Five o’clock in the morning, The desert at night, The wind holds its breath, Awaiting the light.
Then from deep in the creek, A noise can be heard, The chatter, the natter, The waking of birds.
These birds are called babblers, A name that’s quite apt, And this is the story, Of how they adapt,
To their lives in the outback, The bush and the plain, And why they are known, By that unusual name.
Now father and mother, And uncle and brother, And sister and cousin, Fly out of the nest.
In the gathering warmth, They head of to breakfast, Creepers, hoppers and crawlies, Is what they like best.
Spiders, crickets and beetles, Small lizards and weevils, All these can be found, When you know how to look.
By pecking and fipping, Turning and tipping And poking your beak Into cranny and nook.
These are just the frst two pages of a longer story, which can be found at the following link https://issuu.com/universityofexeter/docs/babbler_birds_of_the_desert__1_ or ordered in hard-copy by contacting the author.
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Conservation is for everyone, and we help you understand it.
My name is Ravi and I study butterflies in the lush green forests of the Western Ghats region of India. A person who studies butterflies is known as a lepidopterist. I want to tell you a story about something I witnessed almost 10 years ago, when I was working in the Biligiri Rangan Betta Tiger Reserve, Karnataka.
During the dry season water becomes scarce in the reserve, and the wildlife depends on the fast shrinking water-holes for something to drink. This means that elephants, gaur, deer and other big mammals often gather in these places, and can be spotted quite easily.
I also used these waterholes to rest until I was picked up by my jeep, as they had a thick canopy and nice shade to rest under. One particular day, my field assistant Kete Gowda and I were returning home from the forest in the scorching May heat. The trees were all leafless and the waterbodies fast drying up. There was a strong smell of elephant and gaur, and we knew to be careful, as these animals can attack humans if they get too close. As we were sitting near a big pond, waiting for our ride, I noticed butterflies gathering beside the water. This activity where butterflies come to damp patches to drink water and absorb salts from the mud is called ‘mudpuddling’. As we watched we were amazed to see hundreds and thousands of these beautiful and delicate butterflies: red, blue, green, orange, black, white and all the colours one can imagine, coming together on the damp banks.
I returned to my field camp, my head full of questions. In particular, why don’t all these butterflies get eaten by predators? They seemed so exposed! Next day we went back to the water-hole to watch the butterflies again. That was the first of many such visits, watching, taking notes and pondering on what we were seeing. Eventually, something extraordinary became clear: the butterflies were not positioning themselves randomly along the water’s edge. Instead, we found that butterflies of a similar colour and size grouped together. That means for example that all butterflies that are yellow or all butterflies that are red, orange, crimson, etc. will come together, even if they belong to completely different species.
The reason for this, we think, is that grouping together in this way gives the butterflies protection from predators. By gathering with others of a similar size or colour, it makes it harder for predators to pick out a single individual and target them. Such behaviours have been observed in birds before, but this is the first time it has been seen in butterflies.
This was just one of my butterfly-adventures before starting out on 5 years of study for a degree in Ecology at the Indian Institute of Science.
Fun facts about butterflies
The butterflies go through three stages of development before they become adults. The first stage is the egg, the second is the caterpillar stage, where the caterpillar feeds on plants and grows, before it goes into the third stage, the pupal stage. During this stage the pupa cannot move and is attached to a twig or a leaf, protected in a hard chrysalis. Finally, the last stage is the adult stage, when the bright and beautiful adult butterfly emerges from the chrysalis and flies away.
Many butterfly species have a single type of plant on which they lay their eggs. So if a caterpillar that feeds on mango leaf is given a leaf of banana plant, it won’t feed on it.
Only male butterflies mudpuddle, and the salts which they absorb while mudpuddling are transferred to females while mating. This helps the females produce more eggs.
Butterflies form the base of the food chain and are also one of the most important pollinators for plants. The caterpillars are herbivores, meaning the feed only on plants, whereas the adults are nectarivores, meaning that their diet consists almost completely of the sugar-rich nectar produced by flowering plants.
What do sea snakes eat? Do different types of sea snakes eat the same things? Do they live in the same places? Do these behaviours change throughout the year? For the past two years I’ve been working in Malvan, Maharashtra, trying to answer these questions. But first there was something I had to figure out: how does one study an animal that spends most of its time underwater? Three words – fishers, boats and nets.
Perhaps before I go any further I should explain what a sea snake actually is. They are unique marine reptiles that evolved from land dwelling ancestors in the waters around Australia, 2 – 3 million years ago. Like all other reptiles they need to breathe air to survive, but can dive for up to 30 minutes at a time in search of food. Some sea snakes may come on to land to rest or to lay eggs – these are known as ‘sea kraits’. True sea snakes on the other hand live their whole lives at sea. To do this, they have evolved to give birth to live young and may have around 20 babies at a time. Sea snakes can be found all the way from Australia in the east to the Eastern Coast of Africa. Throughout this range they frequently come into contact with people. In Malvan, we have found 5 species of true sea snakes, of which the Beaked sea snake and the Shaw’s sea snake are the most common. These are the focus of my work.
Humans have been casting their nets into the oceans in search of food for thousands of years. As the number of people grew, more boats with better nets, lines, hooks and eventually engines began to operate in coastal waters. While we got better at catching large quantities of the tasty seafood we wanted, our nets would often also bring up other, inedible types of sea-life we hadn’t meant to catch and had no use for. This is known as ‘bycatch’ and it affects scores of marine organisms in coastal areas and oceans around the world. Sea snakes are very often caught as bycatch in fishers’ nets at Malvan, and we don’t know very much about what effect this is having on these marine reptiles.
Every morning the fishers at Malvan set out, while it’s still dark, around 2 am. They return to shore just after dawn, so my project assistant Yogesh and I try to wake up before the sun rises, as this the best time to meet them and see what they have caught. With our notepads and snake hooks (metal hooks with which we can gently pick up the snakes without being bitten) in hand, we walk along the beach. The fishers start with a bit of black tea then put on plastic overalls and start sorting their catch. Yogesh and I wave at our fisher friends and ask them what they caught that night. Every so often, a fisher will call us over. “Maruza!”, he’ll say, which means sea snake in the local Malvani. We then carefully collect the snake from the net and ask the fishermen for information about where they caught it, what depth the net was at, and what the habitat is like on the sea floor in that area. This helps us understand more about where the sea snakes are spending their time. Sometimes, we may show up late for the catch and then get an earful from the fishers for sleeping in. On average, we get around 3 – 4 snakes each morning.
We then take these snakes back to our field base where we measure them and check their stomachs for food, or eggs if it’s a female snake. We also take blood and scale samples which will tell us about what they’ve been eating and where they’ve been moving over the past few weeks or months. Once we have collected our data, we take the snakes back to the beach and release them into the water.
Through this work, with the help of our fisher friends, we hope to come a few steps closer to understanding how humans and sea snakes interact in their shared environment and how they can live together peacefully.
Sleepy early morning on the beach in Malvan, Maharashtra. Salty sea-dogs are combing the beach for scraps. The rich pickings from the fisher’s nets mean that the population is growing, but this causes conflict and many bear deep scars.
Along the beach, a shore-seine net is being pulled in. Towing one end of the net, a boat has made a big arc out to sea. As the net is played out behind, it makes a semicircle in which to trap the fish. Once the boat has returned to shore, fishers pull in both ends of the net.
Pulling the left and right ends of the net, they make a semi-circle in the sea. Back-breaking work!
But some sharp eyes have spotted something hidden in a corner of the net… A green sea turtle, caught by mistake and hidden amongst the fish.
The surprised and excited fishers carefully release the turtle and it begins to haul its way back to the sea. As the turtle slips back into the water, the fish is piled high.
In June 2015, I went to Ecuador for seven months, to study hummingbirds. The place I worked in, at an elevation of 3000m, was called El Gullan (pronounced el guyaan), after a flowering plant found in that area.
For the first two months I saw rainbows almost every day. El Gullan is on top of a plateau, with a view of a neverending valley. The vegetation is mostly scrub, rather than dense tropical forest, as you might imagine in Ecuador. A river trickled past, almost dry because it was an El Nino year and the rains were really whacky. There was lots of wind.
On a typical day, my field assistants and I would wake up at 4:30 – 5:00 in the morning, have a little coffee and something to eat and set out to open the mist nets, long lines of very thin nets, strung between poles. So thin are they that birds do not see them, and flying through, get caught. Every 20 minutes one of us would go see if any birds were in the nets. Other birds were simply released, but if a hummingbird was caught we would take it out, put a metal ring with a unique ID number on its leg, measure the length of its wing, leg and bill, and take photos. Sometimes we would collect its pee for analysis and let it go!
We would keep the nets open until around 10.30. By then the birds would be having some down time, and we were able to take some rest too. Our afternoons largely centred around delicious food. Breakfasts of scrambled eggs, omelettes, bread, cereal and juice. Then some time to enter our data onto a computer, discuss our work and read journal papers, before lunch. With a multinational team, lunches could be as colourful and varied as the hummingbirds. Sometimes I would make something Indian – perhaps a sabji with local vegetables, one guy loved to cook Chinese stir fry, or we would have Ecuadorian food, which is typically rice and beans, sometimes with meat. And whatever the food we’d always have local fruit juice to drink. It’s a very Ecuadorian thing to have juice with every meal. Sometimes tomato de arbole – a ‘tree tomato’, sometimes maracuya, sometimes granadia, all fruits I had never eaten before.
After lunch we would have some time to laze in the sun. Daily temperatures ranged from 0° – 40° C! We would sit outside and bask like lizards on the grass or a bench. Then from 4:00 – 6:30 in the evening we would go out again, hoping to catch a single hummingbird for a ‘torpor experiment’. Hummingbirds are able to go into torpor, a state where they shut off their metabolism and lower their body temperature, to get through a period when they are not feeding. We are usually taught that some animals like reptiles are cold-blooded and others like mammals and birds are warm-blooded. These hummingbirds can be both. We wanted to measure how much energy the bird uses during this torpor period. The night was split into two shifts and somebody would check the bird every hour. We found that almost all species of hummingbird use torpor to save energy at night. The longer a hummingbird uses torpor for, the more energy it saves. We also discovered that rather than just being asleep or being in torpor (which are different things), they can also do all kinds of things in between. Hummingbirds are very flexible in how they use their energy!
What a contrast my life in Ecuador was from my life back in my university in the US. In Stony Brook, I wake up by 9:00am, go to the lab by 10:00am, stay until about 7:00 or 8:00pm, head home and am asleep by midnight. All day, I sit at a computer crunching numbers, writing reports, reading papers and meeting people. My room at the university doesn’t even have a window so I have no idea if it is sunny or cloudy, day or night!
I do what I do to understand how animals interact with their environment, and specifically to see how hummingbirds manage their energy needs. During the day, they get energy from the food they eat. But if they do not eat for about two hours, they can die. So they need to be very careful about how they use their energy. Flying and hovering uses up energy really fast, so to do this they need to eat a lot. At night, meanwhile, they can use torpor, to save enough energy to go and find more food in the morning. We are learning that hummingbirds have some really interesting strategies to balance their energetic needs. This has wider implications, because hummingbirds are important pollinators of plants, so understanding how they survive in different environments will help us to predict how they, and their food plants, will fare should the environment change.
Fun facts
Unlike most other birds that just poop, hummingbirds pee. A LOT. They need to do this because they drink so much nectar, or sugar water from flowers 2 to3 times their weight every day.
Hummingbirds use up energy so quickly that if an average human used energy as fast as they do, the human would need to eat 600 packets of potato chips a day to survive (when they’would normally need about 15).
Hummingbirds are the only birds in the world that can fly backwards, in addition to flying forwards and hovering in one place. Their wings are structured very differently from other birds, allowing them to hover by moving them in a figure-8 pattern.
Hummingbird wings can beat as fast as 80 times a second. Their hearts can beat more than 1000 times a minute. Your heart normally beats about 70 times a minute.
Time must seem very different to hummingbirds, compared to us. Their bodies (especially their heart, wings, and lungs) work so fast that their brains have to send signals for their wings to move backwards when the wings are only just starting to move forwards.
Hidden beneath Earth’s surface, is a vast biodiversity of invertebrate animals. These animals are small and have unique adaptations that allow them to live in perpetual darkness. Subterranean animals can move through small crevices, caves, or the depths of entire groundwater systems. Among the different invertebrate groups inhabiting groundwater environments in North America are freshwater snails. Nearly 40 species have been discovered underground and nowhere else.
As currently understood, most of the snails living underground have highly restricted distributions, including twelve species each known from a single location. These snails are restricted to living in underground environments, and biologists have great difficulty studying them and identifying the various threats they may face. Unfortunately, the changes we make to the surface also directly impact aspects of underground ecosystems like groundwater quality. As such, without a greater study of these snails, we may lose these species without ever learning about or even discovering them.
To raise awareness about these unique and neglected snails hidden beneath our feet, we set out to conduct a formal literature review to highlight their biodiversity and conservation needs. We also wanted to provide conservationists with updated information about the status of each species and the research needed to ensure their protection.
Our review of all past studies shows that, compared to other invertebrates that are restricted to groundwater, freshwater snails are among the most taxonomically diverse and widely distributed. Yet, compared to other small groundwater animals like crustaceans, there is no information about most species beyond initial discovery and description. Groundwater-restricted snails are geographically concentrated in several different ‘karst regions’ of the United States and Mexico. A karst region is characterized by the breakdown or dissolution of soluble rocks such as limestone, which can lead to the formation of crevices and later, entire cave systems. These types of rocks can continue to dissolve over millions of years, and karst regions often develop large underground passages which serve as huge groundwater reservoirs. No species is found in more than one karst region, and most genera are also restricted to only one of these regions.
Our review further shows that at least 82 percent of groundwater-restricted snail species in North America are at an increased risk of extinction. Unfortunately, conservation programs cannot be developed with such limited knowledge about the basic biology of these snails. This makes it difficult for conservation biologists to design plans to protect species because basic information about what any given species needs to survive is missing.
Currently, only three of these species are given protection by federal governments. Past research on one of these protected species—the Manitou Cavesnail (Antrobia culveri)—shows that direct population monitoring and ecological studies can help protect groundwater-restricted snails. Several studies of the Manitou Cavesnail have also shown that in order for the groundwater habitat to be protected, the entire aboveground watershed also needs to be protected.
For example, a large area surrounding the only known population of the Manitou Cavesnail was deforested, which indirectly led to increased sedimentation in groundwater. To help resolve this threat, conservationists replanted thousands of trees in the surrounding forest, which improved groundwater quality. This management strategy demonstrates that prioritizing the protection of these snails can also improve above-ground conditions for other animals.
Based on our review, we recommend beginning targeted research and monitoring efforts of species that lack baseline information like geographic distribution, reproduction, and population dynamics. The conservation community needs to prioritize studying species that we know little about. By doing so, extinctions can be prevented. Increased attention to the conservation of snails will also help with land surface management, and maintain or improve the health of groundwater, which is essential for drinking water and agriculture.
Disclaimer: The findings and conclusions in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily represent the views of the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service.
Further reading
Gladstone, N. S., M. L. Niemiller, B. Hutchins, B. Schwartz, A. Czaja, M. E. Slay, and N. V. Whelan. 2021. Subterranean freshwater gastropod biodiversity and conservation in the United States and Mexico. Conservation Biology.
Modern zoos and aquariums maintain their animal collections to inspire, engage and educate their visitors, as well as to actively participate in conservation action for threatened species and habitats. Zoos and aquariums are also active scientific institutions, developing novel research projects that stretch across both scientific and humanities disciplines, giving added value to the animals they manage directly in the zoo, and those they help protect out in the wild. Scientific investigation has been at the heart of zoos since their inception. The world’s oldest zoo, London Zoo, run by the Zoological Society of London, was founded in 1826. The zoo has advanced our understanding of anatomy, physiology, behaviour, ecology, veterinary medicine, animal welfare, and animal nutrition, thanks to the accessibility of the non-domestic species housed at the zoo. Now, some two hundred years later, zoos and aquariums across the globe are at the forefront of scientific enquiry, allowing students to seasoned academics the opportunity to collect data and gather information, to answer questions that will benefit both animal and human subjects alike.
Research and conservation
Often in partnership with academic institutions, accredited (e.g. by the Association of Zoos and Aquariums, AZA; European Association of Zoos and Aquaria, EAZA) zoological facilities undertake far-reaching research into pure and applied sciences, social sciences and humanities, as well as being at the cutting edge of questions relating to new forms of technology (e.g. developing novel ways of measuring animal behaviour that can be trialled out in the field) and communication (e.g., evaluating how social media can be harnessed to effectively engage with an audience and spread a message).
Scientific output from zoos and aquariums has advanced our understanding of how to protect and conserve endangered species, from the once ‘extinct in the wild’ Arabian oryx (Oryx leucoryx)—an emblematic species at the heart of the very first coordinated conservation breeding attempt between zoos around the globe—to the critically endangered mountain chicken frog (Leptodactylus fallax). Without research into the species’ needs, husbandry, and care, conservation action could not have enabled the Arabian oryx to be bred and re-released into the wild, nor allowed the mountain chicken frog population to increase and be distributed across 30 zoos globally.
