Following are a number of prose poems or word paintings written while travelling in the Andes Mountains between Puyo and Alausi, Ecuador in 1998. Usually I travelled by bus; an experience at once humbling, intimate and uplifting. I love buses.
THE CONDOR’S BACK
by E.J.Brunton
Clouds bloom at our feet, the condors back glistens in the misted light below. We glide, he and I, through the steaming cauldron, oblivious to the cotton batten-wrapped villages far below us.
Beneath me slides his disappearing majesty. Sad, solitary one; his mate’s the victim of sacrifice. His children found in zoos. Hated enemy of the poor, whose scrawny sheep he carries off; the enveloping mists encase him like a shroud.
What an experience to actually be looking at this majestic bird from above him! It is not uncommon to be driving through or over the clouds in the Ecuadorian Andes Mountains.
Out of Alausi
An exceprt from the longer poem by E. J. Brunton
Oh Mountain! You’ve a froth of cloud pinned to your voluminous green lap like a snow-white hanky pinned to a lady’s skirt
The mountains are rounded like a giants cast off hats; here banded by straw huts; there adorned with cows.
Just out of Alausi, Indians in red ponchos are jammed into truck beds like strawberries in a crate.
The lion-mountains are clothed in yellow velvet, panting in the drought. The road is walled at places by dried mud cliffs.
Smoky Indians descend the bus at remote spots. No sign of trail nor hut, just endless crags, roiling cauldrons of trapped clouds, gorges and scrub.
Where are they going?
A ragged boy with twice-too-long sleeves flaps by like a fledgling condor.
UNION
E.J.Brunton
The man ploughs his field and sows his abundant seed into the furrow’s depth
From this union of man and earth are born their edible children
The man gives the mother nothing but dung and water
Somehow she survives and rouses her exhausted womb again and again to bring forth fruit
She feeds at times on the rotting bodies of her progeny and is satisfied
She waits
The man is old and stooped now. Soon he will die. There will be other men to plant their seed in her warm belly but all will become hers in time.
Totally and forever.
MOUNTAIN BUS
An excerpt from the longer poem by E.J. Brunton
We roll on swift rubber feet just inches from a 150 foot drop. Puertos al Cielo or Heaven’s Gate they’ve named the waterfall that splashes over the road eroding the silent curve.
From the Sangay bus we crane our necks ever upward. The mountains, like headless green lions, stretch out their paws to play with tiny huts. Waterfalls are gushing white wounds on the lions’ flanks. Manta de la Novia (Bridal Veil), Cascada San Jorge. A solitary swallow swoops by.
Where are the condors?
Friday, October 30, 2009
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Mother Knows Best
article and drawing by E. J. Brunton
Mother was tough but she was fair. She gave me the guidelines for living a successful life: honesty, the Do Unto Others rule; the hard work ethic, punctuality, and keeping promises were just a few. She was not lavish with praise. You had the guidelines and you were expected to follow them – or else.
Father - when he was home - was in the garden from early thaw to late freeze. He reinforced the hard work ethic as I assisted him. Lugging 50 pound bags of fertilizer and five gallon watering cans gave me muscles that no 10 year old girl ought to have.
But it was my other Mother that comforted me. No. I wasn’t adopted; unless you could call Mother Earth’s acceptance of me an adoption. When life got too much for me I would go out into the garden and lie down under a bleeding heart bush and shed my tears into her comforting bosom. It is a wonder that poor bleeding heart didn’t die from all the salt.
When my family found out, they teased me for this by singing a popular song of the day,
“Nobody likes me, everybody hates me, I think I’ll go and eat worms!” Sometimes now when I am tending to my red wiggler worm ranch I think of those words and I can smile. I haven’t been tempted to taste one of the little fellows yet though.
There were lots of rules as to what I could and could not do in the garden. I could do the weeding and dig the holes for planting. I could water. I could spray poisons on things. I could mow the lawn with the push mower. I could rake it. I could cut the hedge with the manual clippers.
What I couldn’t do I found out the hard way. Once at school we were given a packet of mixed seeds. I was so excited. Seeds of my very own! Home I rushed thinking of just the spot for them. Right at the front of the garden, near the bleeding heart was a space that would be perfect. I prepared the tiny patch and checked the seed packet for directions. I used all the lessons father taught me and was proud of my neat little patch. I put in a little stake and put the seed packet on it so I would remember what I had planted.
Father came home, changed his clothes and went directly to the garden. In a minute he was back red-faced and shouting. How dare I destroy the symmetry of his perfect garden? “Get that stuff out of there right now,” he yelled. I was devastated as I tried my best to pluck out and save the tiny seeds I had planted.
Crying under the bleeding heart was not an option today since Father was out there. Instead I went to a friend’s house. My little heart was bursting with shame and rejection. When my friend’s mother asked me what was wrong it unleashed a torrent of emotion that was discouraged at home. No one had ever asked me in such a kind tone before. Right away she told me to bring my seeds up to her garden and plant them there.
She must have called my Mother too, who in turn, ripped my Dad a new one. I came home to a resentful Father who grudgingly told me that I could have a patch of earth to myself and plant my seeds there. I guess it had never occurred to him that I might want something of my own in the garden.
Gardening has not always comforted me, or lifted me up, or filled me with joy. I seldom ever had a real garden to my self. Most of my life I made-do by turning my apartments into Amazon jungles. Hanging plants provided curtains. Tall ones were room dividers and corner fillers. Small ones nestled on the windowsill and in my shower stall.
Gardening at my first home was made difficult because of the poor soil and my own work commitments. But still I managed to grow celery, eggplant, tomatoes and a few flowers in the cement-like soil.
It took me 60 years to get my very own garden. But it was worth the wait. The soil is the best I could hope for: rich, crumbly and virgin. There is plenty of room for rain barrels, compost piles, vegetables, trees and flowers. And best of all I am free to make all the decisions.
When I came here there was one small garden by the side of the house. Hollyhocks fought a life and death battle with sow thistle taller than me. The first year I didn’t do much but clear the weeds and plant my favorite flowers, peonies and of course a bleeding heart.
Five years later the garden has over taken the lawn and my life. And in my garden and my life I practice all the lessons my Mother and Father taught me but most of all the ones, my other Mother, continues to teach me.
Mother Earth has shown me the other side, the pleasures and the joys of gardening. Hard work yes, but not something I ever begrudge. My bleeding heart gets watered regularly but not by tears.
These words written by Canadian author and artist, Emily Carr are inscribed on her tombstone. They eloquently express how I feel about the great big garden that belongs to all of us.
Dear Mother Earth!
I think I have always specially belonged to you. I have loved from babyhood to roll upon you, to lie with my face pressed right down on to you in my sorrows. I love the look of you and the smell of you and the feel of you. When I die, I should like to be in you uncoffined, unshrouded, the petals of flowers against my flesh, and you covering me up.
article and drawing by E. J. Brunton
Mother was tough but she was fair. She gave me the guidelines for living a successful life: honesty, the Do Unto Others rule; the hard work ethic, punctuality, and keeping promises were just a few. She was not lavish with praise. You had the guidelines and you were expected to follow them – or else.
Father - when he was home - was in the garden from early thaw to late freeze. He reinforced the hard work ethic as I assisted him. Lugging 50 pound bags of fertilizer and five gallon watering cans gave me muscles that no 10 year old girl ought to have.
But it was my other Mother that comforted me. No. I wasn’t adopted; unless you could call Mother Earth’s acceptance of me an adoption. When life got too much for me I would go out into the garden and lie down under a bleeding heart bush and shed my tears into her comforting bosom. It is a wonder that poor bleeding heart didn’t die from all the salt.
“Nobody likes me, everybody hates me, I think I’ll go and eat worms!” Sometimes now when I am tending to my red wiggler worm ranch I think of those words and I can smile. I haven’t been tempted to taste one of the little fellows yet though.
There were lots of rules as to what I could and could not do in the garden. I could do the weeding and dig the holes for planting. I could water. I could spray poisons on things. I could mow the lawn with the push mower. I could rake it. I could cut the hedge with the manual clippers.
What I couldn’t do I found out the hard way. Once at school we were given a packet of mixed seeds. I was so excited. Seeds of my very own! Home I rushed thinking of just the spot for them. Right at the front of the garden, near the bleeding heart was a space that would be perfect. I prepared the tiny patch and checked the seed packet for directions. I used all the lessons father taught me and was proud of my neat little patch. I put in a little stake and put the seed packet on it so I would remember what I had planted.
Father came home, changed his clothes and went directly to the garden. In a minute he was back red-faced and shouting. How dare I destroy the symmetry of his perfect garden? “Get that stuff out of there right now,” he yelled. I was devastated as I tried my best to pluck out and save the tiny seeds I had planted.
Crying under the bleeding heart was not an option today since Father was out there. Instead I went to a friend’s house. My little heart was bursting with shame and rejection. When my friend’s mother asked me what was wrong it unleashed a torrent of emotion that was discouraged at home. No one had ever asked me in such a kind tone before. Right away she told me to bring my seeds up to her garden and plant them there.
She must have called my Mother too, who in turn, ripped my Dad a new one. I came home to a resentful Father who grudgingly told me that I could have a patch of earth to myself and plant my seeds there. I guess it had never occurred to him that I might want something of my own in the garden.
