Exploration

After the new Andean Bear website goes live I commit the unforgivable sin of spam-mailing everyone I've ever met with a heartfelt, cheesy plea for support (worthy of any politician campaign speech). Friends, family and the occasional stranger rally to the cause. Some donate a little, some a lot, and still more pass on the message to their friends and family, continuing the chain.

The web site doubles in the number of hits it's getting and within a couple of weeks we've raised over US$500 through donations. We're even contacted by a new, UN-sponsored TV series, called Last Chance, wanting to feature us in one of their episodes. Add to this the recent publicity from Rosita's release and the support Armando had won at the International Bear Conference and it was clear that this project was finally taking its first, tentative steps into the International lime light.

It was time to look to the future. If things continued to improve then we would have both the funds and the support to finally move into new areas, extending both the depth and the usefulness of the bear research. We begin planning for exactly this and there are two things we need to do. Firstly we need to explore new, potential sites for signs of bears and to gain support from the local communities. Secondly we need to move cages down from their current locations to whatever new site we choose.

I volunteer to join the exploration team tasked with scoping out a new site. There are two types of locations that would prove useful. Since our current study is in a rural farming community, the bears' habitat is made up mostly of fragmented forest regions. The movement of the bears in this area is clearly influenced by the presence of farms, villages and roads. Ideally we need to compare these movements to bears in untouched, primary forest regions.

Bears have also been found living in highly cultivated areas with little forest to speak of. It's here in these areas that the bears have most frequently been attacking livestock. With little natural foods around, the bears have resorted to cattle rustling. There's an area south of Quito where attacks have been a little too frequent and it would be useful beyond measure to have an understanding of how these bears are living and moving. This information would be the first, vital part in finding a solution to the increasing conflict between farmers and bears.

The plan is to check out both areas (hey, we may even get big enough to study both!) but we decide to explore a site of primary forest first. I meet up with Dave out at the now familiar volunteer house. Strangely enough we have only male volunteers this month, discrediting my theory that volunteer work is a female dominated past time. Two of the four lads sign up for the mission as well, both from the UK. Paul is a tall, lanky guy with a heavy, northern accent, a wicked, crude humour and some of the funkiest glasses seen since the Beatles last played live. Andy, on the other hand, is a soft-spoken, little guy, with a subtle, understated sense of humour. It's a good team for an adventure into the wilderness.

Armando drives us for two hours along a dirt road through the middle of nowhere, past the back of beyond and then slightly further on. The condition of the "road" is finally so bad that Armando's four-wheel drive can go no further. He drops us off before turning around and heading back down towards the volunteer house, which compared to this isolated wilderness, now looks like the bastion of civilization. We pull on our packs and, weighed down with camping gear and food for several days, trudge through the mud up the winding path.

Eventually we come to a house nestled amongst the trees. We are not yet in the primary forest we are here to explore but the area is already wild and largely unfarmed. Dave is good friends with Fernando, the owner of this house, and Fernando has offered to be our guide into the forest above. Fernando and his brother German (pronounced Herman) own a large chunk of primary forest over the next ridgeline. This land borders with several other properties of unspoilt forest, which in turn border the massive expanse of the protected Cotocachi national park. The land these farmers own has never felt the steely bite of the hoe or plough: it's both too far away and too wild to be worth the hassle of farming of it.

We spend the night comfortably in Fernando's house, once again overwhelmed by the generosity of these poor, rural folk. The next morning we awake at first light and head off. Grey clouds hang from the mountains like drapes of dirty, wet wool just as they've done since the onslaught of the rainy season a month or so earlier. The path is wet and slippery. Thick, clay-like mud sucks at our boots and splatters over our legs. Every so often one of us loses a shoe beneath the brown sludge and we help each other dig through the mud for the missing footwear.

Despite the gloomy weather and the sucking embrace of the mud, we're in a fine mood. The area is unbelievably beautiful and rugged; the air has a fresh coolness to it and a sense of excitement and adventure follows us up the path. We're all relatively fit and well acclimatised and we keep a steady, comfortable pace. Both Fernando and German have joined us, proudly showing off their beautiful land, and we have a mule and a horse with us to help carry our load.

As we climb higher the clouds lift a little, flirtatiously revealing glimpses of the unspoilt green valleys surrounding us. Huge, white-wood palm trees tower above the dark green underbrush, spread through the forest like silent sentinels surveying our arrival. All around us small, frothing waterfalls tumble down the looming cliffs to form icy, clear rivers in the valleys below.

