by Bill Oddie
Talking of which, how come that the birds don’t get electrocuted? Small birds are unlikely to touch two wires or the ground, and are therefore generally safe. However, the larger the wingspan the more the risk of double contact and electrocution, and many birds do die, especially raptors. Nevertheless, when power lines hit the headlines it is usually because of a bird strike, often by geese or swans. Sometimes the location of the pylons is criticised, but I admit I do have to question the steering competence of some Mute Swans, having recently watched a fully fledged free-flying bird flounder and flap across Hampstead Pond, take off and crash straight into a wooden fence!
So, poles and power lines, call them an eyesore or an obstacle, but I’m willing to bet most birds are grateful for them, and so are birdwatchers. Here are a couple of challenges: what is the least likely bird you have ever seen perching on a wire? (It has to hold steady for at least a minute, and no wing flapping.) Mine was a Curlew! And what’s your ‘most species line up’ along a wire between two poles? My best was Portugal last August. Bee-eater, Woodchat Shrike, Southern Grey Shrike, Hoopoe, Roller, Red-rumped Swallow and Azure-winged Magpie, with a Little Owl on the post.
Electric!
chapter seven
It’s an Ill Wind
Is weather wildlife? No, but weather is nature. And weather affects wildlife, especially wild weather. Not that we get really wild weather in Britain. We get rain, we get floods, we get cold spells and we are told we get droughts. Very occasionally, we get strong winds but, own up, you have to go back to the Great Storm (as history has recorded it) of 1987 to recall truly photogenic damage. I was filming an educational video at the Tower of London, but arrived to find the entrance blocked and continuity ruined, because what the previous day had been a grassy courtyard was completely obliterated by the massive tree that had stood proudly in the middle of it, but now lay sprawled and battered like a heavyweight boxer out cold on the canvas. These days, I would have snapped it with my iPhone and had it on Twitter in five seconds, where it would have joined thousands of posts depicting the aftermath of that uniquely stormy night, but back in that primitive era, we had to wait till the evening news before we could marvel or panic at the extent of the damage. Cars overturned, roofs blown away, whole woods flattened and wildlife – especially birds – compelled to go wherever the wind carried them.
Michael Fish may not have predicted the hurricane, but birdwatchers certainly anticipated its effect. The storm had gathered up its strength in the Bay of Biscay. The date was 18 October. So what seabirds would be in Biscay in October? Leach’s Petrels, maybe shearwaters and surely Sabine’s Gulls. The latter is a birders’ favourite. Rather dainty and handsome (for a gull) and rare enough to be desired but not so rare that you don’t stand a chance of ever seeing one, or even a handful, especially if you are on the west coast in a strong westerly which hampers the speed of their progress to wintering areas further south. On 18 October 1987, the wind in Biscay was so powerful it literally swept up fistfuls of Sabine’s and hurled them north-east to the coast of Britain. Birders welcomed their arrival, and were doubly delighted when they started seeing birds – not down in Cornwall and Ireland – but in the middle of London and the Home Counties. All day, the mobiles and pagers trembled with new reports: Sabine’s on the Thames, in parks, gravel pits and reservoirs. A record-breaking invasion never to be repeated, and it hasn’t been. Yet.
However, in North America this sort of thing happens every year. Over there, extreme weather is accorded the status of an ancient god. It is to be feared and revered but it also has its fans and followers. There are clubs devoted to tracking down tornadoes and filming them at dangerously close range. Twister twitchers indeed. The TV weather channel – yes, showing non-stop weather and nothing else – mixes warnings, facts and forecasts with viewers’ videos, which are viewed not with trepidation, but with almost childlike excitement. ‘Oh boy, look at the tail on that! Wow, that is awesome! That’s gotta be today’s top twister. Filmed by Robert K. Cheeseburger, in Georgia. Way to go, Rob!’
Only once have I myself been close to a mighty wind. I was in New Jersey at Cape May, which is at the tip of a peninsula with the mouth of the Delaware River on one side and the Atlantic on the other. Hurricane Floyd had just finished battering the Bahamas and was now careering through the Carolinas towards Washington. It would then probably hit New Jersey. Hurricanes are unpredictable, but in the States they don’t take any chances. As I drove down to Cape May I had already noticed permanent road signs indicating ‘Evacuation Route’. They all pointed due north. Unsurprising, since the other three directions all led to the ocean! I was not aware of any panic on the streets of the rather sedate colonial-style resort of Cape May, despite the fact that the State Governor was on every TV screen declaring an official ‘state of emergency’. It struck me that it was probably to avoid litigation. ‘I can’t force you to leave, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. And I hope your insurance companies have got that.’
