Old Man and Me

Jerdon’s Courser, Admiral… Jerdon’s Courser, it is! The name of the bird you were trying to recall. That was my last message to him which he did not see.

I was at INHS Asvini visiting Vice Admiral Manohar Awati (retd) VrC PVSM who was admitted there for a cardio check-up. I had the good fortune, unfortunately, of meeting him whenever he came down to the naval hospital in my neighbourhood. I had just returned from a holiday in Coonoor-Wellington-Ooty and had come to meet him as promised. He had desired that I return with news of Nilgiris, a destination steeped in nostalgia for him.  “I used to go on field trips in the hills with the Old Man,” he told me. ‘Old Man’ was the great ornithologist Dr. Salim Ali with whom he went on numerous nature jaunts and explored India’s flora and fauna. 

Our association went back several years, to the days when I was a Journalist in Mumbai covering defence and environment beat; I used to bump into him at events such as commissioning of naval ships or the Golden Jubilee of National Defence Academy. Though we did not meet often, we corresponded via emails, oftener. Ours was a relationship based on our mutual love and respect for nature and wildlife.

Not many may know that the veteran naval officer was an avowed naturalist and conservationist. He was an honorary member of Bombay Natural History Society (BNHS) who campaigned for the cause of nature conservation at the drop of a hat. He even penned few books such as, “The Vanishing Indian Tiger” and “Homo Sapien and Panthera Leo”, the latter on the Gir lion. After retirement, he had settled in the back of beyond Vinchurni, “nice countryside blooming with ripening jowar and maize”, a perfect habitat for him. One November (2013), he wrote in response to my blog on birding: “A pair of Great Indian Horned Owl came my way as I almost walked past them in the shadow of a spreading Pimpran (Ficus reticula) late one evening here in Vinchurni. I was snapped out of my reverie as their eyes followed my movement, past them. I thought the horns quivered a bit testifying to they being two large erect feathers atop their heads imitating horns (hence the name). Now that our tank is full after a lively Monsoon, there are a huge number and varieties of water birds upon it. The last time in a similar situation seven years back there was a small flock of flamingos here. They were obviously reconnoitring. I did not see them again. This year there will be a goodly number of ducks from the north come to winter on my tank. I look forward to a busy cool season.”

On another occasion, in the peak of summer, he wrote: “I am back in good old, drought-stricken Vinchurni where there is a brown, dusty desert with nary a sign of even a blade of green. It is very upsetting, but who can fight Mother Nature, certainly not those who have despoiled her so heartily.” Even in his 80s, the Admiral was on the move attending conferences, talks and events where he was invited to speak. On return to Vinchurni he would catch up with communication unfailingly.

I would keep him posted of my sojourns in Kenya/Africa through my blogs and he would respond promptly. He told me once that he was offered the post of Wildlife Warden of Serengeti in Tanzania which he had to, obviously, decline. I could well imagine this tall personage with flowing white beard at home in a safari jeep as in a sailboat! On my verse on Olduvai Gorge, the cradle of civilisation in the heart of Serengeti, he commented: “Evocative, endearing and effervescent!”. He said that it was the nicest poem he had read on Africa. “Keep writing. You may yet write a new chapter in the relations between India and Africa, the oldest continuous civilisation on earth and the progenitor place of Homo Sapien Sapien,” he prodded me on in his inimitable way. When I shared my ‘Mombasa Msafari’ (Safari in Swahili) with him that was published in National Geographic Traveller, he took me back to Mombasa of 1950’s that he visited.

“I first went there in June 1950 in the (destroyer) old RANJIT (emphasis his). The new Indian Navy having just dropped her Royal patronage, was showing the new flag around the Ocean! The Mombasa Club would not have us. So, our very British Rear Admiral Geoffrey Barnard, RACINS, as he was identified and addressed in naval parlance and signals, quarantined it. They relented and let the brown Englishmen in (!) in an imposed, post-colonial egalitarianism. The wardroom returned the compliment. The old harbour then known as the Dhow Port was crammed with Indian and Arab Dhows much as the northern Bunders of Bombay used to be, the Lakdi, Koyala, Hay and numerous other Bunders of old Bombay Harbour. I witnessed a busy scene in Mombasa Dhow Port, shiny black, sweating muscular bodies clambering up the main sail yards to make or furl those massive cotton sails. It must have been hard work entrusted only to the most able-bodied. I last visited Mombasa in TIR, in command in 1965. It had not changed much in the interim fifteen years.”

