A muster of Marabou Storks congregated in the outflow from a small pond in Nairobi National Park, Kenya. (Thomas Bancroft)

Three park rangers stood at the Y in the road, and our Landcruiser coasted to a stop. Our guide, Robinson, began talking with them in Swahili. The words were musical, crisp, and delightful to hear. I understood nothing. He handed them some papers, and I worried that something might be wrong. The one ranger stepped backward as she scrutinized the documents. Meanwhile, Robinson continued chatting with the other two, everyone’s hands waving in the noontime light. Robinson hesitated, turning to look over his shoulder and asked, “Do you want to see Marabou Storks?”

“Yes,” I blurted out without thinking. These are big birds, standing close to five feet tall and uglier than anything one could imagine. They are a bird of the savanna in East Africa, often visiting carcasses of large mammals where they feed with the vultures. I’d seen them in zoos but never up close in the wild.

Our guide went back to chatting with the rangers, and when they handed his documents back, we turned south to head deeper into Nairobi National Park. It was just a road check to make sure we paid our entrance fees. I stood in the back, my head out the roof, looking for any signs of these large birds. I’d spent a decade working on wading birds in the Everglades and had an affinity to these long-legged, long-necked creatures.

The adult Marabou Stork stood in the shallows, resting. He looked like a finely dressed gentleman out for the evening. Nairobi National Park, Kenya. (Thomas Bancroft)

Twenty minutes later, we bumped around a corner to look onto a large pond. Two Egyptian Geese waddled along the bank, and a Spur-winged Lapwing flew out with a squawk. To the right, though, below the dam, were the storks, at least 50 of them. Many were wading in the swift-flowing water while others stood ankle-deep or in the grass along the edge. The ones feeding moved their bills laterally in the water, holding the tip open a few inches. They were searching for food, hoping that something would touch that bill, and they could gulp it down. Robinson drifted to a stop where I could gaze right down on these magnificent creatures, adults and flying young.

African lore says that this species was created from scraps of other birds, making something more Frankenstein looking than pleasant. Their habit of eating carrion resulted in them being known as the “Undertaker Bird,” and they are often part of the death folklore.

An adult male stork stood with his head hunched down on his shoulders. I smiled; he looked like a gentleman, all dressed up in his most elegant attire. A gray suit coat covered his shoulders, and it had white trim along its front and tails. The coat overlay a white shirt and a puffy pink tie hung from his neck. Long gray trousers ran down his pencil-thick legs. His balding head had the pink cast of too much time in the sun, and his long yellowish snout finished off that resemblance. This gentleman, in all his ugliness, gazed up at me as if I was some peon. I liked him, a grand specimen. 

The young Marabou Stork had a shorter bill than adults and lots of white down feathers on its head. Nariobi National Park, Kenya. (Thomas Bancroft)

Several looked like they must be young of the year. Although as tall as the others, their bills were noticeable shorter, and they had white down all over their heads and necks. White also edged all the covert feathers on their wings, giving them a distinguished look. These individuals showed no indication of the pink wattle. During courtship, adult males can puff up that structure. A tube connects the wattle’s pouch to their left nostril, and when full, the pouch resonates the guttural croaks he makes, noises that strengthen his bond with a female. My wife never liked it when I sang.

The Marabou Stork moved its bill sideways so quickly that if formed a wave in front of it. It was feeding in the shallow waters. If the bill touches something, it will snap shut. Nairobi National Park, Kenya. (Thomas Bancroft)

A stork started to walk right toward me. His bill was several inches in the water, and he moved it so fast to the side that a wave formed in front and a whirlpool behind. In the water, they are tactile feeders, not using their eyes. When the bill touches a fish or invertebrate, it snaps shut, and hopefully, they have caught a morsel. Several large fish were swimming among all the feet, and that innate behavior is probably why these storks didn’t go after them directly. It may be that those fish were what drew this crowd here, and many birds had already eaten their fill. It might also be that those fish were here for something smaller, and the storks were after that too. After five minutes of watching the feeding, I hadn’t seen a stork catch a thing.

A large fish swam in the shallows of a small creek where a flock of Marabou Storks was feeding. Nairobi National Park, Kenya (Thomas Bancroft)

A squabble grabbed my attention. Down the creek, three storks had their wings out, bills raised and pointed at each other. Maybe one walked too close to another. These are social birds, though, nesting in large colonies, and often found together at feeding sites. Right then, individuals stood lazily all around, probably digesting a good meal. It reminded me of dinner parties, where everyone lingers at the table after a superb meal, conversations lively, friendships strong. Some storks started to preen their feathers, using that long bill to work the vanes and make sure the barbules were aligned correctly. Those mighty wings were flexed in the process.

Their wingspan is over 9 feet, and their flying would rival — surpass actually — any glider pilot. A slight updraft is all they need to rise effortlessly into the heavens, not having to beat those wings. I followed Wood Storks and Great Egrets leaving a nesting colony in the Everglades to see where they went to feed. Our pilot would circle 700 feet above the colony and when a bird caught a thermal, I’d yell to the him to start climbing as fast as he could. He’d crank up the engine on our Cessna, but the birds sometimes past us on a good thermal. We’d lose them. 

