As this special thematic issue of Current Conservation was being fnalized in late October, we received news of the passing of Professor Marshall Murphree at the age of 90 in his home country of Zimbabwe.
During the past year, one of the foremost themes in conservation has been the marked surge in support for what are now termed ‘IPLC’ (Indigenous Peoples and Local Communities) conservation efforts. In the African context, no individual had a greater infuence on the thinking around community management and governance of natural resources, and the implications for conservation policy and practice, than Marshall Muphree.
Murphree became a key fgure, with ultimately a global infuence on conservation, starting in the 1980s when Zimbabwe was pioneering new ideas and feld-level management experiments in wildlife management. From his academic home at the University of Zimbabwe’s Center for Applied Social Sciences (CASS), which he led starting in 1970, he provided much of the key design thinking behind Zimbabwe’s CAMPFIRE (Communal Areas Management Programme for Indignenous Resources). CAMPFIRE’s aim, drawing on earlier experiments with devolving ownership of wildlife on private ranches in Zimbabwe, was to create a new paradigm of community-driven conservation, based on community-level ownership of wildlife and the resource’s economic value.
These new ideas and management experiments in Zimbabwe would ripple throughout Africa and indeed the world during the 1990s, largely because Murphree was able to connect academic theory, particularly in the new feld of common property scholarship (then also being pioneered on a wider global scale by future Nobel Laureate, Elinor Ostrom), with practical management realities in African rural communities. His work provided rigour to the emerging ‘new paradigm’ of community-based conservation, as well as fueling a growing community of scholars and practitioners from across southern Africa, many of whom studied at CASS and collaborated with Murphree on a profusion of papers and research projects during that time. By connecting southern Africa with parallel ideas and initiatives taking place elsewhere, through new networks such as the International Association for the Study of Common Property (IASC) and the IUCN Sustainable Use Specialist Group, which Murphree helped found, these efforts had a huge role in changing global conservation in ways that are only today seemingly coming to fruition.
Murphree’s work was both highly collaborative and politically charged. At the heart of his work was recognition that community-based conservation was not primarily about wildlife, but concerned with the political dimensions of shifting power to marginalized rural communities.
He said what few other conservationists were able or willing to state: that community-based conservation ultimately was tied to “a potential agrarian revolution” and “ a largely unrecognised struggle over property rights in rural Africa.” To put it more plainly, it could be said that ‘power to the people’ was the underlying theme of all of Murphree’s work and conservation agenda. Murphree fully recognized that the community conservation experiments of the 90s had only just started to make headway in this larger, critical political project. He used the memorable phrase ‘aborted devolution’ to describe the limitations that government figures tended to place on reform efforts, often undermining the key tenets of community conservation.
Are conservation efforts in Africa and around the world now finally starting to overcome those vested interests and put more meaningful rights in the hands of the local communities and Indigenous Peoples who live on the land? Time will tell, but Murphree’s ideas and vision will continue to provide a core foundation for the efforts of activists and scholar-practitioners for years to come.
Further Reading
Murphree, M. W. 1993. Communities as resource management institutions. International Institute for Environment and Development.
Murphree, M. W. 2000. Boundaries and borders: the question of scale in the theory and practice of common property management. Eighth Biennial Conference of the International Association for the Study of Common Property. Vol. 31.
Hulme, D. and M. Murphree. 2001. African wildlife and livelihoods: The promise and performance of community conservation.James Currey Ltd.
The African region (including Madagascar) has the highest concentration of nonhuman primate diversity on Earth. In all, the continent is home to 42 percent of the world’s 713 primate species and subspecies and more than half of all primate genera. Five of the top 12 countries on Earth for primate diversity are African— Madagascar, Democratic Republic of Congo, Tanzania, Cameroon, and Nigeria. Madagascar alone is second on the world list and has the highest number of endemic primate taxa of any country on Earth. Also of considerable interest is the fact that we continue to discover new species and subspecies of primates. 97 species and subspecies were described for the frst time in the past two decades, and more than half of them are from Africa—50 lemurs from Madagascar, and three prosimians (two galagos and a potto) and four monkeys, including a new genus, Rungwecebus (the Kipunji), from mainland Africa.
African primates play an important role in our research on numerous aspects of human biology and the cognitive sciences, as well as in understanding the threats of emerging diseases. Arguably more fundamental and critical is their role in sustaining the healthy ecosystems vital for human livelihoods and in their presence in the cultures and folklore of many African societies. Sadly, as is the case in all other parts of the tropical world, the primates of Africa, and Madagascar in particular, are severely threatened. The latest IUCN Species Survival Commission Red List assessments carried out between 2012 and 2016, showed that 63 percent of all primates worldwide are threatened—the highest degree of threat for any of the larger groups of mammals— and with many of the Critically Endangered species literally on the verge of extinction.
There are several reasons for this decline in primate populations. Foremost is habitat destruction and fragmentation, mostly as a result of logging, large-scale mining, and agroindustry (notably oil palm and soy plantations), but with many other factors at play as well. In West and Central Africa, for example, bushmeat hunting is a major cause of primate declines, and the same is true for Madagascar. Primates are also killed for medicinal purposes, for the ornamental use of various body parts (for example, black-and-white colobus, geladas), and as crop pests (for example, baboons, vervets). Outbreaks of major diseases in Africa can also be of serious concern, both for nonhuman primates and humans, with recent Ebola outbreaks having killed large numbers of gorillas and chimps in certain countries (such as Congo-Brazzaville).
In recognition of the importance of primates in Africa and to further stimulate the development of concerted domestic efforts to curb the threats to their continued survival, a number of African primatologists worked to advance the establishment of a primate-focused group—the African Primatological Society (APS). This group would provide a platform for sharing data, information, tools, and technical assistance to support Africa’s preparedness and domestic efforts in primate research and conservation,as well as to encourage greater participation and leadership of African primatologists. This initiative began as a genuine attempt to increase the robustness of African involvement in international primatological meetings and in decision-making bodies; enriching their capacity to engage and influence stakeholders and policies within their home country; and improving the quality of their scientific inputs and roles in major dialogues or activities relating to African primates.
The APS was formally established during an inaugural Congress in Abidjan, Côte d’Ivoire in July 2017. The congress brought together about 150 experts, including aspiring primatologists, researchers, conservation practitioners, tourism stakeholders, and policy makers from 22 African countries, along with a few dozen people from other countries across the globe.
Two years later, the second congress of the APS was held in Entebbe, Uganda in September 2019. The event was a resounding success, bringing together over 300 primate experts to discuss the theme ‘Challenges and Opportunities in Primate Conservation in Africa’, and to fnd ways to promote active participation of native African primatologists in the international primatological arena. With 250 out of 312 delegates hailing from 24 different African countries, the APS more than achieved its goal of providing an accessible platform for African primatologists to collaborate, network, and discuss pressing challenges and issues, opportunities, and potential solutions towards protecting Africa’s primates and their habitats.
The two congresses benefitted from the avid support of various stakeholders in academia, non-governmental organizations, civil society groups, national and local governments, funding agencies, public and industry scientists, local, national and international media, and delegates from all regions of Africa (North, West, Central, East, Southern Africa, and Madagascar).
The added value to the congresses was the deliberate inclusive approach, which involved students from African institutions working on primates for their dissertations. This bottom-up or ‘catch-them-young’ initiative will help us also focus on prospective primatologists across age and gender. It was also gratifying to see how we were able to mobilize the international community and governments to play their role to advance and support the goals and objectives of African primatology at large.
One main recommendation that was emphasized during the congress was for members to not only have a greater level of commitment to the new society, but also to promote public dialogue and effective policy advocacy within their own sphere of influence. Genuine inclusivity was also highlighted as a way to boost the participation of all primatological expertise and interests on the continent.
The congresses have underscored the following action points and agenda to inform the work needed to be done for the effective conservation of African primates and for the development of African primatologists in the wake of the establishment of the African Primatological Society:
Africa-based training programs needed
In general, African countries are faced with major challenges concerning the lack of adequate resources, equipment, dynamic institutions, and governance. A well-designed training program and infrastructure will play an important role in enabling many African primatologists to learn from best practices of peers, and to obtain continuous input on their performance. The turnout of African participants at the congresses has shown that the region has a high proportion of people conducting research on or working for the conservation of African primates. However, to promote growth, enhance the quality of their work, and increase the level of their involvement in primatological communities, there must be some structural training and environment that will empower them. To achieve this, leadership-based training that is grounded in a robust scientific curriculum is required to build and equip both experienced and upcoming primatologists.
Strengthen regional and global integration of African primatologists
Regional and global integration is needed to overcome the limitations of Africa’s small but growing mass of primatologists, and also to give the continent a stronger voice in the conservation and management of its primates. Until the birth of the APS, many African primatologists and primatological groups, such as the Groupe d’Etude et de Recherche sur les Primates de Madagascar (GERP) and the Primate Ecology and Genetic Group (PEGG), South Africa, have been working in isolation from the rest of the larger community of Africans and non-Africans working on primates. The African Primatological Consortium (APC) headquartered in Uganda is an excellent example of regional integration to create a forum for a collaborative research community for primatologists in Africa. The impact of these fragmented communities or individual primatologists on the conservation and management of primates has, however, been limited in addressing many of the conservation development issues on the continent. Active and increased African participation in international primatological meetings should also be encouraged so as to promote global integration.
Develop a red colobus action plan
Certain groups of African primates besides the great apes—man’s closest living relatives—are of particular concern. Of these the red colobus monkeys of the genus Piliocolobus are a prime example. 18 species and one subspecies are currently recognized and all are threatened, with seven being in the Critically Endangered category. Workshops were organized during the two congresses to develop an action plan for the conservation of these remarkable animals, which involved a large network of red colobus researchers and conservationists. The action plan was launched at the 2018 Congress of the International Primatological Society in Nairobi, Kenya. It focuses on site-specifc activities, but also uses common themes to leverage efficiencies of scale.
Develop and/or revise other action plans
Other primate groups, such as the lemurs of Madagascar, are in urgent need of attention. A lemur action plan for 2013–2016 was successfully funded, but there is much that still needs to be done. A Red-Listing Workshop for Lemurs was held in Madagascar in November 2017, with the objective of updating our knowledge of these species and revising the action plan. Action plans for other taxa and regions are also needed, and a major initiative is underway for the 16 mangabeys and mandrills, 13 of which are currently threatened.
Finally, it is vital that African primatologists engage in a multi-sectoral approach to promote conservation efforts that include governments, local communities, the private sector and NGOs.
References
Estrada, A., P. Garber, A. B. Rylands, C. Roos, E. Fernandez-Duque, A. Di Fiore, K. A. I. Nekaris et al. 2017. Impending extinction crisis of the world’s primates: why primates matter. Science Advances 3: e1600946. DOI 10.1126/sciadv.1600946.
Imong I., R. Ikemeh, I. Kone and D. Ndeloh. 2016. The Birth of the African Primatological Society for the future of African Primates. African Primates 11(1): 49-50.
IUCN SSC, PSG. 2021. Primate Specialist Group taxonomic data base. A. B. Rylands and R. A. Mittermeier. 13 October 2021.
Entomophagy, or the practice of eating insects, is not something that has been adopted only in recent times. In India’s Northeastern region, it is part of a culture that has been around for as long as anyone can remember.
Lobeno Mozhui has identified as many as 106 edible insects that are consumed by local communities in Nagaland alone. Among these, the Asian giant hornet (Vespa mandarinia) is one of the most expensive and sought-after, and Naga tribes are the only groups known to rear them for consumption. Adult giant hornets are also consumed but it is the larvae that are considered a delicacy.
A fire is made at the entrance of the nest and the smoke is driven into the nest.
In November 2019, I found myself in a village called Maikhel in Manipur, inhabited by the Mao, a major Naga tribe. Dipen and Seela, two other Green Hub Fellows, were with me to film the giant hornet harvest, as part of our internship program with the Bangalore-based Ashoka Trust for Research in Ecology and the Environment (ATREE).
After around 5 hours of intense labour, when everyone else in the village is asleep, Lorhü proudly presents a fraction of the night’s harvest.
Harvesting takes place around 4–5 months after a giant hornet nest is relocated from the wild to a rearing site. By October–November, there are thousands of workers foraging, feeding the grubs, and guarding the nest. The harvest is usually carried out by the second week of November, before the grubs can metamorphose into adults.
Harvesting takes place at night. Water is sprinkled at the entrance of the nest, driving the sentry hornets inside—a natural response to rain. The entrance is then blocked with burning twigs. Indian wormwood (Artemisia species) leaves are fed into the fire and smoke is driven into the nest with a blower. Wormwood smoke is believed to knock the hornets out quicker. Once the sounds of distressed hornets inside the nest stop, the nest is dug out, and the combs containing the larvae are collected for consumption.
After a late night’s work, freshly harvested hornet larvae is brought to the market early in the morning.
The following day, the night’s harvest is sold to a middleman at a wholesale rate. These are then sold at rates as high as INR 30,000 in the local market. Despite a high demand for giant hornet larvae, the cost is inhibitive, and only the elite and the rearers themselves are able to consume them.
People here believe that giant hornets are a healthy substitute for conventional meat, especially for people with high blood pressure. Insect farming is an efficient and sustainable source of protein, requiring zero to minimal energy and inputs. This makes it an attractive alternative to the large meat farms seen in the West.
From being an egg to metamorphose into a full adult, it takes 2 weeks.
A plate like this would cost around INR 500/- and most older folk prefer it over red meat.
With an estimated rise in human population from 6.8 billion to 9.1 billion by 2050, efficient methods of producing protein are critical and edible insects are an effective solution. However, western diets, which have long been alienated from entomophagy, are only just beginning to accept the advantages of insect protein over conventional meat protein. They are now looking to indigenous communities to learn about edible insects, which are aptly called the food of the future.
Photo essay by Photo essay by Thejavikho Chase, Fellow at Green Hub
Whenever I hear the name Rivaldo, I think of Brazil; I relive the 2002 World Cup, and replay memorable matches of the legendary footballer in my head. The popularity of that name has traveled farther than Brazil, as I discovered. It was given to an enormous 30-year-old tusker who wanders through the forests of Masinagudi and Mudumalai Tiger Reserve (MTR) with a monitoring collar around his neck.
With support from WWF-India, Rivaldo the elephant was collared to record and track his movement and habits. I had the opportunity to visit Mudumalai in August, and while there, it so happened that Rivaldo went “missing” for about five to six hours. My colleague, Ravikumar, and I had been visiting a forest campsite in the buffer zone of MTR that morning. On our return around noon, we travelled back towards Masinagudi town to assist in scouting out the wayfaring absentee. As per his last recorded location, Rivaldo was not too far from the town, and had lingered around the area of Vazhaithottam. We parked the jeep at the forest checkpost and made our way down a snaking stream, until we espied a group of Forest Department staff holding aloft a drone-shaped antenna.
A brief discussion was followed by an inspection of the seemingly faulty radio device that was emitting a consistent barrage of static crackles. This proved confusing at first because it indicated two contradictory things: either that the elephant had vanished into thin air, or that he was omnipresent and approaching us from all sides. But Ravi anna (elder brother in Tamil) expertly adjusted the numbers on the screen, and tweaked the various knobs. Soon enough, we started receiving a short, and increasingly frequent blip that grew in intensity as we moved closer to our target.
We made our way through an open field before reaching a thorn-covered patch of bamboo. Ever so often, we would halt, and with the antenna held high, correct our course by a few degrees, before moving forward again. We advanced in a single file and—despite getting myself caught in the nettle and thorn of the scrub with the inexperience and clumsiness of a newcomer—made steady progress. Small groups of chital (spotted deer) scurried past at the sound of our approach. We eventually emerged from this patch on to the banks of a boulder-filled stream. The blip was starting to spike; Rivaldo was not very far. Once again stopping to track the proximity of the elephant —and for me to catch my breath under the suffocating embrace of my face mask—we trekked another furlong. The Forest Guard surveying ahead informed us that he had spotted Rivaldo asleep.
This explained the curious case of the missing tusker. As the elephant lay down, the GPS tracker on the collar might have swiveled downward and under his great bulk, thereby jamming and jumbling the signal. As we inched closer to Rivaldo through dense thickets of thorn-covered undergrowth, each step seemed an eternity, and the crunch of dry leaves underfoot could have awoken the slumbering giant. Stories of treacherously close encounters with elephants whirled through my head. Suddenly, I heard a loud thunderous snore and what sounded like the snap of a leather belt. Rivaldo lay on his side, fast asleep. His ears flapped mechanically, hitting the collar with that belt-snapping sound, while his trunk gathered the surrounding sand and sprinkled grains overhead, reminiscent of a gentle exfoliating massage. He moved his front foot up and down, as if walking in a dream.
After ten minutes and several overly cinematic what-if scenarios rushing through my head, we started to make our way back. It was extraordinary to think that a full-grown tusker lay so close by, and that without the aid of a monitoring device, one wouldn’t have had a clue. A short while later, as we took a water break and chatted, Rivaldo awoke and wandered further afield, adjacent to a large open expanse. We quickly followed, staying parallel to him. We then cut across, reached the field first, and stood waiting for him under the shade of a tree. If he emerged from the forest and into the open, he would come into view about 40 metres away. I waited with bated breath. The leaves began to rustle and out came the object of our rapt attention. Rivaldo walked slowly, his trunk sniffing and exploring the shrubbery directly ahead of him. He came closer to where we stood. By then, we had ventured away from the tree and were standing in the sun, in plain view of our companion. Rivaldo placidly observed us.
