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Crimson Wing Mystery of the Flamingos The
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Once upon a time, |
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there was a lake of fire. |
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The lake's water burned |
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scarlet and crimson, |
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and in its stillness, |
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After months without rain, |
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And the lake dried |
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But in the desolation came |
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A season of color and life, |
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Lake Natron, |
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lies at the very center |
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This is a raw and unfinished land. |
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Ol Doinyo Lengai rises from |
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a living volcano, |
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Hidden deep in its dark core, |
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a chamber of magma burns |
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For the local Masai tribe, |
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Lengai is simply where God lives. |
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Natron is a vast, shallow lake, |
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40 miles long |
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and so toxic with soda salt that |
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But each year, |
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rain comes to Natron... |
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...and a grand act |
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one of Africa's last great mysteries. |
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And with the rain come the flamingos. |
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Somehow, they know the time |
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They have abandoned a dozen other |
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and flown hundreds, even |
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Each bird has its own story, |
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its own secret life. |
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And each story is one that |
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with the rain. |
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The rain triggers the growth |
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When the flamingos eat |
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Their feathers, eyes and legs |
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It is their color they find |
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After all, this is why |
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to find a mate. |
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Slowly, almost politely, they begin. |
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Every movement, part of a courtship. |
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A choreography. |
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A growing dervish of desire. |
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One by one, |
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A pairing to last the season. |
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A pairing that begins |
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There is a myth told by the Masai |
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that the flamingos are made |
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That they are the children |
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But the truth is no less extraordinary, |
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and something that |
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A secret island emerges |
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As the rainy season ends |
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and the furnace sun |
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Water evaporates so quickly |
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forms on the surface. |
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Each day, the sun bears down |
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and the salt thickens into sheets, |
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like plates of salt ice that |
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The sheets drift, |
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blending into a series |
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The wind pushes the islands |
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After several weeks |
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the water in the center of the |
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The floating salt islands run |
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and soon accumulate |
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ten miles wide. |
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Here, remnant water congeals |
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and the temperature regularly |
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No land animal could travel |
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But to the flamingos, |
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is a gift. |
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There are two million lesser |
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and every one of them is born here |
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The expectant parents build their nests |
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Even though the salt island is vast, |
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as social birds, the flamingos prefer |
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and define the boundaries |
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The nests are almost a foot high, |
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Drier and a few degrees cooler |
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The salt bakes, bleaches |
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After the nest, comes the egg. |
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And then, there |
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...for one, long, hot month. |
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Finally, a small |
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A new life, |
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and might, if she's lucky, |
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A whole new story. |
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Her very first cries are unique. |
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This is her own voice, |
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will always be able |
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Within a few hours, |
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and she tries to stand. |
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Something that will take |
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Then it's time for food, |
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a high-energy liquid |
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but also containing traces |
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For these first days, |
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of one or other of her parents. |
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This is a time of bonding |
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The dark hollow |
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is a favorite place to hide |
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While still small, the chicks |
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Or on their nest mounds. |
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Anything to stay cool. |
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At about a week old, |
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and, with a little encouragement, |
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she decides to leave the nest. |
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Her world expands, |
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Now that she can walk, |
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will become more and more |
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Like every other chick, |
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Her inclination is to be with others. |
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The comfort and familiarity of her kind. |
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For a life that is not so much |
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but a collective. |
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Up to half a million adults and chicks |
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live in this season's noisy |
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But the island can also |
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An impermanent place of salt |
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When the chicks walk through |
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that are all around, a thin band of salt |
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lf it does or not |
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But the more these chicks |
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the more the salt accumulates |
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that cannot be broken. |
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High above the colonies, |
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circling like storybook witches. |
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They have come |
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with their own mysterious knowledge |
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Very quickly... |
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...their intentions become clear. |
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Almost insatiable, a few marabous |
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can kill hundreds of chicks, |
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scattering and scaring off the parents. |
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With their gentle, curved beaks, |
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the flamingos are no match |
