2024-2025 BLOG POST

Fieldwork in the Heart of South America: a Broken Truck and a Jaguar

Read this story listening to “Sonidos del Chaco Seco” by Juan Pablo Culasso on Spotify.

During my field work in 2023, my team and I had what someone would call “a full Chaco experience” all in one day -because that is the Chaco- full intensity and beauty at all the same time, sometimes faster than you can process. This is the story of that day. 

Often overlooked or simply forgotten, the heart of South America is home to one of the most remarkable yet understudied ecoregions. The Chaco Forest is a sprawling dry forest that is twice the size of France and extends into Paraguay, Bolivia, Argentina. A dry forest, you might wonder—what exactly does that mean?

Imagine a place where the sun reigns supreme, pouring its light over a vast plain that seems to stretch into infinity. Here, the land breathes dry heat, and the horizon illuminates under the weight of cloudless skies. This is the dry forest—a place where life has learned to thrive against the odds, sculpted by long periods of pressing heat and little rain, where biodiversity tells a story of resilience whispering through thorny trees and strong shrubs that stretch their roots deep into the earth, seeking hidden reservoirs of water. The soil is hard, cracked—broken, some might say—where its earthy color contrasts with the washed-out green of quebracho and algarrobo trees. The Chaco is not an easy landscape; for many, its beauty does not reveal itself immediately. However, for those willing to see—and feel—in this place, every plant and every animal tells a story of struggle, adaptation, and balance.

Cerro Leon, Paraguayan Chaco. Photo: Cara Pratt, WWF-Paraguay

Paradoxically, venturing into the hot Chaco forest compels us to use gear that resembles armor more than anything else. Heavy and thick shirts and pants, socks over pants as a desperate effort to avoid the bite of a lurking tick, and “snake chaps” become a must, because it’s not only the snakes that bite, but the thorns also latch onto our clothes like a thief’s grasping hand. Sometimes -I think- our field gear is far from charismatic, it is rather a sharp contrast to the charming image of a field biologist that one might envision, with breathable shirts and shorts.

Andres Camps

Andres Camp

Our day started like any other, 4:30am, waking, breakfast, prepare snacks, prepare the equipment, start the truck, load the essentials: water, ice (if we are lucky to still have some), first aid equipment for the team and truck, and emergency phone. We were ready. As we hear the endemic “black-legged seriema” we witnessed the sun rise as we drove to our field site, the windows rolled down to savor the only moments with a pleasant breeze, before the pressing heat would redden our cheeks. Bouncing in the truck with every pothole that shapes the dirt road, a conspiratorial silence is felt as we exchange glances among those who have traveled roads like these too many times to count, signaling that this route could bring complications. “We can’t return too late; we need to outpace the sunset”- one team member says.

Andres Camps – Samu’u trunk

Andres Camps: White quebracho fruit

We reach our field site and, as we venture into the forest, the air feels heavy, and the scent of the “palo santo” tree fills every breath. Silence dominates the landscape, broken only by the sound of dry branches and the song of a stripe-backed antbird announcing our intrusive presence in the forest. The quebracho trees stand firm, watching as you carve our way through with a machete, which rebounds against the unbreakable trunks, making a sound like tolling bells. The old guayacan tree seems to laugh as it sees us trying to advance. The Samu’u trees offer their thorny bark for support, and as one tries to catch a breath, we can’t help but to look up and admire their splendor—their vast, bulging trunks that give them the name “palo borracho,” or “drunken stick,” perhaps due to their belly-like shape. The cacti, with trunks so thick they resemble trees, have defied time and climate, some even displaying a modest white flower that stands out among the washed-out green, almost yellow landscape. Between the stillness air and a forest that pulses life, we forge ahead.

