saaribampo

Winter wheat on the coastal plain of Sonora.

The smell of burning brush, skeins of smoke on the horizon, the sluicing sound of captive water.

We are birding the coastal plain of Sonora just west of the Agiabampo Estuary, a tidal body on the Sea of Cortez. It is December. We travel on grids of dirt roads amid plowed fields passing the occasional man on tractor or man on foot in white rubber boots who is manipulating the flow of water in the vast arterial system of concrete and earthen irrigation canals carrying water mined from the Rio Mayo. Most of the fields have not been planted. A few are starting to sprout their harlequin-green carpet of winter wheat. Almost all the winter wheat produced in Mexico is grown on the coastal plain of Sonora and Sinaloa under irrigation.

I call it the Iowazation of northwestern Mexico.

People have been reworking this landscape for millennia, but the relentless, leave no tree or cactus standing, dam and channel every river draining the Sierra Madre Occidental has been proceeding at ever massive scales since the plant geneticist Norman Borlaug, with the help of Mexican President Avila Camacho, the U.S. government, and the Rockefeller Foundation, brought the “Green Revolution” to Mexico in the 1940s. It’s green all right, weirdly green, one shade of green. Better to call it the Green Devolution.

Captive water.

Birders are accustomed to altered landscapes, often hellish, apocalyptic landscapes. Many of us suffer intermittently from a vague mental state my friends and I have labeled eco-despair. But wallowing in despair is a rat-hole, so we keep birding the Apocalypse. It is often beautiful in bizarre ways.

Crested Caracaras, dozens and dozens, perch on the furrows of the unplanted fields, on the banks of the canals, or in low shrubby trees. Others are flying about. They are regal-looking birds canonized on the Mexico coat of arms as an “eagle” grasping a snake. Caracaras are not quite so raptorial in real life. They are scavengers and opportunists, drawn to carrion along with vultures. In this case, the Caracaras are presumably eating grubs and other insects turned up by the tractors.

We are a group of five birders on one of the 2,300 or so Audubon Christmas Bird Counts held over a three-week period in the winter, mainly in the United States and Canada, with a scattering across Latin America. This tradition, sponsored by the National Audubon Society, has been going on since Christmas Day 1900.

The lodestar for the society – and the Christmas Bird Counts – is the 19^th-century naturalist and artist John James Audubon. He was a man of prodigious talents and seemingly boundless energy who made his youthful passion for birds and nature a life-long pursuit and profession.

Here we are standing in Borlaug’s tamed landscape looking through our binoculars at birds, framing them in ways that mostly eliminate the Apocalypse. For me, it is something like being in my own fabricated museum looking at Audubon’s original watercolors for The Birds of America. Audubon and Borlaug, two titans in their realms: one captured wildness, the other obliterated it, two birds of vastly different feather.

Birding a patch of brush that has escaped cultivation. (Photo by Lydia Lozano.)

We are on the Christmas Bird Count for the Navopatia Field Station, a small noble nonprofit working to save the last stands of pitaya cactus forest and the mangroves and mudflats in Agiabampo Estuary. I run with small, noble, and local.

The day unfolds. The five of us divide up. Christmas Counts often entail a little social engineering. I want my oldest best girl friend – one of the most skilled and knowledgeable birders walking the planet – to go with a younger birder to provide some mentorship. I sacrifice my friend to her, even though I would prefer to bird with my oldest best girl friend. I go with my spouse with whom I also love to bird. Our very dear friend and the partner of my oldest best girl friend – whose knowledge and athleticism as a birder ranks with hers – goes off on dirt roads in the vehicle to count birds alone.

The only area that would barely qualify as “natural” is an outcropping of low, rocky hills. But even around these little hills I see where the brush has been recently burned to clear a few more meters for winter wheat. And in the hills there are craters where dirt has been excavated to move somewhere else. The restless moving of aggregate is a defining characteristic of Homo sapiens. Later in the day, at the Agiabampo Estuary, we watch dredging boats pumping mud from the estuary floor through huge hoses that vomit the spoils on shore. It is a brutal scene. We have heard the government-sponsored project is supposed to “improve fishing.”

