Sangha Lodge

22/02/2026

Happy world Pangolin Day, my most viewed video of one of our early pangolin rescues being released. tikkihywoodfoundation.cameroonIUCN Pangolin Specialist Group Pangolin Conservation and Research FoundationPangolin.Africa

Great serpentine movements of this amazing animal as it comes out of its protective ball. The most amazing animal in the world!!!.

04/09/2025

Fresh from a 7-day stay at Sangha Lodge, Tony Byrne has shared a brilliant selection of his bird photos from the rainforest. Highlights included the elusive Picathartes, Red-crowned Malimbe, and Black Dwarf Hornbill—among many, many others. This album is just a taster of the great shots he took.
All photos © Tony Byrne. Thanks, Tony!

03/08/2025

Porky: The Peeing Porcupine Who Found His Way Home

One morning, someone brought us a tiny, string-tied ball of prickles — a baby brushtail porcupine. He was impossibly small, clearly far too young to be on his own. His eyes were bright, but he had that shaky, vulnerable look of something pulled too early from the safety of its mother. Naturally, Tam took one look and decided he was coming home with us.

We named him Porky.

Tam, as always, was utterly committed. She fed him every few hours, day and night, nursing him with bottles like a prickly little infant. We kept him in a box next to our bed, complete with a hot water bottle to keep him warm. No bed privileges though — not a chance. Porky was a world-class peer, and he stank. There’s no polite way to say it. He had a strong musky smell — think mouse crossed with compost heap — and he peed frequently, generously, and without warning.

During the day, Tam had things to do — guiding, birdwatching, lodge work — so she improvised a solution. She made a pouch out of an old bum bag and carried Porky around with her like a baby marsupial. Whether she was working, walking, or out birdwatching, there was Porky — snug, secure, and slightly odorous — tucked in at her waist, living life as a pocket-sized passenger.

As he settled into life in our house, Porky developed one of the most amusing habits we’ve ever seen in a baby animal. Any time he was hungry — which was often — he’d begin thumping one little foot against the floor. Thump. Thump. It was his dinner bell. And if we brought him his bottle and started feeding him, the excitement would get the better of him — both feet would start thumping in rhythm. Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump. He’d practically dance as he drank, vibrating with happiness, feet drumming the ground while he guzzled down his milk in seconds flat. It was noisy, messy, and utterly delightful.

As he grew, we started adding solid foods to his diet — carrots, plantains, tubers, and forest fruits — but nothing ever got him quite as excited as that bottle. That thumping rhythm became part of our nightly soundtrack.

Then one day, Tam took him outside for the first time. She wanted him to feel the soil under his feet, to connect with the world he was born to live in. But as soon as his little feet touched the ground, he didn’t pause for reflection or even a thank-you glance. He made a straight, joyful beeline for the forest.

And disappeared.

Tam was devastated. He was far too young to survive on his own — still reliant on milk, still just a baby. We were sure he wouldn’t make it through the night. Tam spent the entire evening calling his name up and down the paths, calling softly, then louder. I could hear her voice through the trees while I sat at my desk in the house, half-listening, half-hoping.

Then suddenly, I heard something else.

Thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump.

It was unmistakable.

Porky was back.

There he was, standing at the door like nothing had happened, stamping his little feet in demand for his bottle. Like a tiny, musky, spiky toddler who’d been out for an afternoon’s mischief and decided it was time for supper.

Tam cried. I laughed. Porky drank.

And thumped.

From that day on, Porky became a nocturnal visitor. He would only come into the house at night when he wanted his bottle — early in the evening at first, then again in the early morning hours. We’d leave solid food out for him, which he’d usually munch on sometime in the middle of the night. But he always came back for the bottle.

Tam and I took turns. One night she’d keep the bottle on her side of the bed. Porky would come thump on my side, and I’d whisper, “He’s here,” and she’d lift the bottle, give a little knock, and he’d scurry over and start thumping furiously while feeding. The next night it was my turn. And so it went — thump, knock, feed, repeat — like a strange and wonderful porcupine ritual.