Back in India, at the Naval War College in INS Mandovi, I wrote to him about the riches of the naval base, an ecological niche that was million years old. In that April of 2013, he urged me to explore Goa further. “By now you would have done the Mandovi-Kumbharjua-Zuari cruise and would therefore be aware of the beautiful marshes around Kumbharjua and their inhabitants, both avian and reptilian. If you have not done that trip please do it now during the dry season because once the rains set in the whole region is flooded, the birds have flown and the reptiles washed away, probably. Nature, as always, will recover fast. The point is will we? We must, to prove an important point that we belong to this earth.” Love and concern for nature poured through his writings thus; his sense of seasons and places was spot-on.

When I was stationed in Visakhapatnam, the Admiral, who was visiting for the International Fleet Review, had set out to meet me at my residence, unbeknown to me. Unfortunately, he couldn’t reach me as he had my old phone number. I was deeply touched and honoured to know that he had come all the way up the Dolphin Hill hoping that he could track me! By now, our interactions were getting stronger and I could see I had a well-wisher in him. So when I wrote about Dolphin Hill – about the Cyclone that hammered us into submission and nature’s regeneration, a year later, in “Daydreaming and the Art of Living”, I was delighted by his spontaneity.

“What does Paddy do, what has she been up to? She does a lot and has been up to a good deal during a day on Dolphin's Nose. The devastation wrought by Cyclone Hoodoo or whatever it was tabbed, has passed and the earth and Nature are restoring themselves, as they always do, bringing happiness, even gaiety to her humans wherever we are. Paddy has that rare quality and power to observe this gentle restoration through her fellow beings all about her. A rare advantage, used so beautifully to acquaint us ordinaries with Nature's pervasive beauty, kind and gentle ways. Paddy is Her messenger to us, unnatural Hedons. Sit up and take note of Paddy's doings if you wish to be Natural, get a little out of this, otherwise, meaningless existence”! He made everyone feel special endearing him to all who were awed by him. 

He did not stop at encouraging words, but urged me to send my articles/blogs for publishing. The one on Dolphin Hill’s Purple fountain grass had him raving. By now I was knee-deep into photography, apart from writing, and ‘50 shades of Red’ was a perfect marriage of both. “A poetic essay about seemingly insignificant weed. You have given it a romantic palaver (is that an apposite word?). Should go to BNHS for Hornbill for the amusement and appreciation of a wider readership. You will miss this in Bombay, in the concrete jungle of NOFRA. Borivali National Park is not far; maybe it awaits your magical camera,” he wrote when I was all set to come to Mumbai on transfer.

It was here in Mumbai that I got to meet him face-to-face again, on his medical sojourns to the naval hospital. The last time I saw him before he moved on, like I mentioned earlier, was on my return from the Coonoor-Ooty-Wellington. I had taken my camera to show him birds of Nilgiris on the LCD as I narrated my experiences. That is when he was trying to recall the nearly threatened bird endemic to Nilgiris. Awati had a photographic memory that stowed away all manner of information in neatly stacked compartments to be recalled at will, irrepressible raconteur that he was. This was just one of those stray occasions when he couldn’t summon the name of the bird that he and the legendary Salim Ali had tracked in the Blue Hills. Jerdon’s Courser was the bird he was trying to recollect, I realised later.

Soon he was discharged and I shared the edited pictures via email. On 10 October, he wrote back to say: “You really are a wonder, a gift of Nature to the Navy. The latter has yet to appreciate that. It will, one day”!

On 3 November, 2018 he breathed his last passing away in sleep in his beloved Vinchurni. He was 91.




 

NOTE 1: Since I had the camera handy, I shot this portrait as he was being discharged from the hospital on 1^st October.  This may, possibly, be his last portrait. 

NOTE 2: His emails are quoted verbatim and are italicised.

JANAKI

The Woman in Red

Red chiffon

Vermilion on forehead

Coral round the neck

Adorned are the Ammas of Andhra

Bhavani becomes them!

PENANCE

4 a.m. Durga Temple

Janaki keeps her date

With Maa Devi Durga Bhavani

Darshan done, sindoor and mala donned

‘Bhavani’ now returns home

To the call of family deity

for Puja and Prasadam…

Uncombed hair, empty stomach,

She walks for an hour

from Yarada village to Dolphin Hill

Bare feet - in penance

To meet call of duty…

8 to 5 ‘domestic’ routine

Washing, cleaning, cooking, ironing

On 2 ½ cups of milky tea

In descending darkness and black-out

Also an outcome of striking ‘power’

Fear of snakes banished 

She hurries home for evening prayers

To her two daughters

And an alcoholic husband

Fresh naivedyam to prepare… yet again

Until Vijayadashmi

In the innocent hope of appeasing the Demon!

