Driving me Mad

My wife and I are quite passive when encountering life's inconveniences. At our age we've gone through so much vicissitudes that we normally would not allow such things to bother us. But, and this is a big BUT, there are those occasions that get us fuming mad. So please allow me to vent out some of the frustrations we experienced in our latest birding trip.

The Candaba Wetlands is one of the prime birding areas in the Philippines. Or I should now say, "used to be".  Whereas before hundreds, if not thousands, of migrant waders and ducks can easily be seen here, now there was an obvious disparity since the birds we saw yesterday were much lower in number. Sure, there were hundreds of Black-winged Stilts but that's just about it. A few Wood Sandpipers here and there, fewer Long-toed Stints and a couple of Grey and Purple Herons. We did not even see a single Common Kingfisher! There were ducks, mostly the endemic Philippine, but they were too far off for a decent photograph. Good thing some Wandering Whistling Ducks found a place to settle that was within photographic range.

The primary reason for this, I believe, was because the watery area where these migrants settle are now rice fields, newly planted even. The local Black-crowned Night Heron colony population seemed to have dwindled as well.

Thankfully, the local avifauna was thriving well. The most ubiquitous among these were the Pied Bush Chat, Striated Grassbird, Chestnut Munia and Long-tailed Shrike.

Pied Bush Chat

Chestnut Munia

Long-tailed Shrike 

Striated Grassbird

The Rallidae family was well represented with the Barred Rail, Buff-baded Rail, Philippine Swamphen, White-breasted Waterhen and White-browed Crake.

Barred Rail

Buff-banded Rail

Philippine Swamphen

White-browed Crake

White-breasted Waterhen

Now let me tell you about the Bitterns. It was as if they were in connivance with each other because all three species - Yellow, Cinnamon, and Black - teased us in exactly the same way. While we are focusing on some other species, one of these sly birds would suddenly leap from where were looking, fly a short distance then dive into a clump of vegetation and completely vanish. That this happened about 10 times left us bitter. It was only when we were already on the way out and while enjoying the cooperativeness of some Blue-tailed Bee-eaters that one Yellow Bittern finally obliged to be photographed. It was a Bittern end to our birding in Candaba.

Blue-tailed Bee-eater

Yellow Bittern

What made Cynthia and I upset was the traffic we encountered on our trip home. We've birded Candaba many times for the past five years but this was the first time that we got stuck in such a horrendous jam. Candaba is some 60 kilometers from our home in Quezon City. It took us only one-and-a-half hours that morning to get to the wetlands whereas it was a maddening three-and-a-half hours on the return trip! I mean where did all these trucks come from? They were everywhere! - from the narrow two-lane roads in Bulacan to the streets from Mindanao Avenue to Katipunan Avenue. Trucks! 

When we finally arrived home my wife was so exasperated. She told me that this could be our last birding trip because we don't want to go through this nightmare again. "It's for your own sake," she said, "because you're the one driving." I'm afraid I had to agree with her. At my age - a year less than 70 - my physical endurance is no longer what it used to be. Considering that we had to wake up early, go birding (which involves standing for long periods, walking while carrying my heavy camera equipment, and sometimes even trudging over uneven trails) then having to sit for seemingly countless hours inside our vehicle waiting for the traffic to move inch-by-inch towards home, I don't think I can handle that on a regular basis. And that drives me mad.

Thrush Day

Saturday is trash day in our subdivision. It was the day the garbage collectors pick up the organic (non-recyclable) rubbish that we put outside our houses. For me and my wife this Saturday was trash day seen in a different perspective. It was one of those days when we wished we just stayed home languishing in the comfort of our airconditioned room. Because this particular Saturday we were at the La Mesa Ecopark drenched in unending sweat hoping to photograph the local celebrities named Mr. and Mrs. Spotty. Or maybe even any member of the Hoodie family. Alas after three long hours in the extremely humid mini forest not a single one of our target bird showed up. Not even one. This despite the diligent efforts of resident birder and super guide, Anthony.

