by Bill Oddie
‘How long will it take?’ came a nervous enquiry. Followed by: ‘Will the sea be calmer? ’Cos it was very choppy today.’ Someone else did the maths: ‘So, that’s 10, plus eight or nine… That’s nearly 20 hours on the boat!’ And about four hours on land.’ It is not often that you get a mutiny on a wildlife cruise! We didn’t get quite as far as ousting the skipper – or the guide – but we did refuse to sail further north.
The yellow lady protested: ‘But you will miss the albatross.’ Frankly, the only one who seemed to care was me, but I didn’t care enough to endure another day retching or befuddled by Stugeron. Nevertheless, sensing that I may well have been the only ‘heavy’ birder in our group, she targeted me with temptation. ‘Don’t you want to see the Flightless Cormorant?’
‘It’s a cormorant and it can’t fly. I’ll imagine it.’
‘OK, but what about Darwin’s finches?’ she pleaded, as if she was offering me the crown jewels. This, despite the fact that when I had requested elucidation on finch identification she had been totally bamboozled. Mind you, no great shame there. There are three ground finches: the Large Ground Finch, the Medium Ground Finch and – you guessed it – the Small Ground Finch. Straightforward enough you might think, except that according to the book: ‘They are all identical in plumage, and each species varies in size’! I did enquire about the whereabouts of the Vegetarian Finch, the Vampire Finch and the Woodpecker Finch, but got no assurance that we’d see any of them if we sailed for nine days, let alone nine hours. I suspect she had never heard of them, but I am not making them up, honest.
And so the mutineers took over. We spent a leisurely day taking photos (there is nowhere easier in the world) and a delightful and genuinely calm evening moored in a blue bay with orange rocks, where journalists swam with the sealions, and I strolled along the strand listening to mockingbirds. For half an hour it was as if I had the Galápagos to myself.
That was in 1986; what is it like now? More hotels, more boats, more tourists? No doubt. More wildlife? Happily – thanks to the Ecuadorian Government and international designation – probably much the same. Problems with goats, cats, rats, etc? Same as it ever was. If you want to find out more there is masses on the internet. I am not the one to ask. I have never been back. Will I? Would I? Well, maybe if… Frock coats do rather suit me. And I’ve got the beard for it. My Darwin could have a new catchphrase: ‘I want to be alone.’ Or how about: ‘We’re gonna need a bigger boat!’
BIRDS ON THE BOX
chapter eleven
They Couldn’t Do That Now!
Picture this. A small suburban lawn. In the middle, there is half a tree. The trunk is riddled with cracks, crevices and holes. One hole is particularly conspicuous. It is only a couple of metres from the ground. If it were higher up, in a bigger tree – with branches – it would surely belong to a woodpecker. But not… At which point, we hear the impatient tchek tchek of an adult Great Spotted returning to the hole, and the frantic squeaking of fledglings inside it. What a set up! A photo or film opportunity if ever there was one. Only one problem, how do you get pictures from inside half a tree?
First, find a man with a steady hand and an electric saw. Slice a sliver of wood off the back of the tree trunk, thus exposing the nest chamber, and the fledglings. They can’t fly yet, but they could fall out, so be ready to catch them. Now replace the sliver with a pane of clear glass. Next, rapidly erect a canvas hide at the back of the tree, so that a cameraman’s lens will be able to observe and film whatever is happening through the glass. Now retire to the nearby kitchen and enjoy a nice cup of tea with Enid, the lady of the house. The kitchen window overlooks the lawn. Very soon Enid will call out: ‘They’re back. Woody and Winnie! Wood! Win! Yoohoo!’ You might have thought that Enid’s calling and waving might have unsettled the birds even more than the electric saw and the hide installation, but the fact is that once the eggs have hatched most parent birds exhibit extraordinary devotion, tolerance and bravery in caring for their offspring.
Nothing was going to deter Woody and Winnie from rearing their young, certainly not the sporadic rustling of a cameraman crawling into the hide, and setting up his enormous tripod, and focusing his lens through the little window and revealing three chicks that were so young they were not yet either ‘great’ nor ‘spotted’, or indeed even slightly feathered.
