Birding at Central Highlands, Vietnam
- devanandpaul
- 6 days ago
- 12 min read
After wrapping up our birding trip in South Vietnam (Cat Tien National Park and Deo Nui San Pass), we were ready for our next destination: Da Lat. It promised something different, something rarer.
Having already seen some spectacular birds, our group (Latha, Bhupesh, Chaula, Shelia, Aarti, and me) was buzzing with excitement. We were in good hands—expert birder Arka Sarkar and his friendly local assistant, Duy.
As our vehicle climbed up the highlands, a cool breeze replaced the heavy heat of the lowlands. Arka smiled and said, ‘Welcome to Da Lat. You’re going to love it here.’
The Plateau of Endemics
As we drove through winding pine-covered roads, Arka gave us a quick introduction to Da Lat—known for its gentle climate, forested hills, serene lakes, cascading waterfalls, and mountain views.
'The Da Lat Plateau,’ he said, pausing for dramatic effect, ‘is one of Vietnam’s five endemic bird areas. Some of the birds found here don’t exist anywhere else in the world.’
That truly piqued our interest. The plateau’s rugged mountains, hidden valleys, and dense forests form an ideal haven for rare and unusual birds. Over time, the area’s unique climate and geography have allowed some species to evolve in complete isolation.
Nine bird species are found only here, and another 19 are near-endemic, seen almost exclusively in this region.
Arka listed three of the region’s most sought-after species:
• collared laughingthrush
• grey-crowned crocias
• Vietnamese greenfinch
Spotting even one would be a feather in any birder’s cap. But there were four more on our personal wish list:
• Vietnamese cutia
• Dalat shrike-babbler
• orange-breasted laughingthrush
• black-crowned fulvetta
With these names dancing in our heads, our sense of adventure deepened.
A Magical Detour: Datanla Waterfall
About 10 kilometres before Da Lat, we stopped near a restaurant close to the seven-tiered Datanla Waterfall. Naturally, we thought it was a scenic break. But Arka’s mischievous glint hinted otherwise.
‘There’s a chance we might spot something special,’ he said, eyes twinkling. ‘Look out for Mrs. Gould’s sunbird, the purple-rumped variety found only here; the Dalat subspecies of the black-throated sunbird; and maybe even a black-headed sibia.’
Up a narrow walkway beside the restaurant we climbed—and the magic began.
First appeared the purple-rumped Mrs. Gould’s sunbird. This local subspecies, annamensis, found only in Da Lat and parts of Laos, looked noticeably different from its northern ‘cousin’, dabryii. It lacked the yellow rump and broad red chest band. Some experts believe it is unique enough to be treated as a separate species—the Annam sunbird.
Next came the Dalat subspecies of the black-throated sunbird, striking with its vivid red breast band and far bolder than any other relative subspecies elsewhere. Taxonomic debates aside, it was a visual delight.
Then fluttered in the black-headed sibia—the subspecies robinsoni, found only in Da Lat—standing out with bold ear streaks, a thick eye-ring, and a grey back, unlike the browner kingi from central Vietnam or engelbachi from Laos. Although still classified as a subspecies, its striking features may one day earn it full species status.
Into the Heart of Bidoup
After the detour, we continued into Da Lat town and pressed on towards Bidoup Nui Ba National Park, where we had planned to spend the night. The light was softening into evening gold as we passed pine hills and quiet farms.
Arka, as ever, had another marvel to share:
‘Da Lat’s birdlife features something unusual,’ he began, ‘called leapfrogging.’
The Leapfrogging Mystery
We looked at Arka, puzzled. Grinning, he explained it with a storyteller’s flair.
In most regions, bird species show gradual changes across distances; in Da Lat, however, many birds resemble those in far-off Peninsular Malaysia, bypassing their neighbours in other parts of central Vietnam or Laos. This curious evolutionary skip is called biogeographic leapfrogging; it explains how species move and adapt over time.
Arka shared with us some examples:
The rusty-naped pitta in Da Lat has a blue rump and pinkish belly, resembling the deborah subspecies in Malaysia rather than any nearby ones.
