Ecotourism
Piaui (ARA Summer 1999)

Visiting the Hyacinthine of Piaui, Kaytee Site, Northeastern Brazil

(I would like to thank Lillian Robers DVM for writing this article for MLF. Lillian visted the Hyacinthine site in June of 1999 one month after my visit.)

We arise before dawn, to snack on bread, fruit, fresh-squeezed orange juice (Brazil grows more oranges than any other country) and strong Brazilian coffee. Thus fortified, we pile into the back of Lourival's truck for a short ride to the macaw blind, then hike through a thatch tunnel to get there. This is a huge room, as blinds go, but cramped quarters for eight people. There are five "front row seats" - small wooden chairs in front of windows. Each cut-out window is obscured by a small curtain with eye holes and a slit for camera lenses, so that we seem to be peeking out through someone's boxer shorts. Outside is a secluded area which has been baited daily with the only food hyacinth macaws eat in this part of the world - the fruit of the mauricia palm tree. The birds come daily, but no one is sure how they will react to our presence. We wait, trying not to move as muscles cramp; trying not to speak in our excitement.

We hear them first. Rawk-a-rawk-a-rawk-a! Gradually dawn has come and we have a clear view of the feeding grounds. "There they are!" someone whispers. "Shh!" says Charlie. "They're nervous. Hear that?" Well, no... we hear the macaws but none of us would have known this was their "nervous" call. A dozen or more are now visible in the trees. They are huge, cobalt blue with bright yellow skin around their eyes and those enormous beaks. Weighing close to five pounds, they must contend with tails 15 inches long. In flight they are brilliant and graceful; in the tree they are rowdy and agitated. They select surprisingly small limbs on which to perch, sometimes squabbling over the choicest spots. They do, in fact, seem nervous, and there is no doubt that our presence is to blame. Hyacinths rarely fall victim to predators, but the 1500 or so that remain in the wild have personal experience with humans, and the memories are not pleasant. Not long ago, people visited only to steal their young. These birds live 50 to 60 years, and they never forget.

More arrive. For a long time they remain in the trees, clearly aware that something is different. One specific bird, offstage, keeps up the anxious rawk-a-rawk-a; the others display varying degrees of willingness to approach the tantalizing clusters of pine nuts. They move in twos and threes to a tree several feet closer to the blind, low to the ground with a trunk that grows at a sharp angle. The bolder birds walk or flutter to its lower points, bickering over the place where the trunk assumes a nearly-horizontal attitude less than two feet off the ground. Finally the first brave soul hops down; others immediately follow. At one point there are over thirty on the ground, another dozen or so in the trees. Camera shutters blink; cursed with automation, flashes pop and rewinders churn. Something startles the birds and they erupt in a wave of blue, remaining in sight but perched safely in the trees. Soon the loud crack, crack, crack of powerful beaks breaking through hard palm nuts echoes through the forest. The same bird who has been complaining since he arrived is still advising from the sidelines. Rawk-a-rawk-a-rawk-a.

Four hours pass. The birds never return to the ground. They will spend midday napping and playing... elsewhere. When only a dozen or so remain in the trees, we walk back for our first daylight viewing of the campsite, and "real breakfast." The food is a pleasant surprise throughout the trip, given the rustic surroundings and lack of gas or electricity.

The hammocks strung up around the "main tent" (a thatch roof on log supports) beckon, and none remain empty for long. After brunch we head back to the blind, walking this time. It is an easy 10-15 minute hike. We gape at termite mounds and marvel at exotic flowers and try to identify various flora and fauna. A fragrant cashew tree here, a patch of manioc there. The macaws are hungrier now, but still nervous. Several come to ground long enough to grab palm nuts, but there is a feeling of general unrest. We are out of the blind by five.

Daytime temperatures reach the high eighties, dry and comfortable, with drifting clouds but very little chance of rain. At night -- and it gets dark early here near the equator -- it dips into the sixties, ideal for sleeping in the thatch bungalows. I had heard there were no mosquitoes here, but I didn't quite believe it until I saw for myself. We drink beer and talk about the day. A few of us return to the macaw side of the blind to collect the nuts they have eaten -- they are cracked perfectly in two across their equator.

