Let’s get one thing straight: We eagles obey no courts of law. We heed no judges. We’ve never even heard of the concept that you call “police.” So however many times you try to tell me that everything I say can and will be used against me in a court of law, your threats mean nothing to me. The carceral system is for you puny humans, not us noble eagles. I don’t come into your home and tell you how to live your life! OK? OK. With that understanding, I will now share my side of the story.
I was minding my business in the tropical forests of French Guiana, which, as you may imagine, is my home. I live by the Kourou River Basin, near the coast, and aside from the occasional ecotourist, my home is undisturbed. Would I prefer a home free of uninvited guests? Yes, obviously. But do I generally put up with a few sightseers? Yes, because I am not an asshole. I watch these tourists as they take photos of smaller, less noble birds, like those annoying-as-hell great kiskadees squawking all day long or those twangy silver-beaked tanagers. All the real big players in the forest, like me and the jaguars, are too smart to be “captured” by a “content creator.” But occasionally, when I’m feeling generous or having a great feather day, I’ll cock my head and emerge from my perch high in the canopy to give them a little show. I watch them as they snap photos of me with their obscenely phallic camera lenses. In this, at least, we are aligned: I’m literally stunning. If I saw me perched elegantly overhead, I too would have to stop and stare.
Two years ago, in the fall, I was stalking a paca, one of my favorite meals—and one of the few rodents I’ll deign to spend more than a few minutes hunting. They’re nice and meaty, especially those 20-something pounders, and pretty incapable of putting up a fight. The big problem with pacas is that they’re nocturnal, which means I rarely encounter them. But here we were, with the sun still out, and a paca trundling along the path below me. My beak was whetted, so to speak. I’d eaten earlier that week—a little primate of some kind I scooped up easily—but that was a morsel. I wanted a meal. I descended from the treetops and perched on a branch just above the paca. My feathers were quaking with excitement. I was set to swoop when I heard the unbearable chattering of humans, and not just any humans, but ecotourists.
Don’t get me wrong—I dislike all people on principle. I know that ecotourists and I are ostensibly politically aligned, as we are all invested in a habitable planet (I still cannot fathom why some humans appear to be in a death cult set on destructing the only place in the universe we can live). And yet liberals can be grating. I stood very still and waited for them to pass beneath me. But the people saw my paca, and as they all clustered to coo over my soon-to-be supper, I let out an exasperated sigh. This was my undoing. They looked up and saw my facial disk, which is that thing I do where I point the feathers around my face to funnel sound to my ears. I like my facial disk, because it helps me look as imperious as I feel. But anyway, they saw me and began to raise their lenses and iPhones to photograph me.
I was resigned to this process, figuring the sooner they got what they wanted, the sooner I could track down that plump and wayward paca. But then this one tourist, a woman, a millennial, began walking back and forth along the path, presumably so that I would change my stance so she could get a better photo of me. Foolish woman. You’ll get the shot I give you! This is not some zoo, where I might be perfectly positioned for a picture, even lured by some bloody strips of meat. This is the wilderness, where I do what I choose and you get the only picture you get. I could tell even the other humans had better vibes than this tourist, as they began traipsing down the path without her. She remained on the path with her partner, taking her stupid and incessant photographs. What would she do with them, I wondered? What unnecessary Instagram account would I garnish? What content might she create out of me? What affiliate links, what #inspo?
My hunger gnawed at me and my blood began to curdle. As she finally turned around to leave, I realized the paca was nowhere in sight; she’d lost me my prey. In a fit of fury, I descended on her and grasped my talons on her hard, round head, which was far more difficult to get a grip on than the fleshy sides of a scrumptious paca. She began screaming, and her partner attempted to detach me to no avail. I dug my talons in. But then her partner, thinking quickly, slammed my head to the ground with his shoe. It was a good move. I released the woman and took off into the treetops.
Did I mean to kill her? Obviously not, and I didn’t. I doubt she would have tasted very good, fed on human slop as opposed to the nutritious leaves, tubers, nuts, and fruits that nourish my paca prey. She got off with a couple of scratches! I only wanted to teach her a lesson, that the wilderness is for us, not for her, and she should be lucky to even take a blurry, backlit photo of a creature as majestic as I. When I returned to my perch in the canopy, I began calling out to my brethren, eagles and non-eagles. I wanted to share my story with them. I wanted them to hear what happened to me, so that it would never happen to them. I wanted them to know that I did not attack that woman in cold blood. And even if I did, that would still be within my right as a creature who calls this forest home!
In any case, I wonder why the humans seem so surprised that I attacked them. We eagles have been attacking hominins for millions of years; the Taung child, an Australopithecus africanus, was likely killed by an eagle or some carnivorous bird nearly three million years ago. I am one of the heaviest raptors alive on this planet. One of my buddies actually caught and carried two juvenile peccaries back to his nest, one pig-like ungulate per foot. Another one of my buddies hoofed it back to their nest with a spider monkey in one taloned foot and an opossum in the other. We are big, powerful, and often hungry. My colleagues the African crowned eagles—though not nearly as large, distinguished, or iconic as I—are capable of dismembering large prey to carry back to the nest.
The scientists who over-analyzed the incident involving me and the woman—seriously, don’t they have anything better to do?—published a paper about the attack in the journal Ecology and Evolution. At least they included a stunning photo of me and my facial disk. If they insist on dragging my name through the muck that is peer-reviewed scientific literature, the least they can do is give me a proper headshot that is available to share with creative commons licensing. The way I see it, it is only fair that if you dare to enter an eagle’s territory, that eagle retains the right to attack you for any number of reasons: not just if you threaten them, but also if you annoy them. If that tourist steps foot in my forest again, it’s on sight!
We harpy eagles are losing our numbers and are classified as vulnerable under the IUCN Red List. We are disappearing like many other apex predators, our ranges shrinking as forests are converted into farmland. We’re also hunted and shot at for the mistaken assumption that we eat farm animals. So I say it’s only fair that amid this situation—which is entirely the fault of humans and not us harpies—it is our inalienable right to occasionally and non-lethally attack a human who has bad vibes. And if you don’t like that, don’t you dare come near my forest, because you know what’s coming for you.