As days passed, they grew bigger, and turned from baby grey to adult black and white. The only colour in the scene was the yellowy glow of the cameraman’s lamp through the glass, towards which the chicks duly directed their rumps. Birds that nest in the dark defecate towards the nearest light. This is usually the nest hole, but not in this case. The cameraman had to do a lot of wiping. Nevertheless, he got some fabulous footage, arguably verging on the historic.
But when – you may be wondering – was this? Was it the work of one of the great pioneers of wildlife filming? Cherry Kearton perhaps? Or maybe Heinz Sielmann – he definitely did woodpeckers. Probably using much the same techniques as we did. We? I mean, of course, the BBC Natural History Unit. Woody and Winnie Woodpecker featured on a series called Bird in the Nest, which was broadcast live in 1994, and again in 1995. The presenters, claustrophobically crammed into a small van – the ‘Birdmobile’ – were Peter Holden (from the RSPB) and myself. Among the ace cameramen/naturalists were Charlie Hamilton James and Simon King.
Contemporary equivalents of Bird in the Nest can now use astonishingly minuscule cameras that can easily be inserted into holes and burrows – or even the wildlife itself! – but they are also bound by strict rules and guidelines about what can and can’t be done, not to mention the ubiquitous ‘health and safety’, for people and for wildlife.
Not so back in the mists of the mid-1990s. Nest set-ups were achieved by whatever disconcertingly ingenious means was necessary. Filming Kestrels involved erecting a precarious scaffolding tower. Jackdaws were persuaded to nest inside an empty oil barrel, suspended at a considerable height. A Great Tit family in a nestbox were removed from a tree, transported across the garden and relocated on the side of a shed, which had been erected specially for the purpose. It was big enough to accommodate a cameraman, or indeed a presenter. Peter nearly missed the start of one show because he’d got locked in with the tits!
First-time-ever live pictures of newly hatched Kingfishers were achieved by a similar technique to the woodpeckers, except that instead of sawing a slice off a tree trunk, Simon dug a pit in a riverbank. Viewers were enthralled when the tiny, blind and naked chicks made their historic debut, but by morning they were incensed and distressed by the news that, later that evening, the parent birds had been spooked by a band of boisterous locals on a Treasure Hunt, which had involved a deal of shouting and splashing up and down the river. The chicks were left unbrooded for maybe ‘only’ an hour or two, but they chilled, and by morning they were dead.
Misfortune also befell Woody Woodpecker. We had often worried that his regular flight path involved flying across the nearby busy road. His typical woodpecker undulating flight style meant that at the highest point he was safe, but at the lowest he was definitely potential roadkill. One day, the inevitable happened. Or so we believe. A lorry driver came to see us and – with a sad and guilty face – confessed: ‘I think I’ve just run over your woodpecker.’ We tried to console him by saying that it might not be Woody, but we all knew it was. Especially because he was never seen again. Peter and I rhetorically asked the viewing public whether or not we should provide extra food for Winnie and her rapidly growing brood. These days the question would have been literal: ‘Shall we save them by putting out mealworms? Or shall we let nature take its course? You decide!’ A bowl of mealworms was placed just below the nest hole, so near that all Winnie had to do was lean out and grab a beakful. As the chicks grew, they learnt to do the same. They survived, and the viewers rejoiced just as they had wept for the Kingfishers.
Bird in the Nest was dubbed ‘an avian soap opera’, and great accolades were bestowed o
n the BBC by the national press. But I can’t help thinking: it’s a good job they didn’t find out how some of it was done!
chapter twelve
Anthropothingy
Anthropomorphism. Some people can’t say it. Some people can’t spell it. And some people can’t stand it. Especially when the presenter of a wildlife film or TV programme starts giving creatures human voices, thoughts, opinions and emotions. I first realised that it was frowned upon by ‘serious naturalists’ when I attended my very first Wildscreen many, many years ago. The commentary on one of the films involved a slight tinge of the ‘Johnny Morrises’, which the majority of the audience received with what I could only describe as a collective sneer! I did not condone this derision, as must have become clear from the fact that on my own programmes I have rarely resisted dabbling in the anthropomorphic myself.