The Marabou Stork began to preen its feathers, using its bill to carefully check the allignment of the barbules and make sure the feathers were in perfect condition. Nairobi National Park, Kenya. (Thomas Bancroft)

Some people mistake these storks for vultures when seen high overhead because of how effortlessly they soar. Their silhouette — the long legs and big heads – helps separate them from the vultures.

My stomach growled right then. It was almost noon, and Robinson had picked us up at 5:30 AM. It would take an hour or more to drive out of here, mainly because something else would likely grab our attention. I’d hoped these birds might fly, and I could see the power of those massive wings, and then maybe one would grab a thermal, vanishing as a speck into the blue.

“Thanks, Robinson, this was great,” I said, “I hadn’t expected so many at such close range.” He nodded and started the motor. We turned to retrace our path. 

I watched the muster for as long as it remained in sight, but no bird made any effort to fly. The Undertaker was content.

The Marabou Stork stood at attention, his right eye glued right on me. Nairobi National Park, Kenya. (Thomas Bancroft)

Scarlet-chested Sunbird, Nairobi National Park, Kenya. (Thomas Bancroft)

A dark bullet-like object shot across the road, it hesitated, and then dropped into the wildflowers. On the other side of some acacias, Yellow-necked Francolins were giving their “ko-waarrk” calls; loud, raucous, chicken-like. The songs of longclaws drifted from some grasslands in the distance, and a light wind rustled the acacia leaves. The clouds had filtered the sunlight, and I felt magic in this landscape, mesmerized by the beauty, sounds, and sweet smells. This was the Africa of Beryl Markham and Karen Blixen, and I was stunned to be in this land. A place where lions dozed, impalas browsed, and hartebeests ambled by. 

The bullet transformed into a bird of only 6 inches and a gorgeous one at that. It hung from a vertical stem, rigid; one eye fixed on me. A large vermilion chest seemed to puff out. A metallic emerald-green forehead added additional color to an otherwise black object. The bill, though, was longer than its head and down curved in an even arch. Dropping its gaze, it hopped up the stem and began to probe the flower buds. A male Scarlet-chested Sunbird was less than two-dozen feet away, my first.

The Scarlet-chested Sunbird worked up the stem and began to prob among the flower cluster. Nairobi National Park, Kenya. (Thomas Bancroft)

My binoculars were fixed on it. This sunbird fed much like a hummingbird in the Western Hemisphere or a honeyeater in Australia. The long bill explored between buds and darted around the inflorescence. Probably, nectar and insects were his goals. Sunbirds are distantly related to Australian honeyeaters, and other than being in the class Aves, not particularly related to hummingbirds. Their similar shapes and behaviors are a result of convergent evolution brought on by selection to feed on similar food sources, flower nectar.

One of my goals for this trip was to see examples of this convergence, many were topics of graduate school discussions, and they still needed my pondering. The sunbird flew to another stem, landing right below a cluster of red-tubed flowers. These birds are bigger than most of the hummingbirds I’d seen and don’t hover as often. Their shape, though, is remarkably similar as are color patterns.

If the flower tube is too long, sunbirds will pierce it near the base, sucking out the nectar. If so, then the plant doesn’t get the benefit of pollination assistance. Many plants have coevolved with sunbirds, hummingbirds, and honeyeaters, so they provide nectar to these birds, and the birds unknowingly carry pollen between flowers, helping provide cross-fertilization — another ecological process to brood.

The Scarlet-chested Sunbird flitted to a new flower stem and hung just below the flower cluster looking back at me. Nairobi National Park, Kenya. (Thomas Bancroft)

This bird didn’t seem to be focused on nectar right now but rather probing between the flowers, probably trying for insects or spiders. His behavior made me think about the female, and I started to scan the surrounding vegetation for her. She’d be a dark brown color. This species often travels in pairs, and she was nowhere to be seen. Might she have a nest right then, in December, here in Nairobi National Park? Maybe, he was gathering protein to feed her or her newly hatched young. The nest might have been nearby, in a bush or back across the road from where he came, and I turned to look in that direction.

Scrub habitat with lots of grass extended for a long way. With the good “short rains” in the previous few months, blossoms were opening. In their memoirs of living in Kenya, Karen Blixen and Kuki Gallmann talked about their gardens, and the flowers they grew. Might they had looked for these birds and named them. Giving them a name makes them real, shows a level of respect. I turned back, wanting to see this bird that I’d only just identified, but it had flown. The image, though, remained in my brain.

An incredible warmth filled my body right then. In Africa, I’d just seen the first member of the family. I’d seen a different sunbird species in Australia a few years ago, but there was something about seeing one in Africa, more the center of this family’s distribution and abundance. I’d read about sunbirds for years, studied their pictures, attempted to learn the dozen or so species that might be on this trip. Seeing this first one, created a unique sensation that I hadn’t expected, a connection that will last.

