This Birding Life (22 page)

Visiting the island of Tobago is rather like going back 30 years or so. The people are well-dressed and courteous, the beaches are unspoilt and the sea is so clear you could have a bath in it. And every day, at 4.30 p.m. on the dot, you can take afternoon tea on the terrace of the Arnos Vale Hotel.

If you do, you won't be alone. Almost as soon as the neat plate of sandwiches and cake arrives at your table, you're sure to be joined by an uninvited guest with an unforgettable name: the Bananaquit. This little bird is the House Sparrow of the neotropics. Ubiquitous, cheeky and always on the lookout for a meal, he and his companions may also join you for breakfast, where they flit from table to table picking out the choicest items from the buffet.

Bananaquits aren't the only birds to benefit from the open-handed generosity of the Arnos Vale and its guests. The hotel staff regularly fill a large plastic trough with leftovers, attracting a colourful cross-section of the island's commoner species.

First to arrive will be two or three Eared Doves, looking like a miniature version of our Collared Dove, but with the small dark mark behind the eye which gives the species its name. They'll soon be joined by vivid Blue-gray Tanagers, one of the loveliest of all neotropical birds, along with their drabber cousins, Palm Tanagers. Occasionally a Red-crowned Woodpecker will attempt to hang on to the edge of the trough, desperately trying to raise itself up like an out-of-condition gymnast, before slipping away unsatisfied to feed elsewhere.

A plaintive mewing sound, uncannily like that of a domestic cat, marks the arrival of the rather pathetic-looking Bare-eyed Thrush. And from time to time, a cracking little black-and-white striped creature known to the locals as the ‘jailbird' will appear. It's officially called
the Barred Antshrike, but the local name is a far more evocative description of its pied appearance.

But all these birds, attractive as they are, are overshadowed by two show-stoppers. The first, the Blue-crowned Motmot, is simply one of the most colourful birds I have ever seen: a gorgeous mixture of green, chestnut, blue and black, with a hefty beak and long, twin-plumed tail. The local motmots are said to have developed a liking for cocktail cherries, something we failed to test out, owing to an inexplicable shortage of supplies.

The other Tobago speciality looks, at first sight, like a cross between a turkey and a pheasant. Only a minute or two after the food has been put out, Rufous-vented Chachalacas arrive en masse at the feeding-station. As they do so, they squabble noisily among themselves, pushing and shoving each other aside in order to get to their supper.

It's only when things start to get nasty, and the pushing and shoving turns into out-and-out violence, that you recall what these peculiar birds really remind you of. Everything about their appearance and behaviour is uncannily reminiscent of those nasty little dinosaurs in the film
Jurassic Park
. The ones that hop up and down in a curiously engaging manner, before tearing your flesh into tiny pieces.

As I write, I can hear the deep, bass notes of a Ground Hornbill in the distant forest. Breakfast this morning was interrupted by a passing African Fish Eagle. And yesterday I came across one of the most extraordinary birds I've ever seen – the multicoloured Hartlaub's Turaco.

By now, you may have guessed that I've ventured a little further afield than usual. I'm in the Masai Mara, Kenya, filming the new series
of
Big Cat Diary
. Kenya is one of the very best countries in the world to watch birds. More than a thousand species have been recorded here, and it is possible to see over three hundred in a single day! Yet after almost two weeks, I've barely topped the century mark.

The reason for this rather poor showing is that I've been mainly confined to our base at Governors' Paradise Camp, alongside the Mara River. Fortunately, if I were to choose a place to get stuck, this would be it. I am lulled to sleep at night by the snorting of hippos, while this morning a herd of elephants wandered down to the river to drink. Crocodiles and baboons regularly appear on the far bank to entertain us.

And, of course, there are the birds. Woodland Kingfishers often fly up and down the river, while overhead there are three species of vulture, five different kinds of swallow and passing flocks of Yellow-billed and Marabou Storks.

On my first morning here, I awoke to what I thought was a familiar sound: the ‘jug-jug-jug' of a Nightingale. Within seconds, it abruptly changed to impersonate a Blackbird, then a Song Thrush. I wandered out of the tent, and there, on a low branch, was a thrush-sized bird with rusty-orange underparts, slate-grey back and a striking black-and-white head-pattern. It was a White-browed Robin-chat, just one of the many songbirds whose dawn chorus starts our day.