Zoos and aquariums that prioritise animal welfare, education, and research—as per licensing requirements and professional aims—generate impactful scientific data, which enhance our understanding of the natural world, and provide solutions to environmental challenges such as biodiversity loss and climate change. Research, conservation, and education aims enable the zoo and aquarium to build value on why the animal collection is maintained, as well as contributing to wider aims of global sustainability and environmental awareness. The synergy between these three aims means that zoos and aquariums:
Enable data collection for research across diverse projects areas that is not possible in traditional lab or university settings
Actively educate the next generation about the importance of the evidence-based approach to all aspects of information-finding and use of information when solving a problem
Can effectively meet conservation action goals and support conservation in the field and in the zoo, by channeling resources into research (to underpin why conservation is needed) and education (to raise awareness of the threats faced by a species)
Zoos and aquariums share this scientific data with the wider world of their members, visitors and patrons, and other academic-, research- and conservation-focussed institutions. Symposia and conferences allow for the results of zoo and aquarium research to be disseminated to other parties, who can apply the findings to their own research. Conservation is all about collaboration, and these conferences and symposia encourage dialogue and networking that ultimately brings more expertise to planned or on-going conservation action, which only enhances the chances of success for the threatened species involved.
Zoos are also excellent training facilities for future scientists to learn and apply research skills, facilitating the completion of many thousands of projects that have benefits to humans and animals alike. Student research has provided new findings on species’ husbandry requirements and enhanced our knowledge of animal welfare needs in commonly housed taxa, highlighting that research projects completed as training aids for animal-based courses are more than just coursework for the student.
Zoo research has a wider impact than on the animals in their enclosures. Dissemination of how to best promote environmental awareness and a connection with nature during educational visits, enables zoo education programmes to maximise behaviour change. Given the millions of schoolchildren that visit zoos each year, the application of such research into practice has profound and far-reaching impacts on building connectedness with the natural world. Results from in-situ zoo research have been used to better facilitate opportunities for conservation learning out in the field, demonstrating the far reaching outputs of science performed using ex-situ populations.
Conservation research is the foundation for endangered species care, recovery and rehabilitation—a vital last stand for many populations of near-extinct species that, without involvement from zoological establishments, would have disappeared due to negative anthropogenic effects on their habitat. One approach that integrates zoo-based study with ecological information from a species’ native range, can enhance the likelihood of population sustainability and viability for threatened taxa, thereby leading to successful conservation action.
The impact of COVID-19 on zoos and aquariums
Sadly, just like many of the species cared for by dedicated zookeepers and aquarists, this unique environment for scientific investigation offered by the zoo and aquarium is under threat of disappearing. The closure of many establishments to their visitors during the height of the pandemic, and the limitations to accessibility and visitor numbers since the easing of the lockdown, have seriously impacted the financial viability of many zoos and aquariums. Prioritisation of available funding towards animal care is likely to reduce the output of research and conservation activities, as focus turns to essential animal husbandry and welfare activities.
The continued challenges posed by the COVID-19 pandemic to the operation of zoological facilities means that the act of conducting zoo science, and then applying the findings of research to animals of conservation concern, is at risk of extinction. The pandemic has caused some zoos and aquariums to furlough staff and shut down to visitors (in some cases permanently), while others are left strategising their viability with COVID restrictions in place.
New ways of communicating
In July 2020, the British & Irish Association of Zoos & Aquariums (BIAZA) Research Committee’s research conference, an annual event normally held in a UK or Republic of Ireland zoo, was transformed due to the pandemic into an online, virtual conference, providing a highly visible and accessible platform for zoo research. A month after the event (which typically has around 120 delegates when running as an in-person attended conference), social media analytics show 65,000 people have engaged with the event, with individual talks attracting up to 7,000 views, catapulting zoo science to new audiences globally. Clearly, this is not just an audience of fellow zoo and aquarium biologists, so this online format has increased accessibility to other audiences and brought science and research into the homes of interested individuals, who may not have been engaged otherwise. Talks at the virtual conference featured examples of collaborations between zoos and aquariums with higher education institutions, museums, and in-situ conservation organisations, and were based on results gained from data collected by undergraduate and post-graduate students, alongside work from early career and established scientists.
This is an example of the reach that zoological institutions can have when they harness new forms of communication and engage with their visitors (both in-person and online “zoo-goers”) in a new way—science communication harnessing social media enables reach of larger, more diverse audiences with some zoo output that may, traditionally, be more restricted both in scope and audience. For example, scientific research conferences, which may not traditionally appeal to mass participation can, when presented using social media, seem more accessible and engaging.
It is clear that there is a public appetite to engage with scientific research, and the conference views for this virtual event suggests a far greater reach than only zoo and aquarium researchers. The accessibility of such online research conferences may make them feel less threatening than in-person meetings, and hence a greater diversity of participants are encouraged to attend from the comfort of their own surroundings. Zoos and aquariums need to build an online presence with the aim of encouraging visitors back into the zoo, by showcasing what the zoo and aquarium has done, is doing, and can do if support continues. Channelling this enthusiasm for zoo research into events that can generate income—through donations or ticket sales—for example, where an audience “meets an expert”, could help link the science and research to the wider world, in a virtual fashion, whilst raising funds.
Going forward
As the pandemic continues, zoos, aquariums, and academic institutions must work more closely than ever to ensure that research questions important to biodiversity conservation, population sustainability, human behaviour change, and advancing animal welfare, can continue to be answered, utilising new ways of engaging with researchers and novel methods for data collection. We consider collaboration and diversification of how we conduct research, key to ensuring the sustainability of zoo science, zoos and most importantly, the animal populations they strive to conserve.
Supporting zoos and aquariums through philanthropy and donation is crucial to create sustainable financing of scientific projects and conservation programmes. Engagement with zoos virtually is now easier than ever, with keeper talks being presented live on Facebook and Instagram, and virtual tours being given to online audiences by expert members of zoo staff. Animal adoption and sponsorship projects also generate income that is used to support research and conservation goals, often focussed on the species at the centre of the adoption scheme. It is vitally important that accredited, well-run zoos with scientific, educational and conservation aims at the heart of what they do, remain open. If the restrictions placed on zoos and aquariums cause these multifaceted institutions to go extinct, then many of the species they have cared for, are at risk too.
Further reading
Conde, D., J. Staerk, F. Colchero, R. da Silva, J. Schöley, H. Baden and L. Jouvet et al. 2019. Data gaps and opportunities for comparative and conservation biology. Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences 116(19): 9658-9664.
Fernandez, E. & W. Timberlake. 2008. Mutual benefits of research collaborations between zoos and academic institutions. Zoo Biology 27(6): 470-487.
Hosey, G., J. Harley and S. Ward. 2019. Research and research training in BIAZA zoos and aquariums. Journal of Zoo and Aquarium Research 7(4): 210-217.
Each culture has a very specific relationship with nature, and the mere idea of nature also varies among cultures. In this study, we browsed 76 of the most spoken languages in the world, in order to see what word they use to refer to “nature”.
We were surprised to find that all these languages use only a handful of words for “nature”, which are widespread across languages and linguistic families, and embrace closely the distribution of the main religions: a Latin-derived word for Catholics and Protestants, a Slav-derived word for Orthodox Christians (except Greece, where an ancient Greek word is used), an Arabic-derived word throughout the Islamic world (except Turkey, Pakistan and Indonesia), a Sanskrit-derived word in most of India, a Pāli-derived word in Buddhist South-East Asia, and a Chinese-derived word in East Asia. Hence, it looks like the idea of nature appeared with advanced civilizations, and organized religions (Ducarme & Couvet, 2020). No word (hence no idea of “nature”) was found in traditional languages outside major urbanized civilizational areas, which is consistent with the anthropological literature (such as Descola, 2013).
Repartition map of the main morphemes throughout present dominant languages. Each color represents a morpheme: blue = natura (from Latin), green = tabia (from Semitic languages), pink = priroda (from Slavic), red = zi rán (from Chinese), purple = prakṛti (from Sanskrit), orange = thammachat (from Pali). Dark grey represents isolated morphemes, and brown represents languages using a general word for “nature” (such as “world” or “environment”). Light grey = no data.
We isolated 5 main semantic clusters among these words sharing a common etymological meaning despite distinct origins, which can be summed up as follows: birth (Latin, Turkish, Slavic, Amharic), proliferation (Greek, Sanskrit, Magyar), spontaneity (Chinese, Finnish, Tamil), original mark (Semitic languages) and what follows rules (Urdu and Pāli).
All these represent different visions of nature, and only the Semitic-derived one (“original mark”), influenced by monotheism, describes nature as something passive, created by an almighty God dominating it, hence allowing humanity to do the same. Today’s worldwide conservation of nature is mostly inspired by 19th-century North American conservationism, which was rooted in a very specific cultural and religious context. Hence, such a vision of nature conservation may not be legitimate in other countries, or even no longer in the Western world. For example, the North American tradition cherishes the idea of “wilderness” (Callicott & Nelson, 1998), places of Creation seemingly unaltered by (white) Man: such an idea can’t exist in many regions such as Europe or India, which have been populated virtually forever, and where mankind is a part of “nature”.
We, therefore, advocate for rooting conservation in local cultures and matching the local vision of nature, which does include humans in many cultures. Now that the Western vision of nature in question, it may be time for a greater diversity of cultural ideas of nature, concepts, and uses to be incorporated into mainstream conservation initiatives, which would especially help in the inclusion of ecosystem services and large-scale biochemical cycles.
Callicott, J. B., & Nelson, M. P. (Eds.). 1998. The Great New Wilderness Debate. University of Georgia Press.
Descola, P. (2013). Beyond Nature and Culture. (J. Lloyd, Ed.). Chicago: Chicago University Press. https://doi.org/10.1073/pnas.0703993104
Ducarme, F., & Couvet, D. (2020). What does “nature” mean ? Nature Humanities and Social Sciences Communications, 6(14), 1–8. https://doi.org/10.1057/s41599-020-0390-y
The Afghan landscape we are familiar with is one that is at the crossroad of a bleak future; cities are flattened into rubble, and life hangs by a thread as many continue to be silenced by gunshots and bombs. The breakdown of civil order and the US-led war in Afghanistan in 2001 dealt a heavy blow to the country’s economy and set development on a negative curve. In the last 30 years, Afghanistan, which was once at the centre of a great cultural exchange, witnessed over 100,000 thousand civilian deaths and the destruction of its Buddhist legacy under the Taliban rule.
Alex Dehgan’s book, The Snow Leopard Project and Other Adventures in Warzone Conservation, takes us into this desolation that pierces through Afghanistan’s mountains and valleys, coniferous forests, and desert-scapes. Its biodiverse landscapes are congregation grounds for migratory birds flying across Asia, Africa, and Eurasia. Home to some of the earth’s most enigmatic and elusive species, Afghan landscapes are threatened by the lack of infrastructure, and left largely undocumented as scientific research becomes difficult in a warzone. Yet, snow leopards, Persian leopards, Marco Polo sheep, markhor, ibexes, Asiatic black bears, golden eagles, and bustards—some of which are endangered or near threatened—and also the Afghanodon, an endemic salamander, continue to thrive in this perilous atmosphere.
The memoir weaves in and out through dangerous roads laid with mines and IEDs, craftily navigating the suffocating space of international conservation, where burning more money meant greater impact, building trust, and working with communities towards conservation goals. These are all too familiar for anyone who has worked in the conservation sector, except that the challenges are embittered with the risks found in a warzone. Filled with first-hand narratives, the book mentions several projects that were introduced during Dehgan’s posting in Afghanistan as the Country Director of the Wildlife Conservation Society (WCS).
However, even towards the end of the book, we remain curious about what happened to these projects— were they successful or not? In some cases, these initiatives failed, like the talks to create a trans-boundary peace park in Wakhan in partnership with Afghanistan, Tajikistan, Pakistan, and China, which ended in a diplomatic mishap. Yet, it informs us of the potential for wildlife conservation even across boundaries, making us ponder such possibilities in other landscapes. On the other hand, as the author leaves some stories untold and unfinished, we also become aware of the arduous task that lies ahead for conservation. Safeguarding our planet and its flora and fauna is a long-drawn process, achieved only through collaboration and mutual understanding, and sometimes risks.
It meant being in an uncomfortable conflict with the conviction that conservation would not necessarily mean the exclusive protection of a species. Alex Dehgan, during his time in Afghanistan, introduced hunting programs which would allow wealthy individuals to hunt the fabled Marco Polo sheep for game. While this did entail backlash from the global community, it allowed revenue to flow in, which could help in strengthening the conservation efforts in the region, something which was achieved through collaborations with local leaders. On another occasion, the organization worked closely with the farming community to protect the snow leopard population that they viewed as a threat to their livestock. By agreeing to reimburse any livestock loss that was caused due to depredation by snow leopards, they were able to convince the farmers to stop killing this elusive species. Later, they were also able to create awareness about other causes for the death of livestock — diseases and insufficient nutrition.
Dehgan’s work in Afghanistan involved approaching conservation scientifically through strong collaborations. At the crux of the memoir are insights on rebuilding man’s relationship with nature, and the interwoven tapestry of culture and nature. In Afghanistan, as people tried to continue living amidst the political unrest and instability, the very foundation of their subsistence was thrown off-balance. Afghanistan is a predominantly rural country, where the lives of people are intertwined with their surrounding ecosystems for sustenance. People depend on them for fuelwood, fruits, traditional crops, game meat, grazing, and other ecosystem services. In this precarious landscape, where human lives remain endangered, the risk to wildlife is even greater, as the competing forces of survival and interdependence remain locked in struggle.
Thus, it comes as no surprise that a flourishing market in the illegal trade of timber emerged, and poaching of animals for flesh and fur steeply increased. The impact of war on human and wildlife was exacerbated by the unusually long spells of drought from 1995. The community’s search for water in a parched land made the underground water reserve plummet, thereby destabilizing the wetland ecosystems and further intensifying the scarcity of water. The volatile political environment left a gaping wound on these landscapes,at once fragmenting the rich cultural and biological tapestries of existence.
Nonetheless, it is in this cultural dependency on nature and an assertion of cultural identity that we find a solution for not only protecting the environment, but also rebuilding a society, which has witnessed bombings, bloodshed, and impoverishment over the last few decades. Throughout this deeply personal narrative, we meet individuals from the Afghan community who exhibit jubilant interest and lend their support to WCS’s conservation efforts. They are, perhaps, the true heroes of this memoir. Dehgan refers to his time there as “the most fulfilling experiences of his conservation career”. The Afghans are a proud community, and the three decades of war had severed not only their connection to the land to which they belonged, but also undermined their morale. The conservation of Afghanistan’s natural heritage was in effect an opportunity for these communities to rebuild their identities, and reclaim a part of their lost heritage.
The book enables us to contemplate the role of not just a community’s search for identity, but also that of an individual’s—whether personal or cultural—often bearing the potential to drive decisions of great consequence. A reflection of the author’s motive for working in Afghanistan confronts us with his identity as an American citizen of Iranian heritage, who risked prosecution as a US diplomat in Iran. Afghanistan was the closest he could come to his own culture and identity, in addition to the enigmatic allure of the chaos that the war presented. During his search, he became instrumental in establishing Afghanistan’s first national park. His memoir also invites us to revisit geopolitics and sociopolitics through the shattered lens of culture and identity.
Selected by the journal Nature as the top five reads of 2019, the Snow Leopard Project is a brilliant read that gives an honest account of the internal workings of international conservation agencies. Beyond that, it is a book that essentially speaks of the cultural significance of nature, and prompts us to rethink conservation in war-affected regions across the globe—both its dire need and the opportunities it provides.
The fastest land animal in the world can sprint up to 70 mph, but cannot outrun its own extinction. One hundred years ago there were around 100,000 cheetahs (Acinonyx jubatus) roaming across the African plains and even parts of Asia. Now there are estimated to be only 6000–8000 individuals left on the entire planet. With over 90% of the species’ historical population gone in a century, cheetah conservationists are concerned that we could lose the species, both in the wild and in captivity, in a matter of decades. Thankfully, man’s best friend is helping to protect this fast cat species.
A different kind of cat
Compared to the other 40 species of cats in the world, the cheetah differs notably from its feline friends—so much that the cheetah was once thought to be more closely related to dogs. These fast felids have a unique claw structure as their claws are semi-retractable, giving their tracks the appearance of a canid’s. Despite this morphological characteristic, the cheetah is a cat through and through and has this special adaptation (along with many others) to allow it to do what it does best—run.
In addition to top speeds of 60–70 mph, cheetahs also have an acceleration rate of 0–60 mph in 3.4 seconds. They have a long, flexible spine in order to reach great stride lengths of 20–25 feet; a large heart, lungs, adrenal glands, and nasal cavity to process oxygen quickly; and a small head and ears to reduce drag while chasing prey.
While all of these adaptations allow the cheetah to be quick, there is a trade-off. Many of these adaptations facilitate speed at the cost of more traditional predatory adaptations. For instance, sharp semi-retractable claws help a cheetah gain traction while running, but the constant contact during movement blunts the claws. The cheetah’s small head and large nasal cavity, located above the canine teeth, allow for maximum aerodynamic movement, but limit its jaw strength and canine teeth growth.
In order to be aerodynamic, cheetahs have leaner muscles and are small relative to their cousins in the Panthera family. Females weigh 60–85 pounds and males 80–110, compared to leopards (the next largest African cat), where females and males weigh 65–135 and 85–175 pounds, respectively.
Scaredy cat of the savannah
These characteristics mean that the cheetah is not well-equipped to stand up to other African predators such as lions, leopards, and hyenas. This leaves them at a disadvantage in arguments that erupt over territory or prey.
