Coffee is served on
the balcony when it’s barely light.
Andy keeps us
waiting. Instead, a woman appears and tells us Andy is sick and another guide
will come. No surprise really, yesterday he was coughing and sniffling the
whole time and stubbornly refused to turn on the car’s air conditioning. We
wonder how contagious it could be.
Esteban arrives. We walk along a forest trail, trying to coax birds into view. Esteban asks over the radio whether anyone has been seen further down the path. No one, comes the reply. Then a cock-of-the-rock flies over our heads. Guided by the sound, we locate a white-throated daggerbill perched high on a branch, a hummingbird notable for the fact that it never visits feeders.
Soon voices drift up from below. A group of older birders slowly works its way uphill. Some of them are carrying such enormous lenses that you’d have to finish a sandwich to gather the strength to lift one. They have all come to see the hummingbird. We form a loose procession heading back toward the cars. Just before the parking area we spot one of the woodcreepers. Mist curls slowly upward between the hills.
Word arrives that an antpitta has been seen somewhere. The whole group jumps into cars and races off along a muddy forest track to see the bird. The landowning brothers here are famous for having habituated the normally shy and secretive antpittas and even given them names. When called, the birds emerge from the undergrowth. This time there’s hope of seeing Willy, a bird with a yellowish belly. Willy duly appears before the assembled audience, gathers up a few worms, and disappears again. A long-tailed lizard perched on a stump attracts almost as much attention.
Near the lodge a fresh banana has been impaled on a stick at the observation spot. Barbets and tanagers gather to peck at it, quickly reducing the banana to something resembling a corn cob. Nearby an Andean quetzal is reported. Everyone hurries off in that direction. When the quetzal eventually flies away, we pass the time watching hummingbirds. Even the violet-tailed sylph obligingly poses. Then Andy appears. Apparently he received an injection in the backside and is now perfectly fine.
After lunch we unsuccessfully try to spot a white-capped dipper by the river. Instead, we see all sorts of small birds along the path there and back. We visit a twelve-year-old giant antpitta named Maria, and then return once more to the banana-devouring tanagers. After that we drive up the mountain with a boy from Israel and his guide. High on a tree branch hangs a plate-billed mountain toucan, and a little farther on a red-coloured woodpecker keeps watch over the surroundings. Along the road there are patterned lichens and cow pats. A drizzle begins, and the more distant contours fade into haze. Despite everything we still go to look at a dozing lyre-tailed nightjar. The tail is magnificent. The bird itself is barely visible.
After dinner we are told to bring our cameras. We drive down the mountain in the dark and cross the river. At some random bend in the road, we climb out of the car. Andy tells us to wait and disappears into the darkness to imitate owl calls. Somewhere something yowls like a cat; another voice goes penn-enn-enn-enn; there’s also chirping in several different tones. Fireflies of some sort blink in the bushes, and every now and then the sky flashes white with lightning. Quite impressive, really. Why we were told to bring cameras remains a mystery. Andy spends a good hour trying owl calls here and there, but nothing comes of it. Eventually we’re allowed to return indoors and read.
To be honest, I’m not entirely convinced that everything going on here is good for the birds: playing bird calls (stress? wasted energy?), feeding stations (parasites? dependency?), searching for nocturnal birds with flashlights (blinding them?), habituating shy birds to people (not all people are worth trusting), racing around all day in cars (noise, exhaust fumes)… On top of that, the guides have taken bird-call playback a step further by carrying tiny speakers on their belts. Tomorrow I should ask where exactly they acquired their expertise.
Esteban arrives. We walk along a forest trail, trying to coax birds into view. Esteban asks over the radio whether anyone has been seen further down the path. No one, comes the reply. Then a cock-of-the-rock flies over our heads. Guided by the sound, we locate a white-throated daggerbill perched high on a branch, a hummingbird notable for the fact that it never visits feeders.
Soon voices drift up from below. A group of older birders slowly works its way uphill. Some of them are carrying such enormous lenses that you’d have to finish a sandwich to gather the strength to lift one. They have all come to see the hummingbird. We form a loose procession heading back toward the cars. Just before the parking area we spot one of the woodcreepers. Mist curls slowly upward between the hills.
Word arrives that an antpitta has been seen somewhere. The whole group jumps into cars and races off along a muddy forest track to see the bird. The landowning brothers here are famous for having habituated the normally shy and secretive antpittas and even given them names. When called, the birds emerge from the undergrowth. This time there’s hope of seeing Willy, a bird with a yellowish belly. Willy duly appears before the assembled audience, gathers up a few worms, and disappears again. A long-tailed lizard perched on a stump attracts almost as much attention.
Near the lodge a fresh banana has been impaled on a stick at the observation spot. Barbets and tanagers gather to peck at it, quickly reducing the banana to something resembling a corn cob. Nearby an Andean quetzal is reported. Everyone hurries off in that direction. When the quetzal eventually flies away, we pass the time watching hummingbirds. Even the violet-tailed sylph obligingly poses. Then Andy appears. Apparently he received an injection in the backside and is now perfectly fine.
After lunch we unsuccessfully try to spot a white-capped dipper by the river. Instead, we see all sorts of small birds along the path there and back. We visit a twelve-year-old giant antpitta named Maria, and then return once more to the banana-devouring tanagers. After that we drive up the mountain with a boy from Israel and his guide. High on a tree branch hangs a plate-billed mountain toucan, and a little farther on a red-coloured woodpecker keeps watch over the surroundings. Along the road there are patterned lichens and cow pats. A drizzle begins, and the more distant contours fade into haze. Despite everything we still go to look at a dozing lyre-tailed nightjar. The tail is magnificent. The bird itself is barely visible.
After dinner we are told to bring our cameras. We drive down the mountain in the dark and cross the river. At some random bend in the road, we climb out of the car. Andy tells us to wait and disappears into the darkness to imitate owl calls. Somewhere something yowls like a cat; another voice goes penn-enn-enn-enn; there’s also chirping in several different tones. Fireflies of some sort blink in the bushes, and every now and then the sky flashes white with lightning. Quite impressive, really. Why we were told to bring cameras remains a mystery. Andy spends a good hour trying owl calls here and there, but nothing comes of it. Eventually we’re allowed to return indoors and read.
To be honest, I’m not entirely convinced that everything going on here is good for the birds: playing bird calls (stress? wasted energy?), feeding stations (parasites? dependency?), searching for nocturnal birds with flashlights (blinding them?), habituating shy birds to people (not all people are worth trusting), racing around all day in cars (noise, exhaust fumes)… On top of that, the guides have taken bird-call playback a step further by carrying tiny speakers on their belts. Tomorrow I should ask where exactly they acquired their expertise.
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