THERE ARE WORSE places to indulge in a hobby, I am sure. The snowboarder in the Seychelles won’t find it easy, nor the ice sculptor in Sudan, while wine tasting in Riyadh is a certain non-starter. But in terms of sheer frustration, being a naturalist here in Egypt is right up there with the best of them. From bureaucratic pettiness to the frequent cries of mamnou (forbidden), and zealous security to downright suspicion, it has become increasingly difficult to ply my trade.

A number of recent incidents really brought this home:

For the first time in years, I went back to England over January, and as I wrote in my February column, I had an incredible time. I had long walks with the dog — a charming middle-aged Yellow Labrador called Heba — over field and through woods. We scoured the beech forests for Bramblings — thickset finches visiting from Scandinavia — and the aspens for Siskins. Partridges and pheasants were flushed up from almost underfoot and, on one memorable occasion, we even found a herd of Fallow Deer. All of this and more, wearing binoculars and clutching a notebook.

Indeed, at reserves like Titchwell or Cley on the north Norfolk coast, not having binoculars makes you stand out a mile. It was terrific to join fellow birdwatchers behind a bank of telescopes scanning the leaden North Sea and indulge in fieldcraft. Cold and wet, yes, but I was quite free to set up my scope and mull on the differences between Common and Velvet Scoter or to battle over the ID features of the Red Throated Diver. Un-hassled, un-bothered and undisturbed. If only it were so here.

My second experience was when I went down to Luxor over the spring break. I stayed on Crocodile Island. I am not really a five-star hotel person — the more they try and make my stay comfortable, the less comfortable I feel — but just this once I bit the bullet since I had heard Crocodile Island was great for birds.

And it was. There were Little Egrets, Black-crowned Night-Herons and Striated Herons, Bulbuls and Hoopoes, and I even clocked up a Savi’s Warbler. There was a breeding colony of Cattle Egrets heady with the pungent whiff of egret guano. I immersed myself in the birds, sorting out the tail patterns of Laughing and Turtle Doves and doting upon my marsh terns. There were Bean Skinks and Nile Monitors and butterflies galore. What made it so utterly pleasurable was that I could wander around with my binoculars with total impunity, something that is now rapidly becoming impossible here.

Gabriel Mikhail If you can get them past the guards, binoculars are a must to find the Pharaoh’s Eagle Owl roosting on Zoser’s Step Pyramid.

I got the impression that like-minded people were around, but given the heavy secrecy in which we ornithologists have to go about our business here, contact was going to be hard. I had to start off carefully, of course. It began by the simple act of wearing my Sinai White Stork Project t-shirt. As I sipped a cold Stella, overlooking the river, I would subtly flip through the pages of my field guide and leave my binoculars discreetly on display on my table.

I soon became aware of others using similar signs, and before long I was joined beneath my umbrella by a middle-aged chap in a British Bird Fair 2005 t-shirt. He leaned forward almost conspiratorially and asked, “Are you a birdwatcher?”

A kindred spirit lured into the open! Before long we were engaged in a lively conversation on warbler identification, dropping all pretense of not being addicted to our hobby. This is so rare in Egypt.

It was brought home to me the following day. I went up to Abydos Temple and was hoping to do some birdwatching on the way. Fat chance. Hurtling at 90 kilometers per hour through Egypt’s rural hinterland, sirens blaring, is far from ideal, and with all the security around I felt more than a little worried about raising my binoculars — let alone getting out a scope.

Security is always cited when I complain, but what is the security issue at the Tenth of Ramadan sewage farm? It is a wonderful place for Purple Gallinules and nesting Little Ringed Plover, and on my last visit there was a vast flock of Ruffs. I was feeling optimistic about finally catching up with the enigmatic Sociable Plover, but barely had I settled down when a bunch of uniforms came up and said, “Forbidden!”

Gabriel Mikhail An accommodating Bulbul poses far from official eyes.

I thought the rule was “Defend Your Bridges,” not your sewage works — but nevertheless, I was kicked out. No plover, and certainly not very sociable.

Perhaps the most bizarre incident was at Ain Sokhna. A friend — who shares my affliction — and I decided to climb the cliffs at Ain Sokhna to view the fly-past of birds-of-prey from above, rather than below. It was a long climb and, though early spring, somewhat hot. We made it to the top and enjoyed the spectacle as hundreds of eagles, kites, hawks, falcons and vultures swept below us. It was worth the effort.

We came back down the cliffs with a spring in our step, only to find a couple of black-uniformed guards. Tutting disapprovingly, “Mamnou,” they announced. What on earth were we meant to do now?

Much of the problem, I know, is the binoculars, but they are indispensable. What I really object to is people insisting that the binoculars are a camera and I must pay for them. The worst place for this is Saqqara. There are Eagle Owls at Saqqara, and you need binoculars to find them. Eagle Owls are big birds, but Zoser’s Step Pyramid is very much larger. Looking for a beige feathered thing on a vast beige stone thing is like searching for a needle in the proverbial haystack, but I find them most times — that is, if I can take my binoculars in.

