Author: Greta

Giving Bugs a Chance

As a child, I was lucky enough to grow up in a metropolitan city while also having a forest in my backyard. Since I can remember, insects and all “bugs” have been my favourite creatures on the planet. I would watch ant colonies for hours trying to determine how their system functioned, collect praying mantises or crickets to observe their behaviour, and watch spiders spin their victims in webs.

I was surprised to learn that others did not feel the same, even those with access to nature at their doorstep. One time at school, I was quietly observing a bee that was either exhausted or dying. Out of nowhere, someone ran up and smashed it with their foot. I was shocked and angry but struggled to explain why I was so upset. The person laughed and said that it didn’t matter anyway. Another time, my mom was sunbathing in the backyard and I was so excited to give her two presents: one hand full of rolly pollies and the other full of worms. I was confused by my mom’s disgust with the gifts.

After other similar incidents, I decided that if others did not want to be around bugs, I would make being around bugs my entire life. I knew that I wanted to help educate people about the importance of bugs. At that point, I wasn’t quite sure how I would do it, but I talked to anyone who would listen. No matter where I went, people would tell me about their dislike or fear of bugs, but I was also able to find those who loved them as much as I did.

Insects and other invertebrates are the most populous animals on earth, yet are rarely the focus of conservation efforts, with the exception of a few well-researched species like honeybees. There are many reasons for this, including a poor understanding of these species, difficulty in specifying a single species for conservation, and a lack of interest in insects by the general public. Bugs are a vulnerable group who are often overlooked and underappreciated.

The field notes that I have collected over the past year weren’t from some distant land, but instead from the city where I live—Denver, Colorado. While exploring rainforests and faraway lands is extremely important, discussing wildlife and conservation in urban spaces is equally important but less often done. More and more land is used for infrastructure, not for urban parks and open spaces. It is estimated that by 2050, 69 percent of the world and 89 percent of people in the US will live in cities. Dunn and colleagues (see Further Reading section) presented what they call the pigeon paradox: as human populations shift to cities, humans will primarily experience nature through contact with urban nature. Without the understanding and help of people who live in urban environments, we doom ourselves and all other species.

Why the hate?

Two Japanese researchers came up with the urbanisation-disgust hypothesis: urban living creates situations in which people encounter insects indoors more often than outdoors, and they also lose the ability to identify them. This leads to a more intense and generalised disgust of insects (and other “bugs”). They also state that urbanisation reduces insect knowledge which contributes to disgust. Their survey of 13,000 people supports this hypothesis. So how can we increase insect knowledge and reduce the amount of disgust? Education about invertebrates is an important first step, but overstepping bounds and making people feel insecure is not the way to go.

My use of the word bug is very deliberate. While all insects are not bugs, ‘bugs’ is often the term used to describe any small invertebrate we see in our homes and lawns. True bugs only include specific insects from the order Hemiptera (cicadas, aphids, and planthoppers to name a few). It also doesn’t include any other invertebrates like spiders or centipedes. I think it is important to use the term “bug” for insects and other invertebrates in conversation with people since that is the term they generally use for these animals. No one responds well to being told that they are wrong, and this is especially true when trying to talk about a subject most people prefer to avoid. Whether or not they use the right terminology is not the focus of this work; broad appreciation is. I wondered how to incorporate my years of experience and schooling in education, culture, and language with my love of bugs and art.

The last two years have led me on a journey of discovering how to positively engage those who live in urban environments with bugs. As luck would have it, I found two different ways that seem to start great discussions and may help shift our psyche: zines (small, self-published “books”) and popular culture. Art, insects, and popular culture have always been important to me, but I had never thought of combining them. These mediums allow us to talk about conservation in a manner that engages all audiences. I am not the first to implement these strategies, but I feel that they should be used more widely. By addressing disgust through creative methods like zines, and connecting bugs to already existing characters or cultural artefacts we can combat the disgust of insects.

Bugs in our lives

The first project I undertook was to create a zine to help people understand the importance and amazing traits of some common urban bugs—American cockroaches, house flies, wolf spiders, and so on—most of whom could show up in houses or apartments in the US. A small publisher took a chance on me because they could see my passion. The editor told me that they hated bugs but couldn’t stop reading my zine. People have said things like, “I loved learning about black widows! I’m not so scared of them anymore!”

Again, this is not new. Search for bug zines online and you will see that they are everywhere. Many conservation organisations have pamphlets available about insects, but they are often full of scientific jargon, look mass-produced, or contain overwhelming amounts of information. Pamphlets have their audience but there is also a sizeable market for small, accessible, handmade materials from conservation organisations. Zines are easy to make, cheap to produce, and allow people to talk about a subject in their own fashion. They are great for organisations, individuals, and classrooms alike. Zines give students ownership over the content and have been shown to create more engagement around their chosen topics.

My second approach was connecting insects with popular culture. Superheroes are more popular today than ever before and some of the most famous are named after invertebrates: Ant-Man, Spider-Man, The Wasp, etc. Taking this into consideration, I submitted a proposal to deliver a presentation at the Denver Fan Expo. There were over 100,000 people who attended the convention. One of the most common characters that both young and old attendees dressed up as was Spider-Man. In my presentation, I talked about superheroes and their real-life counterparts. While on stage in front of a massive crowd of people, I asked about the similarities and differences between Spider-Man and spiders. I had people in line for other booths yelling answers at me across the floor, parents and kids talking and drawing more “accurate” versions of some characters or creating an entirely new character. The interest and excitement was palpable, particularly among kids. It was an amazing experience that informed my next steps in using popular culture to engage a wider audience in the appreciation, or perhaps even conservation, of bugs, even if it meant shifting the needle of our perception of insects only slightly towards the positive end.

Research has shown us that people are not inclined to assist in conservation efforts just because we tell them there is a dire need for action. It is too overwhelming or too abstract or too distant to create a sense of urgency or make people feel like they can help in any way. Throughout my experiences over the last year, I have discovered ways to overcome those obstacles. While these projects don’t turn everyone into bug lovers, I am determined to try and in as many creative ways as I can. I know that I want to create and do more non-traditional insect conservation projects by tapping into what people already enjoy and showing them how it connects to the natural world. I hope to talk about how insects are woven into our culture and history, and allow for the ownership of ideas and accessibility of materials. I aim to develop unusual ways to communicate about insects that speak to people who may not typically care about these creatures.

I hope you will join me in the call to create love and appreciation around bugs in our lives.

Further Reading

Dunn, R. R., M. C. Gavin, M. C. Sanchez and J. N. Solomon. 2006. The pigeon paradox: dependence of global conservation on urban nature. Conservation biology 20(6): 1814–16.

Fukano, Y. and M. Soga. 2021. Why do so many modern people hate insects? The urbanization–disgust hypothesis. Science of the total environment 777: 146229.

Schmidt-Jeffris, R. A. and J. C. Nelson. 2018. Gotta catch’em all! Communicating entomology with Pokémon. American entomologist 64(3): 159–164.

Yang, A. 2010. Engaging participatory literacy through science zines. The American biology teacher 72(9): 573–577.
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2024 Mar
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Leveraging genetics to inform giraffe conservation

Genetic data is increasingly used in conservation strategies. But how do scientists apply the data to conservation management? Giraffes present an exemplary case study to explore this question.

Currently, the International Union for Conservation of Nature (IUCN) recognizes only one species of giraffe with nine known subspecies. A subspecies is a group within a species that is geographically, genetically, and/or physically different from others, and is able to inter-breed with other subspecies.

Intriguingly, a genetic study from 2018 by the Giraffe Conservation Foundation and Senckenberg BiK points to four distinct species of giraffe. A separate study from 2020 by researchers from the University of Paris investigated the totality of DNA data from giraffes. DNA, or deoxyribonucleic acid, is a molecule that contains the genetic instructions that determine the development and traits of all living organisms. The genetic analysis supports at least three distinct species of giraffe.

Despite these claims, the exact number of giraffe species has not yet been settled. Furthermore, the IUCN has not assessed the giraffe species recognition status since 2016. This imposes direct consequences for giraffe conservation. Conservation management relies on species data obtained from the IUCN. If the species data is wrong or not updated, it may impact the effectiveness of conservation measures.

While the species debate continues for giraffes, researchers are using genetics to address other conservation concerns. Monica L. Bond, a researcher with the Wild Nature Institute and University of Zurich—who has studied giraffes for over a decade—states that giraffes are undergoing what has been termed a ‘silent extinction’. This means that people generally aren’t aware that the world’s tallest land mammals are endangered. They are threatened by the same pressures affecting wildlife across the globe, namely overhunting, loss of habitat, and climate change.

Conservation of populations

Such pressures apply widely across giraffes. However, the degree of concern varies among giraffe populations.

Such pressures apply widely across giraffes. However, the degree of concern varies among giraffe populations. For example, Masai giraffes face different threats depending on their location. Masai giraffes, a species or subspecies of giraffe, are located in Kenya and Tanzania. They were declared endangered by the IUCN in 2019. Sadly, their populations have declined over 50 percent since 1985, accelerated by human development. Douglas Cavener— a professor at the Pennsylvania State University, who studies giraffe genetics— says that the habitat of Masai giraffes is highly fragmented, in part due to the rapid expansion of the human settlements in East Africa in the last 30 years, and the subsequent loss of wildlife habitats.

Further exacerbating these issues, Masai giraffes are separated by a large rift in part of their range. Cavaner informs that the Great Rift Valley cuts down through East Africa, and the steep slopes of its escarpments are formidable barriers to wildlife migration. Giraffes on either side of the rift face separate conservation concerns. On the eastern side, giraffes are experiencing heightened habitat fragmentation due to human development, whereas on the western side, they face intensified illegal hunting.

Diving into the genome

To better inform conservation of the Masai giraffe populations around the rift, a study published last month by Cavener, Bond and co-authors takes a closer look at giraffe genetics. The conclusions drawn from a copious amount of giraffe genetic data are striking. The researchers looked at the genomes of 100 Masai giraffes to determine if populations on either side of the rift have crossed over to breed with each other in the recent past, which has important implications for conservation. For this purpose, they sequenced more than two billion base pairs that make up the entire nuclear genome as well as the more than 16,000 base pairs that make up the entire mitochondrial genome.

Sequencing is a process used to determine the precise order of the base pairs and provides crucial information for understanding the genome. Base pairs are the genetic code that collectively make up an organism’s DNA. The entirety of DNA in an organism is known as a genome. For giraffes, this totals over two billion base pairs per individual.

Within an individual, there are two types of genomes—one genome in a cell’s nucleus, the cell’s brain so to speak, and one genome in a cell’s mitochondria, the cell’s energy producer. Together, the two genomes encode information about an organism. For a giraffe, they specify information about spot patterning, neck length and energy production, alongside other things.

Importantly, information from the nuclear genome is passed down from both parents, while information from the mitochondrial genome is only passed down through the maternal line. Comparing both genomes across individual giraffes can provide evidence for female versus male movements within the Masai giraffe range.

The researchers found that giraffes on the east of the rift share mitochondrial haplotypes—chunks of the mitochondrial genome that are inherited together. Strikingly, giraffes on the east side do not show overlap of haplotypes with giraffes on the west side. This clued researchers into how genetic material is being shared from mother giraffe to calf, as the mitochondrial genome is maternally inherited. Their results show that female Masai giraffes have not moved across the Great Rift Wall that separates the Serengeti-Ngorongoro (west) and Tarangire-Manyara (east) populations in the past 250,000 to 300,000 years, and it is possible they never did.

Moreover, the results from the nuclear genome demonstrate that male-mediated interbreeding has not occurred in at least 1,000 years—as nuclear genome information identifies patterns passed down from both parents. Cavener says that there are very few prospects of giraffes crossing over the rift on their own. Some male giraffes may have crossed the rift in the past, but certainly not in recent years.

Diversity concerns

Collectively, the data implies that giraffes on opposite sides of the rift do not interbreed, and hence do not share genetic material. Males have not crossed the rift in at least 1,000 years, and females have been mating only with giraffes on the same side of the rift for over 250,000 years. Thus, the researchers urge that the populations be considered as separate.

In considering the giraffe populations separately, each population now consists of less individuals than if they were one larger population. Cavaner reveals that the populations of giraffes on each side of the rift are genetically distinct, with each population having less genetic diversity than if they were one, larger interconnected population.

The Masai giraffes’ inability to share genetic material across populations is not good for genetic diversity. Lan Wu-Cavener—an assistant research professor at the Pennsylvania State University and member of the research team—reveals that interbreeding among different populations results in the exchange of genetic information, and is generally considered to be beneficial as it can improve overall genetic diversity. Thus, the Masai giraffes on either side of the rift are more endangered than previously thought, as the amount of genetic diversity thought to be shared among them is less than once assumed. The new study highlights that conservation is of the utmost concern in order to preserve the variation that is left.

Conservation applications

The finding that Masai giraffes are not interbreeding or sharing genetic material across the rift has direct implications for conservation. Researchers have some ideas for how their genetic data can inform conservation efforts in Tanzania and Kenya. In consideration of the decreased genetic diversity within these populations, it is believed by Bond and Cavener that not interfering with the natural course of evolution is the best conservation strategy.

It may seem intuitive to translocate giraffes across the rift to increase their genetic diversity. On the contrary, researchers believe this would not be beneficial. Bond and fellow researchers caution against translocating giraffes across the rift wall for any reason, in order to preserve the genetic distinction between these two populations.

The decline of these populations due to human impact has been occurring since 1985. This timescale does not compare to the 250,000 years of non-interbreeding between these Masai giraffe populations—which ultimately led to genetic distinction between the populations. While translocation across the rift would increase genetic diversity, it would also change the course of evolution of the giraffe populations.

Bond states that the two giraffe populations are on their own evolutionary trajectory and shouldn’t be tampered with. This means that we need to focus on conserving giraffe populations in their present range, through targeted habitat conservation and connectivity within the two geographic regions.

Cavener adds that conservation efforts for each population should be considered in an independent but coordinated fashion. The researchers hope that the Tanzanian and Kenyan governments will increase the protection of Masai giraffes and their habitats, especially given the recent increase in giraffe poaching in the area. Ultimately, the researchers believe that conservation of Masai giraffes needs to shift to mirror the genetic status of these two populations by considering them separately.

Excitingly, the application of Masai giraffe genetic data to conservation management does not end here. The research team plans to use the collected genetic data in future studies.

Knowing the genetics of individual giraffes provides information about relatedness, and can be used to study reproductive behaviours, influence of relatedness on behaviour, and heritability of traits. The researchers maintain that these questions are critically important for estimating the actual breeding population of the entire population, and will continue to guide their efforts to protect and conserve these majestic and charismatic animals.

Looking beyond giraffes

Besides Masai giraffes, genetic data has been employed in several other conservation efforts. For example, researchers at the San Diego Zoo in California have used genetic data to guide breeding and reintroduction of California condors for over three decades. Australian researchers used genetic data to show that critically endangered vaquitas can bounce back if illegal fishing is stopped. Scientists with the Royal Zoological Society of Scotland are training researchers in Cambodia to set up a genetic laboratory. They are working on a genetic test to aid Siamese crocodile reintroduction. The applications of genetic data for conservation are evidently endless across myriad organisms.

Collectively, genetic data has the ability to inform conservation management at multiple levels—from breeding programs to policies that limit human development and activities. In the case of the Masai giraffes, genetic data collection and analysis is not stopping anytime soon. It is clear that genetic data is an asset to their conservation. As Dr. Bond says, “We hope that this research can inform science-based giraffe conservation so we can sustain these wondrous animals into the future.”

Further Reading

San Diego Zoo Wildlife Alliance. 2020. Genotyping the California condor: What we’ve learned. Science Blog. https://science.sandiegozoo.org/science-blog/genotyping-california-condor-what-we%E2%80%99ve-learned. Accessed on July 2, 2023.

Giraffe. The IUCN Red List of Threatened Species. 2018. https://www.iucnredlist.org/species/9194/136266699#taxonomy. Accessed on July 2, 2023.

Lohay, G. G., D. E. Lee, L. Wu-Cavener, D. L. Pearce, X. Hou, M. L. Bond and D. R. Cavener. 2023. Genetic evidence of population subdivision among Masai giraffes separated by the Gregory Rift Valley in Tanzania. Ecology and Evolution 13:e10160. https://doi.org/10.1002/ece3.10160. Accessed on July 2, 2023.
Hannah Kania Author
Vishnu M Nair Illustrator
This article is from issue

18.1

2024 Mar
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Under the protective skirts of Australian grass-trees

Wrapped up in blankets and equipped with a cup of smoking hot chocolate, I sent Deb out into the pouring rain. It was the highest mean rainfall for June in the Adelaide Hills, South Australia, in 20 years.

Deb Frazer is a brave woman. She had already spent the hottest summer and coldest winter days and nights measuring the temperature under grass-trees—Xanthorrhoea semiplana subspecies (ssp.) semiplana. Much research has examined the microclimates of different natural shelters, but the effect of downpours has been generally overlooked.

Yet, wetting affects the insulation of bird and mammal coats and halves thermal resistance. Research on livestock has shown the terrible impacts of wetness in the cold, leading to death. The South Australian rainy season in the Mediterranean climate belt occurs in winter, and can get quite cold.

We generally assume that when it is cold and raining, animals will seek shelter. And without a second thought, we turn on the kettle as we settle in front of a bowl of soup.

But where do animals seek shelter? Shelter is an essential resource, and should be part of high-quality, well conserved habitats. Rock structures, tree hollows, and burrows protect animals from extreme weather. It turns out that grass-trees, Australian icons, can join the list of precious shelters at least in some of the ecosystems in which they occur.

Australia has 29 species of grass-trees in the genus Xanthorrhoea (family Asphodelaceae) distributed across most parts of the country. They have a long association with Aboriginal history, serving various purposes across different Indigenous groups. Also called yaccas, they are known to host a diversity of vertebrates and invertebrates. They feature long skirts of curving leaves, and their nectar-rich flowers are produced at the top of stupendous, long wooden scapes. While some species grow trunks over hundreds of years, others remain close to the ground.

Thermal, waterproof refuges

In X. semiplana ssp. semiplana found in the Adelaide Hills and Mount Lofty Ranges, the leaves die and dry up at the bottom of the canopies and stay in place, creating increasingly sturdy, thick, waterproof roofs curving to the ground. Our previous research showed that they host many native animals, including bandicoots and bush rats. Another student and I have observed echidnas resting under the thick canopies of grass-trees. But what is the thermal value of this plant as a shelter?

Deb and I found that on the hottest days of summer, the mean temperature under the thickest grass-tree canopies could be 20°C lower than in random spots around grass-trees or in ambient shade. The temperature at our four study sites remained extraordinarily stable under grass-trees, while external temperatures could exceed 40°C, which is believed to be lethal to several vertebrate species.

Although the differences in winter temperature between external and grass-tree canopy temperatures were much smaller, significantly warmer conditions were observed under grass-trees at night. In both summer and winter, the temperature variation was low under the grass-tree canopy. Temperature stability in winter could facilitate the maintenance of torpor—an energy-saving strategy used by many small vertebrates.

As Deb struggled through the downpour, she recorded soil wetness under grass-trees. She was amazed to find that under 80 percent of large and old grass-trees, the soil was perfectly dry, and partially dry under 20 percent of the other grass-trees. As expected, young grass-trees without full and thick skirts were nowhere near as good at providing shelter from the rain. Considering their exceptional habitat value, old grass-trees certainly play a role in determining the foraging times of animals, which are likely to use grass-trees when the weather is inclement.

The remarkable ability of at least some grass-tree species to protect a diversity of animals from deadly climatic extremes, combined with their anti-predator services (for example, large cats, foxes, and birds would have a difficult time penetrating the sturdy canopy of dead leaves), strengthens the mounting evidence that these plants are keystone species in Australia. Animals—whole populations of some species—can use their services to survive drastic environmental conditions. Grass-trees just need to be present along with their generous old skirts of leaves. Will they be?


Some animals shelter directly under grass-trees, while others place their burrows under them

Grass-trees in peril

Historically, the two X. semiplana subspecies were extensively cleared for agriculture from many ecosystems, including in the Adelaide Hills and Mount Lofty Ranges, on the Yorke Peninsula, and on Kangaroo Island. They are now the victims of two other afflictions: a disease-causing oomycete (Phytophthora cinnamomi), recognised by the Australian government as a “Key Threat”, and an increasing incidence of fires.

Highly susceptible to the soil pathogen Phytophthora, grass-trees die en masse in infected areas, along with other native plant species, dramatically reducing the habitat for local animal communities. Infections are facilitated by human, vehicle and animal passage, and fires. Fires can thus affect grass-trees negatively in an indirect way by increasing Phytophthora infestations, as well as directly with severe burns that end up killing the plants.

Although the resilience of grass-trees to bushfires is well known, it may be overestimated according to recent research. Moreover, even if grass-trees are not killed by fires, their old, thick skirts of dead leaves burn, leaving no shelter for animals in post-bushfire environments.

As South Australia becomes hotter and dryer with the changing climate, it burns more easily. People are understandably scared. The bushfires of 2019–20 ravaged widespread areas in Australia, including South Australia. With the support of part of the community, government organisations have been involved in conducting extensive prescribed burns in native ecosystems, sometimes inaccurately called “fuel reduction burns” and even more inaccurately “ecological burns”. This feel-good terminology hides the negative impacts of frequent prescribed fires. Long-unburnt habitats, where most of our biodiversity thrives, are becoming a rare occurrence. Prescribed burning is often not backed by research, and ecological studies in other Australian ecosystems show that recently burnt habitats are drier, have more fuel, and burn more easily than long-unburnt ones.

Protecting grass-trees and their skirts goes a long way towards protecting Australian wildlife and biodiversity. It is not appropriate to “manage” the few areas of nature and wilderness we have left without research to support the radical strategies undertaken. This research should include long-term scientific monitoring, which is rarely carried out.

As we sip hot chocolate by the heater in the cold, rainy winter and sleep in the cool air conditioning on 45°C days, shouldn’t we also protect the grass-trees from our actions, the very plants that provide many of our animals a cosy home with a solid roof?

Further Reading

Petit, S. and D. S. Frazer. 2023. The role of grass-tree Xanthorrhoea semiplana (Asphodelaceae) canopies in temperature regulation and waterproofing for ground-dwelling wildlife. Pacific Conservation Biology 29(5): 445–455. https://doi.org/10.1071/PC23014.
Sophie Petit Author & Photographer
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2024 Mar
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Beautiful Bats

Bats contribute to some pretty special aspects of our natural environment. In fact, they may have more of an impact on your daily life than you realise. Across the world bats consume tonnes of flying insects every night and help to control pests like mosquitos. Bats are also key pollinators for many types of fruit including banana and mango. Like us, bats are mammals, they have hair on their bodies and milk glands from which they feed their young. But they are quite different from humans in a few unique ways. Bats have wings which they use to fly and many bat species use echolocation to navigate their way through the night sky.

Bats even inspired one of the most popular superheroes of all time: Batman.

Where do bats live?

Bats are found almost everywhere across the world, except for Antarctica and some parts of the Arctic circle. From dense tropical rainforests to deserts and every habitat type in between, bats can survive almost anywhere. To make a suitable home, bats need food, water and shelter—much like us humans. Most bats roost (sleep) during the day, hanging upside down by their feet. Bats roost in some very interesting places, including caves and rock crevices, different parts of a tree (such as under the bark, in the foliage, or in a hollow), in abandoned bird nests and termite mounds. They are also known to use old buildings and bridges as roost sites. Some brave bats have even been found roosting in crocodile burrows!

Navigating the night

When bats emerge from their roosts at nighttime, they use their exceptional flying skills to search for food and water. They have long limbs extending from their bodies that have a similar structure to the human hand and leg. A soft membrane of flexible skin extends over these limbs to form a pair of folding wings. In the air, bats rely on either sight or sound (echolocation) to search for food, which includes nectar, fruit, flying insects, ground-dwelling insects, aquatic insects, small fish and other animals.

