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Books for Sale!

Posted in Birding, Birds, Conservation, Natural History, Reading Suggestions, Science, Southeast Asia with tags , , , , , , , , , , on January 31, 2012 by Brendan McGarry

I suppose writing, taking photographs, designing, and getting everything just right, even with a small book, is a decent endeavor. Truth be told, I had no idea what I was getting myself into when I set out to create a small book. This was a trial and error experiment and an offer to people who backed my Kickstarter campaign last winter. I’ve never been efficient at getting entries on Wingtrip without making sure they’re relatively perfect (yes, errors still happen), despite knowing that blogging is more about posting and fixing later. Perfection seemed necessary for this book and now it’s finally done.

The books I owe people have “gone to press.” But I discovered that I have an opportunity to sell what I created in an ePub format. To be fair to patrons who helped support me at the level that received this book, I will not be offering a print copy (EDIT – I cannot for the life of me figure out how to get rid of the physical copy as an option, so it’s still on there, slightly marked up.  My patience and computer time is full tapped for the day). Equally so, small run, self published books are expensive and I think it’s almost outrageous that a copy is almost $40 for a paperback version. I’m not discrediting the work or the content, just saying I wouldn’t expect anyone to buy an 80 page book for that much. If someone feels very strongly about having a physical copy, we can talk about it elsewhere.

All in all I’m very pleased with this rendition of my travels in Southeast Asia. I’m excited that I have an opportunity to share something that I worked very hard on. Tempted by Ecology: A Naturalist’s Travels Through Southeast Asia is full of what I think is good travel and nature writing. The photos aren’t too bad either!

There are a couple ways to read/download this. I do not personally own an eReader or tablet but the format downloaded is a very universal ePub file. I’ve had luck reading it with photos visible with the Firefox add-on for reading ePublications. Adobe Digital Editions didn’t like my book however and MobiPocket Reader didn’t seem to want to display my images aside from the cover photos. My suspicion is that an iPad or iPod touch will work the best, but I have no way to test that at the moment.

Here is a link to buy a copy for yourself. At $4.99 plus tax this is not a bad deal if you ask me. (In the near future I might have a friend work with me to get this published in another venue, stay tuned).

Thanks for all your support and your readership. A big goal for the coming year is to have more on Wingtrip. I hope you all continue to coming back with a thirst to learn about and enjoy nature, birds, and nerdy hijinks.

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A (Photographic) Year in Review

Posted in Bird Banding, Birding, Birds, Borneo, California, Chiang Mai, Doi Inthanon, Eastern Washington, Field Work, Fire Ecology, Indonesia, Kao Yai National Park, Malaysia, Natural History, Orangutan, Oregon, Pak Thale, Plants, Road Tripping, Science, Seattle, Southeast Asia, Spoon-billed Sandpiper, Sumatra, Thailand, United States, Washington, Western Forests with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on January 20, 2012 by Brendan McGarry

It’s been a year since I left for an adventure in Southeast Asia. With the extremely tardy completion of a small book I made for those who supported my Kickstarter campaign for the trip, I started feeling like I’d never be on the road again. Modern expectations, the realities of money, and my desire to be a part of a stable community all seemed to be working against me, pulling me down. Yet, instead of dragging myself down the anguished path of the grounded traveler, I decided that some careful reflection was in order.

This year I’ve been a lot of places, there’s no doubt. From the temperate land I call home to the Asian tropics. To the crest of the Sierras and down to the Great Basin. Consciously or subconsciously, mountains played an undeniable role in my explorations. I was in the the shrub steppe of Steens Mountain in Oregon, the forests and alpine of Mt. Lassen in California and Mt. Rainier in Washington, the elfin evergreens of Doi Inthanon in Thailand, eruption scarred Gunung Sibayak in Sumatra, and the ancient oaks and tree ferns of Gunung Kinabalu in Borneo. In my home I wound through the high desert of interior western North America, the temperate rainforest of the Pacific Northwest coast, the snow of the Cascade range, and the mosaic of forests in the Sierra Nevada. Abroad I traipsed the lowland rainforests of Borneo and clambered about the monsoonal forests of Thailand. I drove to the summit of Doi Inthanon, the tallest mountain in Thailand, and hiked halfway up to the tallest mountain in Southeast Asia, Gunung Kinabalu.

I was captivated by small natural wonders in my own backyard (literally) and stood in awe of a bull elephant thousands of miles away. Birds were held, eyes were met with Orangutans. Animal and plant life always figure highly in my explorations, communities shaped by the landscapes I learned in my wend.

That’s the key. My excitement and passion for this world result from a desire to learn. Curiosity rules my spirit, anyone reading Wingtrip will know that.

Below I’ve compiled a long (yet also very punctuated) series of images from my year in the natural world. If you are curious about the stories behind them please ask or follow a few of the links I’ve provided above (unfortunately, through a flaw in the program I upload photos to Flickr with, literally hundreds of the photos in other entries linked to above are not visible right on wingtrip though still on Flickr – when I have time to sit down to this arduous task, it’ll be fixed). There’s so much worth working to save, these images should remind us all of that.

In short, I’ve got nothing to complain about. I hope you enjoy these shots. May you all have a fruitful year of discovery.

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Fallout from the Wend

Posted in Birding, Birds, Natural History, Southeast Asia on May 16, 2011 by Brendan McGarry

Somehow it’s like I was never in Thailand or Malaysia or Indonesia. There’s all these photos, much more writing to do. But settling back into your typical existence, of not simply learning for yourself, is a strange fallout. Really it’s a mild personal melodrama, but I have a strong suspicion others can relate.

Today I stood on an overgrown road through a high severity burned forest in the Northern Sierras. My index finger displayed a dainty dollop of tepid, chartreuse bear dung. Across a noisy, snow melt gorged creek, a cinnamon phased Black Bear browsed on new growth, while I greedily enjoyed its presence. This was my moment with the bear. No one else knew about it, not even the bear. I felt like I was discretely, selfishly picking around the raisins in the trail mix, taking only chocolate. When I got back, I related the encounter to my co-workers.

“Would you like some raisins?”

Giving up the stories of your trip isn’t as easy as it sounds. Finding ways to make them interesting, easy to relate to, especially if you haven’t been to Borneo or Northern Thailand, is a challenge that sometimes one can get selfish about. I’m not sure if sharing all your stories means you are a good story teller or if you are simply handing out the recorded notes from a meeting.

In simple, bird nerd terms, I saw plenty. 438 species of birds I’d never seen before. I never hired an official bird guide, I learned what I could on my own, and did reasonably well (although there are several thousand species in the region). Though I’m loath to bean counting, dropping my observations into the bucket of life listing, when I get around to counting up I’ll probably have surpassed seeing 2000 species of birds in the world. Let’s see – 584 birds in the US, 498 species in South America, some 400 in Australia, 438 in Southeast Asia, an additional 60 odd in England and Ireland, and 24 in Northern Mexico – adds up to 2004.

“Hi, my name’s Brendan, I’m 25, and I’ve seen 2004 of around 10,000 species of birds in the world.”


Not exactly a line from speed dating, but I’m pretty satisfied with those stats. I’ll never see all the birds but if I keep it up, I bet I could get to 5000 by middle age.

But who cares about that stuff? I’m way more excited about the Black and Yellow Broadbill (Eurylaimus ochromalus) I spent thirty minutes taking photos of in Borneo. The bird sat two arm lengths away, engaging in eeriely slow movements while searching for phantom insects. It reminded me of an animatronic creature from an antiquated theme park. Suddenly it would burst off to catch an insect I couldn’t see. My heart would quicken pace momentarily thinking the bird had flown for good. But, I’d continue to relocate the grumpy looking character (their plumage is quite comical), on the same branch, face level in the canopy.

