The Humming of Tiny Wings

Acaime Reserve, a place bordering on magical in its beauty, is intended primarily to protect one thing, its numerous hummingbirds. At any given time of year, the reserve provides haven for six to eight hummingbird species. For a small donation (roughly $1.50), we received hot chocolate and a chunk of cheese to enjoy as the tiny birds darted around us. Eaten in local fashion, dropping the cheese into the chocolate, this was a surprisingly delicious treat. (We have found that cheese pops up in the most bizarrely delicious ways in Colombian foods.)

I find hummingbirds, much like geckos, to be endlessly fascinating in their specialized engineering. The speed at which their wings move is an unparalleled aerodynamic feat. This movement allows them to move in all directions, including backwards, a talent unique among birds. Incredibly long, narrow beaks, in conjunction with ultrathin tongues, allow them to feed from flowers (and plastic feeders of sugar water) inaccessible to other creatures. Hummingbirds are, hands down, an evolutionary marvel.

We have hummingbirds in New Mexico, as with much of the U.S., but there is something surreal about being in the presence of dozens of them all at once. They dipped and dove around us, whirring past on their way from flower to feeder, feeder to branch. Green and orange, black and white, iridescent blues, pausing briefly to drink one second, they darted away the next. Beautiful and majestic; they were worth the five-hour roundtrip hike. 

Tiny Flippers

All along Sri Lanka’s southern coast, evidence of the 2004 Boxing Day Tsunami is prevalent. In between tourist towns, ruined walls and remains of gutted, faceless homes have been left to crumble. With no tourist income in the area, there is little reason or financial means to bother tearing them down or building them back up. In some places, shops spring up like weeds within the collapsing buildings. And on each of our bus rides, I was overwhelmed by the number of roadside graveyards, wondering if they were tsunami victims.

Among the devastation, Sri Lanka’s turtle hatcheries took a particularly hard hit. Many of them, though they had been in business for decades, are run complete off donations and volunteer work. So, I figured that we should surely go put our money to good use, donating to the rebuilding turtle hatcheries in the area. Kosgoda holds the highest concentration of turtle hatcheries; it is the only place where, of the five species of sea turtle that lay eggs on Sri Lanka, all five come to nest.

Since Sri Lankans consider sea turtle eggs to be a delicacy, and the hatcheries have a hard enough time with natural predators, the hatcheries pay a higher-than-market price to all local fishermen who bring in turtle eggs. They then put them in a “natural incubator” (sand box) until they are ready to hatch. Since turtles hatch at night, using the reflection of the moon as a guide back to the sea, the hatcheries rig a system wherein an artificial light lures the hatchlings into a box instead.

Baby turtles, already susceptible to birds and other predators, are especially vulnerable when they are first born. Not only are their eyes not yet open fully, but their bellybuttons aren’t closed; it’s like ringing a dinner bell for all nearby predators. The hatcheries keep the new turtles in tanks of seawater for three days, by which point their eyes are open, their bellybuttons sealed, and they are ready to go. On the night of the third day, the hatchery workers, along with any volunteers lucky enough to be there, release the baby sea turtles under the cover of darkness.

In addition to giving baby turtles a helping hand on their way to survival, the hatcheries take in wounded sea turtles. Injured turtles can be nursed to health and then released back into the ocean; turtles that have lost limbs and would typically die in the wild remain at the hatcheries, helping to educate local school children (and us tourists). Rare albino turtles, massive and majestic, don’t end up in the wild at all, their luminescence making them immediate prey.

There are obviously many people who are opposed to the turtle hatcheries’ interference with nature. But you have to figure, with sea turtle numbers dwindling, even one more turtle that survives is a small difference. 

Rainforest Expedition

Among the numerous forests and national reserves, the Sinharaja Rainforest Reserve stood out to us, after all how often do you get to visit a rainforest? We opted to book our rainforest trek through our guesthouse, which turned out to be excellent foresight. The tuk-tuk ride to the entrance of the national park took nearly an hour, bumping over flood-damaged roads, massive chunks of pavement torn up and left unrepaired.

Our guide was a local 21-year-old who had been working as a registered Unesco guide since the age of 16. He obviously loved his job, and who wouldn’t? His sole purpose was to walk around a rainforest with tourists pointing out birds, trees, plants and wildlife; his positivity and absolute awe spilled over, sometimes to the point that his English started to jumble, and made for a lively, enjoyable walk. From wild coffee, cinnamon, and lime leaves to massive palms, enormous spiral trunks, and tiny plants that would close their leaves when you brushed against them, he reveled in the greenery all about.

