Michael Shapiro is the author of 'A Sense of Place: Great Travel Writers Talk About Their Craft, Lives and Inspiration' He can be reached throughwww.michaelshapiro.com. Shapiro is a contributor to National Geographic Traveler, Islands magazine and the Washington Post travel section.
WHEN THE SPANISH CONQUISTADORS penetrated what is now Guatemala in the early 1500s, they encountered the legendary Mayan king Tecun Uman and his people. The resulting carnage and destruction of the Mayan culture is a familiar part of the country's history, but not so well known is the story of the resplendent quetzal.
Legend has it that as the Spaniards were completing the destruction of his people, Tecun Uman sought spiritual solace in the quetzal, a colorful bird found in Guatemala's high cloud forests. As he lay dying, a quetzal descended upon the fallen leader. The blood of Tecun Uman stained the bird's breast, turning it crimson. To this day, quetzals have a distinctive red marking.
National Symbol of Liberty
During a spectacular three months in Guatemala, I had studied Spanish in the old colonial capital of Antigua, visited the glorious Mayan ruins in the jungles of Tikal, and journeyed to Lake Atitlan, a placid body of water backed by majestic volcanoes and dotted with indigenous villages. I'd even lucked into a job as a river rafting guide on the Rio Cahabon, which rushes through virgin jungle on its way toward the Atlantic Ocean.
But I had not seen the resplendent quetzal. Or, to be more precise, I had not seen a live quetzal.
As the national symbol of liberty, representations of the quetzal are everywhere in Guatemala. They decorate murals, grace bank posters, and even lend elegance to Guatemalan currency. The monetary unit is called the quetzal in honor of this glorious bird. On the one-quetzal bill, a lithe quetzal flying over a Mayan figure makes a contrast with the harsh countenance of the mustachioed General Jose Maria Orellana.
 | | The quetzal as it appears on Guatemalan money |
Before I left Guatemala, I decided to seek out this bird. Although I'm not an avid bird-watcher, the hope of spotting a quetzal led me to the high cloud forests of Alta Verapaz ("the heights of true peace"), a region of lush, dense forests, long misty days, and the seemingly ever-present chipi-chipi (light rain).
Adding to its mystique as the bird of freedom is the fact that any quetzal that's ever been caged has quickly died. So naturally, the way to view one was to tread lightly into the bird's homeland.
Striking Colors and Long Tail Feathers
The quetzal, a member of the trogon family, is small, with a body about the size of a large robin, but its colors are striking: a crimson breast, shimmering green back feathers, a spiky crest, yellow beak, and, on the male birds, two or three astounding tail feathers that are often a yard long.
Sadly, the quetzal has been disappearing from Guatemala. Its range once reached from the cloud forests of southern Mexico (now completely decimated) to the foothills of Panama. Today, the two remaining subspecies of the quetzal live in small and shrinking areas in the cloud forests of Guatemala and Costa Rica. The bird's original range, which spanned 30,000 square kilometers, was reduced to about one-tenth that size by the early 1980s, and has declined even further since then.
The Search
On a Sunday morning before daybreak, my traveling companion, Sande, and I left Guatemala City to hail a northbound bus in search of the quetzal. Our destination was Alta Verapaz, a cloud forest area that teems with life, and where it rains an average of 300 days a year.
While the trip would have been much more comfortable and convenient in a rented car (and much more expensive), scenes unfolded that could only take place on the country's buses, and the discomfort of the cramped, crowded coach was a small price to pay. Buses are privately operated; thus the more tickets sold, the more money earned. I saw an entire family of five jammed into one seat. Another lady had a fidgety chicken under her V-neck sweater, its head poking from her cleavage.
Manouvering the bus through Guatemala City's narrow streets was no easy task. At one point the driver was unable to negotiate a right turn because a small car was parked too close to the corner. After repeated attempts to go forward and reverse, the driver swore vehemently and asked some men to give him a hand. He and five men got off the bus and proceeded to pick up and move the offending vehicle several feet, leaving sufficient clearance for the bus to make the turn.
