Attish Kanhai,
Research Officer, IMA
“What about the area in front of Five Islands amusement park?” was the suggestion from a colleague as we planned our activities for World Wetlands month (February 2022).
“I don’t know, is there nice?” was my sceptical reply.
“Well there’s a lot of birds and the place is quite scenic,” was the subtle retort.
I remained unconvinced and with some trepidation, I prepared for a site visit. Granted it was five minutes away from the office and I am not much of a bird watcher, “How bad could it be?” I thought to myself.
To my knowledge, much of the coastline in the western peninsula is not what I would consider scenic and thanks to my years of fieldwork, I had seen all of it, or so I thought.
After navigating the jogging/cycling track at the side of the road, I parked my vehicle and met up with my colleague, the bird- watching advocate. The last time I had visited this particular beach area was when my favourite fried chicken establishment was still around. I had no reason to come here again since its unfortunate fiery demise.
We walked along the concrete pathway parallel to the river outfall where a number of young and mature mangrove trees stood, almost defiantly, in stark contrast to the man-made structures either side of this miniature wetland. Nature’s resiliency should not be underestimated. Sure enough, a number of egrets, herons, black birds and other bird species made their abode in this strip of precious greenery.
“Okay, fair enough, it is quite serene,” I thought. The contrast of birds chirping against the backdrop of a main road a few metres away was not lost on me. I was, however, not ready to admit defeat. I had not yet seen anything that warranted a dissolution of my scepticism of this place’s dubious beauty.
We continued down the pathway as the birds kept watchful eyes on our movements, ready to flee at the sign of any “funny business.” We were equally as wary of them as they were of us. Bird droppings on your clothes are never a welcome experience. As the concrete pathway gave way to a sandy underfoot track, the trees closed in overhead forming their own natural cathedral as we headed to the coastline. The chirping of birds melted away as the familiar sound of waves gently lapping against the shoreline made themselves known.
The mangroves cleared and I emerged onto the shore where the concerns of my not so inner sceptic were finally laid to rest. Stretching out before me was indeed one of the most scenic areas of the western peninsula. To the east lay the wreck of a derelict boat that could easily make its way onto an artist’s canvas, as the rays of the early morning sun slowly illuminated its once majestic bow and broken masts. I had walked into a painting.
To the west, the shoreline formed the most picturesque arc for waves to play their own version of piggyback as they oscillated back and forth onto the sand. I can almost hear them giggling playfully as the never-ending game of oceanic tag continued, oblivious to my presence.
Peace, in the
