Life in the in between: a sparrowhawk’s existence

Two weeks ago on a humdrum Monday a sparrowhawk came to our three-storey balcony, blowing our little space wide open in a burst of flight and feathers.

That’s how it is with sparrowhawks. There’s no preamble to the strike. Not the slowly-does-it buoyancy of a harrier’s quarter, nor the panic warning that accompanies a peregrine’s hunt over winter marshes. Most of my sparrowhawk sightings are barely sightings at all—an intimation of something bullet-brained, a sign of wing and greyness that registers just enough to count. They are glimpsed in their sheering horizontal strafes, sensed at the tilting up-and-over moment into hedgerow ambush. I have sometimes seen females soaring high in an eagle-fashion, and I’ve heard—seen photos—of individuals that do materialise for whole periods of time, all the hawk components suddenly but undeniably singular, complete, right there in plain sight of the kitchen sink. The most solid example I’d had till now was the filamentous ghost of wings from a momentary window zonk—the delicate traces of a botched hunt in a suburban garden. Sparrowhawk dust.

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A young female, identified by her size and the juvenile brown tips to her feathers.

As with all predators, most raptors’ hunting attempts end in failure. Not this one. A young female perfecting her game. She is big and broad, built for open-sky spaces, unlike the males who haunt the intimacies of summer full-leaved woodlands. Our creaking reactions have already missed the arrival, whole seconds too clunky to match her. We must surmise the action: a chance sighting and too good to miss, shift and accelerate towards the next second. She lives now at the cusp, slicing the in between of everything in the strike down to seize and overtake the present, straddling the instant like the poor-bastard dove she’s shafted from the iron railing. On the balcony floor she’s astride her prey as if in some strange copulation, plucking furiously, then tearing at the good meat.

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The space around was snow-silent in these minutes after the kill—a penumbra of small bird fear and human awe. We watched from just two feet away, edging closer on our stomachs right up to the window sill, making the most of this unpredicted hawk proximity. She saw us; of course she did—her whole being spins on those huge yellow eyes—but she was hungry and willing to tolerate us. Even so, we didn’t see her go. We’d turned to whisper, and right then she’d taken off with her carcass undercarriage, leaving a mess of dusky feathers to tell the tale, just in case we’d missed it.

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The remains of a collared dove.

What struck me in the days after was how many people miss out on such wonder, even when it thrusts itself right into our human centres. These chance happenings are so much on the margin for some of us—the countryside at the edges of our obsessive internalised urban lives. I called a friend that Monday, eager to share this remarkable incident on our fire-escape balcony, and knowing he was just minutes away. I couldn’t tempt him. Next time, perhaps. There is always hope that such things will take us by surprise, hurl our attention inwards to the ellipse of a hawk’s world.

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The fish road: adventures upstream

Not a bird blog this time. I do sometimes hang up the binoculars and take up the fly rod instead to go fishing on Britain’s beautiful rivers. Some encouraging comments on a recent trip to Devon prompted me to write something about fish and fishing for a change.

The fish road isn’t an Old English term, but it should have been. Fisc-rad. It has that concise, pragmatic feel of many Old English compound names born of plain observation, whilst still conveying striking imagination. There is a whale-road (hranrad) and a swan-road (swan-rad) – Anglo-Saxon metaphors for the sea that depict oceans as travel-paths belonging to seabirds and mighty cetaceans. There is even an Old English ‘fish and river’ riddle that seems to imagine a river in these terms: both beings run their course together, the fish sometimes resting, the river always rushing forth, sometimes the fish swifter than the river’s flow. A fish journeys by river, is of the river.

It feels as old as rivers themselves, proverbial, as though it certainly should be recorded in the earliest examples of our language. The fish road. Inauthentic as it may be, it’s a term that occurs to me often on the river, because it speaks powerfully of astonishing fish marvels, of my attempts to see these creatures in their water-worlds, maybe even to catch one.

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My brother wading the fish road.