We froze. Ravi anna was crouched over, clicking photos. I was transfixed, fumbling to keep my phone camera on my chest. We remained rooted to the spot, as his massive bulk and lumbering presence dominated the landscape. His curiosity soon waned, and with a casual side glance, he swayed to the left and walked away to forage. We circled around and continued to watch him through binoculars. With the Nilgiris in the backdrop, the hungry giant came to a halt. Using his front foot he scraped the soil and loosened the grass. Then, with his trunk, he neatly bunched and gathered the vegetation, encircling it with the dexterous coiled instrument that was in fact his nose. As if using a fork and spoon, Rivaldo bundled the grass in his trunk and secured it with the assistance of his front foot. Finally, with a single fluid motion, he ingested it all. Rivaldo indulged us for a good half an hour before returning to the dense scrub.
Later that evening, Ravi anna asked if I had been frightened as I stood in front of Rivaldo. I would be lying if I said I had felt no fear or trepidation. Yet, we were fortunate to have encountered him when he was of a gentle disposition, perhaps soothed by his afternoon siesta. However I might choose to rationalise his mild behaviour that day, our wordless exchange made an indelible impression on me.
The realities of climate change are forcing conservation practitioners around the globe to take a closer look at how they design nature conservation strategies and actions. Business-as-usual approaches are at risk of failing over time. For example, rising seas can drown out coastal conservation easements and refuges intended to protect salt marsh ecosystems and species. Ignoring these climate-related risks could lead to wasted conservation investments at a time when awareness of humanity’s dependence on healthy ecosystems—to support people’s livelihoods and well-being, stabilize the climate system, and protect against pandemics—is ever increasing.
As conservation practitioners and funders begin to accept this new reality, they are faced with the challenges of how to make their investments “climate-smart”. In our new paper, Rapid assessment to facilitate climate-informed conservation and nature-based solutions, we present an accessible framework for addressing the question of what, if anything, do we need to do differently about conservation work to be effective in a changing climate? Our framework prompts users to consider the common refrain of “What, When, Where, Why and Who”—or the “5Ws”—to determine if strategic adjustments in these dimensions of a conservation project will increase the likelihood of desirable outcomes as the climate changes.
“What” refers to the need to consider modifying current actions or taking new actions to ensure their long-term effectiveness, for example by re-designing culverts and road crossings to allow for fish passage during larger flood events that are expected to become more frequent. A project might adjust the “Where” by selecting implementation sites that are projected to remain suitable for a target species or support specific ecosystem services into the future. The “Who” of a project can relate to how climate change might alter with whom the work needs to be conducted, who is likely to benefit, and who might bear potential unintended harm or tradeoffs.
The 5Ws rapid assessment emerged from a decade of climate-informed conservation grantmaking through the Wildlife Conservation Society’s Climate Adaptation Fund. Since 2011, the Climate Adaptation Fund has invested over $21 million in over 110 conservation projects across the United States that have designed their goals and actions to address climate risks. This portfolio offers numerous examples of conservationists shifting the paradigm of conservation practice. Over time, a clear framework for making climate-informed modifications emerged as altering the What, When, Where, Why, and Who of their work.
As climate change accelerates, the need for proactive, climate-informed conservation action in ecosystems across the planet is imperative. By translating lessons from these funded projects into a rapid assessment tool, we aim to provide a practical entry point to help newcomers to climate adaptation get started on the path to safeguarding conservation investments from a changing climate.
Further reading
Oakes, L. E., M. S. Cross and E. Zavaleta. 2021. Rapid assessment to facilitate climate-informed conservation and nature-based solutions. Conservation Science and Practice
We would like here to restore the balance of affairs and put trees in their proper place, which, lets face it, is just about anywhere on the planet. The Earth may be molten in the middle, but Gaia is wooden at her core. Trees are the highest life form. The fact that evolution did not stop there was the result of truly selfish actions by some renegade genes which are now profoundly sorry for their misbehaviour. There is only one rule for tree-planting: if it’s a tree, then plant it.
To avoid confusion, we’d like to define what we mean by ‘tree’. (And you know how bad a debate is when you have to write such a sentence). A tree, to be clear, is a tall plant with a trunk and branches, and generally woody. Amongst other things, it is not a human. It does not cut itself down. A tree is a thing which a human isn’t. And, ergo, if you can see a tree occupying a space then a person is not in that same space. They are mutually exclusive (despite what we may have said in a previous column).
It follows from this (we are almost somewhat certain) that places with lots of trees should not have people. ‘Forest-dwelling people’ is, therefore, an oxymoron, and has as little chance of succeeding as a proton and an antiproton sharing a motel room. All this talk about talking to people about where forests should grow just proliferates a myth that is nothing like true forest at all.
To avoid confusion, we would like to direct readers to recent welcome attempts published in the highest quality journals, including the Great One whose ‘I’s we are not worthy to dot, which have begun to hint at the true miracles that might be possible were we seriously to get serious about tree planting. Indeed, the only thing wrong with these authors’ plans is that they do not go far enough. They omit a host of places where trees could, and should, be planted in order more effectively to sequester carbon. These are:
1.Trees in lakes, and trees in seas: If you look at any map of the world then the obvious constraint to a world covered in forests is that far too much of it is covered in water. And the obvious, and if we may say so, ingenious, response to this is to plant trees which are more water and salt tolerant. It won’t be too difficult, we just need taller mangrove trees. We have recently patented the idea of crossing a mangrove with a redwood and expect to be planting forests right up to the edge of the continental shelf.
2. Antarctic trees: Antarctica is a huge wasted tree-planting opportunity. It’s a massive continent which has shown a rather lazy preference to grow ice, when it should be growing trees. Fortunately, current global warming trends mean that we should be able to get a healthy plantation of Scots pine growing their fairly soon. A bit of gene splicing with polar bears or penguins (Ed – which is the one that lives down there?) should make them more tolerant.
3. Trees in space: We have been lax about terraforming nearby planets to house us in due course and trees are obviously the best way of doing this. And think how much carbon the moon could absorb once we worked out how to get it there.
4. Trees on trees: The prevailing philosophy seems to be that once you’ve planted a tree and it is growing, then your job is done. But what about all that extra space created by trees when they grow? Again, with appropriate gene editing other trees could be encouraged to plant themselves on each other and grow sideways of their fellows. We’d just need to make sure they were evenly positioned for balance. Currently trees themselves are being rather selfish about this. They tend to dominate space, and compete for light, rather than sharing it. But with a bit of group therapy for the aggressive species, and new thermal powered, LED UV ground-lighting, forests could be lit from anywhere, and tree space extend some 2–3 kilometres into the sky.
5. Trees in motion: One of the main problems with trees is that they simply refuse to move. An evolutionary glitch in an otherwise excellent conception. Once again, through appropriate gene therapy, we believe that trees that can shuffle around the neighbourhood, and occupy football fields and vacant lots when they are not being used. Why, some could learn to fly, flapping away with large leaves— imagine a flock of trees soaring above, munching away at all that Carbon in our atmosphere.
Conservation is sometimes accused of inventing the landscapes and places it wants to exist. Conservationists conserve their idea of what things should look like, rather than the living, evolving landscapes that exist.
And what a load of cobblers that base and foolish accusation is! As should be plainly apparent in our wise words above, conservation is about restoring things that were lost back to their proper state. We could not be more confident that when trees once more rule the planet—as in the great golden Carboniferous age, before the Mesozoic came along and ruined everything—then we will have restored the greatest forest ever to have ruled.
The gift for mimicry fills me with awe—the ease with which artists mimic the voice, expressions, and mannerisms of another individual. In the Animal Kingdom, most of us have heard of social birds like parrots and mynas, which are capable of mimicking human speech in captivity. But there are other mimicry artists out there in the wild. Have you ever seen the greater racket-tailed drongo in action? It is a highly vocal bird with black plumage that has a wide distribution across Southeast Asia.
Although I had seen this species several times around my home in Kannur, Kerala, I learnt more about their peculiar behaviour only when I started birdwatching during my postgraduate course in Wayanad. What began as a hobby soon became the focus of my research. Drongos are relatively easy to identify and amongst them, the greater racket-tailed drongos stand out with their beautiful, wiry tail streamers, which end in small racket-shaped feathers. With such fancy tails, their flight is indeed a stunning sight. This species is famous among birdwatchers for its incredible vocal mimicry.
I never failed to record sightings of greater racket-tailed drongos on my daily campus birding sessions. One day, as part of the fieldwork for my Master’s project, my friend, Nithin, and I set out for birding in a nearby coffee plantation. A particular spot, that was usually full of bird activity and filled with calls, was relatively silent that day. We kept walking, ducking below and clambering over branches of the trees and coffee shrubs, careful not to disrupt tenacious spider webs and shrugging off leeches that had crawled their way up our clothes. All the while, we kept our hopes up. All of a sudden, we heard a loud, repetitive, familiar call. We stopped in our tracks and listened. Soon we identified it as the call of the crested serpent eagle, a common raptor in the area—one of the first bird calls we learnt and memorised. We then started walking towards the source of the sound. This call, however, was coming from a fixed position, unlike the typical call of serpent eagles, which slowly fades as they soar away. I told Nithin that the bird was definitely perched somewhere close by. I got my camera ready to get a picture. We walked slowly and carefully before stopping at a location where the call sounded close.
We were surrounded by tall trees with thick canopies. We looked around, peering through branches, twigs and leaves, trying to locate a large bird. The call was repeated several times while we tried to locate it. A sudden movement at the end of a branch 10–12 meters away caught my attention. I zoomed in with my camera to check, and there it was. A drongo! Out in the open, nicely perched on a branch, tail streamers swaying in the cool breeze. There was no sign of a crested serpent eagle.
As happy as I was to see the racket-tailed drongo, something struck me as odd. We could still hear the eagle and I could see the drongo’s beak moving. Confused, I started recording a video to be completely sure that what I was hearing, seeing, and thinking at the time made sense. Soon after, the drongo flew away and the eagle’s call stopped as well. We then observed a small nest with two hatchlings, which we later identified as belonging to the greater racket-tailed drongo. It took me some time to realise that we had witnessed a perfect mimicry of the crested serpent eagle by this talented avian artist, and that I had fallen prey to its clever deception. Since then, I have been fooled by the drongo’s vocal tricks several times in almost every birding session.
Greater racket-tailed drongos are known to mimic almost all birds, mammals such as the Malabar giant squirrel, and even inanimate objects, such as camera shutters or the reverse tune of a car! Studies suggest that vocal mimicry is used by drongos to invite other species in their habitat to form groups. These are known as mixed-species flocks or mixed hunting parties, a type of group behaviour by which individual birds obtain benefits in the form of increased foraging opportunities and protection from predators. However, mimicking calls of predators is observed mostly during the breeding season, near their nests. Hypotheses suggest that predator mimicry near their nests provide an environment where the young ones can learn sounds that are connected with danger, or it could serve to distract perceived threats away from the nest. Mimicry could also play a role in attracting mates and is also known in other species, such as lyrebirds, as well.
Such complexities of bird behaviour make birdwatching all the more interesting and leads me to wonder whether the term ‘bird brain’ should be taken as an insult. Birding brings me immense joy. And it is even more thrilling when a greater racket-tailed drongo is around because who knows what it might be up to!
Further Reading
Goodale, E. and S. W. Kotagama. 2006. Vocal mimicry by a passerine bird attracts other species involved in mixed-species flocks. Animal behaviour 72(2): 471-477.
Goodale, E., C. P. Ratnayake and S. W. Kotagama. 2014. The frequency of vocal mimicry associated with danger varies due to proximity to nest and nesting stage in a passerine bird. Behaviour 151(1), 73-88.
Pakke Tiger Reserve is located in the Pakke Kessang district of Arunachal Pradesh, a state in India’s Northeast. It covers an area of 862 sq. km and is surrounded by Papum Reserve Forest in the east, Nameri National Park to the south and southeast, Doimara Reserve Forest and Eaglenest Wildlife Sanctuary in the west, and the Shergaon Forest Division in the north.
One November morning I received a call from Rajen Tachang, a Green Hub Fellow based out of Seijosa, in Arunachal Pradesh, asking if I would like to join him on an expedition into the core zone (core zone is where the actual forest exist and is given maximum protection by the forest department) of Pakke Tiger Reserve. A few weeks later, I met Rajen at Kandra bhaiya’s home in Seijosa. Kandra bhaiya was a member of the Special Tiger Protection Force (STPF), who was assigned to accompany us, and had been working with Rajen on planning the trip into the Reserve.
Forest guards like these work on a meagre salary, risking their lives daily, to protect and preserve our natural world.
We set out on two motorbikes the next day. I fell off my bike countless times as we rode through impossible terrains and rivers. One of the most exciting moments of the trip was on the first day as we were crossing the buffer zone (buffer zone is the area around the core zone which is open for restricted and regulated human economic activities like tourism), on our way to the core zone. Kandra bhaiya and I found, what according to him was, a very fresh pugmark of a tiger; and to make things more exciting, he said he was still able to catch the scent of the tiger! But when I tried sniffing the air, I could only smell our sweat and nothing else.
Unexpected rain meant wet boots for the whole trip, but we were able to pause and take in the beauty of the rainbow.
After a whole day’s journey from Seijosa, we reached the Panchali Anti-Poaching Camp, around 23 km inside Pakke. That evening, from our front yard to a drop of around 60 feet below, we bore witness to several animals (like wild boar, monitor lizard, sambar deer, barking deer, porcupine and also many pug marks of leopard, tiger, and bear), who came to the stream for a drink.
Every night, we would sit by the fire and exchange stories.
From Panchali Camp, it took two days of continuous trekking to reach our destination, a place called Champing Pung—a salt lick. As we zigzagged across deep rivers, we were rewarded for the tough trek by scenes of beautiful fish swimming past in the crystal-clear water.
Kandra bhaiya and Laguna bhaiya observing two wild elephants at the salt lick—Champing Pung—early one morning.
Early on the third morning, as we were about to reach our destination, Kandra bhaiya, who was leading, suddenly pointed towards the top of a waterfall. It was then that I spotted a beautiful creature called the Himalayan serow. We also managed to get the first photographic record—other than from camera traps—of the Himalayan serow in Pakke Tiger Reserve.
We caught a glimpse of a Himalayan serow. Aside from camera trap images, this is the first photographic record of the species in Pakke Tiger Reserve.
What an adventure it had been! From riding through a thick forest on a motorbike as well as on elephant back, and from stumbling upon wild elephants and wild boars to my first-ever sighting of a Himalayan serow, my time in Pakke Tiger Reserve was special. I treasure those memories not only for the thrilling experiences, but also for the amazing people I had the privilege of connecting with.
Photo essay by Thejavikho Chase, Fellow at Green Hub
There’s mischief outside my window — a little black bird pretending to be a fish! Like a wave, she drifts through the sky, dives straight down and moves just as quickly upwards to startle the wind. Like the weight of a breeze on my palm she is hardly there, twisting mid-air to the sounds of general living. Her tiny wings just two strokes of paint, her beak, a single dot, her chirps as loud as the wind swooning by; I am yet to see her feet, her fine tail runs seamlessly from the length of her body. She is like a punctuation mark chasing an incomplete sentence. To call her a bird would be prosaic, she is a poem in the sky.
I am going to tell you how the last of the wild corals were born.
Corals were capable of building reefs for 500 million years, until the temperature of the sea began to soar. When the myth of rising temperatures soon turned real, scientists began to realize that it was too late to save the world’s biggest reef. The Great Barrier, had been reduced to small fragmented mounds, devoid of life, and far from the thriving ecosystem it had once been. Last November the sea surface temperatures in Australia averaged above 34 degree Celsius, making it almost impossible for any rehabilitation effort to succeed. The only living representatives of the once abundant corals were now maintained in aquariums under thermostatic conditions at Reef Headquarter, Townsville – one of the largest reef aquariums in the world.
Coming back to how the last of the reef building corals were born in the wild, it was a surprise in every way. I never imagined having the privilege of observing the phenomenon first-hand. It could have easily gone unnoticed. It had been over 14 years since the world had given up on searching for corals in the wild. I was once a researcher interested in coral reproductive biology, but massive bleaching events wiped the reefs clean from the world’s oceans. Hence, I had moved on to study algal blooms and ocean warming. The probability of being in the right place at the right time, to observe and document the birth of wild corals, still makes me wonder.
The last corals were not the massive gigantic boulder corals that guarded barrier reefs. In fact, they were nowhere near the barrier reefs. In an atoll far away in the Arabian sea, in the deepest depths of a lagoon, stood the last stand of wild coral – the delicate staghorn coral.
Maybe it was because of the monsoons (characteristic of the region) that had given respite from the scorching summers, which had bleached all the other reefs dead, or maybe it was the shelter of the lagoon, which allowed that stand to survive. Whatever the reason, it was the last ideal place in the ocean for a coral species. Leading research on coral had centred on the reefs of Australia, America and other regions where environmental science and climate change research was well-funded, but many countries with more pressing matters to attend to, had forgotten to record the parameters of many of these important pockets of resilience.
What I saw felt like a dream! I’d anchored my boat in the back reef of the atoll and was sampling the water with my husband, when slowly, tiny pink eggs broke the surface to form a reasonably clear pink slick. I initially refuted the idea, but the pinkness of the slick looked undeniably like that of coral eggs.
