There was this time I was down in South coast doing a story about the birds of the Arabuko Sokoke Forest. Yes, a story about freaking birds! I know zip about birds, and I do not particularly care for them either. My mantra with birds is, if I can’t eat it, I won’t bother with it. But I accepted the assignment because the money was decent.
Boy was I bored out of my brain!!
See, it was a three day assignment. Each morning a driver would pick me up from the hotel and we would head into the forest where I would meet this ageing conservationist who knew about 30,000 birds by both their scientific and common names and even by the sounds they made. Crazy. We would drive under the damp canopy of indigenous trees, the feeble light making a weak attempt to peek through the foliage, strange animals moaning in the thicket and small rodents darting in front of us, as though they were being chased by invisible beasts.
We would then get out of the car and walk for kilometers, with the old man with 30,000 bird sounds in his head, prattling on excitedly about the Sokoke Pipit and sijui the Amani Sunbird and a host of close to 300 bird species of that forest. Passion is one thing, but this man was on another level.
He would suddenly stop mid-step, ears cocked, then raise one gnawed finger up to command silence, (which convinced me he was the last of the diehard KANU members) and then say in a whisper, “that is the Otus Ireneae – Sokoke Scop Owl – and the smallest owl in Africa, here, have a look,” and hand me these binoculars from 1932 while pointing at a tree. “Do you see her there, on that left branch?” I couldn’t see shit, let alone the left branch he was speaking of. But I’d lie that yes, I could see the precious Otus Ireneae and the lovely left branch it perched on. I lied because he was so excited about his birds and I didn’t want to break his heart but also I wanted us to keep moving lest we are eaten by an animal while standing there looking at the bloody Otus Ireneae. I wasn’t just ready to die for an owl, least of all the smallest owl in Africa. At some point I was so bone tired and bored I wouldn’t have cared if we saw a bird breakdancing. If you ever sit at your desk feeling bored, you should try walking through a cold forest for 8 hours staring at birds.
At one point, he convinced me to get off the path even after admitting that there were snakes, but “a snake will not bite you until you threaten it”, and I asked him if leaving our path and getting into its path wasn’t a threatening move on our part and he said it was unlikely that we would encounter one. Only we did! A large brown ugly snake with a head the size of a mini- burger. He forgot to mention (conveniently) that the forest had 41 species of snakes!! One, two, three…41! I also forgot to mention that I would rather be mauled by a lion as finger food than come face to face with a snake. Let’s just say we didn’t look for any more birds that day after that incident.
In the evening I would be dropped back at the hotel where I’d take a long hot shower to rid my mind of Otus Ireneae and later sit down to dinner and eat alone. By the way, is it just me who usually finds themselves having dinner at a hotel while coincidentally someone seated a few tables away is celebrating their birthday, and the kitchen staff come out in a long meandering line, beating pans and pots and singing some cheesy “African” birthday jingle while they circle around your damn table with a cake, giving you false hope as a result, only to head to the birthday person’s table, who acts surprised as their date sits there feeling very creative and covert? I tell you what, when you have been watching birds the whole day, that shit is enough to make you slit your wrist with a butter knife.
After dinner I would sit down in my room and look at the notes I had written during the day and try to write something fun about birds and bird watching, but I just couldn’t write the first word! In the words of the famous rubbish ad….it just refused. I was expected to produce 4,000 words on birds. 4,000 words! Yet I couldn’t muster an opener. And every day for two days I would go back to the room and stare at the Word cursor waiting for an intro to leap into my mind with little success. Desperation.
The last night, after trying to write something with no success I walked out to the darkened beach and stood there listening to the waves crash ashore, feeling the salty breeze that also brought with it the deep mysteries of the Indian ocean. Then a thought occurred to me: “What would happen if I got onto a boat and disappeared into the ominous night?” I would leave everything in my room as it was and only go with the clothes on my back. I would leave my sketchy notes on birds behind and let the tide take me to whichever destination it desired. Maybe at dawn my boat would scrap at a beach in a small fishing village where I would start a new life as an unknown. I would probably learn to be a fishing net mender, then spend the whole day shirtless, mending fishing nets and later, as the large orange ball of the sun plunged in the horizon, retire to my modest makuti thatched house where I would curl on the mat under a flickering candle light and NOT wonder what was trending on Twirra.
(I’d miss my Kindle though)
That’s what writing does. It makes you disappear. Every time I sit down to write something I never really quite know where it will go and where it will lead me, but I succumb to words and I trust them to find safe shores. It’s literally like pushing the boat out into the night. And it’s freedom. Beautiful freedom. Words, like the tide, will simply lead you where they want to take you, and all you have to do is to put up your sail and go.
The fourth Bikozulu Writing Masterclass is on from 7th to 9th October at the Sarova Panafric Hotel. As usual we only need 20 people – people who love creative writing, people who want to be free. Registration is open today, so send an email to [email protected] and cc to me [email protected] to book a slot. We have 15 slots left so far.
Don’t just stand there staring at the sea. Come. Come let’s push this boat out into the dark waters together. Who knows what awaits us out there? Hopefully something more exciting than an Otus Ireneae.
Ps. Imelda sends her love. (The bitch).