Birding About the Bush

Nightjars of the Karoo

2011-03-18T00:22:00.001-07:00

A fiery-necked nightjar

MOST birders know it by its call, which sounds like the exhortation: Good Lord, deliver us! Good Lord, deliver us!

But, given that the fiery-necked nightjar is nocturnal and a master of concealment, actually spotting one of these mottled creatures is a rare occurrence indeed.

At least it was in my case – until we did an evening drive on the back of a bakkie on a Karoo farm in early 2004. Then, thanks to the sharp eyes of our host, Steynsburg district sheep farmer Bill Elliott, we encountered several of the little fellows, soaking up the warmth of the gravel road but barely visible among the stones.

Teebus and Koffiebus become one in this silhoutte.

Our journey north from Port Elizabeth had been happily uneventful. Just before turning left towards Middelburg we caught sight across the Karoo plains of the magnificent koppie combination known as Teebus and Koffiebus – tea jar and coffee jar.

These are like the pointers to the Southern Cross: and if you take the correct rather bumpy dirt road you’ll eventually negotiate a dry spruit and arrive at the optimistically named Spring Valley farm.

A klipspringer.

Along this track to the farm we spotted our first sample of wild life of the trip – although in this case it was pretty dead: the carcass of a black-backed jackal lay rotting on the side of the road.

Our couple of days on the farm were characterised by a few memorable moments, including sundowners on the koppie behind the farmhouse, as we watched the landscape stretched out around us sink into shadow beneath a sky that transformed rapidly through the spectrum. I was able to do a few pastel drawings, including one of two old grain silos, before the encroaching darkness drove us indoors, with the Red Mountain, visible from the lounge, being the last bit of the landscape to lose its light.

Our first big adventure was reserved for the next day. We were heading for a heart-shaped section of the Big Mountain, a few kilometres behind the farmhouse, which also marks the northern boundary of the farm. I had heard much talk of the Bushman paintings, or in politically correct terminology, San paintings – which somehow just doesn’t sound right, does it? – and hoped finally to get a good look at them.

But first there was the small question of hiking halfway up what, at a distance looked like a rather low, nondescript koppie. How wrong one can be!

The ever-obliging Bill took his bakkie out of a voluminous shearing shed, loaded us aboard and we bumped and thumped our way across the veld, bypassing a handful of derelict mud buildings before reaching a concrete water tank. Bill parked the bakkie and we jumped down onto the hard, stony ground. Ahead of us, the heart shape loomed larger, while behind us Teebus and Koffiebus were just peeping out above Red Mountain.

It was hot and still. Any birds there might have been had seemingly already found sanctuary and respite from the heat, although we did enjoy the sight of a splendid Cape bunting with its distinctive black-and-white striped head.

So, while our feathered friends were by and large maintaining an exhausted and conspicuous silence, our group of seven – ranging in age from Bill’s 60 through my 47 to Douglas’s 10 – were still full of beans. But what I thought would be a cakewalk through the veld ended up being a rather arduous hike, the likes of which I had not encountered since being forced, with heavy pack and rifle, to cover many dry kilometres in the foothills of the Drankensburg during national service with the 5th SA Infantry Battalion near Ladysmith, Natal, in the winter of 1979.

How nice though, I reflected, to be doing this voluntarily. How pleasant not to be at the beck and call of army officers and NCOs. Simply being out in the African veld for its own enjoyment was something I had found difficult to imagine 25 years earlier while enduring those tedious years of military conscription.

But, lost in thought, I was brought back to reality by a call from Bill for us to halt – or “stop”, since this was a civvy hike, after all. He gestured with his walking stick towards a clump of bushes on the edge of a narrow, dry ravine. The outline of some sort of antelope, standing absolutely still, was clearly visible. There was general discussion about what sort of buck it was, until I raised my binoculars to my eyes and made a startling discovery. Our buck was a mirage, or rather a very clever bit of Karoo visual trickery. A dun-coloured rock with a bush’s shadow cast over it looked exactly like a buck. It was a timeless, immobile antelope literally cast in stone – at least until such time as the sun moved sufficiently for the light-shadow show to be over.

Our next animal sightings were more of the flesh-and-blood variety. First we spotted a couple of klipspringers gambolling over the rocky landscape. Later, I also got my first sighting of the fleet-footed Cape hare, as one of them darted across the veld in front of us. But that sudden flurry of activity was soon subsumed in the intensifying heat as we negotiated the rugged, undulating “dead ground” – there I go again, another military term – at the foot of what, as we got closer, looked increasingly like a mountain. We were walking through tall, almost-white grass, but the intervening rock formations, complete with fascinating eroded circular cavities, would clearly be a geologist’s delight.

A Cape hare

The ascent was getting steeper and the younger members of the party forged ahead, leaving the more senior partners to bring up the rear at a respectable rate. Indeed, Bill and I often found it helpful to take regular stops in order to enjoy the view. When we finally hauled our bodies onto the narrow ridge where the Bushman art was to be found, the others were almost bored with the place already, and were all set to continue up the remainder of what was by now very much a mountain.

There before me were my first Bushman paintings, and sadly they told a tale of white occupation, of dispossession, and perhaps even of massacre. The white figures were mostly on horseback. The long white sticks they held were clearly rifles. But there were also lovely animal shapes, including several ostriches.

Bill told us eighteenth century trekboers had evidently come this way. Legend had it that, in the course of that period, a trap had been set. San bushmen had been lured to indulge in a feast on animals slaughtered by the Dutch farmers. They had gorged themselves into a state of defencelessness, and then been massacred. It may be apocryphal, but it is the sort of story that has the ring of truth about it.

We took a few photographs of the slightly recessed rock face on which these images were painted, and I attempted to draw one cluster of figures. I had recently reviewed a book on Bushman art in which an artist had attempted to reproduce the images, complete with the texture of the rocks on which they are painted. While these pictures were competent, it was clear from one example, in which the original was juxtaposed with the copy, that it is virtually impossible to reproduce those images convincingly, no matter how adept the artist is. Mysteriously, Bushman art has an aesthetic quality which is unique. Some would argue that it borders on child art or dismiss it as “primitive”. But I can sense within the proportions, the economy of line, the distortion for effect, and a myriad other arcane devices, that these artists were privy to artistic techniques, technical as well as intellectual, which render their work exceptional.

And it is uncanny how that “style” of painting seems to permeate and inform similar ancient rock art sites around the world. It is as if there was an international rock art movement, with cave painters in Europe achieving uncannily similar effects to those working on stone “canvases” throughout the horseshoe chain of mountain ranges in southern Africa, not to mention elsewhere in the world.

But lest I got too complacent soaking up this piece of history, the call from my climbing companions was one of “let’s head for the top”. Bill and I demurred. Instead, as the younger set set off upwards, Bill led the way horizontally across the berg to another cave, which he said was nicknamed “the cubbyhole”, where, as teenagers, he and his siblings and cousins had whiled away the hours.

It was about this time, as the rest of the party were reaching the summit and Bill and I were trying to cajole his ageing Jack Russell terrier and more sprightly border collie to follow us down and not explore every possible burrow and crevice, that we noticed some rather dark and ominous clouds building up in the west. A steady breeze came up and ushered the storm into the mountain amphitheatre. We were in for a little spectacle, courtesy of mother nature. Indeed, we agreed afterwards that it was, in many ways, a rather terrifying little spectacle.

High above us, on the ridge of the mountain, we saw the other group moving hurriedly away from the clouds, which by now were issuing forth lightning bolts and thunderclaps pretty much all around and above us. It was then that Bill, a veteran of such events I assured myself, suggested we head for a dry, narrow river bed, in order to get below ground level. It made sense. So there we and the two dogs huddled, against an increasingly wet bank of earth, as the rain came pelting down. Not a naturally religious person by nature, I found it nonetheless reassuring when Bill proceeded to recite a prayer for our safekeeping. He was, I was confident, just playing it safe; calling for a little additional assurance from the guy above who, after all, was orchestrating what was, despite our discomfort, an exhilarating and impressive display of firepower.

The water in the river bed turned from a trickle to a stream as we waited out the passing of the storm. Once the worst was over we set out down the remainder of the mountain. Soaked to the skin, we trudged through pools that covered our shoes. Visibility was a few hundred metres, but thankfully Bill knew exactly where the bakkie was. Left alone, I would not have found it. We reached it about the time the rest of the party did. All were drenched and relieved to have survived a potentially lethal roasting at the end of a jagged bolt of lightning. Indeed, I learnt subsequently that one of my brothers-in-law had at one stage even instructed his group in the art of kneeling in the foetal position, the better to survive in the event of a direct hit. It was that close, I tell you.

We bumped and slid back down to the farmhouse, with Bill somehow managing to keep the bakkie on the sludge which the road had become. The temperature had dropped considerably. But, despite our wet clothes and the brisk wind and driving rain, there was a general sense of euphoria at having both climbed the mountain and survived the storm.

Up in the shallow cave, while probably protected from the direct impact of the rain, the storm would have eroded the rock art by a further infinitesimal amount.

A spring hare

In dry clothes and warm again, after a hearty supper we ventured into the garden as the night set in. My America-based brothers-in-law gasped in awe at a sight they would have seen so often when, with my wife and their parents, as children they had visited this farm of their grandparents for regular school holidays. But now, based in New Jersey and Denver respectively, they were reacquainted with the immensity of the Karoo sky at night. Free from detracting terrestrial lights, the heavens above shone down on us in a shower of glory. Layer upon layer of stars, set in a bowl of deepest black, wended their way back in time and space to infinity. There was no moon that night, which added to the stars’ crisp brightness.

But farmers can’t sit around all night watching the stars. It was time for our night drive, again on the back of Bill’s bakkie, with one of us holding a powerful torch, in order to scan the veld for any signs of life. This was to be the night of the longtails. Like kangaroos, the ridiculously long-tailed and ugly spring hares cut a comical sight as they pranced and pronked about the place, often moving at an extraordinary speed. My brothers-in-law confided somewhat embarrassedly that in their youth, before they knew better, these poor blighters had made challenging targets as they honed their shooting skills.

A fiery-necked nightjar in typical pose - soaking up the evening warmth of the earth.

It was as Bill was travelling along the by-now dry gravel road, the sun having come out soon after that midday storm and restored the Karoo to its more normal parched status, that he spotted the spotted birds. A pair of nightjars were lying transfixed on the road, speared by the vehicle’s headlights. We all got a good look at them before Bill moved slowly forward, causing them to fly out from in front of the bakkie and disappear into the darkness. A little later, Bill stopped again. Same story. Only this time Luke got out with the torch and got a really close-up look at the bird, before it too made a rapid departure.

“Good Lord, deliver us!” it must have thought, after being so rudely interrupted.

An antbear or, in the more colourful Afrikaans, an aardvark, which happens to be the first word in most English dictionaries.

