Birding in Cuba

Horse-drawn taxis waiting in the shade are common in the town's square

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And so now, here I am: up a tree, somewhere in eastern Cuba. I've forced myself to sit here for an hour, slowly relaxing my vice-grip on the thick trunk.

From my perch at site number 38 I spend most of my time absorbed by a pair of mockingbirds planning for the future; the site they've chosen is a tight squeeze, buried deep in a spiny hedge, and they are both busily adding twigs and grasses. A harsh cry brings me back to the task and I glance west to see a pair of cranes flying low over the reeds. Under"grullas" on my graph I make a note of their direction and number. In the distance, dozens of Royal palms sway in the arms of a strong evening breeze. There are said to be 20 million of these towering trees in Cuba; they grace the country's coat of arms and provide nesting sites for dozens of species of bird, bat, and insect. In the two-hour watch we see no parrots, though a few hundred will be seen at the other sites scattered throughout the province. I'm not too disappointed: It's a long way from the bitter cold of winter.

Arriving in Cuba Winter-Pale

Six days ago I arrived winter-pale at Varadero Airport, which is always in a state of happy chaos, with a single luggage belt serving three recently landed planes. In the parking lot Daihatsu and Volvo buses and the occasional tired-looking Lada await arrivals, and faded but seductive Havanatur billboards promise sun. Skeletal flame trees keep their crimson secrets in this dry season, and the landscape is an unkempt mix of sisal, brush, low trees. The next day we converge in the town of Morsn. The region is mostly flat savanna-cattle and cane country and the occasional citrus grove—with a few hills to the northwest and mangrove swamps lining the coasts. This area was settled much later than Havana, in the 17th century, and at the end of the last century became the hub of the Spanish line of defense against Cuban patriots trying to reach the east. The line was broken for good by Che Guevara in 1958, and it's quiet now. Like every Cuban town, Morsn is graced with a central park, where massive ceiba trees shade wooden benches; lack of pollution means these cool, leafy squares are always full of people. It's not unusual to see men on horseback, and horse-drawn taxis wait patiently in the shade.

We turn our attention to Xiomara Gonsalves, the Cuban biologist who is running this show. She is vibrant and alive, wearing a long black ponytail bound with a scarlet bow. Though her English is far from fluent, we always seem to know exactly what she means. She inspires confidence. The rest of us are a curious mix of scientists, bird-watchers, and private conservation supporters, from places as diverse as Madagascar, Jamaica, and the United States.

The next morning Jamaican zoologist Herlitz Davis and I groggily join our guide, Ernesto, who promises us sunshine and parrots. Like all the conference-goers he's carrying a copy of the classic Birds of the Caribbean, by one James Bond (Ian Fleming lifted the name for his hero). As the bus jostles along a pitted red track a female magnificent frigatebird sweeps across the front of the bus. She's an unusual sight this far inland and we take her, with all the illogic of the superstitious, as a good omen. American kestrels eye us calmly atop stripped trees, and doves—Zenaida, mourning, ruddy quail—are flushed at every turn. Dozens of turkey vultures wheel overhead. Smooth-billed anis roll through the air, glossy black cuckoos with the curious habit of sharing nests: Up to 29 eggs have been found in a single nest (those at the bottom fail to hatch). Half a dozen transient killdeers pick jerkily through the muck, reminding me of home. Blue herons and slender white egrets forage nearby, and under the swaying green overhang of a palm I catch a glimpse of a pair of ducks. Teal? Perhaps. They disappear before I can tell for sure.