A Guide to the Birds of East Africa

by Unknown

  ‘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.

  With the help of the guide (a guide who had been trained, as you might expect, by Rose Mbikwa) they saw, not a mile from the Safari Club and jousting high above them with a young Verreaux’s eagle, a lammergeier. In their first half-hour in the forest a Hartlaub’s turaco flew across their path, followed by an African emerald cuckoo, a flock of small brown birds that went by the unlikely name of cinnamon bracken-warblers, as well as mountain warblers, orioles, white-eyes and a host of other altitude-loving species. They even heard, then saw, a nine-banded woodpecker – they counted the bands twice, just to be sure.

  Back at the club for a well-earned afternoon tea on the terrace, George pointed out a sunbird with narrow curved bill and two extended tail feathers. It was feeding on a hibiscus by the main steps.

  ‘That’s a bronzie, isn’t it?’ said David.

  ‘Not according to this book.’ George held up his bird guide. ‘That there little beauty is a Tacazze sunbird. I don’t think we’ve had one of those on the list yet.’

  ‘I’m sure we haven’t,’ said Harry, writing it down. ‘Thank you, George. That makes a nice round… fifty. Fifty new species. You know, guys, I think we’re in the lead again – well in the lead. Forget the tea, I think something a little more appropriate might be called for. Waiter, a bottle of champagne – Bollinger.’

  29

  ‘Your car, Mr Malik, it’s been spotted.’

  Mr Malik recognized Mr Nyambe’s voice on the telephone. He put down his Nescafé.

  ‘Green Mercedes, licence plate NHI 572? One of our drivers has just radioed in. It’s on Valley Road heading for Ngong Road. He’ll try and follow it. We’ll let you know if it gets parked anywhere. Do you have a spare key?’

  Mr Malik confirmed that he had.

  ‘Good. I’ll get back to you as soon as I hear anything. Can you stay by the phone?’

  Mr Malik had not been planning to stay by the phone. As soon as he finished his morning Nescafé he had intended to visit the hospital. After that he had planned to take a taxi out to the sewage works again – it seemed possible that he had missed the odd species or perhaps some more had turned up. But still, he really did need his car back.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  I was never sure whether to believe the stories you used to hear in Nairobi about how the son of a senior high court judge is the man behind most of the car hijackings and car thefts in the city, and how he has close links with certain police officers and at least one member of the government. Nor was Mr Malik, but he half believed it. If by some miracle his car could be found, he would need to be ready. Ready to get to it fast, get into it, and drive away with as little fuss as possible. As for his other plans, well, he would just have to change them. He would wait at home until he got the phone call, get the car, and then go to the hospital. If there was time for birdwatching after that, so much the better. In fact, while he was waiting for the call he may as well look out for birds in the garden.

  Mr Malik had settled back into his chair on the veranda with binoculars and notebook ready on the table beside him. A family of mousebirds were playing in the bougainvillea – at least he assumed they were a family and he assumed they were playing. No, he was sure they were a family. He remembered Rose Mbikwa talking about some research that had been done on them, how they stayed in family groups and how last year’s young would stay with their parents and help feed and bring up the next brood. As to whether they were really playing, well who could say? But having raised and closely observed two young of his own, Mr Malik had little doubt that the chasing and squabbling of young birds and young humans were just the same. His philosophical musing was interrupted by the sound of sweeping.

  ‘Good morning, Benjamin,’ said Mr Malik. He wondered if he should say something about the arboretum.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ said Benjamin.

  He too was wondering whether he should mention the arboretum business when his eyes fell on the table. Mr Malik noticed him noticing.

  ‘Ha ha,’ he said. He smiled his most beneficent smile. ‘Ho ho,’ he said. ‘No, not hadadas today, Benjamin.’ He raised the binoculars. ‘Birds in general – all birds.’

  It was clear from the look he received that the boy was not completely reassured.

  ‘Look. Over there, see? A sparrow.’

