These two photos taken this morning show the channel-billed toucan's amazing technique of eating the small, black fruit of the juçara palm. It picks one up deftly in its huge beak, jerks the head back and down it goes. It also gives me a chance to reflect on the vital importance of this palm species -- Euterpe edulis, known in English variously as palmetto and sugar palm -- on the ecosystem of this region. At this time of year when the fruit is ripening, it attracts a wide range of birds including toucans, cotingas, guans and much else besides. The birds in turn spread the seeds and you see young palms of this species sprouting all over the forest where the birds have dropped them. Unfortunately in many parts of the Atlantic Forest the palms never get to the fruiting stage, which takes about five years, because poachers cut them down to sell the bulbous growing points at the top of the trunk -- from which the delicious heart of palm is made, a favourite in every Brazilian salad bar. From a whole tree you get one jar. Watching the activity around the fruit at this time of year you realise how impoverished the forest is when this tree is absent -- as it is from most areas now. Then you go up to São Paulo and see the Paulistanos buying their juçara heart of palm delicacy with nothing to indicate whether it comes from sustainable sources or not -- and the likelihood is that it has been provided by the palmiteiro gangs. Then the same Paulistanos will come to a place like this and say how beautiful the birds are .... end of sermon!
And talking of juçara fruit, I saw a pair of saffron toucanets (Baillonius bailloni) feeding on them this morning just next to our barbeque area. These are the smaller members of the toucan family, a near-threatened species, that hop about with much quicker movements than the more common channel-billed and red-breasted variety. We see them more commonly in spring and summer (see photo from September), and this is the first time I have seen them eating the juçara fruit.
This may not be the best-quality photo, but it marks an important stage in our knowledge of the wildlife on the farm and surrounding forest. It is a Black-headed Berryeater (Carpornis melanocephola) a threatened cotinga whose call -- a single descending whistle sounded every thirty seconds or so (heard here following the call of two near-threatened species, the Eye-ringed Tody-Tyrant and Yellow-legged Tinamou) -- I have previously recorded and noted in this blog. This picture was taken by the ornithologist and freelance bird guide Bruno Lima, who visited the property last weekend and gave the first expert assessment of what we have here. He was especially excited to find this species, as he has been trying to see one for six years and this is the first place he has succeeded. Even though I hear it call virtually every day it is very difficult to see, as it stays immobile on the inside branches of big trees, usually deep in the forest. On Sunday, however, we heard its call in an open area next to the fish lake, and to Bruno's amazement we got close enough (helped by playing back a recording of its call) to snatch this photo. I recorded the moment, and you will hear in addition to two loud calls from the berryeater (about three seconds and 50 seconds into this clip) channel-billed toucans all around us, being ignored in favour of this much rarer species.
It was the high-point of a very successful weekend, in which we managed to identify -- either through sound or sighting -- no fewer than 108 bird species between Friday evening and Sunday afternoon. I have added those birds I have positively identified at other times, and the present total is 139. I have now organised them into a list with families, conservation status etc and put them on a separate page in this site to have a permanent record that we can update when we get more (which we certainly will).
The vital statistics of the list are that we have at least 39 bird species endemic to the Atlantic Forest region, nine Near-Threatened according to the Red List of the IUCN (International Union for the Conservation of Nature), and four Vulnerable species (the first designation of the Threatened category that also includes Endangered and Critically Endangered). Among the new Near-Threatened species Bruno helped me locate is this White-breasted Tapaculo (Scytalopus indigoticus) that I often hear in a scrubby area between the banana trees. Three of the Vulnerable species I already knew about -- the Black-headed Berryeater and another cotinga the Bare-throated Bellbird (Procnias nudicollis), plus the White-necked Hawk (Leucopternis lacernulatus) -- but Bruno spotted the fourth in an area of bamboo near the river, a small finch called Temminck's Seedeater (Sporophila falcirostris), which I will now keep an eye out for.
Bruno's great contribution was to identify all those innumerable flycatcher species -- such as this Grayish Mourner (Rhytipterna simplex) -- and small antbirds in the middle of the forest that struggle to compete for the attention of the amateur alongside the more obvious stars like toucans, trogons and parrots. Now that he has introduced me to them I can start to learn to spot and hear them, although it is daunting at first. It is a bit like learning a new language, with everything just a mass of unknown sound at the beginning, but I think by adding a few species at a time my brain will eventually be able to assimilate them, like it has (more or less) done with Portuguese. And at least I enjoy the privilege of having a living encyclopedia on my doorstep!
