In search of the Cebu Flowerpecker

To get to my viewing deck, I climb a wall of jagged limestone, its nooks puttied over by the woody roots of creeper plants and soft moss. The morning seems extraordinarily humid — and with very little forest cover, the sun feels prickly on my skin. Every now and then I have to wipe beads of sweat off my temples, otherwise they roll down my face and sting my eyes. It is the only available ascent to a promontory curiously called Platform 2, from which one of the world’s rarest birds, the Dicaeum quadricolor, commonly referred to as the Cebu Flowerpecker, have mostly been spotted. There are no known still photos of this bird, and my attempt to take one has set me off on an an eight-year adventure. So far.

It’s more of a perch of rough stone than an actual platform, and there’s not a bit of flat surface on which to sit comfortably. I hunker down with my gear — a pair of binoculars, bags of cameras, packets of trail food, bottles of water — and brace myself for the vigil. I’ve traveled a long way for this birdwatching adventure — a flight from Manila to Cebu, an hour on a habal-habal from the village to the edge of the forest (hugging all my gear and provisions), a 20-minute trek into the woods — and it could be hours, even days, before I spot the bird, if at all.

But it has been an even more arduous but nevertheless remarkable journey getting to this moment. Flashback to eight years ago, where my obsession with birding began: I was working on a story exploring the state of Philippine avian biodiversity, when friends from the Wild Bird Club of the Philippines — a cooperative of birders and twitchers, all of them conservationists — had suggested I look into the D. quadricolor, a rare and endangered bird found only in Cebu and deserving of the same attention and protection as the more popular Philippine eagle. I reached out to a small NGO working to save parts of the bird’s natural habitat in Alcoy, who then introduced me to a local guide, Pedro Villarta. Together he and I trekked through the dense forest, swatting off mosquitoes on steroids and curious bugs wanting to get close, looking for the Flowerpecker. We made our way to spots of alleged recent sightings and, hours later, it was still nowhere to be seen.

False trails, and my life’s mission

What we did see was another similarly endemic and endangered bird, the Cebu Black Shama. Pedro had imitated its call, a kind of melancholy song-whistle, and from somewhere in the depths of the dark forest, an all-black bird came fluttering overhead. It perched on a high branch and returned the call confidently, its melodic sound echoing above the other forest noises.

It was an indescribable and magical moment. I don’t remember how long I stood there, speechless and gawking at the wild bird, its all-black glossy feathers nothing short of majestic. All I remember was the jet-black plumage fluttering as it heaved itself up with every call. In birding circles this is called a “spark bird,” the one that ignites an addiction to the exhilarating experience, and can only be momentarily sated by another spark.

The feeling would come back to me several times thereafter — during a very close encounter with the mighty Philippine Eagle in Bukidnon; when I first saw the Sulu Hornbill after its last record 15 years before; and while recovering from gnawing heartache on missing a photo of the Negros Bleedingheart in Panay. The highs of such encounters have since made all other outdoor activities I used to enjoy seem mellow in comparison.

It then seemed inescapable, this need to see and photograph all the birds found only in the Philippines. Out of the country’s whopping 682 species of birds, 225 of them are endemic, giving the country the distinction of having the highest number of endemic birds per unit area (Brazil and Indonesia may have more number of endemics, but they are also much larger countries).

But there is an urgency to the project — over 90 of the country’s endemic bird species teeter on the brink of extinction, a fate that will no doubt alter our already fragile ecosystem forever. The main threats to their survival? Loss of habitat because of shrinking forests. Time is running out.

I didn’t see the Cebu Flowerpecker on that trip to Alcoy, nor on the dozen or so other attempts over a period of eight years. Now I’ve carved out 10 days from my regular life, bags of heavy equipment and supplies in tow, for another attempt at seeing the Flowerpecker. It is the most time I have ever devoted to a single bird, and the fact that I may have heard its song once years ago is little consolation. Birdwatching — especially in a splintered landscape such as ours — can be an extremely taxing activity, and hours upon hours of saint-like patience and dedication rewarded, rather handsomely, every now and then by the mystical spark. And sometimes local guides will, to be kind, tell you that you did hear what you had traveled such a long way to hear.