Why? Because it is challenging – one might call it acting – fun to do and, hopefully, to hear. It may simply be diverting, rather like that fanciful question: ‘If you were an animal what would you be?’, or it might help to illuminate animal behaviour. Watching Black Grouse on a lek, I found myself giving them dialogue like a couple of hard lads taunting each other, hoping to impress the girls by their bravura, while never actually coming to blows. ‘Right mate, you want some do you?’ ‘Think you’re well ‘ard don’t ya?’ Anticipating any accusations of trivialisation, my producer – bless him – provided the perfect defence, by confirming that such a ‘ritual’ stand-off was exactly what the cock grouse were doing. What’s more, to add to the anthropomorphic accuracy, a couple of disinterested hens stood at the side muttering: ‘I don’t fancy yours much!’ The only complaint I got was that, though the lek was in Scotland, I gave them all cockney accents.
The lads and lasses at a club could validly be compared with what happens at a Black Grouse lek – and vice versa – and there are a few more basic urges, needs and experiences shared by both humans and animals, such as hunger, starvation, pain, eating, sleeping and sex. However, it is attributing subtler human emotions and characteristics to wildlife, such as jealousy, nostalgia, depression or happiness, that is usually deemed ‘dangerous’ by scientists. ‘Dangerous’ because it may well be wrong or at least not provably right!
Where anthropomorphism really comes into its own is when the words and thoughts are being put into the heads, mouths or beaks of animals in fiction. How authentic they are is the author’s decision. It is accepted that The Wind in the Willows celebrates Kenneth Grahame’s love of the river and its wildlife, but don’t look to it as a compendium of accurate animal behaviour! Badger lives alone, real badgers live in groups. Moley potters around in daylight, real moles are strictly nocturnal. Ratty is clearly a Water Vole, and toads are slow, secretive and almost silent. No wild creature rows a boat or drives a vintage car. None of them talk. Grahame’s creativity and characterisation were inspired by observing his fellow men, not just wildlife.
The fact is that animals and humans are a formidable combination. From fables to films, they provide the looks, we provide the words! A few of us provide the talent to draw, paint or animate. Consider the number of cartoons – full length and ‘shorts’ – that feature eloquent animals as the principal characters who, by the way, effortlessly upstage the humans. Is there anybody who considers Mowgli to be the star of The Jungle Book? And can you imagine anyone else – animal or human – performing ‘Bear Necessities’ better than Baloo? I happily admit that few moments delight me more than when a cartoon animal character bursts into song. Even better if they dance, and better still if they are joined by a chorus. Surely we would all echo Dr Dolittle: ‘If I could talk to the animals… And they could talk to me.’ Except I would change that to ‘sing’!
I believe that many of the greatest works of art – or entertainment? – are what I would call ‘animated anthropomorphism’ (though I might not be able to say it after a couple of double Scotches). Wild creatures may be fascinating and photogenic but, let’s face it, they are not particularly creative! They may make us laugh and go ‘aw’, but they don’t intend to, and – as far as we know – they have no imagination. I’ll own up, I prefer my rabbits to tap dance and play the banjo (though I reckon that Bugs Bunny is really a hare). I am happy when my bluebirds harmonise on ‘Zip-a-dee-doo-dah’, and when I saw my first real Roadrunner and it didn’t go ‘beep beep’, I felt like complaining to the Creator.
However, let me be clear, I am not giving up wildlife and, if any creature is feeling under-appreciated, let me remind us all of one thing. Without animals, there would be nothing to be anthropomorphic about.
Indeed, there would probably have been no human creativity at all. No music, dance, art, literature, drama, animation, nor even any high definition or 3D! In all things, man was surely inspired by nature. There was nothing else.
chapter thirteen
I Know That Tune
Everyone knows that the playback speed of recorded sound makes a difference to its pitch. Fast equals high pitch, slow equals low. Mind you, it is not so easy to demonstrate on a CD or an MP3. It was much easier with vinyl. Play a 45rpm at 78rpm and it sounded like Pinky or Perky. Play it at 33rpm and it became the voice of God. Is it just a bit of aural fun, or does it have deeper implications?
A couple of years ago, I visited the studios of Andy Sheppard, a world-class jazz saxophone player, who is also renowned for incorporating natural sounds in his music. He told me that his initial fascination was born of irritation. He had been playing at a club in Germany, and such is a jazz musician’s nocturnal schedule, he finally got to bed as dawn was breaking and the birds were beginning to sing, including a Blackbird that was so loud it kept Andy awake. However, such was the loveliness of the song, that instead of cursing it he recorded it, which was such a relaxing process that he nodded off.