Gardening has not always comforted me, or lifted me up, or filled me with joy. I seldom ever had a real garden to my self. Most of my life I made-do by turning my apartments into Amazon jungles. Hanging plants provided curtains. Tall ones were room dividers and corner fillers. Small ones nestled on the windowsill and in my shower stall.
Gardening at my first home was made difficult because of the poor soil and my own work commitments. But still I managed to grow celery, eggplant, tomatoes and a few flowers in the cement-like soil.
It took me 60 years to get my very own garden. But it was worth the wait. The soil is the best I could hope for: rich, crumbly and virgin. There is plenty of room for rain barrels, compost piles, vegetables, trees and flowers. And best of all I am free to make all the decisions.
When I came here there was one small garden by the side of the house. Hollyhocks fought a life and death battle with sow thistle taller than me. The first year I didn’t do much but clear the weeds and plant my favorite flowers, peonies and of course a bleeding heart.
Five years later the garden has over taken the lawn and my life. And in my garden and my life I practice all the lessons my Mother and Father taught me but most of all the ones, my other Mother, continues to teach me.
Mother Earth has shown me the other side, the pleasures and the joys of gardening. Hard work yes, but not something I ever begrudge. My bleeding heart gets watered regularly but not by tears.
These words written by Canadian author and artist, Emily Carr are inscribed on her tombstone. They eloquently express how I feel about the great big garden that belongs to all of us.
Dear Mother Earth!
I think I have always specially belonged to you. I have loved from babyhood to roll upon you, to lie with my face pressed right down on to you in my sorrows. I love the look of you and the smell of you and the feel of you. When I die, I should like to be in you uncoffined, unshrouded, the petals of flowers against my flesh, and you covering me up.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Today's post is about recycling - I think.
Now folks my real friends know that I seldom buy anything new.
Unless it is on sale.
So it was with great sacrifice that I shelled out the money for this shirt today. I did it for two reasons. The shirt was 20 % off its already deeply discounted price. And it seems to be speaking about a subject near and dear to my heart - recycling - I think.
Oh well, if it is not about recycling it is still about a subject that is near and dear to my heart. Engrish as she is spoke!
But you tell me
Unless it is on sale.
So it was with great sacrifice that I shelled out the money for this shirt today. I did it for two reasons. The shirt was 20 % off its already deeply discounted price. And it seems to be speaking about a subject near and dear to my heart - recycling - I think.
Oh well, if it is not about recycling it is still about a subject that is near and dear to my heart. Engrish as she is spoke!
But you tell me
The back says
Making Oneself
Stating over with the used stuffs!
Customer
The front says
Stating over
Customer
with the Used Stuffs!
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Cree Prophesy
This has been attributed to the Cree:.
Only after the last tree has been cut down
Only after the last river has been poisoned
Only after the last fish has been caught
Only then will you find that money can't be eaten
Only after the last tree has been cut down
Only after the last river has been poisoned
Only after the last fish has been caught
Only then will you find that money can't be eaten
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Poems and Stories from another life - Part III - The Refuge
REFUGE
article by E.J. Brunton
In 1994 I volunteered at a wild animal refuge in Mazan, Ecuador, just on the outskirts of the Cajas nature reserve about twenty minutes from Cuenca.
The road to Mazan wound up and up the mountainside through groves of shaggy eucalyptus and spiny penco cactus. Tiny white adobe houses with red tile roofs replaced the cinder-block citified houses. Early morning smoke from a twig fire curled out from under their eaves. I pictured the farmers eating their first meal of the day, probably rice and sweet black coffee. The marvelously adaptable cows that dotted the hillsides didn’t seem to mind that it was over 3,000 meters high.
The rutted dirt path to the refuge angled sharply from the highway and tilted steeply down to a stream bed. My Nissan was squeezed between the lush vegetation that tickled its roof and the rocks that scraped its poor bottom. It forded the shallow stream, only slipping a bit on the glacier-rounded rocks.
The road turned to sand and climbed higher once more. At the top was the rambling old hacienda that Steve, the man in charge, had described. Two large dogs came bounding out and launched themselves at the car, peering at me menacingly.
Alerted by their barking, Steve lumbered out with shouts and reassurances. He was a gentle giant of an Englishman with a ready smile and, I was soon to find out, some great stories. Dodging the effervescent dogs I followed him into the dark, cool of the hacienda. Its three-foot thick walls and small windows kept it well insulated from extremes of heat or cold.
As we sat at the rough plank table in the kitchen, enjoying a cup of tea from “over home”, he told me about his employers, a couple who produced BBC documentaries on endangered species. They lugged their young children all over the world with them. Right now Ecuador was their home base and Steve was their general dog’s body. He could do anything from fixing vehicles, building cages, chauffeuring, repairing leaky roofs as well as caring for the animals.
Many and varied jobs had given him this vast experience: London bus driver, zoo keeper for a Saudi Arabian prince, Carnival worker in the US and insect expert at the London zoo. Through this job he had been asked to handle the insects in the first Indiana Jones film, “The Temple of Doom”. He actually had to place all those cockroaches and stick insects on Harrison in one of the scenes.
"We're funded by various wildlife agencies but it’s never enough so I can't pay you but I can give you lunch," Steve apologized. I agreed to show up tomorrow to learn my duties.
I was so excited that I could hardly sleep. Morning found me once more outside the hacienda. Steve was already getting the food ready for the animals. He negotiated with the vendors in huge open air markets such as Arenal in Cuenca to sell him fruit and vegetables cheaply at the end of the day.
He showed me around the large property with its capacious cages complete with trees and other vegetation. The first one housed garishly colored parrots which had been given to the refuge when their owners tired of them. “Usually they come in bald or tailless. Parrots are social animals and when they get bored they pull all their feathers out,” he told me pointing to a large naked macaw.
The pair of kinkajou, being nocturnal animals, didn’t appreciate being woken at this absurd hour. Their black button eyes blinked out at me from their wooden house, as they whined peevishly. Other animals like song birds, parrots, wooly monkeys, tiny jungle squirrels and coatimundis (long-nosed cousin to our raccoons) were confiscated from street vendors. They had been ripped from their natural habitats and were paraded heartlessly about the city to be bought by people who didn't know what they were getting into. They ended up shivering, possibly starving or at the least being fed an improper diet of rice or bread as prisoners on the end of chains in a forgotten corner of the garden. "They bite, they stink, they are dirty," the people would say in defence of treating them like this.
A young falcon, whose wing had been damaged by a bullet, was making some tentative flapping motions unsure about how far the healing wing would take him. He settled back to tear at the mouse Steve proffered. At least mice were plentiful and free in this part of the world.
Most curious was a cage with a long glass aquarium sunk into the hilly ground. One side was exposed and the tank was lavishly planted with fresh-water greenery. An aerator kept the water rushing for the glittering trout.
Steve explained, “We filmed an episode about Ecuador’s fishing mouse. It was too difficult to do on location so a few of the mice and their favorite diet, trout, were brought from Cajas and put into the cage and aquarium. The mice dove in and caught the trout and we caught them on film." (Note: When looking for a picture for this article I found that they exists only in three locations in Cajas and are endangered. For more information see the link at the end of this post.)
They had succeeded in making the cages as close to the natural setting as they could. The wild guinea pig’s enclosure was planted with shrubs and various grasses to emulate the pampas - the setting for another film. Wild guinea pigs were rare now Guinea pigs are usually encountered scurrying around the walls of some farmer’s hut. Guinea pig is a delicacy in this area of Ecuador and is quite delicious when roasted whole over hot coals. We had a flock of about 200 guinea pigs for sale and personal use on our own farm when I lived there.
But my reverie was interrupted as we came upon the stars of the show, the spectacled bears. The two largest bears Jubal and Palmira had, until the flood in 1992, lived in a cement-floored cage at a tourist resort. I had often seen them there and my heart had gone out to them. They paced ceaselessly to the end of their short cage, and threw their heads back in a repetitious and abnormal pattern before taking the few short paces back again. Their coats were sparse and dull largely because of an unimaginative and inappropriate diet of rice and leftovers from the restaurant.
The spectacled bear gets its name from the white or cream colored ring of fur around its eyes. They are seriously endangered now due to the loss of habitat and relentless hunting. It was a passion of the owners at Mazan Wildlife Refuge to rescue and rehabilitate these creatures for eventual release into the wild again. Tours of the refuge were discouraged. They just didn’t want the animals to get any more used to human beings than was absolutely necessary.
Just prior to the flood Steve’s boss had borrowed the bears for a film shoot. He built a large enclosure on a mountain top where he released Jubal and Palmira. They must have rejoiced in their new found semi-freedom. “You see, this way we could get shots of them behaving as they would in their world without traipsing all over looking for the few remaining wild ones,” said Steve.
Luckily for Jubal and Palmira the tourist resort suffered a lot of flood damage so they remained at the refuge. “We used the wire and poles from the mountain top enclosure to build the large cages on the property,” he told me. The bear enclosure was complete with cement swimming pool and water fall. The fresh running water quenched their thirst and they had all the leaves, fruit and berries they could eat.
A second cage held two very undernourished bears that were abandoned by a traveling circus. The third inhabitant was Boogie who had been a pet until he got too strong and unruly. He still had a collar on which was constricting his throat as he grew. He would have to be anaesthetized in order to get it off.
