Whatever You Do, Don't Run Page 11

  Fortunately, once I had moved to South Africa and had my first job in the safari industry, I realised that most tourists came to see animals that could kill them but hopefully wouldn’t. When people listed what they wanted to see—as if ordering from a menu—it would typically go something like this: “Lions. Have to see lions, preferably hunting something. Any other cats would be good too, and some elephants and hippos. Maybe a zebra or giraffe for dessert would be nice.”

  Rarely would birds feature on the list and then only hesitatingly as an addendum. “Yes, and if, you know, we, um, well, see some birds, I wouldn’t mind, you know, having a quick look. That’s only if everybody else is okay with that?”

  Some guides were proud of their bird knowledge and could give as much detailed information about the fork-tailed drongo as they could the elephant. They gave the impression they were better guides than me for having this knowledge. And so I would point out the handful of birds that I could identify of the more than nine hundred species that occur in Southern Africa, sticking to the brightly coloured ones that didn’t need a lifetime’s worth of study or a fear of sexual rejection to identify. Occasionally, to show the depth of my knowledge, I would shout, “Ostrich!” and say a few words about this most conspicuous bird, thus proving to myself that I was a well-rounded guide and not just a mammal guy.

  After two years in South Africa, I moved to the Okavango Delta in Botswana. It is one of the planet’s most spectacular and beautiful places, wild and open beyond anything I’d ever seen. It felt like a playground for wildlife. But even amidst the eye-popping abundance of antelopes and predators, the birds stood out. There were so many, in such variety, with such colour, that they could not be brushed aside.

  I started looking at my book.

  Then I put some ticks next to the species I’d seen.

  I am not becoming one of those people, I insisted to myself.

  Soon after, I spent one whole afternoon with some drab wading birds, figuring out whether they were wood sandpipers or common sandpipers. They were brown and boring looking, but the challenge of figuring out what they were suddenly excited me. I took a nerdish thrill in using the clues, such as how far a patch of white extended up the shoulder or whether the back was speckled or spotted (a fine distinction) to determine the bird’s true identity. When I figured out what they were, I felt a triumph that never came from something as obvious as knowing the difference between a zebra and a giraffe.

  I was hooked, and it didn’t take long before I went on vacation to a place just because of the birds that could be found there. Within a year I overheard somebody say in answer to a query, “Ask Peter, he knows birds.”

  “No I don’t!” I felt like saying, wanting to preserve whatever sexual appeal I might have, but instead I started to point out the bird’s identifying features to the hapless tourist, who had only been asking for the sake of something to say. I stopped when I saw he or she had suddenly developed an eye problem.

  It reached a point that the safaris I led contained as much information about birds as animals. But I found that by sticking to extreme behaviour or unusual evolutionary tactics, people seemed interested. Or perhaps they were just being polite. Either way I was pretty sure that I had become a bird nerd, one of those people.

  I started looking forward to, and chose to, guide the groups who had marked a specific interest in birds. They were rare, because our camp’s selling point was generally larger animals, which we had in unusual abundance, and people can see birds anywhere. But every now and then, we would have a booking that had a note, “interested in birds.” Sometimes a bunch of birders would flock together so they could get a group discount and land at our camp. These would usually arrive in summer, when the number of bird species was at its highest and most regular, and animals-only tourists were driven away by the likelihood of rain.

  One group travelled with a well-known ornithologist (okay, well-known if you are a bird nerd) who gave a little pep talk to his group before we set out on our first drive: “There are two types of people who start watching birds. Those who have a love of nature that extends to all living things, and those who like lists and feel the need to get a whole set. Enjoy the birds, but take the time to enjoy the elephants and the insects and everything in between as well.”

  These people may have been bird nerds, but they behaved in a way and were normal looking enough to suggest that at some point they may have even had sex. Over three days we saw just more than two hundred species of birds, including many firsts for my list, like Ayre’s eagle and pink-throated longclaw and fantastic wildlife as well. Ironically, birders usually see the best game. Because they are looking for anything small and moving, they often spot things like the tip of a leopard’s tail as it flicks or the slow flap of an elephant’s ear deep in the thick bush. The group made an excited and appreciative babble at every living thing we saw, whether it was big, small, rare, common, feathered or furred. I am one of these people, I thought, and it didn’t seem such a bad thing after all.

  Not all groups, though, were as easy to please, or pleasing to be with. Before people arrived at our camp, we knew little about them except their names and which travel agency they had booked through. Occasionally there would be a footnote, such as “allergic to all shellfish, nuts, fruit, lactose and oxygen,” that would drive the woman in charge of catering into a psychopathic rage.

  On one booking sheet that summer was a group of four, from England, who were coming specifically for birds. I was almost due leave, and after three months of guiding people who were often bitter that there was not a lion killing something around every corner, I eagerly anticipated three days of a more soft, downy pace. Sitting at the airstrip, waiting for the plane, I imitated some calls to see what birds would answer. I got responses from a pearl-spotted owl, a groundscraper thrush and Julius, another guide, who was under a different tree mocking me for doing what he considered “work” while I didn’t have any guests with me.