‘Modern’ Amma

A minister once

In his wisdom… or lack of it

Called women ‘names’

Parkati aurat, he said –

For those with short-crop,

And, by corollary, thence

for their ‘modern’ outlook

He, perhaps, never ventured

Down under… South

Or he would have seen

The Ammas of Andhra

Head tonsured off its tresses

Sporting skull-crop of grey

Or, a bob and a blunt

Nose-studs and saree in place

The mane left behind

At Tirupati…

At the feet of Lord Venkateshwara

Fashion sense or religious stance

It is, finally, all in the glance

Note: I have used the description Amma in many places… it may seem a derogatory connotation to some (ironically so, given our penchant for poking fun at “Madrasis”), but I use the word, in its true sense, as a genuine term of endearment and respect.  

Far From The Mall-ing Crowd

A Professor of Philosophy and an acquaintance had called us for a rendezvous at his residence in Malleshwaram. A man of two parts (actually, many more), as he described himself, he was a writer by ‘vritti’ (practice) and a Hindustani classical vocalist by ‘pravritti’ (proclivity).  And yet it was his self-confessed academic interest in Kenya/Africa and Goa that served as the perfect bridge for us to meet. The fact that we had spent three-and-a-half years in Kenya and are currently stationed in Goa made this a coincidental, almost pre-destined meeting. Over a traditional Melkote meal prepared by the Professor himself we discussed Kenya and books on Africa. That is when he mentioned John Gunther’s ‘Inside Africa’ which set off a chain of meetings and events that made for a special Bengaluru day and experience, indeed.

During our stint in Kenya, we had avidly devoured - browsed, read, collected - all manner of literature on Africa, but to our surprise the aforementioned compendium, a 1955 vintage, had eluded us. That is when the Professor, in a gesture of magnanimity, called up his source – a friend and book-collector of rare books, to ask if he had or could procure another copy of Gunther’s Africa. A copy was available - just for us - we were told.  The Professor proposed the next date, at a central location from where he would take us to his oft-patronized rare and second-hand bookstop. He, thus, opened up yet another window of discovery.

We find ourselves in the heart of South Bangalore at a busy marketplace with its honking rickshaws and scurrying traffic. Away from the urban chaos, tucked in a quiet cul de sac is a modest dwelling housing an unlikely bookshop. The open terrace leads into an extension room which is brimming with books.  Used books and second-hand bookshops often wear a distinctly disdainful and devil-may-care look (the owner is the culprit, of course) almost as though proclaiming that they are worth their titles, not their appearance. But not this one; here most of the tomes are neatly laminated and certainly look well-tended. If mere volumes were a measure of a book-shop’s merit than this would be a roadside eatery. But soon we discover that this is getting to be a fine dining experience. A bespectacled man in his 70s in crisp white shirt and grey trousers is its humble proprietor.

Like a jeweller unravelling his collection of rare gems, this gentleman (who shall remain unnamed on his request) pulls out diamonds. He thumbs the six-volume first edition of Winston Churchill’s rendering of World War II which earned him the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1953. Entire works, such as Radhakrishnan’s treatise on Hindu Philosophy and translation of Rig Vedas by a Western scholar, grace the shelves. Other eclectic titles vie with each other for eyeballs - Edmund Hillary’s ‘High Adventure’ and Charles Darwin’s ‘The Voyage of the Beagle’ (Books that have changed Man's thinking), among them. I spot the Royal Horticultural Society’s ‘Encyclopaedia of Plants and Flowers’ which awakens a distant memory. Having seen the book in Wellington’s Staff College library, I had looked for it high and low, made widespread enquiries, to no avail. Finally, I got my second-hand copy through a friend based in London who put up a request on UK Command and Staff College library intranet. The copy here is in a better condition and being offered at third the price at which I got mine a decade ago! And that brings me back to the “Shanbag” of this nameless bookshop.

