‘What was all that about?’ asked John, puzzled.
‘He’s now gone back to warn the others,’ said Dave, ‘and they will get to the garden by the lower path. It is longer but it is a lot less risky as we are here.’
The afternoon wore on. It soon became obvious that we had little chance of catching a kestrel, so we dismantled the nets and Dave put the American kestrel on a stump nearby while we had some tea. Soon, to our astonishment, we descried ‘Mr Big’ himself approaching, but now from the opposite direction. As he reached us, it became obvious that during the course of the afternoon he had suffered a sea change. His hat was on the back of his head, his raven locks were dishevelled, and his eyes had the opaque, glazed look of one who has been suddenly woken from a deep sleep and has not quite bridged the gap between dreaming and reality. Though he still walked gracefully, he was more uncertain of his movements. When he reached us, he stopped and leaned negligently against a tree.
‘Hello,’ said Dave, ‘have you had a nice walk?’
‘Yes, I am walking,’ ‘Mr Big’ explained, smiling benignly, ‘I am walking in the forest.’
‘Did you have a nice time?’ asked Ann.
‘Very nice, Madam,’ he said, and went on to explain, ‘I am walking for my health.’
We were a bit nonplussed by this, so said nothing. He gazed dreamily down into the wild vistas of the gorge, where the tropic birds whirled like snowflakes. He appeared to have forgotten our existence. His face had an expression of vacuous tranquillity on it. Suddenly, he came-to briefly.
‘You are English?’ he asked me.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘From London?’ he asked.
‘Thereabouts,’ I said, not wanting to get bogged down in a lot of explanations as to where the Channel Islands were.
‘I have many relatives in London,’ he said, ‘also many parents.’
‘Really?’ I said, fascinated.
‘Many, many,’ he said, ‘I also have many parents and relatives in Birmingham.’
‘A very nice place, Birmingham,’ said John.
‘Very nice, and London also. My parents say they are very nice, and …’ he closed his eyes for a moment and I thought, like the dormouse in Alice, he had fallen asleep in mid-sentence. He suddenly opened his eyes, sighed deeply and continued, ‘… and I shall go there one day to join all my parents.’
‘Do you often walk in the forest?’ asked Dave.
‘For my health, I often walk in the forest,’ said ‘Mr Big’.
‘Do you ever see any birds?’ asked Dave.
‘Birds?’ said ‘Mr Big’, examining the question. ‘Birds? You are meaning birds?’
‘Yes,’ said Dave, ‘you know, like pigeons or condé.’
‘Birds?’ said ‘Mr Big’. ‘Yes, sometimes I am seeing birds and sometimes hearing birds too, singing.’
‘Do you ever see a small hawk, a kestrel?’ asked Dave, ‘the thing they call the “Mangeur de Poule”?’
‘Mr Big’ looked at Dave and then at the American kestrel, preening herself some three feet away. He closed his eyes briefly and licked his lips, then opened his eyes and looked at Dave and the kestrel again.
‘Hawk?’ he said, uncertainly.
‘Yeah, we’re looking for one,’ Dave explained, oblivious.
‘You are looking for a small hawk?’ asked ‘Mr Big’, determined to get it right.
‘Yes,’ said Dave, ‘the Mangeur de Poule.’
Again ‘Mr Big’ carefully examined Dave and the kestrel in close proximity He closed his eyes again and then opened them, obviously hoping that the hawk could have vanished – it hadn’t.
He was in a quandary. Was the hawk a figment of his marijuana-inflamed imagination? In which case, should he draw attention to it? If, on the other hand, it was real, why could not these people, who presumably had parents in London and Birmingham too, see the bird? The whole thing was very difficult, too difficult for him to manage. He gazed round desperately. We tried not to catch each others’ eyes for fear of laughing. At last ‘Mr Big’ found the solution to the problem.
‘Goodbye,’ he said, and taking off his hat, he bowed, stepped over our recumbent forms and made his way uncertainly down the path.
An hour later, when we made our way down to the main ride, we suddenly came upon ‘Mr Big’ sitting on the ground with his back against a tree, reading a book and consuming a large sandwich.
‘You have finished your walking?’ he asked, jovially, getting to his feet and brushing some crumbs from his lap.
