Trap me a Tamarin
There comes a time in any project when what is most necessary is a change. You have discussed it at length, pondered it for hours and finally, it is time to act. But, as usual, that is easier said than done.
“Let’s be realistic,” said Gideon to me one morning as we bent over our laundry, “We’ve been baiting the traps for months, and they never eat at them consistently! At this rate we’ll barely trap twenty!”
In my heart I knew he was right. Admitting it, however, is another thing altogether.
“It’s not like we’ve not tried other things that work,” I retorted, valiantly scrubbing a pair of socks that were once white. “We’ve got the calls.”
It was true, the calls were our biggest breakthrough. We had some beautiful recordings of the twins protesting and the adults rendering their long calls with operatic aplomb that, when played in what looked like an empty jungle, produced spectacular results. Tamarins practically crawled out of the woodwork going “ Did someone say baby??”
“The trouble with the damn calls is that they are too effective,” responded Gideon, gloomily rinsing another pair of trousers. “These groups are too busy searching for the source of the calls to pay any attention to the traps.”
That was true too. Although they charged over to check out the speakers, they spent a lot of time looking for an infant on the ground than they did looking for anything in the traps. In fact, we’d even tried placing a small tamarin like figure in the cage tied on a string so that it could be moved at intervals and the tamarins were not fooled in the least.
Taking me by the shoulders, Gideon firmly but gently looked me in the eye. “There’s no way around this you know. We have to try.”
You see, the one option we were left with was to use a calling animal, something that rolls easily off the tongue but is a thorny issue no matter how you think about it. Trapping callitrichids is a difficult thing, made much easier they say, by the presence of a calling animal in one of the compartments of the trap that one puts out for the wild group. However, obtaining such an animal is no simple task.
We decided that we would not partake in the commercial pet trade in tamarins that, of course, we expected to be flourishing in Puerto Maldonado. We decided to approach rehabilitation centres to ask to borrow an animal for a small period of time. We would give it all our attention, both medical and of the heart, and ensure that it had a comfortable and safe life with us. Our work would only take up a couple hours each day and would not put the animal in harm’s way. Consequently it would be returned to the centre reintroduction into the wild. However, things are never that black and white.
If we were approached by somebody with a pet that they wanted to sell for the same price that they bought it, is that participating in the pet trade? Or is it only when you express an interest in an animal that someone else then goes to the jungle to procure? What if the animal was found by a family and raised out of pity and with a lot of love, then is borrowing it really a terrible thing?
With such thoughts and more bouncing around our heads, we had resisted really facing these questions head on. But four months into it, we decided that we had to come to an agreement, and we had to do it soon. Too much time had been spent wondering if we were resisting a solution that works because we just didn’t want to face those questions of ethics and find our own ethical solution.
Two days ago, we packed our things and set out to Puerto Maldonado, one step closer to dealing with these issues. We sped down the stairs hoping to catch one of the quick cargo boats to Laberinto. Two hours into waiting, we realized that it would have to be the collectivo or the local ferry for us this time. When it pulled up we gathered our things and proceeded to the dock, only to step onto the beach and sink into the mud till our shins. Cursing and sliding we clambered into the big ferry, our sneakers and trousers covered in mud, noticing in the process that the whole thing full of sleeping people, mostly women and children, covered in colourful blankets.
We wrapped our jackets around us and settled down right at the front of the boat, the only empty spots left, for the ride into town. It usually takes about 3 to 4 hours, depending on the number of stops. We had a fairly typical ride into town, except that it didn’t rain at all. We only hit one other boat, breaking it from its moorings to the shore and then spending twenty minutes pacifying the owners. We also only ran ashore a couple of times and miraculously, carried about 40 people down the river safe and sound.
Jaguar, it appears, is in big trouble with the government. My heart sank at the thought of what was coming. Lisseth bore on with her tale, relentlessly. Jaguar, she said, began as a collection of pets of a family that began to charge folks a little to see the animals. They had a jaguar, after whom they named the place. Somewhere along the way, however, they decided that what their little zoo needed was a disco and dutifully installed one for the merriment of their guests. At this stage, but not before, the Peruvian Park Service decided to put its foot down. It’s one thing to keep exotic wildlife as pets, but really, when you play loud music next to them than that is just too bad.
