March 22, 2011
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Danum Valley

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.

March 15, 2011
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Sabah’s Mighty Kinabatangan River (Long)

(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.

March 2, 2011
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KL, Kuala Lumpur, Selamat Datang

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!!!

February 23, 2011
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Bukit Lawang Literally Means “The Door to the Hills”

 

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.

 

February 10, 2011
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Pak Thale and Spoon-billed Sandpipers

Sometimes I question my sanity. Here I was, halfway around the world, standing next to fields of salt. I wasn’t lost, I intended on arriving here at some point. But did I really need to come to Thailand to feel desiccated?

The answer in this case was almost essentially yes. If you are a birder, enjoy shorebirds (by enjoy shorebirds I mean you have a masochistic side), and want to seek out rare birds, the coast south of Bangkok isn’t a bad spot. Among a multitude of species that winter here is the famed Spoon-billed Sandpiper (Eurynorhynchus pygmeus). This is largely what we were after. We had rented scooters and here we were at the Pak Thale Salt Pans 30km from Phetchaburi.

I would love to weave a yarn about how we toiled for hours to see a Spoon-billed. Soiling ourselves with exertion and impromptu romps across the the salt pans. But we didn’t. We’d hardly walked an hour before suddenly there one was.

I was doing the shorebird photographers squat, my butt flirtatiously dusting itself with mud and paying little attention to anything beyond a Common Redshank. I might not have noticed if not for Ryan’s calm, constant tone (a good counterbalance to my fly off the handle gurgling): “There’s a Spoon-billed.” This was one of the rarest birds I’d ever see in my life, probably the only time I might ever see one again (in some ways a sad thing as much exciting). But then another one flew in. They were probably 100 feet away, lit perfectly, and I took 300 photos.

Seeing one was plenty but two was fantastic. People come specifically to see them here and leave only with a silhouette, 1 mile away, and with half feral salt pan dogs hanging from their ankles. To put the numbers in perspective, in Myanmar someone had 18 birds in one spot and this was the biggest collection of this diminutive but strange bird that’s been found in recent years, (in 2009, 63 individuals were recorded for the entire winter in Myanmar)

Spoon-billed Sandpipers breed in extreme Northern Russia. Mature birds apparently spread all about the coasts of Southeast Asia and somewhere down the line people figured out Pak Thale was a good spot to see them regularly. When I say they are critically endangered, I mean that they are probably hovering at around 1000 individuals for the entire world population and could wink out in 20 years or less. With a sedentary species, this is an optimistic number because steps can sometimes be taken to stop further decline (be it saving remaining habitat or creating a breeding program). Spoon-billeds migrate and spread over a great deal of land, most bits of their wintering and stopover habitat is being reclaimed for industry. The added facts that Spoon-billeds are very specialized in where they breed (lagoon spits with low vegetation) and probably never had huge numbers doesn’t help.

In the next two days we say gobs of shorebirds and most of them were new for me. Birds people see somewhat regularly back in the states, like Bar-tailed Godwits to a bird I’d only seen once, when I skipped class to drive to Ocean Shores, a Temminck’s Stint. Some, birders would leave their dearest loved one on their death bed to see, like a Spotted Redshank.

What I find hilarious in all this is that when people typically see these birds, no matter how fascinating, elegant, and darn right tough they are: they are in their basic plumage. Basic as in winter, as in non-breeding, as in duller than shit to the unappreciative eye. People go into debt to see certain shorebirds when they show up in the wrong place in bland form! If ornithologists wanted to choose a flagship group of birds to induce panicked public donations for conservation, I’m sorry, it wouldn’t be even the Spoon-billed Sandpiper.

This is possibly why global warming awareness campaigns use a Polar Bear instead of a Red-necked Stint. Polar Bears are white all year round, have been swimming too much lately, and were in Coca-Cola commercials. Red-necked Stints just run off for half the year and chill on the beach in Thailand, Australia, or anywhere in between (take your pick). If you asked someone if they’d ever seen a Red-necked Stint on the street, you’d get an narrowing of eyes that people reserve for someone publicly soliciting sexual favors. If you asked them about Polar Bears, they’d happily tell you they saw them in a coke commercial in the 90s. To be clear I think it’s deplorable that the Coca-cola company, possibly a major contributor to global warming, has used this poor animal for ads.

