Seychelles: Island Conservation Volunteer

October - December 2018

"A pile of rocks covered with some bushes" - A description of the Seychelles by Jean-Babtiste Malavois, 1787.

Week 1

Coming straight off the back of a three month volunteering stint in Greece, the nerves of solitary travel were well under control as we made our decent into Mahe international airport. The scene that welcomed me and my fellow passengers was one of tropical paradise and gave me a glimpse into the lifestyle I would become accustomed to over the next 2 months. Scattered islands surrounded by crystal clear turquoise water are separated by the deep blue of the open ocean. I was left in awe as the wheels squeaked down onto the reef flanked runway. A single night would be spent in Mahe before heading to the small island of Aride where I'd be one of 10 permanent inhabitants for the months to come.

An early morning run in Mahe gave me an opportunity to release some of the stresses of traveling and acclimatise to the oppressive heat and humidity of the tropics. The run wound through suburban Mahe where simple buildings are interspersed with coconut palmed sandy beaches, and green leafy forests extend up into the mountainous interior. While I was running past commuters, school children and convenient shops on the streets, massive eagle-sized fruit bats were making their way back to the trees after a night's foraging, red claw crabs were nit picking through mangrove swamps, and big ol' palm spiders were patiently waiting for their next meal to fly into their awaiting webs.

Getting one's self to the island of Aride from the Mainland involves two modes of transportation: Aeroplane and motorboat. The aeroplane was of the propeller driven, 20 seater variety, terminating on the island of Praslin. Although not the mainland, Praslin is big enough to have a local airport as well as grocery stores from which we would get provisions enough to last a fortnight. After stocking up on food supplies with the help of the islands Conservation Officer, Nasreen, all that was left to do was await disembarkment for Aride. This enabled me to make the acquaintance of a few more of my colleagues while mingling with the ever present inebriates who frequent the docks. These included Dyl, a fellow volunteer from Britain, Ethan, an island ranger and a local young Seychellois, and Jim the boatman, another local with a stone face and demeanour to match. Jim the boatman's aloof personality did not encourage questioning as to the time of departure and so there was nothing to do but grab a beer of the local brew and chat amongst ourselves. It was only when Jim the boatman made his way towards the boat and started donning his life jacket that the rest of us got the message and hastily did the same while piling into the rubber duck. The anchor was pulled in and placed in the plastic half drum in the bow and we were off, the 40cc outboard propelling us homeward. The 30 min boat trip was the perfect introduction as we made our approach to Aride: Flying fish gliding for tens of meters alongside the vessel, matching our speed and staying aloft for impossibly long; our vessel cresting swells and slamming back down in a wave of sea spray, soaking everything and making holding on a necessity; and me, a boyish grin on my face asking myself what life this is that I'm living?

Aride Island, the northern most granitic island in the Seychelles, is a small landmass of no more than 1.6km long and 400m wide. A beach runs along the south side and is the only access point to the island. On arrival, the first building one encounters is the boat shed: a roofed shelter at the back of the beach. The living quarters are behind this on a flat forested section known as the plateau which is flanked by steep hills. These hills form a half bowl around the plateau and run up onto a ridge before dropping back down into the ocean on the north side of the island. Rocky cliffs make up the remainder of the coastline and make for some dramatic convergences where rock meets sea. It was claimed by Mauritius for France in 1770 and named Aride, which means arid/dry. Although thankfully no rats made it onto the island due to the treacherous landing beach, early travellers brought goats, pigs, chickens and pineapples to supply food to passing ships. The domestic animals have since been eradicated for conservation purposes but the pineapples remain to this day and are enjoyed by the island's staff. Over the years the island was used as a coconut plantation as well as a source of seabirds and their eggs for consumption, which are somewhat of a delicacy in the Seychelles. In 1975 the island was declared a Special Reserve after being purchased for the Royal Society of Wildlife Trusts by Christopher Cadbury. It was then that scientific work began and has continued ever since. Aride is known for its seabirds and is a favourite destination of professional and amateur ornithologists alike. As a result the demographics of tour groups are often skewed towards the more advanced in years, a group which I later found, are far harder to bamboozle than us less wise.

My quarters on the island consisted of a bedroom with two single beds, a dresser and a ceiling fan, a bathroom with a cold water shower, toilet and sink, and an adjoining kitchen with a fridge, gas stove and all the necessary cooking equipment. We had electricity from about 9am until 1 am (weather dependent as it was solar powered), and running water although not potable. Water had to be boiled and filtered before drinking. A very slow internet connection could be acquired in the office when it was working, but since it wasn't for the first month of my residence due to the mainland installer being on leave, I would be going dark. I found the absence of social media and constant communication with the outside world quite liberating though, so I had not a single complaint.

The island inhabitants were the Island Manager (called Manager, a local Seychellois), a Conservation Officer (Nasreen, a fellow South African none the less), Two Rangers (Ethan and Clive, both locals), a maintenance man (Sunny, of Indian decent), the previously mentioned boatman (Jim the boatman) and 4 volunteers (yours truly, Dyl, Emma and Jazmine, all from Britain).

