We Laughed, We Cried, We Were Shat Upon
La Cueva El Guacharo (The Cave of the Oil Birds)
Susan reports from Caripe, Venezuela

I've since returned from my travels in Venezuela nearly two weeks ago now, but my last jaunt into South American splendor proved postworthy. After a Solera-filled, drawn-out goodbye to all my friends, and my boss, Wilmer in the Botanical Garden of the Orinoco, I headed to Caripe, Venezuela with Seth, my ant-studying friend from Massachussetts that I met on the botanical expedition to the Sierra de Lema. We were seeking La Cueva El Guacharo, or "The Cave of the Oil Bird", discovered by Alexander Von Humboldt back in 1799 where he described a new species. The Guacharo (Steatornis caripensis) is in the same order (Caprimulgiformes) as the insectivorous nightjars, and whippoorwils, but the Guacharo is unique in several respects. This considerably larger nocturnal bird utilizes echolocation (like bats and dolphins) to navigate from its cave-ledge dwellings, and it is entirely fructivorous, subsisting principally on the fruits of trees in the botanical families Burseraceae, Lauraceae (Cinnamon and Avocado) and Arecaceae (palms). The name Steatornis, latin for "fat bird" comes from the fact that the hatchlings of this species are extraordinarily fat, their bodies rich in oil. For this valuable oil, they are harvested by natives. The oil can be used for cooking, or any other purpose, and has a shelf-life of more than one year. The lanterns of a christian mission built near to the cave burned this oil for many years.

The Guacharo is an endangered species, threatened by habitat destruction. It is found in the Andean region as far south as Bolivia, and as far north as the island of Trinidad, though La Cueva El Guacharo has the single largest population in the world, home to an estimated 10-15,000 individuals.

Seth and I arrived an hour or two before sunset in the quaint montain village of Caripe after a day and a half of travel, ferrying across the Orinoco river, and busing through the scorched (and sometimes burning) plains. We hailed a taxi (that happened to be operated by a Krishna with Goth sensibilities and a penchant for bad Hitler jokes) that took us the ten or so kilometers to the entrance of the cave. It was massive. Its mouth probably was 40 feet high, and the enterance was lined with the beautiful, medicinal and deadly Brugmansia (Angel's Trumpet) flowers. The lumberyard-spice aroma of Burseraceae overpowered us. We, along with the lone, friendly park ranger and the bronze statue of Alexander Von Humboldt were the only people there that night. We entered the mouth of the cave, and sat down, staring into its fragrant, echoing depths. We could hear the first calls of the Guacharos, bouncing out at us. They were distant and prehistoric. Electric ravens. We looked at each other in wonder, and sat in wordless anticipation for nearly two hours, waiting for the sun to set, and hearing the sounds of the birds grow in proximity and intensity. At last we saw the silhouette of the first, rooster-sized bird break the outline of the edge of the cave, its wings dark against the fading blue sky, dappled with the evening's first stars. The sounds of their calls became deafening, and were accompanied by a million echolocating clicks as hundreds of birds swarmed out above us. They brought with them the ancient smell of the depths of the cave and the aromatic Burseraceae, the stiff breeze of their beating wings blasting us as they flew overhead. We sat in uninterrupted wonder for another hour, watching the stragglers flap out in search of far-off canopy fruit until our Taxi driver showed up to take us back to the hotel. The next day we took the guided tour of the nearly two kilometer cave. The floor of the cave was covered in discarded seeds, droppings, and the occasional little white egg-shell. Above us we could hear the echoing squackings of the Guacharos. Our guide spoke in rapid, slurred spanish and carried a single lantern to guide us through the slippery and narrow bowels of the caves' interior. "You may feel something drop onto you from the ceiling. If it's cold, it's just moisture dripping. If it's hot, you'll know what it is..." The cave had little rivers and mountains, and natural sculptures of all kinds. There was a palm tree, a giant turtle, the leaning tower of pisa and an entire family of people, complete with the hunched grandmother, and young mother holding her baby.

The guide was extremely adept at maneuvering the lantern to tell the stories of the stalagmites and stalagtites, casting shadows of rock formations onto the cave's wall. He asked a woman on the tour to stand in a certain spot. He moved his lantern around, and in the shadow in the wall she was in the hands of a giant who was shaking her over his head. The language barrier did not hinder too much some of his stories. He showed us a couple embracing. Then he made them dance a merengue. Then he made them do other things I will leave to your imagination, dear reader. He took us deeper and deeper, through narrower and narrower passages, at times, single file on all fours. He showed us a musical stalagmite with a hollow sound when rapped with knuckles. It plays various notes depending on where it is struck, with tone and technique not totally unlike a steel drum. He led us back a different way, and we soon stepped back into the light. At the visitor's center there was a line of faucets with corn cobs provided to scrape our guano encrusted feet before our crazy taxi driver came for us once again.