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We left Medregal Village and continued east to the headwaters of the Gulf. After we anchored in front of a few small houses and a church at Muelle de Cariaco, we dinghied to the local dock. A man was standing there and we attempted to ask him about the scarlet ibis which are supposed to be in this area. Although the national bird of Trinidad, they are in Venezuela as well. The bird is born white but, because of its diet, becomes a brilliant scarlet in the wilds. In captivity, the color is not as vivid. We puttered around the coastline and saw one ibis aloft. It began to rain and we pulled under the mangroves to avoid the worst of the downpour. The rain slacked off and we found one of the rivers feeding the gulf. The water in the river was muddy and the current swift. The skies darkened and it began to thunder and lightning, not conducive to bird watching. We finally decided to make a run for it. With the outboard at full throttle, we headed back to the boat. The fat rain drops hitting us in the face at 15 mph felt like pellets of sleet. Needless to say, we were soaked to the skin by the time we arrived at the boat.
The next day, the weather had improved so we headed out again to look for the scarlet ibis. We went up the river as far as the dinghy could go. The mangroves lined each bank, dropping their roots into the water. In some places the mangroves had joined overhead like a trellis and, as the roots expanded into the water, the river became more and more narrow. Floating back down to the mouth of the river in the swift current, we used the binoculars to look at large pelicans, noisy blue kingfishers with topknot feathers, and other birds.
Returning to the bay, we spied a group of twenty birds flying toward us but they were between us and the sun so we couldn't see any color, only black against the blinding sun. As they flew past us so we were between them and the sun, the light on their feathers illuminated the brilliant red. The color "scarlet" doesn't do the color justice. Scarlet suggests crimson or a deep red whereas these birds are a true red, but more than that, the red is iridescent, shining in the sun. The first group flew over the trees and disappeared. Another larger group came from behind us and flew toward the first group which turned and flew out to meet the second group. Each time a new group approached the nesting area, all birds that had already arrived circled and flew out to join them. As the combined group turned toward the nesting area, the red feathers shone and the blue sky was dotted with red. This happened time again until a thousand birds were in flight performing an aerial ballet, a maneuver like lines of a marching band approaching each other, merging, and creating a new design. Bob's favorite part was when the approaching group confronted the welcoming group, each flying toward the other on a collision course at full speed. Some of the birds would lower their wings as if to screech to a stop to avoid a collision and then quickly turn to join mass. When all had arrived, they flew out once more as if for a majestic encore, finally splitting into two groups for roosting in the forest green trees. As each bird approached its selected branch, its outstretched wings looked like a red bow on a Christmas tree. As the sun dropped toward the horizon, the birds' color appeared deeper red in the decreasing light. After each bird landed and drew its wings close to its body, it looked like a bright red ball on the deep green tree, an exquisite late afternoon communion with nature.
The bay is several miles wide where the river flows into it. In both the river and the bay, millions of fish about four inches long were jumping out of the water, some as high as the top the outboard. Across the bay's wide expanse, these small fish were swimming and jumping like mullet, giving new meaning to the expression "teeming" with fish. As we headed up the river, one jumped into the boat. Bob caught him and tossed him back into the water. The next morning when Bob leaned over the dinghy, there was a rank smell. He found another fish which had jumped into the dinghy and died, smelling to high heaven by the time we found him.
When we first entered the Gulfo de Cariaco, the hills were rounded, rocky and white. As we got to Laguna Grande, the hills were higher and red in color, like red Georgia clay. As we headed eastward toward the headwaters of the gulf, the hills were higher still and lush with vegetation, all within a space of 40 miles.
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