The Andaman and Nicobar Islands, nestled in the Bay of Bengal, between India and Myanmar, are an archipelago of 572 islands. The islands’ long isolation from mainland India allowed species to adapt to the island’s specific habitats, resulting in many endemic species.
The islands have 280 bird species, including 105 unique (at the species or subspecies level) to the islands, making up 12% of India’s endemic birdlife, despite covering just 0.25% of the country’s landmass. This includes 28 of the 142 endemic bird species of the Indian subcontinent.
Birding in the Andamans had long been my dream, and in December 2024, it came true. Reaching Port Blair (a port town and the capital of Andaman and Nicobar), Latha, my birding companion from Ernakulam, and I teamed up with Debb and Badri, two seasoned birders from Bangalore. Shakti Vel, a renowned birding expert based in Port Blair, was our guide for the 7-day trip.
Day 1
We arrived in Port Blair in the morning. After lunch, we headed to Chidiya Tapu Biological Park at 2:30 p.m. As we entered the park, bird sounds filled the air, and a light drizzle began. Lush greenery surrounded us; however, I was surprised to find the trail paved with cement bricks. They were slippery from the rain, and I thought, Why not leave the forest in its natural state!
As we scanned the undergrowth, I noticed some movement and was excited to spot an Andaman crake. I stood still, not wanting to disturb it. It gradually moved on to the trailing path, coming so close that I could not capture the whole bird in the frame!
Moving forward, we saw an Andaman bulbul perched on a nearby branch, the drizzle adding to the moment. The song of an Andaman shama could be heard nearby. High above, four plume-toed swiftlets zipped through the sky.
We then glimpsed two green imperial-pigeons high in the canopy, their feathers blending with the foliage. Suddenly, Shakti said, ‘Look there,’ pointing to a dense thicket. We turned and saw an Andaman crested serpent eagle perched on a branch, partially hidden. We adjusted our position and managed to get a clear view.
As the day turned to evening, we continued walking and saw several more birds: blue-tailed bee-eater, red-breasted parakeet, long-tailed parakeet, Andaman drongo, red-whiskered bulbul.
The sun sets early in the Andamans, around 5 p.m. As the light began to fade, we left the park and stopped at a nearby tea stall for a cup of coffee and discussed nocturnal birding.
After relaxing awhile, we walked through the dark amidst light intermittent drizzle. In a span of 30 minutes, we saw the elusive Andaman boobook, the quiet Hume’s boobook, and the camouflaged Andaman nightjar. Pleased with our sightings, we wrapped up our birding. Just as we finished, a heavy downpour began. And Latha joked, ‘The rain was waiting for us to finish birding.’ Laughing, we headed back to the hotel.
Day 2
The day began with a 30-minute ferry ride, at 6:30 p.m., to the Khartang Reserved Forest. By 6:15 a.m., we had all gathered at Chatham Jetty. When the ferry arrived, we drove our vehicle onto it—a new experience for us. We enjoyed observing the fishing boats plying the sea waters.
Upon arriving at the Reserve, we sighted an Andaman cuckoo-dove perched on a tall tree. Suddenly, a flurry of movement caught our attention: four Andaman drongos swooped in, followed by two Andaman bulbuls, a group of red-whiskered bulbuls, and a freckle-breasted woodpecker. Then, about 40 Andaman treepies descended into the thickets, moving in synchronized patterns. And ten white-headed starlings joined, adding to the chaos. A birding frenzy ensued—so much was happening at once it was hard to focus on any one bird.
After about 20 minutes, the activity died down. We noticed a lone Andaman cuckoo-shrike perched quietly on a tree, and a black-naped oriole made a brief appearance.
We continued on to a spot where we might find an Andaman crake. Sure enough, one emerged from the undergrowth.
Just as we were reviewing our photos, Shakti whispered urgently, ‘Arctic warbler!’ We quickly followed him and found the bird flitting among the branches—a tricky scene to freeze, but we managed a few shots before it disappeared.
After an exciting morning, we took a break to enjoy our packed breakfast.
The next stop was a dense mangrove area, in search for the elusive ruddy kingfisher. As we quietly moved through the forest, Shakti suddenly said, ‘There it is!’ We observed the bird deep in the mangroves. Excited, we quietly alighted from the vehicle and positioned ourselves for a clear view. Just as we were about to shoot, the kingfisher flew off, disappointing us, but we waited, and within seconds it returned, this time with a frog!
