WINNER:
Wanderlust & Lipstick
Travel Adventure Writers Contest 2011
LILAC-BREASTED ROLLER aka GIVING DAD THE BIRD
Since I was a young girl, conversations with dad, are more often than not, interrupted by bird songs. My father raises his hand like a stop sign, cocks his ear toward the noise, and announces with great importance, “Listen, there’s a black-throated blue warbler,” or some such name.
With pursed lips he calls out a perfect “pish, pish, pish,” and the bird comes closer. The birding people’s universal call, this sound can be perfected by studying The Art of Pishing, (audio CD included) by Pete Dune. A copy of it, along with What Bird Did That?- pictures of different windshield bird splats accompanied by detailed descriptions of color, contents and consistency- are among the hundred or so birding books my dad owns. From a psychological viewpoint it’s easy to understand why I view all birds as competition for my father’s attention, and developed no interest whatsoever in the winged creatures.
No one is spared of his avian obsession. In the middle of a tennis match with my mother he overhears a stranger in the adjacent court identify a bird flying overhead as a Peregrine Falcon. My dad doesn’t see the bird but doubts the accuracy of the strangers call. Off court, approaching the other birder he asks, “Are you sure that wasn’t a Merlin?” With a confidence that comes from birding since he was six, he adds, “Peregrines are rarely seen here.” Before the man can answer, the same bird flies overhead again, this time chasing an egret, proof to my dad that the stranger’s identification is correct. They become the best of friends, and go on birding trips all over the world.
There are two kinds of people who sign up for an African safari. Most, myself included, want to see “The Big Five”–-lion, leopard, rhino, buffalo, and elephant. If those large predators are engaged in a chase, or a kill, that’s even better. The other people are… the birders. So when my father announces he wants to join me on a trip to Africa I have planned for myself, I am delighted, but feel I must clarify, “You know this is not a birding trip. Right?”
“Fine by me,” he replies. “I won’t even mention my interest in birds to anyone so I don’t interfere with any part of your trip.”
True to his word, for the first part of our journey anyway, he doesn’t mention it. He doesn’t need to. My dad is never without a pair of binoculars hanging from his neck, and a pencil and local bird list sticking out of his back pocket, ready to identify any flying species.
At our first stop, we meet up with friends of mine at a private reserve near Kruger National Park. An undercurrent of excitement flows through my body as we hike within yards of zebra, giraffe, baboon and the large antelope – kudu and red hartebeest. Some of the animals snort, warning us we are a little too close. Others flee, almost touching us as they gallop past. It is a special treat to walk in the African bush without an armed guide, but my father’s thrill comes only from adding little bee-eaters and black-eyed bulbuls to his birding list.
“Where is your father?” becomes the group’s mantra, and I am sure to find him, off on his own, whispering the identifying characteristics of the bird species he’s filming, into the microphone of his camcorder. In the Northern Transvall, my friends and I climb among rock cliffs where we discover fresh leopard prints in the sand. Meanwhile, my dad, wearing his favorite khaki flop hat that is one size too big, stalks lanner falcons, red-breasted hornbills, and grey louries. The group cooks stew and bread in a three-legged ‘Potjie Pot’ over an open fire, while under the stars our guide talks about the history of the area, and my dad checks off boxes on his birding list. He is especially excited by ‘lifers’- those birds he has never seen before. Near the Limpopo River, I crawl into caves to look at paintings of elongated giraffe like animals, and funny faced, distorted bodies drawn hundreds of years ago by the earliest bushman. My father videos brown snake eagles, red-winged starlings, and violet-eared waxbills.
For my most anticipated part of the itinerary, my dad and I fly alone to Botswana to visit two different lodges chosen because of their large populations of my favorite animals– cats, and elephants. Wrapped in blankets against the 5:30 am chill, we climb into the open Land Rover for our first wildlife drive. Arriving just prior to the tourist season, we will basically have the area to ourselves. Impatient to get into the bush, I hardly hear Tim, our driver guide, recite the do’s and don’ts of safari etiquette. I haven’t been to Africa for ten years and just want to get going as not to miss any early morning big game sightings.
Finally, Tim finishes his diatribe and says, “So let’s push off.”
“Yes,” I concur, with an enthusiastic clap of my hands.
But instead of starting the engine, he turns again toward my father and me in the back seat and asks, “Are either of you birders?”
Why… do they always ask that?
“I’m not. I want to focus on mammals, especially lions and elephants,” I respond with an I’m-in-charge attitude, hoping Tim realizes I am speaking for my father and me.
Then my dad murmurs something about… birder, followed by: “But this is my daughter’s trip and I don’t want to ruin it for her, so let’s focus on large animals.”
As I’m thinking how sweet it is of my dad to to say this, I hear him add,“But if we see a bird or two that would be great.”
A bird or two? Is he joking? Birds are everywhere, they’re inescapable.
Tim’s face lights up as if he just caught up with a long lost friend and says, “Oh wonderful, I’m a birder too.” From the detail with which Tim and his new best friend then compare binoculars, I realize I am doomed.