Fish do travel, of course. Some perform migration feats that rank amongst the most remarkable of all creatures. European eels begin life in the Sargasso Sea off the North America Coast, then make their way east, changing form twice by the time they swim up British rivers. They might spend up to 20 years in fresh water before heading back across the Atlantic to spawn. The Atlantic salmon performs almost the opposite journey: those born in British waters will mature at sea before surfing currents homewards, sensing Earth’s magnetic current through their lateral lines and literally smelling their way home to natal rivers. The brown trout can do the same – some anadromous forms of this species undergo a change which turns them seawards. They become salmon-silver, and will return just like their larger cousins to breed in fresh water. True travellers.

 

The fish road, though, is also ventured by those who endeavour to seek and catch fish – not necessarily to eat them, but more simply to wonder. From time to time, I am one such rover. I don’t claim skill. I own more than one rod, a pair of waders, and I can navigate sufficiently the arcane language of my fly box – sedges, klinkhammers, peeping caddis flies (and the more humorous residents – dog nobblers, boobies, foam daddies). I can cast a line now with accuracy and distance enough to satisfy a desire for progress, and I know as much as any fly fisherman the heart-lurching thrill of that sudden snatch that signals a take.

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The contents of my fly box.

I know others, though, who practise the art far better than I ever will. My brother and our good friend – both Richards – are obsessive river-travellers, unable to resist pausing at any bridge we pass to scope new spots and look for fish suspended in the water column just below the arches. I love the grace and ease of their casting – a choreographed sequence of arm and rod, flex and timing, to unfurl the line in big immaculate loops across the surface so that a tiny feather-fly touches down without a slightest splash.

Richard Burbidge casting a fly line. Photo: David Wood.

We have fished together across the country, on Cumbrian tarns, Hebridean lochs, off south coast shores. But most of all in rivers – the Taff, Wye and Exe, the Itchen, Avon, Rother. All these, as Roderick Haig-Brown describes, are ‘water in its loveliest form … life and sound and movement and infinity of variation … veins of the earth’. At least as much as the prospect of actually catching, it is the lovely form that compels us to keep fishing. To walk a river, alone and silent, is to know a way of being and moving that others cannot know. Wading upstream towards a river’s source in the same direction that fish face the flow, sometimes chest-deep, trout eye-level and necessarily slow, we leave others behind.

This week just gone we fished for brown trout in the Exmoor rivers in Devon – the Exe, Barle, Bray, Taw and Lyn. At times we whiled hours exploring just a few hundred metres of water. Strollers and dog walkers on their own paths knew nothing of our existence, and they did not see what we encountered so closely – kingfishers, dippers (once, an otter swam right past my brother on the Irfon in Wales). This is our privileged passage. Down here, where the bankside alders tunnel inwards the fish road is a long lost highway – a sequestered holloway that enters another world. There is no more intimate way to know the veins of the earth.

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Two roads at the Rother, Sussex.

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Sri Lanka’s endemic enigmas

Where earth’s greatest landmass narrows to a subcontinent, below where mountain thrusts up rock to earth’s highest peak and river runs down to dry plain, just beyond where land tips into ocean, in one slip of forest in the wet mid-hill tropics that rise up on a small island once bridged to south-east India, behind the obscuring branch of one jack tree, there is a blue magpie.

We’ve come a long way for this bird. It is truly magnificent though. Don’t think your usual black-and-white, garden-menace job. The Sri Lanka magpie is of quite another order: blue body, blue tail – true blue, bluest in the forest – head and wings of dark tamarind, feet and a heavy corvid bill the colour of pomegranate arils. The same red neatly circles the eye. It’s a bird to travel for.

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Sri Lanka blue magpie. Image: Wikipedia Commons.

In cloud forest, good views of anything can be hard; it’s alarm and frenzy in the tops, exotic calls and brief flashes above. Tall is habit in a place like this – trees reach 40, 50 metres high, their boles straight up into tree domain – but such thick vegetation down here obscures verticals and heights.

The trick is to stand still, tune in to what you hear. In this valley, dawn is a broad coming like a passing eclipse. We stand in the green air on the edge of the clearing before the heat arrives, waiting for birds at first light. Orange-billed babblers are easy enough – their fuss and squabble shake the foliage with monkey-vigour. They are joined by the odd ashy-headed laughing thrush or drongo. Higher up, there are white-faced starlings and hill mynas.

