Ground Batis

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White-tailed ‘Shrike’ Lanioturdus torquatus, Aba Huab, Namibia

 

More often than not, the longer a quest takes, the more satisfying it is.

I had seen the strange and monotypic Lanioturdus torquatus (aka ‘White-tailed Shrike’) once or twice on previous trips to Namibia, but these were inadequate views of birds moving away from me and at some range. Nothing more than hasty flashes. Being the sole member of its genus this little bird has a unique appearance and behaviour to match. In recent years, taxonomists have come to regard it not as a shrike at all, but rather as a close relative of the batises and wattle-eyes in the family Platysteiridae. As it is, the generic name of Lanioturdus means shrike-thrush, so there has clearly been confusion from the start.

While preparing for a work assignment in Namibia earlier this year, I hoped to encounter this interesting bird on my travels and perhaps get to know it a little. According to the literature, it is apparently quite common in the hilly country of central Namibia, extending north into parts of Etosha and Kunene province. It is one of a suite of ‘near endemics’ that occur principally in Namibia, but also in a small part of southern Angola. As such, it is high on the wanted list for international birders traveling through southern Africa. My objective was not to tick it off any list, but rather to watch it and form an opinion of my own as to whether it was more batis than shrike.

Since one of my previous sightings was of a distant group at Okonjima, I figured that the not-too-distant Waterberg Plateau (south-east of Otjiwarongo) would be a likely place to meet Lanioturdus again. The elevation, geology and vegetation were practically the same. I arranged an overnight stop here and walked the hill slopes and valleys for several hours in the afternoon and morning but did not hear nor see these dashing little pied pipers. Damara Rockrunner, Rüppell’s Parrot and Violet Woodhoopoe were numerous, but no White-tailed ‘Shrike’.

A day or two later I found myself setting up camp at a place called Hobatere, adjacent to the western boundary of the Etosha National Park. This was not planned, but very fortuitous as this particular spot – a landscape of granite outcrops, mopane woodland and seasonal drainage lines - was apparently a good location for Namibian endemics. Unfortunately, I had very limited time at Hobatere and there was not a peep nor a glimpse of Lanioturdus during the late afternoon and early morning. Monteiro’s Hornbill, Carp’s Tit and Rosy-faced Lovebird were numerous, but no White-tailed ‘Shrike’.

Before flying home via Windhoek, I was able to spend a morning at the Daan Viljoen Game Reserve west of the capital. This, too, is another alleged ‘hot spot’ for White-tailed ‘Shrike’. I walked a couple of trails, searched the camping area and drove the road network – slowly. Short-toed Rock Thrush, Dusky Sunbird and Violet-eared Waxbill were numerous, but no White-tailed ‘Shrike’.

Fast forward to September, and I had to return to Namibia. Unsurprisingly, finding the elusive Lanioturdus had become the sub-plot for the actual purpose of the trip: installing exhibition material at Olifantsrus in Etosha National Park. Once again, I would be in the Hobatere area but this time I was going to travel home via Damaraland where a number of sites looked promising. Not only that, I have always wanted to visit the alluring landscapes of Twylfelfontein, Brandberg and Spitzkoppe.

Once I had completed the Etosha assignment, I refueled in the dusty little sprawl of Kamanjab and headed towards Khorixas. Entering a hitherto unseen landscape always gets my mojo going and this was no different. Massive, rounded blocks of granite punctuated the rolling savanna of bleached grass and dry mopane. Himba and Herero pastoralists watched over their goats. Snake-eagles sliced through the cloudless sky. The dirt track crossed numerous dry watercourses that cut through the starkly beautiful semi-desert. These watercourses, fringed with taller and leafier trees than occur on the plains, are said to be the preferred habitat of Lanioturdus.

