Ticking the Tweeters

We share our home with a milky-eyed Yorkie. He tolerates his own company - halitosis & flatulence his bedtime mates - to the dismay of most everyone else in an ever-widening circle of influence... He's done his time; is a steady fixture & knows his way around the place but if there's a rat in the kitchen, he'll get bitten on the arse. #BBD2018's Wilge River Valley proved to be 'our kitchen'... & we ended a handful short of 300; our target for the day. Others were more successful. 

You may think hero-worship, in our 40-something years, bears witness to levels of antisocial behaviour yet undocumented, but I don't care & if I was you, I'd listen to me. Them 3 or 4 (300+sp.) teams, who whipped us gud & proppa, deserve their ribbons. They're that good. These are our avocation's true A-listers; the rest of us & the hit, tick & run brigade, the beggared cousins in an eclectic family blessed with more than most. 

That out of the way - we're not comfortable out, looking in - & we'll be back for more, in the next. This time we'll come packing.  

Mkhombo Dam - on the very brink... [That's us in its middle]

In the early 80s the late, great Ted Parker & compatriot, Scott Robinson, legendary ornithologists based in Peru's Madre de Dios, obliterated the Birding Big Day record; & Madre de Dios it was; still is. They put to bed the hitherto moot point that field-craft is its own reward but experience and planning are key. 

Some years later Kenya bettered their score, by a handful, but it was only 35 years later that the 'impossible' was achieved & the standing record shattered by more than 20%. The previous record of 350-odd is today's Ecuadorian 431 - a record in which South Africa played a minor part. Their achievement is a staggering display of field-craft; a function of that country's biodiversity merged & centred into a small geography; & mostly, the result of careful planning. 

When it comes to 'So you want to compete in a 24-hour birding challenge' mortals rely on these few obligate rules:

1. 'Scout, scout & scout some more' [ref. John Arvin, ditto 2 - 13].
2. Review & practice the route [outcomes-based learning].
3. Weather happens [Plan B].
4. Learn the birds [... duh].
5. Every bird counts as one [move along]. 
6. Cellphone & contact numbers are useful [a select few will do]. 
7. Compile a hit-list [of the birds that is]
8. Make the night hours count [bring a light]
9. Maximise the night hours, Part 2 [somewhat confusing initially but clear when the sun sets 10 short of a whole number].
10. Maximise the most important time of the day [Dawn chorus].
11. Plan the route to coincide with 'typical' bird activity [assuming 'typical' is the new normal].
12. Make the most of the 2nd-most important time of the day [sandwiched between afternoon tea & pre-evening prayers].
13. Utilise the twilight hours [crepuscular bits & bobs].

How'd we do:

1. Scout sum more - Scout? Tick; a morning's session, the week before. None since November's #BBD2017. Scout some more? Nope.
2. Practice the route - Nope. Sorry.
3. Weather happens - Blue skies & hail the size of small peas - our usual Highveld smoothie. 
4. Learn the birds - we're gold-star members... [I was wrong...once; on a Tuesday I think... & Tuesday is a work-day; doesn't count.] 
5. Every bird = 1  [(tick tock - tickety tock)] 
6. Contact numbers are useful - particularly when Mkhombo's false-crust grabs @ yer! Ask them 3 who was stuck; bravado / naivety & al' that. We were cool. To be honest, in our halcyon days, we spent 20 hours in Mkhombo's loving embrace; hours plastered in fresh cow pats & reeking of the nougat-gloop; a gloop comprised, at face value, of raw sewage & fish long deceased  ...  u n f o r g e t t a b l e.      Since those show-off days, an adjusted insurance excess demands a lighter brush. We tread more lightly.  
7. Compile a hit-list - the least we could do: in vibrant colour on excel - the week before; & printed in B&W, the night before. A shade of dark grey for green & a darker shade of grey for red; 'green' the must-haves; & in 'red': the nice-to-haves... To say that the Two Shades of Grey tested Lish's vows, in darkness, is an astonishing understatement. 'Love & cherish' [obey?] etc. - it's in the contract, dear. 
8. Make the night hours count - like thieves with a stolen bag, we hurtled into the night & stood around, feeling foolish when the spotlight's globe stretched; said "pop" & then promptly rolled over & went back to sleep - for sh*ts & giggles, I think. 
9. Maximise the day's last hours [night] Part 2 - we were in bed by 9pm.
10. Maximise the important times of day - Social birdies @ dawn; ducks & wadey-things, on water [duh... @ midday]; birdies in parties for a late snack & a sundowner chat - late afternoon; & night critters @ night. Tick. 
11. Plan the route to coincide with 'typical activity' & make use of the afternoon - see 'travelling birdies' etc. above. That said, bush first then the cliffs, next time. 
12. Utilise the twilight hours - we did, for sandwiches, tea & rusks. We keep an open mind & an even sharper ear. 