Like any true-blue book-lover, Mr. M collected books to an untenable degree, but unlike most book-lovers he took his passion a notch higher and brought it to an altruistic conclusion. By ‘recycling’ his amassed wealth he is, in a way, spreading his love of books.  But his method of doing this is very subtle. You’ll not find any board outside his house (“because I do not want to disturb my neighbours”) nor any advertisements or promotions to announce his presence. For nearly 15 years, he has sustained his business through word-of-mouth publicity or as he puts it, “through good wishes of friends and acquaintances like the Professor”. At once he pleads that we buy books from him in future, and in the same breath insists that we do not spread the word indiscriminately as he doesn’t wish to handle regular customer traffic. Our surmise is that it is a ploy to sieve in genuine book lovers.  Mr. M admits that it has been an avenue for income post-retirement, but it is evident that he is not in it for profit. His old-world values disallow him from making financial gains from what is a labour of love. He covers the books with dust-proof jackets, meticulously, all by himself. “This space itself was a gift from Swami Raghvendra (saint-philosopher, much revered in Karnataka and Andhra). When I had no money to buy a house, a Good Samaritan offered me this at an affordable rate. Recently, I was offered 2 crores of rupees for this house. But I will never part with it. This house is 130 years old,” he gets voluble.

I come away with my “Inside Africa”, a gift from the Professor, and a compendium on Indian Climbers and Shrubs, a 1954 BNHS edition, for a meagre sum, among others.  I part ways with Mr. M assured in the thought that some of my books now have a refuge too if and when I seek to declutter my home library.  And that they will fall into deserving hands.

We take leave of Mr. M and as we are sauntering around in the neighbourhood, another old house, patina of peeling wall-paint and all, catches my attention.  Bimba Art Hut has a magnetic pull on me and I am drawn into its courtyard and modest rooms as though in a temple sanctum sanctorum. The frayed façade is embellished by terracotta murals on the walls and the window bears a trellis shaped to a peacock with its train. The stone floor and solid wood doors lend an antiquarian and rustic charm to the boutique which showcases assorted works of art. The hut, itself, is one big exhibit. Terracotta lanterns and even jewellery, textiles, votive, coffee tables, lacquer-ware accessories, and bric-a-brac are artfully window dressed throughout. I learn that this “art ashram” is the inspiration of founder-artist Deepa Dorai. She is not at home but the evening’s experience has been so satiating that we seek to further satiate ourselves – our hunger cravings, this time - in a salutary gesture.

The Professor leads us to the legendary Vidyarthi Bhavan, a roadside eatery, nondescript like the bookshop, but with a humungous reputation. Established pre-independence – in 1943 – it is a wonder that this place, famous for its masala dosa, even exists today in the face of fashion food fads. Even at 7 in the evening the ‘tiffin room” is packed and our wait only helps in whetting our appetite. When the 6-inch dosa finally arrives it is piping hot and utterly buttery divine. The filter coffee helps round up the mini meal. In the company of great Kannada litterateurs and artistes peering over us out of amateur sketches on the wall, we skim the Kannada cultural scene and dissect Bangalore city – then and now, with the Professor. For less than Rs. 500, we have had a priceless experience untouched by the mall culture.

As we finally step out of the portals of past and present, we land smack into the flower market. A whiff of mallige (jasmine) assails our senses. The intoxicating scent mingles gently with that of incense. Somewhere, a temple bell rings, or maybe I am imagining it. 

-         

Peoples of Kenya - I

HARRISON - A PROUD AKAMBA

When we heard of Harrison’s death we knew the penny had dropped. Our Kenyan odyssey had come a full circle and it was, just perhaps, time for us to leave and go back. Harrison was a swarthy Kenyan, a proud Kamba and a God-fearing Christian, the first of the local peoples of Kenya we had  privilege connecting with. When we touched Kenya soil it was his hearty jambo and karibuni that ushered us and eased us into an alien country. If Prado were a fighter aircraft then the Mission’s driver supremo Harrison would be Top Gun.

Wearing a clean brown safari suit everyday, lumbering with a limp, a smile on his lips and a twinkle in his eyes, he performed his duty as a driver almost karmically. His rustic wisdom articulated colloquially enlightened us about the city and its people more than any nuggets from “Lonely Planet” or counsel from local Indians. “All this talk of city being unsafe... don’t listen to people; if you do you’ll not even be able to eat or breathe… this is bad, this not good… I live here all my life of 65 years, I drive at night, nothing happens to me,” he would say in his robust Kenyan drawl. It was reassuring to have him drive us around; he seemed no less than a bodyguard in a city that was notorious for its crime and carjacking. Moreover, he would beat the notorious Nairobi traffic by navigating in and out of obscure lanes and bylanes as though he had a GPS in his head.

