Wordless Wednesday - Sitting Duck

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Pachydermophobia!

A few things to remember before you are battered to death by a wild elephant


There are two opinions on elephants with respect to their behaviour. Some say they are foul-tempered creatures while others contend that they are the gentlest of animals that resort to violence only when left with no option. Whatever be the case, elephants have to be respected for their bulk and what they can do with it.


Hailing as I do from Kerala, a land famous for elephants used to bear temple idols in ceremonial processions, I have heard of instances where elephants have turned rogue and killed their mahouts. Numerous videos have been shown on television of mahouts picked up, pounded and thrown around like ragdolls. There have been instances where motorists on national highways cutting through forests have been chased and often killed by elephants. Even before I became interested in birding and wildlife, elephants have given me a slight weakness in the knees.

The big one from Nagarhole with the broken chain

My first close encounter was in Nagarahole National Park, Karnataka. I was driving with three friends along a narrow road just outside the sanctuary when we saw a tusker (with easily the largest tusks I have seen on an Asian elephant) coming right towards us along the center of the road. We put the engine in neutral and waited. It was a domesticated elephant and trailed a broken chain from its front leg. To make things worse, it appeared as if this elephant was in "musth" - a mating urge due to which they go near-berserk, more so if it has not had access to a female elephant (in Africa male elephants in heat are rumoured to mount rhinos in desperation with fatal results for the rhinos, of course). 

We switched off the engine and waited for it to pass and noted that a tractor crammed with people had stopped behind us. We held our breath, having rolled up the windows as the elephant stopped right in front of us. After what felt like eternity, it passed our vehicle. We switched on the engine and, as silently as we could, moved ahead and stopped a safe 50 metres away and looked back. The elephant started walking towards the tractor. Every single person aboard it jumped off and ran helter-skelter. The elephant observed the tractor for a while and walked off, much to everyone's relief.

A mother and calf crossing the road at Chinnar

The second instance was in Chinnar, Kerala. We had overtaken a Kerala-registered car with a group of noisy guys who appeared to be drunk. Ahead we saw a a group of elephants, mostly cows and calves. We stopped at a respectful distance as they crossed the road and once they had passed, we went past them without making any noise. We could hear the noisy group coming along behind us and we were pretty sure they would vex the elephants, so we moved further ahead. 

As expected the noisy group's car came tearing through the forest road and a few minutes later the guys, seeing us drive slowly, screamed, "Hey... Elephant elephant, danger danger!" What could have happened with them is anybody's guess.

Elephants can either mock-charge or charge for real. The mock charge is a warning, an indication of the animal's irritation at being disturbed. The elephant does everything to make the charge appear authentic: Pounding footfalls, kicking up dust, ears fanned out, trunk raised... 


The real charge is a lightning-quick strike relatively devoid of show. The elephant runs up to you - if the ears are not fanned out and if the trunk is held down, you can tell it is not a mock charge - and would continue running over you. You need a miracle to survive. A mock charge can turn into a real charge any time. You can read (and see) more on elephant charges here in an encounter by my friend Dhaval Momaya.

Little ones like this might be cute, but never try to approach them as momma will be around

Both these encounters were experienced in the relative safety of a car but the the ones in Parambikulam, Kerala was more unnerving because we were on foot. Beej , Sahastra, Rohit and I had started our 18 km tramway trek along with a forest guard. Barely half a kilometre into our trek we saw an elephant herd with females and calves beside the road. 

Aadhan, the forest guard, whispered to us to be silent and told us that elephants don't like human noise and are likely to be provoked into attacking if they heard us talk. A tribesman who was with us tapped a nearby tree trunk three times with his bamboo walking stick. The sound carried in a forest that had barely woken up. The elephants looked back, saw us and began moving away from the road. It was evidently an exhibition of mutual respect and understanding. I let go of the breath I was holding and raced off after the others...

The herd at Parambikulam

On our return, we heard loud noises of bamboo stalks snapping about 10 metres ahead to the right of our path. Our second guide Manoharan asked Aadhan to wait with us, motioning us to stay silent. He tiptoed to the source of the sound, peeped into the woods and came back looking grave. He then veered off the trail into the bushes and asked us to follow quietly. Bewildered, we entered the forest in the opposite direction of the noise, off the road, and walked parallel to the road for almost half a kilometer, after which we joined the road again. Back on the road, Manoharan said the elephant was an "Ottayan", referring to a lone tusker. These animals are known for their foul temper. Tapping the tree trunk would have only earned us a charge!