But let’s face it, shorebirds are extraordinary. Bar-tailed Godwits are the record holders of the longest distance of sustained migration (between the Yellow Sea and New Zealand non-stops). Many shorebirds (or waders, if you are from anywhere else but ‘Merica) show reverse sexual dimorphism, meaning the female bird runs the show and often is the more colorful, striking plumage. They are little birds that may fly from Siberia to Australia and back again in a year. They deserve your admiration, even if you only know them as those little birds your screaming, naked, offspring chases after on the beach, or you avoid looking at in your bird book because they give you migraines.

What’s more, many are in solid decline. There are huge numbers of reasons. As I mentioned above, changes in the great land up North related to global warming have wrought problems for breeding birds. In the South things like shrimp farms and the ever spreading disease of beach side resorts hold responsibility. Pollution never helps, especially when many heavy industry is situated near significant estuaries, full of tidal mud flats shorebirds require for feeding at both ends and between. The challenges go on and on.

The bottom line for this post was that I came and conquered in Petchaburi Province. Another tick on the list right? Well, that got me the envy of many I know, but I think that’s about where it stops. I’d like people to think about these birds, their struggles of habitat loss at both ends of travel, and maybe do something about it. At least tell your screaming, naked, child as they let it all hang out in pursuit of a flock of startled Sanderlings.

And please, give some real coverage a look if you want more than my inanity on 10,00 birds!

(Quick travel update: I’ve seen 228 life birds so far on this trip, my person list for the trip is at 245.  Quite a few cool mammals, reptiles, and insects.  Internet access was limited and I visited another National Park, Kaen Krachan, between Pak Thale and this posting.  A general collection of the photos thus far here.  Next up? Sumatra!)

February 2, 2011
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Doi Inthanon National Park

Yesterday I stood on top of Thailand. I made the steep trek and it was well worth it. Don’t leap to conclusions though, I rode a motorcycle.

Doi Inthanon is the highest point in Thailand, as well as in most of mainland Southeast Asia east of that pesky Myanmar and its blasted Northern reaches (I really wanted to summit this part of the continent). At 2565 meters (8,415 feet) tall, this hunk of granite batholith is paltry compared to the Himalayan mountains it leads up to, yet it still feels very tall. Height also means it hosts a broad array of bird species and corresponding habitats (yes, yes it’s ecologically diverse, it’s not all about the birds).

Again, a national park it may be, but most of the lower reaches are deforested and well populated with various hilltribes. Constantly while traveling in Southeast Asia you find your Western ideals confronted (while the thought of thousands of people living in a national park year round isn’t too foreign, having them not be people operating trams or cooking french fries is). I sort of relish these revelations; from squat toilets that don’t flush (meaning you have to wash the offending bits down with ladles of water), to realizing that a vehicle rental company is willing, no, thrilled, to hand over a sound, operational motorcycle with no question of my aptitude astride it. I also rather like that staying within the park, I am not restricted to bland tourist restaurants and can venture over to the immoderate world of greasy food stalls in the nearby village. (People talk about returning from Southeast Asia skinner than when they left. This would be easier to imagine if I wasn’t such a frothing glutton).

Back to nature.

The height of the mountain means it is one of the few places that you get true alpine habitats including Thailand’s only sphagnum bog. This surprised me because I associate peat moss with places like Ireland or Northern Europe and archeology more than the tropical species that bounced about the bog. Certainly the temperature was spot on.

Ryan and I rode up the mountain about 8:30 AM, after checking into Mr. Daeng’s Guest House at 500 baht or about $15 US a night (which seems expensive considering we’ve only been in places for 250 baht or less split but isn’t even). Mr. Daeng has been hosting birders here for years with magnificent birds on property. When scoping the spot the evening before, we’d seen Black-throated Sunbirds (Aethopyga saturata) and Chestnut-flanked White-eyes (Zosterops erythropleurus) both quite dapper looking birds.

