Most of us don’t think about the ways we can connect the imagery of climate change— factories pumping thick smokestacks, inundated coastlines and destroyed homes, polar bears sinking on melting icebergs—to the thing we need most every morning: a cup of coffee. But its agriculture, production, and consumption all play an intimate and unstudied role in tackling the largest environmental crisis of our era. Recently, an academic study published in Bioscience found that while coffee cultivation in Asia is on the rise, shade-grown coffee systems have decreased by 20 percent globally since the 1990s. As climate change increasingly threatens future outputs of one of the most important beverages to modern society (after water, of course), this matters for a whole slew of reasons. Open-sun cultivation, often pictured as rows and rows of manicured coffee bushes devoid of any other crop varieties or native vegetation, remains the dominant mode of cultivation today. But trees contribute more than just shade to the coffee, adding to its unique texture and flavor profiles across hilly landscapes throughout the Western Ghats. The diverse canopies of native trees contribute incredible species diversity, offering additional habitats to the fauna that call it home. They offer strength in numbers, providing resilience against natural shocks to the ecosystem like flooding, droughts, and wildfires. They filter and clean the water, maintain soil quality from erosion, and most importantly in the era of global warming: they store carbon.
India remains unique in the world as most coffee grown here is often in diverse multi- cropping homesteads under the canopy of forest trees, which play a huge role in mitigating the amount of CO2 being pumped out by our factories, cars, and power-plants. The process works a little like this: through photosynthesis, the trees take in CO2 and exchange it for the oxygen we need to breathe. But this also does something else, something we can’t see with our own eyes. The carbon gets fixed by the trees, sucked up through the dense network of leaves, woody stems, and thick trunks back down into earth where it is stored as soil carbon. This ancient process becomes one of the most important “sinks” in the carbon cycle, making trees the real unsung heroes of climate change. As natural agents in mitigating the spiraling levels of greenhouse gases around the world, we need them to get the job done.
That’s why promoting shade-grown coffee is such a big deal. This lies at the heart of some of the research I have been conducting with Black Blaza as a Fulbright researcher alongside the Bangalore-based institute Ashoka Trust for Research in Ecology and Environment (ATREE). Black Baza prides itself on being an activist company with a unique mission: to reconstruct the existing marketplaces for coffee and re-embed it in place, people, and ecology. This means eliminating the use of pesticides or fertilizers, and relying only on organic, natural farming. They envision a market system which values producers and nature equally by conserving native forest cover and local biodiversity (like the small raptor that inspired the company’s name) while enhancing the participation, voices, and ideas of farmers in the overall production cycle.
The focus of their efforts lies in the hazy green mountains of the BR Hills tiger reserve, the mighty ecological corridor between the Western and Eastern Ghats that’s home to hundreds of different species of wildlife. It’s also the home of the Soliga community, the Adivasi stewards of the land who have been intimately linked with these forests for hundreds of years. Originally the community lived off the forest, harvesting non-timber products like lichen, gooseberry, and honey while sometimes practicing shifting cultivation. But once the region was recognized as a Wildlife Sanctuary in 1974, the Soliga community was directed to settle in hamlets outside of the forest interior and practice settled agriculture. Families started growing traditional crops—millet, ragi—which quickly attracted hungry wildlife like elephants, boars, and deer, disrupting the delicate balance between conservation and livelihoods. In the 1990s, the government promoted coffee as an alternative cash crop that didn’t cause human-wildlife conflict and was easy to maintain, and family by family, households converted to its cultivation. Since they live in highly protected forests, the farmers often kept native trees standing, planting coffee by the bush on the forest floor. So while the Soligas never actively made the decision to grow coffee in this landscape themselves, year after year it becomes a bigger part of the community’s new ecological identity. But even now, there are many unanswered questions in this new forest-agriculture landscape. In a rich biodiversity hotspot like BR Hills, how was the presence of coffee farms affecting the connectivity of key forest species like pollinators, or the diversity profile of standing trees? Black Baza knew they couldn’t effectively reach their radical mission without the right metrics. Circling back to the mighty power of carbon storage, the untapped potential of shade trees as an ecosystem service had also remained unstudied and unnoticed. That’s where we came in. My team arrived at the tiger reserve at the tail end of the monsoon season with a deceivingly difficult mission: we wanted to know just how much carbon was being sequestered, or stored, in the farms that Black Baza partners with in BR Hills, compared to the neighboring forests. Farm after farm, we set up plots, delicately wrapping tape measures around trunks, counting the centimeters across the branches of coffee bushes, and identifying the diverse native trees by their local name. We machete’d our way through forests choked by the Lantana vine, an invasive plant introduced by the British during their colonial occupation. While the Brits left, the Lantana unfortunately stayed, and still today no natural source of control exists for this weed. We passed by mounds of fresh elephant dung, a reminder of their ever-close proximity. The Soliga rule of thumb: if you see a wild elephant, run. After months of field work, we had the measurements we needed to understand the power of shade coffee as a fighting force for climate change. And what we found was pretty wild— the carbon stored above ground in shade coffee systems was near-equal to forests plots of the same size, meaning the two systems were comparable in storing carbon within the vegetation’s woody tissue. But this is not to say that shade coffee systems are the same as native forests. Just because they may provide similar carbon storage benefits doesn’t mean we should replace every protected forest with coffee farms. But for coffee production itself, this really exhibits the mighty ecological power trees actively offer us when we grow coffee under their leafy canopies. And for Black Baza, this helps them get one step closer to reimagining the role coffee can play in conservation and agricultural livelihoods. So the next time you pour a cup of organic shade-grown brew, know that you’re not just enjoying the delicate tastes of the elevations at which it grows, or its chemical-free inputs—you’re giving a nod to the original actors keeping our planet cooler, healthier, and greenhouse gas-free.
This is a story about trawl-fishing, about the lives of the people who depend on this dying industry and the reasons for its inevitable demise. Ultimately, it seems likely that the industry is destined for collapse, doomed by its own brutal efficiency. But what does this mean for individual fishers? How are we preparing for a time when trawl-fishing is no longer able to provide jobs to the millions that have depended upon it for decades and what is the future for those people?
Leftanchorageat6a.m.,thecrewstillbrushingtheirteeth.Afullmooncastsayellowlight overcalmwaters.Thesunwillnotriseforanotherhour.TheIndianfishingtownofMalvan recedes into thedarkness. Around the globe, mechanised trawler-boats have become one of the mainstays of commercial fishing. Although they vary massively in scale, the principle is the same – a net is cast from the back of a motorised vessel and towed for a number of hours. Sometimes the net is dragged along the sea-floor, sometimes it hangs midway in the water column. In either case, whatever marine life is in the net’s path, it is caught up and mechanical winches then haul it aboard the boat.
Once in deeper waters, winches begin whirring, ropes begin to play out and the net is cast for the first time of the day…
Trawling is a hugely effective way of extracting marine resources with a high market value. However, the problem lies in its indiscriminate nature. A whole suite of organisms that are not targeted or commercially valuable end up in trawl nets. These range from juvenile fish to sea turtles to sea snakes.
These two factors—the large number of boats operating throughout the tropics and the broad range of species which are caught—have set in motion a chain of events which are having severe consequences, both for marine ecosystems and fisher communities.
First, due to the effectiveness of the technique, trawling has been one of the factors which has caused dramatic declines in stocks of highly prized commercial species such as anchoveta (Engraulis ringens) in Peru and other South American countries, and prawn stocks in Southeast Asia and Australia. Some fisheries experts say that because stocks of target species are in such a depleted state, there are now none which can be ‘sustainably’ harvested. There are just those for which harvesting is slightly less unsustainable than others. The next link in the chain is the commercialisation of by-catch. By-catch is all the sea-life which was not being targeted, but which was caught incidentally due to the non-selectivity of the trawl nets. By-catch is estimated to account for around 40% of the global marine catch and has traditionally had little market value. In the past, therefore, much of it was thrown back into the sea. Now however, as stocks of target species decline, fishers are forced to commercialise more of this by-catch to maintain income-levels.
…and in the two hours in which the net will be pulled through the water, there is time to speakwiththe crew.Deepakisyoung–hecan beno morethan 22.His armsare strongand on one arm is a heart tattoo, with the initials of a past girlfriend. When asked about it, he smiles bashfully. Anil meanwhile has been working on fishing boats since he was 14 or 15. Now 46, he is one of the most experienced members of the crew. Direct andstraightforward, Anil answers questions in the same way that he and his crew-mates complete all tasks aboard the boat – briskly. Here in Malvan he earns about Rs100 a day (less than 1 ½ USD). With this money he supports his family at home in Karwar, Karnataka: his wife, son and two daughters, the eldest of whom is in her second year at university. The crew takes shore leaveonrotationandhavingjustreturned,Anilwillnownotseehisfamilyforfourtofive months.Byworkingonatrawler,Anilisabletoprovidehisfamilywithcomparativefinancial security. It is true that were he to get injured, there is no health insurance on these boats and theownerwouldprovidenofinancialassistancewithmedicalcosts.Hepreviouslyworked onasmall-scalegill-netvessel,awayoflifewhichneitherrequiredsuchlongspellsatsea, norsomuchtimeawayfromhisfamily,butwhichcompelledamore-or-lesshand-to-mouth existence.Nowonthetrawlerhehasareliableincomeandearnsenoughtomakelifemore comfortableforhisfamily.Hedoesnothaveapassionfortheocean,orforthiswayoflife–it issimplyajob.Butitisonethatheandhisfamilydependonfortheirhealthandlivelihood. At8.30a.m.the net is winched in.By8.50a.m.the catchhas been landed on to the boat and an hour and a half later it has been sorted, the target and trash-fish boxed, the discards thrown overboard. Sorting is done by hand with dust-pans and plastic scrapers. Venomous sea snakesare buried amidst the squirming, salt pile.Bites are not uncommon. 10.30 a.m.–breakfast.Fishcurryandrice, cooked below deck at the prow, by the ship-cookShivram. The net was re-cast for a second trawl almost as soon as the first was hauled up – there will be four today. Despite the aid of mechanised winches, the physical exertion required by the crew is immense. As is the potential danger. Men run along the gunwales as the small boat pitches, wheels spin, cranks pull and taut metal lines thrum and strain. Although regularly maintained, the machinery is decades old and rutted with rust. Not one of the fishers is without scars. As a testament to the ingenuity of the fishing economy, a number of markets have been established for by-catch which previously had no commercial value. Some is sold for food, with re-branding or euphemistic names used to entice customers, such as crab cake, or the better known fish oils and other dietary supplements. Most, however, is dried, ground down into powder and made into fishmeal. This is then used in animal feeds (ironically this includes food for fish farms, which have been proposed as one solution to overfishing) and fertilisers. 12.30 p.m. – lunch. Fried fish and rice. After the meal everyone does their own washing up, including the Captain, Yeshwant. He chews a mouthful of saunf (fennel seeds) and the cabin is filled with the sweet smell.
At 8.30 a.m. the net is winched in. By 8.50 a.m. the catch has been landed onto the boat and an hour and a half later it has been sorted, thetarget and trash-fish boxed, the discards thrown overboard. Sorting is done by hand with dust-pans and plastic scrapers. Venomous sea snakes are buried amidst the squirming, salty pile. Bites are notuncommon.
But as with stocks of commercial species, it seems inevitable that the fishing industry’s strategy of diversification, known as “fishing down the food web” , cannot be sustained in the long-term. More data is needed to be certain, but since overexploitation has dramatically reduced stocks of commercially important fish such as tuna and anchoveta, it seems highly likely that the new reliance on alternative species will, in turn, denude stocks of these forms of sea-life. The last haul of the day is negligible – disappointed and late we turn for shore, heading almost due North on an easterly bearing73°27.015’E.Drop anchor at 5.30 p.m.The impact of the relentlessly throbbing engine on our eardrums only becomes clear when it stops at last.A hollow space is left behind.Thecrewloadasmallrow-boat and ferry the catch to the market on the beach.
A working day of over 12 hours. The crew does not get weekends. And where this chain ends, it seems, must be the collapse of the trawl-fishing industry. Marine- life simply does not have the capacity to reproduce at a rate that will keep pace with the rate of extraction, and so the biodiversity of our oceans will reach such a depleted state that no large scale fishing will be economically viable. It is true that there are global efforts to reduce the ecological impacts of fishing. However, there is an enormous gulf between allowing marine ecosystems to slowly recover, and bringing them back to a point where they can once again be harvested on a commercial scale. And so, it seems that the sad but inevitable truth is that in many ways, trawler fishing can already be seen to be dead in the water – it is only a matter of time before it sinks completely. Stocks of target species are already barely commercially viable. The fishmeal industry is no more sustainable in the long term. On the one hand it is difficult to have sympathy for an industry which has literally destroyed its own foundations by overexploiting the resource on which it depends. On the other however, to view the issue from this broad scale misses the finer detail. It misses the impacts on the lives of individual fishers like Anil, Deepak and their crew-mates-Yeshwant the captain and Shrivam the cook, Pintya, Lankesh, Subodh and Keshav; the impacts on the thousand such ‘thalashis’ at Malvan, and the millions more around India’s coastline.
The challenge now is finding a brighter future, for both the myriad life-forms that live in our seas, and also the approximately 40 million people that depend on those seas for their livelihoods. With the demise of the industry these people will find themselves with no means to support themselves and their families. And so it is vital that although the industry will die out—be it over the next 10, 20 or even 50 years—we do not allow its fishers to sail into the abyss with it.
Further Reading Bhathal, B., and D. Pauly. 2008. “‘Fishing down Marine Food Webs’ and Spatial Expansion of Coastal Fisheries in India, 1950-2000.” Fisheries Research 91 (1): 26–34. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.fishres.2007.10.022. FAO. 2018. The State of World Fisheries and Aquaculture 2018 – Meeting the Sustainable Development Goals. THE STATEOFTHEWORLDSeriesoftheFoodandAgricultureOrganizationoftheUnitedNations.Vol. 35. https://doi.org/ issn 10. Kelleher, K. 2005. “Discards in the World s Marine Fisheries: An Update.” FAOFisheriesTechnicalPaper, no. 470: 22. https://doi.org/ISBN 92-5-105289-1. Lobo, A.S., A. Balmford, R. Arthur, and A. Manica. 2010. “Commercializing Bycatch Can Push a Fishery beyond Economic Extinction.” ConservationLetters3 (4): 277–85. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1755-263X.2010.00117.x. Nunoo, F.K.E., J.O. Boateng, A.M. Ahulu, K.A. Agyekum, and U. Rashid. 2009. “When Trash Fish Is Treasure : T Case of Ghana in West Africa” 96: 167–72. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.fishres.2008.10.010.
Manipur’s dancing deer, the sangai, has one last stronghold – Keibul Lamjao National Park (KLNP), the world’s only floating protected area. But even this floating paradise is at risk. Lauded as the state animal of Manipur, the sangai (Cervus eldi eldi) occupies a mere 15-20 sq. km. of floating marshland known as “phumdi” on the southern edge of Loktak Lake, a naturally occurring wetland and RAMSAR site in this north- eastern state. Phumdi is the most important characteristic of its habitat. This floating vegetation is created by the amassing of organic debris and biomass with soil, varying from a few centimeters to a few meters in thickness. While most of it is under the water’s surface, it floats delicately, creating a unique floating island ecosystem on Loktak Lake.
The sangai goes by many names; the dancing deer and the brow-antlered deer are two of the most commonly used appellations. The former is derived from its dainty gait that has inspired the movements of the equally graceful Manipuri classical dance style. The latter name is derived from the deer’s unique antlers, with the front protruding beam appearing to comeout of the deer’s brow or forehead. Primarily associated with a wetland habitat, this deer feeds twice a day on aquatic plant species, grasses, herbs, and shoots.
Culturally, the sangai is venerated in Manipur. Popular folk legends associate the sangai with the bridge between the human soul and nature. To kill a sangai is to symbolically destroy the delicate binding between humans and nature; thus, this dancing deer is the way that Manipuri tribes express their love for nature. The sangai is also one of the rarest animals in the world and a great source of pride for the people of this state – its name can be found on signages, in restaurant names, in tourism appeals, and in newspapers.
The dancing deer was thought to be hunted to extinction during the British Raj, but in 1951, it was rediscovered by British tea planter and famous naturalist Edward Pritchard Gee. His report on the deer, which described in detail its unique antlers and specific habitat, was published in the journal of the Bombay Natural History Society (BNHS) in December 1960. After the Wildlife Protection Act (1972) was passed, M.K. Ranjitsinh, who contributed to the creation of the Act, carried out an aerial survey for the sangai in 1975. His survey found 14 deer in the area now notified as KLNP. Despite legal protection, KLNP faces many challenges. Phumdis cover 70 percent of Loktak Lake, but only 23 sq. km. of this floating vegetation, found within the national park, is thick enough (at least 1 m thick) to bear the weight of sangai. Additionally, the lake itself faces shallowing waters. Nearly 30 rivers feed into Loktak Lake, and the sediment inflow is high year-round. The only outflow from the lake is at the Ithai Barrage, which releases water but not sediment, contributing to various ecological crises in this wetland ecosystem. The barrage was constructed with the aim of running hydropower projects in the southern end of Loktak Lake. After its construction, the water level was maintained at a consistent 769.12 m above sea level, creating stress in the lake due to conditions of permanent flooding.
Moreover, the barrage prevents fish species from swimming upstream during the spawning season. Another major impact is the prevention of the natural removal of old phumdis, which once flowed out of the lake into the Manipur River but are now stopped by the barrage. Water pollution also contributes to the degradation of the lake ecosystem. The influx of detergents, agricultural fertilizers, and wastes from the inflowing rivers has created various algal blooms that deplete the oxygen levels in the water and reduce the biodiversity of the lake. Human activities including fish farming, fishing, agriculture, and poaching have added to the stresses upon the lake. The presence of the invasive plant species water hyacinth (Eichhornia crassipes) has increased the biomass on the lake surface, contributing to localized eutrophication. Without careful environmental management and community support, Loktak Lake is expected to become a dead zone. If the sangai’s habitat faces such diverse onslaughts, what protection can Manipur offer its state animal? The sangai is wholly dependent upon the preservation of KLNP. As the quality of Loktak Lake and the national park continue to decline, the survival of the sangai in this isolated pocket of the world becomes more doubtful. Add to that the loss of genetic variety, inbreeding depression, and disease outbreaks, and the sangai’s last dance seems to be rapidly approaching.
While the deer’s population has increased slightly over the past decade due to increased protection, its survival is still tenuous. The fate of an entire species rests on the responsible management of their wetland ecosystem. A recent proposal by various stakeholders has suggested Pumlen Pat and the adjoining Thongam Mondum Reserve Forest as possible sites for the reintroduction of the sangai due to similarities with KLNP. Reintroduction in other sites could buffer the species to some degree. Is the sangai doomed to its last dance or can we ensure its persistence in the ever-changing human- nature interface of India’s Northeast?
References Kangabam, R. D., Boominathan, S. D., & Govindaraju, M. 2015. Ecology, disturbance and restoration of Loktak Lake in Indo-Burma Biodiversity Hotspot-An overview. An international journal of environment and biodiversity, 6(2), 9-15. Ranjitsinh, M. K. 1978. The Manipur brow-antlered deer (Cervus eldi eldi) a case history. Threatened Deer, 26-32. Singh, M., & Khare, N. 2018. Distribution, status and conservation of Sangai deer (Rucervus eldii eldii) in Manipur, India. J. Entomol. Zool. Stud, 6, 732-737.
