Ciblek Mania

I'm sitting in my home office today in the Appalachian foothills of southeastern Ohio (and will continue doing this over the coming holiday weekend) trying to write a compelling, readable account of an adventure I had back in March of 2009 in The Philippines.

The subject of the article I'm writing is a trek I took with some birding pals (pictured above) to see the Philippine eagle on a mountain in Mindanao.

This photo (above) of the thick mountain jungle with a bit of rising mist (or is it smoke?) figures prominently in the story, which will appear in the September/October 2011 issue of Bird Watcher's Digest. If you don't subscribe to BWD, dang it, ya should, because you're missing out on some of the best bird-related content on the planet. You can get an entire year of both the printed-on-paper version of BWD and eBWD our enhanced digital edition for less than $20.

Just wanted to post this today to note how weird it was to be sitting in these old mountain foothills in Ohio, remembering our incredible hike up Mt. Kitanglad on Mindanao. It's all coming back to me now...

On an afternoon trip from Ambua Lodge to a nearby roost site of a sooty owl, our birding group got its first encounter with a member of the local Huli people. The roost site was in a cavity in a tall eucalyptus-like tree in the middle of some hand-planted crop fields.

I wish I had photos of our initial moments with the man I came to know simply as Warrior. He was a Huli wigman who appeared in the middle of the road as we were trying to execute a too-tight turn in our combi-bus. He initially waved and smiled, and beckoned us to drive after him down the road. He was running barefoot down the road in front of us, feathered headdress waving with his movement, a bundle of leaves covering his backside.


As our bus started to follow him, he suddenly whirled, notched and arrow and aimed it at us through the windshield. I must admit that I jumped and dodged behind the seat back in front of me. A palpable surge of momentary fear had gone through our group. And just as quickly, the man smiled and laughed, turning to resume his trot down the road.

Fewer than 100 yards later, a washed out bridge prevented our further progress, so we dismounted and continued on foot. The wigman immediately came up to me to show me his bow and arrows. I was fascinated, and he could tell. Our conversation went like this:

"I sell you all 75 kina!" he said.
"No thanks. Please tell me your name!"
"Warrior!"
"Is that really your name?"
"Yes, I warrior. What name bilong you?"
"My name is Bill."
"Beel! My fren!"

Warrior tried once or twice more to sell me his arrows, but each time I politely declined and asked him another question. Despite our language difficulty—he did not speak much English and I could only discern certain phrases in Pidgen, the language most common in Papua New Guinea, a mash-up of English, German, and various local tongues—we learned a lot about each other. The land where we were going to find the sooty owl was owned by him and his clan. He did some farming, but mostly hunting and guiding people. I asked him is this was how he dressed every day, and he confirmed it. Looking closely at his headdress, I could see cassowary feathers, two sulphur-crested cockatoo feathers, fresh plant stems and leaves, and a carefully folded and pinned-in-place label from a food product. A long tan reed was centered beneath the tip of his nose, inserted through a hole in his septum. Elaborate patterns were painted on his face in red, yellow, and black.


We'd be instructed to ask for permission to take photographs of the people we would encounter—this is only common courtesy after all. But we'd also been asked/advised not to pay money for this privilege, since PNG is trying to maintain a spirit of friendly hospitality for visiting tourists. The concern being that if every photo-taking tourist is made to pay to take photographs, the local culture and customs could devolve into mercenary commerce, opening the door to more of the problems caused by so-called "rascals" who commit crimes against tourists and travelers.

It can be a rare thing to enjoy an authentic encounter with someone native to a country you are visiting. Sometimes a place and its people are so inured to tourists that they have little interest in answering the same handful of questions from yet another busload of visitors ("Do you really live here? What do you eat? Did you make that yourself?"). Or, and this is becoming much less common in our modern world, you visit a place where few outsiders go and the people are very shy and reticent. Either way, it can be difficult to get an authentic feel for the people and place.

I suspect that Warrior could easily rev-up his guiding "act" for a bunch of oblivious tourists. He shot several bamboo "arrows" for us—at a cloud, at a distant tree. He did not shoot any of the more finely made arrows he held in his hand. As we walked along, talking, he seemed to enjoy getting to know me as much as I did him.


I had been videotaping the tree scratching, but when the owl peeked out I went for my binoculars and completely missed getting any shots or footage.
Our group posed for some photos with the local family and our guides at the owl roost.

The farmer, including Warrior, are paid a fee each time a group of bird watchers visits. This is an excellent example of grassroots ecotourism. The local villagers know that by protecting the owl and its roost tree, they can earn money from visiting groups. We discussed ways to show the owl without spooking it from its roost, and the local folks assured us that the owl usually peeks out for a minute or so and then goes back down inside the cavity to sleep.
On our way back to the road it began to rain quite heavily. Within minutes we were all soaked through and getting chilled. At the road, we parted company with Warrior and his family. I did buy an arrow from him and he told me about how he made it. He made a slit along one side of the arrow shaft. Into this shaft he inserted some small seeds. He told me that when this arrow goes into his enemy, those seeds will make it hurt more. Knowing how intense the fighting can be among rival clans in PNG, I did not doubt Warrior's sincerity or intent.