“Here’s your state of the art equipment,” said Steve handing me the broom, dustpan and bucket. He gave me instructions on how to clean out the bear dung. I was never to enter the cage with Jubal and Palmira unless I lured them first into a smaller enclosure. They were just too big and dangerous after being teased by humans for years.
I could enter the other cage directly, keeping a watchful eye on the playful Boogie who loved to take a playful swipe at my bare leg. A loud “Hey you!” and a wave of the broom usually did the trick but I must admit I was nervous as he retreated and circled me. The dung smelled of oranges and fruit so it wasn’t too unpleasant.
When it came time for the big bears mischievous Jubal scooped up a nice little patty of mud and pee and threw it right in my face as I tried to lure him into the smaller interior enclosure. But we soon got used to one another.
I made friends with other volunteers during my several month’s tenure at Mazan and got a glimpse of how nature films are made. I hiked the nearby hills with Steve and marveled at the tiny mountain parrots and toucans so unexpected in this colder climate. I saw Jubal and Palmira become proud parents of two bouncing black cubs. I lamented with Steve over the difficulty of finding a release spot for the smaller bears and rejoiced at the falcon’s first flight and his final release.
This refuge for wild animals had become my refuge as well.
Note: I had forgotten the name of the refuge and the film makers but today I discovered this link:
http://www.travelalive.com/volunteer/animal_rescue_cuenca.asp
And for a learned dissertation on the fishing mouse link here:
http://www.rebeccashapley.com/akodon/reprint_pdfs/97ChibchanomysNaturalHistory.pdf
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Uh oh!
Sorry folks. You can dress me up but you can't take me anywhere. What a debut!
I very carefully published the Moi story in numerical order of its parts from one to four, only to find out that the last got published first.
Kind of biblical actually! I am sure you will figure it out.
I very carefully published the Moi story in numerical order of its parts from one to four, only to find out that the last got published first.
Kind of biblical actually! I am sure you will figure it out.
Poems and stories from another life - Part II - Moi
Moi
Part 4 of 4
story and photos by E.J. Brunton
All too soon it was time to leave. Our last night was spent lying on the plank floor of the school house in the village. But our adventure wasn’t over yet. We wanted to get an early start in the morning for the 9 hour trip by dugout canoe. Two of the men would pole us and our bulky loads downriver to a spot known only as "La Puente," - the bridge.
The morning was almost chilly as we made our way through the dripping vegetation down to the mist-shrouded Shiripuno. When the dugouts were loaded we were tucked in amongst our indispensables. My indispensables now included the shaman’s blowgun, poison darts and Moi’s spear. I couldn’t wait to get them home.
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At the waters edge a crazy quilt of brilliant butterflies sucked up the moisture from the damp sand with their spring like proboscises. Cayman slid into the water as we passed and a huge anaconda dangled lazily from a tree branch. I settled back and let my fingers dabble until I remembered the piranha.
We spotted a bright-red tree, the Jesus tree. Huaoarani legend (with a liberal sprinkling of Missionary lore) says it was the first tree in the jungle from which all life had sprung.
Moi had shown us a special tree on one of our walks. He said that inside the bark was a cottony lining. A big flood came and all the animals got into a boat made out of this tree and were saved.
I found it sad that their own beliefs had become entangled with the Christian beliefs. I was angry at the arrogance of the missionaries who brought disease and shame to this Garden of Eden where there had been no word for evil.
I whiled away the hours alternately reading, glancing at the river bank vegetation or admiring the muscles of the men who unceasingly poled the dugout. We reached the bridge in the late afternoon and made our farewells. Declining our offer of a cool drink, after a 10 minute rest, the men started right back upriver. Their endurance was remarkable.
Once out on the road the coolness of the canopied river was replaced by a scorching sun. It soaked into the tarmac and waves of it reflected back to us. The smell of crude oil wrinkled our noses.
![]()
Across the road and for as far as I could see in either direction was a huge rusty pipe. Someone had stretched their laundry on it. ( The next photo is from the net and shows multiple oil pipes. There was only one large one that I sat on..briefly!)
Not wanting to stand in the hot sun I went across to take a seat on it. I lowered my well-sat-upon buttocks slowly but rebounded immediately. It was scorching hot! Crude oil direct from the bowels of the earth was being pumped through it.
Not too many trucks were passing but finally we snagged one. Even with the tailgate lowered my nine foot spear and blowgun still hung over the edge. Once our gear was all in place I looked at my fellow passengers. There were several oil workers black and shiny from the field, Fridays pay in their pockets, all liquored up and itching to get to the whore houses dotted along the road. They dropped off one by one at their favorite spots. We two were the only women on the truck and were glad we had the boys (the guide and chauffeur from the Quito tour company) accompanying us. At least they would be on our side - we hoped.
At the next stop a man got on with a chicken. He set it on the floor and the poor thing dodged feet and was thrown from one side of the truck to the other as the truck unsuccessfully swerved to avoid potholes. I picked it up and put it on my lap where it gratefully fell asleep.
It was no different in Coca. The town had an oily black sheen to it. Rainbow slicks formed on the puddles from a recent rain. We were lucky. We would only eat and catch a bus. How could anything survive here?
Moi said in his letter to Bill Clinton, then president of the United States, “The whole world must come and see how the Huaorani live well. We live with the spirit of the jaguar. We do not want to be civilized by your missionaries or killed by your oil companies. Must the jaguar die so that you can have more contamination and television?”
The end
Part 4 of 4
story and photos by E.J. Brunton
All too soon it was time to leave. Our last night was spent lying on the plank floor of the school house in the village. But our adventure wasn’t over yet. We wanted to get an early start in the morning for the 9 hour trip by dugout canoe. Two of the men would pole us and our bulky loads downriver to a spot known only as "La Puente," - the bridge.
The morning was almost chilly as we made our way through the dripping vegetation down to the mist-shrouded Shiripuno. When the dugouts were loaded we were tucked in amongst our indispensables. My indispensables now included the shaman’s blowgun, poison darts and Moi’s spear. I couldn’t wait to get them home.
I sat quite rigidly at first, expecting to tip over at any moment. After a stiff jolt or two of the cane liquor our paddlers provided I got quite relaxed. I didn’t even mind the fact that the old milk jug they had it in looked a bit black and slimy inside. It went quite well with the turtle eggs that they dug up along the river bank at our lunch stop.
At the waters edge a crazy quilt of brilliant butterflies sucked up the moisture from the damp sand with their spring like proboscises. Cayman slid into the water as we passed and a huge anaconda dangled lazily from a tree branch. I settled back and let my fingers dabble until I remembered the piranha. We spotted a bright-red tree, the Jesus tree. Huaoarani legend (with a liberal sprinkling of Missionary lore) says it was the first tree in the jungle from which all life had sprung.
Moi had shown us a special tree on one of our walks. He said that inside the bark was a cottony lining. A big flood came and all the animals got into a boat made out of this tree and were saved.
I found it sad that their own beliefs had become entangled with the Christian beliefs. I was angry at the arrogance of the missionaries who brought disease and shame to this Garden of Eden where there had been no word for evil.
I whiled away the hours alternately reading, glancing at the river bank vegetation or admiring the muscles of the men who unceasingly poled the dugout. We reached the bridge in the late afternoon and made our farewells. Declining our offer of a cool drink, after a 10 minute rest, the men started right back upriver. Their endurance was remarkable.
Once out on the road the coolness of the canopied river was replaced by a scorching sun. It soaked into the tarmac and waves of it reflected back to us. The smell of crude oil wrinkled our noses.
Across the road and for as far as I could see in either direction was a huge rusty pipe. Someone had stretched their laundry on it. ( The next photo is from the net and shows multiple oil pipes. There was only one large one that I sat on..briefly!)
Not too many trucks were passing but finally we snagged one. Even with the tailgate lowered my nine foot spear and blowgun still hung over the edge. Once our gear was all in place I looked at my fellow passengers. There were several oil workers black and shiny from the field, Fridays pay in their pockets, all liquored up and itching to get to the whore houses dotted along the road. They dropped off one by one at their favorite spots. We two were the only women on the truck and were glad we had the boys (the guide and chauffeur from the Quito tour company) accompanying us. At least they would be on our side - we hoped.
At the next stop a man got on with a chicken. He set it on the floor and the poor thing dodged feet and was thrown from one side of the truck to the other as the truck unsuccessfully swerved to avoid potholes. I picked it up and put it on my lap where it gratefully fell asleep.
It was no different in Coca. The town had an oily black sheen to it. Rainbow slicks formed on the puddles from a recent rain. We were lucky. We would only eat and catch a bus. How could anything survive here?
Moi said in his letter to Bill Clinton, then president of the United States, “The whole world must come and see how the Huaorani live well. We live with the spirit of the jaguar. We do not want to be civilized by your missionaries or killed by your oil companies. Must the jaguar die so that you can have more contamination and television?”
The end
Poems and stories from another life - Part II - Moi
Moi
Part 3 of 4
story and photos by E.J. Brunton
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Soon we were at the clearing where we would stay for the duration of our trip. The handsome palm frond huts stood up on stilts. Even the floors were woven palm. They were airy and surprisingly cool. There was a fresh latrine out back.
