tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-179536992024-03-14T00:18:15.360-06:00Genetic JungleWelcome to the Genetic Jungle. The posts growing here reflect my obsession with nature, technology, genes, gadgets, lists and collections. And orchids, of course.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16532403180123519635noreply@blogger.comBlogger132125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17953699.post-51010074895405121912013-07-04T04:46:00.000-06:002013-07-04T04:48:37.233-06:00Good science, bad science, and the battle for biotech crops<div class="MsoNormal">
In the near future, food made from genetically engineered
(GE) crops will be labeled, not because it will allow worried consumers to
avoid it, but because it will be the ethical choice at the grocery store.
Although the first generation of GE crops mainly focused on improving
production, with such enhanced traits as resistance to insects and herbicide
tolerance, the next generation of genetically engineered crops will be even better
for the environment and farm workers, requiring fewer harmful and expensive
chemical fertilizers and pesticides, and will have nutritional enhancements
that will directly benefit consumers and particularly the poorest of the poor
in food insecure countries.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-APQeGmFDJLQ/UdVIy1bjaCI/AAAAAAAACNI/XU2Vy-hQ8qs/s1464/IMG_20130527_224906.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="219" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-APQeGmFDJLQ/UdVIy1bjaCI/AAAAAAAACNI/XU2Vy-hQ8qs/s320/IMG_20130527_224906.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Voluntary labeling: this soy sauce is clearly labeled as being made from soybeans that include genetically engineered varieties.</td></tr>
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The GE crop varieties of the near future will be adapted to
local climate and soil conditions, as well as local tastes and cultural idiosyncrasies.
As such, the new generation won’t solely be developed by large multinational
corporations like Monsanto, but also by local universities and small <a href="http://www.okspecialtyfruits.com/">family-run businesses</a>, and a
significant proportion of these biotech crops will be cultivated <a href="http://www.boston.com/bostonglobe/ideas/articles/2008/03/16/the_new_organic/?s_campaign=8315">using
organic farming practices</a>. With
public mistrust of biotechnology at an all-time high, these predictions seem
far-fetched. Fortunately, scientists and government agencies worldwide are very
aware of an urgent need for public education, which can ameliorate the spread
of misinformation and fearmongering threatening one of the greatest tools for
achieving the UN Millennium Development Goal of sustainably feeding a growing
global population.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm3.staticflickr.com/2037/5755426400_f66a0cfb3a_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://farm3.staticflickr.com/2037/5755426400_f66a0cfb3a_b.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Improving the nutritional quality of crops is a Millennium Development Goal. These conventionally bred orange-fleshed sweet potatoes are higher in vitamin A than non-orange fleshed varieties. (Picture credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/gatesfoundation/5755426400/" target="_blank">Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation</a>.)</td></tr>
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The public perception is that there is raging controversy in
scientific circles on the safety and utility of GE crops, with researchers arguing
at the lab bench and in the field, and scientists locked in furious debate with
one another at scientific conferences. However, this is simply not true. There
is overwhelming scientific consensus on this issue (as there is on climate
change, evolution, and the benefits of vaccination). Those who claim there is
insufficient research on this topic are simply wrong. Many hundreds of peer-reviewed
scientific papers have been published on many aspects relating to the safety of
transgenic crops. The nonprofit <a href="http://www.biofortified.org/genera/">GENERA</a>
(Genetic Engineering Risk Atlas) project curates the most extensive and
complete database of these. The vast
majority of these studies (and I mean 99.9% of these, not just 51%) all come to
the same conclusion: the risks to human health from consuming food made from GE
crops are no different than those from consuming their conventional, non-GE
equivalents. <o:p></o:p></div>
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This seems like an odd way of saying GE crops are safe, but
the fact is that the very act of eating <i>anything</i>
carries a small amount of risk anyway. Apart from the risk of food-borne
bacterial infection (which can happen even with <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/02/14/spinach-recall-taylor-farms-e-coli_n_2687967.html">organic
produce</a>), we forget that plants don’t really want to be eaten: potatoes
naturally produce a toxic alkaloid called solanine to protect themselves; celery
naturally produces psoralens, a type of chemical that can cause severe skin
burns; unless cassava, a staple crop for much of Africa, is properly prepared,
it can lead to cyanide poisoning; and even seemingly innocuous red kidney beans
are always served cooked, to deactivate a naturally produced protein called
phytohaemagglutinin which causes severe vomiting and diarrhea. Saying something
is good for you simply because it’s natural is a fallacy: arsenic is natural
and that’s clearly not something anyone wishes to put in their body. Using
biotechnology is just one way we can ensure our crops produce more of the
nutritional molecules we <a href="http://www.goldenrice.org/">need</a>, and
less of the harmful ones we <a href="http://www.annualreviews.org/doi/abs/10.1146/annurev-arplant-042110-103751">don’t</a>.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm5.staticflickr.com/4073/4774999692_7aa8c6c107_z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://farm5.staticflickr.com/4073/4774999692_7aa8c6c107_z.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One way that cassava can be improved for human consumption is by reducing the amount of linamarin, a naturally occurring sugar that releases hydrogen cyanide when broken down by the digestive system. (Picture credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/gatesfoundation/4774999692/" target="_blank">Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation</a>.)</td></tr>
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The leading scientific agencies, including the <a href="http://www.aaas.org/news/releases/2012/1025gm_statement.shtml">AAAS</a>,
the <a href="http://www8.nationalacademies.org/onpinews/newsitem.aspx?recordid=12804">National</a>
<a href="http://www.nap.edu/openbook.php?record_id=10977&page=8">Academies</a>
of the United States, the <a href="http://www.efsa.europa.eu/en/panels/gmo.htm">European
Food Safety Authority</a>, and the <a href="http://www.who.int/foodsafety/publications/biotech/20questions/en/">WHO</a>
have issued very clear statements emphasizing the scientific consensus on
genetically engineered crops: the process of genetic engineering poses no
threat to human health, and farming of biotech crops can lead to great economic
and environmental benefits. Despite this comprehensive body of knowledge (and through
manipulation by the anti-GMO movement), the media has focused undue attention
on a very small number of studies that claim the opposite of the scientific
consensus on the risks GE crops pose to human health and the environment. This
is likely in an effort to ensure journalistic balance; however, there really
aren’t two sides to the science here. Almost invariably, these contrary studies
are exercises in bad science published in low-ranking journals by a few
dissident scientists, often with conflicts of interest. Giving this much
exposure to bad science can be downright dangerous: in the case of <a href="http://www.tac.org.za/community/debunking">AIDS denialism</a>, the South
African government’s adoption of the fringe cost <a href="http://journals.lww.com/jaids/Abstract/2008/12010/Estimating_the_Lost_Benefits_of_Antiretroviral.10.aspx">many
human lives</a>. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Thankfully, the South African government has since changed
its stance on antiretroviral therapy, but the German government has still not
approved the planting of MON810 corn (engineered with a bacterial protein that
prevents caterpillars from feeding on the plants, diminishing the need for
harmful chemical pesticides) despite the fact that the vast majority of
evidence suggests it poses no danger to non-target organisms. These regulatory
decisions were based on a very small number of poorly conceived or <a href="http://www.nature.com/nbt/journal/v31/n5/full/nbt.2578.html">inconclusive
studies</a> that could not subsequently be duplicated by other laboratories,
ignoring the vast number of scientifically rigorous studies that indicate that
these crops are <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fqMcu_PjzBY">harmless</a>
to other insects. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZaAAJijrEuk/UdVLltofSOI/AAAAAAAACNc/syxxTfvKBMI/s730/Corn_Field.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZaAAJijrEuk/UdVLltofSOI/AAAAAAAACNc/syxxTfvKBMI/s400/Corn_Field.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A large body of scientific evidence indicates that corn engineered to be resistant to insects is safe for human consumption.</td></tr>
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Again, a few insubstantial bits of data cannot sufficiently
contradict a very large body of scientific knowledge and do not constitute
“scientific controversy”. Nevertheless, and quite <a href="http://blogs.discovermagazine.com/collideascape/2013/05/30/why-gmo-myths-are-so-appealing-and-powerful/">understandably</a>,
laypeople react emotionally to this perceived controversy, because it is
presented to them as whistleblowing by the news sources and environmental and
health blogs they trust. This makes otherwise rational people don honeybee
costumes and <a href="http://vimeo.com/67009522">pretend to die in public
spaces</a> in protest of GE crops (even though the use of engineered crops
instead of pesticides <a href="http://www.annualreviews.org/doi/full/10.1146/annurev.ento.50.071803.130352">increases</a>
<a href="http://www.nature.com/nbt/journal/v26/n2/full/nbt1381.html">biodiversity</a>,
and there is <a href="http://www.nature.com/news/europe-debates-risk-to-bees-1.12857">mounting
evidence</a> that a combination of pathogens and conventional pesticides may be
what’s truly decimating bee populations). People are protesting GE crops
because they feel they have been informed and need to be upset about something,
when what they should be upset about is how scientific ignorance is being
employed as leverage by special interest groups to divert attention and energy away
from what <a href="http://www.fao.org/news/story/en/item/176888/icode/">we really
need to be doing</a> to fix the world’s food and agriculture systems.</div>
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At the March Against Monsanto held on the 25<sup>th</sup> of
May 2013 in various cities across the world, anti-GMO protesters held up images of
rats covered in large cancerous tumors, ostensibly caused by feeding on GE
corn. The images came from a 2012 paper by Gilles-Eric Séralini of CRIIGEN, an
anti-GMO group, and published in the journal <a href="http://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S0278691512005637"><i>Food and Chemical Toxicology</i></a>. It
purported to provide evidence that consuming corn engineered with a bacterial
protein conferring tolerance to the herbicide glyphosate (sold by Monsanto
under the trade name Roundup) causes cancer. There were several serious problems with the
study, from bizarre statistical manipulation of the data, to insufficient
numbers of control rats. But the most glaring shortcoming was the fact that
none of those gruesome images of rats were accompanied by images of healthy
control rats. This is because the control rats (fed a non-genetically
engineered diet) also developed tumors: the strain of rat used in the study is
used to study chemotherapy drugs, and were bred to naturally develop tumors at
a very high incidence. They were entirely inappropriate for this kind of study,
and none of the data could be used to make the claims they tried to make. The Séralini
paper has now been thoroughly discredited <a href="http://www.nature.com/nature/journal/v491/n7424/full/491327a.html">by</a>
<a href="http://blogs.discovermagazine.com/crux/2012/09/21/under-controlled-why-the-new-gmo-panic-is-more-sensational-than-sense/">several</a>
<a href="http://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S0278691512007922">scientists</a>,
<a href="http://blogs.discovermagazine.com/loom/2012/09/21/from-darwinius-to-gmos-journalists-should-not-let-themselves-be-played/">science</a>
<a href="http://www.slate.com/articles/health_and_science/science/2012/09/are_gmo_foods_safe_opponents_are_skewing_the_science_to_scare_people_.html">journalists</a>
and <a href="http://www.efsa.europa.eu/en/press/news/121128.htm">scientific</a>
<a href="http://www.bfr.bund.de/en/press_information/2012/29/a_study_of_the_university_of_caen_neither_constitutes_a_reason_for_a_re_evaluation_of_genetically_modified_nk603_maize_nor_does_it_affect_the_renewal_of_the_glyphosate_approval-131739.html">agencies</a>.
The whole fiasco is such a classic example of bad science that it now even has
its own <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/S%C3%A9ralini_affair">Wikipedia entry</a>.
However, a 2013 paper by Anthony Samsel and Stephanie Seneff, published
curiously enough in the small physics journal <a href="http://www.mdpi.com/1099-4300/15/4/1416"><i>Entropy</i></a><i> </i>(note, not a
journal focusing on biology), again spurred alarming news <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/04/25/roundup-herbicide-health-issues-disease_n_3156575.html">reports</a>.
This pseudoscientific paper claimed that Roundup is the cause of a mindboggling
array of diseases, including Parkinson’s disease, diabetes, and autism.
However, the <i>Entropy</i> paper was
written by authors who aren’t even biologists at all, documented no actual
experiments, and in fact cited Séralini’s discredited study as a reference for
a number of arguments they made. Again, this paper was <a href="http://ksj.mit.edu/tracker/2013/04/discover-blogger-keith-kloor-stumbles-ne">adequately</a>
debunked by <a href="http://pipeline.corante.com/archives/2013/04/30/is_glyphosate_poisoning_everyone.php">scientists</a>
<a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/tamar-haspel/condemning-monsanto-with-_b_3162694.html">and</a>
<a href="http://blogs.discovermagazine.com/collideascape/2013/04/26/when-media-uncritically-cover-pseudoscience">journalists</a>.