On the night of June une 11th, 2011, a young cougar (Puma concolor) was struck and killed by an SUV on the Wilbur Cross Parkway near the coastal town of Milford, Connecticut. At the time of death, the necropsy report indicated that this lean, two- to four- year old, sub-adult male had an empty stomach and porcupine quills embedded into his subcutaneous tissue. Without any evidence of a captive lifestyle (not neutered or microchipped), genetic analysis confirmed that this cougar’s DNA matched that of the expanding wild cougar population in the Black Hills region of South Dakota. Camera trap videos, paw print comparisons, and also a genetic trail of fur, scat, and leftover carcasses revealed that this cougar traveled throughout Minnesota, Wisconsin, Michigan, into Canada through southern Ontario, and then down into New York (approximately 30 miles from Manhattan) before his abrupt demise in southern Connecticut. On the search for a mate and his own home territory, this big cat’s two-year journey covered a distance of nearly 2,000 miles. This more than doubled the previous, longest-known distance of 640 miles that was ever recorded by a dispersing cougar. Male cougars disperse much further away from their natal ranges as compared to females but rarely do they ever travel more than a few hundred miles. This cougar’s incredible cross-country trek is also the longest known migration of any land mammal ever documented in the United States. What made it even more remarkable was the fact that it was the first confirmed cougar sighting in the state of Connecticut in more than 100 years. Cougars have historically occupied the entire expanse of the United States, back in a time when Native Americans both revered and peacefully coexisted with them. However, that harmony shifted when early European immigrants began to perceive these big cats as major threats to human life and property. By the turn of the twentieth century, these apex predators were hunted to extinction in virtually all areas east of the Rocky Mountains. Records confirm that the last remaining eastern cougar was killed in 1938 near the Maine- Quebec border. The only viable cougar population left in the eastern United States is now found in South Florida. This small Floridian population was saved from the brink of extinction in 1995 through a highly controversial reintroduction of wild cougars from the state of Texas. However, this population of only 80- 100 breeding-aged adults continue to struggle and survive in less than 5% of their historic home range. As cougars and other large carnivores help stabilize populations of potentially disruptive prey, the 80- year cougar absence in the eastern United States has had an adverse rippling effect throughout the entire region. The East is now above the carrying capacity with the cougar’s preferred prey, the white-tailed deer (Odocoileus virginianus). This unbalanced predator-prey relationship has brought about severe ecological disruptions and huge socioeconomic consequences to many parts of the East.
Ecological Disruption
Deer have become the most prevalent and influential large herbivore in the eastern United States and are increasingly exceeding the environmental limits to many forested ecosystems. The chronic browsing pressure by deer results in tremendous biodiversity loss and produces a negative cascading effect on the health and function of entire forests. Overfeeding by excess deer prevents forests from naturally regenerating, since individual plants, shrubs, and herbaceous layers are damaged and cannot recover. Additionally, the openness to the forest floor alters the habitat composition of the forest and causes a shift in the colonization of non-native plant species. These dramatic ecosystem changes interfere with normal food web interactions and greatly impact the livelihood and survival rates of many animal species found in the forest. The animals most affected are the ground-nesting bird species such as the wood thrush (Hylocichla mustelina), the Eastern towhee (Pipilo erythrophthalmus), and the hooded warbler (Wilsonia citrina). Other affected animals include small mammals like the Allegheny woodrat (Neotoma magister) and the Tuckahoe masked shrew (Sorex cinereus nigriculus). Additionally, numerous reptiles, amphibians, and invertebrates are also greatly impacted. Some examples include the bog turtle (Glyptemys muhlenbergii), the blue- spotted salamander (Ambystoma laterale), and the Appalachian tiger beetle (Cicindela ancocisconensis).
Socioeconomic Costs
Human health and safety are also greatly impacted by the overabundance of deer in the East. Deer are statistically the most dangerous wild animal to people in the United States. Deer serve as hosts to vectors of several zoonotic diseases such as Lyme disease and other tick-related illnesses. If left untreated or undiagnosed, Lyme disease can have severe symptoms that include recurrent arthritis, memory loss, and neurological issues. Documented occurrences of these tick-related diseases have reached an all-time high in every eastern state. Additionally, the number of deer-vehicle collisions have skyrocketed to an unprecedented rate of 1.2 million a year. These collisions in the East have resulted in more than 200 human fatalities, 29,000 injuries, and $2.3 billion dollars in damage costs. Lastly, deer cause the most damage to agricultural operations and private property residences than any other animal in the eastern United States. Extensive crop damage results when deer feed, travel, or rest in agricultural fields. Crop damage costs eastern farmers a combined annual revenue loss of more than $3.5 billion dollars. The crops that experience the most damage are grains, soybeans, corn, lettuce, and tomatoes.
Cougar Range Expansion
Despite the cougar’s intentional extermination in the midwestern and eastern regions of the United States, the cougar numbers in the western United States have rebounded as a result of hunting regulations imposed by most western states throughout the mid-1960’s. However, cougars still only exist in a fraction of their historic home range as they are heavily impacted by human-caused activities such as habitat loss, habitat fragmentation, trophy hunting, poisoning, and predator control. Current data indicates that some western cougars are now dispersing eastward as these anthropogenic stressors continue to increase throughout their western ranges. This movement is crucial for maintaining genetic diversity within populations and is essential for their long-term survival. This long-distance natural dispersal has already facilitated new breeding populations in the Great Plain states of North Dakota, South Dakota, and Nebraska.
Coexistence Benefits
Based on cougar predation rates from western source populations in the United States, the average cougar appears to kill between 30-40 deer a year. Based on this information, it was estimated that cougar restoration in the East would reduce the deer density by as much as 22% over a 30-year period. This could lead to 700,000 fewer deer-vehicle collisions and result in 155 fewer deaths, 21,400 fewer injuries, and a savings of more than $1.6 billion dollars. Another study found that if the deer density were to stabilize in the eastern United States, the most damaged eastern forests could regenerate within two to three decades. Just the predation threat alone affects herbivore behavior by reducing their overall feeding time, altering their forage movements, and limiting successful reproduction by increasing their stress hormone levels. Cougars and other large carnivores also promote healthier herbivore herds by eliminating weak, disease-susceptible individuals. This ensures optimal genetic herd health by restoring the social order of dominance and allowing only the most fit males to breed.
High Risk Perception
Although science has proven that living alongside cougars would actually save far more people from death and injury, cougars (and all large carnivores) are continuously stigmatized as “bloodthirsty” animals with malicious intentions. A huge injustice occurs when these misunderstood animals, such as big cats, wolves, sharks, and others, are villainized in media outlets such as in Hollywood movies or in news reports. A substantial overestimation of risk is often associated with these animals and it causes most people to have an irrational fear of them. Cougars, however, have much more to fear from us than we do from them because humans are by far the largest causes of cougar mortality.
Cougars have repeatedly proven that they are not a substantial public threat as there were only 29 human fatalities and 171 nonfatal attacks that occurred in the United States and Canada between 1890-2017. Although these incidents during the past 127 years are extremely serious, they come nowhere close to the 4.5 – 4.7 million Americans that are attacked by domestic dogs (Canis lupus familiaris) each year in the United States. Statistics indicate that approximately 20-30 people die every year from domestic dog attacks, making people ten times more likely to be killed by a domestic dog than by a cougar. Although the odds of encountering a cougar in the wild are very small and attacks are extremely rare, more cougar attacks have been reported in the western United States over the past 20 years than in the previous 100. These attacks are directly related to the increasing human population and its encroachment into cougar habitat. There is, however, safety in numbers. Solitary hikers are three times more likely to be attacked by a cougar rather than people in a group. See Table 1 for information on how to act when encountering a cougar.
Coexistence Strategies
Since 2005, there have been a total of 466 cougar confirmations in the midwestern United States and five confirmations in the Northeast. Most of these confirmations have gone unnoticed since cougars typically try to avoid contact with people. This was demonstrated by the Connecticut cougar who remained virtually unseen and undetected for two years until that fateful summer night. However, as these big cats are steadily advancing past the Rocky Mountains, they are increasingly sharing more of the same space with humans in areas where they have long been absent. These dispersing cougars will need the full support and acceptance of the public if they are to have any chance of recolonization back into their former home territories.
The fear of human-cougar conflict plays a major role in anti-predator sentiments towards these large carnivores. Overcoming the societal challenges and the “not in my backyard” mentality will ultimately determine if people have the ability and the desire to coexist with them. Solutions to help foster positive public attitudes are essential, and significant investments into age-appropriate educational and public awareness programs should be a top priority. Children should be a primary focus for the purpose of creating future generations of conservation-minded individuals. Knowledge of the cougar’s long-term valuable impact can also help diminish the negativity and fear that are associated with these apex predators. Information about permanent human influences on the landscape, such as roads and urban developments, should be assessed to gain an understanding of how successful cougars are in avoiding these human disturbances. Research into potential dispersal corridors should also be encouraged to help cougars safely facilitate their eastward expansion. Lastly, actions to reduce cougar encounters should be recommended by each eastern state’s wildlife agency with the interests of all stakeholders in mind. See table 2 for actions. With more tolerance, insight, and some changes to our lifestyle, perhaps one day our long-lost eastern cougars will once again recover and unobtrusively roam the lands in which they formerly lived.
Conclusion
The cougar’s important predatory influences were not yet recognized when they were successfully eradicated from the eastern United States over a century ago. Without any natural enemies, the ecological and socio-economic evidence is quite compelling that the deer population has become overabundant in the East. Methods such as sport and recreational deer hunting have not proven effective in the management of white-tailed deer and demonstrate that the cougar’s predation pressure in controlling such populations is unmatched. Now that science has proven the value and worth of these big cats, the restoration of a natural predator-prey relationship in the East could be the much-needed solution for deer control. However, this will be for the public to decide. Whether or not cougars will be “allowed” back into the eastern United States, they are incredibly important animals that deserve protection. Not only for their valuable services to both the environment and to society, but also for the intrinsic value that they have in their own right.
Further Reading Gilbert, S.L., K.J. Sivy, C.B. Pozzanghera, A. DuBour, K. Overduijn, M.M. Smith, J. Zhou et al. 2016. Socioeconomic benefits of large carnivore recolonization through reduced wildlife-vehicle collisions. Conservation Letters: 1-9. Laundre, J.W. 2013. The feasibility of the north-eastern USA supporting the return of the cougar Puma concolor. Oryx 47(1): 96-104. Ripple, W.J., J.A. Estes, R.L. Beschta, C.C. Wilmers, E.G. Ritchie, M. Hebblewhite, A.J. Wirsing et al. 2014. Status and ecological effects of the world’s largest carnivores. Science, 343: 151-164.
I had just reached Yatong, a small remote settlement 12 km from Hayuliang in Anjaw district of Arunachal Pradesh. I was there for fieldwork for my Masters dissertation in Anthropology, Environment and Development from University College London.
The first thing I did was to look for a field assistant who would be my companion and guide through fieldwork. Basila Kri, a village council member, suggested that Ajeimai Yun would be the right person, “someone who is knowledgeable and nice.” Ajeimai lived in Gab, a village uphill and a two-hour walk along the UI river, a tributary of the Lohit river. The very next day, I set out for Gab with a young boy who was going towards the village. Trailing off the main road, within minutes we reached a very long hanging bridge across the river. Two women carrying bamboo baskets on their backs were on the bridge and we waited for them to cross first. Crossing these foot suspension bridges is sometimes the only way to reach villages. Some bridges are very old and in need of repair and can make you very nervous while crossing. Travellers to Arunachal Pradesh are both fascinated and petrified by these long hanging bridges. Fürer-von Haimendorf, a well-known anthropologist who worked in Arunachal Pradesh, said one has to be an “acrobat’’ to cross these bridges. Another visitor provided a useful top for the not-so- adventurous: “Never look down!”
Once we entered Gab, two girls with large bamboo baskets on their backs who were collecting some plants greeted us. I asked, “Do you know where Ajeimai lives?” One of them laughed and said, “that’s me!”, with a bright smile. I was surprised, as I had first assumed that Akeimei was a boy. Field assistants are known to be mostly men. I was glad to meet her. Ajeimai belongs to the Kman Mishmi, which is one of the 26 indigenous tribes in the Arunachal. There are an estimated 15,000 Mishmi people spread across 340 villages in Lohit and Anjaw districts.
Ajeimai looked short for her age of 25, probably due to a hunchback. She later told me that she had fallen ill when she was a child, and had since been hunched. Consequently, she could not do much farm work and remained restricted to household chores such as cooking, washing, taking care of chickens and tending kitchen gardens. Like many other young girls in Gab, Ajeimei wore a trouser and a blouse. Women both young and old wear the traditional daal-phlai (wrap around sarong), hand woven by the women themselves.
As we walked towards Ajeimai’s house, I noticed that Gab was a very small village, inhabited by the Yun clan of Kman Mishmi, with just 100 people and about 30 houses. All the houses were made of bamboo, including the floor and walls. These bamboo houses stood high on stilts to prevent wild animals and snakes from entering the house and also to keep the indoors dry during the monsoon. The space below the house was used to keep cattle, pigs and chickens. A thick log carved with steps served as a ladder. “Be careful while climbing, aaram se”, said Ajeimai.
It was dark inside her house, and little light entered even during the day. Ajeimai pushed two sliding doors, through which soft rays of light filtered through bamboo slits. A kerosene lamp was lit to brighten the room. “Gab mein light nahi hai” (“There is no electricity in Gab”), said Ajeimai. A man in his 40s who was cleaning his gun, greeted me with a smile. He was Ajeimai’s father, Sopreng Yun. I asked, “Going to the forest?” He replied, “No, just cleaning the gun.” After he was done, he got up with his fishing nets and his cane backpack. I asked him if I could join him for fishing, he smiled and replied, “You take rest, it will be hazardous for you.” After an hour, he came back with fresh fish. While I unpacked, Ajeimai collected some fresh beans and dug out some garlic from her kitchen garden. We had rice, boiled beans and delicious fish and began to chat.
Ajeimai was not sure if she was the right person to help me in my research. She had not done anything like this before. My research was to gather information about wildlife and wildlife hunting practices in the Kman Mishmi (or Miju Mishmi) society. I was keen to know about the animals hunted and the methods used, as well as what women did when men were out hunting. After I explained that, in general, I want to know about Mishmi people too, she looked intrigued and asked: “Is that your research”? Is that what you do?’ a question that became a frequently used one-liner to pull my leg.
Looking puzzled, she placed a kettle over the fire to prepare tea. She added few bay leaves, tea leaves into the kettle with lots of sugar. Laalchai was refreshing! Shaking her head with disbelief and smiling, she said that my research was easy and declared that we should begin doing research immediately. As I looked up, I noticed two bamboo trays, one above the other, hanging over the fireplace. She explained that the trays were used to smoke meat, dry grains and firewood. During the monsoons, it is difficult to get firewood, and these would come in handy. Ajeimai’s strategy was to share information about each and every thing around the house, village and forest. She became my eyes and ears, and a trusted guide in a matter of days.
One of six siblings, Ajeimai never went to school as she had to take care of her younger brother, who was only two years old when Ajaimai’s mother passed away. She took on the responsibility of household work to help her father. She could not weave because of her hunchback but she enjoyed knitting and embroidery and was good in all domestic chores. Ajeimai knew everyone in the village, who was related to whom, who hunted what, and when. Based on my initial discussions, we prepared a detailed research plan. I told Ajeimai, “We have a lot of work and I need to interview hunters, document traps, photograph animal skulls.” Raising her eyebrows with a broad smile in playful tone, she asked ‘Is this your research? That’s all!’
We started our work the following day. Ajeimai took me around her village. It was difficult to climb up the steep slopes. Boys with catapults around their necks, with small pebbles inside their sling bags, wandered along the trails. Steadily looking up at the canopy for birds and squirrels, they had their eyes fixed on the trees.
As we walked round, curious villagers approached us with endless queries. Ajeimai was always bombarded with questions, and the villagers were not convinced that the topic of my study was ‘wild animals and hunting’. One man said, “Who will come this far to study wildlife hunting?” As hunting is not seen an unusual activity here, people suspected that I used hunting as an excuse to hide the primary purpose of my work. Many people asked asked Ajeimai, “Is she from the medical department to vaccinate children?”, “To sell clothes?”, “An official from the government department?”. Once she burst out laughing when a man claimed that I was a spy (jasoos) from China!
People finally believed me when I could identify some birds and animal skulls, thanks to Ajeimai. She would carry my animal books, bird guides and binoculars with pride to convince fellow villagers that I was indeed a ‘real’ researcher studying the hunting practices of the Mishmi. ‘Didi, show them the musk deer photo’, she would request. Musk deer (kasturi in Hindi, təla in Kman) was a star animal, and many were curious to to know what the animal looked like. As days passed by, we became friends. We shared jokes, worked together all day doing both research and household chores. Sometimes we mutually admired admired our skills in embroidery and cooking. She defended me and did not tolerate anyone making fun of me. One morning, Ajeimei said she would introduce me to Kitusa who was a good hunter. I asked her, ‘What makes him a good hunter?’ “Oh… he is always out and never at home”, was her answer. Kitusa (name changed), around 35 years old, was busy scrubbing a leather shoulder belt for holding the machete (dao in Hindi, sut in Kman) when I went to meet him. Ajeimai spread out a brown coloured mat for us to sit on, which looked like an animal skin. She looked at me, expecting me to ask the obvious question. ‘What skin is this?’, I asked. Kitusa said, ‘Paahi’. Ajemai repeated ‘P-a-a-h-i’ and pointed to the skull on the trophy board. It was a barking deer. I confirmed it with the picture in the guidebook. Ajeimai used this book frequently, and there was a look of childish excitement on her face whenever she shared the book with others. This time she showed it to Kitusa, and both agreed that ‘Paahi’ was barking deer. The pictorial guide of animals raised curiosity and excitement among other members of Kitusa’s family, and they joined us too. They showed me the animals found in the region. Ajeimai helped me with the local names of other animals and birds, and a checklist was prepared. Local names made conversations more comfortable and exciting. She told me ‘Now that you know the local names of the animals and birds, people will trust and accept you quickly!’. I saw that she tried very hard to make me comfortable and made sure I was welcomed and hosted well during my research. As Kitusa narrated his stories of trekking up in the mountains and hunting, we got engrossed in his stories. He told us something which intrigued me. ‘Do you know who owns the mountains and the forests?’. I replied quickly and confidently, ‘Forest department’?. Kitusa laughed and said, ‘No. No. The owner of the forest is a Mountain spirit called ‘Shyutoh’. He continued: “We hunters fear and respect the mountain spirits, and draw a circle around the camp for protection. After starting the fire, we make an offering to the spirits for safety, success and good health. Shyutoh is our mountain God and hunters pay respects to Shyutoh when they reach the hunting grounds. Shyutho owns the forests and provides us with animals to hunt.” ‘Which animals are found there up in the mountains?’ I asked. Ajeimai quickly replied, ‘Khyəm (Takin), Təla (Musk Deer), Rə’ai (Serow) and pheasants’. Kitusa said that one has to really go far to the snow covered areas to hunt musk deer. He said the trick they used to track musk deer was to smell the rocks. Musk deer leave a strong smell on the rocks where they rest. ‘The smell is powerful and remains for a long time. We look for footprints to track the animal.” Ajeimai confessed that even she never knew these stories and acknowledged my role: ‘Didi, because of you, I am learning about my community’.
Ajeimai asked her aunt, ‘When men go to hunt, what do women do?’. ‘What do we do? We sit at home and work!” she replied. We probed her, ‘Why don’t women join them in hunting?” Two more women joined, and we chatted for long hours through the night. A fire was lit and our faces glowed in the dim glimmering light.
Shamimai said ‘Women do not hunt, but there are women who trap small animals on the farm occasionally’. When asked why women don’t hunt, the reply was simple, ‘That’s the rule’. When I asked the men, they said,‘It is very tough for women’
These stories enriched my research. Kitusa added that the distance travelled for musk deer is more than for any other animal and that the rituals followed are very strict. People consulted Mishmi shaman priests (Kətuwat) before hunting trips for musk deer and takin. If a shaman indicated that the trip would be successful, villagers set out for hunting; if not, it would be postponed. Rituals were performed near the rocks, using some leaves and red ochre (glaa), an essential item. Ochre was collected near hot springs in the high mountains and had a spiritual significance. Glaa was sprinkled on the leaves by offering prayers and uncooked rice and millet were offered to the owner of the mountains. Over time I met other villagers and gathered more information about hunting. Ajeimai found my work very interesting. We would go through the bird book together and identify birds spotted on the bushes or the small birds that the boys catapulted. She understood my work well and would update me with interesting events in the village. Having Ajeimai as my field assistant also came in handy when I wanted to interview women. ‘That is easy’ she said ‘I will take you to my aunt, Shamimai’. Ajeimai’s aunt was busy weaving a multi coloured fabric flowing from the wall tied to her waist. The loom (tho’) had pink, black, green and blue coloured threads, and the design was intricate. We sat next to her and watched her excellent skill of giving life to bare threads. Among the Mishmis, each house has a loom and women weave daal-phlai (sarongs), tüpəi (bags) and gul khana (jackets for men). These jackets have a unique design and are usually pink and black. Later that day, we sat in the haanda (balcony), an extension of the longhouse that has a bamboo platform and a roof.
