Henry’s eyes widened: he hadn’t meant her breasts.
‘No, no,’ he said, taking a step towards her as she edged away. ‘I’m sorry. I mean, I like birds. I’m a birdwatcher. They’re fascinating. And beautiful. A bit like you.’ He couldn’t believe what he’d just said. ‘Do … do you want to come birdwatching with me tomorrow?’
He held his breath as Penelope paid for the loaf of bread she was holding.
Turning, she tossed her mane of flaming red hair over her shoulders. Henry could only imagine how soft that hair might feel beneath his fingertips.
‘What, waste my Sunday with a Billy No-Mates?’ she asked, her green eyes scornful. ‘What kind of twat likes birds, anyway?’
Before he could say another word, she flounced off, the loaf of bread swinging from her right hand. Henry stood alone at the counter, wondering if he might vomit. He passed his money to the man behind it, refusing to meet his gaze, then hurried home.
In the privacy of his bedroom, he’d reefed his binoculars from their drawer and tossed them into a dusty corner beneath his bed. There they’d lain for an entire month before Jim’s coaxing and reassurances—Never mind her, Beets, there’s plenty more birds in the air—had finally prompted him to retrieve them.
Nine years on, Henry still had those binoculars, but pretty-faced Penelope was all but forgotten. In the intervening period, he’d completed a degree in information technology and achieved considerable success in the field of software testing. He had birdwatching to thank, too, for that particular career path: all those years of identifying, labelling, categorising and recategorising birds had taught Henry how to observe something while suspending all assumptions about it. He applied those skills daily now while attempting to anticipate and manage all possible error states in the software he tested.
The work was satisfying, up to a point, but Henry considered it merely a funding mechanism for his other life—the magical world of truth, beauty and birds. No woman could sustain his interest in the same way; he’d had three successive girlfriends with whom the relationship had petered out somewhere around the two-year mark, usually when they started griping about quality time. Birdwatching remained Henry’s abiding passion, surpassing both women and a lucrative career.
He’d been doggedly pursuing his lists for years, focusing on ‘Birds of East Anglia’ for the past two. Finally, with just the Eurasian penduline tit remaining on that list, Henry had dared to draft a new one: ‘Top 20 Birds of the World’. This list featured rare species across five continents, from the Bali starling to the Philippine eagle.
While not extinct, all were birds that Henry could barely hope to witness even once in the wild. They were ambitious targets, and their pursuit would inevitably entail adventure. Fortunately, Henry had been squirrelling away every penny of excess income for almost three years, and also accruing leave.
But when Henry had emailed this new list to Jim, only a month ago, his friend’s response had been oddly lukewarm: If you aim low, Beets, you can’t fail. Twenty birds isn’t the biggest target in the world.
But these were no ordinary birds, Henry wanted to point out. It could take a lifetime to spot all twenty. Feeling wounded, he’d sent a sarcastic reply. But size doesn’t count, right, Bigfoot? You’d know that!
Jim responded: I’ll hold the fort in Chesterfield while you gallivant around the globe.
With a rush of understanding, Henry had called his friend immediately. ‘Bloody come with me, Bigfoot,’ he’d urged, meaning it. ‘We can both do the top twenty world birds, starting in Indonesia. Why don’t you take three months off work? Let’s find the Bali starling together.’
After a pause, Jim muttered, ‘Impossible on a ranger’s wage. Not all of us have high-flying tech jobs. And Beth wouldn’t like it.’
Henry knew he was right. Jim’s long-term girlfriend would almost certainly veto any adventures that they might plan together. Beth barely even let Bigfoot go for a curry after a big day out birdwatching. With her ice-queen smile and precision logic that could never be argued down, she had a talent for subverting spontaneity.
And then there was Jim’s tenuous financial position as a park ranger in Chesterfield, which seemed so much worse when compared to Henry’s situation. As well as earning a decent salary, Henry had been offered equity in the software business before it was floated on the NASDAQ. And while Henry’s boss and colleagues knew about and encouraged his plan to take three months of paid leave to tour the world identifying rare birds, Jim’s job offered no such flexibility.