Dr Ariel Poliandri of the Cancer Division at Imperial College London promptly
compiled a <a href="http://www.sci-phy.com/detecting-bogus-scientific-journals/">useful
guide</a> to detecting bogus research: in short, important research is
published in important journals. If it’s not, be wary. It’s interesting to note
that both these papers were published in low-tier pay-to-play journals with
inadequate peer review. If this was really the solid, groundbreaking work it
claimed to be, it would have been published in one of the big science journals,
whether open-access or not. This stuff all looks and sounds very “sciencey”,
but is not real science, and not only damages the good reputation of science in
the public eye, but is now having a dangerous influence on governmental policy
on GE crops all across the globe, with the governments of countries like Russia
and Kenya basing much of their biotech policy on the little trickle of bad science,
instead of the large volume of good science.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm6.staticflickr.com/5468/8848173439_b1c7e957b8_c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://farm6.staticflickr.com/5468/8848173439_b1c7e957b8_c.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Even though it has been thoroughly discredited, anti-GMO protesters still use images from the infamous Séralini study. (Picture credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/billb1961/8848173439/" target="_blank">Bill Baker</a>.)</td></tr>
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In an idealized world uncoloured by political agenda, the
endeavours of science are neutral. Most scientists you’ll talk to about genetic
engineering are in fact neither opponents nor proponents of GE crops: they only
care about what the scientific evidence says. If the sum total of the
scientific evidence said otherwise, the scientific consensus would change. (Disclosure:
I am a plant scientist who studies the genes of cereals. I’m neither involved
in the production of transgenic crops, nor am I funded by any companies that
are.) It is not the job of scientists to increase public acceptance of genetic
engineering, it is the job of scientists to increase public trust in and
understanding of the scientific data: in this case the data overwhelmingly says
that GE crops are safe. But perhaps where science needs most help is in
explaining itself. The Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences are
impenetrable to the public, but Dr. Oz gets beamed into every home with a
friendly smile and a whole dose of hokum. Everyone should have a basic level of
scientific literacy, so that we can stop expending so much energy on fighting misconceptions
about science. Recently British environmentalist Mark Lynas, who helped start
the anti-GMO movement in the 1990s, <a href="http://www.marklynas.org/2013/01/lecture-to-oxford-farming-conference-3-january-2013/">apologized</a>
for demonizing agricultural biotechnology and feeding into <a href="http://www.marklynas.org/2013/04/time-to-call-out-the-anti-gmo-conspiracy-theory/">anti-GMO
conspiracy theories</a>, and some influential bloggers are also starting to let
go of old, misinformed <a href="http://sleuth4health.wordpress.com/2013/04/23/science-is-laughing-at-us/">points
of view</a>. My hope is that sometime soon everyone will agree that biotech
crops, like organic farming practices, are part of a larger set of really
useful tools for sustainable agriculture.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16532403180123519635noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17953699.post-44482892744614259862013-06-10T09:57:00.000-06:002013-06-10T09:57:19.123-06:00Embrace the biotech in your basketScientists are very good at explaining what it is they do—to other scientists. However, they are notoriously bad at explaining their research to the general public. Science is currently facing a PR crisis, as evidenced by polarizing media coverage of such topics as climate change, vaccinations, and genetically engineered crops. Growing public mistrust of agricultural biotechnology is especially disconcerting. During Norman Borlaug’s Green Revolution of the 20th century, agronomists developed small-growing but high-yielding varieties of the world’s staple crops. These advancements in crop science are widely celebrated for saving billions of people from starvation. But in the 21st century, we’ve shifted from such public reverence for agricultural science to consumer rage and bewilderment in the produce aisle. How did we get here?<div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm1.staticflickr.com/162/346320352_10455dd22d_z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://farm1.staticflickr.com/162/346320352_10455dd22d_z.jpg" width="265" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rice plants in tissue culture. (picture credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ricephotos/346320352/in/set-72157603738914554/" target="_blank">IRRI</a>)</td></tr>
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In doing your own research on a topic like genetically modified organisms (GMOs), you’ll come across online articles to support almost any claim. Figuring out whether those claims are made with authority and are based on sound science can be tricky. Just because something uses a lot of jargon and sounds ‘sciencey’, it doesn’t necessarily mean it is. Genetically engineered (GE) crops are some of the most intensively tested food we’ve got. The overwhelming scientific consensus from many large-scale studies published in leading peer-reviewed scientific research journals says that GE food crops pose no additional risk to human health and do not have nutritional profiles different from those of conventional crops. Entire nations of people have been eating them for a long time now, with absolutely no health problems that can be attributed to GE technology. Studies promoted by anti-GMO campaigners as supposed evidence of the harmful effects of consuming GMOs on our bodies are taken out of the context of the larger scientific consensus, and most often consist of dubious, inadequately reviewed research. Dissidents insist on touting badly designed junk science studies, attempting to generate the perception that there is disagreement in the scientific community, when this is not the case. The media, in a misguided attempt at reporting with balance, tries to give equal weight to both sides of the story. However, just like the scientific consensus on the theory of gravity, there really is no other side to the story—there is only gravity.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8031/8071209486_db3a64faf1_c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8031/8071209486_db3a64faf1_c.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(picture credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/oragriculture/8071209486/sizes/c/in/set-72157631731585109/" target="_blank">Oregon Dept. of Agriculture</a>)</td></tr>
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With the recent rejection of California Proposition 37, labeling of food made from GE crops has gained more media coverage worldwide. Merely labeling a product “contains GMOs” makes it seem like a warning of some sort, and in fact does not allow a consumer to make an informed choice at all. It’s simple scaremongering, and a wasted opportunity to educate. As a consumer, I might want to know that a product is made from a crop engineered to use less chemical fertilizer bad for the environment, or to require less pesticide that might be harmful to farm workers. Food labeling helps us all make informed decisions, and it’s how that labeling is done that makes the difference.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8319/8071083223_4f82b19315_c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="256" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8319/8071083223_4f82b19315_c.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(picture credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/oragriculture/8071083223/" target="_blank">Oregon Dept. of Agriculture</a>)</td></tr>
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We need to grow more and better food on less suitable land under increasingly variable climatic conditions. The best way to ensure future world food security is to combine biotechnology with sustainable agricultural practices. Subsistence farmers, growing crops like cassava and sorghum, stand to gain the most as scientific research expands beyond industrial commodity crops like maize and soybeans. Current and future research efforts will focus on engineering traits of direct benefit to the end consumer, delivering more nutrients to those suffering from hidden hunger, such as Golden Rice, engineered to help alleviate vitamin A deficiency.<br />
Because of scientific progress, we are living healthier, longer lives than ever before in the history of our species. So embrace the biotechnology in your basket, because scientific agriculture is the greatest tool for sustainable living on this planet into the 21st century and beyond.<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16532403180123519635noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17953699.post-47030847416734270492012-08-18T15:42:00.002-06:002012-08-18T15:42:20.044-06:00Gone are the glory days of the glory pea<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-agRdeqTnKVU/UC_rIekp8NI/AAAAAAAACDs/_OgKmBfbZX4/s1600/Phillip+Island.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="268" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-agRdeqTnKVU/UC_rIekp8NI/AAAAAAAACDs/_OgKmBfbZX4/s400/Phillip+Island.jpg" width="500" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Phillip Island, as seen from Norfolk Island. Problems with soil erosion persist to this day, as evidenced by the red patches free of vegetation.</td></tr>
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In the southern Pacific Ocean, somewhere between Australia and New Zealand, lies Norfolk Island. In 1774, the HMS <i>Resolution </i>brought Captain James Cook to its shores, as part of his great voyage to discover the mythical southern continent <i>Terra Australis</i>. Cook and his men explored Norfolk island and two smaller offshore islands, Nepean and Phillip. Uninhabited and with sheer sea cliffs, Phillip Island in particular appeared lush, with dense scrub and forest growing in its rich volcanic soil. What secret wonders of nature were hidden in its valleys?<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FTFZhbSWW_g/UC_unJebtQI/AAAAAAAACEA/E3HkZsgdHVw/s1600/Streblorrhiza_speciosa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FTFZhbSWW_g/UC_unJebtQI/AAAAAAAACEA/E3HkZsgdHVw/s400/Streblorrhiza_speciosa.jpg" width="245" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gone: the glory pea (<i>Streblorrhiza speciosa</i>).</td></tr>
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Austrian botanist Ferdinand Bauer visited Phillip Island (named in 1788 for Arthur Phillip, first Governor of New South Wales) in 1804 on a collecting trip. One of the plants he discovered was a striking new member of the bean family. So unique was this plant that, upon receipt of Bauer's herbarium specimen back in Vienna, botanist Stephan Endlicher gave it its own genus, naming it <i>Streblorrhiza speciosa.</i> It quickly acquired the common name of glory pea: a scrambling woody vine, producing cascades of gorgeous pink blossoms. This was a plant that deserved to be grown by gardeners everywhere. Once introduced in Europe, the glory pea was an instant hit. Every nobleman with a conservatory wanted one. However, the glory pea proved quite difficult to grow well. Most gardeners kept it in pots in greenhouses. With its roots restricted by container gardening, instead of the deep volcanic earth of its island home, the glory pea flowered erratically. It gained a reputation as being intractable, and began to fall out of vogue.Why dedicate greenhouse space to something that promises a spectacle, but that you cannot get to flower? Within fifty years, no one was cultivating it any more. Which was such a big mistake.<br />
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Back on Phillip Island, something was going disastrously wrong. On his 1830 collecting trip there, English explorer Allan Cunningham noted that the <i>"vegetation was thin on top and there was severe gullying in the valleys"</i>. This was neither the lush island discovered by Cook, nor that so gleefully explored by Bauer. Naturally, there's an anthropological component to the decline of the island. For you see, in 1788 goats and pigs were introduced as food for the newly established penal colony on Norfolk Island. Rabbits soon followed, precipitating ecological disaster. Pretty soon, the overgrazing of Phillip Island became so severe that all the goats and pigs died from starvation. As can be seen from the photo above, the island is pretty much a desert to this day, plagued by soil erosion. It took until 1986 just to eradicate all the rabbits, and projects are currently underway to remove some introduced plant species as well. The long term goal is to restore the natural vegetation of Phillip Island to its former glory. But, tragically, without the glory pea. Researchers have made several attempts to find surviving specimens of <i>Streblorrhiza speciosa</i> still hidden in the valleys of Phillip Island, but to no avail—the glory pea is listed as extinct on the I<a href="http://www.iucnredlist.org/details/full/30393/0" target="_blank">UCN Red List</a>. The botanical illustration above and a handful of dried herbarium specimens are all that remain now.<br />
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If only those gardeners had known the value of <i>ex situ</i> conservation back then. If only they had realized that they could have saved the glory pea from oblivion. But perhaps, within the ancient walls of a palace garden outside of Vienna, or in the conservatory of a crumbling English manor house, someone had thought, <i>Oh, might as well,</i> and kept a specimen of the glory pea alive all these years. Hope lies dormant, like seeds buried deep in volcanic soil.<br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Picture credits:</span><br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Boat with Phillip Island in background</i> by <a href="http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Norfolk_Island_Philip_Island3.jpg" target="_blank">Steve Daggar</a></span><br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Plate of Streblorrhiza speciosa</i> by Miss Drake in Lindley (1841)</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16532403180123519635noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17953699.post-14246840547636787752012-08-12T16:37:00.002-06:002012-08-20T00:15:36.055-06:00The mace pagoda: phoenix of the Cape<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-GCJcxr6mHWI/UCaXGeW4VdI/AAAAAAAACA0/jCgwq6OliHc/s1600/AdderleyStreetFlowerSellers.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="250" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-GCJcxr6mHWI/UCaXGeW4VdI/AAAAAAAACA0/jCgwq6OliHc/s400/AdderleyStreetFlowerSellers.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Adderley Street Flower Market, early 20th century.</td></tr>
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One morning in 1847, German botanist Karl Zeyher stopped at Cape Town's Adderley Street Flower Market, like he often did. The flower sellers, as colourful as their wares, were only too eager to show him their latest finds, obtained on long and often dangerous expeditions into the rugged Cape Mountains. Among the bunches of proteas and irises blooming in deep buckets of water, Zeyher noticed something unusual, new. Well, new to science.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mcD0LJZgGcA/UCa3DeinbjI/AAAAAAAACBE/SIuuD4Hdd6w/s1600/51544.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mcD0LJZgGcA/UCa3DeinbjI/AAAAAAAACBE/SIuuD4Hdd6w/s200/51544.jpg" width="121" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Marsh rose (<i>Orothamnus zeyheri</i>).</td></tr>
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Slender, woody stems covered in an armour of velvety leaves supported nodding, crimson blooms: it was the marsh rose. He managed to coax the secret of this splendid plant's location from the seller, who told Zeyher he had collected it from the mountainsides above what is now Pringle Bay. In due course, Zeyher located the plant and sent specimens back to Europe. Fellow German botanist, Karl Pappe, gave it the scientific epithet <i>Orothamnus zeyheri</i>, after his colleague. One could argue that it would have been more fitting to name the marsh rose for its original discoverer, but this <i>was </i>colonial South Africa, and botanists of colour, no matter how intrepid, were unlikely to see their names recorded in the annals of history. However, this wouldn't be the last time the flower merchants of Adderley Street would bring something special to the attention of science.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8PA6d211FDA/UCbMDAhnCWI/AAAAAAAACBU/nkR1ZIDzYaM/s1600/Kogelberg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="162" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8PA6d211FDA/UCbMDAhnCWI/AAAAAAAACBU/nkR1ZIDzYaM/s400/Kogelberg.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The mountains of the Kogelberg Biosphere Reserve.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cAYf7CWE5Ek/UDEN0rsJweI/AAAAAAAACEY/l3InGcQKEJU/s1600/stokoe+001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cAYf7CWE5Ek/UDEN0rsJweI/AAAAAAAACEY/l3InGcQKEJU/s320/stokoe+001.jpg" width="226" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">T.P. Stokoe amongst the marsh roses.</td></tr>
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In 1911, Thomas Pearson Stokoe left his job and his wife and daughter behind in Sunderland, England, got on a ship, and arrived in Cape Town to start a new life as a lithographer for the <i>Cape Times.</i> Inevitably, he became enamoured of the wild places, exploring the mountains to look for new species whenever he could. Upon exploring the fynbos of the Cape Peninsula for the first time, he remarked, "I hesitated to trespass over what I thought was a private garden. Eventually I ventured forward and was thrilled at the sight of so much floral beauty." His desire to seek out novel plants would end up driving him into the hidden peaks and secret valleys of the Kogelberg, clear on the other side of False Bay. And what a place it is. The Kogelberg (Dutch for Cannonball Mountain) towers 1,265 m above the ocean, its ring of severe cliffs simply studded with unique plants. Today, the Kogelberg Biosphere Reserve (a UNESCO World Heritage Site) is home to some 1,600 plant species, of which about 150 are totally endemic to this part of the Cape Floristic Kingdom. The core 320 square kilometres of the reserve harbour more species richness than <i>any </i>other place on Earth of a similar size, including the dense rain forests of the tropics. It's enough to give heart palpitations to any biodiversity fan. Almost every valley and mountainside supports something unique that lives there and only there. Some plants have an entire range limited to a few square metres on a single mountain slope. This place is precious. This place is delicate. This place is magical. Even the genus <i>Protea</i> (the very quintessence of the fynbos biome) is named after Proteus, the ancient shape-shifting sea god. A place of fog and fire, it's easy to imagine the Kogelberg as the home of mythological creatures.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LlN4W3TIbHw/UCdxZCznQlI/AAAAAAAACCQ/zk75Zlp--GM/s1600/TypeSpecimen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LlN4W3TIbHw/UCdxZCznQlI/AAAAAAAACCQ/zk75Zlp--GM/s320/TypeSpecimen.jpg" width="202" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Mimetes stokoei</i> type specimen.</td></tr>
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In February 1922, somewhere in the Kogelberg range, Stokoe came across a single specimen of a very unusual and beautiful plant, a tall and elegant member of the protea family. He collected flowering branches as herbarium specimens and sent them to the Royal Botanic Gardens at Kew, where it was described and named <i>Mimetes stokoei,</i> in his honour. Today, this plant is commonly known as the "mace pagoda". However, Stokoe himself always referred to it as his "golden protea". Whatever you'd prefer to call it, something weird was going on. Why was there only one plant on that hillside? Stokoe felt the mysterious and inaccessible Kogelberg, windswept, often wrapped in dense fog, calling out to him. He had to find another specimen. Subsequent collecting trips proved fruitless: it was like his golden protea had never existed at all. On 4 July 1925, Stokoe was perusing the wild flowers sold by the vendors in Adderley Street, when an old friend caught his eye. You guessed it: plunged into a deep bucket of water were the tall and elegant flowering stems of <i>Mimetes stokoei</i>. Stokoe bought the branches from the seller and proceeded to question her about their origins. The seller was less than forthcoming with the information: collecting sites were closely guarded secrets for people whose entire livelihoods depended on bringing the most exotic specimens to Adderley Street. Stokoe was relentless however, and after much persuasion, a deal was struck. With the merchant's supplier as his expert guide, Stokoe set off on an expedition into the Kogelberg range. In due course, the flower picker revealed to him a small stand of <i>Mimetes stokoei</i>, rising elegantly above the other vegetation. It was clear the mace pagoda was scarce; all told, Stokoe and his flower seller friends could only locate ten plants, in two small populations. What was more worrying, though, was that they were all old, mature plants, not seedlings. And it seemed that the plants were in trouble. Senescing. Withering. Dying. By 1959, <i>Mimetes stokoei</i> was listed as extinct.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dJfs59riW6s/UCgJYwaRBhI/AAAAAAAACDE/muz27Epl9dg/s1600/KogelbergBiosphere.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="245" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dJfs59riW6s/UCgJYwaRBhI/AAAAAAAACDE/muz27Epl9dg/s400/KogelbergBiosphere.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">CapeNature huts in the high valley of the Kogelberg Biosphere Reserve.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-C-oNqV_XFpQ/UCbSKndR26I/AAAAAAAACBs/j8v63gB7KHA/s1600/MarieVogts.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-C-oNqV_XFpQ/UCbSKndR26I/AAAAAAAACBs/j8v63gB7KHA/s200/MarieVogts.jpg" width="131" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Marie Vogts, doyenne of proteas.</td></tr>
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The overexploitation of the Cape's vulnerable flora became a growing concern after World War II, and the Adderley Street merchants were no longer allowed to collect flowers from the wild outside of a stringent permit system. In the 1960s, the South African government endorsed active research in the horticultural potential of fynbos, and proteas in particular. Instrumental in this movement towards horticulture as a form of conservation was Marie Vogts. Starting as a lecturer in Botany at the Paarl Teachers' College, she has written seminal works on growing proteas as garden plants and with her expertise and passion for Cape flora has done more to popularize fynbos than anyone. In 1960, she was appointed as a senior professional officer by the Department of Agriculture, and initiated plans for Oudebosch, an exciting experimental protea farm. It would be a permanent collection of horticulturally important species, and also a place of active scientific research. Vogts wanted to conduct transplant experiments: would proteas transplanted from the Cape Peninsula still flower at their regular time, or adapt to the flowering rhythms of their new home? In 1965, Vogts started developing Oudebosch in the high valley of the Palmiet River, deep in the Kogelberg. So how does one start a garden if there's already natural vegetation growing on the land, you may ask? In this case, the vegetation around the plots was clear-cut. Sometimes, however, it's easier just to burn it.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rLqE3p0ALyc/UCgOz-N9lyI/AAAAAAAACDY/ToQ8edSBaaA/s1600/1966MacePagoda.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rLqE3p0ALyc/UCgOz-N9lyI/AAAAAAAACDY/ToQ8edSBaaA/s320/1966MacePagoda.jpg" width="172" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The solitary seedling, 1967.</td></tr>
