Most bird species have a strong preference for very particular habitats and places, and hard-core world listers wanting to see as many species as possible must seek out and visit as many of these places as they can. Such locations are by no means all wild, remote or especially beautiful. A case in point is Sablayan Penal Colony, which happens to contain the largest remnant of original, mostly unspoilt forest on the Philippine island of Mindoro. That it remains is a fortunate, serendipitous by-product of the existence of the Colony, which houses mostly lower-risk prisoners, many of whom work in the fields under the watchful eyes of prison guards. With the necessary official permissions, parts of the extensive grounds are accessible to visitors, including birders.
Most of the remnant forest is on the slopes and ridges that adjoin the prison’s fields and buildings. The forested areas are not extensive, and they are not curated or tended. They seem not to have been systematically logged. Small numbers of a suite of increasingly rare species, a few of them Mindoro endemics, hang on precariously in these forest patches. This is one of the very few known, accessible places on earth to encounter these birds. We spent two hot, humid, tiring days trying to dig them out.
For hard core birders, this sort of birding in this kind of place is the stuff of dreams. The rarer the bird, the tougher the challenge, the more prized the trophy. Our ideal ‘holiday’ (even though it turns out to be much more like hard work) is to go to places like this. Tropical forest birding is particularly tough. We may have to make do with only hearing some, and we may not have close-up or prolonged views when others do appear in sight. A familiar combination of disappointment, frustration and anti-climax is to be expected. Yet the hope of a thrilling, prolonged, once-in-a-lifetime sighting of a really rare endemic bird, such as (at this particular site) the Black-hooded Coucal or the Mindoro Racket-tail, urges us on.
In the patch of forest we were able to visit, there were no good trails and access was limited. On the first morning we clambered slowly up a treacherous rocky slope over exposed roots and through clinging foliage into a small clearing next to a waterfall, from where we could peer up into the canopy and through the trees into the dark interior. The ground was steeply sloped and rocky, and a firm footing or stable perch was hard to find. From that vantage point, we could hear the calls and the activity of birds all around us, some very close. We had brief, fleeting views of a handful of target species. Others were calling but remained invisible – including the Back-hooded Coucal. As the sun rose, the heat grew and the bird activity subsided. After a few hours, we retreated.
Later that day, we returned and tried a new tactic – scanning the forest from adjacent open ground. Not much happened as we stood around in the field. We repeated this strategy the next day, and we managed to get some distant views of some of the target birds flying over the canopy or perching out. Some key targets continued to elude us. Behind us, we could hear the prison guards in their barracks doing exercises, their commanders barking orders. In the distance, the occasional bullock, accompanied by its time-serving handler and an armed guard, slowly wandered by.
Looking back on this experience, I think I saw – really ‘saw’ – less than a dozen of the thirty or so species we encountered. The rest were ‘heard only’, fleeting half glimpses or very distant views – ‘BVD’ or ‘better views desired’ as my notes record. For example, the Mindoro Cuckooshrike was undertaking display flights on top of a distant ridge, plainly in sight but at a great distance. An identifiable call and familar Cuckooshrike jizz – a tick. The Blue-naped Parrot gave up a very distant view on a branch through the spotting scope.
These were two of the better sightings. The best views were of more common birds, such as the Philippine Yellow-vented Bulbul, the equally ubiquitous Philippine Jungle Crow and a large flock of low-flying Swifts that enabled us to pick out three different species with close-up, prolonged viewing. That was nice. A highlight was a flushed Barred Buttonquail as we blundered around the field that was our viewing point. Another was a flock of five Green Imperial Pigeons, flying overhead. This species is a specialist lowland forest dweller also found in other parts of Southeast Asia, where I had already seen it on several occasions. So, not a new bird for me, but at least a new subspecies (in consolation, maybe one day there will be a split and it will be elevated to species status).
For me, this was the most memorable sighting of all, for reasons other than adding to my list. Imperial Pigeons characteristically range widely through the forest every day to look for the best fruiting trees, settling down to feast until it is time to head back to a familiar roost on home territory. This little flock, flying over the ridge and heading out, seemed to be doing just that. But as they began their morning expedition, just as their ancestors had for millennia, they saw no forest beckoning them on, just an endless, virtually treeless landscape of cultivated fields and other signs of human activity. The flock’s steady forward progress faltered, the formation broke up, and one by one they followed the leader back, disappearing over the ridge.
I know we are not meant to fall for the temptation of anthropomorphism, but to my eyes, the confusion and the disappointment were palpable. Expectations and hopes were dashed. They had no option but to make do with the leftovers in the tiny patch of forest they were compelled to call home. The flock no doubt does this on other days. Millenia of evolutionary behavioural imprinting takes charge; hope springs eternal. Perhaps fortunately, they cannot see – although I do – the high probability that one day there will be not five in a flock, but only one, alone. Then, none.
So, this is ‘hard core biding’ for the world lister: hard work, sporadically thrilling, mostly boring, and often in ugly places in search of elusive, fast-vanishing, rare species marked ‘vulnerable’ or ‘critically endangered’ on our bird ID apps. While the quest still lures me on – a few more trips and I’ll be on my way to 8,000 – I am beginning to think I have had enough of this kind of birding. I have just about had my fill of the discomfort of chasing remnant birds in distant, remnant habitats.
The frustration of ‘dipping’ on target birds, or only hearing or half-seeing them, is not the worst of it. I am accustomed to this, especially as my eyesight and other necessary faculties have lost their sharpness with the passing years. But it is the tragic memory of those Green Imperial Pigeons and my realisation of their hopeless future as a living community that most makes me think about giving up my quest for encounters with more and more rare, vanishing birds. The state of the world is depressing enough on my daily rounds without compounding the grief when I go on holiday. I will continue to grieve for the fate of disappearing birds, but I also want to help sustain and celebrate what remains. I can do both of these better in my back yard.