Scientific fact: ‘Echolocation’ is a process by which the bat emits an ultrasonic sound and listens for its echo to find an object (usually its prey). These sounds are at such a high frequency that most bat calls can’t be heard by humans at all! Many whale and dolphin species also use echolocation to find food and to navigate.

Types of bats: Megabats and microbats

Megabats
Most megabat species are large (well, large for a bat), they have big round eyes and a long snout, making them look a little like an upside-down fox. Many megabats eat fruit and sleep during the day while hanging from large trees. Megabats have excellent sight and smell which they use to locate their favourite food, fruit and nectar, and to navigate through the night sky.

Microbats
Microbats—you guessed it—are micro-sized compared to megabats. Microbats usually have very small eyes, large ears, and use their strong sense of sound to navigate through the sky. Many microbats feast on huge numbers of insects, but some eat fruit, fish and even frogs! Echolocation is used by most microbat species, and unlike megabats, sound is their dominant sense. Contrary to popular belief, bats are not blind. However, microbats have a different eye structure than humans do and don’t see the world in the same way.

Let’s meet a few bat species!

The fantastic flying fox
The spectacled flying fox (Pteropus conspicillatus) is a megabat species found in the tropical rainforests of North Queensland in Australia. This species feeds on more than 35 different types of fruit. Spectacled flying foxes forage by removing fruit from trees with their sharp teeth before flying off some distance to eat. Seeds fall from the fruit as it is being eaten and land onto the rainforest floor. A few weeks or months later, new rainforest trees germinate from the seeds dropped by these bats.

Bats with mohawks
The long-crested free-tailed bat (Chaerephon chapini) is an insect-eating microbat found across central Africa. Males of this species have a very interesting way of impressing the ladies. When they reach maturity, males grow a long white mohawk on top of their heads. Lady bats choose a mate with the mohawk that they like best.

Bats that make tents
In the forests of Central and South America, lives a very clever little microbat. The tent-making bat (Uroderma bilobatum) is not content to roost just anywhere—they specifically like to sleep in tents. Using the leaves of a banana tree, tent-making bats score along the central vein of a large leaf with their sharp teeth until either side of the leaf is pulled into a triangular tent shape. These bats roost in their tents in small groups, protected from the weather and safe from the eyes of predators.

Scary bats
If the name ghost bat sounds scary to you, you’d be right to trust your instincts. Ghost bats (Macroderma gigas) are indeed scary. If you happen to be a tiny bird or a small mammal, such as a mouse or another bat, then stay away from ghost bats! This species of microbat is found across tropical northern Australia and roosts in caves during the day. At dusk, they emerge and swoop down on their unsuspecting prey (mainly birds, small mammals, and large insects), which they carry back to their cave and devour.

Crawling bats
A very unusual species of microbat is found on Codfish Island in New Zealand. The New Zealand lesser short-tailed bat (Mystacina tuberculata) can fly like all other bats, but it has a way of foraging for food that is unlike any other bat species. This bat has very large feet and claws, which it uses to crawl along the forest floor to forage for fallen fruit and ground-dwelling insects.

Building bat homes
The golden-tipped bat (Kerivoula papuensis) is an Australian microbat species that feeds on small spiders and roosts in abandoned birds’ nests.

Much of the rainforest habitat of the golden-tipped bat has been lost due to urban development. The remaining habitat was further reduced by horrific wildfires that raged across eastern Australia in 2019 and 2020. To help this special species recover from the effects of the fires, an Aboriginal community group have been weaving replacement bird nest roosts from natural fibres. These artificial nests have been placed amongst rainforest trees to provide much-needed new bat homes.

Keep your hands to yourself please!

Like most wild animals, bats and their faeces can carry harmful and, in some cases, deadly diseases. Bats are animals to be appreciated from afar and never played with. Wild animals, including bats, must never be touched or consumed.

Scientific fact: The transfer of a disease from an animal to a human is called zoonosis. The Australian bat lyssavirus is a good example of zoonosis.
Rachel Brown Author
Chandrima Chatterjee Illustrator
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CC Kids 17

2023 Dec
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A Day in the Life of an Irula Snake Catcher

(This is a fictitious account of an Irula snake catcher, based on the real-life award-winning Irulas, Vadivel Gopal and Masi Sadaiyan.)

I felt a sense of pride and joy as I sat in front of the TV and watched my Irula brothers and mentors, Vadivel Gopal and Masi Sadaiyan, receive the prestigious Padma Shri award— one of the highest civilian awards of the Republic of India. The hard work they had put in all these years was finally being recognised. I felt that I, too, had received an award that morning, because I am also from the Irula community, and our forte is catching snakes.

Our ancestors have passed down this unique skill to us and now it has become our livelihood. But what people don’t know about us is that we are also expert foragers of herbal medicines and know the forests like the back of our hands. Getting this award is not only a huge experience for Vadivel and Masi but for our entire community, as well.

It hasn’t always been ‘smooth scaling’ for us, pardon the pun. When the Wildlife Protection Act was introduced in 1972, there was a ban on selling snake skins and we found it hard to maintain our livelihood. Then we got a new lease on life when, with the help of a senior herpetologist (a person who studies reptiles and amphibians) and conservationist Rom Whitaker, we founded the Irula Snake Catchers’ Industrial Cooperative Society. Our talent was recognised and put to good use, to help both humans and snakes. It was now official—we were licensed professional snake catchers and venom extractors.

The Irulas were soon recognised as skilled snake catchers and were wanted internationally for snake catching missions. I had the privilege of accompanying Masi and Vadivel on one of these memorable trips. This was our mission to the US, where we were recruited to catch Burmese pythons, which are considered a threat in Florida as they are an invasive species.

Going abroad to a strange new country where customs are totally different from ours was overwhelming. Being on board an aeroplane was very exciting since I had never flown or stepped outside my country. The huge skyscrapers of Florida towered over me. Amidst the hustle and bustle of the cityscape, I could always feel the cool sea breeze threading its way through, taking me back to good old Chennai.

The Americans found our methods of catching the pythons a little unorthodox. I understand that, to inexperienced people, covering yourself with snake poop is not a very common technique. But my rather experienced friends told them, ‘You cannot catch a snake if you are not covered in it’. In other words, to catch a snake, you have to be the snake. During our trip, we caught many pythons, but none were as phenomenal as the 16-foot-long female python we caught on our second day. Fun fact, the average adult Burmese python is at least 7 feet long, and goes all the way up to 19 feet in length!

At home near Chennai, we not only track and catch the snakes but also extract their venom. In India, we have four snakes that we are allowed to target for this purpose: Indian cobra, common krait, and saw scaled and Russell’s vipers. We take the venom out of the snake so that the snake is not harmed at all. We do this only in certain seasons, rather than year-round.

You might imagine a complicated process, but it’s pretty simple. We start by catching the snakes and keeping them cool in clay pots. When they are taken out, the snakes open their mouths with fangs, ready to lunge. We keep a container wrapped in a plastic film ready. The fangs go straight through the film and the snake releases the venom into the collection vessel. We mark each snake so we can recognise it in the future, which ensures we do not extract venom from each animal more than three times. After the venom is extracted, the snakes are then released into the wild, to go about their lives, and the collected venom is sent to anti-venom companies. Our Snake Catchers Society has a lot of ‘hiss’tory with them (in a good way of course)!

The most rewarding experience is showing our work with snakes to children. These young, fresh minds find our methods and everyday work fascinating. I look at their faces watching us: some are filled with awe, while some are (understandably) drawing back in fear. Snakes don’t mean to do any harm. In India, these reptiles feed on pests such as rats and insects that would otherwise have a field day with the farmers’ crops. Hence, we consider cobras a friendly species—‘nalla pambu’, which literally translates to ‘good snake’ in Tamil. I believe that it is vital that we teach children not to fear snakes and, instead, to appreciate nature and to bust myths and spread awareness about these mostly misunderstood reptiles.

Masi and Vadivel’s big win is an even bigger contribution to the Irula community. I think that getting a prestigious award incentivises youngsters like me in our community to use the skills our ancestors have (very carefully) passed down to us. I hope we are a part of the bigger picture—helping humans to bond with their fanged friends!
Harsha Prashanth Author
Mehnaaz Husain Illustrator
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2023 Dec
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The Pangolin Protector: A Tale of Discovery and Rescue

Note: Indian pangolins are not tree dwellers. This artwork is not representational.

It was a dark and warm June night. Eight-year-old Raju was walking with his father around the lawn in front of their house when he saw a strange creature. It had a long body covered in scales, and it was around the size of a large house cat. Before Raju could figure out what he saw, the creature disappeared into the darkness. It was an Indian pangolin, and it was the first Raju had ever seen. Raju was fascinated and wanted to learn all about these animals.

Raju’s father, who worked as a forest guard, lived in quarters near the forest. Raju loved spending time with his dad and learning from him about pangolins and other wildlife.

During summer vacations, Raju would often go with his dad to explore the forest. This is how he learned that the Indian pangolin is an endangered animal, which means that there are only a few of them left in the wild. And, it is also one of the most hunted animals in India because people hunt them for their meat and scales, which are used in traditional medicine. This made Raju feel sad and disappointed, inspiring him to become a conservationist and do all he could to save the animal.

After his first sighting of the Indian pangolin, Raju would often get a chance to see the animal near his lawn, and he figured that maybe the pangolin had made its burrow somewhere near the house. One fine evening as the sun was about to set, Raju decided to go looking for the burrow—from a safe distance, so that he would not disturb or scare the animal.

As Raju walked towards the back of his house, he saw a man with his face covered with a black cloth. The man had a knife in one hand and a rolled-up ball covered in scales in another hand. It was the pangolin! Raju screamed loudly at the man, who was startled and dropped the pangolin as he ran from the place. Raju’s father came running out of the house and saw the pangolin lying in front of them. Raju explained what had happened, and his dad immediately called all the nearby forest guards. When they arrived, they searched the area around the forest and found footprints leading away from the site. They followed the trail, which led them deep into the forest. The trail was difficult to follow, but the guards persisted.

They eventually came to a clearing where they found the black cloth and the knife Raju had mentioned earlier.

It was very quiet all around the forest, and then they heard someone’s heavy breathing coming from behind some large rocks. They quickly surrounded and caught the man before he could escape. The guards launched a full investigation and soon discovered that the man was a poacher who was planning to sell the pangolin on the black market to some collectors. The collectors had offered a large sum of money for the animal, and the poacher had a family to feed. The police arrested the poacher and charged him with several counts of animal cruelty and theft.

As for the pangolin, after it was dropped by the poacher, it eventually unrolled itself and opened its eyes. It could see Raju watching over him from a safe distance; it gave the boy a long look as if thanking him for saving its life. The pangolin then moved back into its burrow.

Raju was very happy that the poacher was arrested and that the pangolin was safe. However, he also knew that this was just one battle in the ongoing struggle to protect endangered animals. He vowed to be more vigilant and to do everything he could to help, such as spreading awareness about the animal.

*Rajesh Kumar Mohapatra and Sudarsan Panda (Nandankanan Zoological Park, Odisha, India), CC BY 3.0 , via Wikimedia Commons
Nidhi Singh Author
Akanksha Singh Author
Shivam Choudhary Illustrator
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The chronicles of Chitty: A tale of an Indie and her human being

“I walk beneath a rustling canopy of trees—rosewood, monkey jack, and cinnamon—and the air is rife with the captivating bouquet of the Western Ghats. My face breaks into a smile as I hear the happy patter of a victory lap and a snowywhite pup bounds out from behind the bushes. It’s Chitty! Her snoot is red from having sampled some of the kokam fruit thrown at her by the cheeky langurs she so loves to chase. I fall in step with her amble, and we walk towards a veranda where she will later spend her time gazing at the stars once night crawls in.”

Actually, I am miles away from Chitty and her home; they just feel real to me because of the immersive storytelling in Chitty: A Dog and Her Forest Farm. This book is a labour of love that chronicles the life of Chitty, a solemn-looking pup rescued from the streets of Pune. It’s my favourite kind of narrative, really. One, it features a dog—and not just any dog, but an Indie (a mixture of breeds indigenous to India). Two, it is honest and heartfelt. Three, it’s steeped in the rich tapestry of life on a forest farm, where seasons dictate everyday life and the bonds between people and nature run deep.

Remarkably intelligent, loyal, and highly adaptable, Indies are often a mix of multiple dog breeds that share their ancestry with our very own Kombais, Kannis, or Mudhols, for example. Chitty embodies all the traits that make Indies great companions, and season by season, we see her grow from a reserved puppy into a part-time termite-terminator and full-time forest nymph. The author, Serow, fondly recalls instances of Chitty’s animal instinct saving the day, be it from scorpions, snakes, or the unforgiving monsoons. “Chitty had the incredible gift of being in tune with me, as well as with the moods and well-being of the household,” Serow writes, and you learn just how empathetic and communicative Chitty was. You also witness the sensory delights of a forest farm: the scurry of giant Malabar squirrels, the ever-trilling mynas, and the lovely crunch of dry leaves as Serow and Chitty embark on their long walks or “much loved slices of togetherness”.

Serow’s words are brought to life by Rajiv Eipe’s charming—and award-winning— illustrations of Chitty, her home, and its colourful inhabitants. The fact that he spent time on Serow’s forest farm seeking out Chitty’s favourite nooks and corners is reflected in the way he draws her—be it quietly lounging near 500 year-old Nayaka carvings, pirouetting at termites, or as an older dog: graceful, wise, and with loving, communicative eyes. Special props for stills that feature “Dr. Poo’s Turdis” and Chitty— now a grande dame—cheekily looking over at Serow’s new pup trying to find his rawhide bone, which has been hidden by none other than Chitty herself. Serow’s fluid writing and Rajiv Eipe’s delightful art effortlessly blend snippets that span 13 monsoons, and by the end of the book, you’ve grown alongside a dog that you never even met.

It’s refreshing to read an account of farm life that incorporates snippets of sustainability without coming off as preachy—Serow simply wants you to partake in a life that thrives outside of concrete jungles. She also unwittingly imparts a simple but profound lesson that we should protect and nurture those like Chitty and her four-legged siblings who roam the streets of our country. Deeply intuitive and capable of unconditional love, dogs could well teach you a thing or two about the universe, if you only stopped to listen.

Well, time to offer an extra hug to the dozens of Indies that grace my neighbourhood. As I look over at them running at me, tails wagging and eyes alight with mischief, I am reminded of this particularly moving line from the book: “It struck me that perhaps Chitty had seen the edge of the universe as she gazed at the night sky. Maybe her serenity had come from knowing, in her own doggy way, that we are all only a tiny part of something much larger than ourselves.”

Further reading
Serow. 2023. Chitty: A dog and her forest farm.Pune: Kalpavriksh. https://kalpavriksh.org/ourstore/chitty-a-dog-and-her-forest-farm/
 Shriya Lele Author
Rajiv Eipe Illustrator
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Figs: Friends and Foes

A young fig wasp is lured by the fragrance of a cluster fig tree. She hurriedly flies to it to lay her eggs. The fig welcomes her like a good host. It knows she is a pollinator, and like a good guest, she is bringing pollen from another fig. Thus begins the story of a mutually beneficial friendship in nature.

We know that there is a lot of interdependence in nature and this is just one of the relationships that you can spot if you look around. Trees provide shelter to birds. Flowers give their nectar to bees. In return, the birds and bees spread the pollen and help make new trees and plants.

We call these relationships between species and organisms ecological interactions or symbiotic relationships. This simply means their relationship affects one another. When two species benefit and help each other, we call it mutualism. When this relationship causes harm to the other, we say it is predatorial or competitive. The fig plant can be found in both types of relationship.

Figs as friends

A beautiful story of friendship (or mutualism) in nature is that of the fig wasp and the fig tree. A cluster fig tree is an unusual tree. The figs grow directly on the trunk. Even stranger, the flowers and seeds are inside the “fruit,” which is called a syconium or an inflorescence. So, how do the flowers get pollinated? This is where the fig wasp comes in. A fig wasp is not just any other wasp but a wasp that is made just for the fig tree!

The fig has a little opening in it called an ostiole. The female flowers inside it give out a fragrance that attracts pregnant fig wasps. The fig wasp burrows into the ostiole to reach the flower. While entering, she loses her wings—which means she cannot fly out. No matter: she has found a nice, safe space to lay her eggs and feed. When she enters the syconium, she also brings with her pollen from another fig. Thus, her arrival leads to the fertilisation of the fig tree’s female flowers—so the wasp’s visit ensures the future of both wasp and fig.

The lifespan of a fig wasp is less than two days. She will die after laying her eggs, but new wasps will soon emerge from the eggs she has left behind. The male wasps hatch first. They grow fast and break the eggs of the female wasps and mate with them. The males make holes in the fig, but they never leave. However, the female wasps develop delicate wings that enable them to emerge from these holes. After this, they have a very, very short time to find another hospitable fig where they can lay their own eggs. And so, the cycle continues.

You may ask, what happens to the dead female and the dead male wasps inside? Simple. The fig digests them—but sometimes, if you break open a cluster fig, you can actually see black specks. These are the remains of the wasps. (These types of figs are usually eaten by birds and monkeys. The commercial figs that humans eat don’t need to be pollinated by the fig wasps.

It is unlikely that the figs that you buy and eat from the market contain dead wasps in them.) You may also wonder what happens if the female fig wasp does not bring pollen with her for the female flowers of the fig? It is simple: the tree just drops that fig. This means the fig wasp’s eggs die and don’t get the protection they need to hatch. The tree helps the wasp only if the wasp helps the tree.

The relationship between the fig tree and the fig wasp is important for our ecosystem, but it has been negatively impacted by climate change. Hotter temperatures make it difficult for female fig wasps to survive as long, which means that they have even less time to pollinate a fig and lay their eggs. This is bad news for both species as they could slowly die out.

Figs as foes

Figs are not always friendly. Sometimes they are involved in relationships that are predatory or parasitic. Have you seen a strangler fig? It sounds scary, doesn’t it? It is called a ‘strangler’ because it literally strangles the host tree. An example of a strangler fig is the banyan tree.

Strangler figs are also called hemiepiphytes. An epiphyte is any plant that grows on another plant. A hemiepiphyte is a plant that starts its life in this way, but eventually grows such long roots that it makes contact with the ground.

When birds and monkeys eat figs, they may happily perch on random trees while enjoying their little treat. If they are messy eaters, seeds from the fruit can drop onto the tree, allowing these hemiepiphytes to establish themselves on their host. Over time, they flourish, developing aerial roots that grow down to the ground and anchor the fig tree. Initially, the fig offers protection to the host tree during storms, but,
slowly, the host tree withers until nothing is left but a hollow trunk. However, even in this state, it continues to support the ecosystem by providing a home to small animals and birds. Pay close attention and you will see many such friendships and enmities, even right in your own backyard!
Anuradha Prasad Author
Poorti Bapat Illustrator
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Aliens on Earth

Imagine the most extreme situation ever. Extreme heat, extreme pressure, extreme cold and radiation like a volcanic eruption, or a nuclear war. Scary, right? Not very welcoming to human bodies, which are just so sensitive! The conditions for unaided human survival are quite limited, if you think about it. It doesn’t help that conditions on Earth are becoming harsher by the year, owing to phenomena such as climate change. Yet, we’re humans; we want to explore not just every corner of this world, but the universe, too! Could there be anything we could do to survive under extreme conditions?

Let’s start by trying to imagine an indestructible animal—one so resilient that it could survive any of the extreme situations above, and more. Such an animal might be able to survive if you crushed it, cooked it, or even sent it to outer space. How cool would that be?! Learning about an animal like this could help us learn how to tolerate extreme conditions ourselves.

What if I told you that such an animal actually exists? Let me introduce you to the humble, but amazing, tardigrade.

They’re tiny, only visible under a powerful microscope. They’re also cute, resembling tiny little bears, with eight stumpy legs and round bodies. They’re practically everywhere—found on every single continent. Oh, and they’re practically invincible. Researchers have thrown them into the harshest conditions and, remarkably, tardigrades have managed to survive. They’ve been frozen to less than -200°C, a temperature quite close to absolute zero (a temperature so cold that even the laws of physics limit us from reaching it). They’ve been heated to 148°C, well beyond the boiling point of water. They’ve been shot at by bullets going a whopping 3,240 kilometres per hour. They’ve even been sent into outer space, bombarded with solar radiation, and brought back to Earth.

They have managed to survive all of these situations. How, you may ask? The answer is quite simple:

They shut down.

Right now, as you read this, your body is carrying out many, many tasks to sustain you. In your cells, various chemical reactions are occurring to provide energy for nearly everything that your body does, from digestion to respiration. These are known as metabolic processes, and they are absolutely vital for life in all living things.

When most living beings are subjected to extreme conditions, they cannot survive because their metabolic processes can no longer continue. Tardigrades are a special bunch, though. When they are subject to extreme environments, they go into a stage called tun.

During this stage, they dry out their bodies and curl up into a little hard shell known as an exoskeleton. They manage to slow down their metabolic processes to just 0.01 percent of normal levels. In a sense, they reduce themselves to almost-dead, rolled up versions of what they used to be. It is in this stage that they manage to survive the most extreme conditions.

At this point, you probably have one question on your mind:

How do they pull this off?

When tardigrade cells dry up, they are covered by a special gel-like protein that prevents the cells from losing their structure

When tardigrades are exposed to enough water, the gel-like substance slowly recedes, allowing the animals to rehydrate. Once that happens, tardigrades simply carry on with their lives, almost as if they
had never been subjected to these extreme conditions at all. It is this protein that allows them to return to normalcy, and it is found only in tardigrades.

But why does this matter to us?

Right now, the world is going through extremes: extreme temperatures, extreme environments, and extreme health crises. This causes problems like damaging crops that do not receive enough water during heatwaves, which means that we humans do not have enough food.

Imagine if we could make use of the incredible survival mechanisms that tardigrades have! We could use the same protein that tardigrades cover their cells with to protect crops, for example. How about using tardigrade survival mechanisms to protect organs before they get transplanted? Maybe we could develop ways to make vaccines last longer in unfavourable conditions, which might make them more effective, for longer? All of this (and more) is currently being explored by researching the survival mechanisms of tardigrades.

This just goes to show that we do not have to use costly technology, artificial intelligence, or deep-space probes to figure out how to prolong human survival. We can learn an incredible amount simply by looking at tiny tardigrades hiding in moss right in our own backyards. Who knows what we might find if we pay more attention to these (and other) fantastic little critters.
Sloka Bhushan Author
Karunya Baskar Illustrator
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Introduction

Coexistence with reptiles? Surely a preposterous idea! For the common perception of reptiles is that they are primitive life forms, cold-blooded, anti-social, emotionless, vicious and not infrequently dangerous. Well, in this special issue we set out, not to persuade you to join the basking crocodiles on a sun-drenched riverbank, nor to clasp a chilly cobra to your chest, but rather to show you that, whatever the authorities may warn or the media may report in shouty headlines, coexistence between particular human communities and particular potentially dangerous reptiles does, in fact, exist. These are not just-so stories.

We do not propose that you read these fascinating stories and rush out to strike up friendly relations with crocodiles, snakes or Komodo dragons who are perfect strangers to you. These stories concern communities of people and reptiles who have become familiar and accustomed to one another over many generations. Rather, we suggest there is something to be learned about what is possible, to widen the bandwidth of what is conceivable concerning communities of humans and of reptiles sharing the same landscapes.

In searching out these stories, I deliberately looked for a range of species (you may notice my inordinate fondness for crocodiles, for which I here express whatever regrets may be appropriate in the circumstances) which are well known for their power and potency and potential to harm our species. The examples hail from many regions of the world—Komodo dragons from Indonesia, cobras from different parts of India, crocodiles from East Timor, the Philippines, the Solomon Islands, and Gujarat. This is to demonstrate that coexistence with reptiles is not some quirk of a particular region, human culture or species of reptile.