It is known amongst tour operators in Africa that drivers are happiest when they have birding clients. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because although birds are everywhere, they are difficult to get a good look at, so the drivers have to work harder, and get tipped accordingly. Or, after years of pointing out mammals, complacent drivers find a rewarding challenge in pointing out a rarely or never seen bird from the hundreds of species on this continent. But I really don’t know the exact reasons that drivers love clients who are birders, because I always avoid those vehicles in favor of the groups looking for ‘real’ wildlife.
A few minutes into our drive, we stop. I scan the area, but see nothing. Tim is pointing and to the left of us I catch a glimpse of shimmering purple, green, yellow, orange, and blue feathers as the first morning sun hits them. This is a beautiful bird, I admit to myself.
OK, I’ve seen it, let’s move on. The lilac-breasted roller is a lifer for my father, and he wants to see the male roll earthward from the sky in his mating dance. Oh great, now we have a specific goal for the day’s outing.
During our two-hour drive we stop more than a school bus full of kids. We halt and stare at every brown, red, yellow, big, little, flying and sitting bird. I listen to discussions of wing-spans, beak shapes and throat colors, and I learn new names like Hammerkop and Bateleur.
An hour and a half, and twelve lilac-breasted roller sightings (among many other species) later, we see a pride of seven lions, sleeping belly up, their baseball mitt size paws facing the sky.
Finally! I rest my elbows on the edge of the vehilcle’s door for a more comfortable viewing position, and focus my good, hand me down pair of binoculars on their blood stained, fly covered fur. I’m riveted by the lions’ twitching whiskers, and the way their full bellies move up and down with each breath.
After a few minutes, Tim interrupts my big cat trance. “They aren’t going to do anything, so let’s push onward.”
So we can find some more birds which are doing so much, I think to myself. I would rather spend the rest of the day watching these lions sleep.
Our four wildlife drives at Chitabe Camp follow the same pattern. My needs to see anything larger than an eagle are accommodated, but lack the obvious enthusiasm that accompanies any and all bird sightings. I have practically become a birder myself by osmosis alone, so at our next lodge, with only two days left before we go home, I am not taking any chances. I explain to my father, “It is probably obvious by the name of this place, Savute Elephant Camp that I really want to focus on elephants here.”
“Yes, of course,” he agrees. I have heard that before. For added assurance I find a private guide to lead us on a big-game walking experience.
“We have no interest in seeing birds,” I tell Clive when I hire him. He tells me about a rogue bull elephant within the area. “We will try to find him,” he says.
“Perfect,” I agree. This man has my interests in mind.
In single file I follow Clive and the shotgun slung over his right shoulder. My father is behind me. We catch up to the massive grey young bull and Clive’s hand motions us to go slow, be quiet, and stay close to him. He whispers, “Adolescent male elephants are unpredictable and dangerous. They’ve been ousted from the matriarchal herd to find a new group where they can mate, so they can be full of hormones.”
His hand then signals us to stop; any further and we would be too close for comfort. The bull moves from one mopane tree to the next, snapping branches like twigs and stripping the red leaves, seemingly oblivious to his audience of three. As I turn to share this adrenaline pumping moment with my dad, the bull starts to walk away, and Clive and I realize my dad is nowhere in sight.
“We can’t follow the elephant until we find your father; I don’t want him getting lost out here,” Clive insists. I know he is right, but I’m reluctant to let the elephant get any further away from us.
Hidden behind a thick bush, video camera leading him in the opposite direction from the elephant and us, I see my father. His lens is focused on a tree branch, on top of which sits a lilac-breasted roller.
“Dad, you have seen hundreds of lilac-breasted rollers already. Please can you walk with us, the elephant is getting away.”
“You have seen a hundred elephants already,” he retaliates, amazed I want to see more of these massive gray creatures. We stare at each other for a tension filled moment, and then we both start to laugh. The noise startles the bird and it flies off, while my elephant disappears into thick bush.
Back home in the States my father sends me a gift for including him on my African journey.
It’s a two by three foot poster of a lilac-breasted roller.
Authors comment: If anyone know how many different colors make up this bird, please tell me in the reply box below. Thanks.
thanks MaryAnn for your email:
“In the middle of working on my taxes…I’ve taken time out to read your wonderful and funny story!!!
It is heart felt, sweet and funny.
Please consider writing a book of all your travels…it will be a best seller when coupled with your personal style!
I’ll be the first to buy one.”
Lori – I loved your story, but must admit I’m in both camps, a fan of elephants AND lilac-breasted rollers. This June I’ll be at Savute and say hi to both for you and your dad.
I love Savute. Lucky you and so sweet of you to send our love back there.
Thank you so much for dropping by my site and I hope you have subscribed to become part of the ‘tribe’. I look forward to hearing about our trip when you get back
[...] Lilac-Breasted Roller: 2011 Wander Women winner [...]