Ajeimai asked her aunt, “When men go to hunt, what do women do?” “What do we do? We sit at home and work!” she replied. We probed her, ‘Why don’t women join them in hunting?” Two more women joined, and we chatted for long hours through the night. A fire was lit and our faces glowed in the dim glimmering light.
Shamimai said, “Women do not hunt, but there are women who trap small animals on the farm occasionally.” When asked why women don’t hunt, the reply was simple, ‘That’s the rule’. When I asked the men, they said, ‘It is very tough for women’. One man said that women were scared of hunting. Ajeimai took over the interview; she was so absorbed in the discussion that it appeared that she was the researcher. Many of the things we heard were new to Ajeimai and her curiosity to learn more was endless. I realized that this research was no more mine alone, but belonged to her too. It became a collaborative project. Ajeimai turned to me and said, ‘Didi, did you know that when husbands go out hunting, their wives do not tell anyone that the husband is away hunting?’ I began to write everything she narrated. Stories filled up my field dairy. That day both of us felt a sense of achievement.
Till the end of my work, not a single day was spent without walking around the village, collecting wild berries and wandering in the forests around. She showed me the ‘danggri baba ka ped’, a tall tree where it was believed that spirits resided and felling was prohibited. She pointed to rodent traps (tawan) around the granaries. Over time, I developed an eye for things that I had never noticed before. Ajeimai became my teacher and my mentor. ‘Don’t enter this house, its kəmüt’ she would warn me. Three days after a ritual, the house is closed for guests, a period called kəmüt. She would point to the bunch of green bamboo grass at the door that indicates kəmüt. The information about taboos and the role of women in the society was possible only because of Ajeimai. Her constant desire to learn and willingness to share was boundless.
It was time for me to wind up my fieldwork and say goodbye to Gab. Ajeimai walked with me until Yatong. She pulled out a packet that had a colourful daal-phlai (sarong), ‘yeh, aapkeliye Didi’. A gift from Ajeimai that I still have and cherish. It reminds me of not only her but my connection with the Kman Mishmi society. Not knowing what to give her, I presented her my wristwatch. As I thanked and hugged Ajeimai, our eyes were moist and I felt a slight heaviness in my heart. ‘Achche se jaeeye, Didi’, she said as I sat on the vehicle to leave for Tezu.
I knew I would miss Ajemai but did not know that I would never see her again. A month after I completed my fieldwork, I received the sad news that Ajeimai was no more. She suffered from jaundice and malaria and died on the way to the hospital. This came as a shock to me while I was writing my dissertation. I lost a friend forever. I am forever indebted to her for the valuable contribution she made to my research.
Field assistants play an important role in our work and there is a deep association between the researcher and the community. Without Ajeimai, my fieldwork would not have been possible. When I submitted my masters’ dissertation at the Department of Anthropology in University College London, I dedicated it to her.
To Ajeimai Yun My field assistant and a good friend in Gab village who passed away after a month of this research work. I dedicate this dissertation to her. From Ambika Aiyadurai
This issue begins with another contribution to our series on field assistants and their contribution to research in India. Ambika Ayyadurai pays tribute to Ajeimai Yun, who was her friend, companion and guide during her research on hunting practices in Arunachal Pradesh. Many carnivores around the world had their ranges greatly reduced by a combination of habitat loss and hunting over the last century, but due to habitat protection and laws preventing hunting, many of their ranges have started to expand into human dominated landscapes. Jennifer Robertson maps the recent expansion of cougar ranges in the USA and what it has meant for conflict and coexistence with humans. Later in this issue, Neha Sinha addresses a similar issue with ‘problem animals’ like crocodiles and leopards in India. She argues that the government’s standard approach to dealing with them, namely translocation, may be neither legal nor effective.
Priya Ranganathan enquires into the fate of Manipur’s dancing deer, and the effects of habitat loss in its only haven, the Keibul Lamjao National Park. Matt Creasey and Shawn Dsouza then explore the effects of trawling on marine fauna and ecosystems, with personal snippets of their experiences as on-board observers on a trawling boat. Emmalina Glinskis explores the value of shade grown coffee in combatting climate change. And finally, our columnists explore what would happen if you took two extreme conservation ideas, Compassionate Conservation and Half Earth, and hybridized them.
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Ever since I was young, feelings of melancholy or listlessness have inevitably given rise to a particular craving: to go outdoors. The urge has taken on different forms – sometimes I want to walk the clifftops by a tempestuous sea and have my face scoured by the salty wind; other times I want to lean back against the trunk of a venerable tree and look up at the golden sun shining down through its green leaves – but, no matter how it manifests, this desire has been a constant companion over the decades. Like a good friend who brings you soup when you have the flu, that companion has consistently helped me get through difficult times: when I return home after my dose of nature, I inevitably feel emotionally healthier and more balanced.
After years of thinking that my impulse to self-medicate with green spaces was a quirk of my own personality, I recently came to discover that it is actually a habit shared by many, and its value is documented by an increasing body of scientific evidence. Exposure to nature really is good for you, not just mentally but also physically; benefits are observed across all demographics, habitats, activities, and lengths of immersion studied thus far.
If you’re looking for testimonials on the value of a ‘nature fix’, as it is called by author Florence Williams in her book of the same name, you could read one of the many recent books on this topic – including Joe Harkness’s Bird Therapy, Sarah Ivens’ Forest Therapy, Emma Mitchell’s TheWildRemedy, and Wallace J. Nichols’s Blue Mind. These and other similar volumes could be said to be descendants of Biophilia, a 1984 book in which biologist and conservationist Edward O. Wilson proposed that humans have an innate desire to ‘affiliate with other forms of life’— and suggested that we benefit from doing so.
Alternatively, if you would like more specifics about how to actually administer a green therapy, look no further; the following paragraphs detail the what, who, and why/ how reported in the scientific literature to date.
What are the health benefits of nature?
Humans have probably been deriving health benefits from the environments in which we live for as long as Homo sapiens has been a species. For example, some of our most commonly used pharmaceuticals come from nature: aspirin is derived from willow bark, and the antibiotic penicillin is derived from the penicillium mould.
However, biophilia is most frequently discussed in relation to mental wellbeing, and one of the best-known early natural treatments is sea bathing, prescribed by doctors in the 18th and 19th centuries to combat ‘melancholy’ or ‘spleen’ (i.e., depression). These same physicians also saw the value of the fresh, clean air of mountaintops and deserts, where tuberculosis patients could retreat to sanatoria to recover their vigour and extend their lifespan. Sanatoria were no longer needed once anti-tuberculosis medication was discovered, but by then researchers had already confirmed that there were genuine benefits to spending time in these natural environments – for example, because sunlight can kill harmful bacteria and stimulate tissue generation.
Recent studies have also shown that mortality rates— particularly those from cardiovascular problems—are lower in green environments than in those where nature is less prominent. This is likely related to the fact that both blood pressure and heart rate tend to be healthier in more natural spaces; it probably doesn’t hurt that greener environments generally also protect against asthma and allergies.
Anyone who has gone on an extended camping trip will be familiar with the way that exposure to natural habitats alters sleeping patterns; though those first couple days of waking at sunrise might come as a shock, the body seems to quickly adjust to the new rhythm, leaving you feeling more rested and energised. This has been formally documented, as has the fact that views of nature – even just glimpses through a window, scenes in a video, or artwork on walls – can speed healing, boost your mood, and increase self- esteem. Interactions with nature also facilitate cognitive function, reduce feelings of stress, and enhance your sense of happiness and wellbeing.
Unsurprisingly, given this extensive suite of positive reactions and characteristics, nature is also known to boost creativity – not just inspiring art, as in the case of writers and painters who become prolific during countryside retreats, but also facilitating the sort of ‘eureka!’ moments that lead to major innovative and philosophical breakthroughs (after all, Newton was supposedly sitting under a tree when he developed his theory of gravity). That said, nature is not just a mental stimulant; proximity to nature also seems to inspire people to be more physical, prompting an increase in activities such as hiking, swimming, foraging, and, birding – all of which have been shown to have their own positive impacts on physical and mental health.
Who benefits from ‘nature treatments’?
This year, a UK-wide study on exposure to nature found that its benefits could be observed in all people examined – young or old, wealthy or poor, urban or rural, healthy or battling illness, male or female, disabled or not. Nature can help everyone.
One study on people who were moving house found that those who relocated to more natural environments experienced significant improvements in mental health relative to those who moved to new homes in less natural areas. Although the depressed mood did eventually improve in the latter group and return to baseline levels, the former group continued to experience the positive boost for an extended period of time. In a separate project conducted in the UK, scientists found that people who live near the coast are healthier than those dwelling inland – a pattern that cannot merely be explained by increased levels of coast-related exercise (e.g., swimming or kayaking). Thus, it appears that individuals can benefit not only from living in natural areas, but also from living in particular types of habitat.
Attitudes towards, and expectations of, habitat can also play an important role in how people respond to it. Individuals with extensive experience in rugged, remote environments may find urban green spaces lacking; there are also some cultures in which negative associations with natural environments may prevent enjoyment of these spaces (though perhaps people may experience benefits of which they are unaware). City-dwellers with no exposure to the countryside may feel overwhelmed in the wild, and anyone who has had a traumatic experience in nature – being bitten by a snake, perhaps, or suffering a terrible allergic response to a plant – may find it difficult to relax in natural environments ever again. That said, it is possible that everyone may experience benefits from exposure to green spaces, even if they are unaware of these perks at the time.
People who are able to recognise biodiversity can get more enjoyment and benefit out of spending time in nature. This effect can be observed even if the biodiversity is perceived rather than actual, and even if that diversity includes non-native species; this likely helps explain why some people get as much benefit from spending time in managed gardens as others derive from visiting a forest.
No matter where you go and what you encounter there, you may get more out of the experience if you are in greater need; research has shown that more mentally fatigued individuals anticipate more effective natural cures, leading to a sense of restoration. Indeed, a growing body of research has shown that green therapies are particularly helpful for those who are busiest, most stressed, and most unhappy – for example, children and young adults with ADHD as well as those who are otherwise neurotypical but are still worried about things such as school exams, adults with high-pressure jobs and packed schedules, and individuals who are feeling lonely. These are all aspects of the personal experiences documented in Emma Mitchell’s TheWildRemedy, in which she describes the way in which nature acted as a lifeline when she needed it most.
People who are able to recognise biodiversity can get more enjoyment and benefit out of spending time in nature. This effect can be observed even if the biodiversity is perceived rather than actual, and even if that diversity includes non-native species; this likely helps explain why some people get as much benefit from spending time in managed gardens as others derive from visiting a forest.
Why/how does nature heal us?
Generally speaking, time spent in nature is time spent away from stressful, sedentary, or otherwise harmful activities – and this goes a long way towards explaining many of the benefits of green therapies. However, nature is not helpful just because it is not something else; exposure to natural environments also impacts our health by altering physiological processes.
For example, plants act as natural filters, removing pollution from the air and leaving us with cleaner oxygen to inhale. Engaging in slower, deeper breathing tells the body that it can stand down the sympathetic nervous system – the one responsible for ‘fight or flight’ – and can instead allow the parasympathetic system to take over; the parasympathetic facilitates what has been known as the ‘feed and breed’ and ‘rest and digest’ groups of behaviours which are, on the whole, less stressful and more relaxed.
Deep breaths also result in increased oxygen intake, which helps balance out levels of serotonin – a neurotransmitter that impacts, among other things, mood, memory, and social behaviour. The air in natural spaces tends to have higher negative ion counts, which increases brain wave amplitude and facilitates alpha brain waves that give rise to a clear, calm feeling. Further, the natural landscape is filled with fractals, shapes in which the features of component parts match, when scaled up, the features of the overall shape; these are also described as ‘self-similar’. Looking at fractals can be very pleasing, which researchers now know is because these shapes interact with our visual processing system in a way as to activate the parahippocampus – an opioid-rich part of the brain that plays a role in regulating emotions. Nature also engages our other main externally-focused senses, simultaneously delivering stimuli associated with visuals, scent/taste, sound, and touch. In the modern world it is increasingly rare for an experience to provide so many sensations all at once – or for us to be in a position in which we are actively concentrating on them all. Scientists have found that the types and amounts of stimuli in natural environments provide a Goldilocks- style experience: not so dull as to be boring, not so overwhelming as to be stressful, but perfect for keeping us engaged in a relaxing way. This balances out cognitive function and prevents any one part of the brain from being overwhelmed, which, in turn, allows our neurons to relax and recalibrate.
The rest of our bodies also benefit from this opportunity to unwind. Exposure to nature results in reductions in the hormone cortisol. Cortisol levels are also known to drop in response to pleasant-smelling plants like lavender and rosemary; these scents also increase blood velocity to the heart, thus improving circulation. Studies of another aromatic – extracts from the hinoki cypress tree – have revealed why exposure to green spaces can improve immune function: even just a few hours of breathing vaporized hinoki oil has been shown to increase the presence of natural killer cells, a white blood cell integral to our innate immune response.
The hinoki oil treatment described above has also been associated with better sleep and reductions in fatigue. In general, exposure to natural lighting scheme helps reset our circadian rhythms and improve our rest. Sunlight also stimulates the release of dopamine, a neurotransmitter that, among other things, acts in the retina to keep eyes healthy and prevent myopia. Depending on what you do when you venture out into nature, you may also be producing endorphins, chemicals that not only inhibit pain signals but also can produce feelings of euphoria – such as the ‘runner’s high’, which you are particularly likely to experience if your green therapy involves activities such as rock climbing, kayaking, or trail running. Research has also found that spending time in nature can reduce blood flow to the subgenual region of the brain, which is related to feelings of self-wallowing; in other words, even if you don’t achieve a ‘high’, you can perhaps combat a ‘low’ by heading outdoors.
One recent study found that it only takes two hours of green therapy a week to kickstart these processes and help you feel the benefits of what some researchers refer to as nature’s ‘biophysical ecosystem services’. You don’t have to be active during that time, and you don’t even have to undertake all that exposure in a single go. Though the effects of the ‘nature fix’ can be felt almost immediately, it is not yet clear just how long these positive impacts can last; further research will be needed to determine how often you should administer a dose of nature if you want to maximize your health.
The future of nature treatments
Researchers predict that, 30 years from now, some 70% of humans will live in urban spaces – where access to biodiversity and green spaces are often minimal. This is one of the main reasons that nature therapy has recently become such a hot topic; indeed, a majority of studies focus explicitly on urban habitats. Another key driver is the global depression epidemic. Though increasing rates of diagnosis may simply reflect a better understanding of mental health and a greater disposition to discuss it, there is also some evidence that our increased isolation from nature and from each other – both of which have been linked to urbanization and to growing use of technology – are disrupting our brain chemistry and causing unhappiness.
Looking to make anthropogenic habitats more enjoyable, more aesthetically pleasing, and generally better for our wellbeing, everyone from doctors to social workers to city planners have already started implementing projects informed by the sort of research discussed above. Schools create gardens so that students can learn about plants through hands-on, whole-body experiences. Doctors and psychologists prescribe nature walks and community volunteering so that patients get fresh air in circumstances where they are also likely to make friends and grow support networks. Hospitals hang nature-themed art on the walls and provide patients with access to gardens. Prisons create green therapy spaces where the incarcerated can de-stress and regain their calm. Cities pass bills requiring the installation of green rooftops and green walls, and divert funds to the creation of, for example, water features specifically designed to mask the sounds of traffic noise.
These and many more measures have been very successful, though it is important to admit that nature cures aren’t always perfect, or for everyone. For example, the introduction of water features might be aesthetically and aurally pleasing, but they could lead to stagnation and facilitate the growth of unwanted insect populations. In a bid to increase greenery, some landscapers might introduce plant species that cause allergic reactions in humans. Though many people love plants of all shapes and sizes, some can feel crowded and hemmed in by certain types and amounts of vegetation, so it is important to consider not just location, but also structure and makeup of natural areas.
It has been documented that more and larger green spaces tend to be found in areas of higher socioeconomic status, suburbs and up-market parts of cities, whereas inner city communities often live in highly concretised tenements. Future projects could very easily increase this divide between haves and have-nots. It is also somewhat ironic that many conservationists and environmentalists have pushed for an exclusionary approach, which seeks to move people out of natural areas where they have lived in the name of protecting species or habitats. This can only reduce the connections between people and nature, and remove the few benefits that they already receive.
Investigations of ‘nature cures’ are increasing alongside reports of ‘ecoanxiety’ – depression, post-traumatic stress, and anxiety related to climate change and environmental degradation; it is, in the word of one researcher, ‘a chronic fear of environmental doom.’ Many who experience eco-anxiety are nature-lovers who, like me, have spent their lives finding solace and healing in the outdoors and are now worried about the future of the planet.
But perhaps our growing awareness of how nature can positively benefit our own bodies might help spur more people into action; rather than trying to appreciate some distant and hard-to-see process such as nutrient cycling and buffering of floodwaters, people could appreciate the more visceral experience of lower blood pressure or lifted spirits. In other words, perhaps our greater investment in the creation and maintenance of green therapy opportunities for ourselves will facilitate conservation and restoration initiatives that will have positive side effects for wild ecosystems – a nature cure for nature itself. \
One of the most ubiquitous sounds that that snorkelers or scuba divers hear when visiting a coral reef is a subtle ambient soundtrack of snapping, crackling, and popping. Most visitors are surprised to learn that these sounds have a biological basis: they are made by thousands of snapping shrimps, living in the coral matrix. Snapping shrimp (Alpheus and Synalpheus) are one of the most abundant and diverse inhabitants of coral reef communities. Systematic surveys of coral reef diversity indicate that these shrimps constitute a significant proportion of what is known as the “cryptofauna”—small animals, both mobile and sessile, that live in the coral reef matrix or in symbiosis with other coral reef organisms. The din of snapping shrimps is so pervasive that one species was even named after the legendary band Pink Floyd (Synalpheus pinkfloydi).
The snap that gives these shrimp their name is produced by an asymmetrically enlarged claw, armed with a complex snapping mechanism. Although it was thought for years that the sound was produced by the two fingers of the claw striking together, studies utilizing high-speed video indicated that the snap comes milliseconds after the closing of the claw, and is produced by the violent implosion of a cavitation bubble. This implosion also causes a small flash of light and a powerful shock wave, giving these shrimps their other common name—pistol shrimp. These shrimps use their snapping claw for many functions, including communication, defense, and predation. Some species of Alpheus use specially modified hammer-like claws to drill elaborate galleries of tunnels into rock or dead coral.
However, far from being a curiosity of natural history, the snap may have important consequences for coral reef communities. Recent studies have shown that the ambient noise of snapping shrimps can be an important indicator of reef health, and may in some cases serve as an acoustic settlement cue for juvenile reef fishes.
The snap of these shrimps also plays an important role in communication and interactions with symbiotic partners of these shrimp. Although most snapping shrimps are free- living, many species form symbiotic relationships with other marine animals including sponges, corals, gobiid fishes, echiuran worms, crinoid echinoderms, and sea anemones. For example, many species of Alpheus snapping shrimps form partnerships with different species of goby fishes. These mutualisms have been some of the most well studied examples of cross-species communication in the sea. In this relationship, shrimp construct burrows in sand or rubble, which are colonized by gobies. In return, the goby acts as a lookout, warning the shrimp of approaching fish or other predators using a series of carefully timed tail flicks or other specialized behaviors. Shrimps maintain constant antennal contact with the goby while outside of the burrow, suggesting that this is necessary for accurate signal transmission.
Many species of Synalpheus snapping shrimps also dwell exclusively in the intricate canal systems of marine sponges. These sponges undoubtedly provide a critical predator-free habitat for these shrimp; fish typically immediately consume any shrimps removed from their sponge hosts underwater. However, experiments show that under some contexts, sponges can grow faster with shrimp living inside, and shrimp also defend their host sponge against predatory sea stars.
