Two things struck me as we descended into the blackness of the underground hide that was to be our home for the next 24 hours. The first was the acrid odour of bat urine – despite the concrete floor having been carefully swept the previous day. The second was the wave of heat and dust being blown across the naked earth around the waterhole, straight through the narrow horizontal observation window.
I don’t know exactly what it is about small birds that appeals to me so much. Perhaps it’s their miniature perfection in structure, or the fact that many are so readily overlooked. Chief within this mini realm are some of the LBJs (“little brown jobs”) that lack the flash of sunbirds and pytilias but make up for it with personality.
Growing up in Harare’s suburbs, I was always desperate to live in the bush. Evenings were spent poring over the list of farms (preferably game ranches) in the newspaper’s “Classifieds”, in the vain hope that I could convince my parents to abscond the city.
We live in a golden age of photography - accessible, instantly gratifying, and free (once the kit's paid for). Whether you own a smartphone, a budget compact camera or a high-end mirrorless setup, being able to capture moments and freeze them forever is a rare privilege. Online, we can browse the work of our favourite photographers, travel vicariously to exotic locations, or spend time minutely examining the detail of bird's feather or the hexagonal geometry of a fly's eye.
