FREE AS BIRD
How I Became A Birder – A Memoir
“There he is,” Emil whispered. He nodded towards a group of trees some twenty meters from our jeep. An orange smudge was fluttering in the branches. Through my binoculars I could make out the crown-like crest and the checkboard pattern of his wings and tail as the hoopoe sailed majestically through the air. I held my breath as he landed on another branch, close to my open window. The little bird looked from right to left, scanning the flowery meadow before us, like a king inspecting his kingdom. I could have sworn he also laid eyes on me.
Emil and I are birders, two of a growing group of bird lovers worldwide. Birding, once the quaint domain of moustachioed retirees, is, according to a recent Condé Nast article, the most unlikely craze for 2017. More and more enthusiasts of all age groups venture into the forests, the swamps and steppes, walk, hike or drive for hours, even days on end just for a short glimpse of feathers. What lies at the core of this new trend?
My first encounter with birds was an unhappy one. At six I had a budgie. Pipsi was an overfed little bird, white, with streaks of yellow and celeste adorning her wings and tail. Also, Pipsi hated me. She never perched on my finger. She never sang but sat in a sulk, talking only to her own reflection in her tiny mirror. The first occasion – a window unintentionally left open – she escaped. I called for her to come back. “Pipsi!” In vain. She flew off, soaring into the sky.
From Icarus to Superman, throughout history humans have envied birds their ability to fly. As birds dwell in the skies, they were considered of divine nature, of special wisdom and foreseeing. The Ancient Romans relied on augury as much as the Aztecs. Storks were universally trusted to deliver babies, owls and crows brought death. Migratory bird ushered in the seasons. While some birds have been domesticated or have socially adapted, it is this other group of untamable, wild birds that are the birders’ objects of desire.
Birders themselves come in three groups. There are the so called listers, ambitious documentarians of birds: a scarlet-rumped trogon in Guatemala (check), a lilac-breasted roller in Botswana (check), a lapped-faced vulture in the Serengeti (check). Then there are the bird protectionists, activists who risk their lives for those of birds. And finally there are those, who turn to birds for solace and meditation, who look for solitude in the precious company of birds. I am one of those.
It took me a long time to realize that my budgie did not hate me, but the cage. Yet, when she so bravely took off through the open window, I knew even then that the little bird had no chance of survival in the city. The concrete jungle is a hostile place, the domain of bossy crows and opportunistic pigeons.
The urban environment with its ceaseless hustle and bustle, its limited space devoid of nature and seasonal changes, doubtlessly plays an important role in spreading depression and anxiety in modern society. I, too, felt caged in the city, longing for freedom and authenticity.
At first, I stopped to listen to the songs of the blackbirds in the rare tree. Then I started to search for the tits, tiny yellow spots in the leaves. I tracked the crows’ trajectory across the cloudy sky. As my passion for birds grew, I didn’t content myself with chance-encounters anymore. I ventured further into nature and solitude. I invested in binoculars and photo-equipment, in bird almanacs and finally in plane tickets to migrate with the birds. I grew into a full a full-fledged birder.
Early June this year, I travelled to Hortobagy National Park in Hungary. I booked a room at a brand new B&B catering especially to international birding tourists. Before sunrise, Emil, who works as a ranger and guide, picked me up for a tour. As he steered the jeep across the bumpy dirt roads, he spoke broken English with a Hungarian accent that was as melodious as the country was flat.
“Most locals have left for Budapest for work,” he told me. “Now tourists come. For the birds.”
The moment Emil killed the jeep’s humming engine, he fell silent. We sat and listened to the trills and trolls outside. Birdsong was somersaulting through the chilly morning air like the butterflies courting the flowers in the meadow. The sun slowly climbed up the sky. White clouds drifted by like sails. Time ceased to exist. I almost forgot what we had come for.