Parrots numbered 44460 and 44461 don’t know it yet, but they’re about to meet the human species — with all the trauma that entails. It’s late afternoon, yesterday’s rain has left a swamp on the ground and Leco has already dug his boots into the young guanandi tree, whose trunk he will climb to a height of 15 meters (50 feet). Right where, 55 days ago, the two winged siblings came into the world.

They’ve survived possums, hawks and snakes, but they won’t escape the skillful hands of Alescar Cassilha, or Leco: just a few seconds and the two chicks, one at a time, will end up in a bag that descends to the ground, where other human hands await them.

They could be Elenise’s or Deise’s, it doesn’t matter: the trauma is the same, and the parrots respond to it with cries and flapping wings. Number 44460 is the most agitated; 44461 seems more docile. “It must be a female,” says Deise. We can’t tell: red-tailed amazons don’t have sexual dimorphism; only genetic testing can find out.

But for now, what matters is checking that the birds are healthy, including a thorough assessment where the body, beak, tail, wings and everything else are measured, along with feather collection and parasite research. The two siblings don’t know it yet, but at the end of this unpleasant experience they will receive a gift: a bird band each, ensuring that if they are caught in the illegal trade, they can be properly identified.

Although the band resembles an ankle monitor and their numbers seem like prisoner tags, these parrots will remain free birds. And, according to Elenise, “they’re already ready to fly.” Traumas aside, there’s no better way to get to know a human being.

On the path to extinction

We’re on Rasa Island, on the coast of Paraná state in Brazil, the center stage of the natural amphitheater that is Paranaguá Bay, where the Serra do Mar mountains wrap the Atlantic in a rocky embrace. A protected place, therefore, and as such one of the favorites of the red-tailed amazon (Amazona brasiliensis), a bird found only along the largest stretch of preserved Atlantic Forest in Brazil — almost 3 million hectares (7.5 million acres) of continuous forest along the coasts of São Paulo, Paraná and Santa Catarina states.

The area is vast, but the parrots are few: 9,000 individuals in the wild, according to the latest census, concentrated in about a dozen communal roosts. It’s a very specific habitat: coastal plains with shallow, sandy soils resulting from sediments of the Serra do Mar, covered by mangroves and restinga vegetation. Not by chance, it’s the same habitat as the guanandi tree (Calophyllum brasiliense), the parrot’s favorite. It’s one of the few trees able to dig strong enough roots to rise up to 30 meters (100 feet) high.

But the guanandi is also one of the preferred trees of coastal communities in that area. It’s one of the best woods for building beams, floors, furniture, and, above all, masts and hulls of a wide variety of vessels. Local fishing communities called caiçaras have always used this tree, light and difficult to rot, to make canoes, while the Portuguese Crown valued it as a prime material for their fleet of ships — so strong it could absorb cannonballs without structural damage. It was one of Brazil’s first premium woods. It was the mahogany of the Brazilian coast. And, like mahogany, it became endangered.

The red-tailed amazon sleeps, nests and feeds in the guanandi. They will use other trees, but the guanandi is their favorite. While its broad, high canopy provides safe shelter, its fruit is rich in protein and minerals. Additionally, the guanandi’s trunk forms natural hollows that make perfect nesting sites.

Old trees provide the best hollows — but people also targeted these. As the best guanandis were cut down, only the most deteriorated ones remained in the forest, making nests more accessible to predators and more prone to flooding during rains, drowning the chicks.

Besides the loss of guanandi trees, capture and hunting also contributed to the decline in the parrot’s population. The parrots were targeted both for the illegal wildlife trade or local consumption, the latter particularly in the more remote communities of Paranaguá Bay (such as Rasa Island), where access to industrial meat was scarce. “People would put glue on the tree, the parrot would stick to it, and they’d catch it to eat or sell,” recalls fisherman Antonio da Luz dos Santos, 80, a resident of Rasa Island for over fifty years.

With all these threats, the total red-tailed amazon population dwindled to just 5,000 individuals by the end of the 20th century. Or, as Antonio remembers, speaking of Rasa Island: “There were only four nests in the forest that had parrots.”

The solution: artificial nests

The island’s residents weren’t too happy when researchers from the Society for Wildlife Research and Environmental Education (SPVS), led by Elenise Sipinski, arrived around that time, venturing into what remained of the guanandi forest in search of Rasa Island’s last red-tailed amazons.