The next morning was wet but not a deluge; the wind was strong but not lethal. Clearly the worst of Floyd had passed in the night. But what had he left behind? He’d been born not in Biscay but in the Bahamas. It was quite possible that he had scooped up some tropical birds and whisked them north up the east coast, even as far as Cape May, where binoculars would be palpitating with anticipation. A species that may be common in the Caribbean could be a celebrity in New Jersey. Somewhere a welcoming committee would be waiting, but where?
I rang the local birdline and was directed to a dilapidated beach café. I drove there immediately, leaving a splashy wake down the slightly flooded streets. Thanks to the admirable American style of having a numbered street sign on every intersection – why can’t we do that? – I was soon skidding to a halt in the café car park. Clearly Floyd had been a bit rough with the café. What was probably an already flimsy building now looked on the brink of being totally blown away. Neverthless on the rickety forecourt were 20 or so blokes with binoculars and telescopes, staring out to sea and now and then yelling out adjectives. ‘Sooty!’ In the UK it would have been Sooty Shearwater, here it was Sooty Tern. Followed by ‘Bridled’, at home ‘bridled’ Guillemot, here Bridled Tern. Two species of ‘tropical’ terns abducted from the Caribbean. Both New Jersey rarities.
The locals were thrilled and I was pleased for them, but vicarious pleasure is not in a birder’s nature. The truth was that I was getting more and more miffed because I couldn’t see very well. Such is the penalty of being not much taller than a hobbit. These were nice guys, but nobody was about to let me push into the front row. However, just behind the café, was a grim grey building with a first-floor walkway, somewhat reminiscent of Bates Motel in Psycho. ‘Wouldn’t it be better if we could get up there?’ I asked. ‘We’d be higher and drier. Can we get in there?’ My words were greeted as if they were sacrilege, which indeed they were. ‘That’s a convent.’
‘What? Like a convent school?’
‘No, like a nunnery.’
‘Oh. But are the nuns actually there?’ I reasoned. ‘They could’ve been evacuated. Or be away on a pilgrimage or something.’
‘Lead us not into temptation,’ somebody quipped. While someone else stuck his fingers in his ears to block out my wicked words. A third – continuing the frivolous blasphemy – raised his hands to the heavens and asked the Lord to give us a sign. At which moment, the café roof blew away, and one of the walls collapsed. It helped our decision. ‘Aw, what the hell! Let’s do it!’
Maybe the mention of hell unnerved me. Or the crucifixes or the Latin scriptures, not to mention the signs saying ‘Strictly Private’ and ‘No Access’. At least two of us couldn’t resist muttering ‘forgive us our trespasses,’ as we scurried up the iron staircase, our boots clanging like gongs on the metal steps. ‘Are you sure the nuns aren’t here?’ I whispered. Even as I spoke, two black and white figures appeared in the courtyard. Identification was instant. Black and white Razorbill? Velvet Scoter? Black and white… Nuns! They
didn’t scream or yell at us, but neither did they ask if we had had any ‘tropical overshoots’. Instead, they popped back out of sight. I for one was relieved. It was almost as if God had given us his blessing. He hadn’t.
Ten minutes later three cops arrived. Proper US cops with gun belts and star-shaped badges and many-cornered caps, and – most unnerving of all – truncheons at the ready. ‘What the hell are you guys up to?’ drawled the chief officer, and then answered his own question. ‘Goddam birders. Every time there is a storm I have to throw you guys out of here.’ Oh my lord, I thought, they’ve got previous. I instantly decided to take the rap by playing the bemused Englishman. Which I was. ‘It’s my fault, officer. You see, this is my first hurricane. I suggested we came up here ’cos it’s a much better view.’
‘I am sure it is, but it freaks out the ladies. Do me a favour fellas, stay in the beach café, OK?’
‘But it’s nearly washed away,’ I argued. The officer glared at me, just like my Latin teacher used to when he was about to say: ‘Oddie, one more word out of you and you are in detention.’ Only in this case it could be: ‘You are in jail.’ As we dolefully filed down the stairs, it struck me that if you are knowingly going to antagonise anyone you could hardly choose more intimidating foes than policemen and nuns!