We dived down to a surprising depth of 20 m. This was unnaturally deep for a lagoon. There, in the shadow of a ridge made up of towering dead boulder coral, existed a silent garden, fish flitting in and out of the delicate branches. Almost uniformly sized bushes stood still in the dull moonlight. As I switched on my torch, yellow eggs like spangles floated towards the surface, leaving the blue-tipped branches of their parents – the last surviving corals in the wild. We recorded the event and hurriedly returned to collect the spawn slick, which we cultured into planula larvae. We shipped them to every major coral aquarium that we possibly could. The ‘last stand’ was all over the news.
I had no idea that after all that hype, it would be the last time we would see the stand. The next monsoon, a storm collapsed a section of the already dilapidating reef. This might have made the staghorn coral vulnerable to the temperatures of the open sea. We were too late to react. The last stand had died.
Thanks to overwhelming support, we have currently patched up and reinforced the collapsed sections of the reef with scrap metal from a decommissioned merchant ship. Debris and rock now hold the scaffolding firmly intact, thanks to a team of architects and engineers. Marine life around has gradually returned. Two aquaria have been generous enough to contribute live coral fragments of the same species that we lost. We were also able to transplant fragments from adult coral, grown from the spawn we collected years ago at the same location. However, these cultivated corals would not stand a chance without the protection of the reinforced reef.
The last wild stand of coral is gone, and no reports of coral in the wild have resurfaced to date. Our only hope lies in genetically modified, temperature resistant corals. However, with sea temperatures now rising to irreconcilable levels, is it too late not just for sensitive corals, but for all marine life?
I am known by many names. When woody trees abound and I resemble a forest, I am a swamp; when I’m not too deep and grasses thrive, I am a marsh. If you spot me along the coast, and you are a keen observer, you would notice plants neatly arranged in zones. This is because the ones that can tolerate salty sea water moving in and out of their root zones, tend to be arranged closer to the shore. Those that have trouble adjusting pitch a tent safely inland.
I may have you confused at times, especially in the summer. You would be quick to question my very character. But regardless of where I am or what I’m called, two things define me: I’m saturated with water and the plants that grow in and around me love it! Water almost entirely covers my soil all year round and the plants that call me home thrive in flooded conditions. I am known by many names, but you may call me wetland.
Provider par excellence
I am a refuge for life forms, from microscopic organisms that elude the human eye to mighty beings that soar across the skies. I provide a safe space for them to feed and breed. I satiate the birds with snakes and frogs and the frogs with insect larvae. Many of the roots, leaves, and fruits I nurture are used by humans and animals alike.
Scaly-breasted munias and mynahs visit me regularly. Feeding on mosquitoes and dragonflies is their thing, as is pecking at the cattail reeds from time to time to refurbish their nests. Toads and frogs join me in welcoming the monsoons with their incessant croaking. The boisterous bullfrogs and green frogs congregate in my waters and the females populate me with their spawn soon after.
If you happen to be in the city of Chennai, a tapestry of colours is what you will see in winter. Greater flamingos colour me pink, feeding leisurely on my shrimp and molluscs. Did you know, flocks of pintails and garganeys fly thousands of miles all the way from Europe to escape the harsh winters there? They vacation in style, while I keep their bellies full with spotfin barbs and carps that they share with the brahminy kites and ospreys here.
I not only provide but also help regulate. I am the receptacle that keeps neighbourhoods and cities from flooding when it rains cats and dogs. And in doing so, I also help preserve soil by filtering, collecting, and retaining sediments that come my way. Furthermore, in slowly letting the water I hold pass through the soil, I systematically help replenish the underground water bank.
Wetland or wasteland?
Deities guard me; people celebrate me.
Yet, despite the reverence, I am severely misunderstood. As water levels dip, my worth is aggressively questioned, threatening my very existence. Would I be more “useful” if I were to metamorphose into a housing complex overnight? Or maybe I would serve people better as a garbage dump, instead? Strangely enough, roads cutting right through me seem acceptable to people, even if it means disorienting flocks of birds that fly thousands of kilometers specifically to nest and feed in my waters. And when I am allowed to remain, my integrity is rarely intact. What harm can a little untreated sewage do, right?
They say streams and rivers remember. When rain falls over a landscape, water finds a way to reach every gully it ever gushed through and depressions it filled up in the past. Water finds me even when I’m altered beyond recognition. Haphazard walkways and streams of sewage may come at me menacingly. Against all odds, I will survive.
I am a wetland.
Illustrations by Anisha Murali and Denver Pereira (u:i:make)
u:i:make is a design practice that concerns itself with making- to reveal processes and stories emerging from simple observations and studies of nature, materials and handwork embedded in a place.
“Nothing better than a grey, gloomy rainy day!” thought little Jhanko (pronounced ‘Django’).
He swirled around waving his little fins, swaying to the rhythm of the raindrops drumming on the surface of the pond. It was cold and hazy—that time of the year again, promising a new adventure.
“There you are!” his mother said as she spotted him, fear and sadness reflected in her eyes. Jhanko was a teenage paradise fish—greyish brown, with a long wavy tail. Black spots that ran from head to tail and his body had a reddish tinge. . His mother, being an adult, had bands on her body instead.
“Ma, why don’t I have bands like you?” he had asked once.
“You will get them when you grow up,” she replied.
“Jhanko, look here, son… It’s time for me to go…” she said to him now, “and you are not yet old enough to join me.”
Jhanko sniffled. He swam up and embraced her tightly, not wanting to let go. He would see her again only after a year, in the following rainy season.
His mother was off to Paradise Land, a place she had described to him vividly in bedtime stories.
“When the first rains of the season come, our home—this shallow, flooded rice field—will be connected to Paradise Land through new streams that will be formed!” she would exclaim.
“In Paradise land, you will make new friends—different kinds of fish from other places. But beware the vicious cranes who will be waiting to snatch you out of the water. Show them your tail and swim away swiftly, until you lose sight of them.”
“There are mosquito larvae and insects for you to eat there. But the best part is the paper boats!” she said.
“Paper boats?” Jhanko was curious now.
“Human children make them. They float on the water. It’s such fun to swim around them! Oh, Jhanko… Paradise Land is a large pond. It’s much deeper than this pond and you have to be careful.”
“It’s time to go, Jhanko,” his mother repeated, as she patted him on the head with a fin. He watched her swim away, through the hazy waters, until she disappeared from sight.
Jhanko dreamed of Paradise Land every day. He dreamed of swimming freely in the large pond, playing with the paper boats, relishing the mosquito larvae, listening to the croaking of frogs, waving his fins to the human children, and showing off his beautiful bands.
A year passed. He missed his mom. Jhanko flaunted his new bands and colours. “Rain, rain, come again,” chanted the fish, as they waited for the first shower of the season. Jhanko gazed at the sky all day. When lightning first streaked across the darkened sky, the fish were overjoyed.
“It’s time to go,” Jhanko said, as he waved his fins, mimicking his mother.
But something was wrong.
Swimming towards the stream in his Ma’s stories, he was shocked to find a huge concrete wall in front of him. Humans had erected it to stop the stream from flowing further.
Where was the large stream in Ma’s stories that connects the paddy field with Paradise Land?
With the way to Paradise Land was closed off, Jhanko’s dreams shattered—all he wanted was to see his mother. The other paradise fish were also clueless and could not guess what had happened.
“Whom should I ask for directions to Paradise Land?” poor Jhanko wondered in confusion.
“Paradise Land was a lie,” he thought, gazing tearily at the dark sky.
Suddenly, Jhanko heard a distant splash. He swivelled around to see a bright yellow thing floating above on the shallow surface. He couldn’t believe it! His eyes sparkled with joy. “It’s… It’s a paper boat!” he shouted.
He saw many more coming down the little stream, all of different colours. He waved at the human children who followed the boats along the stream, trying to draw their attention.
“Hey, this little fish is waving at me,” gasped a boy, waving back at Jhanko. “They must be trying to get to the big pond on the other side of this wall. I have seen a lot of paradise fish moving freely to the pond during the rains before.”
“Poor fish. They are… trapped here,” said another child. “Yeah, you are right. There was no wall here the last time. They are definitely trapped here,” he added. He then ran back to his house and returned with a scoop net.
The children soon started to scoop out the school of fish and released them in the larger pond on the other side of the wall.
Jhanko felt joy and relief, as he waved thanks to the children who helped him and his school. He was finally in the Paradise Land of his dreams. It was bigger than he imagined. The frogs croaked, there were larvae wriggling near the surface. Further ahead, he saw schools of other fish approaching. And at last, he saw his mother waving her fin at him. She darted towards her son and embraced him with joyful tears.
I would like to acknowledge Harshitha Ramamoorthy (researcher at Bombay Natural History Society) for her support in writing this story.
In the midst of the pandemic, an all-too-pervasive piece of evidence of human impact on the natural world, ‘Wild and Wilful’ hit both virtual and quarantined bookshelves. The book—authored by Neha Sinha, a conservation biologist based in Delhi—is a collection of fifteen essays that discusses the building plight of some of India’s most vulnerable and misunderstood species. She divides up her book into four elements—‘earth’ (leopards, rhesus macaques, great Indian bustards, cobras, Asian elephants and tigers), ‘sky’ (tiger butterflies and Amur falcons), ‘water’ (Ganges river dolphins and marsh crocodiles), and ‘heart’ (rosy starlings). These species, carefully selected for their often contentious relationships with people, form the media for her arguments for why people’s ownership over wilderness needs to dissolve into coexistence. This is, however, easier said than done, and some of the challenges of achieving such human–wildlife harmony are highlighted through Sinha’s narrative.
As a rather avid writer of environmental issues, Sinha has highlighted case-specific instances where people’s actions towards endangered wildlife have seemed unwarranted or illogical, through well-documented events from India’s recent past. There is an underlying tone of frustrated indignation, clearly advocating for the concerted preservation of these species. This is especially evident in her accounts of leopards in urban areas, cobras at the hands of “pedestrian bacchanalia”, elephants traversing across roads and railways, and river dolphins navigating through thinning, trafficked waters. Stop-gapped through these laments, Sinha finds beauty in these species, and argues that they are gentle, intelligent and harmless creatures—particularly when unprovoked.
While the book speaks of the wild, striving against odds to make it in the Anthropocene, each essay is, in essence, a reflection of the human condition juxtaposed with shared spaces where people and animals find themselves. Sinha speaks of how people perceive these wild animals in different settings—in the forest versus an urban space, for instance—and comments on how the value of some of these endangered species is lost on the human populace that considers them to be an inconvenience or actively dangerous. Further away from the urban elite, culture and tradition find their way into human–animal interactions, vividly portrayed in the essays about elephants, snakes, and birds. Stories of genuine loss seep into the picture with regard to leopards, tigers, crocodiles, and elephants, felt both by the people and the endangered species. This breadth of topics is ambitious ground to cover, owing to situational differences in on-ground realities across species and landscapes. Sinha has attempted to combine species ecology, the human perspective, scientific voices, known incidents of human–wildlife conflict, and personal experiences to paint a holistic picture of the conservation challenges being faced in India. She manages to do this with varying levels of success as the book progresses. The most insightful are her pieces about tigers, dolphins, and starlings, which reflect her personal involvement and expertise in these landscapes.
Wild and Wilful reads like a book that was written with a well-intentioned sense of urgency. The ecological battles being fought at present across the country highlighted through this book are relevant, and a quick-read such as this one is needed to communicate them to a wider audience. The book aims to touch upon burning topics in the field of conservation in a comprehensive manner—ranging from the wanton translocation of wild animals and frequent deaths of endangered species along railway lines or busy roads, to human deaths caused by large mammals and wide-scale hunting. However, I found that the book often fell short of achieving these goals, and left me craving a more meaningful engagement through the pages.
Neha Sinha’s writing changes voice—at times precise, and at others, verbose. This can be tedious to read, especially in the midst of a riveting anecdote. Serious accounts of conflict and loss give way to tangential metaphors drawn from personal introspection in each chapter. While occasionally poetic and well-placed, they distract from the narrative’s focus, and I found myself having to retrace my steps as a reader. This may, however, be merely a matter of personal preference, with others taking delight in these interspersed ponderings.
Apart from the writing style, the book contains a few factual inaccuracies and sporadic typos which are hard to ignore. In her first essay, Sinha writes, “The Leopard, like all wild animals, had a deep, resonating distrust of people.” Statements like these could drive home a single-sided narrative of wild animals and, by extension, their lives among people. Less problematically, lines like“(The rhesus macaque’s) brown, furry face, its clever fingers and its long, flexible tail are symbols of mischief.” make for fun imagery, despite rhesus macaques having rather short, stubby tails.
Further, a more well-rounded perspective of how human–animal interactions unfold could have added an extra dimension to each essay. Sinha makes some strong statements with unwavering certainty, which make me sceptical of whether those stories are truly as black-and-white. “But relationships between the forest department and villages have never been good…” writes Sinha, in the context of tigers going locally extinct in Sariska Tiger Reserve, a place where she also claims that, “The sole cause for extinction was poaching.” I fear that the lack of multiple perspectives and the singular representation of human versus animal could cultivate a polarized view of on-ground realities in her readers. The reasons for why people feel and behave the way they do towards animals were reflected upon purely in passing, biasing the reader to empathize almost exclusively with the animals in consideration. Or, perhaps, this was the intention all along—driving home the need for urgent action deeper still.
I was occasionally uncertain as to whether Neha Sinha was recounting popular opinion, stating facts or voicing personal beliefs. Concrete statements about animal behaviour and ecology too felt extreme in some cases, for instance,“(The rhesus macaques in Delhi) have lost the one thing that made them wild: they no longer know how to look for food, because they have forgotten how to do so.”
Speckled along the way, Sinha deviates from her deep descriptions to succinctly sum up the dire situations that both wildlife and people find themselves in. Some of these made me smile, while others caused me to pause and think before moving on. She speaks of the Yamuna by saying, “When the river floods, it joins hands with the wetlands in the park, pushing forward a nursery of fish, molluscs, gastropods, hydrophytes, and hope.” The painstaking battle of conserving the great Indian bustard is summarised with, “The mind’s eye has already made a fossil out of a being that is still alive.” Perhaps the most simply, yet powerfully, articulated line from her writing of how people treat wild animals lay buried in her essay on the Asian elephant, “…they are a who, not a what.”
At the end of the day, Wild and Wilful is a book that advocates for India’s wildlife through emotional, impassioned and strongly-worded arguments. By picking species representative of nearly every habitat this country has to offer, and the various circumstances under which people impact their environments, the book provides a fundamental anthology, especially for the uninitiated. Neha Sinha’s first book aspires to educate readers of the several injustices and challenges faced by India’s simultaneously immense human population and teeming biodiversity. While the manner in which it’s been written might not be suited to every reader’s liking, the overarching message that she sends is an important and unavoidable one—“We are part of (the world at large), not owners of it.”
Pangolins, consisting of eight species distributed in Africa and Asia, are one of nature’s most unique creatures. Surviving off a diet of only ants and termites, their tongues can be nearly as long as their bodies, and they roll into a ball when feeling threatened. This provides a third dimension to the flight or fight response—rolling! The most impressive characteristic of pangolins is that they are the only mammals to have an armour made out of keratinous scales (the same material as our fingernails), which likely evolved as a defence mechanism against predators. However, this very characteristic has now become the biggest threat to their survival, as pangolins continue to be illegally traded for their scales (and other body parts) at record levels, primarily for Traditional Chinese Medicine (TCM). Around 180,000 pangolins were seized annually by authorities across the globe in the last three years. This, coupled with their recent (and false) link to the COVID-19 pandemic, has resulted in pangolins achieving an iconic status as important species that need to be conserved.
To effectively conserve a species, conservationists need to identify knowledge gaps, think of ways to raise public awareness about their plight, and tackle the major causes of their decline. Yet, since pangolins were practically unknown to many a few years ago, little has been done to address these important aspects for their conservation. We looked at these aspects in our review, where we analyzed pangolin-related publications since 1865, data on accepted patents, online news trends, and societal interest.
We show that there are significant gaps in our knowledge about pangolin immunology, education, and implications of trade or poaching for populations. The conservation research effort is also unequal with a lot of studies on captive breeding and the volume and nature of pangolin trade, but limited research on the rehabilitation of rescued pangolins, the implications of this trade on pangolin populations, other causes of population decline, and people’s perceptions of and levels of awareness about pangolins. The biases do not stop there as some species and geographic regions (i.e. African countries) have received less research attention than others. This begs the question—do we know the full extent of the plight of pangolins, and how do we fill these important knowledge gaps?
The news of an erroneous link between pangolins and COVID-19 is responsible for the largest spike in public interest in pangolins since 2004. However, one wonders whether the public interest in a species—during a time when it is seen as the cause of the pandemic—would result in a “vermin-like” (disease risk) public perception or as a species of conservation importance? Peaks of interest other than COVID-19, such as shocking imagery associated with the trade, documentaries, and interactive Google Doodles on important days of the year like World Pangolin Day, were also identified. However, news of record-breaking seizures of up to 30 tons of pangolins did not elicit as strong a reaction as the aforementioned avenues. Thus, choosing appropriate avenues to elicit public interest may help pangolin conservation.