The authors of these stories know their Varanus banganorum from their Varanus marmoratus, their Osteolaemus tetraspis from their Osteolaemus osborni, so to speak. I have met at least one author of each story, read their scientific publications and enjoyed their conference presentations. I had the privilege of spending several days in the field in Vadodara, Gujarat, with esteemed Indian herpetologist Dr Raju Vyas, during which he also showed me the remarkable urban mugger crocodiles of that city.

This general introduction will focus on two major topics. First, the nature of reptiles and the sorry (but improving) state of the study of reptiles and perceptions of their capabilities. Second, on what we mean by coexistence with wildlife, and how studying coexistence might improve our civility to other kinds of creatures in the future. For it is undeniable that, if on occasion reptiles have bitten, chewed or even swallowed cherished members of our own species, it is also true that there is much to be desired in how we have treated reptiles in return, most of them innocent of the crimes we attribute to certain species or even to entire families of reptiles (think of the poor snakes).

Reptiles are diverse, social, and sophisticated

In 2021, Doody, Dinets and Burghardt published The Secret Social Lives of Reptiles, specifically to address the mistaken ideas that reptiles are, “solitary dull, slow-moving, and tiny brains and simple behaviour”, claims which they comprehensively demonstrate to be false “with actual data.” Even famous and influential biologists including Charles Darwin and Carl Linnaeus could not see past their mammal centric prejudices towards reptiles, expressing both their dislike of the appearance of reptiles, and their ill-founded assumptions about the primitive natures and habits of reptiles. It bears remembering that both these individuals came from regions rather poor in reptiles, certainly in comparison to the warmer regions of the world where most reptile species are found. (Twenty years on, living in London in the UK, I still pine for the lizards, skinks and geckos that so enlivened my childhood homes in northern KwaZulu-Natal, South Africa.)

You may not know that there are more than 11,000 described species of reptiles, more than every other group of tetrapods except possibly birds (which are arguably reptiles but customarily considered apart). And yet, reptiles have been given far less research attention than birds, fishes or mammals. This is partly because humans have less affinity to the ‘cold-blooded’ scaly reptiles, because some are dangerous and people fear and avoid them, because many are secretive and nocturnal, or they live in difficult habitats for humans to study them in, and much of their behaviour is therefore seldom observed.

Written observations of crocodile behaviour date back to the writings of the Greek historian Herodotus (5th century BCE), but it was only in the 20th century that parental behaviour was accurately described, for example by McIlhenny in Louisiana in the 1930s. Prejudice against crocodilians was so strong that even scientists who should have known better dedicated long sections of their descriptions of crocodiles to hair-raising tales of crocodile attacks, and advice on how to kill them. It was generally assumed that crocodiles eat their babies (not very adaptive, or likely, considering how long crocodylians have survived on earth).

When in the early 1970s, after a decade of patient observations, my father Tony described a mother Nile crocodile gently carrying her hatchlings in her mouth to a safe nursery area in the water, where she looked after them for several weeks, there was general uproar and disbelief. National Geographic, Time Life and the BBC dispatched film crews and photographers to capture evidence of this impossible claim. Of course, the crocodiles made them wait, and the desperate Americans flew in air conditioners and ice cream to help them survive the heat and humidity of darkest Zululand in crocodile nesting season.

Despite a series of fascinating findings and publications in the 1970s, it is only in this century that another surge in reptile studies has begun, revealing a staggering range of social behaviours spanning communications (including from embryo to embryo!), vocalisations on land and underwater (including infrasound), communal creches, parental care by both parents, constructions of homes by single parents or collaborative groups, the forming of social groups including long-lived family groups and communal living, group vigilance, kin recognition, many styles of reproductive behaviour, including long-term monogamy and extended and gentle courtship, cooperation in hunting and feeding, play behaviour and social learning.

The elaborate displays of crocodylians in mating season are probably the most complex in all the animal kingdom. They roar (or bellow), produce infrasound below the water creating a ‘dancing droplets’ effect above their submerged backs, perform head- and jaw-slaps, and do all this in a distinctive Head Oblique Tail Arched (HOT) posture (gharials don’t). They produce odours from glands, and there is much signalling, posturing, gentle rubbing and manoeuvring used to solicit or signal availability for mating, with additional sound effects. Such social displays are also found in many other reptiles, including chameleons, lizards, and turtles.

Part of our problem, when it comes to reptiles, is that we’re not very good at reading these social signals. We humans tend to miss the obvious cues, for example the partially raised, stiffened tail of a Komodo dragon, signalling irritation, or that the fearsome fellow is actually feeling threatened. Of course, some of these signals are subtle, some even use senses that we simply don’t possess. That said, as Harry Greene has argued, snakes have evolved a wide array of very obvious visual displays which, along with the ability to spit venom, are intended to fend off harassment by monkeys and primates, including even the dimmest of humans. Rattlesnakes rattle, saw-scaled vipers use their scales to ‘sizzle’, puff adders puff, cottonmouths have an open- mouth display, and of course cobras display their hoods. In the face of these well known cross-species communications, we can’t say we weren’t warned before a reluctant strike is made (and bites can be ‘dry’ bites meant to scare, not envenom). Of course, the problems arise when due to their camouflage, hiding, or being active at night, we trample snakes.

So, many reptiles are social animals, and as we’re constantly discovering (please go out and observe for yourself, there are many discoveries yet to be made) many reptiles including snakes are caring parents, notably pythons and pit vipers. Some rattlesnakes show a distinct fondness for sharing dens with family. All these complex behaviours and social interactions prove that reptiles are neither simple nor primitive, and we should abandon the idea that animals that don’t have brains like ours are unintelligent (think of all those clever “bird-brains”).

As to emotions, we have barely scratched the surface. The internet is full of (hair-raising, for us ‘experts’) footage of people feeding and even stroking huge wild crocodiles. In Costa Rica, Gilberto ‘Chito’ Shedden became famous for his relationship with a large American crocodile he had rescued, who he named Pocho. Pocho would swim and play elaborate games with Gilberto, a relationship that lasted for 20 years until the crocodile died of old age. In the US, people can be seen travelling around with their ‘comfort’ alligators. Play has been observed in crocodylians and turtles, but much remains to be learnt about this.

Coexisting with reptiles

I have discussed reptilian capacities and behaviour at some length in order to demonstrate that they are quite capable of complex social interactions, and there is evidence that this extends across species barriers, too. So, what do I mean by “coexistence”? In the first instance, I refer you to my previous article in Current Conservation, on coexistence with crocodiles in the wetlands of Gujarat (see Issue 15.1). To summarise, I am referring to the free-willed choice to cohabit landscapes and share certain resources with other species. This involves knowingly taking certain actions and avoiding others, which inflict costs on the persons or animals so acting, to enable coexistence and avoid, where possible, negative interactions (co-adaptation). Notice that in the stories included in this special issue, coexistence has developed out of the relations between local communities and their reptilian neighbours. It is not imposed by external authorities — this would be tolerance, not coexistence.

Finally, it is important that these stories are honest about the high costs of coexisting with potentially dangerous animals. Jan van de Ploeg, for example, begins his tale of coexistence with saltwater crocodiles in the Solomon Islands with a list of victims of crocodile attacks. All of the authors acknowledge the damage these species can inflict. But these communities have found ways of coexisting with them to varying degrees. This includes cultural beliefs informing human behaviour around these animals, along with indigenous knowledge about animal behaviour, all contributing to the possibility of sharing landscapes. Things do go wrong, sometimes tragically, and conservationists aiming to foster coexistence with dangerous animals must never forget this, as I have argued elsewhere. But this needn’t be framed as conflict—coexistence doesn’t require the absence of negative interactions to persist, it requires a socially acceptable approach to how to respond when things go wrong.

As Harry Greene and Marty Crump have shown, human (and primate) responses to reptiles are actually very diverse. I hope these stories inspire you to think again about the possibilities for human-reptile interactions. To consider what we may learn from particular stories of coexistence, while acknowledging the diversity of ways of coexisting with wildlife.

Fostering coexistence requires us to recognise it where it already exists, and resist interfering with this, or perhaps help mitigate against outside forces undermining it. It includes fostering coexistence where it does not exist. There is a role for snake catchers that enables those who wish to avoid killing a king cobra that has entered their home to choose a non-lethal response. There is a role for those explaining the ecological importance and benefit to humans of snakes in catching rodents that eat crops.

I hope some of you will support these kinds of efforts, and consider what we might learn from the Ata Modo of Komodo Island, villagers from the Malnad and Burdwan districts in India, the farmers of Cagayan Valley in the Philippines, fisherfolk from East Timor and the Solomon Islands, and the urban volunteers of Vadodara.

Further Reading
Crump, M. 2015. Eye of Newt and Toe of Frog, Adder’s Fork and Lizard’s Leg: the Lore and Mythology of Amphibians and Reptiles. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

Greene, H.W. 1997. Snakes: The Evolution of Mystery in Nature. Berkeley: University of California Press.

Doody, S.J., Dinets, V. and Burghardt, G.M. 2021. The Secret Social Lives of Reptiles. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press.

Pooley, S. 2021. Rethinking coexistence with wildlife in the wetlands of Gujarat. Current Conservation 15(1): 23-28.

Pooley, S. 2022. The challenge of compassion in predator conservation. Frontiers in Psychology 13: 977703. doi.org/10.3389/fpsyg.2022.977703
Simon Pooley Author
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Sharing a pond with Grandfather Crocodile

The Timorese creation myth is about a boy who found a young crocodile stranded on the coast in a far away place. The boy helped the weak crocodile and carried him back to the sea. The grateful crocodile promised the boy to help him and a few years later, the boy called the crocodile, by now fully grown, to travel the world on its back. After travelling the oceans for years, the crocodile told the boy that it soon had to die. “I will turn my body into a beautiful island for you and your descendants,” said the crocodile, and after it died, its body grew and today the ridged back of the crocodile forms the island of Timor.

Timor-Leste’s creation myth ‘Lafaek Diak’ (The Good Crocodile) is still omnipresent in the small Southeast Asian country, located approximately 500 km north of Australia and sharing the island Timor with its Indonesian counterpart West Timor, where similar spiritual attitudes towards crocodiles exist. The Timorese call their crocodiles ‘Avo Lafaek’ or Grandfather Crocodile.

The crocodile species that inhabits the island is the saltwater crocodile (Crocodylus porosus)—the largest and, together with the Nile crocodile, most dangerous of the world´s crocodilian species. Crocodiles were hunted for their skin during the times of Portuguese colonisation and Indonesian occupation. The colonial times not only had an impact on the country’s saltwater crocodile population, but also on the spiritual life of the Timorese. Today, most Timorese are Catholics, after nearly 400 years of Portuguese colonisation and missionary work. So, how could these animistic beliefs survive and what does it mean for the coexistence of humans and crocodiles in the country?

The person most able to answer the first question is Josh Trindade, Timor Leste’s only anthropologist, who studied the local traditions and cultural beliefs in the country for more than two decades. “The Timorese belief system is called lulik. Lulik can be translated as ‘forbidden’, ‘holy’ or ‘sacred’ and refers to the spiritual cosmos that contains the divine creator, the spirits of the ancestors, and the spiritual root of life, including sacred rules and regulations that dictate relationships between people and people and nature,” Josh explains.“The lulik cosmos is not exclusive but rather adaptive — new values can be integrated.” So, the Timorese simply integrated Catholicism into their lulik cosmology, without relinquishing their traditional, more animistic beliefs. Today, ceremonies for the grandfather crocodile can be conducted on a Saturday with the same people attending a Catholic liturgy the very next day.

To answer the second question, I have to dive deeper into the sphere of human-crocodile interactions among the coastal local communities. Together with Mr. Flaminio Xavier, the Head of the Timorese Crocodile Task Force, I travel to the districts in the east and south of the country where most crocodiles reside and where cultural beliefs are most pronounced. I learn about traditional elders who can communicate with local crocodiles. The ‘Nain Lafaek’ or the one who owns the crocodile, conducts ceremonies to enable safe travel for local fishermen. “When he calls, his local crocodile swims to him. Grandfather crocodiles hide when foreigners appear, so they could not be hunted during the times of occupation,” I am told. Ceremonies and rituals to worship and soothe the grandfather crocodile are held in traditional houses, the so-called Uma Lulik. During floods, the grandfather crocodiles protect the Uma Lulik, a local fisherman tells me. If a crocodile gets hurt, the whole village can be punished, for example by an earthquake.

The Timorese attitudes towards crocodiles, at least among many local communities, are characterised by respect, fear and tolerance. Killing a local grandfather crocodile is rarely permitted, even if the crocodile has attacked a human. Victims of crocodile attacks are often believed to have been punished for criminal acts against nature—the grandfather crocodile is seen in the light of a divine judge that cannot fail. Thus, crocodile attacks on humans are often tolerated as a circumstance of life. Assigning such a strong cultural, sacred status to crocodiles is perhaps the strongest protection measure for the species in Timor-Leste. Nevertheless, the belief system lulik is also used to prevent crocodile attacks, for example by declaring a local lagoon taboo for fishing. In summary, the lulik belief system dictates the human-crocodile interactions in Timor-Leste and enables the coexistence of crocodiles and local people.

In the past, during times of colonisation and occupation, crocodile numbers were low due to hunting pressure by the foreign powers. Local community members had special relationships with territorial crocodiles in local lagoons, rivers and lakes. The relationship was probably manifested by feeding these crocodiles. Local community members and local crocodiles could coexist in the same habitat without major negative interactions unacceptable to community members.

However, this coexistence has been interrupted since 2007 by an uptick in the number of crocodile attacks on humans, reaching a level unacceptable even to the local people that worship the species. Since TimorLeste became independent in 2002 and crocodiles came under protection, the crocodile population has been increasing and so is the number of attacks on humans.But local communities do not blame the grandfather crocodile for the escalating human-crocodile conflict in Timor-Leste. They say that troublemaker crocodiles are the reason for attacks on humans and the “stealing” of livestock. A traditional elder says that these troublemaker crocodiles are migrants from elsewhere, sent to steal and create turmoil.

Human-crocodile interactions have shifted from coexistence to conflict in many coastal communities in Timor Leste, and new strategies are needed to bring the system back into balance. “Why don’t we catch the troublemaker crocodiles and put them into an enclosure? We can teach our people and foreigners about crocodiles there,” a village headman suggests. Perhaps not a bad idea. For sure, crocodile tourism could be one option in the country that was created by a crocodile.
Sebastian Brackhane Author
Amogh Bhatnagar Illustrator
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Urban Crocs: The case of muggers in Vadodara

Rivers have served as lifelines throughout human history. Over thousands of years, civilisations have flourished and perished along the banks of different rivers across continents. Few terrestrial life forms can survive or thrive without access to clean freshwater. However, in the Anthropocene, humans continue to act oblivious to all the lessons from our history. Today, we find ourselves in this detrimentally extractive state of existence, where rivers are subjected to continuous contamination, irreversible damage, and steady degeneration.

We share this planet with millions of life forms, all of which deserve a chance to survive, grow, and live a peaceful life. As a result of our anthropocentric view of growth and development cultivated over the centuries, however, we have disturbed the order and balance of nature, exacerbating the loss of biodiversity.

On this note, I present an anecdote about the Vishwamitri River. Vishwamitri is a small non-perennial river, about 200 km in length. Located in the westernmost state of India, Gujarat, this rain-fed river originates in the Pavagadh hills and flows west to meet the Gulf of Khambhat. In between, Vishwamitri flows through a densely populated urban centre, the city of Vadodara. And within this city and its surroundings lie urban pockets which are home to more than 300 marsh crocodiles (Crocodylus palustris) or muggers. As a resident of Vadodara for nearly four decades, I present this emblematic account of the existence between humans and muggers based on first-hand observations and experiences.

Transformation of the Banyan City

Vadodara was once the capital of the princely state of Gaekwads, later anglicised as Baroda during the colonial era. Before the Gaekwads, Vadodara was known as Chandravati under the reign of Chanda of the Dodiya Rajput dynasty. Historically, the city was renamed from time to time, with shifts in power and control. After independence from the British in 1947, it came to be known by its current name: Vadodara or the Banyan City.

With rapid urbanisation and industrialisation, the demographics of Vadodara changed faster than ever. As Vadodara continued to grow as an urban centre, the demand for housing and land grew exceedingly. This demand and the institutionalisation of the real estate industry was subsequently translated into a large-scale deforestation drive. The groves of banyan trees (Ficus bengalensis), which once reflected Vadodara’s identity, were lost. Within a few decades, most of the banyan groves and pockets of wilderness disappeared. Similar to the fate of other contemporary cities, the quest for cosmo politanism and a modern identity resulted in a near-complete erasure of Vadodara’s heritage and unique identity.

Vadodara embraced its new identity as an industrial and student city. Alongside industries followed tech parks and the suburbs. It saw a steady rise in the influx of diverse settlers from near and far. Once a beautiful cultural capital and Gaekwad’s legacy, the city became a bustling metropolis, imitating global trends and chasing development.

Changing ecology

The Vishwamitri River changes as it travels from the rural to the suburban and urban landscapes. The parts of Vishwamitri that cut across the city have murky, black, frothy waters polluted with industrial and medical waste and debris. Along with its appearance, the river’s ecology changes unrecognisably. The calm waters of the river become muddy, erratic and problematic. The depths are artificially manipulated as and where needs arise.

Monsoon, historically romanticised and cherished, has become a nightmare for the citizens, to the extent that the municipal corporation has to survey and repair the entire city at the end of every season. A few inches of rain quickly flood most of the city and almost all the suburbs. The river goes from being the harbinger of life to a dreadful force of nature. The same riverside that defines the architecture and approach to all of the city’s historical monuments now falls in the most overlooked flood zones. Citywide evacuations, rescues, and rehabilitation occur invariably, testing the resilience of Vadodara’s residents.

The data maintained by the local Forest Department shows alarming numbers of wildlife rescues, including snakes and marsh crocodiles, from human settlement areas every year. Additionally, more than a hundred volunteers from over half a dozen civil society organisations provide wildlife rescue services round the clock. According to the official data, over a thousand snakes and six dozen different-sized muggers are rescued annually.

The Banyan City now identifies with an abundance of muggers. As the apex predators of freshwater ecosystems, muggers have adapted to urbanisation, predominantly scavenging and feeding on carcasses. Alongside the disappearance of riverine habitat and scrub forests, the natural habitat of scavengers such as golden jackals (Canis aureus) and white-rumped vultures (Gyps bengalensis) also disappeared from the city. Thus, with scavengers becoming locally extinct, the muggers serve an important function by picking dead matter off the river banks.

Cohabitation, conflict and coexistence

Muggers have been cleaning up the river over the last three decades. As a result, the urban popula tion of muggers has been growing steadily. And with cohabitation has come territorial tension between humans and muggers, each reclaiming their habitats and place in the city. While humans dominate the lands, muggers maintain control over the waters. In Vadodara, this interspecies tug-of-war is now commonplace.

Human-crocodile interactions have increased, resulting in frequent encounters and occasional conflicts. In 2021 and 2022, there were 344 mugger rescues, nine non-fatal mugger attacks on people, 15 dead muggers found where cause of death was unknown, and five muggers killed by vehicular traffic. Sometimes, humans suffer, and other times muggers.

We cannot overlook or dismiss the current reality where the existing harmony between Barodians and muggers is occasionally interrupted, leading to a dilemma and uncertainty. There have been records of muggers attacks where people lost their lives. If not fatal, there are several cases where the victims were left with a permanent disability. There have been instances of people seeking revenge by injuring or killing the crocodiles, or destroying their nests and habitats. Such attitudes and incidents pose a perpetual threat to the delicate coexistence of humans and wildlife in dense urban environments, and remains a challenge for urban wildlife conservation.

Despite these challenges, the term Barodians has come to include both humans and muggers cohabiting in the city. Thus Vadodara, once the Banyan City, may now be better described as the ‘Mugger City’.

Further Reading

Vyas, R. 2014. Roads and Railway: Cause for mortality of Muggers (Crocodylus palustris) Gujarat State, India. Russian Journal of herpetology 21(3): 237–240.

Vyas, R. and C. Stevenson. 2017. Review and analysis of human and Mugger Crocodile conflict in Gujarat, India from 1960 to 2013. Journal of threatened taxa 9(12): 11016–11024.

Vyas, R. and A. Vasava. 2019. Mugger crocodile (Crocodylus palustris) mortality due to roads and railways in Gujarat, India. Herpetological conservation and biology 14(3): 615–626.

Vyas, R., Vasava, A. and V. Mistry. 2020. Mugger crocodile (Crocodylus palustris) interactions with discarded rubbish in Central Gujarat, India. CSG newsletter 39(2): 5–11
Raju Vyas Author
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Venomous Gods

“We haven’t used the bathroom for three days,” said the man apologetically in Kannada on the phone. No medical problem prevented his family from using the room. They had a different issue—a king cobra had moved in. They were now desperate to regain use of the room.

As in any traditional Malnad house, a concrete lip of single brick thickness demarcated the square bathing area in one corner of the room. The family and neighbours crowded the doorway. As the snake catchers’ eyes adjusted to the dim light, they saw the black snake coiled on the red floor. Golden yellow lines encircled its body at regular intervals like nodes on a bamboo culm. A gunny sack lay nearby.

“The cement is chipped there,” the lady of the household in Agumbe explained. “We were worried the snake may hurt itself crawling over the rough edge.” As the catchers debated the plan of action, the family wanted repeated assurances that no harm would befall the king cobra, a revered being.

“If there’s any chance that it will get injured, please don’t catch it,” said the husband. Not only was the cost of performing a puja of repentance prohibitive, but clobbering it to death would be unthinkable. King cobras, in this part of the world, are worshipped as a god.

The family members had left the bathroom door ajar so the king cobra could find its way out on its own. When it showed no signs of taking the hint, neighbours convinced them to call the Agumbe Rainforest Research Station for help. During those three days, the snake could have reached up over the wall, crawled along the rafters, and entered any other room.

What kind of family stops using the bathroom for days, prevents a wild snake from hurting itself, and sleeps in the same house with it? The creature they fussed over was no piddling little thing. At 10-feet long, it was a member of the world’s largest venomous snake species. King cobras, like the proverbial camel in the Arab’s tent, take full advantage of the benevolent Malnad farmers by holing up in bathrooms, beneath beds, and on roofs. Occasionally, they even attempt to stow away in automobiles.

Not everyone in Agumbe shares the same religious beliefs and they can be hostile to snakes. The majority, however, recognise king cobras for what they are — intelligent giants unwilling to waste their golden venom on inedible morsels like us. King cobras bite so few people, not counting inept rescuers, that one has to dig through the archives to find the last case. The team of snake rescuers at the research station have, over the past decade, made people realise that there’s another reason to leave the snakes alone: they perform a valuable service, readily gobbling up smaller snakes like vipers and cobras that kill thousands of people.

Such an attitude is not common in other parts of Karnataka, or in Indian states such as Andhra Pradesh and Mizoram, and elsewhere in the species’ Asian range, where any king cobra that shows itself to humans is as good as dead. While the relationship between king cobras and the residents of Agumbe is no doubt special, is it possible, or even sensible, for people to share a similar bond with regular cobras which cause mass fatalities?

Across the country, Indians worship cobras. Our temple iconography shows these reptiles as the ornaments of Shiva and Ganesha, the bed of Vishnu, and the umbrella of Buddha. In several parts of the country, the devout sanctify termite hills as the abodes of these sacred snakes. Besides being objects of veneration, cobras serve a useful purpose around houses and farms: eating rodents. But their pest control assistance is overshadowed by their ability to kill. It’s no surprise that many people look for quick ways of despatching them from this world.

