178 On the trail of vanishing birds 



shore of Bahia Malajeta. From there, I was told, we could reach 

 the flamingos by boat. Everyone of any importance in the town 

 agreed with this, and I need have no fear, we could find them. 

 Everyone was exceedingly optimistic about it. Next day we made 

 an early start. The truck driver was a gay blade whose weakness 

 for the local version of aguardiente I was to learn of later. In 

 addition to Arturo and myself, there was the uncle, Senor Antonio, 

 and a local fisherman and self-styled flamenco expert, who had 

 been thrust upon us to serve as guide. His name was Nicolas and 

 he was so shifty-eyed and evil-looking that I had grave misgivings 

 about him from the first. He looked exactly like a paid assassin in 

 a Sicilian melodrama. However, I quite naturally kept these 

 thoughts to myself. 



Jeibara was enchanting. There is an extensive beach of hard 

 sand and the shallow waters of Bahia Malajeta are an unbelievable 

 shade of green. On the edge of the beach several thatch huts had 

 been built, and a stout and very pleasant gentleman named 

 Felipe, who seemed to be the head man of the place, told us to 

 move in. There was no bedding, or even a bunk of any sort, but 

 Felipe gave us some old gunny sacking and with this we made pass- 

 able hammocks. As suppertime was drawing near a spry little 

 man, bare of head and of foot, came to our door and asked cheer- 

 fully if we wanted a cook. What pay would he expect? "Oh, 

 fiddledeedee!" said he, or an expression to that effect in Spanish. 

 "Money is no good, I will work for two bottles of aguardiente a 

 day." One the first thing in the morning, and the second exactly 

 at sunset. I turned to Arturo, and in his usual way he shrugged, 

 pursed his lips, and elevated his expressive eyebrows. Meaning, 

 why not? Or, what can we lose? So the sunset bottle was found 

 (it was amazing how readily those bottles of aguardiente ap- 

 peared), and within an hour we sat down to a fine supper of beans 

 and rice, canned meat, fried bananas, and black Cuban coffee. 



The next day it was arranged that we should begin our ex- 

 plorations. In a leaky boat, pushed indifferently along by an 

 ancient 2%-h.p. outboard, we beat our way across the bay, passing 

 ten forlorn-looking flamingos on a sandbar. On the far side we 

 began walking in search of a salina where it was believed the 