The next morning, dawn finds us at the blind once again. The birds -- nearly thirty of them -- are far more complacent this morning, having apparently left the troublemaker at home. The most prominent vocalization is a kind of purring, an obviously contented sound. I videotape macaws in the trees, macaws on the ground, close-ups of macaws cracking palm nuts for their breakfast. The contrast between cobalt feathers and yellow skin gives them a delightful clown-like appearance. In many cases they appear to be looking right into the camera, perhaps studying us as we do them. Those without "front-row seats" watch on the video display monitor.

On the way back, we are visited by a pair of hyacinths overhead. Charlie calls to them in their own language. They fly past, turn around and fly over again. Clearly, they are as curious about us as we are about them.

After breakfast at camp, the men cut slices of hollowed palm nuts we gathered the night before. With deft fingers, they peel thin strips from palm fronds and braid them into cords, looping them around nuts to make unique necklaces. The thin cord is amazingly strong, and beautifully rendered. Of all the souvenirs I bring home, this will mean the most.

After lunch -- rice and beans and manioc and leftover beef from the night before -- we pile into the back of Lourivalís truck and head to the Kaytee land. There are ten people in the back, and we vie for a spot in front; here we can stand up, ducking oncoming branches while spotting wildlife. It's 90 minutes over the merest hint of a road. In several places young palm trees grow between the tire tracks. We drive over them without slowing, and a backward glance confirms they survive the assault nearly unscathed. At various points, curious cows follow us. We spot numerous species of birds, including various parrots, hawks, and the comical red-legged seriema, resembling a cross between a big roadrunner and the large running dinosaurs in Jurassic Park. They can fly, they simply choose not to do so. There are miles of savanna, forests of palms and deciduous trees, stark red cliffs in the distance. I have never seen so much open space. There is not another road anywhere in sight.

The afternoonís highlight will be a cliff-climbing demonstration by Paulo and Raimondingo (HI-mon-DING-oh). A few of us have asked if we could try it ourselves; after initially laughing at us, Gil says he has arranged it. At the end of the road, we divide into two groups. Gil, Kevin, Angela, Myra and I take the steep route. This involves a scramble up a 40-foot semi-forested cliff, after which we are all winded except Gil. We can see the others reaching the top of a gentler incline half a mile away. Perhaps a mile further out, Paulo and Raimondingo have already reached the top of one of the sheer sandstone cliffs. These are the scenic, vertical red ones in which the hyacinth macaws nest. These same men, until a few years ago, raided the nests annually to steal the newly-hatched babies for illegal sale to the pet trade. Now they enter the same nests to monitor hatch and growth rates. We have seen the rope they use ñ an inch thick and made of natural hemp.

Without fanfare, Raimondingo secures the rope to a tree and quickly descends the cliff as we watch in awe through binoculars. I use my camcorder. Using only his hands and feet, he reaches the nest cavity, at least fifty feet below, in perhaps a minute and a half. He is still a good hundred feet above the next level, and the cliff continues a few hundred feet below that before reaching ground level. No net, no pitons, not even a loop of the rope around his rump. He disappears into the nest cavity. Its occupants are not in evidence as it is not breeding season. After a brief rest, he climbs back up almost as fast as he descended. We all cheer and shout encouragement. The men trade places and Paulo descends even faster. He uses a different style, less graceful but very quick. Again we cheer loudly when he reaches the top unscathed. Both men wave and we know they heard us. They begin hiking down the side with a swiftness that belies the difficulty of the terrain; this is the same sort of climb we just made, but much higher. We turn to go back down, about a mile to the truck. On the way we see jaguar tracks from the night before. Paulo and Raimondingo are waiting at the truck when we arrive.

One of the other men explains why he no longer climbs: he fell once, twenty meters. Now when he sees a cliff, his stomach hurts.

It is well past dark when we return to camp. Tomorrow will be our last morning. There will be toco toucans, and nesting blue-and-gold macaws, in addition to the spectacular hyacinths. None of us want to go home. Already we are planning our return.

To book this trip, contact Tropical Nature Travel

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