The unmistakable profile of a Common Hoopoe. I love these birds, with their distinctive thin bill and counterbalancing crest. I think they have evolved just to delight me! (Mind you, I could say that about most critters)

Thick-billed Flowerpecker (trying to make itself more colorful by surrounding itself with flowers). Somehow gratifying to see this little bird feeding on mistletoe, which is a common parasite on eucalypts in Australia. The light was very harsh at midday, so I was lucky to get it in the shade.

Oriental Magpie Robin, every Indian garden has one (or two). Taken in the garden outside our hotel this morning in soft morning light.

Gulp! Indian Grey Hornbill feasting on figs. These big birds have are usually very flighty, and difficult to get close to. You just have to catch one when it is distracted, and what better way than with FOOD!!

Shades of sky blue; The Indian Roller.

Diminutive Jungle Prinia singing in the shade of midday.

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Coppersmith Barbet feasts on figs. I am so delighted to share this photo. I have always been hoping for a good shot of this bird. Firstly, they are little jewels, secondly they are quite common and vocal, so they’re heard on many of our Indian albums. This image comes from our walk today, when we came across a tree in the grounds of a temple with about a dozen Barbets gorging on the fruit.

A pair of Green Bee-eaters at their vantage perch. The delicate trilling, tinkling calls of Bee-eaters are unique and delightful. This pair were just happy to sit and call every now and then.

A male Indian Robin contemplating his garden. Australia has its Robins, Europe does too, and America… this is what the Indian species looks like. There seem to be a pair in every Indian garden. A lovely bird and quite confiding, difficult to photograph because of the dark plumage, but the dappled light here shows him nicely.

Oriental White-eye plays peek-a-boo. These little birds are so quick! This little fellow stopped eating for just long enough!

Common Hawk Cuckoo in the dappled light of the forest.

A Common Tailorbird hides among the foliage. Sometimes, a bird will get itself right into the heart of shrub, and from every angle you try, the bird shifts slightly to hide itself. Just managed to get this quite atmospheric image from less than a meter away.

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Here we go! – week 1.

Three Plain Prinias cuddle up in the morning sunlight.

Irridescent – the male Purple Sunbird.

Red-vented Bulbul, its beautiful bubbling song is heard in many of India’s gardens. Bulbuls are a common species, but I’m very fond of them, and this is a nice shot with the flowers out of focus behind.

A Black Drongo scans the forest, making aerial forays out to chase insects. I love the little white dot at the base of the bill, characteristic of this species. Their fish tails are also distinctive, and they are easily recognisable as they sit upright on branches looking for their next beakful.

Jungle Babblers after indulging in a mutual preening session. Jungle Babbs are very social birds, often mobbing noisily through the forest in groups of a dozen or more. This pair had just finished preening each other, involving some very fluffed feathers!

Brown Rock Chat, nonchalantly perched on a 2000 year old pillar at Sanchi. We’ve encountered these confiding little birds at many of the archaeological sites we’ve visited recently in central India. Old monuments seem to make great vantage points to look for a tasty morsel. Maybe they are the guardians of these heritage sites!

Yellow-eyed Babbler peers out from among marigolds. What I LOVE about this image, is the way the bird’s yellow eye wattle matches the marigolds.

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Among the mogul ruins of the ancient Indian town of Orchha, are the huge Raja and Jahangir Mahals, the Chaturbhuj Temple and a collection of impressive chhatris (cenotaphs) on the banks of the River Betwa.

Atop the rooftops of these decaying buildings roost a colony of Indian Vultures. They are huge birds, but we didn’t notice them at first as they blend into the baroque ornament of the spires and parapets. However when they spread their wings and take to the air, they cast shadows on the ground, and looking up… well, they are magnificent. When they alight again, they look so much a part of the roofline – medieval gargoyles, stern against the sky.

