Wednesday, October 26, 2011

field gems

March 29, 2011

We finished-up by 1 in the afternoon but the day had been eventful, and was far from easy.  A few days prior, our boss's adviser made a last-minute decision:  in addition to our present workload, we would begin collecting vegetation data for Golden-winged Warblers banded in previous years. We had only a few weeks left to finish up the field project, and so we had to haul some ass, so to speak.

The three of us set off  on a familiar trail towards Tonio's finca (farm) to conduct eight vegetation surveys.  Last year, two male golden-wings were detected up in the hills we were strolling around in.  According to the field protocol, four points are needed for each bird's territory.  The first point at which we record vegetation data is where the bird was detected.  From this hub three more points, 50 meters away, at 0, 120, and 240 degrees are surveyed. 

So, we knew where we had to go, but, like most of our study sites, our destination lay deep within the confines of pre-montane rainforest.  The majority of our "veg-points" required busting serious ass (so to speak) through primary and secondary forest - spelled Thick, Spiny, Dense, and Vine-y.
Cypress takes a GPS point next to one of the largest trees we had to measure
GPS in hand, Cypress led us to the first four points, Jeffe took us to 5 and 6, and I finished things up at the last two.  We slipped through greasy mud, and whacked and crashed through tall, wet grass, vine tangles, slicing our machetes through small trees and brambles.  Small bleeding cuts appeared on exposed hands and arms, and occassionally, legs were impaled on small sticks jutting out of the damp earth.  The entire time we were accompanied by a horsefly or two (or three, or four), excellent company to our misery.
Cypress and Jeffe disappear behind a wall of vegetation 
We measured canopy height, percent cover, and the number of vine tangles (goldies love to forage in them).  Then we measured the diameter-at-breast height (dbh) of all the trees we spied through our yellow-tinted prism.  Last, we classified the area as primary or secondary forest.  We moved on to our next point.

When we finished all eight points Jeffe led us out of the thick of the forest, back to the main trail that would take us back down the hill and to our field vehicle.  We had back-tracked nearly thirty meters when all of the sudden Jeffe emitted a cry,

"Yeeeoooowwwww!"

We all stopped dead in our tracks.

"What?!"  We cried back, hearts pounding.

"A snake!"  Jeffe replied, breathless. 

We pried our heads over one another, craning our necks to look in the direction of our boss's trembling gesture.  And laying there, curled next to a log, was a Fer-de-Lance. 
Property of www.hidephotography.com
Most herpetological textbooks label this large viper as the most dangerous snake in Central America.  But belying its malignant reputation, the snake sat motionless and peered at us over the plump, green coil of it's body.  It flicked its tongue in our direction, surely catching a whiff of our fear and curiosity.  We took advantage of this rare opportunity (rare in the sense that we weren't being lunged at) and snapped a few photos of the beast, who had probably just eaten something which explained why it didn't move.

After the boys were finished poking and prodding the snake with the tips of very long sticks, and thus satisfied that the snake wasn't going to come after us, we hurried along the rest of the way, silently wondering at how many other vipers we had unknowingly brushed past.  We found an open path that eventually led us to the main road.  We paused near the end of the trail and focused our binoculars on a pair of White Hawks, that in turn, eyed us suspiciously as they perched high in a tree.  They soon returned their twin gazes toward the grass, searching for prey, and we took our leave. 
A bad photo of a beautiful bird:  The White Hawk
"Caballo Blanco", our 1995 Nissan Pathfinder, was waiting for us at the bottom of the hill. Our bones aching, and our foreheads dotted with beads of sweat, we clambored into the truck and headed home.  As we bumped and shifted over the white rubble of Cedral's main roads, I tried to absorb the sights that I had taken for granted so many times before.  The colourful houses, the blossoming trees, even the preotective dog choking itself at the end of its chain. 
A Capuchin Monkey gives us a quick view before he too
disappears into the thick of the forest
My time here was drawing to a close.  Only two weeks remained and soon Cypress and I would find ourselves on the other side of the world.  I wanted to remember this place, and lock it away.  Although the work was hard, and the snake encounter had left me a little weak in the knees, I was happy for the adrenaline rush.

Saturday, September 24, 2011

Canción de la noche

March 21, 2011  

  The sprinkling of rain on the tin roof becomes sporadic eventually giving way to silence as another rain cloud travels east.  Sleep is elusive tonight and I lay awake staring into the darkness listening to the sounds that begin to fill our small cinder block house on top of the hill.

  The rusted blue refrigerator, who delivers shocks to the unwary, hums to itself in the corner of the dining room.  Pure mountain water drips from the tap, tinking hypnotically upon a silver spoon.  The wind begins to howl beyond our front door, clawing through the kitchen shutters and shaking the house.  It threatens to rip our drying clothes from the line and tells me so by rattling the fragile window panes. But it never lasts long.  Soon the night has composed itself and I can once again hear the katydids singing distantly through the wet darkness.

  Other sounds can only be imagined.  A hungry wolf spider tip-toes across the cold brown tile floor following the pitter-patter of a roaming cockroach.  I envision the orb spider suspended above our small, hard bed.  I see her twitch then regain her position in the center of her web.
  If listen closely, I swear I can hear the clouds dragging heavily through the charcoal sky.  A tiny star emerges briefly through the flowing, transient haze, recalling ice on crystal, and quickly disappears.
 
  My eyes have become heavy and my breathing long and deep.  I listen as the night is carried by the wind and moves with the cricket's song.  It is taken from our hilltop down into the sleepy town below and back again.  I finally give in to this midnight lullaby and I dream until dawn.

Night settles upon Cédral

Tamarindo

The bus gave a high-pitched whine as it slowed.  The sleeping passengers stirred and the quiet darkness was suddenly humming with soft mumbles of confusion.  We weren't in Tamarindo yet but I could smell the salt of the Pacific.  The air was thick and warm and, curiously, smelled of molasses.
  The driver exited the bus to talk to a few men outside.  Apparently there was some problem with the power lines - they were hanging low over the road ahead and we could not pass.  The driver spoke to us in Spanish and everyone began to collect their things.  Villaréal would be the last stop tonight.  

  Cypress and I got off the bus and grabbed our bags from the undercarriage, unsure of how we were going to get to town.  Everyone seemed confused and small groups of people began forming alongside the road.  Others went solo, deciding to walk the few remaining miles.
  Taxis appeared around our stranded bus but no other roads led to Tamarindo, or so the bus driver insisted.  Two American girls asked if we wanted to share their taxi since their driver said he knew a short cut.  We obliged half-heartedly, unsure as to how this man planned on getting there since the bus no doubt would have taken an alternate route were it available.  The present town offered few accommodations and so we climbed into the cab hoping for the best.

