Let’s go Pig Hunting
An adventure in the lowlands of Bolivia
3rd – 22nd August, 2005
Author: Keith Martin.
keith AT borsuk.clara.co.uk keith.martin AT rhul.ac.uk
Words: © Keith Martin; Images: © Henry and Keith Martin
Introduction
When Tony Scott announced
he was organising a trip to
Part III: Bird and Mammal List
Part I: Introduction
Planning
On my part, logistically, almost
none. Tony and Gerda put the trip together with a great deal of help from their
daughter Heidi, who has spent a considerable time in
The
People and Language
We were well looked after
throughout our stay and almost everyone we met was accommodating and extremely
friendly. Certainly Spanish would be an essential for the independent
traveller, but we had one Spanish speaker with us and always had a local guide
at hand, so our experience was somewhat pampered. On the few occasions that I
was let loose on my own, my appalling Spanglish just about got me what I
needed, but I am not sure it would have extended to a legal argument.
Conditions
In a nutshell, dry. August
is definitely the dry season and several locations on the trip looked very much
more pastel and dusty than I expect they are for most of the rest of the year.
Irritations
I’m struggling to think of
any really. Altitude sickness is probably the main one to look out for. We had
a couple of rather rapid altitudinal ascents, but these manifested themselves
for me in terms of tiredness, a low appetite and sleeping difficulties. In each
case they only lasted one night.
Itinerary, Transport and
Accommodation
The general plan was to
move around fairly regularly but to spend at least three nights at the main
locations of interest. The focus was on the Bolivian lowlands. A full trip out
along the altiplano would have required at least one further week of travel. We
took internal flights between
3rd - 5thAug Santa Cruz de la Sierra (Hotel Urbari)
6thAug Samaipata
(Los Volcanes)
7th – 8thAug Samaipata (Quainta Parai)
9th - 11thAug Villa Tunari (Victoria Resort)
12thAug La Paz (La Plaza)
13th - 16thAug Chalalan Lodge
17thAug Rurrenebaque (Hotel Safari)
18th - 19thAug Caracoles Lodge
2oth – 21stAug
Hotel Urbari was a good
base for
Relevant
[1] Lista Anotada de las Aves de
[2] A
Field Guide to the Birds of
[3]
The Birds of
[4]
Birds of Southern South America and
[5]
Birds of
[6]
Neotropical Rainforest Mammals: A Field
Guide, Second Edition, L.H. Emmons and F. Feer,
[7]
[8]
Culture Shock!
The lack of a dedicated
Bolivian Field Guide made carrying an excessive amount of literature a
frustrating necessity. Most birds that we saw were in one (or more) of [2], [3]
and [4], with [4] mainly of use at the start (
Guiding and Effort
The trip was a pleasing
mixture of guided and self-guided. In
Nomenclature and
sequence
This report adopts the
nomenclature and sequence of [1], as it is the only text that I have that is
dedicated to the birds of
Acknowledgements
First and foremost to
Tony, Gerda and Heidi Scott for their planning and arrangements. Thanks to my
travelling companions Henry, George, Cheuk, Tom, Margaret, John, Peter and Mike
for their good company over the three weeks. Our Transturin guides Iver,
Caroline and Ivan made every effort to keep the trip running smoothly. We were
particularly impressed that Iver came over to Villa Tunari to join us for a few
days off-duty and Caroline, we are still sorry for abandoning you just to see
some stupid birds! Amadio was our favourite driver, on the
Part II: Diary
Wednesday 3rd
August 2005
Santa Cruz de la Sierra is probably not
a city that resembles anybody’s preconceptions of
We piled into our minivan and took the highway into town. The suburbs were not particularly attractive, with many dirty, dusty industrial complexes. These were occasionally brightened by the sight of schoolchildren in white t-shirts emerging from classrooms into the care of alarmingly heavily-armed “lollipop men”. We joined a dual carriageway at a major junction, where girls in large hats sold rolled sticks of sugar cane to the waiting motorists, and followed the concrete channel of what in season must be a river, but was currently filled with mats of algae, piles of human detritus and occasional puddles of brown water. On the narrow strip between the channel and the carriageway were some makeshift tents, providing one of the least attractive home locations imaginable. And then suddenly we veered right into a quiet suburban street, where four-wheel drives were parked beneath flowering trees and the red-tiled roofs of urban haciendas poked over towering defensive garden walls. Here we found Hotel Urbari, a small motel with private upper floor rooms that overlooked a parched grassy park. Short-tailed Swifts swept high overhead and some pale blue tanagers perched on a nearby telegraph wire, which looked like Blue-Gray, but we later learned were the closely related Sayaca Tanagers.
