After we manage to
get our morning coffee, I ask the staff about their training.
They are all
self-taught. Plus the Merlin app. They play bird-call recordings because
everyone does it. They know it’s bad for the birds. But the tourist has paid to
see birds. I try to explain that, in my view, no photograph or a longer species
list is worth harassing a bird. Let the bird go about its business. If its path
happens to cross mine, great. If not, that’s fine too. It honestly hadn’t
occurred to me that this kind of setup even existed. Now it’s clear why people
talk about the damaging impact of nature tourism. There is strong demand for
it. Presumably plenty of annoyed visitors write complaints and ask for refunds
if they don’t see the bird promised in the brochure. Ignorance is power. I’m
not sure the boy quite gets it.
To start with, we watch the activity in the trees at the edge of the parking area. To my delight, among the colorful passerines there is a woodcreeper. The harder-to-spot birds are somehow more interesting. They seem to carry a secret. This one is brownish, with a slightly curved bill, walking up the trunk with its long toes splayed, then fluttering off to grab berries.
We stroll along the trail. A woodpecker is supposed to appear. A woodpecker would be nice. Andy reaches for his playback again and is genuinely surprised when I ask him not to. Deprived of his recordings, he sulks a bit at first. Instead we watch hummingbirds trying to land on our heads. The feeders are empty, and there don’t seem to be many flowering plants around. Poor things. These elegant, delicate birds have been reduced to beggars, like ducks in the ponds of Tallinn. We watch water dripping from the branches. Some people don’t seem to realize that it can be nice simply to be outside.
A little farther along the path there are quite a few birds moving about in the branches without the need to fool them, and the atmosphere is calm and pleasant. A group arrives from behind us on their way to meet the next semi-tame antpitta, “Shakira,” a yellow-breasted antpitta. Everyone gets lined up at a suitable distance from a tree trunk where worms have been scattered. The bird stands on a mossy branch under the trees, turning its head and shifting its weight from side to side. It doesn’t seem to need the worms at all. When one of the birds lands on the designated photo branch, I nearly get scolded for daring to photograph the other one in its own chosen surroundings instead of taking the same shot as everyone else. Kalle says we have, without realizing it, wandered into a zoo. What can you do, insufficient homework on our part. There’s no point taking it out on the keepers. This is, after all, an industrial scale operation.
Next we watch birds feeding on bananas. I’m actually watching those that are not feeding on bananas. We are waiting for an older man somewhere off in the distance to locate something special, so that we can all rush over together. The bird does not materialize. The young people who have joined us chatter enthusiastically and nonstop. Andy scrolls on his phone. Everyone is content, except perhaps a small, rather charming rufous-collared sparrow, who seems unable to comprehend how she has ended up raising a glossy cowbird twice its size that keeps demanding more food.
To be fair, Andy somewhat adapts once he has apparently called someone to complain about us. He lets us quietly photograph moss. That helps. I show him waterdrops like pearls on a spider’s web. Maybe he’ll learn something. Later, back at the parking area, he even looks up a large moth lying on the ground for us. A new balance begins to emerge.
After lunch it rains. The trees, draped with hanging lichen like layers of cake, stand in the mist like ghosts. We go down to the river, but still no luck with the white-capped dipper. By the time we are thoroughly soaked, Kalle voices what we’ve both been thinking and gives us permission to go inside and read. Andy sits in the car in front of the house for a long time. Perhaps he doesn’t dare head home before the scheduled time.
The bathroom could do with curtains. Insects keep hurling themselves against the glass in the evenings with loud thuds and knocking themselves senseless.
To start with, we watch the activity in the trees at the edge of the parking area. To my delight, among the colorful passerines there is a woodcreeper. The harder-to-spot birds are somehow more interesting. They seem to carry a secret. This one is brownish, with a slightly curved bill, walking up the trunk with its long toes splayed, then fluttering off to grab berries.
We stroll along the trail. A woodpecker is supposed to appear. A woodpecker would be nice. Andy reaches for his playback again and is genuinely surprised when I ask him not to. Deprived of his recordings, he sulks a bit at first. Instead we watch hummingbirds trying to land on our heads. The feeders are empty, and there don’t seem to be many flowering plants around. Poor things. These elegant, delicate birds have been reduced to beggars, like ducks in the ponds of Tallinn. We watch water dripping from the branches. Some people don’t seem to realize that it can be nice simply to be outside.
A little farther along the path there are quite a few birds moving about in the branches without the need to fool them, and the atmosphere is calm and pleasant. A group arrives from behind us on their way to meet the next semi-tame antpitta, “Shakira,” a yellow-breasted antpitta. Everyone gets lined up at a suitable distance from a tree trunk where worms have been scattered. The bird stands on a mossy branch under the trees, turning its head and shifting its weight from side to side. It doesn’t seem to need the worms at all. When one of the birds lands on the designated photo branch, I nearly get scolded for daring to photograph the other one in its own chosen surroundings instead of taking the same shot as everyone else. Kalle says we have, without realizing it, wandered into a zoo. What can you do, insufficient homework on our part. There’s no point taking it out on the keepers. This is, after all, an industrial scale operation.
Next we watch birds feeding on bananas. I’m actually watching those that are not feeding on bananas. We are waiting for an older man somewhere off in the distance to locate something special, so that we can all rush over together. The bird does not materialize. The young people who have joined us chatter enthusiastically and nonstop. Andy scrolls on his phone. Everyone is content, except perhaps a small, rather charming rufous-collared sparrow, who seems unable to comprehend how she has ended up raising a glossy cowbird twice its size that keeps demanding more food.
To be fair, Andy somewhat adapts once he has apparently called someone to complain about us. He lets us quietly photograph moss. That helps. I show him waterdrops like pearls on a spider’s web. Maybe he’ll learn something. Later, back at the parking area, he even looks up a large moth lying on the ground for us. A new balance begins to emerge.
After lunch it rains. The trees, draped with hanging lichen like layers of cake, stand in the mist like ghosts. We go down to the river, but still no luck with the white-capped dipper. By the time we are thoroughly soaked, Kalle voices what we’ve both been thinking and gives us permission to go inside and read. Andy sits in the car in front of the house for a long time. Perhaps he doesn’t dare head home before the scheduled time.
The bathroom could do with curtains. Insects keep hurling themselves against the glass in the evenings with loud thuds and knocking themselves senseless.
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