In some cases, these symbioses can have important effects on community functioning. For example, the shrimp Alpheus lottini typically lives symbiotically with branching pocilloporid corals. Although these corals are eaten by the crown-of-thorns sea star Acanthaster planci—a predator that can be several hundred times larger than the shrimp defender—A. lottini will vigorously defend its coral host by snapping and attacking the tube feet of the sea star using their snapping claw. Dense stands of this coral, protected by their crustacean symbionts, can actually provide refuge from Acanthaster predation to many other coral species, with important community consequences on coral reefs.
Snapping shrimp are also the only marine animals that show advanced social behavior, in the form of eusociality. Eusociality is most well-known in terrestrial insects such as ants and bees, and typically consists of colonies consisting of hundreds or thousands of workers that sacrifice their individual reproduction to support a single breeding queen and cooperatively care for the young of the colony. Several species of snapping shrimps in the genus Synalpheus are known to be eusocial. These shrimp dwell in dense colonies in marine sponges, consisting of typically a single reproducing queen shrimp and tens to hundreds of worker shrimp that jointly defend their host. They are capable of complex group and individual communication. For example, individual worker shrimp can discriminate between colony members vs. non-colony members, repelling the latter with fierce snaps. Some eusocial shrimp colonies engage in coordinated snapping, a collective group defense in which a sentinel shrimp recruits the rest of the colony to snap in concert, resulting in a loud crackling sound that repels invaders.
This suite of traits allows eusocial Synalpheus to be competitively dominant to pair-living species: two decades of research across the Caribbean indicate that eusocial species are typically far more abundant than pair-living species and use more host sponges. However, recent surveys indicate a drastic decline in the abundance of eusocial species in areas (e.g. Belize) where they have been numerically dominant for decades. These declines are thought to result from multiple factors, including population cycles of the shrimp and recent changes in sponge and coral community structure in Caribbean coral reefs.
Thus, snapping shrimps play important roles in coral reef communities—as defenders of corals and sponges, bioeroders, and creators of the ambient soundscape that signals a healthy coral reef. Although most conservation research has focused on charismatic reef fauna such as corals and fishes, the important ecological contributions of these cryptic shrimps demonstrate the importance of the hidden biodiversity of coral reefs.
Further Reading
Hultgren, K., J. E. Duffy, and D. R. Rubenstein. 2017. Sociality in Shrimps. Pages 224–249 in D. R. Rubenstein and P. Abbot, editors. Comparative Social Evolution. Cambridge University Press. Glynn, P. 1976. Some physical and biological determinants of coral community structure in the eastern Pacific. Ecological Monographs 46:431–456. Gordon, T. A. C., H. R. Harding, K. E. Wong, N. D. Merchant, M. G. Meekan, M. I. McCormick, A. N. Radford, and S. D. Simpson. 2018. Habitat degradation negatively affects auditory settlement behavior of coral reef fishes. Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences 115:5193–5198.
Isn’t it odd how certain creatures elicit delight while others of similar form generate disgust? To me this distinction in feelings is all too real when I compare my reaction to seeing a spiny lobster to that of a cockroach. Both animals are very similar in form and function – long sensory antennae, body consisting of head, thorax and abdomen, numerous hairy legs; both opportunistic omnivores. But the cockroach has scared me off my favourite oceanic islands and the most majestic tallships, while the lobster on the other hand prods my scientific curiosity. I studied the reproductive ecology of American lobsters for my master’s at the University of Maine, USA and my affinity for these crustaceans has followed me to the tropical islands of the Indian Ocean. Tropical spiny lobsters are bizarre but beautiful, with complex life histories and population dynamics that can take many human life times to uncover.
The common names of spiny lobsters like the painted (Panulirus versicolor), ornate (P. ornatus) or scalloped (P. homarus) demonstrate their visual appeal. Tropical shallow-water spiny lobsters are intricately patterned and display a wider range of colors than an artist’s palette. The carapace that protects the cephalothorax and the base of the antennae and feet are all covered in forward pointed spines, making it tricky to capture them unless you have evolved to prey on them or are a trained lobster biologist or fisher. Their exquisite colours are often lost when the lobster is cooked; the heat turns the exoskeleton into a bright red. Thus the beauty is best observed on dives or at fish landing sites and stores. Lobsters have evolved to be creatures of the night and only step out of their holes and crevices after dusk after their visual predators like triggerfish have gone to bed. During the day, the gregarious adults hang in groups of 2 or more, often hiding in coral crevices and under ledges. The juveniles tend to be more solitary occupying small coral holes. But they all sit with their faces pointed outwards, their antennae gently swaying in the tropical waters that are full of smells, sounds and vibrations. The sway of lobster antennae is very similar to the sway of cockroach antennae both of which I have gotten very good at detecting, albeit for different reasons and outcomes. In the Andaman Islands, where I am currently based, there are at least 6 species of spicy lobster and 1 species of slipper lobster. With exponentially expanding seafood export industries, understanding the ecology of our island lobsters hasbecome more vital than ever before. Like most benthic marine life – lobsters have a biphasic life cycle: adults remain on the bottom (‘the benthos’), while their larvae travel the seas in search of food and meaning. Pelagic dispersal of benthic marine organisms can be advantageous as it opens up opportunities to find better habitat, increase genetic exchange and avoid benthic predators. Such dispersal can also be beneficial to fisheries by replenishing depleted stocks. Luckily the Andaman Islands have a network of protected areas that include marine parks and tribal reserves but the overlap of protection and species sources and sinks is yet to be determined.
Spiny lobsters take 7-11 years to attain sexual maturity, fertilization is external and fertilized eggs are carried by females for 3-6 months. Hatched spiny lobster larvae undergo a series of moults, drifting in currents for 12 – 15 months, before finding suitable benthic habitats to settle onto. The larvae themselves are very bizarre looking. The early larvae metamorphose into an alien like creature called the phyllosoma – and this name literally translates into ‘leaf body’. The phyllosoma’s cephalothorax is disc shaped and enlarged, kind of looks like the millennium falcon – gliding through the water column at the mercy of currents and consumers. Phyllosomas can be large – upto 4cm in length – and are often observed hitching rides on jellyfish. These space crafts moult into the final larval stage – the puerulus that starts resembling the adult. Once the puerulus reaches ‘competency’ i.e. the ability to detect the benthos and an affinity to occupy it, it will ‘settle’ to the bottom. These steps sound simple, biological, but are at the mercy of the wind, currents, pH, temperature, predators and even plankton nets!
Currently we are on month 8 of a yearlong study to profile the near shore plankton of the Andaman Islands. Our plankton net has mercilessly caught two lobster phyllosomas, both on new moon nights but months apart, and we are hoping more might be stored in our unanalysed weekly samples. This study aims to profile daily, lunar and seasonal patterns in meroplankton diversity and abundance. Meroplankton are that part of the zooplankton community that only spend part of their life cycle in the plankton, so these are usually larvae of benthic creatures. So far we have gotten a wide variety of fish, crab, cnidarian, shrimp, polychaete and molluscan larvae and the list continues to grow. In addition to meroplankton we are also studying changes in the dominant holoplankton community: the grazers (copepods), the filter feeders (appendicularians and planktonic snails) and the ambush predators (the arrow worms). One arrow worm was also caught in the act of swallowing a fish larvae! While holoplankton can be processed efficiently with digital scanners and silhouette photo identification; the rarer meroplankton require visual searching by trained individuals. The sheer diversity of the tropics and severe knowledge gaps make our work difficult but not impossible. Funded by the Department of Biotechnology, this is part of a larger project at Dakshin Foundation that aims to develop inexpensive ways in which to profile nearshore planktonic communities. While zooplankton are too large, the project is demonstrating the value of inexpensive microscopes called foldscopes in studying phytoplankton communities – wherein techniques can be designed for long-term monitoring of coastal resources by citizen-scientists, local schools or colleges. Our work is opening up a pandoras box worth of answerable questions related to the holy grail of marine sciences – supply-side ecology; some of which can be applied to study the fisheries ecology of Andaman’s high value lobster and grouper seafood industries.
On a bright sunny afternoon, after all the boats have come in for the day, a group of women fishers in a fishing village in Tamil Nadu sit around a pile of ‘trash’ fish. This is the catch, comprising a large number of invertebrates and non-edible fish, that will be dried and sold as animal feed and for fertilizer, but these women make a last-ditch attempt to sort through this fish to salvage what little they can. One of the women, Amutha triumphantly holds up a couple of seahorses and says, “This will help me buy some tea and snacks for the day”.
For people like Amutha, finding stray seahorses means some extra income for the family, while for the men, it usually covers the day’s alcohol and beedis. A trader comes in every day to buy all the seahorses they have collected (along with conches and other protected species that have gotten caught in their nets). It is a quick exchange, where the trader calls the shots. The fisher has no say on the price he or she will get for the seahorses, and they typically do not know what it is used for, other than the fact that it goes “to foreign” for some medicine.
It is very difficult to imagine that the seahorse, which is so casually traded for a pittance, is afforded the same protection by Indian law as the tiger.
What is the seahorse, and why should we care about them?
The seahorse is a strange-looking fish. They have a head like a horse, tail like a monkey, a kangaroo-like pouch, and eyes that move independently like a chameleon. Seahorses belong to the genus Hippocampus (from the Greek words for horse (hippos) and sea monster (campus)) and to the same family (syngnathids) as the pipefish. Seahorses are probably best known because, unlike most animals, it is the male that gives birth.
Seahorses are marine species, found amongst seagrass beds, mangrove roots and coral reefs, although some species are suited to dealing with varying salinity and are able to survive in estuaries as well. Seahorses manage to survive in their environment thanks to ability not just to change colour, but also to grow skin filaments and blend in with their surroundings. They use their camouflage, and flexibility to evade predators, since they are not the fastest of swimmers. In fact, the dwarf seahorse is considered to be the slowest fish in the sea.
While they are able to evade predators in the wild,seahorses face a major threat from overfishing and habitat degradation. Most often, like in Amutha’s village, seahorses are caught incidentally in fishing nets, which means that they are not the main intended species of the fishing expedition, but are caught as a result of indiscriminate fishing gear.
This has led to a worldwide decline in seahorse numbers. Globally, there are 44 identified species of seahorses, of which 14 have been listed as threatened, two as endangered, and 12 are vulnerable by the IUCN’s (World Union for Conservation of Nature) red list of threatened species, which assesses the extinction risk of species. There is not enough data to assess the status of about 17 of these species, while 11 are listed as ‘not threatened’. However, a recent study seems to suggest that at least nine of the 17 species for which there is not much data may also be threatened. In India, there are currently seven known species of seahorses in India, of which six have been listed as vulnerable and the seventh species has been assessed as data deficient.
There are a number of reasons why it is important that we understand how to conserve seahorses, and how the understanding can help improve our policies for marine conservation in general.
The threats faced by seahorses are the same that most other marine species face, including the degradation of their habitat, over exploitation, and being caught as bycatch. This has made seahorses flagship species for researchers to explain the need for marine conservation. Not only do they look extremely cool, they are also important players in the maintenance of the marine ecosystem, since they feed on organisms that live on the seafloor. Understanding the rampant exploitation and international trade of seahorses, and the fate of other incidentally caught species, can help strengthen legislation, and could go a long way towards protecting our marine environment.
The global catch and trade of seahorses
Seahorses are mostly an incidentally caught fish. This means that fishers typically do not set out to catch seahorses, but they are often caught in the nets of bottom trawls, where a net is dragged along the seabed, impacting nearly everything in its path, and is the most destructive fishing method used globally. Thousands of non-target species are caught using this method, and large areas of marine habitats are destroyed. Typically, bycatch from these bottom trawls include seahorses, sea cucumbers, and a large number of other species. This indiscriminate fishing is believed to contribute to the capture of at least 37 million seahorses each year, and it is believed that a large number of seahorses caught as bycatch enter into seahorse trade.
Traditional Chinese Medicine is one of the main drivers of the trade of seahorses, since seahorses, in the dried form, are believed to cure conditions like baldness, asthma and arthritis improve sexual performance. Live seahorses are also in fairly popular demand and are traded for use in aquariums. Often, seahorses are sold as curios as well. Despite a declining population, the trade continues to be rampant. Millions of seahorses are traded every year, and it is estimated that between 20 and 25 million seahorses are traded around the world every year. The demand for seahorses, and their declining populations led to seahorses being listed in Appendix II of the Convention on International Trade of Endangered Species of Flora and Fauna (CITES) in 2002. This was seen as a means to regulate exports and ensure their wild populations remain intact. CITES is a Multilateral Environmental Agreement (MEA), and is the biggest and oldest wildlife trade convention that aims to regulate international trade of animals and plants.
Seahorse fisheries and Trade in India, and the ban.
Until 2001, India was among the top four exporters of seahorses. But what changed after? To combat its substantial and unregulated seahorse fisheries, in 2001 India included all seahorses (and pipefishes) under Schedule I of the Indian Wildlife Protection Act which signifies a ban on the capture and trade of these species. However, being a small, bycaught marine species, they often come up accidentally in nets and then can easily fit into a pocket or the pallu of a sari, and the enforcement of the ban is much tougher. In mainland India, till the ban, most of the seahorses in international trade were caught from the south- eastern coast of the country, from the Gulf of Mannar, and the Palk Bay, located in Tamil Nadu. While some of the seahorses were from targeted diving, a large number were incidentally caught using non-selective fishing gear. In addition to the large number of trawls operating in this region, seahorses face additional pressure from traditional but non-selective fishing methods such as the “Thallu madi” or drag nets. These nets, prevalent in the Palk Bay region of Tamil Nadu, are dragged along bottom-habitats in shallow waters directly over seagrass beds, and though often wind operated, are responsible for the catch of millions of seahorses. While plenty of fishers continue to catch seahorses, fishers complain about declining fish catches, and many traditional fshers been severely impacted. For example, the divers who are not able to catch seahorses anymore but are losing out to the labour on trawler boats, who are often not even from the fishing community. Although it has been fifteen years since the ban on catch and trade, what is clear is that seahorses continue being caught and traded in large numbers illegally. The demand for seahorses remains steady, and the prices received by traders for seahorses also increasing, which makes conserving the species even more challenging.
Do we need a change of tactic?
Project Seahorse has been working extensively to try and understand the impact of the ban on the catch and trade of seahorses. What we found is that India’s ban on catching and trading of seahorses has in no way ended their extraction, just as so many other wildlife trade bans (e.g. elephants) have had little impact for conservation. The ban is rendered more ineffective because of the rampant indiscriminate fishing in the country. Seahorses that are accidentally caught in the nets are often dead by the time that fishers sort their catches or reach the shore. In the words of one of the fishers, Vellaiappan, “We cannot regulate catch in the ocean, and cannot control how much we catch, and cannot release seahorses once we catch them”. Instead, he advocates for the removal of the ban so that the fisherman can fish without fear. The ban on seahorses is further undermined because of the poor communication to the fishers about the ban. After nearly two decades of the ban, what we found was that most fishers, and even officials, outside the state of Tamil Nadu were even unaware of this ban. Fishers in other states often would speak of other banned species, but not of seahorses. For example, in Gujarat, fishers would talk about the ban on whale sharks, but did not seem aware of the seahorse ban. In Kerala, on the other hand, there is a widespread belief that the ban only applied to Tamil Nadu fishers, and not to them. Education and awareness often prove to be ineffective, since the question of livelihood is at stake. As one fisher from the Gulf of Mannar region of Tamil Nadu puts it, “Once the seahorse comes up dead, what is the point of throwing it back into the ocean? We may as well make some money from it.” For the fishers, the profits from selling seahorses are minimal, and they are often at the mercy of the trader, who determines the prices. In the years after India banned its’ seahorse catch and trade, a number of countries such as Thailand and Vietnam because of their inability to manage seahorse trades at sustainable levels have since banned the trade of seahorses.
However, recent estimates suggest that around 95 per cent of the dried seahorses found in Hong Kong’s large market are reported to have come from countries like Indonesia, India, Malaysia, Vietnam, Philippines and Thailand, all countries that have banned seahorse trade. This begs the question, is the ban effective? Many governments find that it is easier banning the trade of seahorses than actually having to develop actual measures to ensure the conservation of these species. Till date, the focus has always been on the trade of seahorses. However, given that seahorses are typically incidental catch, it may be more effective to focus on preventing the extraction of seahorses from the ocean.
Rather than focusing on the ban of extraction and trade of specific species, what needs to be done is to phase out destructive methods such as bottom. Controlling the kinds of gear used. or setting some restrictions on the time or place where fishing can happen, could help.
Until there is a concerted move to control the devastation caused by indiscriminate fishing, the trading of seahorses, and other banned species will continue. The trader who regularly visits Amutha’s village agrees. According to him, all the regulation must happen at sea. “As long as there are no regulations on catches of seahorses being caught at sea, we will continue to have business in these villages”.
I hover in the water column of the ocean. No reef below. At first glance, it seems just sheer blue water all around. But then you look closer and closer till you strain your eyes to focus. And that’s when you see this world teeming with life. Where a speck of sediment suddenly finds wings and flies away like an angel. A flash of the light can bring out unimaginable colours. A world where the farthest distance is reduced a centimetre, and speed is measured in millimeters per hour. Even a small movement of my camera can create a storm for the creatures who are hurled away.
Every day, billions of these tiny marine plankton migrate to the surface from the depths of the ocean as the sun sets, and retreat again to its depths as the sun rises. Its much easier to spot these creatures on a night dive as they are attracted to my torch light. Zooplankton comprise marine worms, jellyfish, crustaceans, larvae of marine animals, while phytoplankton are mostly algae. All very very small creatures less than a centimetre in size. Except for jelly fish which can grow much bigger. Unlike their adult stages, these larvae and other creatures mainly drift along with the ocean currents, taking them far and wide across ocean basins. They can move small distances mainly to prey or to escape being eaten using cilia (tiny hairs), moving their body with snake like movements.
The ocean is our major carbon sink and produces two thirds of our oxygen. The current climate crisis is also affecting marine zooplankton. The increased CO2 is making the ocean acidic which causes the Calcium Carbonate shell of these tiny creatures to thin thus making them more vulnerable to predation. In addition, the increased microplastic in the oceans is a id cause for concern.
Proboscidactyla sp. (Family: Proboscidactylidae)
Scale worm (Family: Polynoidae)
Late Actinotroch larva of horseshoe worm (Phylum: Phoronida)
There is nothing heroic about turning 47. It has none of the transitional status of 40 nor is it a milestone like 50. If it represents anything, it is one more annual reminder of the general accretion of the past, you eroding gradually under its crust. You stare at the growing damp fungus on the ceiling of this tired hotel. Brief body scan from toe to head. Everything aches. That’s normal. It has been normal for a while. Inside, your gut microbiome is in turmoil. You’ve read somewhere that, cell-for-cell, this swirling community of bacteria, protists and viruses constitute more of you than you yourself. And they are clearly not happy. They have been living on a diet of parotta, fish curry and sugary tea far too long, and it is only a matter of time before they mount a proletarian protist revolution from within. One more day, you urge. One more day and you are out of these islands. Uncheery thoughts to start the morning. Happy birthday to you. After twenty-two years of being here, you think you are finally spent. The reefs have gone through one major upheaval, then another, and then another. And with everyone, your hopes fail, then rise, grow exuberant, then crash yet again. The fate of the reef is linked to yours, and after so many repeated batterings you seem both to be waving the flag of surrender. This time around, you promise, you will not rise again, if it will only make the pain go away. Twenty-two years. Inside you, your microbiome remind you, a trifle peevishly, that they have been at it for 47. To their credit, it has been a mostly uncomplaining symbiosis, and you cannot really tell where they end and you begin. In reality, until a few years ago, you did not even know they existed, processing your foods, keeping you healthy, keeping you sane.