After a while, it started to rain, prompting us to head to a nearby hotel for an early lunch.
After a satisfying lunch, we made our way to the Garacharma Wetland. The wetland was littered with plastic bags, bottles, and other waste. Despite the pollution, nature thrives.
The first bird to catch my eye here was the Pacific golden-plover, its golden-speckled plumage shimmering in the soft afternoon light. Little ringed plovers scurried across the ground nearby, and farther ahead, a Tibetan sand-plover wandered, its muted colours blending with the muddy surroundings.
In the shallows, pin-tailed snipes were searching for food in the mud with their long bills; wood sandpipers and curlew sandpipers mingled nearby; smaller birds like long-toed stints and red-necked stints scurried about, their tiny bodies contrasting with the vast wetland.
Our next stop was Sippighat, a beautiful area with a tragic past. The 2004 Indian Ocean tsunami flooded much of the area—known for its agricultural research stations, coconut plantations, and paddy fields—turning the soil saline and unfit for farming.
As we approached the place, we could see rusting scaffolding and concrete columns still standing like haunting reminders of the past.
Our first bird sighting in Sippighat was a lone Andaman teal, perched at the edge of the water. Close by, eastern yellow wagtails flitted around, hopping from one patch of grass to the next. Shakti pointed out a particular wagtail in the group. ‘Look closely,’ he said. It happened to be a green-headed variety of the eastern yellow wagtail.
As we continued, a group of whiskered terns soared above the water. Further exploration led us to two more treasures—a yellow bittern and a cinnamon bittern, its russet feathers glowing softly in the fading sunlight.
With these sightings, we wrapped up the day, as we had an early start the next day. Little Andaman Island (fourth largest of the Andaman Islands) awaited us.
Debb had been adding all our bird sightings to the eBird app. I smiled as I counted my lifers. ‘Twenty lifers in two days!’ I exclaimed.
Debb looked up, grinning. ‘That’s impressive,’ he said. ‘And there’s more to come in the next five days.’
Day 3
The ship to Little Andaman was set to depart at 8 a.m., but we had planned a quick birding stop beforehand, so we left the hotel at 5:30 a.m. We sighted the following: two Pacific reef-herons under a bridge near Chatham Jetty, one a white morph and the other darker; three pied imperial-pigeons, perched on a tree nearby, feasting on berries; and a group of ten plume-toed swiftlets flying swiftly through the sky.
Soon it was 7 a.m., time to head to the ship. An 8-hour journey lay ahead. Just as we were packing our cameras, the sky darkened, and a heavy downpour soaked the jetty.
Being my first ship journey, I was excited. After boarding, I made my way to the top deck, where a cool breeze greeted me, and the expansive Andaman islands stretched out before my eyes. After taking in the beautiful view awhile, I retreated to my cabin for some rest. The gentle rocking of the ship soon lulled me into a peaceful nap.
By 3 p.m., the lush greenery of Little Andaman appeared on the horizon. The ship slowly eased into port, and we disembarked, ready to continue our adventure on land.
That evening, we set out in search of the Andaman masked owl, but drew a blank.
Day 4
At dawn, we headed to Hut Bay Beach, hoping to spot the elusive beach thick-knee, known for its remarkable camouflage. After surveying the shoreline patiently, we saw two of them far away. Using the bushes as cover, we crept closer, careful not to alert the birds.
As I adjusted my lens, an unsettling sight caught my eye—plastic waste and other debris scattered across the beach. Some bottles had Thai labels, highlighting the vast reach of ocean currents. Every shot I framed had traces of the litter creeping into view. This once-pristine beach, like so many others, was bearing the burden of human negligence.
Our next quest was the secretive Nicobar pigeon. We followed a narrow, winding trail, surrounded by dense forest. For two hours, we scoured the area, but despite our cautious steps and sharp focus, the pigeon eluded us. Sensing our fatigue, Shakti suggested a short break. We sat on a fallen log and rested for 15 minutes, then continued.
The forest seemed still until Shakti suddenly leaned forward and exclaimed softly, ‘Look there.’ Following his gaze, we got a glimpse of two Nicobar pigeons perched on a low branch. Their iridescent feathers shimmered against the dark forest backdrop.
