Jailbird

The screams alerted me first. This section of the Chiquibul Marathon traversed old logging roads through the Forest Reserve. I’d come prepared for the humidity and heat, but the aroma was an unexpected and pleasant surprise. The perfume of the forest, which came thick on every ragged breath, brought scents from thousands of wildflowers. Then these tropical notes changed, subtly at first, but growing in intensity each fifty yards or so.

Above the frenzied cries and screams of a myriad of birds and monkeys, the low buzz of chain saws cut through the thick, once-tranquil forest air. Perplexed, I scrunched my brow and braced my hands just above my knees while I caught my breath and strained to sort through the many and varied sounds. The dirty, mixed up stench of diesel and sawdust overlaid the floral gorgeousness, and the foul, alien air caught in my throat and triggered a coughing fit.

Alarmed, I glanced ahead and behind, only to find myself utterly alone in the suddenly threatening forest. My fellow runners either lay way ahead or far behind my current position. A flash of bright red overhead caught my attention, and I glanced up. The reflex peek morphed into an open-mouthed gawp. I stood and stared, transfixed. If not for the screams, the aerial display would have thrilled and mesmerised. As it was, I felt sick and overcome with a desperate need to cry. Whatever was going on here, it was nothing good. The air thickened with an awful, gut-wrenching sense of wrongness that even the scarlet flapping of the soaring and swooping Macaws couldn’t blunt.

Against all advice and stern admonitions, I detoured from the race route. It might be a stupid move, but I had to investigate. No way could I run onward without knowing what had raised the wildlife to such a frenzy. Initially, I had to fight and force my way through a tangle of undergrowth and low-hanging vines and branches. Fearful of dangling snakes or other nasties—such as a big predator cat—my shoulders hunched around my ears for futile protection. Funny how the thought of monkeys and marsupials in general didn’t freak me out in the least. None of these minor concerns, however, came anywhere near my absolute phobia of spiders. Ugh.

Yes, I can hear you asking why the heck an intrepid explorer such as I would travel to a rainforest of all places, for a race of all things. The wildlife charity and the plight of the rainforest and its endangerment plucked at my heartstrings. Compassion trumped nerves. Until now.

All of a sudden, I crashed out of the foliage and onto a freshly flattened swath of vegetation and churned mud. Devastation spread in every direction. Mixed in with the cacophony of animal noises and chain saws, sounds of fear and panic reached me. A shrill voice echoed from trunk to trunk, which must come from a woman or a child in distress. My heart rate shot into the stratosphere. Low, guttural Spanish gave me pause. “Debes irte. Ellos tienen pistolas.”

Alarmed, I skidded to a stop and made a quick, rough translation: “You must go. They have guns.” The man’s voice held tones of urgency and apprehension. Cautious yet determined, I followed the sound of the voices. A hundred yards further on, I rounded a bend and stood still at the edge of a man-made clearing that resembled a tree graveyard. Jagged stumps of once majestic trunks littered the landscape. All around the edges of this destruction, monkeys leapt from branch to branch, screeching and chattering in alarm and agitation.

A man and a woman faced off at the far side of the carnage by a crude cage atop a flatbed. It took a moment for my brain to translate the image my eyes gave it. Multiple flashes of Scarlett accompanied screams and whistles. Finally, the information resolved, and I sucked rushed air in a shocked gasp. At least a dozen Scarlet Macaws flapped and fluttered, trapped in a large cage.

At the side of the long flatbed, a bearded, scruffy guy towered over a petite woman, who wore a light blue T-shirt with the well known and reassuring logo of a cradled palm holding the head of a sleeping monkey. She must work or volunteer for the local wildlife rescue and teaching charity. Most likely she’d come here to Marshall for the race. Like me, the distress of the forest animals had prompted her to investigate.

What to do? I’d come armed only with water and energy bars, expecting nothing more threatening than the terrain and humidity. A glance reassured me the guy held nothing but a large net and an attitude. My grasp of Spanish was rudimentary at best.