There’s always regrets from any trip and I wouldn’t say mine are major. Possibly it isn’t necessary to admit shortcomings but I wanted to say a few things about best and the worst. The most disappointing thing from my trip was that I failed to connect with any scientists. Attempts were made but they never got all the way. Honestly, that was just a part of the learning experience. Next adventure I’ll be ready and I’m sure it’s not that far around the corner.

An excellent experience was on Samosir Island in Lake Toba, Sumatra. I just stayed put. I didn’t make huge intellectual leaps in my understanding of Sumatran ecosystems or conservation biology, I just watched common birds. I don’t think you can beat that. Nothing is more valuable to a naturalist than familiarity. Yellow-vented Bulbuls (Pycnonotus goiavier) chortled in alarm at a passing Besra (an accipiter species), the Asian Palm Swifts (Cypsiurus balasiensis) turning from their aimless circling, building to a dark cloud of fury around the fleeing hawk. A Scaly-breasted Munia (Lonchura punctulata) attempted to secret away fresh green grass fronds twice her size, looking like a mini airplane flying a banner interminably between the marshy shore and the palm tree near my room. Two Black Eagles (Ictinaetus malayensis), yellow talons beaming, would circle over the town of Tuk-tuk, likely looking for cats, small dogs, or chickens of which all were plentiful. Sharing these and tantamount other simple observations with friends that weren’t necessarily there for birds, made it all the more valuable.

There were so many insects, reptiles, and mammals I’ll never forget too.

Speaking of mammals, I can’t ignore the people, friendly and frustrating. Douglas Adams said it best about Earth: “Mostly Harmless.” Yet there’s a few human lessons I gleaned that will help me navigate in the future. I’ll never underestimate the value of learning about the culture of the place I’m visiting, even if I’m there for nature. I’ll never take the cheapest bus anywhere again. I’ll always be sure to chat up the locals as much as possible, even if they do try to sell me Meth, I’ll always find out something interesting and make friends. I’ll never take the first price I’m told. I’ll never again be alarmed, offended, or startled by strange things people ask me, like:

“Are you a rapper?”

or

“Hey are you guys going to go relax and eat bananas? Do you like bananas?! I like bananas! Bananas!”

I learned a lot and I want to thank a few people before I finish this up: First and foremost, my parents, who put up with my humming and hawing, crashing on their couch pre and post trip, made many indirect financial investments, and always support my interests and idiosyncrasies. My friends, young and old, for their emotional and intellectual support. My primary travel companions, Nick, Ellen, Scott, and Sam for being great friends and even better company. And most of all, the folks who supported me in my fund-raising campaign on Kickstarter – you made the larger extent of the trip possible and have given me validation in my professional interests, (you’ll get your photos and writings soon!). I hope you all keep visiting Wingtrip and will look for my work elsewhere in the near future.

And though it may sound disingenuous, I’ll also never stop smiling.

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Kao Yai, Final Days

Posted in Birding, Birds, Conservation, Environmentalism, Kao Yai National Park, Natural History, Southeast Asia, Thailand on May 13, 2011 by Brendan McGarry

When the worst of your mishaps in Southeast Asia include unplanned soakings, issues with gravity, or a mild swindling, you’re probably doing pretty well. Unfortunately, my luck was running out. By the time I’d left Malaysia and made the slog to Kao Yai National Park in Thailand, I’d caught a cold and missed two flights. With only a week left on my trip, I can’t say I was too enthusiastic about anything beyond a comfortable bed and a non-squat toilet.

Kao Yai turned me around. Having a few days left simply meant I had some creature comforts on my mind and they temporarily clouded my thoughts. Several good mornings in Kao Yai and I was convinced I could have tacked on an extra month.

As the second largest and oldest park in Thailand this is not a spread to miss. At the southern end of a chain of mountains that extend into the Isaan Region of Northeastern Thailand, the park holds a variety of habitats ranging in elevation from 400 to 1200 meters. Simply put, it has immaculate variety.

A striking aspect in visiting is that the park is only three hours from Bangkok. Glance through agriculture and industry on the outskirts of the city, giggle through a Thai dubbed American film on a government bus, and arrive in Pak Chong, gateway town to the park. You’ll bumble around, looking the part of a slack jawed Farang backpacker for 10 minutes, until you manage to rent a moto. In another 30 minutes you are at the gate to the park, having accidentally passed the guest house where you wanted to stay.

Unlike the vast majority of Thailand, finding a reasonable place to stay was quite the struggle. Kao Yai is a major tourist destination for Thai people and they apparently like luxory. Beyond the gate, it appears they walk around in parking lots perplexed, take some photos of tame Sambar Deer, and drive at hair raising speeds around blind corners where you’ve stopped to watch Ashy Minivets (Pericrocotus divaricatus). I only met one family on any of the many trails and despite being excessively loud (Rhiana Cell Phone ring tones and all), were very friendly. Don’t take that last comment as evidence that I think Americans behave better in our national parks.

On my first morning, after seeing two birds I’d lusted after, the goliath Great Hornbill (Buceros bicornis) and surprisingly quaint Long-tailed Broadbill (Psarisomus dalhousiae), I found myself zooming up a mountainside. White-handed Gibbons (Hylobates lar) were hooting away in the tropical evergreen forest on all sides when, to my surprise, the forest evaporated into hills of burnt umber blanketed in sandy grasslands, glistening with morning dew. I knew there were grasslands, but not like this.

Similarly to North America, native grasslands (or techinically savannah) have been devoured by agriculture and poor fire regimen. Thailand had much less to start with too. Savannah forest like that in the plateau of Kao Yai are likely the worst hit habitat in all of Thailand. This isn’t abundantly clear in the park, as it appears to make up the majority being adjacent to the major roads. Regardless, I felt like I was in Africa.

I knew where the best birding spots were, but I was anxious to get a lay of the land. The highest road, up to a radar station for the Thai military, beckoned. Apparently this switchback road, while largely potholled and washed out, seemingly the perfect birding road, also happened to be a track for sports car enthusiasts. I saw few new birds but I realized too late I’d wasted my time. I also nearly got myself creamed while trying to watch a Moustached Barbet (Megalaima incognita) gobble figs on the slim shoulder.

The lower areas of the park were much better suited to my kind of roaming. The fields themselves, harbored both Indian Muntjac (Muntiacus muntjak) and Sambar, rumored Dhole and Tiger, which I guessed would be largely impossible to spy. Bright-headed Cisticolas (Cisticola exilis), a bird I’d been promised I’d never actually see because they so love to skulk in grass, were emboldened, swollen with testoterone, and readily visible. One even decided to spout its love drunk gurgle from an electrical line above my head. A pair of Wreathed Hornbills (Rhyticeros undulatus) whooshed overhead as I watched the tawny soloist. Thrilled, I sat astride my moto, marking my 8th hornbill species on the trip and the 5th in Thailand.

The best birds however, were deep in the forest and took a painful amount of patience. I took an exploratory hike down one trail, but quickly psyched myself out. In reminiscing on how a habitat goes quiet in the presence of a large predator, I found the forest around me still. While I was likely the culprit, I decided I’d rather not have my parents receive the shredded remains of my tiger mauled body in the mail. Death seemed to be on my mind a lot lately. Possibly because I felt like I’d done well keeping out of bodily harm in places so relaxed on safety.

I relish my solitude in wild places. Yet sometimes a good companion is a godsend. What’s more, I couldn’t think of anyone better than another birder, roughing it on his second visit to Thailand. I made a new friend in a Brit named Graham, who was on a similar path of birding, taking time to enjoy some of the other wild features of the park. The rest of the afternoon was spent solitarily adrift, but we’d spend most of the following day birding. My goal was to wait for evening wildlife at the major salt lick in a observation tower.