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In 1966, a weird weed sprouted in the Oudebosch nursery, right at the edge of a planting hole. Researchers realized with shock what it was: <i>Mimetes stokoei</i>, resurrected<i>.</i> The only mace pagoda in the entire world. The plant was beyond precious: here was an opportunity to obtain some seed, to save the species. A little protective wooden tripod was constructed around the seedling. This was a mistake. The Kogelberg is known for capricious weather: one morning after a fierce storm, the mace pagoda was found with a broken stem; high winds had snapped it against the very structure put up to protect it. It never even had a chance to flower. The year was 1969, and <i>Mimetes stokoei</i> was declared extinct all over again. So put yourself in Marie's shoes: you've managed to site your experimental farm right on top of the original location of the mace pagoda, all because the old botanists kept that location secret in their own attempt at conservation; clearing and trampling the site during construction of the nursery possibly doomed any other seedlings to oblivion; and when one still managed to sprout against the odds, it dies on your watch. You have such great passion for proteas and for nature conservation, yet in your preservation attempts you inadvertently cause the loss of the rarest one of all. Now: what do you feel? A terrible burden of responsibility? I certainly would, and I think Marie did, or at least accepted the criticism of her peers with good grace. In 1973, a new protea breeding program was started at Tygerhoek in the Overberg, 150 km from Cape Town, and the Oudebosch protea collection was moved there. The Kogelberg was transferred from the Department of Forestry to CapeNature in 1987 and declared a nature reserve. Marie Vogts passed away in 1998, one year before a devastating fire swept the Kogelberg. The fire that absolved her.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-a0kWoUopX3M/UCbVikl9BbI/AAAAAAAACB8/NPNsaFH3hLA/s1600/MimetesStokoeiMarch2009.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-a0kWoUopX3M/UCbVikl9BbI/AAAAAAAACB8/NPNsaFH3hLA/s400/MimetesStokoeiMarch2009.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The mace pagoda, <i>Mimetes stokoei</i>, in bloom in the Kogelberg in March 2009.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UoFn6ojPLq8/UCgFCFod32I/AAAAAAAACCw/82PShDxB3Yg/s1600/2011Fire.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UoFn6ojPLq8/UCgFCFod32I/AAAAAAAACCw/82PShDxB3Yg/s320/2011Fire.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The March 2011 fire creeping across the Kogelberg.</td></tr>
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In December 1999, the Kogelberg Biosphere Reserve was engulfed in flames. Four days of hot dry winds fanned runaway blazes, resulting in more than half of the reserve being burnt to ash. However, fynbos has evolved to deal with fire, and exploit its capacity for clearing space and returning nutrients to the soil. Previous wildfires had occurred during winter; the summer monster of 1999 was much hotter. That made all the difference. For you see, <i>Mimetes stokoei</i> is a botanical phoenix, rising anew from its own ashes. It grows very rapidly, towering above the other fynbos, but it has a very short lifespan, perhaps ten years at most. This might explain why Stokoe saw plants that looked past their prime, back in the 1920s. This remarkable plant instead relies on its seedbank, buried in the earth by ants, to start a new generation of plants from scratch. It's as good as if your parents had to die before you could be born (for this analogy to work, pretend that humans lay eggs, okay?) and every generation lived out their entire lives in isolation. What would be a very strange life cycle for us makes sense for plants rooted to a landscape prone to frequent fires. The seeds of the mace pagoda have been lying dormant all this time, until a fire hot enough to awaken them arrived. The amazing thing is that the locality where <i>Mimetes stokoei</i> grows had likely not seen a superhot fire since the early 20th century. Disturbing the soil at Oudebosch during construction of the experimental farm only enabled one seedling to sprout; subsequent controlled burns of the site were never hot enough to awaken any others. But many dormant seeds were still present, under Marie Vogts' nursery, under her <i>feet</i>, waiting patiently. If only she'd known.<br />
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In January 2001, reserve manager Mark Johns, out on a burn recovery inspection, noticed 24 unusual silver-leaved plants amongst the lush green post-fire vegetation of a hillside: <i>Mimetes stokoei</i>, the phoenix of the Cape, resurrected by the 1999 fire. The pagodas were growing strongly, rapidly: the first flowering occurred in 2004, with peak flowering reached in 2007. By 2009, the population already seemed to be in decline again, with only five plants left alive. With so much human activity, the incidence of fire in the Cape Floral Kingdom is on the rise. This is not a good thing. Fynbos species don't all deal well with frequent fires, most species instead thriving on a single hot inferno every 15 years or so. On 17 March 2011, a fire started alongside the road to the Bot River Estuary. Since the coastal sand flats are heavily infested with alien plants now, the fire rapidly blazed out of control, spreading into the high valleys of the Kogelberg. The tiny mace pagoda population got torched, and the regal flowers seen in 2009 are gone. For now: we know enough about the biology of <i>Mimetes stokoei</i> now not to call it extinct just because it is cycling between generations. The hottest flames will summon the fynbos phoenix.<br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Picture credits:</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Kogelberg </i>by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/frikh/2949785892/" target="_blank">FrikH</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Kogelberg Biosphere Reserve</i> by <a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/EKGmiWQ8FWkL0a7zlrADfNMTjNZETYmyPJy0liipFm0" target="_blank">Ralph Pina</a></span><br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Oudebosch seedling by Fred Kruger</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Mimetes stokoei, March 2009</i> by <a href="http://www.ispot.org.za/node/126787" target="_blank">Nigel Forshaw</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>2011 Kogelberg fire</i> by <a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/UoHkKe6xDtXIhkawSHfsEQ" target="_blank">Ralph Pina</a></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">For much of the research in this story I am deeply indebted to the work of Peter Slingsby and Amida Johns. If you want to know more, purchase their scintillating and wonderfully illustrated biography of T.P. Stokoe </span><a href="http://www.slingsbymaps.com/tpstokoe.aspx" style="font-size: x-small;" target="_blank">here</a><span style="font-size: xx-small;">.</span>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16532403180123519635noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17953699.post-31891356811430044512011-11-27T13:54:00.001-07:002011-11-28T23:37:39.957-07:00Welwitschia: curious cone-bearer of the Namib<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-f-8mTO-e0Vs/TtLAdZortrI/AAAAAAAABzQ/iYhTopIo8JM/s1600/Welwitschia_trunk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-f-8mTO-e0Vs/TtLAdZortrI/AAAAAAAABzQ/iYhTopIo8JM/s400/Welwitschia_trunk.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is no ordinary tree trunk.</td></tr>
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It was a hot afternoon during my freshman year and I was trying to find my botany professor's office. Sweat running down my spine, already late for organic chemistry, lost in the basement of the Botany building. I turned a corner and came face-to-face with the giant, scalloped remains of a welwitschia, mounted on a pedestal. Clutching the ethnobotany paper I was meant to submit that day, I just stood there, enraptured, mesmerized. It resembled something creepily organic, like Martian fungus, or at least something indecent that had sprouted from the sea floor. Certainly not a tree trunk. I never made it to organic chemistry that day.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IekrE8GoyWg/TtK6v4_QEUI/AAAAAAAABzI/RmK3rWNw23Q/s1600/5182551242_eb9783c52f_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="262" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IekrE8GoyWg/TtK6v4_QEUI/AAAAAAAABzI/RmK3rWNw23Q/s400/5182551242_eb9783c52f_o.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Welwitschia mirabilis</i> makes the scorching Namib desert its home.</td></tr>
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Not only is <i>Welwitschia mirabilis</i> the solitary member of its genus, but it is also the only member of its family, the Welwitschiaceae. In fact, it is taxonomically so bizarre and so unique that it has been given its own order. The only other species that appear to be (quite distant) kin are the joint-pines of genus <i>Ephedra</i>. Wait, did I say joint-<b><i>pine</i></b>?! Yes, I did. For the welwitschia is a short, stunted gymnosperm and bears its seeds in cones, just like pines, firs and spruces. Think about that for a while. This weird tree is found only in the Namib desert of Namibia and Angola, a habitat as different from a dark northern forest as any, the oldest desert on the planet. It is estimated that welwitschias have been growing here for nearly 100 million years, and that they haven't changed much during that time. The welwitschia has many fascinating adaptations that allow it to thrive in this harsh climate. It survives in places where it sometimes doesn't rain for <i>years</i>, subsisting solely on the fog that rolls in from the Atlantic at dawn.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Alien vegetable forms dot the landscape inside Messum Crater, Namibia.</td></tr>
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Its short woody stem is unbranched, but grows wider with age to form a crenulated woody bowl that can be a meter in diameter. Like most moisture-dependent desert plants, welwitschias are pretty slow-growing: it is estimated that large specimens with leaves in excess of 6 m long may be more than 1,500 years old. From the margins of the crested stem sprout what appear to be a myriad of strappy leaves. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A large specimen in the Namib-Naukluft National Park.</td></tr>
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Their appearance is deceptive. In fact, the welwitschia only produces two opposing leaves that continue to grow throughout the life of the plant, becoming split and shredded through the action of sand and wind and centuries. The shredded leaves become a trap for wind-blown debris, enriching the sandy soil around the plant and providing shelter for insects, spiders and lizards. Welwitschias have a large taproot to pull moisture from deep underground, and also a network of short fibrous roots near the surface to help them absorb water from ocean fog that condenses on the leaves and rolls to the ground. In a way, these plants engineer their own microclimate to ensure their survival in extremely arid surroundings.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Welwitschia bugs on the cones of a female plant.</td></tr>
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As I mentioned, the reproductive structures of Welwitschias are cones, like those of cypresses and cycads. Male and female plants exist separately, bearing different types of cones. Male cones produce pollen, but not in copious amounts like those of wind-pollinated pine trees do. Instead, they rely on insect pollinators to carry their precious cargo to a receptive female plant. The plants are often found crawling with yellow or vermilion coloured welwitschia bugs, <i>Probergrothius sexpunctatis</i>, attracted by the sweet nectar secreted by the immature cones. However, these bugs don't seem to be the pollinators, and other insects have been suggested as the culprits, including flies and wasps. In the unforgiving desert, welwitschias have maximized their chances of survival, especially at the vulnerable seedling stage. When released from mature cones, welwitschia seeds may remain dormant in the sandy soil for several years until heavy rains come to the Namib. Only then does a new generation of <i>Welwitschia mirabilis</i> germinate. All in unison. </div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">Picture credits:</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Welwitschia trunk</i> by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/routard05/6162433094/">Routard05</a></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Welwitschia in habitat</i> by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/dkeats/5182551242/">Derek Keats</a></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Messum Crater</i> by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/anette_s/6039846545/">intelligentinfo</a></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Naukluft specimen</i> by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sara_joachim/3096413402/">Joachim Huber</a></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Bugs on cones</i> by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/jroldenettel/5691886517/">Jerry Oldenettel</a></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16532403180123519635noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17953699.post-84100361716100029352011-11-07T12:30:00.001-07:002011-11-28T21:42:28.361-07:00Tasting fractals: true confessions of a synesthete<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Matcha green tea caramels: a volcano of taste.</td></tr>
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We were at a bar, discussing the latest lab gossip over flutes of winter ale, when Lyndsay suddenly dug through her bag and presented me with a small, square piece of green candy, wrapped in clear cellophane.
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'Our postdoc brought me some of these caramels from Japan,' she said. 'This one's green tea. You should try it.' So I did. An interesting and delicious combination of buttery caramel and invigorating matcha green tea flooded my palate.</div>
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'It tastes sort of this shape,' I said, miming a mountain with my hands. 'Sort of...volcano-like. It's rounded, but there's a pronounced indentation at the top where the green tea and the butter caramel intersect.' Both Eric and Lyndsay stared at me as if I'd just confessed to setting a toddler on fire.</div>
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'So tastes have shapes to you?' Eric asked.</div>
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'Well, kind of,' I said. 'They're more like landscapes than free shapes.' I hesitated. 'But we all have that, right? It's not like I have synesthesia or anything like that.'</div>
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'No, Leon, no one else has that,' Lyndsay affirmed. 'No one else tastes shapes.' Eric just laughed, shaking his head furiously. As the first snow of winter started sifting down from pink clouds hugging the town, I started to reconcile myself with the fact that I may have synesthesia.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">People with synesthesia show increased connectivity and communication between parts of the brain normally devoted to the processing of different sensory stimuli.</td></tr>
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Synesthesia is commonly defined as a neurological condition where stimulation of one of the senses elicits involuntary triggering of another sense. People with synesthesia are dubbed synesthetes, and synesthesia can take many different forms. Some people experience vivid colours when hearing specific sounds <i>(C sharp on the piano sounds golden yellow)</i>. Others associate personalities with numbers <i>(4 is such a guarded, introspective number)</i>. Still others might associate textures with specific smells <i>(sandpaper smells like strawberries).</i> Much research has been conducted on the cause of synesthesia, suggesting enhanced cross-talk between brain areas usually devoted to separate sensory pathways (see <a href="http://www.sensequence.de/proj/projen.html#lett">here</a> for an extensive reference list, both peer-reviewed and otherwise). For example, when people who experience coloured-hearing synesthesia are stimulated with spoken words while inside an fMRI, the areas of the brain devoted to the processing of colour information light up like they were watching the psychedelic <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ou6JNQwPWE0">Star Gate sequence</a> from <i>2001: A Space Odyssey</i>. The brains of control subjects who don't have synesthesia do not light up in this way, even when they were <a href="http://www.nature.com/neuro/journal/v5/n4/full/nn818.html">extensively trained</a> to associate words with specific colours. Science is also beginning to make some progress on the genetic basis of some of the more common forms of synesthesia, with <a href="http://www.cell.com/AJHG/abstract/S0002-9297(09)00019-6">evidence</a> from large-scale genome-wide association studies implicating specific regions on several different chromosomes.</div>
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But what about me? My apparent synesthesia has not been confirmed by a neurobiologist, and I've had none of my genes sequenced. Synesthetes are more likely to be left-handed. I'm left-handed. About 40% of synesthetes have a close-relative who also has synesthesia. I...well, I don't know. I've never asked them, and perhaps they, like me, haven't thought it anything unusual and therefore never mentioned it. Also, my kind of synesthesia, morphogeusia (from Ancient Greek <i>morphe, </i>'form' and <i>geusis,</i> 'taste'), seems to be one of the weirder ones. In addition to taste, it also involves my sense of smell to some extent. I once started to describe the scent of a colleague's perfume as 'very tall, sort of skyscraper-shaped, but with a top that resembles a bisected sphere with indentations...' before trailing off when I saw her raised eyebrows.</div>
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Let me explain what is happening to me. Basic tastes and flavours have pretty basic shapes, and these shapes are not so much felt as seen; they're topography, not texture. All fats and oils elicit the same perception of rounded mounds. Butter is distinctly dome-shaped. This partially explains why those buttery green tea caramels tasted volcano-shaped: it's that mountain of buttery goodness! The taste of rooibos is also rounded, but concave in contrast to the convex dome of butter. Rooibos is therefore bowl-shaped to me, and able to contain other flavours (like the bullets of vanilla), whereas the domed heavy cream of a crème brûlée would go over the top of vanilla. Incidentally, real vanilla is fat and short, whereas artificial vanilla is taller and thinner, more like a rifle cartridge. I had a fine cup of black tea the other day that tasted much like a flight of stairs. Sharp, pungent ingredients like raw onions or wasabi tend to taste like valleys or canyons, and the sharper they are, the more sheer those cliff faces become.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eggs over easy.</td></tr>
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Initially, I took that fact that not every taste seemed to have a shape as evidence that I didn't actually have synesthesia after all. Surely everything must elicit a well-defined topography! But then I realized that it's merely harder for me to see the shapes of things such as eggs and french fries; it's not that they lack landscape, it's just that the topography of that landscape is really shallow. French fries are just shallow ripples, whereas an egg forms a shallow depression, like a dried lake bed. Perhaps surprisingly, the extent of a synesthetic shape does not correlate with my enjoyment of a particular foodstuff. I like both eggs and french fries and don't find their taste one-dimensional, regardless of how shallow and dull their synesthetic features are.</div>
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While still an undergrad, I was recruited to a university tasting panel by a friend majoring in food science. Soon my palate was required to evaluate all manner of things, from frozen vegetables to chocolate milk. The sensory evaluators commended my vivid gustatory descriptions for new flavours of potato chips they were developing (though I was careful not to describe them as 'salt flats with interspersed pyramids' or anything similar). However, I'm not a supertaster by any means. Neither do I possess a particularly sophisticated palate. All wine resembles a generic jungle canopy to me. It's as difficult for me to tell one pinot noir from another as it is difficult for me to discriminate between a rain forest from Bolivia and one from Ecuador. Highly complex flavors elicit landscapes that are not very memorable and exceedingly difficult to describe, like the faces of strangers you meet in a dream. What synesthetic shapes did that <i>chilli verde</i> from the other night conjure up? I don't recall exactly, but there was some granularity, I'm sure...</div>
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So that's my little personal subjective anecdote about maybe perhaps having synesthesia.</div>
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'I'm so happy for you,' a lady in a tea shop said to me the other day, when she overheard me discussing my synesthesia with Eric. 'What a wonderful talent.'</div>
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'I'm not sure I'd consider it a <i>talent</i>, as such,' I responded. 'It's not even particularly useful. I'd read about <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Daniel_Tammet">Daniel Tammet</a>, who has high-functioning Asperger syndrome and uses the vivid synesthetic landscapes generated by numbers to recite pi to tens of thousands of digits. I don't have that at all. I'd rather be good at math.'</div>
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I didn't tell her about lemons and how they taste like fractals, though. But they do that for everyone, right?<br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">Picture credits:</span></b><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Matcha green tea carmels</i> from <a href="http://fusionsweets.com/en/you-pick-soft-creamy-caramels/35-green-tea-caramels.html">Fusion Sweets</a></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>MRI scans</i> from <a href="http://www.nature.com/neuro/journal/v10/n6/full/nn1906.html">Rouw & Scholte (2007) Nature Neuroscience 10:792-797</a></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Star Gate sequence</i> from <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0062622/">2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)</a></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Stone steps</i> from <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/slm/3784862559/">Steve McCullough</a></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Dry lake bed</i> from <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/renotahoe/5328898118">Reno Tahoe</a></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Jungle canopy</i> from <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/thaths/4473667461/">thaths</a></span></div>
