Protecting the world’s biodiversity is a tremendous challenge in the 21st century. Yet this reality has also brought opportunities to rethink how academia supports conservation research. Despite significant conservation efforts, biodiversity loss continues at an alarming rate. We argue that a key reason for this disconnect lies in established university reward systems.
Currently, most universities evaluate researchers with metrics that count articles published in academic journals, with almost no emphasis on the practical application of that research. Our recent journal article in Biological Conservation proposes that academic evaluations include ‘engaged scholarship’, a collaborative process where researchers and practitioners produce knowledge that directly addresses conservation challenges in the field.
This is not a new idea. Conservation science has always been a mission-oriented discipline that aims to solve real-world problems. Early conservation biology emphasised science focused on slowing biodiversity loss and protecting natural resources. However, the current rate of extinction suggests that these efforts haven’t been enough. Researchers now recognise the need to bridge the gap between academia and conservation work on the ground. Engaged scholarship supports the development of this bridge.
Engaged scholarship can be highly effective. It involves researchers working alongside conservation practitioners—NGOs, policymakers and others on the ground—to co-produce more effective conservation knowledge. This knowledge is more likely to generate positive conservation outcomes because (1) it considers multiple perspectives, and (2) directly addresses the challenges faced by those working in the field. Research co-produced with academics, citizens and policymakers is also more likely to translate into effective conservation policies.
Universities can play a crucial role in fostering engaged scholarship by implementing our paper’s three key recommendations.
The first recommendation is to actively support and invest in ‘boundary-spanning work’. This means facilitating collaboration between researchers and practitioners from different disciplines. Universities can act as hubs, bringing together scientists, policymakers and NGOs to address complex conservation issues. By creating spaces that foster knowledge exchange, universities can bridge the gap between research and real-world application.
Second, universities need to incentivise and reward engaged scholarship. Traditionally, faculty promotions and tenure are based on a researcher’s number of publications in prestigious journals. This system often discourages researchers from dedicating time and effort to collaborative projects with practitioners, even though these projects may have a more significant impact on conservation outcomes. Universities can increase the number of engaged researchers at their institutions by including practitioners in tenure positions and as members of review committees. These committees can then consider the impact of a researcher’s work beyond traditional academic metrics.
Finally, universities need to develop new metrics for valuing engaged scholarship. Currently, research impact is often measured solely by citations in academic journals. This approach fails to reward valuable research that improves conservation outcomes. Universities can create alternative metrics that consider factors such as the number of practitioners a researcher has collaborated with, the tangible results of their research on conservation efforts and media coverage of their work.
By following these recommendations, universities can transform into ‘engaged universities’. These universities would become centres of knowledge production and catalysts for positive societal and environmental change. They would also be better positioned to attract talented researchers who are passionate about solving real-world problems. Furthermore, a shift towards engaged scholarship would likely lead to increased public support and funding for universities, as their research would be demonstrably relevant to the public good.
In conclusion, universities have a unique opportunity to play a more significant role in improving conservation outcomes. By embracing engaged scholarship, universities can bridge the gap between research and practice, ultimately leading to more effective solutions for our world’s most pressing biodiversity challenges. This transformative change in academia has the potential to foster both a healthier planet and a more engaged scientific community.
Further reading
Lhoest, S., C. Carr Kelman, C. J. Barton, J. Beaudette and L. R. Gerber. 2024. The impact factor of engaged research: Metrics for conservation outcomes. Biological Conservation 292: 110534. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.biocon.2024.110534,
Spectacular fireworks displays with their booms, crackles, and brilliant flashes of colour and patterns in the sky can be joyful experiences at which people marvel because we can anticipate what is coming. Animals (including our pets, livestock, and wildlife) don’t have the benefit of being able to anticipate the percussive explosions, sparks, and toxins from fireworks. Humans tend to be short-sighted of the fact that fireworks cause traumatic stress to animals, may lead to injuries or deaths, or can have long-term reproductive impacts. Fireworks also have a measurable lingering effect on ecosystems.
Animals, ecosystems and fireworks
Pet owners are often aware of the negative influence of fireworks: pets and companion animals exposed to fireworks can develop debilitating phobias or other behavioural problems. They may become lost or injured—again, sometimes fatally—when trying to escape. Some domesticated animals experience life-long anxiety and may damage property or themselves in reacting to fireworks. We clearly have a responsibility to mediate the trauma of fireworks on the animals that we own or manage.