We gathered to seek taxis into town in
the early afternoon. 
The square was elegantly tiled and refreshingly spacious, with a
small forest of pink flowering trees (once the home of a famous group of sloths)
providing shade to dozens of benches. The sandy brick cathedral, with its two
tall rounded towers, dominated one end of the square. The plaza seemed empty at
first glance, but closer scrutiny of the benches revealed dozens of sprawling
bodies partaking in siesta. For a major city centre it was a serene location
and oozed surprising tranquillity.
After passing an astonishing plethora of
ice-cream parlours, we found a quiet café courtyard in which to eat some lunch
and see out our own siesta. A procession of waiters poured from the back
kitchen carrying a dazzling array of cakes destined for the street-side display
cabinets, while we enjoyed jugs of blended iced fruit juice and a first
Bolivian beer in an unusual rounded goblet. Time then to visit the bank, the
Internet Café and ultimately the pool at Hotel Urbari, where Cheuk’s Olympic
strokes were almost as awesome as the bats that fluttered overhead to the dying
evening chatter of Tropical Kingbirds on the telegraph wires. We were served
dinner at a large table by the pool by a wonderful smiling host who looked as
he had stepped fresh from the set of a spaghetti western. He was clearly
delighted to have the custom and the substantial buffet was first rate. We also
rendezvoused with Aidan, an ornithologist from
Thursday 4th
August 2005
Of
course the alternative school of thought concerning first mornings in a new
time zone is that far from a lie in, it is an early start that is most
appropriate. We awoke at 05.00. The air conditioning unit rumbled quietly in
the adjacent room and a wild wind blew through the palms outside, bringing with
it distant traffic noise. The wooden window panels cast a delicate grid of gentle
shadows on the wall, waving through the rippling of the net curtain and the
dancing shadows of the palm fronds. The wind blew hard until dawn broke at
06.30, when it left in its wake a cool and still morning. Shiny Cowbirds
clinked from the tops a tall radio mast in front of our veranda and we searched
for glimpses of a tiny House Wren who sang boldly from the centre of a leafy
bush. Our insomnia at least provided an opportunity to stroll through the
grassy park and catch first glimpses of some of the commoner
Our
minibus finally departed at 08.45 and we followed one of the city ring roads
around 
Secondly it was
absolutely deserted. And thirdly, it was parched. The open area just inside the
security gate was burnt dry, although some startling yellow and red flowering
trees provided some amazing colour. Within one minute of stepping out of the
bus we enjoyed a flyover from some White Woodpeckers and various species of
parrot, and within two minutes we were admiring an eye-level view of a
Three-toed Sloth clambering around in a bush behind a low dam. Where the
gardens did not do much to impress botanically at this time of year, the large
wild area of chaco forest behind the gardens made for a fascinating walk. The
dry woodland would have passed for similar habitat on other continents, were it
not for the occasional giant cactus, which thrust from the forest floor like a
man-made sculpture. The chaco birdlife was unsurprisingly low key given our
late arrival, but we picked up around 30 species in the gardens overall, with
close views of a White-backed Fire-eye hopping around a dry creek bed probably
being the highlight. This was a location that clearly merited further visits
but, through the inevitable compromises of a first-time visit to a new country,
we were not to have the time.
We lunched at an artificially rustic restaurant off
one of the main highways into town. The waiters wore enormous white hats but
the fare was excellent, with a variety of regional dishes including rice with
cottage cheese and beans and some fiery chilli pastes. Our local guide Iver
briefed us on some local culture while I made a first (and only partially
successful) attempt to comprehend the obscurities of Heidi’s research project
in
The afternoon excursion to the 
Beyond the zoo gates, which were flanked by a pair of
plastic phone booths in the forms of a Scarlet Macaw and a Great Egret, lay a
maze of cramped cages and enclosures that belonged very much to the “old
school” of zoo management. Parrots were packed onto perches, a pair of American
Kestrels sat forlornly in a cage barely worthy of a canary and a jaguar rolled
with boredom on a concrete slab. 