To safe guard against leeches, we stuffed our pants into our socks and covered our shoes with salt. Luckily it wasn’t a rainy day, so the leeches were fewer in number. I come from a world in which leeched are big nasty black blobs, roughly the size of your thumb. So I wasn’t sure what all the fuss was about, I mean, it’s not like you can’t see them.

Apparently, this is not true of all the leeches in the world. After taking a picture of what I thought was just a cute inch worm trying to resemble a stick, I was told that, nope, that would be a Sri Lankan leech! And, they were busy using the stillness of my photo op as a chance to climb up and into my shoes. Hiding between leaves, sticking to the soles of my shoes, and even trying to shimmy in through the mesh along the sides of my sneakers (thanks, ventilated running shoes), even on a dry day the leeches were bad.

After de-leeching, our path led us to a river. We removed our shoes and crossed through waist deep waters, following the path farther along to a lovely waterfall. Our guide and Win went for a dip, but having not thought to wear a bathing suit I skipped it, choosing instead to lounge on the riverside boulders.

In his tracking of animals, birds, and reptiles, our guide was relentless. He wandered in front of us, eyes always alert and roaming the foliage. We watched giant squirrels, the national animal of Sri Lanka, leap through the trees, the biggest reaching three or four feet, nose to bushy tail.

We tried to sneak up on kangaroo lizards and hump-nose lizards. He told us about cicadas and giant snails, introduced us to some crabs living inside a tree trunk, and pointed out all manner of creatures. We even spotted several kingfishers, flitting past, beautiful in bright blue, a rare sight I am told.

Since there aren’t many big animals in the Sinharaja Reserve, he made sure to point out the local monkey population, but saved the reptiles for his grand finale. He spotted a green vine snake, which we picked up immediately upon learning that it isn’t poisonous. Vibrant lime green, the small snake twisted and spiraled, coiling around our fingers. He also found a pit viper, but since it is “medium poisonous” (“two minutes, go to sleep”), we left it alone.

It wasn’t the safari experience that many people aim for. There might not have been leopards or elephants, and I’m not really sure why it is called Sinharaja (Sinhalese for “lion king” when there certainly weren't lions), but our rainforest walk was just what we were looking for: low-key, intimate, and relaxed.

Monks and Tigers

One of our favorite places in Thailand is Kanchanaburi. It’s like a little piece of northern Thailand, but only three hours outside of Bangkok by train or bus (unless you accidentally take the four and half hour local bus, which we have done). It was also a convenient weekend trip last semester when we were living in Ratchaburi, since we could hop on a yellow bus and be there in two hours. We know of a cheap riverfront guesthouse with good rooms, delicious 45 baht hamburgers (a real blessing when you’ve only had Thai food for months), and equally affordable beer. And, Kanchanaburi has plenty to entertain our inner tourist.

From the Bridge over the Rive Kwai and its accompanying Memorial Cemetery and Jeath Museum (one of the world’s most absurd assortments of antiques, poorly worded signage, and bizarrely positioned mannequins) to waterfalls and elephants, Kanchanaburi is a one-stop tourist destination. But, simply a notch above the rest, it also has the Tiger Temple.

The Tiger Temple remains, among all the things we have done and seen, a completely unique experience. It’s no wonder that with friends visiting we figured it was a good touristy experience for them as well. I mean, how often do you get to pet one tiger, let alone a dozen of them?

A chartered sangthaew (pickup truck with benches and a covered back) carried us seven New Mexicans to the Tiger Temple outside of the main town. For the admission fee (“donation”) of 600 baht, approximately 20 dollars, we get about two hours of tiger fun and a bunch of “free” photographs. By Thai standards, this is a pretty absurdly high price – the equivalent of about 20 meals, between 12 and 15 beers from 7-eleven, or a 12 hour first class bus ride – but they are using it to feed about forty tigers, and I can’t imagine they are light eaters.

The Tiger Temple is a Buddhist monastery-turned animal refuge. Originally graced with injured tigers only, the temple now breeds the greater portion of its striped inhabitants. This has made them the target of some controversy, as they are accused of swapping tigers with other temples in Laos and Burma in order to prevent inbreeding. I have to say that there are worse things you could be doing, and that seems like the right reason to break international law if you’re gonna do it.