The ride to the top was actually very chilly. This is the first and possibly last time I’ll likely ware long underwear on the trip. Of course we didn’t make it to the top without stopping for birds. This was largely done at inopportune blind corners with no shoulders. I spied a Great Barbet (Megalaima virens) just as we rounded one such bend and I spied several more new ones from my wobbly perch atop my motorbike. Another stop for Mrs. Gould’s Sunbird (I’m sorry, I’m all for naming birds after women as much as men….but couldn’t it have been Elizabeth’s Sunbird instead of this silly mouthful?) and Eyebrowed Thrush (Turdus obscurus) stymied an early arrival at the top.

Bird activity was at a high when we arrived; there were gobs of birds, the sun was shinning, and I was on top of the world (well Thailand at least). Ashy-throated Warblers (Phylloscopus maculipennis), a specialty up here (one will not find them elsewhere in Thailand except this peak) were all over the place and numerous sightings meant I finally got a decent photograph of a bird!

The boardwalk around the bog was full of life. Hoary clouds whipped overhead for periodic and welcome sun breaks, but lets be honest, I didn’t notice the cold with this much great nature unfolding. Green-tailed and Mrs. Gould’s Sunbirds were dripping off trees, Rufous-winged Fulvetta (Pseudominla castaneceps) clasped to the sides of the trees, and an Orange-flanked Bush Robin (Tarsiger cyanurus) skulked below the walkway. Once I’d taken a second to relax, I began to truly appreciate the rare beauty of this habitat.

We came just in time to see two varieties of Rhododendron blooming, a burst of white and pink against the shaggy mossy environs. An off shade between umber and chartreuse, everything looked so soft, a nice nap crossed my mind. I’d heard it described as stepping into Lord of the Rings but that was an impoverished description. Once I’d spent time on alone, immersed in the landscape, I felt like I was witnessing a world of gnomes and fairies. The avian characters about were not far off from fantasy.

(An aside: I need to say that I am highly envious of the squirrels here at Mr. Daeng’s – they have a veritable playground all about, dashing down vine and pole highways all about my head as I sit writing this.)

I ran into a Thai birder decked out in a ski mask (this was Siberian cold for the Thai) who introduced himself as Pat. He was there for fun but was training to be a guide (I told him I’d plug him back home). He reconfirmed several of my auditory identifications, pointed out the high elevation only Golden-throated Barbet (Megalaima franklinii). Like most people I’ve met and I’ve spoken English with here, he apologized for his poor ability and in turn I admonished him for the apology. My inability to properly speak the mother tongue is embarrassing enough, let alone my Thai, Spanish, French, or Pig Latin. He had rather good English and I wished him luck.

After chatting with Pat, I couldn’t believe my luck with some of the birds. An Orange-flanked Bush Robin was very cooperative, Bar-throated Minla (Chrysominla strigula) acted as if I was not there (so close I couldn’t focus on them), and Ashy-throated Warblers sat still enough for some real bird photos. Up at the food stands, the coffee shop had both Dark-backed Sibia (Heterophasia melanoleuca) and Rufous-crowned Laughingthrush (Garrulax ruficeps) sneaking in for tidbits when the barista wasn’t looking.

Long days of birding end in exhaustion and this was no different. After more time spent at the top, we drifted down into broadleaved evergreen forest to varying degrees of success. New worlds of nature have the spectacular ability of wearing you down and I was ready for a good long rest at the end of the day. And yet I had to sit down and write.

 

January 29, 2011
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Pai(land)

Pai could easily be seen as just another town on the tourist track. It used to be a sleepy town in a valley in Mae Hong Song Province until recently, when a couple Thai movies were filmed here and tourism exploded for the wealthy Thai. Luckily best parts of Pai is the environment of the surrounding hills.

Climbing from Chiang Mai, you find yourself passing through coffee plantations up to vistas that seem another world away from the plains of Bangkok. The apogee of the drive takes you through what would be considered alpine here, the drier sides of the hills home to long-needled pines, this is another place altogether that I fear I won’t get to fully explore.

