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A Muddy Landing

by Sarah Faegre

As the rainy season gathers force transportation becomes our biggest obstacle in the field.

January 19th 10:00 p.m.

Torrential rain, tent-crushing wind and thunder and lightening. I am sitting, damp, smelly, and with a bad case of stomach bugs in a little tent at the estancia of Esperanza. Shortly after I wrote from Nueva Hora, three days ago, about the rain that would prevent us from leaving, a series of miscommunications led to a near disaster when plane came despite the weather conditions and had to take off from a short, muddy runway. The plane was also well over max gross weight, pushing a bad situation into something could have become more critical. What follows is my short account of our survival, against what I perceived at the time as rather unfavorable odds:

After lunch the rain had slowed and then finally stopped and at 1:00 pm. Señora Teresa got a hold of the property owner by radio and yelled repeatedly (to my dismay) that it had not rained here…it only sprinkled, she said, but did not rain and the bad weather had passed. The plane is already on its way, we were told. By one account it had left 12 minutes before hearing from us…by others it was waiting for confirmation on the condition of the runway. Either way, out of the cloudy sky came our little Cessna 206 and Steve and I (both pilots) watched apprehensively as it landed and mud sprayed up onto the wings. As the plane taxied through mud puddles I wondered a bit about our takeoff.

We were loading the plane when the pilot began swearing under his breath about the terrible runway conditions. “Why did they tell me it hadn’t rained here? The runway is a disaster!” he fumed. “Why didn’t they tell me not to come when the runway is in such horrible condition? And now, the plane is heavily loaded—they told me it would be light. Why did they send an extra passenger along if he’s not even going to stay here?” I couldn’t answer any of these questions, which were rhetorical anyways.

When the four passengers, the very large pilot and all of our gear (well over the maximum weight of 500 kg) were in the plane and taxiing to the far end of the runway that the pilot began to speak heatedly, almost yelling, about the horrible runway—“Four-hundred and fifty meters of mud!” he screamed. He had to use full power just to get the plane to move forward, at a creeping pace, sliding towards the end of the runway. This concerned me and apparently the pilot as well who exclaimed, “We’re too heavy—it’s not going to work. This plane is not going to take off.”

If we failed lift off before the end of the runway, Carmen, John and I, sitting on a improvised wooden bench in the back, would almost surely fly through the windshield and be crushed by the plane as it tumbled to a stop in the hummocky, flooded savannah.

“I don’t want to die,” I said loudly as the plane approached the far end of the runway. “I would rather leave my stuff here if the plane is too heavy.” Carmen, tried to reason with the pilot, saying that if he didn’t think it was safe we could leave some stuff behind. I was scared enough that I was about ready to volunteer that I would stay behind when the pilot turned a sudden 180 at the end of the runway, fairly spat out the words, “A ver como sale.” (Let’s see how it turns out), and gave the plane full power ahead. As we sped, faster and faster toward the end of the runway, mud spraying up onto the windows and dripping down the wings, I felt my heart pounding in just the same way as it had when I stepped only one foot away form a huge, venomous snake.

The hummocky, flooded pampa was rapidly approaching and the plane showing no signs of lifting off and oddly enough one of my thoughts was about the bucket of limes on my lap: If we don’t lift off in time and the plane goes tumbling through the pampas, I don’t want one of my last thoughts (before flying through the windshield) to be about dropping the bucket of limes. So I set it between my feet and braced myself. “I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die,” I thought desperately as the runway ended, the stall horn sounded and miraculously we took off, with not more than a meter of runway to spare. I looked over at the pilot, rivulets of sweat pouring down his face and his neck. With the plane in the air he relaxed visibly and certainly Steve and I breathed big sighs of relief.



Images: Left--looking into the back seat of the plane Right--looking out the window, as we fly towards Trinidad (capital city of Beni, Bolivia)

Posted by Sarah Faegre on 08/13 at 09:53 AM
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Saying Goodbye to Tres Palmeras

by Sarah Faegre

A sudden change in plans requires us to leave Tres Palmeras earlier than expected. We say goodbye to the nearly-fledged Isla Grade chick and prepare for a difficult journey across the flooded savannah.

January 13th 2008

And now, two days later, I am back in the blind at Isla Grande for the last time. Igor called by radio and told Carmen that the plan has changed and we will need to take advantage of the next bit of dry weather to fly to Trini. What is the new plan? No one knows. I find myself once again in the realm of complete uncertainty.

Carmen, knowing since her return from Trini that our length of stay at Tres Palmeras was uncertain, has been trying desperately and unsuccessfully to get in touch with Igor since his intended arrival date (in Trini) more than ten days ago. Finally, the day before yesterday, she talked to him, or, more accurately, heard bits and pieces of phrases through the static that sufficed to tell her we needed to gather all the project stuff and get ourselves to an estancia with an airstrip…but we could not hear through the static well enough to understand where, when, or, more importantly, how to move all our stuff from Tres Palmeras the 10 or 20 kilometers across the flooded savannah, through any number of deep, swampy streams and, depending on the departure location, a rather wide river. And to complicate things further, there were no horses available to help transport our heavy loads of project equipment and personal baggage. “Worse case scenario,” said Carmen, “—we have to walk, making as many trips as necessary to get all our stuff to Nueva Hora.” (Nueva Hora is the closest and more preferred departure site).

