If I could be any parrot in the world I would be a Kea.
I shun other average jungle parrots desperate for attention with their flashy plethora of multi coloured madness, crazy stripes of red, blue, green, pink, yellow in every direction screaming look at me!
No, the parrot that evolved to live in the snow line of New Zealands mountain landscape -it's beautiful and simple and perfectly adapted.
Its dark green feathers are interweaved with lighter green and darker green and more shades of green than a paint catalogue, expertly woven and perfectly blended, as if by a master painter. These birds are the Audis of the sky, the Kate Winslets of the icy walk of fame. Compared to these beauties a tropical parakeet is Paris Hilton driving in a psychadelic pink stretched Hummer.
Like the Kea, I would keep my wing-bling, my beautiful flash of orange like a burst of fire, concealed - only to be seen by those beneath me, or really watching me. Its like a flash of gold in the river, sparking the excitement of the gold rush for the desperate man panning on the banks.
The Kea here scavenging at the mountain cafe are total pests. They hang around stealing the food, pooing on the tables, walking with sharp claws on the latest model off road BMW's. But I admire them. They own the mountain. We only rent a small part day by day and get to feel, for a short time, free as the birds soaring high above this craggy range, lungs bursting with icy air, floating, free.
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