Pai is approximately 50 miles from the border of Burma. There is no border crossing in this province, they are few and far between with the volatile neighbor. That doesn’t stop illegal animal trading, drug trafficking, and the hill tribe Karen of the region fleeing over the border into a slightly more tolerant Thailand. The modern sense of borders is certainly challenged here, regional consideration of the people and land seems more important than much else.

While it is a quiet place to relax, there has been turbulence in the past. I suspect people have moved through this region much more recently than 800 years ago, yet the first recorded settlement was of the Shan ethnic group of Burmese origin in a place called Bang Wiang Nuea near modern Pai. This land however was seen to be a part of the Lanna Kingdom of Nothern Thailand. Loyal Lanna were expected to migrate to the outer regions to secure them and soon conflict arose, forcing much of the Shan to migrate back North (established families were allowed to stay by the Prince of Lanna). In the late 1800s there was another push to populate the borders to secure Siam from foreign interests of France (via Laos) and England (via Burma) which resulted in further fighting between the Shan and the Lanna. This one burnt the village to the ground in 1869 and the rebuilding resulted in the modern placement of Pai.

Away into the hills here there are many birds and you would never know of the extensive human history nearby. It remains still one of the remaining expanses of intact forest left in Thailand (Thailand may be 12% National Park, Wildlife Area, etc. but the rest is startlingly devoid of habitat). Being the dry season here, hillsides are turning red and yellow. The Dipterocarp trees (I believe the predominant species being Dipterocarpus tuberculatus), deciduous in response to lack of water, tower above the rest of the forest lofting their massive, withering leaves down to earth. In a month fires, natural or otherwise, will begin to stride over the horizon.

With almost a week here we’ve seen a lot of nature. And while this is not “real” Thailand in a cultural sense it’s been a good introduction to getting about and self sufficiency. 110cc mopeds serve as our transport, an ideal freedom, which we will certainly take advantage of in the future. Simple exploration of the weedy fields adjacent to the guest house has revealed many new birds included our first birds of prey, Common Kestrel (Falco tinnunculus) and Rufous-winged Buzzard (Butastur liventer). Dazzlingly adorned Wire-tailed Swallows (Hirundo smithii) slip over the soft hills and Indian Rollers (Coracias benghalensis) flash bright blue wings against a dusky gray body. The birds still are spectacularly shy and difficult to photograph. My biggest hope is that in long established National Parks (Khao Yai, is the oldest est. 1962) further south will hold better opportunities.

Waterfalls are all about, pouring out of the hills into the valley. Every one of them has a lattice of PVC pipe running out of them, necessary for the fields all about the lowlands. Water attracts birds, which means we’ve explored several, some you can drive right up to and some taking hours over optimistically placed trails to reach.

Elephants used to live in the wild here but now serve only as tourist attractions and further out for work in the forests. They’ve been an important aspect of culture here for ages both symbolically and in practical means. Scott and I both avoided the topic of riding elephants because we expect the other would find this an overly touristy option. After playing in the river with two forty year olds, I realized that even if this was exploitation (which is a western idea certainly), it certainly provided good contact to build an appreciation for the declining Asiatic Elephant (Elephas maximus).

In terms of bird life, thus far I’ve seen nearly 80 new species of birds. That seems paltry considering the wealth of species here but without extensive knowledge of bird song or guides, I think we’re doing pretty good. Trying to catch glimpses of birds in bamboo undergrowth or high above in back lit flowering Dipterocarps towering over forest, means we inevitably miss things. But if the goal was to arrive and tick off every species, I likely wouldn’t even bother blogging about it and I would likely be a much wealthier person.

Scott, Ryan, and I are parting ways at this point. Scott is headed to India on Tuesday and will stay another day in Pai after we leave tomorrow. Ryan and I plan on getting back to Pai early, renting mopeds, and heading to Doi Inthanon National Park to explore the tallest mountain in Thailand.

