The Isla of Surprise
Several miles past the cattle my attention focused on a gently-rounded and densely forested island rearing up from the flat grasslands. It was about a quarter mile off the roadway. Because Donna was fifty yards in front of me, she could not hear my yell. Figuring that she would sooner or later look behind her, I stopped. And I waited. When she finally looked over her shoulder I pointed to our left. Not waiting, I directed my bike down the sloping embankment and headed it towards the island, the isla.
Curiosity is not a trait exclusive to cats. Some of us humans are blessed, or cursed, with it also. What, I wondered, might be found in the jungly island arising from the ocean of grass? The answer was the highlight of our visit to Bolivia.
Wending my way through ungrazed three and four foot high tough, coarse tropical grasses, I proceeded towards the island of mystery. Following an old, rutted cow trail, the going was slow. Donna almost caught up with me when she missed a turn. Without warning, she and her bike laid down for a rest in the tall grass. Almost as quickly as she went down, she was back up. Signaling that she was okay, she hopped back on her motorcycle.
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The Isla
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The rounded, mound-type island was probably twenty feet higher than the surrounding plain. The foliage, with its canopy thirty feet overhead, was dense enough to shade out the rays of the sun. But at ground level there was plenty of open space with abundant room to set up a couple of tents, have a picnic, play hide & seek, or engage in wild, rambunctious lovemaking. Approximately a hundred yards in diameter – the distance between the two goal lines of an American football field – the isla offered both privacy and shelter from the tropical sun.
Turning off our noisy, motor-driven contraptions, we sat down on the ground, shoulder to shoulder. Without speaking, we soaked up the quietness, the coolness, the seclusion. The reverie lasted all of two or three minutes.
Hearing a noise above us, we looked upward. There, among the high branches, a toucan was calmly scrutinizing us. With its elongated bright orange bill and predominately black plumage, it was an arresting sight.
“Oh my God!” whispered Donna.
Following her gaze, I involuntarily held my breath. Like kids playing tag, six macaws with bright blue plumage fluttered among the treetops. I was so surprised – stunned might be a more appropriate word – I forgot all about our camera. Spellbound, we just watched. It was an honor to observe these magnificent, long-tailed, colorful birds cavorting in the wild, in their own world. A world not yet invaded by chainsaws and bulldozers and logging trucks.
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The author & Donna at Río Mamoré
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A few days after our motorcycle excursion, we were aboard a jet airliner going back to the United States. We had traveled to Bolivia to see the Llanos de Mojos – the unfenced grasslands of cattle and cattlemen and vaqueros, and, sometimes, drug lords. And we had hoped to see some wildlife. We met with unexpected success in those quests. But we also hoped that we might find a place to make a new home, and reconstruct a disintegrating marriage. Although we found neither a home nor a way to repair our marriage, we both retain treasured memories of high mountains, cobblestone streets, Native American women wearing bowler hats, friendly folks from the DEA, and, most poignantly, the gaily colored macaws pursuing a life of freedom high in the treetops on an isla in the grasslands.
Long live the macaws, and the toucan, too.
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