Sorting through the muck

So... an F then!

Given our levels of commitment & commensurate preparation, an F was the inevitable consequence of birding blind where even the one-eyed could be king. In particular, at the first salvo of the pre-dawn's chorus, we found ourselves out-back, begging in. A bum wrap really & we scratched as best we could; acting on instinct rather than on know-how. We hadn't a clue -  the same underlying fear that featured most of the day. We missed a handful of the Wilge Valley's localised sp. & those 5 or 6 added-up to us falling-short by ...  5 or 6. 

The dogma implicit in competitive birding, is knowing where the birds should be. Knowing where the birds are, however, is the hack that actually wins the race. Truth is, we blundered blindly about the kitchen & were nipped on the bum, pants down. Perversely, however, the Wilge Valley's good graces lent us Klaas's Cuckoo & an Alpine Swift - 2 omissions on the 'prep. list'. These & others are the testament to 'luck' - our guiding principle & the source of our limited success; however inconsequential. 

Further afield, we turned the corner [literally] on Bronze-winged Courser, African Grass Owl & a pair of roosting Caspian Tern. Where experience proved invaluable, however, was in 'knowing where & when' to bumble for rare & localised individuals including the Short-tailed Pipit. The Lesser Masked Weaver's range-expansion, into the northern-most edge of our encircled traverse, was also unexpected. That area's unimaginably dry conditions are at the root cause of change - the birds included. 

The 'bird of the day' provided instant gratification but failed to make the list. We'd 'gone-in' to find Pygmy Goose & White-backed Duck - & those were nice. On the periphery - a tern... Too far away to be sure & behind the 'Staff Only' stay-out or be-killed notice. The "Gull-billed Tern" circled the vignette at the very edge of the scope's vision. The tick [invaluable usually but just one on a list of others, remember?] - would have been a 30 minute scramble into 'no-access' &, in context, a 'tick' that could never be, given the late-afternoon's demands - tick-tock; tickety-tock. The tern proved an untickable compromise on a self-'adjudicated' list; a list determined by the strength of its weakest link and, let's be honest, a tainted list is the worst kinda post-match edit. 

[File image]

At the 19th hour we made our final stand in the far north-western corner of the traverse for hoped-for stragglers & I must admit, we were lucky. Our last & final addition was a Southern White-faced Owl; a hoot really & testament to the day's fun. We could have transferred back to Rust de Winter, 40-odd kilometres back from whence we'd just come, for Verreaux's Eagle Owl - our bankable, last-minute 'break in emergency only' bolt-on, but the spirits were low. That & a threatening electrical storm cooled the adrenaline that had flowed strongly since late Thursday. I suppose 295 means more, but in increments of 'we've fallen short', 5 or 6 didn't matter (much). 

If structure & planning are the pillars of preparation, it's little wonder our roof caved when the storm threatened. We were under-gunned & we'll fix that, next outing. Where we won-out, however, was in the time spent in the field. The morning's sunrise will live-on long after '294' fades into darkness. The thunderstorm's light-show flashing intermittently over dusty plains, was equally compelling; the hail not so much. Mkhombo Dam, a fixture on the local circuit, is a shadow of its glory-days - & perhaps a reminder that 550 kilometres chasing birds is an indulgence we can ill-afford. That said, we've spent the best of times, often under trying conditions, pursuing the avian waifs that get us out o' bed, in the middle of the night. It's a shared experience. That & more are the pillars of why we do what we do, if anyone cares to ask - & it's also why we'll do it again; just better [with luck]. 

  

#Birding Big Day 2018 - 'preparations'

Birdlife's Birding Big Day [#BBD2018], juxtaposed on our local Wider Gauteng Challenge, lends some black & white authenticity to what is usually a colourful year; at least it should do, but doesn't.

We're committed to another #BBD, at the 11^th hour, in a farcical quest for 'exclusivity' that is almost an obsession. It's laughable and ... & we've had that chuckle. What fun eh, if you can't have a poke in the mirror?

...usually a colourful year

For those of you who don't know, Birding Big Day is a sub-regional, 24-hr birding marathon usually held in late November. Teams [max. 4 pax], select their preferred route and record as many bird species as they can within the allotted time. All routes are limited to the habitat within the confines of a 50 km radius; the radius calculated from any selected, central point.