We closed the iron gate with the big padlock and ‘Keep Out’ sign, with a line of nuns peeping over the balustrade like Puffins over a ledge. As the officer revved up his motorbike, he shouted over to us: ‘Hey, fellas, one more thing.’ We sighed a silent ‘what now?’ ‘So, tell me, did Floyd blow in any good birds?’ Recognising the opportunity for petty revenge, we collectively chorused. ‘No!’ In fact, in the brief time we’d been on the balcony we’d had 40 Sooties and 10 Bridleds, but we weren’t going to tell him. Mind you, if any of the sisters were seawatchers, with a view like that, they must’ve seen even more. Gripped off by a nun! Well, there’s a first.
chapter eight
Birding in Transit
Most birdwatchers keep lists of how many species they have seen – on their local patch, in their garden, in the current year, in their life, in Britain, in Europe, in the world. If they travel abroad in search of ticks (new birds) they probably keep a trip list. They may well also keep ‘transport’ lists: a train list, a bus list, possibly a bike list (you are allowed to dismount but not to abandon your bike). The long-distance traveller may even keep an international airport list of birds seen in transit.
As soon as the pilot has announced: ‘We shall be landing in a few minutes,’ you should start peering through the windows to claim the cachet of spotting the first bird of the trip. Its identity will vary from country to country and continent to continent, but not perhaps as much as one might assume. Whatever the latitude or longitude it will probably be something white: a gull, a gannet or a tropicbird, if the descent is over the sea. If it is inland, it is quite likely to be Cattle Egrets. My best airport white bird was a Snowy Owl in Canada. And no, it wasn’t one of those fake owls they put on airport roofs to scare other birds away. They are usually plastic Eagle Owls and, incidentally, they scare nothing. Birds aren’t daft.
Birdwatching during landing is rarely productive. The plane is travelling too fast and bouncing too much, and even if you do glimpse something, you are strapped in and can’t move, let alone hold your binoculars steady. Once the plane has landed and begun taxiing your chances improve. The majority of the world’s airfields are indeed sited on fields, or at least have large grassy areas. A lot of it may be closely mown, but there are often rough patches perfect for birds that like grasslands. Larks and pipits aren’t easily named when you are still strapped in your seat belt but you can have fun guessing and anticipating. There is always a chance of a harrier. If it is a male, you may be able to name the species before you are allowed to unfasten, stand up and try to elbow your way towards the exit. If you are in transit nowadays chances are you will have to disembark, be stuffed into a motorised cattle truck, and be chivvied into the terminal transit lounge, where the only windows look out on parked planes, luggage trollies and concrete. At least there is the consolation of a few species for your airport list. Almost wherever you are in the world, you can tick off Common Mynas, House Crows and House Sparrows, which are probably also thriving in the nearby city. Why, then, have House Sparrows almost gone from London? Is Regent’s Park really less salubrious than an international airport? And how come the local swallows and swifts choose to nest under steel beams on concrete hangers, constantly deafened by jet engines and breathing in toxic fumes? At least they have the airport grassland just round the corner, where they can skim around feeding on bugs and butterflies and drinking from the ditches, where frustrated birders can’t see them. It was not always thus.
Sadly, nowadays, high-level security means that birdwatching at airports is likely to be limited. Gone are those delightful days when we were offered the choice of spending transit time in the terminal or to stay on board and even be invited to stand at the top of the steps at the open exit door, where you could get a breath of fresh air, and brazenly scan across the grassland and sort out those larks and pipits. It was in such circumstances in Singapore that I spotted a small flock of Oriental Plovers, which I was able to point out to a rather attractive air hostess. I even erected my tripod and let her look through my scope. It wouldn’t happen nowadays.
Mind you, I suppose I got a foretaste of the future tension we have to accept these days back in 1990, when I was returning from a trip to East Africa. It all seemed almost unreal. We had spent two nights camping in tiny tents at the bottom of Tanzania’s Ngorongoro Crater, where a nocturnal excursion to the canvas-clad loo involved tiptoeing past African Buffaloes and dodging the Lions that were hopefully now satiated by dining on the antelope we had watched them chase down that very afternoon. A guard with a gun accompanied me, which was comforting, albeit a little inhibiting. Two days later, I was revelling in the luxury and privacy of an en-suite bathroom in a three-star lakeside hotel with an African moon rising above a backdrop of the giant snowy cone that is Mount Kilimanjaro. Almost unreal. So was what happened next.