Fortunately for the survival of the species, this lightweight cat has developed a behavioural adaptation to compensate for its physical disadvantage—cheetahs are skittish. This animal has evolved to understand that it cannot win in a fight with other predators, but it can win the footrace. Coupled with sharp daytime vision, thanks to their elongated eyes, cheetahs are able to scan the horizon and see threats coming up to three miles away, before making a quick dash.
Cheetahs are often victims of kleptoparasitism, with other predators, such as hyenas and lions, stealing their prey. Cheetahs are so skittish that they have even been observed being driven away from their kills by baboons and vultures. Fear of competition often leads to cheetahs lowering their predation rate in areas where lions and hyenas are present. And as opposed to most other cat species, they are diurnal hunters, in order to avoid competition from other large predators that hunt at night.
The problem
Pastoralism is critical to the livelihood and culture of many people in sub-Saharan Africa. As human population increases and more permanent farms replace traditional migratory pastoral practices, predators and humans are more frequently coming into conflict. Too often, the simple solution for farmers is to shoot predators on sight, to alleviate the threat posed to their livestock and livelihood.
Cheetahs, like many carnivores throughout history, are considered to be a threat to local livestock—predominantly small sheep and goats, which comprise up to 6% of the cheetah’s diet. However, they are disproportionately persecuted because of their high visibility during the day.
Imagine waking up to find that your livelihood and food source have been taken away from you. You instinctively rise in anger and try to prevent this from happening again. You set out to find the culprit and find the cheetah more often than other predators, due to its diurnal behaviour.
This association has helped label the cheetah as a pest to locals. This conflict now commonly occurs all over the globe, in areas where humans are starting to move into traditional carnivore territory. Wolves were exterminated in many parts of the United States, due to persecution from ranchers, who were threatened by the presence of a carnivore near their livestock. The same is happening now with cheetahs throughout Africa.
Can a big dog be the answer for these big cats?
Thankfully, a group of conservationists, including Dr. Laurie Marker and Rebecca Klein, came up with a solution—large guard dogs for the local farms. Livestock guardian dogs or LGDs have been used throughout the world to help mitigate conflict between ranchers and carnivores, and protect herds from predation.
The idea is simple, but it makes sense. Puppies (traditionally Anatolian Shepherds, but some programs also use local Twasa dogs) are introduced to livestock as young pups, to allow them to imprint on the herd and instinctively protect them from predators.
Because cheetahs are skittish predators that instinctively avoid conflict, the goal of the LGD is to scare away cheetahs by barking. If cheetahs are avoiding flocks, then any losses are caused by another predator, showing farmers that cheetahs are innocent.
At first, the idea was slow to catch on. Local farmers did not want to have another mouth to feed, and they worried that the guardian dogs would potentially go after their flock.
However, a small group of farmers in Namibia decided to take a chance, once it became known that the LGD’s food, medical expenses, and training were taken care of by the conservation program giving them the puppy. After that, the idea took off. Witnessing their success at keeping flocks safe not only from cheetahs, but other predators as well, more locals wanted their own dog.
Community conservation is key to the cheetah’s ability to survive. Cheetahs occur in low densities and prefer to be one of the only cat species around, to reduce the probability of kleptoparasitism. This means that a vast majority, around 90% of the wild population lives outside of protected areas, where other predator populations thrive.
The use of LGDs for livestock protection and cheetah conservation has increased in popularity, and is now being employed by multiple organizations throughout Africa, such as the Cheetah Conservation Fund in Namibia, Cheetah Conservation in Botswana, and Action for Cheetahs in Kenya.
All organizations specially tailor their program to reflect the culture and needs of locals, and work to change the perception of cheetahs through the local individuals’ own personal experiences.
Overall, livestock guardian programs tend to be one of the most successful and most beneficial forms of mitigating human-cheetah conflict. Participating pastoralists in various locations have seen a decrease in incidents, if not an elimination of livestock predation, after receiving and training an LGD.
Further, these programs are so effective that cheetah populations are stabilizing, and in some areas are increasing, where these LGD programs are in place. This gives conservationists hope that, with the help of dogs, the world’s fastest cat might just win the race against extinction.
Further Reading
Braun, E. (1994). Helping the cheetah cheat extinction. Animals , 127 (5), 36.
Dickman, A. J., Macdonald, E. A., & Macdonald, D. W. (2011). A review of financial instruments to pay for predator conservation and encourage human–carnivore coexistence. Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, 201012972.
Marker, L. L., Dickman, A. J., & Macdonald, D. W. (2005). Perceived effectiveness of livestock-guarding dogs placed on Namibian farms. Rangeland Ecology & Management , 58 (4), 329-336.
Potgieter, G., Kerley, G., & Marker, L. (2016). More bark than bite? The role of livestock guarding dogs in predator control on Namibian farmlands. Oryx, 50 (3), 514-522.
In June 2015, I (SL) had my first stint with ecological fieldwork. I joined the long-term hornbill monitoring project of the Nature Conservation Foundation (NCF) at the Pakke Tiger Reserve in Arunachal Pradesh, India. On the first day, I was told to wake up at 3:30 a.m., brave the thunder and the rain, and walk inside the forest to monitor hornbill nests. The mental preparation was severely lacking, and it was quite unnerving to drive some of the way, and walk the remaining in a dark forest amidst the presence of elephants. I was certain that ecology was not my cup of tea, and started to seriously consider my plan B—becoming a railway loco driver.
But over the next month, not only was this routine possible, but it was made thoroughly enjoyable in the company of Turuk, Tali, and Kumar Daju, who work as field collaborators with NCF. To call them field assistants would be a thorough understatement to their tremendous resourcefulness and support. Sometimes, I felt like I was merely in their way. They knew the hornbills, the fruits, the elephants, the forest (Tali was thoughtful enough to first beat the soil and wake up the mushrooms before picking them up for lunch!). From someone who made up his mind to never look back at Pakke and ecology, I now make it a point to visit the place whenever I am in the area. This turnaround happened entirely because of them.
Bridesh Kumar proved an independent field worker and was capable of collecting data, inputting it in worksheets on a PC, and provided valuable observational inputs throughout his work engagement with RJ/BNHS on the Bengal Florican project; he earned a co-authorship in a journal publication resulting from the work
In May 2019, I (RJ) had to take a five-day leave from monitoring nests of the Indian Skimmer and other river-island nesting birds as part of fieldwork duty in the National Chambal Sanctuary, Uttar Pradesh, to travel to Bangalore for an interview. Since intensive and regular monitoring of nesting birds was the most important aspect of our fieldwork, and being the only researcher on the project, I was hesitant to travel. Despite my field collaborator, Atul Kushwaha, being competent, I was reluctant to completely handover field responsibilities, even if only for a few days. As it turned out, in my absence, he meticulously collected field data, carefully captured field photographs, expertly deployed camera traps, as and when required, all this with little to no supervision. I realised that I had severely underestimated both his ability and commitment.
Colonial hangover in the field
We often hear the narrative of the global north and its colonial mindset prevalent in the way science is done in the global south. From not acknowledging local collaborators to denying authorship, the field is full of examples. However, we must not hide behind that smokescreen and deny that field ecology is free of this distinction, even in the global south. There are ample examples of unfair treatment of local collaborators including low wages, inadequate protection, accentuated by the lack of or weak implementation of statutory provisions, unusually high workload, and fewer leaves. As Dr. Ovee Thorat, who has a PhD from the Ashoka Trust for Research in Ecology and Environment (ATREE), Bangalore says, “We are not merely researchers, but often a bridge to an extractive system for them, which can often treat them as mere labourers. In a sense, it is quite a colonial system that we still continue to follow.”
Most local collaborators, by virtue of their hardy upbringing, are adept at various tasks, as Bridesh Kumar co-rows this boat across a river to reach RJ’s field site on the other side
As young ecologists who have had their fair share of volunteering, internships, and their own research, we have, over the past few years, understood that we are all handicapped without local field support. Ask any field researcher or scientist, and they will tell you the same. So what can we, as field ecologists, do to ensure their inclusivity and dignity?
Higher pay and insurance
Ensuring regular increments in wages commensurate to role, experience and qualifications, and providing foolproof insurance are essential first steps. For a fairly risky job that involves a high probability of encounter with potentially dangerous animals or with dangerous elements such as armed poachers, smugglers, and miners, personal accident insurance is a must. Wherever possible, and especially for experienced workers engaged by scientists long-term, this could be topped up with a Mediclaim policy, thereby offering a double layer of security from unforeseen events in the field.
Wages that are at least 1.25 times higher than the state’s minimum wage norms (skilled/semi-skilled/unskilled, depending on the kind of work they are expected to do) could be offered as well. These bare minima must be included in any field project’s budgetary expenses right from the planning stages. If the appointed field collaborator (up to age 50) is a graduate in any discipline, for projects being funded by departments and agencies under various ministries of the Government of India, the current legally sanctioned wage is INR 18,000 along with house rent allowance (most collaborators may not be eligible for HRA). An honest effort should be made by ecologists to make sure that this benefit reaches eligible personnel.
Wage disbursal on time is also of utmost importance. During the ongoing pandemic, depending on the budgetary space one’s project offers, one could consider offering at least fifteen days’ worth of wages in advance to cushion for any unforeseen medical expenses. Where wages are directly deposited by institutes/organisations/universities into the collaborator’s bank account resulting in a tax deduction at source (TDS) of ten percent every month, we could ensure that their tax returns are filed for the year, which might enable the reimbursement of this TDS amount.
Atul Kushwaha proved both his commitment and work ethic while efficiently carrying out assigned field duties during RJ’s five-day absence from the National Chambal Sanctuary
However, standardising and increasing salaries for field collaborators can only be initiated at the institutional level, and this should not fall only under the ambit of early career researchers who are strapped for field funds, and are often forced to pay the collaborators lower than what is expected.
Institutes/Departments/Organisations engaged in ecological fieldwork must also develop a special account/corpus with compulsory contributions of, let’s say, even 0.25 percent from all sanctioned projects (or set aside some fixed proportion from institutional overhead charges) that could be put to use during emergencies that may arise due to a mishap/an accident during fieldwork. This could also be useful to early career researchers and students of wildlife, who typically cannot afford sudden expenses that may arise due to such unfortunate events. Besides these, we could explain the importance of long-term voluntary saving options for post working-age life. As an example, while most rural folk (where most wildlife/ecology-related fieldwork happens) are informed about postal saving schemes, very few know about the Government of India-backed Public Provident Fund (PPF) scheme that offers relatively higher, safer, and tax-free returns, among other benefits.
Sharing of knowledge with field collaborators
Training field/local collaborators in various aspects of research, in whatever way possible, can ensure that they have job security outside research projects’ durations. Many of the village residents at Singchung Village, Eaglenest Wildlife Sanctuary, for example, have been trained and are exceptionally well-versed with the local birds and plants, and are also good at conducting surveys. This empowers them to potentially make additional income by guiding tourists in and around the Sanctuary, or establish their own homestay facilities with the right training and support. Such capacity-building should be encouraged, and researchers should devote time to ensure that they share their knowledge with their collaborators. “Often, local collaborators need jobs, and an exposure to a wide network of research non-governmental organisations (NGOs) can help them in the future,” says Dr. Anwesha Dutta, a postdoctoral researcher at the Christian Michelsen Institute (CMI), Bergen, Norway. Wherever any field collaborator has collected substantial ecological data independently, or assisted project activities intellectually, they must be given authorship rights (not just acknowledgement) in publications resulting from the relevant work. This could help them secure more formal and long-term engagements with other organisations.
However, similarly, it is also equally important to learn and inculcate learnings from community members and collaborators into research — especially ones that have the capacity to affect the community. Field researchers are often complicit in making decisions without consulting community members and field collaborators, and hence, a large part of their knowledge is lost or unacknowledged. Through this, whenever relevant, we call for knowledge sharing to be bi-directional, rather than a top-down model from researcher to collaborator.
Community well-being
We believe that one of the biggest contributions that we, as field ecologists, can make is to listen to the problems of the field collaborators and try to bring them up with relevant authorities. I (SL) learnt this the hard way (I am still learning)—despite spending four months in Dehing Patkai, I was unable to address the issues of wildlife conflict in Bablu’s village (our project’s local collaborator). However, the important lesson is that, given that we usually have access to multiple resources, we must make a concerted and conscious effort to do our bit—write about the issues, bring them up with the local forest department officials or other relevant authorities, and provide financial help, if and whenever needed.
Bridesh Kumar, a trained and experienced field worker, who has assisted and worked with various researchers and organisations, such as the World Wildlife Fund for Nature (WWF) India, Wildlife Trust of India (WTI), and the Bombay Natural History Society (BNHS), in projects in and around Dudhwa Tiger Reserve over the past ten years, says that the one expectation he has from researchers is being treated with respect. He says, “Field assistants like myself do not operate under any fixed tenure, but rather at the pleasure of researchers we work with. It would be nice if we are looked at as hardworking, respectable individuals who might also need the occasional day off, let’s say.”
Respect and acknowledgement
Constant acknowledgement, understanding their position in the society, their backgrounds, needs, and family considerations are some of the things that field researchers must always be aware of.
Ultimately, we believe that these are only some of the many ways in which field ecologists can begin to more actively engage local collaborators in the study they are undertaking. They are not just paid hands. There will be many more instances in which field researchers have taken up these issues in their own ways, which need to be amplified and applauded, yet normalised.
“Researchers must also always check their position when it comes to power dynamics with field collaborators,” adds Dr. Dutta. As Baker et al. mention in their recent paper, “To describe research as if carried out from a neutral perspective is to pretend to “view from nowhere” (Shapin 1998); that has been robustly critiqued by both feminist (Haraway 1988) and postcolonial writers (Spivak 1988). Instead, researchers should act to make visible the structural privileges that are integral to the production of knowledge. It matters what passport we carry, the colour of our skin, our assigned sex, where we work and study, and the language we speak, because their perceived status is tied to histories of colonisation and exploitation.” Similarly, we believe that our positions as privileged researchers and field ecologists, with access to resources for smooth functioning of research, require self-reflection and acknowledgement of the colonial power structures that continue to dictate much of the dynamics between a researcher and a field/local collaborator. For example, both SL and RJ are men from middle class, upper caste families. This privilege emanating from our position in this section of the society has enabled us to pursue studies in wildlife science, and conduct research in a new place, essentially by using funds raised from multiple sources. We believe it is important to state our own position and reflect on the privileges it accords us to employ field collaborators. As much as we call for the readers to understand their positionality, we are also equally aware of the same.
Eventually, our community can come together to ensure healthy and inclusive growth in this field. These are also principles that our community of ecologists and conservationists routinely advocate in our work as policy recommendations. If we are to truly add diversity to our voices, we should first raise ours from within.
Note:
Throughout the article, we have used the term “field collaborators” instead of “field assistants”. We believe that the term field assistant may be regressive, and has a colonial underpinning to the exploitative nature of the said work. We also acknowledge that we ourselves have used the said term in our writings and conversations in the past, but are learning to make amends. We urge readers to also reflect on the terminology they may be routinely using. We also acknowledge that there may be further nuances to our position, but our aim is to further discussions, dialogue and affirmative actions on the issue. A few essential readings on this, and other aspects we have highlighted in our article are as follows.
Further Reading
Baker, K., Eichhorn, M. P. and Griffiths, M. 2019. Decolonizing field ecology. Biotropica. 51(3): 288-292.
Haraway, D. 1988. Situated knowledges: The science question in feminism and the privilege of partial perspective. Feminist Studies. 14: 575–599.
Osborne, T. 2017. Public Political Ecology: a community of praxis for Earth Stewardship. Journal of Political Ecology. 24: 843-860.
Ramesh, M. 2020. A Call to Redefine ‘the Field’ in Nature Conservation Studies in India. Ecology, Economy and Society – The INSEE Journal. 3(2): 27–31.
Shapin, S. 1998. Placing the view from nowhere: Historical and sociological problems in the location of science. Transactions of the Institute of British Geographers. 23: 5–12.
Skandrani, Z. 2017. Decolonizing ecological research. Journal of Environmental Studies and Sciences. 8.3: 368-370.
Spivak, G. 1988. Can the subaltern speak? In: Marxism and the interpretation of culture (eds. C. Nelson and L. Grossberg). Pp 271–316. University of Illinois Press, Chicago, Illinois, USA.
Sacred groves in India are fragments of forest dedicated to folk deities. Local communities protect such groves as they worship nature and derive spiritual value from them. The number of sacred groves have, however, been reducing due to urbanisation and socio-cultural changes. Motivated by the rising economic value of land, sacred groves have been cleared for commercial purposes. The spiritual significance of the groves has also been diluted because of loss of faith amongst the younger generation and the gradual assimilation of animistic tribal communities into mainstream Hinduism. As these groves have been protected for a long time, their disappearance is cause for great concern because of the loss of ecological and evolutionary information they have been preserving.
Ballullaya and colleagues conducted a study to understand the cultural and environmental perspectives of local communities with respect to the preservation of sacred groves. They focused on two regions of the Western Ghats in India–rural Kodagu in Karnataka and urban Kasaragod in Kerala, both of which contain many sacred groves. People living near these groves were interviewed to understand their views on the benefits and threats associated with the groves, as well as ways of maintaining them. The perceptions of local communities were found to significantly influence the management and conservation of sacred groves. In rural areas, the persistence of groves was attributed to strong cultural and religious beliefs, whereas in urban areas, it was due to an understanding of environmental benefits and use value. The conservation success of the groves was also dependent on the mode of governance, as community-managed groves had greater forest cover and lesser degradation than reserve forests managed by the Forest Department.
