The Birds - Redux.

Photo by Pelly Benassi on Unsplash

Background - The following is a part of a column I wrote for The New Zealand Listener in the year 2000 following a surf trip to Samoa. On this particular day, I’ve decided to have a break from surfing and travel to see a picturesque lake in the centre of the island. The full story will be included in my upcoming travel memoirs book.

I arrived in Apia early the next morning to pick up a few supplies for the walk.

As an experienced traveller of tropical climates, I was very much aware of the draining effects of the sun on mind and body.

Well-balanced and sustaining food and plenty of fluids would be essential for even the smallest outing.

Bearing this in mind, I entered a colourful supermarket and bought a packet of Kettle Fry chips (barbecue flavour), some Twisties (described by Wikipedia as a cheese curl corn-based snack food product, completely leaving out the words ‘delicious and nutritious’) and a small bottle of water. 

That’d see me through the day. 

Believing myself well-supplied for my scenic stroll, I repaired to the prearranged meeting place.  Shortly after I arrived, a fit-looking Samoan bloke approached and asked if I was the man who wanted to go to Lake Lanoto. He introduced himself as Willy, Chantelle’s assistant guide and a native of the island.

This was my first surprise of the morning. 

I had been labouring under the misapprehension that it would just be myself and my exotic French guide, Chantelle, going to the lake.

She, giggling shyly at my rugged New Zealand wit and charm, secretly appreciative of my manly good looks. Me, delighting her with tales of my single-handed conquest of the Borneo jungle, explaining how I casually brought down a charging wild pig with a well-aimed Kettle Fry.

That illusion shattered, I climbed into the back of the car and discovered surprise number two.

A squat woman in safari shorts, jungle shirt and, I swear upon my life, a pith helmet, grinned at me from her side of the vehicle.

She looked exactly like a female version of ‘Lofty’ from the vintage television program ‘It Ain’t Half Hot Mum’ (which hasn’t dated well). Though ‘Lofty’ was a bit cuter and considerably less insane.

“Hi I’m Marjorie, I’m a birdwatcher,” she informed me. The sun glinting off a large single diamond that had been embedded in her front tooth.

I was unable to reply as words had failed me. 

Chantelle filled the gap by telling me that Marjorie would be accompanying us on our walk.  I nodded dumbly and listened with a feeling of impending dread as ‘The Margester’ filled me in on the first fifty-years of her life.

Apparently, she had retired early and now spent her time travelling the world looking for rare birds.

Marjorie had spotted over six hundred little feathery dudes in her travels thus far and today she expected to find several ‘Red Necked Thingies’ and, if we were really lucky, a ‘Greater Spotted Warbling Whatsit’.

As a bird non-fancier, this excited me about as much as a tax audit. 

‘Still,’ I thought. ‘How bad could it be?’

In answer, Marjorie screamed ‘Stop the car’ into my right ear. From her tone, I assumed the Fijian Coup had spread to Samoa and we were about to be overrun by armed guerrillas. 

Chantelle slammed on the brakes and I dived bravely for cover behind Marjorie’s pith helmet. She failed to notice and leapt from the still-moving car, binoculars and notepad in hand.

Evidently, ‘The Margemeister’ had sighted several ‘Lesser Freckled Flying Critters’ in a nearby tree. Marjorie twittered with excitement and refused to get back into the vehicle until we had all had a good look at them.

It was going to be a very long day. 

After about an hour of trudging through incredibly dense jungle, Chantelle announced that she was a bit lost.

Willy laughed.

Obviously, I wasn’t in on the joke because I was less than amused, especially given that every ten paces we had to stop while the bird-lady made strange, strangled sounds in her throat.

At first, I thought she was suffering from heat exhaustion or hopefully some sort of trip-ending breakdown, then she explained that she was imitating the mating cry of the ‘Larger Crested Tit’.

There was no answer to that and, by then, I was convinced Marjorie could bend the birds, Hitchcock-like, to her will so I backed quietly away, careful not to make any sudden movements. 

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