Sadly, Indian Vultures have suffered huge population declines – around 98% – in recent years, due to the widespread use of a cattle drug which persists in carcasses and causes kidney failure in vultures. The Govt has banned the drug as of 2010, but it is still being used and it will take a while before it is replaced. And many more years before populations of this long-lived bird may recover.

Critically endangered – The majestic Indian Vulture.

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Family of Barn Owls just after dusk – adult on the right, the curious ones are the youngsters!

Before I got the opportunity – actually the next morning – walking across the courtyard, we were beckoned over to see something. A group of young men had one of the juvenile owls tethered by a cord; they must have caught it feeding.

India often presents injustices which foreigners find difficult to respond to, and we’ve come to appreciate that it is usually better to stay sanguine, rather than get angry and self-righteous in someone else’s country. But there was something about this lovely bird, ruffled, tethered, and blinking in the sharp sunlight, and the youth looking for a few tourist rupees to view his prize.

“Why do you do this?” I said sharply. Everyone looked shocked, this was not the response they’d been expecting. I could see they didn’t know much English, and I was communicating more by body language. I indicated they should untie the bird and let it fly.

Fortunately, the groundsman, who picked up some extra income guiding tourists, was keen to keep me happy, and gestured to let the bird go. The cord was untied, but the bird just sat. Maybe it was injured, so I took off my jacket to put over it while I checked for anything obvious. But the owl was fine, and dodging my jacket, took wing and flew off toward its roost.

Two juvenile Barn Owls perched under an ancient mogul gateway in Orchha, India – awaiting mum’s return with a mousy titbit, no doubt.

In retrospect, I’m glad I took action. It was spontaneous and genuine. Explaining the value of wild animals would have been pointless, but demonstrating that there were no rupees in displaying a captive creature I hope sent a more pertinent message.

That evening, I went down to the gateway at 6pm. Three owls were perched, two screeching, which I presume were juveniles with an adult.

Happy hunting!

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Nagzira Wildlife Reserve protects a forested and hilly area in central India where Tigers still roam, and the woodlands are filled with birdsong.

First light across Nagzira Lake.

In the centre of Nagzira forest is a lake, and on the far side, a pair of Grey-headed Fish Eagles roost.

On this recording, made around 5.30am, you’ll hear their morning wake up and pair bonding calling. Dew falls from the leaves of nearby trees, a last chorus of Spotted Owlets is heard before the day begins, fruit bats flutter close to microphone, and the cries of a Lapwing echo from the far end of the lake.

I’ve included a spoken introduction to this recording.

(Thanks to our friend Girish Vaze for his wonderful image of the Fish Eagle.)

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A woman from the small village of Manmad, Maharashtra - fierce, open and cheeky!

Gujarati woman collecting cow shit to create dung patties to fuel the cooking stove.

Bathing under the powerful force of water at the communal ghats in Lonar, Maharashtra.

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At 4 a.m., It felt like we were driving across the surface of the moon. Overhead the stars shone; hard diamonds in an inky sky. The ground over which we drove was a featureless plain of baked, grey earth – the Rann of Kutch.

This unique lowland area in the northwest of India lies between the southern edge of the Thar desert and the Arabian Sea. With each monsoon, floodwaters flowing south get backed up here, creating a vast lake often less than a metre deep on which local villagers go fishing. In the dry season it becomes the moonscape we were now traversing. Even in the driest months, the Rann has RAMSAR-listed perenial wetlands, a refuge for huge numbers of waterfowl. Also dotted amongst this remote vastness were isolated ‘islands’ of thornscrub, known as phets, and it was to one of these that we were being driven in the predawn.

Our dilapidated Land Rover – with no windshield or doors, atrophied suspension and a top of speed of 30kph – felt like one of NASA’s Apollo moon rover buggies. Micro-fine dust was being kicked up by our wheels, and settled over everything, eerily flowing almost like liquid.

