Nahoon Mouth and Inkwenkwezi

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.