Konrad Stone (centre) of the National Environment and Planning Agency (NEPA) and Winston Passley of the Natural Resources Conservation Authority (NRCA) inspect the birds Gunny had collected so far during a bird shooting in Bushy Park, St. Catherine recently. - PHOTOS BY NORMAN GRINDLEY/DEPUTY CHIEF PHOTOGRAPHER
HAVING GOT to the Texaco gas station in Old Harbour, we turned left and followed that road all the way down. Don't turn off until you see the Rangers Club sign on your left. When it's rainy, you'll have to cross deep puddles; some deeper than ankle depth. So a sport utility vehicle (SUV), which we didn't have, was recommended. Speaking of SUVs, the mud and dirt stains on the ones we saw on arrival weren't just from the puddles en route; they had been hunting that morning. So predictably, most of the hunters were asleep when we arrived at about 12:30 p.m. Saturday afternoon. The lodge showed signs of a get-together on Friday night. The glasses, the cards; these folks were having a good time before even spotting any birds.
By 1: 00 p.m. the majority of the sleepy heads rose from their slumber. It was lunch time; fuel for the afternoon hunt. (Wildlife protection laws say you can hunt twice on a Saturday). Plain rice, roti, curried chicken and pear was the meal of choice. There were about 10 children among the group; the sons and daughters of club members.
HISTORY AND TRADITION
Michael Ammar, probably better known for his stores than bird shooting, told us about the history of Rangers Club and the family tradition of bird shooting. Many of the adults, himself included, went with their parents when they were about the same age. It's a friendly atmosphere; everyone is on first name basis. They all drive down on Friday evenings (you can only shoot on Saturdays and Sundays) and make a weekend of it. Sleeping in bunk beds, playing games, chatting, and of course hunting. I realised that it's not so much about shooting birds. It's about hanging out with friends and family away from the city. They just do it while hunting birds; the shooting is secondary.
At 1:30 p.m. we witnessed "The Draw". This is the tradition where hunters drew poker chips with numbers painted on them to decide who hunts in what location. The higher you draw, (let's say you picked a 12 out of 50 numbered chips), then chances are you would get to select a good hunting area first. Each hunting field has more than one spot so let's say I pick Kelly's Run Two. Someone else can take Daviot's Pass Five and so on.
Because of the sedan we were using, a shooting area with not so hilly (or swampy) terrain was recommended. So we went with member Ed Khouri as he took off for Fence Line 3. It was bumpy, the loose stones doing us no favours. Along the way, Ed picked up his birdmen, Gunny and Chilum.
"You guys didn't do too bad," Ed joked when we arrived, seeing the car had passed the test. We made a short trek to our hunting location. Gunny and Chilum set themselves up at either side of Ed; to see the birds coming from either side. They would say "Mark" and tell him which side the approaching bird was on. Ed didn't give any instructions and the guys didn't need any. They're like Fab 5; they know the routine after years of practice. Ed had reasoned that most of the birds would be coming from the highway end of the field; our left. Since Mr. Grindley and I weren't in camouflage outfits, we tried to stay extra low because any sudden movement can alert approaching birds and cause them to change course. Furthermore, we were guests to their party and didn't want to mess up Ed's shoot just because of a story.
Patience is a virtue when hunting and so for minutes at a time, there were no sights or sounds of our feathered friends. So there we were, five men, standing in acres of grass; all looking for birds; eyes trained on the surrounding bush waiting for any movement. None of us even whispered; the wind blowing through the trees the only audio breaking the morgue-like silence. And then the words we've been waiting to hear, "Mark; on your left boss". Ed swivels in command, takes aim and fires. Bang! We've got a white-winged dove. After that initial success, the birds start showing up regularly. There were other hunters to our left and right. The wind is forcing the birds to dive before they get to us and these guys don't miss. But sometimes the birds come in real low so they're easy for Ed, who's been shooting for four years.
"Who brought their swimsuit?" Ed jokes as one of the birds he takes down falls into the pond. I feel a strange excitement every time we blast another one. Don't know if I'm cold-blooded or just happy I'm not a bird but the sight of dead doves on a rack behind me doesn't turn my stomach. As Gunny hangs up another one, I ask him how he earns a living when bird season is out.
"Just try do a little farming," he chuckles. That indicates to me that for him, it's no fun trip; it's a way to pay the bills.
Two officials, one from the National Environment and Planning Agency (NEPA) and the other from the Natural Resources Conservation Authority (NRCA) come by to make sure the hunters are following all the rules.
BEING SHOT
After speaking with them for a few minutes we decide to move to another location to get a better view of all the fence line spots. And that's when I got shot! Calm down let me explain. The hunter about 75 metres to our right seems to be scattering pellets the size of small stones for yards. One of those whacked me on the left ear. Par for the course I was told as we watch the rest of hunters from an old pig trough as they try to get their bagful before sunset; the cut-off time for shoots. We chat about how the day has gone, the people who break the rules and the different ways to cook bird.
So I got my story, Ed got his quota of 20 birds and Gunny and Chilum make themselves about $2000; everybody wins. Well except maybe the birds!