Beside me, our local driver Mahboob, his head completely swaddled in a shawl against the night chill, reminded me of some desert alien from a Star Wars or Dune film. In the days he had driven us around the Rann, despite little language in common, we had grown to enjoy his quiet, good spirits and easy smile. How he navigated unerringly around this featureless region was an utter mystery.

But now my faith in his uncanny ability was faltering. When we had set off, the setting stars of Orion had hung over our bonnet as we headed west. During the past five minutes they had drifted slowly to our left side, and were now almost behind us. A few minutes later they were over my right shoulder. We were going in a huge circle.

I looked over at Sarah huddled in the back, a pulled a face. Mahboob looked aglance at me, smiled broadly and wiggled one hand in the air. Yep, we were lost.

During the previous few days, we had been based at the Desert Coursers Lodge at Zainabad on the edge of the Rann, and Mahboob had driven us out each morning and afternoon to likely recording locations.

At first sight, the barren Raan didn’t look like a promising place to be recording nature sounds. Even Sarah was finding the empty landscape a challenge to photograph. It had atmosphere, no doubt about that, but at first we were wondering whether we would get any worthwhile recordings at all.

On the first morning, our doubts were swept away. Mahboob rolled the old Landie to a halt at the edge of some low bushes, and indicated that we should walk on. Pushing through them, we found ourselves on the shoreline of a broad, expansive wetland. Before us, mirror-still waters were covered with the graceful pink and white forms of hundreds of Lesser Flamingos. It was such an unexpected scene in this barren landscape, that Sarah and I found ourselves in a state of childlike wonder. It was a sight we had never anticipated to see. Ducks, pelicans, stilts and cranes were also out on the waters, silently feeding in this surreal place.

Later that morning, we came across a small herd of Wild Ass, or Onager, Equus hemionus. Found only in the Rann, loose family groups of these rare animals subsist on the sparse grasslands. They have a habit of hanging their heads over each other’s neck, which is quite endearing.

That afternoon we identified a promising recording location. Exploring one of the thornscrub phets, we found it to be a haven for small birds; babblers, prinias, silverbills, bee-eaters, coucals, doves and bulbuls were prolific.

Just on sunset, groups of Grey Francolins, Francolinus pondicerianus, began calling, their cackling calls echoing across the landscape, revealing them to be a much more numerous than sightings alone suggested.

So for the next few mornings we recorded among the thornscrub, and encountered some of their more secretive inhabitants. We were surprised to find Nilgai and other deer in such desolate surroundings.

Stone Curlews and Short-eared Owls were seen at dusk, and occasionally we’d come across small groups of Common Cranes, Grus grus, shyly feeding among the scrub or flying overhead in stately formation on lazy wingbeats.

The Rann was slowly revealing its wonders to us.

With the first pale light of dawn arriving in the east, we were still lost on the Rann. Just as I was beginning to think we would miss a recording of the dawn chorus, a line of short grass appeared in the headlights, and beyond that ‘beachline’, a wall of low thornscrub. By good fortune, we’d found a phet, although probably not the one we’d intended. Relieved, I bundled out with my recording gear, and made my way into the scrub.

That last morning yielded a very good recording, with flocks of tiny Silverbills, Lonchura malabarica, winging overhead, and a diversity of delicate birdsong drifting over the landscape. The ringing of cowbells and occasional yell of a cattle herder in the distance added a human touch to the ambience.

Returning, something caught my eye on the ground. A pattern in the now-dried mud had been made by a large animal (deer or cow maybe) urinating. It was utterly unique and distinctive. But the extraordinary thing was that I had noticed this exact mark yesterday. Looking around, I recognised the patterns of scrub – it was precisely the same location that I had been on previous mornings. Mahboob’s navigational abilities were indeed redeemed!

Back at the Landie, Sarah showed me some of the atmospheric dawn landscapes she’d photographed, and we prepared to set off.

Mahboob fired up the engine but it promptly died. He leaned down and held up the accelerator peddle; sheared off completely. Despite everything, there was something amusing about our predicament. Mahboob wobbled his head and ‘tut, tutted’ to himself. Whilst not being alarmed, we were curious how we were going to get ourselves out of this one.