It is hot in the blind and the mosquitoes are relentless today. Steve is sitting next to me, grabbing his camera every time we hear the quiet croak of a BTM—one of the parents sitting nearby. The parents did finally show up and feed the other day that I was here, writing, and I took dozens of photos. Sadly, only a few turned out to be worth anything and none were great because my camera was acting up and chose a very slow shutter speed despite the good lighting conditions. We were taking turns in the blind at that point and Steve was disappointed to have missed the action, especially since he hasn’t seen the macaws attend a nest yet. We have spent so many hours building the blind, sitting in it, and hiking back and forth to Isla Grande with photos in mind, but this pair of parabas (Bolivian word for macaws) has proven to be unusually shy and difficult to photograph. This difficulty is amplified by the fact that the chick is going through his pre-fledging weight loss stage, during which the parents only feed him twice a day.


January 14th 2008

I can’t believe it was only yesterday that we were taking pictures of the macaws at Isla Grande—it seems like several days ago at least. But it was a successful morning—we got pictures of the male and female parabas before mid-day and then wandered around by the lagoona, birdwatching until early afternoon when we returned to Tres Palmeras. And now, I am writing from Nueva Hora, where I sit on a crooked, sagging bed, under my mosquito net, gloating over the fact that the bloodthirsty little monsters will buzz uselessly all night, trying in vain to get my blood. Tomorrow, if it doesn’t rain, the plane will come and take us to Trini. We are here with all our stuff and all the project equipment, thanks to the wonderful folks here at Nueva Hora, who came to get us with their oxcart and some horses. I am exhausted and medio sick. I’ll sleep now and write later.


January 16th 2008

Rainy day, quiet, soft grey clouds hanging heavy. The rain too is soft…but steady—the worst kind because it will slowly soak into the dirt runway, turning it to muck, while a harder, shorter rain might run off to the lower grass on the sides. Our giant pile of baggage is sitting under a tarp by the runway, hopefully not flooding from beneath. If the plane had come at 9 a.m., like they claimed it would when we spoke on the radio at 8 a.m., the runway would have been perfect—just recently dried from the last big rain. It could have even come at 10 or 11…but now it is raining harder, has been raining steadily for an hour, and the dirt is already turning to mud, generously pocked with puddles of course. As I write the rain is increasing its force bit by bit, yet again. How many times did we jump up this morning upon hearing a plane? At least 3 times we rushed outside, once all the way to the runway, 200 meters from the house, as a little Cessna flew low over Nueva Hora—surely our plane, we thought, as it flew straight over our heads. “It will turn around and land from the other side,” said Señora Teresa as it passed over the runway. But it did not. And now we cannot contact Trini—surprise surprise, who can believe that the fabulous and reliable radio is failing us yet again? When I heard that the plane would be here at 9 a.m., of course I didn’t really expect it to be here at 9. I thought 10 at the earliest, today if we’re lucky, but just as likely it won’t come at all. I shouldn’t have brought all my bags to the runway because now I am a bit worried that my giant blue “coffin” bag will get wet—and that is where my camera with months worth of photos is stored.

So, we have been trying to leave since Monday. Today is Wednesday. Maybe tomorrow, if the rain lets up soon. Or maybe several days, or even a week, if San Pedro decides that its time for daily rain showers. But really, it doesn’t matter. Sure, it’s a bit annoying to be waiting, waiting, running outside to meet the plane that continues on its way to somewhere else, never knowing when we might leave, but in the end, what schedule do I have to keep? What commitment will be broken? What person will be inconvenienced? Luckily, the answer to all of those questions is: none. So I wait and read and write and feel a bit bored and restless and eventually the plane will probably show up, or else we will make the 2-day walk to a wide branch of the river and hope a boat comes by.

The only thing I worry about or feel constrained by is my concern for the safety of my photos and my journals, my two most valuable, irreplaceable items. It will be nice when they are safely backed-up and I can go about my travels without a worry in the world. All the rest of my stuff is just that—stuff. But my writing and my photos are like parts of my memories, things I want to use to re-live my time here again and again, and even more importantly, to share it with the rest of the world so that it is not just me (and the macaws!) who benefits from the adventures that I am lucky enough to experience.

The Southern Screamers are yelling, “Cha-HA,” living up to their Spanish name (Chaja). Their call is a funny, high-pitched fluting sound that jumps up in pitch at the end, cracking like the voice of an adolescent boy. I smell limes and I know that Señora Teresa and her teenage girls are making limeade in the kitchen—this is the season for lemons and limes. The ripe, green fruits weigh down the slender branches of the trees with their abundance.



Above: left--Steve and Carmen, standing at a river near Nueva Hora (we walked there to look for river dophins) Right--Carmen wading through the swamp to get back to Nueva Hora

Posted by Sarah Faegre on 08/08 at 09:30 AM
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Following a Family of Five!

by Sarah Faegre

Nemo finally fledges, despite his deformation, and we spend our days following the family of 5 Blue-throated Macaws.