I reached the Twyfelfontein UNESCO World Heritage Site around mid day, had lunch under a pearly-blue sky, then took the guided tour of this phenomenal outdoor gallery. Hundreds of Stone Age engravings occur on the red sandstone slabs - all were chipped into the rock several thousand years ago and the images of animals such as rhino, giraffe and ostrich have attracted great interest from anthropologists. What really caught my eye, however, was the Aba Huab riverbed that I crossed on my way in. Lined with gnarled mopane trees, this looked like ideal habitat for the bird that had become something of a minor obsession.

As luck would have it, the local community have set up a simple camp site for travelers at Aba Huab. The sun was virtually on the horizon by the time I had found my way back there. And then it happened – that thrill and satisfaction when something you’ve hunted long and hard for actually shows up. In the middle of pitching my tent in a grove of arched mopane, I heard a strange snapping sound in the foliage above me. I looked straight up into the pale amber eyes of a White-tailed Shrike! A second, then a third and fourth, flew in to join it. With the western sky now burnt orange, they were settling down to their night roost. Not only had I seen Lanioturdus up close, but I was about to spend the night in their company and I would be up before sunrise to see them start their day.

It was such a perfect night that I never bothered to put the cover on my tent, choosing to just sleep under the mosquito-gauze dome. Moonshine cast mopane leaf shadows onto my sleeping bag and illuminated the riverbed where the footprints of desert elephants mingled with those of the local cattle. Barking geckos tapped out their morse-code calls and some way off, a single African Scops-Owl uttered its cricket chirp. Waking well before sunrise, I was able to take in the full glory of the milky way without lifting my head from the pillow. Truly, it never gets better than this.

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My campsite at Aba Huab, Namibia

 

The little foursome of Lanioturdus were moving about at first light and I spent the next hour or so following them as they foraged not so much in the foliage, but on the ground. Their striking plumage of black, grey and white made them easy to see and they were far from shy. The white tail feathers – from which they get part of their name – are short and when the bird is hoping about on the ground it has the appearance of a diminutive pitta. In every other way – the movements, the eyes, the overall plumage, the calls, the bill snapping  - Lanioturdus cries out: “I am a batis!”.  Fallen mopane leaves were flipped over, dry seedpods and bark chips were probed. In the trees, small caterpillars were pulled off leaves and spiders were extracted from crooks and crevices. All the time, the four kept in touch with soft grating calls occasionally breaking out into a chorus of sharper buzzing squeaks.

It was not easy to pull myself away from what I like to call the White-tailed Ground-Batis, but Namibia is a big country and I had Spitzkoppe on my mind.

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Lanioturdus torquatus, Aba Huab, Namibia

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Abua Huab, near Twyfelfontein, Namibia

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White-tailed ‘Shrike’ in Mopane tree, Aba Huab, Namibia

Aba Huab, Damaraland, Namibia, September 2014

 

 

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Alpine Airshow

 

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Alpine Swifts (Tachymarptis melba), Vermont, South Africa. October 2014.

Swifts are among the most overlooked of birds, as they tend to fly fairly high above the ground (typically much higher than swallows) and they never land on branches, fences or other perches simply because their tiny, forward-facing toes do not allow this. As birds go, they are drably plumaged in shades of charcoal, umber and white so the majority of people are completely unaware of their presence.

Swifts are often confused with swallows although they are not related to them – both are aerial feeders, capturing small insects on the wing and they share many physical characteristics as a result of convergent evolution. The best way to tell these two groups apart is by the shape of the wings and the way they fly – swifts have narrow, sickle shaped wings and fly faster in wider arcs than swallows which have broader wings to glide and bank in a more relaxed manner. Swallows regularly perch on fences, branches and overhead wires, and many have bright blue backs and orange on the head.

The Alpine Swift is one of the largest and most impressive members of the family, arriving here as a migrant in August and departing around May. These white-bellied bombers frequent mountainous areas, building their clay nest between cracks in a vertical cliff. Here, their little feet are perfectly adapted to clinging onto the rock face. Several pairs usually nest close together in a colony of 20 or 3o and they forage together too. Depending upon weather conditions, flocks descend to lower elevations either because their mountain home is misted up or because warm weather has led to an emergence of abundant prey in flat country, above wetlands or along the seashore.

