by Stephen Moss
The reason for this rather poor showing is that I’ve been mainly confined to our base at Governors’ Paradise Camp, alongside the Mara River. Fortunately, if I were to choose a place to get stuck, this would be it. I am lulled to sleep at night by the snorting of hippos, while this morning a herd of elephants wandered down to the river to drink. Crocodiles and baboons regularly appear on the far bank to entertain us.
And, of course, there are the birds. Woodland Kingfishers often fly up and down the river, while overhead there are three species of vulture, five different kinds of swallow and passing flocks of Yellow-billed and Marabou Storks.
On my first morning here, I awoke to what I thought was a familiar sound: the ‘jug-jug-jug’ of a Nightingale. Within seconds, it abruptly changed to impersonate a Blackbird, then a Song Thrush. I wandered out of the tent, and there, on a low branch, was a thrush-sized bird with rusty-orange underparts, slate-grey back and a striking black-and-white head-pattern. It was a White-browed Robin-chat, just one of the many songbirds whose dawn chorus starts our day.
Some of the birds here are old friends, such as the little Common Sandpiper which feeds along the water’s edge, keeping a wary eye out for passing crocodiles. A black-and-white bird with a long, wagging tail looks familiar. But it’s not our own species, rather its larger cousin, the African Pied Wagtail. Different bird, same habits.
Others are totally unfamiliar. Pairs of Tropical Boubous sing the most extraordinary four-note duet: the male taking the first two notes, while his partner responds immediately with notes three and four. Two species of hornbills: the huge Ground Hornbill and its smaller, tree-dwelling relative. And that extraordinary turaco.
I was on a lunchtime walk. Well, I say walk, but what I really mean is a short stroll along the front of the tents — to go any further into the forest would risk attack from a stray buffalo or elephant. As I reached the end of the path, a bird flew across the river. I raised my binoculars, and my eyes were assaulted by a flash of red: so deep, so crimson, that I thought I must be dreaming. It landed in a tree, and I saw a moss-green bird the size of a small pheasant, with a long tail, short crest and comic expression. It turned and then flew again, to reveal the crimson wing-linings once more. Hartlaub’s Turaco: what a bird!
Birding at leisure
OCTOBER 1998
There can’t be many places in the world where you can sip fresh Kenyan coffee, enjoy a pain au chocolat and watch some of the rarest and most exotic birds imaginable. So after seven weeks without a break, it was good to escape from the BBC’s Big Cat Diary camp and have a leisurely breakfast at Little Governors’ Safari Camp, in the heart of the Masai Mara.
The table overlooks a marsh, where Holub’s Golden Weavers cling to the tops of reeds, Black Crakes clamber across waterlogged vegetation, and dashing Purple Grenadiers hop around on the lawn. After breakfast, we took a stroll with Mark, the camp’s resident balloonist and an ace birder. We wandered through a troop of baboons and past the rubbish dump to reach an oxbow lake, formed last winter when the Mara River burst its banks.
There, in a tree, was a pair of huge birds, with pied plumage and the most extraordinary bill I’ve ever seen. They were Black-and-white Casqued Hornbills: sporting the horny protuberance on top of their beaks that gives the species its name. Around the lake there were Hooded Vultures, rising on the first thermals of the day; the resident Woodland Kingfisher, a splash of blue among the browns and greens; and the usual Yellow-vented Bulbuls, which have the annoying ability to look like something new and exciting, before revealing their true identity.
We then took a ride across the Mara to Kichwa Tembo Camp. This may be as close as you can get to paradise, with fine food, a swimming pool and a couple of dozen new species to see during the day. We walked around the grounds with the camp’s naturalist guide, Philip, a man with the necessary combination of local knowledge, fieldcraft and quiet enthusiasm to make it an afternoon to remember.
At first, the forest seemed almost birdless, making me feel quite at home. Then we came across a fruiting tree, alive with birds. African Paradise Flycatchers, with deep rufous-and-black plumage and an impossibly long tail; a Grey Apalis, looking for all the world like a Lesser Whitethroat; and best of all, a Black Cuckoo-shrike, with its smart blue-black plumage and bright yellow epaulettes.
