Journey through the Bellbird Biological Corridor

Looking up toward Cerro Amapala and Cerro San Antonio
from the turnoff to San Luis. The block of forest in the middle of the
picture is "Chepe Rojas," or the San Luis Biological Reserve.

Earlier this week I had the opportunity to accompany a group of students from the University of Missouri School of Journalism on a field trip through the Bellbird Biological Corridor. Three-wattled bellbirds are not actually in the corridor at the moment (some are in the Caribbean lowlands, as far away as Nicaragua), so the focus of the trip was more about the social and ecological connections along the watersheds than about any specific species.

University of Missouri journalists walk
down to the Guacimal River at Rancho del Río.

The corridor contains 66,000 hectares, 13 life-zones, and about 30,000 people in over 25 communities, so connection has multiple meanings. In addition to facilitating altitudinal migrations for species like the three-wattled bellbird, the corridor provides a framework for approaching watersheds holistically. On the way down to the Gulf of Nicoya, we crossed the Guacimal River four times.                                                                                                                                                                               The first was immediately below the cheese factory in Monteverde, where historically whey was dumped directly in the stream and occasional leaks turn the water milky gray. The second was near the confluence with the San Luis river, whose clean waters likely help to dilute the run-off from Cerro Plano, Santa Elena and the pig farm. Before crossing for the third time, we stopped for lunch at Rancho del Río, a rural tourism project run by my former neighbor Veronica and her husband Alexander. Their cabin and farm are located along a stretch of the river that has numerous swimming holes and appears to be habitat for neotropical river otters.

                                                                

Veronica and Alex informed us about three concessions that will draw worrying quantities of water from the Veracruz River (one of cleanest tributaries of the Guacimal) for irrigation of monocrops in the lowlands. An obsolete law allows for more than 80 percent of a river's flow to be diverted, and it is estimated that the Veracruz River will be left with only 15 percent of its current volume. I assume that this figure pertains to the dry season, since irrigation is not necessary during the rainy season, but with the increase in dry days in the cloud forest, I wouldn't be surprised if demand were to increase.

The citizens of Guacimal are organizing themselves to file a "recurso de amparo," so the battle isn't over.

I was excited to learn that Alexander had three colonies of stingless bees: two mariola box hives and a log with the larger jicote estrella. Alex has actually never extracted honey from the jicote nest, but apparently the mariola honey is tasty and good as a topical treatment for eye ailments. In the coming days I may return to Rancho del Río to work with Alex to build a specialized box for the mariolas and take a look at the inside of the nest.

Jicote estrella (Melipona beecheii), also called royal bees, sealing a crack in their log nest.
The Maya raised this species, even performing special ceremonies to honor the bees.

Stuart, age 11, showed me the entrance tube of a mariola colony on the trunk of a pochote (spiny cedar) in a cattle pasture.

   

                                                                                                     

One of the legs of a ceramic vessel: a reminder that people
have been living in this corridor for thousands of years.

We crossed the river a third time in Guacimal, where irrigation allows farmers to grow crops and keep some of their pastures green during the dry season. The fourth time that we crossed the Guacimal River was on the panamerican highway, and large pineapple plantations along the road hinted at the intended destination of water from the Veracruz.

A magnificent frigate bird over the boat ramp at Punta Morales.

Cultural, economic and geographical differences between human communities in the corridor contribute to a feeling of fragmentation. What does it take to integrate biologists, hotel owners, coffee farmers, cattle ranchers, pineapple growers and artisanal fishers? Whose corridor is this, anyway?

I think that water— its quantity and quality—will be one of the greatest catalysts for action and collaboration (and perhaps conflict, too) when it comes to addressing the connections and disconnections between the cloud forest and the sea.