The next day saw us walking down another dry river bed – in fact that same rivulet the tributaries of which scarred the face of Big Mountain and in one of which Bill and I had found refuge. On the other side of the farm, the river was again dry. But Bill wanted to show us the antelope which were to be found on the farm, including, he believed, a kudu. As if on cue, a magnificent male kudu appeared on a rocky outcrop a few hundred metres away, amidst a small group of graceful springbok, and a flock of Bill’s sheep.

Next, Bill’s Jack Russell terrier whooped with delight as he disappeared down a three- to four-metre deep tunnel, with two exit points. It was evidently made by an antbear which, thankfully for the Jack Russell, was not at home when he called.

After traversing more acres of veld, we came back to the car via a section of the river bed where time had wrought amazing effects on the rock formations. Working with a triangle as a template, water and heat had fractured the flint-like stone into a multitude of sharp, angular shapes. I found one tall, elegant piece which I stood up vertically on the river bed. Douglas, at 10 ever alert to artistic possibilities, had meanwhile found a perfect isosceles triangle, which he proceeded to balance on my base, creating an arrow.

Bill was happy to let us take the parts back in his bakkie. We transferred them to the boot of our car and, along with our memories of a wonderful Karoo holiday, we returned with them to Port Elizabeth. Which is how we came by an arrow sculpture in our garden.

Bathurst

2010-04-28T02:30:00.001-07:00

Yellow-billed kite

This was published on August 30, 2003, in Leisure, under the heading, “Stunning vistas in Settler country”.

IT was literally the high point of a weekend visit to Bathurst last summer.

Friends who put us up at the Drostdy, the oldest residence in the village, had given us no prior warning.

Generously, they had simply packed a hamper of evening snacks and drinks, and off we set.

As the sun sank slowly in the west, we drove through the gates of the Waters Meeting Nature Reserve, a few kilometres outside the historic Settler hamlet.

The terrain at Bathurst is gently undulating, the abundant trees and hedges somehow concealing most of the homesteads which comprise this mysterious retreat, about 12km inland from Port Alfred.

Indeed, when you think Bathurst, you have to think Port Alfred as well.

We arrived in Port Alfred from Port Elizabeth on a blustery day, the wind sandblasting our car as we took in the view at the Kowie River mouth.

After a quick stop at the local tourist information office (characterised by superb and friendly service), we popped in to the Coelacanth Brewery to see how the area’s local brew, Old Four Legs, is made. The brewery is housed in an early building on the riverside – and is clearly a treasured asset in this thirsty part of the country.

Once in Bathurst, it was time to get acquainted with the village’s major attraction – its 1820 Settler heritage.

I’m one of those South Africans who happens to have developed a passion for our colonial history. There is something rather admirable about the stoicism of the approximately 5000 British settlers who arrived by sailing ship in Algoa Bay in 1820 – and were then dispatched to “the frontier”.

A taste of their ordeal can be imagined from the tall standing stone on the west bank of the Kowie in Port Alfred. It was here, a plaque tells you, that the settlers crossed the river. How? one might ask. The river is deep and fairly wide, for many years having been used as a working harbour. Black-and-white 19th century photographs in the tourism office show large sailing ships moored along its banks. Perhaps the settlers’ wagons (hired from the Boers) were ferried across. Whatever the mechanics for crossing the river, this would have been but one part of an arduous 160km-odd journey through rugged bushveld.

Exploring the Toposcope at Bathurst, which was made from the stones of original Settler homes.

Once in Bathurst, they were taken to a high point where the Toposcope memorial has been erected – and shown to their demarcated parts of the Albany district, ironically called “locations”, where they had to start a new life from scratch. A visit to the Toposcope can be an emotional pilgrimage – even if your ancestors weren’t among those on the ships. There is a 360-degree panoramic view of the rolling hills of the area. And on the low circular wall (built with stones from original settler houses) are affixed 57 plaques indicating which party settled where, who their leaders were, which ship they came on, and where they hailed from. (NOTE: Some plaques were subsequently stolen for their bronze and plans were set in motion to replace the remainder with less valuable replicas.)

On another hilltop, beside a long-gone earth fort, we encountered a stone building, erected in 1821, which served as the gunpowder magazine for the garrison. It is uncannily similar in design and construction to the magazine inside the walls of Fort Frederick (1799) in Port Elizabeth.

Another popular place of pilgrimage, particularly among those doing genealogical research, is the 1834 to 1837 St John’s Church, the oldest unaltered Anglican church in South Africa. The building regularly served as a refuge during the Frontier Wars.

Outside is a tall marble cenotaph on which are listed the names of all the settlers who died in those wars.

The weathered surfaces of the 19th century gravestones in the surrounding cemetery contain some interesting stories within their epitaphs. They are also emblematic of the virtual permanent state of hostility at the time. One, from the 1840s, notes that the young man was “treacherously killed by kaffirs during a time of peace”. Which, I suppose, was far worse than being treacherously killed during a time of war. Also bearing testimony to the ongoing security problems the early settlers faced are the many gun slits to be found in the older buildings. The bedroom we stayed in at the Drostdy had two such recesses, which have since been closed off with slivers of glass. These now provide display areas for ceramic pottery, tiles and coloured bottles.

The stone-built pub/restaurant at the Protea Hotel Bathurst at Summerhill (famous for its massive pineapple), besides its wonderful woodwork also features these gun slits, or loopholes.

But the charming Xhosa men working in the pub – once an 1825 barn – on the day we visited are ample proof that those days of inter-racial conflict are thankfully over. All are on the same side, and tourism is the goose that now lays the golden egg.

Tourism, and pineapples. When in Bathurst, buy pineapple juice. Bottled or canned by the local co-op, it is to die for.

But if you really want to get into the laid-back Bathurst way of life, then order a couple of pints of Old Four Legs from the pub inside the legendary Pig and Whistle Hotel, the oldest licensed inn in South Africa, which was built in 1831, with accommodation added in 1852. Then take your drinks out onto the shady stoep, and watch the world go by. You may even spot one of the village’s many reputed eccentrics.

If not, then just visit a couple of its little businesses, from the corner shop, to various book-shops, bric-a-brac stores and nurseries. We also got to meet a few locals when we visited a small farmers’ market, which is a regular feature on Sunday mornings. Items on sale included goats’ cheeses, crafts, home-made marmalades and garden produce.

And so on our last evening we headed through the nature reserve gates and pulled up next to a wooden camp table on the side of the gravel road. We were ushered to a nearby observation deck.

And then we were gobsmacked.

The view of the Kowie River at the Waters Meet Nature Reserve near Bathurst.

Stretched out way below us was a long and magnificent valley sheltering a horseshoe bend of the Kowie River, its surface shining silver amidst the thick indigenous valley forest. More of a hairpin than a horseshoe, this is but one of the many meanders of this amazing river as it snakes its way seaward.

The salt water finally becomes fresh at about this point, hence the name of the reserve.

Jackal buzzard

As we gazed out in wonder, we heard the distinctive call of an African fish eagle, while other raptors seen gliding on the thermals included yellow-billed kites and jackal buzzards.

All in all, it was a perfect way to end a delightful weekend.

Cape Town's two-foot-tall tourist attractions

2010-04-23T01:22:00.000-07:00

African penguins are the star attractions at Boulders on the Cape Peninsula.

An abridged version of this was published in Leisure in September 2002.

CAPE Town is undeniably South Africa’s premier tourist destination. And among its many attractions are some which stand just two feet tall.

Last spring, my family and I paid our entry fee (R10 for adults and R5 for children) and headed along a pathway amidst dense indigenous bush. Bending down, we got our first sightings – in deep burrows and under bushes – of our quarry: the African penguin.

African penguin

Then we heard the unmistakable donkey-like braying which led to the birds previously being named jackass penguins – until it was discovered that several other species of South American penguins make the same sound.

There is always a steady flow of visitors, most of them foreign tourists, at Boulders.

Amid a steady flow of foreign tourists, we reached the start of the two boardwalks which have recently been constructed at Boulders, a sheltered series of coves between Simon’s Town and Cape Point.

The expertly produced pamphlet that comes free with your admission notes that from just two breeding pairs in 1982, the penguin colony at Boulders has grown to about 3000 in recent years.

This is thanks largely to the reduction in commercial pelagic trawling in False Bay, which has increased the supply of pilchards and anchovies, a major part of the penguins’ diet.

But the key to this magnificent tourist attraction is the fact that the Cape Peninsula National Park has provided a protected natural environment within which this vulnerable bird species can wander around and breed freely, while at the same time being observed at close quarters by bird lovers.

Cold and wet, maybe, but Luke and Douglas nevertheless enjoyed the passing penguin parade.

However, no amount of pre-publicity adequately prepared me for what was in store when I finally reached the lookout point at Foxy Beach.

It was like chancing upon a Lilliputian world of two-foot-tall, beaked manikins wearing dapper black tuxedos over their little white bodies. Waddling about on the beach must have been well over 100 penguins, with at least as many frolicking in the nearby crystal-clear waves of False Bay as they broke on the white sands of the Boulders beach.

On one of the many enormous 540-million-year-old granite boulders which give the area its name, another 100 or so penguins stood sentinel, while out at sea, on a small flat island of rock, dozens of cormorants sunned themselves

Even the odd drenching squall, so typical of the Cape at that time of year, failed to dampen the penguins’ spirits, and in fact only added to the sense of drama.

We retraced our footsteps then took the second boardwalk, where we got an even better view of this unique penguins-only beach from the other side. Above the high-water mark we could spot hundreds more birds in and around their burrows under the trees, while all the time they kept up a steady braying.

And to think that these wonderful creatures – so much more impressive in the wild than in an oceanarium or zoo – came very close to being decimated.

African penguin 'flying'

Of the 1,5-million population estimated in 1910, only some 10 per cent remained at the end of the 20th century. The uncontrolled harvesting of penguin eggs (as a source of food) and guano scrapings nearly drove the species to extinction.

The only penguins that breed in Africa, they remain on the Red Data Book as a vulnerable species.

Cape Point

Luke, 11, prepares for the climb to the lighthouse at Cape Point.

No visit to Cape Town is complete, however, without a trip to Cape Point.

From Boulders we headed out along the ridge of mountains on the eastern side of the peninsula. We encountered the Cape of Good Hope Nature Reserve with its fynbos species in full and colourful bloom.

Examples of fynbos

Earlier, we had taken a walk along the contour path above Kirstenbosch Gardens and seen a coach-load of young tourists (they looked Italian) ecstatically photographing and videoing close-up the many varieties of protea to be found there.

This experience was repeated on the high plateau within the Cape of Good Hope Nature Reserve. Having paid our entrance fee (R25 for adults and R10 for children), we encountered several other groups of tourists snapping pictures of the proteas and other plants.

If anyone doubted the importance of keeping places such as the Van Stadens Wild Flower Reserve outside Port Elizabeth pristine and uninhabited, then this sort of experience should quash all such doubts. People travel from around the world to see our unique fauna and flora, especially our fynbos. The Cape floristic kingdom is the smallest but richest of the world’s six floral kingdoms. It comprises a treasure trove of 1100 species of indigenous plants, of which a number are endemic (occurring naturally nowhere else on Earth).