“I was one of those against SPVS here on the island. I said that if they came here, I’d shoot,” says Eriel Mendes, known as Nininho, then president of the residents’ association. “They came with this protection thing: no cutting wood, no killing parrots. Parrots were food for the people here.”

Nininho also had his own reasons. He had come to Rasa Island in the late 1980s to reoccupy the house abandoned by his grandfather and make it his base for searching for the gold “of the French pirate” — a certain Olivier Levasseur, who was shipwrecked in 1718 off the coast of Paranaguá, supposedly carrying a chest full of gold. Since the treasure was never officially found, Nininho spent years digging through the island looking for it until finally giving up and turning to growing fruits and vegetables — to the delight of the red-tailed amazons, who wouldn’t eat everything of what Nininho planted. “I wanted to get rid of these parrots,” he says.

But when it came to saving the red-tailed amazon from extinction, Rasa Island was an inescapable destination for SPVS team, whether Nininho liked it or not. Besides its easy access, close to the coast, and designation as an Environmental Protection Area, it’s one of the rare places that combines both resting and breeding sites for this bird. As Elenise, SPVS’s wildlife projects coordinator, says, “the parrots are more concentrated here; it’s easier to monitor.” To Nininho’s misfortune, his land neighboured the largest collective roost of red-tailed amazons.

SPVS’s main effort, however, takes place elsewhere on the island: at the breeding sites in the interior, where the large trees of the coastal Atlantic Forest provide the necessary shelter for the birds to set up their nests between September and January. As hollows were becoming scarce — precisely because of the lack of these trees — the solution for conservationists was to build artificial nests: wooden boxes suspended in the canopy, tailor-made for the red-tailed amazon.

It was around this time that Antonio began trading the sea for the forest, using his carpentry skills — acquired before becoming a fisherman — to create the project’s first artificial nests. “I would trade 3 kilos of shrimp for two construction planks and make the boxes,” he recalls. In other words, guanandi trees destined to become houses also returned to the forest in the form of nests. “Back then, people said it wouldn’t work. But one day, I went into the forest, and there was a chick inside the box. That was it, that was a path.” Antonio was an SPVS employee and worked for the organization for 23 years, responsible for monitoring the nests together with Leco.

The first 15 nests were installed in 2003, and according to Elenise, “they were 100% occupied.” “Parrots are very smart, very observant animals. We thought they would be a bit suspicious in the first year, but even before the breeding season started they began occupying the nests.” She adds that even the predators were caught off guard: “We have camera trap footage showing a hawk trying to get into the nest, but it couldn’t.”

With the support of Loro Parque Foundation, 111 artificial nests were installed on Rasa Island and nearby smaller islands, along with another 18 on the southern coast of São Paulo. Not all of them are made of wood: in recent years, SPVS has been testing polyethylene and PVC nests, to test the parrot’s preference. But they’re not very picky — they accept every type of nest, and even fight over them. “I’ve seen parrots rolling on the ground,” says Elenise.

With reduced predation, the guarantee of safe nests and the presence of SPVS inhibiting illegal capture, the population of red-tailed amazons began to soar, reaching the current 9,000 individuals — about 7,500 in Paraná and another 1,500 in São Paulo. In 2004, its status on the IUCN (International Union for Conservation of Nature) Red List moved from “endangered” to “vulnerable”, and in 2017 moved up to “near threatened”, one before “least concern.” No other animal in Brazil has documented such a feat. And, in this category, it’s the only Brazilian species whose population is increasing.

Of the 9,000 parrots, 1,500 are on Rasa Island, already surpassing the number of human residents, currently around 700. As Elenise puts it, “the island breathes parrots.” This is especially true at dawn and dusk when their loud calls fill the air and pairs can be seen crossing the sky — this is when they are leaving or returning from their feeding grounds, usually on the mainland, where they search for native Atlantic Forest fruits. “There are studies that say they can fly up to 30 kilometers (18,6 miles) in search of food,” explains Deise Henz, a wildlife project consultant at SPVS.

Not everything is fine

While the daily flights on Rasa Island suggest a healthy population, the same cannot be said for its largest roost, on Pinheiro Island, now protected by the Superagui National Park. Past counts found over 2,500 birds; however, in the 2024 census, researchers counted only a little over 450. What happened to the other 2,000?