“Chalo”, you retreat to the cheery vernacular, “let’s head out to sample”. The boat will be waiting at the western jetty. The morning quickly coalesces around the familiar routine. Mask: bifocals for ageing eyes. Fins: quirky duck-shaped ones that have accompanied you all your life. Booties, weight belt, blank slate, pencil, camera in the housing, PVC quadrat. Load the net bag and four tanks into the rickshaw. Ride the short distance to jetty. Unload. Load again. Consider a spritely hop on to the boat but remember that you are 47 now. You accept the outstretched hand of the boat captain and climb more gingerly on, suppressing a grunt of effort as your feet hit the deck. Start engines. Chug out of the western lagoon. You chomp a few glucose biscuits before you roll backward into the water. Give the protists something to keep them going through the dive. You know this site well. You have come here every year for 20 years. It has had a troubled history, like most western reefs in this archipelago. This site was teeming once. Handsome stands of colourful Acropora fought bitterly for space in the light. Now the shallows are a vast rubble field, brown with turf, left to the skulkers and scrapers of the reef. It has been like this for many years now. You try not to look as you head further down to get the deeper transects done first. 14 meters We’ll start here. Place the quadrat. Rise with a breath and hover motionless. Click. Swim ten meters. Repeat. In these deeper waters, the reef is doing better and it does not hurt as much to look. There is even beauty here in among these living rocks. Transect one done. You set your mind in neutral and get ready to start the next.
The reef looks unfamiliar. You have swum slightly further than you normally do, slightly deeper. There is something large in the distance. You feel it before you see it. Damn this bifocal mask, you curse, as your eyes struggle to make sense of the shape in the blue. When your eyes finally focus, you see it in all its impossible majesty. It is a giant. A coral, but in all your years of diving these reefs, rarely have you encountered an individual so massive. It has a gravity all of its own and you are drawn to her, almost afraid to exhale should you wake her from some ancient slumber. At 30 meters away, she fills your vision, a shuddering, living ecosystem all to herself. She wears an iridescent veil of tiny anthias and chromis. Three consorting green turtles rest on her surface, one exhaling quiet bubbles through his nostrils. Below, in the shadowy crannies she creates, large groupers lurk with other regular cave dwellers – wide-eyed squirrels, deep-bodied sweepers, the inevitable banded shrimps. You lose all sense of her size. Your vision is coral. You are on your knees before her. Porites, possibly lutea. At this distance, you can see the polyps on her surface. At this time of day, most have retired after a night-time of feeding, but a few still have their tentacles out. Impossibly, your 47-year old eyes focus in on a single polyp. It is lazily filtering the water for invisible zooplankton to crunch on. Green, but you know that, in reality each polyp is pale transparent tissue. Inside each, an army of hundred thousand zooxanthallae are busy at work, painting the coral green, but doing so much more. They are processing the sunlight that streams down to this depth through the clear waters. Impossibly, you see them through your bifocals, picking up little packets of light in their little dinoflagellate arms, mixing them up in their tiny photosynthetic kitchens, churning out food to feed the insatiable appetite of this Leviathan. The protist in the coral speaks to the protist in you. There is a quiet movement in your tummy, but it is not a complaint. A silent communion of shared understanding. Comparing notes, you imagine. Two thousand years. Forty seven. When you first came to this island, the zooxanthallae seem to say, we were here already some 1978 years. Your entire ‘long term monitoring programme’ barely registers in our growth. Before you there were others of course, but we were here before. Cast your mind back, further back. When the first explorers, stragglers all, lost wanderers on their way to India, drifted on these shores, we were here, a mere 500 years old, but here. Further still. Deep in our protist past, dimly remembered now, for an oh-so- brief few hours, we once traveled the waters free, hitching a ride on a tiny planua, less than a millimeter across, that is now the Leviathan you kneel before. We have stayed. Through all the turbulence of the last two decades, through all the rising and falling of our cousins in the shallows, we remain, unmoved. Our history is the history of this reef, our future is its future. And by the way, happy birthday to you, young neonate. The moment passes. An eternity. Barely breathing, you rise and collect your things. You hover over her, unwilling to leave. The veil of anthias part briefly to let you pass. You have transects to complete. You have corals to count. Your protists are digesting their biscuits.
For our marine issue this year, we wanted a set of articles about zany, lesser-known marine critters. Tanvi Vaidyanathan writes about the trade in sea horses, a fish which has ‘a head like a horse, tail like a monkey, a kangaroo-like pouch, and eyes that move independently like a chameleon’. Sea horses are also remarkable because the male carries the eggs around in his pouch till the young ones hatch, a rare instance in nature where males give birth. Mahima Jaini tells us about her journey from studying lobsters in Maine to larvae under microscopes in the Andaman Islands. She uncovers ‘bizarre-looking’ and ‘alien-like’ creatures from her plankton nets. And Kristin Hultgren gives us a glimpse into the lives of snapping shrimp, which produce some of the loudest sounds in the ocean with their oversized claw. These are also the only marine animals that show advanced social behaviour like ants, bees and wasps. If these weren’t enough, Vikas Nairi’s black water photographs offer a window into just how weird and wonderful marine organisms are.
Bookending the stories about fantastic beasts are two articles that delve in different ways into our relationship with nature. At one end, Rohan Arthur recounts his long-running love affair with the reefs in the Lakshadweep, and reflects on the role of symbiosis in our lives. At the other, Caitlin Kight’s essay provides insights into our physiological and psychological responses to nature and reveals the many benefits it has for our health and wellbeing.
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Illegal wildlife trade forms the third largest illicit trade market globally. Trafficking (smuggling – usually across national borders) of body parts and products made from rare and threatened wildlife species is a highly lucrative business for organized cartels and smugglers. This business severely exploits poor and vulnerable forest dwelling communities who are usually unaware of the risks and costs involved. This international market in wildlife trade is pushing hundreds of endangered species towards extinction and simultaneously placing local communities in danger. A range of species are illegally hunted and traded within India, and some of these are smuggled abroad by networks of traffickers. Some commonly traded species from India include reptiles like star tortoises, sand boas, and geckos; birds including parakeets and owls; mammals including the Tibetan antelope, musk deer, civets and large cats; large woody trees such as red sanders and teak as well as several rare medicinal and ornamental plants, particularly orchids. Historically, personal contacts and networks of grassroots markets run by middlemen enabled wildlife trade. Today, the global cyber revolution has enabled widespread access to digital platforms which has enabled easier trade. Consequently, a sizable chunk of wildlife trade happens via social media and other online platforms, although the exact proportion of overall trade happening online is difficult to determine. Middlemen share videos and pictures of threatened and protected species of fauna and flora online to their colleagues and contacts online, attracting buyers and therefore enabling the trade and trafficking of endangered species. No single group of animals has been more affected by illegal wildlife trade than pangolins, a group of medium sized, toothless mammals with horny scales covering their body. These scales protect the pangolins from ants and termites, which is their principal diet. Along with the scales, their long tongue and prehensile tail gives them the appearance of a reptile. Of the eight species of pangolins distributed across Africa and Asia, two are found in India, the Chinese (Manis pentadactyla) and the Indian (Manis crassicaudata). They are also unique in belonging to their own order (Pholidota) and family (Manidae), highlighting their unique evolutionary history. All pangolins are under severe threat throughout their range due to the domestic and international demand for their meat, scales and skin. In particular, the four species of Asian pangolins (Indian, Chinese, Sunda and Philippine) are all highly endangered and could face extinction in the next decade. Since the populations of the four Asian pangolin species have plummeted, traders are turning their attention to the relatively more common African pangolins. Consequently, pangolin seizures are increasingly of the African pangolins. Based on the surveys and community interviews during the course of our project on the Indian pangolin in the Northern Eastern Ghats of India, we found that the most frequently used methods for hunting pangolins were 1) identifying and digging the burrow; 2) tracking the foot and tail prints; 3) waiting at the burrow for the animal to emerge and then hitting them with sticks on the head; 4) use of dogs in tracking them and identifying the dens; 5) setting fire to the burrow entrance to smoke the pangolins out, and 6) tracking them at night (since pangolins are nocturnal). These methods often overlap and are used in combination. It is reported that the pangolins are extremely easy to catch once they are sighted. A local who hunted several pangolins before recollects, ‘Pangolins are very easy to catch, the dogs track them to their burrows. If we find them outside, it doesn’t even run away, it turns into a ball. We cannot pick it up directly, as the scales will cut our hands. We hit it on the head with a stick, and it opens up, then we hit the head and it dies. We don’t even know which burrows it stays in, it keeps changing’. Once the animal is cornered, catching and carrying it away is easy because pangolins are defenceless and cannot attack or defend themselves in any way. Earlier, locals used to kill the animal straight away, eat its meat and burn or discard the scales. An old lady whom we interviewed recalls ‘I have seen this, eaten its meat many times. When my husband was alive, he and a few others used to hunt it, they used to dig them out of their burrows with spades’. However, people now realize the commercial value of pangolins in the wildlife trade market, and are trying to keep it alive till they find a buyer and sell it. Pangolins fetch steep prices locally and in the international market, and this is the greatest incentive for its hunting. Some researchers feel that since money is the greatest motivator for hunting pangolins, any strategy which seeks to ask communities to forego that lucrative activity should start with identifying other conservation friendly and economically profitable activity. Technology, social media and communication tools play an important role here in facilitating wildlife trade through bringing together the nexus of middlemen and buyers based in cities and towns with the hunters who are mostly from villages virtually. Pangolin parts, particularly their highly sought after scales, are composed of keratin, the same material that makes up human fingernails and hair. Keratin is not known to have any medicinal properties. This is the case with most other wildlife parts, which are made of the exact same materials as human body parts. Breaking widely held myths about the purported medicinal properties of wildlife is vital if we wish to give unique species like the pangolins a chance at survival. This is also the case with hunting and poaching in general. Understanding background beliefs and widely held myths which help create incentives for hunting, and eliminating these incentives is vital if the killing of endangered species is to be curtailed. The most important players in combating wildlife trade though, remain the grassroots communities, particularly forest dwelling people who coexist with these species. Unless they are made the main partners in conserving pangolins through community initiatives, the situation may continue to worsen rapidly for pangolins and other endangered species. The convergence of various stakeholders, most importantly forest dwelling communities, researchers, government departments and NGOs, in devising strategies to break the web of poaching and wildlife trade is therefore essential to save pangolins and other threatened species from extinction.
Vikram Adityais a postdoctoral researcher at ATREE. His Ph.D. research examined patterns of landscape change over the past three decades in the Papikonda National Park, in the Eastern Ghats of Andhra Pradesh, India, and its effects on mammal diversity and distribution patterns in the region. He has a Masters in Zoology and has previously worked with WWF-India from 2006 to 2010 as a Research Associate, and as a National Geographic Young Explorer Grantee exploring the biodiversity of the Godavari valley in 2010. His work on the Indian pangolin in the northern Eastern Ghats has been supported by grants from the Rufford Foundation and the Mohamed bin Zayed Species Conservation Fund. Email vikram.aditya@atree.org Phone: +91-9663188484 Fax: +91-80-23530070
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Conservation is for everyone, and we help you understand it.
The unparalleled rush of driving through the pitch-dark roads of Sanjay Gandhi National Park in a bumpy Gypsy, a leopard framed by our headlights lounging in our pathway, was far from what I had expected when I committed to an internship in Mumbai. I was always interested in nature and, to gain exposure and experience in the field of conservation, I interned on a project conducted by Ramya Nair, who is working with Dr. Vidya Athreya at Wildlife Conservation Society- India. Her project was particularly interesting because it looks at social science-based tools for conservation research in order to study human-wildlife interactions beyond a “conflict” perspective. I also simultaneously volunteered on a leopard density survey headed by Nikit Surve, another researcher in the team.
Driving into the park for the first time, I was awed by the peculiarity of the environment. At the outset, I was struck by the juxtaposition between the bustling highway, overflowing with traffic, and the road leading to the National Park that was covered in a sea of people. It felt like we were driving through a regular city park with the exception of the occasional herd of spotted deer running across the street or a macaque couple mating on the branches. The sheer number of people in the park made it hard to believe that we were in a Protected Area. Looking around, you could see the basic hallmarks of any public park – children playing, couples frolicking, senior citizens power walking, pre-wedding photoshoots and the like. Owing to my narrow metropolitan perspective, it was astonishing to think that, by night, there were leopards roaming around. More surprising than that was the fact that there were over 1500 Adivasi families living in tribal hamlets or padas within the boundaries of the national park.
As a Bangalorean who was born and raised in the city, to whom the forests were limited to 3-day vacations, this volunteering experience gave me a new perspective on nature and wildlife. It helped me realize that there need not be a distinction between forest life and everyday life. Under Ramya’s project, I went through interview footage so, despite not being present, I learnt quite a bit about the social institution of Waghoba, a tribal big cat deity. It was interesting to see the role of Waghoba in making people more tolerant to sharing space with leopards in the landscape. Waghoba manifested as a coping mechanism for them to deal with fear and livestock depredation.
Another interesting finding was that the people from Adivasi communities that worship Waghoba considers both big cats (tigers and leopards) as wagh, which diverges from the western taxonomy of distinguishing between different species of big cats. Watching the recorded footage of the practice of worshipping Waghoba helped me acknowledge the fact that such alternate lifestyles are entirely valid even though many of us are not exposed to ways of living beyond the constraints of urban life. By not exploring and understanding them, we are limiting our worldview to that which we see in our immediate surroundings. In fact, the academic papers that we were reading as part of research under the Waghoba project helped us realize the deep-rooted effects of colonization that make us overlook the experiences of people to whom the jungle is home. Reading these papers alongside working on-field was enlightening because I could see what I read play out before my eyes. It made me realize the importance of field experience to academia in any field of study while giving me a more intimate understanding of the world beyond urban life.
Camera trapping allowed me to experience forests in a new and personal way – on foot rather than through a car window. While walking the trails, we had to constantly remain vigilant to prevent any sudden and unfortunate encounters with wildlife, which was new to me as I was accustomed to having my head in the clouds and music blaring in my ears. Initially, I was amazed at the other volunteers’ ability to identify birds by their call, while simultaneously finding pug marks in the ground and also sniffing out the urine scent of scrape marks. But through the course of my experience here, I learnt to engage all my senses and be constantly aware of my surroundings. Now I even find myself sighting birds like the brown-headed barbet while walking around my neighborhood! I can’t even imagine what I must have missed in all these years of living in a metropolitan bubble.
Now, wherever I go, I find myself hearing a certain bird call or seeing a certain tree which reminds me of my month in the park. It is jarring to see that even though the same elements are present, it is different in some indescribable way. It forced me to consider the alarming rate of habitat degradation and realize the need for conservation research. This experience was a real eye-opener and it has inspired me to pursue my interests in wildlife conservation.
Wild game is a major food source for many people in the tropics. Rural population growth and an increasing urban demand for meat have made hunting a major threat to biodiversity. Most researchers investigating this problem assume that the impact hunters have on wildlife is somehow proportional to the amount of time and effort they exert in hunting. But how do you calculate their effort? According to Janna Rist and her colleagues from London’s Zoological Society and the Imperial College of London, different researchers employ a myriad of methods. In order to gauge hunting effort and derive impacts on wildlife, different calculations may integrate days spent hunting, distance traveled while hunting, or distance traveled to a hunting location.
With so much variation in how, where, and what is hunted, Rist and her colleagues question whether there is a consistent relationship between the time hunters spend in the field and the number of animals harvested. After evaluating numerous studies, they found that the significance of these potential sources of variation has not been assessed. From the literature, the authors identified nine assumptions that commonly occur in the bushmeat literature. They then formulated these into hypotheses, that they tested with data from an intensive 15-month study of hunting in West Africa.
The study was based in Midyobo Anvom, a remote jungle village in Equatorial Guinea. Most hunters work from camps located up to 13 km from the village; the rest hunt within a day’s hike from home. Wire leg snares and neck traps of various sizes are located in trap groups around the camp; a few hunters also used guns. Hunters leave the camp each week to sell game to traders from the regional capitol of Bata.
Rist or her assistants observed 225 hunting trips, recording every detail. They timed the durations of all aspects of the hunt, including travel to hunting camps, active hunting, and resting. They also recorded the time it took to remove animals from traps or retrieve animals that hunters had shot. Different types of traps catch different animals, so the number and proportion of each trap type was noted. The identity of every animal killed, whether it was useable for food or not, was also recorded.
Of the nine assumptions, Rist and her colleagues rejected four of them outright (Hypotheses 1, 4, 7, 8). Many researchers assume that the amount of time spent actively hunting is proportional to the total time spent away on a hunting trip (Hypothesis 1). The number of days or hours spent out hunting can therefore be used to calculate the impact of the hunters. Rist’s data, however, indicates that the time spent actively hunting varied with the distance of the camp from the village. Similarly, it is often assumed that the time spent checking traps is always the same for all hunters (Hypothesis 2). In the field, Rist found that hunters based in the village spent 10% less time checking their traps because they spent more time travelling from home to their hunting sites than hunters based from camps. Another common assumption is that hunters always use the same number of traps, and the same portion of trap types (Hypothesis 7). In fact, Rist’s data indicates that hunters use different mixes of traps at different locations in the forest. Finally, researchers often assumed that traps are not species specific (Hypothesis 9). Rist, however, found that leg and neck traps target different species.
Only two common assumptions were found to be true in this study (Hypotheses 3 and 5). As many researchers assume, the handling of prey does not take up much of a hunter’s time. It is therefore not necessary to account for handling time when calculating hunting effort. It is also assumed that the number of traps set by hunters does not vary between hunting sites. Rist’s data supports this, making it acceptable to estimate hunting effort from the number of trap groups set without knowing the exact number of traps. The remaining three hypotheses had equivocal evidence (Hypotheses 2, 6, and 9). Through their literature review and their detailed study of this African hunting system, Rist and colleagues have been able to systematically identify sources of bias in bush meat studies. Information on the activities of hunters is relatively easy to collect and is therefore a popular tool for assessing the impact of bushmeat hunting. Rist’s detailed fieldwork will help future researchers collect data that accurately translates into impacts on prey populations.
Summarised from:
Rist, J., M. Rowcliffe, G. Cowlishaw and E.J. Milner-Gulland. 2008. Evaluating measures of hunting effort in a bushmeat system. Biological Conservation 141: 2086-2099.
Nathan Brouwer (brouwern@gmail.com) is a PhD student at the Department of Biological Sciences, University of Pittsburgh, USA.
Quietly and beyond the glare of the newspaper headlines, across Tanzania, communities are slowly but surely claiming back their forests and putting them under local control. Already around 4.1 million hectares of forest land in over 2,300 villages are either under, or in the process of being transferred to, local communities across the country. This includes high value montane forests in the Eastern Arc Mountains biodiversity hotspot, coastal forests and mangroves and miombo woodlands that cover large swathes of Tanzania’s sparsely populated western regions. These changes have been made possible by changes in the Tanzanian forestry laws in 2002, which, for the first time, recognise and legalise forests owned and managed by village councils and community groups.
Donors such as the Danish, Norwegian and Finnish governments as well as the World Bank have been working with the Forestry and Beekeeping Division of the Ministry of Natural Resources and Tourism to support village-level forestry activities. The law allows two systems of forest management. The first is where communities become owners and managers through their village councils. Forests and woodlands within the village area are declared by village governments, and then registered with the local district council as ‘Village Land Forest Reserves’. Once a management plan has been drawn up and approved by the district, the villagers can start actively managing their own forests. The second system covers communities living close to larger forests managed by either national or local government. Communities become joint managers by signing agreements with the government and in return for actively managing the forests, are able to share the benefits by accessing honey, fuelwood, poles and timber.
The changes in policy have been possible through Tanzania’s unique system of local government. Communities in rural areas are divided into villages (of which there are over 10,500 on mainland Tanzania), which are managed by village councils. The councils are accountable to village assemblies consisting of all the adults living within the village area. This system dates back to the mid-1970s, when the socialist “ujamaa” programme of Tanzania’s founding President Julius Nyerere gave villages a legal basis, largely as a way to fit scattered and poor rural communities into the country’s socialist development agenda. Although unpopular at the time, this political initiative sowed the seeds for rural empowerment through village governments. The Local Government Act of 1982 strengthened these powers by, among other things, enabling villages to make their own local by-laws. These by-laws are legally binding and enforceable in a court of law, and provide village governments with a powerful tool with which to enforce local forest management rules and regulations.
A second factor which supported the emergence of participatory forestry is Tanzania’s size and the remote location of many forested areas. Over time, the government came to realise that it was unable to manage these huge areas – and that some alternative system is needed. Pilot projects, initiated in the early 1990s in Babati and Singida districts and funded by the Swedish government, showed quite clearly that forests under village management could be restored and protected more effectively and at less cost than those under central government control.