Cape Point

But as much as the fynbos and some 150 species of birds are an attraction, it is the geographical location of Cape Point itself which draws tourists like a magnet to the tip of Africa. Sure some would argue, correctly, that the southern-most point of Africa is actually Cape Agulhas, but it is that delicate finger of land at Cape Point which is popularly perceived as the tip of the continent.

We stopped at the large but unobtrusive parking area and bought a cup of hot coffee at a well-stocked fast-food outlet, as a throng of tourists milled around. I have visited several of the world’s biggest tourist attractions in Britain and Europe, and have rarely observed the same sense of awe and expectation as I witnessed that day among visitors from around the globe.

We decided against taking the funicular railway (the only one in Africa) up to the lighthouse, instead opting for the steep path to the summit of this narrow promontory at the southern tip of a huge and imposing continent, which today is recognised scientifically as having been the cradle of mankind.

There are other sites around the world which have a strong spiritual, or mystical, presence. Many of them are ancient Christian centres of pilgrimage, which are considered “thin places” because you feel so much closer to your creator there.

Iona

I have taken a ferry from Oban on the west coast of Scotland to the island of Mull, and driven around the island from Craignure to Fionphort, from where a smaller people-only ferry took me to the little island of Iona, an ancient Christian site dating back to the Irish monk, St Columba, in the sixth century.

Glendalough

Similarly, in Ireland, I have experienced the sixth century monastic site founded by St Kevin at Glendalough with its 1000-year-old, 34m-high round tower, just south of Dublin in the Wicklow Mountains.

Holy Island

Off the north-east coast of Northumbria, in northern England, I have visited the ancient Christian monastery of Lindisfarne on Holy Island, founded in the seventh century by St Aidan, an Irish monk from Iona. The island can only be accessed by car along a narrow road at low tide.

While not a religious site, I sensed a similar sort of pilgrimage was under way as a steady flow of people – young and old, black and white – took the meandering pathway up to the small lighthouse viewing platform 678 metres above the sea at Cape Point. As the Cape of Storms lived up to its reputation, interspersing warm sunshine with sudden showers of rain, we reached the top.

Southern right whale breaching

But initially we could see nothing – except a throng of decidedly excited foreign tourists. They not only took in the magnificent view of two oceans – the warm Indian and cold Atlantic – merging their currents in the great expanse of water beneath those craggy slopes. But – the cherry on the top – at least three southern right whales were cavorting a few hundred metres off-shore. Clearly visible with the naked eye, through binoculars I watched at close quarters as they regularly breached, often leaving their huge tails suspended above the surface for several seconds at a time.

Table Mountain

Back in the warm embrace of Table Mountain we visited the Two Oceans Aquarium, one of the major attractions at the beautifully appointed Victoria and Alfred Waterfront. Packed with numerous interesting features, including the new boarding point for boat trips to Robben Island, the waterfront is yet another reason why Cape Town has become one of the world’s great tourist destinations.

And the aquarium itself is world class, cementing the city’s long and close association with the sea and its creatures.

Here in the Eastern Cape we need to gear our attractions – and there are many – to meeting the expectations of foreign tourists in particular. There are levels of safety and service excellence which overseas visitors expect for the thousands of rands they have paid, and if a city cannot provide these at each site, it will lose out. We can’t hope to compete with Cape Town (I haven’t mentioned the cable car up the mountain, the wine route, the museums and art galleries, the plethora of historic buildings, and so on), but we can offer a uniquely Eastern Cape experience.

And to do that we have to accept and celebrate all the positives that arose with the first meetings in this area of Boer, Khoi, San, Xhosa and, in 1820, the British settlers.

We cannot do so, however, if the white component which brought Western-style towns and cities, business and agriculture, roads and other infrastructure, continues to be dismissed as colonialist and exploitative.

In the new South Africa, in order to boost tourism and our own sense of self worth, we need to accentuate the positive and build on our common history as joint developers and protectors of our environment.

Cape Town is an object lesson in how that can successfully be done.

Cape Recife

2010-04-22T02:18:00.000-07:00

African darter

This was written in August, 2002. The published version was not kept and I have been unable to track it down.

ONE of the great bird-watching experiences is to visit a hide on the edge of a dam or pond, where you can get a magnificent view of waterbirds, both large and small.

And Port Elizabeth is fortunate to have just such a place, at the Cape Recife reclamation ponds.

In mid-August, with a cool sea breeze taking the edge off the mid-morning heat, we arrived at the reserve’s car park. As we crested the last speed bump, I saw a large bird fly into the bushes – judging by its red wings almost certainly a Knysna lourie, though it seemed an unlikely place to spot one.

We eschewed taking the path through the largely rooikrans-covered dunes due to the amount of standing water about, but followed the tar road along the coast till we found the path leading to the hide. Our first treat along this approximately 100-metre path was a delightful spotted prinia (about 12cm), which kept up a jolly, piercing call just a few metres away from us – and seemed totally unfazed by our presence.

Luke surveys the grassy bank of one of the reclamation ponds from the hide at Cape Recife.

Black crake

But we had come for the waterbirds, and the hide was to live up to its reputation. Scanning the edges, we were rewarded with a short but treasured sighting of a black crake, its long thin red legs and yellow bill conspicuous as it scurried among the reeds.

Common moorhen

My son Luke, 11, after a break from birding of several months, quickly identified a common moorhen on the water, along with a fairly large number of red-knobbed coots. This is a black duck-like bird with two red knobs on the forehead above its white beak. We were surprised to spot several without the knobs, but our bird book confirmed they were juveniles of the species.

African shelduck pair

Cape teal

Cape shoveller

Yellow-billed duck

To our right, a couple of dabchicks (just 20cm long) ducked and dived, while we also spotted a beautiful pair of shelducks (the male with a grey head, the female white), Cape teals (red bills), Cape shovellers and yellow-billed ducks. Just metres from the hide, on an outjutting piece of dead wood, we had a perfect view of a pied kingfisher.

Then, in one of the more unusual sightings, a huge African darter (80cm) started “fishing” in the middle of the pond. Also known as a snake bird, the darter submerged its entire body as it paddled along, holding erect its long, orange-streaked, egret-like neck with a slender head and long, pointed bill.

It looked like a snake defying gravity, before it darted its beak into the water and caught a tiny fish, which it tossed down its throat.

As if this wasn’t dramatic enough, we were also provided with another avian spectacle – in the sky above us. As usual, the pond boasted a number of kelp gulls, along with a few grey-headed gulls. But suddenly above us we saw about a dozen gulls, with what looked like a larger gull in their midst. Through the binoculars, however, we discovered that the gulls were in the process of chasing a juvenile African fish eagle. Luke, ever observant, identified the eagle’s unique call. It was no match for the flock of gulls, and beat a hasty retreat, which was sad, since it would have been great to see the eagle at closer quarters.

In 2002 an invasive water lettuce covered the top pond at Cape Recife, driving water birds away.

But when we got to the second, upper pond, which is considerably larger than the lower one, we saw the possible reason for this battle for water territory. The entire pond is now covered with the water lettuce which first made its invasive appearance earlier this year. Instead of a pond, it looks more like a rugby field.

I later spoke to Dr Paul Martin, nature conservation manager for the Nelson Mandela metropole municipality, about the water lettuce (pistia stratiotes). The good news is that in early July they released 240 snout weevils (nedhy-dronomus assinis) into the upper pond. While relieved that the lettuce hasn’t spread to the lower pond, he said it would take about a year before there was a noticeable reduction of the plant in the top pond.

The weevil population is expected to grow rapidly in the spring, and will eventually start eating up the invasive weed. But the bad news is it won’t destroy it completely. Dr Martin said based on a similar situation at Sunset Dam in the Kruger Park, a cycle will develop whereby the weed will regrow rapidly, and then the weevil population will increase to consume it.

Asked whether the water lettuce had affected fish stocks in the pond, he said there had been no evidence of fish dying from lack of oxygen. While the open water bird species, like coots and moorhens, had either moved to the lower pond or to other habitats such as North End Lake or the Swartkops ponds, he said birds which lived among the reeds seemed to have stayed put.

Sacred ibis

After the shock of seeing the top pond in such a bad way, we walked back past the hide as a flock of sacred ibises – with their long black bills and black-outlined white wings – flew overhead.

Then we headed for the sea.

That is the beauty of Cape Recife. You get seabirds right alongside freshwater birds. And there were a few other surprises in store as well. Like the pair of black-collared barbets we saw, sitting openly on a telephone line, after Luke had identified their call. With bright crimson throats and thick bills, these are among the most spectacular birds around.

African black oystercatcher

Ruddy turnstone

It was low tide, and as we walked along the rocks, with Luke and brother Douglas, 9, seeking out anemones and starfish, we spotted several African black oystercatchers and a couple of turnstones and whimbrels among the gulls.

Cape gannet

Looking with the binoculars out to sea, as the offshore wind blew the spray back off the crests of waves, a pelagic feast was under way. Scores of Cape gannets, the black tips of their wings clearly visible, plummeted headlong into the sea. Closer to shore, various species of tern added to the spectacle.

We returned to the sandy beach where we saw a tall, elegant, grey heron wading through the dune scrub in search of tasty morsels. But mostly it just stood there, perfectly still, like a graceful, living statue.

Walking back to the car, we could see evidence of how areas of the original Cape St Francis dune-scrub fynbos mosaic, endemic to a 100km coastal strip including Cape Recife, is gradually taking back areas where the exotic rooikrans – planted in 1899 to stabilise the vast dune system on the peninsular – has been cleared.

Cape Recife is a treasure, and it is hoped that its best feature – its undeveloped, natural simplicity – will be respected and retained should the planned Madiba Bay project ever come to fruition.

Heard but not seen

2010-04-21T01:58:00.000-07:00

Southern boubou

This appeared in Leisure on March 2, 2002, under the headline, Heard but not seen.

HEARD but not seen. That is the conundrum for many bird watchers, who often hear the calls of various species but fail to spot them in the forest canopy, dense reed bed or thicket.

The key is to know what you’re hearing. To do so it is essential to make a study of the various calls – or ensure you are accompanied on your outing by someone who has.

As an amateur birder for several years now, I’ve been lucky to rely on the expertise of my East London-based nephew, Dylan Weyer, 19, who has an extensive knowledge of the sounds and “jizz” (appearance and behaviour) of a large percentage of the 900 or so birds of southern Africa.

He in turn has inspired my son, Luke, 10, who has already seen and identified more than 250 species. Their knowledge and memory of calls are a godsend to an ageing rookie like me.

The fundamental importance of recognising bird calls was first underlined for me a few years back when Dylan took Luke and I on our debut trip through the Dassie Trail on the Nahoon River estuary in East London, and several calls kept stumping us.

