 
High up in this pulsating mountain rainforest in northeastern Puerto Rico — the sole tropical rainforest in the U.S. National Forest System — with its tiny coqui frogs and its profusion of tropical trees and flowers, the men are part of a team working to restore to the wild one of the most endangered bird species in the world, the Puerto Rican parrot, a species that historians and scientists estimate has lived in Puerto Rican forests for more than one thousand years and may have once numbered in the millions. Now, between captive and wild flocks, they explain, the total population of the squawking green-blue birds stands at about two hundred, all in El Yunque, a 28,000-acre rainforest within about an hour of Old San Juan. Here, upwards of two hundred and forty inches of rain — some one hundred billion gallons — pour down each year, generated by the moisture-laden air currents of the trade winds that sweep endlessly from Africa, across the Atlantic and Caribbean seas, to eventually reach the mountain ranges of El Yunque. Four distinct forest types and some two hundred and forty native tree species — of which twenty-three are found only in El Yunque — blossom as a result. There are also fifty species of native orchids, a huge variety of vines, more than one hundred types of ferns, and more than one hundred species of vertebrates. Waiting out a shower under a tree, I watch the rain wash over a collage of green, the pink flowers and ferns, the spiky palm fronds bursting from the forest floor and growing in the crooks of tree branches. Round snails cling to tree trunks; single leaves from the yagrumo hembra trees — as big as five or even ten outspread hands — litter the forest floor, like silvery-white clumps of crumpled paper. El Yunque is said to get its name from the Spanish word for “anvil” because of the rugged mountain shapes, or from the native Taíno Indian word yuke for “white lands” or “forest of clouds” — because the mountaintops are so often lost there. Both monikers seem appropriate at first sight of the island rainforest’s peaks rising up from the ocean. The drive between the capital city and the protected rainforest gives a view of Puerto Rico that is at once both rough and raw — with pitted roads, legal cockfighting, and horse-racing tracks — and stunningly beautiful — with houses painted in tropical fruit colors, towering coconut trees, and centuries-old homes and churches. And the ubiquitous birds. Pigeons flock in the Old World squares in San Juan, lining up on roof edges, waiting for crumbs. Cockatoos perch near the fountains of the patio garden at our inn. And beyond the city, roosters and hens scratch and strut in the yards of houses of all sizes. And here and there colorful pet birds in cages are set on porches and in windows, and sold from vendors along the roadsides. Then there’s El Yunque and its avian treasures of warblers, banana quits, todies, hummingbirds, herons, and the elusive and rare Puerto Rican parrot. I meet Puerto Rico native Velez-Valentin, the aviary team leader, inside the gated, unmarked aviary facilities in a mountainside clearing high up in El Yunque. The biologist’s broad smile and warm handshake show the evenness of temper and calm confidence of those trained in the wildlife sciences and the habits of animals. He and his team explain that the Puerto Rican parrot, a bird that nests only in cavities dug into the ancient Palo Colorado trees, almost didn’t survive the centuries of forest clearing for sugarcane, coffee plantations, and charcoal harvesting. The wild parrots that remain are very wary of people, Velez-Valentin says. He asks if I remember the scene in the James Bond movie GoldenEye in which a plane is flying over what’s supposed to be a Cuban jungle, and he points out that the footage was shot over the rainforest at El Yunque. Crews filmed during the so-called cavity selection period, when wild parrots choose nest sites in the tree trunks, and planes and helicopters flew repeatedly over an area in which wild Puerto Rican parrots had nested for years. After the low-flying planes left the treetops, Velez-Valentin says, “the birds moved on, and haven’t been seen there again.” Whether or not moviemaking is a culprit, human activity has often been at odds with the island’s only native parrot, says Velez-Valentin: habitat loss from conversion of forest to farms and cities; the taking of birds for the pet market through at least the 1930s; and use of the rainforest for U.S. military training and testing — in addition to the tree loss from hurricanes, including a direct hit from Hurricane Hugo in 1989. But since the U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service established the first captive flock here in 1973, there’s also been new hope for the bright-colored bird. To show what’s possible, Velez-Valentin pushes back the fabric covering of one of the parrot enclosures, lifting from its nest of wood chips a big-eyed, wobbly parrot, forty-five days old. With its soft squawk, the fledgling still sounds vulnerable; yet the expectation is great that it will be among the nineteen captive-born birds hatched last year to be reintroduced into the wild flocks and forests of El Yunque. The hope is that they’ll be guapo enough to survive. Within hours of my visit with the magnificent rainforest parrot, I see another respected Puerto Rican bird, but this one with the fight to live even more at hand, in cockfighting arenas throughout the island. In this last refuge for cockfighting in the United States (it was banned last year in New Mexico and is set to be banned in Louisiana in August), the arenas are well marked, next to flashy casino resorts as well as dusty lots in the countryside hills. We stop at Gallera Doña Joaquina, a cockfighting arena in a village of modest houses near the northern entrance to El Yunque. I am not entirely sure women would be welcome at this remote outpost: The pastime is enjoyed mostly by men, and the only other women there today are working in the concession area or watching from seats way up in the balcony. But the Spanish-speaking manager at the door is more than welcoming. Unsurprisingly, the atmosphere is macho and the air filled with sweat and beer: Men and families on the island have been involved in cockfighting for generations, and the sport is celebrated in art and legend. On this early afternoon we watch as two roosters are released together on the red carpet to ignore each other, jump, spar, or mortally gouge each other in a match lasting up to fifteen minutes. The birds’ trainers, who’d earlier taped small plastic spurs to the roosters’ legs, lean in over the padded rail, sometimes shouting directly to the birds — not clear whether instructions or encouragements. If the match is close it becomes a noisy event, with bets called out continuously and a referee separating the birds when needed. At one point, the referee reprimands an agitated bettor for jumping into the ring himself. Of the three matches we watch, one is over in less than a minute, with a bird in complete collapse; the next lasts about nine minutes before a winner is named. The third match ends in a draw, with both cockerels still standing. Much like boxing, at the final bell of each round the trainer collects his bird and the referee lifts the arm of the winning owner. In the case of a draw, the referee brings both owners to the ring where they shake hands and collect a portion of the winning purse. On a wall outside the ring is a poster of a champion rooster that has won more than twenty matches, and nearby, in well-lit and numbered boxes, patrons examine the roosters that will be in the ring later that day. They look wiry, different from a common barnyard rooster, most notably because the feathers on their underside are trimmed before the fight to reveal muscle and fitness. But once in the ring, with neck feathers fanned, they look as if in a dance, strutting, posturing, pouncing, the best matched pairs erupting over and over into a rising, feathered ball. It’s all there before you — tenacity, skill, beauty, blood, life and death. El guapo, sí, el guapo. |
||||||||