Hiking to the tower tracked through breezy, fire managed grasslands bordered with patchy stands of dense dry forest. Barn Swallows and Dusky Woodswallows (Artamus cyanopterus) plied the air, buzzing Plain Prinia (Prinia inornata) and more Cisticolas perched in prominent shrubs. My grand illusions of a bevy of crepuscular megafauna coming out of the woodwork never quite panned out at the observation tower, but I enjoyed the warm evening glow over the savannah.

I’d signed up for a night safari at 7pm, but I didn’t have high expectations as it cost less than $2 US. Heading back in time for a quick bite before the tour, I noticed a number of cars stopping just above a prominent salt lick. Motoring over, a Thai woman in an imposing truck said “Elephant.” and pointed in the direction of a shadowy group of trees. I raised my binoculars in just enough time to see two Asian Elephants slip into the stand, trumpeting in the steely twilight. Although I stood on a paved road, with all my dangling modern accoutrements, I could have been a thousand miles away form the nearest human and alone with the titans.

Thinking myself quite lucky, I motored back in the direction of the food court. As I rounded a corner, I was face to face with a bull elephant.

His bulk backed into an opening in forest, he stood there, nonchalantly stuffing salt into his wrinkly maw. Only 40 meters from him, I was anxious to attend to his mood but he seemed perfectly calm, likely used to the attention next to the road. Two Elephant encounters in one day, this was getting to be unreal. What’s more, I saw him two more times in the next day.

Graham was eating dinner at the same time and I offhandedly relayed my sighting, thinking that he’d likely seen Elephants before. He was astonished and almost immediately took off on foot to try to see the beast himself. Just before rushing off, he mentioned he’d seen Malayan Porcupine (Hystrix brachyura) the night before nearby. Instantaneously, three gigantically quilled rodents lumbered down the isle of tables, only to be chased out by a man on a scooter. What in the world was going on in this place?

The night safari was a simple affair, involving too many blank stares from Sambar, but was worth the money because I did see a few civets. I rushed back to my bed, head swirling with the days adventures and concocting imaginary encounters for the next day. Two near collisions with porcupines thrust me back into the realities of driving at night in the wilderness.

I wanted to get into the park before dawn the next morning. However, the guards were already up at 5 AM and wouldn’t open the gate till 6. I still managed to make it into the park in time to meet Graham on the path to the observation tower. Hornbills were on the move in all directions and we both couldn’t quite believe these birds were aloft over our heads. Great Hornbills are the avian equivalent of noisy diesel engines. Drongos of all sizes behaved uncommonly gregariously, sharing bare perches en mass and looping into the crisp air, sharing it with high flying Dollarbirds. The gibbons should have been out of breath.

This was my last full day in Thailand, my last in fact in Southeast Asia. I didn’t push myself in birding, I simply sat back and enjoyed being there. A few more encounters with the salt loving bull Elephant, a skulk through deeper forest for a Orange-headed Thrush (Zoothera citrina), and a scouring for an absent Coral-billed Ground Cuckoo (Carpococcyx renauldi) filled the day. Graham and I spent the afternoon and evening talking about the politics of birding, the current state of humans and nature, and the subjectivity of experiencing the natural world, all the while watching birds. The day closed with a final bird, a lifer, the harrier-sized Great Eared-nightjar(Eurostopodus macrotis) issuing unavian spurts and planking through the final light.

Even a month later, it’s difficult to fully synthesize what my experiences really meant. To say the least I learned much, have become all the wiser as a result. Having to jet off to Bangkok after two wonderful days out in the wild was jarring. Indian Cuckoos calling sullenly from trees in urban temples seemed impoverished characters, shadows of their country cousins.

I still haven’t stopped talking about it. Thanks.

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Kinabalu; One Tall Mountain

Posted in Birding, Birds, Borneo, Conservation, Malaysia, Southeast Asia on May 3, 2011 by Brendan McGarry

(I got back exactly one month ago and I’m not done blogging.  So, the post is long and tardy because I arrived home with only two weeks to recoup AND get myself to California for work. Enjoy!)

After several forays, I still couldn’t fathom the Englishmen ascending as they did. In my mind native Borneans scaling the slopes unaided seems more likely, but soft-soled limeys, no matter how driven by natural history, was something else. Spenser St. John, an adventurous British dignitary, wouldn’t really have much reason to spin a yarn and if he did, this would have been a poor use of embellishment: “we waited till the 15th for a vessel, which we expected would bring us a supply of shoes, but as it did not arrive we started.” The first Europeans to summit the tallest mountain in Southeast Asia, were barefoot.

Roaming the lower reaches of Mt. Kinabalu National Park, I couldn’t help but dwell on the first successful ascent in 1858. I also couldn’t forget how sore I was from a 16km day on already laid trails. And I hadn’t reached the summit. Hugh Low, the other explorer, then colonial treasurer to the British Colony of Labuan, was so worn by the terrain that his descent was in a makeshift stretcher. On that climb, he didn’t make the final ascent. Two months later however, he and St. John make a second successful attempt.

Gunung (Bahasa for Mountain) Kinabalu, is the sort of place that exhales stories. From legends of the widow of a Chinese Prince to natural history misnomers like reporting mice decomposing inside pitcher plants, there is plenty to dwell on. Aside from status as the 20th tallest topographic mountain in the world, bald pate of granite batholith frequently peeking above the clouds, Kinabalu holds highly unique ecosystems. While there are a few other mountains in Borneo that hold similar habitats, none are as extensive, hold such exquisite endemism, or to my benefit, are as accessible. You’ll recall me waxing poet about tropical mountains in my post several months ago when I visited Doi Inthanon National Park in Thailand. Kinabalu is a UNESCO World Heritage Site, (something Malayans can’t help but flaunt), holds nearly 5,000 species of plants, over three hundred birds, and a fair share of mammals.

Sam, my companion for several weeks, and I had explored for a couple days at the beginning of his time in Borneo and I had sagely not worried myself with seeing every possible endemic bird. I just came back later (and still missed many). At the beginning of a three day period, I was entirely optimistic that I’d be able to scoop up at least 8 new species of birds. I also wanted to see more Nepenthes, a tropical genus of pitcher plant, of which 16 species grow on the mountain. Sam and I saw the widespread Nepenthes tentaculata and endemic to the mountain, burbidgeae. Hesitantly, I meditated on the unlikely event of partial desiccation of my person and belongings. I was mostly successful with my list of wants.

I’d initially felt like people exaggerate Kinabalu until I’d read up on the ecology, exploring a slice for myself. Fine, it does top out at an impressive 13,435 feet (4,095 meters), but I’m from the Pacific Northwest, we’ve got similarly elevated Mt. Rainier on our back 40. It has snow and it’s a volcano (don’t miss my unabashed tone of pride). Several other mountains of good height exist in Borneo, but I suppose none with quite the countenance of a tabletop peak of granite. Yet, I suspect that many people don’t get to see the peak because by eight or nine in the morning it’s socked in with clouds. Only my first morning out of five provided a full view of the peak.

My guesthouse had many of the more common birds you find on the mountain from the garrulous Chestnut-capped Laughingthrush (Garrulax mitratus), gregarious Chestnut-crested Yuhina (Staphida everetti), Bornean Leafbird (Chloropsis kinabaluensis), and the suitably corvid Bornean Treepie (Dendrocitta cinerascens). I also found a group of the bald fronted, Bare-headed Laughingthrush (Garrulax calvus) and a lone Sunda Laughingthrush (Garrulax palliatus). Walking out to the main road to the mountain entrance I stumbled upon the endemic Sunda Cuckooshrike (Coracina larvata), nearly eating it on slick concrete in my enthusiasm.