The rasp of the magpie gives it away. And where there’s one, more follow. We watch six in total, a raucous mob tailing each other from tree to tree for just two minutes, so plainly blue you wonder how they do such a good job of disappearing.

 

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The rainforest canopy at Sinharaja
The Rainforest Ecolodge in Sinharaja forest.

We’re very pleased to see them. The thing is, you won’t find any of these birds anywhere else. Not just in Sri Lanka, but nowhere else in the world. Like so much of the immense biodiversity on this island – trees, insects, amphibians, reptiles, flowers, butterflies, mammals, birds – the blue magpie is an endemic. Sri Lanka’s ancient insular existence has evolved a remarkable ecology of highly specialised creatures. Amongst birds alone, of the island’s 27 full endemic species (there are subspecies too), most of these can only be found in the wet-zone hills in the far south, and some of these, even, only in isolated pockets of this territory. Only sixteen years ago, in fact, a new owl species was discovered in these forest fragments that survived colonial rule. It’s a reassuring sign in this age of loss and destruction.

Sri Lanka hill myna. Image: Isuru Gunasekera.

Find this little lodge near Deniyaya on Google Earth, scroll in, then right out to see India, and Eurasia, and the whole globe. This is to know the fragility of every part of all things, yet wonder that the infinitesimal can still hold mysteries.

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Rhino horned lizard: one of the numerous endemic lizards. Image: Janaka Gallangoda

Wasps, owls and the dangers of anthropomorphism

I came across a humorous meme on Facebook the other day. It’s an ID card for commonly seen British bees. There’s the honey bee, of course, and bumble bee. And then there’s the wasp – the ‘c**t with wings’. It’s funny. We all know the scenario: late summer, a round of drinks in the pub garden on a lazy Sunday, but the calm is ruined by the presence of dratted wasps.

Beyond the joke, though, the meme raised some more profound queries for me. Vespine malice, indeed, may not be as harmless as we think. It’s a good example of what I call the cultural persuasion of anthropomorphism: the pejorative impact that can come from attributing human qualities to nonhuman creatures. Sometimes, reputations are established for innocent nonhuman parties that can be impossible to reverse; involved in conflicts that are ultimately about human priorities or prejudices, the history of a particular species can be significantly affected and defined by our cultural representations.

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Gary Larson’s well-known Far Side cartoons brilliantly satirise anthropomorphism and other human treatments of the nonhuman.

It can begin harmlessly enough. Animals, of course, are very often employed in metaphors to depict human behaviours: pigs are filthy, foxes are cunning. We understand that we are actually dealing with humans who are squalid or sly, but the process of metaphor is never one way – these enduring comparisons affect the animal itself. Foxes may well show all sorts of sophisticated predator cognition (and remarkable urbane adaptability in the modern world), but we should not equate this with human concepts of deceit, as the familiar metaphor encourages us to do. Pigs suffer an even worse cultural fate, repeatedly invoked as the epitome of uncivilised (that is inhuman) behaviour: we must not eat like a pig, or live in a pigsty, or conduct ourselves with the emotional insensitivity of a pig.

In the case of the wasp, there are cultural implications too, if not quite as familiar. Some are innocuous enough, even positive: it was once fashionable to have a wasp waist; a person who is easily peeved or angered is ‘waspish’. The Greek comic playwright Aristophanes made use of wasp characteristics to depict one of his most famous eponymous choruses – a busybody swarm of geriatric jurors. What we can easily overlook though, is how this generalised portrayal of wasp-ness reduces the diverse complexity of wasps’ astounding being to a singular, misrepresented aspect. The common wasp we love to hate (vespula vulgaris) is only one of hundreds of thousands of species worldwide, all playing important ecological roles (here and here). Good old vulgaris, for instance, is essential to keeping down insects that would otherwise decimate harvests on farms and in gardens, and they rid our towns and cities of organic waste.

People don’t lash out at wasps buzzing round their pint of coke because they are consciously acting in response to these processes, but it is possible that deeply embedded prejudices or persuasions do contribute to these culturally validated reactions: “What the hell do wasps do anyway? They’re just bloody pests!” The mechanisms here are no different to those operating in racism or sexism: the cultural and the biological are confused to the point where moral judgements placed upon a particular person, group or creature lead us to think that they are naturally and inherently depraved or inferior.