We also have a broader responsibility for the impacts of fireworks on wildlife. Fireworks occur outdoors in areas that are habitat for hundreds of species. They occur at night when most are roosting or resting. Because fireworks cannot be predicted by wildlife, the sudden bursts of light and sound cause many wild animals to panic. Most will attempt to flee, some to hide, and all may abandon young that cannot keep up with a panicked flight.
Source: Pxhere
Fireworks events are critically untimely when they overlap with seasonal nesting or migration. Using upward-facing radar to measure wildlife movements, scientists have recorded huge, panicked flights of thousands of birds reacting to New Year fireworks. Injuries or deaths may result when animals collide with each other and solid objects during an en masse flight. Less obvious physiological impacts may linger beyond the event night: physiological stress can affect breeding adults and the body weights of their offspring.
Even after the last firework has crackled into silence, the damage to the environment can linger on the landscape. Carbon particles, plastics, metal salts, and perchlorates (the compound that gives colour to fireworks) negatively affect air and water quality, penetrate the soil, and enter the food chain. Health data also show health effects to animals and humans, in particular respiratory distress. While we think of fireworks as aerial displays, associated sound waves may also have impacts on aquatic animals that have not yet been quantified.
What we need to consider
Technological creativity has brought about the best alternative to chemical pyrotechnics: programmed drone-based light shows that are choreographed to music and may even incorporate visual ‘interactions’ of light-based figures with skyline features (buildings, bridges, reflection in waterways), all without the percussion and without the pollution. Because the luminosity of drone-mounted LEDs is lower than pyrotechnic explosions, the disturbance to domestic and wild animals as well as sensitive humans is reduced. Drone-based light shows are more expensive and, yes, less intense than fireworks: no boom, less flash. Some viewers have critiqued them as boring.
Change from the familiar, or nostalgia from having grown up with fireworks (which have been around for centuries) can be challenging to shift. However, the evident trauma to animals and pollution to air, water, and land that underscore the fact that our human desires to be dazzled need to be mediated. We need to consider the negative impacts that real, chemical pyrotechnics fireworks have on the lives of animals, ecosystems, particularly air and water, and act with responsibility.
Further Reading
Bateman, P. W., L. N. Gilson and P. Bradshaw. 2023. Not just a flash in the pan: Short and long term impacts of fireworks on the environment. Pacific Conservation Biology 29(5): 396–401. doi.org/10.1071/PC22040.
Zerlenga, O., V. Cirillo and R. Iaderosa. 2021. Once upon a time there were fireworks. The new nocturnal drones light shows. img journal 4: 402–425. doi.org/10.6092/issn.2724-2463/12628.
This story focuses on often overlooked conservation heroes who play a significant role in creating and shaping the ‘natural’ world. One such person was Budhram Routia, a mahout by profession who dedicated his life to serving various state Forest Departments in India. Budhram’s journey with these departments started in 1991 when he took on the role of a Forest Surveyor, assigned with the crucial task of assessing agricultural losses caused by elephants. His duties involved providing detailed information, including crop loss, crop types, and private property or farmland compartment numbers, and identifying the specific elephant responsible for the crop and property damage. Subsequently, he would share this information with the Forest Department, which, in turn, communicated with revenue officials in the state capital. Compensation for affected villagers was authorised and distributed only after obtaining their approval.
During his tenure as a surveyor, Budhram gained valuable insights into animal behaviour. Leveraging this knowledge, he got an opportunity to work with a mahout experienced in taming wild elephants in the southern states of India. Under the guidance of this mahout, Budhram honed the skill of elephant taming. A pivotal moment arose when a tiger monitoring team from Bangalore approached the elephant tamer, seeking elephants for patrolling duties in the forest. This encounter opened doors for Budhram, allowing him to engage with forest officials and, opportunely, to secure a new position with them. In the initial phase, his responsibilities included the daily care of elephants, encompassing tasks such as feeding and bathing. Over time, his bond with the elephants deepened, leading Budhram to remark that he began to feel as if he was “thinking like an elephant”. This profound connection marked the juncture when he started taming wild elephants independently.