During the course of seven hours birding the hills, fields, weedy patches along roads, a couple of freshwater irrigation impoundments, a couple of villages, and the sandy shores of the Agiabampo Estuary we record 149 species. Not a bad list for the Apocalypse.

Most of these species are old friends of mine from years of random birding. I’m still surprised at what joy pertains to seeing a bird well no matter how many times I’ve seen it. Joy (of course) pertains to seeing new birds, and one species I am particularly thrilled to see is Bendire’s Thrasher. It is an uncommon and fairly reclusive bird of the deserts of the U.S. Southwest and adjacent Northwestern Mexico. I can remember seeing it only once and briefly a long, long time ago, I think on the outskirts of metro Phoenix.

I am partial to the thrasher family (of which the Mockingbird is a member). They have piercing eyes that give them a part-stern, part-quizzical look; they often pop out of nowhere, shifting quickly from shy to brash, if only momentarily (a behavioral trait I relate to); they are not gaudy, instead feathered in lovely muted colors of brown and gray (one species, the Blue Mockingbird, is a dark, glistening blue-black); and they are great songsters and mimics. Today’s Bendire’s Thrashers – we count five individuals – fill all my thrasher expectations and happiness. I am also relieved that they are easier to distinguish from Curve-billed Thrashers than the guidebooks warn.

And who, I need to remind myself, was Bendire? He was born Karl Emil Bender in Germany in 1836 (later changing his name to Charles Bendire). He immigrated to the United States as a young man where he enlisted in the U.S. Army. He fought in the Civil War and subsequently (like many Union soldiers) against the American Indians. During his wide travels across the continent as a military officer, he pursued a parallel passion for natural history, especially birds and birds’ eggs (his private collection became the core of the egg collection at the Smithsonian Institution). He discovered several new bird species, including the thrasher named for him. I try to picture a man fighting Indians and collecting fragile jewels of eggs from nests.

Birding the Agiabampo Estuary. (Photo by Lydia Lozano.)

The final species we record for our count day is an immature Bald Eagle. We had been watching a sudden, frenzied flight of ducks in the bay – usually a sign that a raptor is on the scene – when one of our most eagle-eyed observers (we are a team of various skill levels) sees the perpetrator circle and land on the beach. There is sudden, frenzied behavior on our part as we all try to get good looks at it. Bald Eagles typically eat fish, especially dead fish, but will hunt waterfowl, hence the alarm of the ducks. They are rare to uncommon in winter in Northwestern Mexico. Since the species’ population has recovered dramatically since DDT was banned in 1972, there are probably more Bald Eagles in Northwestern Mexico. However, there is a scarcity of birders in these parts to observe them. I cannot speak for what is in the heads of my cohorts. I am levitating from the Bald Eagle sighting while contemplating a cold beer and hot shower. We pack up the telescopes, wedge ourselves into our vehicle, and work our way homeward through the maze of winter wheat.

Postscript:
Small, local, noble: some great conservation groups working in Sonora:
Navopatia Field Station (www.navopatia.org), organizers of the coastal Audubon Christmas Count we were on.
Reserva Monte Mojino (www.montemojino.org), which owns and manages a large tract of Tropical Deciduous Forest near Alamos. It is part of a larger organization, Natural and Culture International (www.natureandculture.org), working in other parts of Latin America.
Northern Jaguar Project (www.northernjaguarproject.org), a leader in research and conservation efforts to better understand and protect northern populations of jaguar.
Cuenca Los Ojos (www.cuencalosojos), which is dedicated to protecting biodiversity along the U.S.-Mexico border.

I am thinking about the Westminster Dog Show. It is coming up in February. In 2015, two new breeds will be on the roster – a little fru-fru dog from Madagascar called the coton de tulear and a lean, muscular Hungarian hunting dog, the wire-haired vizsla. Just as an aside, I have no particular problem with fru-fru breeds, but judging from the photos of the vizsla, it’s the one I could put my arms around.