Many of the patents related to pangolin products are driven by their use in TCM. However, medicinal patents were seemingly not driven by science, which questions the efficacy and danger of the medicines manufactured. The argument for using TCM-based products and patents is that they are supposed to be based off of TCM pharmacopeia, which is an amalgamation of thousands of years of practice in perfecting medicines for various illnesses. We found examples of medicinal patents claiming to cure hepatic fibrosis, cancer and even AIDS, yet these do not align with what is suggested for pangolins by the TCM pharmacopoeia. This not only goes against the reasons for using TCM products but also suggests that there may be another driving force for pangolin patent production—possibly profit. However, more research is needed to confirm these links, and the role of traditional medicine in illegal trade.
From these three lines of information, namely research, popularization, and commercialization, we provided a holistic set of guidelines that we hope will help in the conservation of these unique creatures.
Further Reading
Heighton, S. P. and P. Gaubert. 2021. A timely systematic review on pangolin research, commercialization, and popularization to identify knowledge gaps and produce conservation guidelines. Biological Conservation 256: 109042.
Snakes are everywhere. They live in forests, grasslands, deserts, mountains, oceans, lakes, and rivers. They also live in backyards, dumpsters, drains, apartment complexes, neighborhood parks, and school campuses. Is their presence cause for alarm or celebration? My experience with these shy, misunderstood creatures makes me believe the latter.
After spending thirty years living in Delhi, I shifted to a conservation and research station on a small coconut plantation in rural Karnataka. Let’s just say the move was not entirely smooth. The first hurdle in my new life came in the form of spring onion stalks. I could not tell them apart from grass and may have stomped on one or two. Or a thousand. The next issue to become apparent was that I was not in the habit of watching which tree I was standing under. It took over a year and a near miss with a hefty coconut to shake me out of that inattention. Finally, my life in the city had not taught me to check for snakes before putting my hands and feet where I could not see them. While I had underestimated the trees, I thankfully possessed a very healthy respect for snakes. Learning to live with them became top priority. But not before asking ‘why?’
Why live with snakes at all?
It seems perfectly logical that when we find snakes in our homes, we should send them back to theirs. And ‘their homes’ are, of course, forests far, far away. Right? This means dialing the nearest rescuer to have our scaly intruders relocated would be better for all involved. Except that it isn’t.
Scientists around the world have studied the relocation of snakes by inserting radio trackers and following them around to observe their behaviour. What they discovered was quite shocking. Most snakes die when they are relocated. They stop feeding and move long distances, possibly looking for familiar surroundings. Eventually, they starve to death, which could be a matter of weeks or even months. Not only is this cruel, it is also senseless. When a snake is removed from an area, the prey base (rodents, frogs etc.) increases. This creates improved conditions for one or more snakes to move in. In fact, removing a non-venomous snake is particularly ill-advised because its replacement may turn out to be venomous!
The bottom line is, there is no known way to clear a space of snakes long- term. And this is not a bad thing.
Scaly Encounters
After five years of sharing a space with 18 different snake species I can now vouch for the fact that they make excellent neighbours. A common sand boa (Eryx conicus), lived in a burrow under our front porch for nearly a year. We named him Eryx Clapton and would look forward to seeing him every evening—usually just peeking his head out, occasionally emerging fully for a stroll. Checkered keelbacks (commonly known as the Asiatic water snake), wolf snakes, and trinket snakes are also spotted almost every night around the farm. The onset of the monsoon brings out hundreds of baby checkered keelbacks in our ponds. For us this means hours of entertainment. Imagine tiny, slender hatchlings with disproportionately large heads chasing and clumsily trying to catch fish. It’s hard to look away!
One of the most memorable mornings at home for me was when we saw a pair of spotted owlets repeatedly dive bombing a large spectacled cobra. It managed to get away and climb up a hedge only to find itself directly under a branch where two parakeets were having a tête-à-tête. The curious parakeets leaned over to inspect the cobra until the branch they were perched on suddenly snapped! This resulted in squawks that stretched parakeet vocabulary before they settled down on a higher branch and continued their banter. We were able to stand just a few feet away and watch the entire drama unfold.
Snakes do, of course, play a vital role in maintaining an ecological balance, but they also enrich our lives and homes. This sentiment is easy to relate to when it’s attached to birds and other animals. Once you move past the fear and know how to be safe, snakes are really no different.
So, how do we safely coexist?
The presence of a potentially dangerous animal does not mean there will be conflict. It was hard for me to believe that the key to living with snakes was the simplest of secrets—to spot them before getting too close.
Crevices, holes, piles of construction material and leaf litter are perfect habitats for snakes. At our farm we’ve created them especially to allow their populations to thrive. But, we make sure that walking paths are clear. In spaces where children play, the grass is always cut short, leaf litter is swept away, and there are no dense hedges that start from the ground. It is second nature now to prod tall grass with a stick before stepping into it. We never put our hands or feet where we can’t see them. Noone walks in the dark; using torches is non-negotiable, even on the brightest of nights and on the most familiar of paths. This allows us to see a snake before we invade its personal space. When we do come across a snake, we simply stop and watch from a distance. There is not a single snake that will chase a human being. In fact, in interactions with us, they are never aggressive, only defensive. So the only times we move a snake is if the situation poses a risk. For instance, if it has somehow made its way inside the house, then it needs to be placed outside, to go and find shelter elsewhere.
While we have opted against it, it’s also very possible to reduce the number of snakes around houses. Try walking around your compound looking for places they can hide. The number of openings, cracks, crevices, and piles you find might surprise you. And of course, wherever there are humans, there is garbage. Wherever there is garbage, there are rodents. Wherever there are rodents, there are…. you guessed it! It seems we have inadvertently created luxury hotels with scrumptious buffets for snakes all around us.
The solutions are small and simple. Make sure all waste is collected in closed bins. Cover drains, plug holes and fill in cracks and crevices. Move leaf litter and other piles away from walking paths and play spaces. All of this will cut down the number of snakes you come across.
Having said that, for every snake we see, there are many more in the area we may never get the chance to meet. They stay out of our way and even provide an invaluable service as highly skilled ratraps. All we need to do is be aware of their presence and make small adjustments to safely coexist. With more than seven billion people now on the planet, learning to coexist may be the most important wildlife conservation practice of our time.
The giraffe is an icon of the African subcontinent, and yet, there are many gaps in knowledge about giraffes in the wild and how to best protect them. In the 21 countries where giraffe populations are found, their conservation status differs depending on the species, geography, and threats they face. Coupled with the threats of habitat loss, disease, and climate change, the trade of giraffes and their parts has been proposed as a contributing factor to population declines. However, the impact of trade on wild giraffe populations is rather complex and not well-understood. For instance, the reticulated giraffe (Giraffa reticulata) occurs mostly in Kenya, where all giraffe hunting and trade is illegal. Their numbers have declined by about 50 percent over the last three decades, resulting in an “Endangered” listing by IUCN. In the same timeframe, the population of the southern giraffe (Giraffa giraffa) across Southern Africa has more than doubled. Counterintuitively, hunting and trade of this giraffe species is legal in some countries and managed through permits.
There are fierce public discussions around how giraffe trade contributes to their decline. But it is limited by vast knowledge gaps about the prevalence and purposes of the trade. We set out to shed some light on this issue through an Africa-wide assessment for the first time: Are there different types of trade and are these factors the same throughout the African continent?
We gathered knowledge from 75 giraffe conservation specialists, ranging from local to international NGOs, governments, and academics, alongside 161 peer- and non-peer-reviewed literature sources, found through keyword searches in English and French.
Where are giraffe parts sourced from?
Illegal hunting was the highest-ranked source of giraffe parts (including tails, skin, bones, and meat) in Central and East African giraffe populations. In contrast, legal hunting was ranked as the most common source in Southern African countries. Prominent illegal hunting was reported in Central, East, and West Africa as a cause for concern as the most threatened giraffe species occur in these regions.
Are giraffe parts traded within and across international borders?
Across Central, East, and West Africa, illegal local-scale markets are the primary sinks for giraffe products. In contrast, the predominantly legal trade of giraffes in Southern Africa occurs both domestically and internationally. Though some media sources asserted that giraffe trophies from Southern Africa have negatively impacted wild populations, this association was not supported by data from peer-reviewed literature or our survey of giraffe specialists. Instead, those two information sources highlighted regional differences in the trade and offtake of giraffes with few indications of unpermitted international trade from Southern Africa.
Who is using giraffe parts and for what?
Evidence of use for artisanal crafts, meat as food, traditional medicine, and trophies were prevalent to varying degrees relative to country and region, domestic and international scales, and legal versus illegal trade. Due to this complexity, conservation policies and strategies need to reflect conditions specific to an area and cannot adopt a one-size-fits-all approach. Countries such as Kenya, Niger, Tanzania, and Uganda have developed national giraffe conservation plans that take into account the multiple uses and users of giraffe parts. This approach should be rolled out Africa-wide for each country and each giraffe species.
What are the impacts on wild giraffe populations?
When asked about the occurrence of trade in different giraffe parts, giraffe meat was listed most frequently, though only by a limited number of specialists. Similar uncertainty was reflected in the reviewed literature. The multiple sources, scales, and uses of giraffe parts across range countries, along with the varied approaches to regulate hunting, create a challenging set of conditions to determine the impacts on wild giraffe populations. Moving forward, it is critical to look at each species and country independently rather than apply a cookie-cutter approach.
This assessment is the first step to integrate knowledge about trade into effective conservation policies that protect giraffes in the wild. Instances of international legal giraffe trade will now be monitored due to the 2018 listing of the giraffe in Appendix II of CITES. However, our findings highlight that an enhanced understanding of illegal giraffe hunting and trade within a domestic (national) context is essential so that appropriate conservation management plans can be developed and implemented.
Associated recent conservation publication:
Dunn, M.E., K. Ruppert, J.A. Glikman, D. O’Connor, S. Fennessy, J. Fennessy, & D. Veríssimo. 2021. Investigating the international and pan-African trade of giraffe parts and derivatives. Conservation science and practice. https://doi.org/10.1111/csp2.390.
Positionality Statement:
The authors are practitioners based in Europe, North America, and Southern Africa and have conservation and research interests in numerous countries in Africa. The recognition of the lack of knowledge regarding the levels and effects of giraffe trade triggered the interrogation of the research. From their base in Namibia, JF and SF currently facilitate conservation research and management of all giraffe species in 16 African countries. Together, they have a collective experience of over 40 years in Africa. DO’C has been involved in giraffe conservation for over a decade and currently supports collaborative giraffe conservation and research programs across nine countries from a US-based NGO. MD and DV are based in Imperial College London and Oxford University respectively and have conducted research on illegal wildlife trade in several countries. JAG. and KR worked at San Diego Zoo Wildlife Alliance, a US-based NGO, during this project. Their work as social scientists has been enhanced by relationships and knowledge from colleagues in Kenya, where their collaborations centre on human–wildlife interactions.
Wildlife health assessments provide important information for managing threats to endangered species. In our review, we wanted to understand the trends in study design and methods, and suggest future directions to improve conservation efforts. We found that these assessments are similar to those at a general health check at the doctor: a physical examination, blood analysis, and some weight and height measurements. A faecal analysis is also at the top of the list. But performing these procedures in the wild is not that easy, especially when the target species is very difficult to find.
We, therefore, wanted to know: Are researchers from different countries collaborating to study threatened species, and are they sampling enough individuals and in the right locations, to best understand how to protect and manage them?
To answer these questions, we explored 261 studies on wildlife health assessments in the field over the last 30 years. We learned that most studies sampled fewer animals than statistically recommended, which may be related to restrictions in funding, permits, and logistics. Low sample sizes may reduce the accuracy of reference ranges determined for physiological parameters in individual species. We were surprised to find that countries with high and threatened biodiversity were greatly underrepresented. Almost half of the studies were conducted by researchers based in the U.S., and most of the time within their own country. European and Australian studies were also well represented. On the other hand, Asian, African, and South American countries were scarce. We found that international collaboration was rather uncommon, and that it was established by only one third of the researchers. International collaborations are especially important for protecting migratory animals, which often cross jurisdictional boundaries.
Based on our review, we provided a conceptual framework to improve design, data acquisition, and analysis, as well as species conservation planning and management implications. The framework was based on our findings and the existing guidelines for species conservation. We were especially interested in highlighting the following points: (1) What background information is needed before starting a health assessment study; (2) What logistics and resources should be considered; (3) What data and how many samples should be collected and analysed; and (4) How can this information benefit conservation management?
We advocate boosting conservation efforts where they are most needed, and establishing more strategic international collaborations. We suggest following standardized approaches, as well as examining enough individuals to draw impactful conclusions. This way, informed decision making can support healthy wildlife populations and ultimately protect biodiversity.
Further reading:
Deem, S. L., W.B. Karesh, & W. Weisman. 2001. Putting theory into practice: wildlife health in conservation. Conservation biology 15: 1224–1233.
IUCN (International Union for Conservation of Nature) – SSC (Species Conservation Planning Sub-Committee). 2017. Guidelines for species conservation planning. Version 1.0. Gland, Switzerland.
Kophamel, S., B. Illing, E. Ariel, M. Difalco, L.F. Skerratt, M. Hamann, L.C. Ward et al. 2021. Importance of health assessments for conservation in non-captive wildlife. Conservation biology. doi:https://doi.org/10.1111/cobi.13724.
Panelists: Sharon Guynup, Antony Lynam, EJ Millner-Gulland, Milagre Nuvunga and Kartik Shanker
While most people would quickly agree that conservation is an important practice, many might struggle to define what, exactly, it is (for instance, how it differs from preservation), what sorts of activities it involves, how we know to pursue those techniques and not others, and why such efforts are helpful.
These details might arise from expert studies, but they affect us all — which means that we rely on researchers to effectively translate their knowledge into a format that can be widely understood and applied. This is not something that academics typically have a great reputation for doing often or well, but it is an area that has seen steady improvement.
Current Conservationhas long aimed to support this shift, encouraging an increase in the quantity and quality of conversations between scientists and the rest of society. To further this goal, the magazine recently partnered with the Society for Conservation Biology to foster creative, dynamic science communication by conservation researchers to a diverse international audience.
To celebrate this collaboration and provide aspiring writers with a few tips, the two organisations brought together a panel of veteran conservationists with expertise on science communication. Their thoughts on the intersection between science, communication, and conservation are shared below.
Written by – Caitlin Kight and Eduardo Gallo Cajiao
PANELISTS
Sharon Guynup (National Geographic Explorer and a Global Fellow with the Wilson Center in Washington DC.)
Scientists can be powerful agents for change. But as researchers, you’re trained to write for peer-reviewed journals that use acronyms, jargon, and technical language that make your findings inaccessible to many outside your field. The result: Important research often remains locked away in scientific journals.
It’s critical to share your work in a broader, more accessible way so it can have a real impact. People need to understand why your research matters.
How do you engage a wider audience and inspire people to care about important issues when already bombarded with news and social media? It comes down to basic human communication: storytelling.
You need to start by identifying your audience: is it the local community, the general public, policymakers? Distill your message down to the main findings and hone it to your target audience. A news hook related to your work –– a new initiative, an event, or legislation –– helps gain media attention.
Style is another important consideration. Media outlets use an engaging, descriptive, narrative style that avoids acronyms and jargon and uses specifics rather than broad statements. The structure leads with the conclusion, then outlines significance; describes the research, history, context, national or international legal implications; and has a compelling ending. Don’t forget the power of photographs or video. It is also important to consider that, amidst a daily torrent of disturbing news, we all need to hear success stories.
You might want to try writing opinion pieces for newspapers or pitching stories to media outlets that cover science, natural history, or news. That requires a few-paragraph story pitch. “Explorer” grantees from the National Geographic Society’s grant program get a lot of attention. Consider writing a book or working with a film crew on a documentary.
Awareness sparks public understanding and support for conservation of species and ecosystems, and it brings funding. To spark awareness and change, science needs to reach the general public and policymakers.
Now, amidst the COVID-19 pandemic, many have been made aware that wildlife, ecosystem health, and human health are deeply interconnected. With this new appreciation of how our wellbeing is inextricably linked with that of the planet, ears are open, offering unique opportunities for impact and change. Share your work!
Tony Lynam (Wildlife Conservation Society, Center for Global Conservation, and SCB’s President-elect)
The Society for Conservation Biology (SCB) is a global network with around 3,500 members, including students, academics, practitioners, and policymakers. Our mission — which we often pursue by partnering with other institutions and organisations that share our values — is to advance the science and practice of conserving Earth’s biodiversity. We do this through supporting our members, publishing journals (Conservation Biology, Conservation Letters and Conservation Science and Practice), providing fellowships and training scholarships, and holding conferences.
It is the last of these that I would like to focus on here. In particular, I’d like to address two questions:
How important are conferences in bringing together academics, practitioners, and policymakers to communicate about science?
If conferences are important, how can we ensure access and participation to those events?
We know from surveys that our members value conferences as opportunities to network and communicate the findings of research and conservation. SCB conferences — global and regional — have been historically well attended. Talks, speed talks, poster sessions, panels, and interactive workshops all offer ways for members to engage with and communicate science. We also offer short training courses at our conferences.
One issue that requires thought and planning is conference location. A study published in Nature Ecology and Evolution found that 40% of conservation and ecology meetings over the last decade were held in places which were perceived as not welcoming to all. If a substantial number of members feel unsafe attending, they might avoid conferences, so we as organizers need to consider ways to ensure access to all.