Only because of Cynthia's meanderings that she was able to locate the "trash bird" of the park aka Ashy Thrush. At last we were able to get some documentary photographs of a bird. Just documentary shots, mind you. At least those photos somehow helped alleviate our frustrations that morning.

Another redeeming factor, aside from the Ashy Thrush, was that we were fortunate to make new friends. Arman and Sree from Singapore and Pan from China, we hope to see you again.

At half past nine we just couldn't take it anymore. We both agreed to call it a day. 

P.S. We learned the following day that both Arman and Sree, who flew in from Singapore for the sole purpose of photographing the Spotted Wood Kingfisher, finally succeded in their mission at 4:40 that Saturday afternoon after enduring a heavy downpour.

Mocking Birds

Ah, the heartache as a result of being mocked by birds, how does one get over it?

I was all by myself, bathed in a torrent of sweat, searching for birds that I can photograph in the mini-forest of the La Mesa Ecopark. 

There was a fleeting shadow among the leaves that promptly disappeared as I focused my eyes (my eyes! not even my camera!) on it. That was just about it.

A slight movement among the leaf litter. Ashy Thrush! I pointed my camera at it. It looked at me and then it moved as if saying to me "photograph me if you can". I followed, slowly, hiding behind a tree trunk. I can see it. I raise my camera. The thrush once again moved challenging me to follow it. Stealthily, I repositioned myself, once more seeing the bird. Before I was able to aim my camera at it, it flew. Out of sight. There was a mocking, laugh-like twitter. I sighed. 

I walked along the trail. Then I heard it - the unmistakable call of the Hooded Pitta. I half-ran to where the mournful sound was coming from. The call got louder and louder. I stopped and gazed around. Then came the "uh-oooh". It was so loud, the Pitta could not be more than ten feet away. But where is it? I looked up, hoping it would be calling from a branch. Not there. I searched the grounds around me. No movements at all. And yet, the call was still loud and near. A flutter, a shadow quickly darting from the clump of leaves in front of me to....I couldn't tell where it landed. Again, came the call - now farther away. I followed. A bit louder now but still no sign of the hooded green bird that seemed to tease me, daring me to find it. Another fleeting shadow. Another call - this time emanating from a place even farther away. The call, the deriding laughter, echoed in the distance, taunting me, daring me to keep on pursuing the source of such scornful sound. But I, no longer desiring to be the patsy of such playful ploy, turned away and decided to look for other birds, perhaps those with a more cooperative nature.

I was meandering along the trail, my pride brought down a notch or two by the pesky, invisible pitta, when the Ashy Thrush flew across my path. I raised my camera only to see it merge among the low branches completely disappearing like an avian Houdini. I searched the adjacent area. Nothing. Suddenly a moving shadow and a jeering call. Then silence. Oh how I missed my expert spotter (aka my wife, Cynthia). 

It was while I was mulling over this situation when a special-ops team of minuscule black ants made a coordinated assault on both of my legs. How those tiny dots could inflict so much pain puzzled me. I did a frantic rubbing on my legs accompanied by a fervent prayer that I would be able to get rid of all those that had attached themselves to my flesh. Thank God, the ant bites were gone after a few minutes.

It was just too much for my wounded pride to bear. I decided to end my birding day after spending only two hours in the suffocating humidity of the forest. I needed to be home and spend the rest of the day licking my wounded pride.

"The Scream" Birding

The story goes that when Edvard Munch, the famous Norwegian painter, was walking with two friends, and as the sun was setting the sky suddenly turned blood red. He paused, and feeling exhausted, leaned on the fence. His two friends walked on and he just stood there trembling with anxiety and sensed a scream passing through nature. That inspired him to create an art masterpiece which he titled Der Schrei der Natur (The Scream of Nature).