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16532403180123519635noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17953699.post-56736186175390039592011-06-27T18:13:00.000-06:002011-06-27T18:13:40.231-06:00Making beautiful science<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-36DMyDL2VHk/Tgkb86RG7DI/AAAAAAAABK4/YPS6FNAfEw8/s1600/329533581.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-36DMyDL2VHk/Tgkb86RG7DI/AAAAAAAABK4/YPS6FNAfEw8/s400/329533581.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623056342995889202" /></a><br />In about 50 days I'm giving birth to a PhD thesis. I just want to have a beautiful baby. Wish me luck...Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16532403180123519635noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17953699.post-77746133134940994142010-12-22T13:56:00.000-07:002010-12-22T13:57:17.714-07:00A little holiday reading<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/TRJmDExrf1I/AAAAAAAABJc/nK_sqU2hRVM/s1600/IMG_6516-pola.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 388px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/TRJmDExrf1I/AAAAAAAABJc/nK_sqU2hRVM/s400/IMG_6516-pola.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553613493508996946" /></a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16532403180123519635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17953699.post-38240977082012575792010-10-02T00:20:00.000-06:002010-10-02T00:29:08.942-06:00Erm...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/TKbPsNZlqfI/AAAAAAAABIE/D3eEKSkSxC0/s1600/4137838337_a44b820cfc_z.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/TKbPsNZlqfI/AAAAAAAABIE/D3eEKSkSxC0/s320/4137838337_a44b820cfc_z.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523330351434672626" /></a><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">*cough*</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Is... is this thing on?</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Photo credit: </span></span><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/hardluck-hotel/4137838337/"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Keith Bloomfield</span></span></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16532403180123519635noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17953699.post-74831924762514516802010-03-09T17:04:00.000-07:002010-03-14T10:04:41.416-06:00Orchids in the mist: the Denver orchid show<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4041/4420354055_a79c42f610_o.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 375px; height: 281px;" src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4041/4420354055_a79c42f610_o.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><b>Odontocidium </b></span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><b>Sunlight</b></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br />It never fails. The weather outside has to be absolutely horrid, otherwise it would be a break with tradition, it seems. On the day </span></span><a href="http://electricorchid.blogspot.com/2009/07/we-should-have-been-foaming-at-mouth.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">CJ</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> and I drove to </span></span><a href="http://www.tagawagardens.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Tagawa Gardens</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> for the 2010 </span></span><a href="http://www.denverorchidsociety.org/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Denver Orchid Society</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> Spring Show, the interstate was shrouded in fog. The Rockies had completely disappeared, but we felt them as a solid presence somewhere beyond the grey banks to the west.<br /></span></span><div></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4033/4421121108_d34c127bf6_o.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 375px; height: 281px;" src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4033/4421121108_d34c127bf6_o.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><b>Cattlianthe</b></span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><b> Madam Kallaloo</b></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br />I'm always sort of disappointed when the displays incorporate intricate carnivorous plants and gorgeous bromeliads, because these plants have no place at an orchid show, however beautiful and interesting they may be. Worse is when they incorporate props, like fiber optic UFOs and (shudder) garden gnomes. Aren't orchids amazing enough? Just let them be, people. Thankfully, the Denver Orchid Society has too much good taste for that kind of thing. The well-constructed displays were fleshed out with lush, </span></span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">appropriate</span></span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> backdrop foliage; this fit the 'Orchid Oasis' theme for the show very well. Orchids from the genus </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Masdevallia</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> and complex intergeneric hybrids from the Oncidiinae subtribe featured heavily in this season's show. For those of you who have absolutely no idea what the hell all that Latin means, here are some pictures of lovely orchids to enjoy!<br /></span></span><div></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2526/4421121174_6fbd0d1b38_o.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 375px; height: 281px;" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2526/4421121174_6fbd0d1b38_o.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><b>Phalaenopsis cornu-cervi</b></span></span></i></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br />Large, round, flat and near-ubiquitous, those pink and white hybrid moth orchids can be found in the house plant section of almost any grocery store these days. Coming face-to-face with their wild relatives is therefore always exciting, especially when they look entirely different. Feast your eyes on a lime-flowered version of </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Phalaenopsis cornu-cervi</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> (above). The species name of this Southeast Asian moth orchid means deer-antlered, and it has curiously flattened inflorescences. With care, it can flower several times a year, unlike the store-bought hybrids, which generally flower only once a year. I also appreciate the fact that it has a starry shape, and not the flat, rounded shape we've come to expect from </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Phalaenopsis </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">orchids.<br /></span></span><div></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2717/4420353945_ca4c59a96a_o.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 375px; height: 281px;" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2717/4420353945_ca4c59a96a_o.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><b>Dendrobium garrettii</b></span></span></i></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br />This adorable </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Dendrobium </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">from Thailand bears minute flowers on leafless pseudobulbs that resemble a stack of green grapes. I think this would be a gorgeous addition to a cool little terrarium. The genus </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Dendrobium </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">with its infinite variety: it's easy to see why it's my favourite orchid genus.<br /></span></span><div></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2796/4420353903_80a02ae042_o.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 375px; height: 281px;" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2796/4420353903_80a02ae042_o.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><b>Masdevallia pteroglossa</b></span></span></i></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br />When it comes to </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Masdevallia</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">, virtually the whole genus is composed of miniature species. </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Masdevallia pteroglossa, </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">from the cool cloud forests of Colombia, is a pixie among dwarves: the entire plant above would easily fit inside a coffee mug. The species name means wing-tongue, which refers to the dimunitive lip, which is only visible as a small red structure in the centre of the triangular flower.<br /></span></span><div></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2762/4421121654_20fb744fb9_o.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 375px; height: 281px;" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2762/4421121654_20fb744fb9_o.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><b>Cochlioda rosea</b></span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><b> 'Laramie' HCC/AOS</b></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br />This lovely specimen plant above was awarded a CCM (Certificate of Cultural Merit) by the </span></span><a href="http://www.aos.org/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">American Orchid Society</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">. This coveted award is only bestowed on exceptionally well-grown plants. It commends the patient and skilled grower able to bring out the full potential of an orchid. This <i>Cochlioda</i>, a member of the Oncidiinae subtribe, had a total of 16 inflorescences on it, bearing 102 buds and 320 open flowers! The judges described the hot pink petals as having the texture of "diamond dust". </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Cochlioda rosea</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> is native to the rain forests of Peru and Ecuador, where it must be an awe-inspiring sight.<br /></span></span><div></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4051/4420354063_be7097df20_o.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 375px; height: 281px;" src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4051/4420354063_be7097df20_o.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><b>Dendrobium harveyanum</b></span></span></i></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br />With more variations than you can shake a large stick at, the genus </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Dendrobium </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">surprised us once again with the fuzzy-as-a-bumble-bee </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Dendrobium harveyanum</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">. I loved the crystalline texture, the deeply fringed petals and the sweet scent. It appears dusted with pollen, but (as is typical for all orchids) the pollen is actually carried as sticky masses behind the anther cap, the small circular structure in the centre of the flower. This orchid is native to places in Southeast Asia with a monsoonal climate, and needs a dry winter rest in order for the flowers to develop in early spring.<br /></span></span><div></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4015/4420354345_5271b2dc8c_o.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 375px; height: 281px;" src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4015/4420354345_5271b2dc8c_o.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><b>Dendrobium</b></span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><b> Spring Doll 'Sweetheart' HCC/AOS</b></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br />The absolutely enormous orchid above was awarded Best Flower and Best Grown Plant. </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Dendrobium </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Spring Doll 'Sweetheart' is one of the so-called soft cane </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Dendrobium </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">hybrids, and was originally bred by the Hawaiian firm H & R Nurseries. Soft canes have </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Dendrobium nobile</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> and related species in their pedigree. Like </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Dendrobium harveyanum</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">, soft canes need less water during their winter rest. This induces masses of flowers right before the growing season. I would recommend soft canes as good beginner's orchids, as they thrive on benign neglect.<br /></span></span><div></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4055/4421121396_7d318662a8_o.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 375px; height: 500px;" src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4055/4421121396_7d318662a8_o.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><b>Tolumnia</b></span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><b> Jairak Rainbow</b></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Tolumnia </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">is an interesting genus, also part of the Oncidiinae subtribe. They are found on the islands of the Caribbean, where they grow as twig epiphytes constantly soaked by rainstorms and dried by the tropical sun. This requirement for rapid wet-dry cycles tends to make them slightly tricky to grow well. However, this example of the hybrid </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Tolumnia </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Jairak Rainbow was a carnival of a plant: several inflorescences bearing gaudy coral pink blossoms stained with carmine, like a gaggle of calypso dancers ready for a street parade.<br /></span></span><div></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4006/4420354075_338c427c85_o.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 375px; height: 500px;" src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4006/4420354075_338c427c85_o.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><b>Masdevallia caesia</b></span></span></i></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br />At every orchid show, there has to be one favourite. </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Dendrobium </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">species tended to be the attention whores of orchid shows past. This time around, I became obsessed with a rather bizarre </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Masdevallia </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">from southwestern Colombia: </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Masdevallia caesia</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">. It has blue-grey leaves. It grows </span></span><a href="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3268/2685564264_6b965123e3_b.jpg"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">upside-down</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">. It needs cool to cold growing conditions, like you'd find where the South American rain forests meet the Andes and the trees are constantly bathed in clouds. It has flowers that can be 23 cm long (and you thought all </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Masdevallia </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">were small). The flowers have an unpleasant smell, and are pollinated by flies attracted to the furry red lip, which resembles decaying meat. It's exactly the sort of plant that sends those suffering from orchid fever into pure delirium.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">For more photos of my orchid show exploits, please visit my </span></span></span><a href="http://www.flickr.com/search/?q=Denver+Orchid+Society+Spring+Show+2010&w=29093483@N05&z=e"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">Flickr photostream</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">.</span></span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16532403180123519635noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17953699.post-23098076547059427062009-12-23T14:08:00.000-07:002009-12-23T21:28:25.701-07:00Author guidelines: what's past is prologue<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/SzKYBCpnlOI/AAAAAAAABEo/8F3SYhhwxe0/s1600-h/FitTheFirst.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 250px; height: 257px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/SzKYBCpnlOI/AAAAAAAABEo/8F3SYhhwxe0/s320/FitTheFirst.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418560445338850530" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Last-minute Christmas shoppers are braving the snow and slush outside. I remain sequestered indoors, braving the labyrinthine folds of my own brain. I nurse mug after mug of rooibos, procrastinate by baking </span></span><a href="http://www.ezrapoundcake.com/archives/5153"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">these</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">, distract myself by reading </span></span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Dry-Storeroom-No-Natural-History/dp/0307275523/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1261607327&sr=8-2"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">that</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">. I find myself at the interface between two parts of my research, you see, and it has taken the form of a mental chasm I am hesitant to traverse. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">In reality, I feel most fortunate to have made it this far. New insights into molecular biology are invariably gained using The Scientific Method, and my PhD research has been no exception. The first step is identifying a problem. In my field of study, the problem is that cereal plants manage to protect themselves against the ravages of insect pests, but we don't know how.* The next step is formulating a hypothesis that would address the problem, or some aspect of it. I therefore devised some gene-silencing experiments to test my hypothesis. I spent months in the lab, weeks in the greenhouse and tons of grant money. Most likely, I also inadvertently ate a couple of research subjects (aphids are small). I generated massive amounts of data, crunched the numbers, scrutinized the images, drew the graphs, did the statistics. I spent many hours in helpful discussion with my advisor. And now comes the next step in The Scientific Method: publishing the results.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/SzKhIj5gJ4I/AAAAAAAABEw/3PgQDwdKmRQ/s1600-h/FitTheSecond.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 250px; height: 257px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/SzKhIj5gJ4I/AAAAAAAABEw/3PgQDwdKmRQ/s320/FitTheSecond.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418570470127576962" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Ever since I was a child, I knew I wanted to help figure out how the world works. I wanted to add pieces to the puzzle, somehow contribute to our understanding of life itself. Today, I'm fulfilling that dream by investigating the wonderfully complex machinery inside cells that help genes to function. Being a geneticist, with a focus on cereal functional genomics, means the pieces I contribute to the puzzle of nature are rather </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">specific</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">. It all seems rather small. I tend to get caught up in the detail of it. The detail is fascinating, certainly, but sometimes it feels kind of trivial, or unimportant. But then I read Michael Pollan, or about Norman Borlaug and the Green Revolution, or about </span></span><a href="http://www.goldenrice.org/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">golden rice</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">, or the looming </span></span><a href="http://www.news.cornell.edu/stories/April08/WheatRustExplainer.kr.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Ug99</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> epidemic, and I realize that what I do has tremendous value to world food security. What I do will help feed the world. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/SzLgd_DoY_I/AAAAAAAABE4/KjKmCa-FFGw/s1600-h/FitTheThird.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 250px; height: 257px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/SzLgd_DoY_I/AAAAAAAABE4/KjKmCa-FFGw/s320/FitTheThird.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418640107427619826" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">That's enough reason to get the word out and publish that paper. It is the final step to The Scientific Method. It also proves one of the most challenging. Which publication does one aim for? Should I be arrogant and aim for a high impact journal, with a very real chance of being rejected? Or do I aim for more a modest periodical and run the risk of my work falling into obscurity? Judging the worth of one's own research is really difficult, especially when you've been intimately involved with it for such a long period of time. The peer-review system ensures that only science of high quality gets published. It also means that the reviewers can be quite brutal, sometimes subjecting your raw data to a full-on audit, of sorts. So I need to be sure before I submit the manuscript. Was the experimental design inherently flawed? Did I include the appropriate controls during gene suppression? Did I transpose a decimal in a calculation somewhere? Are the levels of gene expression truly significantly different between treatments? Alone at night, huddled over my notebooks and spreadsheets, there are moments where I doubt myself. This I have no doubt about, though: with the right kind of angle, this thing will go to press. It deserves to. The story must be told. Without the smallest piece, no puzzle is complete.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">And once all of it's over and done with, it's merely chapter </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">one</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">. Further hypotheses and fun in the lab to follow...</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">*More specifically, we know that so-called </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">resistance genes</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"> allow plants to detect the presence of pests such as aphids, and act accordingly. Cereals like wheat can strengthen their cell walls, generate noxious chemicals like hydrogen peroxide - a sort of natural bug spray, if you will - and even kill off their own cells around aphid feeding sites, thereby depriving the bugs of their food supply. What we don't know is how plant defence mechanisms evolved. Nor do we know how they coordinate this massive reprogramming of their biochemistry. Some crop varieties are very good at it, while others do nothing to stop aphids from feeding on them and eventually just wither and die. We don't currently understand why this is the case.