In 1993, Budhram successfully captured an elephant named Rambahadur from the jungles of Chhattisgarh. This particular elephant was notorious, earning the title of a “problematic” animal and, more grimly, an “adam-khor” or a man-killer, responsible for the tragic loss of 46 people. Following capture, Budhram started the formidable task of training him. At that time, Rambahadur was a 33-year-old adult male elephant. From the outset, Rambahadur proved to be an exceptionally challenging and unruly elephant. He defied authority, refusing to heed anyone’s commands except Budhram’s. Despite the initial notoriety, Budhram managed to forge a strong and unique connection with Rambahadur, to the extent that he likened the elephant to his own children. Over the years, Budhram spent an extensive amount of time with Rambahadur.
Budhram recounted an incident when he found himself targeted by a group of people, for reasons he couldn’t comprehend. In a remarkable display of human-animal relationships, Rambahadur protected Buddhram from harm from those people. Not only did Rambahadur demonstrate his formidable strength, but he also showed reciprocity towards Budhram’s love and care. Moreover, Budhram faced several dangerous encounters with tigers while on duty, provoking a heightened sense of protectiveness from Rambahadur. These tense and challenging situations, as vividly described by Budhram, underscore the complex dynamics of working in close contact with such powerful and unpredictable creatures. During these intense moments, Buddhram engaged in a unique form of communication with Rambahadur. He would speak to the elephant, advising him to remain calm and composed. In their conversations, Budhram would convey messages such as “ye tum gussa kar rahe ho… ye, fir hum mana kiye hai tumhe… ki nahi, wo sab kaam nahi karna hai” . These interactions stand as a testament to the deep bond between the mahout and his colossal companion, transcending the traditional barriers of human-elephant communication.
At the time of our conversation, Buddhram actively served in the Forest Department in Central India. Rambahadur, the venerable elephant, had reached the age of 55, while Budhram himself was 54. Unfortunately, tragedy struck in the months following our discussion. Rambahadur, the same elephant who had shared an extraordinary bond with Budhram, took the life of a forest range officer with his tusks. Adding to this sorrow, a few months later, Rambahadur became involved in another tragic incident, where he fatally injured Budhram using his tusks, leading to the loss of Budhram’s life.
In both these unfortunate incidents, Rambahadur had used his tusks to strike their chests. While talking to another mahout in 2022, I learned that Rambahadur had a dislike towards the range officer on account of being scolded in the past, leaving the elephant with a bad memory of the officer. When asked why Rambahadur killed Budhram, the mahout explained that on that day that Rambahadur attacked Budhram, the latter had had an object with the range officer’s scent. Elephants have a strong sense of smell and memory. This caused Rambahadur to attack Budhram in anger, as he perceived the familiar but unwanted scent without realising it was Budhram. These two events cast a dark shadow over the remarkable narrative of their unique companionship, but also emphasise the inherent risks and complexities within the world of wildlife conservation.
William Cronon’s insightful 1996 paper prompts a reconsideration of terms like “wilderness” and “nature”. His views encourage us to perceive these concepts by recognising the substantial role played by individuals such as Budhram and Rambahadur in conservation efforts. It is essential to acknowledge not only their contributions but also the tragic histories integral to conservation realities. Cronon argues that wilderness can be misleading, concealing its unnatural aspects beneath an appealing facade. As we gaze into the mirror held up by wilderness, we might unwittingly see it as “pure Nature”. In reality, this reflection often mirrors our unexamined desires and longings.
This perspective gains significance in discussions about the dedicated efforts of ground staff in conservation. The analogy prompts a critical examination of their tireless work in shaping nature or wilderness, often carried out with minimal support and logistics. Cronon’s insights encourage us to reassess the romanticised ideals linked with wilderness landscapes and stress the importance of recognising the nuanced role of ground staff in creating and maintaining conservation landscapes. By acknowledging anthropogenic influences even in seemingly pristine environments, there is a need to explore avenues for enhancing the well-being of those on the conservation frontline. Cronon’s words serve as a compelling call to action, urging a redefinition of our approach to both nature and the individuals tirelessly working to safeguard it.
Note: ‘Alice in Chains’ is an American rock band from Seattle, Washington
Further Reading:
Angelici, F. M. 2016. Problematic wildlife at the beginning of the twenty-first century: Introduction. In: Problematic wildlife: A cross-disciplinary approach (ed. Angelici, F. M.). 1st edition. Pp 3–18. Switzerland: Springer Cham.