Our global conference, the International Congress for Conservation Biology (ICCB), provides an important opportunity for participants to join together to communicate an important message on a topic of special interest. For example, at ICCB 2019 in Kuala Lumpur, we issued a Declaration on the Species Extinction Crisis. ICCB participants called on SCB members to urge their organisations, including government agencies, research institutions, non-governmental conservation organisations, and the private sector to contribute to the new Strategic Plan for Biodiversity 2021-2030 and support various conservation initiatives.
We are planning to hold ICCB 2021 in Kigali, Rwanda. This will be an opportunity for conservation practitioners to meet and network, and to communicate the important conservation work being done in Africa and around the world.
EJ Milner-Gulland (Tasso Leventis Professor of Biodiversity at the University of Oxford)
I speak as a Professor of Conservation Science in a traditional university. One of the key things to say is that, as scientists, we have to remember that we are part of society and not apart from society. We need to be responding in our science communication to the concerns of our citizens and helping them to empower themselves. I think a lot of what we currently do as scientists instead is to transmit information or to tell people off, to scold them — and people don’t like to be scolded. If you can engage with people on their terms and in their media, then it really helps. In particular, I think we have a responsibility to give hope and resources to people in the wider world about how to make the changes that we all need to make for this to become a more sustainable planet. I think that’s important because people need to feel, in this fairly gloomy time, that there is a way forward.
I’ll illustrate how this works using the example of Conservation Optimism, which I started in 2016 having attended an inspirational talk that Nancy Knowlton of Ocean Optimism gave at the Student Conference on Conservation Science. Conservation Optimism started off as a one-off symposium, but it was brilliant and it was very clear that there was a hunger for this kind of optimism amongst young conservationists — and older ones as well. So here we are five years later and it’s a thriving team of volunteers, an employee and advisors, all of whom are working really closely together to make a difference. Our India hub is now a year old, we’ve just started our UK hub, and we’re hoping to start one in West Africa next year.
Within Conservation Optimism I’ll just point you to one little example that illustrates some of the things that I want to say, and that’s a youth resources section that we have on the website. It started off because during the first wave of Covid-19 in the UK in April 2020, I really felt that teens and young people were suffering and didn’t really understand what was going on, and there was a lot of discussion around wildlife trade in the press. I wanted to give teenagers some information about the illegal wildlife trade and about its relationship to Covid-19; I thought that would be a way to help them.
The scientists in my research group worked to produce some information sheets about the illegal wildlife trade to put on the Conservation Optimism website. The resources were very colourful and lovely, and led on to one of my students doing an Instagram takeover to talk about her work on penguins. It also led to our commissioning a podcast on eco-anxiety from a psychologist. Better still, it then got a life of its own, just self-motivated: For example, some biology students in our university self-organized to make some short videos about how they had interacted with nature during lockdown; the students also shared some of their artwork. We also got a lot of bottom-up content from our broader community.
The lesson which I took from this experience was: It started with something rather traditional, which was the kind of thing that I, as a 50-something-year-old conservation scientist, would want to do. But because there was the opportunity built into the platform for more organic engagement, this starting point blossomed into something that allowed all sorts of people to participate in all sorts of different ways.
Another thing that I and a group of friends started during lockdown is an initiative called Pledge for Our Future Earth, which is a platform helping people to get inspired about changing their relationship to nature, to find resources about how to do this, and then actually commit to changing their behaviour.
I would not say that I am the greatest science communicator. I’m a fairly traditional academic conservation scientist. We all have our limits, but I do feel that over the time that I’ve been in academia, I have learned — I’ve made myself learn — how to communicate better with different audiences, even though I might not have wanted to. I can do better and I am getting there! The other thing is that I’ve been really trying to facilitate the early career researchers in my group (and other people who I come into contact with) to embrace the ‘pain’ of science communication and realize that it’s not so bad. I try to mentor them so they have the confidence to communicate their work and to see it as an integral part of their role as conservation scientists. Then they can come up with novel, more imaginative ways of communicating!
Milagre Nuvunga (Cofounder and Executive Director, the Micaia Foundation, Chimoio, Central Mozambique)
I work in central Mozambique and I consider that my work puts me in that interface between scientific and indigenous knowledge, and common practice. I look at myself as a conduit, in that I facilitate processes that enable communities living in biodiversity-rich areas to make decisions based not only on their own knowledge but also on existing science as well as national and international policies. Most of those areas are targeted for conservation either by the state or by the world, and communities need to be able to negotiate ensuing tensions — to use their knowledge as a basis to translate and interpret scientific information and national policies and legislation, so they can develop strategies that will enable their incorporation into their daily lives.
When asked about science communication for biodiversity communication, I immediately focus on the channels and tools we should have at our disposal, or work on developing, to be able to facilitate communication of scientific research findings and to the wider public. I think it is particularly important to consider interactions with communities living in biodiversity-rich areas — people whose lives and livelihoods could be impacted by research findings, particularly if these lead to the assignment of higher conservation status.
When we engage with communities, we assume, of course, that they have and use indigenous knowledge to inform their life choices (it is an assumption in the case of Mozambique as communities have been displaced several times by wars and extreme climatic events). We assume community life is often based on the understanding they have of the natural systems within or around which they live. As the scientific community brings in different ways of translating that knowledge, of deepening it or even bringing in new dimensions that might challenge existing knowledge, we need to establish how these findings can be shared effectively in order to enable communities to analyze the information for themselves. This could facilitate a process that would enable communities to decide if this new information warrants changes to local resource management and, therefore, the definition of new rules and regulations. This process could help them engage positively with policymakers.
Effective science communication, therefore, can help nature-dependent communities decide how best to use their resources to ensure the sustainability of their lives and livelihoods – for instance, what species to use and how to use them. This is particularly true in areas where there are nature-based value chains that could be affected by new scientific information.
Kartik Shanker (Faculty at the Centre for Ecological Sciences. Indian Institute of Science in Bangalore and Founding trustee, Dakshin Foundation)
We largely think about science communication as communicating our ideas and knowledge to different stakeholders. We talk about putting science in language thatis intelligible to policymakers, bureaucrats, civil society, etc. Almost every non-profit has some sort of environmental education program, where we’re trying to communicate to children or youth. And while I think that those are all very important goals, they miss a few things.
First, for true engagement, I think it’s really important to go from ‘communicating science to society’ to ‘connecting scientists to society’. As a first step towards this, we get the scientific community to write for us at Current Conservation, rather than have their work mediated by professional writers.
Going a step further, communication really needs to be a two-way street — and science itself can serve as a bridge. Citizen science may have started out as a way for scientists to collect data at larger spatial and temporal scales, but one of the things that citizen science does really well is engaging civil society with the world of knowledge through the medium of science. Through our work at Dakshin, particularly with fishing communities, we are finding that science is actually a very effective way to bridge communication barriers between communities, the state, and us. I’ve said elsewhere that science is the ‘lingua franca’ of the state – data and graphs and figures and so on. For communities that bear knowledge in a different form, science can become their English, their way of talking to the rest of the world.
Finally, I think it is really critical to use different media for communication, such as art and music and theatre. We need to use all these different bridges to share knowledge with each other, as, actually, humans have done for centuries. It’s like scientists didn’t get the memo. But we have that opportunity now to dig deep and find creativity along other axes, and make science whole by engaging the world in it.
Final remarks
Science communication has been long recognised as a key tool to advance biodiversity conservation. Roles can include shaping attitudes, raising awareness of issues, reducing uncertainty for decision-making at various levels, garnering support for conservation actions, and promoting accountability of publicly funded research. However, barriers may seem to still be present amongst conservation scientists, which can range from issues such the science-advocacy divide, low incentives within the academic system, lack of appropriate training, to insufficient knowledge of editorial processes outside the peer-reviewed system and a lack of networks within the journalism realm.
This great panel on science communication was largely aimed at addressing some of these concerns, yet we know there is a long road to further increase our science communication footprint. By definition, science communication entails the approaches to transmit scientific knowledge to non-scientific audiences. In a conservation context, science plays a key role by helping us improve problem definition and reducing uncertainty for decision making. Considering that decision-making at various levels is what ultimately must change in order to advance biodiversity conservation, we can only hope that conservation scientists take advantage of Current Conservation as an outlet to increase their impact in conservation practice.
I grew up in Kenya with a love for wildlife and the outdoors, hiking and camping. It was an obvious pathway for me to become an outdoor ecologist with the motto “If I can poke it, I can study it”. I designed my PhD and career to be outside, not confined within the walls of a lab. I debated the pros and cons of wading through a mudflat, mangrove swamp or insect-infested jungle vs. gliding through a coral reef—the choice was obvious! Since 1989, my research has been focused on coral reef resilience—particularly in the face of climate change—and the biogeography of the Indian Ocean.
Even as a child I was keenly aware of landscapes changing around me. As Kenya’s population and infrastructure footprint grew, the views across the escarpments of the Great Rift Valley transformed from wide open savannahs and dry volcanic slopes in the 1970s to squared-off, dense patchworks of shambas (farms), trees, houses, and growing towns. When would this system break? Or less dramatically, shift to a new state? I always wondered how people perceived their shifting context and their complex daily interactions with nature in the landscape—their matrix of uses—and the ever more complex mix of cultures and social norms?
When the Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs) were first formulated, we all focused on ensuring ‘our system’ was represented. Hence, the ocean science and conservation communities were over the moon with SDG 14 ‘Life below water’—to conserve and sustainably use the oceans, seas, and marine resources for sustainable development. Then followed a few years of grumbling over wording and targets, indicators and investment, and concern over being siloed away from the other goals, before diving into the interactions between goals and targets, and navigating trade-offs. The goals became illustrated in different ways, the most successful conceptually being the wedding cake model. It appropriately placed nature as the foundation for everything, which set the context for society, and both nature and society together set the context for the economy. This led to a three-tiered cake with the ‘social goals’ in between the ‘nature goals’ and ‘economy goals’.
In many ways, I have always thought the SDG story was obvious—it’s an expression of the three pillars of sustainable development, where nature, economy, and society must strike a balance. I came to see the goals as the world’s almost 200 countries agreeing on a ‘minimum set’ of 17 ‘inalienable rights’. In a different year or month or if the balance of countries or contributors had been different at a crucial point in their negotiation, a slightly different set of goals might have been identified. But most importantly, whether 16 goals or 18, they give us a common language through which to negotiate sustainable development. And indeed that language does not need to be complicated—the goals can be simply expressed in 140 or so words (see Obura 2020), founded on the ‘nature’ goals, then up through the ‘economy’ to ‘societal’ goals and finally the enabling goals that make all this happen, as illustrated in the stack of goals (Figure 1), inspired by foliaceous corals.
Figure 1. The sustainable development narrative model (Obura 2020)
The goals were negotiated at national levels, and they have permeated international discourse and the framing of all global institutions, from biodiversity to climate change to health and human settlements. But within countries, in sectoral entities, at local government levels, in businesses, and for ‘the people’, the SDGs have remained esoteric. Many are ignorant about them, question what they are, or fail to relate to them as they go about their daily lives.
The most common depiction of the SDGs—the rectangle of brightly coloured squares—shows no interactions or connections, no curves or subtleties, no interdependencies or overlaps among these 17 core elements of human living. Other depictions resonate more—circular depictions allow links among goals across the middle, the wedding cake version expresses a model of sustainable development—yet, people don’t feel how the goals relate to their lives. So, I decided to experiment with a new approach, to explore how local interests can be expressed through the lens of the SDGs. Since I work on coral reefs, the obvious starting point was a coastal fishing community in Kenya, expressed in the form of a story.
The Story of Mariam and Hamisi
Mariam and Hamisi live from the sea. He catches fish, which she sells 3–4 days a week in the local markets, their combined income paying for school fees, their health needs, repairing their house, etc. This evokes a number of the goals—from fish catch and their jobs and income , and the benefits to their household through nutrition , income , health , and gender roles .
Their livelihood is entirely dependent on the local reef , which also sustains the broader fishing community. Through its representative fisher association,
the community has co-management responsibilities with the local government to manage its members’ fishing activity,
including by establishing closed areas to enable reproduction and regeneration of fish stocks.
The closed areas attract interest from the local tourism sector, which is growing with coastal intensification and small-town development , bringing additional income into the local community and diversified jobs for local tourism operators, shopkeepers, and others . As interest in marine biodiversity and development impacts increases,
a range of community groups, non-government organizations and even researchers , engage with local issues to maintain natural assets and support diverse social programmes. Having gone to college
Mariam and Hamisi’s daughter not only works in the town as an electrician, but invests in a cold-store business to link her family and other fisher households to local markets.
The seascape is experiencing impacts from climate change , with the coral reefs bleaching and losing coral twice in the last decade, stimulating local leaders to lobby the government for climate action and commitment to the Paris Agreement. Conscious of the international travel that brings tourists, the business association puts in place varied climate mitigation and adaptation actions, including through replanting of coastal forests and mangroves, and committing to solar and other renewable energy technologies .
As stakeholders in the land- and seascape engage, the local government authorities establish platforms to facilitate broader participation and engagement, incentivising individual actions towards sustainability, and removing barriers to innovation and action. To ensure all interests are addressed, firm commitments to equity are made
across income and stakeholder groups , for women, children and vulnerable groups
So what?
What might this SDG story approach help to achieve? As Kenyan and other societies grow and blend, I feel the opportunities for decision makers to consider all factors and make decisions that agree with everyone’s worldviews diminish. Diversity is good, both in nature and among people, but it does make consensus more challenging, particularly as space (physically and metaphorically) declines and limits loom larger over peoples’ choices.
I feel the only feasible way forward across so many contexts around the world is through alignment around common principles. Done right it means that people can trust that choices are mutually supported, and at least not conflictual. The SDGs, adopted by 193 of the world’s countries, provide such an opportunity for alignment. I believe they might be even more successful at local levels, where their interdependencies can be tangibly experienced, and all people or actors may be more visibly accountable for their actions, such as if they go fishing in the wrong zone.
The SDGs enable alignment around what is too complex to command and control. For example, consider now in the context of COVID-19; if a business owner, a farmer, and a fisher all adopt SDG principles, they can follow their primary interests with due regard for not harming each others’ health and other interests, or those of any other local case-holder of the 14 other goals. Inherent in the model is that awareness and knowledge (goal 4) and good governance (goal 16) are necessary to mediate and assure alignment among stakeholders, and to ensure the burden of impacts and responsibilities is equitable (goals 5 & 10). Further, applying an SDG narrative within a local jurisdiction may help establish social safety nets to minimize risks of destitution (goal 1) and hunger (goal 2) during a common crisis.
This narrative approach may help to link the biggest picture worldviews with the local. 2020 and 2021 have emerged as ‘super years’ for framing both climate and biodiversity goals for decades to come, with the world being brought to its knees by a sign of things to come—the COVID-19 pandemic. Climate (goal 13) and biodiversity (goals 14 and 15) are each contained within the SDG framing; in fact, the Convention on Biological Diversity’s post-2020 global biodiversity framework is premised on a theory of change defined by the SDGs. Thus, from this global scale down to the local, can conservation and development finally walk hand in hand, such that people and nature interact directly and positively, living out individualized storylines of sustainable development? There are many campaigns vying to capture the collective imagination to deliver on the emerging global goals, in biodiversity, climate, and other domains. However, we will need approaches that are fully nature positive, people-positive, and economy-positive to enable their integration and aggregation to truly achieve sustainability from local to global scales.
Further Reading
Obura, D., Y. Katerere, M. Mayet, D. Kaelo, S. Msweli, K. Mather, J. Harris et al. 2021. Science 373: 746–748. DOI 10.1126/science.abh2234
Nash, K. L., J. L. Blythe, C. Cvitanovic, E. A. Fulton, B. S. Halpern, E. J. Milner-Gulland, P. F. E. Addison, G. T Pecl et al. 2020. To Achieve a Sustainable Blue Future, Progress Assessments Must Include Interdependencies between the Sustainable Development Goals. One Earth 2, 161–173.
Obura, D. 2020. Getting to 2030 – Scaling effort to ambition through a narrative model of the SDGs. Marine Policy 117:103973.
The Global Goals for Sustainable Development Goals. https://www.globalgoals.org/
Laced along our world’s coastlines are a mosaic of highly productive habitats. Coastal ecosystems, such as mangroves, tidal marshes, and seagrass meadows, straddle the line where land meets the sea and form the foundations of complex and interconnected marine systems. Beyond their beauty and wonder, the ecosystem services they provide are far-reaching. They play a critical role in reducing coastal erosion, protecting shorelines from storms by dissipating wave energy. They aid water filtration and are an important source of building materials and fuelwood. They also protect adjacent habitats, such as coral reefs, from sedimentation and provide habitats that support important wildlife, including many fish species that are essential to the livelihoods and food security of coastal people.
Like their land-based counterparts, the salt-tolerant plants that make up these habitats absorb light and carbon dioxide to power photosynthesis, produce food, and grow. In turn, the carbon absorbed becomes part of their biomass and soils, commonly referred to as coastal “blue carbon”.
Despite occupying only a small percentage of the world’s oceans, coastal habitats sequester and store more carbon per unit area than terrestrial forests, accounting for approximately half of the carbon sequestered in ocean sediments worldwide. If left undisturbed, carbon can be locked away in their soils for millennia, offering a valuable natural solution to mitigating rising carbon dioxide emissions. However, these habitats are being destroyed as quickly as they absorb carbon.