We laid out our sleeping bags and stripped for a dip in the river. Moi warned us to make lots of noise and splash to scare away the piranha and cayman. That went against everything that I had ever heard but, “When in Rome” I thought. The water was warm but still refreshing and no sign of piranha.
We weren’t supposed to partake of their food. Already there was a dilemma. Well, we reasoned, we could share some of our food with them. It was just too tempting to taste what to us were delicacies, perhaps never to be savored again.
During that week we were treated to monkey, capybara (the world’s largest rodent) and turtle eggs as the Huaorani smacked their lips over our tinned sardines and ham, cereal with cartons of milk, cookies and granola bars.
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Moi is a radical. An activist who was well known to the oil companies for his vigorous campaigns against them. He wore a tee shirt that said “Get the $hell out of Ecuador” and sported the familiar scallop shell emblem of Shell oil. Through his contact with Joe Kane and the auspices of the Sierra Club he had even managed to go to Washington D.C. in 1993.
“No. Eighty perhaps.”
He was silent then, and after a while he asked, “What will you do in ten more years? In ten years, your world will be pure metal. Did your god do this?”
When Moi took a shower in the hotel bathroom Joe says, “I heard the water go on and off several times. Finally he emerged wearing only his shorts, his skin red as a boiled lobster.
“Tomorrow I would like a new hotel room,” Moi said.
“Why?”
He dressed himself completely and had me tie his tie. Then, fully clothed he got into bed. Like many Huaorani he drew no hard distinction between day and night."
Next day we went for a 5 hour hike up hill under the steamy canopy. Moi walked barefoot, encumbered only by his gleaming machete. We guinea pigs were laden down with all the trappings of civilization that we couldn’t be separated from: rubber boots, back packs filled with water bottles, toilet paper, cellophane- wrapped snacks, movie and still cameras.
I looked and felt ridiculous. I also looked apoplectic. My face purple, my shirt soaked, I stumbled over roots, vines slapped me in the face, my rubber boots, sucked off in mud holes, deserted me.
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Back home at the hut one of the women was making a basket out of palm leaves. It was done in a flash and was handy for carrying any fruits or grubs you might find as you traveled. My friends looked on from their double wide hammocks.
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In the afternoon he took me by canoe over to his father’s compound on the other side of the river. I expected to see his father the shaman on some sort of throne but he was squatting over two lengths of chonta gouging out a trough in the middle of each. These two halves would be lashed together and glued with tree resin to form the blow gun. His long pierced ear lobes dangled flaccidly without the aid of the wooden plugs worn for dress up occasions.
Part 3 of 4
story and photos by E.J. Brunton
Soon we were at the clearing where we would stay for the duration of our trip. The handsome palm frond huts stood up on stilts. Even the floors were woven palm. They were airy and surprisingly cool. There was a fresh latrine out back. We laid out our sleeping bags and stripped for a dip in the river. Moi warned us to make lots of noise and splash to scare away the piranha and cayman. That went against everything that I had ever heard but, “When in Rome” I thought. The water was warm but still refreshing and no sign of piranha.
When we got back, there was a fire going and the smell of singed hair assaulted my nostrils. A whole small deer, complete with fur and hoofs was draped over the coals. Only the intestines had been removed.
We weren’t supposed to partake of their food. Already there was a dilemma. Well, we reasoned, we could share some of our food with them. It was just too tempting to taste what to us were delicacies, perhaps never to be savored again.
During that week we were treated to monkey, capybara (the world’s largest rodent) and turtle eggs as the Huaorani smacked their lips over our tinned sardines and ham, cereal with cartons of milk, cookies and granola bars.
Moi took us two girls out cayman hunting by the light of the full moon in a dugout. We didn’t see any caymans but it was a wonderful evening. We beached the canoe on the silky-white sand, leaned up against a log and just soaked in the awesome jungle night. Frogs boomed and night birds called. I was exhilarated and as we talked I found myself impressed by the intelligence of this young man.
Moi is a radical. An activist who was well known to the oil companies for his vigorous campaigns against them. He wore a tee shirt that said “Get the $hell out of Ecuador” and sported the familiar scallop shell emblem of Shell oil. Through his contact with Joe Kane and the auspices of the Sierra Club he had even managed to go to Washington D.C. in 1993.
In his book “Savages” Joe Kane quotes Moi as he stared in awe at the Washington traffic “There are so many cars,” he said. “How long have they been here? A million years?”
“Much less.”
"A thousand years?”“No. Eighty perhaps.”
He was silent then, and after a while he asked, “What will you do in ten more years? In ten years, your world will be pure metal. Did your god do this?”
When Moi took a shower in the hotel bathroom Joe says, “I heard the water go on and off several times. Finally he emerged wearing only his shorts, his skin red as a boiled lobster.
“Tomorrow I would like a new hotel room,” Moi said.
“Why?”
“I would like a room that also has cold water.”
He dressed himself completely and had me tie his tie. Then, fully clothed he got into bed. Like many Huaorani he drew no hard distinction between day and night."
Next day we went for a 5 hour hike up hill under the steamy canopy. Moi walked barefoot, encumbered only by his gleaming machete. We guinea pigs were laden down with all the trappings of civilization that we couldn’t be separated from: rubber boots, back packs filled with water bottles, toilet paper, cellophane- wrapped snacks, movie and still cameras.
I looked and felt ridiculous. I also looked apoplectic. My face purple, my shirt soaked, I stumbled over roots, vines slapped me in the face, my rubber boots, sucked off in mud holes, deserted me.
We crawled under logs, skipped dizzily across fat fallen trees that forded streams and thankfully plunged up to our armpits in cool jungle rivers holding our burdens over our heads. I loved it!
Finally we were back at the Shiripuno River. A tribesman was putting the finishing touches on a balsa wood raft. He had hacked down the small trees and lashed them with vines to form our craft. We climbed aboard, or rather astraddle. They were only 2 logs wide and our legs hung down into the water on either side. My rubber boots were now full of water and my shorts soaked as the raft rode low in the water with our weight. Thus we made the ½ hour trip down river to our settlement. I had been damp for so long that diaper rash was imminent.
Our days were filled with hikes where Moi identified the flora and fauna and told us fascinating stories. He pointed out toucans and monkeys and undergrowth-rustling jaguars but our city eyes could rarely see what he was pointing at. He politely never mentioned our exceeding stupidity.
We came upon a naked hunter. He carried a 10 foot blow gun made of “chonta”, and a bamboo case of poisoned darts. Moi negotiated rapidly with him for some meat which he had cached in the undergrowth when he heard us coming. There was a large black bird called a “paucar” about the size of a small child. There was also a spaniel-sized deer.
Moi told us that the Huaorani language only has numbers up to 5. He gave me a book in Huaorani that some Missionaries had printed up for the school children. He taught me some Huaorani words and constantly asked me how to say and write things in English. He already spoke Spanish and Quichua (the Quechua are the largest jungle tribe and most other tribes speak their language) and was learning French. He had a voracious curiosity and rapier intelligence. In addition Moi gave me lessons in blowgun wizardry.
Back home at the hut one of the women was making a basket out of palm leaves. It was done in a flash and was handy for carrying any fruits or grubs you might find as you traveled. My friends looked on from their double wide hammocks.
In the afternoon he took me by canoe over to his father’s compound on the other side of the river. I expected to see his father the shaman on some sort of throne but he was squatting over two lengths of chonta gouging out a trough in the middle of each. These two halves would be lashed together and glued with tree resin to form the blow gun. His long pierced ear lobes dangled flaccidly without the aid of the wooden plugs worn for dress up occasions. Moi dug out a bag full of colorful feathers that he used to make ceremonial head dresses. He gave me some as we enjoyed more chicha, made this time from fermented bananas. Pet monkeys and parrots performed acrobatics on the ceiling beams.
Continued in part 4 of 4
Poems and stories from another life - Part II - Moi
Moi
Part 2 of 4
Story and photos by E.J.Brunton
He continued, “Our totem animal is the jaguar. We were once headhunters and feared throughout the Amazon. A branch of our tribe, the Tagueri, is still fiercely independent and avoided by the sensible. Recently they killed a Catholic bishop and 6 nuns who had managed to reach them and live among them for several months. The Tagueri mark out their territory with crossed spears and if you cross that boundary you are a dead man.”
After the informative speech we were taken on a half hour trek through the jungle to our huts. We were part of an experiment; the first group of tourists to visit the Huoarani. There had been missionaries and scientists but no tourists before.
We had been given certain rules. We were not to live with the tribe and pollute them with our outsider’s ways. Anything we took in must leave with us. The exception to this rule was pencils (not pens) and paper for the children. We brought our own food so that we would not put additional stress on the environment. We would take our garbage back out with us.
Moi, like the rest of the tribe, spoke in a quiet voice barely audible to our city ears but useful when hunting in the jungle. I strained to hear as he recounted how the oil companies had built roads in the jungle and settlers (colonistas) had moved in. As a result of the these interlopers he said “We are starving because the animals are moving farther away. They dynamite the rivers and kill too many fish they can’t even eat. They slash and burn the jungle for their crops and for grazing their cattle. What they don’t scare, kill or burn, they pollute. Some of our men are going to work for them to feed their families. That is why I am working with an ecotourism company to find another way to preserve our environment and our way of life.”