Cronon, W. 1996. The trouble with wilderness: or, getting back to the wrong nature. Environmental History 1(1): 7–28.
Flader, S. L. 1994. Thinking like a mountain: Aldo Leopold and the evolution of an ecological attitude toward deer, wolves, and forests. US: University of Wisconsin Press.
Feature image: A reef egret seen off the coast of Gujarat
During the COVID-19 pandemic, as life for most people shifted indoors, reportage revolved around how the rivers had cleaned themselves and wildlife were reclaiming the empty roads and highways. This supported the belief that all nature needs to heal and flourish is a bit of space, time and support.
This became personally evident when, in the last week of 2021, I got the opportunity to travel to two marine projects that the Wildlife Trust of India (WTI) is running in Gujarat—the Coral Reef Recovery Project in Mithapur and the Whale Shark Conservation Project in Veraval.
These visits were also special because in the last decade that I had spent working for wildlife conservation, I was fortunate to traverse a wide range of landscapes—from evergreen forests to barren deserts. For a brief duration, I even got to work and travel in alpine regions. But the sea had eluded me all this while.
Underwater forests
The Coral Reef Recovery Project began in 2008 with the creation of an artificial reef system. It is also the only one of its kind that is managed through a public-private partnership between the Gujarat Forest Department and Tata Chemicals Limited (TCL). Coral fragments from Lakshadweep were introduced in artificial nurseries in Mithapur to support the degrading habitat. Today, these artificial reefs have helped bring back some unique marine life, including bottlenose dolphins, four species of seahorses and several nudibranchs.
A healthy moon coral
The colours had already started changing as the train passed Jamnagar, heading towards the coast. Praveen, WTI project head at Mithapur, came to receive me at Mithapur station. The Mithapur township is majorly dependent on two things—TCL’s Tata Salt, an integral part of most Indian households, and fishing, which comprises the livelihoods of most of the locals.
Acting as nurseries for baby fishes, the local fishers understand how important coral reefs are for their livelihood. Additionally, designated no-fishing zones around the artificial reefs ensure that populations are able to recover. Thanks to this, the fish stock has increased since the project started.
My first ever scuba dive was scheduled for the next morning. I was nervous, but I had always wondered what it would be like to dive into underwater forests and swim with colourful shoals of fish. Along with Charan Kumar Paidi—field biologist and certified Dive Master—I loaded our oxygen tanks onto the boat and off we went.
Charan Kumar Paidi collecting coral health data as part of the routine reef monitoring
As luck would have it, the water was crystal clear that day. With Charan’s guidance, I navigated around the artificial reefs, mesmerised by things that I had seen only in reports until then. While he recorded the health data of the corals, I was chasing after groupers and sturgeons! We were merely 10 feet below the surface, yet in a wholly different world.
Home to the Vhali
About 250 kilometres from Mithapur, I arrived in Veraval—a port city famous for its fishing industry—before the sun came up. This is also part of the Indian coast with the most frequent sightings of whale sharks. Two decades ago, the whale shark—the world’s largest fish—was heavily hunted for its fins and liver oil. The year 1999 alone reported more than 600 landings of whale sharks and that was when conservationists began focussing on its protection.
WTI ran massive conservation campaigns from 2004. People eventually came to understand that this was a chosen site where whale sharks came to raise their pups, just as in traditional Indian families where daughters return to their parents’ homes with newborn babies. Thus, the whale shark, a fish that was hunted, became Vhali or “the dear one”. A scheme was put in place by the Gujarat Forest Department that reimbursed fishermen for the loss of their nets when they released whale sharks entangled in drag nets. Together with Tata Chemicals Limited, WTI was able to transform the whale shark into a symbol of pride for the port city.
A small fishing boat with a whale shark poster (“Our Vhali, our pride”) in Veraval, Gujarat
There isn’t a single fisherman who doesn’t know Farukhkha, the manager of the Gujarat Whale Shark Recovery Project and a sociologist by training. On my first day in Veraval, we were at the dockyards by sunrise, where I witnessed firsthand how the port operated. I realised that the place never slept. Fishermen spent entire nights out at sea and when they returned, the harvest went through the process of unloading, auctioning, processing and more. Kids played in the surf, while women were busy stitching nets together. These were people who depended on the fish they caught for their livelihood. Yet, they didn’t think twice before slashing their nets to release entangled Vhali back into the waters.
