June 2014
Cuidadores de las Cochas Project
by
Nancy Dammann
Nancy Dammann...My Story
Nights are the worst. Even on my good days, at night I can’t avoid my reality. As I try to slow down and get ready for bed, I am forced to feel all the things I feel all day, but that through activity I can semi-ignore. I feel the pain and discomfort in my body, the fact that my heart is beating too fast and hard. Sometimes my heart beats so hard that all I can do is to watch as my body shakes. Most nights, my muscles feel as if they are going to start violently jerking, or as if I am getting electrical shocks. Other times, my digestive system goes to pieces, and I spend the night going back and forth to the bathroom. And then, even on the relatively good nights, the fear creeps in. Will I even be able to sleep tonight? Will I wake up with my head banging from one side to other and my body spasming as if I were having seizures? Will this ever get better? What do I do if I can’t get well enough to be self-supporting? What do I if it gets worse, again? And if I do get better, what will I be like? Do I even know myself? I have been sick almost my entire adult life.
I have Lyme disease, other tick borne co-infections, chronic intestinal parasites, and high levels of lead. Just before my 20th birthday, I spent a month in Costa Rica, interning on a couple of different ecological research projects. I was bitten by a tick. I quickly developed symptoms of Lyme: a seemingly horrible flu, digestive issues, fatigue, unexplainable overwhelming fatigue, and then psychological symptoms of depression and anxiety. But I was 19, had no real understanding of Lyme and never linked the symptoms as being related to each other, much less to that tick bite. Sixteen years later, after years of doctors office and ER visits, I was diagnosed.
A year after the beginning of my symptoms, I took a semester off from college, travelled to the Peruvian Amazon and began a research project collaborating with several local Amazonian communities. I love being outside and learning about people; I wanted to understand what drives our human relationships to our environment. I also needed to find a reason, a purpose, and a path. I love learning, but I needed to know why I was learning, and I needed to feel connected and as if I could make some difference in the world. Thinking I wanted a way to directly engage with the injustices I encountered, I had given up a dream of pursing a profession in the arts. During this first trip to Peru, I realized I could combine the two—that art was one way for me to have a voice and to help facilitate other peoples’ voices.
I have Lyme disease, other tick borne co-infections, chronic intestinal parasites, and high levels of lead. Just before my 20th birthday, I spent a month in Costa Rica, interning on a couple of different ecological research projects. I was bitten by a tick. I quickly developed symptoms of Lyme: a seemingly horrible flu, digestive issues, fatigue, unexplainable overwhelming fatigue, and then psychological symptoms of depression and anxiety. But I was 19, had no real understanding of Lyme and never linked the symptoms as being related to each other, much less to that tick bite. Sixteen years later, after years of doctors office and ER visits, I was diagnosed.
A year after the beginning of my symptoms, I took a semester off from college, travelled to the Peruvian Amazon and began a research project collaborating with several local Amazonian communities. I love being outside and learning about people; I wanted to understand what drives our human relationships to our environment. I also needed to find a reason, a purpose, and a path. I love learning, but I needed to know why I was learning, and I needed to feel connected and as if I could make some difference in the world. Thinking I wanted a way to directly engage with the injustices I encountered, I had given up a dream of pursing a profession in the arts. During this first trip to Peru, I realized I could combine the two—that art was one way for me to have a voice and to help facilitate other peoples’ voices.
I fell in love with my work and life in Peru. I spent days on lakes working with fishing men and women, swimming, watching birds and monkeys, and intimately learning the landscape in which I was immersed. On other days, I would sit in peoples’ homes, sharing food and stories. These new friends taught me not just about the landscape I could see, but also of those imagined and internal. I learned what it meant to bear witness and to be present. I held the hands of friends who were sick and dying. I was invited into mosquito nets of new mother’s and asked to hold day-old babies. I was asked to take pictures at funerals, one-year-olds’ birthday parties, and town festivals. I was called upon to try to help when people fell ill. Often my help was useless, and I stood powerless as people died. Life and death wove themselves into the intimacy of daily life. In the midst of what often seemed like intense poverty and suffering, I found almost unbearable joy, beauty, and celebration.
After my first trip to Peru, we (my family, doctors, and myself) assumed my deteriorating health was due to repeated parasitic infections. I slowly got sicker but remained fueled by my love for my work. I graduated from undergrad, ran two marathons, got independent grants to continue the work, got married, and started graduate school. I was constantly in doctors offices. I had doctors tell me I was crazy. The psychiatrists and therapists said that I wasn’t; I wished that they would. I felt crazy, my world no longer made sense to me, and I felt as if I was cracking, shattering. I would have happily accepted if someone put me in a hospital. All the doctors agreed I was suffering from depression and/or anxiety. The M.D.’s thought this was the cause of my poor health; the therapists and psychiatrists thought it was a symptom.
After my first trip to Peru, we (my family, doctors, and myself) assumed my deteriorating health was due to repeated parasitic infections. I slowly got sicker but remained fueled by my love for my work. I graduated from undergrad, ran two marathons, got independent grants to continue the work, got married, and started graduate school. I was constantly in doctors offices. I had doctors tell me I was crazy. The psychiatrists and therapists said that I wasn’t; I wished that they would. I felt crazy, my world no longer made sense to me, and I felt as if I was cracking, shattering. I would have happily accepted if someone put me in a hospital. All the doctors agreed I was suffering from depression and/or anxiety. The M.D.’s thought this was the cause of my poor health; the therapists and psychiatrists thought it was a symptom.
I finished my Ph.D. My husband and I got a divorce. We had plenty of differences, but my health was one of many factors. It is hard living with being constantly sick; it is equally hard to live with a constantly sick person with no diagnosis and who half the doctors suggest is simply crazy. During my last field season in Peru, I got so sick that I ended up in an ER in Lima and then flown home by my insurance company. My symptoms subsided slightly with time; we assumed more intestinal parasites. My doctors, some of NYC’s best, still couldn’t figure out what was wrong. I was tested for everything, scoped repeatedly, swallowed a camera (to check my intestinal track), had scans of my brain and abdomen. Until the fall of 2008, I was self-supporting and through school had good health insurance. In the fall of 2009, my doctor in NYC suggested I find the best alternative health care possible. I moved to Boulder, CO, and started going into extreme debt trying to cure what no one could diagnose. I could work only part time.
