26th February
Last night was a night of sensory overload. First it was my
sense of smell that was afflicted, by an overwhelming scent of flowers. There's
a bush in bloom outside my room, I think it might be Jasmine, whose flowers
were powerful enough to give me the sensation I was sleeping in a bowl of
pot-puree. The smell is barely noticeable at all this morning, so I reckon the bush
is probably pollinated by night-flying beasties such as moths. Hopefully we'll
be moth-trapping outside the guesthouse later this week, and the bush could
well act as an added draw to supplement the light we'll be using. Anyway,
although it was more concentrated than I'd have wished for, I quite like the
smell of jasmine, and I wasn't far from sleep when a Long-tailed Nightjar came
and sat outside my window. There are
four species of nightjar that have been recorded around Amurum forest – the
other three are Freckled (or Rock), Pennant-winged and Standard-winged. I
really want to see the latter two, as they both have such ridiculous wing ornaments
it would be hard to credit a grounded specimen with the power of flight.
However, because nightjars are nocturnal, they are seen more often than they
are heard, and all four species here can be distinguished from one another by
their song. Freckled Nightjar sounds a bit like the 'plipp' of water dripping
from a height into a lightless pool in a cavern underground. Pennant-winged is
like a machine gun, each round of which sounds like a high-pitched squeaky
hinge, or a Dunnock. Standard-winged sounds like a bunch of bush crickets, and
probably blends into the African night-time orchestra from anything but a close
distance. Long-tailed, however, sounds like a European Nightjar. Which is to
say, like a tonally pure but extremely penetrating pneumatic drill. My first
thought was that it couldn't be a nightjar because the sound was too constant
and too loud. I thought nightjars sang from the wing (which indicates how
little I know of nightjars) and figured the sound should be more varied if
coming from a bird in flight. So I searched my room for something like a
cicada, or a drilling gnome, and tracked the noise down to my open window. I
walked round to the back of the house and the noise stopped instantly. As I
approached a long shape detached itself from the ground (the moon has been
bright enough these past few nights to allow one to walk around easily after
sundown), and flew away. About half an hour later
I heard the call again, but this time from a long way off.
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A
full moon shining all manner of Nigerian wildlife. Though not on many moths. |
And literally just now, as if Amurum didn't want my vision to
be left out, a Laughing Dove flew in through the main door of the house and
perched on top of the kitchen door. The wildlife here is beautiful, varied and
full of idiosyncrasy. It is a treat to experience.
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Laughing Dove. I've yet to find one that either looks or sounds particularly amused. Maybe I just don't get their sense of humour. |
3rd March
The days and weeks are flying by now. Less airborne are the hopes for moth trapping
that I articulated in the last blog entry. We got the light bulb, and a long
cable to connect it to the mains indoors (which is referred to here as
"the light"), so I gave it a trial run on Tuesday. We didn't have a
white sheet, but I laid some flipboard sheets of paper on the ground beneath it
in the hope that at least some of the moths attracted by the light would land
on them. The first night we caught one moth with hardly any markings, which I
recognised as being a worn individual that we had previously seen inside. I
blamed this on a startlingly clear night with a full moon that was giving off
enough light to see by quite clearly. The following night was quite cloudy,
warm and still – perfect for moth trapping. On the second run we caught one
moth of reasonable size, which I'm pretty sure was the same individual we had
caught the night before, and about four tiny and nondescript 'micromoths'. I
emailed Will to tell him about our disappointing hauls, and he said that this
was to be entirely expected at this time of year, and that if you want to moth
trap here you do it during (or just after) the wet season, which starts in late
April/early May.
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What the moth trap didn't attract in terms of moths
it made up for in praying mantises, which are very common here now. I do like them, though less so when they fly into my face. |
Apart from lack of rain (and moths), what characterises this
time of year is Harmattan, a dry wind that comes from the Sahara bearing lots
of fine, white dust. This gives everything outside a kind of powdery feel, and
is such a predictably pervasive influence that this time of year is often
referred to here by the same name. I now realise that what I took to be mist on
the drive to APLORI from the airport in Abuja was dust. On windy days there is
so much dust in the air that last week, Arrin (one of Emma's field assistants)
was helping me to put away a net when I noticed that his arm had turned partly
white. When I asked him what had caused it he didn't launch into an explanation about the dust, or the
weather, he just said "Harmattan".
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The hills you can't really see in the background are
obscured by the dust of Harmattan.
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I'm almost through my block of formal teaching now, and for
the remaining two weeks will be mostly be trying to reinforce some of the new
techniques the class has learned (particularly Distance analysis and
ordination), and also getting the class to do some presentations, as well as
polishing their Masters Project proposals. Progress hasn't been as rapid as I'd
originally envisaged, but this is more down to my relative lack of experience
teaching in solid blocks like this than to any failings of the students.
It's been a steep learning curve for me, and I am better off for it! I'll finish, as per usual, with more gratuitous birds.
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A
better picture of the bird in last week's blog. This is a male, and reminds me of a huge, exotic Redstart. The female looks quite different, with
plumage that is reminiscent of Rock Thrush.
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During the late morning, it can seem as
if every bird is a Speckled Mousebird. They are quite common, and gang about in
large, widely dispersed flocks – a bit like Long-tailed Tits in this respect, as well as in their overly long tails. |
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This is one of my favourite birds here, and is
called a Yellow-crowned Gonolek. Like other bush-shrikes, the male has a
distinctive and far-carrying call, which consists of a metallically fluting
whistle, usually followed immediately by a hard "chack-kik" from a
nearby female – the two calls so closely synchronised that they sound as if
they are being made by the same bird. Although one of the most beautifully
plumaged birds in the area, they are remarkably hard to get a good look at, as
they tend to stay in dense cover. |