  We drove a few hundred meters back the way we had come before suddenly swerving onto a stone-studded dirt road.  We immediately reached a creek that our mini-bus could not maneuver so we turned around and took another dirt road.  It became clear to me why the bus driver didn't take this road.  We bumped and jolted along the deeply rutted "short-cut" making small talk with our new tourist-friends.  One girl was a student from San Francisco, the other was actually from Germany, not the States. They seemed nervous as we rattled along.  They were making me  nervous as well.
  We splashed through the shallow rivers that cut across our path, and heaved up the sloping banks.  It was incredibly dark and difficult to see where we were.  I turned to look behind us and saw headlights.  I couldn't help but think it might be a car full of road-pirates waiting to take our money and passports.  Cypress told me to calm down, that they were probably other tourists taking the same road to Tamarindo.  I relaxed a little but kept stealing glances.  

  The deep darkness soon gave way to street lights that illuminated a few small houses.  We were on the outskirts of Tamarindo.  A large Best Western hotel was the first of many to greet us.  Shops and bars appeared and people darted across the road.  Our taxi pulled off to the side and we climbed out onto the street.  The curious smell of molasses had grown stronger and now I knew why.  The dirt road was covered in a thick, sticky substance.  We surmised it was meant to keep the dust from rising.
  The driver asked for fifteen thousand colones but Cypress bargained with him as best he could.  It was still an expensive detour but at least we had arrived.  We said goodbye to the girls and began looking for a phone.  We hauled our enormous backpacks across the street to the town square.
  The large plaza had several shops, a small movie theater, and a youth hostel with its name advertised on a blue, surfing shark. I stood outside with the bags while Cypress made a call to Barb, the woman we would be staying with.  I sat on my bag and watched as many tourists milled about, most of them young and white, all of them drunk and excited.
  Cypress joined me on the sidewalk and before long, an older woman and a young Nicaraguan man strolled our way.  Barb greeted us warmly and introduced us to her friend Calixto.  He said he was el Changador, the porter, and offered to help us with our bags.  Barb informed us that the condo was only a few minutes up the road and the walk was short.
  Cypress knew Barb through a friend and she had been more than willing to put us up for a few days.  She lived in small gated community that housed a number of retired Americans wanting to escape the chill of the winter months.

  We entered  the complex through a tall security gate.  Barb assured us that crime rates were low enough but precautions were necessary.  The metal door clanged behind us and we walked down a palm tree-dotted alley.  Barb's apartment was second to last on the left.  Our hostess showed us around before taking us to our room.  She urged us to make ourselves at home.
  It was still early in the night and we hadn't eaten anything substantial since breakfast so Barb offered to take us to El Pescador, the fisherman, for some plato tipico (genuine Costa Rican food).  We freshened up and headed back into town.  The restaurant was a small open air type with more tables outside than in and overlooked a glistening moonlit Pacific.
  A jovial man greeted us and we chose a spot at the edge of the patio.  The table was a box top with a glass cover.  Inside were coins, and paper money from all over the world, ropes tied in different kinds of knots, seashells and sand.  The waiter came back and he and Barb chatted like old friends.  He said their catch of the day was Mahi Mahi.  Cypress and I got some cassava frites to go along with our freshly caught fish.
  We ate to our heart's content.  I was beginning to enjoy black beans and now relished fried plantains.  I wondered how I had gone through life without ever having tried one.  We left with full bellies and headed back to Barb's to turn in for the night.

  The next morning the warm air was swirling with the sounds of exotic birds and the distant roar of a neighboring ocean. I opened my eyes and was confronted by a painted beach mural on the opposite wall complete with mountains and palm trees.  It was the next best thing to waking up with the actual ocean.  Barb was a talented artist and we would find many examples of her artwork, in addition to the beach mural, around the house.
  Cypress and I jumped out of bed like two kids on Christmas morning.  The birds of Costa Rica proved as tantalizing as shiny new presents under a lit-up fir tree.  We threw on our bathing suits, shorts and t-shirts and flip-flopped out of our room and down the stairs.  Barb was up making coffee in the kitchen and greeted us with a big smile.  She chattered and flitted about the kitchen asking us many questions about the trip, our travels, and what exactly did it mean to "work with birds".
  When the coffee was ready we took our mugs and binoculars outside and sat around the turquoise salt-water pool.  We prattled on for about an hour sipping our fair-trade Costa Rican blends, all the while pointing our binoculars at the forest rising behind the large stone wall at the back of the compound.
  The trees were absolutely dripping with birds.  Sparrows, woodpeckers, wrens, hummingbirds, parrots, parakeets, motmots, puffbirds, warblers, flycatchers, vireos, gnatcatchers, tanagers, blackbirds, and anis were all visible from our pool-side observatory.  This was indeed a treat to the North American birder.  We couldn't imagine what else we would find once we explored the rest of the town.
Cypress does some pool-side birding

  We had eight days before having to be in the Tilaran mountains for work and we made the most of our little vacation.  Barb was an excellent host and proved very resourceful, having made a living as a tour-guide back in the United States.  She took us to the best restaurants and the liveliest bars.  She was friends with many of the locals and scored deals on snorkeling trips and surf lessons.
  The infamous beach upon which Tamarindo is founded was always within sight, or to the very least, sound and smell. We spent our first day here.
  Expensive hotels monopolized the northern end of the beach while the eastern side was hugged by restaurants and private condos.  We stuck to the east side since it was largely unpopulated compared to the hotel district where scores of people learned how to ride surfboards and aggregations of pale American and European tourists competed for prime UV spotlights.
  The Pacific rushed forth, forever roiling against an extensive sugary beach.  White sand is somewhat rare in Costa Rica and much sought after by tourists, and, I imagined explained the extensive development up and down the coast.  We dipped our toes into the water and lifted our binoculars to the sky.  To our surprise and disappointment there were few gulls and not much in the way of seabirds.  However, we delighted in watching as dozens of brown pelicans and magnificent frigatebirds crowded around fishing boats in the hopes of scoring an easy meal.
Tamarindo Beach
  We did a lot of exploring inland as well.  On our second day we wandered south down the dusty road connecting Tamarindo and Playa Langosta (Lobster Beach).  The Las Baulas National Park hugged the east side of the undeveloped highway creating an impenetrable green wall to our left.  There was little traffic and, consequently, copious amounts of wildlife.
  Inca doves cooed upon the powerlines as cinnamon hummingbirds and green-breasted mangos buzzed like bumblebees around roadside flowers.  We craned our necks trying to catch glimpses of reclusive tanagers and orioles.  Boat-billed flycatchers and great kiskadees proved to be a challenge, looking virtually identical save for the golden crown and white supercilliaries that meet at the back of the neck of the latter species.
  We ambled on slowly for hours, stopping and flipping through the pages of our field guide, and gulping back inordinate amounts of water.  The birds were growing quiet as the sun soared ever higher into an unblemished blue sky but the odd toucan and tanager occasionally awarded our efforts with fleeting flashes of vibrant feathers.  Soon the wind carried no sounds of singing birds and we quickened our pace only to stop short as a family of howler monkeys cautiously crossed the road ahead of us, one by one.  The last, a baby, created a swirling cloud of dust as he caught up with the others.
A baby Howler catches up with his family
Cypress enjoying Las Baulas
  As the next town grew closer the trees thinned out and the forest yielded to new housing developments.  SUVs waited obtrusively on the side of the road, gated homes sat perched atop freshly plowed plots of forest that couldn't afford protection from the boundaries of Las Baulas.  But there were still birds.
  A statuesque black-headed trogon, the first trogon I had ever seen, peeked out at us from the edge of a postage-stamp sized plot of tropical scrub forest.  A squirrel cuckoo skittered, true to its name, through a tangle of vines like a familiar, fluffy-tailed rodent.  Stripe-headed sparrows sang along concrete fence rows and groove-billed anis, a type of small black cuckoo, were ever present making playful clucking noises and chasing one another through the grass.
Squirrel Cuckoo
Stripe-headed Sparrows
  Back in Tamarindo we met Barb for dinner at Nogui's, a charming restaurant at the end of a cul-de-sac that specialized in American-style hamburgers.  Barb waved to us from a round table with a wide open view of the ocean.  We ordered a few beers and chatted lazily in the shade of a large tamarind tree, the same tree after which the town had taken its name.
  Cypress and I asked about the new development we had encountered in Playa Langosta and Barb was quick to clarify that when she first arrived to this surfer's paradise ten years ago none of the shops, restaurants, bars, or hotels existed.  Playa Langosta was a forest, and Tamarindo didn't even have a bus stop.

