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speakup

I can't help thinking that even the most avid of ornithologists would have to agree that birds have a nasty streak. Otherwise, how could anything be that enthusiastic at such ungodly hours?

I shall cite one example: the Kling-kling. I have to admit that I don't know how it's spelled. It might be Cling-cling.

My first introduction to this creature came on my first morning in Jamaica. I had flown in the afternoon before to find, to my dismay, that the rainy season had arrived exactly on schedule. As a result, the afternoon had been spent in close proximity to the hotel bar and the evening at one of the area's more active night clubs.

In the morning, as I was starting to awake and begin figuring out where I was, there came a sound like none I had ever heard before: KLINGALING doesn't do it justice. It was somewhere between the scream of a scalded cat and the ringing of a bell. I found myself sitting bolt upright in the middle of the bed, wondering what calamity had occurred.

Only later did I learn that a black bird resembling our purple grackle was responsible. It's about twice as big as our version and the tail looks as if it has been folded down the centre. The books call it a boat-tailed grackle. It's the reason that alarm clock sales are weak in some of the islands. They do this every morning. The rest of the day, they're relatively mute, even though they're always around hotels where people dine in the open. As soon as anyone rises from the table, the birds come in to clean up.

When I was in Mexico, I saw all sorts of strange birds, but always in the morning. At any other time of day, I saw nothing but a few cruising pelicans. Our hotel was in the city, but surrounded by lots of trees and other vegetation. In the morning, before the sun had really risen, an avian hodge-podge was in action all around the hotel. I never managed to get pictures of any of these. As soon as I brought the camera out of the air-conditioned room, the lens would fog up. By the time it had adjusted to the outside air temperature, the show was over. The feathered frenzy had retired to where ever they spent the day, not to be seen again until the next sunrise.

It was late at night when I arrived in Kericho, which is in rural Kenya. I was led into a small residence made almost entirely of concrete largely as a defence against termites. I was shown the bedroom that would be mine for the next month. A very few hours later, I again found myself sitting bolt upright in bed. The noise that had caused this reaction was repeated. Although it was much like the traditional "cock-a-doodle-doo" of the rooster, it was as melodious as a bandsaw cutting through a metal roof. I should have slept another four hours, but there was no sleeping after that.

I told my host that if he could find the farmer who owned that bird, I'd buy it on condition that the owner wring its neck. Then, I'd give him the money to buy another one, but only after I left. My host just laughed. When we went outside, I discovered that we were actually living in a duplex. The occupant of the other half had a chicken coop about three feet from my bedroom window. Therein dwelt that most tuneless of roosters. The funny thing was that I never really noticed it again.

It's the same the world over. When we first moved to our present home, I discovered that crows and gulls had a jazz club somewhere near my bedroom. They held their jam sessions at 5 a.m. Of course, within a day or two, I was sleeping through their best performances.

Now, I have nothing against birds. The world would be a dismal place without them. Still, it is annoying to find that anything can be so energetic and cheerful without even the benefit of a cup of coffee.