Eventually three doctors (all MD’s) concluded that I had Lyme disease. I started treatment in the spring of 2011. By January of 2012, it became unsafe for me to drive and by the fall of 2012, I was relying on my friends to help me with everything. I would get confused about when to cross a cross walk and couldn’t retain anything I read. Friends made a schedule and helped me get to appointments and to buy groceries. For two years, I couldn’t work. I lost my health insurance for several months. In that year, I paid down three separate deductibles as I got bounced between plans.
Currently, my body basically overreacts to every medicine that I try (pharmaceutical and herbal) making me so sick I would need to be in a hospital or ER, with round the clock care, to keep taking them. So I am on excruciatingly small doses—1 drop of this, 2 of that, 3 of another, and ¼ doses of some others—and a long list of homeopathics and supplements to try to support my body. My out of pocket medical bills average between $2000.00 and $2500.00 per month, and that is with insurance. My family has been digging deep to loan me the money to pay these bills.
Eventually three doctors (all MD’s) concluded that I had Lyme disease. I started treatment in the spring of 2011. By January of 2012, it became unsafe for me to drive and by the fall of 2012, I was relying on my friends to help me with everything. I would get confused about when to cross a cross walk and couldn’t retain anything I read. Friends made a schedule and helped me get to appointments and to buy groceries. For two years, I couldn’t work. I lost my health insurance for several months. In that year, I paid down three separate deductibles as I got bounced between plans.
Currently, my body basically overreacts to every medicine that I try (pharmaceutical and herbal) making me so sick I would need to be in a hospital or ER, with round the clock care, to keep taking them. So I am on excruciatingly small doses—1 drop of this, 2 of that, 3 of another, and ¼ doses of some others—and a long list of homeopathics and supplements to try to support my body. My out of pocket medical bills average between $2000.00 and $2500.00 per month, and that is with insurance. My family has been digging deep to loan me the money to pay these bills.
As of spring of 2014, I could work part time again, and I travelled to Lima (in Peru) and Argentina this spring as a short test to see if I could begin research again. The trips went pretty well, in many ways I felt better. I had a short ER visit in Lima, but everything seemed relatively workable. I am regaining some strength. And I received a small seed grant to begin a new phase of my work with the communities.
Lyme disease, and other chronic illnesses, can be devastating--not just in their physical effects, but also in the insidious way in which we can end up feeling that we no longer have a role to play nor a positive reason to exist. It can also be a blessing. During the past five years, I have spent a lot of time meditating, learning how to be present, even with the pain, fear, and anxiety, and how to not hold on to these. I still often struggle against all that is uncomfortable at night, I often break down, freeze, or lose myself in the vortex of the internet, searching for any way to make it through the worst parts.
I have also started drawing, painting, and working with the photographs I took in Peru. I need a way to express myself. I had been losing my voice, allowing disease and fear to take away that fundamental part of myself, and to believe that I had nothing to say, and no way to say it. I hope that as I recover I will continue to remember the lessons I am learning about balance and pacing, about compassion, about going slow, enjoying, and deeply feeling the world and our lives (even the painful uncomfortable parts). A large part of my academic work is about community, voice, and resiliency. My relationship with friends and community collaborators in Peru, continues to deepen my understanding of all three. My path with Lyme has also been teaching me about these on a very intimate level. My hope is that through collaboration with these communities in the Amazon and elsewhere, I can help present those lessons in ways that can help strengthen all of our voices and help us all become more resilient.
Lyme disease, and other chronic illnesses, can be devastating--not just in their physical effects, but also in the insidious way in which we can end up feeling that we no longer have a role to play nor a positive reason to exist. It can also be a blessing. During the past five years, I have spent a lot of time meditating, learning how to be present, even with the pain, fear, and anxiety, and how to not hold on to these. I still often struggle against all that is uncomfortable at night, I often break down, freeze, or lose myself in the vortex of the internet, searching for any way to make it through the worst parts.
I have also started drawing, painting, and working with the photographs I took in Peru. I need a way to express myself. I had been losing my voice, allowing disease and fear to take away that fundamental part of myself, and to believe that I had nothing to say, and no way to say it. I hope that as I recover I will continue to remember the lessons I am learning about balance and pacing, about compassion, about going slow, enjoying, and deeply feeling the world and our lives (even the painful uncomfortable parts). A large part of my academic work is about community, voice, and resiliency. My relationship with friends and community collaborators in Peru, continues to deepen my understanding of all three. My path with Lyme has also been teaching me about these on a very intimate level. My hope is that through collaboration with these communities in the Amazon and elsewhere, I can help present those lessons in ways that can help strengthen all of our voices and help us all become more resilient.
Cuidadores de las Cochas Project Gallery
(Caretakers of the Lakes Project)
Doña Elisa
Doña Elisa’s machete was flying while I took this picture. She was weeding her upland rice patch. I was just getting to know her at the time. I was 21, a little lost and wide-eyed in this new home. Loosely an aunt to my host mother (and hence to me), she and her family made sure I didn’t get too lost, and they provided much of my initial understanding of their community. She teased me relentlessly for wanting to take a picture of her in the field, with mud splattered on her legs. She is one of the most beautiful and fierce woman I know. She thinks that is ridiculous. She reminds me of Georgia O'Keefe, particularly as photographed by Alfred Stieglitz.
Doña Elisa is an expert farmer and a proud mother and grandmother. Quick to laugh and quick to cry. When she has reason to grieve, and she has had many, she does so intensely. Open hearted and resilient. Though she has lost many of the people dearest to her, she remains completely vulnerable and open—she is made of the kind of steel that doesn’t need to hide behind indifference or numbness. When I speak to her on the phone, our conversations move from tears to laughter and back. She reminds me to not forget her. I laugh. I will never, ever need that reminder.
