. Ann des Monts. Periodically, he would brave the bitter cold to scan the Common Eider and Barrow's Goldeneye rafts. I sat in the car unashamedly and alternated between eating garlic smoked sausage and sweet beef bologna, compliments of Unity's new meat shop that claims too much of my time and money.
A blast of cold wind entered the car. I licked the grease from my fingers.
"So I go out there and look for your King Eider and you just sit in here and sneak meat?"
I grinned. "Yup."
"That's it. You're not feeding any to the Gray Jays then."
"Yes I will. I'm going to make Gray Jay friends."
For the rest of the morning, we continued to debate the morality of feeding hand-smoked local pastrami to Gray Jays. Our final stop was at Cap Madeleine--where the Gyrfalcon a la blanche had been seen--on January 10.
"You gonna get out?"
"Yeah, I guess I will here."
I scanned over the slushy St. Lawrence. My arms were shaking so uncontrollably that the Glaucous Gull I was following seemed to be doing figure eights.
"You scope that eider raft yet?"
"Which one THERE'S THE GYRFALCON!!!"
It was blanche.
It bombed down the coast, banked, came at us, perched on a post so close it barely fit in the scope. Ice and charcoal and basalt eyes--that chunk of arctic terror glowered at us for a minute then streaked off, its passage marked by flocks of fleeing ducks.