Around 11 AM, Farukhkha received a call. A whale shark had been accidentally caught three nautical miles offshore. When we finally arrived at the spot by boat half an hour later, the fishermen were already cutting off the nets and for the next five minutes, all eyes were on the massive blue polka-dotted fish. To a background score of claps and cheers, the fish soon glided its way back to the depths of the ocean. I was ecstatic—not many people get to see a whale shark and I had seen one on my first day!
A whale shark caught in a trawler net off the coast of Veraval
Over the next couple of days that I spent in Veraval, I learnt more about the relationship of the locals with their Vhali. The conservation campaigns had resulted in massive participation across demographics, from corporates to local businesses and school kids to the elderly, all part of the “Friends of Vhali” group on a mission to protect their daughter.
Change is possible if we can fight for it together and when we stop thinking of nature in terms of resources. Wildlife conservation is more than spending a night in the jungle or seeing a tiger in a safari. It’s about people, beliefs and empathy.
From children to the elderly, almost everyone is part of the “Friends of Vhali” group in Veraval
It’s 8 AM on a chilly September morning in Boyagin Nature Reserve in Western Australia. I glimpse at my handheld GPS and correct my course as I make my way through the bush, stepping over fallen logs and weaving in and out of the wandoo and marri trees. My device starts beeping, and then I catch sight of what I am looking for—a camera trap, poking up out of the ground like an orchid reaching for the sun. I bend down to open the waterproof casing to change the batteries and record the data on the screen, before arming the camera once again and setting off to find the next one.
I am a zoologist and the vice-president of a conservation organisation called Project Numbat, a charity dedicated to helping save the numbat from extinction. I will forgive you for not knowing what a numbat is. Despite being the mammal emblem for Western Australia, this little critter is not very well known, even in its home state.
Numbats are small carnivorous marsupials, also called dasyurids, with stripes on their backs, a big bushy tail, a long snout, and an even longer tongue. This prominent and unusual body part is around 10–11 cm long, close to a third of the length of an entire numbat. They use this sticky appendage to eat nothing but termites as they scurry from one hollow log to another. While previously widespread across vast ranges of Southern Australia, numbats nowadays are only found in a few small pockets of bushland throughout Western Australia.
As a consequence, they are classified as an endangered species on the IUCN Red List. The main threats to their survival include deforestation, the increasing severity of bushfires due to climate change, and introduced predators. Foxes and cats frequent these areas of bushland, hunting threatened species. Even though our team is concentrating on surveying the current numbat population, we also inadvertently collect data on other endangered species, and the presence of introduced predators.
The early morning mist already began to clear as the low-lying sun started to break through the trees. It looked like it was going to be a nice day—hardly any wind and not a cloud in the sky, perfect weather for spotting wildlife. I made it back to the truck with my two other team members. As we drove to the next GPS point, I scrambled around in the bags checking batteries and memory cards. There is nothing more disheartening than trekking through the bush, all the way to your camera, only to find you didn’t bring enough batteries, or had grabbed the wrong memory card.
We were wading through a patch of thick leaf litter listening to the leaves crunch beneath our feet and trying not to make too much noise in the hope of spotting a local inhabitant when all of a sudden, one of our team yelled “Snake!” When someone yells ‘snake’ in Australia, you try to run as fast as possible in the opposite direction until someone else has determined the species, especially when you are ankle-deep in leaf litter. But as zoologists, our curiosity often overrides our sense of survival. It is quite comical to see a group of people both running awayand also trying to look for the thing they are running away from. But the snake was long gone.
Armed with my clipboard, I recorded the data being read out to me, and while I waited for the rest of the team to finish servicing the camera, I scanned the surrounding bushland hoping to spot that characteristic fluffy tail. I managed to see a kookaburra, a black cockatoo, some echidna digs, a boobook owl, and some cat scat. The domestic predators had been here, and not surprisingly, there were no signs of numbats.
