The Birds

The best advice always comes from nature. The best advice, the best guidance, the best protection.

I was travelling around South America after my recent, dreadful, break up, determined to forget him and to discover the part of the world that’s famed for its sensuality. I’d never been anywhere so far flung. Though I had spent time on the opposite side of the world in London, along with travelling around Europe with London-based friends, that was simply a rite of passage for any typical kiwi girl, and not a proper adventure.

As I arrived in São Paulo I could feel the hum of the city through the seat of the plane as we landed. I’d flown via New York, another humming city sure, and famously so, yet somehow this foreign energy felt more intense and free than that of the city that never sleeps. In New York I’d stayed on a friend's sofa for a few nights, as I had become accustomed to the new time zone. We went out each evening with her broad group of new friends. Every evening was fierce. My trip happened to coincide with fashion week and every night flocks of souped-up influencers, stressed out designers and various other, vaguely familiar, faces would flow into whichever downtown bar we were at.

As someone who doesn’t cope well with jet lag I was slightly overwhelmed by this energy and the facade around the week’s events - not to mention utterly exhausted. Said friend, Becky, works in marketing, on the fringe of fashion, and was all for it though. Personally I would’ve been happy with a daily stroll through Central Park to see to my broken heart, but no, I was to be “back out there” with the rest of them. When in Rome and all that. Cocktails, flirting, chivalry, Manhattanites do it best.

Arriving in Brazil was a relief of sorts. Even though I’d spent the last six months “alone”, flying solo, single, I needed some proper alone time as I travelled the Americas. After all that is what I was here for. The waves of heartache were still coming and going, but were getting weaker each day like a tide going out. I needed to distract myself in order to get over these last hurdles of heartbreak. My chosen distraction being in the form of a hiking adventure. It was all to happen here in Brazil, this was the starting point. I went from the airport to my airbnb. The charming residence I’d pictured was actually more charming in person - perhaps it was the appeal of a proper bed over a sofa to sleep on. I slept like a baby that night, despite being anxious about my early start. One night in São Paulo then off to the jungle, literally.

I met with my tour group the next day on the corner of a city centre square, where all the São Paulo tour groups seemed to meet and descend from. I looked at the other sets of people waiting for different guides and wondered where they were going. Would I have been better off with them? What was I doing? Too late now. We, the intrepid travellers (with travel agents), were set to trek through a part of the amazon rainforest for a total of ten days.

In my group were nine other guests and two tour guides. I liked them all but didn’t feel particularly included nor drawn to anyone else in this set. The rest of them were in pairs, along with one group of three mates who regularly spent the holiday leave from their boring corporate jobs “doing things like this” together. I felt a little out of my depth but continued on. I had never done anything like this. I suppose the fact they were a set of three meant that I, the single person, could make the group meet its maximum of ten.

I’d made it this far, ten days in the jungle with eleven others was nothing compared to what I’d been through of late. He had left me so out of the blue it could have killed me. One particularly nice, mature couple indicated that they’d take me under their wing as the woman in the relationship told me she “used to travel alone all the time and knows what it is like”. I thanked her but found them a little intense… Though I questioned myself, what was wrong with me? I’d come here to distract myself and to make new connections, so why couldn’t I accept their invitation. Whatever. Onwards.

A small plane ride and uncomfortable shuttle trip later and we were there. In the depths of the Amazon rainforest. Only 24 hours from contemporary civilisation. We took to our huts for the evening, me being the only person sleeping alone. The three mates were happily piled on top of one another in one hut, and the rest of our set, the couples, were no doubt comfortably spooning in their separate rooms, or playing cards together in the case of the two tour guides. Really this accommodation was set up for duos, romantic or otherwise. I had tried to drag a friend along with me but nobody was interested. My friends were the type who’d rather spend a few weeks off sunning themselves and posing for Instagram, not on some gritty, grotty hiking trail.