Doña Elisa is an expert farmer and a proud mother and grandmother. Quick to laugh and quick to cry. When she has reason to grieve, and she has had many, she does so intensely. Open hearted and resilient. Though she has lost many of the people dearest to her, she remains completely vulnerable and open—she is made of the kind of steel that doesn’t need to hide behind indifference or numbness. When I speak to her on the phone, our conversations move from tears to laughter and back. She reminds me to not forget her. I laugh. I will never, ever need that reminder.
Don Juan Augustin
Don Juan Agustin is one of the most intimidating people I have ever met. When I shot this photograph in 2007, he was living by himself in a house he had built along the edge of the lake "Chonta Cocha." He raised pigs, fished, hunted, and had an abundant supply of fresh fruit from his fruit trees. His monthly shopping list was limited to: a little salt for his food, a little kerosene and some matches that he used to start his fire in the morning, salt to preserve the fish he caught, bullets for hunting, a little cooking oil, double D batteries (so he could listen to the news every night on his shortwave radio), and some detergent so he could wash his clothes, and if he was feeling indulgent a can or two of condensed milk, coffee, and sugar. He made sure to point out that he didn't even own a flashlight. He didn’t see the need.
When, in 1996, I first approached Don Juan Agustin's house, he warned me, "Gringa, beware of those dogs; they are for hunting tigres, (jaguars and mountain lions)." At the particular moment, I had focused my attention on how to navigate around the 1 ton plus pigs barreling towards me down the slippery mud bank that led to his house. Then the dogs came out. I calmly wondered if I might die. Don Juan, picked up a stick, threw it vaguely at everything, yelled at the dogs, and said, "Gringa, what do you want?" No friendly chit chat, no introductions, just gruff, and straight to the point. I clearly recall wishing that I could simply disappear. Instead, I asked if he would be willing to keep notes for me regarding his fishing practices. I explained that I was conducting research regarding community based fisheries management. He responded, "Speak louder, I don't hear so well, and I am going blind, so no, I can't write anything down." But we agreed I would come visit him every week or two, and that when possible he would have visitors write things down for him.
I am honored that in 2007 this man called me his friend. He has often filled my canoe with more fruit than I can eat, he grills me on the nuances of US politics and international affairs, and has given me days of his time teaching me the history of his landscape. He has also given me occasional passionate lectures describing the need to find a balance between immediate economic needs and the equally immediate need to maintain a healthy landscape. This man, who hunts mountain lions, whose eyesight has deteriorated so that he can neither read or write, who remains one of the most expert fishermen in the area, also laughs easily, loves a dirty joke, and will cry describing the beauty of trees that he felt were needlessly cut down. There is no sugar coating with Don Juan, and he doesn't tell a simple story.
When, in 1996, I first approached Don Juan Agustin's house, he warned me, "Gringa, beware of those dogs; they are for hunting tigres, (jaguars and mountain lions)." At the particular moment, I had focused my attention on how to navigate around the 1 ton plus pigs barreling towards me down the slippery mud bank that led to his house. Then the dogs came out. I calmly wondered if I might die. Don Juan, picked up a stick, threw it vaguely at everything, yelled at the dogs, and said, "Gringa, what do you want?" No friendly chit chat, no introductions, just gruff, and straight to the point. I clearly recall wishing that I could simply disappear. Instead, I asked if he would be willing to keep notes for me regarding his fishing practices. I explained that I was conducting research regarding community based fisheries management. He responded, "Speak louder, I don't hear so well, and I am going blind, so no, I can't write anything down." But we agreed I would come visit him every week or two, and that when possible he would have visitors write things down for him.
I am honored that in 2007 this man called me his friend. He has often filled my canoe with more fruit than I can eat, he grills me on the nuances of US politics and international affairs, and has given me days of his time teaching me the history of his landscape. He has also given me occasional passionate lectures describing the need to find a balance between immediate economic needs and the equally immediate need to maintain a healthy landscape. This man, who hunts mountain lions, whose eyesight has deteriorated so that he can neither read or write, who remains one of the most expert fishermen in the area, also laughs easily, loves a dirty joke, and will cry describing the beauty of trees that he felt were needlessly cut down. There is no sugar coating with Don Juan, and he doesn't tell a simple story.
The Couple/La Pareja
This couple had been together for decades when I met them. When I took this photo, they were sitting in a the shelter of a thatched roof, avoiding a rainstorm, watching their youngest grandson (who was just crawling), and shucking more than a ton of field corn. It took more than an hour, and almost an entire role of film, before I could get them to pose together and both look at the camera. And when they did, I was overwhelmed by the shy sweet way they flirted and smiled at each other, as if they were teenagers.
Don Miguel, Don Ernesto, and Ever—Lets go Fishing
In the Peruvian Amazon, fishing is one of the most important activities. In many homes, fish is eaten three meals a day, providing for a large portion of the protein, calories, vitamins, and mineral needs of the residents. Fish also is sold to provide income to purchase other necessities, to buy school supplies, and to pay for health care. In some communities, such as the one from which these three men originate, the communities make local rules to limit commercial fishing and to create a balance between meeting immediate short term needs and ensuring that their "children will have fish to eat in the future." The national government considers these local rules illegal and counter to the region's economic and social development. The communities face harsh political and economic repercussions, but also gain important attention for their local issues. The conflicts between local groups and outside commercial groups have often been violent, and occasionally fatal.
Ever, the boy in the back of the canoe, was one of my first friends in Peru. In some ways, he became more like my shadow. There were multiple times when I thought I saw movement somewhere and would turn around to find him standing silently, not exactly hiding, just very much not drawing attention to himself. He took to running with me in the late afternoons and sometimes accompanying me on afternoon trips to near-by towns. He and his brother now live in a city several days travel from the town. His parents live in another city. When I spoke to him in 2013, he was in his late 20’s working in a factory. His father (one of the two men in the photo) was talking about visiting and maybe moving back to the their home town soon. He misses it, but at least partially, they stay in the city for health care. As with many other local residents, he had a recent scare with cancer and couldn’t work for two years. He is healthy now, and shared a common sentiment, “your health is everything.”