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But every once in a while, |
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a parent wins a reprieve |
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One day, the chicks |
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Perhaps some instinct |
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Somewhere beyond the salt. |
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Suddenly, |
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they abandon their nursery. |
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Guardian birds lead them away |
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and out across the miles |
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perhaps on routes they took themselves |
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But there are those |
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too weak or too injured |
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Stories that barely began. |
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Each day, the surviving chicks |
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Though they are reunited each evening |
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it is the guardian birds |
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and make sure even the smallest |
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But the group can't wait for everyone. |
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The chicks burdened with salt shackles |
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fall further and further behind. |
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But, for the hundreds of chicks who die, |
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thousands will make it. |
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How far they've come. |
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The groups merge |
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as if, at last, |
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And, reaching the edge |
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find the lake |
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And she has made it, too. |
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Cautiously at first... |
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...but then... |
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...up ahead... |
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...there are the others. |
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Leaving the salt island, |
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the chicks enter |
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Here, a very different world |
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A living landscape, |
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complex and animate. |
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The Rift's escarpment rises |
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a rock wall severed |
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Here, amid the shadows |
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Water gushes out from hundreds |
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The water is rich |
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a mineral that creates the |
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Dozens of springs and rivers |
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that border the lake. |
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depends upon the relatively fresh water |
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And, for the next few months, |
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Each morning, |
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on the muddy shore |
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They spend the day almost |
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They learn to feed themselves. |
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Their beaks are developing the |
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that will allow them to separate the |
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Of the marsh. |
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Her super soft down |
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against the strong sun. |
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But it requires frequent grooming, |
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not only to keep it healthy, but to |
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Without those feathers, she can't fly. |
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No matter how hard she tries. |
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There are plenty of things |
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The mongoose that lives |
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As the chicks change and grow, |
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life in the marsh goes on. |
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Routine, yet quietly full of wonder. |
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At three months old, |
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she has grown more sure of herself |
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and her place in the marsh. |
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Now, her down has transformed |
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And one by one, |
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Her wing feathers have fledged. |
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The day comes when she discovers |
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and a whole new way of being |
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is suddenly possible. |
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A flight that at first stays |
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the familiar places |
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But a flight that |
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above the earth, above |
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No longer a chick, |
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but a young bird |
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the whole Rift Valley. |
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Every 30 years, Lengai erupts. |
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Deep in the volcano's molten core, |
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lava is pulverized by pressure |
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into ash and thrown upward |
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The ash contains sodium carbonate, |
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the exact mineral |
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It is as if each aspect |
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is simply a different form. |
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A different incarnation |
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Natron is one place, |
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water, earth and air. |
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And the flamingos born |
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transformed by its salt water, |
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embody Natron in a living form. |
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The flamingo's ceaseless journeys |
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are nomadic rather than migratory. |
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For the flamingos |
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Natron, Bogoria, Embakai. |
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Magadi, Nakuru, Manyara. |
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They come and go as they want. |
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Their presence, the sudden |
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But every lake has |
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This time, she keeps her story. |
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She keeps her secret life. |
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Just as they arrived at Natron, |
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like a magic act, the flamingos |
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Born of salt, they possess the sky, |
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they absorb the color of the water |
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and their feathers |
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Their lives are |
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And even in death, their forms shift |
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Their feathers, bones, color, |
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their life force returned |
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As the seasons change, microscopic life |
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Natron becomes a lake of fire. |
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After six months without |
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the color fades and bleaches. |
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The ash of the volcano blends |
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with the salt of the lake |
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scattering in the |
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Natron's elements shape-shift, |
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one into the other. |
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Ash, dust and salt. |
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But even this season |
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The story of the bird |
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Nature's affirmation. |
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In winter or in death, |
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in times of desolation, |
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The call of the birds will be heard. |
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And everything, |
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Lightning bird. |
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Fire bird. Phoenix. |
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She will return on crimson wings |
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and make a nest among the ashes. |
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And the children of the lake |
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Once upon a time, |
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there was a lake of fire. |
