Our second bird capture was one I would be present during. Due to the logistics and the location of the first capture, my team was herding birds south and ended up too far away from the net’s location to see what we had caught until we hiked back down shore. Or, in my case, hiked back north returned to get the deathtrap of a truck we were driving that our team left and then drove it back down the beach.
The area of the second capture was a fairly wide beach that the biologists had scouted the day earlier. Around high tide, the birds would fly in and be pushed to shore towards the net, and compressed further by the two teams on the shore. We would get there while the tide was low to set the next, back off while the tide came in, and wait for the birds.
Lupillo and I got along really well, standing by the deal we made that he was to only speak english and I was to only speak spanish. He behaved as most of the other students did – as though his english was much worse that it actually was. He needed a little prodding, and my refusal to speak to him unless he spoke in english helped (more accurately, I put my cupped hand up beside my ear and yelled that I couldn’t understand him if he was speaking spanish. Obnoxious, but effective.)
Each of the pairs had a radio, and I was relieved to find out that Lupillo was in charge of ours. I was learning that my spanish comprehension left a little to be desired, even without lots of static, cursing, and ancient motorola 2-way radios with spotty batteries.
Walking to our post, Lupillo picked up an object on the ground that I would have never identified as something interesting, and handed it to me. The discussion that followed, each in our second languages, was fraught with details I missed. But I did understand the most important part – that the seemingly boring object was a shark’s egg casing.
My first question was painfully strung together in spanish, telling Lupillo that I thought sharks had live births. He explained (most of it was in spanish – we gave each other mulligans, occasionally, when we were too frustrated to go any further and had to resort to our native tongue) that certain sharks do lay eggs, and others have eggs that hatch inside of them and the birth is then live. I suppose I could look on animal planet to get full details if I really wanted to. Aside from being certain that it was a shark’s egg sac, I was pretty happy with being uneducated.
We got to our position, slugging through the mud with our rubber boots. Most of the biologists had boots that came all the way up their legs, like chaps, and the rest of us had knee-high galoshes. At first, I wasn’t sure I needed them, but was extremely thankful for one of the employees of the salt company for forcing me to take them with me to the site.
Lupillo threw his backpack down in the muddy marsh and plopped himself down after it. Looking up at me, and wondering if I was going to stand and wait until the tide came in, he motioned for me to sit.
The muddy slop, when walking, fully covered my feet and was at least a few inches deep. I did a quick mental play-by-play and noted that I was wearing my last semi-clean pair of jeans, as well as pondered their absorbency level. Realizing there was no other choice, and regardless of what patch of land I sat in, or how gently I sat, that I would be wet, cold, covered in mud, and crawling in bog-critters. So I closed my eyes and sat. And the mud and water oozed up around my legs, butt, and back, and started soaking into my clothes.
After a few minutes of adjusting to muck-sitting, we started our “language lessons” we had begun the day before. They included regional and uncommon words and phrases, especially those that were never taught in english/spanish classes. For instance, a giant derogatory remark against women in Mexico is to refer to her with the spanish word for ‘fox’. It can also be used between friends as a joke, sort of like ‘bitch’ or something similar. Of course, I tried to explain that calling someone a ‘fox’ in english is quite a compliment, although somewhat outdated. By the look on his face, my explanation was hazy at best.
Lupillo, out of either nervousness or boredom began nibbling on little nubs of this succulent plant that was growing all around us. He handed one to me, and i bit into it. It was the consistency of a grape, and very salty. I found myself unconsciously grabbing them while we talked, biting into them, and throwing them aside. Sort of like swamp sunflower seeds.
After a few hours, the tide was coming in, and coming in fast. I had to go to the bathroom at this point, and knew I needed to go quick before the net was detonated and we all had to run and help. Feeling embarassed, I mentioned that I had to pee, and was at a loss for where to go. A fleeting thought was to just GO since I was already sitting in a puddle of mud. But Lupillo told me not to worry, to walk about 15 feet behind us. I stood up to ask how that was going to help, since we were in a flat marsh field with a highway on one side and a beach of people on the other. Lupillo smiled and waved me on and announced, in spanish, into his 2-way radio:
“Sharon is going to pee, everyone, so all of you look at the ocean.”
I had to wonder what was worse: having a few people spot you peeing from far away, or a whole entire team of biologists getting an announcement outloud on their 2-ways that you’re peeing and that they should look away.
About five minutes after, we got a fuzzy radio transmission, that many birds were in range of the net but some were too small a species and would be killed or injured if the net was set off. So again, we’re left to wait.
After a long silence, Lupillo grabs my hand and his backpack with the other, and pulls me up and towards the direction of the net. I walk cautiously behind him, crouching as he does. We get to a dry, sandy patch close to the beach when he slowly sets his backpack on the ground. I do the same. Then over the radio comes “tres, dos..”
I didn’t hear an ‘uno’ over the sound of the net detonating and the resulting chaos of people running towards the net to get the birds. I started running as Lupillo did, but even with bare feet, he was to the net long before I was.
Once there, half the people pick up the edge of the net that’s in the water and slowly walk it into land, herding the birds underneath inward, so as not to lose any of them. The other half of people grab modified laundry baskets covered with fabric flaps and began filling them with birds.
I realized I was little help at this point, since I couldn’t tell the difference between the species of birds to know which ones to keep and which to release. I make sure that everyone had a basket near them to put birds in, but mostly I just stood there trying to not be in the way.
To make matters worse, my dad told me to grab the few dead or injured birds and bring them to him. I looked to see where he was pointing and noticed one, bleeding and missing a wing, that was hopping sadly on the sand. Being the sappy, uber-sensitive girl that I am, I walked over and gently cupped it in my hands and handed it to him, my eyes welling with tears. Noticing my slow pace despite everyone else’s speed to finish the task, my dad looked up at me, took the bird from me and dispatched it, and realizing he had made a mistake, quickly assigned me another job.
Once the birds were in baskets, they were carried to the car and a circle of chairs was set up. Two of us had clipboards, to transcribe weights and lengths, one person weighed, two people measured the beaks, legs and head, a pair collected and organized blood samples, and two more placed colored bands on each bird before letting them go.
The circle itself was a weird assembly line. Numbers were shouted out in spanish, and birds were passed from person to person. It was a constant flurry of talking, counting and joking, measuring birds and then eating the occasional ham sandwich, ceviche or carne asada burrito, plus apples and fresca, all packed in a freshly prepared cooler each day. We ate, we counted, we scribbled.
The weirdest thing to me was the bird-weighing, which was my job the first day. The logistics of weighing a bird didn’t really occur to me other than: a) put bird on scale and b) read weight.
What you don’t realize when you don’t work with birds at all is, how do you keep a bird on a scale long enough to weigh it without it jumping/hopping/flying away? You do so by placing said bird in a juice container, modified to place a bird inside. Do they like the juice container is another question, which after a few hours and 80 birds, I am certain I have the answer to. They don’t.
Once we did our counting, and I got a few awesome rides out of the 4-wheeler that we had, we headed back to the bunkhouse. Nallely rode on the back of the ATV with me on the way home, and if she was afraid, she didn’t show it – apart from warning me about upcoming speedbumps, yelling, “Topo! Topo!
We have one more day to catch birds, and then a 2-day ride home. The chefs at the bunkhouse are starting to warm up to me, and they know by now to give me a chocolate milk after dinner along with the students from La Paz. Then comes billiards followed by sleep and a 6:30 wake up call.