"There was one road in, and one road out.  That was it.  Only locals.  The only tourists to come here were the really hardcore surfers.  But word got out and now everyone is wanting a piece of Tamarindo."
 
  I looked down at my empty plate and felt a pang of guilt.  Indeed, everyone seemed to be enjoying the delicacies that this booming beach town had to offer.

  "Iguanas used to drape themselves all over the place," barb continued, "but now you're lucky to see one or two.  Sea turtles used to nest up and down the beach.  But not anymore.  They're all gone."

  I assumed there used to be more birds as well.  I was used to hearing stories like this.  It wasn't just Tamarindo, this was happening all over North America.  And Australia, and Mauritius, and Rota.  Cypress and I exchanged sullen glances and I finished my beer, feeling a little bit like a fool.

  A pair of white-throated magpie-jays swooped-in and landed on the bar, diverting our attention and changing the somber mood.  They plucked a packet of mayonnaise and poked a hole into the side lapping up the thick white paste.  They managed to empty four packets before the owner came out and shooed them away.  One of the jays absconded with a fifth packet and pecked out the tangy sauce in a tree.  The emptied wrapper dropped to the ground as the pair flew off in search of more tasty morsels.
Barb tells me about the costs of living comfortably
  We spent our remaining days appreciating the natural beauty surrounding Tamarindo and checking several life-birds off in our field guides.  We climbed a back road that led to the highest point of town and spied crested caracaras and black vultures wheeling around the sky.  Scissor-tailed flycatchers sallied for insects from exposed branches, their ridiculously long tails streaming behind them like ribbons.  At the top, the Pacific Ocean hogged the entire vista sprawling infinitely into the west.  We looked at sailboats and large oil tankers through our binoculars but unexpectedly caught a glimpse of  a pod of breaching whales making their way south.  I wanted to live on top of that hill forever.
A view from the top
  On the morning of the 9th it was inevitably time to leave.  The mountains and golden-winged warblers called our names.  We had said our farewells the night before and now crept quietly out of the condominium into the still morning darkness.  Crickets sang and a few birds chirped and stirred in the foliage.  The road crunched beneath our feet as we made our way to the bus depot and I reflected fondly on Tamarindo.
  It was silly to hope that this town would resist the landslide of development that was coming its way.  History had taught me that nothing, no matter how beautiful and rare, would stand in the way of people's comfort and luxury.  But I hoped that these future changes would be slow.  I hoped that people would understand the importance of working with nature rather than pushing it out of the way.  I hoped that the dirt roads would forever remain unpaved, for I had grown to love the sweet smell of molasses.  And I hoped the birds would not disappear like the iguana and the sea turtle.
Like sea turtles, these large iguanas have become rare since Tamarindo
became the favored wintering grounds of  retired  Westerners

Sunday, September 18, 2011

San José.

   The plane landed and we ran through the wide halls of the San Jose airport, collected our backpacks and waited in line for customs. I was nervous even though you told me not to be, but the officer stamped my passport while he flirted with me and I wondered if he told all the girls they had nice smiles. We stepped outside into brilliant sunshine, shielded our eyes with melting hands, and cabbies yelled at us until we picked one. We climbed into a red cab and we all spoke in broken Spanish while the driver steered along a highway that looked a lot like the highways we have at home. Some kids shot a bird in a tree and you turned and looked at me while the driver kept talking and I nodded because I saw it happen and then it all disappeared behind us because we were driving so fast. Soon we were downtown and zig-zagging through a big, dirty city. There were a lot of people, darker than ourselves, going about their business, and many of the businesses were the same as ours back home even though they went by different names. We stopped in front of a building with a big blue door and a sign that read "Kap's Place". We got out of the cab, took our bags, paid the driver, rang a buzzer, and a staticky sounding man told us we could come in. We went through the big blue door and down a long colourful hallway that opened up into a small room with a desk with a Tico man smiling behind the counter and we both eyed a small refrigerator holding four kinds of beer to the right of the counter. I wanted a drink but paid for the reservation instead and we were taken to our room but we had to leave the way we came in. We walked down the street, turned the corner and then we went through a big red door that opened into a larger room with books, couches and chairs, computers and walls painted bright colours and a floor of bright tiles. Our room was small and dark but had a private bathroom and we were happy that we didn't have to share with the other guests. We thanked the man and threw our bags on the floor and threw ourselves onto the bed and fell asleep. We woke up at ten but were too tired to eat or do anything else so we slept until the morning. We missed a free breakfast so went out looking for it along the streets of San Jose. We walked and walked until our feet hurt and our stomachs were full of coffee and pastries. We vibrated along the sun-soaked avenues snapping pictures of new birds and old buildings and felt nostalgic for Arizona when we heard the white-winged doves. We stopped in some places to look at huge squirrels and decipher new noises, we ran across streets, wiped our foreheads, learned new words, said new phrases, pulled at our shirts to let the heat escape but it didn't help. The day spun away and the sun began to set. We watched peregrine falcons on a tall radio tower but then it was dark and we walked under warm streetlamps looking for yet another place to eat. We ate fish and rice and beans and plantains and learned new Spanish words and we swore we'd speak as much Spanish as we could even though we knew we wouldn't. We left the restaurant and I had no idea where we were or how to get back to the hostel but you did so I followed you. A dog chased us and I got scared but you protected me. We made it back but it was still early so we chose a few beers from the refrigerator next to the check-in desk and drank them in the common area while we wrote to our families to say we were safe. I finished my Imperial and stared at a glistening Christmas tree covered in blue and purple tinsel a little too long and my eyes got heavy so we went back to our room and slept until the morning. We packed our bags and ate free breakfast because we woke up before ten. We hailed a cab that took us to the bus depot because buses were cheaper than renting cars. We bought tickets to Tamarindo and you told me it was a surfer town on the Pacific Ocean. I got excited on the way there and thought about how cold it was at home and how far away we were and how happy I was to be here with you. I felt sick so you told me to lay my head on your shoulder and close my eyes and it helped. We stopped at a gas station and everyone got off the bus but I stayed and saved our seats while you bought ice cream. You shared your ice cream but I didn't eat too much. The road snaked through the hills, the sky got dark and the people grew quiet and we whispered about how much we loved Costa Rica and how much we hated dogs. 

