Learn About The Different Types of Birds You Will Find When Visiting The Sabiepark

Rainbow Nation

One Sunday morning, before church, a large bird fell from the sky, like a shooting star from the blue. The bundle of feathers hit the earth with a dull thud, and struggled for survival. By the spots and elegant long neck we could identify it. The unfortunate bird was a redcrested korhaan – the first one we encountered

The poor korhaan had been grasped in flight behind its neck by an African hawk eagle. A chunk of meat was ripped from its body, and its end was not pleasant to see. It died slowly and painfully. The eagle sat for a moment in our weeping boer-bean tree, watching us critically with piercing eyes. Then it rose regally, higher and higher, until it was only a tiny speck against the azure sky.

This drama of nature was sudden and unexpected. Tokkie and I, astounded spectators, had never been emotionally affected by any other bird experience to the same extent as by this astonishing air attack. The desperate last moments of the korhaan haunted us.

AIR ATTACK Tokkie and the redcrested korhaan, attacked in flight and killed by an African hawk eagle.

In a second bird attack – perhaps not as dramatic as the one in mid-air but with an outcome that never fails to amaze any audience – a greyheaded bush shrike polished off a twig snake quickly and efficiently. The bush shrike struck in the ridge of the thatch over Sabiepark’s main gate. It got hold of the sleek, silver snake just behind its head, pecking fiercely.

The bloodied snake fell from its hiding place, landing on the brick paving with a thud. The struggle continued on the ground. The desperate snake was doing its utmost to inject a few drops of venom into the soft body of the shrike, but it was already too weak. The shrike evaded all the efforts successfully, and, in reply, caused all the more damage with its sharp beak to the battered head of the snake.

By now, a small crowd had assembled on the scene. They could not believe their eyes. A shrike is a shrike, true enough, and a shrike is a killer. Moreover, the greyheaded bush strike is the largest of its kind. But nobody expected this seemingly gentle, good-looking bird to overpower a dangerous snake quite so comfortably. The qualities of tenacity and bravery it displayed, were remarkable. My admiration for the greyheaded bus shrike will never diminish.

A third experience, not easily forgotten, began with a rare visit to our house by an ostrich. This “feathered giraffe” – the scientific name is indeed struthio camelus – was no stranger at the office, but has seldom set claw at our place. On this particular day, it stood at the sliding door on our back stoep, peck-pecking at something – quite at home.

The eye of an ostrich is larger than its brain, people say!

Well, for vanity at least, the eye is more relevant than the brain. The head of this ostrich, a female, was tilted at exactly the correct angle; she could admire herself in the pane of the door with her large eyes. “Ouma Marietjie” sat inside at the dining room table, tick-tocking against the pane from within. The ostrich replied from the outside.

The two ladies amused one another for a while. “Bring the camera,” Tokkie suggested. “Oh, she’ll come again,” I said – not wanting to put my book down. But she did not return; that night she was devoured by a leopard. An ostrich cannot fly, but no animal on earth can run faster. It has already been timed at 60 km/h, I’ve read. This particular girl, however, was not fast enough to elude the leopard. A lame left wing had reduced her to a soft target. Ashes tot ashes and dust(ers) tot dust(ers) – without a photo having been taken. She was not the first ostrich to die this way in Sabiepark. She will not be the last.

Owners can tell many stories of the days when these menacing birds, as tall as a man, were still plentiful. One certain lady, very dignified and correct, had to clamber up a tree in great haste to escape the anger of an ostrich. She sat there for more than an hour, being sorry for herself, and calling for help until she was quite hoarse. Her rescuer had to administer large doses of brandy. A female worker’s leg was badly ripped open by another one. A Kombi received a deep gash in its door. A male, wildly in love, pursued Ria Weiland and Lucy Crabtree, wife of the former manager. There was no doubt about his intentions. “His legs were red,” Ria said. Their husbands had a good laugh. But Ria had the last word. “You may laugh, but you won’t laugh when we have to lay eggs.”

One particular Sabiepark ostrich will be fondly remembered. Her name was Struisie (from the Afrikaans “volstruisie”) and she became as tame as a lamb. She was very fond of children and friendly towards everyone. She used to arrive at a kitchen door, unannounced, begging for something to eat. She joined walks, but kept a respectful distance behind. On occasion, when a septic tank became the worse for wear, the owner had his hands full with Struisie who wanted to satisfy her curiosity by closely watching operations. Every few minutes her neck had to be slapped, to be able to complete the unpleasant task.