We coped with the more obvious calls, such as that of the sombre bulbul, among the loudest and most insistent of the bushveld. “Willie! Why don’t you come out and fight? You’re scared,” it seems to say.

Black-eyed bulbul

The Cape bulbul, with its white eye-rings and yellow rump, has a call which I hear as “I’m not Willie!”. It is a common species in Port Elizabeth, but not found in East London, just 300km away. Yet in that area you get the black-eyed bulbul (not found in Port Elizabeth) which is a virtual replica of the Cape bulbul (call and all) except that it has a black eye-ring instead of a white one.

Red-fronted tinker barbet

Another common call heard on the Dassie Trail is that of the red-fronted tinker barbet. This delightful bird with a bright red blob on its forehead and yellow, black and white plumage, is fairly common in East London, but is also more often heard than seen.

Natal robin

The Natal robin makes a call like a watch being wound up – first a slow, wobbly high note, then a low one, repeated. It, too, given the robin’s secretive tendencies, is very rarely seen, but often heard. However, during the recent summer holidays, Luke and I were fortunate to spot our first Natal robin early one morning on a gate near the weir on the Bonza Bay (Qinerha) River. It has an orange head and breast, with a blue-grey back.

Chorister robin

Coincidentally, a few days later, in the riverine forest of the Dassie Trail, we saw (but ironically never heard) the chorister robin. Both are great imitators of other birds.

A bird whose call seems to carry for kilometers is the black-collared barbet. Sometimes heard in Settlers Park, it is fairly common in Eat London, where it is also more conspicuous. Here, too, it takes the expertise of a Dylan or Luke to know immediately which bird is being heard.

Indeed, the same applies when it comes to other less visible species, such as the woodpeckers. Many a time Luke has heard the olive woodpecker in Settlers Park. Following its call, or its tap-tapping, we have then spotted it, or usually a pair.

He has also often identified the call of the Knysna woodpecker, but we have only seen it a few times. So, too, with the cuckoos. Luke knows the calls of, among others, the black, Diederik’s and Klaas’s cuckoos, and we’ve heard all three in Settlers Park, but have only had a few sightings of the latter two.

Anyone who spends time in Settlers Park will have heard the distinctive sounds of the Knysna lourie.

Its throaty song is probably the least melodic of all the birds, but its alarm call is even harsher – a rasping sound which we’ve often mistaken for a wild animal. Yet it is arguably the most beautiful of southern Africa’s birds – and happily is often seen.

Cape weaver

Southern masked weaver

Spotted-backed weaver

Another call heard deep in the forest is that of the forest weaver. Cape and spotted-backed weavers are regularly seen along rivers in East London. As with the bulbuls, the spotted-backed is a regional, slightly larger, variation on the southern masked weaver. The former you find in East London, but not in Port Elizabeth, and vice versa with the latter.

Thick-billed weaver

Also seen among the reeds, but less often, is the thick-billed weaver. This bird is brown, as opposed to the yellow of the others, with white blobs on its forehead and a far thicker bill.

While most people are probably familiar with the raucous screeches of the Cape and masked weavers, less familiar will be the call of the forest weaver.

On a walk down the Bonza Bay River, Luke and I saw several in a free-standing tree. Normally they stick to thick canopies, where their long, funnel-like nests are more visible than they are. Anyway, this group entertained us with their unusually high-pitched musical calls, interspersed with typical weaver rasping.

Spectacled weaver

The importance of call-recognition also applies to the spectacled weaver, which has a Batman-like black mask over its eyes, and the red-faced mousebird, a far prettier bird than the common speckled variety. All have distinctive songs which are automatic guides to their identity.

But what of birds whose calls haunt you with their presence, but which very rarely reveal themselves? Classic examples are several dove species. The du-du-du of the green-spotted dove often dominates the bushveld, and we’ve been lucky to spot this bird at the Addo National Elephant Park and at Kariega.

Tambourine dove

Similarly, forest areas will often resonate to the low du-du-du-ing of the tambourine dove. Here, again, it is only good fortune which has allowed us to see this beautiful specimen on a few occasions in Settlers Park.

Spotted eagle owl

The most obvious heard-but-not-seen birds are the nocturnal species – especially the owls.

Dylan once took us to a point on the Gonubie River across from a large cliff as evening approached. Cupping his hands, he blew into them and created the call of the spotted eagle owl – a long, low series of hoots. Lo and behold, it wasn’t long before a reply was heard from across the river. In the fading light, we then saw the blurred shape of a large spotted eagle owl (50cm) flying silently about the cliff face.

Fiery-necked nightjar

The same night, in a nearby thicket, we heard the plaintive call of the fiery-necked nightjar – often remembered as sounding like “Good Lord, deliver us”.

Buff-spotted flufftail

One of the most unexpected calls is that of the buff-spotted flufftail. During a recent walk on the Dassie Trail, as Luke and Dylan identified the various calls, both mentioned that they could hear this creature. Now besides several of the above-mentioned species, there was nothing else I could discern, apart from a low, steady, almost subliminal hum, like a distant foghorn. This totally unbird-like call, I was assured, was that of the flufftail. While he has often heard it, not even Dylan has seen this 16cm long, almost tailless bird.

Walk past the reed beds of any river in the Eastern Cape and you’ll hear the calls of the warblers. But you’ll seldom see one. The African sedge warbler has the most obvious call – like a train accelerating. The Cape reed warbler we used to mistake for a robin, until Dylan corrected us. We’ve been lucky to see both species. Many others defy observation – like the green-backed bleating warbler, which inhabits thornveld and evergreen forests. Its loud, snapping call is unmistakable – but you’ll be very lucky to spot this tiny (10cm) fellow.

Top of my heard-but-not-seen list must be the narina trogon. I first heard it (again thanks to Dylan and Luke) on a walk through the Umtiza Forest, outside East London. The call – a soft, hoarse hoot – followed us along the 1,5km walk, but despite Dylan’s valiant attempts to “call it up”, we never saw it.

But what about those many different calls which kept us guessing on that first Dassie Trail outing? Each time we were stumped Dylan told us the call was that of the southern boubou.

It seems this ubiquitous species has numerous calls. But because the bird – like a larger version of the fiscal shrike – favours undergrowth areas, it, too, is not often seen.

Terrestrial bulbul

The same applies to several other forest floor-favouring species, such as the aptly named terrestrial bulbul, which keeps up a constant low-pitched chattering as it forages among the dead leaves.

Southern tchagra

Were it not for Luke’s expertise – gleaned from his Roberts CD-Rom – I would not have got my first sighting of the magnificent southern tchagra in Settlers Park. Upon hearing it, Luke and I set off for a bushy thicket, wherein it fed furtively.

I could go on, of course. Thrushes, honeyguides, hornbills, larks, orioles, chats, pipits, starlings, sparrows. The list is almost endless. A wealth of bird species, each with their own unique song to sing.

Nahoon Mouth and Inkwenkwezi

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Dylan Weyer, left, and his younger cousins Luke and Douglas Bentley, get a slanted view of Nahoon Mouth.

This was published on August 18, 2001, in Leisure under the headline “Magical, mystical Nahoon River – a birder’s paradise”.

ONCE you have acquired a reasonable knowledge of the most common wild bird species, it is the new, or surprise, sightings which keep your interest up.

And I had several of those during a recent visit to the East London area which, with its more sub-tropical climate and vegetation, seems to be that much richer in bird-life than Port Elizabeth.

Our most memorable new sighting was in the heart of the dense riverine forest on the banks of the Nahoon River estuary. The forest forms part of the Dassie Trail, which never fails to provide birders with joyful experiences.

Its name may seem unexciting, but I can assure you the first time I spotted a brown robin, it was a magical moment.

Forest weaver

My son Luke, 10, and I had ventured out early on a cold, winter’s morning and were soon rewarded when we spotted a forest weaver, close-up in dense thicket, its black upper parts contrasting starkly with the bright yellow under sections.

Whimbrel

Despite the cold weather, a group of sacred ibises and a pair of whimbrels were spotted wading on the water’s edge, while the flapping of a large set of dark brown wings above the forest canopy alerted us to the early morning machinations of a crowned eagle.

African fish eagle

Then, perusing the Nahoon side of the river through binoculars, we spotted an African fish eagle in a tree, soaking up the first rays of sunshine. Pied kingfishers were plentiful, too, either perched on strategic bits of driftwood or hovering in the air above the water, from which position they would make regular plunges in a bid to secure their breakfast.

Once in the adjacent forest, however, the mood changed. All was still.

Brown robin

Then, alerted by the faintest of sounds, Luke scoured the thick, leaf-laden undergrowth for the source of the rustling sounds we were hearing, and we were overjoyed when we saw a pair of brown robins with their distinctive white eyebrow lines and splashes of white on the wings of their otherwise plain brown bodies.

They were tossing leaves into the air with their beaks as they pursued their prey, oblivious to our presence a few metres away.

With the Cape robin a common sight in the Eastern Cape, it was great to see this far-less familiar member of the robin family at such close quarters.

The brief, startled appearance of a pair of blue duikers, just 35cm tall, confirmed the forest’s allure as a small but important wildlife haven.

Luke and his older cousin and mentor, Dylan Weyer, at Inkwenkwezi, near East London.

I had seen the olive bush shrike a few times before, but only at a distance, or fleetingly.

However, a few days later, on a visit to the Inkwenkwezi Game Reserve, about 30km north-east of East London, another surprise was in store for us.

An initial walk through a forested section of the park yielded plenty of bird sounds – including the tu-tu-tu-ing of green-spotted and tambourine doves and the tapping of woodpeckers – but few sightings.

However, back in the more open bushveld, Luke and I encountered a tree which proved to be an avian cornucopia.

First, I saw one of the most beautiful birds around, the small (12cm) but brilliantly coloured red-fronted tinker barbet, with its distinctive bright red patch on the forehead. This is one bird, fairly rare in urban areas, which I’ll never tire of seeing.

Chinspot batis

Olive bush shrike

I was unable to confirm with Luke a sighting of a chinspot batis, which was in the same tree, but we both enjoyed a lengthy view of an olive bush shrike, just a few metres above us.

What I hadn’t appreciated before was just how beautiful the bird is, with its bold black collar accentuating the tones of the grey head, olive back and, in its ruddy form, slightly rufous breast.

But it wasn’t all plain sailing. We had been warned before setting off to be wary of a family of ostriches in the area.

They were far away at the time, so we happily headed into a clearing. Suddenly a pair of female ostriches came towards us from around a bushy thicket.

I didn’t know how to respond, so we both stood perfectly still (apart from a slight shaking), as they inspected us with their large, limpid eyes beneath long flickering eye-lashes. We heaved a huge sigh of relief when they finally sidled off, only to be plunged into further fear when the male appeared – and he didn’t seem to like the fact that we had been spending time with his mistresses!

He eyed us belligerently for a while before moving a few paces away, where he then proceeded to crouch and flap his white-tipped black wings – as if trying to fly.

At last, presumably having made his point, he set off in pursuit of his women.

