Looking for some protection from the swell we motored up into Kabui Bay. It was beautiful. A huge harbour, surrounded by beehive shaped limestone karst hills and ringed with little mushroom islets. We inched our way in to the shallows gingerly, looking for a reasonable depth to anchor in. Our depth sounder was playing up and the cloudy sky made it hard to spot the remains of Islets that had eroded down below the waterline. Finding a spot we dropped the anchor, turned off the engine and listened. The air was full of the sound of birds, relieved that the rain had stopped. Fluttering flutes, squawks and chirps, trills and beeps, whoops and whistles, soft coos and strident screeches all interspersed with deep guttural ‘rows'. Yes we know you’re making a row but where are you, and who are you?

  

Over the four or five days that we stayed there we searched endlessly for the birds. Quietly setting out in the first light of morning on our kayak, armed with cameras, we’d stalk them but they were shy. We’d hear a great commotion just around the corner and so we’d creep carefully round, staying in close to the underhang in order not to alarm them. There’d be a rush of wings, if we were lucky we’d see a flash of colour, and they’d be gone. We grew to recognise the steam train chuff of hornbills flying off as soon as we appeared, and the raucous crows complaining as they flew. The parrots flashed their colours high above us, their high pitched squawks accompanying their wing beats. Just occasionally one would be relaxed enough to let us photograph it, but only from far off using a long lens. It was frustrating and absorbing and a wonderful reason to spend time kayaking around the islets, finding passages under the mangroves into hidden lagoons where scores of butterflies danced in the sunlight.