It seemed like a grand adventure to me. “You want to go where for vacation to do what?” asked my wife, Connie.
Just stick to the basics, I thought. “Travel to the Dominican Republic and then west to the border of Haiti; get up into the forest highlands; and try to catch a rare, primitive, nocturnal, poisonous mammal; the Hispaniola solenodon” I stated without any drama.
It wasn’t the first time I proposed an “interesting” vacation combining my career as a wildlife ecologist with a love of adventures to Connie. She was a geologist and had a love for science and travel as well. She raised her eyebrows a bit, smiled, and shook her head, once again agreeing with an air of befuddlement.
I stumbled upon the solenodon while conducting some research on Pacific Northwest shrews, small insectivorous and inconspicuous mammals with long snouts and beady little eyes that inhabit the duff of the forest floor. Solenodons are related to this group and resemble a very large shrew – a remnant mammal from the age of dinosaurs, unchanged for 76 million years, that only inhabits the Caribbean islands of Cuba and Hispaniola. Hidden in narrow creases of the natural world, representatives of a persistent ecological offshoot, I was intrigued with finding one in its remnant habitat.
There are only a handful of mammals in the world that are poisonous, a curious trait for this wide-ranging class of animals. Solenodons have a beautiful rusty-colored fur, sport a hairless tail, weigh 1.2 – 2.5 lbs., and to some, resemble a cross between an opossum and a shrew. I conducted my Masters research on small mammals and forest succession and have always been fascinated with this lesser known mammal group.
“You REALLY think you’re going to catch one of these?” asked Connie.
“How hard could it be?” I asked, reminding her of the opossum I recently caught.
“That was in the QFC parking lot” she reminded me “not some forest, at night; in another country.”
Still, it was an admirable catch, I thought.
From research trapping in graduate school I knew that while opossums put on a good show – they are all hiss and no bite. Returning from my early Sunday errand to pick up the New York Times I spotted an opossum skirting the edge of the QFC parking lot and heading to the bushes. Thinking, “sure, I can run him down” I dashed across the lot with my reusable grocery bag swinging wildly, and latched onto his tail. I picked him up, he hissed, and then slumped. We examined one another for a minute. It was then I noticed a woman had come out of the store and had stopped, staring in my direction. I let the opossum go, waved to the woman, and we all went about our business.
“Well” I said to Connie, reflecting on my opossum catch – “I think the skills are transferable.”
I reached out to colleagues who eventually put me in touch with Jorge Brocca, head of the Hispaniola Ornithological Society in the Dominican Republic. I contacted Jorge and explained our quest to find a solenodon. He agreed to assist. He also mentioned “While you’re out here we can also find hutia!”, another rare, indigenous small mammal on the island.
We arrived at our hotel, a converted nunnery, in Zona Colonial, the historic center of Santa Domingo, a designated World Heritage Cultural site. Connie, a history buff, likely thought the trip could be salvageable with a museum visit and a walk through town. I don’t know anyone who loves museums, of almost any kind so much. I’m engaged in museums but Connie will intensely read every description and sort out all the connections. I always complete a gallery before her.
While she is always up for a travel adventure Connie was harboring doubts that this solenodon hunt would be fruitful. We spent the day in several museums reviewing, in extraneous detail, the history of Santa Domingo, Christopher Columbus, and his family.
The next morning, we clambered down the stairs of the internal courtyard of our hotel at 4:30 a.m. The streets were quiet except a few folks scurrying off to work and a handful of scrawny cats scrounging in corners. We were to meet Jorge to head west to the Haitian border.
A 95 Ford Bronco shortly turned the corner, stopped in front of us, and Jorge bounded out of the truck. “This is a great time to travel” Jorge noted as he helped with our bags. “At this hour traffic signals are merely advisable.” The Bronco exhibited randomly distributed dents and rust spots, indicating a mutual fidelity.