My wife and I were back at the La Mesa Ecopark yesterday (Friday, January 31). This was our third visit in a week. Again our primary purpose was to look for a lifer - the Eyebrowed Thrush. We staked out the possible places where we hoped the thrush would appear. We were soon joined by fellow birders, Bong Nabong, Steve Albano and Chin Fernandez. Another fellow birder and new acquaintance, BJ Capacite, also joined us. Three hours passed and no thrush showed up - not even the resident Ashy. BJ, who had been going around the area, showed me a photo of a bird that he, being a newbie, wanted me to identify. 

"Mangrove Blue Flycatcher," I said congratulating him on his find.

"There's another bird that I saw right after this," he said showing me the photograph. My eyes fell out of their sockets.

"Eyebrowed Thrush!" I shrieked. "Where'd you find it?"

"Not far from where we are now," he replied and quickly led the way.

"There was where I saw the flycatcher, then I heard a bird call and there (pointing to a fruiting tree) was where the thrush was!"

All six of us stood there with our cameras pointed at the tree that BJ referred to. Half an hour dragged by. Not even a sound came from the trees. An hour passed. The mini-forest was now filled by loud voices of school children having a field trip. We all agreed to call it a day.

As Cynthia and I slowly trudged along the trail on the way out it seemed that the sky just turned blood red. Our companions walked ahead. I stopped by the fence feeling exhausted, trembling with frustration and sensed a scream passing through nature.

I felt what Edvard Munch experienced 121 years ago.

Coron Trip: Day 1 - Hover and Above

“This is your captain speaking. We are now approaching Busuanga Airport. Currently there are thunderstorms and therefore the runway is not visible. We will be on a holding pattern for about 15 minutes to wait for the weather to ease up. Thank you for your patience.”

My wife, Cynthia, and I looked at each other with eyebrows raised. Outside our window we could see clear blue skies adorned here and there with fluffy white clouds. Down below we could see the sparkling sea and beautiful little islands covered in lush greenery. As we hovered above the island of Busuanga, we were thinking: What in the world is the pilot talking about?

Fifteen minutes later.

“This is your captain speaking. The thunderstorm over the airport hasn’t stopped. We will now return to Manila. We apologize for this but the safety of our passengers is our foremost concern. Thank you.”

There was a collective groan from the 80 or so passengers aboard.

Thus began our planned birding trip to Coron, Palawan. It definitely did not portend well of our birding trip to that wonderful place. Back at NAIA 3 we were booked for an early flight the following morning and our return flight was rescheduled for Saturday instead of our intended Friday departure. 

We plopped into our bed that night wondering what will happen tomorrow.

Do you sea what I sea?

Another unpaved road. With a ditch alongside. Prime Burrowing Owl territory, I mused. We are still at Salton Sea. Having just bombed on locating the Blue-footed Booby, we are on another quest.

It wasn’t long before I spotted the burrowing owls. I stopped the jeep on the side of the road. Grabbed my gear and just I as I was about to point the camera to the birds, they flew. Far. Beyond photographic range. Muttering, I returned the equipment to the car. A silver Audi pulls up in front of us. Tall, balding guy comes out grinning.

“What were you shooting?” he asked.

“Burrowing Owls”, my somewhat surly reply.

He was soon joined by Lucia, his Filipina partner. They drove all the way from San Jose, we learned. To photograph birds at the Salton Sea. All four of us talked shop for a while.

“Look, a dead owl!”, Lucia exclaimed as they prepared to leave.

And there it was, the desiccated corpse of a young owl lying a few inches in front of their car.

Several hours passed. Sun beats on us mercilessly. Cynthia notices her sunglasses are missing. She looks everywhere. Practically turned the jeep inside out. Still nothing.
This is the fourth pair of sunglasses she lost. Fearing the wrath of the buying husband, she offers something I can’t refuse. She will find birds for me for the rest of my life. I did not refuse.

On the way back, I wanted to try my luck with the burrowing owls again. This time no owls. Nada. Zip. Zero. No live ones, that is. I see the dead owl. Something brown lying beside it. I sighed. I pointed the object to Cynthia. She jumps from the jeep. Grabs the brown thing. Waves it in front of my face. Smiling from ear-to-ear. No more birding guides for the rest of my life.