Over time, the visits got fewer and fewer. The midnight thumping slowed. One night, he just didn’t come.

And then he didn’t come the next night either.

And that, really, is the best way to rewild any animal — on their terms, in their own time, when they’re ready. Porky had made it. He had rewilded himself. And we were proud, and deeply grateful to have been part of his journey.

It was a great success.

29/07/2025

The Garden Ghost: First Sighting of the Chestnut-headed Flufftail in CAR

It was in December 2019, and Tam had gone to South Africa, so it was just Pedro, Tessa, and I in camp.
Tessa Ullmann was a volunteer and researcher working with us on the Sangha Pangolin Project at the time.
She’s since gone on to become an important person in our lives and in our conservation journey.
Pedro Lopez was a trainee guide then—enthusiastic, sharp-eyed, and full of potential.
He’s since moved on to guiding in Odzala National Park for Cumbia Africa, where I’m told he’s doing excellent work.

One morning, Pedro came to me and said he’d seen a kind of crake in the garden. I assumed it was an African Crake—we see them fairly often around camp—so I smiled and didn’t take it too seriously.
He insisted it looked different, but I kind of fobbed him off. In hindsight, that was a mistake.
What I’ve learned from that day is not to dismiss the observations of the guides too quickly.
Pedro was convinced it wasn’t an African Crake, and I should have taken him more seriously.

Later that day, while we were sitting down to lunch, we saw a large Forest Cobra slither across the path and disappear under a wall of palm-frond fencing we had put up to screen the kitchen from the garden.
That fence had thick Marantaceae growing behind it, creating a dense patch of undergrowth.

Naturally, we jumped up to go look for the Cobra—though with great caution. We were creeping along the edge of the fence when, out of nowhere, a small bird walked right in front of me.
Not just any bird—an adult male Chestnut-headed Flufftail! For those unfamiliar, these are tiny, secretive birds, almost like pygmy crakes, and among the most elusive species in Africa.
Even the best birders rarely see them well—if at all. And here it was, right in front of us, strutting along without a care in the world.

It was a spectacular view—unbelievable, really. This wasn’t just a great sighting; it was also the first confirmed record of Chestnut-headed Flufftail for the Central African Republic.
We were so close, we even managed to get photos of it on our phones.
The Cobra was quickly forgotten as we crawled under the fence and lay hidden in the vegetation, desperately trying to get better pictures while the bird continued to forage nearby.

I sent Tessa racing back to get her proper camera, and she managed to get some decent shots.
It was one of those magical, unrepeatable moments in the field—and a powerful reminder not just of how rich and understudied this forest still is,
but also that sometimes the trainees really do know what they’re talking about.

Both Pedro and I managed to get some half-decent pictures with our iPhones.
Tessa was also snapping away with her mobile phone, capturing the moment as best she could.
Just before the bird finally disappeared back into the dense vegetation, I managed to send Tessa running to fetch her mirrorless camera.
She returned just in time and was able to get a few reasonable shots with the proper gear—photos that remain some of the few pictures ever taken of this species.

19/07/2025

The Discovery and Tragedy of the Picathartes Site

When I first came to Dzanga-Sangha in 2004, I got involved in the usual tourist activities, though there was little enthusiasm for developing more. Still, what they had going was better than most parks in the region, and that kept us engaged. From Doli Lodge, I would often look across to a distant line of hills and wonder — it looked like ideal Picathartes habitat, and I’d heard rumors of a waterfall there. I always suspected we might find Grey-necked Rockfowl if we explored properly.

Fast forward to 2010: we finally got our wooden boat operational with a small engine, and Barry Watkins was with me at the time helping with camp setup. One Sunday morning, we set off upriver with my boat driver, André (who still works for us today, though he spent about a decade with WWF in between), and a few Baaka. We were supposed to meet a guide who knew where the waterfalls were, but he didn’t turn up, so we decided to explore on our own.