The Scarlet-chested Sunbird hunched down on the stem to look through the flower patch, possibly preparing to check out another cluster. Nairobi National Park, Kenya. (Thomas Bancroft)

More Photographs from Nairobi National  Park, Kenya

The Red-collared Widowbird landed on an exposed branch after doing his fluttering display over the adjacent grasslands in Nairobi National Park. (Thomas Bancroft)

A long black tube-like bird came fluttering across the grasses. It seemed to be flying barely, flopping through the air, like a balance beam gymnast having trouble. “Can we stop?” I shouted to our driver. The slender shape was not quite vertical to the ground. I was standing in the back of a Landcruiser with my head out the roof, and there was no way I could hold binoculars still enough to train them on this creature.

It appeared all black, skinny, and extremely long, but I could get no details in the gray light. Body size seemed like our North American Red-winged Blackbird, but the tail was three, maybe four times the length of a blackbird’s tail. Males of African widowbirds are supposed to have extremely long tails that they use to attract females. So long, that its length can inhibit their ability to fly or so it seems.

“Is this a widowbird?” I called to Robinson, our guide and driver in Nairobi National Park.

“Yes, Red-collared, a male,” he had his binoculars up and was watching it come closer and closer.

I held my breath, hoping it might land nearby. Evolutionary, widowbirds are fascinating. The eight recognized species are all polygynous. Males vigorously defend a territory from all others, and they do a flight display to entice a female into their space. This individual was performing right now.

The longer his tail, the more likely a male Red-collared Widowbird will mate with several females. A more intense red collar will indicate that he is dominant over other males. Nairobi National Park, Kenya. (Thomas Bancroft)

Widowbirds occur in the savannas of Africa and like areas were the grasses and short brush intertwine. Similar habitat to the Impala and Hartebeest that I’d seen earlier that day.

If a female shows interest, a male Red-collared Widowbird will use a partially built nest as a prop when he courts her. If she likes the nest structure and his performance, she might stay, accept the nest, and mate with him. But he doesn’t help the female finish the nest, incubate the eggs, or feed the young. So, by pairing with the male, the female gets the use of his territory and his sperm, nothing else. 

Presumably, she can evaluate the territory when moving through it, and in some respects, this will reflect the quality of the male, too. Good males will usually hold the best patches. She needs a safe place for her nest, one that will tend to protect it from predators, and an excellent area to find food for her young. But how else can she judge the “genetic” quality of the male?

The two central tail feathers on this male Red-collared Widowbird were still growing. Perhaps, these shorter feathers would make him less desirable to females. They use tail length as an indicator of his quality. Nairobi National Park, Kenya. (Thomas Bancroft)

Experiments done by ornithologists showed that she focuses on the length of his tail. Males with longer tails tend to mate with more females than those with shorter ones. This drives selection on males for even longer ones, and they now have a tail during the breeding season that it is so long that it appears to hinder their ability to fly. Presumably, being able to survive with such an extravagant tail indicates their superiority. But what do males key on when they compete among themselves?

The male widowbird flew onto a bare branch not far from our vehicle, and his long tail blew back and forth in the wind. A bright crimson collar surrounded a black face and bill. Even in the subdued light, it radiated an intensity of red that surprised me. Of any birds, these males have the highest levels of carotenoids in those feathers. The concentrations of lutein and zeaxanthin help give that intense red color.

Converting nutrients into this red pigment is a costly process, requiring extra energy and a specialized metabolic pathway. But it is this red collar that tells other males an individual’s status. Scientists have manipulated the size and intensity of these collars and found that males with smaller or less bright ones had a harder time securing a territory or holding one. The researchers concluded that the “redness” of the collar and, to a lesser extent, its size indicated the dominance status of a male.

I jerked my hand down; it had been rubbing my beard for the last few minutes. I’d just turned 68 the previous week and had been wearing hair on my face for only five months. This widowbird was making me wonder why I kept it.  Last summer, I had let it grow on a week-long camping trip and discovered that some hair follicles on my cheeks and chin had stopped making melanin. The beard was a mixture of gray and brown, different from the solid brown on my head. 

After the camping trip, I let it continue to thicken because I wanted to see the mosaic of grays and browns when the beard was fuller. I had three weeks before a trip back east to see my sisters and planned to have it cut by then. The weekend before my flight, I went hiking with my nephew, and he talked me out of shaving it. To my surprise, my sisters liked it. They said something like, “It gives you a distinguished look.”  Later a friend said she thought it gave me a “professorial bearing.”

The male widowbird shifted his stance in the bush, and his red collar seemed to shimmer in the mid-day light. Perhaps, he was a dominant male, possessing a high-quality collar that intimidated other males, and his long black tail might be irresistible to females. He then flicked that tail and flew out over the grassland, waving it back and forth as he fluttered a few feet above the vegetation.

“You ready,” Robinson asked as the car started to drift forward.

“Yes,” came out as I rubbed my facial hair, wondering its significance for a single man at my age.

The intensity of red in the collar of this widowbird is an indicator of his dominance among male Red-collared Widowbirds. Males with bright red collars tend to hold the best territories. Nairobi National Park, Kenya (Thomas Bancroft)