Then there’s the orientalis siva, or blue-winged minla (also known as blue-winged siva). The ones in Da Lat appear much duller, lacking the characteristic shiny blue feathers seen in most other Southeast Asian subspecies. Interestingly, the sordidior sivas from Peninsular Malaysia also share this plain look, making them nearly identical to the subspecies orientalis (Dalat).
The pygmy cupwing also adds to the puzzle. Those in Da Lat sing a simple two-note tune, echoing the Malaysian subspecies, whereas those in other parts of Indochina sing a three-note song.
Evolution had clearly skipped a beat —or perhaps leapt across a few beats —in Da Lat.
By the time we reached Bidoup, dusk had painted the sky in lavender and rose, and the chorus of frogs and cicadas risen.
We settled in our rooms, our minds still humming.
Morning in Bidoup Nui Ba
We rose before sunrise; the forest was quiet and the sky just beginning to lighten. We silently stepped out into the crisp morning air of the national park.
Minutes into the walk, we caught a flutter in the pines—a red crossbill. Arka smiled and said, ‘That’s the Dalat crossbill, subspecies meridionalis. They live at the southern edge of Da Lat’s pine forests.’
He explained that scientists are still untangling the complexities of the crossbill species, using their sound and DNA. The Dalat birds, he noted, don’t differ much acoustically from those farther north. They likely settled here long ago when cold winds pushed them south; so they may not be genetically distinct.
As we walked, the forest stirred to life, and we heard an Indian cuckoo’s slow, haunting song. Green-backed tits flitted between branches. This isolated Da Lat subspecies has duller plumage and a bold belly stripe. Although once considered a separate species, it is genetically closer to Taiwan’s insperatus subspecies.
Chestnut-vented nuthatches zipped along trunks. In the distance we heard the large-tailed nightjar and Dalat bush warbler—unseen, but part of the dawn chorus.
Nearly an hour in, Arka turned to us and said, ‘There are a few hides nearby—perfect for watching the shy ones.’ His words lit a spark. Something special might be waiting.
We drove out of the park and stopped for breakfast—fresh, crackling banh mi (a Vietnamese sandwich) and thick Vietnamese coffee, sweetened with condensed milk.
Tummies full, we drove towards the hide and arrived at a fish breeding centre. The hide was close by, tucked beyond a small stream, concealed by trees. After a half-hour trek, we reached the stream. It took us some effort—hopping over stones, balancing on logs, and sharing steady hands—to cross it and reach the hide.
Inside the Hide: The Curtain Rises
The hide was cool and still. Just as we settled on narrow benches, a loud, cheerful kree-kree-kree echoed through the trees. Arka’s eyes lit up.
‘Bay woodpecker,’ he whispered. The show had begun.
The Royal Blues: Niltavas and Their Song
Moments later our first visitors arrived—large niltavas, the Da Lat subspecies decorata. Although still classified as Niltava grandis, this local gem sang a different tune.
‘Listen,’ Arka said. ‘Two to three descending notes, unlike the rising call of N. grandis elsewhere.’
The females were equally striking, their dusky plumage crowned with soft regal blue—a trait shared only with the Malaysian subspecies, decipiens.
The Laughingthrush Masquerade
A flash of chestnut and white darted through the underbrush—a white-browed scimitar-babbler, its curved beak twitching like a curious detective. Four white-tailed robins soon emerged, sleek and quiet, followed by a pair of snowy-browed flycatchers.
Then came the moment I’d been hoping for—a group of collared laughingthrushes, moving with poise and purpose, their bold white collars resembling gala neckwear. I could not take my eyes off them—or my finger off the shutter.
Just behind them, black-hooded laughingthrushes joined in, their jet-black heads contrasting sharply with their pale plumage.
A group of white-cheeked laughingthrushes followed. Their brown and buff feathers glowed softly in the filtered light, and their white cheeks looked as if they had been smudged with cream.
The Forest Floor Awakens
We noticed a sudden rustle in the undergrowth—mountain fulvettas and grey-throated babblers appeared on the scene like an energetic chorus. A flash of orange and buff revealed a shy orange-headed thrush (buff-throated), pausing in quiet grace. Then came a whirlwind of glimpses: a darting Blyth’s leaf warbler, a flitting grey-bellied tesia, a lesser shortwing, the latter a curious case, sporting a puzzling mix of feather colours across the Himalayas and Southeast Asia: In some populations males are blue; in others, they resemble females in muted brown. Particularly, in the Dalat subspecies, langbianensis, the males feature brown backs, yet are distinct from females, with their slate-grey sides and a bold stripe near the eye.