</span></span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16532403180123519635noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17953699.post-79231373064252364262009-10-16T20:02:00.000-06:002009-10-17T01:45:16.002-06:00Pimp my petals: the Denver orchid show<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">There was snow along the highway as we headed for </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><a href="http://www.echters.com/">Echter's</a> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Garden Center in Arvada. The </span></span><a href="http://www.denverorchidsociety.org/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Denver Orchid Society</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> Fall Show promised to inject some tropical colour into a rather dull October afternoon. The theme was 'Orchids of the World', and I was pleasantly surprised by the diverse amount of species on display. The usual suspects were of course chosen as class winners in their respective alliances: an electric blue </span></span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Dendrobium victoria-reginae</span></span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">, a denizen of mossy oak forests in the Philippines;<br /><br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2649/4003740630_ffc0c91430.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 375px; height: 281px;" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2649/4003740630_ffc0c91430.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br />a vibrant </span></span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Ascocenda</span></span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> Su Fun Beauty, its petals the colour of overripe persimmons;<br /><br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3464/4003729686_d41bd71db4.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 350px; height: 467px;" src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3464/4003729686_d41bd71db4.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">and </span>Paphiopedilum</span></span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> Magic Lantern 'Memoria Elizabeth Sulzman', holding its pouch as if the plant itself had just blown it from pink bubblegum. Feed me, </span></span><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BGRN39oifsE"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Seymour</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">, indeed.<br /><br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3436/4002990543_2198cd76d2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 350px; height: 467px;" src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3436/4002990543_2198cd76d2.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br />Many strange and unusual specimens were on show, to the delight of jaded orchid enthusiasts bored by saucer-sized vandas and over-hybridized cattleyas. This South American </span></span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Zootrophion</span></span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> below is a prime example of the bizarre orchids on display. Its small cage-like flowers don't open fully, and are covered in tubercules. What sort of minute insect is brave enough to crawl inside these to pollinate them?<br /><br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2530/4003759408_fb85653d63.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 375px; height: 281px;" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2530/4003759408_fb85653d63.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Cleisocentron merrillianum</span></span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> is an astonishing little beast from Borneo: its slate grey flowers had many visitors to the show fiddling with the macro settings on their cameras.<br /><br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3449/4003734914_f75d593a73.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 375px; height: 281px;" src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3449/4003734914_f75d593a73.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br />Easily overlooked, </span></span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Eria coronaria</span></span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> had its flowers hidden away in lush green foliage. This fragrant species has a wide distribution and can be found from the Vietnamese coast all the way to the foothills of the Himalayas.<br /><br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3535/4003744952_8fb2ece6ce.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 375px; height: 281px;" src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3535/4003744952_8fb2ece6ce.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br />This sinuous monopodial with subtle chartreuse coloured blooms is called </span></span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Christensonia vietnamica</span></span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">. It originates in Vietnam - as should be obvious from its name - but curiously was unknown to science until as recently as 1993! It was a real treat to see a newly discovered species thriving in cultivation.<br /><br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2447/4002971663_5f2a2ca9cd.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 350px; height: 467px;" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2447/4002971663_5f2a2ca9cd.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br />As usual my favourite thing on show is a dendrobium - usually a crystalline white Formosae-type with little black hairs on the canes, or a candy coloured jewel from New Guinea. This time </span></span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Dendrobium bracteosum</span></span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> won me over: masses of waxy flowers emerging from papery bracts on the pendulous canes. This New Guinea native positively froths over with blossoms, each dotted with a rather impudent splash of tangerine on the lip.<br /><br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2521/4002975345_5968efa655.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 375px; height: 281px;" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2521/4002975345_5968efa655.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br />Although I've been awfully good since living in the States, this time around I just couldn't help myself. The lure of the sale tables was just too strong, and I bought my first (non-</span></span><a href="http://electricorchid.blogspot.com/2008/11/how-to-buy-orchid-at-grocery-store.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">grocery store</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Phalaenopsis</span></span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">) orchid since moving to Colorado in 2007. I managed to get a totally sweet deal on a </span></span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Psychopsis</span></span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> Mendenhall 'Hildos' from </span></span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/www.oakhillgardens.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Oak Hill Gardens</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">. The clone I obtained, '</span></span><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2546/3962802573_c1d504c081.jpg"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Hildos</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">, has been awarded a First Class Certificate, the highest award bestowed by the American Orchid Society. So I got a great looking plant from awesome genetic stock for less than the price of a steak dinner. Below is a photograph of a similar orchid that was on show: </span></span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Psychopsis</span></span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> Mendenhall 'Lace' x </span></span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Psychopsis</span></span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> Mem. Bill Carter 'Mendenhall'. Are you jealous yet?<br /><br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2652/4003751014_7aeda505d9.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 350px; height: 467px;" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2652/4003751014_7aeda505d9.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">I have many more images from the 2009 Denver Fall Show and previous orchid shows available in glorious Technicolor™ on Flickr. </span></span></span><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/29093483@N05/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">Check it out</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">.</span></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16532403180123519635noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17953699.post-75548579374428498552009-09-07T08:05:00.000-06:002009-09-07T08:22:52.889-06:00Grad school has swallowed me alive<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/SqUVducc0wI/AAAAAAAABC8/A4RIbIimBOA/s1600-h/DAB.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 124px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/SqUVducc0wI/AAAAAAAABC8/A4RIbIimBOA/s400/DAB.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378728930391675650" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />Yes, I'm still alive. And doing rather well, thanks for asking. Unfortunately grad school has become my whole life this past month or so. I have been silencing genes and counting aphids until it feels my head has been drained of grey matter and stuffed with balls of cotton wool. There are several new stories carefully packed in that cotton wool, of course, but you will just have to be patient with me. In the mean time, here are some images from my research, to tide you over until the next proper installment of (E&E)². The top image shows 3,3'-diaminobenzidine staining in a leaf of resistant wheat after feeding by aphids has caused the massive release of peroxides. The bottom aniline blue image is of callose deposits that strengthen cell walls in response to the little suckers.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/SqUXAjRjDVI/AAAAAAAABDE/QyVlVIGpbzY/s1600-h/AB.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 124px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/SqUXAjRjDVI/AAAAAAAABDE/QyVlVIGpbzY/s400/AB.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378730628200205650" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Sometimes sciences can just be about pretty pictures, can't it?</span></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16532403180123519635noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17953699.post-85151017473418693592009-08-01T13:32:00.000-06:002009-11-29T20:02:57.280-07:00Ambergris: perhaps you'd rather not know<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">I combed the beaches of St. Francis Bay with my aunt one afternoon, now a lifetime ago. The weather was nasty; it had been raining for most of the day. We didn't mind, of course, since we knew that stormy weather brings the secrets of the sea ashore. That was the day my aunt found the giant eggcase of a paper nautilus, wedged between the rocks. The perfectly white, rippled object was the most gorgeous and delicate thing I had ever seen. I believe that was the first moment my impressionable young mind was filled with a sense of awe at the mysterious creatures that live in the liquid parts of the planet.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/SnYuod4cOdI/AAAAAAAABCc/Sz393qo_j34/s1600-h/argonaut.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/SnYuod4cOdI/AAAAAAAABCc/Sz393qo_j34/s400/argonaut.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365527278809528786" /></a><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Some things that wash ashore are less obviously beautiful: broken jellyfish, reduced to lumps of snot; kelp fronds; dead gannets; ambergris. Ambergris? Yes, ambergris, the stuff of myth and poetry. Sounds romantic, but what exactly is it? Read on, although the story isn't for the squeamish. Sometimes, when something is so... </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">biological</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> in origin, it is perhaps better to live in ignorance.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/SnXxfax8HHI/AAAAAAAABB0/IxmAipHy65g/s1600-h/sperm-whale.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 274px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/SnXxfax8HHI/AAAAAAAABB0/IxmAipHy65g/s400/sperm-whale.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365460053148834930" /></a><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">The sperm whale is the largest predator to have ever existed. It dives to almost three kilometres below the surface of the ocean in order to do battle with giant and colossal squid in the inky depths. Although sperm whales also feed on fish, they are particularly fond of cuttlefish and squid. The problem with a diet high in cephalopods is that those sharp squid beaks are not exactly digestible. So in a process analogous to how a pearl is formed in an oyster through constant irritation, the whale encases these beaks and other indigestible matter in fatty secretions from its digestive system. These lumps are then easily excreted by the whale, without fear of internal nicks and scrapes. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/SnX0XOIO-fI/AAAAAAAABB8/dIcqrC-dHNM/s1600-h/amber.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 301px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/SnX0XOIO-fI/AAAAAAAABB8/dIcqrC-dHNM/s400/amber.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365463210848614898" /></a><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Many people refer to ambergris as "whale vomit", although </span></span><a href="http://whitelab.biology.dal.ca/hw/hal.htm"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Hal Whitehead</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">, a whale scientist of Dalhousie University in Halifax, Nova Scotia, is of the opinion that ambergris is more likely excreted via the faecal route. Not to worry; I won't go into much more detail concerning cetacean scatology. The interesting part of the ambergris story concerns what certain land living bipedal primates elect to do when they find the stuff washed up on the shores of the world. Tar-black and viscous, freshly expelled ambergris is strikingly foul-smelling. However, a counterintuitive thing happens when these lumps drift around in the ocean, exposed to sunlight, oxygen and salt water. As ambergris oxidizes, it begins to cure and harden. Well-aged ambergris has a waxy texture and is marbled grey in colour. In fact, the word ambergris is derived from the French </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">ambre gris</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">, meaning grey amber.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/SnYl2h1oMOI/AAAAAAAABCE/VW038ibcrDs/s1600-h/ambrein.gif"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 136px; height: 190px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/SnYl2h1oMOI/AAAAAAAABCE/VW038ibcrDs/s320/ambrein.gif" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365517624784990434" /></a><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">The smell of ambergris fortunately also changes with ageing. People try in vain to describe its depth and complexity, but fail. In the end, ambergris smells like ambergris and there's nothing quite like it. It is sweet, but dangerous. It has earthy notes, like tobacco, mulch or mossy pine forests combined with marine notes like sea spray and ocean breezes. But it also exudes something that belies its animal origin: musk, leather and something altogether mammalian. Like the flowers of jasmine, it retains a definite faecal undertone. The elaborate chemistry of ambergris consists of countless compounds, and is particularly abundant in steroid lipids. The most important of these is a molecule called ambrein, pictured here. Ambrein is oxidized during the ageing process, to form several related pungent compounds with names that make them sound rather like the heroines of forgotten Victorian bodice-rippers: </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">ambrox, ambroxide, coronal, ambrinol</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">... It's the combination of all these molecules together which is responsible for the complex fragrance of ambergris.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/SnYsjDHJcJI/AAAAAAAABCU/IRjQycoLy1I/s1600-h/Warhol.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 232px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/SnYsjDHJcJI/AAAAAAAABCU/IRjQycoLy1I/s320/Warhol.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365524986700853394" /></a><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Gross as its origins are, ambergris has been a highly valued commodity for centuries. Reknowned in China before the year 1000, it was known as </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">lung sien hiang</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">, meaning "dragon’s spittle fragrance," because it was thought to be the saliva of sleeping sea dragons drooling into the ocean. During the Renaissance, small lumps of ambergris were moulded into decorative jewelry. It was ceremonially burned, like incense. It has since found particular use in the perfume industry as a fixative. It retains other fragrance ingredients, preventing their rapid evaporation and allowing the scent to linger on the skin. One classic method for preparing an ambergris extract used "1½ oz. of ambergris, 30 grains musk and 20 grains civet reduced to powder in loaf sugar," to which was added the juice of 1 unripe lime. This was poured into 3 pints of pure spirit alcohol and placed in a stoppered jar. The jar was incubated in "the constant heat of horse manure for 21 days," and the resultant clear, amber-coloured liquid decanted as </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Tincture of Ambergris</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">. Perfumiers today rely on more scientific methods of extraction, or have switched to using synthetic alternatives. However, real ambergris is purportedly still an important component of such famous fragrances as Chanel No. 5 and Drakkar Noir.</span></span></div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">The quality of ambergris depends on how long it has been floating around the ocean. Just like wine it mellows with age, and increases in value. Standard grade ambergris trades at almost $20 per gram. Considering that ambergris is sometimes found as giant lumps weighing hundreds of kilograms, finding ambergris on the beach can </span></span><a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2006/12/18/nyregion/18whale.html?_r=3&pagewanted=1&oref=slogin"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">be</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><a href="http://www.news.com.au/perthnow/story/0,21598,23361017-949,00.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">quite</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><a href="http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?file=/c/a/2006/12/25/MNGDTN5GSQ1.DTL"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">lucrative</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">. Since ambergris resembles a smelly, shapeless lump of sea detritus and not the delicate eggcase of a paper nautilus, most people ignore it witout realizing its value. Pieces of the fragrant flotsam are often sold for tens to hundreds of thousands of dollars to so-called "ambergris brokers". The trade in ambergris seems slightly shady: deals occur behind closed doors in hotel rooms in places like Dubai and Abu Dhabi, and purchases are always made in cash. Just a few people control the world ambergris market, and I suppose they would like it to remain that way.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></span></div></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/SnaOnl_s8ZI/AAAAAAAABCk/8bfn27w07AM/s1600-h/Perfume.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 207px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/SnaOnl_s8ZI/AAAAAAAABCk/8bfn27w07AM/s320/Perfume.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365632816923865490" /></a><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Through the ages, ambergris has not solely been used for perfume. Its animalistic allure had much further reach. In fact, it formed a vital part of the traditional pharmacopeia of many cultures around the world. It was lauded as a restorative balm. Arab doctors prescribed it as heart and brain medicine. Perhaps not surprisingly, the sensual scent of ambergris was highly in demand as an aphrodisiac. Legend has it that Madame du Barry washed herself with it to make herself irresistible to Louis XV of France. Oddly enough, ambergris has been - and in some cultures still is - used as a spice for food and wine. Beluga caviar? White truffles? How gauche. Surely shavings of first grade ambergris on your eggs benedict must be an unparalleled epicurean billionaire's treat! Personally, I'm sure I could never stomach it. If it disagreed with the whale, it is certain to disagree with me.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></span></div><div><strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Picture credits:</span></span></strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> paper nautilus © </span></span><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/25413523@N08/2877521605/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">mrpbps</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">; sperm whale © </span></span><a href="http://animals.nationalgeographic.com/animals/mammals/sperm-whale.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Brian J. Skerry</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">; ambergris © composite from </span></span><a href="http://www.ambergris.co.nz/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">various</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><a href="http://www.ambergris.net.nz/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">sources</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">; Chanel No. 5 © Andy Warhol, 1985; vintage perfume bottles © </span></span><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/goddessparkle/241874500/in/photostream"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">meeralee</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">.</span></span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16532403180123519635noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17953699.post-30016744698400909272009-07-26T22:34:00.000-06:002009-07-27T01:37:37.992-06:00"We should have been foaming at the mouth..."<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">It was late-July and the Rocky Mountain orchid season was drawing to a close. When two good friends, First Man* and CJ*, invited me to accompany them on a hike in the mountains around Breckenridge, I didn't hesitate. I thought this would be the perfect opportunity to go hunting for terrestrial orchids. I had visions of us locating great species, like the spotted coralroot, the roundleaf orchid, or perhaps the glorious yellow lady's slipper - if we got particularly lucky. Instead, what we managed to do was prove that even three plant scientists, armed to the back teeth with guide books, can still be quite naive and actually very stupid when left to their own devices in the wilderness...<br /></span></span><div></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/Sm0-UZR4x3I/AAAAAAAABAM/7wDUvtR31Yc/s1600-h/Breck.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/Sm0-UZR4x3I/AAAAAAAABAM/7wDUvtR31Yc/s400/Breck.