Basavanna, a poet-saint from 12th-century Karnataka, captured our conflicted feelings towards snakes thus:

When they see a serpent carved in stone, they pour milk on it,
If a real serpent comes, they say, ‘Kill, kill’.
(The Great Integrators: The Saint Singers of India)

At the other end of the country, the residents of Boro Posla, Musharu, and a few other neighbouring villages in Burdwan District, West Bengal, however, have an entirely different outlook. Cobras have every reason to fear humans, and they are mainly creatures of the twilight hour. But here, they go about their business in broad daylight, foraging around houses and courtyards, while the human residents carry on with their own affairs, paying little attention to the reptiles. The unafraid cobras never spread a hood to display the startling eye-like marking.

The reason for these villagers’ apparent suicidal mindset is the presiding goddess Jhankeswari, after whom cobras get their local name, jhanklai. According to folklore, the deity won’t let the snakes harm her devotees and they don’t molest the reptiles. Everyone in the villages abides by this culture of getting along with one of the most dangerous serpents in the world.

Where even Agumbe’s inhabitants draw the line, these villagers are casual about the cobras. In the face of this sangfroid attitude, the snakes take great liberties, slithering through living rooms past children doing their homework, swallowing toads under beds, gobbling chicken eggs in coops, and sleeping among pots and pans in kitchens. The people neither call snake catchers to remove them nor do they drive the serpents out themselves. In fact, only the priest of the Jhankeswari temple is allowed to handle them. As the women cook and wash dishes, they talk to the jhanklai as if to their confidants. If the reptiles are in their way, they request them to move. If the deaf creatures fail to obey, they bang plates or buckets. More than the noise, the ladies’ sudden actions make the serpents move.

Lest this give the impression that these monocled cobras are harmless, in West Bengal state, nearly 43,000 victims died over 13 years from snakebite. Neither the spectacled nor the monocled cobra has the gravitas or the reputation for self-restraint that king cobras have.

The jhanklai do occasionally bite people. One lunged at a woman walking through her courtyard. But it was a ‘dry’ bite, as the snake didn’t inject any venom. In another case, a mouse fleeing a cobra dove under a gunny sack being used as a doormat. A three-year-old boy entered the room at that moment and the hunting snake bit his foot. He was treated in a hospital and bore the scar of tissue damage. Almost all the bites were feeding responses when hungry snakes mistook a human hand or foot for prey.

Despite the inconvenience of these mishaps, the villagers are convinced none will lose their lives to a cobra bite and continue to grant their jhanklai as much of a right to reside in their households as their families.

To the people of Agumbe and the villages of Burdwan who live with king cobras and cobras, the ecological and utilitarian arguments are irrelevant. They live by the foundational beliefs governing their worldview of mutual respect. Even though the king cobra had caused discomfort and the snake catchers caught it with skill, that family prayed for forgiveness from the inconvenienced divinity. It has to be acknowledged that such reverence is selective. In both places, there is no tolerance for other species such as Russell’s vipers.

Basavanna sang about the hypocrisy of the majority, but he neglected to sing paeans to his fellow countrymen who live by their convictions.

An edited version of this articleappeared in THE HINDU SUNDAY MAGAZINE on 18 March 2017.
Janaki Lenin Author
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Living in harmony with dragons

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“Ndadi manga waing di sa ro losa anaq rua. Pusi sa kenobo ndadi ora, sa kenobo ndadi manusia.”
“On a fateful day, two children were born. One, an Ora (Komodo), and the other, a human.”
– J. A. J. Verheijen

Human-wildlife coexistence entails recognising the importance of sharing our space with wildlife. Achieving a sustainable, lasting coexistence can be challenging, particularly when dealing with formidable predators that may pose risks to human safety. Yet, an extraordinary exception to this is found in Komodo village, located within Komodo National Park. In this community, people live in harmony with awe inspiring Komodo dragons (Varanus komodoensis)—the world’s largest and iconic lizard found only in Indonesia.

Komodo dragons are remarkable giants, reaching lengths of up to three metres and weighing as much as 100 kilograms. As the apex predator, they are capable of hunting down large prey species like deer, wild pig, horse, and even buffalo, using a stealthy wait-and-ambush tactic. Their bites are venomous and contain infectious bacteria, causing slow and agonising death for their prey. Komodo dragons are well protected in the Komodo National Park, which harbours approximately 70 percent of the global population, according to the IUCN Red List 2019 assessment. Their solitary and cannibalistic nature, coupled with their remarkable sense of smell and the female’s ability to give birth without mating, continues to captivate imaginations worldwide.

For centuries Komodo villagers, locally known as Ata Modo, have shared their lives with the dragons. According to a 2022 national park survey, around 50 percent of the park’s Komodo population, equivalent to 1561 individuals, are concentrated on Komodo Island, where the Ata Modo reside. Encounters with these creatures are routine, when villagers venture into the forest or the dragons wander into the village.

While such encounters are typically harmonious, there have been instances of negative interactions between Ata Modo and Komodo. The national park has recorded five cases of Komodo attacks on villagers since 2000 resulting in severe injuries or even fatalities. In addition, dragons have occasionally been reported to have preyed on villagers’ livestock, primarily goats and chickens.

While interactions between people and the giant lizards in Komodo Village may not always be peaceful, they demonstrate a remarkable coexistence that has long endured. An example of this is the infrequent retaliation or condemnation of the dragons when they attack people or livestock.

This harmonious relationship is a result of several intertwined factors, including local beliefs and culture, economic benefits derived from tourism, and compliance with conservation regulations.

Historical connection

Komodo Village stands as a distinctive community that cherishes and preserves its rich history and traditions. Among the most profound beliefs held by Ata Modo is the notion that Komodo dragons are their own siblings, born from a common mother. This belief has been passed down across generations through oral storytelling, encapsulated in the enduring ‘Story of Sebae’, recounted below.

Long ago, a young couple named Hami and Epa celebrated the birth of twins. The boy was named Ndasa, while his sister, Ora, bore a unique resemblance to a formidable lizard. They lived together in the village until a time when Epa decided that Ora’s appetite for rats and geckos brought shame upon their family and took her to the forest. As years passed, Ndasa grew into a skilled fisherman, married, and started a family of his own. Meanwhile, Ora thrived in her forest, honing her hunting skills on deer, and raising her own offspring.

One fateful day, Ndasa ventured into the forest in search of medicine for his child and got lost. He felt an unseen presence observing him and suddenly saw a massive lizard looming in the distance behind him, prompting both Ndasa and Ora to prepare for confrontation. Fortunately, their mother appeared then. The elderly woman said, “Don’t harm each other because you are twins. I have been caring for Ora in this forest so she neither troubles nor is troubled by humans.” Ndasa, enlightened by this revelation, returned to the village with his mother, vowing and asking others not to disturb Ora, as she was their sister or Sebae.

Dragon tourism

The dynamics of people’s relationship with Komodo have evolved due to the economic benefits of tourism. Since its establishment in 1980, Komodo National Park has become a global tourism destination, going from less than a thousand tourists visiting in 1982 to 300,488 in 2023, with most coming to see the majestic dragons and the breathtaking natural landscape.

Komodo village, located in the vicinity of the primary tourist hub, is also a designated cultural tourism destination. Consequently, the traditional livelihoods of Ata Modo have undergone a major transformation, transitioning from agriculture and fishing to tourism-centric activities. Today, they engage in activities such as crafting and selling local souvenirs, serving as tourist guides, and offering homestay services.

The Ata Modo recognise the economic value that the Komodo dragons bring to their community and take immense pride in being known as people who live in harmony with these magnificent lizards.

Conservation compliance

The Ata Modo’s coexistence with Komodo dragons is also built on their deep understanding of the importance of protecting this species and adherence to conservation regulations. Formally safeguarded since the Dutch occupation and now fully protected by Indonesian law, the dragons were the principal reason for Komodo National Park’s establishment in 1980, which affected local communities within its boundary. Ever since, these communities have lived under regulations designed to preserve not only the dragons but also the broader wildlife and ecosystems.

To ensure compliance, the national park conducts regular awareness and tourism-related capacity building programs, such as craft-making and guiding. Routine patrols are employed to deter activities such as poaching and illegal logging within the park. These regulations may at times lead to local discontent, as they can feel marginalised and restricted in activities like fishing or wood collection. Despite occasional tensions, it is worth noting that the Ata Modo never blame Komodo dragons for their situation, as evidenced by a complete absence of reports of retaliation towards these creatures over the past 15 years.

Lessons from Komodo village

Although most Ata Modo naturally fear Komodo dragons due to their size and predatory nature, there has been a noticeable shift in how the villagers interact with the lizards, with more people now observed in close proximity to them. This shift has been influenced by the growth of tourism, attracting visitors who want to observe the dragons up close, coupled with an increasing understanding of their behaviour.

For example, Komodo dragons that frequently encounter humans become habituated and can be approached closely, unlike wild dragons who typically flee or avoid humans. However, caution is needed in close encounters as they are wild animals and may exhibit aggression when disturbed or threatened. Therefore, it is important to interact with these creatures with the utmost respect for their personal space.

Long-term coexistence between humans and wildlife is the result of a complex interplay of multiple factors. Shared history has forged a deep and enduring bond between the Ata Modo and the dragons in Komodo village. In addition, tourism has brought economic benefits to local livelihoods, while their commitment to adhering to conservation regulations ensures positive interactions not only with the Komodo dragons, but also with the broader biodiversity and natural environment within the national park.

While the term “coexistence” might not be a familiar one to the Ata Modo, their way of life perfectly exemplifies what it means to harmoniously share space with wildlife. By observing their interactions with Komodo dragons, we can learn valuable lessons about our capacity to coexist with other species now and in the future.

Acknowledgment
We thank Puspita Insan Kamil and Achmad Ariefiandy for their initial review and constructive feedback, and Charles Josefson for proofreading.

Further Reading
Verheijen, J.A.J. 1987. Pulau Komodo: Tanah, Rakyat,dan Bahasanya. Jakarta: Balai Pustaka

Sunkar, A., D. K. Mirza and S.R. Fitria. 2020. Role of culture in the emotional response towards Komodo dragons in Komodo and Rinca islands of Komodo National Park. BIO Web of Conferences 19: 00021. DOI:10.1051/bioconf/20201900021.

Jessop, T., A. Ariefiandy, M. Azmi, C. Ciofi, J. Imansyah and D. Purwandana. 2021. Varanus komodoensis. The IUCN Red List of Threatened Species 2021: e. T22884A123633058. www.iucnredlist.org/ species/22884/123633058.
Maria Rosdalima Panggur Author
Ayu Wijayanti Author
Ardiantiono Author
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Human-crocodile coexistence in the Solomon Islands

On a late afternoon in 2016, Zevia was collecting shells with her grandmother in the mangroves behind the village when a crocodile suddenly pulled her underwater. Zevia fought the crocodile and somehow escaped, but she died two weeks later from the infected wounds on her legs and back. She was 13 years old.

Kyio, four years old, was bathing in the river when the crocodile bit him and dragged him to the deep. His sister hit the crocodile on the head and pulled the boy back, but it was too late. Saleani, nine years old, was playing with her friends when a crocodile pulled her underwater.

The village searched for two days before they found her body underwater, hidden under a tree. Cathyleen, nine, disappeared when she went to the riverbank early in the morning to defecate. Grinnet, 16, was pulled from her dugout canoe. Peterson, 13, drowned when he was bitten on his leg. Gumu, seven. Junior, nine. Martin, 14. Consi, 12. Don, six. The list is much longer.

Attacks are a growing challenge

In 2018, we conducted a survey throughout the Solomon Islands and recorded 83 fatal crocodile attacks on people, including 31 on children. We found out that every year, on average, five people are killed by saltwater crocodiles. Many other people are seriously injured and traumatised in crocodile attacks. We recorded 225 crocodile attacks over the past 20 years, 37 percent with a deadly outcome. Most crocodile attacks are on fishermen who dive at night on the reefs. But attacks on children typically result in higher fatality rates: in 63 percent of attacks, the victim did not survive the encounter. A major concern is that the number of attacks on people has increased markedly over the past ten years, most likely the result of the recovery of the saltwater crocodile population.

The saltwater crocodile is a large predator, with some individuals measuring up to 6m and weighing more than a tonne. The species inhabits tidal rivers, freshwater lakes and mangrove forests, and occasionally forages on coral reefs. Saltwater crocodiles hunt a wide variety of animals, including people. Prey is typically ambushed in or at the edge of the water. Small animals are swallowed whole, large ones are dragged into deep water, drowned and then torn to pieces.

Commercial hunting and habitat loss has wiped out the species in most parts of its former range. But in areas with large undisturbed wetlands, such as Australia, Papua New Guinea and the Solomon Islands, saltwater crocodile populations recovered rapidly when trade in crocodile leather was banned. In these countries the species is a growing source of concern for rural communities.

Sacred reptile

Perhaps because of the ever-present danger saltwater crocodiles pose to people, the species plays a prominent cultural role in the Solomon Islands. Throughout the archipelago, there are customary restrictions on killing and eating crocodiles. In more than half of the 234 villages that we visited during the survey, people said that crocodiles were sacred animals. Some people see crocodiles as their totem animal, tracing their genealogy to a mythical crocodile ancestor. Others tell stories of spirit-crocodiles guarding tribal lands, women giving birth to crocodiles and chiefs talking to the reptiles. In many villages people respectfully talk about the grandmother-crocodile that inhabits the mangroves. In principle, these sacred crocodiles are benevolent creatures that help their human relatives in times of need. But the
ancestors can also be vengeful, and punish people who violate customary rules and taboos. In many cases, a crocodile attack is attributed to sorcery, theft or adultery.

Conservationists tend to dismiss such animistic beliefs as primitive superstition, irrelevant for the modern world, and a constraint for effective saltwater crocodile management. They advocate setting up a crocodile leather industry in the Solomon Islands, following the Australian example where crocodile farming is a profitable industry. Sustainable use will generate monetary incentives for rural communities to tolerate crocodiles in the wild, or so is the hypothesis.

I disagree, and think that efforts to prevent human-crocodile conflicts in the Solomon Islands should be based on local knowledge and experiences. To be clear, I do not claim that people live in harmony with saltwater crocodiles. They don’t. People fear crocodiles. Villagers are shocked and angry when a crocodile takes a life, and rigorously persecute the man-eaters after an attack. In most villages people trap crocodiles once they pose a threat to children and livestock.

Coexistence

Animistic beliefs and traditions are instrumental for coexistence on a more fundamental level. First, totems and taboos often offer practical guidelines to minimise the risk posed by a dangerous predator. The prohibition to enter sacred sites, which are in many cases areas where saltwater crocodile nest, is an obvious example.

Respecting crocodiles is another. Fishers have in-depth knowledge of crocodile ecology and behaviour, and take common sense precautionary measures to prevent attacks, such as avoiding murky water and deep pools where crocodiles hide.

Second, stories of ancestors, spirits and sorcerers give meaning to crocodile attacks. These beliefs rationalise traumatic events, and thereby help people to cope with pain and loss. Third, and perhaps most important, these cultural values enable people to accept risk and uncertainty. People acknowledge the danger posed by crocodiles, and are resigned to the possibility of a deadly encounter.

It is important not to confuse this acquiescence with apathy or ignorance. On the contrary, it is based on stark realism. In most cases there is simply no alternative: people need to fish, bathe and shit, also when and where there are crocodiles. Most of the time things go well. It is in fact surprising how relatively few crocodile attacks occur, given the number of people who go out every night in saltwater crocodile habitat to spearfish, gather shells, wash or relieve themselves. Preventing crocodile attacks on humans, for example, by fencing bathing areas, would require investments that are infeasible and unrealistic. Rural communities in the Solomon Islands have to deal with a range of other problems that are undoubtedly more urgent. The sad reality is that many more children in the Solomon Islands die of diarrhoea, malaria, car accidents, and domestic violence than of crocodile attacks.

Relationships, respect and resignation

Efforts to minimise the risk posed by crocodiles in the Solomon Islands should, in my view, build on and reinforce indigenous knowledge and practices. After all, the folk stories, legends and myths reach far more people than any public awareness campaign ever can. Every child in the Solomon Islands knows very well that crocodiles are dangerous, and that caution is needed in the mangroves.

What makes the preoccupation with crocodile farming and leather trade so damaging, in my view, is that it contradicts the wisdom and worldview of people in the Solomon Islands. The Western notion of human separation from, and dominance over, nature challenges the indigenous view of descent and kinship. The proposition to farm these supposedly soulless animals undermines respect for the living, animated world. The export of leather will not prevent crocodile attacks from happening, and the few dollars for a crocodile skin can never compensate the loss of a loved one. Such logic seems far more irrational than the belief that people and crocodiles are related.

To prevent saltwater crocodile attacks on humans it is much more effective to invest in basic rural development programs, particularly related to healthcare and sanitation. Ensuring that antibiotics and other medical supplies are available at rural health clinics could significantly reduce fatality rates. Perhaps this could have saved Zevia. Likewise, much can be gained if people are no longer obliged to defecate in mangroves, beaches or river banks at night, or to bathe in a murky river. Providing safe access to sanitation and clean water can minimise human-crocodile interactions, and obviously has much broader public health benefits. Perhaps Kyio would not have died.

It seems hard, perhaps impossible, to reconcile the loss of so many children with the aim to conserve saltwater crocodiles in the wild. The best answer is to rely on the cultural values and wisdom of people who live with these dangerous predators. Coexistence is not about posters, fences or money, but about relationships, respect and resignation. Coexistence is, as the anthropologist Val Plumwood wrote after being attacked by a saltwater crocodile herself, about ‘being humble about our relationship with the Earth and about the need to acknowledge our vulnerability’.

Further Reading

Plumwood V. 1995. Human vulnerability and the experience of being prey. Quadrant 39(3): 29–34.

Van der Ploeg J., F. Ratu, J. Viravira, M. Brien, C. Wood, M. Zama, C. Gomese and J.Hurutarau.2019.Human-crocodile conflict in Solomon Islands. Penang: WorldFish.
Jan van der Ploeg Author
John Limaito Illustrator
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Culture, pride and coexistence with the Philippine crocodile

Jennifer Montanes-Gonzales lives in the small hamlet of Dunoy, situated along the Catallangan River on the island of Luzon, Philippines. “I often see crocodiles when I go bathing in the river with my children. They are always very excited when they see the crocodiles, and they are not scared of them,” she says.

Her father, Victorino Montanes, migrated here in the 1980s, seeking land to cultivate. In Cagayan Valley, land was getting scarce and expensive to buy. Victorino travelled east until he found uncultivated forestland near a river with abundant clear water. The only other people living here were Agta, the first Indigenous People of the Philippines. The Agta hunt, fish, and collect root crops. They live in small settlements, which they move every few months to another location.

Victorino agreed with them that he could build a house and clear a forest area for corn cultivation. The forest at that time still had abundant game, and the river provi ded fish. The Agta mentioned to Victorino that the river also harboured crocodiles, but that they were harmless if you did not harm them. Victorino was perhaps not so sure about that, but he accepted the crocodiles.

In 1999, a group of Dutch and Filipino scientists visited Victorino as they had heard from fishermen that crocodiles were regularly seen in the municipality of San Mariano, where Dunoy is located. Victorino led them to Dunoy Lake where they observed two adult crocodiles and 12 hatchlings. The researchers celebrated the find that evening together with Victorino and a bottle of gin. They had found a very small, but reproducing wild population of the Philippine crocodile—the rarest crocodile in the world.

A history of deteriorating relations

The Philippine crocodile (Crocodylus mindorensis) is a relatively small freshwater crocodilian (growing to a maximum length of 3m), found only in the Philippines. When the Spanish colonised the Philippines in 1565, they sent home reports with descriptions of the land and its people and wildlife. The Spanish were appalled by the fact that there were crocodiles seemingly everywhere. They were amazed that “the indios” both feared and venerated the crocodiles. The Philippines in fact has two species of crocodiles: the endemic freshwater Philippine crocodile (Crocodylus mindorensis) and the much larger and potentially man-eating saltwater crocodile (Crocodylus porosus), which occurs from Australia to India. In most Philippine indigenous languages, there are different names for the two species, and different dangers are attributed to them.

For the Spanish priests though, all crocodiles were monsters that had to be extirpated. There is a mural in the Catholic church of San Mariano where Jesus the Saviour is shown protecting a human community in his hand, while stepping on a crocodile to keep evil under his feet. In 1898, the US took over from the Spanish as colonisers of the Philippines. Like the Spanish, Hollywood would portray crocodiles as evil creatures.

Nowadays in the Philippines, crocodiles are widely regarded as dangerous animals, regardless of the species. They are stereotyped as bloodthirsty monsters and are associated with greed. Corrupt government officials and selfish athletes are called buwaya, the Filipino word for crocodile. These negative attitudes towards crocodiles are seen as a major impediment to in-situ crocodile conservation in the Philippines by the government, and have led to removal of crocodiles from the wild into ex-situ facilities to safeguard crocodiles and protect local communities.

Crocodiles in local culture

These negative attitudes towards crocodiles have not always been there, however, and also do not exist everywhere in the Philippines. Crocodiles continue to play an important role in folk stories, songs, and material culture, such as woven cloth and wood carvings. Throughout the Philippines, indigenous communities had intricate relations with crocodiles. In San Mariano, the Agta have personal bonds with individual crocodiles. Crocodiles and people can be friends and even blood brothers. Spear-fishermen often encounter crocodiles underwater, and do not fear them. They kindly ask the crocodile for permission to pass and to share the fish resources.

According to Nestor Alejo, an Agta elder residing in Dunoy: “What the Agta believe is that the crocodiles are helping us. We see that the crocodiles guard our rivers.” The Kalinga, another indigenous group in San Mariano, pray to crocodiles and provide offerings. They believe that crocodiles are the embodiment of their ancestors, that some people have the power to change into crocodiles and that others are born with a spiritual crocodile twin. There is a strong taboo against killing crocodiles.

Both the Agta and Kalinga do not dispute that crocodiles are potentially dangerous, especially large saltwater crocodiles. But if the crocodile does something to you, then you have probably deserved that because you did something wrong. This strong belief that a crocodile will not harm you if you do not harm the indigenous communities have with crocodiles until this day in the few areas where crocodiles still occur in the Philippines. But what about people like Victorino, who is an Ilocano migrant to San Mariano, and whose parents did not teach him to pay respect to crocodiles?

Victorino was not the only farmer who discovered the potential of San Mariano for land. Since the 1960s, when vast forest areas of San Mariano were opened up by commercial logging operations, immigrant farmers started to come in. They settled along rivers to transport their produce, since roads did not exist, and often observed crocodiles in those rivers.

Boy Robles, one of the first settlers along Dinang Creek—which remains an important breeding area of the Philippine crocodile—recounts: “When I first arrived here, it was all forest. There were no roads, only narrow footpaths. There were lots of wild animals, such as wild chicken, wild pig and wild deer. But nowadays there is no abundant food for crocodiles because there are no wild deer and wild pigs anymore. This is the reason why crocodiles eat our livestock.” In addition to negative perceptions, conflicts over livestock predation is one of the reasons that immigrant farmers kill crocodiles in San Mariano.

Mabuhay buwaya

Since 2003, the Mabuwaya Foundation (mabuhay = long live, buwaya = crocodile), in collaboration with Isabela State University, has been implementing a research and conservation program for the Philippine crocodile in San Mariano. A key component of this program is a long-term Communication, Education and Public Awareness (CEPA) strategy. While recognising the importance and relevance of indigenous belief systems that enabled people to coexist with crocodiles in San Mariano, younger people and immigrant farmers do not necessarily believe in crocodiles as ancestors, twins or forest spirits.

Therefore, the Mabuwaya Foundation tries to instil new forms of respect for crocodiles. These are based on the sense of pride in harbouring have the last individuals of this Philippine endemic species in the local rivers and refer to the general responsibility to take care of the environment and the species within it. The key message of the program is: “The Philippine crocodile, something to be proud of!” The program also promotes conditions that facilitate coexistence with crocodiles: crocodile wetlands and buffer zones are protected and rehabilitated to provide natural prey species and nesting habitat for crocodiles, and farmers are assisted with building pig and chicken pens to avoid livestock predation.