For my own entertainment, I am going to imagine that some day the Westminster Dog Show will add the Mexican street dog to its canine line-up. OK, it is not a breed per se. The gene pool has not been manipulated to the extent that all Mexican street dogs look the same – indeed hardly one looks like another – but they have been selected over a long, long time to have certain characteristics that constitute a standard. And that is, by the Westminster Dog Show’s own criteria, what a breed is. To quote: “Each breed’s parent club creates a STANDARD, a written description of the ideal specimen of that breed…[g]enerally relating form to function…”

The form of the Mexican street dog, although wildly variable, always relates to function: survival in a precarious world. I guess that is what some people call a mongrel but what I call a super-breed. The Mexican street dog carries not a pool but an ocean of genes, swirling currents mixing morphological characteristics of terrier, labrador, spaniel, poodle, German shepherd, pit bull, boxer, cattle dog, doberman, dachshund, basenji, beagle, huskie, ridgeback, and, yes, vizsla. I have not yet seen signs of coton de tulear. To show you how broadly a standard can be defined, one of the spokespersons for the newly inducted coton de tulear said, “They’re just very adaptable, and they like everybody.” The same could be said about the Mexican street dog.

So here is my Standard: The Mexican Street Dog is a variably built, tiny to large dog possessing a sound conformation if given vaccinations, appropriate neutering, enough to eat, and periodic heartworm, tick, and flea medicine, allowing it to function as a dog who will be loyal, amusing, and a wonderful family companion. Physical features and mental characteristics should denote a dog bred to perform a variety of tasks, as trained by its owner, with perhaps an occasional lapse of stealing food off any surface left unattended. This is a survival mark of the super-breed. The distinguishing characteristics of the Mexican Street Dog are its desire to find a place or home with regular food and companionship, perhaps some work herding cattle, sheep, or children, and a place to nap in the sun. They are invariably intelligent, of good temperament, and know how to run in front of a truck or cross a street or busy highway without being killed. Above all, a Mexican Street Dog must be able to make its way in a precarious world. I guess, having written this description, I am now the founder of the Mexican Street Dog Club.

A street dog on the Alameda in Alamos.

April 26, 2010. Diablo is the de factor seeing-eye dog for Rosario Morales, a virtually blind man who lives in Barrio Esmeralda.
We are old friends with both of them. Diablo and Rosario pass by our house almost everyday. By every measure — his rotten teeth, wasting body, rheumy eyes — Diablo is a dead dog. But he has some inner life force. So far, every year when we return to Alamos, Diablo and Rosario are here. Some day, one then both will be gone.

Two dogs sleeping at the entrance to Casino Señorial, the men’s only cantina on the Alameda in Alamos.

December 25, 2014. Sitting on our stoop, David, Diablo, Perra (the younger seeing-eye-dog-in-training), and Rosario.

The broom is the axis of Earth without which the planet would dissolve into dust. The women come out in the morning and prop their old bones on their brooms. They sweep away yesterday, make way for today, and tomorrow the planet will spin. May the women come out every morning and keep the world spinning.

Everyday but Sunday, Francisco Valenzuela Zavala, a wisp of a man crooked with age, sweeps up and deposits in his wheelbarrow the dust and silt on several blocks of Calle Hidalgo, the street where we live in Alamos.

Francisco Valenzuela Zavala

In the park up the street, Candelario Gastélum, a younger, rumpled, rounder gentleman, sweeps the basketball courts as well as the surrounding grounds. In Mexico people commonly sweep the dirt. In so doing they make lovely ephemeral patterns in the soil. For this task, Candelario uses a palm-frond broom of his own design. He makes a new one every few months.

Candelario Gastélum

Francisco and Candelario are public workers, hired by the city to sweep the streets and public spaces of Alamos. Householders and housekeepers — men and women — are just as religious about tidying their own domains. Hardly a morning goes by that I don’t see Doña Sara, our 90-year-old neighbor a few doors to the east, out sweeping her stoop and sidewalk. Don Chato, the caretaker of a house a few doors to the west, bikes to work and starts his day sweeping his stretch of sidewalk. These are just the people I know. There are many others in our neighborhood and all across Alamos who emerge every morning from their houses to sweep.

