It has been a bad year—for CIWY, for Bolivia and for the world. By September 2019, Bolivia will have lost nearly 2.4 million hectares of forest and savanna due to wildfires. This is the same amount of rainforest destroyed as in Brazil, despite Bolivia being one-eighth the size. On top of this, and perhaps in part because of this, Bolivia’s president Evo Morales (stalwartly holding on to power since 2006) got caught engaging in election fraud and went into exile in Mexico. There were riots and fighting across the country between the collas—Evo’s diehard supporters, the coca farmers, Indigenous groups from the altiplano—and the cambas: the richer, lowland communities, accusing Evo of corruption, trickery and election rigging.
Machía is a sanctuary that a decade ago used to depend on fifty to eighty volunteers during high season, but this year, there have been months where Machía didn’t have a single volunteer. Ambue Ari, during Christmas 2018, had three volunteers. Our third sanctuary, Jacj Cuisi (land of dreams), often has no volunteers at all, even though it’s near Rurrenabaque, one of the most popular jungle tourist spots. We have no fewer animals to care for, only fewer people, tighter budgets and less land. It has been confirmed that the government will be expanding the road that goes through Machía, so busy now it often takes twenty minutes for Nena to cross it, going between her spider monkeys and her house on the other side of the road. There are just so many trucks. This new road will destroy a large portion of Machía’s infrastructure, killing swathes of jungle and leaving countless animals without homes. We’re trying to find a way to move the animals in our care to Jacj Cuisi, but it’s a mammoth task.
Every year, it seems that Western science delves a little bit further into the different sentient intelligences that human beings share this planet with. Catching up, just a little bit, with what many Indigenous communities have known for a long time. It’s been proven by scientists, for example, that birds can see Earth’s magnetic fields, and this is how they migrate. Every single cow has its own unique moo. An octopus not only uses tools but stores them for future use. The nocturnal African dung beetle orientates itself by the Milky Way. And pumas are not solitary carnivores. As it turns out, in the wild they exist in complex social networks, spreading over great distances, which include such friendly social interactions as sharing food.
Despite this, though, the illegal wildlife trade just keeps on growing. It’s a multibillion-dollar industry and has only increased with the advent of social media—where photos of a “cute” baby puma doing “cute” baby things will go viral instantaneously. In Bolivia—and of course, across the world—there are countless animals and humans who are homeless. Or homed in dire conditions. And there are the animals and humans that Nena and the parque struggle to care for every day, because we don’t have the space, we don’t have the staff, we don’t have the volunteers, we don’t have the support from the government, we don’t have the money, or we simply are just too fucking tired.
I’m in my little house in the parque packing my bags to go back home. Wayra has been in her “new” enclosure for almost two years now and I’ve been lucky enough to be here again, spending several months with her and helping out where I can. I swallow the guilt about the flights because the alternative is that I do not see her. I try to rationalise it, try to make it sound better in my head. This is the only flight I’ll take all year! I’ll plant trees to make up for it! I’ll balance it out, I swear . . . but really, the truth is, I’d just be heartbroken if I didn’t come. If I couldn’t see her again.
I’m not alone in how much I return. But there are many, of course, who don’t return so much. Many who didn’t return at all. This doesn’t make the love they found here any less. Each one could write a book, and I wish I knew how many people have come to the parque, for two weeks or two years, and changed the trajectory of their lives because of it. I can name hundreds who, as a result, have become vets, nurses, environmental scientists, biologists, lawyers, social and environmental campaigners, activists and organisers. I, in turn, became an artist and a writer. I ran ONCA in Brighton for six years until I finally realised that after the parque, I’d never be happy in a city. I moved to a little Scottish island with my rescue dog, Nelo, who is quite a lot like Wayra, and who has found life on the island to be healing, although sometimes—like Wayra—he still finds it impossible to forget.