A group of creatures that has repeatedly been the victim of misrepresentation throughout the age of Western culture is the owl family. The remnant of this legacy in modern times is largely positive – owls are wise. But they have more often been made symbols, associates and scapegoats for a whole range of ills. The doom and gloom aspect has been around since classical times, but it was the Middle Ages that were particularly responsible for setting these associations in stone. Several owl species were identified in the popular natural history books of the period (the bestiaries), and each had its own negative significance: you will find noctua and nyticorax, night owls who fly by night and cannot see in the day; bubo, the horned owl who befouls its nest; and ulula and strix, screech owls known for their wailing calls. It’s not difficult to imagine how owls’ nocturnal habits made them ideal metaphors for sinners who shun the light of Christ.

A typical bestiary owl with a hook-nose to denote the Jew. Bibliothèque Municipale de Reims, ms. 993, Folio 153r

At best, these cultural distortions of owls were just wrong (owls can certainly see in the daylight); at worst, they could turn nastily on owls themselves, infecting the real bird and dangerously instructing the ways humans act upon nature. Take bubo (the eagle owl). From biblical sources, this species was thought to have an unclean nest – a metaphor for the sinner in the mire of his own filth. The problem is that this characteristic, like others, gets transferred across all owls in the bestiaries, so various species end up getting lumbered with the invented trait of one owl in particular through association (something similar happens in the wasp meme – disparate species are all shoved alike under the term ‘bee’). All owls shun the light, all owls are dirty. As the medieval poem The Owl and the Nightingale reveals, this mishmash of owl representation meant that the birds themselves were defamed as ‘loathsome and foul’: all people, the owl is told by the nightingale, think about how to kill you; they ‘pelt you and stone you, and smash your horrible bones to pieces’.

Medieval representations even managed to make the familiar practice of mobbing owls by small prey birds a justification for the innate sinfulness of owls. Because mobbing became a metaphor for approved attack on human sinners, the birds involved in this activity against owls by default show the same inclination: they attack the owl because it is wicked.

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An owl being mobbed. Bodleian Library, MS. Bodley 764, Folio 73v

The ultimate and most dangerous manifestation of this metaphorical blurring is evident in medieval obsessions with a specific type of sinner – the Jew. In Norwich, where anti-Semitic hostilities and riots were prevalent in the late Middle Ages, the cathedral still bears witness to such hatred – there are no less than six owls included in various wood carvings, some of which explicitly portray the proverbial mobbing scene: the action of mobbing owls in the real world has genuinely become an endorsement for the violence inflicted against a particular social group. Whilst there is no hard evidence to show us how this impacted on real owls, the popularity of this cultural pairing must have, to some extent, increased traditional beliefs in owls’ ‘loathsome and foul’ characters.

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One of the Norwich owl carvings. An owl is clearly being mobbed by smaller birds here.

Anthropomorphism can have its positives: it can establish connections across boundaries of difference; it can elicit empathy. It can even prompt us re-evaluate whether nonhuman creatures do in fact lack those faculties we have always assumed to be exclusively human. Charities use the tactic all the time, and the viewing figures of Springwatch must be due in part to the popularity of Spineless Si the Stickleback or Sophia la Wren. But the technique is always fraught with difficulties. Yes, these names encourage a bond, but they also recommend that we see these creatures in human terms to make them more memorable: as Chris Packham has commented, “People don’t remember the blue tits we didn’t give a name to.”

Overlooking blue tits because they are unnamed is unlikely to have terrible ramifications, but when cultural portraits become so powerful that they distort and turn destructively on the real creature, there is an urgent need to re-think how we perceive and interact with the natural world.

Gary Larson, The Far Side

 

The size of magnificence – blue whales in Sri Lanka

“You are guaranteed to be seeing them, no problem.” Our skipper smiled and nodded vigorously to assure us of his claim. I’d never heard of certainties before when it comes to wildlife, particularly wildlife like this – elusive, once-in-a-lifetime, glimpse-if-you’re-lucky creatures living as far as its possible to be from human company. Ghn beamed with confidence. We were keen to believe him, and the day was as good as we could hope for – bright skies, calm water, and a guide who’s been fishing these waters all his life.