Watching these birds is always an incredible experience as they hurtle about at speeds well in excess of 100km per hour. I have had some memorable encounters along the Drakensberg escarpment with squadrons of these swifts scudding by at breakneck speed.  Once or twice, I’ve been so close that I could feel the rush of air in their wake.

However, it was while having a tea break on our balcony, that this group of a dozen or so appeared out of the blue. I’m not sure if they nest on the nearby cliffs of Hoek-van-die-Berg or further afield, but I must take a hike up there to check. Swooping low above the houses and out towards the sea, they were not alone, as White-rumped Swift, Rock Martin and Greater Striped Swallow helped to hoover up minuscule winged insects. They put on a show for about fifteen minutes or so before disappearing as suddenly as they arrived.

As their name suggests, the Alpine Swift occurs in the Alps of Western Europe, but its range also extends east to the Himalayas and south to our tip of Africa.

Vermont, Hermanus, Western Cape, South Africa. October 2014.

 

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Damara Rockrunner

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Damara Rockrunner (Achaetops pycnopygius), Waterberg Plateau, Namibia.

I’d seen a Rockrunner before somewhere in Namibia, in the distance or in a blur – or both. I guess it might have been at Daan Viljoen Nature Reserve outside of Windhoek back in the 80s.

But since I was traversing the huge and beautiful country of Namibia again, I hoped to get better acquainted with what I still prefer to call the Damara Rockrunner (some brightspark deleted the first part of its name from the accepted lists a few years ago; no doubt thinking that just ‘rockrunner’ was descriptive enough).

At any rate, this interesting little bird is said to be a member of the warbler family (the newly created Macrosphenidae, to be precise) but I have my doubts. Exploring the foothills of Namibia’s Waterberg Plateau, I came across several of them in the thickets of Combretum, Croton and Commiphora trees. Pairs were calling stridently from bush tops and from boulders decorated with vivid lichens in shades of orange, yellow, lilac and grey. The Rockrunners lived up to their name, bounding about on sandstone slabs as they challenged unseen rivals with their liquid song. In behaviour and voice, they reminded more of robin-chats than any kind of warbler.

For all intents and purposes, the Rockrunner (Achaetops pycnopygius) is endemic to Namibia, although like several other species that occupy the hilly escarpment country east of the Namib Desert, it also occurs in the very southern part of Angola (into which this unique biome extends).

Waterberg Plateau National Park, Namibia, July 2014

** Damara refers to the inhabitants of that part of Namibia known as Damaraland

 

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Sunbird Songpost

A rapid, scratchy whistle pierces the crisp morning air and I look outside to see him back on his favoured perch. This glorious male Malachite Sunbird is in full breeding colours now – complete with tail streamers – and he patrols his local patch vigorously. Lucky for me, the top of the Tarconanthus tree alongside our house is one of several ‘song posts’ he has staked out, and he returns every hour or so throughout the day.

From his lofty perch, this emerald beauty stretches out his neck and points his long bill skyward, in a striking balletic pose.

Now and again, he is accompanied by a female – less showy in olive and fawn - who is chased in speedy spirals of passion. There are likely to be a few females within his range, but they may also be checking out other possible suitors in adjacent territories.

It is midwinter now and aloes are in full flower in the gardens all around us. Sunbirds, white-eyes and weavers are drawn to the sweet nectar of these spectacular succulents, performing a vital pollination role in the process.

The females have probably made their purse-shaped nests already and will be laying soon.

Cape Robin Crescent, Vermont, Hermanus, South Africa. June 2014

 

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Malachite Sunbird (Nectarinia famosa), male.

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Resplendent Quetzal

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Resplendent Quetzal (Pharomachrus mocinno), Savegre, Costa Rica, May 2003.

There are many reasons to visit Costa Rica but seeing the largest member of the trogon family is high on the list. Sparkling in shades of viridian and gold, with a scarlet underbelly, the Resplendent Quetzal (Pharomachrus mocinno) is nothing short of breathtaking. It occurs in mossy cloud forests on the mountain ranges of this biologically diverse country, feeding on insects such as cicadas and fruit such as the wild avocado.

