I do research on the history of fire in the deciduous dipterocarp savanna of Central Vietnam. I am passionate about my research, but what I love most about it are the people that I work with in the field. Ecological field work can sometimes be an isolating experience. The national park that I worked in – Yok Đôn National Park – is located in a very rural area, and I spent most nights alone in an otherwise empty guesthouse. I could never wait until the morning when I could see my field team again, and I often filled those solitary hours with journaling. Here is one such piece of journaling. I hope that it will give you a glimpse of what I do in the field, and perhaps more importantly, portraits of some of the people that I had the fortune to work with. (Their names and some identifiable information have been changed).
I took cautious steps backward, my eyes fixed on the top of the dầu trà beng tree. The coil of DIY tape measure was taut around my elbow and the crook between my thumb and forefinger, and my other hand traced the crinkly surface of the plastic rope for the node that marked 5 m. 10 m. 15 m. On the other end, chị Trúc, anh Minh, and bác Linh squinted hard at the canopy of the tree looking for flowers. I called out measurements to them, and as I recoiled part of the rope to move on to the next sample, they erupted in laughter. Chị Trúc had lost a bet to anh Minh on the height of the tree. I looked at them and wondered how I would feel if anh Minh really moved back to Lâm Đồng. I couldn’t imagine Yok Đôn without anh Minh, and anh Minh himself didn’t believe that he would get a job with the Lâm Đồng Department of Agriculture, what with all the apparatus streamlining happening. Bác Linh was convinced he would leave, but bác Linh was bác Linh.
Once we finished measurements at the site, I climbed back onto the backseat of chị Trúc’s motorbike and we sped down the provincial highway where the dust never settled for Suối Cây Hồng station. On the right side of the road was what remained of the Ea Súp Forestry-Agriculture-Industry Complex, a mosaic of secondary forests, paddies, and houses. On the stretch of rocky dirt road right before we reached the dầu trà beng stand, I chanted “Cố lên chị Trúc!” every time we jolted over a pothole or a big rock.
Suối Cây Hồng was our last stop, and we got back to headquarters at 2 and dragged our feet to the cafeteria. In the kitchen, chị H’Diêu, having heard our motorbikes, was heating up food. Over lunch, bác Linh, in true bác Linh fashion, made sure that chị Trúc didn’t forget that she had lost the bet. “Thế mày định khao bọn tao ở quán nào đây?” (He still occasionally reminded me that I had puked on top of Mount Đôn 2.5 years after the fact.)
After lunch, chị Hường and I lay on the hammocks underneath the stilt house that served as museum of the park. It was quiet, save for the rustling of the dry easterly winds through the leaves and the occasional calls of a coucal. I made a mental plan for the field work of the following day and decided to discuss it with chị Trúc, but before I could, she had drifted off to sleep.