  ‘Ah, yes, sir. Shomoro.’

  And there, a mousebird.’

  Ah,’ said Benjamin after a small hesitation. ‘Yes, sir, kuzumburu. Kuzumburu michirizi.’

  And another one, over there – see?’

  Ah yes, sir. Different one. Kuzumburu kisogo-buluu.’

  ‘Exactly. No, just a minute. What did you say?’

  ‘Kuzumburu, sir. That bird. Kuzumburu kisogo-buluu.’

  ‘What?’

  Benjamin put down his home-built broom.

  ‘That one there, sir,’ he said, pointing to the second bird which was now hanging upside-down in a bougainvillea tearing at a purple flower, ‘kuzumburu kisogo-buluu. The other one there, kuzumburu michirizi.’

  Mr Malik picked up his binoculars. By golly the boy was right. What he’d thought was another speckled mousebird was a blue-naped mousebird. Sharp eyes.

  ‘Thank you, Benjamin. Well spotted.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Benjamin picked up the broom and resumed his sweeping. If the boss really was looking at birds this time he was not making a very good job of it.

  ‘Benjamin.’

  Benjamin stopped again. This was going to be where Mr Malik mentioned the arboretum. He looked over to where Mr Malik had now stood up and was holding open a book.

  ‘Come over here for a moment, would you? I’d like to show you something.’

  Benjamin leaned his broom against the wall. What would it be – a Bible? No, on every page of the book were pictures of birds, and next to the pictures some writing in English. Mr Malik flicked through the pages and held up one for him to see.

  ‘Do you know these birds?’

  Though Benjamin found the pictures a little strange – where was the movement, where were the cheeps and chuckles? – they seemed to be of the three different kuzumburu that he had seen around the village when he was growing up.

  ‘Ah yes, sir, kuzumburu.’ He pointed to each in turn. ‘Kuzumburu michirizi, little bit of white face. Kuzumburu kisogo-buluu, little bit of blue here, on the back of the neck. This one here – kuzumburu kichwa-cheupe – I have never seen in Nairobi, only sometimes in my village when it has been very dry.’

  Mr Malik gave him a long look. He turned to another page.

  And these?’

  On the page were pictures of more birds, eaters of meat – not tai mzoga, eaters of dead things – but tai msito and kipanga. He pointed to each and named them.

  ‘What about these?’

  Mr Malik turned to a page on which sacred and glossy ibises perched beside an African spoonbill (and as if flapping its brown wings and shouting its three-note call from the top of the page, a hadada). Benjamin duly identified the two kwarara with their long curved beaks and the domomwiko with its beak like a flattened borok.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Mr Malik with a broad smile. ‘You clearly know your birds,
Benjamin.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘I would very much like your help again today, Benjamin. Not with hadadas – we’ve probably counted enough of those. What I would like you to do is sit with me here on the veranda and show me all the other birds you can see.’

  Over the next four hours Mr Malik, who had always thought that only three kinds of sunbirds visited his garden, was surprised to find that with Benjamin’s help he could positively identify five. And what he’d thought was a female yellow-whiskered bulbul was really a Fischer’s greenbul. The boy had a very good ear for bird calls too. In a small feeding flock that passed through the garden he was able to tell apart by their sounds alone two apalis, a prinia and no fewer than three warblers (with his binoculars Mr Malik was able to positively identify only two of the warblers, but he was sure Benjamin was right). And though Mr Malik was used to hearing owls calling at night he had never realized that a wood owl regularly roosted deep among the foliage of a climbing monstera by his own front gate. If you got in the right position over in the corner of the garden you could just get a glimpse of its distinctive barred breast feathers. But still, no phone call.

  It wasn’t until five o’clock in the afternoon that the phone finally rang.

  ‘Mr Malik? I’m afraid we lost it. At Dagoretti Corner – at the big roundabout there, you know. We’ve been looking all round the place but no sign. I’m sorry.’

  30

  It was Mr Malik who arrived first at the club that Thursday evening.