It was the dead of night and I was deep in sleep. Suddenly, I was woken by the sound of engines revving, vehicles manoeuvring and someone hammering on every door in the corridor and yelling out words I have never heard before or since: ‘Wake up! Your plane is going early!’ Surely not. Planes don’t go early. Nothing goes early. Someone insisted that the night porter phone the airport. He said he had but the phone was dead. So how did he know the plane was early? One of our group demanded to have a go. The night porter handed over the phone while muttering ‘out of order’. It was. He muttered something else in Swahili, which probably translated as ‘bloody suspicious tourists’. He repeated his original threat: ‘Your coach is leaving,’ plus more Swahili, no doubt ‘or don’t you believe that either?’ He almost pushed us outside. ‘Quickly. Hurry, quickly.’ ‘Is there any other way of hurrying?’ I quipped, as we were herded out and onto our vehicle, not even being given time to snap the sunrise over Kilimanjaro. It was as if they couldn’t wait to get rid of us. Bleary-eyed, unwashed and slightly trembly, I sensed a slight air of panic, or was it foreboding?
In fact, the next part of our journey home went calmly, except that I did wonder why we were returning to the UK via Addis Ababa in Ethiopia, a land wracked by widespread starvation and poverty but also, at that time, civil unrest and armed uprising. Being at an airport at such times is not relaxing, the only consolation being that with any luck it means that it won’t be long before you can flee the country. Once again I and my fellow passengers were accompanied by a man with a gun, who frankly lacked the protective demeanour of the loo guard in the Ngorongoro. This man looked scared. He herded us into the main hall and left us to stare at the departures board. There were half a dozen international flights listed. On all five, passengers were requested to wait in the lounge. The uncomfortable feeling changed to concern, as the display changed to ‘delayed�
�, which disturbingly became ‘delayed indefinitely’. And after an hour or so, a positively scary ‘cancelled’. There was no explanation. No announcement about what was or wasn’t happening. There was, however, a multilingual rumour going round that all planes had been commandeered by the Ethiopian military to transport troops to fight rebels in the north. It seemed that we could be in Ethiopia for some time.
Which wasn’t such a bad thing since Ethiopia is a terrific country for birds, including several much-prized endemics. Three of us were clutching our binoculars and scopes – birders never check in their optics – and we had already noticed that the airport grounds were promisingly green with grass, bushes and trees. And there was even the occasional tantalising flick or flutter. There were birds. We needed to get at them. The only exit involved large glass doors through which a few people were coming and going. Some were armed, others were in uniform. Non-military personnel were having to show ID, tickets or passports. Most were being allowed through. Would we be? And if we were would we be allowed back in? Do we risk it? Of course. Most birders walk a thin line between determination and recklessness.
A passport, a ticket and a smile got us through. Within seconds we had scampered across a car park with a larger population of House Sparrows than London. Then we noticed one we didn’t recognise. Some kind of thrush. We were soon engrossed in scribbling descriptions and sketches, leafing through a Tanzanian field guide, which the mystery species probably wouldn’t be in, or taking photos. This was probably our big mistake. Not one, but two, and then three men with guns scampered towards us, yelling more menacingly than the night porter. I say ‘men’, but none of them looked more than 13 or 14. Their rifles looked older, but no doubt worked. The fact that the boys’ fingers were trembling on the triggers, their foreheads sweating and their voices yelling almost hysterically was evidence that they considered us suspicious if not hostile. We couldn’t blame them. Unfortunately, birding optics look like surveillance gear at best, at worst they could be mistaken for firearms. Wearing camouflaged jackets doesn’t help. The time-honoured birdwatchers’ defence tactic when under suspicion is to show the soldier, policeman or enraged landowner a field guide, show him a few pictures and mime flapping, while repeating ‘birds’, and maybe even doing a few bird impressions. This routine works best in countries where the concept of watching birds for pleasure is not totally unknown. It did not impress teenage Ethiopian soldiers, whose nerves were already in shreds. We allowed them to march us at bayonet point back into the terminal.