Aliza Le Roux
University of The Free State — Qwaqwa Campus

Update 1

At the end of a rather dry summer (Nov 2018–Feb 2019), we finally found the time to start playing with our new equipment — four shiny new song meters! Our project is to document the soundscape of one of the last remaining high-altitude wetlands in Africa. These montane wetlands, perched in the mountains where most of Africa’s freshwater begins, are under serious threat. Yet we know almost nothing about the fauna living in them — especially the birds and bats.

Golden Gate Highlands National Park, tucked into South Africa’s eastern highlands, contains the only protected montane grassland in the entire region. Within it lies a 200-hectare wetland that is, to our amazement, unnamed and unmonitored. This is where we’re focusing our efforts: a pristine patch of high-altitude wetland habitat that may still shelter some of the continent’s rarest bird and bat species, like the elusive white-winged flufftail (Sarothrura ayresii) or De Winton’s long-eared bat (Laephotis wintoni). Our hope is that, by documenting its biodiversity acoustically, we might find flagship species for conservation — and maybe even support ecotourism in one of South Africa’s poorest regions.

Given how exposed the mountains are to high winds (and the occasional passing cow), I decided to begin by testing microphone gain settings closer to home. I placed one song meter by our campus dam for a few days and picked up a delightful little choir of warblers — and, unexpectedly, the low hum of traffic in the distance. Encouraged, I recruited a friend for the next step.

Armed with a soil corer and a surprising amount of enthusiasm, we spent an afternoon sinking sturdy poles into the stiff, clay-rich soil of the wetland. It was hard work (who knew that wetland mud could feel like concrete?), but we managed to set up all four song meters in spots we hoped would catch a good cross-section of sounds. For ten days, the devices recorded in intervals — 20 minutes on, 40 minutes off — giving us a taste of how the soundscape might change over time.

Unfortunately, I haven’t had the chance to dig into those early recordings yet. We’ve also been hesitant to redeploy the meters in winter; fire is a regular and powerful force in these grasslands. But I’m finally making progress — I’ve connected with some excellent collaborators in Japan who are experts in Kaleidoscope, the acoustic software we’re using for analysis. They’ve kindly offered to help me over the steep learning curve. And yes, that collaboration may just involve sushi.

Update 2
Our Water Is on Fire!

By early September, things were finally moving. We launched our main spring-summer data collection in the wetland — the very wetland that, despite lying within a national park and an official Important Birding Area, remains unnamed and largely invisible to formal management. We had a plan: set up a rolling grid of song meters, spaced about 250 meters apart, and move them every two weeks to cover as much of the wetland as possible.

The soundscapes we started collecting were astonishing. Frogs, warblers, waterbirds, even hints of bat activity in the evenings — a rich, vibrant audio tapestry. This was what we came for. If we could compare this pristine wetland to Monontsha, the more degraded wetland on the edge of the Park, we’d be able to test just how well passive acoustic monitoring could capture differences in biodiversity. And maybe make the case for soundscape ecology as a practical conservation tool.

But then came the fire.

One weekend, while we were all away, the back end of the mountain lit up — a massive veldfire swept down into the wetland. We had no warning, and no way to reach the equipment. Reeds, we learned the hard way, burn far hotter and longer than grass. When we returned, the damage was staggering. The wetland — once chest-high with waving reed beds — was reduced to blackened stubble. Of our four song meters, only charred remnants remained.

Miraculously, we were able to extract SD cards from three of them. It took screwdrivers, hammers, and some serious determination, but we pulled out 6–8 weeks of continuous spring and early summer data — a treasure trove under the circumstances.

Cross your fingers for us, and watch this (literal) space.