Recognizing the ability of communities to preserve sacred groves for their environmental significance, the researchers recommend complementing religious drivers with environmental understanding to ensure the survival of these groves. This would act as a safeguard for the groves in the context of evolving religious and cultural beliefs. To do so would require educating people on the environmental value of these sacred spaces, while also encouraging the preservation of traditional belief systems. In addition to this, they call for robust policies to ensure the protection of sacred groves by empowering local communities to manage them.
Ballullaya, U. P., K. S. Reshmi, T. P. Rajesh, K. Manoj, M. Lowman and P. A. Sinu. 2019. Stakeholder motivation for the conservation of sacred groves in south India: An analysis of environmental perceptions of rural and urban neighbourhood communities. Land Use Policy 89: e104213. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.landusepol.2019.104213
In our last outing, we realised that Nature was brutish and dangerous. We proposed many kind, humane, and gentle ways to prevent her from wreaking havoc on her hapless creatures. Word has gotten out that Kartel Shockington is sympathetic to all life forms. Some have said he is pathetic, but we are ignoring those inanimates for now.
Letters have started to pour in. From bugs to beetles, fish to frogs, snails to snakes, peacocks to pandas, and turtles to tigers, they have written in to voice their concern over Nature and her ways. For the benefit of our readers, we reproduce some of them below (1).
We were truly shockingtoned at all that goes on in the animal kingdom, not to mention with plants, and even fungi. Nature is weird and cruel Though we have to say that we couldn’t help the occasional chuckle, for she does have a wicked sense of humus. These letters only strengthen out conviction…. she cannot be trusted to look after her own.
Footnotes:
(1) With all due credit to Dr. Tatiana’s Sex Guide for all Creation. Thanks and Sorry, Olivia Judson.
(2) As a matter of fact, Phantom has set up just such a place, called the Garden of Eden, but we haven’t been able to locate it yet.
Students of conservation and wildlife studies often start off with field experiences. I volunteered and interned on ecological projects, and fell in love with hiking in remote or human-dominated landscapes, looking for animals and watching them behave. Conservation career trees often seem to root us in this love of nature. We commune with open spaces and despite, or perhaps because of, all the challenges of living in sometimes harsh or isolating conditions, we want more. These early internships and volunteer experiences often form a solid trunk, launching these next few experiences. Many of us then go on to become conservation practitioners, playing a variety of support and leadership roles in conservation efforts, or going on to study conservation further in formalized ways. Either way, to succeed in this relatively non-traditional career path, we often need a strong support network of family/friends and teachers, nourishing and encouraging our advancement past these early stages of growth. I have managed to get to a postdoctoral position after years of studying ecology in various roles, nourished by my personal and academic communities.
The branches
As we progress into further positions, we may branch out to learning statistics and data analysis and study design. Or to developing connections and trust with a diversity of local people at our field sites. Perhaps we pour our energy into learning how to self-manage our time and write grants, read papers, and/or write papers. And then our time often shifts to include managing other people, perhaps teaching others what we have learned. Somehow, we spend much more time studying wildlife by sitting at a computer, filling out paperwork, coordinating people and money, analysing data, or writing up our work. By the time we reach our mid-thirties, our priorities have often shifted—subtly, or perhaps multiple times, abruptly. Some people transplant themselves into conservation careers after building their career trunks elsewhere— maybe engineering or journalism or law. By this point most of our career trees look quite different than we might’ve imagined a decade earlier. You might have shifted the species you study, from insects or birds or maybe even humans. Moving around and traveling as much isn’t the primary focus anymore, and fieldwork is a rare luxury. Your tree has perhaps become more sedentary. You hopefully think of your tree like a long-lived banyan tree—you can keep growing indefinitely and branching in whatever directions nourish you best. Do you want to learn more methods and scientific skills, or bolster your leadership skills? Perhaps consider taking management courses, which your younger sapling self might never have considered?
The leaves
Though most of your everyday perspective might focus on the root and trunk and branches, what people really see on your tree are the leaves. What outputs do you have, in your papers and reports? How do you present your work to various audiences? And how do you interact with people during meetings and conferences and in emails? These outward components decide your tree’s appearance, and help people identify your tree species. I think I’m a bit of a deciduous tree– I have to keep refreshing my leaves, questioning whether they’re the right ones for me, to feel alive.
Shaping your tree
There are a few things to consider about shaping your career tree, no matter which career stage you are at and regardless of the shape your tree has taken. Consider that some branches are and will be dead ends— you might spend months working on an project or analysis or a professional relationship that doesn’t work out. But this is par for the course in the life of the tree! These experiences often lead to other side branches, exposing you to new environments and ways of thinking. At the very least they are wonderful learning experiences; opportunities to learn what not to do.
Another aspect of career growth is our attitude to our ‘gardeners’: other conservationists or scientists, who could shape and help optimise the trajectory of our career’s growth, if we let them. It took me a long time to learn that even at a given time, I often need different inputs from multiple people to make progress.
Tree alignment
I feel the most motivated when I have a vision of my destination in mind. It’s helpful for me to envision what my future career tree could look like, perhaps in five years. What do I want to achieve, how many people or habitats do I want to have an impact on? What fields will my work touch, and what is missing for me to get there? Using the fundamentals of my knowledge and experience, how can I grow in currently relevant directions? If a funding theme becomes available, or a pressing conservation gap arises, can I adapt my research questions feasibly in that dimension, while still remaining aligned with my goals? One strategy I have developed to assess these alignment questions is to evaluate where I spend my time.
As an ecologist, I often find my time fragmented across many types of tasks. This is inevitable in most careers. As in the sample week below, I try to periodically assess whether I am allocating my time in a meaningful way considering my envisioned tree. One tangible way to do this is to set quarterly or semi- annual goals, but in practice to only act on a daily or weekly to-do list, that is organised in such a way as to prioritise important, longer-term goals.
Figure 1: In my academic postdoctoral research position, I’m often curious about how I spent my time, and whether I can be more deliberate in how I allocate it. I have found that by tracking it, I can allot my time more consciously. Left: This is a sample week during which I worked for 31 hours, and this view is divided by broad categories rather than by tasks. I spent 10.7 hours (11%) on administrative work; 1.8 hours on mentoring (6%); and 26 hours on research-related activities (84%). Right: This was a week during which I worked for about 41 hours. Grouping some of these categories, I spent 5.5 hours (14%) on administrative work; 4.67 hours (12%) on mentoring; 7 hours (17%) attending seminars, webinars, and lab meetings; 21.26 hours (52%) on my research; and 2.16 hours (5%) on outreach work. I have found it useful to periodically assess whether the way I spend my time is aligned with my shorter- and longer-term goals. I find it most productive to be flexible but deliberate in how I allocate my time, and have found that this allocation changes drastically across career stages.
Tree appearance
If you want to advocate for conservation, you need to be a reliable, appealing, trustworthy, and resourceful person yourself, first. Your career tree, even if it felt like it meandered through time, retrospectively forms one cohesive whole. Students the world over, but especially in cultures that reward humility, like India, are reticent to deliberately shape and cultivate how this tree appears to their employers; to “sell” or advertise themselves. We have been taught that singing one’s own praise is bragging. And bragging is bad. So often, what we have done and what others think we have done are disconnected. We also somehow develop this idea, as students of nature, that we don’t and shouldn’t want money, really. So, marketing ourselves to increase our income also is anathema to many of us. But over the years I have learned that we are each our own greatest advocates. We need to advocate for ourselves and negotiate to satisfy and align our own needs and grow ourselves in useful dimensions.
For a moment, consider your career tree—yourself—as a brand. The world sees you by how you choose to present that brand. The posts you choose to put out on social media, the way you present your CV, the way you interact with people in every professional setting, these are all aspects of what should be one cohesive brand. If you send friend requests to professors or conservation professionals from all over the world, then your social media accounts are verging on professional. If you then post personal selfies and your thoughts on a political agenda, or share cat videos, remember that these are all part of how you choose to present your brand. If the messages the various platforms display are at odds with each other, it will look like your tree is a chimera—a confusing mix of species—rather than one cohesive whole.
The winter moon, a waxing gibbous, has risen early. On an ancient mango tree on the edge of the paddyland sits a crested hawk-eagle. The last of the bee-eaters dive for one more meal above the ripening paddy. A red-wattled lapwing is pestering a straggly group of unconcerned cattle egrets in a fallow field. In a shadowy stretch of the stream that flows through the paddy field, a small blue kingfisher sketches a sapphire streak. It’s the time of the year when wild berries ripen on thorny bushes, scandents and climbers on the stream bank. The pale pink ones of panal (Glycosmis pentaphylla), the small shiny black thodali (Ziziphus oenoplia), the blush red-tinged green kotta (Microcos paniculata ) and many more shades, sizes, and flavours. Behind the grasses that have turned golden, the velvety new flush of adakkamaniyan (Sphaeranthus indicus) peeps out. Soon their purple globose flower heads will be out, dotting the bunds of the harvested fields.
The midland paddy fields located in the river basins of short but perennial west-flowing rivers of the Western Ghats in Kerala are a threatened ecosystem. These paddy fields form the lowest feature of a micro-watershed (usually 4–30 m above mean sea level) and are of great hydrological and ecological significance. Numerous first-order streams are born here that then join the main rivers in their middle and lower courses. The fields act as a natural reservoir of water that enrich the local groundwater table and provide ‘rooms for rivers’ when they flood during the monsoons. These modified wetlands created over centuries of ploughing, levelling, and unique land and water management practices, are also among the last safe harbours for floral and faunal biodiversity, in what is not a forested terrain and yet, wild.
Paddy fields fringing gently sloping garden lands were a typical feature of the Kerala midland landscape until the late 1980s. We belong to a generation that witnessed the large-scale conversion and reclamation of this singular landscape into garden lands with perennial tree crops and prime real estate. In a state that is perpetually land-hungry, the paddy fields were also the quick answer to all developmental projects that required contiguous land such as airports, colleges, hospitals, and bus stations. The host of challenges that paddy farming faced during this time—from high labour cost to low produce price—accelerated the pace of the conversion. By the time the Kerala Conservation of Paddy Land and Wetland Act, 2008, came into effect, nearly 80% (6000 sq. km) of paddy fields in the state had already been converted. Four decades of widespread conversions have left us with merely 1900 sq. km of paddylands, which include the larger Kole and Kuttanad lowland paddy systems (1). The fragmented midland paddy fields constitute about half of this.
Hidden pockets of biodiversity
The typical midland paddyland is 10–100 hectares (0.01–1 sq. km), often partitioned by a stream flowing through the middle. Smaller watercourses and manmade canals criss-cross the field for irrigation and drainage needs. The stream networks link together various small ponds within the field and tanks in the bordering garden lands. There are subtle variations in the biodiversity found in and around the paddy fields. Medium-statured trees, shrubs and creepers have established in the pond and field margins, while bamboos and tall grasses abound on the stream banks and bunds. There is a dominance of ephemeral herbs and shrubs that complete their life cycle within a season or two. Grasses and sedges grow on the stream and in-field bunds and in the fields themselves, and get razed by manmade fires during harsh summers. The plants that are found here have successfully adapted to short periods of monsoon flooding. Most herbaceous species seed profusely. The shrubs are hardy, deep-rooted, and are also copious seeders.
Paddy fields provide sanctuary to essentially two types of floral biodiversity—niche plants exclusive to paddy fields, and those trees, shrubs, herbs, grasses and sedges that have been banished from garden lands and homesteads. The midland paddy fields are now arks of biodiversity that were previously abundant in poramboke lands (2), multi-tiered homestead lands, public spaces, and along roads and water courses. With the increase in population and built- up land, regular cleaning drives by the MGNREGS (3) workforce and annexation by more aggressive invasive plants, public and private spaces are now hostile towards unruly, nameless and untamed plants that are ‘weeds’. Weed clumps are now suspect spaces that hide poisonous reptiles, where household wastes get dumped surreptitiously and which mar the ‘neat and safe’ ideal of a living space that is the new aspiration. Live fences where shrub and creeper diversities flourished have also given way to brick and mortar walls. The fragmentation and gentrification of the Kerala homestead landscape, and rapid loss of other public spaces has left a limited homogenous collection of trees and ornamental plants that are deemed ‘useful’, ‘beautiful’ and ‘innocuous’. The paddy fields that survived the conversion and reclamation phase are the only spaces that have remained relatively untouched by this massive taming drive.
Considered ‘useless’, this seemingly unimpressive floral diversity of paddy fields hosts a large faunal population ranging from arthropods and molluscs, to wetland birds, reptiles and amphibians, and mammals like mongooses, civets, and jackals.
Glimpses of human linkages
As socio-cultural commons contained within and surrounding private ownership, the paddy fields had once played an incomparable role in Kerala’s midland life and livelihood sphere. A variety of delectable greens, fish, and molluscs assured nutritional security, especially during the raging monsoons. The herb and shrub diversity contained diverse medicinal plants, which were used for making ayurvedic and home remedies to treat a host of health conditions. Many of the seasonal herbs were treasured for their cosmetic properties and applications in hair, skin, and eye care. The knowledge of plant properties and habitats were passed on orally as evocative plant names, or as oft-repeated adage and lore. Take for instance, the wide variety of edible wild spinach found in this habitat. Common names are suffixed with cheera (spinach), by which they are marked as edible. Often the prefix describes either its habitat (Tottucheera/Parambucheera), its nature (Mullancheera/Maracheera/ Paalcheera)/Kozhuppacheera), resemblance (Nellicheera) or the preparation it is best suited for (Achharcheera/Sambaarcheera). The wild berries and fruits were the staple of rampaging children, who spent summer vacations in these fields, which were transformed into playgrounds for the season. These plants, their nomenclature, uses, and the paddy land pockets that they grow in are being slowly forgotten, with little use and none to treasure them.
Even when privately owned, the midland paddy fields defy strict boundaries of use and ownership. The stream banks, bunds, and live fences are treated as common property, even if they have ownership rights ascribed to them. What’s more, the seasonal nature of cultivation, the indirect benefits of sharing, such as manuring of the field by grazing cattle, the sheer vastness of the area, and the socio-cultural history of use, have fostered a fragile overlapping of property regimes. The absentee-ownership of land during the decline of paddy farming also allowed for an alternate informal steward class to develop, mostly from the socially and economically marginalised communities and castes. These user communities had a seasonal dependence on paddylands, which supported numerous subsidiary livelihoods.
The plentiful and diverse grasses of the fields were an assured source of fresh feed for cows and goats. They were brought to graze on stream bunds and in the fallow fields, during the summer. The abundant fish catch during the monsoons was another income bolster. Transhumance of ducks in the harvested fields fostered migrant livelihoods. Several medicinal plants were harvested in bulk from the paddy fields for supply in the local market. The Pandanus protecting the stream banks from erosion were used in mat weaving. Even flowers of Pandanus, called Ketaki in Sanskrit, were used to perfume wardrobes. The streams themselves were used for retting of coconut fronds that were then used as roofing material. The livelihood dependence seems to have stood the test of time. These paddy fields are the only common grazing lands left for the local livestock, the transhumance of ducks has prevailed, and fishing is still practised. However, mat weaving is rare today, while Pandanus itself is disappearing from the fields—a sad instance of vanishing co-existence.
Changes in sociocultural fabric
With decline in commons across the state, the paddy fields now offer rare outdoor spaces for stepping out in the evenings with company, a place to hang out for the elderly and the youth, secluded spots for alcohol consumption, and outdoor locations for wedding photoshoots.
Since the Act of 2008 and the restrictions therein, there is a grudging slowdown in the conversion of midland paddylands. Aided by several government programmes for encouraging rice cultivation in the paddy fallows, widely adopted mechanisation of operations, assured minimum support price for paddy, and guaranteed government procurement, what is left of the midland paddy fields is slowly being cultivated once more. However, threats still loom or are around the corner—potential land acquisitions for petroleum storage facilities, new highways, and airports. The entertainment industry is also beginning to use these paddylands as novel aesthetic spaces.
Yet, hope lies in our collective effort to live consciously and recognize our role in this diverse world, and the many interdependencies and feedback mechanisms that sustain our ecosystems. On a weekend winter morning, black-headed ibises, purple moorhens and western reef egrets forage in the open waters, starlings create patterns in the sky, bee-eaters and drongos feast on insects (pests, we think) above strips of ripening paddy crop. Sitting on the bund is a pair of boys awaiting a fresh catch with their modern angling gadget. An egg-sac of a praying mantis clasps a blade of grass on the trail. What else are these but reminders that we are part of an intricate web of food and life?
Footnotes:
(1) The Kole-Kuttanad wetland system is located 2-3 meters below sea level, contiguous with the Vembanad estuary on its North and South. Paddy is cultivated only during summers by pumping out water from the polders, which are protected by earthen embankments. It is the second largest Ramsar site in India after the Sunderbans.
(2) ‘Poramboke’ refers to unassessed lands outside of revenue records vested with the government. The term is usually associated with ‘waste lands’, even though these were often rich abodes of biodiversity.
(3) MGNREGS or Mahatma Gandhi National Rural Employment Guarantee Scheme aims at enhancing rural livelihood security by guaranteeing hundred days of wage- employment in a financial year to a rural household whose adult members volunteer to do unskilled manual work.
