195 Trouble in paradise 



Erasmo worried, although he said nothing. But I sensed a reluc- 

 tance on his part to move on into the swamp and settle the ques- 

 tion. 



As we wound through the narrow mangrove channels, with 

 Monono picking the way with the unerring skill of long practice, 

 all of us began to feel the rising exitement that always comes with 

 the moment of actual arrival at a long-sought-after goal. I could 

 feel it very strongly in my own case, for I had been searching for 

 a Cuban flamingo colony for so long that its discovery now meant 

 much more than it had at the outset. And in the faces of my 

 companions I could see a similar fever, for this sort of thing is 

 strangely contagious. But when we emerged from beneath the 

 final canopy of mangroves and shoved our way out into the open 

 desolation of the swamp proper, I could see at once that some- 

 thing was wrong. The swamp had once supported a heavy growth 

 of black mangroves, but these had evidently been killed by re- 

 peated doses of salt water, possibly a result of a shift in the course 

 of the nearby river which had allowed the tide to overflow its 

 banks and cover the area. Now only the stark skeletons of trees 

 remained, their trunks bleached white by salt and sun so that not 

 a green leaf was visible as far as the eye could see. But more deso- 

 late even than this was the obvious fact that there were no fla- 

 mingos. Not one red feather, nor the sound of a single flamingo 

 voice! 



The bottom was a soft black mud, doubtless alluvial in char- 

 acter, and so matted with dead mangrove roots that walking proved 

 extremely difficult. Nevertheless we clambered overboard, and 

 after striking off in a westerly direction for several hundred yards, 

 came upon undeniable evidence that this had been, no more than a 

 year since, a thriving flamingo city. For there were the deserted 

 nest mounds, hundreds of them, standing well above the surface 

 of the water and spread out over a considerable area. Last year, 

 my unhappy guides told me, this very place had been alive with 

 flamingos, a heavenly sight, brilliantly red in the sunlight, a vision 

 of loveliness! I could well believe it for there were no less than 

 2,000 mounds, far more than I had expected to find in all of Cuba. 

 But this year there were no birds; that was all too clear. 