The CEPA program has led to acceptance of the crocodiles by more than 80 percent of a representative group of respondents in San Mariano. Today, there are eight community-managed crocodile sanctuaries. Community members, including children, are involved in crocodile monitoring and releasing headstarted crocodiles back into the wild (this is a conservation technique where young animals are raised ex-situ to increase their chances of survival to adulthood). A Philippine crocodile festival in 2018 in San Mariano, where schools competed to come up with the most spectacular crocodile dance in crocodile costumes, drew 35,000 visitors.

The crocodile population has grown from approximately 20 in 1999 to nearly 100 individuals in 2023 and the distribution of the crocodiles increased from three to eight distinct wetland areas. In 2023, six community-protected nests in four different sites successfully hatched. Livestock predation by crocodiles has greatly diminished as a result of rehabilitated riparian buffer zones and livestock protection measures. The deliberate killing of crocodiles still occasionally occurs but leads to outrage and action by community members and local government officials. Although there are a few visitors every year to see the wild Philippine crocodiles of San Mariano, there is no large-scale ecotourism program here that provides a financial incentive to communities that protect their crocodiles. Pride and respect are the main reasons why farmers like Victorino Montanes now accept the crocodiles in their midst.

Jennifer Montanes-Gonzalez says about the importance of crocodile conservation: “If there were no more crocodiles left, I would be very sad because by protecting the crocodiles we are protecting the rivers.” The current basis of coexistence of people and Philippine crocodiles in San Mariano is perhaps different compared to the indigenous belief systems, but it shares a widespread conviction that crocodiles have a right to live in the same rivers that are used by people and that crocodiles are not dangerous if people respect them. Mabuhay buwaya!

Further Reading

Cureg, M. C., A. M. Bagunu, M. Van Weerd, M. G.Balbas, D. Soler and J. Van Der Ploeg. 2016. A longitudinal evaluation of the communication, education and public awareness (CEPA) campaign for the Philippine crocodile Crocodylus mindorensis in northern Luzon, Philippines. International Zoo Yearbook 50(1): 68–83. doi.org/10.1111/izy.12112.

Van Der Ploeg, J., M. van Weerd and G. A. Persoon. 2011. A cultural history of crocodiles in the Philippines: towards a new peace pact? Environment and history 17(2): 229–264. www.jstor.org/stable/41303508

van Weerd, M. and J. van der Ploeg. 2003. A new future for the Philippine crocodile, Crocodylus mindorensis. Sylvatrop 13(1–2): 31–50.
Merlijn van Weerd Author & Photographer
Myrna Cureg Author
Marites Balbas Author
Jan van der Ploeg Author & Photographer
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Hidup Harmonis dengan Komodo

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“Ndadi manga waing di sa ro losa anaq rua. Pusi sa kenobo ndadi ora, sa kenobo ndadi manusia.”

“Pada suatu hari yang bersejarah, dua anak lahir. Satu, seekor Ora (Komodo), dan yang lainnya, seorang manusia.”

– J. A. J. Verheijen

Hidup berdampingan antara manusia dan satwa liar membutuhkan kesadaran akan pentingnya berbagi ruang dengan satwa liar. Mencapai koeksistensi yang langgeng dan berkelanjutan dapat menjadi tantangan, terutama ketika berhadapan dengan predator yang tangguh yang dapat menimbulkan risiko bagi keselamatan manusia. Namun, pengecualian yang luar biasa dapat ditemukan di Desa Komodo, yang terletak di dalam Taman Nasional Komodo. Di desa ini, masyarakat hidup harmonis dengan komodo (Varanus komodoensis) – kadal terbesar di dunia yang hanya dapat ditemukan di Indonesia.

Komodo adalah hewan raksasa yang luar biasa, dengan panjang mencapai tiga meter dan berat mencapai 100 kilogram. Sebagai predator puncak, komodo mampu memburu spesies mangsa besar seperti rusa, babi hutan, kuda, dan bahkan kerbau, menggunakan taktik menunggu dan menyergap secara diam-diam. Gigitannya berbisa dan mengandung bakteri yang berbahaya, menyebabkan kematian yang lambat dan menyakitkan bagi mangsanya. Komodo dilindungi dengan baik di Taman Nasional Komodo, di mana menurut penilaian IUCN Red List 2019, Taman Nasional Komodo menjadi rumah bagi sekitar 70 persen populasi komodo di dunia. Sifatnya yang soliter dan kanibal, ditambah dengan indra penciuman yang luar biasa dan kemampuan betina untuk melahirkan tanpa kawin, terus memikat imajinasi di seluruh dunia.

Selama berabad-abad penduduk desa Komodo, yang secara lokal dikenal sebagai Ata Modo, telah berbagi kehidupan dengan komodo. Menurut survei yang dilakukan taman nasional pada tahun 2022, sekitar 50 persen populasi Komodo ada di taman nasional, atau setara dengan 1.561 ekor, terkonsentrasi di Pulau Komodo, tempat tinggal Ata Modo. Perjumpaan dengan komodo adalah hal yang biasa terjadi, ketika penduduk desa menjelajah ke hutan atau komodo berkeliaran di sekitar desa. Meskipun pertemuan semacam itu biasanya berlangsung aman, ada beberapa kasus interaksi negatif antara Ata Modo dan Komodo. Taman nasional telah mencatat lima kasus serangan Komodo terhadap penduduk desa sejak tahun 2000, yang mengakibatkan luka parah atau bahkan kematian. Selain itu, komodo juga dilaporkan memangsa ternak warga, terutama kambing dan ayam.

Meskipun interaksi antara manusia dan komodo di Desa Komodo tidak selalu berjalan damai, mereka menunjukkan koeksistensi luar biasa yang telah berlangsung lama. Contohnya adalah jarang terjadi pembalasan atau penghukuman terhadap komodo ketika mereka menyerang manusia atau ternak. Hubungan harmonis ini merupakan hasil dari beberapa faktor yang saling terkait, termasuk kepercayaan dan budaya setempat, manfaat ekonomi yang diperoleh dari pariwisata, dan kepatuhan terhadap peraturan konservasi.

Hubungan Sejarah

Desa Komodo berdiri sebagai komunitas khas yang menghargai dan melestarikan sejarah dan tradisinya yang kaya. Salah satu kepercayaan yang paling mendalam yang dipegang oleh Ata Modo adalah anggapan bahwa komodo adalah saudara kandung mereka sendiri, lahir dari ibu yang sama. Kepercayaan ini telah diwariskan dari generasi ke generasi melalui cerita lisan, yang terangkum dalam ‘Cerita Sebae’, sebagai berikut: 

Dahulu kala, pasangan muda bernama Hami dan Epa bersukacita atas kelahiran anak kembar. Anak laki-laki diberi nama Ndasa, sementara saudara perempuannya, Ora, memiliki kemiripan dengan biawak betina. Mereka tinggal bersama di desa, sampai suatu ketika nafsu makan Ora terhadap tikus dan tokek membuat keluarga mereka malu dan Epa membawanya ke hutan. Setelah bertahun-tahun berlalu, Ndasa tumbuh menjadi nelayan yang terampil, menikah, dan memulai sebuah keluarga sendiri. Sementara itu, Ora tumbuh besar di hutan, mengasah keterampilan berburu rusa, dan membesarkan anak yang ia lahirkan sendiri. 

Pada suatu hari, Ndasa pergi ke hutan mencari obat untuk anaknya dan tersesat. Dia merasakan ada sesuatu yang mengamatinya dan tiba-tiba melihat kadal besar menjulang di belakangnya, hal tersebut membuat Ndasa dan Ora sama-sama bersiap untuk saling menyerang. Beruntung, ibu mereka yaitu Epa segera muncul. Wanita tua itu berkata, “Jangan saling menyakiti karena kalian adalah saudara kembar. Aku telah merawat Ora di hutan ini, sehingga ia tidak mengganggu atau diganggu oleh manusia.” Ndasa yang memahami kondisi tersebut kemudian kembali ke desa bersama ibunya, ia bersumpah dan meminta orang lain di desa untuk tidak mengganggu Ora karena dia adalah saudara perempuan mereka atau Sebae.

Pariwisata komodo

Dinamika hubungan masyarakat dengan Komodo telah berkembang karena manfaat ekonomi dari pariwisata. Sejak didirikan pada tahun 1980, Taman Nasional Komodo telah menjadi tujuan wisata global, dari kurang dari seribu wisatawan yang berkunjung pada tahun 1982 menjadi 300. 488 pengunjung pada tahun 2023, dengan sebagian besar datang untuk melihat komodo dan lanskap alam yang menakjubkan.

Desa Komodo yang terletak di dekat pusat wisata juga merupakan tujuan wisata budaya. Akibatnya, mata pencaharian tradisional Ata Modo telah mengalami transformasi besar, beralih dari pertanian dan perikanan ke kegiatan yang berpusat pada pariwisata. Saat ini, mereka terlibat dalam kegiatan pariwisata seperti membuat dan menjual cinderamata lokal, menjadi pemandu wisata, dan menawarkan layanan homestay.

Masyarakat Ata Modo menyadari nilai ekonomi yang ada pada Komodo dan mereka sangat bangga dikenal sebagai masyarakat yang hidup harmonis dengan kadal yang luar biasa ini.

Kepatuhan terhadap konservasi

Koeksistensi masyarakat Ata Modo dengan Komodo juga dibangun atas dasar pemahaman mereka yang mendalam akan pentingnya melindungi spesies ini dan kepatuhan mereka terhadap peraturan konservasi. Komodo yang secara resmi dilindungi sejak masa penjajahan Belanda dan kini sepenuhnya dilindungi oleh hukum Indonesia merupakan alasan utama pendirian Taman Nasional Komodo pada tahun 1980 yang berdampak pada masyarakat lokal di dalam kawasan. Sejak saat itu, masyarakat setempat hidup di bawah peraturan yang dirancang untuk melestarikan tidak hanya komodo, tetapi juga satwa liar dan ekosistem yang lebih luas.

Untuk memastikan kepatuhan, taman nasional ini mengadakan program peningkatan kesadaran dan kapasitas terkait pariwisata secara rutin, seperti pembuatan kerajinan tangan dan pemanduan. Patroli rutin dilakukan untuk

mencegah kegiatan seperti perburuan dan penebangan liar di dalam taman nasional. Peraturan-peraturan ini terkadang menimbulkan ketidakpuasan masyarakat setempat karena mereka merasa terpinggirkan dan dibatasi dalam kegiatan seperti memancing atau mengambil kayu. Meskipun terkadang terjadi ketegangan, perlu dicatat bahwa Ata Modo tidak pernah menyalahkan komodo atas situasi mereka, sebagaimana dibuktikan dengan tidak adanya laporan tentang pembalasan terhadap satwa ini selama 15 tahun terakhir.

Pembelajaran dari Desa Komodo

Meskipun sebagian besar masyarakat Ata Modo secara alami takut terhadap komodo karena ukuran dan sifat predatornya, namun telah terjadi pergeseran dalam interaksi antara manusia dan komodo yaitu semakin banyak orang yang mengamati komodo dari dekat. Pergeseran ini dipengaruhi oleh pertumbuhan pariwisata yang menarik perhatian pengunjung untuk mengamati komodo dari dekat, ditambah dengan meningkatnya pemahaman tentang perilaku mereka.

Sebagai contoh, komodo yang sering bertemu dengan manusia menjadi terbiasa dan dapat diamati dari dekat, tidak seperti komodo liar yang biasanya melarikan diri atau menghindari manusia. Namun, diperlukan kehati-hatian dan tetap menjaga jarak karena mereka adalah hewan liar dan dapat menunjukkan sifat agresif ketika merasa terganggu atau terancam. Oleh karena itu, penting untuk menjaga jarak aman dalam berinteraksi dengan komodo. 

Hidup berdampingan dalam jangka panjang antara manusia dan satwa liar adalah hasil dari berbagai faktor yang kompleks. Latar belakang sejarah yang sama telah membentuk ikatan yang mendalam dan abadi antara Ata Modo dan komodo di Desa Komodo. Selain itu, pariwisata telah membawa manfaat ekonomi bagi mata pencaharian masyarakat setempat. Didukung juga oleh komitmen masyarakat untuk mematuhi peraturan konservasi dengan memastikan interaksi positif tidak hanya dengan komodo, tetapi juga dengan keanekaragaman hayati dan lingkungan alam yang lebih luas di dalam taman nasional.

Meskipun istilah “koeksistensi” mungkin tidak terlalu familier di telinga masyarakat Ata Modo, cara hidup mereka telah menggambarkan apa yang dimaksud dengan hidup berdampingan secara harmonis dengan satwa liar. Dengan mengamati interaksi mereka dengan komodo, kita dapat belajar pelajaran berharga tentang kemampuan kita untuk hidup berdampingan dengan spesies lain di masa kini dan masa depan.

Ucapan terima kasih

Kami berterima kasih kepada Puspita Insan Kamil dan Achmad Ariefiandy atas tinjauan awal dan umpan balik konstruktif yang diberikan, serta Charles Josefson yang telah menyunting naskah ini.

Referensi Lebih Lanjut

Verheijen, J.A.J. 1987. Pulau Komodo: Tanah, Rakyat,dan Bahasanya. Jakarta: Balai Pustaka.

Sunkar, A., D. K. Mirza and S.R. Fitria. 2020. Role of culture in the emotional response towards Komodo dragons in Komodo and Rinca islands of Komodo National Park. BIO Web of Conferences 19: 00021. DOI:10.1051/bioconf/20201900021.

Jessop, T., A. Ariefiandy, M. Azmi, C. Ciofi, J. Imansyah and D. Purwandana. 2021. Varanus komodoensis. The IUCN Red List of Threatened Species 2021: e. T22884A123633058. www.iucnredlist.org/ species/22884/123633058.

Kontributor

Maria Rosdalima Panggur telah bekerja sebagai ranger di Taman Nasional Komodo selama sembilan tahun, berfokus pada konservasi Komodo dan habitatnya. Saat ini sedang mengikuti program The Conservation Science programme di University of Queensland.

Ayu Wijayanti adalah seorang antropolog yang fokus pada pemberdayaan dan konservasi. Dia pernah bekerja di Komodo Survival Program selama empat tahun. Saat ini ia sedang melanjutkan studi magister antropologi di Universitas Gadjah Mada. 

Ardiantiono telah mempelajari interaksi manusia-satwa liar selama satu decade. Saat ini dia sedang mengejar gelar doktor di The Durrell Institute of Conservation and Ecology, University of Kent.

Labonie Roy adalah seniman independen yang memiliki spesialisasi dalam nature communication melalui ilustrasi, desain, dan cerita. Ia menyukai serangga, kopi, dan memimpikan buku anak-anak.
Maria Rosdalima Panggur Author
Ayu Wijayanti Author
Ardiantiono Author
Labonie Roy Illustrator
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Horseshoe crabs: Ancient marvels facing modern threats

The horseshoe crab has been around for more than 450 million years. It has survived three mass extinctions, including the Cretaceous–Tertiary extinction event 65 million years ago, when more than 70 percent of all life forms, including dinosaurs, were wiped off the planet. Apart from being one of the oldest, the horseshoe crab is also among the most resilient of animals. Yet, despite being around for so long, not a lot is known about these living fossils.

Contrary to its name, the horseshoe crab is not a true crab nor a crustacean; it is, in fact, closely related to spiders and scorpions. With ten eyes situated all along its protective shell, five pairs of legs hidden underneath the carapace, and a protruding spike for a tail, it is a creature that is a perfect ensemble of prehistory. Horseshoe crabs play a crucial role in the coastal food web. Shorebirds, most of which are migratory, depend on their eggs as a food source, as do several species of fish and invertebrates. The horseshoe crab’s blue-coloured blood is an important component of medical research and the health industry, yet its own survival faces an uncertain future. 

Horseshoe crabs visit the intertidal mudflats only for the purpose of breeding, spending their first year of life along coastal habitats and shallow waters, before moving deeper into the ocean. Feasting on clams, worms and algae, horseshoe crabs will only begin breeding after they reach adulthood at about 10 years of age. For the next decade, they will return back to the beach every summer, to reproduce. Being largely understudied animals, their return to the beach is the only part of their lifecycle that we have information about. 

An eye for survival

The horseshoe crab is nocturnal and possesses some unique adaptations. Cruising along the shallow coastal seabed, it uses moonlight to its favour—to both forage and spawn its next generation. It has a pair of large compound eyes seated laterally, each with 1000 photoreceptors, as its primary visuals. Five more super-eyes, located on top of the shell, detect the ultraviolet spectrum, allowing the animal to navigate its surroundings on dark nights. Two more eyes on the underside, close to the mouth, help maintain a stable orientation against the flowing current. Lastly, an eye situated on the tail helps keep track of the day and night cycle.

The animal not only brings variety into visual engineering, but also possesses a well-defined circadian clock in its brain. The eyes of the horseshoe crab are the reason we have been able to extensively study our own vision.

Double-edged sword

Nevertheless, it was not just the vision of the crab that humans eyed. The baby-blue-coloured blood of horseshoe crabs has been harvested since the early 1600s—the colonial times in modern USA—initially to be used as “cancerine fertilisers” and later as a test for bacterial contamination in drugs. An important discovery was made in the 1950s, when Frederick Bang found that horseshoe crab blood contained a chemical called Limulus Amebocyte Lysate (LAL). 

This compound came to be widely used in the pharmaceutical industry to test for the presence of any bacterial contaminants, because it helped identify endotoxins even at concentrations as low as one part per trillion. The moment LAL comes in contact with any contaminant, the solution turns into a ‘gel’, immobilising the bacteria within the gel. The LAL test is instantaneous and simple, and creates a sample that remains stable for weeks, even at room temperature, and it replaced unethical testing on rabbits and mice. The test went on to become an important step in the approval of any drug, surgical implant and prosthetic device hoping to get the Food and Drug Administration’s approval. The horseshoe crab’s blood has helped deliver insulin as well as COVID-19 vaccines. 

On account of the presence of this important chemical compound, horseshoe crab blood became one of the most expensive liquids on earth. According to Business Insider, the price of the blood is valued at $60,000 per gallon, and the demand is growing. However, this has led to the overexploitation of the species. About 30 percent of all horseshoe crabs collected for drawing blood die in the laboratory, and those that are released have been reported to show diminished chances of survival in the wild.

For the horseshoe crab, this unique chemical defence evolved to help it survive its bacteria-rich habitats. The moment the crab’s blood cells detect invaders, they release LAL, thus creating a gel-like physical barrier that immobilises the bacteria. But, what was supposed to protect the animal is now the reason for its demise. In the 1970s, the high demand for LAL led to the start of a severe decline in the horseshoe crab population globally. Despite existing regulations, horseshoe crabs are poached in the thousands to meet the demands of the growing pharmaceutical industry.

Emerging threats in India

Apart from the demand from pharmaceutical companies, horseshoe crabs are also increasingly threatened by pollution and habitat destruction. Delaware Bay in the US, which has the largest population of horseshoe crabs, saw a decline from about 1.24 million Atlantic horseshoe crabs (Limulus polyphemus) in 1990 to about 334,000 by the early 2000s. 

Among the four species of horseshoe crabs, two are found in India—the mangrove horseshoe crab (Carcinoscorpius rotundicauda) and the Indo-Pacific horseshoe crab (Tachypleus gigas). A recent study (see Further Reading section) revealed a 64.7 percent decline in the population of mangrove horseshoe crabs and a 72.2 percent decline in the population of Indo-Pacific horseshoe crabs between 2000 and 2010. The fourth and largest species, the Japanese horseshoe crab (Tachypleus tridentatus), too is in a similar situation.

In India, there are additional threats facing the two species of horseshoe crabs. According to Prof. B.C. Chowdhury, a member of the IUCN-SSC Marine Turtle Specialist Group and advisor to the Wildlife Trust of India’s (WTI) marine projects, the primary reason for the decline of horseshoe crabs in the country is the destructive fishing practices prevalent along the eastern coast, which is home to the horseshoe crabs. Although not targeted, horseshoe crabs form a substantial part of the bycatch along the intertidal flats. Plucking them out of the nets is not easy and causes severe skeletal damage to the animals. Those that are plucked out whole are left scattered on the beach to perish. Moreover, since these are hard-shelled animals, fishermen also blame them for reduced fishing productivity due to the damage caused to their nets by the shells.

Bichitrapur beach located in a mangrove forest reserve in the Balasore district of Odisha used to be an important feeding and spawning ground for the Indo-Pacific horseshoe crab, but sightings have drastically reduced over the years. Dr. Biswajeet Panda, who is conducting a study on horseshoe crabs along the beaches of Balasore, suggests that poaching might be a major threat to the population. This despite both species in India being protected under Schedule II of the Wildlife (Protection) Act, 1972, where illegal collection/hunting can attract a jail term of three years, a fine of up to INR 100,000 or both.

Satyajit Maity, a local fisherman from Dhublagadi village, remembers growing up seeing and playing with horseshoe crabs, saying they have now “vanished” from the coasts of Bichitrapur. Although the exact nature of trade is not known—with traders from places farther away contacting local fishermen to collect the animals and the specifics are kept under wraps—he confirms that it does exist and could be one of the reasons for the decline in numbers. According to Maity, a good-sized adult can sell anywhere between INR 800–1,000 (US$ 9.61–12.01). 

There is also increased pressure from other anthropogenic activities. Increased construction along the beaches like Digha and Sagar Islands in the Indian state of West Bengal has led to a change in the texture and composition of the sand and sediment. This has also led to a shift in the congregation sites of the crabs over the past decade. According to Dr. Panda, more than 400 horseshoe crabs (across both species) were sampled in surveys that date back to the late 1980s. However, during a recent survey, they found less than 10. This tragically illustrates the severity of the decline.

Physiochemical changes in the habitat due to coastal erosion, industrial effluents and increased human activity have led to the loss of long-time spawning grounds for the species. Dr. Punyashloke Bhadury from IISER-Kolkata says that the population of the Indo-Pacific horseshoe crab is severely threatened by changing river systems. Faulty barrage management, like the one in Mahanadi River, has led to less clay sediment flowing into the river mouths compared to what it was a decade ago. The river courses have changed, the water volume has decreased and thus, the nutrient cycle that the crabs depend upon is affected. In addition, increasing amounts of wastewater being dumped into the sea without adequate treatment has led to an increase in nitrogen levels, thereby changing the physiochemical composition of the feeding grounds for the worse. 

The aftermath of Cyclone Amphan

In May 2020, Cyclone Amphan caused colossal damage to the coastal habitat along the Bay of Bengal in India. Sagar Islands, a prime breeding ground for these crabs, was one of the most severely affected areas. Huge patches of mangrove and the adjacent mudflats were damaged. The high winds also brought in debris that changed the sediment composition of the banks. 

Dr. Bhadury and his team, supported by WTI, led a cleaning drive while simultaneously assessing the sediment texture of the mudflats. With the help of local volunteers from the fishing community, some of these habitats were restored, debris and marine macroplastics were removed, and several horseshoe crabs were rescued and rehabilitated. More than 35 crabs, including gravid females, were rescued alive from ghost nets and released as part of the drive. 

Dr. Bhadury’s project has helped generate baseline information on horseshoe crabs and their habitats, while paving the way for the first coordinated rescue and release initiative for the species in this landscape. He now calls for urgent collaborative efforts involving state Forest Departments and governments, and NGOs to map the breeding sites and record the status of habitats of horseshoe crabs across their range. According to him, future conservation plans for this species need to ensure the long-term improvement of their habitats by conducting science-based mangrove plantations and sustainable management of debris, with a special focus on the involvement of fishermen communities.

Straddling both water and land, horseshoe crabs are a symbol of adaptability and resourcefulness in several cultures across the globe. It would be a shame if this prehistoric creature that survived mass extinctions is lost to anthropogenic exploitation. The horseshoe crab is a stark reminder of why we should revisit our existing relationship with nature, and rethink our overuse of its precious resources.