But can we be sure that communities manage forests better? Trees grow slowly and therefore it takes time to say with certainty whether a forest is recovering. However, a number of independent reports demonstrate that forests under village management are recovering. A project in the Shinyanga district of northwestern Tanzania supported the re-establishment of a traditional system used by Sukuma agro-pastoralists for reserving dry season grazing. This management practice, known locally as “ngitili”, provided a locally accepted system that was quickly adopted – leading to the restoration of small patches of acacia woodland across what was previously a highly eroded landscape. Between 1994 and 1999, several hundred thousand hectares of eroded land were restored through this project and 152 species of trees, 145 bird species and 21 mammal species were reintroduced across the region.
In a second study, data were gathered during the past five years from the same set of 13 forest areas in five regions across eastern, central and northern Tanzania. The sample included forests that were managed entirely by village councils, forests that were jointly managed by communities and government, forests under exclusive government management, and one control site in “open access” land owned by a village but lacking forest management objectives. Data was gathered from 20 x 20 m permanent sample plots. In the sample of 13 forests, there were increases in basal area and volume for forests managed with community, involvement and declines for both of these variables in forests under government or open access management regimes.
A further indicator of strong local management is that, given the chance, villagers are both willing and able to protect their own forests. Recently, while in Kiteto, the author had a chance to visit the Suledo forest, which is owned by nine Maasai villages and covers about 164,000 hectares. With support from the Swedish funded Land Management Project, the villagers have been protecting and managing this forest since 1997. At the time of the visit, villagers in Laiseri arrested illegal loggers and confiscated their equipment, vehicle and logs. These goods were then auctioned by the village committee and the funds used to support local development needs and the work of the forest management committee.
Despite this good news there are still many problems and obstacles. Perhaps the greatest is that understanding of the new forest law at village level is still very low. In some areas, the pressure to harvest trees is high and the way in which licenses are issued is not always transparent. A new report produced by the environmental watchdog, TRAFFIC, makes this clear and points out that loggers bribe village leaders, offering a pittance for the timber harvested, and are frequently protected by the local forest officer. In recent years south eastern Tanzania has seen a logging boom and one village, Migeregere, has been in the thick of it. Mr. Kipengeze makes the point: “Everyone is frustrated that the village does not have any influence in the issuing of logging licenses. It always comes from the District level, and the payments to us are too small.…. We want to be empowered to control logging in our land, not just see people harvest the trees then leave”.
Under the Mpingo Conservation Project (‘Mpingo’ is the Kiswahili name for ebony or blackwood) the situation is improving. Villagers are slowly learning the real value of their timber and realising that registering their own village forests, managing them sustainably and protecting them under the law will help them capture this value. Kikole village – in Kilwa District – has already found this out, as explained by Matimbanya:, “We are already benefiting. We patrol the forest three times a month, and have collected fines from illegal loggers. Illegal tree felling has now been reduced in Kikole. We have also received compensation from an oil company that felled some of our trees within our village forest”. He then adds, “We now have knowledge of the forest and how we can manage it using the law. This will help us with our second village forest that we are preparing, and also we will know what to do if we want to set aside more forest in the future”.
Tom Blomley (tom.blomley@gmail.com, blomley@careug.org) was Senior Adviser to the Tanzanian Ministry of Natural Resources and Tourism between August 2003 and December 2007. During this time he supported the government to establish a national programme of participatory forest management.
The Golden Lion Tamarin’s Plight The golden lion tamarin (GLT), scientifically referred to as Leontopithecus rosalia, is quite a striking species. This animal’s majestic golden coat and flowing mane have probably caught your attention at your local zoo; a large population of GLT’s today have been raised in captivity because their population in the wild has dropped significantly over the last century due to predation and deforestation by humans. However, there is still time to reverse the damage done. Humans, although the cause of the GLT’s struggle, are now the last hope in ensuring this small, highly vulnerable primate’s survival for years to come. Over the last few decades, much of the golden lion tamarin’s home has been cleared. Its total area was once 1,315,460 km² and dropped to only 275,800 km² in 2015, the remaining area spread in patches throughout 17 different states . This makes survival difficult for the golden lion tamarin since it is dependent on this rare habitat for its survival. The tamarin was listed as critically endangered in 1982. At this time there were only approximately 200 left in the wild . Habitat fragmentation has resulted in no forest fragment being large enough to maintain viable populations of GLTs . A solution to this would be to connect these forest fragments in order to ensure appropriate patch size and shape, water levels, dispersion, amount of vegetative cover, and diversity. Creating habitat corridors is one way of doing this, but such a project needs to be carefully planned and monitored because fire, invasive species, disease, and predators could also use these passages . The golden lion tamarin association in Brazil, AMLD, has established such areas already and is working to create more. In 2013, AMLD planted native trees across 504 acres of fragmented forest to connect these areas and expand future GLT habitat .
GLT Habitat and Conservation The GLT has become a national symbol for the conservation of Brazil’s Atlantic Rainforest and many conservationists are devoting their lives to its wellbeing. The biological reserve Poco das Antas has played a huge role in recent successes. This 5,052-hectare reserve is located in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, and was established as a haven for these animals . The work of those involved has resulted in a GLT ‘insurance population’ — a population of individuals that are not only healthy enough but supported and trained enough to be successfully released into the wild and survive after being cared for in captivity. The GLT insurance population numbers some 500 individuals across 150 zoos worldwide; these animals are valuable in helping AMLD reach its goal of having at least 2,000 GLTs living in 25,000 hectares of connected and protected forest habitats by 2025. Having 2,000 GLTs spread across this amount of land will result in fewer genetic and reproductive problems for the species and a lower risk of disease and mass losses due to predation .This is because there will be more space for GLTs to inhabit. They can therefore spread out, making it less likely that there will be inbreeding depression – a situation that arises when a population’s genetic diversity decreases to the point that the majority of animals wind up with unfavorable genes that can result in a loss of vigour, fertility, and ultimately physiological efficiency . Additionally, there will be a lower risk of disease and mass losses from predation because having more space between these groups decreases the likelihood that a catastrophe hitting one group of GLT’s will hit neighboring groups as well. It is valuable to focus on how GLTs use their habitat since the space they have is now so limited. GLTs are arboreal and live in the subcanopy of the rainforest, where they use their long tails for balance when climbing and sleep in tree cavities . These primates prefer to use swamp forest as opposed to areas consisting of more hillside forest and pasture, likely because of the availability of foraging habitats rich with palm leaves, vines tangles, tree bark, and tropical flowering plants known as bromeliads . GLTs use their elongated hands and fingers to reach prey hidden in these crevices. These microhabitats are critical to GLT survival because they differ from their surrounding habitat and contain prey species–such as frogs, lizards, snakes, nestling birds, and snails–that are not found in the larger area. These swamp areas also have more tree cavities available to tamarins as sleeping sites than hillside forests do . Density of golden lion tamarin populations is regulated by the prevalence and distribution of keystone plant species, which are species that are heavily depended on by a variety of other species in their ecosystem and without which that area would change drastically. These particular species are vital in providing temporal stability, meaning that they help to stabilize local temperature and humidity . One example is the bromeliad, which provides temporal stability and is also used for foraging and as a water source for GLTs and other species in the area. Unfortunately, though, bromeliads are costly to establish in restoration areas due to limited seed dispersal and a lack of suitable transplant sites. One solution is to transplant bromeliads from much older forests into these new restoration sites because these mature bromeliads are larger and therefore more established and effective in performing their role as a keystone species. Tamarin home range is correlated with biomass rather than group size, meaning that the amount of living matter in an area is the primary factor in determining home range. Findings show that these primates require a larger home range than other New World monkeys. This is likely due to a greater availability of cryptic prey—prey, often small invertebrates, that is well camouflaged . With this in mind, groups in higher quality habitat with increased foraging opportunity will generally have smaller home ranges than groups in poor quality habitat . As golden lion tamarin group size increases, groups will travel further and occupy larger home ranges. This is based on their survival and reproductive needs. Small populations are more vulnerable than larger populations because they are more likely to face detrimental losses from threats such as environmental catastrophes and loss of genetic variation . An additional threat for all GLTs is predation, usually by snakes and wild cats. Increased predation generally means decreased home range size. Since the 1990s, the rate of predation on GLTs has risen. It is increasingly common for predators to wipe out entire groups rather than single individuals, as was more common in the past . It is believed that this is due to habitat loss and therefore less available hunting ground for predators. However, it is still unclear which species is responsible for the increased carnage as no cameras have been able to capture these events in action.
GLT Behavior and Conservation Golden lion tamarins typically do not get along well with neighboring groups of their own species. In fact, resident tamarins act aggressively towards potential immigrants, making immigration into established groups of golden lion tamarins rare; this usually only occurs for breeding purposes. The hostility between separate groups prevents the movement of outsiders into already established groups, limiting their size further . Due to these factors, the average group size for golden lion tamarins is about six individuals . These individuals live in family groups with a female and a male, their most recent offspring, and sometimes the prior offspring, who help to take care of the younger siblings . Unlike in many other species, golden lion tamarin males and females play an equivalent role in raising their young: Both parents carry infants, provide food, and act as sentinels for predators. This care will typically continue well into the first year of their offspring’s life . Golden lion tamarins often use scent-marking as a way to communicate territory ownership. To scent-mark an area, golden lion tamarins use sweat glands located on their chests and bottoms . It is mainly the alpha females who will mark areas to advertise their presence and deter potential immigrants who could steal their mates, because neighboring females are seen as a threat to their own social positions . In fact, most golden lion tamarin groups contain only one reproductive female. If ever there are two in a group, they would likely be sisters or mother and daughter . Males, on the other hand, tend to only use scent-marking as a way to facilitate relocation of food resources within their own groups .
Implications and Challenges of Captive GLT Breeding Saving golden lion tamarins is heavily dependent on being able to breed them in captivity and then reintroduce them to the wild.These New World primates are able to breed about twice a year in the wild and three times a year in captivity with a gestation period of about four months. The increased frequency in breeding provided by captivity is one of the reasons captive breeding programs are so important for GLTs. Increased breeding means faster population growth. It is important to consider the behavioural ecology of GLTs when raising them in captivity. For example, hand-raising GLTs is problematic because, in most cases, hand-raised offspring will become psychotic once reintroduced to the wild; they are doomed to lead solitary lives because they are unlikely to be accepted into another group and GLT parents will not typically surrogate or foster. The loneliness will then cause them to engage in self-mutilating behaviors, such as chewing off their own tails . This is why it is so important to reintroduce captive-raised golden lion tamarins to the wild in groups as opposed to as individuals. By doing this, the individual is guaranteed a family and is unlikely to engage in these negative behaviors. In order to breed and effectively reintroduce captive GLTs back into their natural habitat, there needs to be an understanding of the behavioral competency of these captive-born animals– that is, their ability and the skill-set required to survive in their environment. Thus far, upon initial reintroduction, they have been shown to be deficient in locomotor and foraging skills when compared with wild-born tamarins . A life in captivity is not fully able to prepare them for the challenges of surviving in their dwindling natural habitat and leaves them ill-prepared for interacting with wild-born neighboring groups, who are likely to act with hostility. A study conducted on a reintroduction effort in 1991 found that only 29 of 85, or 34%, of reintroduced golden lion tamarins survived . At the time of this study, exotic pet trade was very popular. Therefore, many of these losses could be attributed to human theft because reintroduced GLTs are more acclimated to humans and, as a result, they are less fearful and consequently more vulnerable to capture. Fortunately, AMLD has been working tirelessly for the last 3 decades to educate the public and create a conservation ethic in this area, greatly slowing the capture of GLTs for pet trade. Additionally, captive-born golden lion tamarins are more susceptible to predation by animals since a life in captivity has left them lacking in survival skills and with little to no awareness of their natural predators . This is why reintroduced populations are closely monitored by conservationists via tagging, cameras, and regular supervision and support. These first few months are the most difficult and require the most human intervention. However, once the reintroduced tamarins survive this period, most are able to adapt to these new challenges throughout their first and second years back in the wild, and their offspring show no signs of lacking survival instincts. In other words, captivity does not have a permanent effect on their behavior or attentiveness to predators . They are capable of fully acclimating to their natural environment over time.
Humans: The Final Hope for GLTs In light of these initial struggles, it is important that reintroduction programs work on creating more complex, naturalistic environments that simulate natural patterns of behavior, or at least can provide adequate post-release support for captive-born golden lion tamarins. This post-release support would include ensuring that there is a dependable food source/foraging habitat for the species, that they have the medical care they need as they adapt to their new, wilder, and unpredictable surroundings, and that they have nest boxes to provide them with shelter and safety. Extensive, prolonged pre-release training and conditioning has been found to be ineffective if GLTs spent the majority of their pre-release years in relatively small cages or enclosures. However, living in a large, protected, wooded area such as that of a zoo has proved to be advantageous . This is why 150 zoos worldwide have a partnership with AMLD and are working to breed GLTs and prepare them for reintroduction into the wild. As mentioned above, the offspring of reintroduced golden lion tamarins do not appear to have any disadvantage when compared to those born to wild parents . What this means is that the success of reintroduction as the means of sustaining this population is heavily dependent on exposure to a realistic, free-range environment and extensive post-release support and training. In this way, the reintroduced parents have a better chance at survival and therefore at reproducing in their natural environment. They can then, bit by bit, rebuild a lasting population. *Donate to SGLT, the American partner of AMLD Save the Golden Lion Tamarin is a public charity focused on providing technical and financial support to help Associação Mico-Leão Dourado (AMLD or Golden Lion Tamarin Association) If you would like to support this cause, please donate athttps://www.savetheliontamarin.org/donate Celina Baker is a student at Miami University of Ohio’s Advanced Inquiry Program pursuing a master’s degree in conservation biology.
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Land is used by people in all kinds of different ways. Sometimes we cut down the trees found on it to make timber, other times we grow food on it, and relatively less of the time, we assign it a protection status that prevents it from being used to produce timber or food. We know that the ways we chose to use or protect land affect the types of resources we can access and activities we can do on that land, but the consequences of land management choices do not stop there. Land use and protection also affect the freshwater streams embedded in landscapes.
Streams are the lifeline of rivers and lakes around the world – they are the nursery habitat of numerous species that later move into these larger freshwater systems, they supply them with water that then travels thousands of kilometres across landscapes. Streams also contribute to human well-being in all kinds of ways – they provide us with potable water, they move nutrients we rely on from one place to the next and are places we can go to recreate. These different contributions nature makes to people are called ecosystem services, and streams and the land around them – the riparian zone – can provide lots of these.
Looking at the insects found in streams
Researchers in Canada spent two months visiting different streams across the province Quebec to find out exactly how land use and protection affect the ecosystem services provided by streams and biodiversity they support. They visited streams surrounded by agriculture and forestry, and streams surrounded by intact forests that were or were not in National Parks. Turns out, all of these streams did an equally good job at supporting wild foods and areas to recreate, and they had similar amounts of little aquatic insects living in them.
However, streams surrounded by landscapes dedicated to the production of resources like timber and food tended to have less clean water, store less carbon, have lesser habitat quality, and lower tree diversity than those surrounded by forests. This work shows how streams surrounded by all kinds of different land, protected or not, provide numerous ecosystem services and support biodiversity, but the ways we decide to use land affect the conservation of some of those benefits and the species found there. We need to be considering these effects when we decide to develop land to collect resources like timber and food, or leave its forests intact, because it matters to streams and everything they are connected to, including us.
Further Reading:
Hanna, D.E.L., Raudsepp-Hearne, C. & Bennett, E.M. (2019) Effects of land use, cover, and protection on stream and riparian ecosystem services and biodiversity. Conservation Biology. Accepted Article available via: https://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/10.1111/cobi.13348
Marine protected areas (MPAs) are regions of restricted human activity that are maintained for the purpose of conserving and restoring marine biodiversity. Globally, over 27 million km2 of designated MPAs are being actively managed, costing over 1 billion US$ per year to maintain. To evaluate the success of MPA management, routine biodiversity and habitat surveys are required. Repeated monitoring of such large areas incurs major financial costs and poses significant logistical challenges in terms of data acquisition, storage, processing, and analysis. The diverse habitat structures and sediment types present in the marine environment typically call for different sampling methods and instruments (e.g. grabs, trawls, towed cameras). This limits the use of a standardised monitoring protocol, leading to variation in the spatial scale of observation (grab 0.2 m2; photograph 2 m2; trawl 2000 m2), the data type (e.g. sediment sample, trawl catch, seabed imagery), and the taxonomic groups assessed, making it difficult to compare marine habitats. More recently, the use of autonomous underwater vehicles (AUVs) in marine scientific research has permitted quick, non-invasive in situ data collection in a wide range of habitats, at substantially reduced survey cost. AUVs are unmanned systems that follow pre-set directives to survey an area and collect different types of ecological data, such as seafloor digital and acoustic imagery, or measurement of temperature, salinity, pressure, or turbidity.
In an article in Conservation Biology, Benoist et al. (2019) examined whether AUVs are effective in describing diverse seafloor habitats and their associated biodiversity. The study used digital imagery data collected from a survey in the Greater Haig Fras MPA located in the Celtic Sea (NE Atlantic) at a water depth of 100 m. The authors studied the photographs to assess the abundance and distribution of large invertebrates (e.g. anemones, crabs, sea stars) and fish living on or near the seafloor. They found that the underwater drone data successfully detected significant differences in biodiversity, biomass, and species composition between the different habitat types. Their results demonstrate that AUV imagery can produce accurate and precise data for seafloor monitoring. Benoist et al. (2019) also tested how the size of a sampling unit defined for AUV images affected the ecological data that was generated.
The authors suggest that the size of the sampling unit should be based on a minimum number of individuals rather than the more conventional method of fixed seafloor area. In other words, a sample is defined as the number of photographs required to get a minimum number of individuals. This approach may be particularly valuable where animal abundance varies between habitat types; for example, in the Greater Haig Fras MPA, on average 100 specimens can be estimated in 40 m2 of rocky reef, whereas on coarse sediments, 1000 m2 must be surveyed to encounter the same number of specimens.
AUVs have been available for some years now with several commercial providers worldwide. They offer a practical solution for cost-effective and standardised monitoring of marine habitats and biodiversity. This is important for conservation practitioners who need routine understanding of the health of a protected marine system in order to evaluate the success of MPA management. As such, AUVs may be able to play a key part providing a practical solution for effective monitoring and therefore management of the world’s growing network of MPAs.
Further Reading: Benoist NMA, Morris KJ, Bett BJ, Durden JM, Huvenne VAI, Le Bas TP, Wynn RB, Ware SJ, Ruhl HA. 2019. Monitoring multiple biotopes in a marine conservation zone by autonomous underwater vehicle. Conservation Biology, in press. DOI https://doi.org/10.1111/cobi.13312
Can we actually turn landscapes of (wildlife -human) conflict into landscapes of co-existence, ask John Linnell, R. Sukumar and Kartik Shanker, the editors of this special issue on wildlife -human conflict. The studies showcased in this issue illustrate that while there is no easy solution, there are case-specific measures that can help mitigate or sometimes prevent conflict situations.
In this issue, financially assisted by the Royal Norwegian Embassy, New Delhi, Norwegian Institute for Nature Research, and the Research Council of Norway, we present over a dozen case studies of conflict (elephants, big cats, turtles, etc.) across diverse landscapes in India and Norway (page 04). Janaki Lenin asks how leopards in central India manage to live with humans (page 22), Rohan Arthur and Kartik Shanker explore the conflict between fishing communities and turtles in two diverse parts of India (page 28), and Arati Rao summarises research on blackbuck conflict and the disconnect between wildlife, farmers and bureaucrats (page 18).
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It is no secret that global climate change is affecting human life and the earth’s ecosystems. There are five major drivers of global environmental change: habitat fragmentation, invasive species, altered nitrogen deposition, increasing atmospheric carbon dioxide, and climatic changes. Each of these drivers have individual effects on plants, animals, and other organisms within ecosystems, but the interactions among these factors are only beginning to be studied. Moreover, previous research indicated that observing independent effects of drivers’ individually cannot predict crucial interaction effects. A study by Hoover et al. (2012) examined how nitrogen deposition, climate warming and elevated levels of carbon dioxide could potentially disrupt crucial mutualisms between plants and pollinators.