The final discovery of the weekend was some of the nightlife. Not too many clubs around here, but plenty of action that Bruno managed to tease out through playback of various calls, including three owl species -- the Tawny-browed Owl (Pulsatrix koeniswaldiana), Mottled Owl (Ciccaba virgata) and Black-capped Screech Owl (Megascops atricapilla). Another haunting sound after sunset and before dawn is the Collared Forest-Falcon (Micrastur semitorquatus), heard here early morning with the weird gargling and clicking of the Red-rumped Cacique (Cacicus haemorrhus), a distant Blond-crested Woodpecker (Celeus flavescens) and the inevitable cockerel.
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I took this picture just as the sunlight was piercing through the morning mist, at a spot inside the forest I have always felt is one of the most atmospheric on the property. It is an area of boggy wetland you encounter after climbing over the saddle of forest and descending to the floodplain approaching the river. There is a small makeshift log-bridge over this marshy area, and it has a kind of primeval feel to it, a place where you would not be surprised to see some ancient amphibious monster pulling itself out of the mud. It is not a place to linger -- not because of ancient monsters but because for obvious reasons it is a mosquito haven in the warmer parts of the year. It also happens to be a hotspot for these Vriesia bromelias that are favoured by the forest hummingbirds.
At long last I have managed to get a decent recording of one of the most characteristic sounds of the forest, the brown tinamou. Although we virtually never see it apart from fleeting glimpses in the deep forest, its resonating call is heard at virtually any period of the year and any time of day. Trouble is you can never predict when it's going to start up finish. This one was recorded as I had breakfast on our upstairs terrace. The field guide I use gives it a description that makes identification unmistakable -- "a rising series of whistles, like a traffic policeman's". Judge for yourself.
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Conveniently, a bunch of channel-billed toucans flew across my path as I walked down the hill into the main part of the farm yesterday, enabling me to get a good picture to show the differences between this and its cousin-species the red-breasted (see last post). The important difference (apart form the colour of the bill) is that this one is found pretty much throughout tropical America including the Amazon, while the red-breasted is endemic to the Atlantic Forest. The way the channel-bills move from one part of the forest to the other is quite comical -- instead of flying together as a flock, they set off one at a time following one another in a kind of assisted glide. So when you see one flying across you can pretty much guarantee there will be a bunch of others (sometimes 10-15 or more) following the same route a few seconds apart in sequence.
We had an unusually close look at some white-tailed trogons when two pairs of them settled for a while in a tree immediately behind the main house, so I could get these shots from the end of the bedroom balcony. They really are spectacular birds close up, with their prominent eye, blue sheen on the back feathers and almost geometric pattern on the front part of their tail feathers. Their slightly-plaintive call can be misleading as it sounds a bit like a distant seagull whereas it is really quite soft, so they are often much closer than you would think from the call.
The scaly-headed parrots are becoming much more numerous in the areas close to the house, yet for some reason still seem to defy my attempts to get good pictures. I heard some gurgling around in a tree just outside my study window but by the time I got to a favourable light position about half a dozen of them flew noisily off in a flash of green. So this silhouette is the best I can do for now. One of these days ...
However many times I hear or see them from a distance, the toucans always force me to get my camera out when they come close to the house. This Red-breasted Toucan (Ramphastos dicolorus) sat long enough on a branch just across from the bedroom terrace for me to get these shots. It is the second-most common species of toucan we get here, behind the Channel-billed toucan. The Red-breasted tend to be more solitary or in pairs, although they quite often mix in with larger groups of the channel-billed. The call is a harsh, rasping squawk contrasting with the more high-pitched shriek of the other.
We have moved into a period of quite intense sunshine after another spell of very wet weather, and that sequence always seems to set of an especially vibrant period of natural activity, when you can practically feel the forest making the most of the combined energy and moisture. Yesterday morning I walked up the hill not long after dawn to catch these views of the mist rising out of the river valley.
Another feature of that sun-after-rain time is that the bromelias all get full of water, which turns them into birdbaths and therefore great camera traps. I got this shot of a beautiful bird I have not yet identified (note added later -- it is a Green Honeycreeper, Chlorophanes spiza) , aquamarine colouring with a dark head, in a bromelia just behind the barbeque area. We were watching it for a while and it is like a public bath with lots of birds hanging around on nearby branches waiting to take their turn.