Teams cover most of the region's geography & yes, it's competitive & no, nobody gets culled from the flock. Crying is universal if the weather or 'the list' fails to meet expectations. Almost certainly this year's attempt will be our last; at least it will be in Gauteng's North Eastern Woodlands, the same route we return to [again] this year.  

What fun eh, if you can't have a poke in the mirror?

In 2005, the Raiders of the Lost Lark, a pioneering, competent team of 4, broke through the magical 300 barrier; that's 300 species recorded [seen / heard / 'suspected' (perish the thought)] in 24 hours. Their route traversed the North Eastern Woodlands east and NE of Gauteng's Pretoria. Since then, other teams have tried to emulate their success & failed. I know we have, without much joy and I'll tell you why - no imagination.

In recent years, the Limpopo's Zonke iNyone have set new highs, recording lists in excess of 325 species. Fair dinkum - nicely done & al' that, but 330 falls short of 350 and we know 350 rounds-down to the next break-thru, up. The record's better, of course - revolutionary, probably not. Elsewhere, Mpumalanga has seen its own winning crack @ 300. I'm not aware of a KZN 300, a hinterland 300 or even a coastal 300 - ducks ripe for the plucking, methinks, if these haven't, in fact, been plucked before. 

The Raider's accomplishment is detailed in their co-authored [& locally funded] book - 'The Chamberlain Guide to Birding Gauteng' [page 201]. Local birders, worthy of that recognition, consider a copy essential reading. It's that good and I mention the book because therein lies the nexus of the farce. Within its pages are a lifetime's learning & experience laid out like a Japanese karesansui - i.e in neat, cleanly-raked piles. Extensive, easy-reading text covers the subject matter broadly without detracting from the more technical aspects of the many routes recommended, the habitats traversed and the species represented en route. In fact, all but a complimentary silver spoon is included. 

Those of us, & we are legion, who follow the original trail & don't tip a hat to its founding members, are bastions of plagiarism & residents on Cloud Cuckoo-land. It's peacocking at the pub with a pretty girl - the same girl whose favours are sure, rather than pure; for a small price, that is. This is a small community and we're all strangers to sobriety. There'll be a few sniggers. 

Over the months preceding the Raider attempt, the team logged 4000 km of preparatory reconnaissance, criss-crossing the North Eastern Woodlands multiple times in an effort to fine-tune the *time [*'of day' & minutes] spent @ each locale. By way of comparison, Alisha was out yesterday &, pink-slip in-hand, I spent that time 'cross-checking' the current conditions against the given theory - i.e. driving segments of the Raider-route. We haven't been to the North Eastern Woodlands since #BBD2017. Additionally, we kept an eye on the mini-#BBD results [something new] & noted the current gen. - the who, where, what & why. No point ignoring tickety-boo research, is there? Facebook gave me... nothing. To be fair, attempts have been made to collate & publish current gen. on the local conditions; a request that largely went un-mucked; manure flying everywhere. One luminary requested help timing the Raider-route; i.e. to optimise their yummiest score (presumably). These be new standards for 'birding by numbers'. Get out there man - do your thing.

To be honest, a fair-to-middling breakfast, some literacy, a working knowledge of local bird calls and a tankful of fuel - clockwise or anti-the clock - & viola - you've shot & scored. 'Tis that easy & yes, Dear Socialite - if you don't get to 250 on the Raider-route; well now, there be sniggers...

Extending the 'Research' effort ([i.e. sifting] through Facebook) - an unwinding of the clock, à la Dr Strange, if you will - I came across one or two rehashed / recycled posts - completely unrelated to this  blog btw. [... yes, yes - the attention span of a gnat. I know]. The posts had, as a common thread, the gnashing of wills & the wringing of hands. These lamented the veracity of some of the species 'seen' and subsequently recorded on the Wider list; species deemed impossible, questionable &, in a nutshell: - the jolly-good-rogering of Ol' Man Plausible hisself! Not nice. Fact is, most were fat finger errors - & a fairly obvious observation... Even so, giving in to these terrors of the night, these Post-tits publicly harangued **Birdlasser [**listing software & a local delicacy @ no cost; bless 'em (get it)] to automate intellectual space & weed out these enfante terrible for eva... If only the punters knew who 'they' were - handles, avatars & alter-egos the fog on the antagonistic claim & ironically, the antithesis of good judgement.  

Erratum included two Dodos, a Moa, a partridge in a pear tree and, heaven's above - a Dusky Indigobird; an extant species not noted for its notoriety in suitable habitat but a celebrated poltergeist in Wider, if ever there was. The African Firefinch, an uncommon resident here, & the recipient of said Indigobird's unsolicited attentions, is not complaining. Who wants an unwanted cock in the hen-house? 