‘Yes, we are going home now,’ said Dave.
‘To London?’ asked ‘Mr Big’, surprised.
‘No, Black River,’ said Dave.
‘Well, goodbye,’ said ‘Mr Big’, ‘I must be waiting for my friends.’
We got into the car and ‘Mr Big’ waved us a cheerful farewell.
‘Did you see what he was reading?’ asked Ann.
‘No, I was dying to look,’ I said. ‘What was it?’
‘Othello, in English,’ she replied.
I decided I was going to like Mauritius very much.
2. Pink Pigeon Palaver
The day on which we decided to go and hunt Pink pigeons dawned (if this is not too strong a word for such a dismal birth) and it appeared that the entire Indian Ocean from beginning to end was covered with a malevolent, swirling layer of thick cloud. In due course, this regurgitated floods of rain whose most noticeable attribute was that they were served at bath temperature. We gazed at the sky and cursed. This sort of weather was particularly annoying from two points of view. Firstly, this was the only night in that week that we could receive the vital help of the Mauritian Special Mobile Force, the island’s answer to the British Commandos and the American Marines, a stalwart body of men who, under their English Commanding Officer, Major Glazebrook, were to assist us in pigeon spotting and tree climbing, searchlight carrying and, eventually, we hoped, Pink pigeon capturing. Secondly, if this deluge of rain kept up, it would make any venture into the dripping and slippery forest futile in the extreme.
To our relief, mid-afternoon saw the break-up of the solid roof of cloud and blue patches started to appear like bits of a jigsaw on a dirty woollen shawl. By four o’clock, there was not a cloud in the sky and, in the warm air, the earth steamed gently. The blazing sun picked out all the raindrops trapped on the leaves and flowers so that they gleamed like some fallen galaxy of stars among the greens of the shrubs and trees. The Flamboyant trees that lined the road up towards the Pink pigeon forest had been battered by the fierce downpour and now each tree, aflame with scarlet and yellow blossom, stood in a great circle of mashed flowers as if rooted in a pool of its own blood.
In high spirits, we drove up the winding road towards the mountains. It was a road that curved and twisted as it climbed, now showing a wonderful vista of forest, its edges lapped by cane fields appearing as smooth and as bright as a billiard table from this height, and now and then showing us great shining sections of sea in halcyon array of blues with the reef, like a white garland of foam flowers, laid carelessly upon it. In the glittering bushes by the road, flocks of black and white bulbuls, with pointed crests and scarlet checks, fed among the leaves, sighing melodiously to each other; occasionally one would face another, raise its wings over its back like a tombstone angel, and flutter them gently in a delicate gesture of love. Sometimes, a mongoose would cross the road, slim, brindled, brisk, with a predatory Mafia gleam in its tiny eyes, nose to the ground as it snuffed its way to some blood-letting. We rounded one corner and came unexpectedly upon a troop of eight Macaque monkeys, sitting at the side of the road, their piggy eyes and air of untrustworthy arrogance making them look exactly like a board meeting of one of the less reliable consortiums in the City of London. The old male ‘yaahed’ out a staccato warning, the females gathered their megalocephalic Oliver Twist-thin babies to their breasts and the whole troop melted into the wall of Chinese guava that lined the road and disappeared with miraculo
us suddenness.
Eventually, we reached the Forestry Department’s nursery of small trees and swung off the main highway on to a rough but serviceable track. Half a mile down this, and we saw Dave’s car and the Army Land-Rover parked by the side of the track. Dave came bouncing over to greet us as we drew up.
‘Hi,’ he said, ‘did you ever see such weather? Black as a mole’s behind one minute, and blue as a monkey’s backside the next. I really thought, with all that rain, we’d have to call the damn operation off. As it is, it’ll be as wet as a well down there in the valley, but that’s OK, we’ll make out. Come and meet the guys.’