Our taxi left us at the entranceway to a medium-sized establishment, with loud music blaring as predicted, and we begged to see the owner. We were directed into the property, which increasingly reeked of something that I couldn’t quite place. We peered into empty barns and tried to hear ourselves think over the loud music coming from the nearby ‘botanical garden’ but our search was in vain. Finally we thumped on a door and someone emerged and pointed us in the right direction.
At a table eating his lunch sat a gentleman who would not make eye contact with us during our entire visit. A few people and the largest collection of cages I’d ever seen in one place surrounded him. In it were some of the rarest animals in the rainforest. Directly behind him in cages that barely fit them were two tayras, sleek mongoose like animals with black bodies and beige heads, eagerly snapping up unidentifiable pieces of meat from the hand of a worker. Next to me were two margays, the smallest and most elusive cats in the jungle, gnawing on large chunks of raw meat as well. I barely had the time to take it all in before a woman rose from the table and approached us. Her expression unfathomable, she asked us what we were there for. When we let her know that we were looking for a saddleback tamarin, I already knew that we were in the wrong place. She said that they were unable to trap the little monkeys although a group did wander into the property frequently. She mumbled something about a spider monkey and indicated that the conversation was over. Through the whole thing the owner didn’t raise his eyes from his food.
Clearly, the government’s approach was working. He avoided any contact with outsiders and was doing exactly as he pleased with the animals.
Walking out, I recognised the smell – a flood of memories of waiting for my dad outside the butchers in the tropical heat of India filled my brain. The place reeked of meat that had sat out in the sun a little too long.
Gathering our wits about ourselves we decided to try to visit something a little less sketchy. The Amazon Shelter was the brainchild of Magali Salinas, who shares a passion for all animals in pain and aims to rehabilitate those that she can.
“Take us to Carretera Tambopata, Km 11.2, the Amazon Shelter,” instructed Lisseth as we climbed into a passing motocar. Little did we know we were about to embark on the longest motocar journey of our lives.
“Ten soles!” yelled the driver above the rather alarming rattling of his little three-wheeler.
“There and back?” we yelled back.
“Of course not!” he roared, “It’s very far away. It will cost you 20 roundtrip!”
Already ensconced in this fast-moving death trap we saw little use in fighting the inevitable. Nodding numbly and hanging on for dear life we acquiesced to his demands.
During the next hour of bone-jarring travel we emerged from the bowels of the city, and coughing and spluttering from the dust, were treated to our first sight of the rather privileged part of town. A lovely leafy lane ran alongside beautiful bits of tree-filled land, hugging the Tambopata River on one side, which could be seen every so often, brown and calm.
“This is where Megan and Antonio have some land!” screamed Gid, ”the head of WWF in Peru lives here as well!”
Clearly we were getting somewhere. I let my hopes gradually rise from where they lay shattered by Jaguar.
Our motorcar driver was distinctly in a hurry. We flew over bridges, narrowly avoiding some very smelly ditches and at one point had all three wheels in the air.
“Why is he rushing??” I asked Lisseth, breathlessly clutching at Gideon for support.
“Oh!” she shrieked, “Don’t worry. We’ve just passed the worst part of town and I think he wants to get back before dark because that is when things get very dangerous.”
It was almost 3pm.
Suddenly, it dawned on me why the driver had whipped his watch off and stuffed it into his pocket ten minutes ago.
“Christ,” I thought to myself, “Who puts an animal shelter in the worst part of town!?”
As it turned out, we had nothing to worry about. The shelter was still forty minutes away. We finally pulled up outside a beautiful wooden structure at about 3:30pm.
Extracting ourselves carefully from the remains of the taxi, we gingerly sized up the establishment.