Others lament the inclusion of the migratory (ubiquitous) Eurasian Reed Warbler, a dead-ringer for the African Reed Warbler; & species considered 'inseparable' in the field. Nobody likes a smart arse but... 

A competent ringer [them who knows & them who rings] knows that moult characteristics, during a brief, annual window are such that the two can be / are / should be (?) reliably separated, open-minded views & a physical presence at the sighting, essential reading of course. 

Therein lies the rub - thee hav' t'get thee 'ands dirty, often. It's the same 'scruff of the neck' attitude implicit in the preparatory regimen of the most successful #BBD participants. Anything else is sloppy.

Nobody likes a smart arse but... 

Here's hoping fresh-faces break new ground during #BBD2018 - & by 'new ground' I mean new routes, new habitats - new exciting venues. Isn't that the point? 50 species recorded from the confines of a three-legged pot, in cramped conditions, sans salt & in a single, dank crepuscular period, is surely more impressive than my 250 sp. on the long walk to boring? These & more I'd like to see, hear from - & read sum-more (on). Please.

Whatever we do on #BBD2018; how ever many we record - 200 or 302+, whatever - the fact remains, these are chartered waters; documented waters and kudos to the Raiders, lest we forget. They are the true pioneers & the exclusivity of the claim is theirs. Theirs is an achievement not matched in contemporary ticks, however incremental and even if the ensuing years refine the recipe. 

The measure is the success that comes from imagination & hard graft. Basking in the shade of the four-fathers is fool's-gold & unoriginal. 

This year we haven't walked the extra mile & that devalues the claim and I, for one, am sorry for it. Then again, if we get to 350... all bets are off the table. 


...if we get to 350... all bets are off the table. 

A Northern Cape melange

Near Prieska - in April?

The Easter weekend is South Africa's traditional weekend for a pilgrimage to the coast or to family residing further afield. The ensuing chaos is a SANRAL [South African National Roads Agency ie: toll co.] bonanza. 

N, Far E & SE attract more than their fair share of traffic - we avoid those sharp-ends like we would one prick too many.

Pofadder - near [standing water in the thirstland]

With that in mind, we chose to meander through the eye of the storm & cover portions of South Africa where somnolent ideals are still pedalled by big-sky dreamers ie: we'd head W / then SW / turn NW & return home via the rising sun. We also thought we'd camp. 

Wet weather was forecast for the weekend & so it was; most of the country gloried in soaking rains. There are few spectres more arresting than standing water in the desert.

We stopped at Kambro Farmstall for the night; roughly half-way between Johannesburg & Cape Town. Sebastian loved the working-farm bits & bobs - we braved a rare hour spent alone.

We thought we'd go camping...

Our travel-preparations usually drill down to the minutia, particularly when we camp. We find that an oversight is almost always exploited by the vagaries of Chance. Our toiletries' had been overlooked in the 'I thought you packed it' last-minute QC check. 

This wasn't awfully good news... 

Neighbours detest a peculiarly flavoured camper on a downwind day - we'd have to replace the kit - & we did, at Kimberley's North Cape Mall. 

The hole that is Kimberley is best enjoyed, in a blur, from 30 000 ft & at a cruising speed of 500 mph. We weren't that lucky, unfortunately. A catatonic queue for toothpaste & a roll-on is a tooth-grinding affair in our books; a look we sustained, in silence, for some time - at least until the rains started somewhere near Prieska. Sungazers were lost in the moment & so were we.

We imagine country-folk are deeply rooted in the land. Cookery, we assume, is a cottage industry central to this culture - ie: befrocked magicians, in homespun, conjuring up 5-star culinary marvels from little more than a small bag of brown sugar, fermented cactus-juice & some elbow grit. Sadly it isn't (always) true... 

Alisha auctioned off an arm & bought a jumbo-sized bag of 'buttermilk' rusks. One powdery mouthful, post a brief, but truly moving, opening ceremony, was enough to consign the balance to the darkness under the table. The dogs aren't talking to me.

All fired-up

A crowing cockerel had me up & about, one or two groans before sunrise. It's the only thing for it really. Before that, however, I was reminded why the roof-tent keeps its own company; a mean-spirited misanthrope at the best of times.

The rain's drip-drip had provided a salubrious, earthy tang to the immediate surrounds - the harbinger of all that is beautiful in this part of the world. 

Descending the tent's ladder, in pitch black, in flops & jocks, is no small feat. Rain-water had collected on the tent's fly-sheet overnight; the same canvas I steadied-on to avoid plummeting to my death after stepping onto 'a rung' which turned out to be thin air... There are few things more rousing than icey water on one's visage [& more] at 4:30 in the morning. This unexpected immersion was especially tickety-boo... I might have used bad words & let go. It was a brisk plummet to a stoic bounce down below; an involuntary start but a beginning nevertheless. 

