Today I woke up feeling like I had gotten hit by a bus. Fabulous, this is the way I like to start every day. When Shiva arrives at 5:30 AM, I already know that I should just go back to bed. We get to the site and after about two minutes counting birds, I feel pretty certain that I need to go back to bed. Shiva takes me back to the dorm, I sleep for essentially the rest of the morning and awake feeling much, much better. The medicine I'm taking seems to be working well and I'm ready to get back out into the field in the afternoon. On a humorous note, the SBS didn't notice that I wasn't looking well because they can't tell when my skin is pale, to them I'm always pale.
After my near death experience (for those of you prone to hysteria, this is sarcasm, I did not almost die in India), I go back to the field in the afternoon with a renewed interest and appreciation for the birds. It's not that I don't like the birds, I do. They're beautiful, colorful, and sometimes they do silly things, like fly in and out of the lily pads, maybe for food or maybe because it's fun. When you look at the same thing every day though, you forget how beautiful it really is. I feel this way about Boone every time I drive back up through the Parkway. We're constantly forgetting to remember how beautiful the familiar things are. So, now that our main character, yours truly, has had a defining moment in their journey, I think that every day I'll tell you about one of my birds. Yes, they are my birds, every single one.
Today we'll discuss the Purple Moorhen, because quite frankly I can't turn my head without seeing one. There are probably more Purple Moorhens than crows, which is saying something because as you'll recall, the site is surrounded in garbage and the crows love themselves some garbage. The Purple Moorhen, from what I've observed, lives in the thickets of grass in the wetland and has been busily building nests since I got here. They are about the size of chickens with brilliant blue and green and purplish (remember our discussion about ornithologists and their definition of purple) feathers. They have short, sharp red beaks that are surrounded in red skin that extends up their heads. They have chicken-like forked feet, but with longer toes, which make them look ridiculous when they half fly, half leap around. The Purple Moorhens' eggs have also started to hatch. If you look closely in the morning, you may see one or two fluffy black chicks hobbling after their mom. They are super cute and I love watching them learn to swim, they run into the floating lily pads a lot. It's like bumper cars but for tiny poultry.
Tonight, as we were sitting in the ice cream parlor with our new French exchange student Alex, Manikandan, whose tea shop is right next door, caught a glimpse of me through the window and waved in greeting. I waved back. He mimed an offer of tea, I mimed a decline of the offer, but finished it off with a head bobble, so it was polite. My Indian sign language is clearly top notch because he head bobbled in return and smiled. He then began calling to all of his friends to come see his American friend. Indians started popping up everywhere and waving to me. I waved back and smiled to all my adoring fans. The crowd finally subsided to the sound of the Sarah's laughing hysterically, Soloman being genuinely amazed at my ability to make friends with anyone, and Alex's jet lagged expression of wonder and slight confusion. Thus, part two of Beyonce being bombarded by Japanese fans came to a close.
After my near death experience (for those of you prone to hysteria, this is sarcasm, I did not almost die in India), I go back to the field in the afternoon with a renewed interest and appreciation for the birds. It's not that I don't like the birds, I do. They're beautiful, colorful, and sometimes they do silly things, like fly in and out of the lily pads, maybe for food or maybe because it's fun. When you look at the same thing every day though, you forget how beautiful it really is. I feel this way about Boone every time I drive back up through the Parkway. We're constantly forgetting to remember how beautiful the familiar things are. So, now that our main character, yours truly, has had a defining moment in their journey, I think that every day I'll tell you about one of my birds. Yes, they are my birds, every single one.
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| View page: indianaturewatch.net This is a picture I took from the internet for your reference. I'm by no means close enough to the birds to take pictures of my own. |
Tonight, as we were sitting in the ice cream parlor with our new French exchange student Alex, Manikandan, whose tea shop is right next door, caught a glimpse of me through the window and waved in greeting. I waved back. He mimed an offer of tea, I mimed a decline of the offer, but finished it off with a head bobble, so it was polite. My Indian sign language is clearly top notch because he head bobbled in return and smiled. He then began calling to all of his friends to come see his American friend. Indians started popping up everywhere and waving to me. I waved back and smiled to all my adoring fans. The crowd finally subsided to the sound of the Sarah's laughing hysterically, Soloman being genuinely amazed at my ability to make friends with anyone, and Alex's jet lagged expression of wonder and slight confusion. Thus, part two of Beyonce being bombarded by Japanese fans came to a close.
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