Maden Dam

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African pied wagtail.

This was published in Leisure on June 16, 2001, under the headline, “Of near misses and little wagtails”.

I HAVE a theory about the Cape wagtail. We all know the little bird with the black breast band which will land nonchalantly on the lawn near you – after all the other birds have fled the garden on your arrival to hang out the washing.

With its tail bobbing up and down, while issuing a shrill, squeaky call, it will set about foraging in the grass for worms and mites.

And my theory is that it is taking advantage of the human presence. Its apparent tameness is a ploy. It knows it is too quick to be in any real danger from a person – in the rare likelihood that anyone would want to do it any harm.

So, while the doves, sparrows and starlings are away, it makes hay.

But this isn’t an article about the Cape wagtail.

As a relative newcomer to bird-watching, I recently had my first sighting of its close relation, which I had not known existed: the pied wagtail.

Rarely, if ever, seen in Port Elizabeth and environs, I encountered the pied version during a trip to the picturesque Maden Dam, about 40km outside King William’s Town.

Setting off from East London over the Easter weekend, we were initially on the look-out for Cape parrots, which are known to feed on the cashew nut plantations near King, but actually live in the indigenous forest which runs along the edge of the Amatola Mountains.

Cape parrot

Sadly, we were a bit late and never spotted any parrots heading home after an early morning binge. About 20km inland of King, on the Stutterheim road, you turn left onto gravel and, before long, you are at the Rooikrantz Dam. A little upstream lies the stately old Maden Dam, which was built in 1910 and was full to overflowing when we were there. After spotting some yellow-eyed canaries near the car park – plentiful in the East London area but rarely seen in Port Elizabeth – we set off on a walk along the edge of the lake.

Cape otter

And our first sighting had me thinking Loch Ness Monster thoughts. Except, the curved brown shape playing in the water a few metres from the shore was small – and soon identified as a Cape clawless otter.

Our walk along the edge of the dam was punctuated by near misses. At one point a flourish of big wings indicated a giant kingfisher, but the bird was seen only fleetingly, so there was no certainty there.

Further on, a possible green-backed heron or dwarf bittern – according to my knowledgeable nephew and guide, Dylan Weyer – flew out of a thicket of reeds to our right, and disappeared in the forest a few metres away – again unidentified. A little later, two raptors were heard and fleetingly seen through the thick canopy, but disappeared before we could determine what they were, although Dylan said they may have been black sparrow-hawks. A chattering of vervet monkeys had earlier alerted us to the presence of these raptors, which are among their main predators.

But we did get lucky a few times. A brilliant-yellow forest weaver was seen for some time from across a narrow stream that feeds the dam. This was at a point where the six-day, 105km Amatola Trail begins (it ends at Hogsback), as well as a separate three-hour walk to Sandile’s cave.

Cape batis

We did not have that sort of time available, but on our return walk struck it lucky when a mini-bird party yielded, well, many mini-birds. These included a couple of delightful brown, white and black Cape batises, along with yellow-throated warblers and yellow-breasted apalises.

Back at the carpark, we set out to explore the area below the dam wall, and were rewarded when a magnificent crowned eagle hove majestically into view.

Then, back at the car, as we were about to set off, a shrill, insistent call from the roof of a little building on the dam wall caught our attention.

It was a wagtail, but not the grey and white Cape version. No this species was stark black and white – a pied wagtail – which is apparently highly territorial, hence the loud chirping from such a small (20cm) bird.

Golden-breasted bunting

As so often happens, some of our best sightings occurred on the gravel stretch while travelling back to the main road. Bringing back memories of a recent trip to the Addo Elephant Park, we spotted the conspicuous black and white lines on the head of a golden-breasted bunting.

Red-throated wryneck

On the ground beside the road, several swee waxbills busied themselves in the long grass. And then, to cap it all, a red-throated wryneck was seen, an unexpected bonus.

A Karoo Odyssey

2010-04-15T01:20:00.000-07:00

One of South Africa’s great natural wonders, the dolorite columns at the Valley of Desolation.

This article was written in about April 2000, but not published.

A FOUR-DAY, 1000km round trip through the Karoo left me convinced that the area offers scenery unparalleled anywhere in the world.

And the Valley of Desolation, near Graaff-Reinet, is truly an Eastern Cape tourism treasure.

We left Port Elizabeth in pouring rain and arrived mid-afternoon at the Cradock Spa, with its sulphur springs, just outside the town.

Here we cooled off with a swim in the large outdoor pool, before transferring to the indoor pool – to warm up again.

Scaly-feathered finch

In perfect weather, a braai using the facilities provided at our comfortable, fully furnished – and inexpensive – cottage, enabled us to take in the clear Karoo air. In nearby trees, the unfamiliar (to us) sociable weavers provided ornithological interest, along with a scaly-feathered finch, yellow-throated sparrow and African hoopoe.

Cradock’s main claim to fame is Olive Schreiner, whose book, The Story of an African Farm, was based on her life on a local farm. Olive Schreiner House in Cross Street illustrates her story.

But the dominant sight in the town, towering above other splendid old buildings, many in the Cape Dutch style, is the 1866 Dutch Reformed Church, which is similar in design to St Martin-in-the-Fields, next to the South African High Commission on Trafalgar Square in London.

Unlike its illustrious English counterpart, however, the stone-work on the Cradock church is largely unsullied by pollution.

Mountain zebra magic

Two mountain zebras enjoy the lush veld after rains at the Mountain Zebra National Park.

The next morning we set off early for the Mountain Zebra National Park, just 23km outside Cradock. Dew drops nestling in a myriad spider webs created delicate tracery patterns in fences along the roadside as we approached our destination.

Paying a mere R10 per adult and R5 each for children for a day visit, we first stopped at the information centre to pick up a map of the various drives available. We were also delighted to come across an acacia pied barbet, chirping merrily in a nearby tree.

We essentially wanted to see the famed mountain zebras, which the park saved from virtual extinction after it was established in July 1937, starting with a population of just five stallions and one mare.

Today, thanks to the acquisition of neighbouring farms, and the inclusion of the zebras on them, 200 to 230 mountain zebras populate the park, with about 20 others being translocated annually.

By the early 2000s some 1 100 had been re-established in recognised conservation areas and on private land.

While this is a wonderful conservation success story, the mountain zebra – which is distinguished from the more common Burchell’s zebra by the absence of shadow stripes – remains among the rarest mammals in the world.

The 14,5km Rooiplaat drive, we were informed, was the area where the zebras were most likely to be spotted. A tarred road took us higher and higher up the mountain, offering ever more spectacular views as we navigated between massive boulders.

But no sign of a zebra.

Then, finally, on a vast, pristine grassland plateau, we saw a herd of about half a dozen, grazing peacefully. As we journeyed slowly onwards, many more of these magnificent animals were spotted, along with hordes of springbok, blesbok, black wildebeest – with their ungainly gait – and eland.

We came across a huge red hartebeest dozing in the sun on the side of the road, just metres from our car. As he ambled off, we saw several young springbok perform their unique jumping act, with legs outstretched and heads bowed.

Clapper lark

Among birds spotted in the grass and scrub were sabota and clapper larks and a chestnut-vented titbabbler, while a pallid harrier soared overhead.

Returning to the rest camp, we took a short 30-minute walk during which we got our first sighting of a red-eyed bulbul, among other birds. After a tasty and inexpensive lunch, we headed back to Cradock.

Teebus and Koffiebus

Teebus and Koffiebus, near the farm Spring Valley, west of Steynsburg.

Our next destination was a farm just to the west of Steynsburg, near the northern border of the Eastern Cape.

The farm, Spring Valley, has been in my wife’s family for generations, and driving up from Cradock there is no mistaking your imminent arrival. The harbingers are as large as life and as old as the hills – the adjacent koppies known as Teebus and Koffiebus.

But things were different in the Karoo this time, compared to previous visits. It was already autumn, but the normally arid countryside was a sea of swaying grass. We had to negotiate several pools of water before arriving at the farm, which three months earlier was in the grip of one of the worst droughts in years.

Here our hosts, Bill and Colleen Elliott, provided us with the kind of hospitality for which South African farming families are famous.

Bill drove us around a sheep farm turned into an oasis by the rains.

Ironically, it was two devastating lightning strikes, last December, which initiated the transformation. The first killed a couple of his sheep, while the second struck a tall tree right next to the house, with a huge branch falling harmlessly a few metres from the roof.

From then on, the formerly black-scorched countryside turned an emerald green as the dams filled – and the farmers smiled again.

Bill enlightened us on the various Karoo bushes and grasses which are the staple of his flocks, while also pointing out the spoor of several buck and hare species. Birds spotted included red-billed quelea, common quail and the redheaded finch.

The next day it was time for our odyssey to continue. Our journey west took us between Teebus and Koffiebus and more breathtaking mountainous countryside, to Middelburg, and then south to Graaff-Reinet.

Picking up a local map in the “Gem of the Karoo” – which has more national monuments than any other town in the country – we set off along the edge of the still almost-empty Van Rynevelds Pass Dam. There was no entry fee at the Karoo Nature Reserve entrance to the Valley of Desolation, one of the most impressive natural phenomena in South Africa.

A well-maintained tarred road winds through Karoo vegetation ever upwards – your ears “pop” before you reach the top. For yes, the Valley of Desolation is a misnomer – it is actually at the top of a mountain.

Declared a national monument due to its geological and scientific significance, the valley consists of piled dolerite columns stretching hundreds of metres into the air. A large cluster of these rise from a valley carved out of the top of the mountain by volcanic and erosive forces during the Jurassic Period, between 190- and 150-million years ago.

Spandau Kop

A silhouetted Spandou Kop seen from the Valley of Desolation above Graaff-Reinet.

The first glimpse one gets of the area is from the toposcope look-out point. This offers a panoramic view of the historic town, encircled almost entirely by the Sundays River, with the splendid 1886 Dutch Reformed Church dominating the latticework of roads. To the right, Graaff-Reinet’s most famous landmark, Spandaukop, hogs the skyline, with the plains of the Camdeboo spreading out into the distance.

A row of outjutting crags, which resemble bottom teeth, led to the naming of the awe-inspiring Tantjiesberg, which can be seen in the distance.

A couple of minutes’ drive up from the toposcope, we stopped the car at a parking area and followed a well-laid-out path up to a point overlooking the valley itself. Wow! When you are up there among those dolerite columns, where each precariously balanced boulder must weigh hundreds of tons, you realise just how small and vulnerable we humans are. And children especially.

With that vertigo feeling almost beckoning you to tumble down into the depths below, we had to remain constantly on the look-out for crevices which could gobble up a wayward waif.

Pale-winged starling

While we never saw any of the famed black eagles soaring through the air between the cliffs, we did hear the low bellowing of baboons, and caught sight of flashes of cream on the plumage of pale-winged starlings as they rode the thermals.

Bird Party

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A red-billed woodhoopoe

THIS appeared in Leisure in late 2000 (probably December), under the headline “Welcome to the bird party!”.