Birds That Didn’t Show Up
We moved to a new hide nearby and waited for the elusive orange-breasted laughingthrush and the understated black-crowned fulvetta.
Arka shrugged, smiling wryly. ‘Nature has her moods. Some days she reveals, some days she hides.’
We packed our things, feeling content but a tad sad—that familiar feeling every birdwatcher knows: the quiet ache of an ‘almost’ sighting, when birds are close yet elusive!
But the day was not over. The forest had more to offer. We followed a narrow trail beyond the hide.
Minivets, Mystery, and a Scribe on Bark
First came a pair of bar-winged flycatcher-shrikes, lively and acrobatic. Then a streak of red and black shot past—a long-tailed minivet, tail trailing like a painter’s brushstroke.
A tiny climber caught our eye. ‘That’s a treecreeper!’ Duy whispered. It was Hume’s treecreeper, darting up the trunk like a nimble scribe writing secrets on the wood.
Arka added, ‘This bird was previously called the brown-throated treecreeper. But scientists recently split it into two species, the Sikkim treecreeper in the Himalayas and the Hume’s treecreeper in Southeast Asia.’
He continued: ‘But the Dalat birds—like the one we’re watching—weren’t included in their study. They look a bit different. They don’t have the warm colour on their belly like the others. Maybe one day new studies will show they’re actually a separate species.’
We looked at the bird again, as if seeing it for the first time.
A Jewel amidst the Leaves
A rhythmic frog-like call echoed above. ‘Necklaced barbet,’ Arka said, pointing up to a vivid green bird with a stunningly patterned throat.
He commented that this bird was previously considered a type of golden-throated barbet, but that scientists found big differences in its face and even its DNA, and so now it is a separate species. Although not exclusive to Da Lat, the montane forest region of central Vietnam, it is more common here.
A Patch of Light and Last Visitors
We moved through the trees, where a two-barred warbler hovered briefly, inspecting a leaf. A restless mountain tailorbird busied itself in the nearby shrubbery.
The trees soon gave way to a slightly more open patch, where a flock of blue-winged minlas danced about like restless spirits, while a single verditer flycatcher, in contrast, sat quietly on a bare branch.
Then a little pied flycatcher arrived, dapper in black and white, like a distinguished evening guest. And finally, a bold grey bushchat ended the day’s procession, hopping from branch to branch, watching us watch it.
It was a good day. We headed back to Da Lat for the night.
A Search for the Stars in Ta Nung Valley
The next morning we set off early for Ta Nung Valley, a well-known hotspot for two of Da Lat’s most sought-after birds: the Vietnamese greenfinch and the elusive grey-crowned crocias.
We reached the valley in less than half hour, and within moments our eyes were scanning the canopy, listening for rustles and songs amidst the leaves.
Our first reward came quickly—a small group of Vietnamese greenfinches, perched low and unobstructed. One sat just close enough for a perfect photograph, its greenish-yellow plumage catching the soft morning light.
Just as the buzz from the greenfinches was settling, Duy, our local guide, gestured towards the treetops, whispering, ‘Grey-crowned crocias.’
All eyes turned upwards. And there they were, a small party of crocias, feeding and perching on the higher canopy. Their pale grey crowns and warm tones were striking, even in the dappled light. Often hidden in dense foliage, these birds gave us a rare moment of stillness.
The Supporting Cast: A Chorus of Songbirds
As we stayed on to soak in the moment, other birds began to appear. Black-headed sibias and rufous-backed sibias flitted through the trees, yellow-browed warblers darted in and out of the foliage, and a few black-crowned fulvettas joined the chorus. Calls of black bulbuls echoed from a distance, and a Blyth’s leaf warbler added its delicate notes to the symphony of the forest.
On the Forest Edge: Shrike-Babblers
After breakfast, we wandered on the forest edge beside the valley.
Our first sighting was a white-browed shrike-babbler, darting between branches with barely a pause.