The descent

Cold treats make long bus trips fun
 
"San Jose"

No "TLC" for this street cat...



Blue-gray Tanagers are a common sight in Costa Rica

A Green Heron casts a shadow over an algae-covered sewage lagoon


This Rufous-naped Wren investigates a dumpster


A large fox squirrel (species unidentified) awkwardly scales the chain-link fence

Groove-billed Anis like perching on powerlines

Cypress takes a break from the bus

Wednesday, June 22, 2011

Escape to Central America!

It was only a matter of time.  The new year was imminent and we anticipated 2011 in the backseat of a black car, dressed in lace and a tie.  I guess we were both saying good-bye to something in the wake of a change that only time could bring, and we were quiet as we rumbled along the highway. The night sky hung low above our heads and the somber gray clouds of winter were illuminated by the distant glow of the approaching city.  Our flight to Central America would depart in the quiet, early hours of the new year, but we had one night left in North America... 

New Year's Eve began with ghosts and champagne.  With a few friends in tow and a flute of bubbly in hand, we explored the historic houses of Philadelphia's high society.  We moved from building to building, each one older than the last, eagerly listening to legends and folklore, haunted tales and unexplained events. 

With our blood sufficiently chilled with spooky tales and our fingers numbed by December's icy breath, we were ready to heat-up the remaining hours with festive beverages and some late-night dancing.  We failed to heed our original rule of maintaining sobriety for the sake of travel and accepted the pony-necked beers handed to us when we arrived through the narrow doorway of a brownstone townhouse in downtown Philly.

The party was in full swing.  The alcohol flowed, the crowd churned, and the music pounded in our blood.  It was hard to believe that we would soon be in a new country, adjusting to a new routine, in just a matter of hours.  As midnight approached we all made our way up a tight staircase leading to an icy roof in order to ring-in the year. Our spirits were high, and we screamed into the night as fireworks exploded, green and red and white, along the city skyline.

Nothing really changes when the old calendars are tossed and the new ones are pinned-up in their stead, but there is always that immense feeling of hope as the final minutes of the year are whittled away by time's knife.    Perhaps, more so than a birthday, the approaching year made me aware that time is fleeting.  Many of us deal with the realization by inventing resolutions to be better people and vow to make the most of the time that is left to us.  But I had no misconceptions and only watched the fireworks with excitement.  They were a symbol of change - a celebration of it - and I didn't make any wishes as the electric shards disappeared toward the earth.

The party was still raging but Cypress and I figured we could still manage to steal a few hours of sleep before leaving the country.  We walked home hand-in-hand, along the icy cobblestones of a haunted city, and soon closed our eyes against an antique bed with a brass frame.  Sleep came as quickly as the morning, and we awoke only two hours later, still inebriated, the sky still black, the air still and cold.  Bleary-eyed, we shuffled about with as much haste as we could manage at 4 AM.  We each forced down a banana while collecting our luggage, and in a dreamy haze, and with the help of  Cypress's brother, we made our way to the Philadelphia International Airport. 
I fumbled to scan my passport and hid my state of intoxication from Homeland Security, feigning sleepiness.  The airport was quiet and the gates were adorned with only a dusting of travelers.  Cypress and I watched them as we rested our heads on our backpacks in the food court.  We sipped Vitamin Waters in the vain hope of avoiding a hangover, but only time and sleep would cure us.
We moved to an empty gate and waited. Cypress stole a few moments of sleep and I snapped photos of a busy runway, illuminated by the rising sun of a new day, silent behind the glass.  A voice over the loudspeaker warned against leaving bags unattended.  Then our flight was announced and we were called to board. We dragged our lifeless bodies toward a line of moving passengers and joined them on the plane bound for Costa Rica. Nothing but time now.  Our excitement fluttered behind a mask of crippling exhaustion.  We held hands as the plane took off, and fell into a deep, liberating slumber. 

We rubbed our eyes as we descended into San Jose, and when we stepped out into the hot, bright day we found ourselves surrounded by demanding taxi drivers.  Cypress chose a man with a kind face and we threw our bags into the trunk of his red car.  As we snaked through the streets of an unfamiliar city the three of us chattered in broken Spanish, and I could feel all the drink and smoke of the previous night evaporate from my body.  Now, all that remained was simple exhilaration. Everything was new and different.  We were completely displaced, enveloped by a warm and enchanting culture, and I felt very far away.

Monday, June 13, 2011

Winter 2011

Time seems to slip away at an alarming rate, especially as we grow older.  It seems like only yesterday I felt the pulse of my excitied heart as I anticipated a four-month adventure in Central America, a place I had longed to visit for many years. 

I want to share a few of my experiences and, perhaps somehow recapture the sixteen fleeting weeks that took me deeper into my own life.  I dedicate the following posts to the winter I spent chasing Golden-winged Warblers around the mountains of Costa Rica. 

Enjoy.

Thursday, June 2, 2011

The Curious Case of an Island-dwelling Crow

The year is 1982. The US Fish and Wildlife Service (USFWS) permeated the dry, tropical forests of a particular Pacific island in search of the Mariana Crow. They walked along prepared transects and counted. Using the magic of statistics, they extrapolated. And they determined that there were nearly one thousand crows inhabiting the small vegetated limestone dot that is Rota.

In 1995, the US Fish and Wildlife Service repeated their survey. This time they estimated the Rota crow population to be around five hundred individuals.

Today, there are fewer than three hundred crows.

Coral Atoll, Rota, CNMI

Islands are curious places. Before we humans figured out how to navigate the big blue ocean and sky, the only life forms to find their way to these isolated land masses did so very infrequently. They waited patiently on a raft of flotsam, or they yielded to the unpredictable forces and directions of the wind. One day, that raft knocked up against the shore of a distant island, slurping against the sea soaked rocks. On it, a small gecko, a cockroach, a flea, a tick, a budding Pandandus nut.  They were cast upon the shore. A ballooning spider and wind-blown seeds swirled towards the island as well. A few seabirds built their nests on the rocky outcrops. A vagrant honeyeater... a lost flycatcher... a disoriented crow...