The researchers hypothesized that the climate drivers could impact plant-pollinator mutualisms by altering nectar amount or composition and thus the behavior and lifespan of pollinators. In order to test their hypotheses, the scientists used a pumpkin model system and bumblebees (Bombus terrestris) to investigate effects of the three drivers on plant-pollinator mutualisms. By altering the growing conditions of the pumpkin plants, the researchers simultaneously changed nitrogen availability, temperature, and concentrations of carbon dioxide. They then tested, among other factors, how these treatments affected nectar composition. The results were complex, but one finding stood out: addition of nitrogen had significant impacts on nectar quality.
To test the response of the bumblebees to altered nectar quality, the researchers created nectar solutions that mimicked the average nectar concentrations (made up of amino acids and sugars) produced by plants grown under each global change treatment combination. The preference of bumblebees was tested using a mesh 175 by 175 by 175cm flight cage that offered arrays of ‘flower clusters’ to bee foragers. Finally, this experiment tested the fitness (longevity) of the pollinators by feeding them the nectar produced by each of the previous global change treatments.
Experimental drivers significantly influenced plant growth and attributes of flowering (i.e. number of flowers produced, size of flowers, amount of nectar, sex of flower and onset of flowering). In particular, the researchers found that the treatments affected aspects of nectar chemistry which subsequently affected pollinator preference and longevity. Bees were particularly attracted to nectar from plants grown with elevated nitrogen, but that same nectar that reduced bee survival by 22%.
Ultimately, this study implies that global environmental changes could affect numerous aspects of plant ecology, which directly affects the plant-pollinator mutualisms. If altered nectar as a result of global environmental change treatments can impact the health of pollinators in a controlled experiment, the same effects might be seen in nature. Since 2012, this work was cited around 113 times in a number of different scientific journals. Many of these subsequent papers address how climate change affects plant-pollinator mutualisms or review how nectar quantity and abundance change under different environmental conditions.
Further Reading:
Hoover, S. E., Ladley, J. J., Shchepetkina, A. A., Tisch, M., Gieseg, S. P., & Tylianakis, J.M. (2012). Warming, CO2, and nitrogen deposition interactively affect a plant-pollinator mutualism. Ecology Letters,15(3), 227-234. doi:10.1111/j.1461-0248.2011.01729.x
Due to increased wildlife crimes like resource extraction, land conversion, poaching, etc., there has been a dramatic rise in state-directed and state-authorised forms of violence in support of conservation. The controversial ‘shoot to kill’ policy implemented by the government of Botswana recently to combat poaching aims to be an effective deterrence to poachers when implemented alongside long-term conservation management interventions. These acts of violence are characterised as green militarisation or green violence. Though there had been state-authorised violent defense of biodiversity earlier in global history, the current scope and extent are unprecedented. The researchers ponder how the term ‘green wars’ may be appropriate to signify the intensification of violence and the change in environmental governance.
The researchers acknowledge that the term ‘Green Wars’ has different meanings associated with it rather than just a violent tool against wildlife crimes. In her book, ‘Green Wars: Conservation and Decolonization in the Maya Forest’, Megan Ybarra explores how it has become another tool deployed by the government and the military to further marginalize the indigenous populations by exiling them from their villages and farming livelihood and taking away their identity.
Conservationists and agencies are divided on the use of violence to achieve biodiversity conservation. Though there are advocates questioning the morality of the whole act, there is a significant number of people who perceive it as a necessary evil to combat the increasing and intractable wildlife crimes. Many major NGOs including Big Life and Anti-Poaching Foundation, and celebrities like Tom Hardy, Prince Charles, and William find green wars or green militarisation as the panacea to all the conservation crimes. Thus indicating that the concept of green wars to be the potential twenty-first-century ‘realpolitik’ towards conservation.
Buscher B, Fletcher R point out that there is and has been an intensification of pressure on environment and biodiversity and on the actors to save, govern, or guide and ‘green wars’ is the material, symbolic and political expression of it. The political ecologies of green wars indicate how violence is employed to create political acquiescence and undermines the goal of conservation of biodiversity. It denotes the role of structural and cultural violence which also pertains to the concept of green wars.
The research argues that the concept, ‘green wars’ comes under an overarching framework where various other concepts and issues such as green-grabbing, biopolitics, violence, security, etc. are to be discussed as well. Due to the ever-increasing wildlife crimes and the intensification of pressure to act on it, the green wars concept and the framework it belongs to should be analysed and researched further. Further Reading
Humans have introduced several species through the world. Although not all introduced species survive in newly colonized areas, some of them do, becoming invasive. Invasive species present one of the biggest threats to native species and are considered drivers of the loss of biodiversity. Invasive species have reached most areas of the world, including Patagonia.
The present distribution of Patagonian native species is the result of a complex history involving populations reduction during the ice ages, expansions during the Holocene (12000 years BP) and habitat modifications during the Anthropocene (1800 to present). Humans have not just modified the landscape during the Anthropocene, but also introduced species in Patagonia as it occurs with salmonids. Salmonids were introduced in Patagonia in early 1900, occupying most rivers and lakes, preying on, and competing with native species, including the native fish Galaxias platei, a species that survived the dramatic changes in the landscape occurring during the ice ages. Here we studied the fish G. platei as a case study to understand how processes related to Pleistocene glaciations and salmonid introductions can affect the genetic diversity of native species.
Genetic diversity is a parameter calculated from the study of informative regions of the DNA and allows to determine the conservation status of a species in a better way than just counting a number of individuals. Considering the impact of ice ages in most Patagonia species, we were expecting to observe that any loss of genetic diversity in G. platei should be mainly explained as the result of the ice ages and to a lesser degree due to the introduction of invasive species. Nevertheless, our results showed that although Pleistocene glaciations had an influence on the Patagonian native fish, introduced salmonids had the greatest negative influence on its genetic diversity. Thus populations from lakes with salmonids exhibited significantly lower genetic diversity than populations from lakes without salmonids.
Lower genetic diversity is a signal of a population that has experienced population size reduction and is a signal of a population very sensitive to changes in the landscape that could lead even to population extinction. This lower genetic diversity in native fish populations inhabiting lakes with salmonids is similar to the observed in overfished species in the ocean as a consequence of the aggressive fisheries of the last century. Computer simulations, recreating fish populations 100 years ago, are consistent with the hypothesis that this difference in the genetic diversity is the result of the decrease of population sizes during the last century as a consequence of the introduction of salmonids. Our results reveals how genetic studies can help to study the negative consequence of invasive species and the importance of this evidence for conservation programs.
Published as: Invasive species and postglacial colonization: Their effects on the genetic diversity of a Patagonian fish in Proceedings of the Royal Society B on Wednesday, February 27th 2019. MS Reference Number: RSPB-2018-2567.R1
Located in the Bodoland Territorial Area Districts of Assam, India, Manas National Park (MNP) is home to numerous endangered species, including tigers, elephants, and rhinoceroses. Ethno-political conflict from the 1980s until 2003 disrupted conservation activities and impacted the wildlife of the park; for example, during this period the Indian rhino was locally extirpated and had to be reintroduced. As it was difficult to conduct studies and implement conservation activities during this period, surveys are currently assessing the assemblage and distribution of mammalian species in the region and how it was affected by the conflict. Additionally, such information is critical in determining efficient ways to resume and implement conservation activities in the region.
In 2017, Lahkar et al conducted camera-trapping surveys across three forest ranges, Panbari, Bansbari and Bhuyanpara of MNP. The team setup cameras at 118 sites for 6,100 days and documented the species captured. Despite two decades of conflict, the study confirmed that the mammalian species assemblage in MNP appears to be intact although abundances were most likely depressed. Nevertheless, large predator photo-captures were greater in Panbari while prey species were more frequently photo-captured in Bansbari and Bhuyanpara. The study hypothesised that, armed militants camping inside Panbari for two to three years preceding this survey most likely hunted ungulate species for food. Additionally, the conflict zone could have acted as a refuge for large carnivores. In Bansbari and Bhuvanpara, conflict ended in 2003 and conservation measures allowed for ungulate populations to recover.
The study concludes that ethnopolitical conflict has a negative effect on the spatial distribution of a species within a region. Additionally, it highlights the usefulness of camera traps in capturing distributions in zones of conflict. Finally, the information gathered by the study may be useful in informing future conservation activities in the region.
Further Reading: Lahkar, D., Ahmed, M. F., Begum, R. H., Das, S. K., Lahkar, B. P., Sarma, H. K., & Harihar, A. (2018). Camera-trapping survey to assess diversity, distribution and photographic capture
Mass extinction events on Earth have witnessed a few winners and many losers. In the current era of ongoing climate change, predicting which species will be winners or losers can help develop research and management priorities for conservationists.
Marine wildlife in Antarctica is currently experiencing some of the strongest and most rapid environmental changes. Brian Morley and colleagues at the UK British Antarctic Survey looked for effects of environmental change on different ectotherms (animals dependent on external sources of body heat; for example, sea stars, clams and crabs) and endotherms (animals that generate body heat internally; for example, penguins, seals and whales).
They observed that “winning” ectotherms were predators and scavengers that fed on already dead animals or food particles settling on the seafloor. These species were more likely to benefit, or have no response, during conditions such as decreasing sea ice, warming oceans, and retreating glaciers. On the other hand, “losing” ectotherms were more sensitive to outcomes of climate change, including ocean acidification, the impact of icebergs on the seafloor, and increasing sediment. However, they also observed that this delicate balance between “winners” and “losers” could change if key prey species were lost.
King penguins (endotherms) feed on fish which are likely to increase as sea ice is reduced, and can be classified as winners. However, emperor penguins, which also prey on fish, are vulnerable to this change due to the loss of breeding habitat as sea ice reduces and ice shelves break up. Strikingly, although Adélie and chinstrap penguins are less likely to lose their habitat, they may still be at risk as their krill prey is a “losing” ectotherm. In this manner, food availability played a vital role in which species became winners or losers.
In addition to climate-related changes, animals in Antarctica might also have to cope with invading species and less prey. More information about the complex relationships between environmental factors, food web dynamics, and human impacts, is needed to better understand how Antarctic marine species will fare during climate change.
Further Reading
Morley, S.A., D.K.A. Barnes & M.J. Dunn. 2019. Predicting which species succeed in climate-forced polar seas. Frontiers in Marine Science 5: 507. doi: 10.3389/fmars.2018.00507
‘There is no frigate like a book to take us lands away’ – Emily Dickinson
This issue of Current Conservation is an invitation to travel.Our first stop is the Ganga. Mayukh Dey’s article lets us explore the soundscape of this mighty river, its “oise and tranquillity”, through the ears of the Ganges river dolphin. Next, we move south-eastwards, to the coconut and areca plantations on the island of Great Nicobar, to hear Ishika Ramakrishna’s stories about encounters between the long-tailed macaque and humans. From the islands, we move up, latitudinally and altitudinally, to the world’s first “organic state”, Sikkim. Radhika Gupta presents a nuanced picture of the impact of recent government policies on agro-pastoral practices and food habits of the Sikkim’s mountain villages. From Sikkim, we travel out of India, to the grasslands of Kazakhstan, to talk to EJ Milner- Gulland about her efforts to study and protect the saiga antelope. Finally, we travel all the way back to the south (yes, we know, the routing could have been better!), to the Palk Strait between SriLanka and India, to learn, from Michael Adams, about the natural and human history of the shankha. Once you have read these articles, you will probably relate much better to Anusha Shankar’s reflections on why, despite the miserable pay and often-treacherous working conditions, she chose to become an ecologist (to see the world!).
We wish you a fun journey! -Hari Sridhar
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I am the last born and I have a long following/ Everything and everyone is my elder/ I move through the relatives in my green leaves/ I eat canoes and drink inlets… (from Maori writer Hinemoana Baker’s 2008 poem Last Born)
At the beginning of the Bhagavad Gita, seven war conches are named as their owners sound them at the start of the climactic Kurukshetra battle. War conches are shankha, the sacred or divine conch that is used in Hindu and Buddhist ritual, and in sacred ceremonies in different saltwater cultures around the world. There is a three to four thousand year tradition of diving to collect shankha from the waters of India and Sri Lanka, including Palk Strait.
The conch seems an unlikely candidate to reach the level of reverence it does in India, Sri Lanka and other cultures. In scientific terms, it is a large marine gastropod, a big sea snail. They are predators, feeding on other marine invertebrates and especially species of sand-living worms. The specific animal revered as shankha is Turbinella pyrum in Latin. It lives on sandy sea bottoms, and is common and restricted to the southern coasts of India, parts of Sri Lanka and the Andaman and Nicobar Islands. In its living form it is not obviously attractive, the shell being covered by a dark brown mantle of soft tissue. Once processed, it is a shining white symbol of the divine.
On these coasts on both sides of Palk Strait, the material properties of the living environment of land and ocean continue to be reshaped into the built form of local human beach communities. From the land, palmyra and coconut trunks, stalks and leaves become furniture, fences, roof framing, thatch, fishing boats, paddles, bailers, shade covers, walls. From the sea, sand becomes concrete, shells become lime, coral becomes construction blocks. Local artisans have specially woven the roof thatch on our buildings in both India and Sri Lanka. There are no nails or synthetic materials, and room dimensions are determined by the bearing capacity of palm beams.
But these places are not held in the past. Threaded through these continuities, the persistent materials of modernism are rethought and repurposed, as well as discarded. Polystyrene packing becomes boat hulls, worn fishing nets become all kinds of containers and wrapping, plastic bottles become fishing floats, old clothes become flags and markers. All these same things line the tidemark on beaches. Every turtle skeleton I find is entangled in an indestructible nylon net.
Underwater, the experience changes daily and hourly. The sand is rippled by the tide, pitted and tracked by the activities of hosts of small invertebrates. Tiny fish speed through the mid and upper levels in dense and tightly choreographed shoals. Jellyfish with two metre streams of stinging tentacles drift silently. The calligraphy of tiny lives marked in the sand is layered over with dead and living animals and plants. The hard calcium carbonate of shells, exoskeletons, bones and claws persists while the soft flesh, mantle, muscle and organs are consumed by predator and detrivore.
Like all species, shankha are both eater and eaten. They hunt for the polychaete tube worms in the sand while divers, stingrays and other predators hunt for them. The divers that hunt shanka now are varied in skill levels and access to equipment. Many approaches are used: breath-hold with various equipment, scuba, scuba variants, hookah, and likely more than this as cheap innovation is applied to technologies to get divers underwater. These are all dangerous to different degrees. The shankha is collected alive, but cannot live out of water, and likely dies while still on the boat. This is the beginning of the shankha’s journey into ritual. The large muscle comprising much of its body is kept for food by some divers, the elements of the living animal diffusing into the muscles of the living diver. The shell is processed into the ceremonial instrument, and its opercula ground into fixative for incense.
The calcium carbonate of the shankha’s exterior shell is shaped inside as a perfect receptacle for its strange yet familiar body. As humans, as vertebrate mammals, we carry the calcium carbonate of our skeletons inside, our bodies vulnerably open to the world, just our brain protected inside bone. When we die, both shankha and humans, the bone or shell parts of our bodies persist after the detrivores have finished with our flesh. Everything living survives through the deaths of others, who are all our/their relatives, close or more distant – we all eat our relatives, evolutionarily speaking, sometimes distant (molluscs, plants) and sometimes closer (mammals). Our interspecies interdependence is based not just in the biology of food but in the biology of evolutionary reproduction: both eating and sex. It is no accident that we recognise that the warm involuted whorls of the shankha reflect the human birth passage, and that both conches and oysters are aphrodisiacs in many cultures. The reproductive processes of all species are implicated and reflected in our own, including the lowly molluscs. Eating oysters increases dopamine that boosts libido, and their high levels of zinc are important for testosterone levels in both men and women. The creative generation of life on Earth endlessly recycles the available constituents on the planet, from the elements to the forms.
More than five hundred million years ago, an impossibly long time to imagine, we shared a common evolutionary ancestor with marine molluscs: our bodies are composed of the same elements, we come from the same ancient World Ocean. Humans do not just share the building blocks of our bodies, but the patterns of composition that put them together. We share this kinship with shankha and everything else living on the planet, as well as innumerable now extinct species, and they share that kinship with us. For the shankha itself, it lives in a world we can hardly know, the sentient context of Palk Strait. Hindu belief depicts the very rare reverse turning shell, the dakshinavarti shankha, as reverently attended by hundreds of normal spiralled shells on the sea floor. Have human eyes seen this? For shankha divers there are tactile engagements with the living animal in its underwater world, they earn their connection through skill, effort and knowledge. For people who purchase shankha as an emblem of luck and prosperity, the shining shell functions as a mnemonic, a reminder to embrace and also to transcend the mundane. For the ordained users of shankha in Buddhist and Hindu ritual, and in saltwater cultures around the world, they put the polished shell to their mouths, its shining form an embodiment of the sacred, and its sound calling the divine into presence. The shankha connects us to the universe of the ocean, and the ocean connects us to the origins of all life.
Ecology is sometimes thought of as a bourgeois profession; one that only the middle class and above can have the luxury of seriously considering as a career. And this might well be true. Maybe ‘saving the world’ is a luxury for those who can afford it. Many ecologists indeed feel passionate about what we do because at some level we are thinking about the Earth’s well-being. And there is always an acknowledgment that this profession isn’t about making money – you won’t make money. It takes near-impossible resolve to keep this mindset if you are penniless. But I never could quite put my finger on why I could earn 10 times as much driving a truck than I ever would as an ecologist with over 10 years of post-high school education. I realised one day when I was in the field that it’s for two main reasons: we have curiously explored the little secrets that make animals work the way they do, and tried to uncover new knowledge of how animals interact with their environments. And we often get to do this by exploring places most others don’t get to see. This professional curiosity in often remote places cultivates an awe for the natural world.
It’s far from glamorous once you get down to it – you might literally wade through cow dung or get swarmed by 100 ticks at once (itch for months), get deported, and go to other insane lengths to see these things (some, or all, of these, might have been my real-life experiences). But at the end of it all, I don’t just get to see the Milky Way light a path through the universe. I see the Milky Way in Arizona at 2 am after my shift watching a wild hummingbird sleep.
I followed gibbons in the forests of Northeast India, watched a king cobra devouring a rat snake in the wild, and studied nesting hornbills, in the Western Ghats of India. I held transparent butterflies and woke up, for months, to a cloud forest valley bathed in clouds in Ecuador. I saw penguins near the equator in the Galapagos, and blue-footed boobies. The majestic Swiss Alps in the snowy warmth of the spring; the breath-taking Himalayas, their dizzying heights leaving me literally breathless. The caressing, windy, confusing, warmth of the high Andes, with its bluer-than-blue skies. This has been my past 10 years – a self- proclaimed city girl.
How lucky am I? This is not altruism – I am selfish. I want to continue to be able to see these things. This profession satiates my curiosity, and quenches my need to experience the Earth as it should be – less polluted. This Earth is marvelous. Its diversity moves me to tears. I am amazed by it. How much you can see and learn if you stop and observe the world around you! Many ecologists enter the profession because they want to get away from people. But to be successful in the field, you come to realise that the key lies in the opposite, in working well with other people. There is no way we can save our wild places simply by roaming them; we need to reach across disciplines and work with people to solve the problems humans have created. We must lead by example to continue having the chance to experience our wilderness. One way is to have compassionate conversations with others who think differently from us. To gently bring up questions about our lifestyles. How much stuff do we actually need to own and use? How much plastic and oil and land and fish and clothes and straws… at what cost? What do you or I, or all of us, really need, to be content? How much is enough?
I know this is cliché, but our Earth really is the only one of its kind that we know of. On one rock in the universe we know of, there are giraffes, blue whales, giant smelly flowers, microscopic and indestructible tardigrades, some ten thousand flying, feathered, colorful things we call birds. There are green leafy things that don’t move (much) and act like our planet’s lungs. This concept, of our blue-green planet, continues to astound me. I want its diversity to continue existing, for my selfish current self, and for the future. There are over seven billion of us humans, and I am sure we can come up with ways to make it happen if we put our heads together. Let us open our minds, work with engineers and architects, painters and children, to keep our disappearing diversity from slipping away.
