The Quest for the Quetzal

THE QUEST FOR THE QUETZAL

Silvia loved painting birds of paradise. And peacocks. And toucans. And quetzals. Her architectural watercolors of Antigua had often found a buyer. As did her acrylics of multicolored Guatemalan huipils, the woven Mayan blouses used by indigenous women. But mostly birds.

           The new English teacher, Cara, shared an office with her at the school where she taught art and had exclaimed over some of her paintings, immediately buying some to decorate her small and temporary apartment. Cara, down from the US for a year of volunteerism, gained ground every day on speaking Spanish, and Silvia timidly tried out her English in return. But the birds bonded them better than language.

           “Cara,” Silvia suggested one morning as they prepared for classes, “I want to go to a reserve to see quetzales in real life. They die in captivity, so I’ve never seen one.”

           “I’m in on this quest for a quetzal sighting. When could we go?”

           “The best time is in February or March, I think, so as soon as possible.” They looked at the calendar and thought they could make the trip on a weekend and not ask for a day off.

           Cara looked down, “My phone says it’s a four-and-a-half-hour drive, but neither of us have a car. Maybe a tourist van could take us.”

           “Let me ask my friend Iris—she might like to go and she could use her dad’s car. I’d be so excited to see a quetzal. My paintings come from all the artwork I’ve seen, not real life, so I doubt I’m capturing them at all in color, movement, or the energy revered in Mayan mythology.”

           “I’d love to get a firsthand feel for their psychic punch. I love my quetzal that you painted—it cheers me up with its bright red and green, perky perch and bright eye.”

           “It’s a copy of a copy of a copy. I need to see the real thing.”

            “My parents will be so impressed if I see a quetzal. They can be quite competitive birders and this will be one up on them!” “Cara tilted her head up proudly and fluffed her short blond hair, mimicking a movie star bombshell. Silvia laughed, knowing that Cara’s frustrations with her parents had led her to move to Guatemala for a year.

           Three weeks later Iris picked up Silvia and Cara at 6 a.m. “It takes having an American around to get us to do this,” exclaimed Iris, “but it’s a great idea. As you know, we have the bird on our flag, on our money, and on all kinds of artwork, but I’ve never seen one.”

           From the back seat, Silvia apologized, worrying about the travel ahead of them, “I don’t trust the idea that this is a four-and-a-half-hour trip, but maybe we’ll be at the hotel before lunch, and we can hike this afternoon. Maybe, just maybe we’ll be lucky this weekend.”

           “Don’t worry,” Iris assured her, “Even if it takes all day, we’re most likely to see them in the morning.”

           They drove along the highway toward Guatemala City, encountering early traffic. More dishearteningly, a heavy rain pounded them. 

“Seems like a tropical storm,” suggested Iris, straining to see through the windshield wipers moving dramatically, sloshing the deluge back and forth. 

Silvia thought about her son, Jose, who had not wanted to come so stayed with his grandma, and wondered if he would regret not coming. She wondered if this trip would turn out badly and since it had been her idea, she felt responsible and wanted them both to have a good time and what if they didn’t? Iris usually remained cheerful no matter what happened. She wasn’t sure about Cara. 

           “Look!” exclaimed Iris. “It’s unbelievable! I think the Volcán de Fuego is erupting, even in this storm!”

           “Wow!” Cara stared out the window at a flash of red.

Iris laughed, “So Cara, we’re giving you a great introduction to Guatemala. All we need is an earthquake to have all our natural disasters going at once.”

“There’s probably a political disaster of some kind as well,” said Silvia.

“Yes!” agreed Iris. “We can check the news and I’m sure we can find something.”

“It’s a lovely country,” insisted Cara, “Very beautiful and very lovely people.”

Her comment took the edge off Silvia’s fear that Cara might feel critical and unhappy, always a concern for her with foreign guests.

They crept through Guatemala City traffic in a foggy wet world, more silent than they might have been on a sunny day. As often happened when she felt down, her widowhood gnawed at her. Still in her twenties, her husband had died in an accident three years ago and she often felt longing and loss. Iris understood, and her solidly comforting acceptance accounted for their friendship. Cara perhaps didn’t understand, but she seemed kind and concerned, especially for Jose.

           Reaching the far side of town, the rain diminished, the sun came out, and the three young women began to chat more cheerfully. The tropical storm had played itself out and they drove through the dry landscape along the Atlantic Highway.  Silvia studied the light on the trees and rocks, and glimpsed movement in the bushes.  The warmth and brightness enabled her to listen better to Iris and Cara as they shared stories which she already knew. So often she painted bright things as a way of escaping the shadows in her heart, and the quest for the quetzal, as Cara had called it, struck her as an appropriate metaphor for her art.