Andres Camp: Samu’u tree

Andres Camps: Cactus with flower

Andres Camps: An open trail during sampling

We try to advance in a straight line, but it’s an impossible mission; with trees, shrubs and cacti acting like barricades, they force us to take extra steps to reach our desired sites. With every few steps, we look back to sketch the landscape and our path into our memory. Yet, as if by magic, as if the forest wants to swallow us, everything appears untouched when we look back, despite the trail we’ve blazed. However, we’ve learned to mark our way more astutely, adding a touch of fluorescent pink ribbons to the scenery. Finally, we reach our site into the forest, drop our heavy backpacks and, and as we lift our heads to drink a much desired and deserved zip of water, our eyes meet the magnificent canopy, dancing like it is in slow motion. We take a few moments to decide the best place to install our equipment, which is includes remotely triggered camera traps to capture wildlife pictures and acoustic recorders to gather information on human disturbance. We look for signs of animal paths and a trunk that could serve us to mount the cameras and monitor, and once there is consensus, we take a heavy breath and start. As the days go by, we become more efficient, everyone knows exactly what to do: clean shrubs, write down coordinates, save GPS track (because we need to come back!), mount the cameras, trigger cameras to test, check date and time, secure camera, gather our stuff, look around to find our fluorescent pink ribbons, and walk back to the car as we admire how we manage to forge into this thick forest. Sometimes it would take hours just to do a couple of meters into the forest. We repeat this endeavor 2 or 3 times a day, we end up exhausted. Field-work exhausted.  

Andres Camps – installing equipment Photo credit: Jimmy Emhart

Andres Camps – installing acoustic monitors Photo credit: Jimmy Emhart

Andres Camps – installing camera traps Photo credit: Jimmy Emhart

On this day, we agreed to finish rather early. Overwhelmed by the heat, but with a feeling of satisfaction for having completed our task at one of the most challenging sites, we began our return. We are only a little over 150 km from our resting site, but with the cracked roads that slowed us down, we were looking at 3 hours return drive. As we rolled down the windows, the warm breeze of this 40 C-day that was coming to an end brushed against our faces. We drove at a slow pace – the road won’t allow us to go any faster- enjoying our return, turning our heads every now and then admiring the flocks of blue-fronted parrots returning to rest, as well. Feeling more relaxed, and with ice to spare, we could finally enjoy our “terere”.  

The road began to worsen, and the truck started showing its first signs that we needed to slow down even more. Drinking tereré became more challenging with each bump. We exchanged glances at every sound of a loose gear we heard while watching the sun set, painting the silhouette of the cacti. The dim light of the impending sunset made our journey difficult, and suddenly, as if by surprise, our heads hit the roof of the truck—a loud clatter of loose ends alerted us that we had fallen into a pothole. The truck came to a halt. Silence flooded the cabin as a look of concern appeared on each of our faces. It’s getting dark, we need to get out of here. After a few grueling minutes, we managed to get out of the pothole. We assessed the situation and realized that something was loose at the bottom of the truck. We nervously improvised a temporary solution with the tape and ropes we had, enough at least to get to our resting site and look for a mechanic the next day. Finally, we managed to continue.

The road seemed endless. For some reason, the truck’s headlights were no longer enough, so, like good improvisers, we sat on the windows and aimed our headlamps outside. The contribution was minimal, but it felt necessary. The sunset became more evident, as the “Chaco chachalaca” announced the imminent reign of the moon. One of us, the one with the sharpest vision, began to furrow his brow and hesitantly mentioned: -“There are fresh cat tracks here. Stop, let’s take a look!”, he urged. Uncomfortable with the request, knowing we might not be able to start the truck again, curiosity and the possibility of experiencing a first encounter overwhelmed us. We stopped the truck. Silence returned, but this time it was heavier. The tracks were fresh. The tracks were of a cat. The tracks were of a jaguar. Excitement took over, only to be overwhelmed by a bit of uncertainty. Did we pass it? Did it see us and hide? Is it watching us?

We took a few minutes to explore our surroundings, one of us already with a finger on the camera shutter. Sighs of disappointment. “Let’s go, before it gets too dark,” we decided. We got back in, and after a few attempts, we started the truck and continued. It didn’t take many seconds, and even fewer meters, before a sudden stop surprised us. A finger pointed decisively at the path, “There it is! Do you see it?!”

The majestic jaguar was sharing our path. In silent agreement, the truck stopped. We all watched in disbelief at our first encounter with the king of this forest. Its heavy gait, responsible for the beautiful and distinct tracks, became a delight. He stopped, observed us with the deepest gaze we had ever experienced, only to disappear into the vegetation, leaving the landscape empty as if nothing had happened. An experience that was only a few seconds seemed like several minutes.

As we arrived under the reign of the moon, the night was marked by the endless repetition of the details that led us to this moment. We thought that the Chaco planned this, we were convinced that it delayed us for a few hours only to allow us to coincide with this moment. And so, thanks to our mishaps, we all received the grand prize, the most awaited encounter.

Some skeptics might say, “If there’s no photo, it didn’t happen.” Luckily for us, there is a picture. It did happen.

