At three in the morning, nerves displace sleep. This is my first serious attempt to see flamingos in the wild. I am no birdwatcher. I carry no notebooks, no list to complete, but past failures have left an ache. 

From 2014 to 2019, I visited Lake Ercek every year, hoping to see flamingos, but never did. I later realised I’d been on the busier side of the lake, where spotting them was nearly impossible.

A wave of fatalism coursed through me: If it’s meant to happen, it will happen. The first step was driving through the dark towards the lake, 30 km east of Van, a brackish wetland hosting diverse wildlife, including endangered species. 

Flamingos are shy birds. They don't allow an eager display of their spindly legs and wiry necks that hold their bulbous bodies with blushing feathers. Their one-legged stance, effortless thanks to their unique anatomy, keeps them steady, even in sleep. 

Over the two days, it became like a game of chase with the birds. Four out of five times, I got too close and they flew away. You need the courage to approach, but the care not to scare them off.

Just before sunrise, a faint silhouette breaks the water’s flatness. I step out of the car, hold my breath, and the shapes resolve into birds. 

A small group of flamingos bathe, dip, sieve; then, one step too far, and they unfurl like a ribbon into the air. Before I can catch them, they disperse and disappear. The disappointment is brief. Close encounters with wild animals are what mountaineers here aptly call a “patience walk”.

I follow another reed marsh, where rustling edges open into a swamp. I stop on cracked clay that looks solid but isn’t. Behind me, the mountains are sharp and dry; in front, the lake is a smooth mirror. 

Between the two, the flamingos feed and wander like seasoned travellers, tracing a map of lakes, deltas, and coasts known only to them.

At ten past six in the morning, a violent sound of the Van–Tabriz train, blowing its whistle, ripped the quiet.

Some birds rise as one; my group flinches and settles among the other several flocks. Their personalities ranging from aggressive with raised feathers, to submissive and trying not to be noticed, to confident explorers content to wander alone.

For a moment, the stillness frays: some birds lift in a pale flutter, and the lake holds its breath. 

A second flock drops in. No territorial theatre. Older studies reveal that when food is abundant, conflicts are rare.

Flamingos rarely breed here; most do so on the Aegean coast, in Iran or Africa, in areas closed to humans, according to ornithologists. These sites host millions and serve as vital breeding grounds. 

In Türkiye, rich habitats such as Akyatan Lagoon, Lake Manyas, Kizilirmak Delta, Lake Ercek, Lake Tuz, and the Lake Van Basin provide crucial feeding, nesting, and resting sites. 

Within the Lake Van Basin, Ercek is the site most favoured by the largest populations. Ercek’s alkaline chemistry cradles the brine shrimp, larval insects, and blue-green algae that make up a flamingo’s necessary diet. 

Crucial to the appearance of flamingos, the pigments from the diet colour the flamingos’ rich feathers. 

The Greater Flamingo ranges across much of Africa and into South and Southwest Asia. Their movements are often irregular, nomadic in response to water levels, salinity, and wind. This group has most probably left North Africa and will be heading towards Iran. 

I return for the last dance

The next day, the place is busier. Cars, voices, and the stares of sheep fill the margins. As I close the gap to a small group, the ground gives way and I sink into black-green slurry.  The birds scatter. I sit in the mud, notebook open, while a parent leads its young into deeper water.   

Professor Lokman Aslan and Atilla Durmus, scientists at Yuzuncu Yil University, observe that the spring of 2025 arrived with an unseasonable chill, delaying the birds’ return beyond their customary time. 

I think of this after two hours of observation and minutes before sunset, just when I begin to pack. A narrow window opens, and the sun flows through like molten brass. 

In that beam, six flamingos cross, slow and ceremonial. I have five minutes at best before they fade into shadow. 

I sprint, clean the lens, fire frame after frame. They are already further out; their silhouettes sharpened against the glare. I am determined to capture their one-legged dance.

Flamingos can perform up to 136 dance steps, reaching peak complexity by age twenty. In Chilean flamingos, wing salutes and bows signal attraction, while head-flagging spurs breeding, often led by the largest, brightest males.

The birds enter the blue shadow, their pink muted to dusty rose. I stop shooting. I watch until they vanish into darker water, taking the light with them. 

I shoulder my pack. The lake regains its stillness.  I leave with mud on my boots. Somewhere out there, another watcher will take the same slow walk and hope the birds come to them.