A glorious history, and a troubled future

The Cebu Flowerpecker is a small bird not much bigger than an open palm, on average measuring about 11cm. A male has four colors on its plumage — blue-black on its head and wings, a red upper back, a yellow-green rump and white on its breast. The female sports a brownish top. Its beak is short and stout, and among its many uses is for pecking and perforating leaves into a flurry of confetti, spinning it with a kind of natural glue into pendulums.

Similar-looking birds — such as the Redkeeled Flowerpecker, which has about the same plumage plus a red streak on its white underside — are often mislabeled as the elusive Cebu Flowerpecker, thought to have gone the way of the Dodo back in the early 1900s, colourful sketches and a taxidermy on display in a remote museum the only testament that it had ever flown over the island. In 1992, a British birder spotted it in Tabunan, and news of its existence added the Flowerpecker to a list of what are called the Lazarus birds. The idea of these birds — reappearing after having been thought extinct — have since reformed conservation science and made people more circumspect when it comes to declaring the survival status of a species.

But for many years there was good reason to believe that the Cebu Flowerpecker had indeed been completely wiped out. As early as the 1950s, biologists had declared Cebu as an apocalyptic wasteland for biodiversity, having removed 99 percent of its original forest cover and rendering extinct 10 out of the 12 endemic taxa (four have been since rediscovered to still survive).

Despite the “resurrection”, the Cebu Flowerpecker remains dangerously high on the list of the world’s rarest birds (number 18), and is classified as critically endangered by the International Union for Conservation of Nature’s (IUCN) Red List of Threatened Species in the UK. Estimates pegging the current population to 60 or 70 birds seem rather generous, and the fact that there have been so few sightings of the bird and zero photographic evidence doesn’t bode well for the species. Without the old-growth forests these birds call home, the species will certainly die out, another casualty in the ongoing environmental carnage.

There is a sliver of hope, though — if the planned Southeastern Cebu Key Biodiversity Area happens soon, it will create a forest corridor along the central spine of southern Cebu. That means 2000ha of continuous forest, and a bigger strip to secure the future of Cebu’s rare species.

Patience is a virtue

After two days of returning to the perch in the early hours of the morning, climbing down only at sunset to trek back to the village for a shower and some sleep, still no bird.

I am with Oking Son, a local guide and champion of the Tabunan Forest of central Cebu, who also holds the distinction of having seen the Cebu Flowerpecker the most number of times. “How many times?” I ask him. He can’t recall all the instances, but says that the last confirmed sighting was 2010 from Platform 2. But, he may have seen it last September. He can’t be sure. This conversation goes back and forth throughout the day, and still there are long stretches of silence as we sit in wait for hours.

We talk about other Cebu birds and his work protecting the forest. A staunch lobbyist against timber poaching and clearing of new land, he is sure he is regarded as a threat to shady business, especially outside his barangay. He fears for the forest when he or his local people’s organization is gone.

It is an enchanting forest, the towering dipterocarps that seem to have made war with the rocks and emerged triumphant with roots and buttresses winning the battle for any and all spots of soil. Curtains of vines hang loose from branches. It feels like another world deep in the forest, but in truth it is all of a piddling 166ha, like a patch of mohawk seen on one side of a hill’s top. This is the very last patch of forest with old-growth dipterocarps in the whole island of Cebu.

We take a walk around the forest and Oking points out a suspicious Flowerpecker nest. He gives the tree a shake to see if the nest was still “live,” but there was no sign of a bird. With little time left in Tabunan, I was starting to feel deflated, but years of birdwatching have happily instilled in me a valuable life skill: the ability to manage extraordinary depths of disappointment, and to carry on hopeful.

On the walk back, though, I brush past a trunk and a tiny white-bellied bird darts out. My head spins, and I spend the rest of the day brimming with hope and staring at the nest, waiting for a moment. At some point my neck cramps, so I lie down on a strip of humus — soft, decaying leaves and roots — without taking my eyes off the nest. Much later I confirm what I’ve just seen: the irritatingly common Red-keeled Flowerpecker (Dicaeum australe).

Mr. Four-Colors is a no-show even after two days, but I manage to see and photograph the local subspecies of Streakbreasted Bulbul, soon to be reclassified as a Cebu island endemic and will probably carry the name Cebu Bulbul (“bulbul” is Arabic for nightingale). This species iscategorized as endangered by the IUCN, but I suspect the level of threat to its survival as a species is much higher — it is among the relatively bigger birds left in the forest, and it continues to be hunted.

