The guano of the Chinchas was cautiously and wisely used by the stable government of the Peruvian Incas, and it was forbidden to kill the birds. Spanish conquest turned rather to the exploitation of Andean minerals. It was only at the opening of the last century that the Peruvian government, which was supporting itself on the exploitation of its phosphates on land, responded to the demands of expanding agriculture at home and on other continents, by leasing the rights to mine the island guano. Ships of twenty nations could be seen riding in the dangerous anchorages of the islands; the United States of America bid high for rights, for in no other country was such whirlwind agricultural expansion going on.
Anything but pleasant was the life of the humans engaged in this traffic, and it was a black era for the birds too. The goose that laid the golden egg was accorded no gratitude. Guanayes were driven from their nesting sites; the young were left to starve; the disturbance in the balance of nature simply opened the way for the ravages of predatory gulls and condors, and in a few decades, had there been any modern biologists to make predictions, the end of the source of all this wealth could have been forecast by the wise.
No thought was given to the birds, however. The sea captains engaged in the trade were of the most hard-bitten type of the old-fashioned sailing masters, and they were working for employers who cared for nothing but money getting. The idea was to charter the cheapest (and oldest and worst) of hulls for terrific loads of putrid guano to be put on board at the highest possible speed. The storms, the danger of the anchorage, the unseaworthiness of the ships, were of small account to the owners, who were only too pleased to collect the insurance on lost vessels and cargoes.
But the existence of the sailors was nothing compared with that of the coolies on the islands, who dug the fertilizer and loaded it under forced draft. They were Chinamen who quit the starvation and miseries of life at home under the promise of high pay on a foreign shore, and while their lot in the Flowery Kingdom may have been hard, the slavery to which they found themselves subjected on the Chinchas was probably worse than that of the builders of the pyramids. They lived in the perpetual stench of the guano, clad in rags, wretchedly housed, unattended in sickness, unable to leave or communicate with the outside world, and skillfully kept in debt. At their long hours of labor they were driven by pitiless negroes armed with huge whips. And though there were constant suicides and deaths from overwork, the ranks were filled by fresh arrivals in hulls sailing under the flags of civilized nations that had long ago prohibited slavery.
The Imperial Chinese Government was long in acting on this situation even after it became aware of it. It is not certain that conditions would ever have improved except in name or superficially, had not Peru suddenly awakened to the fact that the guano deposits, once thought inexhaustible, were nearing their end. The surface of the islands had been lowered a hundred feet and more by the exploitation; some were practically bared to the rock; on others the lower strata of fertilizer having been reached, it was found to be less valuable and no longer commanded the old high prices. There was not enough guano left to supply the needs even of Peru, and the contracts still had a long time to run.
But one by one as the contracts expired, the government took them over and began to administer the production of guano as a crop instead of a mine. The birds are now protected by law, and their predators are kept down. When an area is ready for cropping, the work is swiftly and scientifically carried out, and that area again fallowed. In this way the future of the guano and of the guanay is assured, and humanity, for once, has not been too late to prevent an ornithological tragedy such as was wrought in the case of the passenger pigeons.
THE GUANAY
“The Most Valuable Bird in the World”
PICTURE to yourself the shining, rainless coast of Peru, washed by ocean waters to which storms are unknown, where the swells surge northward, from month to month and year to year, before winds that blow regularly from a southerly quarter. On such an ocean dark flocks of guanayes form rafts which can be spied miles away. Slowly the dense masses of birds press along the sea, gobbling up fish in their path, the hinder margins of the rafts continually rising into the air and pouring over the van in some such manner as the great flocks of passenger pigeons are said to have once rolled through open North American forests in which oak or beech mast lay thick upon the leafy floor.
At other times, when the guanayes are moving toward distant feeding grounds, they travel not in broad flocks but rather as a solid river of birds, which streams in a sharply-marked, unbroken column, close above the waves, until an amazed observer is actually wearied as a single formation takes four or five hours to pass a given point.
Equally impressive are the homeward flights of these cormorants, after a day of gorging upon anchovies, when in late afternoon slender ribbons, wedges, and whiplashes of guanayes in single file twist and flutter, high in air, toward the rounded plateaus of white islands which gradually turn black as the packed areas of birds swell out from clustered nuclei toward the borders of the available standing room.
Whence came this astounding sea bird, which has made the Peruvian coast its own?
In the northward extension of this representative of an antarctic group to a point within six degrees of the equator, we recognize one of the profound effects of the Humboldt Current. The cool stream, lying between a tropical continent on the one hand and the heated surface waters of the open South Pacific on the other, forms, as it were, a tongue of littoral ocean in which the environment, and consequently the marine flora and fauna, is such as ordinarily holds for the subantarctic zone rather than for equatorial or even temperate seas.