Deeper in the forest, we heard the call of Schalow’s Turaco and caught a frustratingly brief glimpse of the bird itself in flight. We had better luck with a pair of Ross’s Turacos, whose deep-blue plumage, raised crest and bright yellow face give them the comical appearance of a children’s TV character.
But best of all was a Narina Trogon. The name ‘trogon’ has always suggested to me something in Dr Who – ‘welcome to the planet Trogon, doctor …’ I’ve watched three different species in Trinidad, and was surprised to find that the family is not confined to South America but can be found throughout the tropics. Narina Trogon is one of two trogons found in Kenya, and was apparently named after the wife of the man who first discovered the species.
Philip began by imitating the trogon’s call: a surprisingly muted series of low, bass notes, almost inaudible to the human ear. From the depths of the forest, the bird responded. It sounded as if it were about half a mile away, but to our surprise, Philip pointed out a movement in the nearby trees. There, perched on a branch, was a vision of scarlet and green, with a bright yellow beak, pale eye-patch and long black-and-white tail. As we watched, it started to call: quietly at first, then gradually turning up the volume as it began to speed up. Narina must have been proud to have such a beautiful bird named after her.
A walk on the wild side
NOVEMBER 1998
If you wanted to go for a quiet country stroll, the Masai Mara isn’t the first place you’d consider. For a start, it is home to one of the largest concentrations of predators in the world, with the ‘big three’ – Lion, Leopard and Cheetah – at the top of the food chain. The Mara also supports herds of elephants, wandering bands of hyenas and large numbers of buffaloes – often considered to be Africa’s most dangerous wild animal.
So when Colin, the safari guide at Governors’ Camp, asked me if I wanted to go on a walk, I thought he was joking. I called his bluff, and the next day found myself in the back seat of a Land Rover, bumping along the waterlogged, pot-holed track which leads away from the camp and into the Mara Game Reserve.
Walking — or even getting out of your vehicle at all — is strictly forbidden in the reserve itself, so we drove for about 45 minutes until we were beyond its boundaries. Then Colin stopped the vehicle, and we got out and started to walk.
On foot, you see the Mara from a completely different perspective. For a start, you get an unencumbered view of the skies, enabling me to spot majestic Bateleur Eagles as they soared high overhead. With the engine turned off, I could also hear birdsong, with the fluty notes of glossy starlings mingling with the scratchy sound of cisticolas – Africa’s archetypal ‘little brown jobs’.
From a birder’s point of view, Kenya offers a delightful mix of the exotic and the everyday. Lilac-breasted Rollers, with their dazzling blue and purple plumage, perch on the tops of acacias, while migrant European Wheatears hop around on the ground beneath. I saw a quick movement in a bush and discovered a Willow Warbler, perhaps the bird I’d been watching on my local patch in London a couple of months before. Meanwhile, flocks of swallows hawked for insects low over our heads.
Not every bird is quite so familiar. A pair of tiny finches landed in front of me, revealing a dazzling blue plumage, with bright red patches beneath their eyes. Like many African species, this little bird sports an improbably exotic name: Red-cheeked Cordon-bleu.
One of my companions, who had at first claimed to have no interest in birds, was rapidly becoming hooked. He drew my attention to an even more brightly coloured bird, hopping around on the short grass. It was clearly a bunting, with a black-and-white striped head and deep golden-yellow underparts – but which species? To find out
its identity, I rapidly extricated the massive Birds of Kenya and Northern Tanzania from my rucksack, turned to plate 121 and identified the bird as a Golden-breasted Bunting. This wonderful book is the key reference work for visiting birders, though it weighs several kilos, so you need to be both fit and dedicated to take it into the field.