Having sired eleven children (all grown up now), he was the quintessential father figure who said it like it is, mincing no words, particularly when it came to punctuality! And yet, he was there for us always, assuredly, with his ever ready: “Hakuna Matata” meaning, “No problem”. He had a way with words and could hold his own in front of anyone. Once when he was dropping us at the American ambassador’s residence for an official function, the security at the gate, in typical American condescension ordered Harrison, scurvily, to go and park far away from the gate. The proud Kenyan let loose a politically-loaded repartee: “Who wants to be close to the Americans anyway!” Harrison had the chutzpah to speak his mind without fear. What struck me most about this person was his dignity and self-pride. Harrison owned a small “kioski” (he pronounced kiosk thus, in his inimitable way) round the corner from where we stayed. One night, the civic authorities demolished it without any notice or warning. We heard about it from the nonchalant owner himself who held no grouse against anyone despite the calamity.

Being driven by him, even as we got acquainted with the city of Nairobi we got insights into the man himself. When I raved about the beauty of green Nairobi, he urged me to go to the countryside to see how beautiful Kenya really was. One day revealed that he was a Marathon runner when on one of his runs he injured his foot such that he had to give up running altogether. His day began with a concoction of some medicinal leaves followed by a healthy porridge; he confided about his secret recipe for good health, on another drive.  He would never eat out no matter how late he had to stay on duty. A modest meal cooked by him, of ugali (maize flour porridge) and sukuma wiki (kale), the staple of most Kenyans, would see him through the day. He eschewed vices, stayed away from alcohol and smoking, but supported several wives back in his village!

Kilonzo Harrison was a farmer at heart who talked fondly of fields of Irish potato and corn back home in Machakos. He looked forward to going there to be with his folks during Christmas where he would play the guitar to while away evenings.  Accustomed to his business-like presence, it was difficult to imagine him with a floral shirt, strumming a guitar, and riding a motorbike, carefree, on country roads. Or perhaps not, but that was the real Harrison we never really got to see.

His death was sudden and though he did not die in a motorbike accident, in an indirect way, it was to be his nemesis. Down with common cold already, he contracted pneumonia when he indulged his motorbike in the wintry countryside air.  But something tells me that there was more to it. That though he may not have died a bitter man, he must have died a pained man with a lament in his heart. His sons did not share his old-world and Christian values and rebelled against him for the firm hand he wielded on them. In an unfair and uncaring world, his upright ways did not always get recognized or respected and he had to swallow hurt and humiliation on many occasions . It was unfortunate that after his retirement we did not get to see him or bid farewell to him as the curtain drew over our la affair Kenya.

(NOTE: The title, Peoples of Kenya, has been borrowed from Joy Adamson’s book of the same name which documents (with illustrations by the author, herself) the 52 various tribes of Kenya. While, my blog is not a study of any tribes, I present this series as portraits of ordinary Kenyans that I felt inspired to write about. The first one is on a proud Akamba, Kilonzo Harrison.)  

Why I Love Kenya

There is no reiterating that the savannas and safaris have a merciless hold on me. But that is not the only reason why Kenya has me, or anyone who visits it not quite knowing what to expect, bewitched. Kenya is an optimal amalgamation of European “notions” of civic responsibility and cleanliness, native African warmth and hospitality and a dash of Indian touch that makes for a genteel existence.  In contrast, modern India’s pervasive mammonism and what it is cheering as new aggressive and attitudinal shift of GenNext seems jarring, especially for someone who has seen the “upside” of a so-called underdeveloped African country. After coming back home, the contrast between the two countries appears even more stark and striking. Indians may have a stereotyped notion of “Africa” as an overcrowded and poverty-stricken country but, ironically, it is Kenya that brought home lessons of “civic responsibility” and “happy co-existence” more than all my years in India.

    

 In my experience, Kenyan men and women are, largely, soft-spoken, courteous and civil whether they come from higher echelons of society or from the working class. A courteous “Good Morning” or a hearty “jambo” with a smile has to set pace for the day. An anecdote illustrates the point well, also the fact that it came from my local house help. Once a man wanted to buy fish and asked the vendor the price of the fish. The lady offended by his lack of social etiquette replied: “Since you do not want to greet me first, you might as well ask the fish its price”!

  

Indians, at least in the metros, are losing out on these basic niceties. Streets and public places have become arenas for slanging matches if one doesn't get right of way be it while bargaining with a vendor, jostling for parking space, clambering onto a bus or local train or hailing a cab. And we cannot do anything subtly or softly; everything has to be proclaimed loudly to the world and its neighbour.While Geography, climate and weather may have favoured Nairobi more than any Indian city, there is no reason why old-world values, courtesies or ordinary decencies be given short shrift in day-to-day dealings. 