But not everyone remained. Without a mate it was impossible to procreate, harder still to begin a permanent population. But every once in a while, someone did manage to stick around. And they reproduced, and spread throughout the island. They changed and adapted, and became well-suited to island life. And it took a very, very long time.

Lichens gave way to moss, and mossy beds hosted cozy spaces for small vascular plants. They died and became soil, and the soil layer thickened, and larger plants showed up, took root, and grew. They permeated the island. Large, fruiting trees provided food for newcomers. Slowly, the Mariana Islands became home to various species of white-eye, flycatcher, dove, kingfisher, megapode, and rail. Geckos and skinks had claimed their positions. A few species of bat also made themselves at home. Not to mention the insects. Grasshoppers, crickets, katydids, beetles, leafhoppers, flies, mosquitos, and hemipterans took up residence among grasses, beneath leaves, within the soil, and they were an excellent source of food for everything else. New species arrived, died, stayed, anchored, other species went extinct. Wave after wave of life and death, colonization and extinction. And things went on this way for hundreds of thousands of years...

Plants and animals were not the only life forms to find their way to islands. Humans inevitably happened upon them as well. Four thousand years ago, southeast Asians navigated the Pacific in search of new worlds to colonize. The Mariana Islands eventually became home to these people. And they propagated, and changed, and became well-suited to island life. We know them as the Chamorros.
It is impossible to know what the island was like before the arrival of the Chamorros. History has a way of repeating itself, and if we've learned anything from previous human colonizations, it can be assumed that the Chamorros had an impact on the native wildlife of these islands, and a negative one at that. Brief glimpses into Rota's natural history in the form of cave excavations shed some light. Of twenty-two avian species native to Rota, 13 no longer exist. These include a large parrot, a parrotfinch, a flycatcher, a pigeon, a giant ground dove, a swiftlet, and a handful of marsh birds and waterfowl (Rota once had natural wetlands). That says nothing about the mammals, reptiles, insects, and plants, the freshwater fish (no one has looked into it yet). But we can't blame these extinctions on the Chamorros alone.

In the late sixteenth century, another group of humans showed up. This time they were Spanish. And they used brute force to make the Mariana Islands their own. They reduced the Chamorro population of approximately one hundred thousand, to a mere 3500. And no doubt the Chamorros were not the only ones to suffer. The Spanish were able to invade on a much larger scale than the Southeast Asians before them. They brought technology, religion, diseases, and domesticated animals. They also ate pigeons, doves, and fruit bats. And more and more of them arrived on ships. Ballast water containing a soup of new species was dumped on and around the islands. Forests were cleared and the land was worked in order to provide food for a growing population. Churches were built in order to worship, schools were erected. Rats pervaded the forests, cats became feral, pigs, goats, and cows trampled the land. And things went on this way for a few hundred years...

After the Spanish-American war in 1898, Guam was gifted to the United States, and the remaining islands were claimed by Germany. Then, in 1915, the Japanese decided they wanted to go to war with Germany. They were the next to invade, and a few years later, they were mandated the northern Mariana islands by the League of Nations (now the United Nations). The islands soon became covered in sugar cane fields. And with the sugar cane came more rats, and copious amounts of insects. DDT, unknown then of its toxic cascading effect, was sprayed to control insect pests. The Japanese also introduced the Black Drongo (Dicrurus macrocercus), a small black bird native to Asia and the Middle East, to aid in insect control. No doubt any remaining marshes were sucked dry. Wetlands disappeared, and with them, surely a few birds and fish. The drongo flourished. So did the rats, and the cats. And things went on like this for a few decades...

All the while, the Mariana Crow persisted within remaining patches of mature limestone forest.


It's difficult to even guess at how many crows inhabited Rota when the Chamorros arrived, or when the Spanish invaded, or when the Japanese took over. It's even more difficult to guess when the crow arrived, and from where. Some people speculate that its closest living relative is the Slender-billed Crow (Corvus enca) from Indonesia. But it could have come from any number of places.
We do know that it is disappearing, and quickly.

Since the 1960s the crow population has been on a steady decline. Or perhaps people just began to notice it then. In any case, within the last thirty years the population went from 1000 birds to fewer than 300. One study suggests that no crows will remain in seventy-five years (http://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2010/12/101220091917.htm).

So, what's the deal?

Aside from the fact that these isolated Pacific islands are difficult to get to and take a long time to accumulate established breeding populations, they are also subject to the occasional typhoon. Whether they were a precursor to the plight of the crow, or just added insult to injury, the series of typhoons that hit the Marianas in the mid-1990s rocked the island of Rota. A great number of trees were defoliated and food sources were scarce. With little food and few places to build nests, the subsequent breeding seasons undoubtably yielded few young crows. Not to mention the number of crows and other birds that were swept away with the storms. Before the 1982 USFWS census no one had paid much attention to the Mariana Crow. No one had any idea how many there might be.  No one will ever know the absolute cost of the typhoons.

Adult Mariana Crow

We can also look to the south for some clues. The Mariana Crow used to persist on the larger island of Guam. But then the Brown Tree Snake (Boiga irregularis) was introduced (by humans) in the late 1940's. Young snakes thrived on small lizards and geckos, then subsisted on birds as they grew larger. They ate all the crows, and made little work of each and every other avian species.

Rota presently does not have an established population of this snake, but there are personal accounts of their presence. They very well could be here. But could they be affecting the crow population at such a low density? Consider other potential predators. What about rats, cats, and monitor lizards (oh yeah, they aren't exactly supposed to be here either but no one is sure who to blame for this...). Consider competing species, the Black Drongo for example. What about disease? Could all of these factors add up to answer the question of why the Mariana Crow has become so scarce?

Blood samples are periodically shipped to the University of Washington for processing, but no diseases have been singled out as the reason for the crow decline. There is, however, solid evidence that cats are eating crows. Besides the fact that biologists have found nearly a dozen crow carcasses displaying the tell-tale signs of cat predation, one cat in particular was caught red-handed. A stomach analysis revealed half-digested crow feathers.

Bingo.

But can we blame it all on cats? I suppose only time will tell. That cat with the crow in its gut was the key to getting proper funding for a feline eradication program on Rota. Assuming that cats are the main culprit, and if the project is successful, then adult mortality rates should drop, and crow numbers would increase. But this will take some time.

In the meantime, it wouldn't hurt to consider and explore a few more theories as to why the crows are disappearing.

There are species that occur on Rota that were introduced by humans for pest control, or accidentally. The Black Drongo, Black Rat (Rattus rattus), and Mangrove Monitor (Varanus indicus) are three such species. Black Drongos could certainly be competing with the crow, and rats and monitor lizards are both known to eat eggs. But nest predation has not been identified as a major concern... yet. The Black Drongo on the other hand, which has been introduced to a number of Pacific Islands, has a track record for causing native species to decline and even become extinct. Here on Rota I have personally witnessed a few of our radio-tagged crows fall victim the wrath of territorial drongos.