In the harbour there were crested terns. I amused myself in the first half hour heading out and south of Mirissa trying to keep my binoculars steady enough against the swell to identify seabirds – dark shearwaters cresting the waves and some sort of tern plummeting from height. Briefly a flying fish cleared the water, momentarily on the birds’ plane. If you were able to keep going from here in a straight line, the next stop is the Antarctic.

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The first hour was silent. Some were busy being sick as inconspicuously as possible, but most were fixed on the ocean ahead, scanning from near to horizon for any signs. The crew came round, slopping weak, early morning tea into mugs as best they could. “We are looking for the blow,” Ghn said, facing us, with one hand on the wheel and memory steering. “It is 30 foot high or more.” He is full of impressive facts, and it’s easy enough with these leviathans, because they really know how to do big: tongues the weight of elephants, hearts like cars, blood vessels wide enough for a human to swim through, a mouth with the capacity to hold 90 tons of water, and males with the longest penis of any organism (between 2.5 to 3 metres, if you’re asking).

It is only in recent years that we’ve begun to know anything of substance about blue whales at all. Once the target of commercial hunting (like pretty much all whales species), these 130 foot, 173 tonne mammals have become one of the great fascinations of the modern, high-definition documentary age: we adore their cinematic scale, revel in privileged access to a little of that unfathomable oceanic secrecy. As a child this was what I wanted to see first and most when we made yearly trips to the Natural History Museum – the staggering life-size cast of a blue.

Despite its size, though, the vastness of this whale’s deep-sea home makes it extremely difficult to see. Until a decade ago, that is, when marine biologists made the remarkable discovery that one blue whale population (a ‘pygmy’ subspecies, a little shorter than others) makes a yearly migration from the  Bay of Bengal to the Arabian Sea and back, taking them through the deep waters of the continental shelf and unexpectedly close to the southern tip of Sri Lanka. There is nowhere else in the world, in fact, as far as we know, that blue whales come this close to land.

Since 2008, Mirrisa has become a busy tourist spot between December to April, and blue whales are now stars of an ecotourist cetacean phenomenon. It’s blue whales you are most likely to see, but there are also sperm, fin and Bryde’s whales in these krill-rich waters, and several species of dolphin. Ghn’s boat was one of twenty or thirty out that day pursuing blue whales. Even in the excitement of immense expectation, I pondered the impact of all these boats – and more each year – on the whales themselves. What must all this commotion sound like to creatures whose hearing is so acute it is thought they can sense each other up to 1,000 miles away? Wildlife on this island can do so much for a country still recovering from civil war and a tsunami, still suffering poverty, but if there are no regulations put in place, there will certainly be complications in the future.

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(Image: Wikipedia Commons, Peter van der Sluijs)

Shouts from the front of the boat drew my attention and I saw it immediately – a great white spume of surging water-mist. The boat sped up, as did the others around us. The whale was gone, but Ghn cut off the engine and crossed his arms. Nothing for several minutes but gentle plashing against the hull. Another blow broke surface 300 metres or so away, but we did not move. Other boats roared off. This is Ghn’s tactic – others can make the wild whale chase, but he will gamble on the luck of waiting it out.

I saw it as the crew did and shouted, “There! Over there!” A quick acceleration and sharp turn. Stillness again. And then the whole of its lithe, long body rolled out of the water just ahead of us, tipping itself back down towards the deep, first the snorting blow hole, then the great length of its back, the dorsal, the bulk of everything turning without even a splash, right to the very tips of the 25 foot flukes.

We saw five or six blue whales that morning, but none like that. I cannot comprehend how these mammals are so wonderfully at home in this realm, descending to such depths that I shudder at the blackness. But right then I wanted to slip down and take to the vastness, piece together the size of whale magnificence.