Afterwards, we headed to a nearby lighthouse to devour our packed breakfast. As we approached it, a lively spectacle greeted us. The lighthouse had become a haven for over 50 plume-toed swiftlets. Some clung to its ledges, resting in clusters, and others fluttered through the air in arcs, catching insects mid-flight.
Later, we returned to Hut Bay (the capital town of Little Andaman), where we had our lunch in a modest restaurant near our hotel. The owner, Shiva, greeted us warmly and served us steamed rice, fish curry, and vegetables—a simple yet good meal.
As we ate, he began to narrate his town’s story, his voice a mix of pride and sorrow as he recalled the 2004 tsunami that devastated Hut Bay. Once a bustling place, the community was ravaged by the force of nature.
‘Many of us thought the island wouldn’t recover,’ Siva said, his voice tinged with grief. ‘After tsunami we rebuilt what we could, but it was never the same. Most people moved to higher ground, away from the coast. The fear of another tsunami is always there.’
After lunch we headed to the Hut Bay pier. Near the pier, we observed a lone Pacific reef heron, a dark silhouette against the shimmering waves. It glided over the water, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Above us, a group of oriental pratincoles flew by. Shakti gestured for us to move to the far end of the pier. ‘If we clear the spot, they’ll land,’ he said, eyes focused on the birds. As expected, the pratincoles landed, and we dropped to our knees and crawled towards them, ignoring the sand sticking to our clothes.
Soon, the beach revealed more wonders: Greater sand-plovers dashed along the shore, whimbrels strutted nearby, sanderlings raced back and forth with the waves, and a group of barn swallows zipped through the air like tiny acrobats.
We then moved on to a serene lotus pond tucked away from the beach, where we spotted several birds: Eurasian moorhens and grey-headed swamphens moving across the water; a pheasant-tailed jacana walking on the floating vegetation; wood sandpipers and a grey heron moving quietly; a brown shrike, the Philippine variant, on a nearby fence; and red-rumped swallows and barn swallows flitting through the air, adding energy to the scene.
In the distance, we heard the call of a Pallas’s grasshopper warbler. A Chinese pond heron landed on the water, its wings catching the last light of day. On the pond’s edge, a Baillon’s crake appeared briefly and darted back into the reeds.
We stayed by the pond until dusk, captivated by the sights and sounds, then set off for nocturnal birding. The forest felt different under the stars. Shakti led the way, his eyes surveying the darkness for signs of life. Suddenly, he stopped and signalled for silence, then pointed to a tree where a faint shape rested—a stunning Andaman scops owl sitting perfectly still, blending with the tree bark, and occasionally turning its head in an eerie, ghostlike way, keeping watch.
The drive back to the hotel was quiet.
Day 5
We began our day by revisiting the lotus pond. Most of the same birds were still around. We saw some other birds as well: a lone oriental pratincole; four white-nest swiftlets flying above us in erratic patterns, which was mesmerizing; and two chestnut-headed bee-eaters perched on a wire, their colours bright against the sky.
Next, we hiked a trail leading to the White Surf Waterfall. The forest around us was alive with birds. High up on a bare tree, a lone Andaman woodpecker drummed, its rhythmic sound echoing through the forest. Farther down the trail, we watched an Andaman shama, perched low and singing joyfully. As we went deeper, we saw a black baza sitting majestically on a branch, and nearby, four green imperial-pigeons were resting amidst the foliage.
Suddenly, Shakti pointed towards the dense greenery. ‘Violet cuckoo,’ he whispered. It took us a few moments to find the hidden gem among the leaves.
As we continued on, racket-tailed drongos flitted from branch to branch, their tails trailing behind like delicate ribbons. They entertained us with their playful antics until we reached the waterfall.
The falls is something out of a storybook. Despite the 2004 tsunami splitting the once-mighty cascade into two smaller streams, permanently changing its form, its charm remains untouched. The area, surrounded by lush greenery, resembled a lively amphitheatre, echoing with the calming sound of flowing water.
After lunch, we explored the ruins of an oil palm plantation and its processing factory. Despite having been an ambitious project, in 1986, the government banned the expansion of the plantation because of environmental concerns. The project was subsequently abandoned—a poignant reminder of human ambition and its toll on the environment. The factory, with its rusted beams and broken machinery, stands as a silent relic of the once-busy site.
Walking through the plantation, we could see the damage caused by monoculture (the practice of continuously growing only one crop on an area)—the soil dry, compacted, and lacking vitality, a result of the loss of tropical rainforest cover.
