The Crimson Wing: Mystery of the Flamingos

Once upon a time,

in the heart of Africa,

there was a lake of fire.

The lake's water burned

with color,

scarlet and crimson,

and in its stillness,

held heaven's reflection.

After months without rain,

there came a season of drought.

And the lake dried

and turned white as ash.

But in the desolation came

the promise of another season.

A season of color and life,

a season of beginning.

Lake Natron,

in northern Tanzania,

lies at the very center

of East Africa's Great Rift Valley.

This is a raw and unfinished land.

Ol Doinyo Lengai rises from

the lake's southern shore,

a living volcano,

restless and impatient.

Hidden deep in its dark core,

a chamber of magma burns

with primeval energy.

For the local Masai tribe,

Lengai is simply where God lives.

Natron is a vast, shallow lake,

and no more than six feet deep

and so toxic with soda salt that

almost nothing can live in its water.

But each year,

For only a few weeks,

rain comes to Natron...

...and a grand act

of creation takes place,

one of Africa's last great mysteries.

And with the rain come the flamingos.

Somehow, they know the time

has come to return to Natron.

They have abandoned a dozen other

lakes along the Rift Valley

and flown hundreds, even

thousands, of miles to be here.

Each bird has its own story,

its own secret life.

And each story is one that

began here at Natron,

with the rain.

The rain triggers the growth

of algae in the water.

When the flamingos eat

the algae, they transform.

Their feathers, eyes and legs

flush with crimson.

It is their color they find

most attractive about each other.

After all, this is why

they have come to Natron,

to find a mate.

Slowly, almost politely, they begin.

Every movement, part of a courtship.

A choreography.

A growing dervish of desire.

One by one,

the flamingos find each other.

A pairing to last the season.

A pairing that begins

with a moment.

There is a myth told by the Masai

that the flamingos are made

from the water's salt.

That they are the children

Of the lake.

But the truth is no less extraordinary,

and something that

only happens here at Natron.

A secret island emerges

from the middle of the lake.

As the rainy season ends

and the furnace sun

resumes its rule,

Water evaporates so quickly

that a residue of salt

forms on the surface.

Each day, the sun bears down

and the salt thickens into sheets,

like plates of salt ice that

shift and grind in the wind.

The sheets drift,

blending into a series

of small islands as they go.

The wind pushes the islands

towards the center of the lake.

After several weeks

of intense evaporation,

the water in the center of the

lake is only a few inches deep.

The floating salt islands run

aground on the emerging mud

and soon accumulate

into a single island of salt,

ten miles wide.

Here, remnant water congeals

into sulfurous pools,

and the temperature regularly

rises above 130 degrees.

No land animal could travel

Or survive here.

But to the flamingos,

this strange, new world

is a gift.

There are two million lesser

flamingos in East Africa,

and every one of them is born here

on Natron's secret salt island.

The expectant parents build their nests

from the salty lake mud.

Even though the salt island is vast,

as social birds, the flamingos prefer

to group closely together

and define the boundaries

of their chosen nest sites.

The nests are almost a foot high,

Drier and a few degrees cooler

than the floor of the salt island.

The salt bakes, bleaches

and hardens into a cradle.

After the nest, comes the egg.

And then, there

is nothing to do but wait...

...for one, long, hot month.

Finally, a small

but determined beginning.

A new life,

one that will start today,

and might, if she's lucky,

last for 40 years.

A whole new story.

Her very first cries are unique.

This is her own voice,

and how she and her parents

will always be able

to recognize each other.

Within a few hours,

Her down dries in the hot sun,

and she tries to stand.

Something that will take

only a little more practice.

Then it's time for food,

a high-energy liquid

made from the lake's algae,

but also containing traces

of her parent's own blood.

For these first days,

she has the constant presence

of one or other of her parents.

This is a time of bonding

and intimacy.

The dark hollow

Under her mother's wing

is a favorite place to hide

from the fierce sun.

While still small, the chicks

stay in their parent's shadows

Or on their nest mounds.

Anything to stay cool.

At about a week old,

her legs are strong enough,

and, with a little encouragement,

she decides to leave the nest.

Her world expands,

one unsteady step at a time.

Now that she can walk,

Her relationship with her parents

will become more and more

about separation.

Like every other chick,

Her inclination is to be with others.

The comfort and familiarity of her kind.

For a life that is not so much

about the individual,

but a collective.

Up to half a million adults and chicks

live in this season's noisy

and boisterous nursery.

But the island can also

be harsh and unkind.

An impermanent place of salt

and extreme heat.

When the chicks walk through

the puddles of thick, salty water

that are all around, a thin band of salt

sometimes forms on their ankles.

lf it does or not

seems a matter of luck.

But the more these chicks

wade into the water,

the more the salt accumulates

and hardens into a cement shackle

that cannot be broken.

High above the colonies,

the marabou storks appear,

circling like storybook witches.

They have come

from far beyond the lake

with their own mysterious knowledge

of what happens at Natron.

Very quickly...

...their intentions become clear.

Almost insatiable, a few marabous

can kill hundreds of chicks,

scattering and scaring off the parents.

With their gentle, curved beaks,

the flamingos are no match

for the marabous.

But every once in a while,

a parent wins a reprieve

for her chick.

One day, the chicks

have had enough.

Perhaps some instinct

tells them of a better place.

Somewhere beyond the salt.

Suddenly,

in their hundreds of thousands,

they abandon their nursery.

Guardian birds lead them away

and out across the miles

of the salt island,

perhaps on routes they took themselves

when they were chicks.

But there are those

who are left behind,

too weak or too injured

to make the journey.

Stories that barely began.

Each day, the surviving chicks

continue on across the burning miles.

Though they are reunited each evening

with their parents for rest and food,

it is the guardian birds

who lead this daytime march

and make sure even the smallest

find their way.

But the group can't wait for everyone.

The chicks burdened with salt shackles

fall further and further behind.

But, for the hundreds of chicks who die,

thousands will make it.

How far they've come.

The groups merge

and gather momentum

Rate this script:0.0 / 0 votes