Here are a few things to keep in mind when you encounter an elephant or a herd:

1. Keep your distance, always
2. Avoid white and other bright colors as seeing this attracts their (unwanted) attention
3. Avoid making noise and refrain from conversation
4. An elephant that means business can outrun the fastest of humans, so never assume that you can beat these bulky beings by fleeing at the last moment
5. Be it a mock charge or a real charge, both mean that you have encroached into the elephant's comfort zone. It wants you out of there. Obey. 

Text and photos by Sandeep Somasekharan

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Still in love with elephants even after reading this post?! You might want to read: 

• When Stumpy almost cost us the World Cup
• When the elephant played peekaboo

Mommy loves you!

The Green Ogre salutes mothers and mothers to be of every feather! Happy Mothers Day! We love you back!

A female baya weaver feeds a juvenile (right)

Photo: Sandeep Somasekharan

Raptor Friday - The Lesser Fish-Eagle

Formerly thought to be a resident of the Himalayan foothills, the Lesser Fish-Eagle has pleasantly surprised us by nesting along rivers in southern India

Formerly thought to occur only in the Himalayan foothills, the Lesser Fish-Eagle has now been confirmed as a resident breeder along the Cauvery River in Karnataka as well as river islets in Kerala, both in southern India

The Lesser Fish-Eagle (Ichthyophaga humilis) was believed to be a resident of the Himalayan foothills until recently when there has been a flurry of sightings along the Cauvery river in Karnataka. Other recent reports also confirm that the bird is a resident in southern Kerala (see notes below).


Let me tell you before I begin that 'lesser' is a relative term, to be taken literally only when comparing this raptor to the Grey-headed Fish-Eagle (Ichthyophaga ichthyaetus). In no way should this bird be mistaken for a diminutive creature as it is more than two feet tall when perched, with an impressive wingspan.

All of my three sightings have been in the Ranganathittu Bird Sanctuary near Mysore. The bird would perch on a branch overlooking the river, appearing pensive. On all three occasions, when our boat drew close the bird took off, never to be seen again that day. To watch it fish remains a dream unfulfilled.

The extent of white in the Lesser Fish-Eagle's plumage are a distinguishing mark to identify it against the closely related Grey-headed Fish-Eagle

As its name suggests the Lesser Fish-Eagle feeds on fish and is hence found mostly along riversides. The head is grey, the chest brown and the wings are a deep brown. The belly and thighs are white and the tail is dark. In the field, the primary distinguishing feature to tell it apart from the Grey-headed Fish-Eagle is to observe the area where the white parts of the bird end. In the Lesser Fish-Eagle, the white area ends abruptly at the beginning of the tail. In the Grey-headed Fish-Eagle, it extends all the way to the tip of the tail where it terminates in a thick, dark band. 


Both the Lesser Fish-Eagle and the Grey-headed Fish-Eagle are listed as vulnerable (VU) in the IUCN Red List.


Notes:
1. The latest issue of the journal Indian Birds (Vol. 7, No. 1), April 25, 2011 carries a comprehensive report on the breeding of the Lesser Fish-Eagle in Cauvery Wildlife Sanctuary, Karnataka, India. The report is authored by Dinesh Ramarao, Dipu Karuthedathu, Mohanram K, Prakash H L, Raju A K, Sreekumar H, Srikanth Kumar and Vinay Das


2. A separate report in the same issue of the journal, by C Sashikumar, C K Vishnudas, S Raju, P A Vinayan and S Kannan, informs us that the Lesser Fish-Eagle is a breeding resident in Kerala including reservoir islets in the Parambikulam and Periyar forest areas.


Text and photos by Sandeep Somasekharan
All rights reserved

Wordless Wednesday - Don't shoe me away!

Photograph: Sandeep Somasekharan
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Wordless Wednesday - Look before you leap

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Wordless Wednesday - Ducking the sunset

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On the wing - Himalayan Griffon in flight

Watching a great bird in flight is an experience both meditative and educational


A Himalayan Griffon (Gyps himalayensis) rises slowly on a thermal -- an updraft of warm air rising up from the sun-warmed earth -- above the dense forests in a valley in Uttarakhand, northern India. Among the largest species of vultures, Griffons are powerful fliers – or rather gliders – thanks to their broad, strong wings (which span nearly 3 meters from tip to tip). We watched the bird rise, without a single wing flap, from the abyss below, circle up like a bit of paper caught on an updraft, and rise above us and beyond, touching the clouds...

Text and Photograph: Sandeep Somasekharan
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Wordless Wednesday - Spy versus spy?