A day's hike has us at a small cottage at the edge of Fernando's land: his holiday cabin. It's similar in style to the other huts I've used in these isolated parts of Ecuador, though a little more care has been put into this construction, giving it a welcoming feel. The floor is bare mud however, a few stones in the corner serve as a hearth and a gap between the wood slats of the wall and the tin roof allows smoke from the fire to escape and join the clouds outside.

It's early afternoon when we arrive but the gloomy clouds have brought dusk earlier than normal. As we light the fire inside the little hut the rain begins to fall heavily on the ground outside. We settle down to warm soup and quiet conversation, drying our wet, mud-caked socks by the fire. Eventually we turn in for the night falling asleep to the heavy patter of rain on the roof and the gentle crackle of the dying fire.

The clouds still linger when dawn wakes us the next morning. We head out anyway, it's a mere drizzle and a little rain won't hurt us. Fernando has to get back to his farm and he heads off early with the mule. German leads us in the other direction, down a small track through the trees and into some of the lushest and beautiful forest I have ever seen.

We spend the day hiking up and down valleys, exploring sites and looking for evidence of bears. We find no direct signs, the rain has concealed any obvious evidence, but we do find the occasional half-torn bromeliad, possibly discarded by a feeding bear. Even without hard, direct evidence however, it's certain that this unspoilt area is home to more than a few wild bears. The habitat is ideal and undisturbed for miles; it's a perfect site for our bear research.

There are few paths for us to use in this uncultivated area, and we push through thick wet leaves and small shrubs. We hike for the better part of the day and after slipping through the mud and having the cold rain drip down on us through the overhead canopy of green we are soaked through and muddy all over.

Towards the end of the day, on our way back to camp, we find ourselves wading through an icy cold river as the trees and bamboo prevent our passage along the bank. Without warning Dave suddenly gives a Tarzan like yell and dives into the cold water still fully dressed. The rest of us exchange glances, shrug our shoulders and dive in after him. We're wet and cold anyway, at least this way we get the benefit of being clean for the night.

We make the last half hour of the hike back to the camp in freezing, wet clothes, shivering and hugging ourselves for warmth. We get the fire going straight away and spend the rest of the night huddled around it, wrapped in our sleeping bags and cradling warm cups of some native herbal tea that German claims wards off colds (and, according to him, can also get rid of headaches, stop you getting pregnant, and can probably cure cancer).

The next day we explore a little more in another direction but after lunch we break camp and head back down the hill. We've seen enough to know that this site would indeed be perfect for bear work if we can find some place to base the volunteers at. Getting supplies in and out may be a problem but nothing we can't work out.

On the walk back down German disappears behind a tree to take care of "business". The rest of us continue down the trail and Paul is left leading German's horse at the back of the group. At one point the trail cuts along the face of a steep, muddy slope and the path is both narrow and slippery.

Myself, Dave and Andy cross without problem, but the horse balks and Paul is unable to make her budge. After several minutes of pulling at the reigns he starts to lose his temper, swearing and cursing. He tries walking around the back and slapping it on its arse, but the horse just gets startled and tries to walk up the face of the slope shoving its arse in Paul's face as it goes.

The rest of us look on slightly sympathetic but mostly amused. We're unable to help on the narrow path anyway, but Paul's mood is improved little by us laughing and cracking a few jokes at his expense. Paul lets out a string of swear words and angrily kicks at a stone. The stone doesn't budge however and Paul is left so off balanced that he falls over backwards. He literally tumbles down the hill, turning head over heel several times until he finally lands face first in the pool of slime coated mud at the bottom.

Paul finishes the rest of the hike covered from head to toe in thick, brown slime. He decides to have a strop and says not one word for the whole hike down. The rest of us have the good sense to keep our mouths shut, though I can see both Andy and Dave struggling as much as me not to laugh.

We hike back down to the road, find a local farmer with a truck and pay him a few dollars to give us a lift down to the nearest "town", called Cullaje. From here we can get a bus back to the volunteer house but not until morning. Luckily Dave is well known in this town, some of the lads from his football team live here and he has spent many a night here drinking with them. We have no shortage of offers on places to stay and end up sleeping in a nice little wooden house in the centre of town.

Dave gives us a tour and since the town consists of three streets and one main square, the tour takes all of five minutes. Dave knows just about everyone here. Everyone we pass on the street greets him like a long lost son. The local lads all want to drink beer with him, the local mothers all want to feed him and fatten him up and the local, young girls all have something else in mind.