DID you know that our fine, feathered friends have a strange proclivity for getting together in a group of trees and, well, doing what birds do – eat fruit and insects, chirp and sing, and generally create a bit of a stir?

Normally bird-watching can be a bit of a bind, as you seek out those often very tiny specimens amid the leaves and shadows. But not so during our recent visit to the Dassie Trail, a nature reserve comprising thick riverine forest beside the Nahoon River estuary in East London.

Grey heron

We kicked off by surveying the river itself, and found on its surface and banks, among others, a grey heron, its feathers flapping in the breeze, a white-breasted cormorant sunning itself on a piece of driftwood, and a juvenile kelp gull swimming along duck-like.

Common terns wheeled across the surface, while a great white egret (85-92cm) stood absolutely still then spread its giant wings and traced a graceful path along the river before – watched through the binoculars – landing a few hundred metres away.

Half-collared kingfisher

Running across the mud flats (the tide was out) were a busy group of white-fronted plovers, as a tiny half-collared kingfisher darted hither and thither along the bank.

In a thicket of trees beneath a cliff we first heard, then saw, a Knysna lourie, which then flew off in a flash of scarlet wings to find a new perch.

All this and the party hadn’t even begun!

As we headed into the forest right next to the river, we encountered . . . nothing. Silence. Then, with a jolt my son, Luke, 9, and I were frightened out of our wits by a pair of hadedah ibises which flew off a branch just metres away from us, with loud, wailing shrieks.

A few minutes later we found ourselves in the thick of a real, unadulterated bird party.

High above us in the canopy we picked up a grey-headed bush shrike, one of the more elusive birds, with its beautiful yellow-orange breast and distinctive bill. Known as the ghost bird, the reason became obvious as it made its haunting “oooooop” call. I first thought two other large birds which fluttered out of a tree ahead of us were louries. But, with such big bills they could be only one thing: hornbills. This magnificent pair of trumpeter hornbills moved playfully from tree to tree, seemingly unconcerned about the human presence.

By now the bird party was in full swing in the canopy above as black-eyed and sombre bulbuls, forest weavers, Cape weavers and red-fronted tinker barbets, among many others, were either seen or heard.

Bronze mannikin

To cap a superb outing, a flourish of bronze mannikins alighted in a tree just ahead of us on the path, and as we returned to the river bank we saw two red-necked francolins fly hurriedly out of one thicket, only to conceal themselves equally quickly in another.

But if this outing had been a party, what was to come would constitute a bird banquet, so plentiful and diverse were the species encountered.

My nephew, Dylan Weyer, who has just completed matric and has been an avid birder for years, told us matter-of-factly that he thought we might have some success at the Amalinda Nature Reserve, on the outskirts of East London. The reserve comprises a dam, some fish hatcheries and a substantial area of bushveld and forest.

Dabchicks and yellow-billed ducks playfully swanned around on the dam as we heard and identified a host of species – but saw very few. However, the sight of a huge eland on the hillside across the lake enchanted us, as did a long-crested eagle, which remained perched atop a distant thorn tree throughout our visit.

As we headed along a gravel road towards a picnic area, the banquet broke out around us. Dylan was almost overcome with excitement as he battled to note down the numerous species seen and heard on his check-list. In all, that morning, 58 types were identified.

Black-collared barbet

Anyone with a knowledge of birds will find it hard to believe that within a radius of about 100 metres we saw, among others, several bizarrely behaved red-billed woodhoopoes, half a dozen crowned hornbills, a cuddly brown-hooded kingfisher, Knysna and cardinal woodpeckers, a paradise flychatcher, yellow-eyed canaries, a madness of forktailed drongos, a tambourine dove and a pair of black-collared barbets.

And, as we tiptoed through the grass for a better view of an elusive olive bush shrike, Dylan caught sight, in a low acacia bush a few metres away, of the truly magnificent Klaas’s cuckoo, surely one of the most attractive wild birds in southern Africa.

With a Knysna lourie “barking” away in the distance, and the southern boubous, sombre bulbuls and a myriad others keeping the music going, an intended hour-long visit had turned into three before, satiated by such a glut of God’s finest creatures, we had to become our own bouncers and throw ourselves out.

As we drove off, the party continued unabated in the balmy heat.

Kariega

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Green-spotted dove

This was first published in the Herald on February 25, 2000, under the headline, “Wildlife wonderland”.

IT’S not often you get to see the rare green-spotted dove, let alone hold one in your hand.

But this happened on a recent visit to Kariega Game Reserve, a people-friendly game park just inland from Kenton-on-Sea.

A pair of giraffes

Arriving via a short gravel road, we got our first sightings of many of the species of buck in the park, along with zebra and giraffes.

After a friendly welcome at reception, we set off through the bush – stopping briefly to let a herd of impala cross the road – before reaching the comfortable timber lodges a couple of kilometres down the track.

Built on stilts, these are dotted along the thickly forested ridge on the western flank of the Kariega River valley.

Our lodge had an undisturbed 270-degree view across virgin valley forest and down over grassy plains towards Kenton.

Kariega doesn’t try to compete with the major game parks, which boast several if not all of the “big five”. Instead, it deliberately has no dangerous predators – so you are free to roam its 660 hectares – along about a dozen marked trails – without having to watch your back. (NOTE: This has changed in recent years, with several major predators having been introduced in parts of the reserve.)

Crowned hornbill

From the wooden deck of our lodge we spotted our first exciting bird life – a large crowned hornbill, which flew from tree to tree about 50 metres away. We were to spot another (or was it the same one?) during a walk the next day.

A new addition to Kariega is a restaurant, built on several layered decks on the western side of the ridge overlooking another valley, and offering superb sunset views. It was here that we had our amazing meeting with that green-spotted dove. The restaurant, in true bush style, has several walls “missing”, with spaces left open to the elements. The dove had flown in and stunned itself after colliding with a window.

It was my brother-in-law, Dundee doctor Grant Rodney, who found the bird and cradled it gently as he took it out onto the wooden deck to release it. The iridescent green spots on the dove’s wings shone brilliantly as it flew off back into the thicket below.

The next day we took a trail down to the river and back up to the crest of the valley through dense riverine forest. The absolute silence, broken only by birdsong, was awe-inspiring. But, as often happens, we were unable to spot the birds themselves.

Against a backdrop of indigenous vallery forest, bathers enjoy the facilities at Kariega Park.

Then followed a dunk in the Kariega pool, set in tiers of wooden deck on the north-eastern side of the ridge.

Later, on another longer walk over flatter terrain, we had close sightings of a host of buck species, including impala, springbok, wildebeest and blesbok. It was here that we also again saw that crowned hornbill, perched on an aloe.

Also on offer are game drives. Apart from the excellent game-viewing, these take you to a look-out point, high up a cliff, offering a magnificent view of the river.

Those with vertigo don’t want to get too close to the edge!

While the park boasts some 200 species of bird, apart from the green-spotted dove, the highlight of our visit involved fauna, not birdlife, when we did a walk called the sunset trail.

A classic African summer sunset at Kariega.

As the sun sank in the west in true African game park tradition, we had close encounters with, among others, a huge eland about 10 metres away and a stately female impala which stood impassively in our path before graciously giving way.

An elegant kudu

Across a narrow valley we saw a female kudu on the move, its flanks flecked with white.

On the grassy plain above this more densely forested area, with the sun dropping fast, herds of various species of antelope tucked into their dinner.

It was time for ours.

The birds of Settlers Park

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In Settlers Park. Luke, around the age of 8, with Doug, 6, playing a supporting role.

This was published in the Herald in January 2000, under the headline “Abundant birdlife in the heart of PE’s green lung”.

WHEN I wrote a piece in the Herald five months ago about discovering the delights of bird-watching, I never imagined the positive reaction it would receive.

Colleagues at work, the principal of my younger son’s pre-primary school, friends, relatives and acquaintances – all had a tale to tell about their own sightings or tips to assist us in our quest to find new lifers – birds seen and identified for the first time.

But the most enthusiastic response came from the Eastern Cape Wild Bird Society (now BirdLife Eastern Cape), which invited my son and mentor, Luke (8), to an introduction to birds at the Newton Park library, followed by a Saturday morning bird-spotting walk through Settlers Park. Led by Ken and Jen Munro, we were given “inside information” that has proved invaluable. Since then, Luke’s knowledge of birds has grown considerably.

A quiet corner of Settlers Park where many birding surprises occur. Shame about the tower.

The black-headed oriole, Cape robin, fork-tailed drongo, sombre bulbul, olive thrush and many more have become fairly old hat – though we still follow their calls to make sure we see them.

And of course the Knysna lourie never fails to impress.

But it was only recently that I fully came to appreciate the rich diversity which Settlers Park has to offer the bird-watcher.

Little egret

A while ago, Luke, his brother Douglas (6) and I had ventured through the park to a section of the Baakens River at the park’s seaward end where a fairly open expanse of water can be seen through a curtain of reeds. Luke and I spotted a graceful egret perched on a branch a couple of metres above the surface. We were trying to establish the exact type from its feet when Douglas piped up: “How can you see the feet when they’re in the water?”

We laughed, until we noticed that Douglas was looking at another bird, standing in the shallows just below the egret. It was an Egyptian goose, which then set off down the river.

The egret flew a few metres to the other bank, its yellow feet confirming its identity: a little egret (though I thought it quite large).

Dabchick

In the distance we also spotted a tiny, short-tailed duck, which the boys – fresh from a visit to Swartvlei near Sedgefield – confirmed was a dabchick (little grebe).

Anyway, a couple of weeks later we were back at the same spot – elated after a delightful five-minute sighting on the countour path of a Knysna lourie tucking into some berries about six metres away from us.

Giant kingfisher

But this time the little section of river was devoid of birdlife. As we turned to leave, we heard a few sharp calls, which Luke said sounded like a helmeted guineafowl. We turned around in time to see a large bird with black and white spots, its wings outstretched, land on the same outjutting branch above the water’s edge.

“No,” I said to Luke as I spied the thick, straight black bill, “that’s no guineafowl. It looks like a pied kingfisher (which I had first seen a month earlier in the George area).”

“It’s too big,” came the reply. “It’s a giant kingfisher.”

“A what?” That was one I’d not heard of, but Luke opened his Sasol Birds of Southern Africa and there it was. This great big fowl of a bird (38cm to 43cm) then took to its wings and sped off down the river.

As we headed back up-river, I remarked that it would be great to see a red bishop in the Settlers Park reeds, among the many weavers.

But, it would seem, these oddly shaped, almost luminous red birds prefer more secluded surroundings.

We had first spotted them – at least half a dozen – on a walk along the Baakens River between the Third Avenue Dip and Dodds Farm. They are apparently summer visitors – like the plethora of greater striped swallows and white-rumped swifts we have been seeing of late, wheeling and swirling through the sky.