Coastal ecosystems are disappearing at an alarming rate from shorelines every year due to pressure from coastal development, fishing, pollution, and climate change. Once gone, so too will the wealth of ecosystem services they provide, and their role in climate mitigation will be reversed. Experts estimate that the loss of these habitats contributes to 3–19 percent of global emissions produced from deforestation worldwide. At current conversion rates, vast amounts of these habitats could be lost in the next 100 years, with devastating consequences to coastal communities and at a considerable cost to humanity.
In recent years, the excitement around blue carbon and financing the conservation of coastal habitats has grown because of the potential to bring a new level of investment into ocean and intertidal ecosystem conservation. Mitigating the loss of these habitats can be achieved through several mechanisms, including avoided loss and degradation, as well as ecosystem restoration. Mangrove blue carbon conservation projects, such as the Tahiry Honko project in Madagascar and the Mimoko Pamoja initiative in Kenya, have shown considerable promise. These formally certified Plan Vivo carbon credits offer a potential route for communities to reap sustainable long-term finance from the international carbon market. But the certification, which has only very recently started expanding to include seagrass ecosystems, is complex and realistically beyond most communities, without considerable scientific support. Similar, ideally simpler, impact-based initiatives, must be the way forward. This will place the coastal communities, who undoubtedly have the greatest long-term interest in their success, at the forefront of these efforts.
Conservation initiatives that place people at the heart of their strategy can help build self-sustaining models, which diversify incomes and generate capital that can be reinvested back into locally-led conservation efforts. This approach offers a new and exciting opportunity to support the costs associated with managing and restoring habitats. It also empowers communities with the skills and means to protect their marine areas for both local and global benefit.
Building off lessons learnt from restoring and protecting mangrove habitats, eyes are being turned to other carbon-rich coastal ecosystems to explore the opportunities available for financing their conservation and integrating the needs of people into their approach.
Communities must lead the seagrass revolution
Seagrass is found on all continents except Antarctica. Despite only covering 0.1 percent of the ocean floor, it accounts for 12 percent of the total organic carbon stored in the ocean. They are also important nursery grounds for over a fifth of the world’s largest fisheries, bolstering life along our coasts.
Although research interest in seagrasses has grown, gaps in our knowledge about these super plants and their role in carbon sequestration still remain. Worldwide, we know that seagrass habitats are in decline, but site-specific data are virtually non-existent, impeding the conservation of these important habitats across the globe
Spanning five different countries—Indonesia, Malaysia, Philippines, Thailand, and Timor-Leste—the Seagrass Ecosystem Services Project aims to improve the conservation status of seagrass meadows throughout the Indo-Pacific, by incorporating an innovative, holistic and community-centred approach. A first of its kind, this project will assess the health, threats, and ecosystem services provided by seagrass habitats, and empower coastal communities through hands-on data collection and locally-led marine management. The information collected by communities will then be used to inform decision-making and help shape policy at local and national levels.
To fund and sustain long-term locally-led seagrass conservation and marine management, this project supports the development of dual-purpose community businesses that offer alternative livelihoods and income streams away from unsustainable extractive practices, whilst directly funding community conservation efforts that protect and restore seagrass and their ecosystem services. Working closely with communities, innovative ecotourism, aquaculture, and blue carbon credit business models are being explored. These models showcase to communities the added value of conservation and the benefits of a healthy marine environment, whilst building community capacity and reducing dependency on fishing as a main source of income.
The future
Models like these hold the potential to achieve something that few other projects have managed. They enable marine conservation to make economic sense to those most reliant on the ocean’s resources. It offers those most vulnerable to the impacts of climate and ecological breakdown, overfishing, and global pandemics, a chance to become more resilient to socio-economic and environmental shocks, whilst empowering them with the skills and resources to safeguard and manage their marine areas. Through this, coastal people can secure a future for themselves and their communities for generations to come. A future that doesn’t come at the cost of the environment and paves the way for a more sustainable and healthy blue planet.
Further reading
Duarte, C. M., Kennedy, H., Marbà, N., and Hendriks, I. 2013. Assessing the capacity of seagrass meadows for carbon burial: current limitations and future strategies. Ocean Coastal Management 83: 32–38.
Oreska, M.P.J., McGlathery, K.J., Aoki L.R., Berger, A.C., Berg, P. and Mullins, L. 2020. The greenhouse gas offset potential from seagrass restoration. Scientific Reports 10: 7325.
Shillanda, R. Grimsditch, G. Ahmed, M. Bandeira, S. Kennedy, H. Potourogloue, M. Huxhama, M. 2021. A question of standards: adapting carbon and other PES markets to work for community seagrass conservation. Marine Policy 129: 104574.
Feature image: It is only under artificial light, at relatively close quarters, that the true colours and patterns of this humphead ‘Napoleon’ wrasse (Cheilinus undulatus) become visible. This species is the largest in the family of wrasses. The males grow larger than females, capable of reaching up to 2 meters and weighing up to 180 kg. In some parts of the world, Napoleon wrasse become very accustomed to divers and can display a great deal of curiosity. This photograph was taken with the specific intention of being able to scrutinize the structure and patterns of the face and pectoral fins of this gorgeous fish. Maldives.
I spend a lot of time looking at fish. I also spend a lot of time talking to people about fish. And while I can move a listener with stories about cleaning stations or being surrounded by enormous schools of vibrant creatures, I often feel that the allure of the individual fish is either inexplicable or lost in translation.
There are a couple of reasons for this. It is difficult for divers to make a close and unhurried observation of constantly moving subjects that often swim away from us. And the full spectrum of colour disperses quite quickly the deeper one goes, giving everything underwater a muted cyan tinge.
This is where the medium of photography comes into play. Using an artificial light source brings back the spectrum of colours that otherwise disperse underwater due to refraction. Taking close-up photos of fish with artificial light helps to freeze a constantly moving subject, while also highlighting all its hues and patterns. This then allows me to take my time marveling at their faces, fins, and scales on my computer screen. In doing so, I have learned a great deal, and constantly find a renewed appreciation for them. This photo essay is a celebration of the diversity of colours and forms in the world of fish.
I lit this image so as to highlight not just the extraordinary spiky shape of this ornate ghost pipefish (Solenostomus paradoxus), but also its translucence. Adults that have recently settled on the reef from their pelagic—free swimming—larval phases are smaller and more transparent than adults that have had some time to mature. This individual was somewhere in the middle of that transition. Maldives
This juvenile spotted drum (Equetus punctatus) will change quite significantly in its journey to adulthood. Many juvenile fish look very different from their adult counterparts. This is part of their strategy to avoid predation. It includes disruptive camouflage with weird shapes, colours and patterns, as well as mimicry of poisonous flatworms and other inedible marine creatures. Photographs allow us to marvel at the extent of the transitions between juveniles and adults in a way that is almost impossible to do while diving.Turks & Caicos Islands, British Overseas Territory
Arguably, all frogfish are extraordinary in their use of varied camouflage as an ambush strategy. This hairy individual was one of my favorites. Unlike the sponges or seaweed that frogfish often camouflage close to, this fish and a couple of others were clustered around a pile of algae-covered ropes and buoys at an underwater mooring surrounded by sand. If it hadn’t been for the local divemasters who knew where to find them, I would have swam past this spot with barely a second glance. Mabul Island, Malaysia.
The coral grouper (Cephalopholis miniata) has a wide distribution in the Indo-Pacific and parts of the Atlantic. In a rare happenstance while diving in underwater caves across the region, I noticed that the bubbles from my breathing apparatus had collected at the roof of the cave to form a mirror of air. A grouper positioned directly below it was reflected in the mirror, leading to this incredibly lucky image. From a couple of similar encounters during this time, I learnt that these fish were opportunistic individuals, who had realized that exhaled air bubbles reaching the roof of the cave disturb a variety of small creatures. This particular grouper waited, often quite close to my head, and quickly picked off any small crustaceans that were displaced by the expanding ceiling of trapped air. When it occurred to me that this individual was not simply posing for me but instead using me to get an easy meal, I left the cave. Lakshadweep Islands, India
Lizardfish are very common on most tropical reefs and are formidable predators along the seafloor in areas with coral and sand. Some of them bury most of their body in the sand and sit with only their eyes and their mouths out. They ambush other fish that swim nearby with their quick movement and sharp teeth. Andaman Islands, India.
The fish in this photo is a goby. Gobies in general are benthic – living in burrows in the sand or reef. This individual, a kind of partner goby, seeks out the burrow of a shrimp that it can collaborate with. The gobies great eyesight keeps the pair safe from predators, like creeping flounders. And the poor-sighted shrimp’s ability to dig and maintain a burrow gives the goby a home that it would not be able to make on its own. Communicating by touch, the shrimp keeps an antennae in constant contact with the goby. The fishes movement, agitated by the approach of a threat, warns the shrimp to retreat into the burrow. It took me three days of acclimatizing this goby to my presence that finally allowed for what is one of my most intimate portraits of these two symbionts. Lakshadweep Islands, India.
Sometimes a photograph must be taken just to marvel at the subject. Especially subjects that are always on the move, making the observation of details all the more difficult. When I zoom into this photo of a grey angelfish (Pomacanthus arcuatus), I get lost in the patterns on its body. This beautiful fish is found in the western Atlantic, all the way north from New York (during the summer months) across the Caribbean Sea to the coast of Brazil. Turks & Caicos Islands, British Overseas Territory
In as much as many of us romanticise the gaiety of tropical coral reefs, life down there can be brutal. Parasitism is more common than most of us know, simply because many fish parasites hide under the scales and gill filaments or within the bodies of their hosts. Some copepods and isopods, like the one pictured here, remain attached to the outside of their hosts and are large enough to be clearly visible. This isopod on the cheek of this Coral Cod gets its nutrition from feeding off the blood of its host. In many such instances, the host is prone to experience fatigue, lethargy and weight loss – conditions that make it easy prey for predators on the reef. Turks & Caicos Islands, British Overseas Territory
Situated off the east coast of Africa, Madagascar, the fourth largest island in the world, is a country of staggering beauty, contrasts, and unique megafauna. It has an extensive coastline of 5,000 km and as a result, substantial marine, and coastal biodiversity.
For centuries, many of Madagascar’s communities have relied on fishing for their food and livelihoods. It is estimated that at least one million Malagasy people depend directly or indirectly on fisheries for their sustenance. But an increase in unsustainable and harmful fishing practices, such as overfishing, have seen catches dwindle over the years. Fish have become scarce, and the future of many of Madagascar’s coastal communities is in peril. Its marine biodiversity is under unprecedented threat, increasingly fragile under these immense pressures, both local and external.
To address these challenges, Locally Managed Marine Areas, popularly known as LMMAs, were created in 2003 to empower coastal communities to sustainably manage Madagascar’s marine and coastal resources. These are areas of the ocean managed by coastal communities to preserve fisheries, foster marine biodiversity conservation, improve governance, and promote shared benefits. LMMAs also provide the communities with a platform for a united voice. In Madagascar, LMMAs have developed great momentum over the past 17 years, creating a contemporary community conservation movement that draws on traditional practices, shared values, and local knowledge.
But LMMAs have faced tremendous challenges. At the centre of finding lasting solutions is Vatosoa Rakotondrazafy, a passionate Malagasy, who initially wanted to become a human rights lawyer, but found her calling fighting for the livelihoods of small-scale fishers. She is the President of the board of MIHARI, a network established in 2012 to link isolated coastal communities and allow community leaders to share ideas and successful models through peer-to-peer learning. Additionally, MIHARI was created to represent the interests of small-scale fishers at a national level, in particular fisheries policy development. Vatosoa also served as MIHARI’s first National Coordinator for six years.
MIHARI now represents over 200 LMMAs, collectively covering over 17 percent of the island’s inshore seabed.
Below is an interview with Vatosoa, where she helps to explain the challenges, threats, and opportunities, and how to create a national network of small-scale fishers.
Madagascar is the fourth largest island in the world. How important are small-scale fishers to the country’s economy and livelihoods?
Small-scale fishers are integral to coastal communities’ livelihoods and daily sustenance. In 2017, Madagascar had 163,500 tonnes of national catch, 59 percent of which was from small-scale fishers. According to the World Bank, the fishery industry is critical to our country’s economy—it contributes more than 7 percent to the national gross domestic product (GDP) and constitutes 6.6 percent of Madagascar’s total exports.
How did the LMMA movement start and grow in Madagascar? The concept of LMMAs in Madagascar was born in the Southwest of the island in 2004, when communities came together to manage octopus closures.
Other coastal communities quickly saw the value of having LMMAs, how they could help them address their challenges, and the benefits that would come with that. Today, there are 219 LMMAs across Madagascar, covering 17,000 km2 of the country’s continental shelf. LMMAs have four types of management models or focus areas: creating temporary and permanent fisheries closures; restoring mangroves; developing alternative livelihoods; and putting in place local regulations, such as bans on destructive fishing practices.
What impact and challenges have the LMMAs had? LMMAs have achieved a lot of success over the years. They have improved the food security and income—directly and indirectly—of over 500,000 people in Madagascar. Fisheries production has increased through no-take zones and the regulation of fishing gears. LMMAs are also critical in the conservation of marine and coastal ecosystems, including mangroves, seagrass, coral reefs, and a variety of other species. LMMA management committees support better community governance and promote community participation and decision-making in the management of marine and coastal areas.
But LMMAs have also faced challenges, such as conflicts in resource use and allocation, and a lack of a country-wide legal framework to secure and recognise small-scale fishers’ rights. Access to markets continues to be limited, and many of these LMMAs are in isolated, remote areas.
Describe the journey of creating MIHARI. Why was it necessary and what impact has it had? MIHARI was created as a network to help address some of the challenges that LMMAs face. Today, the network has two types of members: 219 LMMA associations and 25 non-government organisations operating in the marine and coastal spaces.
MIHARI’s journey began in June 2012, when 18 LMMA associations met in southwest Madagascar and took the initiative to create a network that would promote peer-to-peer learning and give them a collective voice. I joined MIHARI in 2015 as the National Coordinator and first staff of the network. My role was to make the network more functional and to create more impact for the LMMAs. We hired more staff, created systems, and increased MIHARI membership from 50 LMMAs in 2015 to more than 200 today.
In 2020, MIHARI was recognised as an official Malagasy organisation, a huge step in cementing its legitimacy. Today, MIHARI is considered a key partner in Madagascar’s marine management and conservation efforts. It has increased the advocacy for small-scale fishers’ rights and built the capacity for LMMA leaders to be more effective. MIHARI has also created a platform that promotes learning and knowledge sharing. Increasingly, we are also focusing on promoting the human rights of small-scale fishers.
This model is also being replicated in other countries. For example, I was invited in 2018 to speak about MIHARI’s work to representatives from five countries—Japan, China, Indonesia, Thailand, and Myanmar—and provide any lessons that might be valuable for those countries as they implement their marine conservation efforts. We’re also promoting learning across the Indian Ocean and sharing valuable lessons with nearby countries.
Any advice for communities wanting to follow a similar path? Trust traditional knowledge. Coastal communities have incredible mastery and expertise. Involve the communities in the co-creation of the networks. They are your main stakeholders and have to feel a sense of ownership.
It is critical to ensure that the government is included and supports your initiative, and ensure that you build a platform that brings all the stakeholders together to discuss the challenges and shared solutions. Ensure that you plan for exchange visits and learning so that communities can see what’s possible by observing what others have done.
I also encourage the creation of a common charter that outlines the rules of engagement so that members understand the value and benefits of the network. Lastly, there’s nothing more critical than ensuring that you communicate regularly with all your stakeholders. From communities and NGOs to the private sector and government, it’s important to keep them inspired and motivated by your work.
Can you speak about your journey in helping to lead this process? What lessons have you learned about leadership? Leadership isn’t easy, but it is rewarding. I started leading MIHARI when I was 27. I was a young woman from the capital, leading a network that consisted mostly of men from coastal villages. I didn’t speak their local languages or understand their way of life, but I quickly learned that leadership is about how you interact with people.
I demonstrated trust and made sure that they understood that I valued their knowledge and contribution. Importantly, I made sure the communities understood that I wasn’t there to tell them what to do—I was there to work with them towards a shared vision.
You’re going through the process of developing a strategic plan for the network. What role has this played in the network’s development? Our partner Maliasili is helping us develop our strategic plan. This has played a key role in the network’s development. A crucial step is that we’ve made the process inclusive. The strategic plan meets the objectives of the network and fits all the members.
The strategy will guide the network for the next five years and will provide clarity on our priorities. In the past, MIHARI’s work has largely been dependent on urgent needs, and we’ve been doing things on the go.
The strategic plan will give us a much-needed guide.
What do you hope MIHARI will have achieved in 20 years? I hope that in 20 years, small-scale fishers will be playing an even bigger role in the governance of the country’s marine resources and are positioned at the forefront of creating sustainable, effective policies. My vision is to have the role of the fishers stipulated in a policy and embedded in national laws.
I also hope that the livelihoods of coastal communities are secured, that small-scale fishers have better income, and are economic actors that have the resources they need to look after marine life in Madagascar.
What are you up to now in terms of networking? With six years of networking experience at MIHARI, mobilizing and engaging actors, I am now working with the Malagasy think tank, INDRI, whose mission is to mobilize the collective brain power of stakeholders to restore Madagascar’s terrestrial and marine landscapes. I am leading a national initiative called “Alamino”, which brings together the government, NGOs, local communities, funders, private sectors, religious leaders, researchers, civil societies, and others, to re-green the country. For the seascape, we are planning to launch the Blue Agora of Madagascar, which will allow all stakeholders in marine resources to meet, to exchange views and coordinate their action for the sustainable management of the country’s marine resources.