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(Image: Whale and Dolphin Conservation, Andrew Sutton)

A little medieval poem on birds’ voices

A quick browse through any field guide to birds reveals that the standard ornithological method for conveying bird vocalisations is still transliteration – a careful substitution of complex avian sound patterns into a phonetic sequence that is broadly understandable in another system – a human language. You’ll come across some striking examples, including some that are just ludicrous, or seemingly untranslatable into human spoken utterances. There are the well-known classics: from the Collins Guide, ‘goo-ko’ (cuckoo), and ‘kewickhoooouh’ (tawny owl; better known, of course, as ‘tu-whit, tu-who’). But then what about a willow warbler: ‘sisisi-vüy-vüy-vüy svi-svi-vi tuuy tuuy si-si-sviiy-sü’? Or maybe a greenfinch: ‘jüpp-jüpp-jüpp jürrrrrrrr tuy-tuy-tuy-tuy-tuy juit chipp-chipp-chipp-chipp-chipp dürdürdürdür jürrrrrrrr …’?

These modern examples of ornithologists’ mimicry, though, are in fact no different to much earlier efforts to translate animal and human sounds – they merely continue a long and rich legacy (see here for a fuller discussion of this topic in an earlier post). I have been prompted to think again about the lines of transmission between medieval and modern approaches birds because I am currently working with three manuscripts from important monastic centres of the late Anglo-Saxon age containing a copy each of a little birdsong poem titled ‘De cantibus avium (On the songs of birds), which is, largely, a catalogue of phonetically-rendered, onomatopoeic bird calls. The three versions are all the same, and suggest a lost, earlier source. What seems pretty clear is that this poem, wherever or whenever the original was composed, was designed to teach the typical Latin translations of particular animal and bird sounds. The poem appears in manuscripts that all deal with grammar subjects, and in two cases, it actually appears directly after a standard prose list of nonhuman sounds – what is known as the voces animantium ‘voices of animals’ genre (see here for one of the manuscript examples). The formula, developed from classical models, goes a little like this:

apes ambizant vel bombizant, aquilae clangunt, anseres crinciunt vel trinsiunt,
aves minuriunt vel vernant vel vernicant, accipitres pipant vel plipiant,
anates teritisant …

[bees buzz or buzz, eagles sound, geese hiss or honk, birds chirp or make noise
or twitter, hawks screech or cry, ducks quack …]

Much of the ‘De cantibus’ poem reads almost word for word like these lists, but it also draws attention to the great and enduring fascination of birdsong – its supreme variety and diversity. However hard we might try, it is beyond our capabilities to record, catalogue and know all bird songs:

Quis volucrum species numeret, quis nomina discat?
Mille avium cantus, vocum discrimina mille.
Nec nostrum (fateor) tantas discernere voces.

[Whoever counts the types of birds, who learns their names? A thousand are sung of birds, a thousand differences of voice. Nor do I myself claim to discern such voices.]

Many of these medieval examples might sound ridiculous to us. But they probably did to medieval writers as well: many of the invented onomatopoeic verbs in the sound lists are such nonsense that they basically mean nothing more than ‘cranes make a crane noise’, or ‘blackbirds make a blackbird noise’, as though the writer draws attention to his own complete inadequacy in trying to replicate birdsong. Perhaps this translation tradition highlights a serious point about all translation though: even though these efforts aim to bring us closer to another being or mode of communication, they ultimately reminds us of essential difference – when you try to turn birdsong, or any nonhuman utterance, into human language, the result doesn’t quite manage to do the job. Crucially, though, this difference does not make birdsong irrational goobledygook (a word, in fact, that was coined to mean nonsense precisely because it sounds like turkey gibberish). It is simply that their voices are not our voices.

Writing on Nepal wins competition

If readers will forgive a brief moment of self-admiration, I wanted to post my entries for a travel/nature writing competition that recently won me first prize. ‘Tiger Trace’ was the judges’ favourite, but they’re apparently going to include all three in a forthcoming publication. These pieces began life as posts on this site, so it seemed fitting to share the news here. So, courtesy of Naturetrek, my wife and I will be off for an all-expenses-paid 10 days in Romania this August. Hoping for my first brown bear!

Tiger Trace
We have spent the last two days driving and walking tiger territory here in Chitwan National Park. This morning, whilst others sleep on and before the sun is fully up, I join our guiding ornithologist through misty savanna on the banks of the Narayani. A nine foot marsh muggar crocodile is half submerged with a fleshy limb clamped in its jaws. We push slowly through tall grasses (the tallest in the world are here in the Terai-Duar lowlands) quietly searching for rare cisticolas and grassbirds. A little ahead of us is a local guide and his protective bamboo rod.