Despite being exhausted I couldn’t sleep at all that night. Shuffling underneath my mosquito net and drowning in the stench of insect repellent. I felt guilty for complaining. All that money allocated to this trip. All of my privilege making me feel above such discomforts. It was all so foreign and so other worldly. I didn’t belong here. This was another world. A practically untouched one. Tears started streaming down my face. The nights were always the hardest. Restless, I walked outside into the dead of night. I could hear animals scuffling beyond me and the warm, wet air sat atop my skin. That is when I first saw her. The Scarlet Macaw. She was asleep amongst her flock, I was wide awake.

The fire engine red of her feathered face shone bright in the darkness. The rest of her was a deep green and bold turquoise. She was beautiful, in all of her technicolour glory. A proper parrot, like the ones I’d seen in cartoons growing up. I stared at her for a while, I’m not sure for how long exactly. The best advice always comes from nature, including fashion advice, as it turns out. Compared to the fashionistas of NYC, whom I’d recently met, in a world that felt so far away from now, these birds had it going on. I continued to stare silently in awe. That was until Rodrigo, one of our guides, stumbled out of his hut confidentially to pee.

“What are you doing, get back inside, you don’t want to get bitten!”

“I’m fine, I’m covered in repellent. But it’s OK, I’m ready to sleep now anyway. Thanks!”

I’m repellent, I thought, Nobody wants me.

The next morning the birds were still there. Chirpy and wide awake now. Last night I’d taken a valium, a new bad habit of mine since he left me, and an old school doctor had over prescribed these “nerve pills” for my pain. I plonked in some earplugs and passed out.

I was the last to wake in our group the next day. I felt embarrassed by this, and hungover from the valium, but the sleep was with it. I shared my embarrassment with the others, Rodrigo assuring me there was nothing to worry about, we’d had a long journey, especially me having come all the way from Australia, in fact he knew what that distance was like (he didn’t even know about my NYC pit stop). I looked up and saw the troop of Scarlet Macaw’s were flitting around. Eating berries from trees as high as sky-scrapers. Man didn’t invent that kind of height after all. In comparison to me these parrots were so awake, along with everyone else around me, all raring to go for our day of trekking to the next camp site.

It was then that she swooped down, my girl from last night. I knew it was her. I could tell from a certain look in her eye and the way her feathers flowed. She was going to protect me on this trip, I thought. The reason I knew about these birds in the first place was because I had read an article on them being endangered. I always allow myself an afternoon article at work, like a modern smoko. This story had been particularly captivating. I kept looking at the picture of these beautiful birds and reading the statistics in horror. How could a creature so lively and so harmless be slowly destroyed by us.

We went on with our trek, the day had officially begun. Swiping through leaves as the birds swooped above us. Rodrigo and his counterpart, Diego, discussed branches, and bugs and talked about the history of the land as we ventured through the jungle. It was fascinating and I was really trying to listen. Yet I kept getting distracted by the flickers of red feathers out of the corner of my eye. The set of Scarlet Macaws had decided to follow our tour, did they always do that?

The day was long, hot and sweaty. I began to relax though. Chatting to each member of the group as we went. I particularly liked Rodrigo. He was so worldly. He’d worked all over the place, showing people around various and vast landscapes, but had to return to his native Brazil when his father became ill. “I like this job though, I can still connect with the wild this way and still be close to my family for most of the month.”

That evening we sat around as Diego prepped dinner. I was feeling good now. Exhausted, yes, but calmer and more confident. The day of hiking had shifted something in me. I was beginning to let go. Diego was quieter than Rodrigo and clearly the chef of the team. A Swedish couple in our set were pestering him about recipes and he responded patiently - obviously this happened to him with every tour.

I went to the loo, which was situated behind our accommodation. Then I saw her again. It was dusk. The birds were calming down, ready for rest. But there she was, patiently perched on a branch whilst looking down on me. I knew it was her and I knew that she was here to guide me.

Even though my body was now aching with tiredness I lay restlessly in bed thinking of him into the wee hours. I wondered where he was now. Was he with her, my friend, my friend who he had left me for. Did they know I was here? Did they even care? I’d done my best to post aspirational pictures from New York but the phone reception in the deep wilderness was as patchy as one would anticipate. Plus I was hardly looking camera-ready each day in my sweat-soaked hiking gear.

