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I stood alone, lost, as
the jungle around me darkened to an impenetrable blackness with the
fall of night. I picked up a stick and started to sharpen the end with
my Swiss army knife, more to stave off my growing panic than as a real
defense against prowling jaguars. I had been in dangerous situations
before and knew how to calm my fear with a chuckle, but now I was
really worried, powerless to find my way several miles back to the
camp. The camp beside the clay lick was ten hours upriver from the
nearest town by motorized canoe. I was lucky enough to have found a
portal in the canopy above me, through which I could glimpse a few
stars. At least I was safe from attack from above, I told myself with
little sense of assurance. Every now and then, I would call out
“Julio!” and strain to listen through the symphony of nighttime
sounds for a human voice. The jungle is quite alive at night.
Back at school in
Cambridge in 1993, just months before this event, I had just secured a
grant to study parrots in the wild. I worked the telephone trying to
find more information about where wild parrots could be observed. My
hunt finally led me to Charlie Munn, who had been studying macaws. He
told me all about the Tambopata Research Center and the clay lick,
which brought an abundance of macaws and parrots there. I targeted the
amazons for study because of their amazingly complex vocalizations.
When I arrived in
Puerto Maldonado, Pepe Moscosa met me at the airstrip. We rode
together in the back of an overloaded pickup truck through the dusty
dirt roads to my hotel. The next morning I met Fernando, who had spent
the 40-plus years of his life in the area. Fernando was to serve as my
guide and as captain of our peki-peki, as the long, thin boats are
called. We spent most of the day moving farther and farther from the
human sphere of towns and cities and into Nature’s realm.
Out here, I was a
displaced creature in a foreign and strange world. But to the parrots
and macaws that live here, the unbroken expanse of green is a vast
metropolis, with skyscraper trees heavily-laden with their garrulous
inhabitants. Lying on my pack in the bright sun, I inspected the tall,
dense riverbanks to either side. I thought about how Charlie, my
amazon, must have felt, as he was first brought to New York City from
somewhere in this green ocean. He was sold by a Brooklyn pet shop to
my father and wound up in a tiny Greenwich Village apartment with only
his memories to connect him back to the noisy flocks from which he was
taken.
Even though the chances
were slim, I was still hoping that when I finally saw flocks of his
species, I might hear some of the sounds that Charlie still makes.
These sounds would indicate that I had located his land of origin. My
feeling of being out of place was made even more tangible as the rain
started to pour down. We made camp for the night on a sandy bank and
were soon lulled to sleep by the sounds of rushing and falling water.
We were awakened by the
sounds of macaw screeches echoing through the forest. Fernando had to
swim out to retrieve the peki-peki. We had pulled it up on the bank
the night before, but the Tambopata River had risen with the deluge.
The peki-peki was now several soaking yards from the bank. After
another five hours with the constant peki-peki-peki-peki
(motor) sound drowning out even the voices of macaws, we again pulled
up on the green bank. This time we made our way to the Tambopata
Research Center, a long thatched-roofed platform with no walls. This
would be my home for the next ten days.
The jungle around our
little encampment teemed with life. Capuchin monkeys passed overhead,
taking a moment to peer at us warily. Agoutis (which look somewhat
like a large guinea pig on deer legs) came into the camp’s clearing
to browse on leafy greens. At the river’s edge I observed a family
of wading capybaras (rodents as large as pigs) lazing away the heat of
the midday sun. At the edge of camp, pressed into the powdery trail, I
found the little hills and valleys left by jaguar paws. And everywhere
resonated the peeps, squawks, whistles, and songs of the birds.
Curiously absent,
though, was the chortling laughter of the amazons I had come for.
Fernando and Julio, who was taking care of the camp, told me that the
parrots did not visit the clay lick every day, and so it might take a
few days before we got a good look at them. The clay lick is one of
many such sites in South America where parrots of many species land to
eat the pale dirt, which is believed to aid in their digestion of
semi-toxic seeds and acidic fruits. This one clay lick is famous for
its attraction of spectacularly gaudy flocks, one species after
another in routine shifts. But the macaws, when they arrive, take over
the clay lick and all others yield.
Julio was preparing the
afternoon meal for the chicos, a
group of 18 fledgling macaws. They had been “rescued” from
near-certain death by starvation. Macaw pairs often lay more eggs than
they can provide for, as a sort of insurance policy should tragedy
befall their first-born. And so, in 1993 the researchers of the
Tambopata Macaw Project had carefully weighed the chicks in the nest
for several weeks after hatching. If the smaller chick began to
deviate from its normal growth curve and toward starvation, it was
taken back to camp to be raised by people. (This practice was stopped
in 1995 by the Peruvian Government and is no longer done.) These
chicos would not be pets. They spent their afternoons free up in the
trees. Julio would call to them -
“Chicos! Come on, it’s Feeding time!” And, like tardy children
reluctant to end a game to come home for dinner, they would eventually
fly down to be fed. Once down, though, Julio would be nearly
overwhelmed with many nagging, gaping beaks. After being fed, their
crops were heavy with their gruel, too heavy to fly, and so they
looked for mischief on the ground.