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363011251372345202" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br />The weather was absolutely perfect as we breached 11,000 ft. in the shadow of Quandary Peak. The mountain itself, highest in the Tenmile Range at 14,265 ft., was teeming with climbers trying to reach the summit. However, we weren't there to test our mountaineering skills. We were there to revel in the botanical splendour that is the alpine summer. When warmth and liquid water have been absent for so long, plants seem to put in extra metabolic effort to really make the most of these summer resources. Wildflowers were everywhere: columbines with their bi-coloured cups; whiproot clover hugging the scree slopes; violets; forget-me-nots; saxifrage and primrose shimmering on the banks of streams; red and yellow paintbrush; asters and monkshood competing to see who had the most intense shade of purple. And higher up, their petals shredded by howling winds, alpine sunflowers. I started to feel giddy from all the biodiversity around me. Or it may have been the altitude, it's difficult to tell. No sign of a single orchid, though. Were we too late? Had they all gone?<br /></span></span><div></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/Sm0-FBvhR7I/AAAAAAAABAE/gckgG0C9HYo/s1600-h/Veratrum.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/Sm0-FBvhR7I/AAAAAAAABAE/gckgG0C9HYo/s400/Veratrum.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363010987356145586" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br />We rounded a corner on the trail and came across a stand of the most peculiar plant (</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">above</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">). We stopped dead in our tracks. It was beautiful. Mid-green, pleated leaves bursting towards the sky from large clumps. We had to know what this thing was, taxonomically pin it down on the herbarium cards inside our heads. You could tell by the venation of the leaves that what we had here was a monocot. Which still meant it could be any one of around 60,000 species of plants. Was it some sort of lily? Or was it </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Cypripedium parviflorum</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">, the yellow lady's slipper orchid? I so desperately wanted it to be the latter. Slippers are unmistakable in bloom, but this one didn't have a single flower on it. So as geeks do in situations like these, we whipped out the guide books. Mine had a lot of interesting text, but the pictures, frankly, were total crap. CJ's book contained more flower porn than you could shake a large stick at, so we elected to look through hers first.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/Sm1EIcJxoPI/AAAAAAAABAU/IFAl16m6BHc/s1600-h/2486786873_6f0d4568e4.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/Sm1EIcJxoPI/AAAAAAAABAU/IFAl16m6BHc/s320/2486786873_6f0d4568e4.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363017643054964978" /></a><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Nothing. Couldn't find this thing at all. Looked through my book next, but to no avail. Mosquitoes started buzzing around our heads. It was time to move on. The trail was marked on First Man's GPS, so we could always come back this way if we didn't see it again. As we were hiking past stone cairns piled by previous explorers, CJ and I decided that it just </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">might</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> be an orchid, since the leaves looked so similar. Here's a picture of the yellow lady's slipper (</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">left</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">). Wouldn't you agree? Big, mid-green, pleated leaves. Identical. Especially </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">because I wanted it to be identical</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">. Which was a big mistake. We finally found another clump of the mystery plant. Against our better judgement (and park regulations, possibly) CJ and I waded into it. We stood waist-deep in the stuff. CJ caressed the leaves with her fingers, as I turned them upside-down to scrutinize the surprisingly hairy undersides. I almost suggested digging one up to look at its root structure (since terrestrial orchids generally have distinctive </span></span><a href="http://electricorchid.blogspot.com/2007/12/turning-tables.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">underground tubers</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">), but luckily the environmentalist in me vetoed that idea. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/Sm1LR8n8PUI/AAAAAAAABAc/7iA6XS0u9Q0/s1600-h/Spike.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/Sm1LR8n8PUI/AAAAAAAABAc/7iA6XS0u9Q0/s320/Spike.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363025502971641154" /></a><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Then we noticed the inflorescences. Two plants way in the back of the clump had the beginnings of enormous flower spikes forming, with lots of tiny, green undeveloped flowers forming. This was the evidence that shattered the fantasy. This was clearly no orchid, but something entirely different. In the end, we hiked all the way above treeline, to hidden lakes, and all the way back down again, without discovering any orchids. I had a truly terrific time, of course, but the orchid hunter in me was disappointed. We also failed to uncover the identity of the mystery plant, which was most unsatisfying. So that evening, after dinner and in the warm comfort of the cabin, we turned to every scientist's last resort. We Googled it.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Guessing that its colloquial name may have the word "lily" in it (don't they all?) I spent some time doing image searches with various forms of "lily" or "lilies" and "Rockies" or "Rocky Mountains". And then I found it: </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Veratrum californicum</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">, the corn lily. Without a doubt. CJ and I excitedly grabbed our guide books again. Interestingly enough, the plant and related species were listed in both our books. The images were just really bad likenesses, so we had simply ignored those entries while on the mountain. Once again, a mistake, as we discovered when I read aloud from the entry in my book.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/Sm1YdYFs4hI/AAAAAAAABBM/qq-SqZLAQRg/s1600-h/Cyclopamine+(2).png"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 163px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/Sm1YdYFs4hI/AAAAAAAABBM/qq-SqZLAQRg/s200/Cyclopamine+(2).png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363039992973943314" /></a><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">This plant, also known as the California false hellebore, is poisonous. And not just poisonous, the book informed us. </span></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Violently poisonous.</span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> "Eating even small amounts can result in unconsciousness, followed by death," we were informed. The symptoms of corn lily poisoning apparently include, "frothing at the mouth, blurred vision, lock-jaw, vomiting and diarrhea" and "people have reported stomach cramps after drinking water in which this plant was growing". Geez. We'd been waist-deep in them, touching their furry leaves. A brush with death, literally. Native Americans used to boil the roots and use the resulting extract to kill lice. I was suddenly very glad I had elected not to dig one up. </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Veratrum californicum</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> contains the teratogenic alkaloids jervine and cyclopamine, which cause major birth defects such as </span></span><a href="http://www.medterms.com/script/main/art.asp?articlekey=15530"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">cyclopia</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">. Oh dear.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/Sm1RnhExDTI/AAAAAAAABAk/xfKkNBH9upI/s1600-h/9781565126831.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 246px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/Sm1RnhExDTI/AAAAAAAABAk/xfKkNBH9upI/s320/9781565126831.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363032470603238706" /></a><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Just the week before, I had finished reading </span></span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Wicked-Plants-Lincolns-Botanical-Atrocities/dp/1565126831/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1248677577&sr=8-1"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Wicked Plants</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> by Amy Stewart - a beautiful and fascinating book all about spiky, toxic, invasive and poisonous plants. How ironic. I guess I learned two valuable lesssons on this trip. <i>One</i>: just because you want something to be true, it doesn't necessarily make it so. <i>Two</i>: assume every creature unfamiliar to you will try to kill you somehow. We so desperately wanted to find an orchid that we did things against our better judgement. Even in the mountains, orchids cast their crazy spell. Days later, when we'd all gone back to work, I noticed that CJ had changed her Facebook status to read, "After seeing the photos... we should have been foaming at the mouth".</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:13px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">*Names have been changed to protect the ignorant.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">Photography credit:</span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"> alpine meadow and </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">Veratrum californicum</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"> © </span></span><a href="http://electricorchid.blogspot.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">The Electric Orchid Hunter</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"> (that's me!); </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">Cypripedium parviflorum</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"> © </span></span><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/7791651@N07/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">David Tees and Melanie Schori </span></span></a></div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16532403180123519635noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17953699.post-43177264764072024242009-05-31T22:36:00.000-06:002009-06-05T15:37:07.919-06:00Wine me, dine me, finger lime me<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/SiNb0ZcSklI/AAAAAAAAA-s/ktI6K2FoHG0/s1600-h/2380437374_41ca94b89d.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 210px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/SiNb0ZcSklI/AAAAAAAAA-s/ktI6K2FoHG0/s400/2380437374_41ca94b89d.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5342214538732409426" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br />These gorgeous things are becoming my new obsession. They are called finger limes and may well be the sexiest citrus fruit ever. I mean, just look at them! Their exquisitely elongated form echoes the shape of the banana and cucumber, those pedestrian fruit more traditionally associated with the erotic arts. However, when the skin of the finger lime is ruptured, all these sap-filled vesicles come bursting forth, an aromatic explosion of lime-tastic goodness. Am I crazy, or does that sound like a near-perfect description of culinary orgasm?<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/SiNbuDImfRI/AAAAAAAAA-k/dzrWk3SYfSU/s1600-h/2592131364_bd628aef6e_b.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/SiNbuDImfRI/AAAAAAAAA-k/dzrWk3SYfSU/s400/2592131364_bd628aef6e_b.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5342214429665033490" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br />As you can tell from the scientific name, </span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Citrus australasica</span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">, the finger lime is native to Australia. It's a thorny tree almost 10 m in height, endemic to subtropical rainforests from northern New South Wales to southern Queensland. The genetic diversity latent in finger limes is evidenced by the huge number of varieties known. The peel colour is very variable and ranges from yellow to green, burgundy and almost black. Beat that, banana skins! The pulp also varies from palest pearl to deepest ruby, with each colour having a unique flavour all its own.<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/SiNbM5Kn_DI/AAAAAAAAA-c/_HF7EXG-5_c/s1600-h/433063868_37f0c4e97a.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 250px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/SiNbM5Kn_DI/AAAAAAAAA-c/_HF7EXG-5_c/s400/433063868_37f0c4e97a.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5342213860053482546" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br />Finger limes are making real headway into the fancy restaurants and boutique grocers of the world, but I'm yet to find one of these tangy beauties anywhere near where I live. In the meantime, a boy can dream, can't he? They can be used in any dish that calls for conventional limes, and are particularly suited to seafood dishes or those with a Southeast Asian influence. With those zesty vesicles shimmering like salmon roe, it's no wonder they've been called 'rainforest caviar'. Imagine some of these added to your favourite after-work drink: instant jungle-style sophistication. Finger limes are especially prized in the world of molecular gastronomy. Ferran Adrià, chef of the fabled </span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/www.elbulli.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">elBulli</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> restaurant on the Spanish Costa Brava, was apparently moved to tears by his first experience with finger limes.<br /><br />That's okay: many people cry after their first time.<br /><br /></span><strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">Citrus pr0n credits:</span></strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"> top © </span><a href="http://www.eladerezo.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">El Aderezo</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">; middle © </span><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/12323096@N03/2592131364/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">Stuart Cohen</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">; bottom © </span><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/29159750@N00/433063868/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">D.T. Pearson</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16532403180123519635noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17953699.post-59390307777854871672009-05-25T18:43:00.000-06:002009-05-25T19:51:56.533-06:00The Kerguelen Cabbage<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/ShtHTcNNBhI/AAAAAAAAA-U/AP6cpfNe5Wc/s1600-h/2214558877_980ca4cd3e_b.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 184px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/ShtHTcNNBhI/AAAAAAAAA-U/AP6cpfNe5Wc/s400/2214558877_980ca4cd3e_b.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339940182492513810" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It was widely believed during the 18th century that a massive southern continent must exist in order to balance out the landmasses of the northern hemisphere. King Louis XV wanted to claim this </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Terra Australis</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> for France, and commissioned Yves-Joseph de Kerguelen-Trémarec, an ambitious naval officer, to set out for the Southern Ocean in search of it and to establish trade with its natives.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> Braving stormy seas, De Kerguelen discovered an island wreathed in fog on February 12th, 1772. The island was midway between South Africa and Australia, and right in the path of the Furious Fifties: non-stop Antarctic winds that howled across its barren surface from the west. Wind speeds in excess of 150 kph drove waves as high as 15 m around its ragged coastline cut by fjords and inlets. No trees grew there; the interior was almost entirely covered by glaciers. After several expeditions - not all of which made landfall in the rough seas - it became clear that the island was uninhabitable and not the southern counterpart to France everyone had hoped for. Disillusioned, King Louis XV had De Kerguelen incarcerated at Saumur Château for almost four years. Conveniently for De Kerguelen, the French Revolution occurred soon after. Since he was regarded as a victim of the </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Ancien Régime</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">, he was released and eventually became Rear Admiral and commander of the port of Brest. De Kerguelen died in 1797. But what became of his island, you ask?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> <br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/ShtHB_bXdJI/AAAAAAAAA-M/0kNRsGi5Tms/s1600-h/008350.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 170px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/ShtHB_bXdJI/AAAAAAAAA-M/0kNRsGi5Tms/s400/008350.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339939882709513362" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">On Christmas Day 1776, Captain James Cook anchored the HMS </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Resolution </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">and HMS </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Discovery </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">in a bay on an uninhabited island in the Southern Ocean. Cook decided to call the bay Christmas Harbour and the island itself Desolation Island. While Cook's men explored the shore, one found a bottle fastened with some wire to a projecting rock on the north side of the bay. Inside the bottle was a message, written in Latin by one of De Kerguelen's company, Officer De Rochegude of the French frigate </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">L'Oisseau</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">. The message claimed the island in the name of the King of France. Cook wrote in his log, "I could have very properly called the island </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Desolation Island</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">… but in order not to deprive M. De Kerguelen of the glory of having discovered it, I have called it </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Kerguelen Land</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">." </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And so Kerguelen Island was discovered and named. It remains a French territory to this day. Although the frozen continent of Antarctica was discovered in 1820, perhaps De Kerguelen was not entirely off the mark when he claimed that his island was </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Terra Australis</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">. In fact, modern surveys of ocean floor topography have revealed that several islands of the sub-Antarctic Indian Ocean are actually the highest exposures of an ancient landmass which sank beneath the surface of the sea about 20 million years ago. This submerged landmass has been named the Kerguelen Plateau. Rich underwater coal seams have been discovered here, evidence of expansive forests that once covered this lost continent.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/ShtG1W_AEeI/AAAAAAAAA-E/7s9elmBNpHg/s1600-h/1396012468_c9cfe32968.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/ShtG1W_AEeI/AAAAAAAAA-E/7s9elmBNpHg/s400/1396012468_c9cfe32968.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339939665694691810" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Captain James Cook and his men were exploring Kerguelen Island in 1776, clubbing seals on the shore and collecting fresh water further inland, when William Anderson, Cook's surgeon, came upon a most curious plant. He described it thus: "It was not unlike a small cabbage," having "not only the appearance, but the watery acid taste of the antiscorbutics."It did resemble the Savoy cabbage, but seemed to be a slow growing perennial, as evidenced by its long woody stem. The leaves of this Kerguelen cabbage contained a pale yellow oil, rich in vitamin C. Having spent months at sea, Cook and his men staved off scurvy by supplementing their meals of seal meat with boiled Kerguelen cabbage. Boiling released all its essential oils, making it even more pungent, but the malnourished seamen took no notice of its strong taste reminiscent of watercress or horseradish. Anderson gave it its scientific name of </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Pringlea</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">, after Sir John Pringle, who was president of the Royal society at the time.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/ShtGi-NSNHI/AAAAAAAAA98/FQbbv0pqt1U/s1600-h/Hook1844_1.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 222px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/ShtGi-NSNHI/AAAAAAAAA98/FQbbv0pqt1U/s320/Hook1844_1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339939349806068850" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The Kerguelen cabbage had to await the arrival of the Ross Expedition in 1840, before it received a full scientific description. Sir Joseph Hooker, assistant surgeon on the HMS </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Erebus</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">, catalogued 18 flowering plants, 35 mosses and liverworts, 25 lichens and 51 algae during the Expedition's time on the island, but called the Kerguelen cabbage "perhaps the most interesting plant procured during the whole voyage in the Antarctic". It was given its full name of </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Pringlea antiscorbutica</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">, emphasizing its use as a remedy against scurvy. It provided much-needed sustenance to the crew of the Ross Expedition. As Hooker wrote: "During the whole stay of </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Erebus </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">and </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Terror </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">in Christmas Harbour, daily use was made of the vegetable, either cooked by itself or boiled with the ships' beef, pork, or pea-soup; the essential oil gives a peculiar flavour which the majority of the officers and crew did not dislike and which rendered the herb more wholesome than the common cabbage for it never caused heartburn, or any of the unpleasant symptoms which that plant sometimes produces." Hooker rightly predicted that the cabbage would be a blessing to future ships that passed by. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/ShtGRh_31MI/AAAAAAAAA90/w5h_Y4mPUCI/s1600-h/1395119281_6060a1a59b.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/ShtGRh_31MI/AAAAAAAAA90/w5h_Y4mPUCI/s400/1395119281_6060a1a59b.