At the next site, we were hopeful we would see a numbat as there were far more fallen logs than elsewhere. These hollow logs are not only the perfect place for numbats to hunt for termites and seek shelter from predators, but also provide a life-saving retreat from raging bushfires, which are a natural part of life in the Australian bush. To limit the likelihood of runaway “hot” fires in important habitats, prescribed or “cold” fires are utilised to burn leaf litter under semi-control-led conditions. Numbats are well adapted to these fires and use hollow logs to shelter from them. Without fallen logs, there would not be numbats here. I bent down to inspect a log only to find small tufts of thick brownish fur stuck in the bark—perhaps further evidence of the presence of invasive predators.
The team continued on when we heard rustling coming from a nearby bush. I edged closer to see what was making the noise but clearly got a little too close as a small brown creature with legs like springs jumped out of the bush, straight towards me! A woylie was not an uncommon sight in this habitat, but it certainly startled us before disappearing over the ridge. We had checked over a dozen cameras by this point and my legs had started to become tired and sluggish. I lifted my foot to step over another branch but the tip of my shoe caught on the fallen tree and sent my body flying over the top. I shot my hands out in front of me but it was too late to stop the fall. My face planted firmly on the ground as I lay in a heap on the floor.
I jumped up quickly, not wanting to become a feast for the bull ants and as I dusted myself off, I noticed a small white skull on the ground. I picked up the skull to examine it. Elongated snout, canine teeth—this was definitely a fox skull. Foxes were introduced to Australia by British colonies in the 1870s for recreational hunting. They were soon well established and are now classed as pests across the mainland. Like cats, foxes hunt small mammals, birds and reptiles, often resulting in the reduction of already threatened species. Only a few offshore islands provide native species with respite from them. This skull was further evidence of the extent of the predator problem in this prime numbat habitat.
I always enjoyed checking the camera at Boyagin Rock, as even though the climb was tough, the view from the top was spectacular. We approached the granite outcrop and tried to find the best route to the top. Loose stones shifted under our feet as we clambered up the steep hill, trying to hold on to our equipment whilst having to grab hold of branches in order to heave ourselves over the rocky mound. We reached a level area and tried to dodge the lichen as we watched ornate crevice dragons bask in the sun. From here you can see across the majority of the nature reserve which includes areas of woodland, shrubland, herbaceous communities, and large areas of farmland. Vast eucalyptus forests were once prevalent in the whole region, but now this key habitat is depleted due to the expansion of agricultural land. The numbats are forced to move through this open and more dangerous landscape.
As I began to record the data from the camera, I noticed that the small patches of mud and lichen in between the rocks were soft and damp. I started to glance over it, looking out for any numbat tracks to photograph. After a minute or so I came across some tracks, but they weren’t from a numbat, they were from a cat. Once we were back to civilisation, we downloaded the photos and compiled the data. The traps revealed an array of wildlife, from possums and kangaroos to woylies and numbats. But they also showed us how many foxes and cats there were in the same habitat. The data was sent to the Department of Biodiversity, Conservation and Attractions, which runs Australia’s most ambitious program to eradicate invasive predators from key habitats—Western Shield.
We had parked at a picnic area for the last camera survey, and by then we had resigned ourselves to the fact that we were not going to be seeing any numbats that day. We jumped in the truck and made our way back past the benches and onto the larger dirt track road that led straight out of the reserve. “Oh look at that, a squirrel… no wait! It’s a blooming numbat!” one of our team yelled as the small furry creature darted across the road in front of our truck and into a hole underneath a tree root. We stopped the car and quietly wound down our windows. As we stared at the hole beneath the tree, we realised it was not just one numbat, but a female with two youngsters peeking out from a small hole. It was living evidence that threatened species can bounce back from the brink, given the chance. And this is what gets us out of bed even on those chilly Sunday mornings.
A mighty gaur walking in the middle of the road amidst the traffic in Kotagiri—one of the six taluks in the Nilgiris district of Tamil Nadu, India—reminded me of chariot processions I had seen at the village festivals of my childhood. The chariot carries the deity, and the temple is its destination. But where is the gaur headed? What is its destination? Was it walking in search of the forest it had seen in the same place, many years ago?
It seemed to be very old and looked as though it had walked more than a thousand miles. Who knows, maybe it crossed seven hills and seven seas. Wait, seas? Indeed, gaurs are capable of swimming. I began observing the gaur, curious to see where it was going. It moved to the edge of the road and entered a tea garden, like a person going home after a long day at the office, and started grazing. I understood then that when a gaur visits tea gardens in the Nilgiris district, it is probably in search of food.
