“Nubian,” Geoff tells me when I show him my poor photos after lunch. “The red stripe and grey behind the eye make me think it’s not Bennet’s. Anyway, we’re a little too far north and east for them.”

“I’ll never get the bloody hang of this,” I tell him with a groan. “I don’t think I’m looking for the important differences. It feels cliched, but they all look the same to me.”

“It takes time, Mark. You just need to keep at it and check with the book, remembering that each individual is a little different and accepting that sometimes you can’t be one hundred percent certain.” Geoff pulls out his bird book and shows me the two woodpeckers that we discussed, pointing out the distribution maps and then the highlighted differences between the two species.

That difference is subtle, but the map makes it decisive. Looking at the illustrations, I feel more confident that I can make the distinction. You just need to know where to look.

Tim joins us after a couple of minutes and asks if I fancy a walk through the grounds with them. “When it’s this warm, the birds are often trying to stay out of the sun. It’s a good time to spot them when they are quiet,” he tells me.

It's a pleasant hour spent just walking quietly from one shady tree to another, watching carefully and listening. I’m pretty good at spotting motion, apparently, but then useless at seeing something if it doesn’t move.

We collate a list of seven or eight new species for the trip and I’m almost convinced that I’m able to see the differences that the other guys point out to me. I’ve still got more than an hour before we’re due to go out, so I head back down the long path to my tent, enjoying the great view from the escarpment down to the river below.

Sue and Nicki are relaxing on their veranda, two tents before mine. As they see me approaching, Nicki smiles and points up into the tree immediately opposite without saying a word.

There’s a small owl sitting in plain sight, now watching us intently. It pretty much ignores me as I raise my camera to my eye and take a series of photos.

Fresh from walking and talking with Geoff and Tim, my brain is in overdrive. A small owl might be either an owlet or a scops owl. But scops owls have little ear-tufts of feathers that make them look incredibly cute, so this is probably an owlet of some sort.

“It’s a pearl-spotted owlet,” I tell the ladies quietly, almost certain in my identification. “I’m going to go and check my book to make sure. Thank you for pointing him out.”

“Hanging out with the twitchers is rubbing off,” Sue tells me with a smile. “I get the impression that it just takes confidence and a bit of a willingness to be proved wrong later.”

“Yes, I’m beginning to get that impression as well. It’s exhausting, though. I’m going to take a nap before our drive this evening. See you both later.”

Brian is sitting on our veranda, but he has his head back, eyes closed and snoring softly. I try my best to stay quiet, taking several seconds to unzip the tent-flap in an attempt to make as little noise as possible. It takes just as long to quietly zip it back down behind me, but I can then gratefully flop onto my bed in the considerably cooler interior of our tent and relax.

I’m woken from a snooze by the sound of the zipper being pulled as Brian comes back inside.

“I didn’t hear you come back,” he laughs. “I was out of it completely.”

“Yes, I tried not to disturb you.  Then I had so many plans and good intentions. I was going to look up all the birds I saw earlier and try and figure this stuff out for myself. Then, I simply fell asleep.” I glance at my watch and frown. “Too late to do it now, we need to be heading to the trucks.”

“Yes. I’m just going to go to the loo first,” Brian tells me as he heads through the back wall of the tent. “I’ll catch up if you want to go on ahead.”

I’ve time to show Tim my owlet photos before the whole group have assembled. “Pearl-spotted Owlet?” I suggest in a very questioning tone.

“Oh, yes. Well done, Mark. Where was he?”

“In the tree outside Sue and Nicki’s tent. They pointed him out when I was heading back from our walk.”

“Don’t have time to look now, but you’ll have to show us tomorrow. They are pretty territorial, so he will probably stay close by.”

 

The afternoon stretches into early evening as we drive in convoy around the park. There are countless antelopes, mostly impala and waterbuck and I manage some nice shots of them standing proudly and showing their impressive horns. We spot one or two giraffes, but they are at a distance; impressive never-the-less.

Baboons – a large troupe walking across the road in front of us – are both interesting and intimidating. At first glance they are just another primate, but the teeth – which they seem keen to bear at a moment’s notice – are frightening even from the safety of the vehicle. They seem far more like they should be related to wolves or jackals rather than monkeys.

As for birds, there are dozens, but the highlights for me are my first sightings of both ostrich and secretary birds. Ostriches are perhaps the easiest bird of all to recognise, even I don’t need help. Then the secretary bird, probably one of the strangest birds I’m ever likely to see; tall and long-legged with a vicious hawk-like beak.

Like most of the parks in Africa, we’re not allowed to be out and about after dark, being driven back to the lodge just as the sun is setting and the sky is darkening through a fiery, golden, cloud-scattered display.

When I see Tim and Geoff heading for the bar, I opt to stay at the main building as well and relax. I don’t have my laptop with me, but I do have my phone in my pocket and I can grab the check-list from the cloud. It’s been a long and warm day and I’m more than ready for a gin and tonic.

Brian returns within an hour, by which time most of the argument over little brown birds has died down. He makes a drinking gesture in my direction as he heads towards the bar and I nod my head in acceptance. 

The argument is still going on, though. Apparently, some of the weavers and cisticolas are so difficult to tell apart, even for an expert, that we could argue forever.

“Cisticolas are the worst by far,” Geoff muses as Tim nods in agreement. “Honestly, half of them seem to only be named after the song they sing, rather than any physical feature. If you don’t hear a male sing, you might as well give up.”

“It’s not that bad,” Tim mutters. “At least some of them are fairly restricted in distribution. Arguing about it is half the fun, though.”

“I do begin to get that impression. Just remember, guys, I’m not that deep into the whole thing. I’m hoping for cheetah and leopards,” I tell them.

“You know that you’ve already used up your luck, don’t you?” Brian asks me as he takes the empty seat to my left and places another G&T on the table beside my now empty glass. “The elephants in Amboseli are your quota for this trip. There’ll be no leopards.”

“Why not? Can’t we have some bad luck to balance things out, then?”

“I’m not sure luck works that way. If we get a flat tire tomorrow, I might reconsider,” he tells us with a chuckle. “Anyway, don’t wish for bad luck, you’re sure to get it.”

“Yep,” Tim tells us. “Calling down bad luck works every time, but calling for good luck never works. Fundamental law of the universe.”

“True,” Geoff adds. “But don’t stop wishing for a leopard, Mark.”