Further reading:

Wang, C-C, K. Y. Kwan, P. K.S. Shin, S. G. Cheung, S. Itaya, Y. Iwasaki, L. Cai et al. 2020. Future of Asian horseshoe crab conservation under explicit baseline gaps: A global perspective. Global ecology and conservation 24: e01373. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.gecco.2020.e01373. 

Eisner, C. 2023. Vaccines are still tested with horseshoe crab blood. The industry is finally changing. NPR. https://www.npr.org/2023/09/23/1200620535/vaccines-are-still-tested-with-horseshoe-crab-blood-the-industry-is-finally-chan. Accessed on 27 December, 2023. 

Chesler, C. 2016. Medical labs may be killing horseshoe crabs. Scientific American. https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/medical-labs-may-be-killing-horseshoe-crabs/. Accessed on 27 December, 2023. 
Madhumay Mallik Author
Biswajeet Panda Photographer

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What will it take to save the vaquita?

For half a decade now, biologists have been predicting and fearing the extinction of the critically endangered vaquita (Phocoena sinus)—the smallest of the world’s seven porpoise species. The vaquita lives in the northern upper end of the Gulf of Mexico between Baja California and the Mexican mainland. In August 2023, the International Whaling Commission, in a first-of-its-kind declaration in its 70-year history, issued an “extinction alert” for the vaquita. What occasioned this alert was a new report that estimated only 8–13 individuals of the species remaining in their natural habitat. Moreover, breeding in captivity has so far not succeeded.

While this population estimate underscores the dire situation the species is in, it nevertheless gives hope for the vaquita’s survival. In 1997, the population comprised around 570 individuals. In 2018, it was estimated that fewer than 20 individuals remained, with an annual rate of decline close to 50 percent. Two years later, the estimated population size was down to eight individuals, though healthy calves were sighted. The current estimate also includes the healthy calves. Moreover, a recent analysis suggests that, despite its small size, the population is not prone to inbreeding depression—which is caused by a lack of genetic variation in the population, and which can lead to reduced survivability and fertility of the offspring.

Thus, given the tenacity of this species at the brink of extinction, it is imperative to redouble our conservation efforts. Unfortunately, policy formulation, let alone implementation, is far from straightforward, requiring consideration not only within the Mexican context but also globally, particularly in relation to the medicinal beliefs and food preferences among the wealthier classes of China.

The vaquita is close to extinction because of gillnet fishing of another critically endangered species; the fish totoaba (Totoaba macdonaldi), which shares its marine habitat. Between November and May each year huge gillnets—each sometimes over 600 metres long—are dropped into the water to trap the totoaba. The vaquita and many other marine mammals, including whales and dolphins, probably as many as 300,000 of them, are also trapped in these nets as bycatch each year, only to be later discarded. Totoaba fishing has been illegal in Mexico since 1975 and gillnets have been banned since 1998.

In 2017, the Mexican government enacted a small “No Tolerance Zone” that excluded all fishing activities in part of the upper Gulf of Mexico to create a refuge that comprises the most important habitat for the species. However, in order to appease local fishermen whose livelihoods were supposedly threatened, the government of President López Obrador rescinded the policy in 2021. Meanwhile, conservation NGOs, most notably the Sea Shepherd Conservation Society, have had violent encounters with these fishermen and those behind them.

Beginning in the 1920s, the totoaba was originally fished for its meat. However, that market was soon superseded by the Chinese appetite for its swim bladders, which are considered as status symbols and consumed in multiple ways. The bladders are believed to have medicinal value, including increasing longevity and vigour, despite a lack of credible scientific evidence. Highly prized, these swim bladders can fetch up to US$ 80,000 per kilogram in China.

Local conservationists in Baja California do not blame the fishermen who carry out the illegal gillnet fishing, but rather the organised cartels originating in China, that control the lucrative trade. Gillnets are expensive equipment and fishing with them is also an expensive enterprise; without funding from these cartels, local fishermen cannot afford to engage in this activity. Obtaining gillnets from the cartels engenders debt that the fishermen are then forced to pay off by extracting totoaba swim bladders. For the vaquita—and the totoaba—to survive, this dynamic must be disrupted.

Three recent developments provide some guarded reasons for optimism. The first and most controversial of them is the permission granted in 2022 by the Standing Committee of the Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species (CITES) to Earth Ocean Farms, a Baja-based aquaculture company to legally trade in captive-bred totoaba. The hope is that the captive harvest will drive down prices and decrease the incentive for illegal fishing. Meanwhile, recently developed technology will make the products traceable and allow for accurate monitoring of the legal trade. However, critics maintain that this technology is far from perfect. The legal trade may as well spawn an even larger market in China and increase the scope of illegal fishing.

Second, there is some indication that the Mexican authorities are finally cracking down on illegal gillnet fishing in the upper Gulf. In 2018, several Chinese nationals involved in the illegal totoaba trade were arrested in Mexico. Since 2020, using information collected by NGOs such as Earth League International, authorities have also arrested several Mexican cartel members. Many, if not most, of the biggest totoaba traffickers are now in jail. Despite the decision to allow fishing again in the former No Tolerance Zone, Mexican authorities, in August 2022, deployed 193 concrete blocks with three-metre metal hooks to entangle gillnets in the upper Gulf. If these efforts continue, there is hope that the reign of the illegal totoaba cartels will be over and both the vaquita and the totoaba can avoid extinction in the immediate future.

Third, there has also been some cooperation from Chinese authorities. In December 2018, Chinese customs authorities confiscated 444 kilograms of totoaba swim bladders illegally smuggled from Mexico and worth an estimated US$ 26 million. The illegal totoaba market in Mexico immediately collapsed. Though the market subsequently recovered, continued cooperation from China along with the other two measures may well save the vaquita from extinction. Or so we hope. 

Further Reading:

Robinson, J. A., Kyriazis, C. C., Nigenda-Morales, S. F., Beichman, A. C., Rojas-Bracho, L., Robertson, K. M., Fontaine et al. 2022. The critically endangered vaquita is not doomed to extinction by inbreeding depression. Science 376: 635–639.

Rojas-Bracho, L., B. Taylor, C. Booth, L. Thomas, A. Jaramillo-Legorreta, E. Nieto-García, G. C. Hinojosa et al. 2022. More vaquita porpoises survive than expected. Endangered species research 48: 225–234.

Taylor, B. and L. Rojas-Bracho. 2023. Vaquitas continue to surprise the world with their tenacity. IUCN–SSC Cetacean Specialist Group. https://iucn-csg.org/vaquitas-continue-to-surprise-the-world-with-their-tenacity/. Accessed on 9 September, 2023.
Sahotra Sarkar Author
Victor Sanchez-Cordero Author
Alina Gabriela Monroy-Gamboa Author

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Everyday observations: finding the extraordinary in the ordinary

When out watching bugs in a group, as I was doing, one often doesn’t have the luxury of observing intricacies. The likelihood of others badgering you to move so they can have a closer look or take a photograph is high. The possibility of the group discovering another interesting bug and abandoning the bug under the limelight also exists. A jewel bug, which had enamoured onlookers, was thus abandoned when someone in the group exclaimed, “Look, a common emigrant!” I clicked a quick photograph of the flashy beetle navigating the leaf contours of a blue porterweed before moving ahead to catch a glimpse of the flitting butterfly.

Dragonflies and damselflies abounded near the wetlands I tramped along. When I stumbled upon an exuviae straight out of a science fiction movie, it didn’t take long to guess its owner: a young dragonfly had just completed the aquatic stage of its life. Ready to take wing, it had climbed up the stalk of a plant, shed its larval case, and joined its squadron. A slow process that can take hours, the emergence from the casing, which tears from the back, is amazing to witness.  

Remarkably, some spittle bugs had chosen the same spot to undergo their transformation into froghoppers. In their nymphal form, these bugs feed on plant sap, releasing air from their abdomen into the watery urine they excrete to create bubbles. Enclosed in this bubbly foam resembling saliva, which earns them their name, the bugs stay hidden from predatory insects and birds until they are ready to leap away as froghoppers.       

Land crabs such as this begin to appear during the monsoon along roadside streams. Many get crushed by vehicles as they cross the tarmac.  

The common tiger (Danaus genutia) seen here feeding on the nectar of a silver cock’s comb,  is one of the most common butterflies found in India. It closely resembles North American monarch butterflies, which are famous for the thousand-mile migration they undertake. Unpleasant to smell and taste, the butterfly, also known as the striped tiger, uses its prominent markings and striking colouration to advertise its unpalatability to predators. 

Moths, attracted by sources of light, have an uncanny knack for popping up in the most unexpected of places. I found this Olepa ricini on my bathroom door one evening, nonchalantly invading my privacy. Or was I invading its space? 

Despite hosting a wide variety of organisms, the intertidal zone seldom receives its due as a habitat thriving with all manner of life forms. Pictured here is a longtail butterfly ray, captured and discarded on a beach by fishermen. Found along the sandy bottom of inshore waters, these rays are threatened by overfishing and often caught as bycatch in trawl nets.   

A surprise is always lying in wait on the forest floor. The concentric circles around this fortress-like nest reveals the identity of its owners—a colony of harvester ants. The nest serves as a godown for storing the seeds they harvest from different types of grasses. After the seeds are consumed, the coats are discarded and can be seen around the nest.

I almost walked through the web of this dazzling signature spider (Argiope anasuja), which had cast its silky home in the middle of a country path. A zigzag pattern (not visible in this photo) resembling letters in the centre of its web earns this arachnid its moniker—the writing spider. Building its nest close to the ground enables the spider to trap foraging bees and wasps. Sunlight reflecting off the intertwined hair on the spider’s grouped limbs fool the nectar gatherers into believing that the four-legged, brightly coloured creature is a flower. As in the case of most spiders, the female signature spider is much larger than the male, who can usually be found on a smaller web nearby.  

Found in freshwater bodies such as rivers, streams, lakes, ponds and marshes, the Indian flapshell turtle (Lissemys punctata) is widely distributed across India. Named so due to a flap which covers its limbs when it retracts into its shell, these reptiles are encountered in irrigation canals and temple ponds as well. Their relative abundance has made them an easy target for poachers who trap them to feed the increasing international demand for turtle.
Anirudh Nair Author & Photographer

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The Painted Forest: Exploring human-nature interrelationships in Gond painting

South of the Narmada River in eastern Madhya Pradesh, India, the Gond hill-village of Patangarh is the birthplace of a rich painting tradition. Adapted from the decorative mural techniques of the village, Gond painting depicts community folklore, creation tales, the verdant landscape, urban and pastoral lifeways, and more.

Though only four decades old, Gond art is widely appreciated as an intricate and evocative painting style. At its heart, Gond painting is about spirits and creatures deep in the forest that people have coexisted with for centuries. While Gond art has grown to encompass subjects extending far beyond field and forest, interdependence remains a lasting theme.

A Gond woman in the Supkhar forest

Gond painting as we know it today was first imagined and practiced by an artist named Jangarh Singh Shyam. In the early 1980s, he transposed the bitti chitra and digna practices of the village (wall and floor art, respectively) onto paper.

The act of creating a digna mimics the Gond story of creation: the great god Bada Dev spread mud on water to create the living earth, with trees, animals, and human beings. Dignas are painted by village women in the aangans (courtyards) of their homes, using a paste of lime and chalk. Bitti chitra is painted on the facades of houses, depicting Gond fables, deities, and legends. They are filled with colours made from mud or crushed flowers, changing with the weather and wind.

Bitti chitra on Jangarh Singh Shyam’s home in Patangarh

The original traditions of Gond painting, digna and bitti chitra, were materially and metaphorically connected with the earth. Jangarh Singh Shyam, who started painting on canvas, didn’t veer far from its roots. His works drew on Gond folklore and the symbolism of the forest. In Origins of Art: The Gond Village of Patangarh, Jangarh Singh’s nephew and regarded artist, Bhajju Shyam, writes:

“The tree has become one of the main symbols in Gond art. This is powerful art, because it combines the rendering of a tree with stories, concepts, and metaphors. Painting tree stories actually began with Jangarh chacha . Give him any size of wall and he’d cover it with trees! […] We all began by observing him and helping him with his work, so trees became a big theme for us as well.”

Jangarh Singh Shyam passed away under tragic circumstances in Japan in 2001, leaving a legacy of artists. Today, Patangarh is home to a number of painting families who were inspired by him. The village itself is painted, and scenes of coexistence—trees heavy with beehives, children chasing cattle, women collecting mahua flowers—find their way onto canvases, walls, and floors. 

I met with Jangarh Singh Shyam’s grandson, Mithilesh Shyam. He and his wife, Roshni Shyam, are both artists. They invited me to Patangarh in May 2022, where they shared work from a collection on human-nature interrelationships. I was struck by the vivid colours and whimsical forms, by the seamlessness between human and non-human elements. Roshni and Mithilesh had worked together on each of these paintings. Their commentary gave insight into underlying messages and themes:

“Hariyali”

“In the monsoon of late August, we celebrate a festival called Hariyali [“greenery”]. Villagers wake early, gather their kulhad, tagiya, hashiya , and carry bamboo to the fields. We plant bamboo and pray to the earth, our mother goddess, heralding the start of the sowing cycle. Perhaps this is how humans first started planting trees. 

The seeds of the first crop are sacrificed to family gods and goddesses—every community has its own. Since we are from the Shyam family, we pray to Sat Dev, the seven-headed god.

In my painting, you see a saj tree giving its leaves to a person and blessing his home with wealth and prosperity. We will eat in these leaves. Together, we will drink mahua and celebrate, singing karma dadariya and dancing to the beat of the madar .

“A plea for trees”

I speak for trees because they can’t communicate in human languages. In this machine-filled world, humans can travel between countries and invent anything they dream up, but they remain dependent on trees. Trees, whose roots, leaves, and branches have so many worlds in them, are the keepers of the earth. When we clear the forest, we experience droughts and floods. Clouds and rivers weep and the soil can’t hold their tears, so we drown. We must save the forest. This is what I urge through my painting.”

I was moved by their conviction. The paintings are suffused with tenderness, revealing the ecocentrism of the Gonds. The graceful, flowing compositions and anthropomorphic figures convey exchanges between humans and the forest, making interlinkages apparent.

As we spoke, their daughter, Damini, stood on her toes and listened intently. When Roshni and Mithilesh had finished, she asked if she could add something. 

“The eyes are always filled in last,” she grinned, pointing at her own. Why, I asked. Against a striking backdrop of birds and trees, Damini answered, “Then the painting comes alive.”

Roshni and Mithilesh’s daughter, Damini Shyam, in Patangarh
Yaashree Himatsingka Author & Photographer

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Temporary Vertigo

When an endangered animal looks at you, it is only fair and just that you, as a human, become overwhelmed by temporary vertigo. But because the world is rarely fair nor just, this likely won’t happen. The trick of tourism, the spell of the conservation industry, is the manufacture of that feeling—powerful in its falseness—that you are watching real animals that aren’t really watching you. Uncomplicated and undisturbed, protected in your car, you are the leisurely sovereign. You may well be spotted by the animals being observed, but you feel safe knowing that you will not be truly seen by them.

I recently experienced this deception first-hand. In April 2023, I flew to South Africa to conduct archival research at Amazwi, the national English literary museum in Makhanda/Grahamstown. I am a literary scholar who focuses on how writers write about animals. I’m currently working on a new book project about literature and conservation. Titled The Conservation Plot, the book examines how postcolonial authors, from the decolonising 1960s to globalised 2010s, have used literature to tell stories about wildlife conservation, using different modes and styles to reveal the cracks in the “fortress conservation” model that has grown to dominate the practices and ideologies of wildlife protection.


National parks play a big role in this story. Beacons of benevolence, symbols of state power, the national park—whether Yosemite or the Peak District—stands as many things at once: a place in which nature can ostensibly be itself, yes, but also a new enclosure, a sacred haven for the steady flourishing of indigenous species and the extermination of so-called aliens, a venue for ecotourism and profit-seeking, and a policed and bordered site of uniformed suspicion and informal authoritarianism.

Most troubling for me is that national parks often present a version of nature without history, a deeply naturalised nature that’s suspended in a perpetual present and also, somehow, a window onto the deep past. The “wilderness” is a myth. There is no pristine, untouched nature. And national parks are the products of violent land grabs, of displacement and culling, of vast years’ long efforts to rearrange landscapes and move mountains. Yet the conjuring trick of the national park is that it hides the scars. Carefully managed, the national park manages to carefully erase the palimpsests of social history. It presents, packages and stages nature.

All of these thoughts were rattling around my head when, during my stay in Makhanda, I drove along the highways and dirt roads to visit Addo Elephant National Park, a vast conservation area in the Eastern Cape province. Just bigger than the size of Greater London, the park houses hundreds of elephants, as well as lions, buffaloes, rhino and leopards. It is surrounded, on all sides, by private game reserves—Shamwari, Schotia, Amakhala—that house their own populations of the so-called Big Five species.

Addo opened its gates in 1931, in the middle of a decade-long period in which the unified South African government devoted previously unprecedented resources to wildlife protection. Kruger, the gigantic park in the far north, opened five years before; Mountain Zebra, a smaller site, followed six years later. Addo is the product of what the historian of conservation William M. Adams calls the dawn of the “age of preservation”, that extended moment in colonial history when trophy hunters shapeshifted into wildlife advocates.

A sign in the woods Description automatically generated

Throughout the 19th century, the settlers in the Eastern Cape substantially rearranged human–nature relations: expanding agriculture, cutting back forests, increasing wildlife hunting and trading. The destruction was so wide-ranging that, come the end of the imperial century, reports emerged that only two groups of elephants remained south of the Limpopo river: the Addo and the Tsitsikamma, with the former having just 11 or 16 members left—the exact number depending on which sources you read.

One way of telling the story of Addo, then, is to tell it simply: that the park is a tender-hearted safeguard for an embattled herd, and a towering success story at that. Sixteen elephants have become 600. This is the official narrative, the tourist board fiction.

But plotting Addo’s story like this glosses over a long and violent history of conflict between farmers, zoologists, bureaucrats and elephants. As Jules Skotnes-Brown has shown (see Further Reading section), during the two decades before the park’s opening, the Addo elephants were perceived as a pest. Constantly overstepping social boundaries, they roamed and trampled on settlers’ ever-expanding farmland. The farmers demanded their extermination, and the newly formed South African state obliged. A trusted hunter was hired, shooting towers erected, a timeline to extinction mapped out.

But after months of slaughter, with just 10 or so elephants left to kill, scientists and campaigners began arguing that the Addo herd was a unique “dying race” in need of special protections. The hunt was soon called off, and in the name of zoological race science and anxieties over species degeneration, the official tactics switched from state-sponsored extinction to species preservation.

None of this is legible to the visitor who, always looking out from behind their steering wheel, is permanently too close and too far away from the outside. Crawling along the narrow, bumpy trails in your car, studiously surveying the road to avoid crushing the scurrying flightless dung beetles below, you are beholden to a perspective ontologically inseparable from the automobile itself.

Sure, this is nothing like driving at speed, where the “hurrying eye” immediately forgets the “vanishing landscape” behind it, as Theodor Adorno once wrote about America’s “impressively smooth and broad” roads. But what’s shared here, what you constantly battle against as a visitor, is the obvious fiction Adorno grasped: that the land around you “bears no traces of the human hand … as if no one had passed their hands over the landscape’s hair”.

What you can easily miss out on in Addo is that this land has been shaped and reshaped by real people. What you struggle to see, despite the park’s promise of all-seeingness, is that the elephants’ home was never a fenced-in area surrounded by irrigated grids of land. It was an entire province in which they once moved freely, for better and for worse. You cannot see that the bushveld that you drive through testifies to the history of what Marx called primitive accumulation, the expropriation of land and enclosure of the commons through “blood and fire”. This land was once a Xhosa stronghold violently won by the British, who then slowly carved it up into profitable farms. Black tenants, then proletarianised into dependency, are now banished completely. Only workers and tourists remain.

And the elephants themselves are the children of a near-century of domestication, a process of active familiarisation to human visitors: their waterholes strategically dug and (I presume) occasionally refilled, their placid behaviour of undeniable economic interest to the continuation of tourism. Addo is clearly not a zoo. But in a way, it is

So I am writing this reflection in order to submit myself to the sheer, unbalancing force of nature’s vertigo, a vertigo that is not natural at all but historical. In Addo, what appears to be completely natural is remarkably constructed. This is not “bad”. It just is. And it is the conservation plot of the national park that obscures this in order to pre-package satisfaction.

Ultimately, I write to recover the feeling of being seen by the elephants that I saw on that day. Those 30 or 40 elephants, the descendants of eliminated ancestors — their gaze is no less real just because they live in a fiction. They did not, could not, know of my shame. But what I wanted to tell them in my glance was that I was determined not to exploit or reproduce my sovereignty. I would write critically. I wanted the elephants to know that they did not have to put on a show, that I would not mistake the manufactured for the authentic, that I would tread as lightly as I could.

But the national park produces visitors in its own image. You can try to be as respectful as you want, but there is nothing you can be on a game drive except a tourist trapped in a dusty rental car, click-clacking a camera. Self-will alone cannot emancipate you from what is structurally necessitated. There are uneasy resonances between my apologies here and those of the imperial hunter.

Surely it would take an entire change in the mode of production, the abolition of the conservation industry as we know it, to generate alternative, less extractive subjectivities. Until that day, I will write to restore history to nature and open myself to the other’s gaze. Before my trip to Addo, I had never been seen by an elephant before. Now I have.

A herd of elephants in a field Description automatically generated

Further Reading:

Skotnes-Brown, J. 2021. Domestication, degeneration, and the establishment of the Addo Elephant National Park in South Africa, 1910s–1930s. The historical journal 64(2): 357–383. doi:10.1017/s0018246x19000761
Dominic O'Key Author & Photographer

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Pre-seeding social learning               

This is the story of my colleague Dipti and I, of what we learnt about ourselves and our landscape while conducting research in Barabanki district of Uttar Pradesh, India. I am a wildlife ecologist from Lucknow, the capital of Uttar Pradesh, and I belong to a family of farmers who still practice agriculture for their livelihood. On the other hand, Dipti is a social scientist from the urban environment of Delhi. 

The focus of our current research is human–sarus crane interactions in Uttar Pradesh, where the cranes share space with farmers. It is a predominantly agricultural landscape, where the major crops sown are wheat, mustard and potatoes along with some seasonal vegetables. The main conservation issues are water pollution and electrocution as per the community views  and Our fieldwork primarily consisted of participant observation and interviews, through which we are documenting people’s ecological knowledge of the Sarus crane. 

One fine day in February, while walking amidst agriculture fields, Dipti and I observed a bright yellow crop stretched out across the landscape in full bloom. I turned to Dipti, and with an air of confidence and pride, quizzed her about the crop we saw in front of us. 

“Dipti! Do you know which crop this is?”

“Yes, It’s mustard.”

“Great. What are its uses?”

“We use mustard seeds and oil for cooking,” Dipti responded.

“Okay, do you know which part of it is used for extracting oil?”

Dipti thought hard and replied, “Maybe from the flower!”

I was quite surprised by her answer and started laughing! I made fun of her, how she could possibly imagine oil being extracted from the flower rather than the seed. Eventually, I explained to her that the oil is extracted from the seeds and detailed the entire process of oil production. She was not convinced, “But the seed is so small, how can the oil be made from it?”

Funnily, as difficult as it was for Dipti to imagine oil being produced from these tiny seeds, it was also difficult, and hilarious, for me to imagine oil being extracted from flowers! I couldn’t understand how someone could not know a fact as basic as this, something so obvious for anyone who has grown up in an agricultural landscape. I was rather pleased with myself and painted Dipti as ignorant. 

Walking ahead, we both noticed that the yellow flowers had two different shades: lemon yellow and golden yellow. We were confused. Why was this? Based on my scientific knowledge and childhood experience, I guessed that the darker flowers were ready for ripening, while the other wasn’t yet mature. Or perhaps because of pollinators’ activities—the light colour of the flower might mean that the nectar is gone, while the darker ones still have nectar for insects and birds.