Ever, the boy in the back of the canoe, was one of my first friends in Peru. In some ways, he became more like my shadow. There were multiple times when I thought I saw movement somewhere and would turn around to find him standing silently, not exactly hiding, just very much not drawing attention to himself. He took to running with me in the late afternoons and sometimes accompanying me on afternoon trips to near-by towns. He and his brother now live in a city several days travel from the town. His parents live in another city. When I spoke to him in 2013, he was in his late 20’s working in a factory. His father (one of the two men in the photo) was talking about visiting and maybe moving back to the their home town soon. He misses it, but at least partially, they stay in the city for health care. As with many other local residents, he had a recent scare with cancer and couldn’t work for two years. He is healthy now, and shared a common sentiment, “your health is everything.”
Dance Partners
Dressed up, shoes polished, white shirts gleaming, ready to sweep their partners off their feet, these young boys were invited dance partners for the kindergarten graduation. Until 2013, I thought that they themselves had been graduating. When I posted the picture on facebook, two of the boys, now in college and living in Iquitos and Pucallpa (cities in the Peruvian Amazon) immediately clarified.
All four boys now live in the city. Nico checked shirt on the left just finished his final year of college studying tropical forest ecology. He dreams of being able to apply his degree in his hometown, in the meantime, he has a job working for an oil company. Reynerio, at Nico's side, farthest to the left, is studying forestry in college and at night taking classes to become a mechanic. He says he loves both equally.
All four boys now live in the city. Nico checked shirt on the left just finished his final year of college studying tropical forest ecology. He dreams of being able to apply his degree in his hometown, in the meantime, he has a job working for an oil company. Reynerio, at Nico's side, farthest to the left, is studying forestry in college and at night taking classes to become a mechanic. He says he loves both equally.
Laundry Day
Have you ever hand washed clothes? Have you ever done so in water the color of cafe con leche (milk with coffee)? Clothes washing in these communities is often a friendly event, where family members or neighbors gather to wash and chat, share news, jokes, and stories. And at the end of the day, the clotheslines can be blinding as the white shirts and socks glisten. Even with water the color of coffee, clothes still come out white.
Family
Hanging out in doorways or on the front steps, groups of family and neighbors often pass the late afternoon, or the hours during a rainstorm. This family--children, cousins, and probably neighbors--posed one day as after I had finished talking with one the adults. If I remember correctly, a grandmother I knew well was standing off to the side directing everyone.
Community Work Day
Whether they be for clearing a field for the high school to use for teaching purposes, maintaining the common paths and roads, cleaning the cemetery, or taking care of other community needs, community work days make short work of large projects.
On this particular day, the town’s men had been gathered to clear an agricultural field for the local high school. The field was to be planted with tropical mahogany and tropical cedar along with a succession of mixed crops that would grow and help maintain the soil as the trees grew. It was supposed to be the last day of my first trip, but the ferry boat was running late (days late), so my Peruvian host father suggested I come visit their work. I got there just in time for a break. The men cleared the immense field within the space of a couple of days. Unfortunately, something went wrong, and the “professor” who had been in charge disappeared with the funds to purchase the seedlings. The field was in use for many years eventually being sold to one family. Located at the tip of the lake, it has a magnificent view and a nice breeze to keep the mosquitos away.
On this particular day, the town’s men had been gathered to clear an agricultural field for the local high school. The field was to be planted with tropical mahogany and tropical cedar along with a succession of mixed crops that would grow and help maintain the soil as the trees grew. It was supposed to be the last day of my first trip, but the ferry boat was running late (days late), so my Peruvian host father suggested I come visit their work. I got there just in time for a break. The men cleared the immense field within the space of a couple of days. Unfortunately, something went wrong, and the “professor” who had been in charge disappeared with the funds to purchase the seedlings. The field was in use for many years eventually being sold to one family. Located at the tip of the lake, it has a magnificent view and a nice breeze to keep the mosquitos away.
Fishing for Paiche
Paiche, Arapaima gigas (also known as Pirarucu in Brazil), ties with Sturgeon as the world's largest freshwater fish. Paiche are obligate air breathers--they have to surface to breathe air. Prized for both their size and the flavor of their meat, fishermen learn to gauge their size and age by the time the fish spend between breaching the surface.
On this day, a group of three men and one woman had gone to hunt two paiche that had become trapped in a small lagoon as the flood waters receded. I was invited along. When they arrived, the larger paiche had somehow escaped the lagoon, and only the smaller ones were left. The group set two nets, completely surrounding the fish (probably about 5 feet long and not yet mature). Then with three on the shore ready to haul in the nets, one man paddled out in a canoe with a harpoon. As the nets were pulled in and the fish's space grew smaller, the tension became tangible. And then suddenly the fish jumped and cleared both nets. All four fishers exclaimed that these fish simply don't jump like that. I snapped this picture in the calm just before the fish jumped.
On this day, a group of three men and one woman had gone to hunt two paiche that had become trapped in a small lagoon as the flood waters receded. I was invited along. When they arrived, the larger paiche had somehow escaped the lagoon, and only the smaller ones were left. The group set two nets, completely surrounding the fish (probably about 5 feet long and not yet mature). Then with three on the shore ready to haul in the nets, one man paddled out in a canoe with a harpoon. As the nets were pulled in and the fish's space grew smaller, the tension became tangible. And then suddenly the fish jumped and cleared both nets. All four fishers exclaimed that these fish simply don't jump like that. I snapped this picture in the calm just before the fish jumped.