For the non-birders I know this listing doesn’t really mean much. A poor comparison: trying to find ingredients to something you are baking at a small grocery store. You know you may not find every ingredient and not all are necessary, some merely nice accoutrements. Finding major ingredients is of the utmost with a few of the more ephemeral additives bonuses. I’d already gotten some of the exotic ingredients previously, including endemic Whitehead’s Trogon (Harpactes whiteheadi).

A fun pair of women from my guesthouse who were also there to explore the mountain, similarly couldn’t stomach the extraordinarily exorbitant cost of actually reaching the summit. For a while we walked together, but to get the photos I wanted and to see the more scarce birds, I need solitude. Almost as soon as I left them I encountered a flock with a few of the common but endemic Bornean Whistler (Pachycephala hypoxantha).

And then I didn’t see anything for an hour. Then I glimpsed a White-crowned Forktail (Enicurus leschenaulti). And then I didn’t see any birds for another hour. Then it started to rain.

I’m not exaggerating.

Stubbornly I endured and as I was squelching down a trail, something near my foot moved. The misty mountain, of damp path and chilly precipitation, didn’t wreak havok on my nerves like walking in the serpentine lowlands, but I still started. As it turns out, for once, there was actually something to jump from (usually it’s just a leaf I kicked or a branch attached to me that I ineffectually flail at). People who spend time in the rainforest, those who haven’t grown up there, most certainly feign machismo if they move unconcernedly. My curiosity typically stays flight, there is some freaky shit out there. Flight still takes precedence over fight.

Thankfully and immensely preferable to not seeing birds, I’d stumbled upon a snake doing its best to swallow a bulky frog that looked much too large. There was little doubt it would succeed. This tiny snake, a dappled brown streak of a thing, looked as if it had gotten a little carried away in interspecific necking. The fat, helpless frog’s eyes bulged out of the corners of the snake’s mouth. I still haven’t identified either species, yet as silly as it may sound, seeing something like this stands out more than seeing Proboscis Monkeys. It was awesome. Unfortunately I ruined the moment. I stumbled, the snake leg go, retreated, and the frog sat there stupidly and bloodied. I’m not sure if it was just stunned or the serpent had been venomous, but it still had enough umph to stand tall and attempt to warn me off with feigned bulk.

I suspect my reaction to this small, naturally commonplace encounter firmly labels me a naturalist more than a birder. Sure, I was willing to tromp countless hours, wet and cold in search of a bird like the Bornean Stubtail (Urosphena whiteheadi); a diminutive, dull bird, I saw and is a sought-after endemic. Yet the strongest impression from that afternoon was from a snake eating a frog. Who needs labels? I still get frantically overenthusiastic over birds.

Furthering this absurdist’s identity crisis, was the excessive diversity of insects at my guest house. I’d been reading excerpts from the journals of various European explorers in Borneo and an idol, Alfred Russel Wallace, had expressed similar thoughts. On dark, wet nights he collected extreme amounts of moths attracted by a light.

“On good nights I was able to capture from a hundred to two hundred and fifty moths, and these comprised on each occasion from half to two-thirds that number of distinct species.” He continues that, “it thus appears that on twenty-six nights I collected 1,386 moths but that more than 800 of them were collected on four very wet and dark nights.”

Any outside surface adjacent to light was swarmed with countless moths, flys, beetles, etc. For fun I counted at least 78, to the undiscerning eye, different species of moth. Not to mention gigantic long-horn beetles, a leaf insect that flew into my face, and katydids en mass. I stayed up two hours later than planned taking photos of the variety of colors, shapes, and sizes. I’d never been quite this blown away by insects but the more I pay attention, the more I realize they are as worthy of crazed devotion as any vertebrate.

As I mentioned before, rain was putting a damper on my explorations. Normally I have little issue with getting wet, but again from following various explorers, I learned something. Unless you have to, don’t go out in the rain. You won’t really dry off.

That said, I couldn’t let low lying clouds scare me off the chase. A solid slip on slick cement, camera first, gave me heart tremors and seemed an ill omen for my last day at the park, but I still managed to make it up a trail without true accident. Unfortunately, my optimism didn’t hold water, drips began to reach me through dense canopy within minutes. It abated long enough for me to simultaneously spot a Bornean Whistling Thrush (Myophonus borneensis) and scare it off, having a whirling tantrum over a biting fly circling my head. The rain continued a steady luge down broad leaves and the back of my shirt lasting the rest of the day. It was only 10:30 AM.

Sodden within minutes, I gave up and began my tromp back. Just when I’d decided Borneo had foiled me again, a weasel tried to run up my leg.

I later learned this rascal was a Malayan Weasel (Mustela nudipes). This white-headed mammal, the size of a Black-footed Ferret, came at me from the undergrowth on the side of the road. It didn’t seem aggressive, but I wasn’t really going to test my luck, creating a weasel baffling buffer with my umbrella. I’d opted out of rabies vaccination. This boisterous character took ginger leaps through the wet forest floor, disappearing into holes, reappearing several meters away, slithered up gracile saplings, and crossed the road several times without looking. All within a few feet of me. Obviously busy hunting, it periodically investigated my tentative squeaks, seeing if I could get his or her attention. Neither of us cared that we were soaked.

After what felt like an extremely charmed hour watching this naïve little mustelid, I tired of dodging traffic and moved on. Reviewing my camera’s capture times, I was there less than 10 minutes. Rain and the fact that I was standing on the side of the main road up and down the mountain kept me from taking proper photos. No matter, because the impression, like all the others from this misty massif, is permanent.

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Gomantong Caves

Posted in Birding, Birds, Borneo, Conservation, Environmentalism, Malaysia, Natural History, Southeast Asia on March 30, 2011 by Brendan McGarry

All oncoming traffic had their brights ablaze, yet I was being impetuously rude by not turning mine down on approach, provoking a barrage of anxiety enhancing light flashing and horns blowing. An aging truck, heaped with a patchwork of tarps and choking over slight hillocks, was holding up a line of menacingly swerving Toyota Hiluxs and Palm Oil trucks to my rear. I was pilot of a tin can, in danger of blindly pitching into deal breaker pot holes at 90 km/hour. Every car wanted to pass on blind corners, urging cavalier participation with tailgating and more horns. Times like these make me appreciate what I perceive as sane drivers.

Sam and I were at a loss of what to do with his last day. We’d wanted to try to visit the Gomantong Caves in the past two weeks but there’d been plenty on the itinerary. Not wanting to waste his last respite before reentering the real world, Sam suggested a jaunt to the nearby caves for a bit of Bornean nature. At every turn our attempts to DYI through Borneo had been foiled, so after almost a full day of halfheartedly trying to avoid paying $100 for a visit we almost gave up. Then Sam wondered aloud if we’d be able to rent a car and just drive ourselves. Surprisingly this worked, was half the price, and we didn’t have to adhere to anything but law.

Caves abound in Southeast Asia. Peruse travel information on any country here, and you’ll inevitably run into mention of a hole you can poke around. What makes Gomantong worth visiting was adjoining lowland rainforest, a nightly exodus of over 2 million bats, and most notably, being one of the places people harvest swift nests for bird’s nest soup.

The swift’s nests are collected twice yearly, February to April and July to September. Most information states that collectors neatly harvest before the birds lay (meaning they build a second nest), and then again after. While I am dubious of the lack of impact, there is emphasis on controlling harvests and guards stay at the caves year round. The WWF says Gomantong is the most well controlled bird’s nest cave in the world. There didn’t seen to be any lack of Swiftlets present, so who am I to question a tradition dating back to 500 AD? Harvesters can score nearly $500/kilo for high quality white nest (pure saliva and no feathers). Even if the demand for a soup whose driving ingredient is bird saliva and feathers and commands $60/bowl, is slightly beyond me, that’s good money. That is, if you ignore the fact that these intrepid fellows slog through acres of bat shit, seething with vermin, climb rickety ladders made of Rattan and rotting rope, and live for days on platforms deep in the caves.