The arrow's construction was ingenious. It was designed to come apart mid-shaft. And it was beautifully carved and decorated with paint. The balance was perfect and though I will never shoot it from a bow, I am sure it would fly straight and true.

Before we left Warrior and his family I asked if I could take his photograph.

"Yes, Beel, you my friend! Take photo!"

I did and we shook hands and turned to go our separate ways returning to our separate and very different worlds. I'm not sure Warrior will remember me, but each time I look at the red arrow, I surely remember him.

I've been away for a while.

Not just away, but far away, as in the other side of the planet. I was on a birding trip to Papua New Guinea and, my friends, it was the trip of a lifetime.

Over the next few weeks and months, I'll be sharing some of my experiences in PNG with you here at Bill of the Birds. Eventually I hope to create both a magazine article for Bird Watcher's Digest and a podcast episode for "This Birding Life."

For now I'll start things off with one of my favorite images (above) from the trip. It's me wearing all my birding gear, including my leech socks, standing next to a Huli wigman in the southern highlands near Tari. He told me, as we walked across his land, that his name was simply "Warrior." Warrior helped to guide us to the roost tree of a sooty owl—just one of the nearly 300 species we saw during the three week trip.

It's always a magical thing to be some place that's completely different from what I'm accustomed to—different people, landscape, language, customs, food, and, yes, different birds. PNG qualifies with flying colors on all counts.

More to come about Warrior, and all the people, places, and birds of Papua New Guinea.

Oh yes! Guyana.

After a lovely (too short) morning of birding in the botanical gardens in Georgetown, we were herded to the small, in-town airport for a flight to the interior of Guyana. Because we were taking a small 12-seat plane on this flight, weight was an important factor. We had been warned about this in advance by our hosts and leaders, but that didn't stop us—well it didn't stop me—from bringing far too much stuff. We were weighed by our trip leaders at the hotel. Then weighed again at the airport. I won the avoirdupois prize as the heaviest traveler. Fully one-third of my things—mostly stuff I would not need immediately—was sent by bus overland, along with extras from my fellow travelers.

We were all caught between the pull of wanting to have all of our camera and birding gear with us, along with the proper clothing and footwear, and the necessity of packing the absolute minimum. We also had to send one of our leaders on the land bus. That alone saved us more than 300 pounds of humanity (sorry, just kidding Michael).


Onto the plane we went and in moments we were in the air flying away from Georgetown. Below us stretched miles of housing, then the houses were replaced by a ring of cane fields.
Some of the cane fields were being burned off and we could see and smell the smoke rising from the earth.
Then we were away from all signs of human habitation and civilization. Below us lay unbroken rain forest, a vast carpet of green. It was a sight that did the heart some good. This is why we were here—to experience what is perhaps the last vast expanse of undisturbed rain forest in South America.

Our destination, the Annai landing strip, hove into sight. While flying we'd seen a few birds—turkey and black vultures mostly, with two distant king vultures for added spice. I strained my eyes hoping to catch sight of a harpy eagle perched on one of the emergent snags jutting above the forest canopy, but was unsuccessful.
The Annai landing strip is a dirt road next to Rock View Lodge, one of the largest eco-lodges in Guyana. Stepping from the plane we felt our knees buckle in the mid-day heat. Soon cold drinks and a nice lunch at Rock View Lodge helped revive us.



After lunch we began birding the grounds. Palm and blue-gray tanagers were common. A white-necked thrush was building a nest under the thatched canopy of a benab. I caught a fleeting glimpse of a burnish-buff tanager in a fruiting tree. A horse corral held a number of southern lapwings and the aforementioned buff-necked ibis. I had the feeling that this place would be much birdier early in the morning.

Leon, a guide at Rock View Lodge, gave us a tour of the grounds and facilities, which included very nice guest rooms, a bar and general store, a huge vegetable garden, and the stony promontory from which the lodge derives its name. I would have been content to stay right on that overlook for the rest of the day, conducting a Big Sit, perhaps with a run to the store for some munchies and a frosty cold beer, but our leaders needed to get us on the move. This would become a theme of the trip.

We boarded several 4x4 trucks and headed down a long, straight, red-clay road. Destination Iwokrama, a field station and eco-lodge owned and operated by the Makushi people in the heart of the vast Iwokrama Forest. If one were to drive directly, I suspect this trip would have taken about two hours. We birders found so much to look at that we stretched the drive until well after dark. Arriving at Iwokrama, we hauled our luggage to our rooms, splashed our faces with water and reconvened at the main building for a late dinner. By the time we finished eating and had a brief orientation meeting, I was so tired my eyes were crossing.

Everyone hurried back to their cabins to get ready for bed before the generator was switched off. This was our first night sleeping without air-conditioning under the very necessary mosquito netting. I tried to recall the life birds I'd seen that day but did not get far before dropping into slumberland.

In my next post, I'll share some of the special sightings from the road to Iwokrama.