           “In an hour or so we’ll head north to the cloud forest,” said Iris. “I think the quetzales only like high mountains so we’ll be back in the fog.”

           “Let me see what it says on my phone about quetzals,” said Cara and spent a minute searching. “Oh wow! The long green tails seem too amazing to be real—four feet long, They’re fond of wild avocados, and they have 360-degree vision.”

           “Bright red chests,” added Iris.

           “And fluffy green heads,” suggested Silvia.

           “This is quirky,” continued Cara reading from her phone. “The young quetzals are nearly naked and have closed eyes for their first ten days of life. They eat lizards and bugs at first. They learn to fly around three weeks, and around three years of age they begin to grow the long tail feathers giving them the name ‘resplendent quetzals.’ As their tail-feathers grow, their undulating flight is made even more graceful. They have a variety of calls: whistles, chatter, identification or agitation or courtship calls.”

           “Maybe I can learn some good courtship calls from them,” suggested Iris cheerfully. A university student, she often reported to Silvia any hopeful encounters with attractive young men. All three women laughed, all hoping for a special someone in the future. Maybe someday, thought Silvia, when I’m not missing my past happiness too much.

Over an hour from the City they reached the Cobán turn-off. Headed north into the colder, higher green forest they saw clouds gently draped on the mountains. Soon they drove through a foggy veil, trees barely visible. Silvia’s angst returned in the fog and settled on her until they reached the gravel driveway to the hotel. They checked into their chilly and damp room and she glanced anxiously at Cara to see if she thought the place too grim. 

Iris joked, “High class, Silvia, really! We better see the birds to make up for this place. Unbelievable a place could be so cold and uninviting.” Any critique Cara might feel had been anticipated by Iris’ comment, and Silvia noted that Cara accepted the dankness and slightly mildewy smell as part of the adventure.

Once settled, they walked toward the reserve. As several hours of hiking passed with no quetzals in sight, Silvia looked for signs Cara might be disappointed. She very much wanted her to like Guatemala, this trip, Iris, and herself. Cara commented, “This reminds me of some of our hikes at home. It’s nice to be out in chilly weather.” 

Iris laughed, “You know this weather better than we do. And you’ve doubtless done more hiking than we have. I’m suffering a bit and we need to stop and rest. I think we should go back.” I need to let go of my anxiety, thought Silvia. This trip is not all about me.

At the hotel they ate supper in a room filled with testimonials on all four walls from people who had seen the quetzals, a hopeful and encouraging sign, but no guarantee for them. The staff said they should be up at 6:30 a.m. to have the best chance for their birdwatching.

After a restless night of sleep, they were awakened a little after six by a knock and an excited voice saying “Quetzales! Quetzales!” and the three girls rushed out in their pajamas. Silvia watched the male with his long tail, quite visibly curled, perched among the leaves. The female, also colorful but without a long tail, perched in another tree. And then, breathtakingly, the male flew to another perch, making short, undulating swoops, the four-foot-long tail-feathers arcing behind him. Silvia drank in the reality of what she had seen on so many artistic representations, including every piece of currency in the country. 

For about twenty minutes they followed the pair, watching, grasping the reality behind stereotypical graphic images. Cara snapped multiple pictures with the good camera on her phone. The male twisted off in flight, tail making little graceful “s” shapes like waving streamers, red breast showing, the shadowed underside of the wings lifting away. For a long time the male perched on a branch where there were no trees behind, offering the profile so familiar in handicrafts. The female hovered in foliage near-by. In some lights the quetzal looked blue green, and at others a soft light green. At one point the light shone on startling iridescent green and red. Then the pair took flight for some unknown place.

“Incredible!” said Iris, “They’re as beautiful as all their pictures.” 

“And I’m going to send my awesome photos to my parents,” Cara said triumphantly. “I can see them green with envy! So great, Silvia! Thanks so much for planning this trip.”

Silvia felt so much awe, delight, privilege, gratitude, she could not speak. Her quest to see a quetzal had succeeded and she felt surprised, satisfied, and joyful. 

When the elusive birds did not come again in the afternoon as the staff had said they might, Iris and Cara gloated that they had seen them in the morning. They left mid-afternoon, the cloud cover lowering once more into fog.

As they drove through the lush green forest, Iris asked, “Silvia, you’ve said nothing. What did you think? You’re the expert bird artist.”

Silvia shook her head.

“Surely you’ll be able to paint what you saw,” she persisted.

“You can make me another quetzal painting,” suggested Cara.

In her imagination, Silvia watched the graceful flight of bright red and green, a long tail waving through pale sunlit leaves and shook her head again. “Maybe someday…”