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Wordless Wednesday - Half-hearted ant-ithesis

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Encounter: Chinkara or Indian Gazelle

“Eye, gazelle, delicate wanderer, Drinker of horizon’s fluid line.” – Stephen Spender Very near the end of a long, fruitless afternoon tailing invisible bustards in Naliya grassland of Kutch, we were in no mood to savour the sunset muddying the windmill-stippled horizon. Forget the fact that we had, during that day, picked out chestnut-bellied sandgrouse camouflaged among the tinder-dry tussocks. Or watched a jungle cat hunt a spiny-tailed lizard. Or, as dusk neared, blinked our eyes to the silhouettes of nearly fifty or so Pallid and Montagu's harriers settling down to roost in the grass. Such selfish ingrates! But then, our eyes were drawn to a troika of little ungulates chasing each other in single file across the yellow grass. The Chinkara or Indian Gazelle (Gazella bennettii), more of a newsmaker for its association with a certain trigger-happy Bollywood hunk. We saw them on more than one occasion, and always in groups of three - we couldn't quite ascertain if the ménage à trois was the regular marital arrangement with the Chinkaras, or if they were just respectable double-income one-kid family parties. Males are slightly larger than females and have longer, thicker horns. Mostly they trot, but when approached they break into a light, easy lope that chews up the miles faster than you can count them. The dipping sun lit this fellow nicely, gilding his fawn coat to a glaze as Sandy's shutter whirred and clicked greedily. Something to remember the evening by. Photo copyright: Sandeep Somasekharan. All rights reserved

Encounter - Indian Black Eagle

To the Soliga people, the Indian Black Eagle is known by the evocative name of kaanana katthalu - the darkness of the forest

The Mighty Black. For most of my birding career, this majestic forest raptor has been elusive. My first sighting of the Indian Black Eagle (Ictinaetus malayensis) was not in the Western Ghats where it is more commonly seen, but in Horsley Hills, in the Eastern Ghats. We had a view of a distant, unmarked dark eagle alighting on a rock. And so it stayed until we found this magnificent hunter again, soaring above the treetops at BR Hills. 


Dr. Prashanth, who has spent a great part of his career at VGKK and knows the Biligirirangans very well, accompanied us on one of our best visits to his "home" forest. We saw the Black Eagle several times on that visit, most memorably when we were driving up to Bedaguli. Our eyes were already full of Blue-bearded Bee-eaters and Fairy Bluebirds, but the sight of the day was, quite literally, waiting round the bend. Just before the coffee estate began, a large individual chose to melt out of the dark canopy into the blazing blue sky ahead of us. It must have been about 50 metres from the car, and we gasped in unison. 


Imposing in its size and carriage, and soaring majestically into the valley. Later, Prashanth told me that the Soligas call the bird Kaanana-katthalu (literally, 'Darkness of the Forest'). Wondrously poetic and founded on the Soligas' unparalleled jungle wisdom. Sandy (Sandeep Somasekharan) has been particularly lucky company as far as raptors are concerned. As with the Changeable Hawk Eagle, with him I have had some fabulous views of the Black Eagle. He was with us at Bedaguli but things happened too quickly to bring in the photographic evidence. He caught this guy (in the picture) at Ramanagaram when he went there looking for vultures. The vultures were AWOL, but this compensated for Sandy's bad day. And how!  


Photograph © Sandeep Somasekharan. All rights reserved.

Encounter: The Brain Fever bird

As a child, this was one of my three mystery birds (the others were the Red-wattled Lapwing and the Indian Cuckoo). Near Palakkad, in northeastern Kerala, where I spent most of my summer vacations, moonlit nights and rainy afternoons would reverberate with the unending call of this bird. My grandparents told me the bird was crying out: 'Kezhekku edha? Kezhekku edha?' ('Where's the east, where's the east?'). But the bird behind the call remained a mystery. Sometimes, I would run out in the middle of a meal when I heard its call from the mango trees behind my grandfather's house. Usually, I saw nothing but a shadowy shape flitting away, with the call trailing behind it. I was about 14 when I had my first chance encounter with the Brainfever Bird. It had just rained in the afternoon. I was strolling through the newly sown paddy fields looking for Sparrow Larks when I saw a greyish bird flapping weakly above my head. The paddy fields were like a clearing between two groves. The bird took its time covering the distance and entered the grove ahead of me. It was an acacia grove and the only purpose it really served was to provide solitude to clandestine lovers and liquor bootleggers. Of course, the kids were told that it was full of wild boar and therefore dangerous. Alone, with a pair of binoculars, I entered the grove. I didn't come across any clandestine lovers, bootleggers or wild boar. There were no other birds in that grove except some jungle crows and yellow-billed babblers. The calls grew louder and they came from everywhere. There was more than one bird. I followed the calls for about 15 minutes and wandered right to the end of the grove. Then I saw it, clinging to a casuarina tree and calling. This was it - the mystery brainfever bird. And a few hundred feet ahead of it, on another tree, was another individual. And then a third broke into song above my head. The acacia grove was teeming with them. Since, I have seen Common Hawk-Cuckoos (Cuculus varius) very often. They kept me up all night at Auroville, and then again up at Didana in the Garhwal Himalaya. This picture came out of a trip to BR Hills, when Sandy shot the guy as he pretended not to notice. Mimicking a shikra or some such hawk, it had sailed off the canopy and perched on an outlying bough. I could imagine what was on the mind of the sahib who christened this bird as he lay in bed, tormented by malaria and humidity, listening the Common Hawk-cuckoo scream 'Brain fever, brain fever' in febrile crescendo. Its call, performed ad nauseam, can drive the most patient birdwatcher mad. Look at me! Photograph: © Sandeep Somasekharan. Used with permission.