Lenyn
When I first met Lenyn, we were both in our early 20's. He was finishing high school, having recently returned from compulsory military service that began before he was able to complete his schooling. He since has become a farmer, raising pigs, and more recently moving near to the city to raise chickens. When a group of us were working in the forest several hours from our town, he had us stay in his house. Without much of his own work to do, his fields were cleared, the pigs were doing well, he joined us in the forest for several days. On other days, between clearing fields, fishing, hunting, cooking, washing, and repairing his home, he spent his time reading dense classic literature.
El Bufeo
Two species of river dolphins inhabit the Amazon—The Bufeo Negro (Grey dolphin/Tucuxi) "Sotalia fluviatilis" and the Boto (Pink River Dolphin) " Inia geoffrensis". The dolphins play central roles in both the floodplain food web and in local cosmology. Stories about them abound.
I took this photograph within a week of my first arrival to Peru. Standing on a boat, I watched the dolphins jump and play and some of my own nervousness fell away. My family loves dolphins, and my parents had images of dolphins all over our home. So for me, seeing a dolphin, in this new far away and seemingly scary place, helped me feel at home. I just kept shooting until I knew I had gotten a picture of one in mid jump.
I took this photograph within a week of my first arrival to Peru. Standing on a boat, I watched the dolphins jump and play and some of my own nervousness fell away. My family loves dolphins, and my parents had images of dolphins all over our home. So for me, seeing a dolphin, in this new far away and seemingly scary place, helped me feel at home. I just kept shooting until I knew I had gotten a picture of one in mid jump.
Felling Trees
As deforestation concerns increase, it is easy to see every cut tree as a disaster. People cut trees to harvest their timber and to plant fields, to build houses, furniture, and canoes. In communities such as these, trees are often harvested in a sustainable manner and fields are most often made on a rotating basis that enriches the soil and does not contribute to overall deforestation. On the other hand, many of the prime timber species are now quite rare, and some of those species play key roles in forest ecology. This tree was cut in to make way for a field that would serve both short term agricultural and long term reforestation (with rare, slow growing, hardwood species) purposes. Understanding both the ecological and social processing is fundamental to understanding overall sustainability.
Don Elmir Fishing
In the Peruvian Amazon, fishing is one of the most important activities. In many homes, fish is eaten three meals a day, providing for a large portion of the protein, calories, vitamin, and mineral needs of the residents. Fish is also sold to provide income to purchase other necessities, to buy school supplies, and to pay for health care. In some communities, such as Don Elmir's, the communities make local rules to limit commercial fishing and to create a balance between meeting immediate short term needs and ensuring that their "children will have fish to eat in the future." The national government considers these local rules illegal and counter to the region's economic and social development. The communities face harsh political and economic repercussions but also gain important attention for their local issues. The conflicts between local groups and outside commercial groups have often been violent, and occasionally fatal.
Don Elmir was one of the first fishermen with whom I worked. During my first year, my Peruvian host family and I cut apart notebooks and hand stitched smaller sized ones that the fishing families could carry in their back pockets while they fished. Don Elmir and many of the others had their own plans. Many quietly purchased or found their own notebooks that they took with them everyday. They wrote down quick notes about where they fished and details they might forget. Then when the fishers returned to their homes and were cleaning and selling their catch, they or another family member would copy these notes and add details based on the final catch. If they finished a notebook before I was able to retrieve it; they stored it with their most important documents. They wanted to give me exact information, and they wanted it to be easily readable. After two years of working this way, my assistants and I created a system for observing a large portion of the fishing and personally recording the data. Our notebooks look nothing like the fishers. Ours are covered in blood and scales, and often have notes added in every which way. The fishing families took such care in their work: the fishing, the data, and the presentation.
Don Elmir was one of the first fishermen with whom I worked. During my first year, my Peruvian host family and I cut apart notebooks and hand stitched smaller sized ones that the fishing families could carry in their back pockets while they fished. Don Elmir and many of the others had their own plans. Many quietly purchased or found their own notebooks that they took with them everyday. They wrote down quick notes about where they fished and details they might forget. Then when the fishers returned to their homes and were cleaning and selling their catch, they or another family member would copy these notes and add details based on the final catch. If they finished a notebook before I was able to retrieve it; they stored it with their most important documents. They wanted to give me exact information, and they wanted it to be easily readable. After two years of working this way, my assistants and I created a system for observing a large portion of the fishing and personally recording the data. Our notebooks look nothing like the fishers. Ours are covered in blood and scales, and often have notes added in every which way. The fishing families took such care in their work: the fishing, the data, and the presentation.
Dawn in Nuevo Cajarmarca
Dawn during the summer/dry season is a magical time as the day begins early and the sounds of the waking rainforest are wrapped in mist. Fishers return home, children get ready for school, and farmers rush to protect their crops from descending flocks of parrots. The sandy beaches left by receding floodwaters provide sediment rich fields for crops.
This photograph was taken in front of Nuevo Cajarmarca a Shipibo Indigenous community located on the Ucayali River. While most people in the communities with whom I work, are of mixed European and Indigenous descent only Nuevo Cajarmarca is recognized as and calls itself an indigenous community. The school in the town is bilingual—taught in both the indigenous Shipibo language and in Spanish. Everyone in the community speaks both languages. The women still practice a beautiful traditional weaving and embroidery technique as well as traditional cloth dying practice that uses barks and other vegetable based dies to create geometric patterns. Much of the women’s day-to-day clothing uses these traditional materials. The women also use a local fruit to dye their hair a deep uniform black. In many other ways, their community resembles those of their neighbors. They depend on fishing, small scale agriculture, timbering, and hunting for both immediate needs and economic inputs. They travel frequently to both near and far cities; their children often aspire to attend secondary school and the university.
Being indigenous is complicated in the Peruvian Amazon. There is a strong and enduring history of discrimination, racism, abuse, violence, and slavery. As a result, many have chosen not to focus on these aspects of their history. In the past few decades, national laws have given some greater territorial rights to formally recognized indigenous communities. And while the majority of communities are not recognized as being of a specific indigenous group, indigenous words, traditions, and other cultural attributes continue to strongly influence local conversation and practice (regardless of community status). There are in fact many indigenous groups in the area, and many communities include people with ancestry from multiple groups.