Rolling Toward the Biotopo
The biotopo ("place of life") is a wilderness reserve less than 100 kilometers due north of the capital as the crow flies, but buses don't fly. In Guatemala, some barely roll. Fortunately ours did, meandering toward El Rancho, the junction for the road to the biotopo. During an extended stop there, enterprising kids sold refreshments to passengers, using a contraption made with a broom handle to hoist bags of cut oranges to the open bus windows.
From El Rancho, the highway climbs through arid hills before being enveloped by lush forests. For the first time I felt truly out of the city. I asked our driver to make a special stop (bus drivers routinely do this) at the Posada Montana de Quetzal, where we were staying, about four kilometers south of the biotopo.
After a long day of traveling on grimy buses, Sande and I couldn't have hoped for finer accommodation. We found ourselves in an immaculate suite, complete with a fireplace. The suite did not appear to have any other heat source, so we built a fire and huddled in our sleeping bags until the cool room warmed up.
We became acutely aware of the environment surrounding us. Outside our window the sun set in a swirl of sublime shades, primarily puffy pastels: powder blues blended with gentle oranges, yellows, and reds, with no distinct lines between the colors. It was too beautiful to view through a window, so I left our warm hearth and got a better view from outside.
Gradually, I felt something shift, almost as if I had company, though I was standing alone. I wondered if the spirits of the Mayans that had inhabited this area for millennia had joined me. I had always felt a certain magic at sunset and sunrise, these times of transition. Yet this one felt especially transcendent. The feeling was akin to that of knowing someone has walked up behind you, and you know she's there before turning to look. As I turned, I saw no one, yet I knew I was not alone.
Trekking Through Lush Forests
As the sky lightened, Sande and I were already walking along the road, hiking toward the reserve. The cool, moist air kissed our faces; the striking light of Venus, the morning star, shone brilliantly. Laborers on bicycles wheeled past on their way to work.
Upon arriving at the biotopo, we found several trails, from 500 meters to 3 kilometers long. We chose a longer trail, and within a few steps we found ourselves in another world. The forest was overflowing with countless varieties of orchids and bromeliads at all levels, from the forest floor to the crooks of tall trees. Huge ferns loomed eight meters above our heads. Waterfalls cascaded down sheer slopes.
 | | Tourists at the biotopo |
We were fortunate that our visit coincided with a group from the World Wildlife Fund, and we were able to join them. The group was led by Mick Garrod, a former Peace Corps volunteer. Garrod, vigorous, adept and intelligent, had worked in and around the biotopo since the mid-1980s. He was not optimistic about the quetzal's future. The reserve's 1100 hectares could sustain more than a dozen nesting pairs, but even the biotopo is not well protected, he said. Without enough rangers to patrol its borders, the trees of the biotopo have been cut for fuel.
For centuries, the indigenous tribes have taken what they needed from the land, and rarely did they take too much. But in the past few decades, military assaults, population growth, and land seizures have forced Guatemala's native people deeper into pristine forest areas. Adding to the quetzal's woes, Garrod said, was the Guatemalan government's decision to sell 100-acre tracts along the biotopo's perimeter for as little as $150.
The Quetzal Remains Reclusive
Mick led us deep into the biotopo. The quetzal, of course, did not burst out to greet our group. I had a hunch that hiking with more than a dozen people in the middle of the day would not enhance our chances to see the bird. Nonetheless, I lost myself in the countless shades of green, in the audible hum of life, in the heavy moisture of the place.
Because of the biotopo's dense canopy, Mick advised me to try to spot a quetzal at the nearby hospedaje, where aguacatillo ("little avocado") trees grow. These trees produce a small fruit (not similar to the avocado we know) that is a staple of the quetzal's diet, often attracting the birds. Sande, who had already seen a quetzal, in Costa Rica, had had enough of the cold rain and fog, so she caught a bus back to the city. I checked out of the posada and headed for the hospedaje.
The hospedaje offered dorm-style accommodations for about $2.50 a night. There was no heat, no hot water, and rickety cots for beds, but it was sufficient. I shared my room with Ralph, who had just left the Peace Corps in Honduras to return to his ailing mother in the States, and Guillaume, a French traveler who had so little money he had hiked over mountain passes from Honduras to Guatemala to avoid paying nominal border fees.