Fracking? Here...?

From so humble a beginning, a new day - a tarried day spent traversing a slice of South Africa that we had, until then, largely ignored. As it turned out we'd left the best for last but before that, these: - If conceptual thinking divides us, 'Travel' must be the panacea, surely? Would history read more gently if we spent less time in committee & more time in the open air? In reality, sadly, the futility of greed, deceit, ideology & self-aggrandisement is, & will always be, a quixotic quest. 

The next leg of our odyssey turned coastal ie: roughly westwards, via the Bushman's Kloof Wilderness Reserve. We spent the night at Jakama Organic Farm... Clanwilliam's 'highly-rated' Ode to Joy!     

Jakama is exotic ugliness unfurled in the foothills and shadows of the Cedarberg Mountains. Cape Town's hipsters & skinny jeans descended on this Glastonbury for some sleep & love under the stars; erecting a favela of faux yurts & 'living-naturally' on green happiness. The more physically useful ran or cycled their 'new way to be'... 

  ... and those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music. [Friedrich Nietzsche]

Meanwhile, for those of us not lost in personal discovery, the glampsite boasted cold-water showers, dank sites and exotic pine, blue-gum & wattle; an arboreal 'convenience' for those having troubles with their bowels - every tree a lavatree.    

'Your body is a forest.. thick.. scented.. wild' [anon].    

We left before first light - of the happy broccoli that is - not the sun. 

Bushman's Kloof

Earlier that afternoon we'd stopped somewhere near the Botterkloof Pass - the Bushman's northern keeper. Meld the fragrance of a rainswept Karoo to these forbidding mountains & it's difficult to imagine YHWH is far away. We were, however, low on fuel, food & drink. That mud fell on me; my motley crew 'desperate' at the time. Retail-conveniences in the Karoo, on Good Friday, are fat-chance. Fortunately Clanwilliam offered some relief, if nothing else. 

Clanwilliam - so much potential: cheap & nasty everywhere; beggars belief..

Talking about relief - listen to this. Post falling out of the nest (see above), I'd availed myself of the  facilities for the day's 1^{st -wi.} What used to be (in my 20s & 30s) a single poster headline & the good stuff scribbled above the trough, is now all the ads & some contemplation through the nearest open window. 

To amuse myself, whilst hanging about, I assessed the audible traverse time of vehicles on the freeway nearby. 34 seconds for a sedan outta the north [ave.] & 58 seconds for one headed north from the south - a function of the northerly wind methinks; the Karoo, Africa's pre-eminent sounding-board. It's a geographical pin-drop but a loud echo on the tin.

Velddrif on the Berg

Fast-track to Saturday - a full dance-card scratching the nether ends of the West Coast including whirls through the hamlets of Velddrif, Langebaan, St Helena Bay & to the West Coast National Park. Fish in tins might advance the common good, per the Omega 3 fad, but I find little romance in discarded fish-offal - a constant that permeates the West Coast. That said, the villages are quaint & the people quirky. 

Broad-bills @ 60x [close...]

Langebaan, & for our purposes here - the West Coast National Park - South Africa's only non-estuarine tidal lagoon - protects approximately 30% of the country's salt-marsh habitat. 


What you may not know, however, & please pay attention class, is this: - Over the last few decades there has been a 40% [approx.] decline in Zostera capensis, the local seagrass. That has had a cascading (-) effect on the invertebrate biomass - & the wading birds that eat them. There are fewer birds today than there were yesterday & probably more today than there will be tomorra - & a similar act plays out most everywhere else. 

Fortunately, in the intertidal zone [betwixt high & low tides], lurks a small gastropod  - the Assiminea globulus. This endearing operculate keeps a lid on the losses, & is the favoured prey of the Curlew Sandpiper - hence the prevalence of said sandpiper going about it's business on the sandy substrate. Unbelievably, the invertebrate biomass peaks in October & February which coincides exactly with the 'fattening comings & goings' of the annual shorebird migration. Clearly an evolutionary co-inky-dink... 

Langebaan - West Coast NP

As beguiling as the Curlew Sands are, & especially in aggregation before their impending departure - for the birding cognoscente, time is a thief; more is... better. More effort, however, isn't. 

Crawling on the meniscus of the littoral zone, to see shorebirds, is a dirty business & not considered pucker. Nobody likes a wackadoo.