Shakti, always in tune with nature, paused, his head tilted, listening carefully. Grinning, he said, ‘That’s the call of the Andaman masked owl.’ The nocturnal bird is known to nest in abandoned buildings. We decided to return at night.
The factory’s rooftop was alive with movement: Around a hundred grey wagtails fluttered about, silhouetted against the evening sky.
Exploring the plantation further, we caught sight of more birds: A red-breasted parakeet squawked from a tree; vernal hanging-parrots darted through the branches; plume-toed swiftlets zipped by; and farther along the plantation, a changeable hawk-eagle perched on a low branch, watching us calmly.
At dusk, we went back looking for the Andaman masked owl. As we neared the place, its call grew louder. We moved carefully towards the sound and, lo and behold, found the owl. It posed perfectly for us, turning its head slowly, as if acknowledging our presence.
Day 6
The 4 a.m. alarm jolted me awake. Outside, heavy rain was pounding the roof, accompanied by howling wind—a foreboding start to the day ahead.
By 7:30 a.m., the rain had eased, although clouds still lingered over the island. By 8:00, sunlight broke through, and we set out for Hut Bay harbour.
A flash of movement caught our eye: Two Daurian starlings perched high on a tree, their sleek forms contrasting with noisy rosy starlings nearby. Moments later, three red-throated pipits appeared, circling above before landing on the marsh. Unbothered, they offered us a rare chance to capture their beauty. After taking some satisfying shots, we gave in to our hunger pangs and broke for breakfast.
With renewed energy, we headed to the by now familiar lotus pond area. Our first sighting was an Andaman coucal, perched prominently. Its striking plumage gleamed in the sunlight.
A tree in a nearby residential area caught our attention. Among its branches, we noticed an oriental cuckooshrike, blended perfectly with its surroundings. The birds in this area seemed at ease with human presence. Black-naped monarchs flitted between branches; a small group of Andaman bulbuls sang cheerfully from the foliage; and on a higher branch, six green imperial-pigeons perched together, their presence commanding attention.
As we watched these birds, two ornate sunbirds appeared, their bright colours adding life to the scene. Close behind them was an Andaman flowerpecker, hopping energetically from branch to branch.
I was focused on capturing these moments when a flash of white and orange caught my eye. Turning quickly, I saw a paradise flycatcher. At first glance, I assumed it was a Blyth’s paradise flycatcher, common in this region. But then, Shakti moved closer to inspect the bird. ‘Look at the crest,’ he said. ‘And the throat, it’s grey, not white. This isn’t Blyth’s.’ A slow grin spread across his face. ‘This could be the Indian paradise flycatcher, the first recorded sighting in the Andaman and Nicobar Islands!’ We stood in awe, realizing the significance of the find.
As the afternoon wore on, we focused on two elusive targets, the Andaman wood pigeon and the Amur stonechat. But despite our efforts, neither appeared. Briefly disappointed, I reminded myself that birding is about connecting with nature and enjoying the moment—the smell of the woods, the rustling of the leaves, distant calls of forest fauna, sunlight filtering through the canopy.
With evening approaching, the clouds darkened, and rain seemed imminent. Later that night, despite the drizzle, we spotted the oriental scops-owl (Walden’s). A perfect end to the day.
Day 7
On our last morning on Little Andaman, heavy rain shrouded the island in mist, obscuring everything. We had hoped for some birdwatching, but the weather had other plans, leaving us with no choice but to wait.
By mid-morning, as we made our way to the port, the sky started to clear. It felt as though nature was teasing us, revealing its beauty just as we were about to depart.
At the harbour, Sindhu, a ship smaller than the one we had arrived on, was ready to take us back to Port Blair. We boarded and found our spots on the deck. As the ship pulled out, we watched Little Andaman gradually fade from our view.
The journey back gave us time to reflect on our adventures. I had observed 47 lifers on this birding trip, and so had my teammates. The days were filled with exciting sightings, the beauty and tranquillity of the forest, and laughter over simple meals. Each moment felt like a treasure to hold on to.
Shakti, our guide, made the trip a memorable with his vast knowledge of the land and wildlife. We are grateful for his guidance and company. A big thank-you, Shakti!
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This blog is so amazing. The birds covered is awesome. The images-stunning!! Beautiful writeup Dev.