I had heard from another friend that the eternal flames of the oil wells attracted billions of moths and their singed hulls were mounded 6 feet high around each flame. The effect this had on the night birds is as yet unknown. Tiny Ecuador was, at that time, home to 33% of all the known species of birds in the world.
I saw for myself that many rivers had a black oily scum at the edges. The people were dying of cancers heretofore unheard of. The Shiripuno where we were visiting was still pristine, but for how long?
This experiment we were involved in hoped to prove that the Huaorani and other tribes could make a decent living by sharing their home with eco tourists without contributing to their own destruction. Their harmony with and deep respect for all forms of life is exemplary.
As we walked through the jungle Moi pointed out various plants to us. As the son of the Shaman he had a vast knowledge and would be next in line for the throne.
Moi pointed at various plants and trees as we walked. “This one is the shampoo tree. We use the sap from its bark to wash our hair.” Pulling off a spiny brown pod from another plant he added “And this we use as a comb.”
Stopping at a small bush he pulled a twig off and peeled back the bark. There were dozens of small black ants scurrying for cover. He caught a few, squished them with his brown fingers and handed them to me saying, “Taste these.” I popped them into my mouth, some still kicking and squirming. They were just like scratchy lemons!
“Don’t go near these ones,” he pointed at the 3 inch black Conga ants marching over a rotting log. “They have a fierce bite that will make you feel like you are on fire.”
Other ants were busily at work harvesting tiny bites of leaf. They carried them umbrella-like over their shiny black heads and marched in a wavering line back to their nest. I knew that they used the leaves as a mulch in which to grow miniscule fungi which they dined on. The intelligence and diversity of ants has always been fascinating to me. I was thrilled to be up close and personal with creatures I had only read about.
Iridescent blue Morpho butterflies, the size of bread and butter plates, floated lazily by. Others had transparent wings and Moi patiently pointed those out to us. “There, No, there, right in front of you”. He would say as we peered and peered in vain. Flocks of parrots clattered overhead. Monkeys were heard but not seen. Toucans clacked their oversized bills. Red and yellow Heliconium flowers hung upside down forming handy watering troughs for the birds and insects. Tiny frog orchestras were tuning up. My senses were overloaded.
Continued in part 3 of 4
Poems and stories from another life - Part II - Moi
MOI
Part 1 of 4
Story and photos by E.J Brunton
I had heard a lot about Moi (pronounced MOY) before I ever met him. Finally the day came when I found myself face to face with this young legend. We had just alighted from the 4 passenger bush plane and there he was, standing on the grassy air strip.
Below I am standing with the pilot before take off from Shell Mera airstrip.
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I was disappointed to see that Moi had cut the flowing black hair he sported in his picture on the cover of Joe Kane’s book “Savages”. His brown body was still perfectly muscled and smooth. He had a wide smile and shy brown eyes. His name, Moi, (pronounced MOY) is the Huaorani word for dream or vision.
Some of the Huaorani, Moi’s tribe, were unloading supplies from the belly of the plane. Then they pushed it back from the precipice we had narrowly missed, turning it around for its return flight.
The tiny craft would glide once more over the serpentine brown rivers that writhed through the sea of greenery. Sudden winds would buffet it and torrential downpours batter its silver skin on its 45 minute flight back to Shell Mera from this outpost deep in the interior, near the north east border of Peru. ![]()
We would spend several days here in the rainforest of the Amazon basin on the Shiripuno River in this settlement called Qu’Hueri Ono. This day was sunny and humid; the vegetation lush. Vines, dripping with bright flowers, crawled everywhere.
Moi led us up the dirt path past the latrines and the yucca patch to the communal palm frond hut in the center of the village. A small group was inside enjoying a lazy afternoon chat or making implements for their homes.
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In spite of the heat a small cook fire glowed in the center surrounded by log benches. Wide hammocks decorated with monkey bones hung haphazardly. Whole Huaorani families sleep crosswise on these knitted palm fibre hammocks. Sun-bleached skulls of jaguar and peccary decorated the walls. Thick black curare dripped slowly into a gourd in a corner.
One woman prepared a welcoming drink of chicha (mildly alcoholic beverage) for us. She stirred the contents of a large clay pot with her hand and then pulled out some white fibers which she squeezed and threw to one side. They were hungrily devoured by the dogs. A lumpy white concoction filled the bowl that was passed to me.
I knew how this was prepared. The women boiled up manioc root (yucca) and then chewed it and spit it into a clay pot. They added water from the river and then let this ferment for several days. It resulted in a cloudy, mildly alcoholic beverage. I also knew that if we refused it would be a grave insult. It went against the grain of every thing that I knew but I swallowed it down and passed the pot to my friends.
This drink, along with boiled manioc, plantain, grubs and whatever meat in the form of monkey, deer, peccary or fish they procured formed their staple diet.
Continued in part 2 of 4
Part 1 of 4
Story and photos by E.J Brunton
I had heard a lot about Moi (pronounced MOY) before I ever met him. Finally the day came when I found myself face to face with this young legend. We had just alighted from the 4 passenger bush plane and there he was, standing on the grassy air strip.
Below I am standing with the pilot before take off from Shell Mera airstrip.
I was disappointed to see that Moi had cut the flowing black hair he sported in his picture on the cover of Joe Kane’s book “Savages”. His brown body was still perfectly muscled and smooth. He had a wide smile and shy brown eyes. His name, Moi, (pronounced MOY) is the Huaorani word for dream or vision. 
We would spend several days here in the rainforest of the Amazon basin on the Shiripuno River in this settlement called Qu’Hueri Ono. This day was sunny and humid; the vegetation lush. Vines, dripping with bright flowers, crawled everywhere.
Several women rolled white palm fibers on their thighs; preparing string for knitting into bags, fish nets and hammocks. Others were already engaged in knitting the fibre, which they did with their fingers only.
In spite of the heat a small cook fire glowed in the center surrounded by log benches. Wide hammocks decorated with monkey bones hung haphazardly. Whole Huaorani families sleep crosswise on these knitted palm fibre hammocks. Sun-bleached skulls of jaguar and peccary decorated the walls. Thick black curare dripped slowly into a gourd in a corner. One woman prepared a welcoming drink of chicha (mildly alcoholic beverage) for us. She stirred the contents of a large clay pot with her hand and then pulled out some white fibers which she squeezed and threw to one side. They were hungrily devoured by the dogs. A lumpy white concoction filled the bowl that was passed to me.
I knew how this was prepared. The women boiled up manioc root (yucca) and then chewed it and spit it into a clay pot. They added water from the river and then let this ferment for several days. It resulted in a cloudy, mildly alcoholic beverage. I also knew that if we refused it would be a grave insult. It went against the grain of every thing that I knew but I swallowed it down and passed the pot to my friends.
This drink, along with boiled manioc, plantain, grubs and whatever meat in the form of monkey, deer, peccary or fish they procured formed their staple diet.
For an updated view of where we stayed check out this slideshow circa 2010. We never had it so good but I am glad to see them prosper. I liked it the way it was! Here is the link below
tripwow.tripadvisor.comContinued in part 2 of 4
Jungles
Yesterday I fooled around for hours with a story I wrote about my trip of a lifetime to the Amazon jungle. Jungles and all their inhabitants have always been important to me. It is only recently that we are learning how important they should be to all of us.
My jungle love affair is prominently evident when you visit my home. Since I can't always be in the jungle I have brought it to me.
First time visitors are struck by the variety of flora in my outside garden but some are astounded when they come inside.
Every available window is crowded with plants craning upwards from their windowsill perch or dangling downwards from swivel hooks. The living room is reserved for the tall guys like hibiscus, jasmine and bouganvillea. The dining room is crawling with spiders! About 20 of them in three pots curtain a window and more swing from the door frame in a painted gourd pot (pictured below)....a thrift store find! Obsessed? Who, me?
In Cuenca Ecuador a lady once told me that spider plants are called "Mala Madre". That means bad
mother....why?...because they kick their children out of the pot she said!In Cuenca Ecuador a lady once told me that spider plants are called "Mala Madre". That means bad
But, as usual I digress. See? I warned you I was a chatterbox. I broke up the Amazon Jungle story into four bite-sized parts. I will publish them all today so you can either carry on to the next part immediately or come back tomorrow. Your choice.As always, your feedback is food for my soul. Thanks for visiting me.
J
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Poems and stories from another life - Part I
During the 1990's I lived in Ecuador. I guess I will always have one foot here and one foot there and long to go back and see my dear family there. I know we are not blood relatives but you are all special to me.
My last year in Ecuador was one of turmoil. Leaving a twenty year relationship, leaving a home I designed, leaving family and precious pets. I did a lot of travelling in those last few tumultuous years...saying goodbye to a country and people I had come to love. No matter how fast I ran I couldn't escape the heartache that always kept pace with me.
In the long hours on the bus fleeting, sometimes blurry images engraved my brain and I just had to write them down.
In keeping with the theme of this blog here is one I wrote about Paccha Mama ...our Mother Earth, and how we have treated her. And as I read it today and prepare to share it with you I see for perhaps the first time that it is tinged with my own feelings of betrayal and loss, of fighting for survival.
Oh and by the way I survived and even thrived!!!