As we make our way out of the forest, I catch a glimpse of another impressive endemic, the Cebu Hawk-Owl, in full display.

Rocky roads

I then make my way south of the island Dalaguete, home to a colony of fruit bats in one of Cebu’s larger gully forests. While Dalaguete isn’t on Cebu’s tourist map — unlike nearby spots like Badian, Algeria and Oslob — that may soon change, and locals are eager to highlight the landscape’s natural gifts.

The barangay captain, someone I had once met during an ecotourism seminar hosted by the provincial government, introduces me to two guides with a disclaimer — they aren’t properly trained yet, although he assures me they are working on it. He has his work cut out for him. Onsite, Guide Number One asks if I want to see the bat colony. Of course, I tell him. After some time wandering about, it soon becomes clear that they aren’t sure of the trail or where it is. Nevertheless, in their determination, they find one.

“Trail” is not a name I would give the steep slope, perhaps 75 degrees pitch all the way down, with loose scree that could easily give way to dust. I try to remain calm, but my inner mountain goat imagines a rather cartoonish tumble waiting to happen. Fearing for my life, but mostly for a couple of very expensive cameras, I let Guide Number Two take my bag and lead the way down the “trail” that might have been paved by actual goats.

After grabbing branches that sometimes break off from their shrubs bushwhacking through impassable scrub, we find a viewpoint across the colony. I calculate a 500ft drop from where I am and decide not to go any further on the goat trail. Looking around, I see an impressive forest and even catch sight of the critically endangered Golden-crowned Flying Fox. But, strangely, very few birds. I could hear some doves, some bulbuls, but no Flowerpeckers.

A sighting at last?

With not much time left, I make my way to Alcoy’s Nug-as Forest, nice and cool as I remember it to be. At 600ha, it is the biggest patch of forest left in all of Cebu. Still, it is considered a small forest, but one that at least provides a measure of security as a viable habitat to its wildlife.

With Pedro out of town, I am given another guide, Chief Doro, who had seen the Cebu Flowerpecker during a biodiversity survey. “100% sure,” he tells me, that it was indeed the bird I have come a long way to see.

You can do two kinds of birding in Nugas — the relatively easier roadside strolls with pauses under or overlooking certain fruiting trees or parasitic epiphytes, or long treks inside the core habitat where you’ll find a trail under the canopy of what seems to be undisturbed forest. It was on the latter trail that Chief Doro saw the Cebu Flowerpecker.

Just as we enter the forest comes an unforeseen downpour. The sky was overcast when we started out, but I didn’t think it would ripen to full-blown tropical rain that quickly. I sit on a rock, my small umbrella feeble against the onslaught, to wait it out.

As it begins to let up, a Cebu Black Shama flits by. We follow it through the thick and dripping forest into broken limestone territory where there was hardly any soil, and as a result the trees were slender and short. They were small trees but densely packed together. I couldn’t decide whether this was old-growth or secondary forest, but Chief Doro assures me that it is old-growth, — that as far as he can recall, when he was a small boy trailing his grandfather into the woods, this habitat has never been logged.

It is just after the rain and there remains little chance of birds flying about. Apart from a skittish Hooded Pitta, everything is quiet. Suddenly, I hear a familiar sound of clicking pebbles. It is the Flowerpecker’s call, in a spot of forest where Chief Doro had seen it. My heart leaps.

Sunbirds and doves start to emerge, and with them I spot a white-chested small bird that is surely the Flowerpecker. The light is still moist and gray as I watch it hop and flap. I forget to breathe as I frantically click away with my camera.

It’s an immature Red-keeled Flowerpecker, still with its orange gape and betrayed to be such by its thinner beak. Upon closer look at the magnified photo, I detect the very faint smudged beginnings of a red streak. Another doppelganger, another letdown.

I suggest we make our way back, and it is difficult to hide my disappointment. Chief Doro, respectfully silent, knows the feeling. He gives the overhead canopy a final search as though encouraging me to cling to hope. “See you at the resort,” he tells me. I am puzzled and alarmed — was there a resort near this forest? “Resorch (research) center,” he clarifies, and in his native Cebuano, “Pardon my pronunciation, I’m missing some teeth.” This makes me laugh, and Chief Doro gives me a pat on the back and nods toward the homebound trail. “Next time,” he says. I have no other choice but to believe him.