‘Well, I’ll send you my photos then,’ said Henry, realising this was of little solace. ‘I might need some help with species identification. Tropical birds aren’t my forte.’
‘I’m sure you’ll have a blast, Beets,’ said Jim, half-heartedly.
An awkward quiet had descended then, which hadn’t concluded with their phone call; they’d not spoken since. For best friends who’d been in almost daily contact for ten years, the silence was deafening.
Silence.
The Eurasian penduline tit had gone quiet too, Henry realised now, its social feeding call subsiding into thin air. Jolted from his reverie, Henry glanced around and found himself still lying on his back at the edge of the icy marsh. The cold was seeping through his clothes, and his breath streamed out of his nostrils as vapour.
I’ve done it, Henry thought, grinning to himself. I’ve completed the East Anglia list.
He checked the photograph on his mobile phone once more, then sent it to Jim.
Bigfoot, I found it! he typed. Now for the Bali starling.
Henry couldn’t decipher what the pilot was saying in his heavily accented English. But as the aeroplane’s engines powered up and the plane began to climb once more, it was clear that they’d just aborted their landing into Denpasar. Some of the passengers tittered with alarm, and the man next to Henry shook his head in disgust.
‘Bloody birds,’ he drawled.
‘I beg your pardon?’ When the man had boarded the plane in Jakarta, Henry had wondered if he was Australian, based on the casual flip-flops and the tapestry of tattoos spiralling down his bulging biceps. His accent now confirmed this suspicion.
‘Birds on the bloody runway.’
‘Is that what the pilot said?’ asked Henry. ‘Well, I’d … er, rather have a missed approach because of birds than poor visibility. At least we’ve got a good chance of landing the second time around, because the birds will most likely move on. Mind you,’ he peered out the window at the swirling haze, ‘there’s quite a bit of cloud out there. This is wet season on the waistband of the world, after all.’
It was the impulsive title he’d written on the first page of his travel journal while waiting to board at Gatwick: Wet Season on the Waistband of the World. From the sour expression on the man’s face now, Henry realised he’d said too much. It was a habit he’d fallen into since childhood: maintaining a reserved silence for most of the time and then—when under duress or speaking in front of strangers—jabbering on without restraint, like a cork popping from a champagne bottle.
Embarrassed, he reached into the seat pocket and removed a copy of The Jakarta Post that he’d picked up at Soekarno-Hatta airport. The headline announced: Salihin supporters call for his release before Lebaran. In an effort to avoid further conversation with the Australian, Henry kept reading. A Muslim cleric from East Java had been detained for eighteen months under new national security laws, the article outlined, despite no evidence of his alleged involvement in terrorist activity.
The man next to him cleared his throat, and Henry glanced up warily.
‘You’re Pommy?’ the man asked.
Henry didn’t like the term, but nodded all the same.
‘I could tell.’
Henry wondered what that meant. Nerdy-looking and a little pasty? Check. Spectacles and already thinning brown hair? Check. Tall and a tad pudgy around the belly? Check. The antithesis, at any rate, of this hulking great specimen of tanned anti
podean manhood. He refolded his newspaper and, sliding it behind the laminated emergency procedures card, smiled uncomfortably at the Australian.
The aeroplane banked in a series of slow, broad turns, completing a circuit before lining up for its second approach.
‘Hope they know what they’re doing up there,’ muttered the Australian, nodding towards the cockpit. ‘Indonesia’s got a shocking air safety record. One of the worst in the world.’
Henry looked at the man with interest. ‘Is that so?’
He had a theory that every person you encountered in life could teach you something; it was just a matter of discovering what. Henry hadn’t checked Indonesia’s air safety record when booking his flight—he’d simply chosen the cheapest ticket from London to Denpasar, transiting in Jakarta.
The landing gear was lowered again with a loud ker-thunk, and the Australian didn’t seem to like this. Watching his meaty fists gripping the armrest, Henry suddenly realised that Aussie Tough Guy might be afraid. The idea boosted his confidence to speak once more.
‘Aeroplanes are incredible, aren’t they?’ he said, affecting a casual tone. ‘They’ve got wings like a bird, but instead of flapping them around, the engine thrust creates the lift needed to fly. Have you ever seen a gliding bird, like a hawk—’ he paused, considering the birds the man might have seen in Australia—‘or a seagull hovering over one spot?’