Can you imagine living in a world without roads? A world where we would be walking through thick forests or deserts, or hiking up and down mountains to arrive at our destination. Probably without realising it, we consider roads to be a part of the positive spaces in which we live. However, have you ever stopped to wonder what we lose when we pave new roads?
While roads connect various types of human settlements, they also form “linear infrastructure intrusions” through natural habitats such as forests, oceans and grasslands. Roads cut through forests forming fragmented patches of what was originally a contiguous natural habitat. This is very disorienting for animals, as roads often become barriers to movement of animals across the landscape. Herds and flocks are often separated by these divisions. For animals with home ranges larger than the given patch, this causes immense stress. They are forced to find all their resources, including food, shelter, and mates, within the smaller area they are left with, thereby exhausting resources, causing inbreeding and the faster spread of diseases. This fate has befallen several animal species that are rare and endemic to certain areas, such as orangutans, which are only found in Borneo and Sumatra. As humans rapidly “develop the land” we run the risk of further boxing orangutans into smaller habitats, ensuring their extinction.
Roads cutting through forests or other terrestrial landscapes are a major cause of animal mortality worldwide. Vehicular collisions with crossing animals are extremely commonplace on highways surrounded by natural landscapes or on smooth roads, where traffic drives at extremely high speeds.
Most of you would have encountered an animal crossing in front of your car, and you may or not have been able to stop, depending on the speed and situation. While conducting research for my masters’ thesis in Madagascar, a biodiverse island along the eastern coast of South Africa, I often found snakes and chameleons crossing the roads. Sometimes I found the snakes near urban areas on heavy traffic roads, while at other times they jumped or slithered away quickly on dirt roads in rural remote areas. So, I have personally encountered situations where I was able to successfully slow down or go around the animal and save them without disrupting traffic or landing in an accident. This was mostly thanks to the island having very less vehicular traffic in most areas and dirt roads in other areas. But I have also had the experience of applying the brakes very suddenly on a smooth single-lane highway to save a bird and its chicks crossing the road, naturally followed by my dad shouting at me, and lots of angry honking from the cars behind me (I am a wildlife ecologist, couldn’t help it!).
In the time after my bachelor’s degree, I was in Coorg, Karnataka, volunteering with the Western Ghats Nature Foundation—an NGO working on wildlife conservation. Considering my love for reptiles, when I heard from a friend about multiple dead snakes on an interstate highway connecting Karnataka and Kerala, I just had to go and see for myself to get numbers and species names. The highway had been recently renovated at the time of the study and was lined by forested areas on both sides. It cut through the Brahmagiri Wildlife Sanctuary in the Western Ghats, which is recognised as a global biodiversity hotspot. I would wake up early every day and ask one of my friends from the NGO to take me as a pillion on his bike to this highway stretch. We would let the bike crawl at the speed of a snail and I would scan the road for any dead animals. In a period of just eight days, I found a total of 117 road killed animals on a roughly 18 km stretch of the highway. You won’t believe it, more than 60 (!!) of these were reptiles! This number was the highest amongst all the animal groups I found roadkill for, including amphibians, reptiles, insects and mammals. If lizards and snakes are to be counted separately within reptiles, snakes had higher incidences of mortality than lizards (I have a particular soft corner for snakes, so definitely not good news!). What made it worse was that I found so many beautiful snake species that I had not had the chance to see to date in the wild. Many of these species, such as the hump-nosed viper, the Malabar pit viper, and the Travancore wolf snake are also endemic to the Western Ghats. Being a herpetologist–a person who studies reptiles and amphibians–this was particularly heartbreaking.
Reptiles often cross roads to go from one patch to the other, but they can also be found simply sitting on the roads (Really, what joy is found in doing this?). They are cold-blooded animals who regulate their body temperature by behavioural means. They take shelter in shaded areas when their body heats up and come out in the sun when their body gets too cold. Certain areas, such as rocks or tar roads, are particularly beneficial for them to gain heat (basking in the sun). These surfaces heat up quicker in the day time as compared to the surrounding areas and lose heat slower than their surroundings at night. So, it is possible to find a snake coiled and chilling (actually trying to get warm) right in the middle of the road where the canopy of the forest does not obstruct the sun’s light. I did find a dead snake in exactly that position! It was a beautiful coral snake with a shiny black and red body, a rare one to encounter when you go looking in the forest. But I hope you might now understand why reptiles are particularly at risk of being run over by vehicles on the road. To add to this, there is the problem of their small size, which might render them invisible to vehicles moving at high speeds. And in India, snakes in particular are frowned upon. People often go out of their way to run one over if they see it crossing the road. It is sad, but true. That snake did no harm to anyone and was probably on its way to find a nice chick to hang out with. Alas!
Setting my sadness aside, I mapped out whatever data I had collected and located hotspots on that 18 km stretch of the highway, where more than one snake roadkill was found. I did this because I thought there may be some places with higher probability of snakes crossing the roads. And if we can do something at those locations to prevent roadkills, it would make some difference to these creatures at least. There are several solutions to such animal road mortalities. Some of the simplest ones include introducing speed limits and speed breakers, which allow the driver to slow down in time and may also allow animals to escape; reduction in traffic volume by regulating the number of vehicles allowed each day, especially during festivals and holidays; and temporary closure of roads, such as at night, when a majority of snake species are active, or during the breeding season of vulnerable species when their activity may be higher. Other mitigation measures for reptile roadkills include the construction of underpasses or culverts (underground pipes) along with fences. The fences can help prevent the animals from crossing the roads and direct their movement towards the underpasses or culverts, where they can cross safely. We could also place metal boards on the sides of roads which would heat up like the roads, and may be encountered and preferred by reptiles for basking, before they come onto the road.
Apart from reptiles, I found several other dead animals, including monkeys, during the survey. I suspect that the primary cause of higher mammal deaths is the irresponsible behaviour of people passing through the area, who were often observed stopping by to feed troops of monkeys. Such easy access to food would naturally bring the monkeys closer to the roads more often. Unfortunately, this may be particularly prevalent due to the mythological association of monkeys with the Hindu god Hanuman. A simple way to resolve this issue would be to ban the stopping of cars along this forested stretch of the highway, which would require more regular patrolling by the forest department or the local police, both of which have offices nearby.
Most animal roadkill mitigation measures do not require too much effort or monetary funds, and can be introduced before, during, or after road construction. It is our responsibility to at least provide animals safe passage within their natural habitats. Further studies could better inform our decisions pertaining to suitable mitigation measures. Hence, many conservation organisations have come up with phone applications–for example, ‘Roadkills’ and ‘Road Watch’–which let you record roadkills.
So the next time you’re on the road, I hope you have one of these apps on your phone, avoid overspeeding, keep an eye out for wild animals while crossing green areas, and record any roadkills you encounter so that scientists and wildlife conservationists can use the data to save some animals, if not all, from extinction.
P.S. This might also help you see some animals that you may never see during the wildlife safaris you pay heavily for. I once saw an aardwolf (go Google!) while driving on the road in South Africa and trust me, it is one of my most cherished sightings ever!
(Right: Illustration of the process of transformation of natural landscapes due to deforestation and clearing for development of linear infrastructure such as roads)
Further reading
Bansal, U. 2020. A study of reptile road mortalities on an inter-state highway in the Western Ghats, India and suggestion of suitable mitigation measures. Captive and Field Herpetology, 4.
Glista, D.J., DeVault, T.L., DeWoody, J.A. (2009). A review of mitigation measures for reducing wildlife mortality on roadways. Landscape and urban planning, 91, 1–7.
Trombulak, S.C., Frissell, C.A. (2000) Review of ecological effects of roads on terrestrial and aquatic communities. Conservation biology, 14, 18–30.
I spent over two months working in Panna Tiger Reserve, and yet, the first and only time I saw a tiger there was on my first day. The setting sun cast a golden hue on the grass fields of Pipartola, and set the Ken river on fire, as a radio-collared tigress leisurely strolled across the rocky riverbed. The distance was great enough that I needed binoculars to get a good look at her, but the moment was perfect. And yet, while that was the only time I ever saw a tiger in the Reserve known for its successful reintroduction of the species, Panna never let me feel like I was missing out.
From leopards to mahua trees, chousingha (four-horned antelope) to vultures, my time in Panna was full of new sights, sounds, and even smells, that kept me constantly at the edge of my seat, wondering what there was to see around every turn of the winding, rocky roads, what new sight to take in or new behaviour to observe.
Many tourists feel a safari is incomplete until they have caught a glimpse of the big cat. I don’t blame them—my own family was disappointed to have missed out on a tiger sighting, despite multiple early morning safaris in the biting cold of December. Tigers are magnificent creatures, and few animals measure up to the glory of a wild tiger in its prime. Yet, in this fervor to get a Sighting (with a capital S) people often miss out on everything else the forest has to offer.
At Dhundhua, a small stream runs from a shallow, rocky bed to fall a few hundred feet in a rainbow-making spray that lends the place its name. Vultures—mostly long-billed—will gather gregariously right at the very edge of the cliff where the water falls, occasionally bathing, squabbling, or sunbathing. When you cross this stream and arrive at the viewing point, you see a gorge, nestled in which is a dense jungle. Tales are told of roaring tigers wandering the bottom of the gorge, cubs in tow, providing excellent photo opportunities to lucky tourists.
Arriving at Dhundhua involves a rapid-fire of wildlife sightings, one after the other in dizzying succession—an Oriental hobby sits on a tree by the cliff, orange chest puffed out in the cold. A red- headed vulture looms on a skeleton-like snag in the distance. A painted francolin bursts out of the brush and careens across the road like a headless chicken. A chinkara (Indian gazelle) skips before a line of parked Gypsys.
To one side the stream falls, and stretching from the stream to beyond in a vast circle are the cliffs, on which the long-billed vultures roost. Ficus trees sprout, defying gravity, emerald against the sheer cliff walls. The canyon seems empty until you take a closer look, and see the scores of vultures lining the crevasses, huddled together or singly, all along the canyon. It’s a breathtaking sight, and gives one hope for the future of plummeting vulture populations.
We drive down the red dust roads beyond Dhundhua, over narrow paths winding through the patchy dry deciduous trees, mostly leafless in the December cold, the trees dwindling until grasslands stretch into the distance, dense scrub just beyond. The path widens and we reach a charming but empty forest rest house, meant for visiting dignitaries, but which offers an ideal lunch spot for others. There, we can disembark to eat our packed breakfast of fruits, and my parents and brother receive the gift the wild so often gives me—silence. The wind blows through the grasses, the birds chirp intermittently, and not a single Gypsy vehicle can be heard, no tourists venturing so far into this zone, where tiger sightings are few. In that clear, cold air, I imagine that my family too feels some of the city dust being gently blown off their souls, and some of that peace I feel whenever I am lucky enough to tread these wild places.
As the sun climbs higher, we make our way back down the valley to Pipartola-by-the-Ken. The scattered ber trees have a browsing line so sharp, from the nilgai and chital (spotted deer) feeding on their boughs, that it looks like a very conscientious gardener was let loose in the park. The sandy road bears tiger pugmarks and tyre prints, but the branches of a nearby tree are so full of yellow- footed green pigeons that you can’t tell the tree is bare and leafless, and so we forgive the tiger for avoiding us.
A chital, its antlers still wrapped in soft velvet, chews on the old, shed-off antlers from a season past, replenishing its lost calcium. Another, feeding on leaves, stares at us blankly, dried velvet peeling off its antlers in bloody tatters, and I am reminded that nature isn’t averse to blood and bone like humans are.
If you take a boat ride down the Ken river, the fun continues. The water is jewel-green, and one of the many explanations people give for the National Park’s name (Panna means ‘emerald’) is for the colour of the river. A mugger crocodile basks on a rock, almost blending in. A pair of lesser adjutant storks settle on a tree, too far for my camera to capture in the shaking boat, but with binoculars we can make out their balding, combed-over heads.
When I leave Panna, my heart is lightened. My stay has rejuvenated me, but it is time to say farewell. The tigers may not have, but Panna blessed me with an abundance of life, sharing—as she does—her riches freely. I hope you, too, visit and are blessed with these riches. I hope you don’t miss the forest and its many denizens for the tiger.
Further Reading
Bold and Beautiful: Panna’s Glorious Tigers. RoundGlass Sustain. https://sustain.round.glass/species/pannas-glorious-tigers/. Accessed on 20 February 2021.
Chundawat, Raghu. 2018. The Rise and Fall of the Emerald Tigers. New Delhi: Speaking Tiger.
It’s a hot, sticky monsoon afternoon of interviews in the buffer zone of Maharashtra’s Melghat Tiger Reserve. I’m there making maps with people about places they avoid at certain times of day to reduce their chances of encountering dangerous wild animals. Having just completed the day’s last interview, I return to my room, looking forward to a cool, refreshing bath. I throw my notebooks and papers on the bed and go straight to the bathroom, where I place my toiletries on top of the toilet tank, and turn on the shower faucet. I startle as a frog jumps up from the bathroom floor, having just been hit by the tap water. We stare at each other for a few seconds as I ponder whether one can sweep such a creature out of a room with a broom. Then, I hear a thump to my right. I look up and see the rearing head of a small, black snake with thin, white stripes emerging from my toiletry bag.
I quickly back out of the bathroom and call for Bishram, who manages the campus where I am staying. We had come across this snake before—if not the same individual, then one of the same species. To be clear, I am not sure if it is a venomous common krait (Bungarus caeruleus) or the krait’s nonvenomous mimic, the wolf snake (Lycodon aulicus). But when Bishram and I had seen it before, we treated it as if it was a krait, and we thoroughly intend to do the same this time.
Along with the spectacled cobra, Russell’s viper, and saw-scaled viper, the common krait is one of the ‘Big Four’ snakes in India—those responsible for the greatest number of ‘medically significant’ snake bites in India. ‘Medically significant’ is bureaucrat-ese for deadly. Krait venom contains a unique toxin that prevents brain signals associated with muscle movement to pass from one nerve cell to another, causing paralysis. People bitten by common kraits develop a variety of symptoms, which tend to progress from drooping eyelids, weakening eye muscles, abdominal pain, and facial weakness during the first 2–4 hours, to difficulty swallowing, lower limb weakness, and respiratory paralysis after 4–6 hours. Common kraits are nocturnal, and many bites occur when people accidentally roll onto the snake while sleeping on the floor. However, because bites are typically painless, most people do not wake up until they begin experiencing later symptoms. Antivenin can effectively clear venom from the system, but it cannot prevent or reverse neuromuscular paralysis, meaning that people who are bitten often require assisted ventilation in addition to antivenin.
I had researched all this information after Bishram and I first encountered what we thought was a common krait, and it all flashes through my head during this encounter. As I back away from the bathroom, the snake seems to disappear into my toiletry bag, which—like the snake—is black. I lose sight of it before Bishram reaches the bathroom. He arrives with a long bamboo stick, which he uses to carefully lift the bag onto the floor and poke through it. But the snake is not there. Despite further investigation of our surroundings, we cannot find it anywhere in the bathroom, toilet, or outside the window.
Some time goes by, and I discover that frogs can indeed be swept out of a room, but I cannot help but think that something does not add up. I had heard a thump, which suggests that the snake had fallen. But there was nowhere for it to have fallen from—no rafters or ledges in the bathroom at all. Considering it also seemed to have disappeared and no one else saw it, I begin to wonder if anxiety—a side-effect of my anti-malaria medication—had finally gotten the better of me, and that I had imagined the snake altogether. It was not until the following day that we realized what had happened.
After dinner, I hear Bishram calling me back to the bathroom. I quickly join him, and he points at the snake resting on the half-centimeter edge of tile that lines the walls, over seven feet up. Another campus employee, Tiwarilal, who is less afraid of snakes than either myself or Bishram, joins us and tries to lift the snake with the bamboo stick. As it attempts to evade Tiwarilal, the snake reveals its secret. It moves down into an up-until-then unknown gap between the tile and the concrete wall, where it must have escaped to the previous day. Eventually, Tiwarilal goads the snake back up by pouring water into the gap. He lifts it with the bamboo, puts it into a heavy plastic container, and takes it away on his motorcycle to release into the forest far from the campus.
The encounter with the snake changed how I moved and experienced the landscape during my fieldwork. Interviews and map-making could tell me where people think dangerous wildlife might be, and whether people avoid those places. However, these tools could not help me understand how wildlife encounters shape the way people experience the landscape. Having encountered snakes before, and being particularly eager to avoid them as a result of my medication-induced anxiety, I had always been cautious about where I stepped, especially when walking at night or off the main road. But until this encounter, I had never considered that I should also look up when trying to avoid snakes. From then on, I always looked both up in the trees and on the ground when walking in the forest, and always checked the rafters and the floor when entering a room. This is not to say that others perceive risks from wildlife in a similar way, but that from encounters with wildlife emerge new ways of seeing and experiencing landscapes.
Sitting outside on a bed frame between my guides and friends, Anirudh Vasava and Niyati Patel, I have a view of the large pond in Traj, a village in the Kheda district of Gujarat, India. We are here to talk to Hemant Ode, the father of a girl who was killed by a mugger crocodile (Crocodilus palustris) at the washing place, a short distance from us. A cow is tethered near us, and four water buffaloes graze nearby. Hemant sits with us, while his wife, Naniben, watches us from the veranda of their house, a few steps away. The smell of wet cow dung, which she has been using to coat the floor, hangs in the air.