Jorge is tall and stout, like the trunk of a large palm tree, with a shock of dark brown hair and a perpetual 3-day beard. His attire is consistent – rumpled field shirt and pants, shirttail partially tucked, and boots during the day. In the evening he dons a loose Hawaiian shirt, shorts, and sandals. He has a casual affect in conversation until some ecology subject arises and an accelerating fuse is lit. His volume rises as does the frequency and sweep of his hand gestures in unfiltered enthusiasm, passion and knowledge.
Jorge is Argentinian and came to the island on what he thought was a temporary job with a girlfriend. He stayed and fell in love with the island and a local woman. “The Dominican women, they are so beautiful, no? How could I not marry one?”
We zipped out of Santa Domingo easily, ignoring all the stop lights. Jorge was delighted. In a small town Jorge abruptly stopped along a street cluttered with roadside stands. He has keen peripheral vision whether finding his favorite empanada stand at 40 mph or picking up a small bird silently flitting between branches in the dense understory.
“I hope you don’t mind a real DR breakfast” says Jorge. We joined the bustle of truck drivers, workers, bike and motorcycle riders, and residents jockeying for space and priority. We sat at vacant counter seat and quickly got an order of a couple of hard boiled eggs and a pile of fried plantains. A truck driver stuck in traffic whistled and motioned to Jorge to come over. When he approached, the driver said he was glad that we were eating at a “normal” DR café and not some tourist place, as this was the real thing, and this stall was one of his favorites.
After 5 hours of travel we made it to Pedernales near the border between Haiti and the DR. I assumed the rest of the day was for hanging out, but Jorge enthusiastically asked if we are ready to go birding. We threw the bags in the bungalow and went off to find birds in the nearby Sierra de Bahoruco.
The roads around town were narrow, windy, and mostly unpaved, but a few miles out of town we came to an intersection to a huge road. It was wide enough for four vehicles and the pavement was immaculate – in contrast to the typical pothole laden roads. It stretched to the coast and into the foothills. Alcoa built the road to extend from the bauxite mining areas in the forest to the port where the clayey rock was loaded on to barges and transferred larger container ships in deeper water. Bauxite is a precursor for aluminum production. We passed several of the mining sites, raw red earth moonscapes. The deforestation and corresponding erosion degraded local surface waters and has detrimental effects to flora and fauna. It was a glaring example of why the continued existence of the solenodon was not guaranteed.
An aerial view of the Haiti-DR border indicates a sharp contrast. Haiti is poverty stricken and has never had ample resources for natural resource protection. West of the border the landscape is stripped bare. Haitians clear and burn land to plant meager crops and burn trees to make charcoal. The DR side of the highlands exhibit an extensive forested landscape and protected reserves. While the DR has issues with illegal land use, it exhibits large forested tracts to support the solenodon and other endemic wildlife.
We dropped off the pavement to a side dirt road and 20 minutes later clamored out of the truck, grateful to walk around in the humid air. The moist, broad-leaved forest was alive with birds. In quick succession Jorge pointed out a half dozen birds, a narrow-billed tody, a Hispaniolan spindalis, and a smoothed-billed ani among others. A lethal-looking lizard eating cuckoo – narrow glance and curved beak, poised on a branch in an opening, considering the intruders.
Jorge said he preferred the mammals of the island over the birds. He guides to supplement his income and to fund his NGO but does not enjoy the intense birding clan. “I’ve guided birders from around the world – some of them have no interest in the island other than checking a bird off a list and moving on to the next one.” He enjoyed our company because our curiosity about the island’s natural history, the people, and their food and customs. The key to understanding a country, even in a rudimentary way, meant stitching together the parts to get a view of the whole.
As we drove Jorge suddenly slammed on the brakes and the truck skidded sideways in a plume of dust. He leaned over me and thrust a pointed finger out the window. “You see it?, You see it?” he asked excitedly, “a Hispaniolan trogon!” There it sat, long stripped tail, emerald green back, and brilliant red belly. In its splendid colors the bird examined us with a regal detachment and an unblinking red eye. I couldn’t distinguish between Jorge’s enthusiasm at finding it, or for me that I had the chance to see it.