Whenever there were few birds to see, Colin kept us entertained by pointing out the plant and insect life, even getting us to sample some, including a hot, peppermint-flavoured leaf used by the Masai as toothpaste. He also spotted a dark bird of prey with a comical hairstyle: the aptly named Long-crested Eagle. As we approached, we realised the bird was in the process of eating a large rat. First, it swallowed the prey whole, then regurgitated the unfortunate rodent; finally it swallowed it whole once again, before flying off. By the time we reached our vehicle, where Colin opened a couple of bottles of Tusker lager, the sun was already setting.
Miracle in the Holy Land
FEBRUARY 1999
‘These birds are like politicians,’ said David Glasner, director of the Jordan Valley Birdwatching Centre in northern Israel. ‘They make a lot of noise, but soon as you try to get near them, they disappear.’ The bird in question was the Black Francolin, a handsome but elusive member of the partridge family (the bird, not the pop group). I was on my fifth birding trip to Israel, filming the latest Birding with Bill Oddie, and the Black Francolin was fast becoming my ‘bogey bird’.
The following morning, we made an early start, heading towards the kibbutz at Kefar Rupim for an appetising breakfast of hard-boiled eggs, pickled herring and cucumbers. As usual, the film crew were in the vehicle in front, speeding along ahead of me.
Suddenly their minibus screeched to a halt. I grabbed the walkie-talkie and called them, expecting the worst. But before I could make contact, a bird closely resembling a domestic chicken walked out from behind the minibus’s front wheel. Yes, it was a Black Francolin. My duck – if you’ll pardon the expression – had been broken at last.
The francolin’s brush with death raised an interesting question. If the crew had actually run it over, would I have been able to count the bird on my life list? Probably not, but in the context of a trip like this it hardly mattered: there were more than enough birds to keep us all happy.
Bill had only been to Israel twice before, so he was picking up several new species, including a stunning male Sinai Rosefinch in the hills above Eilat. And on a trip to the Negev Desert, in the company of top Israeli birder Hadoram Shirihai, we came across a huge female Saker Falcon perched on top of an electricity pylon.
But for me, the best thing about having been here so many times before is that I don’t need to worry about seeing new birds – 1 can just sit back and enjoy the old ones. Every visit is different, and this time I had the chance to explore the green valleys of the north, with their astonishing wealth of wintering birds.
At the fishponds in the Jordan Valley, waterbirds are the main attraction, with flocks of White and Black Storks, hordes of egrets and Spoonbills, and a fascinating selection of gulls, including Caspian, Armenian and the magnificent Great Black-headed.
It’s true that most British birders still visit southern Israel in spring and autumn, to witness the twice-annual migration. But for me, a winter visit to the far north – the Hula Valley in Galilee – is just as enjoyable. The profusion of birds here is truly biblical: vast numbers of pelicans and cranes compete for your attention with more than a dozen different birds of prey, including the rare Pallid Harrier and Greater Spotted Eagle.
The day we arrived, the first rains of the winter began, shrouding the valley in a pall of grey. At first we were disappointed, fearing we might not be able to get the footage we needed to complete the programme. But in true British tradition we pressed on regardless, and, fortunately, luck was on our side. On the first afternoon, the rain stopped an hour or so before dusk, and we watched squadrons of White Pelicans cruising low over the reeds on their way to roost.
The next day was our last in Israel, and again we suffered from a mid-afternoon downpour. Then, just as we were about to give up, the skies cleared, and the rain stopped. A rainbow appeared against the dark grey sky, and a beam of sunshine came down from the heavens. As if on cue, a huge flock of cranes took off against this stunning backdrop, uttering their haunting calls as they flew. It may not have been a miracle, but for me, it certainly felt like one.
Going Dutch
MARCH 1999
If you want to see a million geese of a dozen different spedes, with a whole host of other wintering birds, then Holland is definitely the place to go. If, like me, you live in south-east England, then it’s actually easier to reach than most British goose haunts. You just pop through the Channel Tunnel, turn left, and three hours later you’re watching the birds.
Wherever you go, the old rubs shoulders with the new, as ancient windmills stand alongside sleek modern wind turbines. The whole place has a strange beauty – though perhaps rather more strange than beautiful. After a while you long to get a view from high ground, or a few hills to break the visual monotony.