Encounter: Malabar Whistling Thrush

Sálim Ali didn't call it the Idle Schoolboy for nothing. If, uninitiated, you hear its song in a damp nook of the forest, you may be pardoned for suspecting the presence of spirits, or maybe goat-hoofed Pan playing his merry pipes. The call is eerily like human whistling, so much that it wanders up and down the scale and has a deep, penetrating quality that carries it afar. That said, the Malabar Whistling Thrush (Myophonus horsfieldii) is more often heard than seen. To say it is shy would be an understatement. Most first-time birders are content to catch a glimpse of a dark, crow-like bird in quick, darting flight. Or perhaps skulking away into the undergrowth. But then, Luck sometimes knows how to gift-wrap a Whistling Thrush. I saw my first individual in the Nilgiris. It was perched on a low tree overhanging a stream, and pouring out its song. I have heard it several times since, most memorably one moonlit dawn in Muthodi. And then, once, we saw it briefly in BR Hills. But the best sighting of all produced this picture. Sahastra, Sunita, Sandy and I were driving through BR Hills. I was at the wheel, and we were approaching K Gudi when Sahastra hissed 'Dark bird, dark bird' from the back seat and asked me to stop. Sandy had already got his lens lined up. I switched off the engine and we coasted slowly around the bend. I braked, and the bird emerged from the shrubbery. The bird was closer than any of us have ever seen a Malabar Whistling Thrush. The blue-black spectacle was breathtaking, and behind my head I could hear Sandy clicking away. When we resumed breathing, the bird opened its pink mouth to screech, then scuttled back into the undergrowth. It wasn't a lifer for any of us, yet it was the sighting of a lifetime. Photo: © Sandeep Somasekharan. Used with permission

Encounter - Changeable Hawk Eagle

What's so changeable about this forest eagle, you may ask. The answer has more than one context.

 

I cannot talk about the Changeable Hawk Eagle with laypersons without encountering that most pedestrian and wearying of questions: "What hawk eagle?" For your benefit, I say again: Changeable. One that is capable of change. It implies that the species is extremely variable in appearance. Adult birds may be dark or pale, and juveniles may be quite confusing. It used to be called the Crested Hawk Eagle earlier, and I wish they had stuck to that name. But to add to our confusion, some races, particularly those found in Southeast Asia, lack the crest. In Latin, it is Spizaetus cirrhatus cirrhatus or Spizaetus cirrhatus limnaetus, depending on the subspecies you are staring at. And if Pam Rasmussen must have her way, both subspecies are now separate species. A curious case of (S D) Ripley's Believe it or Not. Or some such. My first memorable encounter with this species (I usually exclude early childhood sightings because imagination overpowers memory and tends to fictionalise fact) was at the BRT Wildlife Sanctuary in March this year. A few turns before the K Gudi forest gate, Sandy (who took a record photograph then), spotted the raptor perched on a vantage bough overlooking the valley. On a more recent trip to BR Hills early this month, we saw two individuals who illustrated beyond doubt the predicament of baffled ornithologists (or taxonomists) who christened it. Both we saw up close. The first was a dark individual (above), and the second (below) had a plume of a crest and was paler. Probably a juvenile.  

The Changeable Hawk Eagle, like most forest eagles, is extremely agile. The second individual we saw shot off from its perch at great speed through a maze of forest trees and with immense power in its takeoff. Two weeks ago, I chanced upon this hunter at work. Driving back from Meghamalai, my car reached a bend in the road where forest shared an indistinct boundary with tea plantation. In a glade, I saw a hare cleaning its whiskers. Overhead, a shape darted out of the trees. The hare, startled by the sound of our engine, bolted. The eagle missed and, shrieking, cut a jagged path across the tea garden, then disappeared into the thicket. Did it strike or did it miss? I couldn't stay to find out. Photographs: © Sandeep Somashekaran. All rights reserved