We arrived by mid afternoon, ready for a good romp. Yet somehow through the confusion of trying to avoid tourist exploitation, we’d only one flashlight between us. That meant that the Simud Putih, the deeper, White Cave (so named for the pure saliva nests it holds) was off limits. This actually seemed alright once we realized that the Simud Hitam, the Black Cave was comparatively easy to explore, on boardwalks and sans headlamp. Yet boardwalks didn’t omit the stench, the piles of guano, the crabs apparently living off a river of runoff, and the millions of cockroaches. I feel extremely itchy just sitting here thinking about it. A Wallace’s Hawk Eagle (Nisaetus nanus) seemed quite happy for the creators of this filth, because it could practically pluck swifts flying in and out from its perch above the entrance.

Despite our lack of proper gear, we weren’t going to just give up on exploring. While thunder built ominously overhead, we scrambled up to the entrance to the foreboding entrance to the White Cave. The humidity was oppressive and while I spotted one new bird, a Rufous-crowned Babbler (Malacopteron magnum) and spied the thimble sized Least Pygmy Squirrel (Exilisciurus exilis), the smallest squirrel in the world, it didn’t appear we’d be seeing a lot of wildlife. Of course as we reached the top of the hill, sweating like we’d been in a sauna, this pessimism was immediately banished. Sam got to see a wild Orangutan.

While I glimpsed an arm, as the ape swung behind a sheet of vines, grunting and shaking the brush as warning, this was enough. I now felt like I’d seen both of the two Orangutan species in the wild, both Pongo pygmaeus of Borneo and Pongo abelli of Sumatra, which until recently were considered one species. For Sam, this was the penultimate sighting, on par with our Elephants on the Kinabatangan.

Then, suddenly and fortuitously, the storm broke. I had a temporary freak out, for my camera was naked in the rain, but we took shelter beneath an overhang. Torrents came down for an hour and we made the decision to head back in the midst, also unprepared for the weather, to watch the Black Cave at dusk.

Sodden and sweaty, the rain abated as soon as we reached the entrance. Inside we couldn’t quite see what the big deal was. One hole in the roof, 90 meters up, seemed to have a few bats exiting, but it wasn’t the exodus we’d been promised. Tired of crunching roaches underfoot, we chanced to head back outside and stood dumbfounded. A continuous stream of bats undulated out of the top of the massif the caves meander beneath.

Bat Hawks (Macheiramphus alcinus), the predominant species driving the bats back and forth across the horizon, were new to me. The odd Brahminy Kite (Haliastur indus) also appeared, I suspect looking for cleptoparasitic opportunities, being slightly too slow to catch the lithe bats. A Crested Goshawk, several Wallace’s Hawk Eagles, and a lone and probably coincidental White-bellied Sea Eagle also made appearances. Caves the feature nightly departures of bats always have some winged predators snagging a meal. Fast food.

Misinformation on when the park closed prompted us to leave sooner than we wanted. Yet watching the bats (which I can still not put a species to) was a wonderful way to end Sam’s last evening. An added bonus were fruit bats, floating over the parking lot and we squeezed into the tiny rental.

On the way out a Red Giant Flying Squirrel glided across the road, lit by an almost full moon, closer to Earth than it had been since I was five years old.

And then I took our lives in my hands and drove back to Sandakan in the dark.

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Danum Valley

Posted in Birding, Birds, Borneo, Conservation, Environmentalism, Malaysia, Natural History, Plants, Southeast Asia on March 22, 2011 by Brendan McGarry

Have you ever been to tropical rainforest? While exploring this part of the world, one is sure to eventually encounter a resemblance to the primeval forest of their imagination. Tumultuous vines, ethereally green, fundamentally impenetrable.  Here, this run-a-muck growth is often the result of plants desperately trying to win the race to refill empty space once held by behemoths. Until Danum Valley, I’d not seen examples of what Sabah would have looked like around 60 years ago, before deforestation.

Before I begin, I need to vent a second: Sam, a gentleman named Rob (who we met in the dingy town of Lahad Datu and also happened to be a graduate student at the University of Washington!), and I had a wonderful, though abbreviated exploration at Danum. Yet the field center played no hand in this, at times actively working against enjoyment. I don’t want to completely lambast this place, but it was the most expensive and frustrating place I’ve seen in my two months (more frustrating than a bus in Sumatra). If there hadn’t been Bornean Gibbons and Black Magpies, giant Dipterocarps and canopy platforms, it would have been unbearable. My vote goes to stripping the “hospitality ranger” of her ridiculous title. I don’t want to appear petty or abuse the freedom of the internet forum, but I would strongly dissuade people from visiting, simply because of the nature of how the center handled people. Poorly.

And now that I’ve got it out of my system……

Because of the cost limitations (doubled and tripled from advertised prices), we were only going to stay one full day. Immediately on arrival, we slogged down a trail, shrugging off the heavy rain and muck, stubborn to see something with our evening. We returned with nothing but leeches, engorged with our fluids. My logic failing me, I’d worn sandals and shorts, equating to a whopping 20 tiger leeches from my scalp to my soles.

By 5:30 AM the rain had subsided and we groggily rolled out the door. A little less cavalier about hiking trails, we slipped into the forest, en route to a fabled canopy platform. Fog coiled through mature trunks, with a much more open feel than I’d expected. Don’t get me wrong, it’s still a thick jungle, just with less of the indomitable looking undergrowth. Half expecting a dilapidated platform, we reached a solid looking, two tier platformed built around a towering Dipterocarp. I felt like I was staring at a ladder into the heavens.

I can scarcely imagine a better platform. Within minutes we’d seen a troop of Red Leaf Monkeys, Black Magpies, Bushy-crested Hornbills, and the crown jewel of many birders visiting here, the Bornean Bristlehead (both Bornean endemic and monotypic, the only representative of its family). The view of massive, lichen dappled bark, branches alive with epiphytes, all swirling in endemic diversity, made an hour pass swiftly.

During breakfast I started to hear Bornean Gibbons calling and surprisingly close, (if you hadn’t guessed it, they are also endemic, the only gibbon in Sabah). Just behind the compound, a male squatting high in a snag, hollering away as a good gibbon should. Below a second gave us a spectacular show, with a careless fling across the gap above the road. They seemed loath to our presence and quick to veil themselves. Sometimes I wish I could brachiate.

The day continued with a walk to to find an Orangutan. Sam was getting more desperate to see a wild one before his time was up but I was more concerned about birds (but yes I’d have been excited by one). When I find myself in a new place, surrounded by a myriad of new species, I tend to develop tunnel vision. After all the Spectacled Flowerpecker, a bird that’s only been seen a handful of times, was described not too far off. A distant pair of Wallace’s Hawk Eagles and a flock of Dusky Munia were the only birds of real note and no apes.

The clouds had cleared by lunch which meant two things. Temperature up, activity down. Because of the foreshortened stay, I was eager to spend my time up in the trees, while Sam and Rob decided to go for a hike. So I spent the next five hours concerning myself with the temporal clouds, my crow’s nest, and a spread of undisturbed forest below and on all four sides.

A favorite teacher and friend of mine often mentions that walking further doesn’t guarantee you’ll see more. The entirety of Sabah’s fauna didn’t fall into my lap, but as I climbed the teetering ladder, 150 feet up, 3 honking Rhinoceros Hornbills winged by. I was so transfixed by their surreal beauty and the magical setting, it was all I could do but hang onto the ladder for giddy excitement. This finally felt like Borneo.