January 26, 2011
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Doi Suthep and the First Steps in Tropical Asian Birding

Culture shock can come in many forms. I’ve been struggling with something people keep repeating here: “they eat all the animals.” Deciphering whether this is Western racism or simple reality is complicated. I do know that the Thai sense of edibility is far more encompassing when compared to American concepts. Compared to Thai food choices, we are simplistic heathens.

Why I bring up food is largely because photographing birds here is more difficult than I imagined. Not only that, but simple observation involves a game of hid and seek. I’ve tried to think of other reasons for being skittish, however large populations of humans have lived here for thousands of years and bird populations learn quickly. Birds tend to be on the tastier side of things, though lacking in much meat. Whatever the reason, the extreme jumpiness of birds here is clear. They are not keen on having us close to them.

We descended a mountain last weekend.

Doi Suthep is a mountain behind Chaing Mai. To the Thai, the major attraction is a temple, named Wat Phrathat Doi Suthep, considered by many a sacred site. According to legend, a white elephant with half a shoulder bone of the Buddha, was released to roam the mountain by the king of the region at the time. Where it collapsed to die was deemed site of the new the temple, apparently established in 1383. It also happened to be an easily accessible site to get into the forest from Chaing Mai.

Traveling as I am, practicing frugality, transport is an important factor in the experiment. The majority of birders who would visit would likely already shelled out to rent a vehicle. As it turned out, not having one probably worked in our favor. While public transportation (a Songthaew, a shared truck taxi) up the hill and to the park headquarters, seemed tedious and expensive, it left us free to hike without concern of returning to the same spot.

Birds, birds, birds! Before we could take baring we’d seen a new avian menagerie. As I mentioned before, none of them were keen to be within a stones throw of us. (I’m not exaggerating for the sake of a story, any empirical evidence either way would be welcome). A stunning Blue-throated Barbet (Megalaima asiatica), a flock of cavorting Scarlet Minivents (Pericrocotus flammeus), Blue Rock Thrush (Monticola solitarius), and a lone Asian Barred Owlet, reminiscent of a large pygmy owl (Glaucidium cuculoides). All of them stunning, novel, and skittish.

Finding the trail we’d seen on a map was a bit of a challenge. As a result a few more species were found and our concept of a National Park was up against it. When asking the shop attendant for directions, we received a punctuated “It’s closed,” yet several minutes later an overly friendly staff person (a common thing in Thailand) recognized lost souls and pointed us in the right direction. Several forks and retracing of steps later, we found ourselves in an increasingly surreal situation.

I’ll willingly admit people in search of birds frequent odd places. Yet I’ve never, until now, met a pair of bird photographers sitting in full camouflage in a rubbish heap. I quickly realized the reason for enduring the mild stench was the cavalcade of flies, attraction enough for birds. These two Thai gentlemen were waiting for Siberian Robins among other species. Knowing all this didn’t set me at ease, especially considering we’d scaled the mountain to find native habitat. Thankfully, slightly down the road the horrors could be forgotten and unique species were found.

Understanding a new environment is difficult enough. Throw in the tropics and you’ve got yourself a handful. Plants, numerous and beautiful as they are, I have reserved learning for times when I can glean from others. Insects can be photographed for inquiry, which I have taken full advantage of thus far. Yet birds remain difficult, so much of recognition is tied to voice and reliance on helpful information in our books (which are surprisingly vague). No massive amount of studying would have prepared us.

Layers upon layers. Lushness filtered by lushness. Even in the supposed dry season, so much was green. As we crept down slope, towards a supposed waterfall, it was surprisingly quiet but this was welcome, Ryan and I had little clue of what much of the bird song was. No matter, that’s the fun part of exploration, seeking to learn!

The waterfall did exist as it turned out. We relaxed with our lunches, watched the spectacular insect life, and hoped to see a few new birds. Two species I’d lusted after appeared amidst the noise of the waterfall– a Black-naped Monarch (Hypothymis azurea) of a clear blue and an unusual non-parasitic cuckoo, a Green-billed Malkoha (Phaenicophaeus tristis). We were raking in a fraction of the species likely present, but being my first excursion into the ubiquitous Broadleaved Evergreen forests of Southeast Asia I was having a blast.