The next day we took a boat up part of the Amazon river. I’d travelled some of the world's great rivers in the past. The first being the Mississippi river during a pit stop in New Orleans. My parents and I watched a cheesy jazz band and ate delicious creole cuisine. We were in the midst of a trip to the Southern States for Dad’s 60th. I was 18 at the time and I wasn’t allowed to drink in the US despite having been recently allowed the privilege at home. As a result I moaned the entire trip. I still feel bad about it and outdid myself for Dad’s 70th out of guilt, over a year ago now. Mind you my ex was there to help me pull it all off - grand plans are always easier to execute when you have a partner in crime to help. In terms of great rivers I’d also been on the Nile as part of an Italian tour group. I know that sounds bizarre, but at high school I’d befriended an Italian exchange student and I went to visit her in her home town of Catania when I was in my early twenties. Her parents were travel agents and brought us along on this mad route through Egypt as a part of a new tour they were trialling. As a result I spent a week cruising the Nile along with 99 Sicilian strangers.

The Amazon felt so different though. Wild, sacred and untouched. We were visitors to this land. Almost all humans were. It was somewhere where nature still ruled, we were just lucky to be guests. I was actually quite moved, in awe of the majesty of the landscape that surrounded us. I felt a little tear stream down my face, and then I saw her again, hiding amongst the trees, almost smiling at me. Rodrigo clocked my emotion. He touched my shoulder softly and an electric pulse ran through my body. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been touched… I looked away and let a few more quiet tears out. When you have a broken heart it is easier to cry at the tiniest thing - be it an ad for an old people's home or a beautiful rainforest, and everything in between! When you have a broken heart everyone seems to get on with life around you, but occasionally there’s that special someone, that person, that parrot, who allows for empathy, who sees you for you, and when they comfort you your wounds heal that little bit more.

I knew Rodrigo was a good person simply by looking at his eyes. He had kind, light brown eyes, and perfect olive skin. He was tall and skinny, with rugged, shaggy hair, which probably looked better being a bit unkempt. He had lived in Australia for a while too, in some hideous share-house in Bondi of course, but in that he knew what it was like, where I was from. I had lived in Melbourne ever since leaving New Zealand after university. I didn’t really want to live there forever but I had met my now ex boyfriend swiftly after crossing the ditch. The relationship eclipsed my ambitions to move further away. Prior to meeting him I’d always aspired to move to London, like all other New Zealanders wanted to, and beyond that I dreamt of the quaint English countryside or the sunny South of France or the rolling hills of Tuscany. Wherever it was I had always dreamed of getting out of Down Under, but I let him choose my destiny. Now, at age 29, I was starting to feel like I’d wasted the last decade of my life.

We travelled quite far by boat that day. I was less talkative after my wave of extroversion yesterday. I was tired. I was sad. Yet I was also comforted. I had this precious parrot and now Rodirogo both looking out for me. This part of the world was notoriously wild, but I didn’t feel fearful of that. In fact I felt more nervous at the prospect of having to go home once this trip was done. Every day that passed was another day closer to stepping back into reality.

That night I asked Rodrigo about the birds. We were sat by the fire together, finally I was part of a duo too. Diego had gone to bed early so he could wake at dawn to meditate - I think the Swedish couple were getting to him, in fact all of us were, and that he needed that solo zen hour to himself to start tomorrow. The others were beginning to trail off as well. They trailed off until it was just Rodrigo and I left in fact. The woman in the older couple even gave me a wink and nodded towards Rodrigo as she and her husband closed their hut door - ew. Rodrigo handed me a lukewarm beer, which he’d retrieved from the depths of his backpack.

“I thought there was no booze on this trip!” I said, kind of surprised.

“There’s an exception for VIPs.” He replied cheekily.