Doña Sara

One thing in the lives of my neighbors is certain: the dust and silt — Sisyphus’ boulder decomposed — will creep in on the breezes and the tires of cars and trucks and be waiting for them and their brooms the next morning. But Sisyphus was being punished. My neighbors aren’t. Sweeping verges on daily devotion. It is certainly the daily norm.

I have never liked to sweep. It makes me nervous and irritable. When I am sweeping I am convinced I have a million – or at least one or two – other things I should be doing. Now, everyday, people around me are sweeping. And they are cheerful. I have daily brief encounters with my sweeping neighbors. If I’m walking, we exchange greetings (which involves shouting to Francisco Valenzuela and Doña Sara, who are deaf). Sometimes I am on my bike, so we wave. I wonder, in passing, how many tons of debris the people of Calle Hidalgo have swept up over the ages. My neighbors have made me think about the broom and if I could at this late date change my attitude about using one. The broom is such a simple tool. It has hardly changed in design in two centuries (as explained on the Web site “How Things Are Made,” http://www.madehow.com/Volume-6/Broom.html#ixzz3H0SqGE3y).

Simple things can be complicated. Any item that can be mass-produced to meet demand in millions of households can become in a global economy the subject of heated debate. In 1994, the broom — that is, the classic broom made of broomcom, a species of sorghum cultivated specifically for use in broom making — became the subject of a fierce dispute between Mexico and the United States when the North American Free Trade Agreement lifted import tariffs on cheaper brooms manufactured in Mexico. American makers of brooms argued for keeping stricter tariffs but lost the argument. This ruling pretty much obliterated the broom-making industry in the United States (http://www.sice.oas.org/dispute/nafta/english/us97801a.asp#).

I recently bought a new broom at Ferre-Carpintero, the hardware store down the street from us. It was manufactured in Guadalajara. It cost 48 pesos ($3.54 in U.S. dollars).

Brooms and mops in the window at Ferre-Carpintero, my neighborhood hardware store

On the morning of October 24, 2014, I began my rehabilitation with regard to sweeping. I emerged from my house at about 7 a.m. with my broom to sweep my stoop. What could I like about this, I asked myself? The light is golden at this time of day. That’s the first good thing. Children in their uniforms, some accompanied by parents, were walking to the elementary school a block from us. Mexican parrotlets, in their tight formations were flying around making their gossipy chatter. Great-tailed grackles were on the utility poles posturing and crackling (grackles are capable of an amazing array of sounds). I could keep a list of birds heard and seen while sweeping, I thought.

The particulate matter of Mexico, at least in Alamos, is unbelievably fine and gossamery. Sweeping requires a strategic approach and style. Even in the subtlest breeze, you must sweep from upwind. Otherwise the dirt and silt blow back on you. I have a tendency to sweep furiously, with fast and broad swipes, part of my defiant outlook about the task. Not good. This approach, I noted, creates countless tornadic dust devils that fly up and then float down ever so elegantly precisely where I just swept. I modified my strokes. I made them shorter with more of a pushing as opposed to swinging motion — more like putting on the green versus driving off the tee. I was calming down and enjoying being a part of the waking-up day in Alamos.

When I had been sweeping for about 20 minutes, Ángel Esquer Chávez walked by and stopped to visit. He is the distinguished 80-year-old gardener who comes twice a week to tend the trees and plants for our next-door neighbors. As we were talking, he reached out and took the broom from me. Very matter-of-factly. He proceeded to finish my job. Was this chivalry, a lesson in technique, or both, or some other intention altogether, or should I try not to fix a meaning on it? I watched him at work. He was calm, his broom strokes were short and concise, he was not perturbed that some dust and silt were left inevitably behind. He is a master sweeper. I am his grateful student.

Ángel Esquer Chávez

More brooms.

Ezekiel, sweeping with homemade broom at Finca Don Gabriel, Pluma Hidalgo, Oaxaca.

Two homemade brooms on a bench, Rancho Acosta, Alamos, Sonora.