Their daughter, Hetal Ode, was washing a large steel pot in the pond. A few other children were swimming nearby. When the pot fell into the water, she had to wade out until she was waist-deep to fetch it. This was when the crocodile seized her by the wrist and pulled her under. Adults were called, and they searched for her without success. After 30 minutes, the mugger surfaced with the girl. The villagers chased it into the shallow water and recovered her body. Hetal was nine years old, the only child of Hemant and Naniben Ode.
The study of such tragic incidents, and the responses of locals and the authorities to them, is a growing topic in conservation science. A new journal, Frontiers in Conservation Science, features a whole section focused on such negative human-wildlife interactions. As a result of climate change, human expansion into wildlife habitats, and successful conservation efforts, encounters with wildlife are increasing. Most studies of such encounters focus on things that go wrong. Conservationists use their knowledge of wild animals to try preventing bad things from happening, and to persuade and help locals to live safely alongside damage- causing wildlife.
While this is important and useful work, it has resulted in a focus on the negative interactions between humans and wildlife—“human-wildlife conflict”—as well as on human-human conflicts over how to deal with these problems. Much of this work focuses on the harm wild animals cause, and on trying to compensate for this through monetary payments or offering economic benefits for tolerating damage caused by wildlife. This means we have not paid enough attention to where things do work well and people coexist with wildlife. In turn, we also overlook the many non-economic dimensions of people’s relationship with wildlife and the natural world.
But what is meant by ‘coexistence’?
Simply put, it refers to a sustainable although dynamic state (there will be ups and downs, as negative interactions will sometimes occur), where humans and wildlife adapt to sharing landscapes. Tolerance can be passive. For example, not killing a predator which kills your domestic animal. Tolerance can also be active, by taking steps to avoid conflict, such as building islands for muggers to bask on safely and reduce encounters on the shore, as done in the village pond at Deva, Anand district, Gujarat. Importantly, human interactions with wildlife must be effectively governed to ensure wildlife populations persist. We believe such governance will only work if it is socially accepted, locals are represented and involved, and management ensures tolerable risk levels.
I came to the Charotar region of Gujarat to witness the coexistence of locals with crocodiles described by regional crocodile experts—Dr. Raju Vyas and Anirudh Vasava of the Vidyanagar Nature Club (VNC). VNC has been running a successful annual Charotar Crocodile Count since 2013, involving local residents, schoolchildren, and wildlife enthusiasts from all over India, in observing crocodiles and learning about their ecological role in the region’s wetlands. In a survey of mugger attacks conducted during VNC crocodile counts (2013–15), Vasava and his team learnt about four attacks on humans between 2009–2014. These incidents occurred in the villages of Traj, Deva and Heranj, and there have been a handful of attacks since then. The VNC survey also recorded attacks on livestock in the villages of Laval, Malataj, Traj, Changa, Heranj, Dabhou, and Dali. Despite these attacks, these communities are widely tolerant of muggers, and there are many recorded ‘rescues’ (16 between August 2013–November 2014), wherein crocodiles were removed from areas where they pose a risk to humans or livestock, and were either released back into the village pond, or transported for release in the Pariyej wetland.
Vishal Mistry, an expert local natural historian and VNC member, brought us to meet Hemant Ode. I had not come to Traj to hear about conflicts and hatred for crocodiles, but to learn about this man’s extraordinary response to the tragic loss of his daughter, Hetal, to a crocodile. First, it is important to stress that both parents were still clearly devastated by their loss. A head-and-shoulders photograph of Hetal hangs on the front wall outside of their home. A pretty, smiling girl in a blue dress looks out from a wooden frame with a gold rim. A simple glass bead necklace hugs the frame (presumably Hetal’s).
Hemant is 42, a lean man with a lantern jaw. He grew up in the village and remembers no attacks from his childhood. He wasn’t even warned by his father or grandfather to be careful around the crocodiles in the pond. The village committee leases the pond to fishermen, who come every year to net fish. They catch and tether larger muggers on the bank, to keep them out of the way until they are done fishing. The children sometimes come and tease these muggers, and should be more careful not to get nipped, Hemant says.
Remarkably, following the loss of his daughter, Hemant has not campaigned to have the mugger killed or removed from the pond. He is nevertheless afraid to go near the water now, and says you should be cautious of crocodiles. “If you tease them, harm will come to you,” he says. Removing muggers known to locals will result in new and unknown muggers moving in, he reasons. Hemant does not have negative feelings towards crocodiles. In fact, he has become a mugger mitra, joining a ‘crocodile’s friend’ scheme and advising people on staying safe around crocodiles. He has even participated in two mugger rescues– capturing and removing crocodiles from places where they might pose a threat to humans.
Myth, message, meaning
Hemant tells us that a good strategy for raising local awareness is through the Hindu goddess Khodiyar, who is always shown riding on the back of or standing next to a mugger. The story of Khodiyar originated in Gujarat around 1,300 years ago. Of magical birth, she got her name through an injury to her foot, while on a journey to fetch a remedy for her brother, who was bitten by a snake. Limping, she was helped by a mugger crocodile, who carried her on its back, and for this service she came to be worshipped as Khodiyar maa. She is still widely worshipped in the region, answering prayers, healing and protecting her adherents (not specifically from crocodiles).
Hemant and Naniben were eventually paid a small amount of compensation for the loss of their daughter, but this had minimal impact on their attitudes towards crocodiles. Studying the situation at Traj as a conflict would miss quite a lot of what is happening here. More recently, an old man named Lakshman Chavda was killed by a crocodile in the same village pond. He had been advised against getting into the water, but continued to take long baths in the pond. Later, in the office of the village sarpanch (mayor) Ajay C Patel, Lakshman’s son, Manish, told us that nobody is to blame because it is well-known that crocodiles are present and the responsibility to be careful lies with people. Manish told us he wasn’t angry with the crocodile when the attack occurred, but only anxious to recover his father’s body (Lakshman’s body was recovered the morning after the attack, bitten but not consumed). The sarpanch, a stocky, active man with close-cropped hair, says that crocodiles have lived in the pond for a very long time, and are a part of local life. Fishing is allowed in the pond, but enough fish are left for the crocodiles. The mugger that attacked Lakshman Chavda was caught (there was some debate over whether the right one was caught!), and removed to a nearby wetland, Pariyej. Warning signs have been erected and the village council has applied to the Forest Department for a Crocodile Exclusion Enclosure.
In our recent paper published in the journal Conservation Biology, Anirudh Vasava, Saloni Bhatia, and I argue that it is in shared landscapes such as these Indian farmlands, that human-wildlife interactions should be studied, rather than in and around conservation’s more traditional focus—protected areas. Coexistence does not mean there isn’t any conflict. We spoke with villagers in the neighbouring Vadodara district, who didn’t want crocodiles living nearby. Some hinted at wanting to kill them, but feared prosecution. Coexistence occurs where there are ways of dealing with the occasional harmful event in ways acceptable to locals, and where there is tolerance for the animals responsible for them, as demonstrated by the remarkable villagers of Traj. Of course, this doesn’t just involve studying how humans interact with wildlife, but also studying how animals like large crocodiles have adapted to living (for the most part), peaceably alongside humans.
Studying coexistence with wildlife requires different skills to those usually used by conservation scientists. It is important to think through what it means to interact with local people, often with different customs, spiritual beliefs, social norms, and economic status. Researchers have an ethical duty to ensure no harm comes to those they work with. Asking people about traumatic events requires empathy and tact, and putting the feelings of interviewees first. This kind of research takes a long time, and is best done in collaboration with local experts and field workers. It is important to approach communities in the proper way, get necessary permissions and earn people’s trust, while also taking into account the concerns of local institutions and the government too.
Management recommendations for human-wildlife conflict scenarios mostly focus on prevention and one-off or short-term compensation measures, but we should remember that people’s lives may be changed forever, and attitudes deeply affected in the long term, by traumatic encounters with wildlife. Researchers should also remember that after they have gone, or their papers have been published, it is the locals and the local authorities who continue living with wildlife. In areas of the world where significant wildlife persists outside of protected areas, these populations still exist largely because of varying degrees of long-term human-wildlife coexistence.
Studying coexistence where it occurs in the world, respectfully and using the appropriate methods, will greatly enhance our understanding of the ways in which humans and wildlife can coexist. It can reveal how different values systems and cultures promote tolerance of wildlife. It can also highlight other dimensions to consider, besides rational decision-making based on calculations of costs and benefits. In these challenging times for biodiversity, it will also (while acknowledging harms and conflicts) bring us stories of hope, and grounds for optimism that we can coexist with wild animals.
On my way back to Ahmedabad at the end of my visit, I received a text from Vishal Mistry with a photo of Hemant Ode next to the trap they had used to catch the crocodile that had attacked Lakshman in the pond at Traj. It had been on its way home, from where it was released in the Pariyej wetland. We have much to learn about managing human-crocodile interactions, but this story gives me hope that we can do so in ways that allow both to flourish together.
Further reading
Pooley, S., S. Bhatia and A. G. Vasava. 2020. Rethinking the study of human-wildlife coexistence. Conservation Biology, Early View: https://doi.org/10.1111/cobi.13653
Vasava, A. G., D. Patel, R. Vyas and V. Mistry. 2015. Crocs of Charotar: status, distribution and conservation of mugger crocodiles in Charotar Region, Gujarat, India. Vallabh Vidyanagar, India: Voluntary Nature Conservancy.
It was Jeeha Tacho’s favourite time of the day. All was quiet in the tiny village of Etabe, where he lived. The family had finished the work for the day, and he sat with his grandmother by the fire. “Naya, what story will you tell me tonight?”
Jeeha loved Naya’s stories. Naya’s stories were the stories of his people, the Idu Mishmi, passed down from generations. Jeeha’s favourite stories were about the animals that lived in the forests and the mountains that surrounded his tiny village.
Naya’s face glowed in the reflection of the fire. “Let me think. Today, I will tell you about the ākrū.” she said.
“What is the ākrū, Naya?”
“The ākrū lives in the high mountains. It is a strange-looking animal, like a mix of a goat and an antelope. It has a heavy, hairy body, and hunched shoulders with a thick short neck. But it has short legs and a short tail. What makes it look even odder is its nose, which looks like a swollen black bulb.”
Little Jeeha closed his eyes and painted a visual picture of the ākrū as Naya described it. “Does it have horns, Naya? Like the màcō (sambar) and the māāy (serow)?”
“No”, said Naya, “The ākrū’s horns are not like theirs.” She pointed to the short curved horns on the animal skull board. “The ākrū’s horns were not always curved like this. They say that a long time ago, they were long and straight.”
Jeeha’s eyes widened. “How did they become curved then, Naya?”
Naya’s focus deepened. “Many years ago, Idu Mishmis were very confused about the ākrū. ‘What kind of animal is this ākrū’, they wondered? One of the Idu Mishmi men said, ‘Look at its slanted back, no other animal has a back like this’.
Another man said, ‘Look at its face. It looks like a goat, but is it a goat?’ Another one said, ‘But see, its horns are not like that of a goat’. A young one said, ‘This animal looks like it has been put together from different parts of different animals!’ Everyone laughed.
The old hunter said, ‘Do not make fun of the ākrū. Ngōlō, the mountain spirit, will get angry. All the ākrū belong to him, no?’
‘No! They belong to us, the Idu Mishmi people’, the others said.”
“Then what happened, Naya?” asked Jeeha, slowly lying down and placing his head on his grandmother’s lap.
“Then? Both Ngōlō and the Idu people claimed that the ākrū belonged to them. For a long time, this continued. Then it was decided that there would be a competition between Ngōlō and the Idu people to decide. There would be a tug of war!
The Idu people invited everyone from Dibang Valley to take part in this competition. On that morning, Ngōlō and the Idu people met at an open ground, where the ākrū stood at the centre of the field.
All the Idu people took their place at the rear end of the animal, and their strongest hunter grasped the tail of the animal in a firm grip. The rest of the clan clamoured behind him, one after another, holding the one in front tightly by the waist. The mountain spirit Ngōlō, bravely stood alone in front of the animal and held its straight and long horns, one in each hand.
Both sides started pulling the animal towards themselves. The ākrū was also strong and stocky. It held its ground firmly as it was pulled in two directions. It was a tough competition between Ngōlō and the Idu.
Ngōlō kept a steady grip on the horns, even though the ākrū was tossing its head back and the Mishmis were pulling with all their might from behind. As it was being pulled forward, the ākrū’s heavy horns slowly started curving backwards and upwards.
The Idu people struggled with all their combined might to hang on to the tail. But they were no match for the powerful Ngōlō. By the time the ākrū’s horns had curved, the tail began slipping out of their hands, and suddenly, with a snap, most of it came away in their hands, leaving only a stub attached on the back of the ākrū!
Ngōlō won, and from then on Ngōlō claimed that the ākrū belonged to him.
And so, the tale goes—this is how the ākrū’s horns became curved, and why it has a body that slants downwards, and why it has a short tail.”
“Naya, have you ever seen the ākrū?” asked Jeeha.
“Very few people have seen the ākrū. Hunters who have trekked up to where the ground is covered with snow, often talk about the ākrū.
Some say they move in large numbers, even groups as large as 300! Who knows if this is true? I have never seen one,” said Naya.
Jeeha was now very curious to see this ākrū. He decided that one day, when he was older, he would trek up the Dibang mountains with his father, and who knows, maybe he would see an ākrū! And he fell asleep on Naya’s lap, dreaming of the ākrū, and the snow-covered mountains.
This is one of the many tales told by the Idu Mishmi. With the lack of a written script, most of these stories are orally passed down through generations. Idu Mishmi lore is rich with tales about mammals, birds, grasshoppers, and frogs, which also tells us a lot about their natural landscape.
The takin is one of the animals that appears in the mythological stories of the Idu Mishmi. Locally called the ākrū’, it is a wild goat-antelope found in parts of Arunachal Pradesh, Myanmar, China and Bhutan. One of the four subspecies is the Mishmi takin (Budorcas taxicolor taxicolor). In Arunachal Pradesh, the presence of takin has been recorded on the higher peaks and ridges of Tawang, Siang valley, Lower Dibang valley, Anjaw, and southern Lohit districts. According to the IUCN, it is categorized as ‘vulnerable’, indicating that their population is decreasing. The Indian Wildlife Protection Act (1972) classifies the takin as a Schedule I species, a status similar to that of the tiger.
The Idu Mishmi are one of the three subgroups of the Mishmi–one of the 26 major tribal groups of Arunachal Pradesh. The Idu Mishmi live in the Dibang Valley and Lower Dibang Valley districts of Arunachal Pradesh, with a small population in the Upper Siang district. The Dibang Valley district is the least populated district in India, with a population of about 14000 Idu Mishmi. The region is known for its rich wildlife, beautiful snow-clad mountains, and high altitude wetlands. The Idu Mishmi are primarily dependent on swidden cultivation and forest produce: Life in the high mountains adjoining the Sino-India border is tough, because of the rugged terrain and harsh weather conditions. Animals are an integral part of their culture and life.
This is one of the stories narrated by Ananta Meme, a friend, an Idu Mishmi, and a resident of the Dibang Valley district. We have retold the story so that it can be shared with a wider audience.
Dedication
I (AA), met Jeeha Tacho in 2012 when I started my PhD fieldwork in Anini, the district headquarters of Dibang Valley of Arunachal Pradesh. I stayed with his family, in Jeeha’s home for a year. He was 10 years old. We became good friends and spent time birdwatching, plucking fruits, and cooking. In 2017, Jeeha’s life was cut short in a tragic accident close to Etabe village. This story is dedicated to him.
The scientific name of the African lion is Panthera leo. They are endangered and less than 30,000 wild lions remain in the African savannahs. African lions mostly like living in open savannahs and sometimes in sparse scrublands.
They live in family groups called prides, with a number of related females, and unrelated males who are father to all the cubs born while they are with the pride.
The lions mate throughout the year, depending on the availability of food. When there is enough food, more young ones are likely to be born. Gestation lasts for 110 days and females have an average of 3 cubs per litter. Multiple females in the pride often synchronize their litters so that other females have cubs at the same time, encouraging cooperative rearing by sisters.
Young males must leave the pride when they are about two years old. Young females may also leave but mostly they stay with their pride. Lions have a strong attachment to particular areas, and human interference with this home range can cause problems. Biologists identify members of a pride using the whisker patterns on the face or on both sides of the mouth.
If one mother dies from disease, an accident during hunting, or is killed by poachers, her young cubs can be raised by her sisters in the pride. Females share the care duties, and cubs in a pride suckle any mother that has enough milk to feed them. Cubs depend on their mothers for survival up to two years of age.
The negative effects of human interference with biodiversity are well known. Unknown, however, was whether human meddling also interferes with the heritage that extant species represent from specific periods of the history of life. Some habitats are particularly rich in plant groups originating from ancient epochs such as the Paleocene-Eocene and Oligocene (about 65 to 23 million years ago). Our research shows that these habitats are disproportionately threatened by human activities. Thus, the evolutionary heritage itself is threatened.
To preserve the evolutionary heritage from past epochs, it may be insufficient to protect species-rich regions. It will be necessary, and more practical, to protect habitat types and plant groups originating from particular ancient epochs. They should be protected even in species-poor regions. Specifically, in the Netherlands, habitat types under threat include salt seaside vegetation and nutrient-poor open habitats such as heathlands, unfertilized grass pastures at lower elevation and arable weed communities. Species found in these threatened habitat types are often weak competitors and shade-tolerant species, and such species often belong to plant groups that originated during particularly ancient eras.