On my last visit the guards at the entrance were adamant that my binoculars were a camera; after much verbal sparring, during which (in desperation) I dropped the name of Zahi Hawass (whom I don’t actually know!), they only relented when I challenged them to take a photograph with the contested item.

Mohamed El Hebeishy To avoid embarrassment, check the grounds before aiming your camera at the sky — Ospreys like to sunbathe in the same areas people do.

And after all that, I could not find the owls.

For Little Owls, Abu Sir was no better. We were not even allowed in, despite the spanking new ticket office. No, it was only when we got back to the Gezira Club that we found an owl: a lone Long-eared Owl. They don’t mind binoculars at the Gezira Club.

Another problem is that the birds do not necessarily go where you want them to go. Some years ago, I was phoned by a birdwatching friend of mine who told me that there was a guy staying in the Marriott, Mad Ken, who had seen Peregrine Falcons from his Nile-view balcony. We went round posthaste and found him with his telescope set up trained on the opposite buildings. He had indeed found Peregrines, though one of the birds was perched on the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and the other on the tangle of aerials that crown the Television Building.

They could not have chosen two more sensitive buildings in Cairo. From the confines of the hotel, we got splendid views, but once our Marriott connection left, I did not even contemplate scanning their adopted perches from the Corniche. It could have launched a diplomatic furor.

In another incident, I found an Osprey perched on the top of a sailboat mast on the beach at Sharm El-Sheikh. I like Ospreys, large brown and white birds with blue-gray legs and long talons for grabbing their fish prey, and this Osprey seemed in a very obliging mood. By chance, I had my camera and long lens with me and, screwing on my 300mm, I stalked my quarry.

When photographing birds you keep your camera trained on the subject and keep taking photographs as you get nearer, on the assumption that each shot might be the last. I was totally absorbed with framing shots of the Osprey when I heard cries, which — though in a foreign language — were clearly cries of discontent. I got out from behind the lens to find myself surrounded by a bevy of scantily-clad Italian ladies and, more to the point, their husbands — waving their arms and yelling things I am probably glad I could not understand, thinking I was at best paparazzi and at worst a voyeur. I beat a hasty retreat.

Then there was the pair of wintering Nile Valley Sunbirds in the Traffic Police Station’s garden in Tanta. Don’t ask.

Of course, it happens elsewhere. I can remember once I was wandering round Bukavu, a picturesque town on Lake Kivu in what is now the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC). I was not doing too well on the bird front until I found a promising area of woodland.

And it lived up to its promise. Seated among the trees I was soon joined by a male Paradise Flycatcher, resplendent in chestnut with long ribbon-like tail plumes. A Great Sparrowhawk glided by on broad, dark wings. I heard something above in the canopy and was overjoyed when I trained the binoculars on a brilliant Lady Ross’s Violet Plantain-eater. This is a big relative of the cuckoos, deep glossy purple throughout with bright yellow bill and crimson crest. I brought out my notebook and started sketching the bird as it clambered around in the branches — a fabulous new species. You do not forget your first Lady Ross’s Violet Plantain-eater.

Then, I heard a rustle in the leaves behind me to find myself faced by three heavily armed soldiers in full camouflage gear. Looking down at my camera bag with the long lens so conspicuously displayed, and my binoculars, they asked what I was doing there. Birdwatching sounded like such a lame excuse; nevertheless, it was what I was doing. Clearly unimpressed, they informed me that this was in fact the governor’s garden and I was trespassing with some very incriminating equipment.

In desperation, I showed them my notebook cluttered with sketches of my plantain-eater. I was off the hook. They laughed, though I hope it was not at my sketches — I thought they were rather good. Clearly deranged, even mad, I was not deemed a security threat and after a polite warning we went our separate ways.

But back to Egypt. It is such a shame. Here is a country for which eco-tourism is becoming increasingly important and yet the simple act of birdwatching can be made so difficult. In only the UK, over one million people are now members of the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds (RSPB) alone. That is more than one million potential tourists. Egypt has a unique position at the juncture of Asia and Africa, supporting a number of species British birders would die for. Senegal Coucal, Senegal Thick-knee, Black-shouldered Kite, Clamorous Reed Warbler, Spur-winged Plover, Painted Snipe, Kittlitz’s Sandplover, Graceful Prinia, Little Green Bee-eater — the list could go on and on, and any Western naturalist worth his salt would be left positively drooling with anticipation.

Unfortunately, we birdwatchers operate on the margins of society: at best quirkish, at worst dangerous. Let outside the confines of such oases as Crocodile Island, we excite suspicion — even ridicule. But look into the glaring, unblinking yellow eye of a thick-knee or the explosion of azure and navy as the Smyrna Kingfisher launches itself into flight, and I’m sure you’ll be rushing to join our discrete and persecuted little clique.  et