On waking many hours later, Andy reached out of bed and clicked on his tape recorder. What he heard literally scared him to death. Instead of the mellifluous melody of a Blackbird, his earphones were filled with a low rumbling roar, ‘like dinosaurs in the movies!’ He didn’t recall recording the soundtrack of Jurassic Park. What he’d done was accidentally playback the Blackbird at a much slower speed, which transformed it into a T. rex! He increased the speed – not a huge amount – and the dinosaur turned into a whale. A little faster again, and it became a dolphin, until – back at normal speed – it reverted into a Blackbird.
As Andy altered the speed and pitch, I listened with my eyes closed. Every sound was exactly as he’d said. Finally, I asked him to speed up a recording of actual whale song. It sounded like a Blackbird!
I am not going to attempt any scientific theory or analysis of natural sounds, what they mean, why they are as they are, and whether they are random or rational. For that I refer you to The Great Animal Orchestra by Bernie Krause. Krause often refers to the work of British sound recordist Chris Watson. I have worked with Chris for many years and have heard many extraordinary things ‘before my very ears’.
For example, the day he turned me into a Wren. I have the figure – small and dumpy – but what about the voice? A Wren’s song is not long, but it is very fast, packed with notes and incorporating a characteristic trill. There was no way I could whistle or sing it. Then Chris slowed it down. What amazed me was that many of the notes swooped, whooped and bent, more in the manner of a dolphin or a gibbon. What to our ears was a single note was in fact several. The trill – unsingable for a human – became a slow-paced tuk katuk katuk katuk, which I reckoned I could get my larynx around. I prepared to sing like a Wren.
For half an hour, I listened, learnt and practised. Then Chris recorded me doing my slow-speed Wren impression. He played it back and I sounded somewhere between a scat singer and a human beatbox. Then, the moment of truth, to play it back at Wren speed. It became faster and higher-pitched. You only have my word for it, but it wasn’t half bad! I was so confident, I perched on a gatepost, miming to the recording. At least one Wren sang back, but we drew the line
at mating.
chapter fourteen
Don’t Look Now
So there I was, nibbling my croissant, when in storms this enormous American woman. ‘Mr Oddie, Mr Oddie! The swans are attacking the Canada Geese!’ I was of course taken aback. It’s not often I meet anyone feeling sorry for Canada Geese. Added to which, what did she want me to do? ‘You’ve got to stop them!’ Did she seriously want me to go swan wrestling? Wasn’t she aware of the folklore? ‘They can break a man’s arm, you know.’ Not that I have ever heard of one that did. Nevertheless, I bet they could make mincemeat of a Canada Goose! But I didn’t tell the lady that. Instead, I resorted to euphemisms.
I explained that ‘Mute Swans are very “territorial”, as well as “protective” and “faithful”. All admirable qualities, I think you’ll agree.’ She didn’t. ‘But they are killing the Canadas!’ I countered that the appropriate word was not ‘killing’, but ‘deterring’. ‘They are just trying to make the geese go away by…’
‘By killing them!’ I was not winning. Clearly I would have to resort to the adjective that will brook no censure. ‘Madam, what those swans are doing is entirely natural.’ For a moment, she was silent, no doubt unable to resist her reverence for the blessed ‘N’ word. Her next pronouncement was not what I expected:
‘Well, it may be natural, but I don’t want to see it!’
‘So don’t look!’ I suggested.
As she stomped out of the café, the thought struck me: I bet she doesn’t watch many wildlife programmes!
Most of what wildlife programme-makers call ‘animal behaviour’, in a human context would be ‘misbehaviour’. Such content in a drama is preceded by a warning. (Or is it a promise?) ‘The following programme contains scenes of a sexual nature, violence and bad language from the start.’ The same ingredients in a wildlife programme are just what the audience expects to see, and certainly what the production team loves working on. A wildlife cameraman would kill for a kill, an editor loves cutting a chase sequence, the sound recordist revels in capturing every roar, and the director can’t wait to add some Barry White to the soundtrack for mating hippos. The final cut – the broadcast version – is approved by the producer, or someone even higher, so if viewers disapprove, that’s who to complain to!