Drifting slowly back downstream later that morning, I spotted an old fishing camp on the riverbank — a sure sign there’d be a trail into the hills. We pulled ashore around 10 a.m. and followed a small stream that led into a narrow gorge — exactly the sort of terrain Picathartes favor. As we pressed forward, Vincent, my old Baaka tracker, suddenly called out. He had spotted a nest exactly as we’d described it! It was an active Picathartes nest with two small chicks inside — and nearby we discovered a second active nest.

We were thrilled. As we stood quietly, an adult Picathartes appeared and confirmed what we had long suspected: here was the first confirmed record of Picathartes in the Central African Republic, extending their known range by about 150 kilometers eastward. We later published this discovery in the Bulletin of the African Bird Club.

A few weeks later, I returned with teams of Baaka to look for the rumored waterfall, and after pushing further upstream, we finally found it — a beautiful cascade, set in exactly the sort of dramatic rocky habitat Picathartes love. Climbing up beside it and exploring the cliffs above, we soon located around nine or ten additional nests, scattered singly wherever suitable ledges were available.

About a year later, I guided a group of clients back to the original site. At the nests, we found eggs — clear evidence that this was an active breeding site. Billy Clarke, who had illustrated The Birds of Lopé Reserve for Patrice Christy, was with us and was beside himself with excitement. He got some photos, even if they weren’t great, and we all felt it was a wonderful success.

A few weeks later, another group arrived: Sjef Öllers and his partner Anja, a Dutch couple who later wrote a lovely trip report for mammalwatching.com. The prospect of seeing Picathartes was just too tempting not to try, so we went upriver to the site where I had found two nests previously.

From where we landed, it was just a short walk to the rocky overhang. The nests, however, were not attended. They seemed inactive now — a disappointment. We checked the darker corners of the overhang where bats roosted, and at the edge of the rock face we found a small pool with Picathartes footprints, which kept our hopes alive.

We sat and waited for a while, but absolutely nothing happened. So we discussed our options: wait longer, or explore further into areas I hadn’t yet visited. We quickly agreed the latter would be more interesting.

We walked for about 15–20 minutes before hearing the sound of rushing water ahead. Following the sound, we found ourselves unexpectedly at a stunning three-tiered cascading waterfall. We skirted along the left side of the waterfall and climbed toward the top. I moved ahead along a narrow cliff face in a beautiful rainforest setting, with Vincent following. Sjef and Anja lagged a bit — Sjef stopped to photograph some impressive mushrooms and Anja, unknown to me at the time, was contending with her fear of heights but pressing on gamely.

As I reached the top and looked down from the ledge, I saw a Picathartes fly in — then another, then a third a few minutes later. I was already in "Picathartes nirvana," wondering what was keeping the others. Vincent gestured for them to hurry, but Sjef misinterpreted the sign, thinking we were about to move on. He delayed briefly, then realized Vincent was urging them to come immediately.

When Sjef finally reached me and looked over the cliff, he couldn’t believe his eyes: a Picathartes came hopping up the rocks right below us, completely unconcerned. He had short but perfect binocular views before the bird disappeared out of sight. The setting itself was breathtaking, and a second bird soon flew into view. I went back to Anja, who was hesitating due to the height, and convinced her to come and see. She, too, got a good look at one of the birds.

After waiting quietly for a while, we decided to scale the top of the waterfall and descend on the opposite side, where we suspected more nests might be found. Sure enough, on the other side of the waterfall, we came to a large overhanging rock face. As we arrived at its base, a Picathartes flew from the rock face and landed right in front of me before disappearing into the forest.

We carefully inspected the site and found seven nests, several of which were clearly active: one with two eggs, another with two chicks, and three more that looked active as well. It was a phenomenal discovery — the very colony that would soon become the reliable site for Picathartes viewing.