To solve this conundrum, the authorities have appended three 'long-walk' bird-hides to the general offering. Armed with a map & an overnight survival kit, birders who complete the trek & who are still in good spirits, are rewarded with close-up (?) views of wading birds poking [in the sand]. At Geelbek ['the hide'] those views improve from 2-hours before the rising (semidiurnal) tide ie: the birds come to ya as the tide comes in. 

Hidden betwixt the Curlews were two avian chefs-d'œuvre - the Broad-billed Sandpiper & a Lesser Yellowlegs - aptronyms of their more endearing features & the raison d'etre for this, the most southerly leg of our journey to the ends of the earth. In attendance with us the very individual who first discovered the Legs some weeks before - her Pesach meal, a formal sit-down btw., cooling its heels, at home, in Cape Town. Rare birds tend to have an extraordinary impact on otherwise functional people. In our case we'd driven across the country for 'a glimpse will do'.   

Witsand Nature Reserve - late evening

We headed north one-up, not two - & miserable for it. Such are the vagaries of birding. I won't prattle on about the details; suffice to say we had a blast despite the 'something fishy'. We did, however, hand over hard-won loot to the proprietor of our scheduled stop in Citrusdal; a misnomer btw. - 'Detritusdal' the more appropriate handle. One look at the 'kampterrein' [a farmyard with roaming, defecating livestock] & we turned tail - I did, at least. Alisha is tougher than the eye suggests. I won the day, however, a rarity in itself. 

We left without so much as a by your leave & ended back at the point from where we had started earlier that morning: in Clanwilliam - fortunately not at HappyTown but at one of the local B&Bs. Unfortunately, the sun had set & holiday darkness, in the Cape, closes restaurant doors it seems... Perhaps there was something fishy in our demeanour? Either way, we snacked on a carb & sugar-induced nightmare of 'will tomorrow never come?'.   

Klein Pella - south of the Orange River near Pofadder

As it happens, the sun did rise & we tootled 'up-coast' as far as Springbok before turning further inland, to Pofadder, where we spent the night. 

There are few [seriously!], if any, more aesthetically appealing vistas in all of South Africa than those on offer in & around Pofadder; a backwater town servicing vagabonds & providing some religious succour to the local farming community. The birding is quintessential & the portions of peace & quiet, generous. A brief glimpse of a Black-footed Cat didn't hurt either. 

Imagine our chagrin, if you will, when we were confronted, early next, by a monstrosity that can only be described as a spit in the eye & an affront to Shangri-la. Before I get to that - a small taste of progress, further west, at Aggeneys; a mining town built to exploit the region's base metal riches. In its defence, & for what that's worth, it does as the tin threatens - mine. Even so, a mountain of overburden dumped adjacent ancient rock formations, as yet untarnished, is sad & an ice-block of pee in a crystal glass of spring-water, on a hot day - depreciating...

Aggeneys - (100t dump-truck on the top-left for scale. See it?)

The monstrosity, alluded to earlier, bears its fangs on the N14, nearer the western shores of Upington. Colloquially, this Decepticon is called the KSO Tower - or the Khi Solar One. This mega 'community-upliftment project' [a solar-power-tower-solar-thermal-plant (yessir)] focuses solar energy on a boiler some 200m overhead.  This pot-o-water superheats steam to a skin-wrinking 500-odd degrees Celsius - the energy which drives a turbine. The resultant 50 MW is sold to Eskom on a 20-year 'the public pays pay more for it' deal. For the purists, the plant covers 140 hectares, boasts a tower some 205m high, utilises 4000 heliostats covering 575 000 square meters of mirror surface & is a first for Africa. 

Hardly impressive, really. Kids have used similar technology [ie: the sun & a magnifying glass], for eons & with some success. Ask the ants.

KSO - Upington

KSO was developed by Abengoa, a Spanish company; the same company which initiated insolvency proceedings in 2015. 

Handed to & owned by Khi Solar One (PTY)Ltd in 2015, an entity, in turn, owned by Abengoa (*51%), the IDC (29%) and the local community in their Khi Community Trust (20%), KSO is the first tower plant in Africa to operate around the clock on solar energy only. It's a bold claim. 

Goodie-gumdrops & a boon for the Spanish Empire. 

BTW. in 2014 a crane 'accident' killed 2 & injured more; blood & tears the playthings of power-brokers. Unrelated, but equally snazzy, is a Johannesburg civils group nobody's ever heard of / from before. Here's the fun bit - this same entity utilises a gmail address for official business; a frugal exercise, ... obviously.  