The figure includes images of declining habitat types, and maps of their distribution in the region. Comparing such maps between different periods of observation, conservation authorities can follow the decline of regional zones of evolutionary heritage from specific ancient epochs. Existing conservation programs, such as the Habitat Directive implemented by the European Commission, do not protect evolutionary heritage. It is therefore especially worrying that, at least in the Netherlands, habitat types with more recent evolutionary heritage are currently replacing those with much more ancient ones.
Further Reading:
Bartish, I.V., Ozinga, W.A., Bartish, M.I., Wamelink, G.W.W., Hennekens, S.M., Yguel, B., Prinzing, A. (2020) Anthropogenic threats to evolutionary heritage of angiosperms in the Netherlands through increase in high-competition environments. Conservation Biology 34: 1536-1548.
Go to your doctor, and they will give you the best treatment based on scientific evidence. So why don’t we do the same for wildlife? Species are going extinct at an alarming rate, and we need to quickly find the best ways to conserve and protect them for the future. Using scientific evidence to find this out is important because it can help us learn from past failures and successes. That way, we can get better at conserving wildlife and prevent more species from going extinct.
To help do this, researchers from the Conservation Evidence project (www.conservationevidence.com) at the University of Cambridge have been summarising scientific studies that have tested whether different conservation actions work or not. For example, does using certain fishing nets help stop albatrosses getting accidentally caught and dying? My colleagues and I have now analysed the published evidence summarised by the Conservation Evidence project and found that we have massive gaps in our knowledge.
We found that in places with more species threatened by extinction, fewer scientific studies are testing whether conservation actions work. Outside North America, Europe, and Australasia, the few studies that exist also tend to be less reliably designed.
We also found that there is little or no evidence for conservation actions aimed at entire groups of amphibians (like limbless caecilians, see picture) and birds (like hornbills and hoopoes, see picture).
These gaps in our knowledge must be filled, and we believe more prioritised funding is needed to test whether conservation actions work in underrepresented parts of the world (like the tropics) and for threatened species. Working more closely with conservationists on the ground will also help us find out and share which actions work best and encourage them to use evidence to inform what they do.
References:
Christie, A.P., T., Amano, P.A., Martin, S.O., Petrovan, G.E., Shackelford, B.I., Simmons, R.K., Smith, et al. 2020. The challenge of biased evidence in conservation. Conservation Biology. Early View Article. doi:10.1111/cobi.13577
The soft crackling and gentle glow of the small fire on the banks of the iMfolozi river in South Africa was insignificant in the powerful presence of the African night. The sky was bursting with stars, with lions roaring in the distance, as two men listened to the splashing of a bushbuck as it crossed the river.
The future co-founders of the WILD Foundation, Ian Player (a white, senior wildlife conservator) and Zulu elder, Magqubu Ntombela (Ian’s mentor/brother/tracker), quietly discussed the difficulties around and ahead of them — chief among these, saving the white rhino from extinction. They were working to protect biodiversity, a term popular in conservation today but not even known at that time. This essentially meant that they needed to build strength and resilience within this species. Only one small population of the Southern White Rhino remained, all in the small redoubt of Africa’s oldest protected area, the iMfolozi Game Reserve in South Africa. The need was clear to them, but not the process, for no one had ever moved at-scale a very large, and sometimes temperamental mammal to faraway locations where they would be safer from the threats of disease and poaching. What’s more, this was occurring during the era of apartheid — the white-ruled system of legal segregation of races and the (often violent) subjugation of non-white peoples in South Africa.
Ian told me this story some 25 years later as he, Magqubu, and I sat on the banks of the same river, around the soft crackling and in the fragrance of the small fire made of tamboti wood. “We had to move them,” said Ian. “Because a virus could come into the Reserve and wipe them all out. They are safer in small, diverse groups, further apart.” They accomplished their goal, with multi-racial groups of experts and uneducated game scouts working together on the ground, in the hot African bush, to develop the first techniques, drugs, and processes that allowed many white rhino to be moved throughout Africa and around the world, and for their population to grow from a few hundred to almost 25,000 by the year 2010. The racially, economically, and culturally diverse team worked with, and learned from each other for the common good of saving an ancient species of animal. Diversity works, even in nature.
Sound familiar? The need for safety from disease, extinction, and violence . . . in the social context of racial or other cultural injustices? There are lessons we can learn now, from what occurred then. I did. As a young man in my mid-30s, I looked at the elderly Magqubu as we sat there on the riverbank, him quietly singing praise songs as he often did. I asked him how we could help change the unjust law of apartheid. With Ian translating, the old man spoke simply in his typical, low and rumbling voice. “When you die and are buried in the ground, the worms do not care the color of your skin. When we understand nature, our life is strong. It is simple and yet it is difficult. But we must always hope and do what is right.” Nine years later, after 27 years in prison and in a violence-free transition of power, Nelson Mandela was elected President of South Africa. I am reminded today of Mandela’s reply when asked how he survived those years in prison: “Hope is a powerful weapon, and no power on earth can deprive you of it.”
And here we are now, 2020, with our world in the grip of existential natural crises — climate breakdown, the species extinction emergency, and the viral pandemic — that threaten to upend our future survival, and the world is beset with polarities of religion, race, class, and economy.
Because you are reading this, you likely already understand that protecting nature is a service to both nature and humanity; that peace and prosperity are possible only from a respectful relationship with nature; and that such a reality can never be made manifest if we don’t also respect and protect each other.
Where do we go from here? How can nations and communities gain the strength to move beyond the polarities and inequities? We just start simply but profoundly. I suggest we listen to each other respectfully, hopefully and, most importantly, actively. More specifically, two thoughts…
Ubuntu. Ian Player and Magqubu established our organization, the WILD Foundation, and instigated a global movement of cooperation among people and with nature. They infused our organization with the same principles and practice they used to save the white rhino. They worked together for the common good, blind to racial and cultural differences — they followed the example of the worm. By doing so, they practiced ubuntu, that very special Bantu philosophy that asserts the power of mutual respect — “I am because you are” — and confirms a universal bond of sharing that connects all humanity. What also comes to mind in the contemporary western world is the growing awareness of ‘co-liberation’ — we are not free until we are all free. Ian Player always felt that it was the spirit of ubuntu among the diverse members of the team that saved the white rhino from extinction — all of them working together and respecting each other to accomplish a cause that is for all people and nature was an important element in the success of that pioneering programme.
Hope. Many years ago, I stopped being optimistic because it was not working for me. I needed engagement, connection, and reason. Vaclav Havel captured my feeling perfectly: “Hope is definitely not the same thing as optimism. Hope is not the conviction that something will turn out well, but the certainty that something makes sense, regardless of how it turns out.” This is nowhere more evident than in many conservation campaigns, such as if mining were to occur in an area sacred to tribal communities, or a dam were to completely destroy a wide range of essential eco-system services in order to provide water for commercial agriculture. Most of these situations have a small conservation-oriented team facing up to a large multinational corporation and/or major funding and government agencies, all of whom have infinitely more resources to draw upon. The outcome is far from certain, but it is undertaken because it is the right thing to do for the people, for nature, and for a sane and healthy future.
And Mandela certainly got it right when he confirmed that life can strip you of everything except your attitude, and that the attitude of hope is indeed very powerful. But there is more. To me, hope is active, it only fully manifests in doing. In fact, I subscribe fully to that which Kris Tompkins of Tompkins Conservation asserts, that people are only deserving of hope when they act for the common good.
Acting for the common good needs to be our common cause. As we face our common challenges—climate change, pandemics, extinction, and social inequity – achieving this goal means viewing the world through connections rather than differences, and acting accordingly.
Mist curls in rising ribbons from the Northern Michigan lake early in the morning. The sun peaks over the horizon just as the world awakes. As I watch this breathtaking sight, I notice something moving in the underbrush along the shoreline. A family of North American river otters emerges from the shrubbery and enters the crisp early spring water. This was one of my first encounters with the subfamily Lutrinae. Watching this cute little family swimming together had me hooked.
I have crossed paths with otters many times since, and my love for them has only grown. As I grew older and advanced my knowledge, I learned that their peaceful existence is anything but. Water quality around the globe has become a pressing concern for all of Earth’s inhabitants. No country is immune to issues concerning the quality of the water we drink and that which is in the ecosystems that surround us.
Of the thirteen extant species of otters in the world, all but the North American river otter is either threatened or endangered. The life history of the subfamily has uniquely tied them to aquatic regions, and nothing is more integral to their survival than the quality of the waterways in which they reside. Otters have evolved over millions of years specifically for aquatic life. Their relationship with water places them in a prime position to be the spokes-family for water quality conservation.
The issue
Nearly one third of the world’s population is drinking from water contaminated with feces and other pollutants. This is not restricted to third-world countries either. Even in the developed world, this remains an issue. During severe weather in most cities, sewer systems discharge directly into waterways without being treated. I remember living in Traverse City, Michigan, and being unable to go swimming in the bay due to heavy rains and E. coli being found in the water. This is a common occurrence in many cities as older sewage systems are unable to keep up with demand especially in larger cities and dump untreated wastewater directly into waterways.
Our relationship with water is very unhealthy. It is the second most important thing to our survival yet we have such a disparaging report with our water resources. Regulation is often lacking and, in many cases, difficult as much of the pollution entering the waterways is from nonpoint-source pollution. This pollution does not have a single source like the discharge from an outflow pipe. There are many places in the world where people are simply struggling to survive every day and don’t have the forethought to worry about longevity when the immediate is much more pressing.
As decreased water quality becomes more prevalent, especially in impoverished or indigent societies, ecosystems deteriorate causing a compounding calamity. The ecosystem’s health declines leading to decreased resources causing the inhabitants to make more catastrophic decisions, thus accelerating the decline. This is where otters can play a crucial role, but it is imperative to understand their evolutionary history to comprehend their significance today.
Evolution of the subfamily
The origins of the subfamily lie somewhere between 13.5 million and 14.1 million years ago. Sivaonyx was the initial genus that arose and diverged from the Mustelidae family around this time in Southeast Asia, based on fossil evidence. A lot of speciation and emigration occurred during this time period as the newly formed subfamily moved westward following aquatic ecosystems. It would reach all the way into Africa and Europe during the same time. The largest ever species of the subfamily was found in Africa, and weighed between 200 and 400 lbs.
The Pliocene saw an immense explosion of diversity, especially in Europe. Many species evolved, with a large majority going extinct. It appears that the subfamily migrated to North America and spread down to South America from Asia. Much like a large portion of the fauna that came to the Americas, otters crossed the land bridge of Beringia. Later during the Pleistocene, much of the extant species arose. At some point during this time, they developed fur that had water resistant qualities helping them move more easily in water, and shed water upon exiting. In the case of otters living in cooler climates, they even developed natural “dry suits” with the outer fur protecting the underfur and keeping it dry. Their paws also developed webbing to help them swim in water. A commonality as a species that arose and went extinct is their proximity to aquatic ecosystems. Nearly all of them were located in or near aquatic ecosystems. The subfamily had become uniquely adapted to riparian regions, and a very effective predator within that region. There are two distinct groups, those that are bunodonts (crab-eating), and those that eat fish. They fill a role much like the wolves in Yellowstone National Park and Isle Royale. As a small predator, they control overpopulation by prey species and prevent the collapse of many ecosystems. They are very efficient hunters and due to their unique semi-aquatic nature, they are able to maintain healthy populations within their communities and stabilize the ecosystem. Unfortunately, a majority of the species are in decline. One cause of this decline in temperate climates is due to poor water quality leading to unsuitable habitats.
Creating a flagship
Temperate climate otters have positioned themselves to become the primary flagship species for discussing water quality. Water quality can be discussed with tropical otter species too, though threats such as hunting or poaching and habitat loss are more considerable. Should otter species in general be turned into the flagship for water quality, it could afford tropical species some protection from these threats.
Millions of years of evolution has created a charismatic species that can be utilized to engage citizens and organizations in the development of better water quality and ecological conservation efforts. The subfamily allows for people to engage in the discussion of water quality and conservation in a different way. It also allows for a symbiotic relationship between human health and ecosystem health. As communities engage in increasing their water quality for their own health, otters will benefit from the cleaner waters and healthier ecosystems. Increased attention towards otters will enhance the protection of waters used for drinking by citizens.
This new symbiotic relationship can be used to create new relationships across the globe and create a cohesive program to protect and revitalize the world’s water supply. As threats to the ecosystems of the world and human health increase, developing flagship species that can turn the tides are pivotal to conservation success. The need for such a species is great, and investing in one that has tangible benefits for humans is an easy sell for gaining organizational and governmental support. Otters are primed to be the flagship to save our planet.
Further Reading
Geraads, D., Alemseged, Z., Bobe, R., and Reed, D. 2011. Enhydriodon dikikae, sp. nov. (Carnivora: Mammalia), a gigantic otter from the Pliocene of Dikika, Lower Awash, Ethiopia. Journal of Vertebrate Paleontology 31(2): 447-453.
Kruuk, H. 2014. Otters: Ecology, behaviour and conservation. Oxford: Oxford University Press. National Geographic. 2019. Otters. https://www.nationalgeographic.com/animals/mammals/group/otters/. Accessed on September 22, 2020.
Of what was once the Asian elephant’s landscape, extending from Syria all the way up to China, India, and Pakistan, only few isolated pockets now remain in South and Southeast Asia. Among them the trans-Patkai region of Asia still offers an unfragmented stretch of forests for this migratory species, which by the end of this century is estimated to succumb to the sixth mass extinction. Jacob Shell’s book, Giants of the Monsoon Forest: Living and Working with Elephants, walks us through an ethnographic and historical work life situated in this region of the Indo-Burmese border across the crescent of the Patkai Hills, even as the regions of central Myanmar, and Vietnam fall within its scope. Shell narrates an intimate account of a unique working relationship between humans and elephants in this region, in the pressing context of habitation loss that looms large over the future of the species.
The narrative summons attention to the specific nature of this geography. It is untraceable through satellite imaging due to canopy and monsoon clouds, and unreachable through roads or vehicles due to dense forests, torrential rivers and thick monsoons. This attentiveness is critical to gauge the inseparable relationship between the place, people and the elephants. The forest-based economies of the communities inhabiting the region are deeply dependent on the elephants for all kinds of movement. The only way to navigate these regions is via the elephant trails and their dexterity to move through the forests. The author tells us that this dependency is mutual. It is not just the people who need the elephants. The forest-based economy in the present times is what keeps the forest cover intact, without which the lands will fall prey to agricultural expansion. At the heart of the book is the argument that surviving in this harsh environment has led to a historically developed working relationship between the people and Asian elephants.
In this relationship, the elephants live a life of semi-captivity; they work by day and are set free at night. In contemporary times, with a ban on timber logging, the inevitability of settled farming, and large scale deforestation, perhaps the only way to secure the future of the species is through holding on to this cultural practice of working with elephants. The book suggests that instead of colonizing this geography through calamitous infrastructure-building projects or expanding agriculture, the states of these regions could incorporate the elephants into forest-based economy, such as transportation and rescue operations, which could be a workable way to secure forest cover, livelihoods and the lives of elephants.
Despite the moral contradictions of the relationship between humans and elephants, these are somewhat lesser obstacles, the author argues, when the larger issue is that of securing the habitat of a species in the throes of extinction. Moreover, the presence of the semi-domesticated elephant ensures the forest cover remains intact. This in turn protects against the fragmentation of migratory routes of wild herds. It also improves the scope of inter-breeding, thereby maintaining the overall health of the species.
The backbone of the book is an animated narrative which effortlessly tethers ethnography to folklore, behavioural sciences and history. This fleshes out lively, tense and thought provoking encounters and anecdotes about what constitutes this co-working relationship between the people from various tribes of the region and the elephants. Both share complicated and deep histories of migration from the plains to the hills. This complex relationship has room to recognize the needs of the elephants.
An important part of semi-domesticated life of the elephants is the fetters tied between their forelegs, so that they can freely walk in the forests at night but not run. They are strong, yet deliberately not as strong so as to be conducive to breaking, if an elephant’s urge to leave to join a herd is extreme. These ‘breakable chains’; a safety valve to balance the needs of the humans and their elephants becomes a metaphor for the reader to understand the complicated relationship between the elephants, their mahouts (handlers) and fandis (catchers). The reader however, is also made aware of the fact that this relationship is as much one of cruelty as it is of care and love, right from the process of elephant catching, disciplining and the burden of overworking.
A journey along this relationship is nonetheless an invitation to critique, that which is the corner-stone of humanity’s moral claim to supremacy – the hierarchies that distinguish humans and nonhuman lives. Such critique lies at the heart of ethno-elephantology, an interdisciplinary approach that responds to the urgency of rethinking issues of human-elephant co-living. Jacob Schell’s work ascertains that many exceptional abilities we have learnt to associate specifically to humans – a complex social world, the ability to think and act creatively, and lead a sentient life – are in fact not unique to humans but shared across life forms; in this case, by elephants. The book persuasively depicts their kinaesthetic intelligence, perceptual abilities and unique geographical cognition, something which people who live in close proximity with them recognise (recognition takes many forms including stories, songs and animistic beliefs), and on which they depend to thrive in this ecology. The author goes to the extent of arguing that given the innovation, creativity and ability to develop solutions in emergency situations that the elephants demonstrate in their work (in logging, transportation or rescue operations to save people stranded in floods).
