Hurricanes turn everything on its head; metaphorically, but also painfully literally. My fieldwork area, St. Maarten, St. Eustatius and Saba, was hit by Irma in the night of Tuesday 5th to Wednesday 6th of September, and images of upside-down cars and torn down houses flooded the media. Irma is record-breaking all round, did enormous damage to islands in the Caribbean, and has at the time of writing just cut-off 4 million people from electricity in Florida. Trump warned Irma to potentially be even worse than Harvey, which left many homeless in Texas. And indeed, the images of flooded St. Maarten streets look eerily familiar to those a week before. From the island of beach ‘n bliss, St. Maarten has turned into something of a war zone. A lack of drinking water, food and medicine has resulted in armed looting, while a break-down of all communication channels makes the exertion of control impossible. Roofless houses, upside-down cars and water where land used to be – pictures show St. Maarten completely overturned.

All this happened while I was at a conference on invasive plant species in sunny Lisbon. I was being flooded by new insights and practices in invasion management, while my beloved islands were overtaken by sea water, uprooted trees and despair. Emergency aid sent by the Dutch government was having trouble reaching the island, due to severely damaged infrastructure. Now that Irma’s successor José has passed, marines and the Red Cross can really start helping those who became homeless. Dutch civil servants and tourists are being evacuated to Curaçao (which I’m sure will soon receive accusations of priority treatment) and the army is taking control to end the lawlessness. Following these news reports closely, I wandered about the conference wondering what use all that knowledge of my fellow scientists is to those without a roof.

Science in a disaster area 
From my master’s at Wageningen university I remember a lecture on conducting research in a disaster area, for example hit by a hurricane or warfare. The lecturer argued that scientists should not feel bad about not being aid workers, because that is not what they are good at. They are trained to conduct research, and can contribute in that way. And indeed, research on humanitarian aid after disasters such as conducted by professor Thea Hilhorst should help improve emergency relief in the future. But what if your research is not on disaster relief, but for example, the management of an invasive vine....? Shouldn’t everyone working in such an area adjust whatever they are doing so as to lend support?
 
Whenever I attempt to help in situations where I cannot, my grandma enjoys pointing out that I am not the Red Cross. Factually true, emotionally not resonating. After two fieldwork visits to St. Eustatius and Saba, conducting many interviews with locals who welcomed me into their community, I have come to care a lot for these islands. Although objectivity and distance to your research object are deemed important for scientific research, the human being behind the researcher functions differently. Seeing water in the streets of Oranjestad (St. Eustatius) or houses without a roof in St. John’s (Saba) make it hard to sit at my desk, analyzing interviews with the people living on that very same street or in that very same house.

Jumping on a plane and putting my close to non-existent carpenter skills to work is however impossible due to the airport of St. Maarten being severely damaged. So I sit at my desk writing this blog, transfering a donation to the Red Cross, liking a concert organised to raise money for St. Maarten on Facebook and wondering how my research, knowledge and contacts could be of help in this situation. Could we for example contribute to nature restoration while testing ways to keep Coralita from taking over disturbed sites? Maybe patching up some fences while we’re at it? Because although I am not the Red Cross, currently all help is needed – also that of scientists.

Back in 2016, I arrived in Statia, aka The Golden Rock, aka The historic gem of the Caribbean. And today the time has come to pack up the suitcase that has contained my life for the past four months and head back to Holland. Two months in Statia were over before I knew it, and admittedly also before I got round to doing everything on my list. A heavy rain storm kept me from making it all the way to Boven, I haven’t seen White wall and the plan to walk all the way from Zeelandia to the botanical garden along the cliffs is still a plan. But when it comes to Coralita, I have a much better understanding of the situation I did before, and see several ways to proceed. Since it will take some time before our research will really have an impact on Statia, I wanted to leave something behind upon leaving. Therefore Elizabeth and I made a flyer on Coralita in Statia, explaining the phenomenon and what our research aims to do. You can download the flyer here.

Next to that, Elizabeth made a map showing all the spots where she hiked last year and found Coralita, as well as where she didn’t find any. She checks those locations on satellite images to find the signature light spectrum of the vine. As you can see in this image, for the road to the Botanical garden, to the bay and around the SDA church she has already been able to identify the precise location of Coralita. She is working hard on making a map of Coralita for all of Statia.

My work focused on interviewing Statians about the value of nature to them, and their opinion on Coralita. There exist as many views as interviewees, of course, but what all interviewees have in common is a sense of pride and care for Statia’s nature. While one person thinks agriculture is most important, another might favour the diversity of the scenery. Likewise, to one person Coralita is an annoying weed, while another thinks it’s beautiful or provides tasty honey. You can see this reflected on this other map, which is the result of 46 Statians indicating the areas where they don’t want Coralita. Some people clearly focused on the parks, whereas others are mainly concerned with keeping the town free. When deciding on priority areas for Coralita management, we will have to take all these different perspectives into account.

So I am heading back to university with a suitcase filled with findings on Coralita in Saba and Statia. Several months of processing, conferring with colleagues and brainstorming about how to proceed lie ahead of me. All this set in an environment lacking volcanoes, beaches and the Caribbean warmth that I was so fortunate to enjoy for the past four months. I might even end up missing that pink creepy vine…

Two months on Saba have flown by: interviewing people, being toured around gardens, getting a peek of local politics and becoming more and more attached to the quirks of Saba's nature and people. Since it will take a long time before our research will really have an impact on Saba, I didn’t want to leave the island without leaving something behind. Therefore Elizabeth and I made a flyer on Coralita, explaining the phenomenon and what our research aims to do. You can download the flyer here.

Next to that, Elizabeth made a map showing all the spots where she hiked and found Coralita, as well as where she didn’t find Coralita. She checks those locations on satellite images to find the signature light spectrum of the vine. As you can see in this image, for St. John’s and along the Fort Bay road she has already been able to identify the precise location of Coralita.

The longer I spent talking to different people, the more complex the management of Coralita appeared to become. A weed that should be eradicated as soon as possible to some is a beautiful cover of otherwise barren areas to others. Simply one instance of invasion of a vulnerable island ecology versus the pending demise of Saba’s otherwise untouched nature. And hence just another argument for the need of an invasive species management programme versus necessitating an immediate island-wide eradication campaign. These different views show on this other map, which is the result of 50 Sabans indicating on a map areas where they don’t want Coralita. Some people clearly focussed on the trails and beautiful nature areas, whereas others are mainly concerned with keeping the villages free. When deciding on priority areas for Coralita management, we will have to take all the different perspectives into account.

But first I will be spending two months on Statia, conducting the same interviewing activities as on Saba, explained in an earlier blog. Here Coralita covers huge areas, clearly enjoying the openness and absence of use. However different the two islands appear – which their proud inhabitants are always keen on pointing out – in the eye of Coralita they’re equal: wonderful creeping grounds.

​As a good scientist, without having conducted any sort of survey or poll and instead reasoning solely from my own stereotypes and prejudices, I’m convinced that the single most dreaded question by every PhD candidate out there is “So, how’s your research going?”. Nice people are most often the villains asking these questions, and in fact, the nicest of them who really care about the answer are the worst you can come across.