Poems and stories from another life - Part II - Moi

Moi

Part 2 of 4

Story and photos by E.J.Brunton

After we chatted with them a few moments, with Moi interpreting from Spanish to Huaorani and back, an elder told us something about the origins of the tribe. “The others call us Aucas” he said. “This means savages in jungle Quichua. Our language, Huaorani, is only spoken by the 1,500 remaining tribes’ people”. I had read that it is unrelated to any other language on earth.

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.

The Shaman fills a vital role in the life of a tribe. He (and sometimes she) is their religious and secular leader as well as their doctor. They look to him for their very existence. By the aid of certain plants such as the hallucinogenic Huando (Datura or Angel’s Trumpet) he communes with the spirits of the animals and plants and advises the tribe what animals to hunt, where and when. He performs healing rituals to drive out the spirits that cause disease but his.her arts are no match for the measles and sexually transmitted diseases brought by the white man in the guise of missionaries, rubber workers, oil workers and colonists.

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.

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.

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

 Huaorani Ecolodge Slideshow & Video

tripwow.tripadvisor.com

www.huaorani.com

Continued 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!

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

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.

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

Better Worms and Gardens - Part II - The Living Cities

article by  E. Jane Brunton

My "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.

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.

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.

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:

• 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

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.

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?