HOW DO YOU DO? Struisie seems to be whispering something in the ear of Fick Booyens, who, with his brother Bun, was sitting on the lap of Martin Booyens. ( Photo: Fickie Visagie)

An ostrich is an ostrich. Its neck, like a thick hosepipe, and its long, thin, unwieldy legs cannot be confused with the neck and legs of any other living creature. The identity of the korhaan and the eagle, on the other hand, provided a challenge. We could not identify them without turning to the two large placards on the stoep of Tarlehoet. These glossy placards sport illustrations of no less than 216 birds of the Kruger Park. It sounds a lot, but is less than half the 480 species found in the Park. (In Sabiepark alone, 256 types of birds are found. It constitutes almost a third of South Africa’s unique rainbow nation of nature. )

Bird-watching is not for sissies.

It requires concentration and fast co-ordination to grab the binoculars, study the subject from head to toe, and, by means of a process of elimination, arrive at the correct diagnostic finding quickly. To memorise the many names – some illogical, others the fruit of someone’s imagination – is a mammoth task. Among all the stonechats, bokmakieries, robins, cuckoo shrikes, cisticolas, larks, thrushes, terns, hawks and finches any normal human could become cuckoo.

The Van Deventers are only amateurs, and far behind formidable bird- watchers like Steven and Carol James of Hogwarts. These enthusiasts could, in one day, identify 146 species. We see a mere 10 or 12. But we are working on it. We are concentrating and hope to reap awards. We have already done so.

The sought-after narina trogon (called a “bosloerie” in Afrikaans but, actually, not one of the lourie family) is a rare sight, in spite of its bright colours: a deep scarlet and emerald green. It prefers the dense bush. One very briefly visited us once at the picnic spot. The excitement of all and sundry was catching, and we too ran after the bird for a look-again. Aha!

Real louries, the purplecrested variety, regularly visit our place. With their multi-coloured Joseph’s coat of mostly blue and red, which distinguishes them from the green Knysna louries, these shy birds are by far the most popular of Tarlehoet’s regular feathered guests. Every visit is a red-carpet occasion, more so when they do us the honour of quenching their thirst at our modest waterhole.

When we hear their husky “knock-knock-knock” (like farm-chickens, says Tokkie), we leave everything and rush outside. If it is our lucky day, they provide a breathtaking display. They hop from the giant raisin tree to the Lowveld milkberry, then to the black monkey-orange and to the knob-thorn. Their next stop is the large marula at the swimming pool. Then to the Bushveld saffron. They love the berries. After having had their fill, they fly to the cool shade of the weeping boer-bean (where the korhaan fell). High in this redoubtable tree, they choose a fork where they nestle closely together, like two lovebirds.

I am not an expert on colours at all. Red-green colour blind – this was the verdict at university, when in psychology I (practical) I could not pass an easy test. To distinguish numbers that were hidden behind spots of different shades of red and green, arranged in a mixture of other colours, was beyond my comprehension. (I also find it rather difficult to differentiate between certain shades of blue and purple – and yellow and pale green.) But the colours of the purplecrested lourie are, to me, very clear, and unsurpassed.

The lilacbreasted roller, with its flamboyant hues of shocking purple, also provide a wonderful splash of colour around the feeding-tray and the bird-bath next to the waterhole. And don’t forget the pretty bee-eaters – I love the carmine variety. The deep yellow blackheaded oriole is another beauty. For October the paradise flycatcher is my first choice. Its deep blue head and long, elegant rusty-brown tail are real eye-catchers when it dons its courtship attire.

But this elegant bird is not only a looker and a suitor. It is also a fighter. Piet Möhr of Netreg can attest to that. Always a man for peace, he wanted to restore the ruffled feathers when two paradise fly-catchers tackled one another in mid-air and fell at his feet. He picked them up and, holding one in each hand, preached to them of brotherly love. When he released them, he made the mistake of letting them go simultaneously. The battle was resumed immediately. Both plunged to earth a second time. Piet was ready for them. He picked the birds up again, but released them one at a time. End of battle. Paradise lost; paradise regained.

Shrikes and redbilled wood hoopoes make one’s day. They come often, and present a picture of activity when they flash from tree to tree. There’s one important point of difference. Shrikes believe that they should be seen, not heard; wood hoopoes beg to differ. They are heard long before they are seen. Real chatterboxes, they are. Their Xhosa name is “iNtlekibafazi” (giggling old women). The Afrikaans name is equally well-suited: “kakelaars” (cacklers).

Woodpeckers peck with all their might. Day in, day out. In the umbrella-tree at the swimming pool we once saw three of them hammering away simultaneously. It’s a record for Tarlehoet. At first we pitied them. Their pecking sounded never-ending and to no avail. Then we saw a really huge hole in a tree at Arne and Ria Weiland’s place (erf 41 in Jakkalsbessie Avenue). It was the work of woodpeckers with stamina. We no longer felt sorry for them; we admired their productivity.