The man nodded, still white-knuckled.
‘Well, birds just point themselves into the wind and match their airspeed to the speed of the wind. It’s not miraculous, it’s science. Aeroplanes use the same principles of flight as birds, but to fly at much faster speeds.’
The Australian harrumphed. ‘I’d trust a bird more than an Indonesian pilot, mate.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Henry smiled. ‘There’s always human error. Which is why I prefer birds to humans, too.’
The plane’s wheels grazed the tarmac, and the man grinned back now. Henry wondered if it was the relief of touching down in Denpasar.
‘I’m Matt,’ said the Australian, extending a hand.
‘Henry,’ he replied, shaking it.
‘You seem to know a lot about flying.’ Matt unfastened his seatbelt prematurely, even though the aircraft was still taxiing.
‘I know a lot more about birds,’ said Henry. ‘I’m here to find a Bali starling. And maybe a Sumatran ground cuckoo, if I’m lucky.’
Matt looked confused. ‘Why?’
‘I’m a birdwatcher,’ Henry explained. ‘The Bali starling’s been on the endangered list since the early 1970s. I’m going to try to find one in the wild. They’ve got the most beautiful white plumage.’
Matt raised both eyebrows and Henry was reminded, strangely, of Penelope Elliot all those years ago. Wally. Billy No-Mates. Twat. Henry began to feel embarrassed all over again.
‘What about you, Matt?’ he asked. ‘What brings you to Bali?’
‘Same thing as you, mate,’ Matt said, winking at him. ‘All the pretty birds.’
Beyond the confines of the air-conditioned terminal, it was hotter than a sauna. Henry had no previous experience of tropical humidity—until now, the furthest he’d strayed from the British Isles was to southern Italy in the spring—and he felt as if he was wading, not walking, across the forecourt leading to the airport’s exit. The cloying stench of human bodies assailed him as he picked his way through a motley crowd that brought to mind a squabbling brood of chickens.
The sweat slid down his forehead, accumulated above his eyebrows and began to drip onto the dusty tiled floor. He glanced down at his shirt, aware of the fetid sweat patches spreading out from his armpits, and wondered where he’d packed his handkerchiefs. Somewhere inaccessible, no doubt, among the industrial-strength insect repellent, antibiotic cream and water purification tablets.
Where was the taxi rank?
‘Hello, mister. Where you go?’ A smiling Balinese man waved him down.
‘Oh, er … Pusat Burung.’ Henry wasn’t sure how to say it, so he pointed to the TripAdvisor summary on his iPhone.
‘Pesta Burung?’ The man ignored the screen. ‘Legian?’
‘No, I think it’s Ubud,’ Henry said, again uncertain of the pronunciation.
The man’s eyes narrowed. ‘You want to …’ He waved his right hand in a rhythmic flapping motion.
Henry nodded, then thrust his iPhone forward again.
The man held up a hand. ‘Wait. I ask my friends.’ He turned away and spoke to several other drivers standing nearby. Henry understood none of it, except for the Indonesian word for bird—burung.
After a minute, the man turned back to Henry and smiled. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘I know the way. My taxi is near.’
Henry followed the driver, gratefully allowing him to carry his large rucksack. The man looked like he would hardly weigh forty-five kilos dripping wet, but he didn’t baulk at carrying a twenty-three-kilo pack. Arriving at the taxi, Henry climbed into the back seat and looked for two things: a working meter and an air-conditioning unit.
The driver started the meter and grinned into the rear-view mirror. ‘Okay, mister?’
They were a friendly sort of people, Henry decided.
As they navigated their way out of the airport surrounds, Henry marvelled at a colossal white sculpture—a writhing mass of horses, serpents, and men brandishing bows and arrows—towering over an intersection.
‘That is from the Mahabharata, ancient Hindu story,’ said the driver proudly, taking one hand off the steering wheel to point at the statue. ‘That is Ghatotkacha, warrior of the air. Balinese people believe this statue gives safety to all aeroplanes flying into Bali. Your aeroplane too.’