A genuine attempt had been made to provide the
Andean Condors with a towering enclosure in which to spread their wings, but
the thrill of seeing this bird so close was dampened by the obvious fact that
such a relatively luxurious cage was still no fit space for such a majestic
beast. A huge free-flying aviary offered more promise and interest, but even
here the Red-legged Seriemas that aggressively pecked at the shoes of visitors
sported twisted feet from their endless pacing of the concrete walkway. Perhaps
saddest of all was the nocturnal house, where a pair of poor Burrowing Owls
were kept captive in an endless darkness that denied them their natural
preference for the light of day, and a pair of little chickens were made to
parade back and forth beneath the perch of a genuinely nocturnal owl who
watched them intently, knowing that captivity offered him the luxury of picking
his moment to put the tiny birds out of their misery. The farthest reaches of
the zoo did hold more genuine interest as the watering areas attracted small
flocks of Saffron Finches, Shiny Cowbirds and Red-crested Cardinals.
Intriguingly we also had good views of two species of hummingbird, Gilded
Hummingbird and Blue-tufted Starthroat, which we did not see again during the
trip.
We recuperated by the Urbari poolside in the evening company of our friendly chef with some chilled beer, tender pork and a crisp watercress salad. For the first (and almost the last) time on the trip, Tony attempted an evening bird list, but such is the extent of the Bolivian checklist that this process simply took far more time than anyone really had the energy for. Exhausted, I retired to bed to spend a restless night, sporadically broken by the not unpleasant sound of a distant solo trumpeter who played into the night, and indeed the dawn, while the beat of the party that he accompanied was brought intermittently by the breeze to my open window.
Friday 5th
August 2005
We were up at cockerel crow for an early
start to get to Lomas de Arena, a local nature reserve on the outskirts of 
Winding down the
windows of the van we could already hear the reedy piping of White-bellied
Nothuras, invisible in the dense low scrub of the park. The one road traversing
the park was slightly raised and offered reasonable views down over the tangled
plain of dry grassland and impenetrable thorny scrub. Telescopes were essential
to make sense of distant birds such as Chalk-browed Mockingbirds and
Wedge-tailed Grassfinches, which were propped up on protruding perches. We
hiked along a section of this road and I felt the first real thrill of
wilderness amidst this arid landscape of bewitching calls and foreign flora.
This was dampened by Aidan’s news that the low valley that we were overlooking
had just been sectioned for housing. The sprawl of
Further along this road we reached a shallow river crossing, to the right of which a small sandy track mounted a grass-clad dune and headed into the bush. This had the makings of a grand adventure but, as we ascended, the wind really whipped up and roared across the flats, making it as hard to wear a hat as find a bird. Three distant Savannah Hawks took flight and expertly surfed in the turbulent air before dropping down over the brow of the hill. As the wind had clearly set in for the day, we had little choice but to turn back. Colourful Campo Flickers perched on the fence posts around the bus and Henry spotted the first of many Burrowing Owls that were to ultimately prove the most abundant species of the day.
The minibus ploughed further along the degenerating roadway until the sand became too deep and we were recommended to continue our walk into the heart of Lomas de Arenas by foot. The populist value of this park to the local community rose ahead of us in the form of a bank of monstrous dunes, which rose, surprisingly sahara-like, a tantalisingly short distance in front of us. These were apparently highly regarded as venues for off-road riding. While the gale blew benignly at our backs on the outward journey, it was the thick sand of the track that made the going tough and gradually the party dwindled to the foolish few who finally made it to the base of the dunes. We ascended some grassy mounds to the left, flushing Burrowing Owls in all directions, and gained a view over a large, but shrinking, lagoon on which distant Brazilian Ducks and Pectoral Sandpipers could be seen through the shaking telescope and some flamboyantly plumaged Whistling Herons stalked the grassland. Mike and John, already established as the party’s action men, climbed a massive dune to the south and were already distant black specks atop a giant wall of sand. Later examination of the results from John’s digital camera revealed that a bit more care from the summit would have enhanced their bird list for the day! The walk back was a torrid and strenuous affair, directly into the inferno of roaring air and sand. We passed a magnificent gaucho on a horse who was patrolling his fence-line, armed with a vicious looking blade on the end of a long wooden pole. I didn’t dare to contemplate what he might be thinking as he glanced down at us from his lofty saddle.