In 2013, a song and video "Kumibarikira" was released. The video features a group of children from the near-by city of Nauta singing in both Spanish and the indigenous language Cocama/Kukama. The video has not only been featured on many news stations across Peru, but it is also known by children and adults in communities throughout the Amazon. Counting just the first few copies that appear on You-Tube, it has had well over ¼ million views. University students from the communities continue to experience racism and discrimination; but songs such as this show at least some efforts to re-value local knowledge, language, and traditions.
This photograph was taken in front of Nuevo Cajarmarca a Shipibo Indigenous community located on the Ucayali River. While most people in the communities with whom I work, are of mixed European and Indigenous descent only Nuevo Cajarmarca is recognized as and calls itself an indigenous community. The school in the town is bilingual—taught in both the indigenous Shipibo language and in Spanish. Everyone in the community speaks both languages. The women still practice a beautiful traditional weaving and embroidery technique as well as traditional cloth dying practice that uses barks and other vegetable based dies to create geometric patterns. Much of the women’s day-to-day clothing uses these traditional materials. The women also use a local fruit to dye their hair a deep uniform black. In many other ways, their community resembles those of their neighbors. They depend on fishing, small scale agriculture, timbering, and hunting for both immediate needs and economic inputs. They travel frequently to both near and far cities; their children often aspire to attend secondary school and the university.
Being indigenous is complicated in the Peruvian Amazon. There is a strong and enduring history of discrimination, racism, abuse, violence, and slavery. As a result, many have chosen not to focus on these aspects of their history. In the past few decades, national laws have given some greater territorial rights to formally recognized indigenous communities. And while the majority of communities are not recognized as being of a specific indigenous group, indigenous words, traditions, and other cultural attributes continue to strongly influence local conversation and practice (regardless of community status). There are in fact many indigenous groups in the area, and many communities include people with ancestry from multiple groups.
In 2013, a song and video "Kumibarikira" was released. The video features a group of children from the near-by city of Nauta singing in both Spanish and the indigenous language Cocama/Kukama. The video has not only been featured on many news stations across Peru, but it is also known by children and adults in communities throughout the Amazon. Counting just the first few copies that appear on You-Tube, it has had well over ¼ million views. University students from the communities continue to experience racism and discrimination; but songs such as this show at least some efforts to re-value local knowledge, language, and traditions.
Heart of Palm
(10% of all sales of this photo will go to Inanna House)
Palm trees play important roles in the flooded forest landscape and provide the people with a variety of foods and building materials. Their fronds provide a visual contrast in the forest. This one stopped me in my tracks. It was as if it glowed from its own internal light source. The rest of the forest seemed dark in comparison.
As I revisit these photos and my ongoing work in Peru, this picture has taken on a special significance for me and my path with Lyme. At times I found the floodplain forests overwhelming, dizzying. My field assistants and I, all local residents, would comment that we felt dizzy and claustrophobic. Young forests, really fallow fields being allowed to regrow after more intensive agriculture, are thick, dense, and filled with thorny plants. There appeared to be an almost crazy-making quantity of biting insects. We needed to be on the constant alert for venomous snakes. I could see the tension, the way we all moved more tightly and stood as if we were trying to protect ourselves. Sometimes it turned funny, as one of us rushed to strip off full rain gear to reach a swarm of biting ants that had found their way inside. We wore the rain gear regardless of weather to protect us from the flying insects and to some extent to help protect us from the snakes. Mostly, we felt and looked exhausted and run down. When our work took us into older growth, more open with bigger trees, I would hear sighs all around. It was as if we could suddenly breath more expansively.
I remember the moment I took this picture; I had been feeling overwhelmed and sick. I needed a way to slow down and breathe, and then this frond was in front of me, a bright spot in the midst of an overwhelming day. I stopped and played with my camera, trying to figure out how to capture it. I use an old school, 50mm, manual camera and slides. I didn’t have a tripod, and it was very low light. I took my time. I held my breath and took a couple of shots. Brightness in the midst of the dark, space in the midst of claustrophobia. Room to breath, and taking room to breath, even in the midst of what seemed overwhelming. I think of Inanna House very much in that way, even now virtually and eventually in its physical form, as a place to breath and hence heal, a bright spot in the dark, a place of peace in the midst of the overwhelm. 10% of all sales of this photo will go to Inanna House.
As I revisit these photos and my ongoing work in Peru, this picture has taken on a special significance for me and my path with Lyme. At times I found the floodplain forests overwhelming, dizzying. My field assistants and I, all local residents, would comment that we felt dizzy and claustrophobic. Young forests, really fallow fields being allowed to regrow after more intensive agriculture, are thick, dense, and filled with thorny plants. There appeared to be an almost crazy-making quantity of biting insects. We needed to be on the constant alert for venomous snakes. I could see the tension, the way we all moved more tightly and stood as if we were trying to protect ourselves. Sometimes it turned funny, as one of us rushed to strip off full rain gear to reach a swarm of biting ants that had found their way inside. We wore the rain gear regardless of weather to protect us from the flying insects and to some extent to help protect us from the snakes. Mostly, we felt and looked exhausted and run down. When our work took us into older growth, more open with bigger trees, I would hear sighs all around. It was as if we could suddenly breath more expansively.
I remember the moment I took this picture; I had been feeling overwhelmed and sick. I needed a way to slow down and breathe, and then this frond was in front of me, a bright spot in the midst of an overwhelming day. I stopped and played with my camera, trying to figure out how to capture it. I use an old school, 50mm, manual camera and slides. I didn’t have a tripod, and it was very low light. I took my time. I held my breath and took a couple of shots. Brightness in the midst of the dark, space in the midst of claustrophobia. Room to breath, and taking room to breath, even in the midst of what seemed overwhelming. I think of Inanna House very much in that way, even now virtually and eventually in its physical form, as a place to breath and hence heal, a bright spot in the dark, a place of peace in the midst of the overwhelm. 10% of all sales of this photo will go to Inanna House.
