194 On the trail of vanishing birds 



floorboards and prepared to sleep. The breeze continued, blowing 

 away most of the mosquitoes, but the little vessel rolled and wal- 

 lowed in the darkness and the floorboards grew harder with each 

 passing hour. Pupo lost his supper after a little, but otherwise 

 the night passed quietly. 



Early the next morning we sighted our first flamingos, small 

 groups of adults flying in swift-moving files toward Cayo Romano. 

 There was a good breeze and we now set off on a new series of 

 tacks, towards the ruins of Puerto Viaro, a little seaport long 

 since deserted and fallen into decay as a result of the building of 

 a railroad through from Mor6n to Nuevitas. Each time we came 

 about, the boys, with much laughter at the way we all jumped, 

 would shout their version of " 'Ware boom!" This was Cuidado 

 con botabara!" They gave loud emphatic emphasis to the last 

 two syllables. Finally, off Mojarra Island we came up into the 

 wind, dropped our sail, and Vikini threw the anchor overboard. 

 We had arrived. From here, I was told, we could reach the fla- 

 mingo colony by small boat. But all I saw was water and sunlit sky 

 and mangrove. Not a flamingo in sight! 



It was still early in the day, so Erasmo proposed that we eat 

 before journeying into the swamp. Naturally, I agreed, for I 

 wanted a contented boat crew if the going was to be as hot and 

 uncomfortable as I expected it to be. A tarpaulin was stretched 

 over the botabara and then, still in no hurry, we all piled into the 

 small boat, equipped with a gill net, and pushed into the edge of 

 the mangroves looking for fish. A number of fair-sized barracudas 

 were seen but our only catch was a small mojarra. Back aboard, 

 with the sun blazing down on us from directly overhead, we sat 

 around beneath the tarpaulin while Erasmo prepared another rice- 

 and-fried-banana meal, embellished with warm Cuban beer and 

 cafe solo. Vikini played tuneless airs on a mouth organ and every- 

 one talked and ate and talked, despite the heat. 



At length, further delay being out of the question, we set off in 

 the small boat and began a slow, hot, mosquito-plagued run into 

 the swamp. I am sure that the almost total absence of flamingo 

 flocks along the outer shore or flying back and forth overhead, 

 as one would expect in the vicinity of an active colony, had 