The Black Drongo has done very well for itself indeed. They're everywhere. Perched on telephone wires, on the branches of trees, swooping mid-air, devouring insects. They primarily prey on insects. Crows also enjoy insects, but they are omnivores and will eat anything from lizards and hermit crabs, to bird eggs, fruit, and seeds. Thus, competition for food probably isn't an issue. But Rota is a small island, and these two species could be competing for space. Unfortunately no studies have investigated the potential spacial war between the drongo and the crow, so there is no way to know.

Nest predation is another potential concern. Rats and monitor lizards like to eat bird eggs. They probably eat crow eggs. But again, there is no concrete evidence to pin anything on these guys. The University of Washington does conduct nest monitoring during the breeding season but without infrared cameras, it is impossible to capture nocturnal predators (such as the rat and monitor), and again, no way to know for sure.

So there it is. Well, sort of. A lot of maybes. A series of storms. Potential competitors for space, egg thieves, and predators. Which one presents the biggest threat to the survival of the Mariana Crow? How will we go about fixing it?  Only time (and money) will tell.

Hopefully we figure it out within the next 75 years.

Wednesday, May 25, 2011

A Crack in the Sky

Costa Rica

February 15, 2011

A break in the rain.  The crow of a rooster, the murmer of a dove, the gurgling of an oropendola.  A breathing sky.  The town began to move.  Alive.  A distant cow uttered a depressing moo.  A myriad of birds sang excitedly.  The sky was lighter and now only a cool mist swept through the valley below, illuminated by a struggling sun.

But then, a drop. 

The tapdance starts once more.  The wind quickens its breath, the clouds grow thick, and so begins the light smattering of rain upon tin.  Harder.  A drone.  Then lighter.  A saturated sigh. The clouds thin and reveal a yellow sky.  A quick note, then all at once the birds explode into song.  And the whole drama repeats itself again, and again.

Another day indoors.
Resumes. Coffee. Literature.
A wet step  into the future.

Tuesday, May 3, 2011

Girl on the Wing

I rolled-up to the check-in booth at the Norman Rogers Airport, in Kingston, Ontario, and handed over my passport.  A rotund blonde woman with a British accent smiled and printed out all three of my boarding passes.  She spread them out like playing cards and read each one over. 

"What are you doing in Guam? she inquired, rather shocked.  She knitted her brow when I told her. 
"Are you hearing this!?" she called over to her co-worker.  "Endangered crows!  How about that!" 
"We have plenty here," the other clerk joked. "Why not take some with you!" 
Ha-Ha. 
"How does one find a job helping endangered birds?" she asked. 
"Well," I said, "I studied biology... and well, the internet is a start.  And it doesn't hurt to know people". 

She blinked at me and shook her head as if to defuse a small bomb in her brain.  She smiled again and handed my passport back.  "Have a great time!" and she waved as I rolled away.  "...Endangered crows, how about that..." was all I heard as I headed for the luggage check. 

The aiport was quiet. There weren't a lot of air-bound passengers running around at 6:30 AM.  Not in Kingston anyway.  And not on a Sunday.  My large, black suitcase passed the safety test and slid away down the conveyer belt.  I wouldn't see it until I reached Guam.  And I was happy for that - it was a very large suitcase.  It contained eveything I would need (or I believed I would need) to live comfortably on a small, isolated limestone atoll in the middle of the Pacifc Ocean for five months.  I didn't want to deal with it again in Toronto... or Hong Kong.  I had travelled enough to know that the last thing one wants to lug around an enormous aiport of an unfamiliar country, is all your crap. 

My step-father waited in the main hall, patiently grinning at me.  My parents were supportive of, if not a little bewildered by, my worldly, bird-oriented, excursions.  They were the ones who helped book flights and purchased travel health insurance (and sometimes even put it all on their credit cards!). "For the miles", they always justified.  I always paid them back of course.  They taught me to always ask questions and do the research, and know my rights (!).  Needless to say, I love them endlessly for all of their valiant efforts.

I received a few final words of wisdom from my step-dad as we chatted until the AirCanada Beechcraft appeared on the tarmac.  My stomach was in its usual pre-travel knots and I unconciously tapped at the polished gold- and green-speckled concrete floor with the tip of my sneaker.  A voice on a loud speaker stated that "flight 199 to Toronto" was now boarding.  We said our goodbyes and as he hugged me, my heart tightened.  I forced tears back, and swallowed the lump in my throat.  "I'll let you know when I get there," I assured him.  No matter how many times I skip the country, I always feel (a) a little guilty, and (b) great saddness, when saying goodbye to my parents.

But alas, the world awaited, and my excitement at seeing a new country, and embracing a new culture, soon aided in clearing my emotional distress.  That ball of anxiety in my chest remained however, gnawing away at my insides.  "What if U.S. Customs doesn't permit me to stay for the entire five months?  What if I get lost in the Hong Kong airport?  What if I can't sleep on the plane?  What if I have to pee but the person sitting next to me is asleep and I can't get up?  What if, what if, what if!  I had to stop.  So I told myself to "stoppit".  It didn't help of course.  My stupid brain kept up with the annoying "whatifs", but I mostly ignored it.

At 7 I lined-up behind the other four people going to Toronto and walked across the tarmac towards the tiny Beechcraft.  If this plane had eyes they would currently be avoiding my worried gaze and darting around, pretending to be interested in the geese that were flying overhead (um, can't those get stuck in the propellers and cause plane crashes?).  The machine was at least thirty years old, but I figured (rather optimistically) that zero crashes in thirty years was a good-enough statistic.  We climbed aboard the small bus with wings and took our narrow seats.  The pilot spoke a few words about safety, showed us how to buckle-up, pulled the door closed, and then disappeared into the cockpit.  Suddenly, an obnoxious, rattled recording of what-he-just-said, played over the intercom in english, and then again in french.  The engine fired-up.  One propeller, and then the other, began spinning furiously, blotting out the nasal safety spiel, as well as my own thoughts.  The plane lurched forward, made a 180-degree turn, and headed down the runway.  We taxied for a few moments and then all at once we were speeding towards Lake Ontario.  The little-engine-that-could of an aircraft sputtered and gasped and grumbled until finally, we were in the air.  The ground fell away and soon Kingston was nothing but a brown blanket of empty cornfields and scattered suburbs, interspersed with pathches of grey forests and small, black lakes.   Once we were above the clouds, and I could no longer marvel at the ground below, I peeled my face from the little oval window.  My nose left a smudge on the glass and I felt compelled to wipe it with my sleeve.  The little hole in the glass had a donut of ice forming around it and I wondered just how cold it was up here at 17,000 feet.