Over the next few days,
we heard a few amazons pass overhead, but always high up and moving
quickly, to where we did not know. We tried floating down the river
and found a couple Yellow-crowns, Amazona
ochrocephala ochrocephala. They were not vocalizing much, and the
sound of the rushing river made it difficult to get a good recording
of them. While their barking calls had a familiar ring, these amazons
evidently spoke a different tongue than the population Charlie was
from.
Sure, there were lots
of macaws flying in small groups back and forth across the river at
sunset. There were Blue-headed Pionus, Pionus
menstruus, and other species of parrots in large numbers at the
lick. But as I neared the end of my time, I still had not really
gotten a good look at the birds I had come so far to see.
With only a couple of
days left, I was following the trails farther and farther away from
camp, with Julio at my side. Late in the day, we came to a swampy area
with a grove of Puna palms, and there they were. An astounding
cacophony of trills, yodels and piercing barks filled the air as
Mealy, A. farinosa, and
Yellow-crowned amazons gathered in a small flock. I quickly set up my
tape recorder and microphone, eagerly taking acoustic dictation. After
nearly an hour, Julio told me he had to return to camp to start our
dinner. I told him that I would remain a bit longer, to see if this
area was an evening roost. If it was, more parrots might arrive, and
they’d also be here tomorrow morning. Before he turned back, I asked
him if I should turn left or right where the trail we were on meets
the main trail back to camp. He told me neither. Just go straight
where the trails meet. I remained until I estimated that I had enough
time to make it back to camp before the sun went down.
I headed back along the
narrow machete trail, until it intersected the main route. But there
was no straight, just a left turn or a right. My sense of direction
told me to turn left, and so I did do in haste, knowing I might have
picked the wrong direction. I went for at least a mile through fading
light until the trail became submerged and swampy. That wasn’t
right, I thought, as we hadn’t come through this. So I turned around
and started back in the other direction. But after going for five
minutes, my sense of direction (despite the lack of shadows down at
the rain forest floor) told me that it had to be the other way. I
tried to ford my way through the watery path, but the difficulty of
getting through seemed to make clear that this could not be the way.
By then, no light was reaching the forest floor. I had not brought a
flashlight, and I had no matches. I did not know if I had moved toward
camp or further away. I did not even know if I was on the main trail
anymore. I decided to move slowly toward the spot where I could see a
small bit of dark sky through the inky canopy above, and began
sharpening a stick.
“EEEeeee!” I heard
back in answer to my call. I strained to discern whether this was a
human voice, Julio’s. I knew he’d come looking, but when, and
would he find me? And so an hour passed, the blackness boiling with
sound. My stick seemed silly, and yet it gave me some assurance -
or at least something to do. I strained to see through the darkness
with my ears, but could not tell a mammal from an insect from a frog
in this unfamiliar environment.
At long last, the
answer to my periodic calls was not animal, and Julio approached
through the darkness, the white spot of his flashlight beam leading
his way. I showed him my stick and joked that I was prepared for the
silent approach of a jaguar.
“No, Mike,” he
explained, “Not jaguars you need to watch for. Snakes.” I was glad
not to have known this, I thought on the way back to camp, as I
recounted the many varieties known to slither here. When we came to
the sodden ground that had stopped my earlier return, I followed as he
detoured into a thin path through the bush, invisible but for the fact
that he knew where to look.
The next morning, there
they were at the top of the clay lick. Amazons in abundance! Somehow,
the time was right for them to come back to this place so frequented
by all the parrots in the vicinity. I spent the day photographing them
when I could see them and recording them throughout. No, they were not
using the language that Charlie, my amazon, had grown up with, even
though this was his species. I would have to keep looking if I were
ever going to find his homeland. I eventually settled on another site,
in Mexico, where I could more easily see the amazons day to day and
collect video footage as well as audio.
Tambopata is now one of
the premiere destinations for eco-tourists, and the influx of
travelers has changed the area in some marked ways. The forest around
the site is now a federally-protected reserve, and the people of
Puerto Maldonado and the surrounding villages are reshaping their
economy in ways that service the eco-tourism business and are more
environmentally aware. We can show our support by taking a trip to
where our favorite species flies free and seeing firsthand the
magnificence of parrots living the life they have evolved to live.
Maybe then we wouldn’t be so inclined to take parrots from the wild,
to become exotic travelers lost in our own urban jungles.
To plan a trip to the
Tambopata Research Center or other eco-tourism destinations contact
Holbrook Travel at 800 451-7111 or visit their website www.holbrooktravel.com/ofm.htm
for more information.
You can hear recordings
of parrots in the wild and find out more about my project and one-hour
documentary film Stalking the
Wild Amazons at http://www.reflector.net/parrots,
or contact me at 23 Sacramento Place, Cambridge, MA 02138.
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