Heard but not seen

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.