Thursday was my birthday

Thursday was my birthday, an event of dubious significance. It also marked another event. On December 5, 2007, I signed the papers for my house in Tapuio.

A lone tree grows in an inaccessible spot of Tapuio.
A lone tree resists in a place no one can reach.

At the time, it was a rundown shell of a house, little more than a ruin, actually, located a few miles from town and 1300 feet up a washed out dirt road. The last half mile wasn’t even passable by car. I had to haul all my belongings up by foot.
My first night in my house was spent outside, sleeping in a hammock, because the shell of a house was too dirty to consider sleeping inside.

The first full day in my house, the living room window fell out, frame and all. Just fell out.

I didn’t even have electricity for the first three months.

(Don’t ask about a bathroom. You don’t want to know.)

It was a period of intense hardship, unlike anything I have ever experienced before.

At the time, the area was practically abandoned. There were no permanent residents except for me (there still aren’t). And the area was full of life. Anteaters and iraras and armadillos and boas and you name it, it wandered around. Few people cared about the area and even fewer ventured up.
Coatis would tumble out of the brush and walk alongside me as I wandered about. Lizards as big as me would trudge through the grass or lumber along the road. Frogs the size of acorns would huddle along the edge of the porch during rainstorms, making room for me as I huddled alongside them to watch the falling rain.

In my worst moments, and there were many, Tapuio was always a source of calm, strength, beauty. In moments of pure despair when I would think I had made the biggest mistake of my life, toucans would fly out of the trees or forest dogs would appear alongside me on the road. In those moments of almost total despair and loneliness, I also found moments of incredible beauty, force, life. I would cry like a baby, only to have a hummingbird fly up to me, or a frog lean forward and touch my feet (they do that — I have never understood why). It may be projection, a trick of the mind, but I felt a force of life, of love, of belonging like I have never felt before.

But Tapuio also has a dark side.

Poachers would wander up at night and set traps, killing the wildlife. Weekend hikers would trudge up to rip the orchids from the trees. Bird hunters would fill the higher parts on weekends, filling cages with birds destined to spend the rest of their short lives never again permitted to fly.

I had a tool to fight all this. I had a camera, and I used it.

I would take pictures of every motorcycle and vehicle that wandered up. I would take pictures of people.

Some say this put me at risk, and maybe it did. People would fire shots near my house at all hours of the night. They would invade my house when I was in town, vandalizing the place.

Much of that stopped when one notorious hunter died in a traffic accident.
And as long as I had my camera, I was able to control the rest of the destruction.

Many people told me I should leave, forget Tapuio.

How could I do that? I had invested everything financially. But even more, I had invested emotionally. I belonged here. I had felt a force of life here that has carried me through very dark times. I couldn’t turn my back on that. I wouldn’t.

When my camera was stolen in 2010, I no longer had any means to control the destruction. And it returned with a vengeance. Deforestation accelerated to the point where I suspect in the next five years all the trees of Tapuio will be cut down.

Hunting returned. Hunters have succeeded in killing off almost everything. Bird hunters fill the upper regions of Tapuio on weekends, again filling cages with captives destined for the illegal trade in small birds.
Gunshots have again become common sounds in Tapuio, as have chain saws.

Local environmental agencies do not see Tapuio as a priority region. They have occasionally acted, but they can’t maintain a presence. And a network of informants keeps hunters informed about the whereabouts of agents when they do appear.

Vandals have returned to my house, cutting water lines, breaking doors, even smearing feces and leaving threats written in sand.

It would be easier for me if I simply sold out and left. But honestly, there really isn’t anywhere else to go. And I don’t like the idea of abandoning a place, abandoning beauty and life and love, a place that sheltered me, to destroyers. I don’t want them to win.

I have a vision for Tapuio. It is a long shot, and involves many steps. The first step is a new camera and a new computer.

As I said, my camera was stolen in 2010. Since then I have had no way to document what is being lost. I need to be able to do that.

And a power surge early this year left my computer badly damaged. I am afraid it will die on me at any minute.

So giving back to Tapuio starts with a new camera so I can record the loss and a computer so I can store the information.

For that, I need your help.

I have a campaign on indiegogo. Take a minute to go there and contribute. If you have any questions, ask me. Spread the word. Don’t just like this post.

Share it.

Read the other posts on this blog and tell me what you think, even if it is negative. Let me know what you think I should be doing, or not doing.
Help me out, and by doing so, help Tapuio.

The coatis and lizards and foxes and orchids and anteaters and monkeys thank you.

I thank you.

SalveTapuio!

Update: The campaign has been over for a few years now and all links to it have been deactivated. I did ultimately buy a new computer but was unable to get a new camera. My niece gave me an iPhone in 2014 and I have been using it to record images. It’s better than nothing!

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