A tip from a couple from Toronto got us on the track down the hill, avoiding backtracking. Doi Suthep National Park is a mere 30 minutes climb from busy Chiang Mai, it seemed yet another exotic world away and coming face to face with two Canadians was surprising. Earlier we’d ran into some guides with their Anglo charges, somehow they seemed like they belonged more. Of all the advice they could have lent us out here in the forest, they wanted us to stay vigilant against the Lady Boys.

Although it heated up as we down climbed, the birds kept coming. While audibly I felt a cretin, visually I was feeling quite proud of myself. Even if I didn’t know exactly what it was, I could still stab in the right direction!

At the bottom of the hill we strolled down a paved road to the main highway. If you haven’t watched birds, you wouldn’t necessarily know that the middle of the day is not ideal for birds. Heat is restrictive and we saw very little before reaching a ride out at 4 PM. A songthaew was caught for a fraction of the price up, food was procured, and a good day in the bush was celebrated.

My travels thus far have gotten me a stone’s throw from the Northern border of Burma (Myanmar) and Thailand. The lovely town of Pai has been good to us thus far and hopefully will continue to do so. New birds, new images, and new stories have most definitely taken place (but I must admit the birds unfortunately are still hard to photograph). Stay tuned!

January 21, 2011
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Bangkok to Chaing Mai

“I wish our common birds were ridiculously colorful.”

Ryan, Scott, and I were eating a “breakfast” of Pad Thai in Chaing Mai, on plastic seats in a street stall facing the river Pai. Opposite a Eurasian Tree Sparrow (Passer montanus) and not far from a rat scrounging for scraps, was a Coppersmith Barbet (Megalaima haemacephala). While not the gaudiest or sought after of barbets in Thailand, the setting was odd. A palate of shades of green, yellow, red, and black it surpassed Washington’s most vivid birds yet here it was mingling with the street riffraff.

In my opinion, when visiting a foreign country, it is absurd to jump into nature without first spending time to see how the people live. Wandering Bangkok for the sake of exploring was magical but after a few days of city grime, the “hey you, where you go?” of the tuk-tuk drivers (a tricycle taxi), and thumping backpacker slums it was time to move on.

Ryan’s first day in Bangkok was also his last for the time being. A simple breakfast of Pad Thai and iced coffee, sufficed and we hit a nearby park to think about our plans for Chaing Mai. Santichaiprakan Park, adjacent to Phra Sumen Fort that guarded the moat to the old city, had a surprising amount of bird life. While Scott read the Thailand guide, Ryan and I couldn’t help but get engrossed in the animals overhead.

We’d already seen Common Myna (Acridotheres tristis) but quickly noticed a White-vented Myna (Acridotheres grandis) gulping down figs along with the other species. Asian Koel (Eudynamys scolopaceus), a large black cuckoo sat veiled by vegetation in the top of a tree, constantly calling back at someone in the park imitating it with a flute. Scarlet-rumped Flowerpeckers (Dicaeum cruentatum), a more common species in Bangkok foraged along with Common Iora (Aegithina tiphia), a single Yellow-browed Warbler (Phylloscopus inornatus), and a lone Asian Pied Starling (Gracupica contra). Some Asian Palm-Swifts (Cypsiurus balasiensis ) bent over the Chao Phraya river. With birds so very different it wasn’t surprising the squirrels overhead, dropping half eaten figs on us, were equally as foreign, piebald rodents.

Although this was only my second day in Thailand and I’d already seen nearly two dozen new species, I was anxious to get further afield and into actual habitat. A 12 hour, overnight bus ride to Chaing Mai with other backpackers was fairly welcome. It is the jumping off point into more forested areas of Thailand, places still with primary forest and much of their original avian fauna (mammals as a rule appear to be heavily hunted and not easily found). Reclining seats and air conditioning meant the trip was bearable certainly.

As we were trundled into Chaing Mai at 6:30AM, we slipped through narrow streets and slid by a morning market. Groggily we stumbled our way to the first reasonable guest house, in a back alley lined with plants (the Thai have a way of making urban places seem pleasant with traipsing vines everywhere). Red-whiskered Bubuls chortling and cavorting through the building tops greeted us as we made our way out to find breakfast at a market.