In the constantly changing colours of the forest, the pink of the manacá is now giving way to the brilliant yellow flowers of the tower tree or guapuruvu, another member of the Leguminosae family. This one is just below our chicken house and was buzzing with large bumblebees this morning. The trees grow quite tall in the forest and as you drive down through the Serra do Mar range from São Paulo, whole hillsides are dotted with yellow at this time of year.
Inside the forest, a prominent flowering plant of the understorey now is this malvaviscus, whose tube-shaped flowers are especially designed to be convenient for hummingbirds to extract nectar and pollinate. The main target is apparently the saw-billed hermit, of which there are many at the moment, constantly zooming past you along the trail at comically-breakneck speed with a buzz of wings, and only occasionally posing close enough to photograph.
Another abundant flower at the moment is this white ginger lily (Hedychium coronarium) which has a sweet jasmine-like fragrance and grows in great clumps in the marshy areas of the farm and forest. Unfortunately it turns out to be an alien invasive species, originating from the Himalayas, and has done quite a bit of damage to native Atlantic forest biodiversity. It was apparently introduced from Africa during the slavery period.
These bright red bromelia flowers, a species of the Vriesia genus, now appear all over the interior of the forest, often high up in the bigger trees. They are especially abundant in a wetland area of the forest trail as it heads toward the river, passing through a type of vegetation known as varzea or flooded forest. It is here that I most often come across the green ibis, and was pleased to encounter one this morning on my first walk to the river bank since the heavy January rains -- I had not heard their evening cries for a while, and was not sure that they would stick around beyond the spring and early summer. But as I approached the flooded area I heard a great beating of wings and the distinctive corró-corró cry, just glimpsing the ibis as it headed out over the river.
I have noticed recently seeing larger flocks of the scaly-headed parrot, or maitaca (Pionus maximiliani), the largest parrot species we get around here. They rarely settle close enough to photograph, but are often seen circling high above the forest with their distinctive style of flapping their wings below the body. Usually they are in groups of four or five, but just before posting this I recorded this flock of twenty or more from my study balcony.
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This stunning, bright pink flower has just opened up by the forest trail where it crosses a small stream. After some internet research I am pretty sure it is a species called Dahlstedtia pinnata, of the large family known as Leguminosae or fabaceae that includes peas and beans as well as many forest trees. In some references it is given the common name Timbó, an indigenous word referring to a toxic extract from its root used to stun fish.
While we're on the forest walk, I have been meaning for a while to post a picture of this extrardinary tree (not certain of the species) which rests on four pillars with the rest of the base completely hollow. It is a huge tree of around 20-25m in height, in a part of the forest that seems to be the oldest remnant
And finally, I'm probably going to blow my chances of ever having more visitors by posting this picture of an extremely scary-looking but rather beautiful spider whose web was blocking the trail the other morning. It's something you do have to be really careful of here, as huge elaborate webs are commonly cast across the trails overnight, and it is the easiest thing to walk straight into them. All part of the biodiversity.
Sorry to bang on about the queen palm, but the fallen fruit around the base creates a rich, almost sickly scent that wafts around the house and provokes a buzz of activity. Literally, in the case of the fruit flies that attract this masked water tyrant, the white flycatcher birds that stay year-round on the farm and have become very tame.
And just when I thought I had exhausted the subject of the jacus, yesterday at dusk I heard them making a loud fuss down by the stream, and one of them let off this astonishing shriek, which it kept repeating long enough for me to grab my recorder. It's part of their repertoire I had not heard before. In the same clip you can hear the frogs and cicadas starting up for the evening.
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We have had a couple more days of pretty much continuous rain and drizzle, so limited opportunities for decent photos -- I am posting a shot I got last week of some palm flowers backlit by the evening sun. The flowers are on one of the big palms that surround the main house, and which I have been a bit lazy about identifying -- I now reckon they are a species called jerivá in Portuguese and Queen palm in English, latin name Syagrus romanzoffiana. They are seen throughout the forests in this region emerging through the canopy and often are the only trees left in a deforested field. We are very fortunate to have a group of them surrounding the house as their flowers and orange fruit are magnets for all kinds of birds. The fruit are just ripening now, and this has sent the jacus (dusky-legged guans) wild -- they are coming out every evening now in their family group, sometimes pushing each other off their prime position on the palm to reach the fruit. At long last I have recorded their extraordinary call -- I refer to it as an alarm call, but these days it just seems to be a bad-tempered squawk to tell a sibling or mate to move off my perch.
Good news on the lapwing front -- after fearing that all the new chicks had been eaten by the big lizard (see last post) we saw two of them yesterday. So it appears that only one ended up as a reptilian meal.
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