Mahboob rummaged around under the seat and emerged with… a used fan belt. Great, very useful… More rummaging, this time under the bonnet. A few minutes later, he’d tied the fan belt to the throttle cable and fed it back into the cab through a gap in the chasis under the steering wheel. He turned over the engine again, pulling on the fan belt to rev the motor happily. Big grins all round – the man was truly amazing!

Our album ‘The Great Rann‘ presents nature sounds from this unique part of the world.

Track 1 was made in the darkness of pre-dawn on the edge of one of the Rann’s wetlands. Waterfowl including stilts, ducks, teal, cranes and flamingos are heard calling quietly in the darkness. From the wetlands, we move on to the thornscrub phets, beginning with a dawn chorus of francolins, and progressing through that lovely morning of drifting birdsong. Towards the end a group of Common Cranes call as they fly leisurely overhead (track 3). Finally, on track 4 you will hear the dusk calls of francolins merge into a cricket chorus of nightfall.

The nature sound album ‘The Great Rann‘ is available on CD or by direct digital download from our website: www.listeningearth.com

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What is the most beautiful songbird in the world?

If we mean ‘musical to our ears’, then surely one of our favourites would be the Malabar Whistling Thrush, Myophonus horsfieldii, of India.

Also known as the ‘whistling schoolboy’, this bird has the most haunting and tuneful of songs – it is indeed like overhearing someone whistling to themselves as they walk along a jungle path.

Our first encounter with this songbird was completely unexpected. Sarah and I were at the beginning of our first field trip to India, and the most of the birdsong we were hearing was exotic and unfamiliar.

We had chosen to begin with a visit to Cotigaon Wildlife Reserve in Goa, on India’s Malabar coast. Cotigaon is an extensive evergreen forest nestled among the foothills of the western Ghats, seasonally drenched by the monsoon off the Arabian Sea. It is a truly beautiful place.

Although we didn’t fully appreciate it at the time, it was also an easy park to access. Due to a low population of large mammals such as elephants, it was relatively safe for us to find our own way around, even after dark. We simply hired a pair of scooters, and that first morning set off at 4am to ride into the core forest area where we had identified a likely recording location; a footpath leading through a dense part of the forest.

I left Sarah to await the dawn while I set off on foot with my recording gear. Everything was silent, with just a pattering of dewdrops falling from the canopy. Not far off, a softly raucous call broke the stillness, a sound that I would soon come to recognise as a Jungle Owlet.

I set up my microphones, and put on my heaphones, with little idea of what to expect of this exotic new environment. You can perhaps imagine my feelings; a mixture of cautious awareness and expectation.

I was listening intently. Another Owlet called, and the soft susurration of crickets permeated the air. Then the most inexplicable sound arose in the dark. Someone was whistling a tune… slow, soft, immensely beautiful, and with a carefree sense of aimlessness about it. It seemed to just hang in the air like the humidity itself. Listening, I was dumbstruck, in a state of suspended animation.

It lasted perhaps a minute, and before it had finished, another tune began from behind me. In all I think there may have been three birds singing that first morning, each moving from one songperch to another, so the forest seemed filled with sweet, sad melodies. Then they fell silent again.

I had just heard the Malabar Whistling Thrush giving its predawn song in its favourite haunt, the dense undergrowth of India’s evergreen forests.

I continued recording as the dawn arrived and the forest came alive with a wonderful diversity of other birdsong; Flamebacks, Hornbills, Yellow-browed Bulbuls, Drongos, Fulvetas… Particularly delightful were the groups of tiny and iridescent Sunbirds that darted among the canopy and understory.

That morning’s recording can be heard on our album ‘Sunbird Forest‘.