Although the rooms were less than ideal, the family who ran the place, members of the Kekchi tribe, couldn't have been friendlier. Roosters, hens and children rattled through the yard. I played with the kids, creating an imaginary meal from flowers (the beans) and large leaves (the tortillas, of course). The kids seamlessly switched between speaking Spanish and their native Kekchi.
Later I bought a bottle of syrupy orange wine, grabbed a chair, sat outside in the misty twilight and wrote a long letter to a friend. As I got deeper into the bottle, the absence of the quetzal seemed to matter even less. I had been here only two days, but it could just as easily have been two weeks. Or two years. Bob Dylan's "Time Passes Slowly" ran through my head. Soon my thoughts jumbled into a blur and the pen became too heavy to hold. Home seemed a million miles away, and that was just fine.
A Scarlet Comet
I awoke before sunrise to a cold, misty morning. I pulled on a jacket and walked outside. A few small birds flitted by in the early light, and then I heard someone say, "Hey, there's one!"
My heart pounded with excitement, but I had a sinking feeling that after spending days waiting to see a quetzal, I'd missed it.
I scanned the thick canopy but saw nothing. I moved toward some trees and looked again. A streak of vibrant red and green shot across the sky, followed like a comet by a long tail. The macho (male quetzal) landed on a small branch about 20 meters away, exposing his lustrous colors and long, flowing tail feathers. He flitted from branch to branch, his tail undulating like a wave. Before me was a supernaturally gorgeous apparition, this bird I had read so much about and dreamed of viewing, never expecting I would.
As the disbelief receded, it slowly dawned on me: This bird is real. Until this moment, the quetzal had been mythical, a bird of stories and legends, of bank posters and currency. How could it be real? Colors that outshine a tourist's neon outfit. The brilliant scarlet breast, a back of outlandishly luminescent green and blue feathers, and - as if the Great Spirit were saying, "So you still don't believe I exist?" - a finishing flourish of three emerald tail feathers.
 | | Unlike peacocks, who seem to flaunt their extraordinary plumage, this playful quetzal seemed unaware of its beauty. |
After seeing the quetzal, I understood why the Aztecs and Mayans named their central deities, Kukulcan and Quetzalcoatl, after this bird. The Aztecs built huge pyramids to honor the "winged serpent" and regarded the quetzal so highly that the penalty for killing one was death.
This macho remained in my field of vision for about an hour, flitting from branch to branch and occasionally munching fruits from the aguacatillo bush. Unlike peacocks, who seem to flaunt their extraordinary plumage, this playful quetzal seemed unaware of its beauty. A Swiss couple who had taken more than 100 rolls of slides on their round-the-world trip, perched a huge telephoto lens atop a tripod and took countless shots.
Then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the quetzal flew from view. We had finally seen the quetzal, and the mood among our group was celebratory. I felt like opening a bottle a champagne. Instead, Ralph, Guillaume, the Swiss tourists and I went to the hospedaje to have what our hosts generously called cafe - a tepid, transparent, tan liquid that faintly smelled of coffee.
Does the Quetzal Have a Future?
Later, after the exhilaration of seeing a quetzal had receded, I felt a sadness overcome me. In a scant decade or two, this unique bird may join the ever-lengthening list of extinct species, never again to flourish on this earth, to glide above the cloud forest with its tail feathers undulating behind, never again to gather the fruit of the aguacatillo bush to feed its young.
When other species have faced extinction, humans have tried to prolong their lives by breeding them in captivity. But since the quetzal can't - or won't - survive in a cage, that's not a possibility for this species. I hope the people and government of Guatemala will realize this before it's too late.
As the light faded on my last day in the cloud forest, the trees became silhouettes. I cast my glance across the dense canopy and knew that the macho I'd seen was somewhere in there, possibly sharing the sweet aguacatillo fruit with his mate and offspring. I smiled within, wished him and his brood well, and headed back toward the city.
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