Anyway, with the giant kingfisher “on record”, I told Luke it would make my day if I saw a woodpecker. We set off down a tree-overhung path along the edge of the river when a bird with a darkish back shot up-stream ahead of us, a few metres above the surface. I was convinced it was a kingfisher, but the sighting was too brief to be sure.

A glimmering malachite sunbird on a strelitzia in Settlers Park.

A few metres down the path we stopped – and Luke thought the tapping he was hearing was me hitting the stick I was carrying against my shoe. Confirming it was coming from up a nearby tree, he soon located an olive woodpecker, its bright red crown visible as it tucked into a feast of creepy-crawlies, oblivious to our presence.

Malachite kingfisher

We set off again. Then, alerted by a sudden movement, I turned quickly to see what had to be a malachite kingfisher flying back down the river. Luke missed it, so we backtracked, but there was no sign of it.

When we returned to the spot where I had seen it, there it was again, a few metres away, a tiny silver fish in its beak.

It was indeed a malachite kingfisher. Bright blue and orange, with a disproportionately large orange bill, this tiny fellow – about 14cm long – moved from one reed to the next in search of brunch.

Paradise flycatcher

As an added bonus, we saw a male and female paradise flycatcher merrily dancing about above the river, doing what comes naturally: catching insects! Luke also got a lifer – his first sighting of a collared sunbird.

Collared sunbird

Sunbirds there are aplenty in Settlers Park, with the greater- and lesser-double-collared and African black varieties being fairly easily spotted, particularly in the winter.

But when a tiny, short-billed bird darted overhead making a staccato chit-chit-chit sound, I was at a loss as to its identity. Smaller than a Cape white-eye, with much brighter plumage, the bird kept returning to the same spot with something in its beak. We discovered it was taking food to a rather scruffy nest.

But it moved at such speed, and so furtively, it took several journeys to and fro before Luke confirmed his suspicion that it was a collared sunbird, all 10cm of it.

Neddicky

Along with the delightful swee waxbill (9-10cm) and neddicky (small cisticola) which is 11cm, it was one of the smallest birds we’d seen in the wild.

In two hours that Saturday morning we spotted about 30 different species, not to mention some – like the bar-throated apalis – which we only heard.

The park boasts over 100 of South Africa’s approximately 900 bird species. Not bad for a small green lung in the heart of a major city.

Long may it survive.

Victoria Bay and Swartvlei

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The caravan park and foreshore houses as seen from the railway line at Victoria Bay.

This was published in the Weekend Post's Leisure supplement on January 15, 2000.

VICTORIA Bay nestles between steep green hills like a cradled child.

It is a delightful little village with a caravan park geared for tourists wishing to get close to nature.

But it is also sufficiently developed to enable you to relax without having to rough it too much.

Having booked a caravan and site, we set off down the coast from Port Elizabeth at the start of the spring holidays.

Unlike on our trips to East London, where seemingly never-ending roadworks and potholes in the Ciskei make travelling arduous, the journey to George – also just more than 300km – was a breeze.

A pre-teen Luke, his binoculars ever-present, at the Storms River Bridge.

We stopped for lunch at the Storms River bridge and spotted a Knysna lourie in the magnificent yellowwoods nearby – a harbinger of further avian delights to come.

Passing through Plett, the ever-busy Knysna, Sedgefield and Wilderness, we finally turned left off the N2 about 8km before George.

The Tsitsikamma mountains that had graced our northern flank through much of the journey turned even more spectacular when they became the Outeniqua range and, as we meandered down towards Vic Bay, it was apparent that, like Storms River Mouth, those steep mountainous gradients continued right to the shoreline.

The one main difference is that at Vic Bay there is no river, only a pristine bay with a sandy beach a couple of hundred metres wide.

The caravan site is set above a row of guest houses and B&Bs, which front onto the ocean, with only a narrow road dividing them from the sea. A delightful little pier is ideal for lovers on a moonlit night.

As we entered the site I thought of the old Brookes Hill caravan park in Port Elizabeth, where generations of visitors woke to a panoramic view of Algoa Bay.

The view from this small site – it only takes a few dozen caravans and tents – was a sight for sore, city eyes. With waves pounding across the bay, we were bordered behind and to our right by a hill that soared steeply several hundred metres above us, covered in thick indigenous bush.

A similar hill on the east side makes the other half of the “V” forming the bay. A tunnel pierces the furthest rocky reaches of the eastern hill, and every so often the Outeniqua Choo-Tjoe and other steam trains traverse this slope, their whistles sounding jubilantly ahead of plumes of dark smoke.

We met other family members at the site after booking two caravans, which were ready for occupation when we arrived around 4pm.

Having honed our bird-watching skills in Settlers Park, we were delighted to find the elusive Cape bulbul was a regular visitor to Vic Bay.

Cape rock thrush

Another joy was to tune in to the “conversation” which a male Cape rock thrush, sitting on one telephone pole, held with his female partner on an adjacent pole in front of our caravan.

Cape robin

Greater double-collared sunbirds, Cape white-eyes, Cape robins and southern boubous were in plentiful supply.

While the ablution facilities were by no means luxurious, they were adequate and – most importantly – had a seemingly endless supply of hot water. No one enjoyed this more than a group of surfers camping at the site, as they thawed out in the showers after many hours in the water.

For the three days we were there the wave was consistently good, which explains why Vic Bay is such a famous surfing spot.

With built-in braais and an unimpeded view of the ocean a stone’s throw away, we found ourselves cooking outdoors each evening, something even a light drizzle on the last night couldn’t spoil.

Regularly during our stay we caught sight of the rock-like forms of several southern right whales, secure in the protection provided by the bay.

What to do while there? Some of us opted to join the fairly large throng of bathers in the sparkling waters of the Indian Ocean as others whiled away their time in the pages of a book.

We took a lengthy walk along the railway line and through the tunnel, where we were rewarded with a view of the sprawling Wilderness coastline.

There were cormorants and darters aplenty at Swartvlei. These were seen from the bird hide.

As an outing, we back-tracked about 30km to Swartvlei, near Sedgefied, where a hide set in a wide reed bed affords one an ideal opportunity of seeing fairly rare birdlife. Indeed, as we walked along the boardwalk to the hide we spotted the majestic paradise flycatcher, with its long orange tail. We were to see the short-tailed female version of this bird later, outside our campsite ablution facility.

Red-knobbed coot

From the hide itself we spotted, among others, white-throated swallows, an African marsh harrier, red-knobbed coots, dabchicks, moorhens, African darters, white-breasted cormorants, reed cormorants, African black crakes and pied kingfishers.

George itself seems to have been transformed since the last time I was there, when the freeway used to run through it. Then it had a character which somehow reflected the dour disposition of its incumbent member of parliament, P W Botha.

It is now a clean, lively place with top-class restaurants, pubs, shops and supermarkets. So, if you are unable to get what you want at the well-equipped shop/restaurant at Vic Bay, it’s just a short hop into town where your needs will be met.

Another accessible spot is the Cango Caves, about 110km away in the foothills of the Swartberge.

This was the first time I had seen this prime tourist attraction and I was most impressed with the 1,2km long display of formations built up over more than a million years.

God’s sculptural hand has been hard at work here. It’s just such a pity that over the years vandals have caused so much damage.

But the place still attracts more than 250 000 visitors a year and is well worth the trek and the hefty entrance fee.

Storms River

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Just a small segment of the mountainous majesty visible from the dairy farm we visited at Storms River Mouth.

This first appeared in the Weekend Post’s Leisure supplement on October 30, 1999, under the headline, “Storms’ natural beauty” – and there was barely a mention of birds!

IF I lived in a place like Storms River I’d battle to get anything done. When you’re surrounded by so much natural beauty you can’t stop admiring it.

Kind relatives put us up for a few days in a cottage on their dairy farm, just east of the river and not far from the mouth.

It was an idyllic time, particularly for our two boys, aged six and eight, who experienced a taste of the sort of world Dylan Thomas wrote about in his poem, Fern Hill.

They were more than a trifle envious of our hosts’ children, for whom barefoot walks along cow-dung covered roads and over lush green pastures are part of daily life.

A group of sacred ibises enjoy rich pickings on the farm.

Add to that the allure of fishing in scenic dams or rowing around in a boat to explore them and you get a picture of, well, bucolic bliss.

There was a delightful moment when the five children, all nine or younger, returned with a farm hand after a successful afternoon’s fishing. Klaas, it emerged, had caught not one but two carp, and had given one to the boys.

As we parents watched World Cup rugby on the telly, in walked Bruce, aged four, with this fairly sizeable fish, beaming.

“We caught a vis!” he exclaimed. “We caught a vis!”

In a rush of excitement he told us what had happened, before slapping the slippery silver fish onto the coffee table. As for myself, I couldn’t take my eyes off the surrounding Tsitsikamma mountains. Particularly impressive is Witels Peak, which stands proud and aloof, just demanding to be climbed.

Getting a taste of the local lifestyle, we drove off one evening into a light rain (most of the time the weather was perfect) to have supper at the annual Forest Festival held at a sawmill, ahead of a half-marathon being run the next day.

The rays of the setting sun, itself a glowing ember in the swirling mist, encrusted the row of receding mountains with gold. Awesome.

Earlier, a walk from the top of the eastern cliff down to the Storms River Mouth yielded more spectacular views. While we did not take the rather costly boat trip up the river, from the swaying suspension footbridge the vertical cliffs loomed impressively as they plunged down into a narrow, mirror-smooth body of water.

During our ensuing walk from the bridge to the tourist complex at the mouth, we climbed a steep flight of wooden steps at the top of which a group of English tourists were staring at something just above them.

A Knysna lourie was perched in a tree not three metres from us. We could see the delicate white lines around its eyes and, as it flew a short way onto a rocky outcrop, the brilliant scarlet of its wings.

What an exciting sighting!

We were pleased to find that, since our last visit about a decade previously, a boardwalk has been constructed along the entire length of the walk between the bridge and the tourist complex.

The same applies with the walk through the indigenous forest to the Big Tree, which is about a kilometre north of the N2.

About 800 years old, this towering – and leaning – yellowwood tree is some 36m high. It takes eight men standing hand in hand with arms outstretched to surround the base of its trunk.

One interesting observation we made at the mouth was that timber, no matter how well treated, doesn’t survive in very damp areas. It rots.

Which is why large sections of the boardwalk are being replaced – with replica plastic planks!

Discovering the world of birds

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Dylan, Luke and younger brother Douglas

at Nahoon River Mouth in 1999.

This, my first article on birding, appeared in the Eastern Province Herald on August 28, 1999, under the headline, “Sweet lullaby of birdland”.

For the more than forty years I have walked this earth I have had only a casual awareness of my feathered friends, the birds. I have heard certain bird calls for as long as I can remember, but have never bothered to find out which bird is making them.

It has taken an eight-year-old child to change all that. For the past six months or so, Luke, my elder son, has developed a keen interest in wild birds. And I find it has rubbed off on me – although I will always remain a novice in the bird-watching stakes.