While Sunbirds were numerous at Cotigaon, it is the Whistling Thrushes who are the real stars of the album. They feature on the opening track, which I’ve entitled; ‘Melifluous’, as I can think of no better word to describe the song of the Malabar Whistling Thrush, surely one of the most beautiful songbirds in the world.

The nature sound album ‘Sunbird Forest’ is available on CD or by digital download from our website: www.listeningearth.com

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“But you will not be finding any birds singing in that area sir!” The Indian National Parks officer smiled reassuringly at me from behind his desk.

My heart sank. “How do you know?” I replied.

“It is part of my area, as Range Field Officer for that park, and I never hear any birds in that place.”

“But it is the heart of the forest, there must be birds there, surely?”

“No sir, if you want birds you must be going here, by the lakeside”.

I looked down at the map on the desk between us in the gloomy office, and followed his finger indicating a large dam marked outside the park boundary. Nearby were several villages, a town, a major trunk road and, finalising any remaining doubt, a temple.

“No, this area will not do. We wish to make sound records of forest birdsong. There are villages here, and a road, it will be noisy…” I didn’t mention the blaring, devotional broadcasts starting every 4am that we had come to expect from any temple in rural India. Instead I pointed to the centre of the extensive Sunabeda Wildlife Sanctuary. “We need a quiet place for sound recording. Here must be the best area”.

View Satellite Map of Sunabeda

I really had no idea. I was looking at the map for the first time, and guessing. We had taken a week driving to this remote part of western Orissa state. The roads had been appalling, even for India. With the continual jarring, I had injured my back, and I found myself in considerable pain.

We had come because Sunabeda looked a promising park to visit; an extensive plateau of dry woodland country in central India, Much of it was inaccessible, and reportedly with its own remnant population of rarely seen Tigers.

Now we were in the dusty, back-block town of Nuwapara, at the decaying regional headquarters of the Indian Forest Service, with a park ranger telling me in all sincerity that we had made the journey in vain. The Field Officer smiled even more at my resolve to go to the forest anyway, and gave that wonderful sign that can has many meanings; the Indian head wobble.

Sarah and I were soon in an adjoining office, with senior staff all seated around. Our Field Officer was there, but it was an intense Muslim man with an impressive henna-died beard who was leading proceedings. Not for the first time in Orissa, surprise and curiosity at our presence was expressed, and we learned we were the first westerners to visit the park. We presented our papers of introduction, and explained our purpose.

When in this kind of situation, being quizzed by Indian officials about what we hoped to do, we had learned to feel a little guarded. Rules are rules in India, and we knew from experience that our aspirations could be squashed by the most helpful of staff who bring up some regulation that is impossible to get around. However on this occasion, we were amazed at the assistance offered by these park staff. Not only were we granted full permissions, but we were to be assigned a cook for our 4-day expedition, and accompanied by our smiling Field Officer as guide! And there was more: “The Indian Forestry Service will contribute 1000 rupees towards your expenses”.

2 hours later, our cook had bought up half the market, and we had enough food packed into the back of our vehicle to feed an army. He climbed into the tiny remaining space, balanced 50 eggs on his knees, and signalled he was quite comfortable. I however found my front seat had to be vacated for the benefit of our Field Officer, and spent the next few hours and 70km being tossed around in the back, attempting vainly to protect my back from further injury.

The road into the park was arduous. After threading through fields and villages we arrived at the foot of the range. The dirt road ascended in one long gradual incline, but it soon degenerated into a track of rocks and boulders. Frequently we would all have to get out to give the vehicle enough clearance to continue. Our usually jovial and easy-going driver, Shiva, was getting seriously concerned for his vehicle. Only the Field Officer’s assurances, and an encounter with another vehicle similar to our own going down, eased his anxieties that the road ahead would be passable.

Once on the plateau, the wet deciduous forest of the slopes thinned to open woodland, and we immediately knew we’d made the right choice in coming here. It felt like Australia. Here was open savannah country similar to what we were familiar with back home, particularly the tropical scrub we knew from places like Kakadu. The landscape was a mosaic of open rocky areas, grassland, scrub and woodland – the kind of country that we were confident would be home for a wide variety of birdlife.