  Eventually the little plane touched down, spitting mud from its tires. The people peering out the spattered windows were all cut from the same mould and appeared to have gone out of their way to fulfill the stereotype of the nerdish bird-watcher. Floppy hats and steamed-up glasses perched lopsidedly on pale faces. They all wore raincoats in varying shades of brown, and one of the guys had visible finger marks where he had wiped something on his lapel. I doubted that any of them had ever had sex in their lives.

  “’Ello, I’m Jill,” said the first out of the plane. “And that’s Jamie,” she said, pointing to a man who was raising his binoculars as he stepped out of the Cessna. This is a bad idea, because you have to step down when exiting a light aircraft, and soon he was sprawled in a puddle. Fortunately he was unconcerned about his dignity and only worried that his precious binoculars might be damaged. Having ascertained that they were not, he introduced me to the other two, who had stoutly British names that I can’t remember but were something like Basil and Rosemary.

  “We’re awfully excited,” said Jill. “It’s our first time.” Then she scrabbled at something around her neck, and I thought she was choking. “Oh my god!” she spluttered, as she finally disentangled herself from her binocular straps. “It’s a francolin! Jamie, it’s our very first francolin!” A francolin is a species of plump little bird, like an oversize quail. This one cocked an eye at them, scratched at the dirt, then shat. The group cooed happily.

  I looked them over and thought, “These are my people. I am one of them.”

  I explained that I was also an avid bird-watcher and was looking forward to the next few days. I heard a sound like “humph” from the back of the vehicle, ignored it, and started the engine.

  The drive back to camp was excruciating. Normally it took less than ten minutes, but with people on their first trip to Africa you had to expect to stop for them to see their first impala, and you could be guaranteed of their excitement if a giraffe made its stately way past you. Sometimes the tourists would get extremely luck
y and see an elephant or lion by the tracks on the way back.

  This group made me stop for every bird.

  Every . . . single . . . one.

  In the Okavango you can’t drive past a tree (which are plentiful), bush (abundant), or patch of earth (omnipresent) that does not have some sort of birdlife in it, under it, or on it. I wouldn’t have minded these pauses at all, except the group were the bird-watching equivalent of extremists. They did not, under any circumstances, want me to help them identify the birds they were seeing. What made this so painful is that they appeared to have memories like goldfish and would spend ten minutes painstakingly recording a bird’s identifying features, confirm its type, then stop at the next bush and repeat the process with an individual of the same species. Jamie and Jill did this with vocal excitement, “Oh my! A titbabbler! How marvellous!” On the other hand, Basil and Rosemary took it all in grimly, sternly marking their lists with each identification. I wondered if some predetermined number of sightings was for them a grand British landmark, like defeating Germany.

  Once we finally made it back to the camp, all four of my charges had circular indents around their eyes from the binoculars. I left them to settle in, had my Land Rover washed and waited until four o’clock in the afternoon, when we would head back out on our first official game drive.

  Guides give a standard safety talk before heading out on the first drive. Jamie and Jill listened with a grinning intensity throughout the talk. Basil and Rosemary, sitting in the back, frowned in concentration—until we reached the part about potentially dangerous animals, when they both smiled for the first time. Somehow it looked patronising—as if they had a secret.

  At the conclusion of my talk, I started the engine and put the vehicle into first. “Stop! Stop!” roared Basil, who I was beginning to suspect was a little deaf. “Bird!” he added unnecessarily, as the sound of his bellowing voice was driving a swarm of birds and other living things away from us, at speed. I’m convinced that even the earthworms dug deeper. We sat in the turning circle of the camp for the first hour of our drive, the engine off, recording the avifauna around us. Eventually I suggested that we move a little farther out and informed them that the other guides had seen and radioed in something interesting not far from where we were. I also explained that we would need to drive for about ten minutes without too many pauses, but assured them that if I saw any birds they were unlikely to view again, I would stop.

  “What have they seen?” asked Jill.

  “Some lions feeding on a buffalo,” I answered, resignedly giving away what I thought would have been a nice surprise.

  There was a cough from the back. I was starting to suspect that Rosemary was mute, so knew it must be Basil. “Would you like to see some lions, everyone?” I asked.

  Jamie and Jill both said, “Oh yes, please,” their faces flushing.

  “We’re here for the birds!” bellowed Basil.

  “That’s settled then,” I said. I fired up the cold engine and pulled away a touch faster than I needed to. Muttering from the backseat complemented the diesel engine as we passed any number of birds I didn’t pause for, knowing that the group had already recorded them. As we neared where the lions were gorging, I turned to Basil, whose mouth had retreated in pursed disapproval beneath his moustache, and said, “There will be vultures.” There was a flicker of a smile, but he caught it in time and stuffed it back under his facial hair.

  We sat with the lions until dark, watching them, the vultures, and the birds eating the flies around the vultures. Once I was convinced they couldn’t see anymore, I raced back into camp, late for our curfew.

  “That was jolly nice, thank you,” said Jill and Jamie.

  “Humph,” said Basil, which could have meant anything. Rosemary just smiled meekly.