Dipti plucked a few flowers and started observing their morphology, without much success. After a half an hour, we asked a farmer who was walking towards us. He said he was a local, and he was curious about where we had come from and why.

We explained our research to him and asked if sarus cranes were seen living in mustard fields. They did not, he explained, because the seeds are bitter in taste, which the birds did not like and moreover, they could not hold the tiny seeds with their beak.

We also took the opportunity to ask about the varying shades of the mustard flower, to which he responded that different varieties of mustard crops have different shades of yellow. Pointing towards the light-yellow crop said, “This one is yellow mustard and the golden yellow one is black mustard. The lemon-yellow flower has a small seed compared to the golden yellow flower. And even the seed colour is different—yellow mustard seeds are lighter in shade whereas the golden mustard seeds are darker (black).” He also added that black mustard is better than yellow mustard and is usually sown for self-subsistence, whereas the other one is grown for commercial purposes.

On returning home to Lucknow, we shared our findings with my mother. She was surprised about our lack of knowledge and explained that yellow mustard has small seeds and produces more oil but is less tasty, whereas the black mustard seed produces less oil but tastes far better. She further elaborated:

 “दोनों सरसों का पेड़ अलग अलग होता है अगर थोड़ा ध्यान से देखे! पीली वाली सरसो का पौधा थोड़ा छोटा  लगभग  तीन फिट का  होता है लेकिन काली वाली पांच से  सात फिट तक पहुंच जाती होंगीI  पीली की पत्ती छोटी और नुकीली होती है वही काली वाली चौड़ी होती है दोनों की छीमी( pods) भी अलग होती है पीली वाली छोटी और मोटी होती है लेकिन काली की लम्बी और पतली, लोग अक्सर सोचते है काली सरसों में तेल ज्यादा निकलेगा लेकिन पीली में ज्यादा निकलता है चाहे वो छोटी ही क्यों न हो”

“Both the mustard crops look different if seen with concentration. Yellow mustard crop is smaller, about 3 ft, while the black mustard is 5–7 ft. The leaves of yellow mustard are small, pin-shaped and narrow, while the leaves of the black one are broad and large. Even the pods are different, yellow mustard has small and thick pods, while black mustard pods are longer and thinner.”

I felt ashamed by my lack of knowledge about crops, despite being from an agricultural family. And while I had poked fun at Dipti, there was much that I didn’t know either. Observing the landscape around us and asking questions had been a rewarding process. 

That day served as an eye-opener for us. We understood the importance of shared learning. Outside of books and our own limited observations, nature education requires the integration of the traditional knowledge of local communities, who interact with natural resources and wildlife on a daily basis. Finally, we learnt that when nature education includes local knowledge, it only gets contextually richer, with different lived experiences and diverse interactions.
Astha Chaudhary Author
Dipti Arora Author

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Giant clams, climate change, and the traditions of a Pacific Island nation

Climate change is a major threat to the health of our oceans and the species within them. These species are not only important members of the ecosystem, but also contribute to coastal communities by providing a traditional food source. Therefore, food provisioning is one of the most compelling ways in which we can understand how oceans contribute to human well-being.

“Unfortunately, one of the most sizable blind spots in our understanding of coral reefs is whether and how these reefs shape human health. In theory, coral reefs should operate as biodiverse, living refrigerators for coastal communities, sourcing replenishable, nutritious food,” says Dr. Douglas McCauley. Sharing successful stories of resilience can influence local managers to act promptly.

In terms of nutrition, the developing world draws the most significant benefits from oceans through small-scale fisheries. This is especially true with respect to poor communities. For example, access to seafood means the difference between having seafood and rice for dinner, or simply rice. Unfortunately, in many developing countries, local fisheries are in sharp decline due to weak governance, poor knowledge of stock status, illegal fishing, population pressures, and climate change. Thus, assessing fisheries’ strengths and vulnerabilities to climate change remains a priority, especially in places where fishery data is limited.

Marine fisheries in Kiribati

The Pacific Planetary Health Initiative embarked on a project that unites their network of coral reef ecologists, public health researchers, social scientists, and local Fisheries Officers. Recently, they published a study in Frontiers in Public Health examining how improving the conservation of a giant clam fishery can benefit human nutrition and health across Kiribati, a small Pacific Island nation. The project utilised the Climate-Resilient Fisheries Planning Tool to integrate scientific research, case studies, and expert knowledge, which was developed by a Science for Nature and People Partnership (SNAPP) group working on Climate-Resilient Fisheries.

Resilience is the capacity to prepare for, resist, cope with, recover from, or adapt to a given shock. Resilience is important in the context of fisheries in Kiribati because they are being called upon to provide an increasing amount of the I-Kiribati food for a rising population. Giant clams are particularly important on remote outer islands, where they are used in traditional dances and are served as a delicacy on special occasions or at feasts. Clams contribute substantially to nutrition as molluscs are rich in micronutrients (i.e., omega-3 and vitamin B12). Additionally, because clams are often dried, salted, and stored, they play a key role in food security, providing calories and nutrients at critical times when a household is otherwise unable to obtain seafood.

Marine fisheries are among the first food systems to experience the effects of climate change, as waters warm and oceans acidify. Conserving the diversity and beauty of species in endangered marine ecosystems like coral reefs is a cause that resonates with many people. Others, however, only gain interest when it can be proven that the oceans benefit the people and communities they represent.

Lessons to learn

Our study highlights that Kiribati relies on traditional practices and a strong resilience mindset to climate change, characterised by the capacity to learn. Together, these allow the local Island Council government to adapt and respond rapidly with policies and practices meant to mitigate the effects of climate change. These traditional practices include daily bag and possession limits as well as size restrictions for harvested clams, both common Western fisheries management techniques. Additionally, community-based fisheries management, such as demarcating fisher-driven no-take marine protected areas has improved the local giant clam fishery in Kiribati and supported the persistence of traditional clam fisheries on remote islands. In turn, these practices have ensured a steady supply of healthy seafood. Emphasising effective, dynamic, connected, and just governance in future conservation measures is key to the success of adaptive management.

The study’s findings advance policy-orientated changes in fisheries governance and coastal management that can improve food security and climate resilience in other fisheries. Specifically, traditional fishing practices and good governance include elements of adaptive capacity and climate resilience. Including and elevating this local knowledge through participatory research offers a promising approach to design more effective and equitable policies. As fishery stakeholders continue to develop national climate-resilience plans across both developing and developed nations, local knowledge must be engaged to meet the needs of the communities most impacted.

Further Reading

Eurich, J. G., A. Tekiau, K. L. Seto, E. Aram, T. Beiateuea, C. D. Golden, B. Rabwere and D. J. McCauley. 2023. Resilience of a giant clam subsistence fishery in Kiribati to climate change. Pacific Conservation Biology: PC22050. https://doi.org/10.1071/PC22050
Jacob Eurich Author
Jacob Eurich Photographer

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The Banjar River by Night

The forest meant different things to me as a visitor and as a resident, in a jeep or on foot. I spent my last summer working at Earth Focus Kanha, an environmental non-profit that works on education, conservation, and livelihoods development in fourteen villages around Kanha National Park. The organization works with Baiga and Gond forest dwellers who live in these villages, and who were evicted from the park to create a tiger reserve. I had visited the park a few months earlier, with my mother, on a short safari trip. On the third day of our trip, we had the rare sighting of a tiger on foot during a guided evening walk on the Bamhni Nature Trail. This was the same tiger we had seen on our safari earlier that morning. 

Fig.1. Ma on the Bamhni Nature Trail
Fig. 2. A ghost tree (Sterculia urens) reflected in the Banjar River

5:30 p.m., Bamhni Nature Trail. The river bleeds through the landscape. It’s early May, the water is low, and there is silence on the rocks. As light spills onto the canopies, a gaur (Indian bison) becomes visible on a distant boulder. The horned bovine is three-thousand pounds of muscle and a hump, and he is staring at us. The evening shifts, leaving us in shadow.

Karan, my mother, and I sit under a ghost tree by the riverbank. Karan is a naturalist who leads forest walks along the Bamhni Nature Trail in the buffer zone of Kanha National Park. Nestled in the monsoon forests of Central India, the park is home to tigers, elephants, leopards, bison, deer, and a host of wild bird, insect, and plant species. Ma and I are here for four days on a long-anticipated mother-daughter bonding trip. We’re staying at a tented camp near the park. We went for a safari this morning.

Despite the staggering diversity of creatures Kanha is home to, like the twelve-horned barasingha or swamp deer, the red-billed green munia bird, and the rust-colored dhole or Indian wild dog, tigers remain its main attraction. Specifically, the Royal Bengal tiger, a striking and aptly named subspecies of tiger that is found in India, Bangladesh, Bhutan, China, Myanmar, and Nepal. Madhya Pradesh, the Central Indian state that Kanha is located in, is home to 526 tigers spread across six reserves: Kanha, Bandhavgarh, Pench, Satpura, Panna, and Sanjay Dubri.

Tigers fall under the category of charismatic megafauna – “large, popular endangered animals” that captivate public attention. Because of the hype that surrounds them, tracking tigers becomes the unwritten goal of most safaris. Field guides and naturalists accompanying tourists on safari jeeps exchange notes and latest sightings as they cross one other. They listen for alarm calls and track pugmarks in the mud. And at the end of the day, when tourists return to their lodges to mingle over dinner, they ask one another, “So, did you see a tiger?”

Fig. 3. Tourists straining for a glimpse of a tiger in Kanha National Park

5:00 a.m., Kanha National Park. We leave the camp early. Dawn is breaking, and I can hear the early calls of the copper-winged coucal. The air is brisk. I huddle in Ma’s shawl at the back of the jeep as the woods blur into green on either side. We arrive at the park gate. The officials check our IDs and entry slips. Then we are inside.

By 8 a.m. it is torrid. The sun is scorching white, so I wrap the shawl around my head for shade. So far, we’ve spotted elephants, langurs, wild boars, jackals, barasingha, barn swallows, and a crested serpent eagle. The safari has brought us into the heart of the forest. We are on a trail that runs parallel to the Banjar River, straitened by unruly grasses and invasive wild mint. 

Suddenly, the field guide asks the driver to brake. He points to the left, holding a finger to his lips so we know to remain silent. 

There is a rustle in the undergrowth, followed by a low growl. A tigress strides onto the trail. Her matted fur is emblazoned with billowing, black stripes in an unrepeatable pattern. The guide whispers to us that her name is Chhoti Mada. 

Two elephants, bestrode by mahouts, emerge behind her from the copse. Chhoti Mada glares at the jeeps before returning to the thicket. 

When she is gone, the guide surmises that the mahouts had pushed her onto the trail. There are “VIPs” in the jeeps ahead who haven’t had a sighting yet, hence the spectacle. Goaded by the mahouts, Chhoti Mada was probably forced to exit the bush and make an appearance.

Chhoti Mada is also a mother. She left her cub inside, the guide tells us, so he remained hidden while she was gone.

Fig. 4. Mahouts and elephants emerging from the bush
Fig. 5. Chhoti Mada returning to the thicket

Tigresses give birth to litters of one to seven cubs, which they raise with little to no help from the male. Cubs cannot hunt until they are 18 months old, and their mothers guard and nurture them until they are ready to disperse and claim their own territories after two to three years. Approximately half of all wild tiger cubs do not survive beyond two years, so tigresses are fiercely protective of their cubs. They will risk being fatally injured to keep them safe.

6:10 p.m., Bamhni Nature Trail. 

“We should leave,” Karan says. He is perched on a boulder and looks uneasy. Ma agrees. “It’s getting late, Yaash,” she says. “Let’s go.”

“Can we please stay for ten more minutes?” I ask. “It’s so peaceful here.” 

Karan shrugs. They relent.

Fig. 6. Karan on the rocks by the riverbank
Fig. 7. A still Banjar River

In end-of-the-century London, Samuel Butler cocmplained that “there is a photographer in every bush, going about like a roaring lion seeking whom he may devour.” The photographer is now charging real beasts, beleaguered and too rare to kill. Guns have metamorphosed into cameras in this earnest comedy, the ecology safari, because nature has ceased to be what it always had been – what people needed protection from. Now nature – tamed, endangered, mortal – needs to be protected from people. When we are afraid, we shoot. But when we are nostalgic, we take pictures.

Susan Sontag, On Photography

7:00 p.m., Bamhni Nature Trail.

Halfway home on the walk with Ma and Karan, alarm calls sweep the forest. We are halfway home. We would’ve been three-fourths of the way home had we left ten minutes earlier. This is Chhoti Mada’s territory.

In the falling dark, I reach for Ma’s hand. Karan instructs us to shelter under a sprawling saj tree. My fingers grow numb. 

Ma thrusts me behind her. She assumes a defensive posture. Minutes pass.

It’s one thing to spot a tiger from the safety of a safari jeep, and entirely another to hear a swish in the grass. To catch a flash of orange.

Fig. 8. A crescent moon and the silhouetted forest

While working at Earth Focus Kanha in June and July of last year, I lived in Manji Tola, a village located near the Mukki Gate of Kanha National Park. I lived in the team residence with other employees, most of whom were native to Kanha and identified as either Baiga or Gond. 

The residence was constructed from shipping containers and painted a deep green to blend in with the surrounding sal forest. I wasn’t allowed to step out alone after dark and would be chastised for going on long walks in the forest. My colleague Bhola told me that a few months ago, he’d seen a tiger – Pattewallah (“the one with the collar”) – roaming the periphery of the campus. This was his territory. I’d seen and even photographed Pattewallah, a handsome and formidable tiger, on one of the three safaris I’d been on with Ma the previous month. But here, without the safety of a jeep, I was prey.

Fig. 9. Pattewallah hiding behind a tree

From stories other colleagues told me, and from the fear I felt when my torch ran out of batteries or a black scorpion scuttled into my room, I began to grasp the fraught relationship forest dwelling communities have with the wild. The jungle is veined with serpentine roads and unpaved trails, which we, like most people living in Kanha, traveled on foot or via motorcycle. A motorcycle is a speeding hunk of metal exposed on all sides, supporting up to four people (who, in Kanha, likely aren’t wearing helmets). It’s little protection during a chance tiger ambush.

Fig. 10. My colleagues Prashant sir and Ruchi didi on motorbike
Fig. 11. Ramkishor sir and Shikha on motorbike

Professor Ruth DeFries, an environmental geographer who is researching approaches to conservation in the Central Indian Highlands, tells me: “We think wildlife should just be conserved, but the reality is different for those who live here. Crops are eaten by chital , people are afraid to go into the forest because of tigers and leopards… you realize that it’s not so rosy, that living with wildlife is really quite difficult.” In her research, philanthropy, and advocacy, DeFries argues for “people-oriented approaches to conservation” in Central India.

Bollywood is also beginning to grasp these tensions, and the 2021 film Sherni (“tigress”), starring actress Vidya Balan as a divisional forest officer, turns the spotlight on issues of human-wildlife conflict, indigenous forest rights, poaching, and the deep sexism and petty bureaucracy of the Indian Forest Department. The film also discusses approaches to conservation. The screengrabs below are from the film juxtapose two perspectives on conservation: the image on the left explains a top-down “fortress conservation” approach that prioritizes wildlife protection, while the one on the right describes a rights-based approach (like the kind DeFries advocates) that involves local communities and honors their rights.

Fig. 12. Scene from Sherni explaining fortress conservation
Fig. 13. Scene from Sherni explaining rights-based conservation

9:00 p.m., Camp. We’re back in our tent. Ma showers and changes into her nightclothes. She’s asleep with minutes. Meanwhile, I remove the memory chip from my Nikon Z50 and insert it into my laptop. While clicking through the day, I come upon photographs of Chhoti Mada and the mahouts. My stomach grows cold. I crawl into Ma’s bed and switch off the lamp.

Further Reading

  1. Elwin, V. Leaves From the Jungle: Life in a Gond Village. 2d ed. London: Oxford University Press, 1958. 
  2. Mathur, N. Crooked Cats: Beastly Encounters in the Anthropocene. The University of Chicago Press, 2021. 
  3. Guha, R. Savaging the Civilized: Verrier Elwin, His Tribals, and India. Chicago, University of Chicago Press, 1999.

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Small eggs may play a big role in hawksbill sea turtle nests

Sea turtles spend months as an embryo followed by days as a hatchling digging out of the nest and then minutes in a frenzied crawl across the beach. Despite this short period of time spent on land during a lifespan of decades, it is an important environment for sea turtles. Beach conditions influence embryo development and determine the percentage of eggs which produce hatchlings that can successfully escape the nest to enter the sea. 

Temperature, moisture, oxygen and carbon dioxide levels within the nest are all important, but temperature has received the most research attention. This is for two reasons: first, extended periods of time at high temperatures can kill developing turtle embryos; second, the nest temperature at critical stages of development determines the sex of the hatchling, with higher temperatures resulting in a female-biased sex ratio. 

The impact of temperature on sea turtle embryos is moderated by the amount of moisture in the sand and these conditions will certainly be impacted by climate change. It is therefore understandable that researchers and conservationists are focused on studying the potential impacts of climate change on hatchling production and sex ratios and how sea turtles may survive a rapidly warming world with fewer, yet more intense periods of rainfall.

When examining data about nesting sea turtles and their eggs, researchers Asghar Mobaraki, Andrea Phillott and colleagues found interesting relationships between environmental conditions and eggs laid across various locations globally. They noticed that a larger than expected number of small eggs—known as ‘yolkless eggs’—are laid by hawksbill turtles in the northern Persian Gulf. Yolkless eggs are not “true” eggs as they contain albumen (egg white) but no yolk or embryo and cannot produce a hatchling. 

Previous studies suggest that yolkless eggs are more commonly laid by leatherback turtles worldwide than other sea turtle species, and that yolkless eggs are often among the last eggs laid in a clutch. Their specific purpose (if any) is still unknown: are yolkless eggs produced by accident or do the eggs have a specific function, such as moderating nest temperature, acting as a moisture reservoir, creating spaces between eggs, or being ‘sacrificial’ eggs at the top of the nest for predators to consume?

The researchers compared the body size of nesting hawksbill turtles and the number of normal and yolkless eggs laid in each clutch at different locations around the world. They found that hawksbill turtles nesting in the Persian Gulf and Red Sea are smaller in size than other populations and lay fewer normal eggs. Both locations are semi-enclosed seas and experience extreme marine environments, with high temperatures and salinities. 

Such conditions reduce the amount and quality of food available to animals such as hawksbill turtles, which appear to stay within the Persian Gulf or Red Sea during both the breeding and non-breeding periods of their life instead of migrating moderate to long distances as other turtles do. Hence, the smaller size of hawksbill turtles in the Persian Gulf and Red Sea is probably due to less and/or low-quality food, and the smaller body size will only allow turtles to lay fewer normal eggs per clutch than turtles in better quality habitat.

Few yolkless eggs are laid by hawksbill turtles in other locations worldwide, including Australia, Brazil, Mexico, Seychelles, Oman, and Yemen, and so there was very little data available for the researchers to compare. However, the authors found that hawksbill turtles in the Persian Gulf and Red Sea appear to lay more yolkless eggs than other populations and propose that this could be a specific adaptation to the extreme conditions on nesting beaches in these locations. 

As previously suggested, yolkless eggs could play a role in moderating nest temperature or moisture and increase the likelihood that normal eggs in the nest will successfully produce a hatchling. This is an exciting finding for researchers and conservationists who are considering how sea turtles could survive the current period of climate change because it suggests that some sea turtle populations may already have adaptations that enable them to survive in challenging environmental conditions which are expected to be more widespread in the future.

Further Reading:

Mobaraki, A., A.D. Phillott, M. Erfani, M. Ghasemi and H. Jafari. 2022. Inferred impacts of extreme environments on hawksbill turtle (Eretmochelys imbricata) body size and reproductive output. Chelonian conservation and biology 21 (2): 187–198.

Author: Andrea Phillott

Photograph: Asghar Mobaraki is a wildlife conservationist with the Department of Environment in Iran. His focus in on research and conservation of reptiles, specifically sea turtles.
Andrea D. Phillott Author
Asghar Mobaraki Photographer

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The interplay of politics and conservation: An episode from Kashmir

As a researcher, one gets to travel to various places, soak in the beauty of different ecosystems, observe diverse cultures, and learn about the complexities that shape power dynamics within a context. Travelling to Tral, a sub-district located in the Pulwama district of Kashmir, I experienced all the above aspects in spades. Looking at the gushing water streams flowing parallel to the coniferous forests (mostly consisting of pine and deodar trees), the lush green meadows, and the snow-capped Himalayas encompassing the region, all at once made me want to linger in the moment.

However, the eerie normalcy around the presence of armed forces throughout most of my journey from Srinagar brought me back to the reality of being in one of the most conflict-ridden areas in the world. There has been much written about the history of violence in the region, but listening to a villager narrating their lived reality evokes something visceral. 

Such a conversation was not long before being invited by one of the residents of Firastan* village for a sumptuous wazwan meal. The meal allowed for some space and time to discuss and analyse the reasons for a Gram Sabha—the assembly of all the people of a village, who elect the general body of the Gram Panchayat or the village council, which forms the basic governing institution in India—that was to be held earlier in the day but failed to take place. 

The abrogation of Article 370 of the Constitution of India took away the special status of Jammu and Kashmir (J&K)—which granted autonomy over the internal administration of the state—but it also meant that all the rights and laws that are applicable to every citizen in the country would extend to the now union territory.

According to the 2011 Census, Scheduled tribes form 11.91 percent of the total population of J&K. Post the Jammu and Kashmir Reorganisation Act (2019), one of the most significant laws concerning the scheduled tribes and other traditional forest dwellers, widely known as the Forest Rights Act (FRA), 2006, came into effect in the area. However, for more than a year the law existed only on paper and there were no efforts made to implement it on ground. 

Local politics shape community forest rights

The purpose of my travel to Kashmir was to understand how the process pertaining to the recognition of Community Forest Rights (CFR) under FRA unfolds on the ground. That afternoon in Firastan village, a Gram sabha was scheduled to pass a resolution declaring approximately 400 sq. kilometres of their forest as a community forest resource under the FRA.

On arriving at the village, I observed a small gathering of 10–15 men, including the Sarpanch (village head; also the chairperson of Forest Rights Committee)—from a population of over 1000 people. This meant that the resolution could not be passed because at least two-thirds of the entire population needs to be present to fulfil the quorum.

Why did this happen? This can only be answered by understanding the formation of the Forest Rights Committee (FRC). The Gram Sabha elects from among its members, a committee of not less than ten but not exceeding fifteen persons as members of the committee. Several residents of Firastan mentioned that they do not recall any such Gram Sabha being held. 

It was speculated that the Sarpanch called a meeting one day without informing the entire village and decided upon the committee members, who happened to be supporters of his candidature during the Panchayat elections. In the context of Firastan, overriding such a crucial process seems plausible as most of the people are unaware of the FRA and there is a lack of political goodwill in mobilising people on part of the Forest Department, which is the nodal agency for the implementation of Forest Rights Act (2006) in J&K.

Dr. Shaikh Ghulam Rasool, a climate justice activist and founder of the J&K Right to Information (RTI) movement, stated that the 10–15 people who were present for the meeting have dominated the decision-making process in the past as well. Later, it was found that the Sarpanch had initiated the Individual Forest Rights claims of a few individuals, but they were rejected at the sub-divisional level committee; the reason for this being that the application forms were filled incorrectly. However, the Sarpanch did not want the villagers to become increasingly aware about the Community Forest Rights process. 

The officials were not even present at the venue to verify the CFR claims and the evidence presented by the Gram Sabha despite them being integral to the process where they need to provide their signatures on the resolution with the date, designation, and comments. Recognising Community Forest Rights under FRA would also imply the possibility of greater autonomy for the Gram Sabha towards utilisation of funds under the Compensatory Afforestation Fund Act (CAF), 2016.

