‘Welcome, everyone, to the Tuesday morning bird walk.’
Mr Malik’s slight disappointment at hearing these words uttered by a voice other than that of Rose was tinged with relief. Her temporary absence certainly made things a lot simpler.
‘As many of you will remember, while Rose Mbikwa is away she has kindly asked me to lead the bird walk – if that is all right with everybody.’
There were murmurs of approval. Jennifer might not have Rose’s voice projection but she knew a lot about birds and was widely liked.
‘I know it’s past nine but we will wait a few minutes longer – I see quite a few regulars aren’t here yet but with all that rain last night I know the traffic is bad this morning. Then I was hoping we might try the ag station.’
When there was enough transport, the State Agricultural Research Station out at Kichaki was another regular venue for the Tuesday bird walk. The small groups relaxed back into their various conversations. Mr Malik moved to the back of the crowd. He was listening to Patsy King tell Jonathan Evans that the unseasonable precipitation of the previous night was probably due to the same low pressure system that had been causing such mayhem on the coast, when Thomas Nyambe walked over to greet him. They exchanged good mornings.
‘Your car is at the garage?’ said Thomas Nyambe.
Mr Malik’s first impulse was to describe the painful events of Sunday to his friend, but he had second thoughts. There was no need to burden Mr Nyambe with his troubles. Then he had third thoughts.
‘Stolen, alas.’
And he explained to his friend what had happened, though not about the notebook. There seemed little point in worrying his friend when nothing could be done about it.
‘But as my daughter Petula said, it was my own fault. I should never have been in City Park alone. I got what was coming to me, and I am thankful that it was not something worse.’
‘Perhaps it is not up to any of us to judge what should be coming to us, my friend – although I hope I know what is coming to the bad people who stole your car. What were you doing at the park?’
‘Well…’ Mr Malik needed to be careful not to say too much. ‘Well, there’s a sort of competition at my club – who can see the most kinds of birds in a week.’
There, that didn’t give too much away.
‘What a splendid idea.’
‘Oh, do you think so?’
Thomas Nyambe’s grin widened.
‘Yes, a lovely idea. It will help people see the beauty around them. So many people don’t, you know. How many have you seen?’
‘Forty-nine.’
‘Forty-nine, that sounds good. Congratulations.’
Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Tom Turnbull, whose Morris Minor seemed to have acquired yet another ailment since the previous week and was popping away like a two-stroke lawnmower. Just as he was pulling up beside Patsy King’s Land Rover a flash of red and a squeal of brakes announced the arrival of Harry Khan, and the crowd were able to compare for themselves the click-curse-click-curse of Tom Turnbull trying to close the door of the ancient Briton and the solid clunk of a modern German car door. As Harry Khan waved to Mr Malik with a broad smile, Thomas Nyambe turned from the spectacle back to his friend and seemed to read something in his face.
‘That man – is he in your club? Is he in the competition too?’
Mr Malik nodded.
‘And how is he getting on?’
Mr Malik looked towards the ground.
‘One hundred and eight,’ he said.
Thomas Nyambe, as usual, just smiled.
‘Hey, Malik. Still no car, eh – need a lift?’
He saw that the Australian tourists had come along again.
‘Is there room for…?’
‘Yeah, room for one more in the back. Jump in, Jack.’
What Mr Malik had been about to ask was whether there might be room for two. He wasn’t at all sure he felt like jumping anywhere with Harry Khan.
‘Why don’t you go with him,’ he said, ushering his friend towards the red Mercedes. ‘I’ll find a space somewhere else.’
With the help of Thomas Nyambe’s expert directions Harry Khan and his party arrived at the ag station ahead of the others, though they didn’t have long to wait. Thomas Nyambe was relieved to see that Mr Malik had indeed found a lift in the front seat of Tom Turnbull’s Morris with four YOs squeezed in the back. After the group had assembled just inside the gate they wandered up past the pond towards the coffee fields, spotting early along the way a large purple gallinule making a determined but unsuccessful attempt not to be noticed among the reeds, and a bullfinch weaver who didn’t seem to mind who saw it pulling strands from a dead rush to make its nest. Mr Malik asked his friend how his own week had been going. And after news had been exchanged of parents and children and grandchildren, he turned to the second page of his new notebook (already adorned with the now customary rough biro sketch of a black eagle on the cover) and began to record the rumours, stories and scandals for what would become the next ‘Birds of a Feather’ column.
