04 Mar Among the Twitchers in Central America
I train the borrowed binoculars on the trees where our guide is pointing, squinting through the glass. “Follow that branch to the end,” Gareth says. “It’s the flash of turquoise, right there.”
I try again, scanning the foliage surrounding Quirigua, an important remnant of Maya civilization located in southeast Guatemala. Around me, birders exclaim aloud as they tick off the species that appear on their list. A turquoise-browed mot mot here, a tropical pewee there. Their calls ring out, sounds sweet yet strange; in Seattle, I’m more familiar with the caws of seagulls. But all I can see are leaves.
I’m on an expedition cruise through Central America, on an itinerary that concentrates on Mayan ruins, rainforest wildlife and some of Belize’s best snorkeling. While I’m here primarily for the latter, exposure to the rest has been eye-opening, particularly as we’re accompanied on our trip by top-notch lecturers and naturalists.
The trip has given me insight into another traveler sub-species: The Twitcher. I heard the nickname – given to avid birders who roam the world, binoculars dangling from their neck – for the first time in the Steve Martin/Owen Wilson movie, The Big Year. At that time, two friends of mine, a country-oriented couple who spend their vacations trolling marshes for feathered friends, admitted that they kept a “lifelist.”
While I admired their pursuit of a pastime that gave them ample excuse to get outdoors, I couldn’t relate. Bird watching seemed to me like nature for nerds, a hobby for the OCD. Sure, I understand the appeal of lists: I keep records of countries I’ve visited (53), books that I read (one a week so far in 2013), the days I exercise (not nearly enough). But hiking and outdoor activities provide, to me, a time to reflect. Cluttering up that space with goals seems ridiculous.
Little did I know how difficult birding would be. My compatriots peered into the thick rainforest underbrush with seeming super senses, honed from years of practice. To them, a rustle leads to reward, a glimpse is emphasized with a whispered “gotcha!” As they cock their heads, listening for the tell-tale call, birders seem to resemble their on-paper prey as much as they stalk it; an occupational hazard, perhaps.
My luck picked up when our ship brought us to Half Moon Caye, a natural monument located at the southern end of the country’s Lighthouse Reef atoll. Palm trees kissed an azure sky, as iguanas lolled on logs and hermit crabs scuttled on the empty beaches; you couldn’t ask for a better desert island. Instead of heading for the hammocks, however, the intrepid bird posse marched out to the isle’s western end, home to one of the world’s few colonies of red-footed boobies.
Unlike their blue-footed counterparts in the Galapagos, these boobies nest in trees. From the viewing platform, it was hard to see their scarlet feet, although even the least talented of us birders could spot the fuzzy chicks huddling under their mom. A nearby male frigatebird supplied the color, puffing out his chest to create a red balloon that doubled his size. Attention getting, indeed.
That night, the buzz from the birders dominated the lounge. Photos were shared, stories were told. Checkmarks were placed on the species list in the hallway. I thumbed an Audubon guide from the ship’s library, considering my inner Twitcher. Did she exist? Perhaps, but not now, I decided. I put the book back, where it could introduce a future passenger into the bird-based cult.
Our Featured Adventures:
Positively Guatemala | Off the Beaten Path
Costa Rica and the Panama Canal | Lindblad Expeditions
Latest posts by Chris Gray Faust (see all)
- In Praise of the Reading List: How Books Enhance Travel and Vice Versa - September 29, 2013
- Six Memorable Drinking Experiences Around the World - June 15, 2013
- Eight Things to Love About Russia - May 28, 2013
No Comments