That site quickly became our main destination for Picathartes tourism. For the first three years of monitoring, there were consistently six to eight active nests each year, though it was hard to know exactly how successful fledging was. But it was a healthy and active colony.

Sadly, things began to go wrong. One season, we arrived to find that a poacher had built a fire in the cave near the nests, disturbing the site badly and reducing nest numbers. Just as the population seemed to be recovering, around 2016–2018, a new park and tourism management regime took over the site. They discovered the location — from a former staff member of mine — and began sending uncontrolled tourism there, without proper guide training or understanding of the sensitivity of the site.

The result was disastrous: disturbance levels soared and the Picathartes population plummeted. Where there had been six to eight nests, there are now only one or two nests a year, if we’re lucky.

But the story isn’t all bad news. In the relatively short time I actively searched for Picathartes nests — about two seasons in which I probably spent no more than eight weekends in the field — I personally found over 35 different nests scattered in various locations. This suggests that the regional population is much larger than the eight or so nests at the waterfall site.

In fact, given that we’ve probably only explored around 5% of the available suitable habitat, I strongly suspect there’s a substantial population out there, and that other sites may exist which could offer equally good or even better viewing opportunities than the waterfall colony.

It’s not that I’ve deliberately kept these other sites quiet — the simple truth is that we just haven’t looked for them systematically. Searching for new sites takes a lot of effort, and I’m not getting any younger. So while I’m confident that other good Picathartes sites are out there, we simply don’t know where they are.

For now, the waterfall site remains the most accessible and predictable place for tourism. Ironically, that smaller gorge we discovered on the way up to the waterfall — the site of our very first nests — has proven more resilient. Perhaps because tourists walk straight past it on their way to the main falls, the birds there now seem proportionally more successful, even though their habitat isn’t quite as ideal.