Henry smiled, wondering what Aussie Matt would have made of that story. He raised his phone to take a photograph of the statue, then found his view blocked by an enormous lorry, on the back of which sat at least ten men perched on long-handled shovels. Forgetting the statue, Henry snapped the men instead, and instantly sent it to Jim. No birds yet, Bigfoot, just lads on lorries.
Wasn’t it dangerous, he asked the taxi driver, if the truck stopped suddenly?
‘No, they go to work.’ The driver’s expression darkened in the rear-view mirror. ‘They are from Java. Taking Balinese jobs, because of very low wage. Java workers not good for Bali.’
Henry wasn’t sure how to interpret this, so he sat quietly watching the tide of trucks, cars and motorcycles moving along the road in a nautical fashion, flouting lane dividers. If any road rules were in operation, he couldn’t discern them. Traffic lights were rare and, when present, appeared to be largely disregarded by motorists. Horns seemed to be used as the primary means of communication. Unlike the British inclination for rare but aggressive blasts, Balinese drivers issued regular, chirpy toots, which seemed to indicate: I’m coming through!
The driver braked suddenly behind a pick-up truck parked outside a shop, its tray protruding into the traffic. On the tray was a mountain of spiky-looking fruit.
‘Durian,’ said the driver. ‘Last fruit of the season, so everyone is buying. You can smell?’
Henry’s eyes were watering; the pungent aroma was overpowering. He found it surprising that a fruit could smell like sweaty gym clothes bagged up with caramelised onion.
The fruit were being sold by a young girl wearing a blue headscarf and a thick brown dress that fell to her ankles. She couldn’t have been more than ten, Henry guessed, as her gloved hands carefully counted out change for a customer. Such heavy clothing seemed unnecessarily cruel in the stifling heat.
‘Do many children wear the … ?’ He gestured to the girl.
‘Muslim only,’ said the driver, rather tersely. ‘Most Balinese are Hindu. Most Javanese are Muslim. Some come by boat in the old days, they make villages and join the community. But many Javanese come to make money now, they are buruh, workers. They cause trouble here.’ He indicated the girl in the pick-up. ‘Robbery, rape, murder in Bali—always Javanese to blame.’
Henry had
never been to Java, but he found it difficult to imagine that all serious crime in Bali could be attributed to Javanese perpetrators.
‘Traffic is very bad,’ observed the driver, as he edged the taxi around the pick-up and into the ocean of vehicles once more.
The adjusted time on Henry’s wristwatch read six o’clock in the evening, but his eyelids were growing heavy. The flight from Gatwick had been a punishing twenty-one hours, with a three-hour stopover in Jakarta. Everything seemed to be getting quite dark quickly.
Less than ten minutes later, they stopped again, this time behind a line of slow-moving cars.
‘Ah,’ said the driver. ‘A ceremony.’
‘What do you mean?’ A moment later, Henry heard a metallic drumming, which seemed to be drawing closer. Suddenly a band of men appeared on the road, wearing polo shirts and red-and-black-checked sarongs. They began waving at the traffic with fluorescent batons and speaking into two-way radios.
‘Odalan,’ said the driver, as if the term was self-explanatory. ‘It happens every two hundred and ten days. Birthday of the village temple.’ He grinned at Henry. ‘There are many temples in Bali, so every day there is odalan taking place somewhere on the island. The road is blocked now. We have to wait.’
‘Every two hundred and ten days?’ repeated Henry. ‘Why that number?’
‘We use three calendars in Bali,’ said the driver, settling into the conversation. ‘First, your Western calendar—three hundred and sixty-five days a year, yes?’
Henry nodded.
‘This ceremony is for pawukon year, which has two hundred and ten days. It tells us when to plant rice or harvest, or store rice in the barn, or best time to cut hair or get married or propose a girl, you know?’
Henry couldn’t imagine consulting a calendar to determine an auspicious day for visiting the barber.
‘The third is saka, the moon calendar,’ continued the driver. ‘It starts with Nyepi, our day of silence. In a few weeks, after Nyepi, it will be saka new year.’
Henry shook his head, bewildered by the idea of three different calendars operating concurrently.
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