According to their staff, around 95-percent of the tigers have been born at the Tiger Temple, and have been constantly in contact with humans. There are programs where, for the right price, you can bottle-feed tiny cubs, play with four-month old tigers using a gigantic version of a cat toy (think fishing pole), and participate in various feedings and walks throughout the day.

When you enter, the tigers are lazing about in the shade, about a dozen females around eight-months old (and still plenty big) and six or seven full-sized males. Tigers, like many small housecats, spend a vast majority of their day in various states of repose, jumbo cat naps if you will, especially during the day while it’s hot. So, contrary to much of the controversy about the temple and the comments about our photos, the tigers aren’t drugged; they are sleepy.

Even though they are napping, the tigers do wear a chain around their neck, to prevent any unintentional bolting. In the process of becoming a full-blown animal sanctuary, deer, horses, pigs, buffalo, and an assorted menagerie roaming about, a tempting snack to even a sleepy tiger.

The staff members lead you around by the hand, always having you remove any purses or bags first, and walking you around the backs of all the tigers as the front is the dangerous end. You sit there and pet the tiger while another staff member takes pictures with your camera. Then you stand up and go pet another one of the big cats.

To see the monks interact with the tigers, you would think they were, in fact, common housecats. The monks will sit on the backs of the full-grown males massaging and pounding on their backs. The monks and staff alike reposition them as needed, pull on their tails and ears, ruffle their fur, entice them with sticks and strings to chase, thump them on the nose, and occasionally stuff their entire hand in their mouths. It’s like they are playing with kittens. Very big kittens.

This time, we got some bonus tiger time. While walking around to where some of the younger cubs are kept, we happened upon a monk towel-drying a tiger cub, treating it exactly as if it were a small child who had just gotten out of a hot bath. The monk told us to pet the tiger while he leaned back to smoke. The tiger cub, let’s call him Stripy, was wearing a dog leash attached to nothing and just sat there chilling with the monk. The monk pushed on Stripy’s back until he lay down, and then gestured to us once again. Pet. Take Pictures.

Now, one of their big rules at the Tiger Temple is that you never, ever pet them above the middle of their back. What if they decide to turn around and bite you? This monk, cigarette in hand, tattoos (okay, holy tattoos) on display, couldn’t have cared less about the rules. And he just kept pushing it farther. Pet him. Sit down with him. Lay down. One by one, which each of us, he just kept having us go one step farther.

My turn came. Kiss him, the monk says. I just stared blankly. The monk pointed at a spot on top of his head. Kiss. And when one kiss wasn’t enough, or wasn’t romantic enough I suppose, he said, Kiss again… slow. Oh, yes sir, I kissed Stripy. Right on top of his fuzzy little head.

I always knew that tigers were beautiful, but something about seeing them up close, and maybe doing it twice, made me realized just how incredibly gorgeous the animals are. Their soft underbelly with its lighter fur, how muscular and solid their long, sleek tails are (although, they feel like a baseball bat when they hit you, trust me), their deep orange eyes almost matching their stripes, the large, white spots affixed to the back of all their ears, it borders on surreal.

Certainly an experience worth twenty dollars. Even the second time. 

Like Painted Lace

The Angkor Butterfly Center is a tiny place just near the ever more popular Landmine Museum. After seeing numerous war-based museums all over Vietnam and Cambodia, the choice was easy. I wanted to see pretty things, dammit. 

For a $4 entrance fee, we were given a personal tour by one of the staff, as well as peace of mind. The center functions not only as a way for tourists to see the local butterfly varieties, but also as a way to give supplemental money to local farmers. For each cocoon or caterpillar they bring in, they receive between 600 and 2,000 riel (about 15 to 50 cents), depending on the species. The center also ships some cocoons to Holland (apparently they love their butterflies like they love their tulips), for which the farmers are paid a higher rate. Not surprisingly, cocoons come in by the dozens. 

Caterpillar to cocoon to butterfly – all stages were represented in a multitude of colors and sizes. A month-old giant moth hid inside the caterpillar room, tattered and torn. Fragile like antique lace. An individual butterfly lives between one and two weeks; a lifespan that makes them seem all the more delicate. 

Throughout the year, our tour guide told us, they house a total of around 40 species, running the color spectrum – oranges, yellows, neon blues, lime greens. Stripes and spots of limitless detail covered wings. On the day we were there around 15 varieties were flitting about, landing on flowering reds and magentas. Spindly legs gripped leaves. Black, red, white, they drifted by on the breeze, lazy in the midday heat.