Along with us humans, the island is home to a plethora of plant and animal life. It is said to support over 1 million birds, a collection of reptilian and invertebrate life forms, and a fair amount of green flora. Not to mention the vast array of marine life going about their daily business just off shore. As one can imagine, in order to conserve all of this natural splendour a number of projects are a necessity. As a result, I would be assisting with a variety of conservation projects and act as tour guide to the hundreds of tourists who visit our island each month. With this in mind, the first week of my stay was spent soaking up as much information about the island as possible. As far as I was concerned, if a tour didn't end with everyone being completely fact, I had failed as a guide. I ended up taking quite a few tours, inspiring awe and merriment from all my guests.

It was during this phase of knowledge accumulation that I my interest in botany was piqued. I refused to believe that my enormous brain was not capable of identifying plants and spent much of my time walking the forests, book in hand, examining leaves, fruit and flowers. One of my favourites were the Ficus trees with their dramatic twisting trunks and Tarzan-esque aerial root systems. One of my first projects was to collect leaf and berry samples from all the known and unknown species, photograph them and send them to a real botanist for identification. If a new species was identified, I asked that it be called Ficus Mikus, honouring my dedication to botany and the pursuit of knowledge to understand the inner workings of the universe.

I have not heard back from them as of yet.

To delve a little deeper into the marine life surrounding the island I would snorkel whenever the opportunity presented itself. During my first three excursions I encountered three different Hawksbill turtles, a beautiful species with a comparatively small head, a sharp beak (from which it gets its name) and arguably the most intricate of shell patterns. The grace and ease with which these reptiles move through the water makes them a pleasure to observe. These same adjectives would not be used to describe their motion on land, however, as they awkwardly haul themselves up the beach in search of a nesting site. The highlight of the first week was a nesting Hawksbill mother after doing just this, successfully laying and burying a full nest of eggs (100+) amongst the flowering morning glory at the back of the beach.

My relationship with birds is questionable at best. In was during my stay in the Seychelles that this relationship started to decline into what it is today. A very strong culprit for this was the Seychelles Fody. Behaviour that at first may be interpreted as cute, almost immediately became annoying. These smart little cretins, given any fragment of a chance, would swoop into one's kitchen and steal food, demonstrating an incomprehensible level of teamwork with the use of, and I'm convinced of this, distraction manoeuvres. Incredible, admittedly, but their audacity was the first stain on the shirt of their species.

On the culinary side, life on the island was quite different to what I was accustomed to. Due to the capriciousness of the electricity supply, freezers could not be trusted and it was therefore foolish to purchase meat with the hope of it lasting two weeks. Most fresh produce for that matter would last a matter of hours in the tropical climate and meals therefore had to be planned accordingly. Boiled oats made a fine breakfast, sprinkled with salt or sugar, depending on how dangerous I was feeling that day. Toast with cheese or peanut butter or the like were the favoured lunch, which left dinner open for experimentation. Trial and error found pastas and curries were the most feasible options and in the weeks to come, Sunny, the ever-smiling Singh from India, would prove invaluable in his teachings in the culinary arts of his people.

Growing up with a much closer connection to nature than us city folk, the Seychellois are very knowledgeable on the medicinal and edible properties of the plants found on the islands. The same can be said about fish where different species are best enjoyed when prepared in particular ways. It was after my first island patrol, during which I learnt how to trawl with a handline behind the boat, that I was taught by Ethan how to de-scale, disembowel and cook my very first fish. During my months on the island I would learn the three different stages at which coconuts can be harvested depending on the taste and texture you require. I'd learn which tree produces fruit of a citrusy taste which can be used when seasoning fish, and where to find chillies on the island. I learnt that Rainbow Runners and Parrot Fish were my favourite when cooked on a braai, and that Rabbit fish are best enjoyed in a curry and have spines which can make you ill if not handled with care.

I would also learn where on the island to find the best pineapples and how to know when they are ripe for the picking. This was more through exploration than formal training, however. The first pineapple hunting expedition took place towards the end of my first week with my now best mates Dyl and Sunny. What started off as merrily a quest for pineapples turned into a full scale exploration James Cook himself would have been proud of. After following the path up the west hill we threw caution to the wind and turned straight into the forest, heading east along the crest of the island. After finding some ripe pineapples and seeking a place at which we could enjoy our bounty, Dyl led us in the direction of a view point he was sure was close. His hunch payed off and we soon emerged onto what I would come to call Frigate rock.

Situated some 100m above the ocean, the upper forest opened up to a rocky view point. On stepping out of the forest we were welcomed by hundred of frigates gliding on the thermals rising up the side of the island. The birds seemed to circle directly above us, their black bodies beautifully contrasted against the blue of the cloudless sky. It was truly mesmerising and I learnt it was far safer enjoyed seated as balance was easily lost when gazing skyward, the movement of the birds and the absence of a horizon tricking the mind. The rock then dropped off into a forest below which thinned towards the rocky coastline. As more of the forest came into view on approaching the precipice we found hundreds more frigates roosting in the canopy, making the tree tops alive with movement and bespeckling the green with the brilliant reds of their gullets. The scene was one of constant flux as birds came into land or took to the wing. Sitting on the edge, legs hanging over the side, the updraft cooling us, eating freshly picked pineapples with our hunting knives, I could get used to this.