“Awesome!” I replied. I’m used to finding birds in the bush but I’m always amazed at how locals can quickly sort out the various tangles of vegetation to recognize a feathered ghost in the shadows. Jorge said he was alerted to the bird by its call – a single note – as we sped along the road.
On our route to Pedernales we spotted several Haitian squatter encampments along the road with sparse, palm frond huts and a scratched-out plot of land planted with beans and squash – a truly squalid existence. Jorge, like many Dominicans, resents the consistent movement of Haitians over the border who are illegally cutting the forest. As we passed a Haitian family, barefoot and sparsely clothed, carrying water jugs on the heads up the road Jorge wonders aloud “where are they getting the water?” Water drains quickly through the karst limestone topography and surface ponds are rare. Jorge pulled into a small clearing to check on one water source he is familiar with. It is a cement-lined pond the size of a couple of swimming pools, maybe a remnant of the road construction. Jorge says the local wildlife uses this rare surface water pond but expressed concerns that it was much lower than usual. “The Haitians are draining it”.
Closer to town we stopped at a cinderblock building along the edge of a field of sugar cane to get a soda. We plopped on the bench outside with our backs against the wall as Jorge explained the history of the town, which is primarily supported by farming and bauxite mining. Just then a crew of workers strode out of the cane field, emerging from behind a green curtain. Each of them either held a machete or had one holstered on their side. “Everyone in the DR has a machete” said Jorge. They said hello to Jorge as they sauntered by, nodding at the gringos with curiosity. We were outsiders here for a short period. I couldn’t quite gauge the reaction of these lean and hard men.
On the way back to town Jorge explained that the weather will be good the next few days and suggested we use tonight to search for a hutia, another rare mammal found only on Hispaniola, thinking we might be a bit tired and may need a longer night to search for the solenodon tomorrow. We agreed, went back to the hotel, and then walked with Jorge to a small outdoor restaurant for an early dinner.
We ordered and Jorge went over the plan, explaining that he was going to engage the help of a local, Nicolas, who has helped him find hutia and solenodon for several research projects. During dinner there’s often remnants of the forest – twigs, small bits of leaves – collected in Jorge’s hair from our rambles. At the table he paused briefly to pull a medium sized beetle out of his hair to briefly consider it before dropping on the floor and continuing our conversation.
After dinner we returned to the hotel until it’s close to dusk and then pile back in the truck. We wound through town and into a narrow dirt lane lined with several houses and pulled up to one with a low white stone wall. Two yard wolves immediately ran out, boisterous but friendly. The yard was strewn with coiled black plastic tubing, piled aluminum bins, a few bikes in various stages of disrepair, and an assortment of potted plants.
Nicolas came out and gave Jorge a warm hug and introduced himself in Spanish. He’s 5-5 or so with dark hair and mustache, talks in staccato bursts of which I catch only every other word, and is a compressed spring of energy. He gave his wife a kiss and as we hopped in the truck he asked Jorge if we could make a quick stop on the way out of town. Jorge agreed and Nicolas went around the back of the house and returned with a canvas sack and tossed it in the back of the truck.
“What’s that?” I asked.
Jorge said “it’s a fighting cock that Nicolas is dropping off at a friend’s house. There’s two things that every town has in the DR – a baseball field and a fighting cock arena.”
Several years ago, the federal legislature discussed banning cock fighting throughout the country. The uproar was immediate and furious. It was if someone in the U.S. proposed banning Monday Night Football – except this was an assault on the national machismo identity. Governments fall for less significant reasons. The proposal was withdrawn.
