See-you! See-you! See-you! For nearly two hours, this simple refrain has been saturating the humid air, overpowering a chorus of akalats, alethes, apalies and other Mozambique specials.
The calling cuckoo can clearly see us, but we can't see it. I'm starting to get a little offended!
But it's one of the most rare and mysterious of all the world's cuckoos, so we persist with our search.
First described after a visit to the present-day DRC in 1928, the barred long-tailed cuckoo remains an enigma almost a century later.
For example, we still don't know which forest bird falls prey to its parasitic breeding strategy.
Like all cuckoos, the female barred longtailed cuckoo deposits her egg into the nest of a specific host, which is then duped into raising the cuckoo nestling at the expense of its own offspring.
Is it the East Coast akalat, chestnut-fronted helmet-shrike, African broadbill?
See-you! See-you! I shift position slightly, ignoring the battalion of mosquitoes swarming around my legs, praying that my malaria prophylactics will work.
But try as I might, I just can't see the bloody bird. It's 40 m up in the canopy and has been calling from the same perch for much of the morning, but the countless layers of leaves are obscuring it and causing my stress levels to rise by the second.
I'm petrified that the bird will depart, and with it my chance of adding this mega rarity to my list.
Then suddenly, an ominous silence falls. Twenty seconds go by and the cuckoo starts calling again much deeper into the forest.
Sections of this forest track were apparently mined during Mozambique's civil war, so my chance at the tick is gone.
I stumble back into the sunshine, frustrated, scratched, hot and deeply disappointed.
I notice my birding buddy, who is grinning, and my world comes crashing down.
The lucky so-and-so managed to glimpse a fraction of that barred tail through a miniscule gap in the foliage.
A lifer for him, nothing for me.
But should it be like that? We had both travelled for three days, we had both woken up at an ungodly hour, both craned our necks painfully for two hours, and we'd both been equally excited when we heard the call.
Literally, the only difference was that he had seen the bird whereas I had only heard it.
Traditionally, this has always been the rule: You can only add a bird to your life list if you see it.
After all, it's called birdwatching, not birdlistening. Actually, no, it's called birding, and sound plays an integral role in our hobby.
BirdLife South Africa agrees: As of now, you can officially add a bird to your list having only heard it.
This is a move to be applauded.
Not because I can finally tick that damned cuckoo, but because it's better for conservation.
Following Cyclone Eloise, Limpopo province turned into a giant floodplain and it wasn't long before ephemeral migrants arrived.
These near-mythical birds arrive in years of exceptional rainfall, breed in secluded marshes and ghost birders when the pools and puddles dry up.
I'm talking striped crake, lesser moorhen, dwarf bittern and a host of other tropical species that will make any serious birder go weak at the knees.
But there's a catch: These migrants are extremely elusive and would remain invisible if not for their distinctive vocalisations.
To actually see one, you either have to clear a path through the vegetation and play their calls repeatedly, hoping the playback will entice them to shoot across a gap for a blurry, second-long glimpse, or you can walk noisily through the wetland in the hope of putting the bird to flight.
Forget about photos as the trickster flushes and dives back down.
Both these strategies are detrimental. Playback upsets foraging and breeding activities, challenges territory boundaries and causes stress.
And the physical disturbance caused by trampling is obvious. But if you can tick the bird simply by enjoying its call - the core of the experience - then the sensitive environment is protected.
The experience of listening to the bizarre mechanical rattling of a striped crake or the eerie hooting of a flufftail is much more thrilling than actually seeing the bird in question. It's a lifer - and you get to keep your shoes dry!