5 hours after we started our expedition, we emerged on the eastern side of the south beach, drenched in sweat, covered in minor cuts and abrasions, and smiles on our faces.

Being 4 degrees south of the equator, Aride is in the heart of the tropics. I previously mentioned the oppressive heat of the Seychelles but didn't delve any deeper into this. I am not a stranger to heat having grown up in Johannesburg, South Africa and having lived in Durban where the mercury reaches the high 30's with 80%+ humidity in mid summer. You can therefore take my word for it when I say that the Seychelles heat is unrelenting. Although temperatures rarely go above 30 degrees, the humidity in stifling. The fall of night brings little respite and are spent with windows and doors open and ceiling fans set to Mach 1. Great care had to be taken to rinse when coming out of the sea and keep high chafe areas dry to avoid rashes caused by the wet and salty lifestyle.

It was the perfect end to the first week when I found myself drinking the local rum with my fellow volunteers while sitting on the floor of the porch, backs against the wall, shooting the breeze to the sound of a forest alive with seabirds.

Week 2

The promise of a group of over 100 tourist to our island turned into a bit of a disappointing start to the second week as the cruise ship in which they had come had to be turned away due to unfavourable landing conditions on our beach. I found this particularly disappointing as each tourist would have had to pay 650 SR (roughly equivalent to the South African rand) and thus the potential for earning set at a minimum of 65 000 SR for the island in a single day. I was not as disappointed at the loss of income as at how easily we appeared to have let this whale of an opportunity get away. It was upsetting to me that slightly higher than usual swell had kept us from making a sum of money which could have gone great lengths in a field where money is always an issue. We seemed to have given up too easily, but in reality if Jim the boatman and the ship's tour managers had determined the surf to be too dangerous, there really was nothing else to be done. This was confirmed a few weeks later when a different cruise ship's tour manager decided to ignore the warnings of Jim the boatman and subsequently broke their propeller attempting to land their very first batch of tourists.

Interruptions caused by daily island chores and monitoring projects have a way of hindering productivity in individually allocated projects. Or so I had found. Much of the day was taken up pushing the boat up and down the beach as visitors are ferried to and from the island, taking tours (my first of which was a raging success in which I earned a whopping 20SR tip), weather monitoring, running the well pump, feeding the Seychelles magpie robins, turtle patrols and beach debris pick ups, data input, phenology, pitfalls and invertebrate monitoring, and finally, various seabird monitoring projects. Add to this the debilitating heat and humidity of the tropical midday sun (as aforementioned) and one can easily see how items on the to-do list can become recurring weekly regulars. Despite all these distractions, I was able to make some small headway in the two projects which I had been entrusted with: Making identification plaques for the significant trees along the tour routes, and the construction of a virtual herbarium. This was also to include a physical herbarium including pressed leaves, but the absence of knowledge on how to press leaves proved to be too high of a hurdle to jump and when my time came to leave the island, I left two leaves from the Barringtonia tree sandwiched between two pieces of plywood under the weight of 4 concrete blocks. I would not be surprised if they are still there to this day.

It was in week two that I decided to give into the pressures of the 21st century, log on to social media and send the requisite "I'm alive" messages to the family. It was after this that I experienced immediate regret. In my foolishness I accompanied my message with a photo of myself and was rewarded with bombardments of replies acquiring as to my health as I looked a little too skinny for their liking. I subsequently decided to never again send another photo to my family and as an aside, to start eating more quantities of rice.

Although there are never truly weekends on the island as conservation is a 7 day-a-week job, the weekend did bring about a few memorable experiences. It started off with a solo mission. I have never been one to shy away from some quality alone time and I often find myself actively seeking it, particularly after sharing a living space with a few people for even a few days. It was in one of these moods that I decided to go, book in hand, on my very own pineapple hunting excursion. After a grueling climb straight up the hill from behind our quarters I found myself overlooking the plateau, a view which extended over the adjoining ocean to the islands, from left to right, of Grande Souer, Felicite, La Digue, Curieuse, Praslin, Cousin, Cousine, Mahe, Silhouette and North Islands.

Such a view took a while to take in but I finally pulled myself away and popped over the ridge to the pineapple patch. Anyone who has ever gone pineapple hunting, and I can only assume this is a large community of people, will know that it is a roller-coaster of emotion. While indulging oneself in the bounty of mother earth, becoming one with nature and living off the land are some of the obvious positives, the negatives are far less evident. Like any sport, there is an element of danger attached to the latter part of hunter gatherer. Working under the windless canopy of the equatorial forest at high noon makes for tough conditions. But that's only the start of it. My fellow gatherers will attest that the leaves of the pineapple plant are most spikey and unforgiving. Scratched appendages often itch for 2 to 3 working days after a hunt. We all know the dangers going in, yet we keep coming back for more, doggedly seeking the perfect pineapple. The forest calls us and we have no choice but to answer her call. If you've never picked a ripe pineapple, I don't expect you to understand.

