|Jungle Fever: Pimpilala, Ecuador
||[Jan. 25th, 2017|10:41 am]
(This unfinished bit has been sitting in my buffer for far too long.)
I woke up before sunrise to the cacophony of crowing roosters. I was used to being up this early. I can't say I was used to being awoken by noisy chickens, but it wasn't new to me. This was the alarm clock of my childhood, since I grew up with freerange chickens doing their thing. I enjoyed the boisterous narcissism of the chooks. Every time a rooster crows, he's telling the world how amazing and important he is. He's also telling people they have no business being in bed. I didn't mind, but I'd gotten to sleep early. Most of the others had stayed up late, shooting the shit and knocking back Ecuadorean lager. I squirmed my way past the mosquito netting, shook my shoes out (in case of scorpions and bullet ants), and wandered to the bathroom. Once there, I again checked for bullet ants before making my urinary libations.
Although I'd like to wander, I didn't dare leave the homestead. I may feel at home in Canadian wilderness, but the western Amazon basin is far outside my purview. I know the warning signs for rattlesnakes and moose, but I recognize very little in the Amazon aside from a few plants I'd seen in florist shops (eg. bromeliads). This little patch of jungle is the most botanically diverse place in the world. An area of 100 square meters can contain over 500 tree species alone whereas the same area in northern Canadian taiga may contain only three. This doesn't even include the profusion of herbs and critters. In all of North America, there are about 900 species of birds. In Ecuador alone, which is not a large country, there are about 1,500. This morning I was in luck. I'd be going on a walk with Delphin, the patriarch and shaman of the household. He would be teaching us about how the Quichuan coexist with various species in the jungle.