Majestic Jaquar Photo credit: Alejandro Morinigo

Learning from Communities in the Peruvian Amazon

Recently, someone asked me about my interest in working with communities. Two minutes into my passionate ramble about understory antbird species assemblages (I regret nothing, they’re amazing), I realized they meant communities of the human variety. You know, people. Their question referred to the fieldwork for my latest thesis chapter, which has been an unexpected but enlightening dive into the social dimensions of conservation.

Working directly with local people is, to my shame, almost completely new to me. I’ve been on plenty of projects with local biologists, experts and guides, but rarely more than that. The deeper I delve into it, the more I’m beginning to think that understanding human communities is far more complex than untangling the intricate interactions of an Amazonian forest. Of course, it’s also just as important.

From Birds to People

My fieldwork takes me to the Peruvian Amazon, a few boat hours south of Iquitos, Loreto’s chaotic capital. It’s always a relief to leave the motorbike taxi horns behind and glide along the vine-draped meanders of the Tahuayo and Yanayacu rivers, where rush hour consists of the cacophonous calls of blue-and-yellow Macaws and the occasional passing fishing boat. Most of my research revolves around acoustic monitoring, surveying bird communities during the seasonal flooding months between February and May. While this work is providing fascinating ecological and phenological insights, I wanted to tackle something with a more direct conservation impact.

Enter the Wattled Curassow (Crax globulosa) —a charismatic and endangered bird species that inhabits the seasonally flooded “várzea” forests around Muyuna Lodge, an ecotourism hub. I’ll admit, my initial reasoning for studying the curassow was something like “Wow, look at that thing!” Really though, look at it. It’s a turkey sized bird with a quiff and a red blob on its face that spends most of its time in the canopy of flooded forests. It’s objectively cool. By all accounts it’s also objectively, tragically delicious. Thankfully, nearby villagers no longer hunt the curassows, relying on other income sources. As weird, wonderful and rare as this bird is, the project quickly tapped into something much bigger, pushing me to truly engage with local communities and learn about the intricate social dynamics tied to conservation in the area.

Navigating Lodge-Community Dynamics

The lodge recently established a partner non-profit foundation aimed at supporting scientific research and fostering closer ties between conservation and local communities. This is where things get complicated. The nearby villages of San Juan and Ayacucho have long been connected to the lodge through employment and education initiatives. However, during my initial meetings with community members, it became clear that there’s a lingering tension. Some villagers perceive the ecolodge’s efforts as uneven, favoring its own interests over those of the broader community. The foundation employs locals and funds education programs, but these concerns clearly highlight a deeper layer of mistrust. Given the long and, at times, horrific history of outsiders coming in and generating income in the area (think rubber booms), this ingrained mistrust of ecotourism and fear of exploitation is more than warranted. I walked into the first community meeting thinking that our goal was to sell the scientific merit of camera traps and acoustic monitors, and present the training and educational opportunities that the project offers. Wrong, of course. Within minutes, the true goal became clear: reassurance.

The villagers I spoke with were polite but firm in their objections. They questioned how my work would benefit their communities and whether it would perpetuate existing inequalities. Luckily, I was not alone. Santiago, the head of the foundation, and Luis, a respected local leader, played crucial roles in bridging cultural gaps and interpreting our proposals in terms that resonated with community members. It took several more meetings, but we ended up with a plan and a list of participants.

Lessons Learned (and Still Learning)

This experience has been humbling, to say the least. As a biologist, I’m used to thinking about conservation in terms of species and ecosystems. Sitting in a community meeting, however, and facing hard questions about equity and trust is an entirely different challenge. It has reshaped my understanding of the role of science in conservation and highlighted the critical importance of transparency and collaboration.

To address the concerns raised, I’ve started working closely with the Muyuna Foundation and several community leaders to better communicate the potential benefits of the project. We’re exploring ways to involve community members in fieldwork, from data collection to educational workshops about the Wattled Curassow’s ecological role and conservation significance. These steps are small, but they’re a start toward building trust and ensuring that conservation efforts align with local priorities.

Looking Ahead

This chapter of my research really represents a pilot study of sorts, but I’m optimistic about where it’s heading. I’ve come to see the challenges of community engagement as opportunities for growth—both personally and professionally. Working with people may never feel as straightforward as analyzing terabytes of passive acoustic data, but it’s teaching me important lessons about the importance of connectedness in conservation, about humility. Oh, and about advanced boating manoeuvres.

I’ll be back in Peru in February. I’m excited to see how this project evolves and to share its progress. And camera trap videos, because who doesn’t love those?