Three pineapples in hand, I continued over the ridge to Frigate Rock where I planned to enjoy one of my freshly picked prizes, escape into a book and generally enjoy just being. As often happens when gazing unfocused into natures beauty; a starry sky, the crashing waves of the ocean, a panoramic view from a mountain top, or the beautiful disorder of circling frigates, my mind drifted towards the existential and the age old question "What am I doing with my life?" It's funny how that always seems to pop up when we're left alone with our thoughts. I decided, however, that I did not feel like going down that particular rabbit hole and banished the thought from my mind. Sometime its nice to sit and think. Sometimes its nice to just sit.

As the day started winding to a close I was sent to find coconuts. Jazz and Emma, my fellow volunteers, had been building up toward this night for the past few days, promising some intoxicated tomfoolery. As a result the atmosphere in camp was abuzz. It was toward this end that I was sent to find the coconuts: the ladies wanted some tropical cocktail glasses to toast the setting of the sun. With the help of Monty the machete (with whom I had become intimately acquainted) this was soon accomplished and the final rays of the sun shone on 4 volunteers sitting shoulder to shoulder on the beach, leaning against a washed up log, sipping on rum and LiquiFruit from our coconut challises. A more perfect end to the day and start to the night I cannot fathom.

After a short interlude for dinner we were back at the drinks under the communal boma in the middle of camp. It is true that necessity breeds invention. In this case it was the need for a game, something more fun than simply sitting around and drinking, but not so intellectually challenging as to make a fool of the inebriated. My friends will attest that one of my favourite drinking games is Chase Coinage. In this game two whiskey tumblers, coins within, are placed at opposite sides of the table. If you do not know what coinage is, I'm surprised you are still reading this, but I will describe it none the less. It is simply bouncing a coin off the table top into a glass. And this is where the 'Chase' comes into Chase Coinage. At the signal, both players start attempting coinage. Once coinage is achieved, the tumbler moves to the person to the throwers left and in this manner it makes its way around the table. If the tumbler ever catches up with its opposite, it is the fault of the poor sod still struggling to sink their coin and he or she must drink a punishment. Now because we were on a remote island in the Seychelles living in simple accommodation, we could not hope to find whiskey tumblers laying about. The island is however riddled with coconut shells and so abundant are they that in no matter of time at all we had two evenly sized, well balanced half coconut shells and 2, 1 Seychelle Rupee coins. Needless to say, shouts and screams of merriment were soon reverberating through the camp and continued well into the night. Coconut coinage was an instant success. And the rest, as they say, is history.

Week 3

Rain. The monsoons seemed to have shifted during the third week of my stay, scattered showers riddling the islands with downpour after downpour after downpour. With the rain came a slight dampening of spirits in camp. I would not go as far as to say that the mood was melancholic because this has connotations of sadness, which would be untrue. I might describe the mood as reminiscent, everyone unintentionally keeping to their own thoughts, getting about their business and remembering sunnier times.

Albeit not much, the rain did bring with it some respite from the usual heat. This was a double edged sword however because with the absence of the sun, the solar panels could not charge the batteries with the same efficiency and we were forced to become more reliant on the fickle old cow of a diesel generator tucked away in the forest. As the maintenance man, Sunny was responsible for its running and on more than one occasion I witnessed him coax life out of her with a few gentle caresses. The generator would supplement the solar panels when necessary but would not be run constantly to provide power for us around the clock. I can only think that was due to running cost limitations but I never bothered to ask. The implications were that life continued as usual with the electricity coming on around 9 am and going off while we slept at around 1am when the batteries ran low. It was thus that electricity dictated my sleeping patterns. I would have about 3 hours of uninterrupted sleep from 22:00 until 1:00, around which time the electricity would turn off and with it the ceiling fan. Without fail, I would soon awaken on damp sheets and walk outside to cool off. From here I had two choices to make. I could either go back inside, splash some water on myself from the sink and hope to fall back asleep until morning. Or I could abandon the permanent structure all together and try my luck in the hammock I had strung up at the jungle's edge in hope that the gentle night breeze would keep me sufficiently cool. Although cooler, the latter came with a risk of waking covered in bird droppings, a far too likely occurrence which had to be weighed into the final decision. Which ever way I chose usually had the same result however: Intermittent sleep until 6am when the sun rose. Its strange, thinking back, that I cannot recall ever struggling to get out of bed or being overly tired during the day. I like to attribute this to the simple life and my enjoyment in being outdoors, doing what I loved. A testament to this was the voluntary turtle patrols that I would do in any of my free time, as well as the 2 to 3 hour stint we spent under bushes in the pouring rain while silently waiting for a very thorough Hawksbill turtle mother to nest and lay her clutch. Our patience was rewarded with a clutch of 186 strong. I was a happy man.