ONCA, at the time of writing, is thriving. It’s run by a team who blows my mind every day and I love them with all my heart. They have taught me, when I’m sad, to remember that the boundaries of our worlds can stretch, as long as our imaginations are broad enough. That is the hope that I find in the parque too. It is a place that wouldn’t have existed without the imagination of those first Bolivian volunteers, their bravery and force of will. It was built not with a pointy stick, a sword, a singular hero. But more as a bag, a carrier, a vessel. This is a thought taken from one of the writers who’s helped me process this journey. Ursula K. Le Guin. In her visionary essay from 1986, “The Carrier Bag Theory of Fiction,” she talks about how it might be possible to change the way stories are told—moving away, perhaps, from the violent power of singular heroes. Towards collaboration and compost, cooperation and connection. The parque, for me, is a place where these things come together. Where we “compost” side by side, and where not just people but creatures—whatever species, whatever their story, whichever way they are broken—find homes. Where we all just bob along together to make the connections that matter. Because it’s the connections that make the difference, right?
My bag is packed, and it is half the size it was when I arrived. It contains the same things I bring every year. The leggings, the shirts, full of holes and stained, smelly no matter how many times I wash them, but soft. A few silly eighties jackets, great against the mozzies. My head net, an old friend, and my head torch. Some bras. Absent are the jars of peanut butter I’ve lived on over the past few months, the presents I brought for Doña Lucia, and all the pills, ointments, vet equipment. The turmeric for the cats, glucosamine, milk powder. I pick up my feather-light bag and before heading out the door, I take a last long look at my room. Hopefully I will be back by around this time next year. Hopefully I won’t be too late for a bit of swamp. And hopefully, just hopefully, Wayra will still be here, waiting for me at the turn of the trail, where the jungle turns bottle-green.
My hand-drawn map of the parque.
Teanji, a rescued coati (tejón in Bolivia), patrolling camp in 2007.
Faustino, a howler monkey, on his favourite seat above the dorms in 2007. (Photo by Sarah M. Hanners)
The road outside camp after a rainstorm in 2007.
Panchita, a rescued semi-wild peccary (chancho in Bolivia), taking a well-deserved nap outside the aviary in 2007.
My drawings of Coco and Faustino, camp’s resident howler monkeys, rescued from life in the pet trade.
Lorenzo, a rescued blue-and-yellow macaw, enjoying time outside the aviary in 2007.
Matt Damon, a rescued rhea (pìo in Bolivia), enjoying a stroll around his enclosure in 2018. (Photo by Nicole Marquez Aguirre)
Wayra on her “throne,” watching us arrive at her cage, in 2007.
Me and Wayra in 2017. (Photo by Lucas Ring)
My drawings of Wayra, one of the many pumas rescued from the illegal pet trade, living at Sanctuary Ambue Ari.
My map of Wayra’s walking trails.
Jaguarupi was rescued as a baby. Here he is enjoying one of his many jungle walks. (Photo by Robert Heazlewood)
Jaguaru, once a pet, now cared for at Ambue Ari, taking a nap on his canoe on the Río San Pablo in 2009. (Photo by David Magrane)
Vanesso, an ocelot, was rescued as a baby from the city. Here he is on his laguna walking trail at Ambue Ari. (Photo by Sarah M. Hanners)
My drawing of Sama, a rescued jaguar and a friend.
Sama in 2008, enjoying the freedom of a large enclosure that was built for him in 2007.
Wayra taking a swim with me in her laguna in 2009.
Stars a
bove camp. (Photo by Jean-Philippe Miller)
A sunrise picnic on the rocks in Santa María. (Photo by Scott Fletcher)
Fires spreading across Ambue Ari. (Photo by Benjamin Portal)
Coco and Faustino, living semi-wild in camp, howling at dawn in 2007. (Photo by Sarah M. Hanners)
My drawing of Big Red, a blind elderly macaw rescued from being a pet. He lived in the aviary for many years before dying peacefully in 2019.
My drawing of Bitey, a white-throated toucan, another long-term resident of the aviary.