‘That used to be the Dalat shrike-babbler,’ Arka said with a smirk. ‘But now it’s back under “white-browed”. DNA is changing things faster than field guides can print them.’
We were both amused and slightly annoyed by the fast-moving world of avian taxonomy.
Next came a clicking shrike-babbler, followed by a Burmese shrike, sitting silently like a sentinel.
A Star Amidst Warblers and Nuthatches
A chestnut-crowned warbler flicked through the greenery, its head flashing in patches of sunlight.
Shortly after, two chestnut-vented nuthatches descended a tree trunk, their movement quick and deliberate.
Then a Mugimaki flycatcher surprised us. It perched just long enough for us to catch our breath and snap a photo before it vanished into the trees.
An Afternoon at Duong Hoa Hong
After a satisfying lunch back in Da Lat, we drove towards Duong Hoa Hong, a peaceful trail known for late-afternoon activity. The weather was gentle, and the birds were lively.
Eastern red-rumped swallows sliced through the sky, swift and elegant.
We then saw a Dalat bush warbler come out of the bushes, showing itself clearly. Not long after, a Siberian rubythroat hopped into view, until grey bushchats flew in, bringing their usual flutter of mischief.
We also spotted a slender-billed oriole glowing in the afternoon sun, a restless hill prinia flitting through the bushes, and a black-collared starling and a red crossbill perched high on the pines.
As the sun began to sink behind the hills, we headed back to Da Lat. Another day of birding wrapped gently into memory.
The Last Supper
That evening, we all joined together for our last dinner of the trip. Arka had planned something special—a local meal, which felt like our own little Last Supper.
He introduced us to nem nuong cuon —a popular Vietnamese rice paper roll made with grilled pork sausage, fresh herbs, and vegetables. You tightly wrap everything in a thin rice paper, dip it in a sauce, and eat it.
Our driver Hung demonstrated, step by step, how to make the roll:
‘First, dip the rice paper in water to soften it.
Then add the pork, some herbs, and crunchy vegetables.
Roll it up like a spring roll.
Then dip it in the sauce and enjoy!’
We all gave it a try. Some rolls looked great; others, a little messy—but we helped each other and laughed a lot. It was fun.
The Last Few Hours
On our last morning in Da Lat, we headed to Suoi Vang Lake, quiet and surrounded by tall pines.
We spotted a Kloss’s leaf warbler, flitting through the leaves like a spark of energy. Nearby, a tiny, colourful bird was zipping through the trees—the black-throated tit, full of energy, calling softly and moving quickly with its flock. The black-throated tits in Da Lat, with their lighter underparts, sharper black-and-white face, and call more musical, are slightly different from those in the Indian Himalayas, especially Uttarakhand, which are more rufous, have a softer face pattern, and make a sharper, nasal call.
Blue-and-white flycatchers appeared next, catching the light before vanishing like ink drops against the green.
Then came the moment we’d been waiting for—the Dalat subspecies of a Vietnamese cutia, bold and beautiful, showing off striking chest markings.
As if on cue, a crested goshawk perched high on a bare tree, like a final farewell from the forest.
After two hours of magic, we sat for breakfast one last time—strong, fragrant Vietnamese coffee and a crispy, comforting banh mi.
A Trip to Remember
The 8-day birding trip went by fleetingly. The birds were breathtaking, no doubt, but it was the company of Chaula, Latha, Sheila, Bhupesh, and Aarti that etched this trip into my heart. Whenever the trails turned steep or slippery, we slowed our steps and helped others, making sure everyone felt safe.
Even the small quiet moments brought us immense joy. Our coffee breaks were filled with laughter, stories, and playful teasing—especially aimed at Bhupesh, who mysteriously kept returning to the same juice shop in Cat Tien. The reason? A lady in a red T-shirt who served him juice with a smile. That became our running joke, and he took it sportively.
Arka and Duy took great care of us, ensuring we had delicious food, cosy stays, and a trip full of learning and discovery. The tour was more than just ticking birds off a list—we listened, learned, and let the forest speak to us.
I was reminded of Hemingway’s words: ‘It is good to have an end to journey toward; but it is the journey that matters, in the end.’
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Wonderful trip and even better write up. Transfers one to the locations effortlessly