By this time, I had become the self-proclaimed coconut man of the island. This was partially because I love coconuts but mainly because no one else was willing or able to get them from their lofty heights. Previously I mentioned that I learnt that there are three different stages in which a coconut can be harvested. I shall now delve a little deeper into this subject to make clear my meaning. If it is the sweet coconut milk that you are after, you would do best to look for a green coconut, one not quite ripe, usually still hanging in the tree. These coconuts will provide the most milk with the least flesh, the latter being somewhat gelatinous at this stage. It was for these that my skills were mostly required and I had become a competent coconut tree climber by week 3. The skill was in the use of two different climbing techniques on the accent to avoid tiring out. Technique one was used first where you can imagine crouching on the trunk, feet facing forward one in front of the other and hands wrapped around the opposite side of the trunk. By pushing against the arms, you can effectively walk up the tree, alternating hand and foot until a point at which your resolve gives in and you default to technique two: This involves sinking down so that you now hug the trunk with your inner thighs, frog legged with your feet beneath your backside and arms wrapped fully around the tree. Technique two, although safer, is far less efficient and is more like shimmying than climbing. I would usually get about 80% of the way up using technique one before going into technique two for the final stretch. This did not mean the struggle was over, however. Anyone who has ever attempted to get coconuts directly from the tree will tell you that they hang on with greater strength that you think possible. Twisting does loosen their grip and most stems will break under sufficient twisting but you must remember that you do this while many meters in the air, hanging onto the tree with only your thighs and one arm. This is also after the exertion of getting there. It was as a result of these hardships that I soon developed a rope sling in which to carry Monty the machete while I ascended the trees so that I could hack at, rather than twist the prizes free. This is again much easier said than done and I always descended, glistening in sweat. The descent is another matter all together. Envision a fireman's pole with much greater girth and covered in fibrous bark. Due to our anatomy, there are certain things that one would rather not have grating down the length of a coconut tree while sliding downward. This is true for inner thighs and the chest as well and the greatest care has to be taken. I found the best method was to lean back until the arms are at their full extent, pelvis facing upward so that the valuables are skyward and un-trapped, and gingerly sliding down the trunk, weight mostly on the feet. If all goes smoothly (pun intended) the climb should be worth the few grazes acquired in the process. Nothing after all is free.

Circling back to coconut stages, the second stage at which they can be harvested is done so for the flesh. These coconuts are best found on the ground and are identified by their brown husks. The nut yields a thick, firm flesh which can either be enjoyed as is, or can be ground and pressed for coconut oil, a favourite cooking ingredient for the locals.

The final and most obscure of the coconut stages is found on the ground, later on in its development, when it has started to sprout but has not yet taken root. When opened, these coconuts yield a flesh which is fluffy in texture and deliciously sweet in taste. What a versatile fruit this is!

As with the unexpected interest in botany, an introduction into the fascinating lives of coral during a coral study piqued my interest in the underwater 'plant' world. Corals, in fact, are not plants at all but an invertebrate with a symbiotic relationship with algae, the latter providing food for the former which secretes the white skeleton on which they live. A truly amazing organism which is being hit hard by the rising ocean temperatures all over the world. This is blatantly obvious even around our small island where most of the reefs had been reduced to rubble after mass bleaching where the corals die and only their skeletons remain. If I had had the wisdom to do my open-water SCUBA diving course before going to Aride, I would have been able to take part in the coral survey. Alas, I had to settle for learning broad coral identification, the Point Intercept Transect technique, and snorkelling overhead as a casual observer to the survey. I was more than happy to do this and it proved as good an excuse as any to improve my freediving. By the end of the survey my record stood at 12m depth for 53 seconds.

The end of week 3 brought a holiday from a holiday. Not being needed for any island tours, Dyl, Jazz and myself took the opportunity to weekend away at the island of La Digue, situated just east of Praslin. A bus and a ferry ride found Jazz and myself (Dyl would be joining us later) at the docks in La Digue where we had arranged to meet our host Madam. She led us though the streets to her humble accommodation in which we had rented a single room, under the ruse of Dyl and Jazz being siblings and myself a cousin. Madam is a devout Christian after all. After settling in, ie throwing our bags onto the beds, we decided to take a stroll. What we found was that La Digue is a beautiful, picturesque tropical island, its inhabitants connected by good quality roads where bicycles are the transport of choice.

It was during our walk that the idea sprang to mind that it may be a good idea get 'ferked urp' as Jazzy called it. It just so happened that I had a bottle of Takamaka white rum, a local brew, in my bag and was feeling particularly dangerous. We headed straight home and spent the next hour or two chatting and lubricating ourselves whilst waiting for Dyl to arrive. At the bottom of the rum bottle we found that the night opened up before us and the next thing we knew we were tipping back Seybrews in the local establishment down by the docks. At some point a tropical downpour decided to join us and was greeted with open arms and a few tequilas. I was soon splashing around in his embrace to the rhythm of Creole music. It was some time after this that I was seen on the outskirts of the party, gazing skyward, beer in hand. I took one last sip, looked at the bottle, emptied its contents onto the ground and slumped down onto a bench. The party was over for me. I staggered home shortly afterward. I'd spend the next 10 hours in a state of semi-dehydration and recurring waves of nausea.

Needless to say the remainder of our stay in La Digue was spent sober while exploring the island. Over the next day and half we snorkelled over what was left of a reef, cycled to boulder and palm-lined beaches, and summited the interior for an island-top panoramic view. Sunday started with a solo cycle for sunrise and ended with us back home on Aride. A successful weekend.

