One of the early days at Timberhead Camp our guide took us on a walk along a forest trail to a wide stream. There was barely a bird in the canopy; Guyana had had a drought the year we were there and maybe that's why there weren't as many birds as usual. The stream was just at the edge of the jungle where grass savannah took over. We saw birds, but nothing new. The black nunbird was still a treat. After a few hours of rather unproductive birding, we were expecting the motor boat to come and ferry us back to camp. There was no cell service to call and check on arrangements, of course. After waiting well over an hour past the time the boat was due, the guide and two birders decided to retrace footsteps through the forest and send the boat back for us. It was restful and relatively cool near the stream, plus there was a white-fronted emerald hummingbird hawking insects over the water. I decided to stay with the other two birders in our group.
Verna, one of the women workers at Timberhead, finally appeared around the bend, but she was paddling a wooden boat called the Ermentrude. There was no motor. Evidently that's why the boat hadn't appeared earlier. And there was only one set of thin, long oars that Verna was using. The three of us stepped carefully into the boat and sat. We had, literally, three inches of freeboard. Didn't seem like much in a wide, deep tidal stream, but at this point, we were committed.
Verna gamely paddled us against the outgoing tide but we weren't making very much progress. Oh, for another set of oars! We came to the main stream which was much wider and flowing much faster. Verna was struggling at this point, and I was worried that we could capsize. I'm a good swimmer but I really didn't want to get my binoculars wet, and I wasn't sure how well the two older guys could do in the water. And there are the leaches... Up ahead I could see a small clearing. I asked Verna if she would let me off there, take the guys back then come back for me. She agreed. She said that the landing was called The Point and that she would return.
We did almost capsize getting into shore close enough for me to jump. The stream here did not gradually deepen - it just dropped off. I jumped, the boat tottered dangerously, taking on a few inches of water, but Verna was able to steady it and proceed into the wide and outgoing tide. I just hoped I'd see someone again - it was very, very quiet after the boat disappeared around the bend. Just the wind playing through the long grass that grew in a long, unbroken field up to the edge of the jungle.
I sat on a wooden slat balanced on two wood stumps and looked for birds, animals, anything. This seemed like one deserted place. But after ten or so minutes, I heard rustling in the grass behind me. I wasn't really frightened (I tried not the think of the howler monkeys) but I truly did want to know what was making the noise. Finally, five small, giggling brown faces popped out of the grass. Children from who knows where had somehow discovered me. They were incredibly shy and wouldn't come closer than about five feet. I asked about birds - pajaros, pajaritos, aves - in Spanish, but they couldn't make out what I was saying or why this white senora was sitting all alone on the dock. One brave, smiling girl handed me a bouquet of pastel wild flowers and grasses that she had hurriedly gathered.
Time was passing and it was hot. There was no shade on this exposed, muddy edge of the stream and I began to wonder if they could actually forget me. But of course not - the other birders would remind them. Wouldn't they? Just about then, Wendy, another worker from Timberhead, came putting around the bend in a boat with a working engine. She had a rapid conversation with the kids and helped me into the boat. I asked her to say thank you for the flowers and that I liked talking with them. Wendy smiled and spoke again to the kids. They all waved and called to us as we made our diesel-fumed way back up the stream. Wendy said that there is a small, primitive village just inside the jungle's edge where the children lived. The only access to the village is from this tidal stream, then a walk through the tall, swaying grass.
We returned to Timberhead boat dock in the late afternoon. Shadows were long. I made my way straight to the drinks cupboard in the main lodge and fixed a stiff rum and coke with lots of ice. I sat in the hammock on the deck with the soft wind blowing away the mosquitoes, reflected at leisure on the day's adventure and admired the bouquet that I had put in water.
Winter Sunset, Loomis Outlet
Sunday, October 21, 2012
Wednesday, October 10, 2012
From Shanklands back to Georgetown
When it was time to leave Shanklands for our trip back to Georgetown, Guyana, we were greeted by Bernard, another quiet, smiling bush boatman. Bernard piloted the Big Ben, an long, thin, open metal boat powered by a massive outboard engine. Bernard was quite proud of his ability to hang incredibly tight turns to bring us back for a bird sighting. I know I was looking straight down into the river on some of those turns. We were rewarded with very worthwhile sightings. The best was the sun bittern. This is a shore bird about the size of a small egret. Mottled brown is the dominant color until - until-- The sun bittern has earned its name by the beautiful and surprising display that is the result of the bittern opening wide his wings. Seen from behind, the bittern looks like a gigantic moth with huge dark eye markings on each wing - simply stunning.
Our guide saw a sun bittern on the muddy shore and signalled a quick turnaround. The sun bittern saw us but didn't seen alarmed. He turned toward the bush, hopped up onto a fallen log and bingo- flashed those wings. And people wonder why we chase birds.