What with the mud created by last night’s rain the going was a little slow – it was surprising how often Patsy King had to hold on to Jonathan Evans’ shoulder to avoid slipping. The high point of the walk was the sighting of a long-crested eagle sitting on a tree branch with what appeared to be the tail of a rat dangling from the corner of its beak. Judging by the bird’s somnolent condition, the rest of the rat was being digested within.
‘But for this competition of yours,’ said Thomas Nyambe. ‘Will you be going somewhere special this afternoon?’
‘Oh no, not this afternoon.’ Mr Malik tapped the notebook. ‘I have some writing to do.’
‘Of course – how silly of me. But tomorrow?’
Yes, where would he go tomorrow? Mr Malik really hadn’t thought about it.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘It’s a bit difficult without a car.’
‘I wondered, have you thought about the sewage works?’
‘No, why?’
‘Oh, you never know what you’ll see at the sewage works. We used to go there a lot a few years ago, but people didn’t like the smell. What with the weather and all it might be worth trying, especially at this time of year.’
Though Mr Malik couldn’t see what the recent rain had to do with the abundance of avifauna at the Nairobi sewage works, he said nothing.
‘I suppose you’d have to take a taxi,’ said Mr Nyambe, and smiled a big smile, ‘but I think you’ll find the cost might be worth it. And give me the registration number of your car. I’ll ask the other drivers to keep a lookout. You never know.’
While Mr Nyambe continued to fill Mr Malik in on the latest government gossip the two friends drifted slightly away from the main group. Their conversation was interrupted by a small sound.
‘I say,’ said Mr Malik, on hearing the short, high ‘peep’. ‘That sounds like – yes, it is. Look, a malachite kingfisher.’ A flash of blue arrowed towards the pond. The kingfisher perched on a low branch above the water, raised and then lowered a pale blue crest and sat as still as a cat, staring down into the water. With its red bill and the bright orange of its breast it looked like something from a jeweller’s window.
‘That is indeed a fine bird,’ said Mr Nyambe. All birds are fine, but that is one of the finest.’
‘Yes, I’ll call the others over.’
‘But what about…?’
Mr Nyambe did not finish his question. Of course, the others must be called. Including Harry Khan.
Mr Patel determined that the bird walk that morning had in fact added two new species to Harry Khan’s list – while purple gallinule and long-crested eagle were already on it, so far he hadn’t seen a bullfinch weaver or a malachite kingfisher (it was good, thought Harry, that all those other people had been there to point the birds out to him – to them both). He accepted the additions to his master list with a grin, waved to the crowd and headed for the door.
/>
‘Wait wait wait,’ said Mr Gopez. ‘You can’t leave yet; Malik hasn’t arrived. He hasn’t had his list checked.’
‘Sorry guys, got to go. I’m sure you can deal with Malik, no problem.’
‘Wait wait wait wait,’ said Mr Patel. ‘What we mean is, you have to stay. It’s the rules.’
‘I don’t think so, boys. I got a hot date, I got to make tracks.’
‘Tiger, tell him – it’s in the rules, isn’t it?’ said Mr Gopez. ‘Tell Khan here he’s got to wait for Malik.’
The Tiger looked up from the billiard table where he was lined up for a tricky cannon off two cushions.
‘No, I don’t think he does. I don’t think the rules say he has to stay. He can go if he wants to.’
‘Great. See you tomorrow then, guys.’
As Harry Khan pulled out of the club car park he saw a taxi coming in. So, Jack hadn’t got his car back yet.
‘Wasn’t that Khan just leaving?’
Mr Malik dropped his notebook on to the table by the bar and flopped down into a chair beside it.
‘Yes, he said he couldn’t wait. Hope that’s all right with you.’
‘Perfectly,’ said Mr Malik.
‘Saw a few new ones on the bird walk today then, did you?’ said A.B. ‘Khan told us you’d both been, but he only got two. How many did you see?’
‘Just one, I think.’