Given, therefore, a belt of cool ocean waters replete with small organisms of more or less polar type, together with nesting sites upon islands which for climatic reasons could never become encumbered with vegetation, and the geographic stage was set for the northward emigration of the ancestors of the guanay. Furthermore, because of the normal superabundance of food, conditions seem to have been prearranged for the increase of the birds to numbers limited only by competition with other animals and by the amount of safe, insular space for reproduction. Although suitable islets are very numerous, the enormous food supply in the Humboldt Current is still out of all proportion to the area of the breeding places. This doubtless explains the excessively colonial nesting habit of the guanay, in which it surpasses all other birds, even the penguins, for in the middle of a bounteous sea there would be a constant tendency for the cormorant population to become more and more congested upon the islets. The doctrine of Malthus applies to birds as well as to men.
The guanay, unlike any other cormorant, “hawks” its food, that is it hunts exclusively by sight and from the air, locating the fishes which it seeks before descending to the water to catch them. Most cormorants search for their prey individually, swimming alone or in loose groups at the surface, then plunging in what seem to be favorable places and conducting the hunt as well as the capture while they are submerged. For the most part, moreover, they subsist upon bottom-living species of fish, often diving down many fathoms in pursuit of single victims. But the guanay feeds altogether upon surface-swimming fishes, such as anchovies, young herrings, and the toothsome silversides which the Peruvians call pejerreyes (“kingfish”). Such forms travel in tremendous schools which are assailed en masse by proportionately large flocks of birds.
The correlation between the numbers of the fishes and the extreme gregariousness of the cormorants results among the latter in a system of efficient coöperation which almost suggests certain customs of ants or other social insects. The vast flocks of guanayes which spend their nights upon the islands do not start hunting in a body when morning breaks. On the contrary, the birds first sally forth only in small scouting parties, which can be seen flying erratically above the ocean, usually keeping well in air, and frequently “back pedalling” or hovering when they see the silvery glint of schooling fish or the ruffled appearance of the sea which indic
ates the presence of fish below. The dropping of the scouts to the surface, and the shallow dives which mark the beginning of an orgy, are the signals that cause the approach of such rivers of birds as have been described above. The cohort of guanayes then spreads out as a great fan over the unfortunate anchovies, which are likely to be no less harried from beneath by bonitos and sea lions. Small wonder that the Peruvian fishermen, who are familiar with such sights, believe that the guanayes and the seals have a working understanding! However this may be, the gorging proceeds until both sea lions and birds must cease long enough to allow their rapid digestions to fit them for another meal. From the crop and gullet of a dead guanay the remains of no less than seventy-six anchovies, four or five inches in length, have been taken.
Sometimes the guanayes pursue the fishes to the very beaches, so that a rare view of a one-sided fray may be enjoyed by a landsman. One morning during my sojourn at Indeppendencia Bay shoals of silversides were packed in deep, glittering ranks close to the quiet shore, when a raft of guanayes, accompanied by a few pelicans and a horde of screaming gulls, drove the fishes before them against the shelving sand. Soon the water gleamed like flashing quicksilver, and in wild rioting the birds jammed and crowded each other until hundreds of them were pushed clear beyond the tideline by the scrambling mob behind.
The guanay stands and walks erect, somewhat after the manner of a penguin. Its height is in the neighborhood of twenty inches and the weight of a full-grown bird about four and a half pounds. It has a glossy green and blue-black neck and back, a white throat-patch which is a conspicuous mark in flight, a white under surface, and pinkish feet. During the courtship season a crest of plumes develops at the back of the head. The guanay’s iris is brown, but an area of green, naked skin surrounding the orbit makes it look at close range like a veritable personification of envy. A second ring of turgid red skin, outside the staring “green eye,” heightens its extraordinary expression.
Since the fame of the guanay proceeds chiefly from sheer numbers, it is not unnatural that observers have made extremely high estimates or guesses concerning the population of its colonies. The birds breed upon the plateaus and windward hillsides of the Peruvian islands in concentrated communities, the nests averaging three to each square yard of ground. Dr. Coker’s measurements show that not fewer than a million adult birds dwelt within the limits of a single homogeneous colony on South Chincha Island during one of his visits. Another naturalist has written that these cormorants “congregate to the number of ten millions.”
The breeding season, like that of many tropical ocean birds, is practically continuous, but it reaches a climax during the southern summer months of December and January. Individual pairs of guanayes are believed commonly to rear two broods during a single year. The flight of the last families of the young of one season, in May or June, is at any rate followed hard by the courting and love-making of adults in preparation for the breeding season of the second spring.