Our quarry for this evening was the hutia, another curious animal. They are a small, dark rodent, about the size of a rat but with a short tail. During the day they live in the cracks, crevices, and pockets of the limestone forest floor. An hour or so after dark they emerge, like a fleet of small furry Orcs rising out of the ground to climb trees and forage on leaves. Recent research indicates that hutia are particularly susceptible to forest clearing, requiring a combination of forest canopy for foraging and limestone topography to persist. In contrast, the solenodon more easily adapts to a fragmented landscape of forests and fields.
In 1929, Gerrit S. Miller, Curator, Division of Mammals of the U.S. National Museum noted about the hutia:
“These animals are grizzled gray (pardo gris) in color according to the evidence of many who have seen and eaten them and who praise them as food; and there are now many persons in this city of Santo Domingo and in this island who say so. But at present these animals are no longer found except very rarely.
Atop an undulating plateau we drove through unbroken broadleaf forests among stepped outcrops of limestone. We stopped at the bottom of a broad ravine and got out of the truck. Jorge noted that it was too early to hunt for hutia, it wouldn’t be dark for another 40 minutes or so, and we had to wait a bit after nightfall for the hutia to become active.
Jorge said “Since we have some time, do you want to hang out here or get some coffee?” My first thought was – where were going to get coffee? We hadn’t passed any semblance of a town for an hour. I looked at Connie and she shrugged. “Coffee!” I said.
After 20 minutes Jorge turned left down a dirt road at Nicolas’s direction and into the driveway of small house in a forest clearing. The white plaster house had a tin roof with a couple banana trees near the front door. An old man in a white shirt and patched khaki pants greeted us with his wife. They were friends of Nicolas.
We walked to the back of the house and sat in a circle on plastic chairs while the woman entered the house, put on a headlamp, and started to make coffee. Soon she returned, giving us a cup of dark aromatic coffee, suggesting we plop in some sugar. Night fell and with no sense of urgency Jorge, Nicolas, and the couple talked softly as the sounds of the forest slowly rose.
The man said something to me I didn’t catch and Jorge chuckled. “He asked you if you knew where your coffee was grown” said Jorge.
I shook my head no and the old man grinned with a few missing teeth and pointed behind me and swept his arm around the yard while laughing. “Aqui y aqui y aqui” he said. He had a dozen coffee trees around the perimeter of the yard. We were soon ready to depart and shook hands with our hosts, thanking them for their hospitality
Back in our wide ravine we donned headlamps and scrambled up a faint path along the limestone. We reached the top of a ridge and Nicolas slowed his pace while examining the forest floor with 30 years’ worth of intuition. He picked up a leaf to show us what he was looking for – a half circle chewed out of the leaf . We were in the right spot. Now we just had to listen for slight rustles in the top of the 30-foot-high trees and the sound of hutia poop hitting the dry forest floor. We walked for 20 feet and stopped. Walked some more, stopped, and listened.
Within a half hour Nicolas paused to point at the crown of a tree and shone his light at our quarry. Two hutia stared back at us and resumed foraging, resembling stout Guinea pigs with long claws. Hutia and the solenodon are the only two native mammals that remain on Hispanola. I wondered what forces of evolution steered them to such a unique ecology that combines the fossorial – living underground, with the arboreal – tree dwelling. We wandered over the limestone floor and I marveled at the forest sprung from rock, trunks twisted at the base, roots thrust downward like sinewy arms, through cracks, seeking sparse water. We managed to find a few more hutia, watched them gnaw at leaves, and occasionally preen one another.
Back in town we headed for the square where there was a small food stand and a DJ with several speakers taller than me. While several young men sat next to the speakers yelling at each other to be heard, we spared our eardrums and sat 50 feet away drinking the ubiquitous El Presidente beer. It was my turn to buy a round so I asked for a grande to split among us but when I returned Jorge shook his head – “no, no you must ask for the “jumbo” size.” I returned to get us a more appropriately-sized bottle.