Which was quite true. With the exception of the malachite kingfisher all that day’s birds were already on Mr Malik’s list.
‘You’re really going to have to do better than that, old chap. If you asked me I’d say it was time to pull the old finger out.’
‘Yes, I’m sure you’re…’
‘Only three days to go. That makes Khan one hundred and ten and you on fifty.’
‘Yes,’ said Mr Malik. ‘I know.’
28
‘Still no car, I see,’ said Mr Patel.
It was Wednesday evening, and Mr Malik had once more been forced to take a taxi to the club.
‘No. Has Harry Khan been in?’
‘Yes,’ said Mr Gopez. ‘He said he couldn’t wait again. Hope that’s all right with you.’
‘Of course,’ said Mr Malik, taking his new notebook from the pocket of his jacket and putting it on the table. ‘How did he get on?’
‘How many was it, Patel? Ten new ones?’
‘Twelve, A.B. – a hundred and twenty-two in total. I told you that you needed to pull the old finger out, Malik. I’m afraid he’s rather pulling away.’
‘Twelve, eh. Where did he go?’
‘Lake Naivasha, apparently,’ said Mr Gopez.
‘Lake Naivasha and Hell’s Gate,’ said Mr Patel. ‘What about you?’
‘Oh, just the sewage works.’
‘The sewage works?’ said Mr Patel.
‘The sewage works?’ said Mr Gopez.
‘The sewage works, old man?’ said Tiger Singh, loudly, from the bar.
‘It’s all down there,’ said Mr Malik gesturing to his notebook still on the table. ‘And while you gentlemen add up how many new species I saw – at the sewage works – I think I will order myself a beer.’
‘Need to get the taste out of your mouth, eh Malik?’ said Mr Patel. ‘All right, let’s see how you did today.’
He reached for Mr Malik’s notebook, opened it and began counting.
I suppose there must be some disadvantages to being a bird. Having no lips or teeth, for instance, presents severe limitations to facial expression – and no doubt to the clear enunciation of some of the fricative consonants. With no thumb or fingers to speak of a bird might find it somewhat tricky to bowl a good leg spin. And while feathers are all very well for forming aerodynamic surfaces and are wonderful insulation, they probably tend to get a bit stuffy on a warm day. But the really good thing about being a bird (with no disrespect to any ostriches, emus or penguins who may be reading this) is that you can fly.
Suppose you were a crab, say, down at the coast. A big storm comes up, what do you do? Dig a deep hole and hope for the best, I suppose. But if you’re a bird, you just look at those big black clouds coming towards you, spread your wings and scoot off in the other direction. If you happened to be on the coast of Kenya when a big storm came in from the east you’d naturally head west. After a couple of hours flying you might be looking for somewhere to rest. Oh, what’s that down there? Is that a series of large ponds I see – some full of water, some full of nice wet mud? Why, that looks like just the place to take a break and maybe find a worm or two. And down you glide. Which is why when a big storm breaks on the Kenya coast one of the very best places to see birds is the Nairobi municipal sewage works.
Mr Malik had taken Mr Nyambe at his word and ordered an early taxi. When he got to the sewage works it seemed that every bird from the entire coast of East Africa had already arrived. Waders were there in thousands – blacksmith plovers standing statuesque beside the ponds, whimbrels and godwits probing the mud with scimitar beaks, sandpipers bobbing through the shallows flashing little white bottoms by the score. Dozens of herons and egrets were stabbing the water for fish or insects. Huge flocks of cormorants were packed together, large and small, swimming and diving. Gulls and terns were swooping and squabbling, ducks were dabbling and geese paddling. There were even – and Mr Malik had to take the binoculars from his eyes and rub them twice before checking again – three large pink flamingoes.
Mr Malik remembered the first time he had seen a flamingo. It had been in 1955, just before he started at Eastlands High. His parents had taken the family for a weekend club outing to Lake Borgoria. As their car topped the low hills and he had his first glimpse of the lake stretching before them, he could see that its whole shoreline was edged with pink. At a single glance he could see not three, not three hundred, not three thousand but a million flamingoes. There was not room in his eleven-year-old imagination for so many birds. But he had never seen a flamingo in Nairobi. As he looked and scribbled and looked and scribbled, he wished his friend Mr Nyambe was with him. Mr Malik would have liked to thank Mr Nyambe for telling him about this place, and he was sure Mr Nyambe would have had almost as much pleasure from seeing all these birds as he was having.