Cape sparrow

How many bird species does your average person know? More importantly, how many can he or she identify? Do you, for instance, know what a sparrow looks like?

I didn’t, until I asked Luke if he could identify the little bird with a black and white “helmet” that was chirping merrily on the TV aerial above us as we washed the car. “A Cape sparrow,” came the assured reply. So the proverbial “sparrow’s chirp” suddenly takes on a literal meaning and significance.

Early the next day I spotted a sparrow on our lawn – catching the worm, as it were.

Of course we all know what a swallow looks like. Or do we? In fact, in the past few months that we have been seriously bird-watching, the swallow (one of which doesn’t make a summer) has eluded us. But I’ve seen superb colour illustrations of various swallows in Luke’s Sasol Birds of Southern Africa field guide, so I’ll be hoping to spot those distinctive pointed tail feathers before long.

Red-eyed doves

I used to dismiss those omnipresent grey birds that make rumbling sounds as “sommer pigeons”. Now I know that we get at least three main types in this area: the feral pigeon, the redeye dove and the laughing dove. The egret I associated with cattle and farms, but we have even encountered species of these ubiquitous white birds in St George’s Park.

Pied crow

And why is it that when you become aware of birds, they suddenly seem to “find” you? Newton Park, where I live, appears in the past few months to have acquired a whole flock of pied crows. We see them all the time.

Speckled mousebird

Of course even I knew about the hadedah – but not that its real name is the hadedah ibis. The mousebird is not much liked, but I’ve discovered that the variety common around these parts is more accurately known as the speckled mousebird.

These, however, are the relatively mundane species. Birding becomes fun when you start spotting the real gems – and it helps to have a “fundi” around to put a name to them for you. And, in Port Elizabeth, where better to look than in the Baakens Valley? Settlers Park, early in the day, is a veritable birds’ paradise. From the moment you pull up in the main car park, you hear and see a vast multitude of wonderful species.

Greater double-collared sunbird

The nearby large coral trees, currently in bloom, attract masses of African black and greater double-collared sunbirds – two of the most beautiful species to be seen in our area. The double-collared, with its brilliant red, blue and green colours, is unmistakable, and a firm favourite with our family. They are the most spectacular fliers too, managing to plunge between branches at break-neck speed without so much as touching a leaf or twig.

Cape white-eye

About the same size as these tiny fellows with their long, curved beaks, are the more demure Cape white-eyes, which seem to fly around in happy troops.

Cape bulbul

Sombre bulbul

Another bird with a white-ringed eye to be seen in the park is the Cape bulbul. Its cousin, the sombre bulbul, has a call which for decades I had heard but only now have been able to fit to a bird: Willie! It shouts, for all to hear.

Knysna lourie (now terraco)

Each outing we make seems to offer up a new species – but about a month ago we had a double pleasure. Cavorting along the branches of a couple of tall trees were no fewer than four Knysna louries. Unlike in previous sightings, when we merely saw one or two fly past, this time we stood transfixed for about 10 minutes as they paraded their spectacular plumage in the early morning sunlight.

But Luke was troubled. His cousin Dylan – who is twice his age, lives in East London and has an encyclopeadic knowledge of birds – recently introduced Luke to the Roberts Multimedia Birds of Southern Africa CD-Rom, wherein southern Africa’s birds are shown in video clips, with each call recorded as well. The bird-watcher’s bible, they call it.

Black-headed oriole

Anyway, a couple of outings with his cousin and a few hours spent browsing on the CD-Rom – not to mention regularly having his nose in that bird book – has equipped Luke with a growing ability to identify birds by their calls. And yes, what he was hearing, he said to me in a conspiratorial, David Attenborough whisper, was definitely the call of a black-headed oriole – which he had yet to see.

We followed the sound and there on a branch of the same tree as the louries was a fine specimen, the identity of which he quickly confirmed with the aid of binoculars and his bird book. Another “find” was the delightful little bar-throated apalis, two or three of which we watched for several minutes frolicking in a bushy thicket metres away from us.

Swee waxbill

Our most recent sighting was a flock of delightful little swee waxbills, with their distinctive red markings. To see them in their natural habitat – chancing on them as we did – is an infinitely more exhilarating experience than to see them, say, in a cage at a zoo.

Egyptian goose

But Settlers Park isn’t the only good place to see interesting birds. We’ve had excellent results at Dodds Farm (further up the Baakens River), spotting several Egyptian geese, Cape weavers and numerous sunbirds.

But if you happen to live in an area with a reasonable number of trees, you’re away. Some of our most exciting “finds” have been made in our back garden, including a one-off sighting of a Burchell’s coucal, which Luke miraculously managed to pinpoint in his book.

Cape wagtail

And the more we look, the more we see: European and red-winged starlings are in plentiful supply, as are Cape wagtails and the similar-looking fiscal shrike and fiscal flycatcher. Then, of course, there’s the beachfront, estuaries, mountains . . .

According to the Sasol book, there are more than 900 species of wild bird in southern Africa – and many of them are on our doorstep.

Introduction

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THE WELL-KNOWN CALL OF AFRICA

There is one sound above all others that places one unmistakably in southern Africa – or, more precisely, in the southern African bushveld.

I could be blindfolded on the moon, placed on a spaceship and landed on Earth and I’d feel at home the moment I heard that sound.

Could it be the roar of a lion? Or the high-pitched yelp of a hyena? The trumpeting of an African elephant, or perhaps the distinctive cry of an African fish-eagle?

With the latter one is getting warmer, but the maker of the sound I hanker for is not some great and impressive denizen of the African bushveld. Indeed, I can honestly say that, until recently, I had never actually seen the bird which so inhabits my soul that I count its call among the most evocative sounds of southern Africa imaginable.

When I was very young, growing up in East London, my mother Brenda would teach us children how to make sounds by cupping our hands together and blowing into the small gap created between the two vertically adjacent thumbs. By rapidly opening and closing the outer, right, hand – much like a blues harmonica player – one could achieve lower or higher notes, and imitate certain bird calls.

It was through this childhood activity that I first became aware – albeit only in my subconscious – of the call of the Cape turtle dove:

Kuk-cooo-kuk. Kuk-cooo-kuk.

It was not until I was well into my forties that I finally became fully conscious of the origin of that call. I had no doubt heard it many times subliminally before, but it took a commitment on my part to explore the rich diversity of our sub-continent’s birdlife before I was able to pin down precisely the call of the Cape turtle dove. This book is the story of that journey of discovery, a discovery of what to my mind is the real jewel in the crown of our region’s wildlife. Make no error, I delight in all manifestations of our natural environment – fauna and flora – and pray that we can manage our ecology in such a way that all species are protected and allowed to flourish.

I may sound parochial, but I would say unashamedly that Africa boasts the finest, most diverse and most impressive of the globe’s animal species.

Our antelopes, giraffes, hippos, rhinos, buffalos and wild dogs, jackals and elephants, lions and leopards, cheetahs and hyenas – you name it – constitute a collection of wild animals without parallel anywhere on the surface of the Earth.

Long may they be spared and long may their habitat be protected so they can continue to survive mankind’s rapacious ways.

But all the animals that run and crawl and creep across the Earth, that swing through the trees or swim through the waters of our rivers and seas, to my mind cannot hold a candle to the collective magic that constitutes the 900-plus species of wild bird to be found in the southern African sub-continent and its adjacent oceans – about a tenth of the globe’s total of some 9 000 equally special species.

It took my then eight-year-old son, Luke, eager to hone his recently acquired reading skills, to drag me into a hitherto – in my experience – unexplored source of grace and beauty: the world of birds.

I mean, here I was, past 40, with a fine arts qualification under my belt, and I had been overlooking this wonderful, tranquil world of creatures which live so close by – yet at the same time are so independent and remote as to occupy another world altogether.

This blog starts with a selection of articles I wrote for the Eastern Province Herald and the Weekend Post’s Leisure supplement after my initial introduction to birding in the late 1990s and during several subsequent years exploring the realm of the birds with my son.

It all began in earnest on Luke’s eighth birthday, in May 1999, when we gave him the Sasol Book of Southern African Birds, although he had already started recording birds earlier that year. His first bird book, Southern African Birds: A Photographic Guide, he received for Christmas in 1998.

My initial article, with the headline “Sweet lullaby of birdland”, appeared in the Herald on August 28, 1999. About a dozen followed, most of which I kept and reproduce here in the hope that others who are as unaware of the bird world as I was, will perhaps be inspired to get a decent field guide, an adequate pair of binoculars – mine are from a second-hand shop and cost about R150 several years ago – and go out and enjoy our unique bird life.

As Luke got to senior primary school, and then high school in 2005, and the demands of his schoolwork increased, so our joint birding activities waned. But we still kept a keen twitcher’s eye open for any interesting sightings and our ears receptive to the calls which Luke so readily can identify, largely thanks to the study he has made of the bird calls on the wonderful Roberts Multimedia Birds of Southern Africa CD-Rom he acquired when he was nine.

After a lay-off of several years, in mid-2005 we resumed our regular birding trips, stories about which make up the remaining chapters of what is essentially a birder’s diary. These, I hope, reflect a more mature approach.

But back to that turtle dove. While my memory is far less retentive than Luke’s, there are several bird calls I can readily identify. Many others sound familiar, but I often forget the bird’s name and need to check with Luke, or his mentor and older cousin, Dylan Weyer, who inspired Luke’s interest in the first place.

But the call of the Cape turtle dove is not a problem. It is ingrained.

And one thing has continually intrigued me about this bird since I first ascertained, with Luke’s help of course, that it was the source of that kuk-cooo-kuk call. Unlike the more common call of the redeye dove, which along with the laughing dove and feral pigeon can be found in most urban or peri-urban domains, the Cape turtle dove seems only to inhabit relatively wild environments.

I travelled out to Sumcay, a school holiday camp on the Swartkops River near Despatch recently, and there was that call again, out of nowhere; a Cape turtle dove, reminding me that I was in a wilderness area in southern Africa.

I have even turned on the television and watched golf at Sun City – only to hear in the background this sonorous call. I’ve thought of all the US or European, Indian or Japanese television viewers taking in the golf. Do they get emotional when they hear the call like I do? I bet the bird-lovers among them do. The rest probably ignore it altogether.

To me the Southern Cross is a highly symbolic anchor in the heavens. That constellation of stars places one indisputably in the southern hemisphere. The nations of the antipodes may have commandeered it for their flags, but it is as much a southern African symbol as an Australian or New Zealand one. However, the call of the Cape turtle dove we don’t have to share with anyone. It is, for me, a southern African lodestar. As long as its call can be heard, I know I’m in Africa.

Indeed, when consulting Luke’s Sasol Birds of Southern Africa to read up on the Cape turtle dove, I couldn’t help feeling a surge of emotion at their dispassionate description. The bird, they say, is an “abundant resident” with “the well-known call of Africa, kuk-cooo-kuk”.

On that note, so to speak, let me conclude by hoping and trusting you’ll enjoy these birding stories.