‘Amazon Shelter’ was displayed in bold letters above the door. A beautiful white mutt rose lazily to welcome us. I reached out to pet her.
Interrupting our reverie, the driver chose this moment to ask for his money.
“What?” said Lisseth, incredulous, “We’ll pay you when you get us back to town. 20 soles, remember?
“I’m not waiting for you!” cried the driver, vehemently shaking his head. ”It’s getting late and it’s not safe. I want to go back now.”
“How are we supposed to get back then??” I demanded angrily, getting as fired up as he, “There are no motorcars this far out of town!”
“That’s not my problem,” he retorted.
“Well, you’re not getting paid, so it IS your problem!” we replied. ”If you hadn’t agreed to bring us back, we would have found someone else who could have!”
As if making us a huge allowance he responded that he would wait for twenty minutes, after which he was leaving, one way or another.
This was getting wildly out of hand and we had work to do. Gideon intervened saying that we would step in for a moment and then come out in ten minutes with an answer for him. We took our chance and quickly entered the gate.
Of course, this scared the white dog and it came charging right at us, teeth bared and growling. Gideon whipped off his backpack and held it out protectively in front of us, as Lisseth, whom we discovered at this crucial juncture, was afraid of dogs, stood whimpering behind me.
“Melissa!” roared a tall striking figure, backlit by the setting sun, her features obscured. “Get inside!!!”
Without a moment’s hesitation, menacing Melissa turned tail and ran into the house.
Looking up at our saviour standing on the patio, I realised that we were in the presence of a formidable woman. At about six feet tall, her hair slicked back across her head, her expression incalculable, Magali Salinas is the type of person that literally takes your breath away with the sheer force of her character.
I stammered out my story for the second time that day. She heard me out in silence, and shook her head sadly.
“No,” she drawled in her lovely Spanish,” We do not have with us any pichicos at this time. We have four howler monkeys. Come inside please”
We climbed the stairs and followed her to the door. Once open, the house literally spewed animals. About five little dogs hurled themselves at our feet in cavorts of ecstasy, their shrill barking drowning out her next words.
By the time we had extricated ourselves from the dogs and made it to the living room, she was back with a little howler monkey with its bottom stuffed with cotton wool.
“Explosive diarrhoea,” she murmured apologetically, or words to that effect, while the creature climbed from her shoulders right onto my head.
Loving every minute of the attention, I reached up and stroked the little chap when he suddenly took a flying leap off my head to the floor behind me.
Fearing for his safety, I whipped around and my jaw hit the floor. There stood the incorrigible driver, in the living room of Magali Salinas, into which he was certainly not invited, cradling a baby howler monkey with serious indigestion.
Before I could retrieve my chin from off the ground, the driver nonchalantly strolled in and seated himself on the couch. The monkey settled down in his lap and was dozing from exhaustion in minutes.
Barely batting an eyelid and ignoring our thunderstruck looks, Magali moved a few things aside on her tea table, and delicately balanced herself on it.
“They eat nonis,” said the driver to our elegant host, as though he’d been flown in from afar for his expert opinion on howler diets.
“Actually,” she corrected him gently, “They are leaf-eaters. It is why they rarely survive as pets. They will eat whatever they see their owners eat and their delicate stomachs just cannot bear it. This one was brought to me almost dead by a vet who has given up on him. Isn’t he wonderful? His name is Chris.”
“Chris?” echoed our driver, querulously.
“Yes, Chris. For Christiano,” replied Ms. Salinas.
“Christiano!” he breathed, “Why, that’s my name!!”
His face lit up in childlike wonder as he looked from the sleeping animal to Magali, and back again. He was transformed.
We left him undisturbed, cooing over the monkey, as we talked about the centre and its goals and the difficulties they face with funding. We left with the phone number to Puerto’s most famous rehabilitation centre, Taricaya, and a promise to help us out should she receive a tamarin in the future.
We climbed back into the motorcar with a completely different driver. Gone were the sullen looks. We had to ask him to leave the shelter!