Lewie, our East Indian driver from Georgetown, was waiting at the boat dock with our van. We said goodbye to the impressive Essequibo River and turned toward the bush. A long, rutted drive back to Georgetown to our hotel to drop off luggage and pick up lunch, and we were off on a forty-mile trip to the Mahocainy River. We were met by another bush boatman, this one piloting a formidable looking, heavy metal boat which took up half the river. There was an enormous exposed engine just behind the pilot that made for possibly the noisiest boat ride in history. A thin, frazzled looking rope guarded the engine area, where gears ground and wheels turned. Not a place for the unbalanced! We moved to the roof of the boat in order to be able to hear and also to get a better view of the birds. Again, it was so hot, especially on top of the metal roof, that I'm sure we sweated out the last week's water intake. We kept skin covered and used an old black umbrella to guard from the sun as much as possible.
Numerous flocks of hoatzins lined the bank. Like ungainly chickens, they teetered and clung to the foliage just over the water. It wasn't unusual to see one or more fall in, and it didn't seem to faze the birds. They would thrash and oar with outspread wings until they could cling onto overhanging foliage. At the 'wrist' joint of their wings they have a tiny claw-like appendage that they use to regain their foothold. The appendages look eerily like single fingers. With a row of mohawk-like feathers on bald blue heads, they truly look prehistoric. They squawked and fussed like hens in the bush as we chugged by.
Farther on, a troop of howler monkeys sat in the highest branches overhanging the river. They watched us silently as we passed below them. Hunched on the limbs, tails curved softly over their golden backs, they were very wild and beautiful.
We returned that evening to our hotel behind massive walls covered with every possible exotic flower and vine. Outside the walls, Georgetown at this time was very rough and dirty. Trash and stagnant water were everywhere. Snail kites perched on power lines over slimy drainage ditches, where egrets stepped daintily around discarded bottles and rotten fruit. Lotuses bloomed in muck. The streets were packed with cars, vans, bicycles, pedestrians, wary dogs and sleepy cattle. The stinks were as awesome as the colors of the flowers.
Our guide saw a sun bittern on the muddy shore and signalled a quick turnaround. The sun bittern saw us but didn't seen alarmed. He turned toward the bush, hopped up onto a fallen log and bingo- flashed those wings. And people wonder why we chase birds.
Lewie, our East Indian driver from Georgetown, was waiting at the boat dock with our van. We said goodbye to the impressive Essequibo River and turned toward the bush. A long, rutted drive back to Georgetown to our hotel to drop off luggage and pick up lunch, and we were off on a forty-mile trip to the Mahocainy River. We were met by another bush boatman, this one piloting a formidable looking, heavy metal boat which took up half the river. There was an enormous exposed engine just behind the pilot that made for possibly the noisiest boat ride in history. A thin, frazzled looking rope guarded the engine area, where gears ground and wheels turned. Not a place for the unbalanced! We moved to the roof of the boat in order to be able to hear and also to get a better view of the birds. Again, it was so hot, especially on top of the metal roof, that I'm sure we sweated out the last week's water intake. We kept skin covered and used an old black umbrella to guard from the sun as much as possible.
Numerous flocks of hoatzins lined the bank. Like ungainly chickens, they teetered and clung to the foliage just over the water. It wasn't unusual to see one or more fall in, and it didn't seem to faze the birds. They would thrash and oar with outspread wings until they could cling onto overhanging foliage. At the 'wrist' joint of their wings they have a tiny claw-like appendage that they use to regain their foothold. The appendages look eerily like single fingers. With a row of mohawk-like feathers on bald blue heads, they truly look prehistoric. They squawked and fussed like hens in the bush as we chugged by.
Farther on, a troop of howler monkeys sat in the highest branches overhanging the river. They watched us silently as we passed below them. Hunched on the limbs, tails curved softly over their golden backs, they were very wild and beautiful.
We returned that evening to our hotel behind massive walls covered with every possible exotic flower and vine. Outside the walls, Georgetown at this time was very rough and dirty. Trash and stagnant water were everywhere. Snail kites perched on power lines over slimy drainage ditches, where egrets stepped daintily around discarded bottles and rotten fruit. Lotuses bloomed in muck. The streets were packed with cars, vans, bicycles, pedestrians, wary dogs and sleepy cattle. The stinks were as awesome as the colors of the flowers.
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
The Trip to Shanklands
I seem to be on a Guyana kick, so I'll try to remember more of that incredible trip.
After spending a week at Timberhead, we were off to Shanklands, a resort of sorts on the banks of the mighty Essequibo River.
We left Timberhead early in the morning after the usual night of rain. The six of us piled into an African Queen-like boat called the Elizabeth II. No one knew the reason for this name- it didn't seem to matter. Our first leg was a quiet, putting journey along the creek, guided by Junior, our shy, smiling boat driver. He was adept at quick stops and turns when Mike, our bird guide would hold up his hand, signalling a sighting. I learned to sit solidly, feet planted firmly for these unexpected stops. Birds large and small swept across the water before us- vines, bamboo and small trees looped and leaned into the water. Long, narrow wood canoes holding one or two people pulled alongside, watching the big, white strangers in the silver boat.