SPVS suspects excessive tourism, with boats of visitors coming from nearby seaside resorts, bringing the usual noise of human gatherings, which probably scared off many of the red-tailed amazons, forcing them to relocate. “Ideally, there should be integrated monitoring between the Navy, ICMBio [the Brazilian Ministry of Environment’s administrative arm] and environmental police to orientate tourists at the site,” suggests Elenise. Now, the task is to find where the new roost is. “They must be using a quieter area. We think it’s inside the

These at least managed to escape; others haven’t had the same luck, as traffickers, although few in number, continue to prowl the coasts looking for chicks to sell in the illegal trade. A nest was recently stolen, in fact. “We know because the nest had a camera; the camera disappeared, and so did the parrot,” Elenise says. “Unfortunately, there are still people who want a red-tailed amazon at home.”

The twenty cameras provided by the Federal Police and installed near the most vulnerable nests helped curb illegal captures, but according to Rubens Lopes da Silva, a Federal Police officer specializing in environmental matters, what has most hindered trafficking on Rasa Island is the presence of SPVS, which he refers to as “warriors.” “You have a very strong ally on the front. The police can’t handle it alone if there’s no involvement from the third sector.”

It’s worth noting that this presence goes far beyond nest monitoring. Elenise speaks about the important communication work that SPVS has been doing around Paranaguá Bay: “We visit the islands, talk to people, to raise awareness and inform that this species is native to the region and if it is stolen it could disappear; it’s an entire process that helps people become more afraid of stealing a chick. I wouldn’t say it’s over, but I can say it has decreased.”

Rubens is less optimistic: “It might have decreased, but it’s not over.” The officer, who has worked for 20 years on wildlife trafficking in Paraná, acknowledges the decline in illegal captures but maintains that there is still a sufficiently active network to meet global demand. Also, according to him, it’s an easy bird to capture: “The parrot is very predictable. Every year it seeks the same nest. Plus, it screams, so it’s not too difficult to find. Traffickers already have all the nests mapped.”

Nininho confirms the trade is active: “There are still people who sell a lot of parrots here on the island.” He also says that the poachers are using the same technique as the artificial nests idealized by SPVS: “They see the tree where the parrot’s nest is and put a box in its place. The next year, the bird goes there looking for the tree, sees the box, and builds the nest there. Then they go there and steal the chick. There are many boxes like this in the woods.” Elenise says that none has been found yet, but Rubens does not doubt that it is possible: “They go there, learn the technique, and then do the same in another part of the island or on a more remote island nearby.”

Combating trafficking is a crucial counterpart to the implementation of artificial nests, but no conservation project for the red-tailed amazon would be complete without habitat recovery. That is why SPVS is complementing its work on Rasa Island with reforestation efforts on the mainland. They have three Private Natural Heritage Reserves nearby, where they have been restoring the Atlantic Forest over former buffalo pastures The oldest, and neighboring Ilha Rasa, is the Papagaio-de-Cara-Roxa Natural Reserve, created in 1999, where more than 800 species of plants and another 280 species of birds have been identified.

Summing up the three reserves, 19,000 hectares (47,000 acres) have been preserved, generating an average of $1.7 million in tax incentives for the municipalities that house them, which is invested in health and education. “Nothing in the region generates such an important economic return as the three reserves,” says Clóvis Borges, executive director of SPVS.

Forests replacing pastures mean more food for the red-tailed amazon, which promotes a rising population. More parrots, in turn, increase the dispersal of seeds from the most varied tree species of the Atlantic Forest — especially the guanandi — helping to spread the forests. This closes the virtuous cycle that ensures not only the recovery of the species but also of its habitat.

This explains why so much effort and resources are dedicated to rescuing a single species: saving it from extinction is only part of a much larger project, which is the preservation of the so-called Great Atlantic Forest Reserve — a regional development program based on the conservation of the largest continuous remnant of Brazil’s most devastated biome. The idea, born at SPVS, is to stimulate ecotourism ventures in a mosaic of 110 conservation units that stretches over almost 3 million hectares (7.5 million acres) between São Paulo, Paraná and Santa Catarina.

“When you work with a charismatic species like the red-tailed amazon, you end up working on conservation as a whole. The only reason there are parrots is because there is forest,” says Elenise, highlighting the vital role that SPVS’s environmental education actions have had in the region, reinforcing the importance of preservation to the locals. “We always say: this parrot is here because the environment is protected, so it ends up being an umbrella species.”

As the fisherman Antonio reinforces, “people say that the parrot helps nature, right?” And he is a witness: “Right in front of my house, there is a guanandi tree that they come to eat every day. It’s covered in seeds they dropped.” Not that he doesn’t make his own contribution: “I’ve planted 197 guanandi seedlings in the woods behind my house.”

