BIRD MAN
Years ago, I stopped to photograph in a Mayan village in Mexico, a place so small that it still isn’t on most maps. Rows of traditional thatched-roof houses lined both sides of the highway. It reminded me of an English village, each house behind a whitewashed drystone wall, except there were vivid tropical flowers and fruit trees in each yard.
A family offered to sell me a baby parrot. I put out my finger. The parrot climbed up, not stopping until it was nuzzling against my neck. I called him Suc Tuc, the name of the village. He would squawk when he wanted food. He squawked all the time. Every day I’d buy fresh ground corn masa. I’d pinch little bits into bite-size balls to put in his mouth, like a mother bird feeding her baby. As he grew, he started eating on his own. I added fruit to his diet.
He matured into a beautiful bird. Actually, that’s not entirely true. Even that young, he was more like a crusty little sidekick, a bit scruffy, and we traveled everywhere together. This wasn’t a — the men who bleed chicozapote trees for chicle, the resin used to make chewing gum — I’d leave Suc Tuc on my hammock ropes every morning when I went out. I’d whistle for him when I returned, and he’d whistle back to let me know where he was.