After a packed lunch sitting in the
newly renovated headquarters of Armonia, the Birdlife International partner in
Bolivia, some of the party headed back into town while a few of us were dropped
off at the unlikely birding location of Kim’s Golf Course, a short drive from
Lomas de Arena. 
There were no golfers at Kim’s, which apparently only gets busy
at the weekends when some of the local Asian community take to the fairways.
Indeed this must be a course worthy of a skilful sportsperson as hazards not
only included conventional ones such as deep gullies containing rush-lined
creeks and thick rough, but golfers also needed to overcome roaming cattle, the
holes of Burrowing Owls (and the birds) on the fairways and would need to develop
a rule for balls that collided with crossing Red-winged Tinamous. Indeed we had
a surprisingly good time during the couple of hours we spent strolling around
this eccentric landscape, including a good half hour pursuing various species
of seedeater in a dry swamp. Our walk ended at a quiet lagoon where the only
major sighting was a cavorting couple enjoying some quality time in the
shallows beneath the watching eye of a Snail Kite. Back at the entrance we
fended off the excitable dogs and waited by the edge of a very productive
lagoon, whose waters were being visited by a host of bird species in the late
of afternoon, including three Limpkins, a Spectacled Black Tyrant and a tiny
Austral Negrito, which was running about like a clockwork toy on a muddy spit.
We drove home alongside a giant red sun, which was hanging weakly in a pastel sky. Its strength was so sapped that it could be comfortably studied through binoculars and three sunspots were clearly visible. As it was our last night, our patron had prepared a special fish dish and had arranged his salad patriotically into the colours of the Bolivian flag. He delivered a gracious speech that was accompanied by a parade of his family and kitchen staff and we exchanged appreciative greetings. Margaret meanwhile was in the process of downloading an astonishing 400 digital images taken over the last 48 hours onto two CDs. I tried to make a quick calculation as to how many photos she could be expected to return home with but struggled mentally to get a handle on the bewildering row of zeros.
Saturday 6th
August 2005
Hats off for Bolivian National Day! And
farewell from us to Santa Cruz de la Sierra, as we left the city, passing
John’s favourite shops (the “Niple Centre” and the store of “Senor Moron”), and
out into a much lusher and verdant Bolivian countryside. A mixed landscape of
maize and sugar cane was broken by patches of forest and tiny hamlets, where
immaculately dressed schoolchildren walked along the roadside on their way to
National Day celebrations. We passed through the busy market town of
The road passed a checkpoint and ascended
a steep dry valley that wound its way beneath sheer cliffs, the road
increasingly elevated above a rushing torrent. We had distant views of tabular
mountains and experienced a refreshing drop in temperature. At a viewpoint we
stared out over the canopy and saw our first Plush-crested and Purplish Jays,
common inhabitants of the montane forest. While the switchbacks of this road
had required some careful driving from Amadio, they were nothing compared to
the effort required from him as we took a sharp right at the top of the valley
and plunged up a red earth track that was providing tough walking for the
groups of students who were hiking up its lower reaches. The road switch-backed,
seemingly making a direct vertical ascent of the hillside for several
kilometres until it ended at a broad saddle between two mountains that was
shaped like a gentle bowl and filled by a tranquil lagoon. The trimmed lawns of
the lagoon edge and the advanced construction work of a new hotel indicated that
this beautiful spot was not much of a secret in these parts. 