  ‘Still no car, eh?’

  Mr Malik shook a weary head at his friend Patel. No car, and no notebook. The question was repeated by Harry Khan when he arrived at the club a few minutes later, back from his trip to Mount Kenya.

  ‘Sorry to hear that, Jack. And thanks for your message last night. Yeah, thanks.’

  Mr Gopez stared at Mr Malik. Mr Patel smiled an inscrutable smile. Tiger Singh spoke.

  ‘I’m glad to see you’re both here on time, gentlemen. If you could hand over your notebooks to Mr Patel we’ll see what the score is.’

  Though confined to his garden all that day while waiting for the phone call, Mr Malik had been surprised to identify – with Benjamin’s help – twelve new species. But this was nowhere near Harry’s Mount Kenya score. A few minutes later Mr Patel announced the result.

  ‘Malik one hundred and thirty-six. Khan one hundred and seventy-two. Mr Khan is back in the lead. But dum anima est, spes esse dicitur, gentlemen. Don’t forget, there are still two days left to go.’

  In announcing that the wager between Mr Malik and Harry Khan had two more days to run, the Tiger had been uncharacteristically inaccurate. There remained, as both parties were well aware and I’m sure you are too, all of the following day but only half of Saturday. That night at the Hilton, Harry Khan planned his final assault.

  ‘After that trip to Mount Kenya today we’re well ahead again, boys, but I want to be further ahead. I want to be so far ahead of Malik that he won’t even see me with a spotting scope.’

  ‘We’re with you, Harry,’ said George, munching on a large olive. ‘Right, Davo?’

  ‘Right,’ said David. ‘I don’t know what you two think, but my idea is this. Another one-day safari tomorrow – we’ve been reading up on this and Kakamega might be a good bet – then up early on Saturday for another try at Nairobi National Park.’

  ‘Yes, Kakamega Forest. Listen to this.’ George began reading aloud from his guidebook, ‘ “Kakamega – remnant of equatorial rainforest which once spanned the continent from west to east – famous for its birds and butterflies – unique combination of lowland and highland species.” Now the important part – are you still listening? “Forty-five of the species on the Kenya list are to be found only in the Kakamega.” ’

  ‘Sounding good, guys.’

  ‘Grey parrot, green-throated sunbird, blue-headed bee-eater, red-chested owlet, grey-chested illadopsis, Ansorge’s greenbul, Shelley’s greenbul, Chapin’s flycatcher, Turner’s eremomela… the list goes on.’

  ‘Turner’s eremomela, eh? Could be our kind of place. How do we get there?’

  ‘There’s an airstrip a few k’s out of town. Charter a plane again, then hire a taxi.’

  ‘OK, guys. Leave it to me.’

  ‘But you know,’ said George, sinking back into the soft Hilton sofa, hands behind head. ‘Only a day and a half left. It’s not long. Shame we can’t go birdwatching at night.’

  ‘Why would you want to go birdwatching at night?’ said Harry. ‘Aren’t all good little birds tucked up in their nests or whatever?’

  ‘Not necessarily. You remember, Davo, on that trip to Maasai Mara when we went spotlighting for mammals, just outside the park? We saw a few birds then.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re right. We saw those nightjars, the ones with the long tails.’

  ‘Pennant nightjars. And didn’t we see an owl?’

  ‘It sounds great, guys,’ said Harry, ‘but haven’t you forgotten? I have to be back in Nairobi by seven.’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking of trying it at Kakamega. We still have tomorrow night after you’ve finished at the club. I’m sure we could find some spotlights before then.’

  And we don’t need a national park,’ said David. ‘What about that place near the MEATI?’

  ‘Good thinking, Davo. We saw a lot of birds there that day. If we got up really early we could start there on Saturday morning before light, then go on to the park as soon as it opens.’

  ‘OK, boys. Sounds good to me,’ said Harry. ‘We’ll give it a go. I’ll be seeing Elvira later. I’ll tell her to find us a couple of good spotlights tomorrow while we’re away.’

