Birds and Bottles August 30, 2022
We get the feeling we are being followed by a caravan of campesino protesters, which confronted us yesterday, and even today cruises by us in the pastoral hills of Huayapam. I thought we would be safe in upland nature, but the angry mob has a point to make regarding the environment, I think. Their gripe is apparently with the government, which enacted some new recycling law which impacts the livelihood of these trash-collectors and plastic-sorters. The other gripe, widely shared, is with Coca-Cola, seen by many Oaxaqueños as an evil corporate behemoth producing only plastics and consuming precious water.
The marchers wave red-and-black flags, evoking a certain leftist fury, yet the moms are happy enough to pass the flags to their toddlers. Downtown yesterday, the same mob stopped traffic at El Llano and Benito Juarez Street. The car horns of stranded motorists were the loudest instruments. Nevertheless, the police assisted in clearing a route for the protestors, who were either on foot or in a fleet of old chicken-trucks. Others gathered with cameras for the spectacle. A parade is a parade.
Back at Huayapam, below the charming village of San Andres, the day is cool with light clouds. Despite the recent afternoon downpours, the lake is drying up. The stone dam sits well above the waterline. Sparse groves of pine surround the old shore, far from the water, and their drooping needles look particularly thirsty. I scan the pasture and green slopes beyond for signs of Shake, an old birdwatcher who comes here often to escape the city. “Oaxaca parks have no trees,” Shake complains, so he comes here regularly, although I am not sure he is correct about the trees.
Shake has not lived in his leafy native Brooklyn for fifty years, but the accent never goes away. Since the 1970’s, he has been a wanderer, a Vagamundo, peddling his jewelry on college campuses throughout the United States. A few years ago, he made the move to Mexico. He has lived in Oaxaca for about a year but is looking to find his next stop on the journey. He is thinking maybe Jalapa (the locals spell it Xalapa), the capital of Veracruz and home to Vanessa’s alma mater. “More trees, I hear,” says Shake. We both agree the sweet spot for plant life down south is about 1500 meters above sea level.
The Brooklynite finds his solace up here in the mile-high agave hills, where, on any given Sunday morning, his subtropical list can include: Vermillion Flycatcher, Canyon Towhee, White-throated Towhee, Lesser Goldfinch, Blue Grosbeak, Tropical Kingbird, Cassins Kingbird, and the ubiquitous Great Kiskadee. He meticulously photographs each one.
“Hey, Shake,” I say, “I can get you a shot of one that’s not on your list. A Nuttail Hummingbird, female, banded on the leg.”
“Never heard of it.”
“It’s an exotic. Normal range is limited to California and Baja.”
“Hmm. Where did you see it?”
“She’s outside my window. Spends her days banging on the glass. Like she’s trying to get away from something.”
“Sounds like my kind of bird.”
Indeed I can imagine her at this very moment, banging, fluttering, banging, against the reflective surface. The sound of approaching chicken-trucks must make her feel the increased desperation of her situation. The sight of waving red-and-black flags can only mean one thing: Outsiders Go Away! If she crouches behind the storm-battered Tiliche scarecrow, she might elude her pursuers. Then again, she is probably safe at a height of three stories, as it is a well-known fact that in the city no one ever looks up.