Forty-five minutes later and we were in Toronto.  Pearson International was a little bigger than Norman Rogers, so we taxied for a long, long time before we reached the terminal.  My connecting flight to Hong Kong departed in less than two hours and I prayed (to whom, I have no idea) that I would get to the correct gate in time.  The Kingston-five exited the belly of the plane in the same fashion as we boarded.  We crossed the tarmack, heading for a pair of sliding doors that led into the bosom of Terminal 1.  I had seen this terminal a week earlier when I arrived from Costa Rica and everything was familiar.  The water fountain was still at the back right corner, next to the washrooms and behind the recycle bins, and the best-sellers at the newstand were still waiting for a good home, or at least a plane to be forgotten on.  I hurried by it all and skittered up the stairs (I refuse to use escalators), looking for those big TV screens that tell you which flight to where is leaving from what gate.  A-Ha!  Found one.  I scanned both screens until I saw Hong Kong.  And it was leaving from terminal 1.  I rejoiced at not having to take a shuttle across the enormous concrete sprawl that is Pearson International, and headed for gate 73.

I knew where I was supposed to be before I even saw the large numbers indicating my gate at the end of the hall.  There was a giant line-up of very fashionable Chinese, Korean, Japanese, and Phillipinos waiting to board flight 901 to Hong Kong. I hate waiting in lines so I opted to hang out against the wall, where I could discretely eye everyone up and down.  They began boarding the plane with priority First- and Business-class passengers,  but no one understood and everyone rushed ahead, ignoring the Star Alliance Members Only sign.  Needless to say, it took a long time.  There still remained the issue of getting the rest of us snivelling economy-classers on the plane, so I left my wall and searched for a quick sip of something to drink. 

By the time I returned the line had barely moved.  Actually, it seemed to have grown.  So I decided to hop-in and avoid waiting at the end of an-even-longer-line of unfortunate econo-class souls, all the while slurping at my five-dollar organic pomegranate-sweet green-tea (with ginseng!).  I did eventually get on the plane, but it had been a slow and agonizing process.  I glared contemptuously at those comfortable (and unworthy I might add) first classers splayed out in their reclining seats that no-doubt turn into beds when the lights go out.  While everyone on the plane huffed and snorted as they smashed their enormous carry-on bags into the overhead bins (how did something that big pass as carry-on?), I was paused in infront of one young woman exploring her speical, shiny new space-pod; fingering her fancy ear-buds, fluffing her ever-so-fluffy pillow, and deciding what on earth to do with her extra large endangered seal skin blanket.  I couldn't help but wonder, how the hell can she (or anyone!) afford to fly first class?  Do you know what a first-class flight to Hong Kong costs?  A lot. Let's just say you could easily buy a 5-year old Honda.  Hell, give me the car and Ill drive to Hong Kong.

I scuttled down the isle to my seat, 27 F (yay, window seat!), and squeezed past an old man and a young man.  I plunked into the firm blue cushion, then realized I had to pee (damn, window seat...).  I waited until we were up in the air before I dared try to squirm past my new airplane friends and make my way to the toilets.  They seemed annoyed when I motioned that I needed to get out but all-the-same, they filed out of their seats just for me.  Ahhhh.  I headed back to my cramped seat vowing not to drink anything for the rest of the flight. This time neither old man nor young man moved from their seats and I was, once again, forced to squirm over them.  An elbow here, and a knee cap there, and a nice big butt-in-the face, and I was in.     

I was mildly concsious of being on an airplane once again, but I had forgotten what that entailed.  Slowly the reading lights went out, and the window shades were drawn.  I was unaware that because we'd be flying over the international date line that 12 PM Eastern time meant that it was time to sleep.  Everyone was sleeping.  One of the flight attendants hissed at me to pull down my shade because I was disturbing the other passengers.  I looked around the plane and realized that it was dark.  "Oh", was all I managed to say.  When I realized that what I meant to say was "Take it easy, bitch!", she had already flounced down the aisle.  Is it me, or has Air Canada opted for hiring the most unfriendly staff in the aero-hospitality inudstry?  Honestly, I don't like being in the air for 14 hours either, but this is your job, asshole.  Serve me my gingerale with a smile goddammit!

I had planned on devouring a three-inch thick mystery novel during my day-long journey over the Pacific; however, the in-flight entertainment system proved too tempting, as thus, kicked my big fat book's ass.  There were tons of television shows, movies, music, news, and games to choose from.  So I prodded at the screen, selected a feature, and soon became one with my blue, cardboard box of a seat.  Ten hours later and I had watched three blockbusters, two avant-guards, and one episode of Californication (I wonder if the guy next to me was offended by the sex scenes and frequent nudity?).  I felt like a zombie.  I had succumb to the fact that I was not going to be able to sleep.  Besdies, my previous attempts involved much eye-twitching, and writhing around trying to find a comfortable position.  It turns out there is no comfortable way to sleep on a plane, unless of course, you're a member of Christy Walton's family.  That's what the first classers are really paying for.  Not the leg room, not the fancy meals, not even the complimentary champagne.  It was sleep that was worth so much.  Well the joke's on them!  I don't need sleep, I can sleep all I want when I get to Hong Kong. 

And that's exactly what I did.

I'd like to mention here that Hong Kong is gorgeous.  True, I only witnessed it from the perspective of my little plane window and then from the big airport window, but from what I saw, it was nice.   Green mountains, blue sea, pretty boats, tall, tall buildings, and a bridge system that connected all the islands.  I'm sure there is much more to Hong Kong than that, and I'll be sure to figure it all out some day when I return for a longer stay.  Fortunately, this time, I would be in Hong Kong no more than ten hours.  At first I bawked at the fact that I would have to hang out in an airport for nearly half a day, but soon realized that this meant I could curl up somewhere and fall asleep.  Upon passing through the security check-points, I heeded the sign that read "Connections" with the little world symbol next to it.  I soon found my way to the large departure lounge and to my surprise, a fancy reclining chair that made sleep possible.  I sat down in awe, placed a sleep mask over my eyes, hugged my backpack, and slept... for six hours.  And for free I might add. 

At 10 PM the gate began to collect with tourists and soldiers heading for Guam. I always wondered who went to Guam.  The only thing I knew about this island in the South Pacific was that it had a U.S. military base and a horrible snake that ate all the birds (seriously, there are no birds left on Guam).  I later found out that there is more to Guam than killer snakes and the U.S. Army.  For one, it's flat.  Very flat.  And it's dotted with Remada Inns, Double Tree Hiltons, Holiday Inns, and Best Westerns.  Oh, it also boasts a giant shopping plaza where one can purchase Louis Vuitton, Prada, Gucci and Versace. Since the only people who live on Guam are militia, Phillipinos, and descendents of the Chomorros, the only people who shop here are Japanese tourists.  I didn't stay to discover the rest of the island's secrets.  Instead, I was to board yet another plane.  I was going to Rota.  Rota is the second island in the Mariana chain, just north of Guam.  Just north translates into a twenty-five minute voyage on a plane smaller than the creaky Beechcraft back in Kingston.

