Birding in Cuba

All is not paradise here, however. Between the pleasant birding excursions the conference-goers are absorbed by a host of problems that threaten their subjects. Cuban conservationists are dogged by all the usual suspects: spreading agricultural use, overgrazing, deforestation, urban growth. They've got another problem, too: a serious lack of resources and, worse, limited access to new information. Which is why the International Crane Foundation (ICF) and Wildlife Preservation Trust International (WPTI) are both here, lending both financial support and valuable access to international research and expertise.

The Cubans certainly don't lack enthusiasm, and it's a pleasure to watch the information flow. Much of the concern for the parrots centers around nesting sites: They favor palm trees, which take up to 100 years to be ready for use by parrots—and woodpeckers, insects, bats, bees. After the tree dies, insects get to work on the interior, munching away at the fiber until it has a dry spongy quality. In 1996 Hurricane Lily was particularly hard on these rotted palms, and the scientists are now faced with the task of lugging fallen trees to prime sites, excavating suitable holes, and"planting" the trees to encourage nesting. There's some happier news: It was recently discovered that the parrots will also nest in holes in cliffs. So while the sun shines outside, we look at graphs and charts and talk about crop samples and how to get binoculars to local biologists. The conference is a success, the Cubans are enthusiastic about the help they'll finally be getting, and the foreigners are filled with fresh resolve about helping these dedicated people.

Two months later I watch the blue spruce outside my window, curving gently in a chilly breeze blowing down from the Arctic. Before me lie photographs and memories, a blurry tody, a '57 Chevy next to a horse-drawn cart, the slim silhouette of a woodpecker, the cherubic smile of a parrot. I've still got sandal lines where the Cuban sun burned my feet, though again I'm winter-pale. A ten-foot roll of fax paper arrives with census numbers and details of successes, failures, good news, future plans. But the dry words don't begin to convey the indelible images my mind conjures of a glowing sunset over a whispering swamp where cranes call in the distance, of a bright forest where parrots swoop low, of a rosy dawn where hundreds of flamingos rise and wheel as one. And as I gaze absently at unseasonal May snow, I know I'll return one day.