It’s a cloudless day in April two degrees north of the equator. I’m floating in a turquoise lagoon off an island in Laamu Atoll, Maldives, breathing through my snorkel. Below, light zigzags over the reef, catches fish mid-turn, and makes corals glow an ethereal blue. The surge from waves breaking nearby is strong, and the fish and I pendulum back and forth with the water. I’m struck by the number of juvenile corals on this patch of reef. Their skeletons are young, pale green, sky blue, and healthy. Once—perhaps when I was about five years old—this reef might have cast longer shadows and thrived with the permanence of a forest. But that’s not the world I live in anymore. Today, the presence of these babies is joy enough. Scleractinian foliage. It means the reef is recovering.
I look up and find that I have drifted, so I begin a slow swim back towards the beach. A line of yellow and red umbrellas comes into view as I get closer. People recline on beach chairs under pools of shade in a desert of sand. Someone sips on a bright blue cocktail the colour of the ocean I am just wading out of. The irony of this scene is not lost on me. We stare out at the horizon, enjoying the view. Meanwhile, the sand is slipping out from under our feet. And I mean that quite literally—80% of the land area of the Maldives is barely a meter above sea level. But the history of these islands is one of resilience, not fragility. And central to this story is fish.
Contrary to its view in popular imagination as being a remote paradise, the Maldives has actually been at the centre of Indian Ocean trade and commerce for hundreds of years. In the 14th century, the famous explorer Ibn Battuta landed on these shores and stayed for four years. One of the first things he noted in his records (1) was the existing fishery at the time. People’s diets, he said, consisted of “a fish…which they call koulb al mâs. Its flesh is red, it has no grease. When caught at the fishery, each fish is cut up into four pieces, and then slightly cooked…it is eaten when perfectly dry.” Three hundred years after him, a French explorer, François Pyrard de Laval, was shipwrecked in this archipelago. He too noted (2) this fishery, writing with some surprise that the islanders “are daily dispatching cargoes of this to Achen in Sumatra and elsewhere.” The fish they were referring to was tuna. And perhaps Pyrard’s surprise was justified—tuna is not easy to fish, and yet these small islands were catching enough to ship around the world.
Since then, archaeological digs have found tuna remains dating back to the 9th century in the Maldives. References to tuna abound in local lore. A folktale from the islands tells how a famous navigator, Bodu Niyami Takurufanu, first captured the soul of one of these fish in a bamboo flask on a voyage in far-off waters. He released it when he returned to his home island, and ever since, it is said that skipjack tuna have been abundant in the Maldives.
While tuna has likely been eaten in these islands for a long time, it was old trade networks that cemented its place in the Indian Ocean world. The islands were an important port of trade for cowries, which were used as currency for almost a thousand years from the 9th to the 19th century. With cowries, tuna began to be exchanged too. Bags of dried tuna were transported to Indonesia, Sri Lanka, parts of India, and East Africa. The fish became so well known in the region that it was referred to as “Maldive fish” in Sri Lanka. Boats were specially constructed for tuna fishing in the Maldives and veshi, or oral poems, communicated nautical directions that helped fishers navigate through dangerous passages in the ocean. This rich history of tuna fishing was part of the reason that snorkeling over this reef in Laamu atoll, I felt hopeful for its recovery. Tuna had kept reef fishing historically light here. Now, a diverse and healthy population of reef fish was helping buffer these reefs from climatic disturbances, such as mass coral bleaching events.
Today, however, tourism is shifting this dynamic. Over 200 luxury resorts dot this archipelago. Built on islands without a human population, they offer palm trees and azure lagoons: picture-postcard perfection. In 2019, over 1.5 million tourists visited the Maldives. The jobs this has created, and the development it has brought to the country cannot be overlooked. But on the other hand, its environmental impacts have been significant. Burning plastic piles high on Thilafushi island near Malé, where a permanent plume of grey smoke obscures the sky. Whale sharks, turtles, and mantas suffer regular propeller injuries from heavy boat traffic. Sewage runoff from land, the dredging of lagoons, and land reclamation have degraded once healthy habitats.
Tourism has also created a demand for fresh reef fish. Now, freshly caught snappers, emperors, and groupers sit on dinner plates in resorts and guest houses. People are fishing on reefs more than ever before. In the interviews that I conducted with residents last year, I found that reef fishes were becoming increasingly popular amongst locals. In fact, the majority of people I spoke to said they preferred to eat reef fish over tuna today. This reef fishery is currently unregulated. Parrotfish are the only species that are illegal to fish, but they are not uncommon in people’s catch. I asked a fisher who had just landed a catch of parrotfish whether he fished for them often. He said he did not. The only reason he had now was that the resort nearby had called, demanding fresh fish.
Why is unregulated reef fishing so worrisome? Unlike skipjack tunas that grow fast, mature early, and have a high population turnover, reef fish generally have longer life spans and are slow-growing. This makes them easy to overexploit, as has happened in several places around the world. Importantly, reef fish play critical roles on coral reefs, helping them bounce back after major disturbances. Grazers, such as parrotfish, eat algae and keep substrates clean for young corals to settle and grow. Others slow the progression of coral disease, remove parasites, and prevent sand and sediment from accumulating on coral skeletons.
Until now, tuna has helped keep Maldives’ reefs underfished and relatively pristine. It’s these healthy reefs that have been monetized, appearing on t-shirts, postcards, and tourist brochures. It’s why glass-bottomed boats and dive charters can provide employment to so many people today. But unregulated reef fishing, a growing problem, has the potential to change all that.
Islands are mesocosms of the world. What happens here—how we manage these ecosystems, the pressures of development and tourism, and most importantly, how we define and prioritise the well-being of people who live here—can guide how we do this in larger continental systems. On small islands, these decisions can determine whether they continue to be inhabited into the future. The Maldives is an example of a place where an early form of globalization—trade— encouraged the growth of a sustainable fishery. This is now being threatened by a more recent globalization—tourism. Walking along the beach that day, the reef on one side and the resort on the other, it was easy to feel like these were two fundamentally irreconcilable entities. But as Barry Lopez recently wrote (3), it is “important to live for the possibilities that lie ahead”. History connects us, and sometimes, looking back is a good way to look forward.
Further reading
Litster, M. 2016. Cowry shell money and monsoon trade: the Maldives in past globalizations. PhD thesis, Australian National University.
Romero-Frias, X. 2012. Folk Tales of the Maldives. Nordic Institute of Asian Studies Press, Copenhagen, Denmark.
Yadav, S., A. Abdulla, N. Bertz and A. Mawyer. 2019. “King Tuna: Indian Ocean Trade, Offshore Fishing, and Coral Reef Resilience in the Maldives Archipelago.” ICES Journal of Marine Science, October 9. https://doi.org/10.1093/icesjms/fsz170
Footnotes
(1)Gibb, H.A.R. 1953. Ibn Battuta Travels in Asia and Africa, 1325-1354, trans. by H. A. R Gibb, with an Introduction and Notes. Routledge & Kegan Paul Ltd, Abingdon and New York, paperback, 2011.
(2)Gray, A. & Bell, HCP. Eds. 2010. The Voyage of François Pyrard of Laval to the East Indies, the Maldives, the Moluccas, and Brazil, 1–3. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge.
(3)Lopez, Barry. 2020.Love in a time of terror. https://lithub.com/barry-lopez-love-in-a-time-of-terror/
“I became obsessed with work, always there, barely sleeping, fully committed. It took so much of my life and I didn’t equally divide work and my personal life. Sometimes I wouldn’t see my own family for 2–3 weeks at a time.”
Kahindi Changawa’s experience is far too common in the conservation space. The urgency to our conservation issues is palpable. While the local solutions are just within reach, they still require strong commitment and effort to attain. For Kahindi, a Program Coordinator at Kenya’s Local Ocean Conservation, the plastics wrapped around and inside sea turtles coupled with rampant poaching were problems he couldn’t let rest. And that became 20 years of mobilising communities and 20 years without a day off. “I didn’t realise the stress that was building up. I didn’t recognise what that looked like.”
Kahindi was a participant in the first-ever African Marine Conservation Leadership Program, a program designed and run by Maliasili and Blue Ventures. It brought together a new generation of marine conservation leaders from Somalia, the Comoros, Kenya, and Tanzania, strengthening their skills and confidence to lead.
Kahindi and his fellow participants spent three weeks exploring leadership at different levels: individual, team, and system.
Individual Leadership: This relates to how individuals develop their own personal skills and characteristics as leaders, develop self-awareness of their preferences and tendencies, maximise personal strengths, develop the ability to relate to and interact with other people, and manage one’s own time and health (e.g., motivation, avoiding burnout).
Organisational Leadership: This pertains to the leadership of organisations and their management, as a group of people working towards common aims. Effective leaders need to strengthen the performance and durability of their organisations, managing for results, mobilising resources (i.e., fundraising and business development), and leading strategically.
Collaborative Leadership: This aspect of leadership extends beyond one’s own organisation, to the scale of multiple organisations and different actors, whose interactions are critical to achieving large-scale, systemic change. A good leader constantly reaches out beyond the confines of their organisation to increase impact. To be effective, one must build trust, cooperate, and unify around common goals and a shared vision.
At the end of the program, it is hoped that the conservation leaders will take their new skills, experiences, and personal awareness back to their organisations and work to enhance team performance and conservation impact.
Kahindi did just this, and he’s seen changes both personally and professionally: “Time and prioritisation have been my greatest leadership challenges… I’ve made adjustments, delegating more and identifying top priorities. I now spend two days a week with just me and my family.”
How are you leading?
The conservation field needs more effective leaders who can inspire others, while also taking care of themselves. We need stronger local organisations that help people realise their full potential, grow, and strengthen their performance. And we need collaborations that work, where organisations pool their skills and resources to achieve something much greater than they can do on their own.
Below are some questions to help conservation leaders reflect on what’s needed to be effective and supportive on all three leadership levels. How are you currently leading? How do you want to lead?
Leading Oneself: Which three words best describe your leadership style? Do you think your team would choose the same words or view your style differently?
Leading Teams: What has been your best management experience? What made it great? Based on your answer above, how do you think you can manage your team better?
Leading Collaborations: Think about an important partnership or collaboration you have been part of. Can you think of any individual who played an important role to make it work? What did they do? You might also reflect on whether there was any individual who was particularly ineffective and why.
About the column Maliasili helps great local conservation organisations become even better by focusing on organizational development and growth. Ultimately, Maliasili supports greater conservation impact through stronger organisations achieving more. This column takes a different look at our conservation field by providing ideas and thinking to strengthen organisations, as these are often undervalued and get overlooked. They are critical to an organisation’s effectiveness and thus, to our planet’s health.
Along Chile’s long and diverse coastline, nearly 100,000 artisanal fishers catch about half of all seafood landing in the country through a diverse set of activities, which include intertidal gathering, offshore fishing, and diving for nearshore resources. These fishers are therefore central to marine conservation for such programmes to succeed. In this article we describe our efforts to design a conservation programme that is fisher-centred and how it is evolving to provide more benefits to artisanal fishing communities and achieving scale within Chile.
TURFs as an opportunity for marine conservation
Territorial user rights for fisheries (TURFs) have been promoted as a tool which can enable the sustainable use of marine resources by providing access rights and incentives to fishing communities. Throughout Chile, groups of artisanal fishers have organized into associations and gained TURF rights to extract nearshore resources from distinct stretches of the coast. The policy has been in place for over three decades and there are now hundreds of active TURFs along the coast. They make up a substantial part of the coastal seascape in Chile: TURFs tend to be roughly 100 hectares in size and surrounded by open access areas. To be granted a TURF, artisanal fisher associations must undertake a baseline study of the area and develop management plans that need government approval. Surveillance and enforcement by the community is required and it is forbidden to extract any species not included in the management plan. For example, diving for benthic resources is usually restricted to a few times a month and the extracted resources are around 10-30 percent of the total income for an association.
Researchers have demonstrated that TURFs have higher levels of biodiversity compared to open access areas, and those levels increase with local enforcement to prevent poaching. Researchers have also demonstrated that biodiversity levels inside TURFs are lower than in marine protected areas, and that enforcement is a key aspect in determining biodiversity levels. The combination of part-time use, strong enforcement, and high levels of biodiversity has sparked dialogues about TURFs playing a role in the economic diversification of small-scale fishing communities. Both the social and ecological conditions are present to design a voluntary conservation programme that could incentivize additional biodiversity benefits. The combination of fishing associations and TURF policy creates user rights, strong local governance, and a stewardship ethic. That same combination creates the opportunity to increase biodiversity by increasing enforcement and creating a marine reserve inside TURFs.
Human-centred programme design
Seizing upon this opportunity, we embarked on designing a voluntary conservation programme associated with TURFs. We had strong evidence that biodiversity benefits would be generated if a fishing association entered into an agreement to set aside at least 15 hectares of its TURF as a no-take marine reserve, and agree to conduct anti-poaching surveillance. What we did not know was if fishers would participate in such a programme. Suspecting that programme desirability would be low if we designed a programme through the lens of protecting marine species, we embraced a human-centred approach. We used focus groups and surveys (and some statistical modeling) to understand fishers’ preferences on different aspects of a potential programme, such as the contract length, payments, perceived benefits, types of surveillance systems (e.g., land-based video surveillance), and biodiversity monitoring requirements.
Doing so allowed us to design a programme that was highly desirable, as well as identify highly undesirable programme structures. For example, fishers preferred shorter renewable contracts compared to longer multi-year contracts. It became clear that programme desirability was key to scaling a marine conservation programme in Chile. For example, it is impossible to reach 50 percent participation with a highly undesirable programme—even if you pay the fishing association $9,000 a year to support enforcement costs. In contrast, with a highly desirable programme, participation was over 50 percent with only a $3,000 payment.
Overall, our research revealed important factors that influenced participation in voluntary conservation programmes. While payments, for example, served as a relatively strong factor to convince fishers to opt-in to a programme, their ability to do so substantially diminished as their attitude became negative, trust decreased, or dependence on fishing decreased. In fact, our results suggest that payments alone are insufficient to attract enough participation by Chilean fishers to scale the programme and deliver significant environmental benefits.
Launching the programme
Armed with an evidence-based programme design, we began piloting the programme with two fishing communities. We partnered with a Chilean technology company that provided land-based surveillance cameras and machine learning technology. Fishing communities have direct access to video and machine learning alerts which provide them with an additional surveillance tool, while providing the programme a means of independently assessing compliance. We designed a biodiversity and fishing monitoring programme to track the impact of the programme, which included control sites and was implemented with the fishing associations. We created annual contracts with the fishing associations, which provided a small payment to the association to help assist with increased anti-poaching surveillance and outlined sanctions in the case the conditions of the contract were broken. With funding from US foundations, we were able to pilot the programme while also continuing to collect data from fishers with surveys and focus groups, in order to make design changes to better align the programme with fishers’ perspectives and needs.
During the first few years, with feedback from participating associations, we incrementally improved the programme and overcame challenges. The reliability of surveillance cameras placed in remote marine environments was a major challenge, which required multiple rounds of improvements. Trying to balance cost-effectiveness with scientific rigor, we struggled with developing diving monitoring protocols that were feasible and affordable, while still being robust. We modified the programme incentives, replacing annual enforcement payments with a small grants programme. Fishing associations are now eligible to apply for small annual grants for projects that improve or complement the outcomes of their reserve. After several rounds of improvements, the marine reserve programme was up and running in three fishing communities in central Chile.
Scaling the Capital Azul Marine Reserve Programme
In 2019, we pivoted our efforts toward scaling the programme. This involved four main activities: 1) building human capital to run the programme, 2) conducting social science research focused on scaling, 3) developing a sustainable financing model, and 4) increasing the involvement of the broader local communities in the programme.
We formally established Capital Azul as a Chilean NGO. Supported by a board and programme partners, Capital Azul maintains new and existing relationships with fishing communities, supports surveillance activities, and conducts the annual monitoring of the reserves. The marine reserve programme currently consists of a network of five reserves in central Chile. Only 200 km from the capital Santiago, this region is one of the most densely populated in the country, with no national marine protected areas. Thus, the network is informally complementing the existing national protected network, and serves as a highvisibility example of a voluntary conservation programme to the hundreds of thousands of Chilean tourists that visit the region during the summer months.
We have pivoted our research toward other important questions about scaling conservation programmes, while still focused on designing the programme through the lens of its users—fishers. For example, we are exploring the impact of where the payments come from on participation. It turns out that willingness to participate is greater if programme funding comes from revenue generated from industries interested in offsetting their environmental impact compared to revenue generated from sustainable seafood premiums. Participation also differs, by as much as 30 percent, depending on how familiar you are with similar programmes. These results help us consider programmatic design changes that may improve programme desirability and thus participation, as the programme scales. It also informs our financing strategy. Today, participation is not the limiting factor in scaling the programme in Chile. Thus, much of the work is now focused on developing financing models to be able to better scale the programme.
The journey ahead
As Capital Azul matures as an organization, we are starting to engage broader coastal communities within the programme. This is based on the recognition that collaboration and support across different local actors will be needed for the programme to be a success over the longer term. Taking an approach that blends community psychology with collaborative arts, we are engaging communities in three distinct ways. First, we are collaborating with communities to define what marine reserves mean for them. Our goal is to create space with communities to integrate local knowledge into the different dimensions of the Capital Azul Programme, with the hope that it will result in an increase in both the value and appreciation of the programme.