But I wasn't going yet.  No, I still had the fun task of pleading with a U.S. Homeland Security officer to grant me a five month B1 Visa that would allow me to volunteer on a project that protects endangered birds. 

"What bird?"
"The Mariana Crow"
"Huh?"
"The Aga".
"???"
"Um..."
"Nevermind.  Are you making any money?"
"Not a penny".
"And how do you expect to live for five months with no income?"
"I have money saved from my last job".
"Uh, huh...".
A sigh. 
"Alright".  Stamp. Scribble.  "Welcome to the Marianas".

Well shucks!  That wasn't so bad.  I had envisioned much worse.  In my extensive experience, U.S. border partol officers can sometimes be, well, dicks.  This guy was cool.  Or so I thought.  When I went upstairs for my final security screening, the female officer controlling a line-up of people heading for Honolulu looked at my passport and exclaimed to her partner, "This one's special".  Because I was going somewhere besides Honolulu? I beamed back at her, and quite at the expense of my own dignity.  Turns out the red "SSSS" stamp on my boarding pass did not stand for Super Special Super Star.  "Ma'am", a large officer pulled me aside.  "You need to be searched".

What?

Apparently, the only white girl who came to the Marianas to help save endangered wildlife was a threat to national security.  Go figure.

So off I went to the back room and got felt up by a rather serious woman with a rubber glove.  Don't worry, I didn't lose all my dignity.  While my boobs were being patted down I looked on as another man and woman tore my backpack apart. Of course, wildlife biologists are notorious for smuggling large amount of cocaine and heroin.  Why?  Oh, because dealing is the only way to pay off our massive school debts.  Naturally.

After the grope-fest, I placed everything back inside my bag and walked away, feeling a little taken-advantage of.  It was the only time I ever really wanted a cigarette.  I passed a food court on the way to my gate and remembered that I hadn't eaten anything in hours.  The sad meal on Continental consisted of a chewy roast beef and pickle taco, and a sad, watery fruit salad.  I had been both amused and horrified.  I bought a banana muffin and a Starbucks iced mocha and headed for my final gate.  Good 'ol number 17.  I devoured my muffin and chugged the coffee-drink, which left me with one hour to twiddle my thumbs until the 7:30 AM flight left for Rota. 

7:30 came and went and no plane.  There wasn't even anyone else in the gate.  I found some random airport personel and asked if perhaps the gate had changed. 

"No.  Fly to Rota, gate 17". 
Alright. 

I returned to my seat and stared out the window.  I could see the ocean across from the steaming tarmac.  I watched a brown butterfly waft along the breeze.  I wondered at the species.  A sparrow flitted past the window and landed on a railing.  My heart fluttered as I frantically rumaged through my backpack for my binoculars.  Guam does have birds!   It was a Eurasian Tree Sparrow... Introduced.  At least it had feathers. The butterfly floated by again.  What the hell was a butterfly doing wandering around a landing strip?  I thought that perhaps he was lost, but there he was again.  Either he's the stupidest butterfly that ever lived, or there's something about airport tarmacs that is crucial to butterlfy survival.  I hoped for his sake it was the latter.  Were there no flowers to sip nectar from on Guam? 

As I pondered the ecology of butterflies, a chubby young man approached me.
"The flight to Rota has been delayed"
No kidding.
"The plane needed to be fixed."
"How long will it take?"
"You'll get a new plane.  A smaller plane."
"Smaller?  Than what?"

And there it was.  A little six-seater with duct tape on the side door rolled up to the gate.  The chubby guy motioned to me and I headed out the door followed only by two other people; a Japanese couple visiting Rota on their honeymoon. 

The three of us stood staring at the little plane with skeptical expressions.  I have to admit, though, I was excited.  I had never been in an airplane this small and I was sure it would be a very personal experience.  A sweaty man in a white shirt that I took to be the pilot, appeared next to me on the runway and watched as two men shoved my suitcase into the plane. "Be careful, mate!"  the pilot cried in a thick Australian accent as the two men positioned the last of the luggage and cargo boxes into the back seats.  I turned to the couple standing behind me and smirked.  The young woman covered her mouth as she let out a small laugh. 

With a swift gesture from the pilot we all climbed into the flying tuna can.  Wait, those are strong words.  It really was a charming little plane.  I had faith that all would be well.  Besides, the plane had made it this far, right? 

We each took a seat but were quickly redistributed by the pilot so as to balance the weight in the plane.  We buckled-in while the pilot showed us how to pry open the window in case of an emergency. 

Is 95 degrees with a 90% humidity index considered an emergency?
No.

Did I mention that the Marianas are hot?  I may have implied it some time back there when I told the butterfly story, or noted the sweaty pilot.  Well, it is hot. And it was hotter still in the plane.  I now believed the butterfly to be even dumber than I initally thought.

The pilot began flipping switches and pressing buttons until the plane sputtered to life.  We jolted forward and proceeded to taxi along for at least eight minutes, passing by various yellow signs. G1.  Arrow.  G8.  A6 - A10. J... H... K...  Finally we were on our way.  The machine lurched and spat and with all its might, we took off into a bright blue sky.  From this perspective, Guam appeared almost beautiful, and much larger.  But it was still flat.  I knew there were bird-eating snakes hiding in every crevice and I was happy to lose sight of the foresaken clump of limestone. 

Now, the Pacific stretched infinitely in all directions.  It was a short flight and 20 minutes later, Rota came into view.  Unlike Guam, Rota had what you would call mountains.  Green crags greeted us to the south and a large, densely vegetated central plateau sat mightily to the north. Songsong village lay knitted in the narrow southern tip of the island, hugged by white coral sand and a turquoise bay.  I smiled down at my new home.  No more "whatifs" plagued my brain.  No more American officials to deal with.  No more rubber gloves.  There was nothing more to worry about.  Except for the landing.

We circled the island and dropped down towards the airport, which was located at the northwest side.  The plane teetered and dipped back and forth, struggling to find balance as we neared the earth's surface.  The ground came rushing forth.  One wheel made contact, then the other, then both.  I held-on tight to my armrest and tried to avoid entertaining visions of skidding sideways, rolling, and finally crashing in a ball of flames.  But I didn't have to try very hard.  We had landed safely.  The young Japanese couple began clapping and I joined them with a wide smile.

My journey had come to an end. 

All in all, I had spent 34 hours and 22 minutes in transit: 20 hours in the air, six hours sleeping in a reclining chair, and 8 hours waiting in various line-ups.  The next time you hear someone say, "small world!", tell them to fly to Rota.  We'll see how small the world really is.  But after I collected by big, black suitcase, and said goodbye to my new Japanese friends, I stepped outside of the tiny, cinderblock building that was the Rota airport, inhaled the thick, salty air, and knew that it was all worth it.