RAPE
by E.J. Brunton
Andes Mountains between Puyo and Alausi, 1998
The valley, green and flat as a pool table, stretches in the protective embrace of a jealous mountain. Like a ripe young woman she is too beautiful to last. Even the craggy arms of her mountain lover cannot stay the ravages of man.
He will slice through those arms and rape her flower-filled womb. From the rape will issue the children, Rock, Sand and Mud who betray her.
The giant spiders of communication and light will string their unsightly webs from prickly poles. Deep cuts of asphalt and cement will scar her face like a razor wielded by a mad man.
Her eye-like pools will become dry sockets unable even to weep. Her mouth will belch poisons and her nostrils become encrusted with grime. Her hairline of silky trees will recede, torn from the very roots. Her ears will long for birdsong but hear only buzz saw.
When they’ve stolen her beauty they will tire of her, as all men do, and leave her dying alone and forgotten.
But in her darkest night, gentle rains will wash her clean. Dawn will see the tender vines begin their climb across her bruised face, smoothing sharp edges, healing her scars.
She, Mother, will survive us all.
My last year in Ecuador was one of turmoil. Leaving a twenty year relationship, leaving a home I designed, leaving family and precious pets. I did a lot of travelling in those last few tumultuous years...saying goodbye to a country and people I had come to love. No matter how fast I ran I couldn't escape the heartache that always kept pace with me.
In the long hours on the bus fleeting, sometimes blurry images engraved my brain and I just had to write them down.
In keeping with the theme of this blog here is one I wrote about Paccha Mama ...our Mother Earth, and how we have treated her. And as I read it today and prepare to share it with you I see for perhaps the first time that it is tinged with my own feelings of betrayal and loss, of fighting for survival.
Oh and by the way I survived and even thrived!!!
RAPE
by E.J. Brunton
Andes Mountains between Puyo and Alausi, 1998
The valley, green and flat as a pool table, stretches in the protective embrace of a jealous mountain. Like a ripe young woman she is too beautiful to last. Even the craggy arms of her mountain lover cannot stay the ravages of man.
He will slice through those arms and rape her flower-filled womb. From the rape will issue the children, Rock, Sand and Mud who betray her.
The giant spiders of communication and light will string their unsightly webs from prickly poles. Deep cuts of asphalt and cement will scar her face like a razor wielded by a mad man.
Her eye-like pools will become dry sockets unable even to weep. Her mouth will belch poisons and her nostrils become encrusted with grime. Her hairline of silky trees will recede, torn from the very roots. Her ears will long for birdsong but hear only buzz saw.
When they’ve stolen her beauty they will tire of her, as all men do, and leave her dying alone and forgotten.
But in her darkest night, gentle rains will wash her clean. Dawn will see the tender vines begin their climb across her bruised face, smoothing sharp edges, healing her scars.
She, Mother, will survive us all.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Here is one of my short poems to make up for the last two days
TREES
By E.J. Brunton
Trees dressed for
F
A
L
L
Laughing at the wind; they‘re going out in style
By E.J. Brunton
Trees dressed for
F
A
L
L
Laughing at the wind; they‘re going out in style
Better Worms and Gardens - Part II - The Living Cities
article by E. Jane BruntonMy "kids" are off to school! I am as nervous as any mother must be when she sends her progeny out into the world. I have dithered over what future awaited my little fellows and how to "dress" them for the event.
But I had to give myself a shake. I was talking about little red wiggler worms not little red-cheeked children. I have been caring for these critters for the past three years. Six months ago I had a population explosion and didn't know how to handle the overflow. I just didn't have room for more bins.
I could have sold them to the store on the corner for bait but somehow it didn't seem fair to see my faithful helpers end their lives on the end of a hook. Nor would releasing them into my zone 5 garden solve the problem. Sure they would enjoy their summer of freedom but when the icy temperatures set in, unlike their hardier cousins that are acclimated to this zone, these little surface dwellers would be faced with death. Not something you do to friends.
Enter Nathan Putnam. Nathan is a student in Biology and Chemistry at Queen's University in Kingston Ontario. Last week I heard him speak of his vision on CBC Radio One. He and a group of eco-conscious friends are providing enough worms to clean up the compostable garbage output of the entire University, residences and kitchens alike. This inspired me to find his web site www.livingcitiescompany.ca/home.html and then contact him by phone.
Nathan's vision goes far beyond vermicompost to encompass urban farming and sustainable city living. Visit his web site for how this ingenious young man and his friends are taking Kingston by storm.
Since that day we have been in contact about the wheres and whens of the Great Worm Transfer. And today is the big day. But what am I doing sitting here writing about it? I should be up to my elbows in wigglers about now. Time's awasting.
Hours later...........
I managed to gather 4 pounds of worms from two of the three bins. I tucked them and about a pound of bedding snugly into a couple of brown paper bags and hustled off to meet Nathan at the Living Cities' "urban farm." There, several varieties of healthy lettuce, and peppers were threatening to burst out of their carefully tended raised beds. Last night's frost had convinced Nathan that this might be the tomato's last hurrah although he figured he could make the Swiss chard and lettuce last another few weeks.
The exchange was made. I had toyed with the idea of trading my worms for Living Cities'own design of stackable wooden worm bins. But in the end I settled on two terra cotta colored rain barrels with overflow hoses and screw on, mosquito proof tops. My fears that they would not fit in my car were unfounded. How I love my amazing ten year old Hyundai Tiburon with its just over 90,000 kilometres of service. Yeah, I know it looks like a sport's car but it acts like a small truck when there are things you need to transport. And at least I am keeping it out of land fill for awhile yet.
As we chatted Nathan cleared up some concerns I had about misconceptions and well, lets face it, downright incorrect information that is circulating on the internet.
As we chatted Nathan cleared up some concerns I had about misconceptions and well, lets face it, downright incorrect information that is circulating on the internet.
I asked whether worms require powdered eggshells to aid in their digestion of the refuse we provide. As I suspected, this is not so. It is merely to sweeten the compost produced and even out the pH by neutralizing acid in the bins.
Nathan also clarified the fact that worms don't process the refuse on their own. They are aided by a host of bacteria and fungi that first break down the refuse into a liquid form. Then the toothless worms slither up to the soup plate and slurp it all up. This allows the bacteria access to the deeper layers of fruits and veggies. The worms do their part by aerating the bedding and refuse, speeding up the process for the bacteria. Because the worms are always eating the "mushy" compost as soon as the bacteria soften it, it never has a chance to putrefy, which is why vermicomposting is essentially odourless.
Nathan also clarified the fact that worms don't process the refuse on their own. They are aided by a host of bacteria and fungi that first break down the refuse into a liquid form. Then the toothless worms slither up to the soup plate and slurp it all up. This allows the bacteria access to the deeper layers of fruits and veggies. The worms do their part by aerating the bedding and refuse, speeding up the process for the bacteria. Because the worms are always eating the "mushy" compost as soon as the bacteria soften it, it never has a chance to putrefy, which is why vermicomposting is essentially odourless.
I smiled ruefully at the thought of how those who were already squeamish about worms would feel about cohabiting with fungi and billions of bacteria! If they only knew that our homes are full of these creatures already. Worm bins do harbor a lot of other helpful critters like spring tails and fungus gnats but neither they, the bacteria nor the fungi are harmful to humans.
Given the repugnance that a lot of people feel towards things they don't understand, overcoming this reluctance is an uphill battle. Thank goodness for groups like Living Cities who are making progress one convert at a time.
As for my homeschooled worms, raised on a diet of the Napanee Guide, they skipped right over the lower grades of education and have taken up residence at Queen's University . There they will dwell and work in several of the upscale wooden worm bins designed and built by The Living Cities crew.
If you are like me you might have wondered how tiny, soft bodied worms would defend themselves against large and generous students who might want to share a drinky-poo with them. Or others who might want to take the goldfish-swallowing trend (so popular in my parent's day) a step further by downing a few wigglers. Nathan assured me that the boxes will be locked and under the protection of the Dons of each residence.
It was a pleasure meeting Nathan. I have always believed that this battered old gal, who has been called by many names, such as Paccha Mama, Gaia, and Mother Earth, will survive in spite of us. But with help from groups like Living Cities she and the creatures that call her home will do more than that - they may actually thrive once again.Given the repugnance that a lot of people feel towards things they don't understand, overcoming this reluctance is an uphill battle. Thank goodness for groups like Living Cities who are making progress one convert at a time.
As for my homeschooled worms, raised on a diet of the Napanee Guide, they skipped right over the lower grades of education and have taken up residence at Queen's University . There they will dwell and work in several of the upscale wooden worm bins designed and built by The Living Cities crew.
If you are like me you might have wondered how tiny, soft bodied worms would defend themselves against large and generous students who might want to share a drinky-poo with them. Or others who might want to take the goldfish-swallowing trend (so popular in my parent's day) a step further by downing a few wigglers. Nathan assured me that the boxes will be locked and under the protection of the Dons of each residence.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Better Worms and Gardens - Part I - Vermicomposting
Article and photos by E. J. Brunton. Previously published in the Napanee Guide and on line at Helium
A reliable source informed me that newspaper not only makes good reading but it makes good eating too. My source is one of the thousands of red wiggler worms inhabiting a couple of plastic bins in my laundry room. This tiny spokesman told me they preferred the pithy editorials and juicy articles contained in our local newspaper not only for their taste but for their comfort as a bedding material.
