Orange-headed Thrush Zoothera citrina citrina
Dhaka Botoanical Gardens, October 2005

The Orange-headed Thrush Zoothera citrina is a generally shy species that is said to be crepuscular and “a bird of deep shade” (Birds of South Asia. Volume 2. Rasmussen et al). There are between three and five subspecies (depending on which author you read): the birds in Bangladesh are the Himalayan nominate form citrina which are recognised by their all orange heads and white wing-bars.

That’s the cold science out of the way, and I’m glad. I like Orange-headed Thrushes, I really like them, and I haven’t a scientific clue why. There may well be a number of different subspecies (there definitely are in fact, as birds further south and west - cyanotus - have white faces with two vertical dark bars like smeared mascara and look very different) but seeing a bird as stunning as this one is so much more about emotion than science. The combination of colours, the dark, dense habitats they’re found in, the travel most of us have to endure to see one - it’s a “package” bird, an all-round event: it’s not just something to tick off and move on, this is a bird to savour - this is an Orange-headed Thrush…

What a satisfying mouthful that is to chew on, an exotic mix of flavours and tones you can almost taste - “orange-headed”. There just aren’t many “orange”-anything birds. It’s not a feather-friendly colour apparently, but look how well this bird handles it. Great dollops of vivid orange, contrasting with a cool blue. Why would a forest-loving, tree-hugging, shade-living creature want to be painted so incredibly brightly? It doesn’t make much sense. And I don’t care. I don’t need to understand. It exists and that’s quite enough thankyou. It’s wondrous and I’m grateful it’s there. Even it’s scientific name - Zoothera citrina - hints at something wonderful: for birders any “Zoothera” brings up images of far-flung places, whether it’s the old-growth, mossy forests of North America brought to mind by the Varied Thrush Zoothera naevia, or the remote forests of Siberia instantly conjured up by one of the most-prized of European vagrants, the Scaly Thrush Zoothera dauma. These are classy birds.

I saw my first ever Orange-headed Thrush by peering “under the bushes behind the restaurant” (as per the instructions I’d been given) at Bharatpur, in northern India. I saw it hop into sight to my left as my first ever Siberian Rubythroat hopped into sight on my right and I didn’t know which bird to look at first. As I flicked frantically from one to the other in those first few magical seconds I realised that first one of them and then the other had disappeared. I found the Rubythroat again, but not the thrush. I didn’t see another for ten years until early one morning, just as it was getting light, one materialised out of the gloom on a pathway leading into a forest in Hong Kong. I could hardly believe it. I’d finally caught up with another Orange-headed Thrush. I took a step towards it, it took a step away, and I never saw it again…

Another ten years later, and I’m in the Dhaka Botanical Gardens - not expecting to see very much. But all of a sudden there was an Orange-headed Thrush: I almost cheered, but that one too took a step - and disappeared into the embrace of a bamboo thicket. This time I was determined though. I was going to see - no, I was going to watch - another. And two hours later - and in a different part of the Gardens - I found a male, perfectly-plumaged, bright as light Orange-headed Thrush…

Actually, it almost found me first. I was walking along looking one way, when right in front of me, looking at an earthworm, was the bird in the photographs below. There had just been some heavy rain, which had undoubtedly washed the worm into the middle of the footpath. It had almost driven me out of the Gardens. It hadn’t though. It had helped me instead. Thankyou rain, thankyou Dhaka, thankyou all the people that made this moment possible…

It was in view for about a minute, during which time it severed the worm with a stab of its bill, ate the smaller section, then carried away the larger section when disturbed by a pedestrian (rain does no favours to Dhaka worms I have to note). A minute…not all that long, but after twenty years it felt long enough. And not just a minute of a dark bird disappearing, re-appearing, disappearing amongst the blacks and greys of a dark undergrowth, but a minute of a super bright, full-on, full in-your-face, full “look at me I’m gorgeous” orange and blue that lit up the path, lit up the shade, and lit up my day…

Fantastic. Now, that’s why birding is so great…