One can ask to what effect the work performed are actually methods and manoeuvres innovated solely by the mahouts? The case for the insightfulness of the elephants is made by depicting their methods of resistance to work, or ways in which they don’t just obey, but rather rely on their ability to assess. If the initial step towards a critique of a world deeply entrenched in hierarchical relations is to recognise the myriad life — worlds of other beings, across similarities and differences, then this book enables us to cultivate such a recognition, through the many moments of wonderment it offers.
This unique working relationship between mahout and elephant, built on ambiguities, complexities and profoundness is after all, a coming together of two perceptual worlds. This is something the book compels one to recognise. It is movingly explored as the author retraces the historical events of the Burmese exodus to India during the Second World War, through the key role played by elephants in the process of migration. One realizes how the historical episode would have unfolded rather differently, without the exhaustive collaborative labour between elephants and their mahouts — transporting and rescuing people and their belongings across difficult topography, dangerously steep mountains, torrential rivers and jungle paths where the monsoon wipes away all familiar routes. The book, by including several other such accounts of historical events, including the Ho Chi Minh Trails, the Kha Resistance and United States-Vietnam war, insists on revisiting the histories of the region through the indispensable presence of elephants, both as subjects and victims. This is done in a way that both nourishes an understanding of the past and offers a blueprint for the future.
If one begins reading the book with an expectation of an isolated account of animal-human companionship, halfway through the book, they will realise that such relationships are incomprehensible in isolation. Through a detailed discussion of both the spatial and social organization built around working with elephants, and a study of the regions controlled by the Kachin Independence Army — the only bureaucratic administration in the world that is elephant-run — the author leaves the readers with two important thoughts. First, that an account of a human-animal relationship, is not supplementary to, but intrinsic to the complex political-economic fabric of the region, and any attempt at understanding a place, its culture and politics thrive in relations of co-dependencies. Second, he urges for these models of co-working as an effective solution for states in South and South-East Asia to incorporate.
However, several aspects of the deeply engaging text lend themselves to further probing. First, the elephants’ existence in a state of semi-captivity, the book argues, may help in their continual existence and preservation of their habitat as opposed to more critical situations. It also ensures the continuation of the rich cultural knowledge about elephants. However, to make an argument for semi-captivity into one about the survival of the species seems fraught with generalizations. This becomes clearer when one looks at studies conducted to understand the entangled lives of free-roaming elephants and people. One could turn to Ursüla Munster’s work which looks at conflict and negotiations between humans and elephants in Wayanad district of southern India. Her work offers possibilities of thinking about shared spaces between humans and elephants (in a situation of conflict and coexistence) by engaging in ways of knowing and understanding the elephant’s perceptual world. She, like Niclas Klixbüll, who works on human-elephant relationships in Sri Lanka, emphasizes the importance of practical knowledge in mediating co-living. Such practical knowledge recognizes elephants as socially intelligent, intentional animals, whose lives alongside humans have been impacted by ecological disruptions. Studies offer alternative arguments emphasizing captivity as the only possible course towards thinking about co-existence and in turn, the future of elephants.
Second, the book offers a perspective that this co-working could also be read as a conscious decision on the part of the elephants to survive the changing landscape. Towards this, it interestingly points to the subjective capacity of elephants as negotiators of their social environment. However, one is also moved to ask, when the proportions of ecological ramifications we face today are those of earthly survival, can it be ironed out through solutions of accommodating elephants as co-workers within the existing economic infrastructure? Proving that the infallibility of the changing landscape, the assumptions of landscape as a colony of humans, forests as a resource, or animals as labour for economy, are premises that beckon discomfort to think about survival in a shared world. Given forest-based economies don’t operate in isolation; they are linked to larger commercial nexuses built around resource extraction, mining being the primary.
Lastly, can an ethical implication of recognizing personhood in another species and a shared world seem to co-exist with a language of the ‘guardianship of human keepers’, as the text tends to imply, despite its recognition of the subjectivities of elephants? These are some larger contradictions this otherwise deeply immersive book leaves one to think about.
Roads help us move from one place to another. However, roads also pose a major threat to wildlife as it attempts to move across roads. According to national estimates, millions of mammals, birds, reptiles, and amphibians are killed due to vehicle collisions on roads each year. As a result, many wildlife populations are severely depleted by roadkill, causing local extinctions and contributing to biodiversity loss. The best-known method to prevent roadkill is to put wildlife fences along roads to block animals from crossing.
Although fencing creates barriers for animal movement, animal mortality due to road-kill is often a much bigger threat to the survival of animal populations than the restrictions caused on their movement.
Fences are costly to install, and these costs increase with the length of the road that needs to be fenced. The next best solution therefore is to fence only along stretches with a high frequency of road-kills. To address this, we present a step-by-step approach to reduce animal road mortality, known as the ‘Adaptive Fence-Implementation Plan’. Our plan provides guidance on roadkill surveys, hotspot analysis at multiple scales, and mitigation measures such as fencing and wildlife passages. The adaptive nature of the plan ensures that assessments account for shifting of hotspots in response to the installation of fences. The plan provides a systematic framework for prioritizing road sections for fencing, and can be used in combination with other mitigation measures such as wildlife overpasses and underpasses, to alleviate the problem of restricted movement.
Our hotspot analysis identifies locations where fences need to be installed to reduce animal deaths due to roadkill. We define ‘hotspots’ as locations with significantly higher roadkill numbers than expected (as compared to numbers obtained from a random distribution), and ‘coldspots’ as locations with significantly fewer roadkill events than expected. We collected data from recorded roadkill locations on three roads: one in Quebec, Canada, and two in Rio Grande do Sul in southern Brazil. We used a ‘moving-window’ approach along roads to count roadkill. The window, 200 m – 2000 m in diameter, was used to account for a range of spatial scales at which hotspots and coldspots could be identified.
We found that the scale of assessment influences the location, number, and spatial extent of hotspots identified. Interestingly, a roadkill hotspot identified at a particular scale may not necessarily be a hotspot at another scale. We then explored the potential reduction in road mortality if fences were installed, starting with the hotspots with highest recorded incidents of roadkill.
The relationship between the length of fence installed and reduction in roadkill can be displayed in mortality-reduction graphs, which show steeper slopes at fine scales. This means that the total length of the road sections that need to be fenced is shorter when considering hotspots at fine scales, compared to that required when assessments are made at coarser scales. Accordingly, using many short fences might be more effective than using a few long fences. However, if fences are too short, animals could move around the fence to cross the road. This results in an important trade-off between the use of a few long or many short (FLOMS) fences. Fencing only hotspots identified at fine scales with many short fences might appear to be less expensive, but it may result in ineffective mitigation if animals can move around the fences. A balance needs to be found between a few long and many short fences. This balance depends on the movement behavior of the species and mortality reduction targets, and may also depend on the landscape structure in the vicinity of the road. The insights from our results help understand the influence of fences on roadkill at multiple spatial scales, and the trade-offs therein.
Further reading
Spanowicz, A. G., F. Z. Teixeira and J. A. G. Jaeger. 2020. An adaptive plan for prioritizing road sections for fencing to reduce animal mortality. Conservation Biology 34(5): 1210-1220.
Encountering a relatively inconspicuous temperate pine species in the higher reaches of the Indian Western Himalayas, was entirely an outcome of my exploratory trails across the captivating landscape and habitations of Kinnaur in Himachal Pradesh.
Spotting the endemic
While ambling along the streets of a village named Kalpa, I sighted a huddled group of locals, adorned in their customary green velvet caps. They were immersed in deep discussion over the season’s irrigation water distribution logistics across households. This impressive community effort seemed to be governed by an indigenously constituted Gaon Vikas Committee (Village Development Committee) that has been in existence for a very long time. While enquiring if other forms of common property resources were being cooperatively managed in this manner, I stumbled upon a local edible pine nut known as Chilgoza. Chilgoza is collectively extracted from the wild by the native population, for self-consumption and for sale. I found that the pine nut is essentially a seed embedded in the cones of a specific pine tree that these mountain inhabitants referred to as Ree Bothang.
A spell of research engagements revealed that this temperate pine is scientifically known as Pinus gerardiana as a gesture of reverence for the indefatigable spirit of British explorer, Captain Alexander Gerard, who defied perilous topographical barriers to penetrate this secluded region way back in 1817. In his travelogue, Gerard vividly described the landscape to be rugged and mountainous to an extraordinary degree. He was the first to spot this obscure native pine and to introduce it to the formal domains of the botanical world.
I gathered that this was indeed a rare variety of pine. Its sparse and fragmented global distribution across steep xeric terrain of the western Hindu Kush Himalayas was perplexing, stirring me towards some in-depth probing. This initiative yielded striking results. Insights from recent phylogenetic studies attribute the nature of this scant and scattered distribution to unusual tectonic and climatic events during the Cenozoic era. These disrupting forces created constricted isolating environments influencing the evolutionary patterns and the distinctive sporadic occurrence of this temperate species.
This sequence of revelations was really intriguing. I lost no time and set off on reconnaissance surveys across the native habitat of the species. The intensity of cone collection was eye-catching, and I was propelled onto an important ecological concern. If the seeds were being over-extracted to be sold as edible pine nuts, would it not threaten natural regeneration and the sustainability of this range-restricted species? Would local governance mechanisms of resource use mediate any such unsustainable trends?
There I was in an arena that needed me to investigate and weigh the ecological versus livelihood outcomes of natural resource exploitation. Except in this case, conservation concerns appeared to be of prime importance as the temperate pine species under scrutiny was rare.
I felt it was imperative to alert the State Forest Department about my apprehensions and the exigencies of prioritising conservation of an endemic species. I did not hesitate to propose the urgency of a fieldbased research study in the Kinnaur Himalayas for comprehending the gravity of the situation. My genuine concerns did not go unheeded and a study was commissioned by the Department. The interdisciplinary field endeavour, conceived to assess the plight of these forests, focused on unearthing resource-use regimes, livelihood stakes and resource status under changing contextual parameters. The entire expanse of Chilgoza pine habitat between elevations of 2000 and 3000 meters was covered.
Trajectory of resource transitions
Oral history accounts gathered in the field, and archival evidence confirmed that until a few decades ago, the region was quite remote. Therefore, market potential of the pine nut yield remained virtually untapped. As pine nuts were extracted mainly for self-consumption and the population base of the region was insignificant, it may well be presumed that there were hardly any threats to these endemic pine forests in the past. The locals reiterated that it was not unusual to find ripe cones dangling from the branches even after the population’s needs had been fully met.
The speedy development of National Highway-22, for strategic reasons after the 1962 Chinese aggression, dismantled all geographical barriers. A rapid transition towards horticulture followed causing booming local economies and rising incomes.
Better road connectivity and market integration also triggered the sale of pine nuts on an unprecedented scale. The resource started fetching a very high market price as it originates mainly from this restricted geographical domain. Field insights revealed shocking inter-temporal trends. Over the years, the lure of lucrative gains seems to have led to a vicious cycle of destructive and near-total harvesting of pine cones, declining yields, and spiralling prices. With the seeds sold off as pine nuts, one could envisage the insurmountable threats for natural regeneration.
Evidence emanating from the forest surveys corroborated these expected trends. Over-lopped branches due to reckless cone collection were a common sight. As anticipated, the sightings of seedlings and saplings were meagre across most of the forest transects, raising vital concerns about the long-term sustainability of these rare forests. To add to these woes, there has also been a sizeable loss of healthy Chilgoza forests to a series of hydropower projects and haphazard road alignments.
Neither the local community nor the State appeared to have confronted the negative ecological implications of resource extraction. The endemic nature of this species was not even common knowledge.
I discovered that the emerging scientific evidence on the vulnerability of the Himalayas to climate change predict primary extinction threats for range-restricted species such as Chilgoza pine. Under such impending circumstances these tree line forests would have nowhere to seek refuge.
Assuaging discovery As natural regeneration had bothered me right from the inception of this study, I was hell-bent on photodocumenting every Chilgoza seedling and sapling encountered in the forest plots. These images exposed some unusual trends. Healthy regeneration was evident below rocks and I wondered how the seeds came to be dispersed in such odd locations. In some of these areas, clustered seedling growth was also visible. Meanwhile, stray local insights on the common crow’s affinity to hoard pine seeds belowground kept baffling me intermittently.
Although my research journey so far seemed to be ending on a dismal note, an accidental discovery provided some room for solace. Thanks to my ordinary “point and shoot” camera, I seem to have inadvertently spotted an avian wonder which is capable of fostering natural regeneration for pines like Chilgoza. Such are the rewards of sauntering in the wilderness. It turns out that I was the first to have made this discovery along these Western Himalayan forest tracts! In what follows I elaborate on my path to the discovery.
While trailing behind my field team, I sensed a lot of bird activity in one of the Chilgoza pine forests we were passing. At first I thought the resonating sounds were those of a persevering woodpecker. When I finally spotted a bird precariously perched like a weather cock atop a mature cone dangling from the branch of a Chilgoza tree. I managed to capture it on my camera. It turned out to be the large-spotted nutcracker (Nucifraga multipunctata) of the corvid family, which is endemic to the Western Himalayas. Nutcrackers are a small genus of 2-3 species closely associated with montane coniferous forests across parts of North America, Europe and Asia. They are specialised feeders on pine seeds which forms a large fraction of their diet.
But what was the explanation for the cropping up of seedlings in the most unusual locations? Did it have anything to do with the common crow concealing seeds that my local respondents were trying to convey? I did not seem to have a definitive answer. But I had no idea that I was on the verge of unearthing one of the most fascinating biological interactions. While trying to make some sense of my inexplicable field observations, I chanced upon Hutchins and Lanner’s research work as well as Diana Tomback’s invigorating research findings on the role of avian seed dispersal for pines that have wingless seeds. The wingless feature of Chilgoza pine seeds was a vital clue for unravelling the mystery I could not solve. It appears that 20 out of a 100 odd species of pine belonging to the genus Pinus, have wingless seeds that cannot be scattered by wind. 19 of these, including the Chilgoza pine, fall under the subgenus Strobus, which are known to be dispersed by corvids, especially nutcrackers. There is established evidence on this nature of avian seed dispersal in the case of eight of these Strobus pines. It is presumed to be the same for the remaining species as well.
This bird-pine relationship is a classic instance of obligate mutualism, wherein neither species can survive without the other. This coexistence is crucial and mutually beneficial. While the pine is virtually dependent on its avian seed disperser for regeneration, the nutcracker is heavily dependent on the pine for its primary year-round food source.
Studies pertaining to the Western temperate belts have established that these nutcrackers have excellent spatial memory. They harvest tens of thousands of pine seeds and bury them in small caches for later retrieval during winter, spring and parts of the following summer. Their caches function as seed dispersal, as seeds that are not retrieved germinate in favourable years and congenial microsites. These fascinating insights were enough to deduce that the cropping up of single or multi-stem juvenile pines in the most unusual locations that I had repeatedly spotted could well be untapped nutcracker caches.
Morphological traits of both species have ingeniously evolved over time to facilitate this specialized interaction. The nutcracker has a sturdy pointed bill to break open cones easily and a well-developed pouch below the tongue to transport nearly 80-90 seeds at a time, to its caching sites. Bird-dispersed pines have special features which assist nutcracker foraging. For instance, seeds are wingless and heavy. Ripe seeds are retained in cones either by indehiscence or restraining flanges after cones dehisce. These traits prevent loss of seeds due to wind dispersal or passive seed dispersal. Nutcrackers cache in a variety of different topographical sites and away at long distances, sometimes causing seedling growth in clusters and a genetic population structure that is quite distinct from wind dispersed pines.
Scientific evidence has established that nutcrackers are primary seed disperses for pines that have wingless seeds. Some other vertebrates may occasionally be effective as dispersers but rarely establishers. Only the nutcracker performs both roles.
This is because nutcrackers scatter-hoard well beyond their metabolic needs, at depths to reduce predation and desiccation and in sites favourable for growth making them potential dispersers capable of regenerating these Strobus pine forests.
Based on these scientific insights and my supportive field evidence, there is a high chance that bird-pine mutualism in Chilgoza pine forests does exist. A recent study undertaken to confirm the genetic diversity in Chilgoza forests found high rates of cross-pollination pointing towards substantial chances of pollen and seed migration from one site to another. The researchers did not provide any explanation for these trends. But this finding could well be attributed to the nutcrackers scatter hoarding of seeds across the landscape. This possibility is substantiated by recent research evidence from North America, where ringed nutcrackers were found to disperse seeds up to 32 kilometers¸ moving seeds longer distances than wind, rodents and every other seed-hoarding bird. These results consistently reinforce the feasibility of active nutcracker-pine interaction in Kinnaur. In this eventuality, the ruthless nature of seed extraction unravelled in this study could jeopardize the survival of the nutcracker and the pivotal role it may be playing in re-wilding the degrading landscape.
The poor status of Chilgoza pine forests calls for immediate attention to prevent the endemic species from aging away, besides mitigating threats to the fragile mountain ecosystem it may be judiciously harbouring. As artificial propagation strategies have not produced the expected results and a concerted conservation drive is still warranted, managing forests to enhance nutcracker visitation can be a cost-effective strategy for restoring the depleting forest stock. To achieve this end, locals could be incentivised to leave a few cones behind on every tree. It is also important to curtail cone collection altogether on a rotational basis from a few areas to facilitate recovery and regeneration. A similar approach could be initiated to restrict grazing so that seedlings and saplings are not susceptible to browsing or trampling.