In the sand, he kneels to examine. Pug marks. Tiger. He lays a pen beside the indentations to indicate the size of the creature’s print. “Last night,” he says, pointing back along the path. “It came through.” Two evenings before, riding out high and safe on elephants’ backs, we’d come across a crisp and mealy carcass, almost a week old beneath a putrid haze of flies and nearly black from sun. Another lay half covered in high grass nearby, fresher, the stench carrying to some way off.

It’s not difficult to see why predators fascinate us: a creature that can be part-tamed, or captured at least, but which remains well on the distant side of loveable or predictable, of that we think we can come to know. Minacious and fierce, striped and barred, fire in the eye. The largest Royal Bengal Tiger population anywhere in Nepal – 125 of just 2,500 or so in the subcontinent – lives here in Chitwan, an internationally important park in the Inner Terai. But they are no easier to see for that. The most elusive of creatures, fiendishly difficult to locate, they can be right there, camouflaged perfectly in dense undergrowth or the slightest stand of grass, and you’ll never see them. They will see you.

Yesterday we took a day-long, dusty journey through the reserve, driving narrow tracks through subtropical, riverine forests. The leaf litter is ankle-deep here, dry and tiger-orange, beneath big-leaved sal and rhino trees, saj, rosewood, the sailing buttress roots of kopak. Thick strangler vines coil like pythons round trunks, slowly suffocating their hosts. Way up, langurs, old man-grey and quizzical, swing easily from branch to branch. We spot a predator’s prey well enough, deer herds keeping mostly to the shadowy spaces among and between the understory. There are four species here: the small and numerous hog deer; muntjacs; the elegant spotted deer (or chital), akin to the European fallow; and the biggest, a tiger’s favourite, the dusky, skittish sambars.

In late afternoon, the cicadas are lulled, light shifts and the air is pungent with jasmine. We happened upon a small flock of great hornbills – 10 perhaps – planing one after the other through the canopy into the tree tops. They picked and fed delicately on finicky fruit with their preposterous turmeric bills, which look double the size for those huge casques (the bizarre appendage on the upper mandible used for aerial jousting) so that the whole thing looks like some ludicrous high-society hat.

We never expected to see tigers. And we did not. Why should we? To see the tiger would be exhilaration, a marvel, but to not see it somehow seemed as it should be too. It is never our right. This beast deserves our committed protection – we are, after all, largely responsible for its grievous demise – but also deserves its isolation, its right to be and to be unseen. I will make do with enigmatic traces that signal its absent presence; sandy depressions of movement just last night, the remains of attack and kill, uneasy yelps and alarms from deeper into the forest. It is here.

Heights and Kites in Kathmandu
At the hotel I head up for the highest point. Even on the rooftop there is more – it spirals up three levels, each appearing just as you make the last, well beyond most buildings’ top floors. The air is spice and warmth. Up here I am with the kites who turn on the city’s rising heat, and monsoon-washed house crows who fuss raucously from roof to roof. The birds are lodestars to new places; I begin with them.

It’s a habit I’ve adopted in many cities, but here seeking height feels doubly instinctive, mimicking the birds’ advantage. Nepal is the land of heights – from sea level to the highest point on earth in under 200 km, the world’s rooftop; a country with the highest elevation in the world reaching up to Tibet, the globe’s highest region. It’s a yearning for height that brings thousands here in the peak season to attempt ascents, or trek along the great Himalayan wall – Annapurna, Machhapuchhare, Langtang. Nepal has eight of the world’s tallest mountains and over 250 peaks over 20,000 feet. Everest (or Chomolungma as the sherpas call it – Goddess Mother) is the highest and most famous of them all, of course. It reaches beyond the clouds five miles into the sky – near aircraft cruising level at 8,848 metres, 29,029 feet – where there is so little oxygen and the air so cold humans cannot ordinarily survive, though many take on the dangers to reach its summit. And it’s still rising: colossal tectonic movements drive the subcontinent further under Eurasia and the snowy mountains upwards, upwards.