Confining oneself, as naturalist and photographer, to a small area, even one with such vantage, is a good exercise. It forces you to examine things in a variety of manners. I’d climbed all the way up, so naturally I didn’t want to descend quickly, and for the absence of birds, began to note the many insects sharing my perch. The insects in Danum already had made me wish dually that I had a macro lens and that I knew more about them. I had my first stick bug, diminutive and skittish, and a mantis, perfectly camouflaged for lichen speckled trunks and too quick to photograph. Six distinct (to me) ants segregated across the planks of the platform to the tree it circled.

Rain came and went, but I enjoyed just gazing about me in wonder. I sat and walked in circles, engaged in a near meditative state for nearly four hours. Sifting through my mind, I watched the few birds and coming clouds. Soon I was joined by Sam and we sat through a squall and took in the sun creeping down into the building fog. While it was a shame we’d go the next morning I was glad I made it at all.

I’ll see you next in the Gomantong Caves for some Bird’s Nest Soup.

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Sabah’s Mighty Kinabatangan River (Long)

Posted in Birding, Birds, Borneo, Conservation, Environmentalism, Malaysia, Natural History, Southeast Asia on March 15, 2011 by Brendan McGarry

(The problem with seeing much is finding time at the end of the day to write about it all.  It takes a fair amount of time to prepare an entry!  This is a bit tardy and I haven’t been quite as frequent as I’d like but I hope everyone enjoys!)

I’m not all together certain I’d intended to visit Borneo. I’m unsure if I thought it a feasible locale, even considering a childhood adrift in clouds of adventure, traipsing vast exotic realms, discovering for science, knowing the world. Mcgarryi seemed an esteemable epithet for a bird in my formative musings. For whatever reason, the third largest island in the world seemed as far away as Madagascar or New Guinea. To find myself waltzing from one locale to another in Sabah has been altogether dreamily exhilarating.

The most tragic bullet to a place you’ve held imaginary is wakeful reality. Sabah, the Malaysian State in Borneo I’ve been exploring, is on par with visiting the Amazon in terms of nature, but with the ease of Florida. When you’ve read from Alfred Russel Wallace and any of the other multitude of Bornean explorers, it’s with a never fading tinge of guilt that I use the freeways through hours of palm plantations; stay in hostels with WIFI where I can ring home to reassure good health; sit on waterfronts enjoying a cold beer and Nasi Goreng. In modern reality, not the misty depths of archaic naturalistic exploration, more than 15 million people live here.

Yet it’s still possible to visit wild places to touch on the once overwhelming essence of illusive, wild Borneo.

The Kinabatangan River runs 560 Km inland to the Sulu Sea on the Northeast coast of Borneo. Nearly 100 km of that stretch is deemed lowland floodplain, swampy and full of life. In terms of overall biodiversity, the lowland forests of Borneo are the most affluent. They hold all the primates, the most birds, and flora. Straying back to the past topic of Palm Oil, it also happens to be prime orchard land. Thankfully, the wealth of nature means a wealth of tourism and accordingly, the Malaysian government halted legal land clearing in the area. I wonder at the impact of constant visitors, but would rather have them visit in place clearing.

Visiting the longest river in Sabah is another drop in the tourist bucket, but I’ll be clear, it was well worth it. There is no other feasible way for the threadbare backpacker to explore the river with knowledgeable naturalists, except by staying at a lodge. My friend Sam and I had a ride out to the Kinabatangan Nature Lodge with a pleasant middle aged couple from California, a surprise, as we Americans are few. Since we’d be sharing the activities, I was delighted they were genuinely excited about Bornean Wildlife and full of good spirits.

Touring the river wasn’t like touring a game reserve; faux wild animal encounters guaranteed. Yet once we’d arrived and had our bags properly disgorged, we disembarked downriver, and there was no mistaking staked out animals despite the romantic aspects of motoring muddy waters. We returned having seen Bornean Pygmy Elephants (Elephas maximus borneensis), Proboscis Monkeys (Nasalis larvatus), Crested Serpant-eagles (Spilornis cheela) , and Oriental Darters (Anhinga melanogaster). In my mind, Borneo was always about birds, but seeing 25 wild elephants crowding a strip of open bank, bathing, and doing decidedly quadrupedal, megafaunal things, is the best sight of my trip. There was even a doughy-eyed calf, barely keeping nostrils above water whilst being jostled by the stouter adults fully engaged in enjoying an evening dip.

Our night walk was short, but included a slumbering Oriental Dwarf Kingfisher (Black-backed Kingfisher – Ceyx erithaca), I shamefully flooded with light. Our guide, Larry (not his real name if you could have guessed), even had an Emperor Scorpion (Pandinus imperator) secreted away in a buttress crevice for daily use. Jokingly we asked what he called it, as he teased it out, and let it crawl on his arm unperturbed. After a pause for consideration, he answered.

“Honey.”

Whenever I’ve had occasion to visit a remote lodge, I am heartened that most employees are locals. Malaysian nature guides are legally required to go through school and obtain certification. It truly showed. Larry was a dive instructor but returned to the land around his home village of Bilit to guide here. Many of the others had also worked at other nature wonderlands. They were all fun, knowledgeable, with no hint of the malaise engendered by years of dealing with privileged tourists. We even conversed with one about deforestation, delving into the taboo subject of the ever present plantations, (in follow up posts from the trip, I’ll have unimpeded words on the subject). He was very realistic about conservation here, without it, there would be no reason for tourist money to flow in.

Night or day the river and surrounding forest is quite a sight. Even knowing what real lowland tropical rainforest should appear, I could have been occasionally convinced that patches here and there were primary. Massive pale barked Dipterocarps spottily soared above the sub-canopy. Yet largely, the precipitous muddy banks are overflowing with the recovering, logged secondary forest, choked with competing growth. I think it looked a wonderful green mess, deciding to temporarily suspended acknowledgment of reality, in favor of appreciative immersion. A mere 2 km of corridors followed the river bends.

Morning fog burnt off quickly under an equatorial blaze. Optimistic about what adventures the morning cruise would hold, there were countless potential birds, but everyone else wanted Crocodiles or Orangutans. For lack of ginger apes, we did glimpse a Silvered Leaf Monkeys (Trachypithecus cristatus) and multitudes of Long-tailed Macaques (Macaca fascicularis). Several harems of Proboscis Monkeys lined taller trees each with a presiding 20 Kg male with a prodigious schnoz, sporting perpetual, lipstick red, erections. Call me lewd, but I tried to document this braggadocios display but in vain. Maybe they’ll have anatomically correct stuffed animals somewhere down the road? Possibly too kitschy or taboo in a Muslim country.

The most wonderful bird encounter involved two Rhinoceros Hornbills (Buceros rhinoceros), fighting beside the river. These massive birds landed on the bank, so raucous we couldn’t have missed them. Rapidly, there were eight about, all honking away as if cheering the skirmish, vaulting between the ground and tree. Uncertain if the bird being pursued was a female or not, it seemed likely a lady with an all too forceful courtier, among many lustily circling bachelors. If you’ve spent any time watching birds, you’ve see this sort of behavior, which is unsettling to most people. As witness this was a once in a lifetime experience and no magnitude of Tiger Beer will scour it away.

Over the course of 3 nights, 2 days, we saw a handful of fantastic birds, including five of the eight Hornbills in Borneo. From many birds of prey, the most exciting species was Jerdon’s Baza (Aviceda jerdoni), but the most impressive were lethargic Crested Serpent Eagles, soggily attempting to dry after an afternoon storm, appreciably less skittish. From three Dusky Broadbills (Corydon sumatranus) high over the river to Red and Black Broadbills (Cymbirhynchus macrorhynchos) with nests perilously dangling above water, I was elated by glimpses. These gaudy birds are surprisingly cryptic in contrast to their perpetual audible taunting. A solitary and exceedingly rare Storm’s Stork (Ciconia stormi) flew by. Pleasantly adorned White-crowned Shama (Copsychus malabaricus) flitted off the porch.