E.J. Milner-Gulland is the Tasso Leventis Professor of Biodiversity and the Director of the Interdisciplinary Centre for Conservation Science at the University of Oxford. At the 2018 edition of the Student Conference on Conservation Science in Bengaluru, Professor Milner-Gulland spoke about her research work on the Saiga antelope. During the conference, Hari Sridhar spoke to her about how she got interested in this species, her research interests, and how that research has informed Saiga conservation.
Q: I want to start by asking you about how you got interested in the saiga antelope. Sure. I think for many scientists it’s just chance, how you get into a species and then you decide that you like it. I was starting my Ph.D. on the ivory trade in elephants and also later on rhinos. When I was researching about rhino horn use in Chinese traditional medicine I found that the saiga antelope was associated with rhino horn often, it was in the same medicines and it was actually seen as a substitute, though it’s really a complement, not a substitute. That was exciting for me because my father is a professor of Russian arts, literature and history. He was translating Russian dissident poets and we had lots of Russian stuff in the house. He was going to Russia lots and so I was really interested in the Soviet Union. When I read that saigas from the Soviet Union were complements to rhino horn I thought this is my chance to go and visit the Soviet Union. So I put in a grant proposal, got the money and went to visit. I was a population modeller doing population models of elephant and rhino populations and the effect of trade. I thought I could do something similar for saigas. When I got there I just really loved it and I stayed! Q: Do you remember your first sighting of the animal? Yes, it was in Kazakhstan, in 1991 possibly; maybe 93. I had a bit of time, I was there for a month, and we went up on a survey. That year the calving was very far north, so we were starting to give up. We couldn’t see any saigas and we were also a bit late for the calving. I was thinking I had driven for 2 or 3 days in vain and that I was not going to see a saiga, when we saw a single baby saiga right on the tracks, sitting in the sand! Quite often, late calving subdominant females put them in the sand in order to keep them warm. So, on that trip, I saw just one baby saiga on the road. I took a picture of and 25 years later, it is still my Skype icon. I’m very proud of that picture. It’s not the best picture but it was my first saiga.
Q:And what was that first project about? Well, the field trip was just for fun, to see the area. I was doing a model of Saiga population dynamics and hunting to understand sustainable use. At the time, it was a game species that were harvested sustainably by the government and I wanted to parameterize the population model. So I went and worked with these guys, to get access to their data sets and their knowledge and understanding, and we published a paper together
Q: Stepping back a bit, how did you decide to work on trade in elephants and rhinos for your Ph.D.? It was another bit of random chance. I was interested in conservation and population modelling. I turned up in my supervisor’s lab without a topic, but he had just been given a contract by CITES, the international wildlife trade body, to look at population dynamics of elephants, before their uplisting to Appendix 1. This was in 1988-89. He’d been asked to look at the effect of the ivory trade, the amount of trade that was going on at that moment, on the dynamics of elephant populations to see whether it was sustainable and whether declines in elephant populations could be attributed to the ivory trade. He’d been given this consultancy, I turned up and he said, “well, why don’t you do it?” That’s how, in my very first few months in my Ph.D., I was providing input to one of the most important decisions that CITES has made. That was quite a baptism of fire for me, as a 21-year old. It was an amazing opportunity but also incredibly stressful, and made me realise immediately, from the first days of my Ph.D., how political conservation can be. I did my population model as best I could and it was taken up and argued about by both sides, which made me not want to do anything related to ivory for a few years! This is another reason why I moved into rhinos and from that into saigas, but I was interested in the dynamics and sustainability of trade from that moment.
Q: Who was your Ph.D. supervisor? John Beddington, who was a population modeller at Imperial. Later, he became the government chief scientist for the U. K.
Q: Stepping back even further, where did your interest in conservation and population modelling come from? I was always interested in conservation. I grew up in the countryside in Sussex, enjoyed nature and my parents were very good at telling me about plants and animals and that kind of thing. I was also very interested in theory, in behavioural ecology and evolution and all those theories as an undergraduate. My undergraduate in Oxford was on pure and applied biology, so it was some behavioural ecology and evolution, but also agriculture and forestry, which I found really interesting, that application of theory to practice. As I went through my undergraduate, I started to think that conservation biology, which was just starting then, really needed some of these more quantitative and theory-based techniques. The terms ‘conservation biology’ and ‘biodiversity’ were coined while I was an undergraduate, so it was a really fascinating time to be in this field. I wanted to do something applied, do something for nature and felt that all the things I’d been learning in theoretical biology, about game theory, and about population modelling, was really useful for conservation. I was just really lucky to get into conservation at that time.
Q: While you were doing your undergraduate degree, did you already know you wanted to do a Ph.D.? I’m not sure about that. I knew I wanted to save the world! I actually thought I wanted to work for IUCN, but then as I came to the end of my undergraduate I thought it would be really helpful to do a PhD, to do some research first, before I go and work for an international NGO. Then when I did my PhD, I realized I was quite good at this and I just fell into a post-doc and then into a lectureship and here I am now. I’ve never actually worked for IUCN, which was my dream. I also found that as an academic you get a huge amount of freedom to follow the topics that are of interest to you. And as I grew to understand more about conservation NGOs I realized that quite quickly you can get into the management side of things and you have less freedom to pursue your interests than you do in academic life. So I now think that for a conservation biologist who wants to save the world the academic route is a good route. Of course in academia, there’s a lot of administration, but that’s true of NGOs too. Academia also means a lot of teaching, which I found that I enjoy. I enjoy interacting with young students and find it very rewarding. At first, it was very scary, but after a bit, I found that that was a really good part of my job. I would say to young conservationists that academia is not so bad.
Q: Going back to your work on the Saiga antelope, after that initial trip, have you gone back often for fieldwork and visits to Saiga areas? I’ve done a lot of visits to the Saiga antelope countries and attended many many meetings but have only done a very small amount of field work. But my students spend months and years in the field studying Saigas.
Q: What are your memories of doing field work at that time when you started? What were the challenges of doing fieldwork in those places? The first thing I did was to make a real effort to learn Russian. I was the only English person around so I had to speak Russian. I think it’s really important for conservationists to speak the language of the people you’re working with. In those days, Russian was the language of the whole region, less so now. I guess initially they felt I was very young and female and so they were very kind to me, then later I grew to know them and to be their friend and to work together with them, and then I started getting grant money to support our joint work. This was a really difficult time when the Soviet Union was collapsing and there was no money for science or conservation. My colleagues who had this very proud history of science, of many years of science being one of the top professions and very respected, suddenly they came to a point where there was no money for electricity and all their staff were leaving to be bus drivers or selling cakes on the street. You could make a better living as a bus driver than as a scientist! Their proud 70-year tradition of science was falling apart and in the lab where I was mostly working, I was the only one producing money because I was their only foreign collaborator. At that time I guess the relationship changed a little bit because, although I was still a young post-doctoral early career researcher, I was still the one who was leading these big projects. We had 10 years worth of big interdisciplinary international projects, with many partners, with money from the EU for the reconstruction of the Soviet Union, which I ran. I was very lucky that there was that money, and I became one of the senior members of the team I guess. They still think I’m a bit odd, particularly because I’m a vegetarian in Central Asia, but they are used to me and my students now, and I feel like we have a really strong collaborative relationship, even though nowadays, because of all the responsibilities I have back home I don’t visit as much as I should. I feel like we’ve got nearly 30 years of shared history with the same people.
Q: Were you working mostly with one lab when you were there? Well no. I had these interdisciplinary things going, so I worked with the Academy of Sciences in Moscow and the local Saiga captive breeding centre in the Saiga’s habitat. Then in Kazakhstan I mostly worked with the Institute of Zoology, again part of the Academy of Sciences, and then more recently with other collaborators. Generally, in the early days we were working with the Academies of Science in each of the countries, but nowadays we also work with in-country NGOs.
Q: You started by doing research mainly in biological sciences, then moved to also doing research in the social sciences and now you are also involved in many different aspects of conservation practice. What were the main challenges for you, as a biologist, in making these transitions? We were very naive to start with. I told you I had 10 years of money from the EU. After that stopped we started to look for other money. I got some money from the Darwin Initiative which funded projects which integrate research and conservation. But around that time we also just started to find that we couldn’t ignore the conservation issues anymore. We were doing ecological research, disease research, all sorts of things and we were finding it harder and harder to find saigas. The biologists who were out in the field were saying there was huge amounts of poaching, that the saigas are going. This was in the late 90s – early 2000s. It was getting harder and harder to do our research, but we also thought that if this is really true we can’t just stand by. So I got the Darwin grant in 2003 with my colleagues to do research on what was going on with the poaching. And the answer was really worrying. Also, when this money stream came to an end I wanted to keep our network going and I wanted it to start working more on conservation issues. In 2006, I happened to be asked by the Wildlife Conservation Network (WCN) in the US if I would like to apply for our program to join that network. The whole thing again just came together nicely – funding was running out, we were starting to work on conservation issues, we were seeing serious issues, and we were asked if we would like to join WCN as a conservation organisation. We didn’t have a conservation organisation so we made one. It was basically the science network that I built up over 10 years but starting to work on conservation issues, and then, over time, we’ve moved that into a collaborative network doing all sorts of conservation. From the beginning we wanted it to be a network that brought a range of state actors together. The other thing that was happening was that people internationally were getting concerned about saigas because of our work and others who were saying that there was a problem. But I felt there was a huge disconnect between all the talk that was happening internationally, in the UN conventions and IUCN, and the huge experience that my colleagues had on the ground. This was not reaching those people because they didn’t speak Russian and they hadn’t worked with them. So I thought why can’t we have some network that would allow some of this huge expertise to be translated up so that the people who are making decisions internationally that were directly affecting the saigas had access to the expertise from the science on the ground. One priority for the network was to make that connection between global and local much more explicit so that there was a way that the information was channelling in both directions.
Q: At the time when you started working on Saigas, how much was known about them? The Academies of Science in the range states had been working on Saigas since the early 1950s. So it is 40+ years of research. What frustrated me was that the international conservationists who were coming in had no knowledge of this research or respect for this research, mostly because it was in Russian. I was really keen to make people more aware of the expertise that already existed.
Q: Looking back at all your research on saigas and the conservation work you have done, what aspects of your research do you think have been most useful in conservation decision making?
That is an interesting question because my very first piece of research, on the ivory trade, was a fundamental contributor to a landmark decision (to uplist the elephant to CITES Appendix 1). That was very strange to me. But most of the early saiga work we did didn’t really play any role in decision making. I think it was only when the Convention on Migratory Species decided to have an MOU and an action plan for saigas in 2006 that science started feeding in. That action plan was informed by the best science from all the different actors in the range states. My organisation, the SCA (Saiga Conservation Alliance), is one of the coordinators for that MOU. We collect all the science that’s been done, all the evidence available, and we put it into an action plan and an overview report, which are then discussed and signed off by the range states, and form the basis for the next 5 years of action. So for the saigas, I feel the governments are taking the science relatively seriously, some more than others, and are acting upon it and commissioning more science as well, some more than others. For the saiga, there is a fair representation of science in decision making.
“The terms ‘conservation biology’ and ‘biodiversity’ were coined while I was an undergraduate, so it was a really fascinating time to be in this field. I wanted to do something applied, do something for nature and felt that all the things I’d been learning in theoretical biology, about game theory and about population modelling, was really useful for conservation. I was just really lucky to get into conservation at that time.”
Q: Could you say a little more about the kind of science that is being used in conservation decision-making, i.e. does it go beyond population monitoring and presence of species in different areas? It varies across countries. For example, in Mongolia one of the main issues is competition with livestock on which there is a lot of work. In Kazakhstan, on the other hand, it’s more been about population trends. Recently, of course, there has been a lot of research on the disease by a big international interdisciplinary team and that has informed Government decision making in both Mongolia and Kazakhstan.
Q: In the talk yesterday you mentioned your paper in Oryx in 2001 ( Oryx 35(4): 340-345) which you said was influential in the saiga being listed as critically endangered. Yes, that’s right. That was a collation of data collected by government agencies in different countries. Like I said yesterday, it was only through publishing that evidence in a peer-reviewed publication in English did it get the seal of approval which meant it could then be used in the red listing. I think with the red list and other kinds of large-scale international prioritisations, peer-reviewed papers are powerful because they give the seal of scientific approval to information that can then be used in conservation. That information was already there, but it was helpful to have the scientific paper.
Q: You spoke about how you were initially sceptical about big international conventions but after being part of one such exercise you feel differently about them. Can you say a little more about that? Yes, so that was the Convention on Migratory Species (CMS) MOU on saiga conservation. Its success is partly because the saiga community is relatively small. We all know each other, have been working together for years, and so we could get together in a room and produce an action plan that could be adopted by a U. N. Convention. What I found remarkable was that governments take UN conventions so seriously. The fact that it had a seal of approval from the CMS, which the range states had signed up to, meant that they did take their reporting seriously. I guess the fact that the saiga is not an internationally contentious species also contributed. It’s a species where the range states themselves are making and implementing policy and there’s not a lot of interference from outside. Therefore the community of saiga researchers have a big input. When you get to the big international conferences like CITES, you get huge wrangling when there are large amounts of money involved or there’s a lot of public sentiment involved, like in the case of elephants. It’s very different in those cases, and I think it can be very frustrating and very, very political. But I haven’t found the saiga MOU to be very political. So maybe it’s a difference between these different species.
Q: Now that you have taken on this additional role as a conservation practitioner, I’m sure you occasionally find yourself in situations where you’re asked to provide your opinion on matters on which you might not have the backing of solid empirical evidence. How do you deal with such situations? Do you find such situations uncomfortable? No. I think you have to be very clear that the empirical evidence isn’t there. I’m happy to give my opinion, but if my opinion is that the data are uncertain that is what I will say. I’ll give my opinion in as much as what the evidence is telling me and if the evidence is not telling me anything then that’s what I will say.
Q: How much do we know about the Saiga’s natural history and behaviour? Are you doing research in these areas? There is lots of work that could still be done. This kind of understanding is there from the Soviet period, but the situation has changed enormously now compared to the1970s-80s when most of that work was done. A lot of that needs to be updated. Also, we have more modern methods like collaring and DNA analysis that wasn’t available then and different ways of hypothesis testing. I think there’s huge scope for young researchers to go out and do all sorts of work on Saiga behaviour, Saiga ecology, movement, predators. I’d love someone to work on Saiga-wolf interactions.
Q: From the point of view of conservation, are there certain areas of research that you think are key in the near future? Yes. My group has done quite a lot of research on the social side – attitudes to saiga, saiga consumption, poaching behaviour and things like that. But we haven’t done much in recent years, partly because I’ve been really busy elsewhere, but partly also because there’s less interest from the government on the cultural/social side. That kind of work is less likely to get into policy because they’re more interested in what they see as hard empirical facts. I was disheartened about the lack of engagement that governments had with research using social science methods to understand poaching.
Q: How challenging was it for you to do social science research? Did you work with social scientists, did you learn the methods on your own or develop your own methods to do this kind of work? We use standard methods found in social science disciplines. Coming back to my early training, I was incredibly lucky that I was genuinely trained in an interdisciplinary way. Like I said, my undergraduate degree was both pure and applied. Then when I did my Ph.D. I was able to take classes at the London School of Economics on economic methods. And then over time, by working really closely with social scientists, I’ve picked up some of those methods and been able to do rigorous robust social science. Right now, I think the people in my research group are more social scientists than ecologists.
Q: It’s now 28 years since you started working on saigas. If you now look back is there anything you wish you had done differently in your research and conservation work? I guess you always look back and think you could have navigated some situation differently. When you are learning and growing you don’t always navigate diplomacy and politics as best you can, but I always try to act with integrity and sincerity, and I always hung in there and didn’t just walk away. Even when we had difficult times we got through it together as a group. I wish I was doing more research on saigas rather than more of the NGO stuff. But that’s the way of the world I guess. You trade off one thing with another.
I guess the other thing I would say is that because I was running a Masters in Conservation Science and training young conservation scientists, I felt it was really important that I had a hands-on understanding of what it’s like to run an NGO, to be a small NGO that’s actually active in conservation. I think it’s very easy as a professor to get more and more distant from the real world and start teaching your students in a very conceptual way. This saiga conservation work is really important in grounding me in the real world.
Q: At the conference, you conducted a workshop on “conservation optimism”? Can you tell us a little about what you mean by conservation optimism and why you think it is important? It’s mainly about looking forward and thinking that we can address the big problems that we have in the world, which are huge problems. And that we – conservation professionals, the general public, governments, businesses, all of us – can make a difference. And the way to do that is perhaps not to start with a huge problem. Like when you write a Ph.D. thesis, if you sit at a desk and say you’ve got to write 100,0000 words in three years time, that seems the most enormous task. But if you think, okay well, I’m going to break it down into bite-sized bits of work that together, in three years time, will add up to a big thesis, then it’s more achievable. Similarly for conservation, if we think about all the little victories we have and learn from them, and also learn positively from failure, then we can add those up into something that makes a difference. Of course, you need to have the top-down stuff as well but the bottom-up is crucial. We can’t solve everything with an international treaty, we have to have the grassroots work as well. Conservation optimism is trying to create a support network, bring together and highlight those grassroots efforts, and help them improve. There are many young people around the world who want to help, different sectors who might want to help, NGOs around the world who might want to help. Can we bring them together and help them work together? The hope is that the burnout you experience as an individual conservationist, thinking that everything is hopeless and why should you carry on, can hopefully be relieved by being part of a wider group of people.
There’s a lot of talk at the moment in wider global conservation about the fact that we’re coming to a biodiversity super year in 2020, when lots of CBD targets are going to be re-negotiated. There’s a lot of discussion about how we can change the public’s mind and governments’ mind so that the general public of the world starts to see conservation as something that they can get behind, whichthen allows the governments to make the radical change that we need. One contribution towards that is trying to amplify these voices from around the world. That’s the bigger mission for conservation optimism.
Q: What is the origin of the “conservation optimism” idea? Actually, this is a nice one for SCCS-Bengaluru because it started at SCCS-Cambridge. Two and a half years ago, I heard Nancy Knowlton give one of the plenaries. Nancy was one of the founders of ‘Ocean Optimism’ which was a hash tag about success stories. In that plenary, she was saying that she was thinking about starting another movement called ‘Earth Optimism’ that was broader than ocean optimism. I was very inspired by her talk. I had just started at Oxford University and I had a little bit of money that I could use for public outreach as part of my start-up package, and I just sat there and felt I should use it for this. So my group and a couple of other organizations got together and used the small amount of money I had to organise a summit and start “Conservation Optimism”. At the moment it’s still run almost entirely volunteers, and I like that. If we are going to start something similar in India, I would want that also to be volunteer-run. We’ll get a little bit of money to cover the costs of whatever we do, but we should be doing this stuff out of a love of nature and wanting to make a difference. I don’t want to turn it into a big brand. The whole point of it is that it’s not branded; anyone can be involved. Otherwise, you lose the spirit.
Q: In another interview, you compared conservation to other social movements, for example, the movement for gay rights, and said that very often it might seem like there’s no progress being made, like pushing against a dead weight, but then change happens suddenly and dramatically… That came from a paper that I read about changes in socially liberal policies in US states that had a lovely graph, in which you see nothing, nothing, nothing or very, very slow progress and then all the states suddenly adopt the legislation. I think there’s been some literature about tipping points in social change making similar points. Another example is what we have just seen with plastics. We saw NGOs banging on about it for many years without much success and then a sudden switch. It was interesting because, if you looked at the popular media it was pottering on and pottering on, but as soon as it became something the public wanted, in the U.K. at least, the government stepped into legislate. It became easy for them to legislate because the public mood had changed. That is why I think there’s a lot of hope for conservation and cause for optimism.
Q: There are lessons from what you’re saying for the way in which we evaluate conservation work. We are looking all the time for indicators of conservation success, but what you’re saying is that maybe that is short-sighted. A lack of visible, substantial change in the short term need not indicate that the effort is not worthwhile and should be given up. Yeah, you never know when something might shift and the circumstances might change. If you are in it for the long haul you are there to capitalize on these new circumstances. For example, when you suddenly get a new head of a government agency who sees the value of your work, then suddenly that bureaucratic obstacle that has stopped you doing something for years is not there anymore. You have to be there at the door, to go in and capitalise on that opportunity. That’s the value of being there for a very long time.