Maximum productivity was still eluding me. The tree identification plaques had still not been started (although we had gotten approval from the office this week) and neither had the virtual herbarium. Jobs always seemed to pop up and get in the way, much like the table that Sunny and I made for my quarters, and at the end of the day I'd realise that I'd been busy but could not quite put my finger on with what and there was little to show for it. It was very curious indeed.

Week 4

Week 4 was the week in which war was raged on the mouse. For too long had they been roaming free under the cover of darkness, taking whatever they pleased from the bedrooms and kitchens of their unsuspecting victims. It was the audacity of the individual who went searching through my waterproof bag, and in doing so chewed through it, that was the final straw. My sympathy for the mice, much like the waterproofness of my bag, was no more. We would take no prisoners (mainly because there was a study being done on the genetics and feeding habits of the mice on the island and therefore had to be dissected for their stomach contents). Traps were not new to the island, as these mice have been, and will continue, wreaking havoc for a very long time. The efficacy of the traps, however, had been revolutionised by my hand with the addition of weights on the trigger plate to increase its sensitivity, an innovation which proved to be outrageously successful. I had caught a mouse every night since weighting the trigger and it was quickly becoming apparent that there were far more mice roaming around our dwellings than we had anticipated. My fellow volunteers, having heard of my successes, and having had their own misfortunes with these critters, quickly joined the revolution. I would soon have two traps set on either side of my door and often catch two mice a night.

As with everyday life, island life starts to settle into a routine as you become more familiar with your environment and the daily schedule. Once work has been completed for the day and the novelty of exploration has worn off, there are only so many things that you can do to pass the time. For me these included reading, turtle patrols, snorkelling, coconut hunting or, as of this week, exercise. The combination of the hanging up of a pull-up bar in the boat shed, afternoon yoga sessions, and the occasional run, resulted in a bit of a fitness movement making its way through camp. The guys would do some drive-by pull-ups when passing the boat shed, a group of 3 started an exercise plan every second day, and every so often Jim the boatman would be seen jogging some rounds of the plateau. It may be a bit presumptuous for me to assume that I was the flint that ignited this fire on the island, but either this the case, or the ability for everyone to come to the same decision at the same time was uncanny.

Diwali, a Hindu celebration, is a festival of lights and is celebrated by many a person of Indian heritage. Since our maintenance man and conservation officer on the island were of Indian decent, we felt obligated to celebrate it with them. Sunny treated us to a delicious home style Indian curry with chapatis followed by traditional chai tea. It was then that the drinking of alcohol commenced. We drank rum, chatted jovially and played dominoes, slowly making our way to the table-top dancing climax of the evening. The evening ended with star gazing which went into the wee hours of the morning. Not a bad Wednesday night. The gods then smiled upon us with a tour free Thursday: the perfect conditions for nursing hangovers.

It was during week 4 that I decided that it was high time to tick off one of the weekly regulars off the "To do" list. This was the changing of the batteries on two GPS tracking devices attached to two Aldabra Giant Tortoises. Now the reason that we knew that these batteries needed changing was that for the past few months we had not been receiving signals from these two individuals and they were therefore considered lost. Changing the batteries therefore involved first finding the tortoises.

This was immediately easier said that done because these creatures are far more mobile than one would expect, illustrated by the fact that their last known location was up on the east hill, an area only accessible by a very steep climb up the boulder strewn slope behind our quarters. This is compounded when one realises that tortoises look like rocks, make barely a sound and have been known to sleep for days without moving. As the search commenced it became immediately apparent that the only way we'd find these elusive beasts would be through the blind luck of stumbling into them on our path. At this realization we decided to split up. I soon lost contact with the others and it was only on arrival back an hour later that I learnt that the other two, on the brink of giving up, had come across a clearing and found both untagged tortoises frolicking in the grass. What a tremendous success!

Something that I had been keeping my eye out for ever since glimpsing the cliffed shores of the island on arrival was a suitable place off which one could hurl himself and still be alive after landing in the waters below. It was on one such exploratory mission that I found what I had been looking for. Thinking back, there were some touch and go moments in getting to the location but the risk was worth the reward. On the east side of the island I found what looked to me to be a perfectly do-able cliff-jump, about 10m high, with a suitably deep landing point. The exit point looked questionable but with patience could be done between swells. As adventurous and hardcore as I like to think of myself, I knew it would be foolish to attempt an untested cliff jump solo and caution got the better of me. I headed back to camp with my discovery and soon convinced the boys that the sweaty hike would be worth the reward. With the sea calmer than it had been in weeks, the sun blazing and indeed the prospect of doing something new and exciting, we decided to head back to the spot after lunch.