The woman gesticulated and pointed to the caged birds and the butchered trees. In English, she said, “This is illegal. You should not be here.”

So far, neither had noticed me. I edged backward until the heavy growth obscured me and eased my mobile phone from its pouch in the thigh of my running pants. Slowly, I activated the screen and checked for a signal. Panic squeezed my lungs dry when the display showed no bars. Then a single bar flashed into life at the top of the screen, and I wracked my overwhelmed mind for the emergency number. Would the authorities come? And if they did, could they get here in time?

Just as the number came to mind, that sliver of a signal bar died. Across the clearing, the big guy shoved at the much smaller woman’s chest, and she stumbled backward a couple of steps before regaining her balance. I saw the red fog of rage and ran toward them, holding my mobile phone in the air and yelling, “The police are coming. … Llega la policía.”

Whether or not my meaning had survived translation, my words had the desired effect. The guy’s eyes went wide and he backed away from the woman. I sprinted forward until I stood by her side. The man looked from her to me, and he turned and fled down the track in the direction of the chain saws. In the cage, over a dozen Scarlet Macaws screamed and flew at the restraining bars.

A lone bird gripped a rough sawn log with its head down—a picture of misery. Its feathers appeared tattered and sparse. The wildlife worker followed my gaze. “These birds have been trapped for a long time. They keep them until they have enough to make lots of money. The Macaws are not meant for captivity. This one …” She indicated the damaged bird. “He’s pulled out his feathers in distress. We have to free them.”

The utter despair and desperation of these marvellous creatures hurt in a visceral way. I scanned the bars for the door I knew must be there. At the rear, a rusted padlock hung from an equally tarnished chain. My eyes found and followed the line of the bars until they discerned a pair of hinges.

In the distance, the buzz of the chain saws faltered and then ceased altogether. We didn’t have much time. I cast my gaze around in search of something to use to pry open the cage. Just then, a Howler dropped from the canopy, dashed to within a couple of feet of us, and scooped something from the trampled and ruined forest floor. A jingling sound accompanied the monkey as it ran up to us and deposited its prize at our feet. In some disbelief, I stared at a key ring. The guy must have dropped his keys when he ran off.

Both hoping and despairing, I grabbed the key ring and dashed toward the hinged cage door. Hurried and clumsy with nerves, I fumbled and dropped the keys. Heart hammering, monkeys screeching, and Macaws screaming, I yanked them from the ground and tried to force my fingers to stop shaking. On the fourth try, I found a key that fitted the padlock and twisted fiercely to the right. A clunk preceded the lock springing open. The woman unfastened the prongs and pulled open the door. Flashes of red and the violence of frantic flapping wings had me duck as bird after bird after bird flew from the cage.

The storm of freed Macaws passed and the wildlife worker touched my elbow. “We must go. The men with guns will come.”

I nodded and cast a last glance at the brilliance of the Scarlet Macaws as they reunited with the flock that had first alerted me. After circling once, they turned as one and disappeared into the vast canopy of the forest. Together, we jogged back to the marathon trail. A support and hydration station lay a mile ahead, and we made haste to reach it. There, sweaty and dishevelled, we used the radio to alert the authorities.

Until that day, I’d lived in blissful ignorance as to the extent of illegal logging and exportation of endangered species … both plant and animal. It gave me a new appreciation for the work and efforts of the many selfless organisations, charities, and ordinary people doing extraordinary things to preserve the rainforest, which in turn, preserved the delicate balance of our planet. While the competition of a marathon had brought me here, the challenge of keeping this desperate endeavour going would take me forward.

….

Dear reader, I’ve never visited a rainforest or gone to Belize or anywhere tropical. I have relied heavily on Google and imagination to write this short story. All errors are mine. Any references to people, locations, events, and/or organisations are entirely a product of my imagination and/or used fictitiously. The Vocal Scarlet Macaw story challenge inspired me to research the rainforest, the Belize Wildlife and Referral Clinic, and the Scarlet Macaw. I hope that I’ve managed to do this theme justice and that you enjoyed this short bit of fiction. Warmest Wishes, Harmony :)