I thought back to my initiation into worm ranching and remembered that they would sometimes "run away" if I substituted other paper sources. This may have been due to several factors: the inferiority of the publications, the subject matter (once it was an article on baiting fishing hooks) or my own lack of expertise in the fine art of creating a proper habitat.
The habits of red wigglers may not appeal to all of us. I mean who wants a guest that eats your bedding? But during their almost three year sojourn with me I find they can eat half their weight in kitchen waste and newspaper each day and turn it into the most glorious of fertilizers - worm compost.
Red wigglers make wonderful little companions - in some cases superior to family members or pets. They don't turn up their noses at leftovers. You don't have to wash the sheets and there are no extra dishes. You don't have to walk them or buy them clothes. They don't keep you up with wild partying all night long. In fact they prefer coffee grounds and tea leaves to left over wine or drugs.
Are you still here? That must mean that you have some interest in composting with worms or at the very least are not repulsed by a squirm (a ball of worms.)
But worms do have some simple needs: darkness, dampness, warmth, air and food. The trick lies in getting the balance just right. There are many ways to accomplish this; some are very expensive and largely unnecessary.
The following works for me:
A reliable source informed me that newspaper not only makes good reading but it makes good eating too. My source is one of the thousands of red wiggler worms inhabiting a couple of plastic bins in my laundry room. This tiny spokesman told me they preferred the pithy editorials and juicy articles contained in our local newspaper not only for their taste but for their comfort as a bedding material.I thought back to my initiation into worm ranching and remembered that they would sometimes "run away" if I substituted other paper sources. This may have been due to several factors: the inferiority of the publications, the subject matter (once it was an article on baiting fishing hooks) or my own lack of expertise in the fine art of creating a proper habitat.
The habits of red wigglers may not appeal to all of us. I mean who wants a guest that eats your bedding? But during their almost three year sojourn with me I find they can eat half their weight in kitchen waste and newspaper each day and turn it into the most glorious of fertilizers - worm compost.
Red wigglers make wonderful little companions - in some cases superior to family members or pets. They don't turn up their noses at leftovers. You don't have to wash the sheets and there are no extra dishes. You don't have to walk them or buy them clothes. They don't keep you up with wild partying all night long. In fact they prefer coffee grounds and tea leaves to left over wine or drugs.
Are you still here? That must mean that you have some interest in composting with worms or at the very least are not repulsed by a squirm (a ball of worms.)
But worms do have some simple needs: darkness, dampness, warmth, air and food. The trick lies in getting the balance just right. There are many ways to accomplish this; some are very expensive and largely unnecessary.
The following works for me:
- Find a container at least 12 inches deep with a lid. I use plastic storage bins but you could use wood
- Drill holes in container and lid for air circulation
- Tear or shred newspaper into thin strips
- Soak strips in water and squeeze out till just damp
- Mix damp strips with sterilized potting soil and place in container to a depth of at least 8 inches
- Locate the container in an area that where there is a steady heat source between 12 and 21 C (55 to 70 F)
- Find a source for red wiggler worms (eisenia fetida are most common), NOT ordinary garden worms
- Your source for worms could be a friend, neighbor or the Internet
- Bring them directly home, without taking a detour to have a cold beer with friends
- Dig a little pocket at one side, put some of the kitchen refuse you have been saving into the hole, add some powdered egg shell that you whizzed up in your coffee grinder
- Spritz with water and BURY at least two inches deep
- Add worms
- Replace the lid to keep it dark and damp
- Feed the worms your kitchen refuse once a week
Several words about this refuse: The smaller the pieces the quicker the composting so chop into small piece. the addition of powdered egg shells aids in maintaining a less acid environment. These can be ground up in your coffee grinder and a tablespoon or so sprinkled over the weekly meal.
Now worms will eat just about anything, given time, but for your own convenience, there are things that you should NOT put in your worm bin: meat, bones, eggs, dairy products, oily or fatty things, smelly vegetables like broccoli, onion or garlic, very hot or very cold things, and -duh - chemicals.
Things that DO belong in the worm bin include: white paper products such as used napkins, paper towels, rice or cereal that the kids didn't like, vegetable and fruit peelings and cuttings, coffee grounds and filters and tea bags. I keep a small plastic bucket under the kitchen counter where I collect these until I am ready to feed the worms. It is not recommended that you just throw the garbage in on top of the worm bin as it can get smelly and also allow fruit flies to hatch and hover annoyingly.
Another no-no is overfeeding as the heat generated from fermentation can make the worms want to leave home. You will know within a week whether you have fed your worms too much or too little. If all is going well, most of the food will be gone and there will be no unpleasant odor.
At feeding time I also check on bedding, temperature and moisture and adjust as needed. You don't need fancy monitors - just practice to know if it is right.
As regards harvesting your worm castings (digested refuse excreted by the worms and known as vermicompost) there are labor intensive ways to trick the worms into leaving the pile of compost that you covet (like building conical piles and shining strong lights on them to get the worms to move downward) but I don't indulge in subterfuge.
I take the direct approach by checking first near a food source. The majority will be gathered here but others will be scattered throughout as will the egg casings (small spherical shiny brown things) that hold your future as a worm rancher.
Get yourself a large container and, if you are squeamish, put on a pair of rubber gloves. You are going to gently separate the worms from their castings/bedding. Shake the castings (worm doo doo) over the empty container. If any worms or egg casings fall in, return them to the original container. Top up the bedding with more damp newspaper and potting soil when you are finished.
Unlike other fertilizers, worm castings can be put directly on house plants or outside on your vegetables and flowers without fear of burning them. They are best used fresh. You can dry them for future use by spreading them on a tray but they will not be as effective as when damp and alive with bacteria.
You can add a lump of them to some water for a liquid fertilizer called worm tea but again this is not as effective as using the unadulterated product.
This stuff is worth its weight in gold. Just think! You and the worms accomplished all of this with things that otherwise would have just added to the land fill problem - some newspaper, some egg shells and some garbage. Could anything be sweeter?
Coming Soon Better Worms and Gardens - Part II - The Living Cities
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Make Room for the Snake
Article,illustration and photos by E.J.Brunton
I come from a long line of gardeners who taught me about hard work. They waged a mortal battle against the creatures that resided in the garden: snakes, toads, insects and of course weeds. The gentler stuff, the take-your-breath away stuff, was left for the Garden herself to teach me.
I will admit gardening is not for the faint-hearted. Someone once said you don’t garden to get in shape; you have to be in shape to garden. You can get all the weight-bearing exercises you need right outside the door without paying a membership fee. The price of admission is a willing heart and a strong back - and vice-versa.
Just lifting those 40 pound bags of manure and top soil out of the trunk of the car is one thing. Getting it to where it will do the most good is a whole other thing. Then there’s the digging in; all good aerobic exercise, both for the soil and yourself.
Promise you won’t let me loose with a credit card in a nursery. It is an interesting term - nursery. I never thought of myself as the nurturing kind; but present me with an orphan end-of-the season plant and I go all soft and gooey.
In spring when those trusting little sprouts blink up at you from their bed of fallen brown leaves can you resist pulling aside the blanket for a better look? It is like welcoming old friends who you feared might have died. But here they are, safe, sound, renewed from their long nap; bursting to show you what they can do.
I know each leaf, I know each stem and I know all their names, their likes and dislikes. Give this one a little more water, that one some lime. The kid in the corner; she likes to cool her heels so insulate her roots from the sun.
In summer the warm soft belly of my garden is so welcoming that I can’t keep my hands off her. Barehanded I rid her of weeds, dig in more compost, and quench her thirst with rain from my barrels.
But it’s more. It is the feel of doing something forbidden, being a naughty kid again, wallowing in the dirt, and digging right in there barehanded. It’s daring. Get some dirt in your hair and on your face and don’t give a damn who sees you licking the salt off your upper lip.
And I like the mystery of it. If I am pretty sure I didn’t plant something in that spot, if I can’t identify this little bit of green as any particular weed, I let it grow. I give it time to strut its stuff before I make any rash decisions. Thanks to the winds, the birds and the squirrels, (not to mention my failing memory) I have been the recipient of some very surprising floral gifts.
The healing garden is still under construction. I can feel my face going a little pink as I admit to you that many of the tender plantlets I drove several hours to find, buy, bring home and tend to, have grown up to closely resemble some that I spent years eradicating!
This year I am venturing into the wonderful world of vegetables. As I go on my morning walkabout I marvel at how my worm compost has turned the uncertain teenaged tomatoes into blossoming young adults. Carrots, peppers, hot peppers, lettuce, Brussels sprouts, cabbage and cucumber round out the fare.
Do you share my sense of wonder that for the price of dropping a tiny seed into a hole in the earth, feeding and watering it, a few weeks later we are rewarded with a lusty vigorous plant that can feed US? I am concentrating on heritage plants, as frankly the genetically improved ones scare the be jeepers out of me.
I give free reign to my creative side in the garden. Just by putting my shoulder to the wheel barrow and my back into the shoveling I can change my little world. Maybe I want it flat, maybe I want a hill, a waterfall, a pond, a Japanese garden. All it takes is a drop of inspiration and buckets of perspiration.