If safety is indeed sexy, Dyl and I were the sexiest men in the Seychelles that afternoon. We took every precaution to ensure the safest jump possible: We inspected the landing zone with mask and snorkel and did two preliminary jumps from two lower ledges to pinpoint the landing zone. All these precautions gave little comfort when looking over the precipice however. The take-off zone was anything but ideal. The rock I'd selected tapered towards its rounded top meaning that there wasn't really an edge to jump from. The top was only about two foot-widths wide and therefore did not encourage lingering while steeling oneself for the jump. It was only the questioning of my masculinity by the younger man Dylan, and the insistence that he'd do it if I didn't, that finally made be take the plunge. Oh what ecstasy! The heart throbbing, hand shaking nerves at top. The breath stopping, stomach churning of the fall. The heart racing , adrenaline pumping at the bottom! An emotional roller coater well worth the ride. We ended up taking several rides on this roller coaster before the day was through and were both the better for it. I may very well be the first man ever to cliff jump on Aride Island. But probably not.

The end of the week brought with it my first shark sighting as a snorkeler with a 2m grey reef shark. They move like predators, unlike any other fish, ray or turtle I'd seen so far and I was surprised at how calm I was at seeing it. We later found that our cliff jumping location was frequented by sharks and consequently did some shark spotting before each plunge. If anything it added to the exhilaration of the activity.

One of my turtle patrols yielded fruit with the sighting of a female on her way back to the water on the far western side of the beach. I had to break into a run but I managed to get to her in time and wrestled her away from the surf for long enough to get her tagged and measured. A successful week indeed.

Weeks 5 & 6

It was during week 5 that I simply could not be bothered to put pen to paper and as a result from this week onward the journal was kept on a fortnightly basis. After all, these are my writings and I can do what I please.

The lack of productivity, I was finding, was not confined just to myself and just to the island of Aride. Although progress was starting to be made in my personal projects, the Seychelles did not seem to share my drive and work ethic. We have all heard of the frustrations of getting anything done in the island style culture of the tropics but I never had a full appreciation for its limits until experiencing it first hand. Orders placed months previously had not yet arrived and this was for simple items such as garden rakes, and getting anything fixed was like pulling teeth. The internet on the island did not work for the first month of my stay because the man who installed it was on leave and the service provider apparently had only one installer across all the islands. A similar situation left our beach debris project dead in the water when the electronic scale used for weighing the debris broke. Three weeks past without a replacement being sent to which the blame was pinned on 'communication issues'. The procurement officer then went on leave and the idea of someone else placing the order was immediately dismissed as ridiculous. So there we were. I pity the unsuspecting volunteer who arrived to pickup the debris project where we left off, only to find months of rubbish needing to be sorted, measured, weighed and captured. Assuming they've received the replacement scale of course.

It was at some point during these weeks that I was struck by the abundance of life that we were constantly surrounded by on the island. I scarcely believe that there is a single square meter that is not teeming with life. Whether it be the birds in the air, nesting on the ground or roosting in trees, skinks (lizards) scurrying over the undergrowth, crabs scuttling across the beach, invertebrates squirming in the soil, or vegetation fighting for sunlight, life can be seen with a simple turn of the head. If this wasn't enough, a few strokes into the ocean reveals vast shoals of fish, solitary stingrays, sea turtles and reef sharks, coral colonies and various sea invertebrates. We tended to forget how lucky we were to be there and it wasn't something that you noticed until you did. I remember finding it hard to believe that I'd ever be amongst so much life again. A sobering thought indeed.

I learnt a great deal about myself in the relative isolation of the island, and I am ashamed to say that I was not happy with everything that I found. For example, physical weakness in others is something that makes me irritable and I often judge without compassion. Not a good trait to have at all. After realising this I consciously tried to rectify it and still do so to this day. After all, different strokes for different folks and not everyone's lifestyle demands physical strength.

I also learnt that I go through 0.75 rolls of toilet paper a week. Another useful piece of information.

As with most weeks, weeks 5 and 6 included a few raves. The latter including a fellow volunteers leaving party, namely Jazmine's. This was spread over a weekend and started with a Tropicana on the Friday trip to Praslin. The locals had warned us of the potency of this particular drink and many a drunkard who litter the peer can be found clutching this plastic bottled alcoholic beverage. I myself had been drinking for 8 years at the time (Scout's honour mom) and could stand with the best of them when it came to alcohol consumption. Or so I thought. To this day I cannot explain it. I don't know if it was the combination of the harsh midday sun and an empty stomach, but as I sat outside a takeaway joint enjoying this passion fruit flavoured nectar of the gods, I became increasingly giddy and my vision was soon playing catch-up with my head movements. This 375ml bottle made a fool of me but I decided to jump onto the dragons back and see where it took me. Washed down with a few Seybrews the result was the best Praslin trip yet and we arrived back on Aride light headed and glossy eyed as the sun set over the Indian ocean.

Another week, and another turtley awesome experience. Dylan and I were on one of our classic coral identification snorkelling sessions when a big male Hawksbill turtle decided to grace us with his presence. Noticing that he was completely comfortable in our company, we approached him tentatively and after a few minutes a touch became a caress and we soon found ourselves giving this beautiful guy a bit of a carapace scratch. To our amazement he seemed to be enjoying the encounter as much as us and would hang motionless while we ran our fingers up and down his scooted shell. It was in moments like these that I knew that I had found the field in which I wanted to work. The most moving experiences are those where we see human traits reflected in animals, creating a connection on shared grounds. I can't help but think that it is these kind of experiences which may be the key to mass conservation involvement.