The Laguna
Volcanes was matted with lily leaves and Least Grebes, as well as being home to
the relatively unusual Masked Duck, which lived in the thick rushes at the far
end of the lake. Beyond the lagoon a gently sloping lip ended abruptly at the
edge of a steep drop, over which fine canopy views of the other side of the
mountain were offered, while a Black-and-white Hawk Eagle swept silently
overhead. We followed Iver up a short trail that led to a small ridge, above
which he said condors sometimes soared. Today it was only the ubiquitous Black
and Turkey Vultures that swept low over the pass but it wasn’t hard to imagine
a condor in this place, suddenly remote from the crowds beginning to arrive at
the side of the lagoon. I wanted to lie back on a flat rock and stare up at the
clouds, listen to the wind whistle through the tuffet grass and wait for my
condor but, as always, the clock beckoned us back to the minibus all too soon.
We dropped back down into the valley and
then took another road back up the hillside. This was a broader and less
dramatic track, which climbed high up the mountainside through dry scrub and
dense new growth. The views were awesome from this track and also from the
ridge top where the bus stopped. It emerged that from here we would need to
either walk down or wait for a jeep as our home for the night, Los Volcanes
Lodge, could be seen in the small clearing of a sheltered valley far beneath
us. Walking was the choice of most and so we set off down the narrow jeep
track. No sooner had the first bend been turned than a giant vulture was
spotted gliding over a nearby peak. It was neither a Black nor a
We had a real spring in our step for the
downward hike, which took an hour and a half in total. The descent was almost
entirely soundless despite the attractive montane scrub and tall forest through
which we passed. Not a bird, not a cicada, not even the buzz of an insect.
However, when we did finally reach the clearing that we had seen from high
above, it felt like discovering a lost paradise. The soft turf of a cut meadow
led to a neat bungalow, dwarfed by domed red sandstone peaks that crowded
around the clearing like monolithic guardians, sheltering the inhabitants from
the evils of the rest of the world. A large tree stood by the edge of the
clearing, adorned in pink blossom, and Monika our hostess stepped out and
kissed a greeting to each of the weary travellers. We had found our Rivendale,
and joy was impossible to suppress.
On the edge of the clearing was another discrete bungalow enclosed by a thick mesh, beyond wish a stream gushed therapeutically. We were served an unusual lunch of meat, cheese and deep fried fruit, which all tasted far more delectable than it sounds. Afterwards we sat around the meadow and soaked in the staggeringly beautiful views. Two black specks appeared above the sandstone horizon to our east and soon the whole party enjoyed sights of our very own condors flying over the valley from their roost in a high gully in the mountains. Not for the first time in my life all I wanted was for time to stand still. However it was hard not to resist guide Carlos’ suggestion that we take a stroll along one of the forest trails on the other side of the river. Apart from a small mixed flock at the river crossing, we saw very little on this hike save for a glimpse of a Short-tailed Antthrush scuttling into the understorey. It was hard to accept that paradise could be so relatively birdless! Tony had a bit more fortune with his wise strategy of spending the afternoon birding from a hammock outside the bedroom. Dusk fell to the sounds of a White-breasted Toucan, whose haunting cry echoed around the canyon walls. Darkness slowly engulfed our magic bowl and yet even this happened in utter silence – not an owl, not a howl, not a cricket.
We emerged from the satisfactions of a gourmet dinner into pitch-blackness. However, as the guests shuffled for bed or took last drinks on the veranda, the yawning darkness was stunningly shattered by a flashing light that started to flicker across the entire sky above us. The show was continuous and unaccompanied by thunder. As the shimmering sky pulsed, so the dramatic silhouettes of the tabletop mountains all around us were momentarily exposed. It was utterly haunting and sent shivers up my spine. The more scientific might suggest that this was electrical activity high in the ionosphere, possibly the result of unusual geological formations in the area. However the locals apparently prefer to remain mystified and awestruck by this nightly display, and I don’t blame them.
Sunday 7th
August 2005
We were up before dawn for an early breakfast. The night sky had calmed down and a lone cicada sang against the reassuring gurgling of the river. Half the party had opted for a morning of relaxation, while a small group chose to follow Carlos up into the hills. The initial jungle trail followed a small gully up a steady incline. The early light was murky and few birds were heard, let alone observed, in the depths of the forest. We glimpsed the jerky thrashing in the vegetation of an unidentified antbird, heard the close plaintive singing of an Undulated Tinamou and finally saw a bird, a Glossy Black Thrush, hopping along the track ahead of us. Further up the track we heard the whirring of wings and had to jerk our heads back and forth to keep sight of an amazingly fast Yungas Manakin that seemed capable of teleporting from one perch to another. As the track climbed, so the forest thinned, and soon we partly emerged from the forest and began to hug the edge of the gully as we worked towards a saddle in the mountains. A large tree high above us was dripping in fruit and many birds could be heard moving in the canopy. Flashes of green on birds dropping from this tree and gliding down into the valley were all we saw of a party of Emerald Toucanets.