After dark, we arrived at the Forest Lodge, and our cook got to work in the humble kitchen, managing to serve us up a truly spectacular meal. That evening, the Field Officer (I wish we could remember his name, but it escapes us) asked what we expected to hear in the morning. He was not in the least defensive of his earlier assertion that there were no birds here, indeed he seem to have forgotten ever saying it.

“Well…” I began, “in the pre-dawn we might get the last calls of Owlets as they go to roost. After a short break, we might hear a Drongo, as they’re usually the first diurnal birds to call at dawn. A few more species will likely join in for a dawn chorus, but I’m not expecting it to be very loud or prolonged. Then it will probably go quiet for an hour or so until the sun actually rises. Once the air warms a little, the birdsong will get stronger, and with luck we may get a few hours of diverse birdsong until mid morning, when it will taper off until only species like Parrots and Orioles are left calling.”

I had experienced mornings in India that followed this pattern, but I had no idea of whether it would happen like that here. Or happen at all.

At 4am the next morning, we were up and driving out to a likely location; a mosaic of open and wooded habitats we had earmarked the previous evening. Sarah and I left our ‘team’ by the vehicle, building a fire to warm themselves against the pre-dawn chill. We walked off into the scrub, hoping any tigers were as rare here as they were supposed to be. I set up my microphones in the stillness of pre-dawn, and Sarah moved off with her cameras to await the light.

It was a wonderful morning, one of the best symphonies of nature we had heard in India. Not that the birdsong was particularly loud, dense or overwhelming, it was just very beautiful.

Lovely, melodic songs from White-browed Fantails and Indian Scimitar Babblers entwined with each other throughout the morning. At one time there was a small bird, which I didn’t identify but could have been a Prinia or Flycatcher, singing its heart out from the top of a shrub. Tiny Yellow-capped Woodpeckers climbed tree trunks, giving a rapid drumming reminiscent of a door creaking open. Turtle Doves ‘coo’ed happily, and even the Barbets, which can be monotonous in their calling, were here somehow more expressive. One even sounded uncannily like a Kookaburra laughing for a moment! For the first time I definitely identified an Alexandrine Parrot calling, a distinctly more gravely-textured cry than the more common Plum-headeds.

Not only the birds were calling; nearby a family of Hanuman Langurs were moving in the treetops, their occasional full-bodied whooping echoing across the landscape in the crisp morning air. Finally, to cap off a perfect morning, a pair of Indian Grey Hornbills flew in with a subtle whistle of wings, and began feeding in a nearby fig tree.

Eventually everything quietened down and I packed my gear. I found Sarah nearby, sitting on a rock contentedly composing leaf pictures. After all the uncertainties of achieving anything in India, we were feeling the kind of elation that comes from sheer emotional exhaustion.

We walked back, and found our team still standing quietly by their fire as we’d left them, rugs draped around their shoulders. We must have approached with broad smiles, to which our Field Officer responded with an equally warm grin and an energetic head wobble. “Ah, very nice”, was all he said.

A very nice morning indeed.

You can now listen to what we heard in the woodlands of Sunabeda on our new album: “Indian Woodland Birdsong“.

The full album may be purchased as either a CD or a digital download directly from our website: www.listeningearth.com

Our heartfelt gratitude goes to the Indian Forest Service, and particularly the unsung staff of this park who assisted us so generously. During our visit we heard of how they face great problems from the pressure of local villages, underfunding, corrupt local politicians, errant wildlife, and to cap it all off, the ongoing threat of ambush from Naxalite rebels who have been known to use the park as refuge. How they continue to work for the preservation of wildlife and the environment under such conditions we found truly inspirational. This album is for them.

A grateful bow also to our patient driver Shiva, who’s vehicle survived unscathed.

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