At South Cincha Island in mid-October the breeding grounds were covered with just one year’s accumulation of sun-baked guano, and the cormorants were getting ready to nest again. They stood in compact bodies, each comprising thousands of birds, on the flat top of the island, and, when a human being approached, all those on the nearer side began to stir—not en bloc, nor yet individually but in groups of a few hundred, each of which for the time constituted a unit. One group would move rapidly away, the birds carrying themselves bolt upright. Another group would advance toward the observer, so that this section of the army would gleam with white breasts instead of shiny, dark backs. Still another unit would rush to the right or to the left, so that both the dark backs and the white breasts showed at once, and the long bills and red nasal warts became conspicuous. Such closely huddled companies soon collided with others moving in different directions, producing much confusion about the margins. A few of the birds showed no fear at all, stolidly permitting a man to approach within a few feet. The greater proportion, however, frantically took to flight, rushing helter-skelter down the slope, and raising a cloud of dust with their whistling wings. The air became bewilderingly thick with birds as they circled overhead, but within a few moments the number returning to earth once more exceeded the number taking wing.
When an observer makes his way slowly and very quietly into the heart of a colony in which nesting has definitely begun, the guanayes gradually retreat, and one may sit down in a clear circle which is at first fifty or more feet in diameter. But almost imperceptibly the birds will edge in again, until the bare circle narrows to but three or four paces. From such a point of view it seems as though the ground were covered with as many pairs of sprawling webbed feet as there is room for, and yet new arrivals plump down by scores or hundreds every minute. Over the ocean, moreover, to the north, south, east, and west, one may commonly see endless black files still pouring in toward the island. The hum of wings is like the effect of an overdose of quinine upon the ears, and the combined voices seem like mutterings of the twelve tribes of Israel. It reminds me of all sorts of strange, oppressive roarings, such as the noise of railroad trains in river tunnels. The near-by voices, which can be distinguished individually, are merely sonorous bass grunts and screepy calls. It is the multiplication of such sounds by numbers almost too large to imagine that makes the outlandish and never-to-be-forgotten babel.
Toward evening of such October days, most of the guanayes would be courting, after strenuous hours at sea during which all their energies had doubtless been devoted to winning the sustenance of life. Privacy does not enter into their notion of fitness, and while six or seven birds occupy each square yard of ground, the love-making antics are often in full progress. These are in general not unlike the courtship habits of the closely related antarctic cormorants. Two guanayes stand side by side, or breast to breast, and ludicrously wave their heads back and forth or gently caress each other’s necks. The crests upon their crowns are frequently erected, and the feathers of the nape puff out so that the velvety necks appear twice their normal thickness. Cheeks and chin-pouches continually tremble, and chattering bills are held wide open. Now and again one will bend its body forward and at the same time extend the head upside down along the spine and toward the tail, holding their curious, paralyzed attitude for several seconds. Sometimes the birds of a pair snap so much at one another that it is hard to judge whether they are making love or quarreling.
Indubitable quarrels between birds of different pairs also go on without cessation, and occasionally many join together in a mêlée. Every now and then, for example, some unfortunate guanay, which seems to be the butt of all bystanders, will go dashing through the throng, holding its head as high as possible in order to avoid the jabs and bites which all others direct at it. If the victim would but stop fleeing, perhaps the blows would cease, but it keeps more and more desperately running the gantlet, flapping its wings, bumping into innumerable neighbors, until eventually it bursts from the vicious crowd into a clear space, shakes itself with an abused air, and opens and shuts its mouth many times with an expression of having just swallowed an unpleasant dose.
In the early stages of courtship it often happens that several cocks select the same female for their addresses. In one instance, five assiduous suitors, all with necks expanded, were observed bowing around a single hen which crouched in their midst. But by no means all the birds are engaged in love-making at every moment, for they spend much time preening their feathers, frequently raising the coverts of the tail and thrusting the bill toward the oil gland. Then, after combing their heads and necks thoroughly with their claws—a real feat in balancing—they promenade in small troupes along the outer edge of the colony.
Visible actions, rather than unusual sounds, alarm the courting birds. A quick motion of the hand will start sudden pandemonium. Even when an observer rises to leave them as slowly, silently, and unostentatiously as possible, a small panic inevitably results, many of the nearer birds beginning to scamper about or to take flight. O
n the other hand, the firing of a gun straight into the air produces scarcely a stir provided the weapon is not brandished. The effect of human conversation is, however, most amusing. Whenever a man, sitting perfectly still, begins to talk to the guanayes in a loud voice, a silence falls over all the audience within hearing. Their mumbles and grunts die away, and they listen for a while as if in amazement.
During the course of a few hours’ resting on any island, the birds get much befouled with fresh guano, which hardens upon their plumage. They periodically rid themselves of this by flying some distance off the lee side of the island where they plunge and violently beat the water with their wings. Sometimes most of the inhabitants of a colony will make their toilet in this way at one time, producing a thunderous roar which can be heard from afar. It is often audible during morning fogs, when the flocks are invisible, and as a boat draws near such a gathering it is easy to mistake the sound for the dreaded crashing of waves upon unseen rocky shores.
A Gathering of Birds Page 12