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339939050175845570" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">In May of 1973, a letter from a curious reader appeared in the journal </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Nature</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">, asking whether the scientists on board the HMS </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Challenger</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">, then bound for Kerguelen to observe the 1874 transit of Venus, would try to collect seeds of the cabbage, so that it may be introduced on the shores of northern Europe and America. Because of its achingly slow growth and predilection for the cold, this feat was thought impossible. Recently, Canberra botanists have managed to successfully grow </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Pringlea antiscorbutica</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> at the Australian National Botanic Gardens, demonstrating its commercial potential. Perhaps soon Kerguelen cabbage will be </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">de rigueur</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> on the menus of fancy restaurants the world over. Peppery Kergeulen cabbage with smoked salmon and lemon vinaigrette – an acquired taste, I’m sure.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Contrary to its common name, the Kerguelen cabbage is not restricted to Kerguelen Island. It grows on several sub-Antarctic islands, including the Crozet Archipelago, Heard Island, the McDonald Islands, and the Prince Edward Islands. Because of the non-stop strong winds, these islands don't have any winged insects. The Kerguelen cabbage, which is indeed related to the common cabbage and other crucifers, has therefore evolved to be wind-pollinated. It has also evolved to produce high levels of compounds called polyamines in its leaves, which act as a natural antifreeze. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/ShtF73WEBLI/AAAAAAAAA9s/DgIKMWHIgLI/s1600-h/112.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/ShtF73WEBLI/AAAAAAAAA9s/DgIKMWHIgLI/s400/112.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339938677948941490" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The 1874 </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Challenger </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">expedition to Kerguelen brought rabbits from South Africa with it. These would serve as a food source for the sealers and whalers that regularly passed by the area. However, with no natural enemies, the rabbit population exploded, causing severe erosion and unprecedented damage to the island’s plant life. Where rabbits grazed, plants like the Kerguelen cabbage and the cushion plant (</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Azorella selago</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">) quickly became rare. The Kerguelen cabbage seemed destined to survive only on small offshore islands free from rabbits. The rabbit myxoma virus was introduced in the 1950s in an attempt to control the population. The rabbits rapidly developed resistance against the virus. It gets worse. Climate change is hastening the spread of plant species introduced from warmer environments. In 2004, a rabbit removal study indicated that the rabbits on Kerguelen Island might now be a necessary evil, required to keep the spread of such exotic plant species at bay. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> Kerguelen and its surrounding islands are now home to rabbits, rats, mice, cats, sheep and reindeer. Rats and mice eat the seeds of native plants unchecked, since the cats seem more intent on catching seabirds than vermin. Reindeer consume all the slow-growing lichens. Sheep trample the meadows where cushion plants used to provide shelter for albatross nests. Intentionally or accidentally, we are responsible for the introduction of these creatures. What will happen to the Kerguelen cabbage, this wondrous vegetable that saved the lives of so many sailors in centuries past? </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> What have we done to </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Terra Australis</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">? </span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Image credits:</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> Kerguelen Island © </span><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/pascalsubtil/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Pascal Subtil</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">; 'View of Christmas Harbour' by John Webber (1776) © </span><a href="http://www.captcook-ne.co.uk/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">British Library</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">; '</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Pringlea antiscorbutica</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">' by Joseph Hooker (1844) © </span><a href="http://www.lindahall.org/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Linda Hall Library</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">; Kerguelen cabbage in situ © </span><a href="http://sajf.ujf-grenoble.fr/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Station Alpine Joseph Fourier</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">; and © </span><a href="http://www.aad.gov.au/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Australian Antarctic Division</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">. </span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16532403180123519635noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17953699.post-76665570507948527032009-05-21T11:05:00.001-06:002009-05-21T11:05:52.716-06:00Like a bud bursting with renewed vigor<div style="float: right; margin-left: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/lovedaylemon/3546317219/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3326/3546317219_f600cd889d_m.jpg" alt="" style="border: solid 2px #000000;" /></a><br /><span style="font-size: 0.9em; margin-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/lovedaylemon/3546317219/">Chelsea Flower Show 2009</a><br />Originally uploaded by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/lovedaylemon/">lovedaylemon</a></span></div>It's late Spring. The Chelsea Flower Show is happening right now, which makes for great inspiration in the garden and greenhouse. Best of all, my preliminary exams are finally over. Yes, folks, I have qualified and am now a 'Ph.D. candidate', whatever that means! More frequent posts will hopefully result from my - slightly - more relaxed summer schedule. <br /><br />Hope to see you all soon!<br />- orchidhunter<br clear="all" />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16532403180123519635noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17953699.post-72817841681756189642009-03-29T16:00:00.001-06:002009-03-29T16:00:13.993-06:00(E&E)² tales: The summit of Mount Mabu [4/4]<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/ScwEntreOZI/AAAAAAAAA7U/e5PdhgbaPcE/s1600-h/Gallery-Mount-Mabu-Mount--002.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/ScwEntreOZI/AAAAAAAAA7U/e5PdhgbaPcE/s400/Gallery-Mount-Mabu-Mount--002.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317630340341053842" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;line-height:200%"><span style="line-height: 200%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It had been raining heavily all night long. Leaves glistened in the stifling understory; mist rose from the damp ground. Alan’s backpack was soaked through and the Garmin GPS kept cutting out, making it difficult to pinpoint the coordinates of some of the plants they collected. He was secretly glad when Olivia stopped to refill her water bottle. Above them, insects throbbed their mating calls on the limbs of trees. His quads burned from climbing uphill virtually non-stop for two days. The things he’d seen. He was teetering at that narrow interface between exhilaration and exhaustion.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:27.0pt;line-height: 200%"><span style="line-height: 200%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The site was amazing: 7,000 hectares of virtually unexplored medium-altitude forest. The only access road ended several kilometers away at a disintegrating tea estate, long abandoned. They had left the Land Cruiser among the collapsing ruins and hiked the rest of the way. The name Mount Mabu does not occur in classic plant collection records from northern Mozambique. After decades of civil war, local people were only now returning to the area. Most were unaware that the mountain even had a name. And now the scientists from the Darwin Initiative had already collected more than 500 different specimens of plants and animals here. They’ve done pretty well themselves, Alan thought. He’d recorded almost thirty succulents so far, and collected a number of specimens. If only he had coordinates for all of them. Cataloguing is going to be a nightmare when he got back to UCT. Olivia was growing more sullen with each step, though; there was still no sign of the </span></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Polystachya</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> orchid. She’d hardly spoken a word in the last four hours.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:27.0pt;line-height: 200%"><span style="line-height: 200%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Olivia straightened. ‘My God, Alan, a huge snake,’ she said levelly.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:27.0pt;line-height: 200%"><span style="line-height: 200%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">‘Just stand back and don’t bother it,’ Alan responded. ‘Just let it pass.’</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:27.0pt;line-height: 200%"><span style="line-height: 200%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">‘I think it’s dead, actually. This big guy isn’t going anywhere.’</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:27.0pt;line-height: 200%"><span style="line-height: 200%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">‘Are you sure it’s not just playing dead?’ Alan exhaled, slowly.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:27.0pt;line-height: 200%"><span style="line-height: 200%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">‘It’s a Gaboon viper, </span></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Bitis gabonica</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">. I don’t think thanatosis is in its repertoire.’ Olivia meticulously stripped the leaves off a fallen branch. ‘But massive amounts of haemotoxin is,’ she continued. ‘They’ve got the largest fangs of any venomous snake. Here, look.’ With this she forced the dead viper’s jaws open with the end of the branch. At the lips and especially surrounding the giant fangs, the inside of the snake’s mouth was studded with glistening brown ticks. Alan wanted to look away. ‘I guess it must have died of infection,’ Olivia said, dropping the branch. ‘Ticks are vectors for all sorts of diseases.’</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:27.0pt;line-height: 200%"><span style="line-height: 200%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">In a nearby sycamore fig with peeling yellow bark, samango monkeys twittered like birds. Elephant shrews scurried around in the dark, somewhere in the underbrush. A chameleon jerked and staggered towards a mantis, actors in their own silent film. The blue and brown discs of bracket fungi were slowly decomposing a fallen trunk, already in the shadow of saplings that raced skyward to fill the tear in the canopy. It was so hot. This forest seemed inordinately alive. Metabolic. More so than any place Alan could remember from previous fieldtrips. It was almost unimaginable that somewhere outside this verdant realm people busied themselves with their own cycle of birth and life and death. Nurses administered drugs to expectant mothers so that their unborn children wouldn’t share their fate; teenage heads of households sold scrap metal on the dusty streets of Mozambique’s villages; men woke up in the dark to stand in line outside clinics, not aware that their tuberculosis is multidrug-resistant; women planted maize where Renamo militia once planted landmines. Alan thought of all this as he clambered over lichen-covered boulders after Olivia, who was randomly taking photographs. Suddenly they broke through the canopy at the summit of Mount Mabu, and the light was bright, and there were white butterflies everywhere.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:27.0pt;line-height: 200%"><span style="line-height: 200%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The forest they had traversed rolled into the distance beneath them. Above, every layer of the sky was filled with small white butterflies.</span></span></span><span style="line-height: 200%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span style="line-height: 200%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Some of them were so high up, lifted by air currents, that Alan couldn’t be sure whether they were butterflies or just floaters in the vitreous humour of his own eyeballs. It was quiet. Millions of minute wings flapped continuously, soundlessly.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:27.0pt;line-height: 200%"><span style="line-height: 200%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">‘Mass migration,’ Olivia said from a nearby rock. ‘They’re all heading northwest.’ Alan didn’t say anything. For in the back of his mind, an awful thing had sprouted. A parasitic thought had innervated his brain, like dodder inserts itself into the vessels of a host plant. I am going to die here, he thought. In that very moment, their whole excursion seemed like such a dreadful mistake. Planned in secret, organized in haste; the head of his department didn’t even know that he was gone. Was he really that arrogant that he thought this would work? He’d never done anything this impulsive before, and suddenly it terrified him. He was getting sick, he knew. Even with the heat and the humidity, he knew that he must have a fever. He awaited the quivering of his soft palate, that gentle prickling at the back of his throat that heralds the onset of symptoms. It was just a question of time. He had to hide it from Olivia. Avoid panic. Don’t let her know -</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:27.0pt;line-height: 200%"><span style="line-height: 200%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">‘Dr. Schroder!’ Alan looked up. He had a vague notion that Olivia had been calling his name for quite some time. ‘I said, I’ll give you the photos, so you can share them with Daniel. We may never see such a thing again. Marvelous creatures, insects.’ It was late afternoon, and the butterflies had not stopped. ‘I’m just a bit disappointed that we never managed to find a </span></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Polystachya songaniensis</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">. We recorded so many natural clearings and stream banks. I really thought those would be prime habitat.’ Olivia sighed. ‘Perhaps it just doesn’t occur here after all.’</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:27.0pt;line-height: 200%"><span style="line-height: 200%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">‘Yeah,’ Alan ventured. ‘Perhaps you’re right.’</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:27.0pt;line-height: 200%"><span style="line-height: 200%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">‘I guess I could always try and get DNA from one of those epiphytic orchids you collected earlier today. What was it, </span></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Mystacidium</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">?’</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:27.0pt;line-height: 200%"><span style="line-height: 200%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">‘</span></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Aerangis</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">. But I’m not sure of the species.’ The wind started to pick up. The heads of thunderclouds were abuzz with lightning on the horizon to the north. Another wet evening was coming. What do butterflies do when it rains? he wondered. ‘Listen,’ Alan said and cleared his throat. ‘Don’t you think we should start looking for a suitable spot to make camp? It’ll be dark sooner than we think.’ </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:27.0pt;line-height: 200%"><span style="line-height: 200%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">‘Alright,’ Olivia said, strapping on her backpack. ‘Let me just take a picture of those clouds.’ She stepped right up to the edge of the summit, her eyes fixed on the screen of her camera. ‘The light is really good right now.’ And with that Olivia slid on some loose rocks and plunged down a ravine.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:27.0pt;line-height: 200%"><span style="line-height: 200%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">To Alan it seemed like he was watching it from outside himself, from a viewpoint away from the summit, somehow suspended next to the mountain in mid-air. He watched as she fell several meters towards a rocky ledge. He watched as her left ankle was jammed between large boulders studded with aloes, their succulent leaves sparkling like jade in the afternoon glow. He watched as the momentum of her descent swung her around, pivoted her around her jammed ankle with an audible snap of bone and tendon. He watched as her skull connected with the rock of the cliff. He watched all of this from outside himself. A few seconds of quiet. Olivia’s camera smashed into pieces at the bottom of the ravine. Alan’s next thought was that he would now never be able to share the butterfly migration with Daniel. </span></span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The weight of her backpack wedged her ankle firmly into the crevice. Olivia hung down there, out of reach and limp, like someone who had been crucified upside-down. Unconscious? Dead? Alan had no way of knowing, and no way of getting to her. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:27.0pt;line-height: 200%"><span style="line-height: 200%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It was all such a dreadful mistake. Shouting her name had no effect. Alan had to get off the mountain as fast as possible, seek help. He did the only thing he could think of: he ran. It didn’t matter that it took them two days of hiking to get there from where they left the Land Cruiser. It didn’t matter that the nearest civilization was half a day’s drive away. It didn’t matter that his skin was ripped by thorns and branches slashing at him as he ran. Nothing mattered, apart from his muscles propelling him down the jungled slopes. He tried to ignore the soreness at the back of his throat, tried to ignore the swollen lymph nodes down the side of his neck. This is how you die, Alan thought. Not in a car on the highway. Not on the treadmill in the gym. Not in a comfortable bed, surrounded by people you love. This is how you die: small and alone in the woods, by claws and venom and poisonous sap. Viruses wait in the dark forest for you, have been waiting for thousands of years for people to come and reawaken them and absorb them and take them to the cities.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:27.0pt;line-height: 200%"><span style="line-height: 200%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It was dusk when Alan ran into a forest clearing. Alan stopped to catch his breath and take a drink. It was a rocky patch next to a stream, populated by grasses and aloes. The soil was too shallow for large trees here. Growing between the rocks, almost hidden by tall grass, Alan saw the orchid. From Olivia’s descriptions and botanical illustrations at the Compton Herbarium, it was undeniably </span></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Polystachya songaniensis</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">. None of that seemed to matter now. Rosettes of green leaves supported tall inflorescences with several small blooms. They were everywhere in the clearing, all around him. For some reason, Alan had assumed the flowers would be blood red, but they weren’t. The flowers were pink.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;line-height:200%"><span style="line-height: 200%; "><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Image credit:</span></span></span></b><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> Road to Mount Mabu © Julian Bayliss, Kew. Read more about the real expedition to Mount Mabu </span></span><a href="http://www.kew.org/science/news/mount-mabu-mozambique.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">here</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">.</span></span></span><span style="font-size:7.0pt;mso-bidi-Verdana","sans-serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16532403180123519635noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17953699.post-16509645416081852842009-03-28T16:00:00.001-06:002009-03-28T16:00:07.757-06:00(E&E)² tales: The summit of Mount Mabu [3/4]<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/ScwBcU9UHGI/AAAAAAAAA7M/SBTIa2Pj0M8/s1600-h/1414576028_3438a462b1_b.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 230px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/ScwBcU9UHGI/AAAAAAAAA7M/SBTIa2Pj0M8/s400/1414576028_3438a462b1_b.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317626846191557730" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;line-height:200%"><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">A tremendous cacophony rumbled through the Hospital Rural de Mocuba as a troupe of vervet monkeys rattled across its corrugated iron roof. The village of Mocuba was to be the botanists’ last stop-over, the last outpost of civilization, before they reached the forests of Mount Mabu.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:27.0pt;line-height: 200%"><span style=""><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">‘I’m surprised by how organized everything is. I kind of wasn’t expecting that,’ Alan said, idly scratching at an insect bite.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:27.0pt;line-height: 200%"><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">‘With new funding, is possible,’ Eduardo said. ‘We start our ARV program soon.’</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:27.0pt;line-height: 200%"><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">‘ARV?’ Olivia asked.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:27.0pt;line-height: 200%"><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">‘Antiretroviral treatment program,’ Eduardo explained, without elaborating. In northern Mozambique, living with HIV is seemingly as normal as living with pollen allergies in Cape Town. ‘Come, I show you cholera ward. Is new.’ Alan and Olivia followed Eduardo down a long unlit corridor. In the hallway was a little bench on which five women, dressed in colourful skirts and tattered T-shirts, were waiting to be seen by a clinical officer; they passed them in silence. Both botanists were sweating, but the small Portuguese doctor didn’t seem to notice the heat or the humidity at all. They turned into a large room that smelled of fresh paint, containing forty low stretcher beds in neat rows. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:27.0pt;line-height: 200%"><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">‘European Union initiative,’ Eduardo said, gesturing to all the empty beds. ‘Now after the civil war, is possible for Mozambique to prosper. ’ Each stretcher bed had a circular hole cut into the canvas, with a plastic tub positioned underneath it. Alan briefly thought about what the plastic tubs were for, and shuddered. He could tell by the look on Olivia’s face that she had thought about it, too.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:27.0pt;line-height: 200%"><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">‘Seems like you’re ready for the worst,’ she said weakly.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:27.0pt;line-height: 200%"><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">‘We had a big cholera outbreak in the spring. Many hundreds of people were brought here, but is not possible to treat them with drugs. This cholera is resistant to tetracycline antibiotic, you see. Is only possible to give oral rehydration therapy. Then we hope for the best.’ Alan desperately wanted to go outside. The paint fumes were giving him a headache. It was time to leave the village.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:27.0pt;line-height: 200%"><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">‘Dr. Texeira, it’s been a pleasure and an honour to stay with you and meet your family. May you continue to do good work here at the hospital,’ Alan said, shaking Eduardo’s hand.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:27.0pt;line-height: 200%"><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">‘Give my love to Christina. She’s been so kind to us,’ Olivia said.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:27.0pt;line-height: 200%"><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">‘Please, the pleasure has been all ours. Good luck on your little trip. I hope is possible to find the flower, yes?’ </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:27.0pt;line-height: 200%"><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Pressure drops. Temperature rises. It was still sunny, but thunderclouds the colour of basalt were piling on the horizon, beyond the plots of cassava and fields of sugarcane. The Land Cruiser was loaded and ready, but Olivia wanted to buy sundried fruit and cashews from the roadside vendors before they left. There were children everywhere: balancing rusted scrap metal on their heads, laughing; chasing chickens; kicking a weathered football around, their toes stained red from the dusty streets. It was so hot. They walked past a crumbling Portuguese church, shot to pieces twenty years ago and never rebuilt. Some houses had roofs of corrugated iron, others were thatched with palm fronds. All had stands of banana and papaya growing by the front door. Alan caught himself wishing for a moment that he could share this with Daniel, that Daniel was with him. A group of girls were washing clothes in the Licungo River. Although Alan had been told stories, he hadn’t actually seen any crocodiles on its banks so far, nor did the girls seem much concerned by the possibility of reptilian predators lurking in the brown water.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:27.0pt;line-height: 200%"><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The shacks were built right up to the banks of the river, right among the reeds. They would most certainly all be submerged during a flood, he thought. He was right. This is the place where nature wipes the slate clean. This is the place where people start anew, building on yesterday’s tragedy.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;line-height:200%"><span style="line-height: 200%; "><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><span style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Image credit:</span></span></span></b><span style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> Hospital Rural de Mocuba © </span></span><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/christophervanbelle/1414576028/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Christopher van Belle</span></span></a></span><span style="font-size:7.0pt;mso-bidi- Verdana","sans-serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16532403180123519635noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17953699.post-46766214567159518452009-03-27T16:00:00.001-06:002009-03-27T16:00:11.951-06:00(E&E)² tales: The summit of Mount Mabu [2/4]<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/Scv47yWkW3I/AAAAAAAAA68/T6Ohh2BgDOA/s1600-h/482780435_e1758b9956_o.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/Scv47yWkW3I/AAAAAAAAA68/T6Ohh2BgDOA/s400/482780435_e1758b9956_o.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317617491053402994" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;line-height:200%"><span style="line-height: 200%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Olivia squeezed lemon juice over her calamari salad. It was a quiet evening at Arnold’s on Kloof Street, which by Cape Town standards meant the average wait for a table was around 15 minutes.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:27.0pt;line-height: 200%"><span style="line-height: 200%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">‘How’s the ostrich?’ she enquired, absently licking a finger.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:27.0pt;line-height: 200%"><span style="line-height: 200%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">‘Rather tender,’ Alan responded, still mulling over the expression on Daniel’s face when he’d dropped him off in Observatory on his way over. ‘Although, I’d prefer it more well-done. I never claimed to have a very sophisticated palate.’</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:27.0pt;line-height: 200%"><span style="line-height: 200%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">‘Apparently, they suspect arson. Too many bushfires at too many locations to just be random. Such a shame. All those grapes. All that wine.’</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:27.0pt;line-height: 200%"><span style="line-height: 200%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">‘I wonder if it will spread all the way to the Hex River Valley. They have some really excellent vineyards there,’ Alan sighed. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:27.0pt;line-height: 200%"><span style="line-height: 200%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">‘Oh, that’s where I grew up!’ Olivia brightened. ‘De Doorns, with the snowy peaks of the Hex River Mountains all around!’ </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:27.0pt;line-height: 200%"><span style="line-height: 200%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">‘Now I understand how you got into botany. There’s a lot of cool stuff that grows there and nowhere else.’</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:27.0pt;line-height: 200%"><span style="line-height: 200%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">‘And now you understand why I’m totally crazy and you shouldn’t be going on collecting trips with me. My dad always said I had a little bit of The Witch in me,’ Olivia said, bringing a glass to her lips.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:27.0pt;line-height: 200%"><span style="line-height: 200%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">‘Witch?’ Alan asked, perplexed.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:27.0pt;line-height: 200%"><span style="line-height: 200%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">‘You know. It’s a folktale. The Witch of the Hex River Mountains.’ Olivia squinted at Alan’s apparent ignorance. ‘It’s even got an orchid in it. Surely you must have heard it before. No?’ So the evening progressed with Olivia telling Alan the story as her lips were stained successively darker shades with glass after glass of Pinotage.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;line-height:200%"><span style="line-height: 200%; "><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;line-height:200%"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="line-height: 200%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">In the whole of the Hex River Valley, there was no-one as beautiful as Eliza, the only daughter of Jacob Meiring. Charmed suitors came to the Meiring farm from far and wide to court her, but none could win her hand. The truth is that Eliza was too proud. Because of her conceit, countless men left the Meiring farm with empty hands and broken hearts. One day, a young man named Filip appeared. He was different from the rest. He sat upright on his horse. His hands knew what hard work felt like. He had a clear laugh, clear as snowmelt. Eliza knew that this was the man she had been waiting for. But she was still proud, and therefore decided to send Filip on a quest. She said, 'Pick the red disa orchid that only grows on the Matroosberg, the highest peak in the Hex River Mountains. Bring it to me so that I may know you are worthy of my love.' Without a moment's hesitation, Filip set off on his mission, riding upright on his horse towards the gravelly mountain paths. He tied his horse to a wild almond and continued on foot. Filip climbed the steep slopes with a smile, higher and higher. When he thought of Eliza, his laughter was clear, like snowmelt. Filip climbed up the dangerous mountains, his hands cut by the jagged rocks. Then he saw the red disa blooming above him on the sheer cliffs. 'At last. Come, my bride awaits,' he whispered, hugging the rock. But as he reached up and snapped the stem of the orchid, the rock beneath his feet crumbled and he fell to his doom. When Eliza heard of Filip's death, she became delirious. Her father locked her in the attic of the farm house, but to no avail. In her grief she found inhuman strength: one night she broke the shutters from the window and escaped, her despair driving her barefoot up the mountain paths. She was never seen again. Everyone who worked the Meiring farm searched and searched, but the only trace that remained of Eliza was a red shawl, snagged in a wild almond at the foot of the Matroosberg. Not long after, the people of the valley started talking, as people do. 'Her beauty bewitched a young man. Her pride cost a young man his life,' they said. 'The witch got what she deserved,' they agreed. 'Her soul will have no rest as she searches for her Filip, even though she will never find him.' Even today, whenever the wind howls around the peaks of the Hex River Mountains, it does so in the anguished wail of a witch. And when the moon glimmers on the first snows of winter, they say that Eliza Meiring walks the mountain paths of the Hex River Valley.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;line-height:200%"><span style="line-height: 200%; "><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16px; line-height: normal; "><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; "></span></span></span></b></span></span></span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;line-height:200%"><span style="line-height: 200%; "><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia; line-height: normal; "><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Image credit:</span></span></span></b><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> Hex River Valley © </span></span><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/8104405@N06/482780435/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Mike</span></span></a></span></span></span></o:p></span></p>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16532403180123519635noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17953699.post-78767259470513746952009-03-26T14:10:00.014-06:002009-03-26T15:30:59.418-06:00(E&E)² tales: The summit of Mount Mabu [1/4]<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/ScvzTt6HvxI/AAAAAAAAA60/CSh_sLl18Yg/s1600-h/3363162739_489396b003_o.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 200px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/ScvzTt6HvxI/AAAAAAAAA60/CSh_sLl18Yg/s400/3363162739_489396b003_o.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317611305107439378" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;line-height:200%"><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Alan awoke to find his pillowcase covered in blood. Harsh mid-morning sun streamed in through the window. Daniel must have opened the blinds before he left for work. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:27.0pt;line-height: 200%"><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Alan tightened his grip on the toothbrush as he calculated that this was his fourth nocturnal nosebleed of the year. The first quarter at UCT was still six weeks away. He rinsed the razor under the tap as the reporter on 567 CapeTalk mentioned that Sir Lowry’s Pass was closed to all tourist traffic because of choking smoke. There were fires everywhere. From the historic Vergelegen wine estate in Somerset West to the township of Khayelitsha out on The Flats, it seemed that the whole peninsula would eventually succumb to the blaze. The hot and windy weather was set to continue all through January. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:27.0pt;line-height: 200%"><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Using the wipers, Alan removed a fine layer of ash that had accumulated on his windshield, before driving up to Kirstenbosch. Table Mountain looked much like it always did, but there was something weird about the light today, as if everything was observed through a layer of insipid tea.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:27.0pt;line-height: 200%"><span style=""><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;line-height:200%"><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The modest 1930s architecture of the Compton Herbarium hugged the lower terraces of Kirstenbosch. It held almost a million specimens in its collection, mostly of South African plants, but also a few important species from other parts of the world.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:27.0pt;line-height: 200%"><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">‘Dr. Schroder,’ Alan repeated to the young woman at the front desk. ‘I have an appointment with Dr. Kennon at ten-thirty.’</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:27.0pt;line-height: 200%"><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">‘Ooh… okay,’ she said eventually, lifting the receiver. ‘I’ll check to see if she’s in. Please sign the visitor’s book and have a seat.’ The girl seemed really young and a tad overanxious. Must be a first year student on a summer internship, he thought to himself. They always end up spending most of it indoors, making copies and manning the front desk.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:27.0pt;line-height: 200%"><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">‘Alan, after all the emails it’s great to finally get a chance to talk in person.’ Olivia Kennon appeared in the doorway. ‘Although, I </span></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">have</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> actually heard you speak, at that sustainable development conference in Johannesburg last year.’</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:27.0pt;line-height: 200%"><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">‘I hope that didn’t bore you too much. I tend to go off on tangents at times.’</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:27.0pt;line-height: 200%"><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">‘No-no, on the contrary, the tangents were a welcome break from all those boring talks on carbon credits and environmental policy. Please.’ Olivia showed Alan to a small conference table in the library, which smelled of crumbling monographs and ozone from the photocopier. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:27.0pt;line-height: 200%"><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">They started drawing up equipment lists and designing an itinerary. It was an impromptu thing, this fieldtrip, hardly more than a month or so in the planning. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:27.0pt;line-height: 200%"><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">‘So the main thing I want to do when we get to the site is to collect DNA samples and herbarium material of </span></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Polystachya songaniensis</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">.’</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:27.0pt;line-height: 200%"><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">‘That’s a terrestrial orchid, isn’t it?’ interrupted Alan. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:27.0pt;line-height: 200%"><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">‘Yes,’ continued Olivia. ‘Now, it’s known from Malawian accessions, but has never been reported from Mozambique at all. I believe that genetic analysis of this little orchid would provide me with supporting evidence that all of the isolated islands of Afromontane forest used to be connected in one large megaforest that pretty much covered all of south-eastern Africa.’</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:27.0pt;line-height: 200%"><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">‘That is, until the climate changed and all the species had to seek refuge on the cool, wet mountaintops.’</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:27.0pt;line-height: 200%"><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">‘Exactly.’ Olivia was thrilled that Alan saw the connection. ‘Oh, and I also promised a colleague in Pretoria I’d collect some lichens for him. He’s quite excited.’</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:27.0pt;line-height: 200%"><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">‘I’m just excited to get out there. Ever since those Darwin Initiative guys from Kew discovered it, I’ve been dying to go and do a proper census of all the caudiciform succulents, perhaps with a </span></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">slight</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> emphasis on the Euphorbiaceae.’ Alan grinned.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:27.0pt;line-height: 200%"><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">‘Should have known you’d be interested in all that weird stuff.’ They tried to stifle their academic chuckles in the quiet of the library. ‘Are you going to involve any of your students?’</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:27.0pt;line-height: 200%"><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">‘No, it’s too short notice, really.’ Alan paused. ‘You realize we might get several papers out of this,’ he said, imagining the grants pouring in.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:27.0pt;line-height: 200%"><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">For more than two hours, the botanists talked excitedly, bouncing around ideas, debating dubious taxonomy, arguing about GPS receivers and the merits of different malaria prophylactics. Then, Olivia looked at her watch and said, ‘Well, Dr. Schroder, I am glad we had this opportunity to discuss our expedition. Unfortunately, I have a series of afternoon meetings I need to attend.’</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:27.0pt;line-height: 200%"><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">‘That’s always how it goes at the start of the year, I guess,’ Alan said, getting up from the table. ‘I suppose I should get to campus. I’m lecturing a second year course in plant diversity and I still need to draw up some sort of study guide.’ </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;text-indent:27.0pt;line-height: 200%"><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">‘Why don’t we continue this tomorrow over dinner?’ Olivia suggested. Alan found himself strangely attracted to Olivia, on a cerebral level. They shared an intellectual connection, something Alan felt had been lacking in his life lately. No matter how much Daniel seemed to care about him, he never </span></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">did</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> laugh at Alan’s science jokes.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align:justify;line-height:200%"><span style=""><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Image credit:</span></span></span></b><span style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> Cape Town Fire © </span></span><a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/web-design-cape-town/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Web Design Cape Town</span></span></a></span><span style="font-size:7.0pt;mso-bidi-Verdana","sans-serif"font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16532403180123519635noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17953699.post-22230323208548446762009-03-24T09:45:00.003-06:002009-03-24T09:49:35.855-06:00What was that?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/SckAz_SaQII/AAAAAAAAA6k/Xufrtu7qiPg/s1600-h/ChecherboardForest.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 321px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/SckAz_SaQII/AAAAAAAAA6k/Xufrtu7qiPg/s400/ChecherboardForest.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316781728249561218" /></a><br />In the dark of the forest, something stirs...<br /><br /><strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Image:</span></strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> 'Checkerboard Forest' © <a href="http://www.desertart.co.za/">Keith Alexander</a></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16532403180123519635noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17953699.post-46986447707716735472009-02-08T21:42:00.010-07:002009-02-08T22:29:07.016-07:00Whale fall: an assignment of sorts<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/SY-_FDWAP0I/AAAAAAAAA5s/F8XFx4HCLbk/s1600-h/WhaleFall.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/SY-_FDWAP0I/AAAAAAAAA5s/F8XFx4HCLbk/s320/WhaleFall.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300665379956211522" /></a><br />There is much to do in fleshspace. I have enrolled in a creative science writing course this semester. One of our first assignments has been to write some poetry with scientific subject matter. So here is my first attempt, inspired by the creatures that call whale falls (sunken whale corpses) home. I haven't done this in a good while, so please be gentle in your comments. Constructive criticism is more than welcome, of course.<br /><br /><blockquote>WHALE FALL<br /><br />stirred by this beautiful benthic<br />metropolis of meat<br />the glaucous eye of the sleeper shark<br />trails a parasitic tear<br />- a lacrimous crustacean<br /><br />the opaque unseeing eye of<br />the shark surveys this sunken Atlantis<br />a city slick with sleek silver things<br />slimy hagfish; one leucistic octopus<br />probing the blubber with tentative tentacles<br /><br />the floral fimbriae of <em>Osedax</em> bloom<br />from brood sacs embedded in bone<br />and the fractured skull of this<br />clam-encrusted carcass currently<br />serves as headquarters for the grenadier<br /><br />a curiously noble gesture, then, when the<br />Leviathan leaves the light for the last time<br />and descends to these darkest depths<br />and its cold cetacean body becomes real estate<br />for blind things made of teeth</blockquote><br /><br /><strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">Image credit:</span></strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"> © 2005 </span><a href="http://www.mbari.org/twenty/osedax.htm"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">MBARI</span></a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16532403180123519635noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17953699.post-34970651836873579142008-12-24T11:43:00.005-07:002008-12-24T11:48:02.264-07:00Peace and respite<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/SVKDS778zrI/AAAAAAAAA5I/mni2Y_ntrtY/s1600-h/2124292199_066645425e.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 319px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Qsi1wEZX1I8/SVKDS778zrI/AAAAAAAAA5I/mni2Y_ntrtY/s400/2124292199_066645425e.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5283429674209038002" /></a><br />I'm off for a brief visit to the land of my birth, south of the Equator. Hope to see you all again in 2009.<br /><br />Image by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/raparker/">TahoeSunsets</a>.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16532403180123519635noreply@blogger.com4