Some of the birds here are old friends, such as the little Common Sandpiper which feeds along the water's edge, keeping a wary eye out for passing crocodiles. A black-and-white bird with a long, wagging tail looks familiar. But it's not our own species, rather its larger cousin, the African Pied Wagtail. Different bird, same habits.

Others are totally unfamiliar. Pairs of Tropical Boubous sing the most extraordinary four-note duet: the male taking the first two notes, while his partner responds immediately with notes three and four. Two species of hornbills: the huge Ground Hornbill and its smaller, tree-dwelling relative. And that extraordinary turaco.

I was on a lunchtime walk. Well, I say walk, but what I really mean
is a short stroll along the front of the tents — to go any further into the forest would risk attack from a stray buffalo or elephant. As I reached the end of the path, a bird flew across the river. I raised my binoculars, and my eyes were assaulted by a flash of red: so deep, so crimson, that I thought I must be dreaming. It landed in a tree, and I saw a moss-green bird the size of a small pheasant, with a long tail, short crest and comic expression. It turned and then flew again, to reveal the crimson wing-linings once more. Hartlaub's Turaco: what a bird!

There can't be many places in the world where you can sip fresh Kenyan coffee, enjoy a
pain au chocolat
and watch some of the rarest and most exotic birds imaginable. So after seven weeks without a break, it was good to escape from the BBC's Big Cat Diary camp and have a leisurely breakfast at Little Governors' Safari Camp, in the heart of the Masai Mara.

The table overlooks a marsh, where Holub's Golden Weavers cling to the tops of reeds, Black Crakes clamber across waterlogged vegetation, and dashing Purple Grenadiers hop around on the lawn. After breakfast, we took a stroll with Mark, the camp's resident balloonist and an ace birder. We wandered through a troop of baboons and past the rubbish dump to reach an oxbow lake, formed last winter when the Mara River burst its banks.

There, in a tree, was a pair of huge birds, with pied plumage and the most extraordinary bill I've ever seen. They were Black-and-white Casqued Hornbills: sporting the horny protuberance on top of their beaks that gives the species its name. Around the lake there were Hooded Vultures, rising on the first thermals of the day; the resident Woodland Kingfisher, a splash of blue among the browns and greens;
and the usual Yellow-vented Bulbuls, which have the annoying ability to look like something new and exciting, before revealing their true identity.

We then took a ride across the Mara to Kichwa Tembo Camp. This may be as close as you can get to paradise, with fine food, a swimming pool and a couple of dozen new species to see during the day. We walked around the grounds with the camp's naturalist guide, Philip, a man with the necessary combination of local knowledge, fieldcraft and quiet enthusiasm to make it an afternoon to remember.

At first, the forest seemed almost birdless, making me feel quite at home. Then we came across a fruiting tree, alive with birds. African Paradise Flycatchers, with deep rufous-and-black plumage and an impossibly long tail; a Grey Apalis, looking for all the world like a Lesser Whitethroat; and best of all, a Black Cuckoo-shrike, with its smart blue-black plumage and bright yellow epaulettes.

Deeper in the forest, we heard the call of Schalow's Turaco and caught a frustratingly brief glimpse of the bird itself in flight. We had better luck with a pair of Ross's Turacos, whose deep-blue plumage, raised crest and bright yellow face give them the comical appearance of a children's TV character.

But best of all was a Narina Trogon. The name ‘trogon' has always suggested to me something in
Dr Who –
‘welcome to the planet Trogon, doctor …' I've watched three different species in Trinidad, and was surprised to find that the family is not confined to South America but can be found throughout the tropics. Narina Trogon is one of two trogons found in Kenya, and was apparently named after the wife of the man who first discovered the species.

Philip began by imitating the trogon's call: a surprisingly muted series of low, bass notes, almost inaudible to the human ear. From the depths of the forest, the bird responded. It sounded as if it were about half a mile away, but to our surprise, Philip pointed out a movement in the nearby trees. There, perched on a branch, was a vision of scarlet and green, with a bright yellow beak, pale eye-patch
and long black-and-white tail. As we watched, it started to call: quietly at first, then gradually turning up the volume as it began to speed up. Narina must have been proud to have such a beautiful bird named after her.