My drawing of Teanji on his favourite branch. He lived semi-wild in camp before moving to a huge enclosure in 2018.
Camp in 2019. Looking out to the road, past the office, the showers, and my old mural of Coco. (Photo by Scott Fletcher)
Wilber “Osito” Antonio and Morocha the spider monkey in 2008.
Layered footprints on Wayra’s trails.
Wayra using my leg as a pillow in 2019.
Wayra relaxing in her sunny spot at her laguna in 2008.
Wayra’s first day in her new enclosure in 2017. (Photo by Antoine Mellon)
Wayra, perfect in every way.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Ever since I first visited Ambue Ari, I’ve been writing this book in my head. It’s a love letter to Wayra, to the jungle, and to the place and the people that changed my life.
I would never have gone to Bolivia, and I would never have met Wayra, if it hadn’t been for my parents. I would never have continued to go without the support of my whole family, and my friends. You know who you are. There are not enough words to say thank you.
To all my first readers—my collaborators, listeners and my friends. My mum, first and last and a thousand times in the middle. Jo, my sister. Sarah, Karen, Persephone, Alex, Lucas and Jon. And to Nelo, always.
To Nena. It just isn’t possible to express everything that you do, and all the love that you have in your heart. Thank you, Nena. Thank you more than I can say. Thank you for creating this home, for keeping it safe, and for never ever giving up.
To Oso, Germán, Jaime, Agrippina and Eugenia. Germáncito, we love you, and you will always be in our hearts.
To Doña Lourdes, for love given always and without question.
To todos los bomberos, the firefighters and protectors.
To every single one of Wayra’s volunteers and friends.
To my wonderful agent, Samar, and editor Liza, for your unfailing patience and belief in me, and this book.
To Wayra, Coco and Faustino, Panchita, Lorenzo, Big Red, Flighty, Bitey, Bambi, Rudolfo, Herbie, Tony, Gordo, Sama, Lazy Cat, Leo, Sayan, Koru, Juan, Carlos, Rupi, Ru, Katie, Amira, Inti, Wara, Yassi, Engine, OB, Kevo, Luci, Marley, Elsa, Roy, Flashman, Capitán, Gato, Balu, Iskra, Matt Damon, Mundi, Bruce, Panapana, Panini, Teanji, Tess, Mimi, Angela, Beepers, Vlad, Biton, Romeo and Juliet. And to all the others I cannot and haven’t named.
To Vanesso, who died of tumours in his heart while I was writing this ending.
And lastly, but never last, to the jungle.
Wild animals are not pets. They should live in their own habitat with their own species. Maybe there is a future where no animal is kept in a cage. Maybe somewhere, places like CIWY will not need to exist, and books like this won’t need to be written. But for now, proceeds from this book are going to support CIWY’s work fighting the illegal wildlife trade, supporting local communities and providing safe homes to those who need them. If you too would like to help, either by volunteering or making a donation, please visit CIWY’s website: www.intiwarayassi.org.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2020 Eva Coleman
Laura Coleman was born in Sussex, in the south of England. She studied English literature and art history at university and received a master’s in art history. In 2007, she went to Bolivia and joined the NGO Comunidad Inti Wara Yassi (CIWY), which manages three wildlife sanctuaries and gives homes to animals rescued from illegal wildlife trafficking. It was this work, and the communities and the stories that she found there, that inspired her to start the Brighton-based organisation ONCA. (Panthera onca is the scientific name for jaguar.) Bridging social and environmental justice issues with creativity, ONCA promotes positive change by facilitating inclusive spaces for creative learning, artist support, story sharing, and community solidarity. In 2018, Laura moved to the Small Isles in Scotland with her friend, a dog called Nelo. She lives and writes by the sea, whilst still being on the board of ONCA and Friends of Inti Wara Yassi, the UK-based charity that supports CIWY’s work.
The Puma Years: A Memoir Page 31