Reflections in the Flooded Forest
Renacos (trees in the fig family) often form complicated natural jungle gyms in the flooded forest. Hanging upside down from a branch of one that formed a perfect circle, I became convinced that this was literally the model for our modern jungle gym. Other than my sudden reversion to my own childhood antics, I have no evidence to support my claim.
The trees themselves play an important ecological role. During flood season, which can last up to six months, waters can rise up to 10 meters. During this time, people move between houses via canoe, and terrestrial animal species seek refuge on islands of high land and in trees such as the renaco. Fish migrate into the flooded forest feeding on forest fruits and insects that fall into the water. As floodwaters recede, these trees trap sediments and leaves to help maintain and build soil.
Don Andres Making the Canoe “El Bellaco”
Don Andres is a respected woodsman, hunter, healer, and expert canoe maker. In the first few years I worked in the communities, he dedicated most of his time to hunting. He sold almost everything he caught. Through his sales, he paid for one of his children to live in Lima and receive treatment for childhood Leukemia. Since many have asked, the tattoo on his shoulder is most likely his platoon number from his required military service. Many of the men have these and long after their service consider their platoon members to be true brothers.
Don Andres is truly an expert in the woods. His canoes are a work of beauty. Without ever using sandpaper, they are smooth to touch, lustrous, and have lines that would make any boat builder drool. In this picture, he is carving out the inside of a canoe using an axe. In towns such as these, where the streets are flooded 3-6 months out of the year, and most families fish at least several times a week, canoes are a necessary part of life.
Cushuruy
Deriving its name from the large number of cormorants often roosted on this small island, Cushuruy is a favored local fishing spot. Mahuiza Cocha, the floodplain lake that holds Cushuruy, hosts a wealth of fish, reptile, amphibian, and bird species. The lake is one of the largest in the area. It has several small arms and posos (wells—deep spots that reach up to 24 mt/ 78 feet). Three small towns that fish in the lake have made local rules to govern its use. At times, these efforts run smoothly; at other times, there are fights between the towns themselves or between the three towns and outside groups.
This project began as a way to understand what drives these local decisions to limit and at times completely ban commercial fishing, the conflicts around those decisions, and the social, economic, and ecological effects. With time, it became clear that one cannot look at the fishing, nor the lake, in isolation from the entire landscape in which it resides. The forests, the human communities, the places of cultural relevance, as well as the lake and the fishing all work together.
A student at Michigan State University created a project using satellite photos, lake depth data that fishermen and I gathered by hand, and elevation data collected during forest surveys. First he made 3-D images of the lake. Then he created animations of what happens as the floodwaters rise. With a rise of simply 1.25 meters, the lake’s surface area more or less approximately doubles. What we label forest becomes lake. As the water continues to rise, the forest becomes just tiny islands in an extensive flowing lake.
For me, this draws into question how we tend to divide up our world. We say one thing is land, one thing is lake, one thing is human, one is natural. In what ways does it serve us to see our world as these fragments? In what ways would it serve us to see our world in other ways? How can all these ways of seeing shape how we make our laws? And how do they inform what we call science?
This project began as a way to understand what drives these local decisions to limit and at times completely ban commercial fishing, the conflicts around those decisions, and the social, economic, and ecological effects. With time, it became clear that one cannot look at the fishing, nor the lake, in isolation from the entire landscape in which it resides. The forests, the human communities, the places of cultural relevance, as well as the lake and the fishing all work together.
A student at Michigan State University created a project using satellite photos, lake depth data that fishermen and I gathered by hand, and elevation data collected during forest surveys. First he made 3-D images of the lake. Then he created animations of what happens as the floodwaters rise. With a rise of simply 1.25 meters, the lake’s surface area more or less approximately doubles. What we label forest becomes lake. As the water continues to rise, the forest becomes just tiny islands in an extensive flowing lake.
For me, this draws into question how we tend to divide up our world. We say one thing is land, one thing is lake, one thing is human, one is natural. In what ways does it serve us to see our world as these fragments? In what ways would it serve us to see our world in other ways? How can all these ways of seeing shape how we make our laws? And how do they inform what we call science?
Kegne
Kegne fell asleep this day listening to the rain pour down and various friends and family chat and repair fishing nets. It was flood season, and during flood season, school is out and things generally slow down. Often, there is literally nothing to do but sit and wait. Fields are flooded, the fish migrate into the forest and become hard to catch, and the water covers everything. Agriculture all but stops. Children will fish off their back step and swim in the street. Four year olds pass you as they learn to canoe between houses. People repair what needs repairing and travel if they have places they need to go and a means to do so. Life is slower.
In the spring of 2014, I delivered a copy of the photo to Kegne’s cousin in Lima. Kegne, also now living in Lima was at work. He is 19 and along with brothers and cousins living in small apartments on the outskirts of Lima and working in the factories. He posts pictures of playing soccer and various places in the city.
In the spring of 2014, I delivered a copy of the photo to Kegne’s cousin in Lima. Kegne, also now living in Lima was at work. He is 19 and along with brothers and cousins living in small apartments on the outskirts of Lima and working in the factories. He posts pictures of playing soccer and various places in the city.
Candy and Verita
Until 2000, the only form of communication with community members was via CB radio. With luck, letters, might arrive as well. Emergency messages were transmitted via a radio station. If you wanted to talk with a family member, arrange to sell something in the city, or even find out what happened in your favorite soap opera, you used the local CB radio. Given the vagaries of a system dependent on solar charged batteries, the weather, and good luck, making a call often took hours. On the upside, you would learn the ins and outs of everyone's life, as most conversations were public, get updates on all the local, regional, and international news, and on every soccer game and soap opera that had aired the night before.