Finally the saddle was reached and the forest gave way to low shrubs, amongst which were many delicate winter flowers, which were being pursued by several different species of hummingbird. The trail ended at a lookout point, where we could gaze way over the canopy and far beyond the sandstone hills, to another remote valley. Behind and above us lay the nest of the condors, although the hour was still too early to expect an encounter. Carlos picked up a distant noise and told us that Military Macaws were coming. Sure enough, some three minutes later a quartet of giant silhouettes worked their way high over the distant valley and then almost directly overhead until they tacked suddenly and passed on the other side of the sandstone dome beneath which we were sitting. We spent some forty minutes soaking in the soothing views, with the only signs of other humans being an ominous scarring in the forest on the other side of the valley, which marked a small clearing where cattle were now grazing.
We returned by a different route,
climbing a very narrow trail that eventually straddled the top of a ridge,
which was cloaked in a drier type of forest. We watched some White-throated
Toucans far below us, although spotting them amidst the carpet of canopy was
surprisingly difficult. 
A small troupe of Brown Capuchins also provided
challenging watching as they quietly fed in the canopy just beneath us, requiring
watchers to perform unusual yoga positions in order to find the requisite
windows through the tangle of branches. Carlos performed occasional track
maintenance with his machete, almost lovingly, for he and his brother had
apparently built these trails some years ago. Finally the Los Volcanes clearing
returned to view far below us on the other side and we were able to observe
bird watchers lounging on the balconies while White-tipped Swifts streaked
acrobatically across the sky. Another unusual atmospheric feature of this
magical place revealed itself as we descended and entered the lodge clearing,
for the air cooled as we descended and we had to slip on extra layers on
arrival – it had been far warmer at the top of the ridge.
After lunch we broke camp and a jeep shuttle service commenced up the track to the bus pick-up point. Henry and I chose a later jeep and decided to walk the first part of the track. We left the Los Volcanes clearing with leaden feet, looking back more than once. Pulling away seemed to involve fighting a force stronger than just gravity. For all its charms, however, Los Volcanes had been slightly disappointing from an ornithological viewpoint as birds had been very thin on the ground. Out of the blue this situation changed, as we encountered our first mixed flock of any significance. The usual chaos reigned, with multiple species briefly showing in poor light high above the track and rapidly moving on. I put up a good fight but soon had to admit large-scale defeat, with only a handful of successful identifications. Los Volcanes had birds all right, but it would have needed the benefit of much more time to seek them out.
The jeep collected us and we ground our
way up the track to the main road, where we all waited with our bags in a very
different landscape of thick heath and bright yellow flowers, soaking in the
distant peaks. And we waited for quite some time as Amadio was late for his
rendezvous. Finally, perhaps summoned by our percussion drumming on the huge
gas pipeline that followed the side of the road, our dreams of an unplanned
further night at Los Volcanes were dashed and we were on our way once again. On
the descent we passed a large bearded man by the roadside, sporting a pair of
professional binoculars. He beamed, and waved, and for just a moment I felt he
was calling me from the bus to live another life... But darkness rapidly
cloaked the roadside and almost as soon as the thought had germinated, I was
asleep.
When I woke we were entering the town of
Monday 8th
August 2005
A chorus of cockerel and House Wren greeted a frozen dawn. The fleeces and extra layers were piled on for a wander around the grounds of the cabin park, which offered a surprisingly pleasant view across an agricultural valley. The park consisted of twin-roomed cabins, each with a shared kitchen, and was largely unoccupied. Rufous-bellied Thrushes hopped over the lawns and Rufous-collared Sparrows sung from the hedgerows, indicative of our altitude of 1600 metres. We hunted an elusive songster in a patch of bamboo at the back of the park but were never very sure if we ever located it, for the birds that we saw there appeared silent. A hearty cooked breakfast was served in the glassed patio of the grand master cabin, home to the Scott family, while a dashing Yellow-browed Tyrant foraged just yards from the door.