In the past few years, there have been reports of fencing of the forests in J&K initiated by the Forest Department. On enquiring about it, I found that no one was completely sure about its purpose. Some people felt that the fencing was for commercial purposes and would ultimately alter and restrict the routes of Gujjars, Bakarwals, and Chopans—the pastoralist communities in Kashmir. Others believed that the fencing was undertaken to protect forests against the timber mafia and to facilitate the process of replantation by warding off livestock grazing. The reasons for fencing might be varied, but the uncertainty in the minds of local communities conveys a grim reality on the ground.

Negotiating the status quo

Conservation is complex, but it can only transpire when we integrate it with the livelihoods of local communities who are directly dependent on the forests for subsistence and ensure that their well-being is secured. Conversations with local activists revealed that at present, there is a sense of fear amongst the people who express dissent, since those voices are curtailed through stringent laws.

Against this backdrop, the FRA—a law that recognises community-led approach towards conservation—becomes the sole instrument that can secure the well-being of people as well as the region’s biodiversity. However, the status quo that is so deeply entrenched with corruption, fear among local people, and the skewed power dynamics in favour of the authorities, provide a glimpse into understanding the reasons for the current state of affairs.

As I made my return from Firastan, there was a brief stop somewhere in Tral where the conversations revolved around the date of the next Gram Sabha. Meanwhile, Subha Gujjar, a young person from Firastan whose primary livelihood is driving, talked about taking responsibility for educating people about the importance of FRA and ensuring a bigger turnout with at least 600 villagers present to pass the resolution.

I wondered what that meeting would look like and how it would go. However, the thought was suddenly eclipsed by the realisation that my time in Tral had ended and I would not attend that Gram Sabha in person. But the more important question was if Firastan would ultimately receive their Community Forest Rights title or not.

Drawing on the experience of recognition of Community Forest Rights titles in other parts of India, it will ultimately depend on a combination of factors, such as how aware the local communities are about the law, in addition to the bureaucratic bottlenecks that usually exist in the implementation of FRA. However, the Act only became operational in J&K in 2020, thus the trajectory of its impact will only unfold with time. 

*A pseudonym is used for the village name

Further Reading

Parvaiz, A. 2020. Tribal population of Jammu and Kashmir cries foul about non-implementation of Forest Rights Act. https://india.mongabay.com/2020/01/tribal-population-of-jammu-and-kashmir-cries-foul-about-the-non-implementation-of-the-forest-rights-act/

The Scheduled Tribes And Other Traditional Forest Dwellers (Recognition Of Forest Rights) Act. 2006. https://tribal.nic.in/downloads/FRA/FRAActnRulesBook.pdf

Training Manual on Delineation And Mapping Of Community Rights And Community Forest Resources. 2016. https://tribal.nic.in/downloads/FRA/Manual%20II.pdf
Rudrath Avinashi Author
Rudrath Avinashi Photographer

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Trekking tigers: Wildlife corridors provide hope for wild tiger populations

Imagine. Imagine the journey of a wild tiger, its lustrous orange fur eluding exposure in the grasses, branches, and ridges it traverses. Daintily yet steadily stalking its prey, gracefully yet ferociously securing its next meal, all the while trusting its natural impulse to trek forward. But what is this drive to continue trekking? Is it the faint whiff of a potential mate nearby, the fervid desire to protect an established territory or perhaps the familiar rumble of hunger? In any case, the freedom of vast, minimally disturbed habitat has become increasingly difficult to obtain with the expansive degradation and fragmentation of land. As a result, its journey is sporadically diverted if not halted by whizzing vehicles on unfamiliar roads and the crashing of trees alongside whirring machinery. Onward it travels, though, progressively evading this onslaught of disruption by discovering sheltered routes and corridors to reach its destination eventually.

Our tiger, one of only approximately 4,500 wild tigers in the world, shares a similar journey to its peers. Over the past few decades, increasing human populations and dramatic land-use changes have contributed to massive amounts of deforestation and habitat fragmentation in critical tiger habitats, leaving small, isolated populations at high risks of inbreeding and local extinction. These are global issues that not only imperil the future viability of entire populations of this culturally significant species but also disrupt whole ecosystems when the land can no longer support them. This pattern of habitat loss has enormous global implications as well, as continued deforestation further exacerbates the negative effects of climate change and increases human-wildlife interactions and conflict. 

While humans are the greatest threat to tigers, we also provide the greatest hope for their survival. One tiger conservation strategy is the creation and maintenance of wildlife corridors, which are strips of natural habitat that connect populations separated by anthropogenic pressures. Corridors play essential roles in providing landscape connectivity critical to increasing gene flow between separated populations, decreasing overall extinction risk in species threatened by deforestation and fragmentation, and maintaining biodiversity levels critical for continued ecosystem health. While there are concerns that corridors can increase the risk of introduced pathogens and predators, increase fire risk, and exacerbate edge effects, the benefits seem to outweigh the drawbacks. 

For corridors to have positive impacts, they require continued support through community-based initiatives, conservation non-governmental organisations (NGOs), and international support. Understanding these benefits, the ways in which they are maintained, and how to properly communicate them to others are critical components to initiating effective impact. Functional tiger corridors can be found scattered throughout their current range in places such as the Terai Arc Landscape of India and Nepal, the island of Sumatra, the Dawna-Tenasserim Landscape of Thailand and Myanmar, the Sikhote-Alin Mountains in Russia, and the Far-Eastern Himalayan Landscape of Myanmar, India, and China. 

Photo: Sandakan, Malaysia Forest. Photo taken by Jake Clary

Fractured landscapes

Tiger landscapes are extremely fragmented due to increased urbanisation, road infrastructure development, and agricultural expansion. These threats are detrimental and ongoing. For example, future large-scale road systems such as China’s Belt and Road Initiative and Sumatra’s Trans-Sumatran Highway as well as many other small-scale road developments will continue to cut through tigers’ remaining range, exacerbating habitat fragmentation, poaching access, prey depletion, and direct mortality through vehicle collisions. Some tiger habitats have suffered from these growing threats more than others, including Rajaji National Park in the far-western Terai Arc Landscape and Ranthambore Tiger Reserve in India, Khao Yai National Park in eastern Thailand, and Way Kambas National Park in southwestern Sumatra. Tigers are assumed to have been extirpated from Khao Yai, just as they have previously been in Cambodia, Laos, and Vietnam. Tiger individuals in Rajaji, Ranthambore, and Way Kambas have been separated from adjacent populations for so long that they are suffering from the negative impacts of inbreeding and are no longer able to successfully survive and reproduce as a population over time. These small populations require the assistance of genetic rescue through translocations of genetically differentiated populations to become once again genetically viable.

Isolation

Tiger populations that have been isolated from other populations for long periods of time have been shown to demonstrate many unique negative effects. High levels of inbreeding are common for small, isolated populations like those aforementioned as well as the tiger population in Ranthambore Tiger Reserve in India. These populations accumulate harmful alleles, or variations of a gene, that have been inherited by descent from related parents, which reduces population fitness. One extremely unique physiological response to isolation can be found in the tiger population of Similipal Tiger Reserve in eastern India, where over one-third of all tigers are pseudomelanistic—a variant of pigmentation expressed in these tigers as wide and fused black stripes that alter their primary colour from lusty orange to black. This trait is a result of the high relatedness between individuals in this population. Another interesting effect of isolation has been the alteration of sex ratios from female-biased to male-biased in Dudhwa and Katarniaghat tiger populations, two other Indian tiger groups. This shift to male-biased adult sex ratios results in increased intra-species conflict between multiple males as well as between dominant males and cubs sired by subordinate males. This increased competition for females due to isolation further threatens the success of these tiger populations over time. 

Fostering recovery

While tiger populations have previously suffered many declines and continue to be challenged by fragmentation and human development, recovery of their landscapes and populations is possible. For example, joint efforts between Russia and China to ban logging, improve anti-poaching efforts, and decrease human densities within the Lesser Khinghan Mountains, the Laoyeling landscape, and the Wandashan Mountains has significantly increased tiger populations and has encouraged greater levels of resettling across these landscapes. In Rajaji National Park in India, tiger populations tripled over 13 years with tigers occupying almost 90 percent of available habitat after a program voluntarily relocating pastoralist communities took place, replacing these previously livestock-rich areas with protected areas connecting Rajaji National Park with Corbett National Park. In Huai Kha Khaeng Wildlife Sanctuary in Thailand, intense wildlife management and protection efforts over five years has allowed this landscape to hold the largest breeding population and density of tigers in Southeast Asia and to become a source site for replenishing tiger populations across the entire Western Forest Complex.

Reconnecting landscapes

Conservation initiatives have recently been crucial to many successful landscape reconnections. The Khata Corridor connecting Bardia to Katarniaghat Wildlife Sanctuary in India, for example, was meticulously developed from a contiguous series of 74 community forests. Conservation organisations like World Wide Fund for Nature Nepal initiated early restoration efforts in this landscape alongside local communities in 2001, in the hopes that income-generating sustainable livelihoods would garner additional support and stewardship. This plan succeeded, and many local communities have since been working to protect this corridor system for both their own livelihoods and the continued survival of native wildlife populations. 

Another significant landscape reconnection is the RIMBA initiative, which currently provides the sole linkage between many east-central tiger habitats and west-central protected areas in Sumatra. This region’s surrounding non-protected landscapes possess some of the highest deforestation rates in the world, which has contributed to significant difficulty in maintaining the corridor’s functionality. However, organisations such as the Wildlife Conservation Society, Fauna & Flora International and World Wide Fund for Nature Indonesia are devoted to upholding effective management in this region by continuing to work with local communities and improving monitoring technology. 

Reconnecting landscapes can be very challenging due to factors such as ineffective leadership, poor communication and action planning between governments and local communities, and lack of accountability. However, the growing field of connectivity conservation is working toward counteracting these challenges to implement successful projects devoted to protecting and establishing ecological connectivity, and the most successful connectivity conservation plans are enhanced by leadership continuity, stakeholder steadfastness, legislative mandates, goal specificity, adequate funding, and public outreach. Coalitions of scientists, conservationists, and concerned citizens can contribute to this cause and support tiger connectivity conservation by (1) donating to initiatives committed to tiger corridor development and maintenance, reforestation efforts, and tiger protection; (2) supporting local and national legislation devoted to habitat protection; (3) leading or assisting focal media campaigns to garner support for connectivity action; and (4) incorporating connectivity into plans for network expansion.

Imagine once again. Imagine the journey of the world’s wild tigers. Consider how your actions impact them and what steps you could take to safeguard their treks starting today.

Further Reading

Carter, N., A. Killion, T. Easter, J. Brandt, and A. Ford. 2020. Road development in Asia: Assessing the range-wide risks to tigers. Science advances 6(18): eaaz9619. 

Harihar, A., B. Pandav, M. Ghosh-Harihar, and J. Goodrich. 2020. Demographic and ecological correlates of a recovering tiger (Panthera tigris) population: Lessons learnt from 13 years of monitoring. Biological conservation 252(1): 108848.

Keeley, A., P. Beier, T. Creech, K. Jones, R. Jongman, G. Stonecipher, and G. Tabor. 2019. Thirty years of connectivity conservation planning: An assessment of factors influencing plan implementation. Environmental research letters 14(10): 103001.

Photos: Wikimedia Commons
Jake Clary Author

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Appreciating the small things in the big picture

At first glance you’d think we were auditioning as extras for a zombie film, the way we were shuffling around, hunched over, staring at our feet. I will even admit to the occasional groan, as my back arched uncomfortably and the hot sun beat down on my neck. But we were not looking for succulent brains, rather for tiny succulent plants, almost invisible against the stony ground.

I was studying the diet of the Cape grey mongoose at a conservancy in southern Namibia, when a team of botanists from the National Botanical Research Unit of the Ministry of Environment, Forestry and Tourism arrived. Dr. Sonja Loots and her team were in the area to look for and count lithops, or living stones as they are sometimes known. True to their name, these small succulent plants look remarkably like stones, and finding them against the quartz-strewn outcrops they inhabit is a challenge. I had spent the last two months staring across the arid and seemingly barren landscape looking for isolated mongoose scats, so when they asked for help, I was more than happy to have a change of focus!

This region of southern Namibia is subject to extreme fluctuations in temperatures as well as low, unpredictable rainfall. Yet, its location at the intersection of three biomes — the Succulent Karoo, Nama Karoo, and Namib Desert —means that the area is incredibly biodiverse and home to many unique succulents.

These fleshy plants are well adapted to the arid landscape, with extensive shallow root systems that can quickly absorb the infrequent rain, and waxy leaves that can resist desiccation in the dry desert air. Many species are highly restricted in geographic range, with populations often found exclusively in areas measuring just metres across.

This was our first stumbling block. The core area of this conservancy is 50,000 hectares! Despite identifying several potential quartz grounds, it took over a day before we found a hill, or koppie, with a good density of the target species. On our second afternoon of preliminary searches, I found a delicate little plant, like a patch of feathers coming up out of the ground. Even my definitely-not-a-plant-expert eyes could tell it was not the lithops they were looking for, but equally it wasn’t anything we had previously seen. I called Sonja over, who after looking at it wondrously, said it was one of the rarer species of Avonia, and despite being barely 6 cm in diameter, this individual could be up to 85 years old and, thus, would be considered a collector’s item.

A growing threat in a vulnerable habitat

This was why we were out here in the hot desert sun. Elephant and rhino poaching get all the media attention, but succulent poaching in Southern Africa is a huge and growing problem. The popularity of these plants with collectors combined with the difficulty of propagating them outside of their preferred habitats, means that the poaching and illegal trade of the larger specimens and rarer species from the wild is big business. The scale of the problem is growing. In 2019, 15,000 specimens of a single Conophytum species were confiscated from poachers in South Africa. A large haul can have a street value of thousands of dollars. The plants themselves often do not survive translocation, and even if recovered, it is almost impossible to replant them without knowing exactly where they came from. For species restricted to such small areas, poachers can easily wipe out a population in just one day.

One of the major issues for these plants in Namibia is that very little is known about where they are found. This survey effort was part of a big push to get location data so that more areas can be protected. Only five percent of Nama Karoo in Namibia is in state protected reserves, with another 17 percent under some form of conservation management, making it the least protected biome in the country.

As we painstakingly searched each ‘pie slice’ of the circular survey area, we counted dozens of Conophytum and Avonia species, often clustered together in the less densely vegetated areas or sometimes snuggled against a larger piece of quartz. This area is currently under the conser- vancy’s protection, in addition to being difficult to access, which means that these populations are likely safe for now.

Historically, the greatest threat in this region has been overgrazing, with high stocking densities leading to land degradation and scrub encroachment. Up on the quartz koppies, where other vegetation is sparse, these succulents have escaped the worst of the damage. I pause to consider the life of my tiny plant — 85 years of drought and intermittent desert rain, growing slowly in this one spot in the middle of nowhere, surviving while all around it sheep and goats overgraze the arid grasslands until little more than dust remains.

Between the bare rocky ground and lack of charisma- tic megafauna that attract tourists and make other African biomes so famous, you’d be forgiven for thin- king the Nama Karoo was an empty, desolate place. However, that wasn’t always the case. In the past, this area was home to some of the largest springbok herds ever known, as they migrated from the summer rainfall regions of southwest Namibia to the winter rainfall regions on the South African coast. This phenomenon, known as the ‘trekbokken’, saw millions of springbok in enormous migratory herds that took days to pass by. Now those herds are small and scattered, and the land is divided up by fences enclosing farms with sheep, goats, and cattle. After years of drought in the area, many of those farms have since been abandoned, leaving behind an ecological vacuum.

New ways of seeing

There are large animals, such as oryx and brown hyenas, in the conservancy, but they are shy, and sigh- tings are few and far between. The largest species I had seen was the klipspringer, a small antelope. To be more precise, I saw the backsides of a group of klipspringers as they ran away from me! I had also spotted my study species, the Cape grey mongoose — which is very common and found almost everywhere in Southern Africa — only once.

Lacking the budget for a car, my mongoose project had been confined to a 10 km radius around the farmhouse. If I was really honest, things had started to feel ‘samey’ after two months. I walked the same transects each week, saw the same rubble-strewn mountains, the same common birds, rodents, and invertebrates. I do love these small things but, lacking the ‘wow factor’, perhaps it was the sort of dutiful love that you tend to take for granted. Sifting through endless grasshopper and beetle legs and drifts of four-striped mouse fur in mongoose scats, I felt like I wasn’t finding anything worthwhile, and began to question the value of my work.

However, the time I spent looking for lithops with Dr. Sonja and her team completely changed my perspective. Crouched down, staring at the quartz microcosm far below eye-level, I was suddenly struck by the sheer amount of life in the landscape. I saw at least three species of mantis stalking through the stunted grasses, grasshoppers of all shapes and sizes pinging between the stones, and toktokkies (various species of flightless beetles) tottering across the sand.

The creatures I saw living in this miniature ecoscape were the same things I had been routinely finding in my mongoose scats. They are present in suchnumbers thanks to the resilience of the tiny, specialist plants that underpin this habitat. They have managed to survive despite the numerous threats, thus preserving the diver- sity of this unique ecosystem. It will take time, but with the surrounding vegetation protected and allowed to recover, the invertebrates will creep back, followed by the birds and the small mammals, the larger herbivores, and the carnivores, until this whole corner of the Nama Karoo thrums with life again.

As the final afternoon drew to a close, we finished off the survey and I stopped to take in the subtle beauty of the terrain, which was glowing in the afternoon sun. It looks different to me now — a living landscape, where before it was just rocks. The following day, I resumed inspecting scat contents under the microscope with renewed enthusiasm, joyfully taking the remains of exoskeleton and fur as more evidence that life has clung on here against the odds. My project may be small, but it is still part of the vast and varied conservation effort to protect this unique habitat. I hope in the future that there will be more mongooses here, eating ever more abundant invertebrates and rodents of innumerable diversity. Bigger doesn’t necessarily mean better or more valuable for conservation.

Further Reading

Fine Maron, D. 2022. These tiny succulents are under siege from international crime rings. National Geographic. www.nationalgeographic.com/animals/article/tiny-succulents-are-under-siege-from-international-crime-rings. Accessed on October 29, 2022.

Loots, S. 2019. Habitat characteristics, genetic diversity, and conservation concerns for the genus Lithops in Namibia. Doctoral thesis no. 2019:28, Faculty of landscape architecture, horticulture and crop production science. https://pub.epsilon.slu.se/16156/7/loots_s_190521.pdf. Accessed on October 29, 2022.

Lovegrove, B. G. and W. R. Siegfried. 1993. The living deserts of southern Africa. South Africa: Penguin Random House.
Helen Burton Author
Upasana Chadha Illustrator
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2023 Sep
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Sleuths on a dog hunt

Asiatic wild dogs (dholes) are group-living carnivores found in the forests of South and Southeast Asia. They are generally shy, elusive, and very sensitive to human disturbance. But in the Valparai plateau of India’s Western Ghats, they live alongside people in human-modified habitats such as tea and coffee plantations. How do dholes live in such areas? Are they not scared of humans? Have they changed their behaviours and habits to adapt? In a quest to answer these and many other questions, I travelled to Valparai earlier this year to understand the secret lives of dholes in this unique landscape.

Within a week of my arrival in Valparai, I had seen a lot of wild animals including Nilgiri langurs, lion-tailed macaques, gaurs and even elephants living alongside people in tea and coffee plantations. I found myself constantly amazed at the incredible adaptability of these large animals that were living in ‘human spaces’. I started interacting and engaging with the local residents who lived or worked within tea and coffee estates, almost incessantly enquiring about their last dhole sighting or their knowledge about the dholes’ movements and whereabouts.

The contrasting accounts left me rather surprised. One person reported seeing dholes 13-14 times in a year, while their neighbour had never seen a dhole in the 10 years they had lived in that area. People’s accounts of dhole sightings and their enthusiasm in sharing information about the species was heartening. Most were amazed at how well co-ordinated a dhole pack was and how well they communicated with each other to bring down large prey such as sambar deer.

Often overshadowed by other charismatic species they co-occur with, dholes have largely been overlooked in terms of research and conservation. This was also evident in my conversations with the people of Valparai. At the end of each conversation, they would almost invariably ask me if I also wanted information about leopards or elephants. When I told them that I was only looking for information on dholes, I would get puzzled looks; they would even ask, “Why do you want information on dholes when there are so many leopards and elephants here?” Some would admit that they have only ever had researchers ask them about leopards and elephants, but this is the first time someone is asking them about wild dogs.

Dholes are listed as ‘Endangered’ by the IUCN and their populations have experienced significant declines across their range. Their largest population occurs in India, and so far, most research on dholes here has focused on populations inside protected areas.

Based on the information I gathered from the local residents, I started looking for signs of dhole movement (scat and tracks) in areas where they frequented. Initially my instincts told me to look for signs in locations closer to forest fragments because there was no way that dholes would venture too close to places where humans lived or worked. Subsequently, I started combing the plantations — tea bushes, swampy areas with small streams adjacent to forest fragments and grounds that had been cleared for annual football tournaments.

I found dhole scats in all these locations, as well as along the roads of tea estates that were heavily used by plantation workers. Despite having heard of high dhole activity in these areas, I was still very surprised at what I was seeing. Apart from dhole scats, I also found signs of leopards, sloth bears, elephants, and gaurs on these same paths. The people in Valparai were sharing space with big carnivores and mega-herbivores on a daily basis.

It had been almost three weeks since I had arrived in Valparai. I had seen a lot of dhole signs all over the landscape, but the dholes themselves continued to elude me. I connected with local naturalists who took me to more locations where they had frequent dhole sightings. Again, I found an abundance of indirect signs but no dholes.

One morning in the last week of January, we were in the eastern part of the plateau where the dholes had killed a sambar around two weeks earlier. As I meticulously inspected the skull of the sambar, I felt a bit restive, wondering if I would see any dholes in Valparai at all. At that very moment, my field associate received a phone call about a sighting of a pack feeding on an ungulate inside a dam around 20km away. It would take us 40 minutes to get there, and the dholes would have probably finished their meal and moved on by then. But that was a risk we were willing to take; we were desperate.

As expected, yet to our disappointment, we missed seeing the dholes by the time we reached. Upon inspecting the kill site, we found the damp soil covered in fresh tracks of several dholes and a sambar. We suspected that there had been a chase before the hunt in that location. As we followed the tracks, our suspicions were confirmed when we found the extremely well-camouflaged carcass of the sambar that the dholes had been feeding on. Luckily, there was some meat still left on the carcass, which meant that the pack would likely come back to finish it off.

Dholes are diurnal animals, with peak activity at crepuscular hours (i.e., dawn and dusk). It was presently getting hot with the sun looming high, roasting up the open, dry reservoir bed. We decided to return to the site at around 4pm. Later that day, stationed on an elevated path that overlooked the dam, we eagerly waited. An hour passed and the sun started to set. The air around us cooled down but there was no sign of the pack. Minutes later, I felt a tap on my shoulder and my field associate excitedly pointed at the path below. A single dhole went trotting towards the sambar kill. Within seconds, seven more dholes followed. We watched in fascination for 20 minutes, as they tore into every last bit of meat from the carcass. Once they finished their meal, they headed back to the tea bushes where they had emerged from. And with that, I had seen my first ever dhole pack in Valparai.

A mere five minutes after the dholes had disappeared, a tea estate worker walked down the same path, completely unaware that they were treading the same path that a pack of carnivores did, just moments ago. Agroforests like coffee and tea plantations have been predicted to play an important role in maintaining connectivity between source populations of dholes in the protected areas of the Western Ghats. In Valparai, these habitats are doing more than just maintaining connectivity; they are providing space for dholes to live, hunt, rest and reproduce. The sighting left me feeling excited about finding out the myriad ways in which wild dogs are adapting and cohabiting the landscape with the wonderful people of Valparai.

This project is part of Wildlife Conservation Society-India and The Dhole Project’s efforts to conserve dhole populations in India.
Sabiya Sheikh Author
Sabiya Sheikh Photographer
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2023 Sep
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