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I remember once, riding with Ben on the back of an open 4x4 through African Miombo country. Noticing a heavy branch spanning the road at head-height in front of us, he shouted "Look at that purple-faced wotsit!" and pointed dramatically backwards, over his left shoulder. Naturally, we all turned to identify what he thought he had spotted. I was the only one standing up in the moving vehicle, so I was the only one hit on the back of the head by an outspread Guibourtia coleosperma. ¯If you've ever been struck by an guibourtia coleopserma, commonly known as a Large False mopane tree, you will appreciate the agony and the indignity of it. Being hit by a normal-sized genuine mopane is bad enough.
As I collapsed in the back of the jolting truck and felt the the bump rising on my scalp, a refined and sensitive birder - she looked like a frightened Flufftail - asked anxiously, "There isn't any blood, is there?"
"No", I said, smiling bravely at her, and ignoring Ben's disappointed grimace.
He's so crude! I wouldn't have fallen for such a kindergarten trick normally, but it was the last thing you'd expect on any birding expedition. Birdwatchers live on a higher plane where his kind of behaviour does not exist, and practical - even impractical - "jokes" don't happen.
Except when Ben is around. Later, on that same four-wheel drive around the lake, I was sitting in the back, and it was Ben's turn to make room by standing, It was then that I took my revenge.
"Duck!" I shouted, and Ben obliged, bending double to avoid a non-existent branch across our path. He unbent, flushed with the vain effort of looking distantly dignified in such comical and unnecessary gyrations. I said loudly, so that even the birders in the vehicle's cab could hear:
"Why are you falling about like that, Ben? Didn't you see the whistling White-faced Duck on the water back there? That's the fourth sighting you've missed in a row."
Ben tried to appear aloof, as if he were engrossed in identifying a rare raptor on the furthest horizon. I persisted: "I'll just add Whitefaced Duck to my list for today. . . How many have you got, Ben?"
"Eighty-three," lied Ben.
Sensitive birders averted their eyes as Ben tried to stare each one of them down.
"Duck!" I shouted again - and Ben was still smirking when the wag-en-bietjie thorntree caught him right round the neck, tearing at his flesh as it held on longingly, trying to wrest him from the moving truck.
Got him!
The lady birder, who had been demonstrating such sweet concern about the bump on my head, shrieked.
She brushed at the dark spots spreading across her blouse. "He's bleeding! He's bleeding at the throat! Stop the car! Stop the car!"
"It's a Landcruiser," I explained gently to our sweet companion. "And don't worry. It's just a tiny little thorn that pricked him near his jugular thing. Coming from Ben, it's more likely to be alcohol than blood on your dress. Don't worry. Here let me rub it."
She was quite vigorous in declining my assistance, but I lost her attention when Ben, hamming it up like an Indian Mynha, clutched his neck, fell from his perch, and went "Aargh!" as he placed his head in her lap.
How uncouth! She dabbed uncertainly at his scratches, and glared at me.
Someone in the cab, hearing the fuss, called, "What can you see?"
"Crimson-breasted dabbler," I shouted. And sweet Debbie, wiping more of Ben's bloodstained alcohol from her blouse, called, "Wait! I'm getting in the front with you."
Ben and I were both a little unhappy at this turn of events. The rest of the party looked even unhappier.
"Some birders don't have a sense of humour," I explained to Ben.
"Speak for yourself."
"Well, we've lost her. But look on the bright side. There's room now for both of us to sit down."
Ben's dying swan act ended abruptly, and he leered at the elderly matron sharing our bench in the back of the vehicle.
"Shift up, old dear, will you? I'm going to squeeze in here beside you, Pipit."
"My name's Robyn," she said icily. "And don't you dare."
Ben snuggled up and put his neck on her rigid shoulder. He may not be sensitive, but you sometimes have to admire his brute courage. . . .
There is nothing else you can say that is good about Ben. |