Old-school

KaXu Solar One, situated 40 km NE of Pofadder & built away from the public eye, is owned by the same entities involved at KSO with one exception [a different community - ie: a different trust]. It's the largest solar plant of its kind in the Southern Hemisphere. 100 MW [not really] of concentrated solar power [CSP] is 'on record' at the plant. KaXu's specs mirror those employed at KSO but are operated on a larger scale. There are, however, some interesting departures at KaXu. The mirror surfaces are parabolic ie: fancier, more expensive; and most obviously, there's no pot-o-water overhead. 

Are these plants long-lived? They don't appear to be. Muerto [deceased] by 2035 we're told.  Eviva España!

What of the price tag you say? KaXu sets interested consumers back an estimated $900m & was financed offshore, mostly; although some scraps were offered to local entities incl. Firstrand & Nedbank. Abeinsa, owned by Abengoa, was 'awarded' the construction of the plant. At $10m per MW Spain must be thrilled. For context, the South African renewable energy target for 2030 is 17800 MW...    [KaXu + KSO] = 150 MW. We're a little short, I think... 

On the plus side, the EIA was conducted by Savannah, a Johannesburg-based company - & wholly-owned by women. This then girl-power at its best [I know...]

Alisha's boy doing what Alisha does... [not really]

Once the shock had worn off, we continued eastwards & powered down for the night, under open skies, at the Witsand Nature Reserve - 'home of (the) ... Kalahari sands'.  

There are few, if any, more aesthetically appealing vistas in all of South Africa than those on offer in & around Witsand. Trust me.  

More in the next...

Up the sharp-end without a scope

By some quirk of fate we found ourselves in the company of others facing an unpalatable truth. We'd left the spotting-scope on the lee-side of chaos, two fuel-stops further west. Our only option was to scan the wetland - ID the common folk - dismiss these from the assembly - & move on to others with more potential. We were squinting against failure & the stakes were high...

March-madness - Lebombo border

I considered the evidence. 

We'd left Sandton after 11pm on Friday evening and rendezvoused with Helen Biram, a featured doyen. I can confirm 'doyen' does exactly what it says on the tin - tenacity the hero of the dish. Helen had dipped the previous week on a reported 1st for Africa - the hitherto suspected, but until recently unreported, Sharp-tailed Sandpiper. The 'Sharpie' [dubbed thus by card-carrying members] is an unobtrusive wader given to a scurried life in ankle-deep muck. It's a furtive beast not unlike a large mouse at an all-u-can-eat buffet for cats. 

A subsequent sighting of the same individual, in the company of another [unicorn-stuff!], rendered a return trip feasible. We were lucky enough to tag along. Two others joined us - a back-seat stacker not for the spatially aware & especially stiffening with the addition of Sebastian, our 3-yr old son. His values err towards sprawl over form.  

... the bird had returned on a predicted tide

Somewhere near Marracuene, Mozambique

The rapid volte face following the bird's rediscovery on Thursday - the reprobate had gone AWOL for an indeterminable number of days - was an emotive demonstration of the fickleness of the gag. In unison we faced east & scuttled back to Mozambique's Marracuene - a mixed-fortunes' village, near Macaneta, north of Maputo. 

Most caught the wave in by air - we drove. 

Driving to far-flung corners, in pursuit of waifs, is our tattoo in trade. Between us & 'Sharpie' nirvana, however, crouched the Lebombo / Ressano Garcia border - a soulless, wretched creature. It occurred to me that there was a distinct possibility that I would lose my sh*t & punch babies. This den of thieves is a criminal guild masquerading as 'a centre for cross-border formalities'. Fortunately, we arrived in the wee hours - pre-empting the Saturday morning 6am opening bell - a minute after 5. The queue to the front-desk wound around eternity three times. We stepped out of the chaos by vaulting over the middle island & by 'vault' I mean in the vehicle - over foot-high concrete. Babies nodded skyward & thanked the Ides of March; apparently this border's busiest time - a fact unknown to us until then. 

Back on earth; and a few klicks westwards & 60 more southwards - the Swaziland / South Africa border beckoned. The detour offered a loop around the hole. Don't say I didn't tell-ya. Use it. 30 minutes more and we were on the legal side of Mozambique's Namaacha border singing coastwards; success the sugar on our off-key tune. Those who couldn't sing whistled eastwards on hot-cross buns & other culinary delights; the unsavoury charms of border-police all but forgotten.

...Crouched the Lebombo / Ressano Garcia border - a soulless, wretched creature.