The next morning, we had a brief breakfast before another round of birding and then had most of the day off before our solenodon hunt that evening. Connie was still skeptical we would find a solenodon, which was a ground dweller and lived in underground burrows during the day. “How are we going to find that thing at night?” she said laughing. Jorge put our chances of finding one at 50-50. I shared the sentiment expressed by Alpheus Hyatt Verrill , a zoologist and explorer on finding a solenodon:
The published descriptions of this rare and interesting mammal are vague and unsatisfactory. For many years it has been commonly considered extinct, and when, in December 1906 I undertook a collecting trip to San Domingo (sic) with the avowed intention of obtaining the solenodon, prominent zoologists stated that the quest was hopeless, one of them saying that I would be as likely to secure specimens of ghosts as of S. paradoxus
The solenodon has poor vision and uses its snout to probe the ground surface in search of worms, beetles, and other invertebrates. Their pointed snout is on a ball and socket joint, allowing them flexibility in investigating crevices for tasty morsels. Their vision is poor, and they use a system of clicks to echolocate while hunting. Their venom travels along grooves in their lower incisors, secreted from modified saliva glands. It is reported to be lethal to small dogs and Jorge knew of one dog that was bit, but recovered.
Published reports of humans being bit indicate swelling and irritation around the wound from the lower incisor but not around wounds from the upper teeth. The scientific name of the Hispaniola is Solenodon pardoxus. The Latin translation – Solenodon – meaning slotted tooth, pardoxus – contrary to expectations, strange, or marvelous.
While driving to our hunting grounds Connie asked Nicholas how old he was when he caught his first solenodon. “trece (13)!” he sharply responds with a smile. Connie says to me “Sounds like you at that age.” When I was that age I spent most of my free time outside, in the woods, and along the fringe of swamps looking for and catching what I could, learning the names of animals, their songs, croaks, and habits. My Mom got used to marshalling all seven kids in a search for some escaped snake, frog, or lizard in the house. Once Jorge drove to the designated vicinity we parked, got out of the truck, and waited for it to become fully dark.
We walked up and down the road scouting for areas that Nicolas though would prove productive. It was dark enough to need our headlamps and Jorge was about 100 feet from us when he yelled for me and Connie. Thinking he heard our quarry we trotted up the hill as he came down to meet us. We were surprised to pass a young man with dreadlocks who was shirtless and shoeless, strolling down the other side of the road in the dark, talking to himself, machete swaying in his hand. Jorge said “Too much rum” and was worried we would run into the fellow ourselves. “…and always the machete” said Jorge.
For such a deserted place it was pretty busy – soon a jeep roared up the road and slowed when it saw us. A couple of uniformed men got out, chatted with Jorge, and then left. Up here on the ridge our headlamps could be seen a couple miles away and a villager, concerned we might be stealing logs, called the police. The jeep sped away and we were left with the forest night.
We took up post along the road edge and waited. And then we waited for more. Jorge and Nicolas were pleased that it had not rained much yet as it was the tail end of the dry season. This made for good solenodon hunting, as one could hear them better crawling along the dry leaf litter. We sat on a low stone wall on side of the road and listened in the dark, no one moving. The brilliant milky way slowly rotated above us.
I have excellent hearing and could not imagine we could hear anything above the din of a forest full of insects singing to their hearts content. It was stunningly loud. Twenty minutes, 40 minutes, and an hour went by with me tilting my head one way and then another like some robin listening for worms. Connie had on a perpetual smile of doubt. She leaned over and whispered “I can hear anything but those damn insects!” “Patience grasshopper” I replied.
We shifted up and down the road now and then walking softly in a line, as if we were sneaking up on something. We stopped again. Nicolas smoked a cigarette and then another. We listened some more. I could see the ember of Nicolas’s cigarette brighten and fade.