Megapolises in India, small towns even more so, are increasingly getting caught up in appearances – hip hair style, snazzy electronic gadgets and popular designer labels worn on sleeves - has become the measure of people’s worth.  Contrast that with the Kenyan get-up where there is little emphasis on what you wear save a dazzling smile, easy laughter and a ready jig. Drivers may have one or two pieces of ensemble but they will be worn nattily and with great élan. Women are usually in trousers or skirts and do dress bold but there is singular absence of eve-teasing – no leering, no jeering, no pawing or pinching! The fact that Kenya is an open society in contrast to Indians, who are a repressed lot, may have something to do with it.

The wholesale vegetable market at Nairobi’s City Park is a revelation. The Mama Mbogas (women vegetable vendors; in Swahili, mboga means vegetables) are patience personified and blind trust seems to rule here. They will not chastise you for rummaging through their wares or sneak after you to count the bundles of spinach you picked up yourself. And the vegetables themselves are gleaned as though under “Quality Control” requirements – the okra and french beans tender as the babies’ fingers. Cheerful disposition, easy manners and charm are the hallmark of hawkers and shopkeepers, everywhere. As a spontaneous community effort by the vendors the squelchy mboga waste is composted on site to produce organic manure (a simple idea, yet elusive in our scenario; correct me, if I am wrong) which is sold to the denizens of the garden city.  

Nairobi is truly deserving of the title. Trees line streets and adorn house gardens throughout the city. In Mumbai, trees covered with layers of dust wear a forlorn look and waste away in the human jungle.  Greening the cities and countryside is an intrinsic ethos in Kenya thanks to the legacy of Tree Mama, Wangari Maathai, and also due to the presence of international bodies such as UNEP.  Public places wear utterly spruced up look and are clean - no garbage on the streets, none spilling out of trash cans or garbage trucks, no plastic bags floating in the air or lying on the ground. Garbage collection is entrusted with private agencies and UNEP statistics vouch for nearly 90% collection which is as good as it can get.

No jostling crowds at malls, hotels or in public places. No cows or stray dogs roam, hardly any beggars or homeless languish on the streets of Nairobi. There is no dog poop (or worse) littered on roadsides, no paan spittle painting walls, no jets of spit streaming out of bus windows. What is it about us Indians that we cannot get our act together when it comes to garbage and general hygiene? The appalling state of Indian roads and public spaces vis-à-vis waste is a widely acknowledged fact. But it is shameful when historical records suggest that Indians, as a people, are a filthy lot. The town of Nairobi came up as an Indian Quarter to accommodate indentured labourers and, subsequently, Indian merchants that followed to support these "residents”. The town spread gradually and soon became the headquarters of British administration with a mixed population in the early 20^th century. Records point out that it was in the Indian Quarter that plague started and spread. Is the “emerging superpower” also vying for the distinction of being the filthiest nation on earth?

Traffic is a bane; it can get particularly erratic when the rains come, no matter they may be mere passing showers, but no honking please, we are Kenyans. We are patient and take life “pole pole” (literal Hindi translation – holle holle). In the streets of Mumbai even as the traffic is moving as fast as it possibly could the driver has his fist on the horn which is a substitute for a punching bag to vent his ire and angst and rage – emotions common to the common man of Mumbai or any other metropolitan city in India. The neo-Indian’s aggressiveness reveals itself on the road as much as elsewhere.

With all that traffic Nairobi has little pollution. The weather is pleasant and cool - like Wellington summers - throughout the year. Incidentally, I came across a temperature graph of major cities in the world in a diary and it revealed (not surprisingly to me) that Nairobi has world’s best averages - min 11 and max 24 - throughout the year! The equatorial sun can be harsh if you are outdoors during the daytime, but it is not the sapping heat of tropical regions. In fact, as you traverse north towards the Equator, from Nairobi to Central Highlands, the weather gets even more salubrious, particularly in the vicinity of Mt. Kenya and Aberdares. This is where the Europeans settled replicating their countryside lifestyle.

If all that has been mentioned here is not enough, then here’s more… I did not sight a single cockroach – big or small – during my entire stay there; mobile phone companies don’t interrupt your waking moments with  unsolicited messages from naughty videos to salacious gossip; and TV programmes and channels do not bush your brains with inane commercials, ad infinitum, peddling crass commercialization. Though cantonments in India are a welcome respite, there is no escaping the larger reality of India being ugly, unkempt, slipshod, uncaring, uncouth, and unsophisticated in its Great March to Modernity.  Kenya is a blessed land not just for its savannas and safaris, but also for its cities and the people. I have become richer, more patient and tolerant with the Kenyan experience.