The Garden and I are party planners; hosts with the most. I provide the venue, and the drinks. She does her part with vegetable snacks and flowers dressed in their best. They splash on some perfume and put on a great show for the visitors. We bask in the glow of the compliments we harvest.
To me, gardens are mirrors reflecting the people who tend them. Is the gardener bold and fun-loving? That harlequin mix of purples and yellows and oranges tells me yes. Does a pastel palette reflect a reserved and contemplative gardener? Are they well-organized, dare I say anal, with everything marching in precise rows and pruned into matching shapes? Or are they wild and crazy with flowers and grasses and green peppers all making an exuberant stew? That weedy, neglected one has a gardener who may be depressed, unwell, or reaching the end of their life cycle.
Me? I am the one with the exuberant stew. But I am also a thoughtful guardian of our earth and our fellow travelers: one who makes room for the snake as well as the snapdragon, the wasp as well as the wildflower.
I come from a long line of gardeners who taught me about hard work. They waged a mortal battle against the creatures that resided in the garden: snakes, toads, insects and of course weeds. The gentler stuff, the take-your-breath away stuff, was left for the Garden herself to teach me.
I will admit gardening is not for the faint-hearted. Someone once said you don’t garden to get in shape; you have to be in shape to garden. You can get all the weight-bearing exercises you need right outside the door without paying a membership fee. The price of admission is a willing heart and a strong back - and vice-versa.
Just lifting those 40 pound bags of manure and top soil out of the trunk of the car is one thing. Getting it to where it will do the most good is a whole other thing. Then there’s the digging in; all good aerobic exercise, both for the soil and yourself.
Promise you won’t let me loose with a credit card in a nursery. It is an interesting term - nursery. I never thought of myself as the nurturing kind; but present me with an orphan end-of-the season plant and I go all soft and gooey.
In spring when those trusting little sprouts blink up at you from their bed of fallen brown leaves can you resist pulling aside the blanket for a better look? It is like welcoming old friends who you feared might have died. But here they are, safe, sound, renewed from their long nap; bursting to show you what they can do.
I know each leaf, I know each stem and I know all their names, their likes and dislikes. Give this one a little more water, that one some lime. The kid in the corner; she likes to cool her heels so insulate her roots from the sun.
In summer the warm soft belly of my garden is so welcoming that I can’t keep my hands off her. Barehanded I rid her of weeds, dig in more compost, and quench her thirst with rain from my barrels.
But it’s more. It is the feel of doing something forbidden, being a naughty kid again, wallowing in the dirt, and digging right in there barehanded. It’s daring. Get some dirt in your hair and on your face and don’t give a damn who sees you licking the salt off your upper lip.
And I like the mystery of it. If I am pretty sure I didn’t plant something in that spot, if I can’t identify this little bit of green as any particular weed, I let it grow. I give it time to strut its stuff before I make any rash decisions. Thanks to the winds, the birds and the squirrels, (not to mention my failing memory) I have been the recipient of some very surprising floral gifts.
The healing garden is still under construction. I can feel my face going a little pink as I admit to you that many of the tender plantlets I drove several hours to find, buy, bring home and tend to, have grown up to closely resemble some that I spent years eradicating!
This year I am venturing into the wonderful world of vegetables. As I go on my morning walkabout I marvel at how my worm compost has turned the uncertain teenaged tomatoes into blossoming young adults. Carrots, peppers, hot peppers, lettuce, Brussels sprouts, cabbage and cucumber round out the fare.
Do you share my sense of wonder that for the price of dropping a tiny seed into a hole in the earth, feeding and watering it, a few weeks later we are rewarded with a lusty vigorous plant that can feed US? I am concentrating on heritage plants, as frankly the genetically improved ones scare the be jeepers out of me.
I give free reign to my creative side in the garden. Just by putting my shoulder to the wheel barrow and my back into the shoveling I can change my little world. Maybe I want it flat, maybe I want a hill, a waterfall, a pond, a Japanese garden. All it takes is a drop of inspiration and buckets of perspiration.
The Garden and I are party planners; hosts with the most. I provide the venue, and the drinks. She does her part with vegetable snacks and flowers dressed in their best. They splash on some perfume and put on a great show for the visitors. We bask in the glow of the compliments we harvest.
To me, gardens are mirrors reflecting the people who tend them. Is the gardener bold and fun-loving? That harlequin mix of purples and yellows and oranges tells me yes. Does a pastel palette reflect a reserved and contemplative gardener? Are they well-organized, dare I say anal, with everything marching in precise rows and pruned into matching shapes? Or are they wild and crazy with flowers and grasses and green peppers all making an exuberant stew? That weedy, neglected one has a gardener who may be depressed, unwell, or reaching the end of their life cycle.
Me? I am the one with the exuberant stew. But I am also a thoughtful guardian of our earth and our fellow travelers: one who makes room for the snake as well as the snapdragon, the wasp as well as the wildflower.
Did She Scream As She Fell
Here is a prose poem I wrote several years ago. Fall always seems to inspire dark thoughts for me.
DID SHE SCREAM AS SHE FELL?
Cocoon-like, she clings to the very tip of life. She clings through the gentle spring rain that swells her tender body till it bursts its crisp confine. Then she opens like a tiny green fist and blinks in the spring sunshine.
She gathers strength and toughness and when the autumn comes, unafraid, she turns her ruddy face into the wind, proud of her new clothes. Buffeted, she clings stubbornly to life, refusing to be torn away by the whim of the wind, but her strength is sapped as the tree draws into itself. Rain and hail and savage winds tatter her gaudy raiment but still she clings, hanging by a filament till one day her tenuous grip gives way.
Did she scream as she fell?
The newly fallen are still enjoying the adventure. Children gather them in heaps and burrow their faces into them, drinking in their musky scent. The fallen do not seem to notice the fate of those who have gone before. As the days cool her companions curl in on themselves for protection from the chill wind.
Ah the Wind. She gathers handfuls of their crisp bodies and tosses them about like toys. They are powerless in the face of her playfulness or rage.
Some come to rest in quiet corners where they sleep, slowly fermenting. Others land on thoroughfares and are trampled by boots and wheels. They are grey now and brown. They are soggy from the rain. Worse yet, some are combed from the earth where they lay, methodically gathered into piles and relegated to the fires of hell.
Did she scream as she burned?
DID SHE SCREAM AS SHE FELL?
Cocoon-like, she clings to the very tip of life. She clings through the gentle spring rain that swells her tender body till it bursts its crisp confine. Then she opens like a tiny green fist and blinks in the spring sunshine.
She gathers strength and toughness and when the autumn comes, unafraid, she turns her ruddy face into the wind, proud of her new clothes. Buffeted, she clings stubbornly to life, refusing to be torn away by the whim of the wind, but her strength is sapped as the tree draws into itself. Rain and hail and savage winds tatter her gaudy raiment but still she clings, hanging by a filament till one day her tenuous grip gives way.
Did she scream as she fell?
The newly fallen are still enjoying the adventure. Children gather them in heaps and burrow their faces into them, drinking in their musky scent. The fallen do not seem to notice the fate of those who have gone before. As the days cool her companions curl in on themselves for protection from the chill wind.
Ah the Wind. She gathers handfuls of their crisp bodies and tosses them about like toys. They are powerless in the face of her playfulness or rage.
Some come to rest in quiet corners where they sleep, slowly fermenting. Others land on thoroughfares and are trampled by boots and wheels. They are grey now and brown. They are soggy from the rain. Worse yet, some are combed from the earth where they lay, methodically gathered into piles and relegated to the fires of hell.
Did she scream as she burned?
Buried!
I have been "Down to Earth" for so long that I somehow got buried. Thank the gods my friend's new blog ( One Plant At A Time" inspired me to resurrect this old blog and begin again.
It is fall here. The leaves are yellowing and falling. Life is winding down for the winter. I find this a sad time of the year. And even sadder this year with a kind neighbour, ravaged by cancer, winding down for the long sleep. Not too much older than me, this will be her last fall.
How would I feel if this were my last fall. Would I be as brave and gracious? What would I do in my last days or weeks? Would I go to Africa as I have wanted to do since I was six years old? Would I buy that new sport's car and race around town, one step ahead of the Grim Reaper.
No. I think I would stay right here, in this little place of my own where I have found the peace I sought for so long. I will go outside and breathe in the sweet acrid smell of burning leaves and look around at the damp piles of colorful leaves stirring as they snuggle down on the garden. I will take a deep breath, as if it were my last.
What would you do?
It is fall here. The leaves are yellowing and falling. Life is winding down for the winter. I find this a sad time of the year. And even sadder this year with a kind neighbour, ravaged by cancer, winding down for the long sleep. Not too much older than me, this will be her last fall.
How would I feel if this were my last fall. Would I be as brave and gracious? What would I do in my last days or weeks? Would I go to Africa as I have wanted to do since I was six years old? Would I buy that new sport's car and race around town, one step ahead of the Grim Reaper.
No. I think I would stay right here, in this little place of my own where I have found the peace I sought for so long. I will go outside and breathe in the sweet acrid smell of burning leaves and look around at the damp piles of colorful leaves stirring as they snuggle down on the garden. I will take a deep breath, as if it were my last.
What would you do?
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