Antlab in Panama

Tomorrow we say, “so long, jefe” as The Professor boards the mid-day boat to the mainland where we hope he will partake in the infamous margaritas Katie has spoke of at early morning breakfast chats.

It’s been an unforgettable experience working with Mike on BCI. In the field he’s persuaded me to have a keen eye for the little things, a sharp nose for the funky fungi, and a strong will for the difficult things. Some may say sitting with Mike on the balcony, the melodic sounds of howler monkeys through misty haze escaping rainforest tapestry, as cargo ships slide across on the Vaseline waters of Lake Gigante’s croc-swimming moat below, sipping straight 4-year rum from a lounge coffee cup, while prattling about questions remaining unanswered, muttering conversations about the idiocies of our reality, and hearing once again the science story that concludes, “And Risa says, ‘what a dick!’” is the highlight of their interactions with Mike. Others may speak of “lab meeting” drinks in G1, sucking on anchovy-filled green olives, and prying questions from The Prophet Prof are the most precious moments. But the mirror I will predominately choose to reflect takes place in a small, white room that should be padded to muffle the melodic mayhem of yours truly accompanied by none other than Karaoke Kaspari. This fall we’ll be releasing a CD, “The Kaspari-Experience,” (s.r.p., $16.97) featuring our greatest hits like, “Flan Flan Flan, Flan Flan-a-ram” and “White Sheet Hyphee” to the tune of “Soon it will be Christmas Day.”

Tonight there’s a fiesta planned, as one more leaf falls from the BCI island tree, only to be decomposed by various microorganism memories of Field Season 2006. Of course we still have “AntLab Mainland,” broadcasting this fall from the University of Oklahoma campus labs, but our loose footing will be stifled, our dances will be choreographed, and our hearts will be focused on studying from texts, taking notes from lectures, and catching a bite to eat with flash-cards in hand instead of fingering through moist litter and scratching the summer’s chiggers.

Tomorrow, a moment of silence as one more member leaves the AntLab Field Season 2006 cast. Stay tuned as Matt and I compete for Island Monkey Queen (the loser has to carry all the lab bags. I hope I win!).

I've been in bed the past two days with swollen eyelids and vexatious red eyes sensitve to the light of day and glaring computer screens like a vampire of the rain forest. My North American immune system is at war with the Panamanian allergens this first month. First, I had a horrible case of hives from chigger bites and now, the eye thing. My stand-in physician, Doctor Kaspari, has diagnosed me with conjunctivitis caused by allergies and has compassionately provided me with benadryl and a candy bar to replace a lunch I slept through. The island has come together in efforts to aid me in my wellness: Matt put aside food for me from lunch to eat at a later time, Oris provided the benadryl, Amanda is bringing a shipment of benadryl in on the early boat, and homeopathic therapies have been suggested to me from a few. It's times like these that make me very thankful to not be sleeping in a tent, miles away from other people. BCI has proven to have a great community of scientists with caring hearts.

Now, the first case of hives is perfectly acceptable to me, as I do have a sensitive immune system to allergies, but this second case was definitely a low-blow to my draining good kharma as a result of my recent music liberation over the STRI iTunes network brought to me by ourtunes. Will I stop opening the doors of inspiration via iTunes network? Please. Tomorrow is a shipment of benedryl. Allergies, do as you wish but I am armed.

In science, we consider a hypothesis, theory or method proven wrong to be progress. Although the thought of being wrong causes me angst, I've been taught to dust off the dirt, clean my wounds and hop back on the trail — only this time with a better map and compass in hand. Having spent the entire day establishing a feeding experiment on finicky isopods, observing them with the eye of a suspicious mother, I arrived to the conclusion that I have no conclusion. So it goes. I follow the teachings and advice of my mentors like an acquiescent four-year-old, scurrying after the ice cream truck, barefoot toes embracing the coals of the underworld with every step. Why? Because I'm addicted.

The isopods have awakened a bit of motherly love in me (I pray keep silent in other matters), but so has nature, the holistic thread of life. Intellectually, I enjoy studying the web of knowledge, evolutionary disco beats reverberating through the tropical canopy, carrying with it melodies of theory and notion. But that leads to me my mental qualm, my vertigo, presented to me this evening before another heavy, bland dish (thank goodness for vegetables). A small matter to some, a gentle gecko strapped to the wall by forces unseen. Tiny ants gnaw at its toes, as helpless eyes plea for an end, the blood diffusing through coarse concrete webs where certain winged predators feast on delectable prey … But the trail of ants, like selfish children taking one last kick on the fat kid, fallen to the dirt at the hands of lean, athletic gods of the playground; I'm forced to witness this helpless downfall in my dreams and thoughts because as I brush the ants aside I'm somehow no longer the observer, generalist, data collector, I'm an intervenor, a goddess' finger in the paint bucket. How did it become that I, Homo sapien, part of the kingdom, phylum, class, order, genus, species catalogue system forced off stage with my ballet shoes in hand, sitting behind the red, velvet curtain, commenting on the dancers and never taking part in the dance? Where's my Lion King, "the circle of life" ski lift pass? I suppose there's a trade-off for intellect in place of fierce predation without remorse.