  If Mr Malik had been disappointed that day at not being reunited with his car, the revelation that evening that Harry Khan had once more pulled ahead in the competition only compounded his despair. And he still couldn’t help worrying about that missing notebook. Where was his car, where was his notebook, and where would he find another thirty-seven species of birds before Saturday noon – another fifty or sixty if his opponent’s luck continued the way it seemed to have been going so far? He was also feeling guilty. Thanks to staying at home waiting for that phone call he had missed his visit to the hospital, and for what? For this silly competition. Was it really that important? He had been musing on these questions all night and he was still musing on them the following morning when Benjamin appeared around the corner of the bungalow, freshly made broom in hand.

  ‘Ah, Benjamin,’ he said, putting down his cup of Nescafé. ‘Thank you again for all your help yesterday.’

  It really had been remarkable how many birds those sharp young eyes had spotted.

  ‘More birds today, sir?’ said Benjamin.

  ‘Well, I would like to see more birds. But I don’t think I’ll find many more in this garden, even with your help.’

  ‘No sir, Nairobi is not so good for birds. Even in my village there are more birds.’

  ‘Remind me where your village is, Benjamin.’

  ‘Oh, far away from here, sir. Too far to walk, even in a whole day.’

  Mr Malik smiled a small smile and reached for his cup. The telephone rang.

  There is something about African time that even the Swiss find a challenge. The Swiss International flight from Zurich had landed at Jomo Kenyatta International Airport the previous evening its usual nine minutes late. Chatting to the taxi driver on the ride from the airport to Serengeti Gardens, Rose Mbikwa discovered that in the nine days she had been away it had rained once, two matatus had collided on the Uhuru Road killing nineteen people, and the Minister for Forests and Fisheries had been forced to resign over the Karura Forest affair. This last item was big news indeed. While scandals and corruption are not uncommon in Kenyan politics (as anyone who reads the ‘Birds of a Feather’ column in the Evening News well knows) Rose could not remember the last time a minister had actually resigned. The taxi driver said it was the story in the paper that started it all. Ah, thought Rose wi
th a sad smile, if only someone had been writing a column like that when Joshua was alive.

  The driver turned into Serengeti Gardens and, after successfully negotiating the potholes, unmarked speed bumps and the usual string of cars parked outside the house of her neighbour the high court judge, pulled into her driveway. The eye operation had been successful and she had been well looked after at the clinic but it was good to be back. She went straight upstairs to bed.

  Soon after dawn she was awoken by the cry of hadadas and wondered for a moment where she was. Oh yes, Kenya. Home. Slipping on a dressing gown (and not forgetting to put on her eyepatch) she went to the bedroom window and pulled back the curtains. Another bright Nairobi day, though already tinged with the haze of an early bonfire from the street outside. There seemed even more cars out there than ever – perhaps it was time to have a friendly word with her neighbour. How many cars did one judge need? But that would wait. What she really wanted now was a nice long bath. Rose was about to leave the window when something about one of the cars outside on the street caught her eye. Parked between a red four-wheel-drive something or other and a white four-wheel-drive something or other else (apart from Peugeot 504s, Rose was not good on cars) was a vehicle she was sure she recognized.

  Still in her dressing gown, she went downstairs and out of the front door.

  31

  Mr Malik’s first reaction on recognizing the voice on the other end of the telephone was total silence.

  ‘Mr Malik? Mr Malik, is that you? This is Rose Mbikwa.’

  He took a deep breath.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Mbikwa. I’m so sorry, it is indeed I.’

  Why was she telephoning him, and why so early in the morning? She had never phoned him, and didn’t she know the rules of the competition for goodness’ sake?

  ‘Good. How are you? I must apologize for calling you so early, but I just wondered if you had lost your car.’

  Car? How did she know?

  ‘Yes, Mrs Mbikwa. I have indeed lost my car.’