Wednesday Birder's Club

Even before I had found my feet, or should I say, wings in Nairobi I found myself at the National Museum premises with a motley group of youngsters and senior citizens, locals and foreigners, one Wednesday morning. The only thing that bound the diverse band together was our love of birds. Nature Kenya’s bird-watching club was the best thing that happened to me in Nairobi. This weekly addiction saw me connect intimately with the city faster than had I allowed time to take its own course. Thanks to our birding trips, I spanned the length and breadth of Nairobi from forests (Ngong and Ololua) and wetlands (Brookside and Splash) to tea estates (Kiambethu and Maramba) and golf greens (Windsor Club and Sigona Club); from well-endowed neighbourhoods (Loresho and Langata) and pockets of urban forests (Parardise Lost and Karura forest) to the one and only Nairobi National Park. Considering the diverse ecological habitats in and around the city, it hardly seems incredulous that Nairobi has the unique distinction, as capital cities go, of having the largest diversity of birdlife anywhere in the world! (Incidentally, our very own Delhi comes second, so I am told.) Nairobi National Park itself boasts of more than 300 species of birds. 

Maramba Tea Estate in Tigoni

Splash - Artificial Wetland

Effluent slurry at Brookside Dairy

Paradise Lost

The predominant reason for avidly keeping appointment with avifauna, come Wednesday, was also the leader of the group, Fleur Ng'weno, a European lady with a Kenyan surname. Somewhere in her 70s, this is a lady who has been conducting bird walks for more than four decades and for which she has been recognized with a Lifetime Achievement Award by Nature Kenya, a century-old august organization. Not only is Fleur an absolute authority on birds of Kenya, she also has unfailing eyesight (even at her ripe age) that can spot a bird which for many of us novices is only a blur in the bushes. She has the enviable ability of identifying birds by their sally, stance or song.

Bird-watching in field, as against armchair backyard birding, is quite challenging. On field, particularly in forests, canopies consume birds rendering them invisible; one has to be attuned to their sounds and calls to track them. Even when observed openly, birds are not easy to identify as often distinct species can be similar in appearance, and even within a species sub-species may exist with slight variations. Cisticolas and Warblers are prime examples of the latter. Some birds, such as the Widow bird, look vastly different in their breeding plumage from their non-breeding versions so as to appear an altogether new species, but that doesn’t fool Fleur. She can discern sub-species of Greenbuls that diverge but a jot from one another in the shadows of the forest. While a pictorial guidebook is of great help to identify birds visually, making them out from their song or sally has to be learnt practically. This is where Fleur’s inputs are invaluable. When she imitates the 1-2-3, 1-2-3 trill of Ruppell’s robinchat for you, it is difficult not to recognize it the next time round.

The eclectic bunch of birders - Kenyan youths many of whom are studying to be nature guides, retirees  and wizened muzungus (as the 'whites' are called by Kenyans) who cannot be kept down, and a smattering of expat muindis (Indians!) - comes armed with guide-books, binoculars and cameras. Kevin, an African Kenyan, is the keen eye who invariably spots birds first, while some eager beaver youngster is given the duty of maintaining a log of species seen. Peter Usher, an elderly gentleman and an environmentalist retired from UNEP, is the ‘official’ photographer. He is the silent observer whose pictures promptly posted to everyone the next day, with utterly captivating captions and cheeky humour, serve as valuable documentation. All birders in the Wednesday group are a genuinely enthusiastic lot. Unlike in India, I find that the common man in Kenya is not blasé about the bountiful birdlife around him or her. The Kenyan tour guides, for example, are not only experts on mammals of the African savannas, but are also, without exception, avid birders with more personal than cursory professional interest.

With every visit over last three years there has been wonderment and revelations. Sporadic scenes come to mind, of an African crowned eagle atop its nest deep in the heart of Ngong forest; flocks of Hottentot teals, Egyptian geese, herons and countless other waterbirds on a particularly productive day at Brookside; the resplendent blue-green of Hartlaub’s turaco, when rarely spotted; the Hamerkop’s nest fit for a king; and the romantic duet of the tropical boubous. And there have been sideshows where we have spotted Sykes monkeys and tree hyraxes, exotic orchids and wild mushrooms. Fleur’s knowledge of trees rivals that of birds and often in the absence of bird-spotting in dense thickets we have indulged in tree-gazing, instead. Through Fleur’s immense network of friends we have also visited private bungalows with their 5-acre forest-gardens. One such visit was to an enchanting dig in Karen, originally owned by the renowned botanist Peter Bally, better known as Joy Adamson’s (of the ‘Born Free’ fame) second husband. It was for him that Joy did illustrations of botanical plants which are considered as masterpieces today.