We decanted ourselves and our equipment from the car and followed him over to the Land-Rover. Standing by it, very smart in their green uniforms and berets, stood a group of soldiers, each as glossy as newly minted chocolate and of Herculean proportions. Their arms and legs were twice lifesize, their chests like firkins, their hands big enough to uproot whole trees, their smiles as wide and as glittering as any concert grand; yet, for all their Brobdingnagian proportions, they moved slowly and benignly, like Shire horses, beaming down at us lesser mortals from their exalted height. I decided, as they engulfed our puny hands in their gigantic, gentle paws, that I would rather have them on my side than against me. Their Commanding Officer, though not small by any standard, somehow looked slightly puny beside them.
Our military force had brought with them, as well as torches, nets and a portable searchlight, an enormous milk churn of tea, without which – as history relates – no British soldier or soldier trained by the British can possibly function smoothly and efficiently in outwitting and defeating the enemy. Making sure we all had our strange equipment, we set off in single file along a narrow path through the waist-high scrub, so laden with rain that we were soaked to the skin within a hundred yards.
Presently, the path dipped down into the valley and we were walking through a jungle of straight Chinese guava stems, interspersed here and there with a twisted, black ebony tree, or a group of Traveller’s palms, like neat eighteenth-century fans whose handles had been stuck in the ground. The path was steep and knotted across it lay roots like varicose veins. The whole was drenched in rain so the water gleamed at every footstep in the mud, like a splintered mirror, and the mud itself turned into a caramel-coloured, sticky slide that, conspiring with the roots, could break a leg or an ankle as one would snap a stick of charcoal. The sun was starting to sink and shadows slanted across the path, which added further to the hazards. As we slid and tripped our way down into the valley, the air grew heavy and warm, and sweat was now added to make our condition even more aquatic. Presently we slid down a precipitous slope and the forest changed from a mixed assortment of plants to groves of cryptomeria trees, at first glance looking rather like a prickly species of pine tree, dark green with heavy bunches of needles.
‘Pink Pigeon Valley,’ said Dave, proudly. ‘Took me an age to discover it. This is where most of them hang out.’
As he spoke, from the trees on our left came a loud, husky, seductive call: ‘caroo, caroo, caroo, coo, coo, coo’.
‘There,’ Dave exclaimed, ‘there’s one now. They’ve arrived early.’
With great enthusiasm, he threw back his head and imitated what appeared to be a whole flock of Pink pigeons in a variety of moods, ranging from anger to abject love. The real pigeons fell silent, seeming surprised by this sudden cacophony of sound, much as someone humming in the bath would be taken aback to be suddenly joined by the massed choirs of the Russian army.
‘Funny,’ said Dave, surprised. ‘They generally answer. Oh well, we’d better spread out and start spotting, they’ll all be coming in to roost pretty soon.’
Acting on his instructions, we spread out and made our way through the close-growing cryptomeria trees, seeking either trees we could climb and so view sections of the valley, or areas where there were breaks in the trees where we would get an uninterrupted sight of the pigeons flighting in. I found myself a large cryptomeria on a slope with branches growing practically down to the ground, so that scrambling up it was as easy as climbing a ladder. Some forty feet from the ground, I wedged myself into a convenient fork, unslung my binoculars and prepared to wait for the Pink pigeons. From my vantage point, I had a wide field of view which included a large slope of the cryptomeria forest where, Dave assured me, the pigeons roosted every night.
As I waited, I mused on the extraordinary method of capture that Dave had evolved. You arrived just before the sun went down and waited until the pigeons flighted in. When it was beginning to get dark they would flap heavily from wherever they were perching into another tree. This was the tree they would generally roost in, and it was this one that you had to mark. When it grew really dark, for the moon was fatal to such a venture, you approached the tree with torches, surrounded it and pinpointed the sleeping pigeon with your light beams. Then, quite simply, you shinned up the tree and either with your hands or a net shaped like a pair of sugar tongs, caught the bird, either soundly asleep still, or else awake but in a daze such as only a pigeon can get into. It sounded the most improbable technique but I had travelled in far too many countries and seen too many unlikely methods of capturing animals, to dismiss it out of hand.