“A child can observe today that some marine life, like reef fish and clams, are gone from our fishing grounds. It should bring her joy to know our marine reserve is important, because from that space, fish, abalone, limpets, and more are going to thrive and reproduce.”
— Artisanal Fisher, 2020
Second, we are mapping the community stakeholders that influence and are influenced by the reserve network. Our goal is to conduct a network analysis for each participating community, as actors differ across locations. Some actors seem important across all communities, such as local municipalities that can support the programme in different ways. Other actors, such as tourism operators and educators, can potentially benefit directly via synergistic activities—including potential collaboration across communities. It is also important to identify stakeholders that are potential detractors or that could be harmed from the programme. In one community, for example, fishers recognized young spear fishers as detractors of the programme. When we talked with several of them, however, their views were more nuanced and several actually expressed support for the programme and the desire to collaborate.
Third, we are using collaborative art as a tool to explore communities’ shared meanings around marine conservation. Collaborative art practice involves artists and communities working closely together as a way to explore engagement and worldviews. Our goal is to bring community members together to share perceptions and values on marine conservation and collectively express them through visual arts. While our broader community engagement is new, early results are encouraging. With the Capital Azul team, fishers in the town Zapallar recently created cardboard figures of local rocky reef fish, which were then put on display at the beach inside a chinguillo—a type of local collecting bag used in the ocean. Beachgoers were invited to write questions to fishers about the marine reserve. This process served as a tool for community engagement and helped fishers visualize the repercussions of the programme in the broader community, as well as encouraging a feeling of pride and commitment.
Conclusions
A fisher-centred approach that integrates ecology, social psychology, and design has played a prominent role in the ongoing development of Capital Azul and its marine reserve programme. It has allowed us to design a programme that is desirable by fishers.
“The place that we are going to leave is important, the cameras we are installing and the entire conservation plan. It will benefit our TURFs, as there are areas that are depleted. In a couple of years, this will be a wonderful thing.”
— Artisanal Fisher, 2020
Doing so has also allowed us to focus on other important aspects necessary for the programme to scale, such as human capital, programme management, community involvement, and financing. Without sufficient participation, voluntary community-based conservation programmes will not scale. The necessary social science research is rarely conducted a priori to understand the conditions under which a programme will attract widespread support and participation. Increasing participation is a function of the overall structure and administration of a programme. By focusing on empathy for participants and learning from the rapid prototyping of programme concepts, we have been able to implement a new approach for marine conservation in Chile that appears to be working—producing social and ecological benefits for local fishing communities and the country.
Further Reading
Gelcich, S. and C.J. Donlan. 2015. Incentivizing biodiversity conservation with artisanal fishing communities through territorial user rightsand business model innovation. Conservation Biology 29:1076-1085
Sorice, M.S., C.J. Donlan, K.J. Boyle, W. Xu, S. Gelcich. 2018. Scaling participation in payments for ecosystem services programs. PLoS ONE 13(3): e0192211
Sorice, M.G. and C.J. Donlan. 2015. A human-centered framework for innovation in conservation incentive programs. Ambio 44:788-792
Herbivorous fish are the gardeners of reefscapes. They graze on algae that live on reefs, making sure it does not overgrow and ensuring there’s plenty of space available for new coral to settle and grow. How their activity is distributed across the reefscapes can therefore determine how these reefs function. In a new study published in Scientific Reports, we investigated how exposure to wave action affected herbivore distribution and function.
The study was conducted in the Lakshadweep archipelago because it provided ideal natural conditions to study wave action on reefs—some parts of the islands are exposed to stronger waves than others. Due to the southwest monsoon winds, reefs on the western sides of the islands were more exposed to waves, while those on the eastern sides were relatively sheltered. This allowed us to compare herbivore distribution and function on eastern and western sides of the island.
The study consisted of a combination of field observations, which included swimming transects and video recording, exclosure experiments—mesh cages were constructed on reef substrate to keep out herbivorous fish in order to study how algae grows in the absence of these fish—and a pinch of luck, when we chanced upon a rare recruitment event where thousands of tiny surgeonfish larvae or recruits entered the reefs to settle, giving us an opportunity to understand their settlement choices at an early stage in life.
We found that reefs exposed to strong waves (on the western sides of the islands) had fewer herbivorous fish, fewer number of fish species, and the ones that did live there seemed to be eating less algae than those that lived on the eastern sheltered reefs. In other words, the western coral reefs were less controlled by herbivores than the eastern coral reefs.
We also found that the shapes and swimming abilities of fish played an important role in determining how they performed on wave-battered reefs. Laterally compressed fish (having a flattened body shape) were unable to do well here, likely because they found it harder to manoeuvre through rough waters. Fusiform o torpedo-shaped fish on the other hand, did better on these wave-battered reefs.
For the two observed species of surgeonfish, a larger number of recruits settled on the sheltered reef than on the wave-battered reef, thereby suggesting a preference for stable and complex structures of reefs in calmer waters. And this tells us that the patterns we see in the distribution and abundance of adult surgeonfish start early on in life—right from their settlement choices as juveniles. If the wave-battered reefs lose more coral structure in the years to come, we could expect even lower recruitment of juveniles to these reefs.
Herbivorous fish are the gardeners of the reef. How their activity is distributed across the reefscape can decide how these reefs function. Our study shows that their distribution is distorted, limited by wave action and by the ability of differently-shaped fish to access choppy waters. In turn, the herbivores affect how much algae can grow and are, therefore, critical to the survival of coral recruits. When coral are able to successfully settle, healthy reefs can bloom.
If we are to imagine a future where reefs are healthy and bustling with life again, it is time we take a deeper look into the ways in which fish behave and drive coral reef recovery.
Original paper: Karkarey, R., P. Rathod, R. Arthur, S. Yadav, A. Theo and T. Alcoverro. 2020. Wave exposure reduces herbivory in post-disturbed reefs by filtering species composition, abundance and behaviour of key fish herbivores. Scientific Reports 10: 9854. doi: 10.1038/s41598-020-66475-y.
Further reading Fulton, C. J., D.R. Bellwood and P.C. Wainwright. 2005.. Wave energy and swimming performance shape coral reef fish assemblages.Proceedings of the Royal Society B: Biological Sciences 272, 827–832.
Bejarano, S., J.B. Jouffray, I. Chollett, R. Allen, G. Roff, A. Marshell, R. Steneck et al. 2017. The shape of success in a turbulent world: wave exposure filtering of coral reef herbivory. Functional Ecology, 31(6), 1312-1324.
Arthur, R., T.J. Done, H. Marsh and V. Harriott. 2006. Local processes strongly influence post-bleaching benthic recovery in the Lakshadweep Islands. Coral Reefs 25, 427–440.
Yadav, S., P. Rathod, T. Alcoverro and R. Arthur. 2015. ‘Choice’ and destiny: the substrate composition and mechanical stability of settlement structures can mediate coral recruit fate in post-bleached reefs. Coral Reefs 35, 211–222.
My favourite creatures are the ones that stubbornly refuse labels and categorisation.
Deciphering the floral form of a Crinoid rooted to the sea floor, I am transported back 450 million years, to a time where all of life is water vascular, sessile and filter-feeding.
Watching its animal arms feeding in the water column, I am invited into a world where embracing duality is a perfectly acceptable way to exist
The flipper tracks of an olive ridley turtle break out of the tideline and veer onto the beach. She has nested somewhere nearby and returned to the sea. We try to look for where she might have dug her nest and laid her eggs. Right adjacent to the beach are large sand dunes, some 40 feet high. I am walking around in the coastal village of Poigainallur in the Nagapattinam district of Tamil Nadu, India, along with Isaiyamudhan—a friend and fisherman from the neighbouring district of Mayiladuthurai. ‘Poigai’ is the Tamil word for freshwater pond, and this village is not far away from the famous religious town of Velankanni. It’s the last day of a road trip along the central coast of Tamil Nadu visiting fishing villages, talking to people, documenting and understanding the various coastal ecologies along this stretch. I was searching specifically for intact, well-developed coastal sand dune ecosystems—perhaps the most fragile and threatened shore habitats in India.
Sand and tsunami
The previous day, I had visited Parangipettai, a township north of the River Vellar’s estuary in Cuddalore. A place known for its massive coastal dunes in the past, we found that their numbers had significantly reduced, being flattened, built upon, and quarried away. On our way to Poigainallur, we crossed a number of tsunami memorials dedicated to fisherpeople who lost their lives in the worst natural disaster to ever hit the Indian coast in 2004. Isaiyamuthan tells me a beautiful story about Poigainallur and the neighbouring villages, which the land bears witness to. The local fishers and farmers had for a long time had a deep understanding of how indispensable sand dunes were for water security as well as for their lives. Dunescapes take centuries to form. Sand is slow water, a patient fluid, which is moved, shaped, folded by wind, waves, and vegetation. It flows over the years and with the seasons, like a current in deep time. The villagers had the practice of sticking palm fronds on nascent sand heaps in the path of the wind to help their growth by trapping other windblown sand particles. They also buried Palmyra seeds in them, which preserved the dunes as they grew. This practice, thought to have been prevalent once, faded over time as the dunes grew large and the ecosystem services they provided were taken for granted.
A white-bellied sea eagle soars above us, its body cloud-white and wings coal-black. We see its gliding form through the gaps of palmyra fronds. It then stops circling, buckles its wings, and suddenly dives into the sea, hitting it like a giant arrowhead of flint and granite. When the Indian Ocean tsunami ravaged the eastern coast of India, fisher communities bore the brunt of the disaster. Isaiyamuthan tells me that the force of waves brought the ocean several kilometres inland along these districts. The toll it took on women’s lives was significantly higher compared to men. They were homebound, stuck with children and their chores, and couldn’t escape from the impact zone fast enough. Their hair got stuck in the thorny Prosopis bushes, which have invaded shore habitats, and several of them drowned like that, he recalls, traumatised. Yet in several areas, people observed that sand dunes greatly buffered the impact of the waves and protected them, and villages where houses were located on the dune crests were largely unaffected. Dunes protected coastal communities during this time even better than mangroves and casuarina plantations. The importance of these dune systems was realized then, and since these habitats took a beating from the pummelling waves, the age-old practice of growing and preserving dunes was revived for a time.
The importance of dunes for local hydrology
A dune lives a slow life, one which is difficult to observe within a single human lifetime. Small vegetation traps windblown sand grains formed by wave action, which slowly accumulate, and are stabilized by grasses like Spinifex, Ipomoea and Fimbristylis. These grasses are also known to help dunes recover after storms and strong winds. As a dune grows, it shelters its landward side from strong salt-laden winds, allowing shrubs and trees to take root. Over time, it grows into a forest.
The most miraculous thing about coastal dunes is their effect on the local hydrology. In the neighbouring village of Kallar, I had approached some fishermen playing cards under the shade of a dune, after spending the morning out at sea. They testified that the manal medu (sand dune) ‘created’ freshwater and pointed to a hand pump on their beach, located just 30 feet away from the high tide line. I jockeyed its handle and tasted the water. Although a little muddy, it was absolutely fresh. They also mentioned that many dunes here were blown down during the Gaja cyclone in 2018–19, but thanks to the protection the dunes offered, their village was largely untouched. At low tide, I spotted hundreds of wedge clams (Donax cuneatus) popping out of the sand to filter feed from the waves, while crows and egrets attempted to nab their soft, jelly-like bodies before they clammed shut and burrowed back in the sand.
A dunescape acts like a massive percolation chamber and is an extraordinary rainwater harvesting system. Where they are well-developed, the water table is above or at sea level. The undulating sand structures, when saturated with water, form an osmotic shield below the ground, blocking seawater intrusion. Swales—small and sometimes perennial freshwater ponds—form on the landward side of dunes. And within these I discovered swimming tadpoles, dragonfly nymphs, whirligig beetles, diving beetles and water scorpions—freshwater life forms thriving just 200–300 feet away from sea. I saw the fresh scat of a black-naped hare near one pond. Fan-throated Lizards, flicking their blue dewlaps, scampered into the spider-like roots of Pandanus plants growing around the pools. Jamun, Alangium, cashew, bamboo, tall palmyras, and some large banyans were among the trees growing here. Behind the last line of dunes—the largest of them with crests over 30–40 feet high—villagers were cultivating paddy, now nearly ready for harvest.
The looming threats of sand mining and unplanned development
“That new temple in the next village was built with sand quarried from here,” a woman from Kallar said. According to most of the fisherfolk I spoke to, coastal dunes are severely threatened by construction companies, contractors, and increasing demand in urban areas for building infrastructure. It is sometimes the locals themselves who mine sand on their bullock carts and sell it, due to unemployment and access to quick money. “The younger generation don’t really know why manal medukal are important. Several villages over the years have lost their freshwater due to excessive sand mining.”
Closer to home in Chennai, the coastal regions to the north of the city have suffered massive erosion and habitat loss where dune habitats and beaches once existed. This is due to unplanned and ecologically destructive coastal projects. Sea walls and groyne fields now taint these shores. However, some dunes still exist in small pockets in the villages of Kattupalli, Kalanji, Senganimedu, and surrounding areas. A few months ago I had taken the Class 11 students of my school on a field trip to north Chennai to witness and understand the changing coastal geography here, and to interact with the fisherpeople. In the village of Kattupalli, we sat around Yashodhamma and listened to her stories. She is a fisherwoman in her sixties, small in stature, but a firebrand activist for the cause of her community since her twenties. She spoke to us of how her community had been brutally evicted from their previous settlement during the construction of the L&T Shipyard, of unkept promises of employment by these large companies, and of her birth village—NTO Kuppam—which had a large beach, where she would play with her siblings, and where you could dock any number of boats. “Fish in those days would be so numerous that sometimes they would come near the shore and just jump and writhe on the sand. We would simply collect them from the beach on such days,” she said.
This village and several neighbouring ones now exist merely as vestiges on maps. They have been erased by the ocean’s longshore currents, triggered by the building of coastal infrastructure like the L&T shipyard, Kamarajar port, and now the newly proposed Adani Megaport. A study published by Anna University in 2019 shows that the maximum sea intrusion into aquifers in India is on the coast of north Chennai. Groundwater up to 14 km inland has been contaminated with seawater. This leads to the city building more desalination plants for its drinking water supply, exacerbating the ecological impacts on its coast. Yet, in villages like Kattupalli where sand dunes still exist, people get freshwater just a few hundred metres from the shoreline. The swales sparkle with damselflies, and volley with the calls of skittering frogs and other anurans in the evenings.
Reversing the colonial legacy of ‘wastelands’
In Tamil Nadu, coastal dunes are often classified as ‘Puramboke’ land by the revenue department. Historically, Puramboke in Tamil meant land reserved for shared community use—this included water bodies, grazing land, sand dunes, riverbanks, and mudflats. These were habitats which provided essential ecosystem services, and could not be privately owned or used for agriculture and construction. With the advent of colonialism in India, this word became twisted around to mean ‘wasteland’, in order to divert these common and crucial landscapes for colonial infrastructure and private property. The word even became a pejorative, although there is a movement now to revive and reinvoke its original meaning and significance. It is an interesting exercise to trace how the idea of ‘wasteland’ came to be and follow its roots into the colonial context. From literature, people and travels, I have been able to collect over 140 words for ‘land’ in Tamil. Each word evokes land in its ecological significance, cultural values and practices, and poetic contexts, where land had its own agency, animacy and seasonality. But not one of them describes land as ‘waste’ or ‘useless’. One of the first places where the idea of ‘wasteland’ is systematized is in the English philosopher John Locke’s theory of property, which found its way into Indian law and governance as far back as the 1790s. Locke said “Provisions…produced by … one acre of inclosed and cultivated land are ten times more than those… lying in common” and “land that is left wholly to nature, that hath no improvement of pasturage, tillage or planting, is called, as indeed it is, waste”. The colonial vision of land completely disregarded ecological truths and the communities which depended on them. Woefully, this vision is still carried forward by our governance systems and policies till date.
Fortunately, sand dunes are recognized under Indian law. They are classified as CRZ-1A areas under the Coastal Regulation Zone rules of the Environment Protection Act (1986). All sand dune ecosystems have the highest legal protection, at the same level as coral reefs, seagrass beds, and mangroves, but this doesn’t ensure their protection unless demarcated by the Coastal Zone Management Authority on their maps. There are a handful of instances where this law has been used to recognize the importance of and protect coastal dune ecosystems. But its implementation is still weak, and dunes are yet to be comprehensively mapped and documented in India. There are several rich sand dune ecosystems I have visited along the North Tamil Nadu coastline, including around Odiyur Lagoon and Uppukali creek, which have not been recognized or demarcated by the Coastal Zone Management Authority, making their conservation a real challenge.
Coastal habitats and the biodiversity and local communities that depend on them are, and increasingly will be, the first to face the consequences of climate change and strong weather events. If ecosystems like sand dunes are protected, well researched, and celebrated, they can become our crucial first wall of defence—sheltering ecologies, hydrologies, and people.
Further Reading
Bhalla, R.S., et al. 2008. Studies on vulnerability and habitat restoration along the Coromandel coast. A post tsunami environment impact report. Foundation for Ecological Research, Advocacy and Learning (FERAL).
Namboothiri, N., et al. 2008. Policy Brief: Sand Dunes. Ashoka Trust for Research in Ecology and Environment.
Praxis. 2005. Village Level People’s Plans : Aspirations, Realities, Challenges. Praxis Institute for Participatory practices, Delhi.