This time, our travels in Nepal will take us no further north than the foothills of the Kathmandu valley, but my preparations have still been fervid viewing and reading on Himalayan adventures, of sherpas, of Hilary and Norgay, Mallory and Irvine, of the disastrous 1996 Everest expedition, and high-flying bar-headed geese whose lungs can cope with rarefied air at Everest height – twice that – on their annual migration to the lowlands of India and the Nepal terai, to where we will travel in a few days. I’ve brought mountain literature, too, on snow leopards, on Tibetan monasteries and wilderness.

From this rooftop in a city 4,600 feet above sea level, I watch for birds – bulbuls and magpie robins, swifts and sparrows. Their bother and busyness make me think of the bustle down there, all that dense, high-rise living; mucky children, cadaverous dogs; of grand civic monuments tumbled in earthquake or unrest; chickens scratching at earth in between cars, and their dead kin garroted and gutted to bleed in the street. A flock of white egrets flaps past. Below our bedroom window, a man cooks in a battered pot on a wood fire at the doorway to a corrugated shed.

Kathmandu, formed at the confluence of two rivers where an ancient lake once existed, is the heart of a country of commingled and harmonious differences. Here are Buddhism and Hinduism, Christianity and Islam; Tibetan peoples from the north and Aryan tribes from the great plains of the Ganges that meld like all elements in nirvana; the many into one, single minds into universal mind, as ‘waves do not derive from water … [but] are water, in fleeting forms that are not the same and yet not different’ (Peter Matthiessen, The Snow Leopard). Here we will seek all that difference and beauty, of people, foods and lands, of birds.

Phulchowki Mountain – a Twitching of Warblers
The air is tight, desperate for rain; it was forecast last night but did not come. This morning we head out of the city, beyond the brown heat of Kathmandu – the colour of dust and fumes and sultry air – south to the green valley foothills. Behind the oily smog, the sun is copper, rhododendron-pink. We are headed right to the peak of Phulchowki mountain, the highest in the region at 2760 metres. On a good day you can see the Himalayan range from here, but mists are low, and they linger all day.

Birdwatching these temperate forest slopes can be hard work – so much song and exotic frenzy, but high up, or flitting fast between dense tree lines. But stand still for long enough, and let all that thronging abundance come to you, and you understand Phulchowki’s reputation for sheer range of birds; one third of Nepal’s species can be seen here, one third of the one tenth of all the world’s species that can be found in this small country.

Barbets and cuckoos echo across the valley all day, but it is the birds right here, in front of us now, that I have come for. Minute by minute the trees and shrubs just feet away fill and fill with twitching passerines – some here to breed; others feeding up before flying north to the high Himalayas, or on to Siberia; some that winter lower down the slopes and now ascend to precise heights in spring – so active and so many it is difficult to make a start and the trees and rhododendron shrubs quiver and mutate. Our guide, Hathan, has expert ears and lists them all on song, the briefest snatches – ashy-headed warbler, chestnut-crowned – here a black-throated tit – Blyth’s leaf warbler here – buff-barred warbler – black-faced over here – here, here, green-backed tit, next to the grey-hooded warbler, just right of the fire-breasted flowerpecker. I am unused to abundance and vibrancy on such scale.

The famous French philosopher Jacques Derrida’s last work engaged with the overwhelming variousness of species, what he called the ‘multiplicity of the living’, all categorised into that most limiting, singular, and superficial of terms – animal. I think I am seeing something of what he implores us to recognise in all this shifting brilliance – not simply bird, not simply warbler, but individual; this being and that being; here curious, elusive, aggressive, now loud and fleeting, flicker, momentary stillness; creature and creature, bird colour and song, alert and quick to living on these leaves the same greens and yellows in one great, assembled movement.

All these birds, the coming and going up and down this mountain and valley, across the country, across continents. The privilege of moments like this I see now can and should inspire wonder at the natural world, re-engage our sense of the everyday, which is suddenly and marvellously ignited when the new and mysterious come upon us. Degrees of familiar and unfamiliar shift, for a time, though novelties – however strange or fine – so easily become ignored ordinaries. This twitching of warblers brings to me an elsewhere, carries a farness to this here, now and near. It speaks of the world’s vastness, but collapses it, too, by connecting me briefly to long-travelled distances and encounters, shared lines of occurrence and being.