We get a meal in one of the houses that doubles up as the town's restaurant. After that the beers come out and the shots of the foul tasting Puro (the local moonshine) follow soon after. A couple of local guys have joined us and the family who own the house all sit and drink with us. The rotund, friendly mother thinks we are the funniest thing to ever happen. She makes us all stand up, wanting to see how tall Paul (who's now once again his happy self with some beers in him) and myself are.

When Andy stands up she laughs and comments on how "small" he is. When Dave makes a joke saying that "small" in English is used more in reference to how well hung someone is, rather than how tall they are, she bursts with laughter. She then spends the rest of the night calling Andy chiquito (i.e. the little one) and making references to little hotdogs. Andy, not able to retort as he speaks little Spanish, spends the night grumbling to himself instead and staring into his beer mug.

It's well passed midnight when Paul and Andy decide to call it a night. They wander back to the house but Dave and I stay up to finish off the last few beers. Dave likes a beer, and like the local Ecuadorians he can handle a weekend long fiesta of serious drinking. In Quito his drinking antics have earned him the nickname of "Dangerous Dave" at the hostel where we meet volunteers.

This is my last night as well out in the real bear work and that's worth a little celebration. With Rosita released I've decided to go home to spend Christmas with my family and friends. I've lined up some work for five months but then plan to be on the road again by next June. Armando has offered me a permanent place on the bear project but I have lots of other things to see and do as well, the world is full of deserving volunteer projects. I'll decide where I'm going next around next May - no need to rush these decisions.

The night carries on well into the early hours of morning. Eventually we are out of beer, and thankfully out of Puro. It's time to call it a night. Dave and I take our leave from the family and head out into the night to stagger home. Halfway back to our house however, we find a group of about ten lads sitting on the corner of the square drinking beer. Dave, in slow and careful speech (trying to prove just how sober he is) explains that these are his best mates and we have to share a few drinks with them. At that stage of the night I think anyone we'd have met would be Dave's "best mate" but we hung around for a few beers none the less.

When the singing starts I decide it's game over for me. "One more!" is the call from Dave but I am well and truly done and I leave Dave behind for his "one more". I staggered up the street and, guided by my beer compass, manage to find the house we are staying in. I crawl into my sleeping bag, stepping on Andy's head in the process, then pass out.

Dawn arrives and pounds me on my forehead, stabbing me in the eyes with bright, steel rays of sun light. I groan and roll over to find the other guys looking as bad as I feel and crawling out of bed. All except Dave that is, his bedroll is lying untouched in the corner. I check the time; it's just gone eight, leaving us an hour to make the bus. We pack up and then head out into the cursed sunlight to find Dangerous Dave.

It's an easy trail to find Dave. As we wander into the main square a couple of guys tell us that they'd seen him earlier that morning drinking beer on the next corner. We wander in that direction to find a friendly, fat shop keeper who has a crate of beer that a drunken Dave apparently bought at around five that morning and then forgot to take with him. She points us in the direction he headed and here we find a couple of kids playing football. When we ask about Dave they say he'd been asleep under a tree there that morning but he'd woken without any shoes and had gone off looking for them.

We follow the path of bare-footed Dave, and the local residents direct us from house to house. Evidence of Dave's handiwork is visible everywhere. After passing a street corner littered with empty bottles and cigarette butts, we finally enter a house to find a very drunk and bleary eyed Dave sitting at a table with a family eating soup. "These are my best mates", he says when he sees us.

Dave's having too much fun to want to go home so we decide to leave him there with the family. I say my final farewells and Dave shakes my hand and tells me I'm one of his "best mates". Paul, Andy and I head up to the bus stop. As we're waiting for the bus to turn up we see Dave staggering up towards us. He gets halfway but then is distracted by some locals with a horse. Next we know he's chatting to them and has somehow convinced them to let him have a ride.

The three of us look on as Dave, totally pickled, tries to mount up. He throws himself chest first over the horse and then slowly slides down the other side, landing face first on the ground. The locals rush to pick him up, but Dave jumps to his feet, brushes himself off, staggers a little and then jumps onto the back of the horse. With a little luck he manages to stay on this time and the horse sets off at a pace. The bus pulls up and we hop on. The last view I have of Dangerous Dave is him galloping around the main square of Cullaje, pissed off his head and whooping like a cowboy.