Nininho’s nests

Police chief Rubens acknowledges that the caiçara community of Rasa Island has been supporting and collaborating with the work of SPVS, and even mentions residents who previously worked as traffickers but now defend the preservation of the bird. However, he expresses a concern: “If SPVS leaves the island one day, I think wildlife trafficking will return the way it was before. Maybe even more sophisticated.”

“Trafficking is easy money for them,” Rubens says, adding that, traditionally, it was the residents of Rasa Island themselves who captured the chicks from the nests, as the presence of a stranger would be easily noticed. In the past, according to him, it was common for traffickers and islanders to have a prior agreement before the egg-laying season began. This would guarantee a seasonal income, which today is hindered by the presence of SPVS and its preservation project.

This presence, by the way, may not have the unanimous approval from the residents, albeit in a veiled manner. There’s even a rumor that the researchers are on Rasa Island searching for, believe it or not, the gold of a French pirate. “People say SPVS works with minerals,” says Nininho, relying on an eccentric theory that the red-tailed amazon can sense the radiation of metals through its feet. “So, wherever the parrot goes, they find where there is gold radiation. That’s what I’ve heard.” When asked if he believes this theory, Nininho shrugs.

This is in line with Rubens’ hypothesis that, despite the engagement of the Rasa Island community in the SPVS project, “they still don’t have a developed awareness of preservation” — especially with the potential gains from illegal capture. “The solution to ending trafficking is to offer alternatives,” he suggests. “If someone invested in tourism, in family farming, it could be a solution. But you don’t see anything else replacing trafficking.”

Clóvis Borges, from SPVS, recognizes the complexity of the situation on Rasa Island, claiming that it is “an abandoned place, with no public authorities present”, and that “conservation is not just about researching, studying and monitoring the parrot.” Using as an example the fact that SPVS introduced drinking water to the island in the 1990s, drawn from the springs of one of its reserves, he argues that, without local development, conservation does not advance. In other words, “what works is the narrative that the parrot generates jobs and income”.

In response to this, Clóvis mentions the Great Atlantic Forest Reserve and its plan to promote local development actions focused on nature tourism. Rasa Island — and its multitude of red-tailed amazons — is one of the laboratories where this is happening: “We’re working with the parrot to improve the quality of life of the communities based on the attraction that this species can bring, as part of an itinerary. The idea is that people go to Rasa Island to see parrots, not to buy them or eat them”.

This is what is happening, who would have thought, in the lands of Nininho. After abandoning the search for the pirate’s treasure, he gave up on his own fruit garden, the one that so attracted the parrots. “Now I’m planting for them,” he says, referring to the more than 70 types of fruits he now cultivates in his backyard, most of which are those that the red-tailed amazon loves — native Atlantic Forest fruits like araçá, ingá, jerivá, bacupari — but also passion fruit, guava, orange, and many others that serve as food for both birds and humans.

The result: a collective roost with 1,500 red-tailed amazons right beside his property, one of the largest in Brazil. “The parrots started coming a lot. I think they thought: ‘This guy is planting for us.’ Now they’re taking over here.” To top it off, Nininho allowed SPVS to install ten artificial nests in the old guanandi trees growing behind his house, making him not just one of the main partners of SPVS  but also the greatest example of the project’s success.

Echoing the words of police chief Rubens, Nininho says that “parrots are now a profit for me.” He says his life changed when he started seeing tourists arrive on Rasa Island to see one of the rarest birds in Brazil up close, along with getting to know a little of the caiçara culture. “Tourists come, spend the day here, eat our food, walk around the island, go in the mud to dig oysters with me.” Foreign tourists as well, those who pay in dollars, which Nininho now receives in his home — transformed into a guesthouse — with an English name: Nininho House.

When asked if he finally found the treasure he had been looking for, Nininho recalls when his grandmother appeared to him in a dream and said: “You’ve already found that treasure. It’s your land. Everything you put on it will be the coins you’ve always dreamed of.” What he didn’t know at that moment was that the best thing he could put there would be an entire population of red-tailed amazons. “If you stop to count, that’s a lot of parrots,” he says, then points to the sky. “Look, they’re going to fly by right now.” At that moment, a pair of red-tailed amazons inaugurates the day’s flight, tearing through the morning sky of Rasa Island, heading toward the certainty of the forests.

Banner image of a baby red-tailed amazon on Rasa Island. Image by Xavier Bartaburu/Mongabay