Transportation for the day was by bike, for less than two dollars each. We visited Wat Phrasing (the most visited temple in Chaing Mai), spoke with two 19 year old Monks for a half an hour (amidst a few shy younger monks who couldn’t get the courage to talk to us), and pedaled off towards Chaing Mai University (the first in the region). Biking was hectically fun in the city and combined with navigation challenges of un-named streets, we took a bit to reach the forested grounds. Apparently it was graduation time for some of the students, some of whom seemed confused by three farang gliding through on aging bicycles.

Birding wasn’t a great option being the middle of the day, but we still managed a few new species. An immature Chinese Pond Heron flew from a man made pond, at a flowering tree Chestnut-tailed Starlings (Sturnia malabarica), Ashy Drongo (Dicrurus leucophaeus), and the surreal Greater Racket-tailed Drongo (Dicrurus paradiseus). Even just a few new species were welcome while we were still acclimatising but I could feel the shrouded mountains behind the university pulling.

Late afternoon food and beer made for a groggy evening and we called in an early night. Tomorrow we head for Doi Suthep National Park, a few kilometers from the city, and will hopefully make a good run of exploring it – birds and all!

January 18, 2011
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Wingtrip Goes to Southeast Asia Pt. 1

Blogging follows a trend in immediacy. What’s interesting about this, in conjunction with what I intend to initiate with Wingtrip, is the dualism that arises. As fast paced as the natural world can be, careful, exacting observation is absolutely necessary to make satisfactory conclusions. Time is paramount.

My two and a half month long trip seems a good length, yet compared to the expeditions of those I admire, it is slight. With many departures, countless hours slogging through malarial rainforest and slipping over verdant mountains, many natural historians have provided much to our comprehension. Alfred Russel Wallace, a scientist who tiptoed in prepubescent evolutionary theory with Darwin, spent 8 years traveling the archipelagos stretching between the Malayan peninsula and Australia. Emulating the collecting, the explorations, the things he saw, and his amazingly accurate theories will never be a possibility for me. That is a world past yet one highly worth looking back to.

So I embark for the time I have allowed myself, albeit financially deemed, to document in my modern way. It is no less exciting; there’s a chance I’ll photograph or witness something no one else has ever captured in image or word. Maybe that’s an overstatement yet the prospect is beautifully exciting. Possibly people don’t need to know everything about the ecosystems and organisms of Southeast Asia, but as far as I am concerned the more the better.

I write this on a 12 hour flight somewhere over the Seward Peninsula en route to Seoul, South Korea. Then it is another 6 hours to Bangkok where I grab my bag, hop a taxi, and meet my good friend Scott in the pulsing tourist lane of Kao San Road (or KSR) at 12:15 AM Bangkok time (EDIT – I’m here and in good health). The next night, Ryan (a birding friend) arrives and we all jaunt off into the North of Thailand. From there, we’ll see what happens. With luck we’ll have an opportunity to visit some Hornbill Research Group sites and travel to the tallest mountain in Thailand, Doi Inthanon before Ryan’s and my month long visa is up.

The items that I somehow deem necessary to observe wildlife are somewhat ludicrous. The point is to watch birds, monkeys, elephants, insects – whatever I come upon. Somehow I ended up with a backpack full of the minutia of documentation. I’m excited by the uncertainty of having yet to discover what I’ll experience. The first bird (Pigeons!), the first mammal (huge city rats!), the first body of water (Chao Phraya River). I’ve got a camera, a Grinnel Journal (I’ll let you all figure that one out), and a blog raring to go.

So long for now – I would check back in 3 days if you haven’t yet bookmarked or subscribed. Thanks for all your support and if you are someone waiting to see what this is all about before backing the project on Kickstarter, I will convince you of the worth shortly!

(quick note – because of internet issues in Seoul, I couldn’t get this posted until today in Bangkok. A few life birds, cultural delving, and tasty street food were had. More soon)