![]() ![]() The hornbills of Southeast Asia face multiple threats to their survival. But the species is immediately recognizable by its maroon-colored “helmet,” or casque-a brick-shaped growth of keratin at the base of its beak that covers its brow and the crest of its head. While many of the other 30 species of Asian hornbills are distinguished by bright-yellow, orange, or white head feathers and beaks, the helmeted hornbill is less showy, with a bare, wrinkled neck pouch, a spray of rust-brown head feathers, and a straight yellow beak. They feed mainly on figs, and because they forage over great distances, they disperse the seeds far and wide, planting trees that feed many forest animals. H elmeted hornbills are enormous birds-measuring almost six feet from beak to tail-and they live in some of the world’s oldest forests, ranging from southern Thailand to the islands of Sumatra and Borneo. The helmeted hornbill is under pressure from all sides: Poachers want their casques while developers want their land. For the past two months, Helson had been watching the hole closely, hoping that it would once again house a family of helmeted hornbills. Five chicks over seven years might sound like a small number, but considering the precarious state of the species, it’s significant. Hornbills must nest in cavities, and for five of the past seven years, the same pair of helmeted hornbills has nested in the hole in the meranti tree, producing a chick each year. Encounters with crocodiles, elephants, and wasps are occasional but inevitable hazards. During his daily rounds, Helson might scan the skies from a boat on the river follow hornbill males as they carry figs and insects back to their nests and check the ground for hornbill feces, a sign of birds nesting above. Helson’s team, led by the researcher Ravinder Kaur, studies hornbills and their nesting activities in the Kinabatangan sanctuary. High on the thick trunk, more than a hundred feet from the ground, was a hole about the size of a basketball-a prized secret, and a source of hope, for Helson and his colleagues. Helson Hassan, one of my guides and a hornbill conservationist, pointed to a huge meranti tree. When we paused in a small clearing on a rocky hill, we were swarmed by mosquitoes. We stepped into muddy puddles-made by wild boars the night before-and squeezed between rocks, taking care to avoid the gaping holes that plunged into dark underground limestone caves. My guides led me along a narrow trail uphill through the forest. I’d been lucky, but so far not lucky enough to see a helmeted hornbill glide through the forest with its massive wings extended like a living dinosaur’s. During the past two days, I’d seen 15 elephants feeding and bathing by the river three orangutans-one pregnant and one with a baby-sitting in a fig tree scores of proboscis monkeys, showing their bulbous noses and red erect penises and flocks of black hornbills, wrinkled hornbills, and bushy-crested hornbills. The sanctuary’s animals seemed to be enjoying the lull. But Malaysia had closed its borders due to the COVID-19 pandemic, and I was one of four guests at the only lodge near the sanctuary still open for business. In any other year, the Lower Kinabatangan Wildlife Sanctuary in Sabah, the Malaysian state on the northern tip of Borneo, would be abuzz with birdwatchers and backpackers. The river, swollen by the unseasonably heavy rains, flowed swiftly and quietly. The air smelled green and fresh, but with an underlying note of decay. Everything was wet from days of afternoon thunderstorms and late-night drizzles. T he mist hung heavy on the Kinabatangan River on the July morning I looked for helmeted hornbills, one of the most elusive and endangered birds in the world. ![]()
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