My dislike for birds was growing daily at this point. The fodys were highly responsible for this with their seemingly limitless cheek and supply of excrement, but they were not the only culprits. Confused by the kitchen lights, shear waters would often fly into our open windows, walls and porch areas and then sit there in a confused daze until we picked them up and moved them to the darkness of the beach. The novelty of bird handling wore off after the first few encounters and I could by now be heard cursing at them after hearing the unmistakable flutter of wings followed by a dull thud as they flew towards our artificial moons into a previously unseen obstacle. At this point I was forced to cook with my kitchen door and windows firmly closed after a particularly unfortunate shearwater found its way into my sink while I was preparing dinner. Since my kitchen obeyed the laws of thermodynamics, I was now blessed with a sauna in which to make meals. It is worth mentioning that these unlucky birds never sustained any lasting injuries and flew from our hands when released at the beach, proving to be quite a hardy species. To add salt to the wound it was at the end of this week that Nazreen the conservation officer informed us that the 5 yearly shearwater census was due to take place in the coming weeks and we would hence forth be spending 3 hours a night trudging around in the dark searching for burrows and mimicking their calls in order to establish how many of these beautiful creatures we had nesting on our humble island. I. Could. Not. Wait.

Weeks 7 & 8

Another week, another 5 loaves of bread. I cannot be certain, but I think the combination of an active lifestyle and the low quality, airy nature of the Seychellois bread had resulted in truly astonishing toast consumption. I had had to limit myself to a loaf a day (with some days of restraint for those questioning my mathematics) because my freezer could only house three loaves at any one time and mould spreads like Nutella in the warm moist tropics. A favourite pairing with the pan fried toast (toasters were a luxury our energy restricted households could not afford), the peanut butter headed in the same direction, finishing a tub in a week. I am a simple man with simple needs.

Although we were sad to see Jazzy go, her replacement proved to be more than adequate in filling her place. Wayne, a 6 ft 8'' behemoth from Australia made up in banter for what he lacked in youth. After a classic moment of panic while shopping on arrival, he managed to buy an array of fruit and vegetables of which he himself and many others could not identify. He and his Australian accent had us all in hysterics. This colourful character is an environmental engineer, survivor of a tidal wave in Srilanka where he runs a surf-getaway house with his wife and kids, was part of a semi-successful rock band back in the day, and breathed new life into the classic guitar we had rusting away in the corner of one of the houses. He'd earned my approval for sure.

It is here that I recall that we had another volunteer who joined us who's arrival I did not seem to document. Tom, a quiet, thin man from Britain arrived somewhere in the third or forth week of my stay. An ornithologist by trade, he, like most of our tourists, had come to Aride for the seabirds. One incident that comes to mind when thinking back was that of cliff jumping with Tom. We had headed to the location to relive the thill and show off our spot. Being a somewhat withdrawn character, Dylan and I were sure that Tom would not take the plunge. After showing him the take off and explicitly telling him to launch as far as possible off the rock, to our surprise and horror he nonchalantly STEPPED off the precipice! With our hearts in our throats we both peered into the waters, exhaling a sigh of relief as we saw Tom's head come popping out of the foam.

As my time came to a close, I found that I was ready to go home. I don't know if this was because I knew I would be leaving, but I was looking forward to being at home, not having to worry about where I hung my clothes or whether a mouse was going to chew its way into one of my bags tonight. That being said, I had not a single regret of my time spent on Aride. There were times of boredom and monotony for sure but the amount that I learnt is staggering: Eco-studies to invertebrate pitfalls, bird handling to beach debris, turtle tagging to phenology, coral identification to herbariums, shearwater censuses to nest monitoring, and botany to tour guiding. I'd done exactly what I'd come there to do: gain knowledge and experience in the fields of biology and conservation. I was closer to answering the age old question of 'What do you want to do with your life?' and I was learning that there was not just one definite answer to it. The future is far too distant and unpredictable for a single answer.

Before I left, there was only one last thing that I had to do, something I knew I would regret if I didn't. And so, as the sun drew low on the western horizon on the day before I left, I walked to the end of beach, set up my camera, dropped my pants, and ran stark naked down the beach. It was the single most freeing experience of my life. The memory would be much sweeter if I had not learnt months later from the conservation officer that there were wildlife camera traps in the vicinity and the whole charade was now scientifically documented! The idea of a video snippet with a single entry and exit across the frame would be bearable but anyone who has ever filmed themselves knows that things rarely go perfectly on the first take. There must be a solid 10 minutes of footage of naked Mike running up and down the beach, screaming the 'woohoo's' of freedom while awkwardly turning back to readjust the camera and build up nerve. The mortification I feel is in-de-scribable.

I left the island on a rainy day in high swell. I remember being pleasantly surprised by the heart felt farewell I got from the usually stony faced Jim the boatman as I shook his hand and thanked him for the last time.

I decided that I'd make an amendment to the original: 'What do you want to do with your life, for now?'