This visit to the river was no different than any other visitor’s. In fact, I would venture that almost every individual coming to Sabah has some interest in the natural world, even if they are wholly ignorant of the realities. Yet, I know I had precious experiences and came away with a better perspective, which is ultimately why one travels. I was sad to go, but had to move on to other adventures, most eminent, the Danum Valley.

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KL, Kuala Lumpur, Selamat Datang

Posted in Birding, Birds, Conservation, Current Events, Environmentalism, Malaysia, Museums, Natural History, Science, Southeast Asia on March 2, 2011 by Brendan McGarry

As the self-aggrandized old hand of the Southeast Asian urban landscape, you’ll peer about joyfully bewildered. You aren’t enveloped by partially peeled cement walls and blackened exhaust. Writhing, verdant walls of vegetation veil cyclone fences and railings. The scene outside the window of your cab is not metropolitan.

I was snatched away from my dreamy chlorophyll bath when we rounded a corner, facing a snarling highway of sluggish traffic. With the precipitation, it could have been Seattle, except the familiarity of my shirt with my back was one step away from gene-splicing, even with the AC full tilt. Kuala Lumpur, is surprisingly green (in the sense of trees), some comforts persist, but you’ll still get drenched in the sweat and rain you’d expect in tropical Asia. I’m a fan of KL.

Malaysia, specifically the area now called Peninsular or West Malaysia, has done well fiscally. I had inklings based on the expansive greenbelts and ornate buildings, but I didn’t know as much of the story till I visited the wonderful Muzium Negara, the National Museum. After all, I needed to fill the stunning void my public high school education left me with concerning Southeast Asian history, (to be fair, I blame standardized curriculum not teachers). The region, under various powers, has been on the trading route between the East and the West as long as they’ve been trading. Monsoonal winds are efficient means of pushing a ship across oceans and Malaysia often became a stopover for traders waiting for favorable breezes. With massive forests, spices, and tin, the land had much to offer and was mentioned in writing as far away as Greece and as early as the beginning of the 15th century, obviously on the trading route long before that. Ever since the 2nd century, the Chinese has visited the West coast of the region.

The Kingdom of Melaka, founded in the early 15th century, a soon to be Muslim sultanate, held sway over many resources that the West found covetous. In turn the Portuguese, the Dutch, and the British invaded and had their way with the Tin and spices they were after. Through various deals and typical colonial dishonesty, the British found themselves in control of a modern Malaysia. Eventually they created a governed area out of the Peninsular region (which was never one country), and land snatches they made from a flailing Brunei and Sulu (a Sultanate you’ve probably never heard of) in Northern Borneo. I’d recently been wondering how Northern Borneo was Malaysian and now I knew. By 1957 a massive front of multicultural self-awareness had built throughout the states and without too much fuss, Malaysia found independence. The history of this area is absurdly fascinating, I can’t wait to learn more.

Human history puts natural history into perspective (which is why I spend time on it). Malaysia seems to me the most progressive country I’ve visited when it comes to many things, including the environment. They’ve been around the block, seen what can happen when a greedy hand is at the wheel. In all appearances though, the consensus that what’s left is pretty sacred. Thanks to people like me who visit to see nature (on planes, automobiles, using disposable plastics), there is an easily distinguished fiscal reason for preservation. As much as I may agree with other arguments for the necessity of biodiversity, this is a little less esoteric to the general public.

In Kepong, a train and a taxi outside Kuala Lumpur, is the Forest Research Institute of Malaysia (FIRM). This giant complex of recreational land, educational, and research facilities is a bit of a tourist draw, yet until we found the fantastic museum and coerced someone to let us in, it was difficult to say what exactly brought people here. Sure there was steamy tropical forest, which actually housed many new things for Nick, Ellen, and I. Yet the canopy walkway was closed (something mentioned after we’d paid admission), and the information booth just showed us a path to walk down. Surely people weren’t paying 10 ringgit just to prance about regenerating tropical jungles? We did see a Diard’s Trogon (Harpactes diardii), Spectacled Bulbuls (Pycnonotus erythropthalmos), and a Flying Lizard, all well worth it.

Yet I wanted to know more about this place, what sort of mad scientist experiments were going on in the pulp lab? Alas, by the time a sheepish young man appeared from his four hour lunch break to let us into a informative museum, we only had 15 minutes to eyeball the endless plaques on all forestry research before our Taxi was due. Ellen and I were massively disappointed because learning what Malaysia was doing with their forests was impetus for visiting. Equally frustrating was that I didn’t manage to corner any scientists to beat some interviews out of.

What I saw I couldn’t help admire, here was shameless, proud declarations of what the forest was being used for. I could see foresight and no shame in the use of a strong resource which could be managed sustainably. Growing up a city liberal, it is easy to form the opinion that cutting trees is an irretrievable sin, whilst reading your book, relaxing in a wooden recliner. People aren’t going anywhere just yet and while destruction is destruction, unless all people blink out, creating less invasive and smarter means of extraction and application are obvious.

Yet, Malaysia is the second largest producer of Palm Oil in the world. Palm Oil is the sinister product in so much we use and you don’t grow this bulbous, cancerous looking fruit by sprinkling seeds in the rainforest understory. For comparisons sake, Indonesia is the number one producer and the exhaust from their land clearing makes them the 4th worst producer of green house gasses behind the EU, the USA, and China.

A report from Wetlands International this year, suggests that between 2005 and 2010, almost 353,000 hectares of peat swamp forest were cleared in Malaysia. This is a painful third of the existing habitat, one of the most diverse in Borneo. To visualize one hectare, think of the footprint the entire Statue of Liberty takes up. Environmental integrity is hard won when there’s money to be had and a demanding and thirsty Western world guzzling your product as quickly as you can make more. Finger pointing doesn’t work here, US demand is this issue. All this makes me want to curl of up in the fetal position, but it is the reality of an aspiring environmental journalist.

As I strolled around the Lake Gardens back in Kuala Lumpur, I continued to mull over what it meant to have grand public parks in the middle of the city. This was a luxury born of elevated means, likely ill begotten resources. I found their expanse inviting and comfortable, but was this coming at a cost? (An alternative of course is being a place like Laos, which is still getting torn apart and the people get no kick back). Black-naped Orioles (Oriolus chinensis) chortled overhead. Long-tailed Macaques (Macaca fascicularis) did what any respectable troop does in proximity to humans, they dined lavishly, in hedonistic revels, on garbage. The pleasant report of the grand mosque sounded in the distance. I couldn’t help but feel as if people were being lulled into a false sense environmental security, with green space and government campaigns on sustainability. I worry about the same at home sometimes.

But the sun was shining, the Milky Storks (Mycteria cinerea) were clattering away, and Blue-throated Bee-eaters (Merops vividis) sped from their perches in search of Hymenoptera. It was nice to be somewhere with such evident pride in self and country, even if it was somewhat hypocritical at times. I passed people from all over the world, resident or otherwise, as I walked back to my grimy China Town guest house. Long-billed Crows (Corvus validus) drifted off to their roosts for the night, reminding me of crows in Seattle. I really like Malaysia.

I promise I’ll get off my soapbox next time but a guy’s gotta vent sometimes.  Next?  Borneo!!!