But Holland’s birdlife is far from monotonous. Any time of year is good for a visit, but winter is truly special. Huge flocks of geese feed in the fields, chomping away at the crops while trampling them with their feet — much to the annoyance of local farmers. On the IJsselmeer, a man-made lake so large it’s like a small sea, there are vast flocks of duck – often so distant you can barely identify the species.
Once again, I was with a camera crew filming the latest series of Birding with Bill Oddie. We began our trip in the south, in the region of Zeeland, which literally means ‘sea land’. Much of this area is reclaimed and is rich in nutrients for crops and geese alike. The two commonest goose species were Barnacle and White-fronted, though we also saw Bean, Greylag, Brent and Pink-footed, together with oddities such as vagrant Lesser White-fronts, dubious-looking Canada Geese and even more peculiar hybrids.
Next to the world’s biggest harbour, Europoort, a wintering flock of tiny birds took to the air, giving their characteristic tinkling call. They were Snow Buntings, looking like little angels, especially when they flew against the rapidly setting sun. With them was a small group of Shore Larks, showing their splendid black and yellow face pattern and the tiny ‘horns’ that give them their alternative name, Horned Lark.
On Sunday morning, a pre-dawn start took us to a wooded park on the outskirts of Haarlem, one of the most densely populated areas of Europe. A fall of snow the previous week had yet to melt, giving the place a wonderfully wintry atmosphere. Fortunately we had beaten the joggers and dog-walkers, and were rewarded by the comical sight of a Black Woodpecker poking its head out of the roost-hole. It eyed us suspiciously, before flying off, uttering a curious high-pitched call as it went.
Despite this part of Holland being so close to East Anglia, Black Woodpecker has yet to be officially recorded in Britain. In recent years, however, it has been spreading northwards and westwards, so it’s well worth looking out for this magnificent creature, the largest of Europe’s woodpeckers.
Another species hardly ever found in Britain was everywhere. Short-toed Treecreeper is barely distinguishable in the field from its common relative: except, that is, for the distinctive call, which we could hear loud and clear on this bright winter’s morning.
That afternoon we headed north, into Friesland. As we drove along the long, exposed dyke across the IJsselmeer, the weather rapidly took a turn for the worse. We found ourselves shivering in the wind-chill as we watched Barnacle Geese feeding in the snowy fields. While we were filming yet another flock of geese, Richard, the camera assistant, drew my attention to a bulky brown bird flying past. It was a Bittern, a rare sight anywhere, and always a delight to see. Rarely can a wild goose chase have been so productive and enjoyable.
Spring in the Med
APRIL 1999
Mallorca might not be the first place you’d think of when planning a birding holiday abroad – b
ut it certainly should be. Cheap flights, a thriving tourist industry and a variety of habitats make it an ideal destination for a first trip outside the UK.
Although Mallorca is good for birds at any time of year, the peak season is definitely spring, when huge numbers of migrants cross the Mediterranean on their way north to breed. I’ll be going back there with a film crew later this month, but I had a sneak preview just before Easter, when I visited the island with my 11-year-old son David who isn’t a great fan of birdwatching. I knew it could be an uphill struggle, but he tagged along with a modicum of good grace, indulging me in what he considers to be a bizarre and eccentric pastime.
I bumped into one of my target species on our very first evening, as we wandered along the sea-front at Port de Pollença. A closer look at the birds on the beach revealed them to be Audouin’s Gulls, one of the rarest of their family. Their blood-red bill and rather haughty stance marked them off from their commoner counterparts. Audouin’s Gull has done rather well recently, but even so I didn’t expect to see them pottering about in the middle of this busy resort.
The next day we visited two of Mallorca’s best-known sites. We spent the morning in the Boquer Valley, where we watched a Hoopoe bringing back food to its young – proving that the breeding season here kicks off a lot earlier than back home. That evening, we strolled around the Albufereta Marsh, though unfortunately we were a week or so early for most migrants. In compensation the two resident warblers, Fan-tailed and Cetti’s, competed with each other in volume, with Cetti’s winning by a few decibels.