‘Haven’t you finished counting yet, Patel?’
‘Yes, A.B. – and never mind the stench of sewage. Malik old chap, I take it all back. I think we may be smelling the sweet scent of victory here, gentlemen. I make it… seventy-four.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Patel. Impossible. I don’t believe it.’
‘Look for yourself, A.B.’
‘You must be getting mixed up, confused. I don’t want the total, I want to know how many new ones he’s seen today.’
‘That’s what I’m telling you, seventy-four.’
He went over to the noticeboard, crossed off the previous total and wrote up the new one.
‘Khan one hundred and twenty-two, Malik one hundred and twenty-four. Malik takes the lead.’
What had been looking like a one-horse race was now neck and neck.
‘Splendid work, Malik,’ said Mr Gopez. ‘Glad to see you took my advice.’
‘Sewage works, though, who’d have thought it?’ said Mr Patel, beginning to giggle. ‘Must have been stiff with hadadas out there.’
‘Never mind that,’ called the Tiger. ‘It’s the numbers that count. Well done, Malik.’
‘I suppose someone should tell him,’ said Patel.
‘I thought we’d just told him,’ said Mr Gopez. ‘You have been tuning in, Malik? You have been listening to all this, haven’t you? You do know you’re in the lead?’
‘Not him, A.B. – Khan. Someone should tell Khan.’
‘Tell him? How can we, he isn’t here.’
‘I know he’s not here. He’s gone. So someone should tell him.’
‘Tosh. If he must keep going off before Malik arrives, serves him right.’
‘I know that, but it’s only fair.’
‘It doesn’t sa
y anything in the rules about telling him.’
‘I know it doesn’t, but… well, what do you think, Tiger?’
‘I think A.B.’s quite right,’ said the Tiger. ‘Ex proprio motu and all that. There’s nothing really in the rules that covers it. Each party agreed to appear here on each evening of the competition – nothing was said about staying.’
‘If you will excuse me, gentlemen,’ said Mr Malik. ‘I just have to make a telephone call.’
The receptionist at the Hilton was told that the caller didn’t want to disturb Mr Khan but could he just leave a message. The message was quite short. ‘One hundred and twenty-four. Yes, that’s all. One hundred and twenty-four.’ And Mr Malik had to admit, as he put down the telephone receiver and returned to the bar, that he took some pleasure from that short conversation.
As soon as he received the message Harry Khan knew exactly what those words meant. He called David and George to convene an immediate meeting in the hotel lounge.
‘Right,’ said David. ‘Time to get moving. We’ve done the coast, we’ve done the lake, I’m thinking it might be time to head for the hills.’
‘I thought we were already in the hills,’ said George. ‘How high are we here in Nairobi – five thousand feet or something?’
‘The mountains, then. Kilimanjaro.’
It was Harry’s turn to step in with a little of the geographical knowledge he had picked up from Rose.
‘Kilimanjaro, though clearly visible from Nairobi on a good day, is actually in Tanzania. Beyond the bounds, guys. Mount Kenya, though, would that be any good?’
‘Perfect,’ said David. ‘Whole new suite of avifauna, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘Montane orioles,’ said George, flicking through the bird book. ‘White-eyes, Hartlaub’s turaco. It says here you’ve got a fair chance of seeing a lammergeier. Could be a bit tricky doing it all in a day, though. It’ll be a fair old drive.’
‘Who said anything about driving?’ said Harry.
The next morning they were up again at dawn. A small plane was waiting for them at Wilson Aerodrome and by eight thirty they were breakfasting on the veranda of the Mount Kenya Safari Club while the resident wildlife guide went through the day’s programme. They might start with a stroll in the club’s grounds, then he would take them by Land Rover into the national park. Harry liked the sound of the Land Rover. Even here at the foot of the mountain the air was so thin he had felt distinctly short of breath just climbing the front steps of the club.
A Guide to the Birds of East Africa Page 12