How to explain the sheer joy of it? Listening – listening, trying to pierce the veil of a million chirping insects to hear a primitive mammal as old as the dinosaurs foraging on the forest floor, pushing aside leaves and debris with its shrew-like nose seeking tasty invertebrates – and in the company of my partner and experts who enjoy the same. I thought – It doesn’t get any better than this. That sense of awe in the natural world, the curiosity of things that crawl in the night, and the desire to find them had hold of me early. It still did.
Next to me Nicolas suddenly leaned forward intently. I heard it too and pointed in the direction of the sound of what I guessed was 30 yards away — indicated by a distinct leaf shuffling. We entered the forest edge but Nicolas quickly motioned – you stay here – and off he went. Four of us stumbling around the dark was no match for this master stalker alone. Nicolas paused 15 feet away and turned off his headlamp. We stood silent again for several minutes and then the leaf shuffling resumed, Nicolas’s lit his headlamp, and the chase is on, his headlamp swings erratically low to the ground, he stumbles and lunges, twigs snap and dry leaves fly. And he quickly latches on to a solenodon!! He came back to us, smiling broadly with his prize.
It was a female, pregnant solenodon. He held her by the tail and away from his body so it could not bite as we took a few photos and then he handed her to Connie. Connie’s eyes were wide and her mouth agape in a smile while she marveled at this primitive creature. Her rust orange fur was luxurious and shimmered in the headlamp while she lifted her head and twitched its nose at us. Her jet black eyes were surprisingly small. She was chubby and healthy looking. Its snout was long and narrow, giving it a quizzical look that would stump most people when asked to what it was related. She occasionally pawed at the air with a front leg, small claws searching for purchase.
Another quirk of the solenodon is that the females have a pair of teats located almost on her buttock, allowing the young to suckle while trailing behind her, which were obvious on this pregnant female. Connie passed the critter to me and I held her to the ground to take a few photos and then gave her back to Nicolas who quickly returned her to the capture point.
We moved to another spot that Nicholas wanted to check on, a research plot from a year ago. We repeated the exercise and after another hour found a mom with two youngsters. Nicolas caught one of the youngsters as the mom and the other one scurried into their burrow. Nicolas and Jorge were happy to see a mom with twins, as it was an indication of her health. We quickly took a couple photos and Nicholas returned the young one to the burrow. It was time to celebrate our successful hunt!
Back at the Pedernales town square the salsa music blasted while the teenagers flirted and danced. Older couples sat around drinking and watching. Jorge proposed a toast – “To a successful expedition and long live the hutia and solenodon”. We chatted a bit and asked Jorge about his research and Nicolas talked about his fighting birds.
Connie and I clinked glasses. She laughed – “I can’t believe we actually found one” We had a bit of luck but having two locals increased the odds. I could have wandered the forest for a week myself not knowing the best places to look. It was wonderous, finding this improbable evolutionary remnant that had dodged the feet of dinosaurs. At the very least you had to admire this poisonous leftover’s persistence. There are a handful of other poisonous mammals in the world. I’ve handled one, the short-tailed shrew of eastern North America. Maybe we should go look for some others? I thought. I’d save that discussion with Connie for another time.
The fate of the Hispaniolan solenodon is unclear. The extent of the species in Haiti is extremely limited because of deforestation. The DR has designated a number of large land reserves for the preservation of habitat but international conservation groups classify it as endangered and rank it as a high conservation priority. Deforestation, habitat fragmentation, and predation by stray village dogs are the main threats to its existence. This extraordinary creature has persisted for eons. Maybe with help from us it will continue as an inconspicuous but tenacious example of an evolutionary wonder.
During a brief pause in the music Jorge leaned in and asked which I liked better – the hutia or the solenodon? I replied without hesitation – “El solenodon!” Jorge took a swig of his beer, smiled broadly and nodded enthusiastically. “Si – a todos les gusta el solenodon!” (Yes! Everyone loves the solenodon!). The salsa music resumed, the kids danced, and the stars spun through the sky. Somewhere on the flanks of the mountains, the solenodons, as they have for 75 million years, continued their evening rounds.