January 8th 2008

Nemo, the macaw chick with a congenital spine deformation, has successfully fledged!!! Actually, he fledged about a week ago, during a period of time when I was so excited, both by the arrival of friends and by following the family of 5 Blue-throated Macaws through the forest, that I didn’t write a thing in my journal for six days.



Above photos: Left--Nemo in nest box. He was able to walk but often flipped onto his back when startled. Right: Nemo fledged--able to fly, just like his sibs!

The day after Steve and Carmen arrived, our nest watch efforts revealed that Nemo was no longer popping his head out of the box. I climbed the tree and confirmed that the next was empty. We feared the worst and even looked around on the ground. Luckily there was no sign of him there. The next morning, Carmen, Steve and I conducted a systematic search of the forest near the nest box, looking for the BTM pair and the 3 (hopefully!) fledged chicks. Only fourty minutes later we were standing together, staring in silent awe at the 3 fledglings, huddled together, high in a tree. Even Nemo was there! One could see that he was slightly crooked, even from this distance, but it was clear that he was able to fly and indeed had done quite a respectable job of fledging compared to Manu and Goliath.

During all of our subsuquent days at Tres Palmeras we were able to locate all three fledgings, often with their parents, at least once per day. This afforded all sorts of photographic opportunities, which Steve and I took advantage of for hours on end, taking shot after shot of the birds. They were usually hidden behind foliage at the tops of the highest trees, but our efforts were rewarded with some great views into the lives of newly fledged Blue-throated Macaw chicks.

Steve’s efforts particularly, were rewarded with the first photos of a wild family of five blue-throated Macaws. Below I will share some of the best photos that Steve and I took of the Tres Palmeras macaw family:

Posted by Sarah Faegre on 07/23 at 08:16 PM
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A Letter to my Brother

by Sarah Faegre

I'd like to share this rather entertaining letter, which I wrote to my brother while I was in the field...

January 11th 2008

A letter to my brother:
(My brother, at this time, was in India, studying a percussion instrument called tabla).

My Dearest Brother Brendan,

I am thinking of you today, as I sit in a little palm-leaf blind, watching a blue-throated macaw nest, because of some absolutely incredible bird songs I’ve been hearing—These funny little ground-dwelling swamp birds called Grey-necked Wood Rails seem to have a dancing ground by the lagoona here on the uninhabited and totally wild Isla Grande. From what I have seen so far, they seem to gather together is small groups of 4 or 5 birds, and then go marching around in circles with short, stiff little steps, singing a veritable orchestra of sounds, the majority of which are very percussive, while others are like rhythmic, staccato notes on a flute. You know I hate dancing, but the rhythm that these birds weave, while strutting on their swampy patch of ground gives me the most bizarre urge to get up and start dancing to the rhythm that they so forcefully flute into the uninhabited swamp. The most recent of their singing bouts was so enticing that I just had to dance my way towards the swamp, my rubber boots clunking and slurping awkwardly in the mud, while the rest of my body moved in time with the quick staccato beat. Can’t you imagine if I actually managed to join the birds: me strutting and bobbing through the swamp with a group of funny-looking, green-billed birds who were acting as my band and dancing, much more gracefully than me, all around my tall, rubber boots?

Luckily I have made a decent recording of the rails quartet, using the video mode on my camera and I can’t wait to play it for you! Maybe you can use it as inspiration for a future composition—or maybe you will just have to get up and dance…Hey—we could make my recording into a loop and then invite all our friends to a dance party. And maybe we could all dress up like birds and dance in circles in the swampy ditches beside the road. So many good ideas!

I’ve been in the wild savannahs of Bolivia for just over 2 months now. I love it here, though sometimes I’m a bit lonely. I miss you and mom and dad and Flynn and Limey a lot. About a week ago a friend of mind from the HawkWatch job came down and joined the Blue-throated Macaw project, so of course I have been much less lonely since then. But still, it’s not the same as family.

Wow- a Crane Hawk just landed in the nest tree, right next to the cavity that I am watching. The Crane Hawk is a large, grey and black bird with extremely long, bright orange legs, which it uses to reach into tree cavities and pull out baby birds (including Blue-throated Macaws!). Luckily, the macaw chick in this nest is huge (about 2 lbs.) and would probably be too difficult a meal for the hawk…but you never know.

Steve and I got up early today to make the hour and 15 minute trek through the flooded savannah to Isla Grande, where our goal is to hide in the blind until the parents come to feed their chick, so that we can take close-up photos of their faces, which will be compared to photos from past years. The BTMs have feathered lines running across bare, white skin on their faces, which can essentially be used like a fingerprint to ID individuals.

--End of letter--

This letter, written in my field journal, ends abruptly because I heard the BTM adults approaching the nest. I grabbed my camera, kept as still and silent as possible, and waited, hoping to finally get those face shots…

Posted by Sarah Faegre on 07/22 at 05:06 PM
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