05/07/2025

Some amusing lodge history.
Cusi the Cusimanse
Back in 2013, I was at the lodge mostly on my own. It was a quiet time—no volunteers, no guests, just me trying to keep things going. Toward the end of that year, a few local fishermen arrived at camp and asked if I’d be interested in taking in an animal they’d been keeping in their camp for the past six or seven months. Naturally, I was curious.
They brought up a small cusimanse—a type of diurnal mongoose, spelled C-U-S-I-M-A-N-S-E. It wasn’t a baby anymore; it had already been weaned and was feeding on its own. But it had clearly spent its early life tied up. They’d fashioned a kind of cloth harness around its belly with a bit of string attached—basically like walking a dog, except this was a mongoose and, well, they never took the string off.
It was a cute little thing, wide-eyed and alert, and I figured it would be far better off with me than spending the rest of its life tied up in a fishing camp eating leftover bits of corzo. So I took him in.
From the moment he arrived, it was obvious he adored people. Any noise—footsteps, conversation, the clatter of dishes—and he’d go barrelling off to investigate like he was in charge of security. He was hilarious. I gave him a scratch, then figured I’d test the waters: I took off the strap. If he ran off into the forest, so be it—at least he’d be free. But instead, he erupted with joy—rolling in the sand, rubbing himself on trees, doing laps around the camp like a maniac. It was like watching someone who’d just been granted a royal pardon. And after all that, he didn’t even leave. He just stuck around, acting like he owned the place.
That night, I remembered he was diurnal, so I figured he’d be settling down soon and might wander off while I was sleeping. I picked up the strap, thinking I’d just gently tie him up for the night—only to have him freeze and give me a look that said, in no uncertain terms: Try it, and I’m gone.
He wouldn’t come near me while I had that thing in my hand. He’d made his choice—he was free now, and there would be no going back. Fair enough. I never tried to put the strap on him again. As the light faded, he simply padded off behind one of the cupboards in my room and curled up to sleep.
I named him Cusi—short for cusimanse, naturally—and he became a fixture in camp. A much-loved fixture, but an absolute pest at the same time. He was wildly energetic, very clever, and had no sense of boundaries. At one point I had to hire a Baaka just to supervise him. Left unsupervised, he’d raid the kitchen, find a tray of eggs, and in minutes they’d be gone—cracked, eaten, stomped on, you name it. The guy was chaos in a small, furry package.
But God, he was fun. Like a little Staffordshire Bull Terrier. You could roughhouse with him and he loved it. Tough as nails, with a wiry coat, and full of character. He’d rush to any commotion, tail twitching, nose twitching, determined to be in the middle of whatever was happening. Guests, staff, hammering, music—it didn’t matter. If something was going on, Cusi was there.
That was his life for about a year. And then one day, he just vanished. No warning, no drama. He wilded himself—headed off into the forest, probably in search of a mate. Never came back. But I like to think he was ready. We’d given him a soft landing, and he took it from there.
But Cusi wasn’t just a camp nuisance. He was also, strangely enough, a peacemaker.
At the time, things in the country were falling apart. Seleka, the rebel coalition that had taken over the government, had been forced out of Bangui. They left in a hurry—passed through Bayanga like a bad memory, blowing up cell towers and anything else remotely useful as they went, before heading north back into Chad and South Sudan.
And in their place came the Anti-Balaka.
Now, balaka means machete, so Anti-Balaka basically meant “anti-machete,” though what exactly they were against or for was never particularly clear. They were a ragtag bunch of village youths who’d found their moment. Wearing talismans and charms—grigri—to ward off bullets and bad vibes, they declared themselves the country’s new liberators. In practice, they were mostly just opportunists who saw a chance to swagger about extorting shopkeepers and claiming glory they hadn’t earned.
One day, I was working in camp when someone came running up and shouted, “Boss! The Anti-Balaka are coming!”
I ran to the top of the stairs, and there they were: three of them, walking up toward the lodge with the kind of self-importance usually reserved for people who’ve watched too many war movies. One had a proper gun. The other two had knives—and, somewhat less impressively, one of them had a plastic toy gun. But they were armed and on a mission.
I didn’t wait. I shouted down from the top of the stairs:
“Les armes sont interdites! Descendez!”
Weapons are forbidden! Get down! No guns in the tourist camp!
They froze. Looked up at me like I’d just interrupted their big dramatic entrance. I don’t think it had occurred to them that someone might not be impressed. Then, without a word, they turned around and walked back down the stairs.
At the bottom, they regrouped and started muttering. I could see it in their faces—Who does this guy think he is? Doesn’t he know who we are? You could practically hear the testosterone building up.
Sensing the mood shift, I walked down the stairs to meet them. I spoke calmly, tried to explain: this is a tourist camp, not a battlefield. I said I respected that they were Anti-Balaka or whatever they were claiming to be, but no, they were not bringing guns in here.
They weren’t impressed. One of them puffed himself up and said, “We are the Anti-Balaka. We control the country now. You must listen to us.”
And then, right on cue, Cusi appeared.
He came trotting to the top of the stairs, clearly having heard the noise and deciding it was time to investigate. But instead of coming to me, he zeroed in on the guy with the gun, bolted straight down the stairs, leapt up onto his leg, and shimmied right up onto his shoulder.
The guy nearly fainted.
The other two stepped back, shocked, staring as this wiry little mongoose made himself comfortable. Then they all burst out laughing.
I quickly said, “He’s not dangerous, don’t worry!”—though I’m not sure they heard me over their own laughter.
And that was it. The mood shattered like glass. We all laughed, chatted for a bit. I even took a picture of one of them grinning and holding Cusi like a pet.
They didn’t ask for money. They didn’t threaten anyone. They shook hands, turned around, and left camp. Crossed the river. Headed back to Bayanga.
I never saw them again.
Cusi—bless his troublemaking little soul—had saved the day.