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Bukit Lawang Literally Means “The Door to the Hills”

Posted in Conservation, Current Events, Environmentalism, Indonesia, Natural History, Orangutan, Science, Southeast Asia, Sumatra on February 23, 2011 by Brendan McGarry

 

There are a lot of hills in Northern Sumatra. Some are functionally inaccessible and a few are just down a potholed highway from Medan. Being my first sojourn to the land of palm plantations, Orangutans, and horrible natural disasters, I settled for a realistic endeavor. Four hours of queezy, white knuckle driving, and my friends Nick, Ellen, and I had arrived in Bukit Lawang from Medan. Our driver had done his best to kill us, passing on blind corners through the palm stands, using the horn as if he believed it an essential component of locomotion. As a result of our relief, he was tipped excessively.

I hadn’t given Medan a chance, but I trusted my gut (hemorrhaging from sewer stench), and got out as soon as possible. Distances in Sumatra are deceiving, and before arrival I had aspirations of visiting far flung corners I now realized were insurmountably distant for two weeks of travel. Acquaintances thus far spouted any manner of nonsense, one said Sumatra is easy to travel. Yet both unanimous and accurate, was that much of the island has been laid waste. The palm oil plantations march right up to the edge of Gunung Leuser National Park, where we’d be heading into the forest.

The river Bahorok flows through the middle of Bukit Lawang and while shimmeringly beautiful, flowing out of hills swathed in ancient forest, it has been the source of major disaster. Early in the morning on November 2, 2003, a flash flood stormed through town, killing 239 people and destroying practically everything. The source of all this? A major illegal logging operation, somewhere in the depths of the National Park, was likely the culprit, judging by the timber that came with the flood. Illegal logging is a huge threat to Sumatra and natural disaster is the morose MO here; consider the 2004 Boxing Day Tsunami. The people here are tough and excessively friendly still.

The morning after our arrival it was off on a jungle trek. Normally I’d shy away from something that attracts so many tourists (I’m no tourist), with little real interest in nature beyond gawking at big apes. Many simply show up to visit the Orangutan Rehabilitation Center, founded in 1973, which now is little more than a feeding platform for semi-wild Orangutans. However, this is one of the best ways to get out and see them (nearly 5000 inhabit the parkland), as well as Gibbons, various monkeys, and other wildlife. Birds took a sideline for my first great apes. We met our group (far larger than we wanted but it ended up being manageable), our guides, and set off through a diminutive rubber plantation before hitting forest.

Our guide, Omano, proved to be a great conduit of information. He was excited to be with people who were interested in nature, though he was initially taken aback by my monstrous pack, filled to the brim with the crap of a natural history peeping tom. Because Bukit Lawang draws so many visitors (even in wet season of February), guides start after high school and amass quite a bit of good information on the forest. Unfortunately they have little formal training in knowing the plants and wildlife beyond a few key species, something Omano attributed to the lack of necessity with people with only one thing on their minds. According to Omano, this place wasn’t spared from logging until 1970 when the World Wildlife Fund visited and recognized the habitat as a unique and vital piece of global biodiversity. The huge hardwoods we were struggling beneath wouldn’t likely be still standing if the government hadn’t been encouraged to set it aside. Even still, as evident in the 2004 flood, people find ways around protection.

Alright, I’ll admit it, the Orangutans most people see are not completely wild. The original Orangutan Project no longer exists but there are a great many individuals who still come the feeding platform by the river. This is the easiest way to see Orangs, but we wanted a bit more realistic experience. Before we knew it, there was a female only a few meters from us. She swung so close, passing over that the guides recoiled in horror screaming, “Watch out! Hot shower!” I was completely stunned by such a close encounter, just looking into the face of an animal not so distantly related to me.

Over the course of the sweaty hike, our group encountered six Orangutans. According to the guides, the single, huge male, was wild, along with at least one of the females. I remain skeptical, especially considering our adjacency to the rehabilitation center, but if our guides were spinning illusions, they did a good job with the big male particularly. A big ape of any origin is worthy of a respectful distance. The Lonely Planet’s Southeast Asia on a Shoestring cites that contact with the many visitors to the park has spread disease, raising infant mortality in the local population. While I am yet to see actual figures this is certainly feasible, and another good reason for space.

By lunch we’d also come upon fig tree lively with activity. Minutes earlier, Ellen had spotted a White-handed Gibbon far away, and before most of us could see it well, took a fantastic leap out of sight. At this towering Ficus, we found ourselves witness to a small family group, complete with a gushingly cute toddler and it’s older adolescent sibling. Their swinging about and obvious admiration for fruit, evident as they rapturously pushed handfuls of figs into awaiting maws. A smile never left my face. I’d always wanted to see a wild gibbon. Here I was, stinking of exertion, watching them go about their daily life undisturbed, high in the canopy. With the brachiation these lesser apes are so famous for, they slowly moved away.

The end of the hike to our camp (the basic package is to hike in and then float out in inner tubes), was a slog. The only other place I’ve been that was so humid was the Amazon, yet with the exertion of pulling myself up slippery tracks, I’d argue it was worse. The going was treacherous and never would have happened in the states without signing a release, saying we wouldn’t sue their pants off when we slipped in “hot shower” and smashed our skulls. Every few minutes we’d hear the yelp one issues when experiencing the downsides of gravity paired with the answer of our guides, doing pirouettes ahead of us: “All bagus (good)?”

I fared well on this hike but I had to remind myself to appreciate the fact that I was back in the jungle of Sumatra! A Rhinoceros or Tiger could pop out any minute (unlikely, both are highly endangered in Sumatra)! Birds I was frustratingly ignorant of, chortled overhead, and countless plants I will likely never know by name passed by. The beauty of any tropical forest is diversity and it takes a zenlike approach for me to not spasm in the guilt of biological ignorance.

Finding ourselves again at the riverside, it was all we could do but tear off our clothes and fling ourselves into the torrent. A Water Monitor was nearby camp investigating the “leave no trace” ethic of previous visitors and several flashy Grey Wagtails (decidedly more yellow than grey) perched amid the flowing clear water. Simple adjacency to water that didn’t appear to be effluvia from a sewage treatment plant was highly refreshing.

Late afternoon arrival found us tired and capable of little else but the delicious relaxation after a good hike. Drinking tea and coffee sweetened with condensed milk and simple biscuits, we talked away the late afternoon and simply gazed at the vertical vegetation on either side of us. Until the next morning I didn’t fully grasp the scale of the land we’d descended until I tried to look at a bird far above, and found it still a spec in my binoculars. I could have stayed here and explored for ages; I decided that I will have to return again with better plans of venturing farther afield.

The rushing river, and suspicion someone had beaten me with rocks all night, woke me at an early hour. We’d been given rubber mats, the thinnest I’d ever seen, for sleeping. The soft Westerners of our trek weren’t fit for a night on the ground and none of us slept well. Luckily the stunning forest and ethereal river were still there and I hadn’t dreamed it all. Unfortunately the river was so loud with banks so steep, that birding around the river wasn’t all that possible. Sumatra came through still, a Tiger Shrike alighted nearby tearing at bright green katydid nearly the same size.

The rest of the day was a write off from an exploratory standpoint. I saw a few new birds during our tromping about; a Black-capped Kingfisher on the float back and a pair of eagles woefully backlit and still unidentified. The float was a riot, perilously skidding through white-water on truck inner-tubes tied together with thin gauge rope, pushed about by long sticks. Our packs were wrapped in large, optimistic plastic bags, and we were plopped down in the middle. We made it back, very wet but without incident.

I wanted to go back already.

I can see why people do these “tourist things” and ultimately, the impact seems fairly minimal compared to say, a 5 star resort. If anything there could be less contact with the Orangutans, however, staring into eyes with recognition much like my own, I know this experience will be a jolt of concern for a species on the brink.

A few more photos from the trek here.

The next few weeks are thus far undecided. Judging on my research, I’ll be headed to Bornean Malaysia. My backup plan is to work my way back through Peninsular Malaysia and into Thailand. I’ll know soon and already know that Sumatra is an amazing place and worth years of travel.

 

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