Antlab in Panama

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.

The other day I was hiking along a trail on the island, brushing away leafy branches in my path, ripping away vines attempting to grasp hold of my clothing as if I was a tree, and kicking over logs and rocks on my search for a goldmine of isopods when a thought crossed my mind: If this is work, I wouldn't want it any other way. Dirty fingers, muddy hands, a sweaty brow, overlooking the corrugated waters of the Panama Canal from the balcony in the evenings or on days off, and not having to stare at blank walls, participate in inane office chat, company Hawaiin shirt days or the occasional holiday potlucks in the lunchroom — I feel like I've got it made.

The forest lends itself to creative daydreams where clocks melt like a dripping candle stick, freezing in time until you're left with a moment like a pleasant sigh of gratitude. My daydreams or fantasies about the rain forest, I've noticed, differ with location. When me and the boys were laying transects on Gigante, a plethora of vines and fallen trees, rain pouring through the canopy, sopping wet socks and wrinkled fingers like prolonged bubble baths made me feel like a soldier of war, trampling through enemy territory, heavy gun in hand, heart on America. Here on BCI where greens can be pastel and fungus presents itself like a new color undiscovered by the rainbow, I feel more like I'm Zelda or a royal subject of the 16th century sneaking away from the castle to explore the secrets of the forest — only, the birds and monkeys don't speak to me. At least, they haven't yet. I hope they don't; it'd be very difficult to convince Mike I don't need psychological evaluation and the forest creatures really do converse with solo researchers in quiet moments — if you just … listen.