Hornbills - great big birds the size of a toddler – caw loudly from outside my fourth-floor apartment window. The tree branches bounce and bend, straining under their weight, as the surrounding concrete magnifies their unapologetic shrieks.
These are not the hornbills of Sarawak, with their flamboyantly dressed red and yellow beaks, but a duller variety. This is the third time in two weeks I’ve seen this family of four birds, perched atop metal lampposts and belabouring the few trees along our street.
I remember that time when my husband and I travelled to Langkawi in Northwestern Malaysia. We’d paid to go bird watching, though we didn’t (and still don’t) particularly care for birds. I’d spotted some hornbills then, and remember comparing them to Sarawakian hornbills: they were a lesser type, I’d said. They look small. I can't believe we paid for this.
When I think of home, of Sarawak, nostalgia rises, pungent like dragon joss sticks burning in the middle of Carpenter Street. My memory is hazy, but I know – I just know – our hornbills are magnificent.