Iver warned us that the weather forecast was poor and that we would need to rug up further for the morning trip up to the ruins of El Fuerte. This sounded ominous as it was already cool enough, so we pulled on our entire clothing allowances and set off promptly. Samaipata township looked much more appealing by daylight. In fact it was difficult to set aside analogies to spaghetti western sets, as this was exactly what the town resembled. The adobe stone buildings with their double-hatched swinging doors could all easily have hosted decent bar-room brawls. The main square was compact and tidy, providing a shady place to sleep away a lazy afternoon on a park bench. Samaipata gave the strange impression of being both bustling and deserted at the same time.
A few kilometres outside of town the
road to El Fuerte swept to the right and traversed the side of a mountain, ascending
through an extensive plantation of monotonous pines that had been planted to
stabilise the soil. The archaeological site itself lay on a remote windswept
ridge, beyond a simple visitors information centre. 
We spent a few hours
wandering slowly along the trails of this wild place, sharing it with the
handful of other visitors who had all come to experience what my neighbour had
referred to as one of the highlights of her year spent travelling in South
America. The main feature was a massive base rock embedded into a narrow promontory
and came with the reputation for being everything from an ancient temple to an
alien landing strip. Worn carvings in the stone could be seen if you applied a very
careful eye and exercised a token of imagination. I wonder if I lack sufficient
cultural bones in my body, because the site did very little for me (but then
again I have a colleague who claims to “really not understand this bird thing”,
so there you go…). The lack of birds to relieve proceedings was highlighted by
the intense interest paid to a timid Hellmayr’s Pipit, who posed decoratively amongst
the ruins. The scrubby montane woodland that smothered some reconstructed Inca
ruins looked a more promising place for interesting birds but again we saw very
little, although the giant Red-tailed Comet hummingbirds provided some reward.
The most interesting artefact was a deep well hidden in the forest, which was
apparently used as an Incan punishment site. (Three days down there looked
about as much fun as trying to fix the waterworks at our cabin park.) El Fuerte
did however provide an excellent opportunity to wander around the Andean hilltops
relatively freely, soaking in giant views of the surrounding hill country. I
felt like the condor that we never saw there, but perhaps should have, scanning
the spurs and valleys for a micro-whiff of distant carrion.
We grabbed a sandwich by the entrance
station and then disentangled the group in order to cater for several
alternative concepts of an interesting afternoon. The “hike back to Samaipata”
action party set off down the road, the “shopping” party were dropped back in
the main square and the “more birds please” party set off in the minibus for a
village called Achira, where it was possible to walk a little way into the
hills. While in fact being quite productive for birds, this latter visit was
also in some ways a more interesting cultural experience than El Fuerte. 
Achira
was sited on the edge of the Amboro Protected Area and had been “invaded” by
Altiplano settlers some years previously, thus establishing a community of
smallholdings in an area that, for political appeasement purposes, was now
designated “dual use”. From our evidence
this concept appeared to translate as “clear at will”, but the resulting mixed
highland landscape provided an interesting afternoon stroll. We followed a road
up the hillside, encountering several Ocellated Piculets and a small flock of
Scaly-naped Parrots, and revelled in the superb views back across the main
valley to distant El Fuerte, whose prominence on the distant horizon left no doubt as to why the societies that revered
El Fuerte had chosen such a domineering spot on which to base their
civilisation. On our way up the road we passed the local baker, who was
preparing dough for baking in his outdoor clay oven. By the time of our descent
a white flag had been raised outside his house, which indicated to the valley
community that the bread was now ready. Iver paid ten bolivianos (80 pence) for
a bag of 40 mouth-watering cheese rolls, which lasted us for several days. A
small boy chased us down the road and we let him watch a Black-backed Grosbeak
through the telescope. His curiosity quenched, it appeared to comfortably
confirm to him our madness and he smiled and sprinted onwards down the hill.
I experienced a minor dose of culture
clash back in Samaipata by visiting the local Internet Café. Unlike backward
countries such as