The sun was now very low and the sky turned from a metallic kingfisher-blue to a paler, more powdery colour. The valley was washed with green and gold light, and the whole scene was calm and peaceful. A group of zosterops, minute, fragile, green birds, with pale, cream-coloured monocles round each eye, appeared suddenly in the branches above me, zinging and twittering to each other in high-pitched excitement as they performed strange acrobatics among the pine needles in search of minute insects. I pursed up my lips and made a high-pitched noise at them. The effect was ludicrous. They all stopped squeaking and searching for their supper, to congregate on a branch near me and regard me with wide eyes from behind their monocles. I made another noise. After a moment’s stunned silence, they twittered agitatedly to each other and flapped inch by inch nearer and nearer to me until they were within touching distance. As long as I continued to make noises, they grew more and more alarmed and, with their heads on one side, drew closer and closer until they were hanging upside down a foot from my face, peering at me anxiously and discussing this strange phenomenon in their shrill little voices. I was just wondering whether I could get them actually to perch on me, when two Pink pigeons flew over the brow of the hill and settled in a cryptomeria fifty feet away. By raising my glasses to watch, I put my Lilliputian audience of zosterops to flight.
‘Two have just flighted in,’ shouted Dave from the stream bed at the bottom of the valley. ‘Did anyone mark them?’
He had told me how tame the pigeons were, but I was still surprised to see these two billing and cooing in the tree, totally oblivious to Dave’s shout.
‘I’ve marked them,’ I yelled back, and again was faintly astonished that the pigeons, who were very close to me, did not fly away, panic-stricken. They sat side by side on the branch, their breasts glowing pale cyclamen-pink in the rays of the sinking sun, occasionally rubbing beaks in what, for pigeons, was a passionate kiss. From time to time the one I took to be the male would bow to the female and give his loud, husky chant. The female, like all female pigeons, succeeded in looking vacant, affronted and hysterical all at once, like a Regency maiden about to have the vapours. Presently, the other pigeons flighted in and then there were four more; each one’s arrival was greeted with a shout from one or other of our band. On one occasion, through my binoculars, I was watching Major Glazebrook climb laboriously to the straggling top branches of a cryptomeria on the other side of the valley, when a pair of pigeons flighted in and settled on a branch within six feet of him. Another one landed the same distance away from me and regarded me gravely for several minutes before deciding I might be dangerous and flying away. Given their tameness – or was it merely stupidity? – I was surprised that there were any of the species left, they presented such an easy target for
an unscrupulous marksman.
We settled down, watching our respective pigeons, and as the sun sank, and the valley became washed in shadow, the birds flapped heavily from tree to tree. The pair I was watching flew languidly out of sight among the branches; I was just preparing to descend from my tree and go in search of them, when they reappeared and settled themselves comfortably on a high branch. They looked smug and satisfied, and I hoped that they had at last chosen their roost for the night, but just before it grew too dark to see them, to my intense annoyance, they took flight again. This time, fortunately, they only flew some twenty feet to a higher branch and there settled themselves. Gradually, the valley grew dark. I slowly eased my way down the tree to the ground – a not unhazardous undertaking. In the depths of the valley, Dave, for some reason best known to himself, elected to impersonate an entire sounder of wild boar and was splashing about in the stream, grunting and squealing, screaming and moaning in the most life-like fashion. It was calculated, one would have thought, to have given permanent insomnia to any Pink pigeons. However, it appeared to be a sound they were well used to and they slumbered on, uninterruptedly.
I made my way towards the tree in which my pigeons slept, plucking some fat, scarlet guavas en route to assuage my thirst. They were tart but pleasantly refreshing. Sitting with my back to the base of my pigeon tree, I ate a handful of them and my mouth felt less dry. Now that it was dark, the cicadas started, a shrill, whining zither that was ear-piercing. Not only did it seem to penetrate your skull like a trepanning job, but it had a ventriloquial effect, so that a cicada which appeared to be singing on your shoulder turned out to be thirty feet away. These insects were a little over an inch long, pale emerald-green with golden eyes, their shimmering wings looking like frosted-green church windows.
My head ringing with their exuberant cries, I gave my mind to the problem now on hand. Owing to the fact that we had to match our pigeon-catching exploits to the availability of our gargantuan Task Force, we had been forced to choose this evening, when the moon was half full, rather than an evening when there was no moon at all. This meant that now it was dark, we would have to move very fast and try to catch our birds before the moonlight became too strong and thus gave them sufficient light to escape by.
Golden Bats & Pink Pigeons Page 3