It’s dark outside and
raining.
We drive off
somewhere, some kind of new plan. The original plan included an umbrellabird
(people really do come up with all sorts of strange birds). But for the past
couple of days Andy has been explaining that instead of the planned site we
could go somewhere else, where there are different birds. Which birds, we don’t
know. How exactly the two places differ, we don’t know either, except that the
new plan has a tower. Andy likes towers. Without information, there’s nothing
to base a choice on.
We arrive just as it’s getting light. It’s raining. It’s raining at the tower too. No birds are visible or even audible, although Andy immediately starts whistling. He hasn’t grasped that harassing birds is the same thing whether you use a phone or not. We watch the rain. It falls steadily on the leaves and on us.
Andy has the brilliant idea of offering coffee. He brings out the breakfast box from the car. We move a couple of levels down, under a roof, drink coffee and eat sandwiches. Spirits lift a bit. The rain gets heavier. Andy starts scrolling on his phone. I retreat upstairs to escape the noise. I watch the rain. Somewhere quite close in the canopy there’s a faint peeping, but nothing to be seen. Andy comes up to check whether I might have spotted a bird on my own. I haven’t. He resumes scrolling. I retreat downstairs again. People fiddling with their phones without headphones are annoying everywhere, but in the forest it’s especially grating. I want to hear the forest, not someone’s feed. A toucan arrives, perches high on a branch, and slowly turns its head from side to side.
Eventually Andy loses his patience and starts playing bird calls from the app. You can’t change other people’s behavior, but you can remove yourself from the situation. I slip away quietly down the trail into the forest. There are flowers on the trees. A centipede clambers along the path. Birds can be heard, some quite close, but the only one I actually see is a woodcreeper high up. There are mosquitoes. I stand and just look. The forest is pleasant, even with the distant hum of traffic. The rain eases off. Apparently several birds have been seen at the tower in the meantime. My disappearing act raises no questions. The three of us wander a loop through the forest. No birds, just moss.
We pile back into the car and bounce along a venerable red dirt road through agricultural land dotted with solitary trees. Every now and then we stop, climb out, and look at a bird. Now it’s hot. The heat saps all energy. On the way back a group of Andean condors flies toward us; one has a snake dangling from its beak. That same snake had been lying in the road earlier, someone had driven over it. Andy was pleased about that, because snakes are dangerous. Venomous snakes are indeed dangerous, especially if you step on them, but that’s not exactly something you have to do.
Andy suggests going for ice-cream. He must sense that the tourists are starting to fade. There’s no problem that can’t be solved with sugar. Nearby is a small town called Maldonado, named after Pedro Vicente Maldonado, who collaborated with the French geodesic expedition in the 18th century. Kalle and I are treated to ice-cream, which we eat while lounging on a swing. Andy goes off to buy a new phone case.
The next stop is a fruit tour. We hope we won’t have to go through the entire planting process ourselves. There’s a veranda and a bird-feeding station: hummingbirds, tanagers, woodpeckers. A bearded manakin makes a brief appearance. Andy rattles off a list of species names and then chats with the household. Easy entertainment. Ah yes—and they call the birds “targets”: Today’s targets are...
At some point we go for lunch and then return to the veranda. There’s a tray of fruit lying on a shelf. Snake fruit. I get to try one. That’s the whole fruit experience. Just before we leave, a new woodpecker with a striking hairstyle shows up.
On the way back it starts raining again, but we still go to look for a recently located owl near the lodge, a rufescent screech owl. Older local birders scout out birds and pass on the information to guides: where to go, which branch to look at. Andy eventually finds the owl after taking a photo, sending it to the source, and getting it back with a marker. The owl sits quietly in the dim light among the leaves. In fact, all you can really see is its belly. Thunder rolls. Here, lightning seems to occur independently of rain and thunder.
We arrive just as it’s getting light. It’s raining. It’s raining at the tower too. No birds are visible or even audible, although Andy immediately starts whistling. He hasn’t grasped that harassing birds is the same thing whether you use a phone or not. We watch the rain. It falls steadily on the leaves and on us.
Andy has the brilliant idea of offering coffee. He brings out the breakfast box from the car. We move a couple of levels down, under a roof, drink coffee and eat sandwiches. Spirits lift a bit. The rain gets heavier. Andy starts scrolling on his phone. I retreat upstairs to escape the noise. I watch the rain. Somewhere quite close in the canopy there’s a faint peeping, but nothing to be seen. Andy comes up to check whether I might have spotted a bird on my own. I haven’t. He resumes scrolling. I retreat downstairs again. People fiddling with their phones without headphones are annoying everywhere, but in the forest it’s especially grating. I want to hear the forest, not someone’s feed. A toucan arrives, perches high on a branch, and slowly turns its head from side to side.
Eventually Andy loses his patience and starts playing bird calls from the app. You can’t change other people’s behavior, but you can remove yourself from the situation. I slip away quietly down the trail into the forest. There are flowers on the trees. A centipede clambers along the path. Birds can be heard, some quite close, but the only one I actually see is a woodcreeper high up. There are mosquitoes. I stand and just look. The forest is pleasant, even with the distant hum of traffic. The rain eases off. Apparently several birds have been seen at the tower in the meantime. My disappearing act raises no questions. The three of us wander a loop through the forest. No birds, just moss.
We pile back into the car and bounce along a venerable red dirt road through agricultural land dotted with solitary trees. Every now and then we stop, climb out, and look at a bird. Now it’s hot. The heat saps all energy. On the way back a group of Andean condors flies toward us; one has a snake dangling from its beak. That same snake had been lying in the road earlier, someone had driven over it. Andy was pleased about that, because snakes are dangerous. Venomous snakes are indeed dangerous, especially if you step on them, but that’s not exactly something you have to do.
Andy suggests going for ice-cream. He must sense that the tourists are starting to fade. There’s no problem that can’t be solved with sugar. Nearby is a small town called Maldonado, named after Pedro Vicente Maldonado, who collaborated with the French geodesic expedition in the 18th century. Kalle and I are treated to ice-cream, which we eat while lounging on a swing. Andy goes off to buy a new phone case.
The next stop is a fruit tour. We hope we won’t have to go through the entire planting process ourselves. There’s a veranda and a bird-feeding station: hummingbirds, tanagers, woodpeckers. A bearded manakin makes a brief appearance. Andy rattles off a list of species names and then chats with the household. Easy entertainment. Ah yes—and they call the birds “targets”: Today’s targets are...
At some point we go for lunch and then return to the veranda. There’s a tray of fruit lying on a shelf. Snake fruit. I get to try one. That’s the whole fruit experience. Just before we leave, a new woodpecker with a striking hairstyle shows up.
On the way back it starts raining again, but we still go to look for a recently located owl near the lodge, a rufescent screech owl. Older local birders scout out birds and pass on the information to guides: where to go, which branch to look at. Andy eventually finds the owl after taking a photo, sending it to the source, and getting it back with a marker. The owl sits quietly in the dim light among the leaves. In fact, all you can really see is its belly. Thunder rolls. Here, lightning seems to occur independently of rain and thunder.
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