I didn’t quite know what was happening. I was definitely attracted to him. But equally I didn’t feel ready. And who was I to consider my tour guide in such a way! He was gorgeous, and I’m sure he had a girl on each tour, yet he was also so sincere…

Since he left I’d been on a couple of dreadful, app-induced dates, and even had one revolting pash. I certainly hadn’t slept with anyone else since being single. I could hardly even touch myself. The thought of being sexual, having someone else's body, someone else's sweat, someone else’s dick being near me, made me want to keel over. I suppose that was until Rodrigo. Speaking of sweat, he smelt great.

Feeling a bit tipsy after my beer, which was surprisingly strong, and which I’d consumed far too quickly due to my incessant thirst, I asked him about the birds.

“Each day I’ve seen this bird. I think she’s a Scarlet Macaw, I read about them being endangered in The Guardian recently.”

Rodrigo laughed, “Of course you read The Guardian.”

I blushed. His English was perfect, as were his references.

He continued, “They are a Macaw and they are a beautiful and important bird. Every tour we do that same flock follows us. The Macaw symbolises healing, fertility and summertime. We believe they bring healing through colour and light.”

At this I burst into tears. Oh god, this was so embarrassing. Me, a tiny bit drunk, heartbroken, vulnerable. Thank god the rest of the group couldn’t see me at least. I pretended my tears were about the fact that this perfect parrot was endangered, and some of my tears were, truly, but I think we both knew what I was really crying about. I needed to be healed. I couldn’t sit in the depths of this heartbreak anymore. Rodrigo seemed to inherently know this as well as my feathered friend.

He put his arm around me and I leant into him as I sobbed and sobbed. After a while I finally stopped crying. We then sat there silently, his arms still comforting me.

“I know your pain, three years ago my wife died.” he said to me quietly.

Oh god, now I felt really bad. Here was this man, so strong and so sympathetic. Yet he was bereft and had to relocate home, despite being a destined wanderer, all so he could selflessly care for his father. Yet I was crying over some bastard who had merely cheated on me and left, some bastard who I was better off without. I was pathetic. I started crying again. This time quietly, subtly. Rodrigo continued to hug me. We sat there for what felt like hours. After a while we went to our respective huts and I finally slept well.

The next morning I could barely look Rodrigo in the eyes as I remembered the night before. He was distracted anyway, talking to Diego in Portuguese in a concerned and professional tone. It was going to rain heavily later so Diego and Rodrigo were in a hurry to get us moving in order to ensure our trek would be as dry as possible.

That day the hike was hard. We didn’t chat much between our group of 12, we simply missioned forth in unison. The tourists were as keen as the tour guides to get to our next sleeping site and stay dry. I kept looking for the birds above us but couldn’t see their red flickers anywhere. Instead all I could see was thick grey cloud and a storm brewing in the sky.

We had about an hour left of walking when it started to rain. For a minute it was simply spitting and then it started to pour. Thunder could be heard in the distance.

“Please don’t run, you might slip!” Diego said to us firmly.

So we walked as quickly as he would allow. Thankfully nobody slipped but when we got to our next set of huts we were all drenched. Luckily the little huts were airtight and had towels waiting for each of us atop of our stretchers. In fact tonight's accommodation was the nicest yet.

Once I’d pulled myself together I could hear the rain starting to soften. I zipped myself into my rain jacket, likely my worst look and worlds away from the clothes I’d been wearing merely a week ago in Manhattan. In fact Becky had said the clothes I’d brought were so bad that she’d forced me to wear her designer duds for the week because “It was fashion week after all!”

I went outside and could hear the wildlife sing and scuffle. The animals were shaking off the rain too. I didn’t hear him coming, perhaps I was too distracted, but after a minute I felt Rodrigo’s hands on my shoulders. I knew it was him as the rest of our group were happily stowed away in their dry huts, even the three rowdy mates had already slunk off to bed shattered.

Rodrigo’s hands on my body felt so natural. I looked up and then I saw her, my Macaw, my girl, getting ready for sleep on her branch. I pointed up to her, proving to Rodrigo that I did indeed have a feathered guardian. She was here to heal me after all. Rodrigo was too. I turned and looked at him, he stared back at me and smiled. And then we kissed.