We rounded a bend and suddenly we were in big water: the Demarara River, silvery, wide and flat. A sudden violent storm blew up from behind us, causing both shores to disappear completely behind curtains of blowing rain. Several inches of water quickly gathered on the floor of the partially open boat, and much of Junior's gear floated near our feet. Junior was soaked but smiling, drinking Sprite and looking like he hadn't a care in the world. As the Elizabeth II tootled gamely along, the shores finally began to reappear, dim and far away. Junior pulled us closer to river right and suddenly out of nowhere, an opening in the dense jungle appeared. Two or three old army trucks, looking WWII vintage, rusted in the rain forest clearing.
After securing us to the steep, muddy bank, Junior produced a wonderful lunch of fried egg sandwiches, plantain rolls (fried in butter!) and pineapple. As we were finishing, two very muddy Toyota trucks pulled up driven by two smiling brown men. All of us piled into the tarp -covered back of one truck and we rode, military style, thumping and banging over twenty-six miles of very rutted sand road to Shanklands. It was the bumpiest ride I'd ever experienced. The two elder birders from New York chuckled quietly and Al said, "You think this is bad, you should have been in Madagascar!"
Shanklands was a welcome sight. Rolling green grass dotted with brilliant flowers and enormous trees, and white lattice-laced cottages dotted the sides of the lawn, shaded by trees. The Essiquibo River extended the length of our view, flat and endless. The far shore shimmered and danced in the distance.
Shanklands - some memories: sitting under the kitchen awning out of the sun; listening to the torrents of rain falling on our cottage roof and splashing in pools in the grass; smelling the delicate white grapefruit blossoms from the tree outside our window at night; steep, rickety stairs to the river and the long, narrow boat dock; turquoise-colored tanagers sharing the pepper tree with the family of barbets; screeching, clamorous parrot flyovers; salt and pepper in dishes at the table; free liquor setups under the awning; homemade hot sauce that was deliciously, indescribably hot. Breathlessly humid forest walks where we heard much more than we saw; walk-in white tile showers; plumbeous kites soaring; the shy, white kitchen cat; the smelly peccary who lurked near the buildings; the loud macaw; and always, always the unending silver ribbon of river, moving away from us, away.
After spending a week at Timberhead, we were off to Shanklands, a resort of sorts on the banks of the mighty Essequibo River.
We left Timberhead early in the morning after the usual night of rain. The six of us piled into an African Queen-like boat called the Elizabeth II. No one knew the reason for this name- it didn't seem to matter. Our first leg was a quiet, putting journey along the creek, guided by Junior, our shy, smiling boat driver. He was adept at quick stops and turns when Mike, our bird guide would hold up his hand, signalling a sighting. I learned to sit solidly, feet planted firmly for these unexpected stops. Birds large and small swept across the water before us- vines, bamboo and small trees looped and leaned into the water. Long, narrow wood canoes holding one or two people pulled alongside, watching the big, white strangers in the silver boat.
We rounded a bend and suddenly we were in big water: the Demarara River, silvery, wide and flat. A sudden violent storm blew up from behind us, causing both shores to disappear completely behind curtains of blowing rain. Several inches of water quickly gathered on the floor of the partially open boat, and much of Junior's gear floated near our feet. Junior was soaked but smiling, drinking Sprite and looking like he hadn't a care in the world. As the Elizabeth II tootled gamely along, the shores finally began to reappear, dim and far away. Junior pulled us closer to river right and suddenly out of nowhere, an opening in the dense jungle appeared. Two or three old army trucks, looking WWII vintage, rusted in the rain forest clearing.
After securing us to the steep, muddy bank, Junior produced a wonderful lunch of fried egg sandwiches, plantain rolls (fried in butter!) and pineapple. As we were finishing, two very muddy Toyota trucks pulled up driven by two smiling brown men. All of us piled into the tarp -covered back of one truck and we rode, military style, thumping and banging over twenty-six miles of very rutted sand road to Shanklands. It was the bumpiest ride I'd ever experienced. The two elder birders from New York chuckled quietly and Al said, "You think this is bad, you should have been in Madagascar!"
Shanklands was a welcome sight. Rolling green grass dotted with brilliant flowers and enormous trees, and white lattice-laced cottages dotted the sides of the lawn, shaded by trees. The Essiquibo River extended the length of our view, flat and endless. The far shore shimmered and danced in the distance.
Shanklands - some memories: sitting under the kitchen awning out of the sun; listening to the torrents of rain falling on our cottage roof and splashing in pools in the grass; smelling the delicate white grapefruit blossoms from the tree outside our window at night; steep, rickety stairs to the river and the long, narrow boat dock; turquoise-colored tanagers sharing the pepper tree with the family of barbets; screeching, clamorous parrot flyovers; salt and pepper in dishes at the table; free liquor setups under the awning; homemade hot sauce that was deliciously, indescribably hot. Breathlessly humid forest walks where we heard much more than we saw; walk-in white tile showers; plumbeous kites soaring; the shy, white kitchen cat; the smelly peccary who lurked near the buildings; the loud macaw; and always, always the unending silver ribbon of river, moving away from us, away.
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