Our drive back took only thirty minutes even though we were interrupted by a huge tree falling across the road in front of us. Out of the jungle climbed two gentlemen, one wielding an electric saw that sliced through that tree like butter. The other, apparently at least ninety years old and bow-legged to boot, wielded a machete with remarkable ease. They decimated the 30-foot tree, reducing years of patient photosynthesis to firewood in five minutes.
Along the way we were overtaken by a huge SUV filled with little children with none other than the versatile Magali Salinas at the wheel. Matching our pace and forcing us onto the grassy sidewalk she yelled that a house down the way had a pichico, if we wanted to rescue a pet and rehabilitate it. Shrieking our thanks we watched as she manoeuvred around us and shot off into the distance, covering the same ground in half the time.
Finally, we rolled into town and were deposited, cramped and covered in dust, into the main square. We turned like zombies and headed to the closest heladeria or icecream shoppe that we could find. Over vasitos of creamy icecream, in the flavours of the local fruit – wasaí, maracuya, castaña, copoasu, lucumar – we applied ourselves once more to the matter at hand.
“I guess we need to visit Taricaya tomorrow,” mumbled Gid through mouthfuls of icecream.
“Yes, we can do that tomorrow. Of course we must find a boat first,” responded Lisseth.
“A boat?” I asked incredulously, “You mean we can’t take a two-hour moto-car ride there instead? Isn’t this going to be awfully expensive?”
“Mmm…150 soles, no más,” said Lisseth, unconsciously dashing our hopes to the ground.
My head wheeling from the price I suggested that we call them first to find out if they had pichicos at the centre at all. We stepped over into the nearby international calling centre, a little room lined with numbered phone booths.
Of course, the phone number that Magali gave us wasn’t being answered. Figuring that as large an operation as Taricaya must have a local office we requested a phone book and started to search for them. We looked under C, for ‘Centro de Rehabilitación…’, and E, for ‘El Centro…’, and finally, under T, for ‘Taricaya:El Centro…’, and were rewarded with nothing. In the meanwhile, Gid asked a few motocar drivers if they knew where the local Taricaya office was, but that drew a blank as well. Beginning to feel a little underdressed for our professions, without trench coats with the collars turned up, we stepped up the search by looking for Taricaya on the Internet. Although we found their gorgeous website, which I would spend hours reading later, we were unable to find a single way to contact them locally other than to apply to be volunteers with Projects Abroad, a slightly more expensive option coming in at about three-grand for a 2-week visit.
Finally, we discovered that many of the local tourist lodges visited Taricaya as part of their 3-day packages and so we decided to call one for Taricaya’s phone number. In this too we would be defeated. Apparently, no one ever calls Taricaya! Dejectedly I put the receiver down.
“Perhaps we should ask her,” I heard Gid say excitedly behind me.
I spun around to see none other than Ms. Salinas in the booth across from us. The advantages of living in a small town are endless.
When she was done we smiled tentatively and apologising profusely for bothering her again, asked if she knew the Taricaya office.
“Oh, brombus,” she said, waving goodbye.
I raised an eyebrow at Lisseth who was already hailing a motocar. Clearly this was a well-known spot.
We charged off for the last time that day, and were deposited at the doors of a very large and brightly coloured discotheque names Teócas.
Lisseth explained that Brombus was the old name for the place and that it was now a discotheque.
“That’s all very fine, but where’s the office to the animal rehab center?” asked Gideon.
When we finally found it, a small red house tucked away next to the disco, my first thoughts were pity for the residents at having to put up with the music all night. Upon enquiring within, a cheerful, white-haired lady assured us that we were at the right place. The manager was at Taricaya at the moment and would be coming in on the boat the following day. We set up an appointment to meet with him and called it quits on our brief foray into the world of detective novels.
Dozing off that night I had visions of being denied the next day, with hotshot directors laughing at the very thought of my idea. Taricaya sounded so very…fancy. I had to remind myself that my research was pretty nifty as well, if I could only explain it in Spanish well enough! And with that I embraced my first quiet moment since 4am that day.
| Comments |
|