This picture is of my Peruvian mother and sister, the people with whom I have lived since Candy was 1 year old. They were waiting to receive a CB radio call. Candy is now in college studying forestry. Few students have the opportunity to attend the university. For the most part, it is limited to the immediate relatives of people with government paid incomes. A few others rely on remittances from family members living in other countries. Occasionally others find a way. But the numbers are few. Once in the University, the students face huge barriers. They have to become accustomed to urban life and massive changes in their social status. They often live in single rented rooms and cook on small hotplates, or if there are multiple students in an extended family, they may be able to slowly build a home. Their homes are often in the poorer areas, with little or no access to water and other basic services.
Hardships aside, these students are motivated. They talk about how to take what they are learning and apply it in in their hometowns. They are looking for ways to work on problems that their communities discuss, hoping to combine the rich deep local knowledge of their families with the academic theories, outside practical experience, and social networks provided through the universities.
During my first year living in Candy’s home, I was convinced she would die. She had a severe, long case of pneumonia, then constant intestinal issues and chronic diarrhea. According to government statistics for this region, 25% of children under age five live with chronic malnutrition; 44%, live in extreme poverty. In 2010, 38 out of every 1000 children born died before age one, and 51 out of every 1000 children born die before they reach five years of age. I have held several babies and children during their last days. Their parents often had me photograph them. I also worked with them to try to find help. Almost always, it has been too late. In these communities, almost every family has lost at least one child before they turned five.
These numbers are decreasing, but in rural areas they are decreasing slowly. Distance from regional health centers, lack of access to clean water and sanitation, and poor evacuation capabilities are just a few of the barriers. Children in these communities, remain extremely vulnerable. Candy did not die, but her older sister did. When Candy and I talk on the phone, she tells me about her classes and life and what she hopes to do. She is almost constantly laughing. Her older brother who is studying tropical ecology, tells me about projects and ideas that he and his classmates are developing. It is my firm belief that solutions will not come from outsiders, myself included, but from these students, who survived, who are studying, and who can bring this unique background and combination of skills and life experiences to create more sustainable futures.
This picture is of my Peruvian mother and sister, the people with whom I have lived since Candy was 1 year old. They were waiting to receive a CB radio call. Candy is now in college studying forestry. Few students have the opportunity to attend the university. For the most part, it is limited to the immediate relatives of people with government paid incomes. A few others rely on remittances from family members living in other countries. Occasionally others find a way. But the numbers are few. Once in the University, the students face huge barriers. They have to become accustomed to urban life and massive changes in their social status. They often live in single rented rooms and cook on small hotplates, or if there are multiple students in an extended family, they may be able to slowly build a home. Their homes are often in the poorer areas, with little or no access to water and other basic services.
Hardships aside, these students are motivated. They talk about how to take what they are learning and apply it in in their hometowns. They are looking for ways to work on problems that their communities discuss, hoping to combine the rich deep local knowledge of their families with the academic theories, outside practical experience, and social networks provided through the universities.
During my first year living in Candy’s home, I was convinced she would die. She had a severe, long case of pneumonia, then constant intestinal issues and chronic diarrhea. According to government statistics for this region, 25% of children under age five live with chronic malnutrition; 44%, live in extreme poverty. In 2010, 38 out of every 1000 children born died before age one, and 51 out of every 1000 children born die before they reach five years of age. I have held several babies and children during their last days. Their parents often had me photograph them. I also worked with them to try to find help. Almost always, it has been too late. In these communities, almost every family has lost at least one child before they turned five.
These numbers are decreasing, but in rural areas they are decreasing slowly. Distance from regional health centers, lack of access to clean water and sanitation, and poor evacuation capabilities are just a few of the barriers. Children in these communities, remain extremely vulnerable. Candy did not die, but her older sister did. When Candy and I talk on the phone, she tells me about her classes and life and what she hopes to do. She is almost constantly laughing. Her older brother who is studying tropical ecology, tells me about projects and ideas that he and his classmates are developing. It is my firm belief that solutions will not come from outsiders, myself included, but from these students, who survived, who are studying, and who can bring this unique background and combination of skills and life experiences to create more sustainable futures.
About the Project
These photos, their exhibition and their sale, are in support of a research project aimed at creating a collaborative process through which we (nine Peruvian Amazonian communities and collaborating scientists) can help find a greater audience for community voices. It draws on more than ten years of collaborative fieldwork investigating community based governance efforts in the Peruvian Amazon. Throughout Amazonia, communities have made local level regulations that limit commercialization of the landscapes in which they live. These regulations include limits on fishing, timbering, hunting, and agriculture. This is particularly true in and around the floodplain lakes upon which people depend for much of their daily sustenance as well as for local drinking water. Fish is often eaten three meals a day. The communities tend to say they are “Cuidando” (taking care of) their lakes, and that they see this as important to both local and regional sustainability. The national governments tend to see these actions as illegal. The governments and commercial groups accuse the communities of trying to monopolize resources that could serve the interests of regional and national development.
In this work, we are trying to gain a better understanding of what factors drive community level decision making, what brings communities together, what pulls them apart, the social, economic, and ecological effects of those decisions, and the general state of the landscape. We are also exploring how the community members, the farmers, woodcutters, hunters, and fisher folk, can become full collaborators in the creation of scientific knowledge and the regional and national level policies that affect them. During the years of the project, we have conducted both local and regional workshops to facilitate conversation between government and both urban and rural commercial and subsistence groups.
Working with university students from the communities, individual community members, and the communities as a whole, Peruvian scientists, and other concerned parties, the goal is to co-produce and co-author both rigorous scientific analyses and general audience publications. This will contribute much needed scientific and general understandings of the Amazon and a rich layered perspective to inform policy-making efforts.
A side note for those reading this in the summer of 2014. One of our first goals is to make our project webpage bilingual (Spanish and English) and to include reactions to the photographs and other short pieces written by community members. If you are interested in hearing and reading their voices, please, sign up on our webpage, it is a WordPress blog, and you will get notifications as new pieces go up. The page can be found at www.nancydammann.com
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