Welcome to the Jungle – We’ve Got Fun and Rain

This year’s Climate and Society class is out in the field (or lab or office) completing a summer internship or thesis. They’ll be documenting their experiences one blog post at a time. Read on to see what they’re up to.

Benjamin Marconi, C+S ’17

We filed into the dark pyramid tunnel one by one, huddling together to escape the danger of Tropical Storm Franklin. I sat in the dark damp tunnel, covered in mosquito bites, hoping that the rains would pass quickly. Shallow ceiba and gum tree roots in the rainforest of Guatemala’s Mirador Basin proved no match for the storm’s rain and high winds, forcing our team of scientists to seek cover inside the 2,000-year-old mega-structures.

Light passing through the humid jungle canopy following a heavy rainstorm (Source: Benjamin Marconi)

Sitting there in the dark, I recalled the poor waterproofing of our makeshift laboratory building in the upper camp, picturing the pouring streams of water that penetrated the building’s ceiling during the last major rainstorm. In the hectic preparations for the incoming tropical storm, I had neglected to place my project laptop full of data into a sealed plastic bag, leaving it vulnerable to the storm’s high winds and cold misty rain.

Following multiple weeks of research in the humid rainforest, both of my advisor’s laptops had catastrophically failed, thus delegating all computer tasks to my sole functioning device. As I peered out the ancient tunnel’s narrow opening at the pouring rain, my mind raced through a multitude of worst-case-scenarios, all involving the destruction of my laptop and notes. Whether it be the rain induced destruction of my PC or the collapse of the entire lab beneath uprooted adult trees, I had convinced myself that my last-minute negligence in protecting the computer may have lost our expedition all its data.

Five weeks prior to the storm, I arrived at our field site in the remote northern corridor of the Guatemalan jungle, excited to embark on a journey of piecing together the story of ancient Mayan life. Full of energy and excitement, I unloaded box after box of scientific equipment from our helicopter and stumbled down the muddy, root-strewn trail to the site’s wooden-framed laboratory. Tasked with studying the ancient climate at the site, our team began a six-week process of excavating noteworthy archaeological areas and drilling sediment cores for soil analyses.

As our team adjusted to the rigors of demanding field work and an exceedingly basic camp, it quickly became clear that afternoon rainstorms were a predictable yet powerful part of jungle life. In an encampment full of soft canvas tents supported by flexible aluminum poles, we experienced the power of mighty rainstorms daily, often having to relocate to the site’s wooden structures when winds became too strong. Storms that arrived during working hours forced me and my six workmen to seek refuge under thin nylon tarps strung hastily between small trees, driving the team to quickly adapt to the perpetually wet environment.

Sitting there in the dark, I recalled the poor waterproofing of our makeshift laboratory building in the upper camp, picturing the pouring streams of water that penetrated the building’s ceiling during the last major rainstorm. In the hectic preparations for the incoming tropical storm, I had neglected to place my project laptop full of data into a sealed plastic bag, leaving it vulnerable to the storm’s high winds and cold misty rain.

Following multiple weeks of research in the humid rainforest, both of my advisor’s laptops had catastrophically failed, thus delegating all computer tasks to my sole functioning device. As I peered out the ancient tunnel’s narrow opening at the pouring rain, my mind raced through a multitude of worst-case-scenarios, all involving the destruction of my laptop and notes. Whether it be the rain induced destruction of my PC or the collapse of the entire lab beneath uprooted adult trees, I had convinced myself that my last-minute negligence in protecting the computer may have lost our expedition all its data.

Five weeks prior to the storm, I arrived at our field site in the remote northern corridor of the Guatemalan jungle, excited to embark on a journey of piecing together the story of ancient Mayan life. Full of energy and excitement, I unloaded box after box of scientific equipment from our helicopter and stumbled down the muddy, root-strewn trail to the site’s wooden-framed laboratory. Tasked with studying the ancient climate at the site, our team began a six-week process of excavating noteworthy archaeological areas and drilling sediment cores for soil analyses.

As our team adjusted to the rigors of demanding field work and an exceedingly basic camp, it quickly became clear that afternoon rainstorms were a predictable yet powerful part of jungle life. In an encampment full of soft canvas tents supported by flexible aluminum poles, we experienced the power of mighty rainstorms daily, often having to relocate to the site’s wooden structures when winds became too strong. Storms that arrived during working hours forced me and my six workmen to seek refuge under thin nylon tarps strung hastily between small trees, driving the team to quickly adapt to the perpetually wet environment.

The profile view of La Danta, the largest pyramid on site and potentially the largest in the world by volume. Danta and Structure 34 were pyramids that offered possible safety from the storm. (Source: Benjamin Marconi)

Following the initial text message from the U.S., word fervently spread through camp that a tropical storm had developed over the ocean and was quickly moving from Belize up the Caribbean coast towards El Mirador. As the storm’s arms began to stretch across Belize, archaeological work at the site was nearing its end, meaning workmen were being released to hike two or more days back to their respective homes in town. With the release of so many workers, the majority of those left at the site’s upper camp were scientists and administrators, leaving the reduced camp to prepare for the incoming storm.

Apart from my neglected laptop, the crew’s electronics and important samples were secured in plastic bags and boxes and placed in “safe” locations under the lab’s leaky corrugated roof. With the threat of high winds and heavy rain on the horizon, the remaining scientists were forced to temporarily seek refuge inside the wooden laboratory and under the openings of the site’s massive pyramids.

With basic preparations barely finished, the storm hit Mirador in powerful waves, bringing about 40 minutes of torrential rain and wind before settling back into a gentle shower. The winds blew down large jungle trees and blocked the camp’s connection to satellite internet communications, leaving us without access to check the storm’s track or post updates about our safety. After two days of inconsistent but heavy rains, the storm finally passed and the process of cleaning the campsite began.

My memory of the walk back to camp following the storm is very distinct, climbing over the fallen three-foot ceiba tree trunks and through the mud to reach my tent. Upon arriving at my little green home, I peered behind the structure and noticed that the wind had pulled a 60-foot greenwood tree down directly atop my shower stall, a mere two-feet away from the edge of my cot. Without evacuating the tent area, had the tree fallen just a few feet further to the north, I would have been crushed in my sleep by thousands of pounds of jungle softwood.

As the days passed following the storm, the sounds of chainsaws echoed in the distance and camp was slowly pieced back together for the termination of the field season. In my eyes, the storm served to highlight the important role of climate and extreme weather events in shaping how a society interacts with its environment. With the ancient Mayan civilization driven to collapse by rapid natural climate variability, the storm offered a powerful perspective in how essential climate-preparedness is, and that excessive vulnerability often leads to societal catastrophe.