 

Tree Hyrax

Camouflage sideshow

I often wonder what an alien visiting the earth would think if it were to see a bunch of people standing by the roadside, craning their necks, searching the trees and skyline with their extension eyes and smiling to themselves. We have all seen the stray “mad man” who does something similar. Maybe, the alien must think of us as a flock of ‘cuckoos’, indeed.

Also read: Birdwatching - II http://padmaja-earthletters.blogspot.com/2012/02/birdwatching-ii.html

For more pictures on Birds of Kenya, please click here: http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10150481234599531.376457.740459530&type=3&l=ea36c5416f

Lives well Lived

What do Colonel Jim Corbett and Lord Baden Powell have in common apart from the fact that they lived adventurous lives and died in their early 80s? As I discovered recently, both made Kenya their resting place and, in fact, lie buried and rest in peace at the Commonwealth War Graves Commission cemetery in the precincts of St. Peter’s Anglican Church at Nyeri. Wangari Maathai’s home-town, Nyeri, in Central Highlands sits pretty at the foothills - sandwiched between Aberdare Ranges and Mount Kenya. It is one of the most fertile regions in Kenya replete with wheat, tea and coffee crops. It is the magic of countryside such as this that drew the Brits here; as early settlers they made this land their home bequeathing it the title of “White Highlands”.

Jim Corbett, the hunter-naturalist of Indian junglelore left India, the country of his birth, after India’s Independence in 1947 and trained his sights on Kenya, another British colony. The alpha biodiversity  of the adjacent volcanic mountain-forests of Aberdare lured him and he settled in Nyeri in his last decades. It is in this milieu that Edward James “Jim” Corbett wrote ‘Man-eaters of Kumaon’ and other books on India almost as though he wanted to relive his nostalgia for India (a catharsis akin to Karen Blixen’s who wrote ‘Out of Africa’ after leaving Kenya never to return). His last book, ‘Tree Tops’ was based in Kenya, in Aberdare, to be precise. He died of heart attack and was buried at the aforementioned cemetery. Jim Corbett remained a bachelor and stayed with his unmarried sister, Maggie, in a cottage in Nyeri which belonged to Lord Baden Powell.

 








Lord Robert Baden Powell, the founder of Boy Scouts and Girl Guides Movement, fell in love with “wonderful views over the plains to the bold snow peak of Mount Kenya” and spent six retirement years in a cottage in Nyeri with his wife, which is now a museum. Bizarrely named Paxtu (Pax 2, after the hotel management lingo for two persons, our guide informs us, after all the cottage is in the precincts of old Outspan Hotel), the cottage revealed a lesser-known facet of this giant of a man. The pencil sketches and water-colour postcards of places he visited around the world and sent as seasons' greetings and letters to friends and family revealed an artist par excellence. It is not my endeavour to sketch the life history of Baden Powell here and it would not even be easy to compress a rich and eventful life as his into few soundbytes, but wandering around in his cottage overlooking Mount Kenya, standing at his grave and reading his last message was a life-changing moment for me, as I am sure, inspiring for my son. His simple message which was at the heart of his world-famous movement ran thus: “Happiness does not come from being rich, nor merely from being successful in your career, nor by self-indulgence. One step towards happiness is to make yourself healthy and strong while you are a boy so that you can be useful and you can enjoy life when you are a man…But the real way to get happiness is by giving out happiness to other people.”

Unlike Jim Corbett, Baden Powell did marry albeit late in life; his wife, Olave, was younger than him by 32 years and was the World Chief Guide. Her ashes too are interred at the same grave as his. The cemetery is run down with weeds and overgrown grass, unlike other CWG cemeteries with their well-trimmed lawns and herb beds. The scouts organization do not have enough funds to maintain it, but the grave is by no means neglected. The scouts and guides tend to it with much love and affection. Our charming guide, Ema, also a girl guide and an instructor, takes us around. She says of her Guru: “It was his desire to be buried facing Mount Kenya.” As I lift my gaze from Baden Powell’s grave and turn around, I see the majestic Mount Kenya, its snow peak glinting in the sun. And I can see how this man who lived by his unshakeable vision saw his death-wish fulfilled too. We visit the lives of famous and successful people reading about their work or their writings, but this once as I stand at the graves of these two men, I see their lives and purpose in a light like never before.  

Baden Powell died in 1941; Jim Corbett arrived in Kenya in 1947. Their paths did not meet. But they chose to retire to the same town, stayed in the same cottage and rest in the same graveyard. I could imagine the two raising a toast over a drink to their eventful time in Kenya’s most beautiful countryside I had the privilege of visiting.