By 11am we were on-site. Nearer 1pm any imagined thoughts of success were replaced by the tortured (silent) screams of too-far to tell. Before 2 we gave up the unequal struggle and checked into our night's accommodation; a gambit from one of two Facebook recommendations. We pulled one - Tan 'n Biki - others wanted two - Lugar do Mar - but made do with one anyway. If sticks over bricks is your preference, goto T 'n B - vice versa if you want more for more & WiFi. Tan's nearer the beach - has the smell of drying fish, fair food, grass cover & some coastal bush. Mar has no beach, few fish, air-conditioning, different bush and no grass. Get a singleton cottage if you head to Tan - forego the 6-bedded, wooden townhouse - especially if you're on the ground floor. Speaking of floored, the upper level was occupied by a local family on a weekend-retreat - the Dad's motorised wheelchair, down-below, a corollary of his 'no-hands + no-legs' handicap. The Mom carried him up / down two flights - & for what it's worth, I couldn't help but be distracted; midnight creaking from the floor above, notwithstanding.

Tan 'n Biki 

The day's festivities had been gruelling but we returned to the site, later that afternoon, refreshed & renewed after a preprandial shower & a nap. The salicornia [the 'ankle-deep muck' I spoke about before] had not disappeared, however, & the birds remained hidden in the myriad channels in-betwixt. 

It might have been the light drizzle, rather than tears, but our glasses had runneth over... and then, from the depths of despair another vehicle bearing two scopes + 3 men & a lady [not necessarily in that order - but the scope did warrant another look. Shallow knows no depths in desperation...]. 

Bearing the scopes [x2 you'll remember] none other than Margaret Hardaker & the usual hangers'-on, Trevor & John. The three & one other, who kept his own counsel & stayed anonymous, had flown-in from Cape Town. The group had, in fact, seen the two birds earlier that morning. When South Africa's southern peoples collide with the country's northerly tribes [ie: JHB], the crossing-over can be one of suspicion - until a common cause makes us friends. I wasn't exactly vaulting for joy - that would be an indulgence, but things were looking up. A small jig of celebration, however, was fair - at least as far as I could tell. Nobody was watching anyway.

'S h a r p i e!' - Trevor (a full-member of the Sharp-tailed Sandpiper in Africa club & therefore entitled to use the hypocorism).    

'Sharp-tailed Sandpiper?' - us [nogschleppers].    

'Dammit [or something similar] - They're outta sight' - Trevor / John (later & much later).    

'Oh lordy-lord.' - us (for the rest of the day).   

The afternoon stretched into evening and as the sun sank towards our eyes & the impending gloom, so did we. Undeterred, however, we arranged an early morning bring-a-scope; intending a more productive tramp along the shore. Rain had been an on-again / off-again fixture, most of the day - a misery not lost on the Cape Town four. You would think people accustomed to bathing in a jam-jar would welcome some precipitation - No sirree - it's all about the birds & that's okay by me. Rain wasn't forecast for the Sunday...

Fish drying in the sun... Sebastian not amused

Dinner wasn't a sybaritic affair - neither is Tan - but we made do with hot-sauce prawns, line fish, some flat-chicken and a pizza; our long-established Moz. routine. Conversation inevitably clawed its way back to a silent contemplation of the missing birds. Would they - wouldn't they? 

Separated from our dwindling stack of local currency, we adjourned to bed / some to sleep & at a guess, before they did, cursing the birds, mosquitoes & the humidity, in that order.

A light drizzle held the mood early on the Sunday morning but a small window in the heavens was a blue-sky shot in the arm - a dose of anticipation that pre-empted - 'There they are..' & yes, there they were - bobbing - sometimes preening - always hunched - on the move - & move they did - intra-channel for as long as we cared to guess where they'd pop-up next. Won in adversity & with the timely intervention of Margaret et al, the Sharpies launched themselves onto our list - an inconsequential 880-odd - but a catharsis and a date forever etched into the memories of all who were there.

Tack-sharp, no; but a Sharpie, even so. 

Sand shark or Guitarfish - 1 of 1000s in discarded by-catch

Sebastian looked on, a little bemused, preferring the joy of passing cattle & intrigued by crabs, frogs, sticks & stones and the other bric-a-brac that makes life worth living. He did, however, take his turn at the scope - becoming, perhaps, Africa's youngest Sharpie - 'A bird Dad?' - 'Can we go to the beach now?' & we did. One lesson at a time...

The trip home was a hot-collared affair - border tensions tend to work the nerves. I'd called the play badly & recommended a return home via the Lebombo chaos; not that I suspected any chaos. Ours was a midday Sunday exit - but, like moths to urban lights, the local migrants had joined the queue, a queue we dodged eventually; perhaps unfairly.

We get out of whack from time to time & a return trip to sanity - somewhere, anywhere is the cauldron of balance. Birding & its more manic pursuits, perversely, are often the tonic - it's activities like these that keep us sharp.