  The next two days passed in almost the same manner. We never got very far from the camp, which I regretted, because Mombo has so many beautiful places, such as pools filled with hippos and wide-open plains that stretch for miles. But we did see a lot of birds. Every now and then an animal would rudely intrude and amble through as we were determining if what we were looking at was a fan-tailed or black-backed cisticola. Basil would “humph” at the creature, but Jamie and Jill took guilty pleasure from their illicit viewing. I was convinced that they were closeted lovers of nature as a whole and wished that I could have shown them a few more animals. But I was resigned to Basil’s bullying.

  At mealtimes people might sit next to my group once. But after Basil loudly announced, “All your beasts are fine and well, but we are here for birds!” few people sat near him again. I started putting them at the end of the table whenever I could. And I tried to create a buffer between them and everyone else by posting myself and another guide on the seats next to them. I felt the need to protect whatever image bird-watchers might have. After all, I thought ashamedly, I am one of these people.

  On our very last drive together, we were making our tortuous pace along a typical Okavango scene, with a wide-open plain dotted with palm clumps on one side and a ribbon of thick riverine forest on the other. It is a haven for life of all types, and I saw something that made me slam on the brakes, which at the speed we were going had very little effect.

  “Why?” asked Jamie, a deeper question than I could answer.

  “Humph,” said Basil.

  I took it as an invitation to speak expansively. “So far you have seen a lot of Burchell’s starling, right? And a few long-tailed starlings?” They nodded. “And we got lucky and saw a male plum-coloured starling in breeding plumage and a greater blue-eared, but as far as I remember you haven’t seen a single wattled starling, is that right?” There was a quick consultation of lists, but while I can’t remember what I have eaten for breakfast most mornings, I never forget what I have seen with people, so knew I was correct.

  “Indeed,” said Jamie. And when Basil added his expected “humph,” I carried on. “Straight ahead, in that thick patch of forest, is a tree with yellow bark. It’s called a sycamore fig, which probably won’t interest you. But if you follow up its main trunk, you will see that it has a branch to the left, then one to the right, then another on the left, which forks up and down. On the lower fork there is a leopard, and if you look over its back you will see the starling.”

  I heard them repeating my directions in low murmurs as they scanned with their binoculars. “Main trunk . . . branch left . . . branch right . . . branch left . . . oh my goodness, there really is a leopard!” said an unfamiliar voice. And I realised it was Rosemary.

  “Yes dear, but you really must concentrate on the starling and make sure that the bugger was right with his identification,” Basil admonished, already checking in his book.

  I was unoffended and watched happily as Jamie and Jill both surreptitiously lowered their glasses to look at the beautiful cat. Many people come to Africa again and again without seeing a leopard, so when the starling took off, I sat there a little while longer before taking them back to camp.

  At the airstrip, we all watched the Cessna arrive to take them away. “Thank you so much,” said Jill. “It’s been really great. Thanks so much,” she repeated. As the plane drew to a halt and its propeller wound down, it was time for them to be awkward about tipping in the way that only the English can. Americans just shake your hand, slap you on the back, offer you a place to stay should you ever be in Idaho, and when you look down there is a bunch of green notes in your fist. The English, though, seem terribly embarrassed about the whole concept of money, so they either explain that they have left something with the manager back at camp or try to turn it into a formal ceremony with each delegate giving a speech. In this instance both Jamie and Jill continued their profuse thanks as they handed me an envelope with “just a little something” and explained that I must “understand it was just because they appreciated all I had done,” and “wasn’t that leopard marvellous” they finished before hastily adding, “but the birds were the best, thank you so very much.”

>   Basil brusquely handed me an envelope, “Grand!” he said. And I would have loved to have believed that he was referring to how much was in the envelope as opposed to the quality of the experience, but I doubted it.

  “Humph,” I said, by way of thanks.

  For no real reason I believe that it is bad luck to look at your tips until the plane is out of sight. So I drove all the way back to camp, stopping to look at a few things that interested me, which included plants, animals and birds, before I opened the envelopes. Jamie and Jill had been generous to a point that would not embarrass anyone, and the envelope from Basil contained a single English pound.

  Perhaps he had expected to see more and blamed me, which sometimes happens when you are a guide. Perhaps he just didn’t like me. Or maybe, as he’d indicated with his very first, barely heard “humph,” he was punishing me for being a fraud. For what he saw right away, and now I knew as well, was that I am a nature lover, maybe even a bird nerd, but I was not one of those people.

  The Fool and the Snake

  Paul knew a lot about snakes. Despite this he wasn’t one of those creepy guys who likes reptiles because he couldn’t make real friends. In fact he was one of the only safari guides I knew who had as much sex as people imagined the entire profession did. He had an easy coolness that I envied and at one point had attempted to emulate. Then people started asking me why I had become aloof and twitchy, so I stopped.

  A few of our regular guides were sick, so Paul was helping us out. So was Eugene, yet another guide who usually did the overland journeys rather than be based in one place. While Paul was casually cool, Eugene was one of those people who irritated you, without you ever being able to say exactly why. His demeanour was like someone who was always a bit stoned, and he peppered his speech with surfer phrases like “bodacious” and “gnarly,” which may have been more impressive if we weren’t in a landlocked country.