Occurring from Mexico to Panama, this spectacular bird has played an important role in mythology and folklore throughout Central America. One Mayan legend claims that the quetzal used to sing splendidly before the Spanish conquistadors arrived, but has been silent ever since. Like all trogons, however, the beauty of this bird’s plumage and demeanor is not matched by its hoarse voice!

Only the male possesses the ribbon-like tail streamers and – with these – it measures almost a metre in length.

Choosing the most beautiful or awesome of the world’s approximately 10,000 bird species is an impossible task but the Resplendent Quetzal must surely be a contender.

Savegre Mountain Hotel, Costa Rica. May 2003.

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Beach Patrol

Walk along any beach in Africa and – sooner or later – you’ll see a small, pale plover hurrying away from you. Typically, there will be a pair of these active little birds and at no time will they take their beady, deep-brown eyes off of you.

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White-fronted Plover (Charadrius marginatus). Benguerra Island, Bazaruto Archipelago, Mozambique. February 2014.

The White-fronted Plover feeds on small invertebrates such as isopods and larval crabs which are chased and then snatched up with the sharp bill. Like many coast-living birds, these plovers occupy and defend linear territories the size (length) of which is dependent upon the density of prey. On a recent short visit to Benguerra Island in Mozambique, I counted four pairs over a three kilometre stretch which gave an average territory size of 750 metres. When they move up and down their stretch of the shore, these chubby little plovers are not only in pursuit of  food, they are on active beach patrol, keeping others of their kind away.

Two or three superbly camouflaged eggs are laid in a shallow scrape in the sand on the upper beach, often among shell shards or the trailing stems of the Beach Morning-Glory (Ipomea pes-caprae). And should a potential predator threaten the clutch, one or both parents will perform a distraction display – which may involve feigning injury – to lure the danger towards them and away from the eggs or young.

Benguerra Island, Bazaruto Archipelago, Mozambique. February 2014

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Kilmorna King

The temperate, evergreen forests of South Africa are home to a community of trees, plants, birds and other wildlife which occur in pockets from the southern Cape to the Drakensberg escarpment in the north-east. Since average maximum temperature is a limiting factor, the further north one goes, the higher the elevation of the forests above sea level. Our home town of Nelspruit is within easy striking distance of numerous small Afro-montane ‘cloud forests’ – including those at Kaapschehoop and in the Schoemanskloof at around 1,500 metres – where a host of  interesting birds can be found in the cool, mossy kloofs.

One forest bird stands out above all others, however, and that is the regal yet often elusive Narina Trogon. Dressed in complimentary shades of viridian and vermillion, the male has a truly royal appearance. The deep, double-note hoot of the territorial trogon is a common enough sound in spring and summer, but getting a good view of the king is another matter.

That is, unless you visit Kilmorna Manor during October or November. Here, nestled below the escarpment ridge of the Schoemanskloof, one male trogon has taken up residence in the gardens of the authentic Tudor-style guest house, an abode truly fit for a king. The trogon brightens up the day of anyone who sees him, as he perches on mossy tree limbs, lichen-painted stone walls, or even – wait for it – the washing line! Wherever he sits, the trogon hoots relentlessly, letting his partner know that he is on his throne, and advising rivals of his presence. Twisting and tilting his head to detect the movement of a katydid, a cicada or some other insect, he glides out to snatch it from the foliage, his rictal bristles serving to guide moths and smaller invertebrates into his gullet.

I think I found his mate (not quite so resplendent and with a buffy-brown face and chest) alongside the gurgling stream deep in the forest, some way up from the Manor, but could not locate their nest where the pair must now surely be raising a family.

Kilmorna Manor, Schoemanskloof, South Africa. November 2103 

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Narina Trogon Apaloderma narina, Kilmorna Manor, South Africa. November 2013

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