Gaurs are large-bodied animals. Males weigh between 1000–1500 kg while females weigh between 700–1000 kg. They spend most of their day feeding, their diet consisting of grasses, herbs, scrubs, and leaves of trees. They prefer tea gardens over grasslands because the weeds and grass there are tasty, enriched with salt from the fertilisers used for the tea plants.
Gaurs move into tea gardens and other human-inhabited regions due to the easy availability of food, as an increase in invasive plant species and fragmentation of grasslands have reduced the availability of fodder inside forests. Another reason gaurs might prefer human-in-habited areas is protection—local people believe that prey animals approach human settlements to protect themselves from predators. Furthermore, regulations on poaching have significantly increased the gaur population over the years, while reducing their fear of humans.
Currently, they have become so habituated to human presence, that in fact, a person can see gaurs more frequently in parts of Kotagiri town than in a forest village. In contrast, earlier only the indigenous communities in Kotagiri used to see them when they went deep inside the forest to work—mostly to collect non-timber forest products (NTFP). As people in the Kotagiri landscape have been interacting with gaurs for more than two decades, they have their own perspectives about the animal, with some people referring to them as neighbours, and some even as relatives.
Different communities, one common perspective
Kotagiri is home to diverse communities, namely indigenous communities such as the Kotas, Todas, Irulas, Kurumbas, and Badagas, Tamils from the Nilgiri plateau and other parts of the state, Tamils repatriated from Sri Lanka, and Malayalis (people from Kerala). Each community has its own name for the gaur: they are called Kaadu Eema by the Kotas, Kod-ir by the Todas, Doddu by the Irulas and Kurumbas, Kaadu Emme by the Badagas, while Malayalis know gaurs as Kaati, and Sri Lankan repatriates and people from other parts of Tamil Nadu refer to them as Kaatu Maadu (wild cattle) and Kaatu Erumai (wild buffalo).
Every community has interacted with these herbivores, albeit in different ways. For instance, gaurs graze in tea estates where female workers collect tea leaves, sometimes at a distance of less than 10 feet from them. As most of the Sri Lankan repatriates and people from other parts of Tamil Nadu work in estate-related occupations and other daily wage jobs, they come into contact with gaurs while going to or returning from work. They also encounter gaurs close to their homes and in the villages. The animals frequently enter the Badaga hattis (villages) either to forage or as a thoroughfare. At times, when gaurs can’t find food in the forest, they enter the Seemai (villages of Irulas and Kurumbas) and feed on plants and leaves of particular trees grown near the houses.
One common view that people have about the origin of gaurs is that they are feral domestic cattle. Many years ago, when there was famine on the mainland, people used to bring a great number of cattle, camp in the foothills, and let the cattle graze inside the forest. When some cattle wandered off into the forest, they mated with wild buffaloes and gave birth to the first gaurs. I have heard this perspective from tribal communities who have lived in this landscape for centuries, as well as from people who moved there only 40–50 years ago.
Mutual respect and fear
In Kotagiri, a relationship based on fear and respect between gaurs and humans allows for the sharing of space. However, this wasn’t the case when gaurs first began to enter human-inhabited areas 25–30 years ago. Earlier, people were afraid of gaurs. They questioned their course of action if gaurs began occupying these regions. Where could they relocate if they were forced to leave this place? The fear that people had of gaurs in the initial days gradually changed to respect combined with fear.
Over the years, people have become aware of the animal’s day-to-day activities. Now, when questioned, all of them—even children—will state that gaurs come into the village only for food and water. They feel that they are gentle beings and don’t harm anyone unless they are threatened. People believe that if they put both hands together and bow respectfully while requesting a gaur to move out of their way, it will surely go away—“Kai eduthu kumbutu po saami na poirum!”
In this shared landscape, gaurs and humans maintain a safe distance from one another. There is concern among people that gaurs could attack them if they went nearby or threw something at them. People say that just as they are scared when a gaur comes near, gaurs too experience fear when people come too close to them. According to the locals, the animals may worry that the humans would take away their calves or attack them. Fear acts as the key to mutual avoidance and respect between gaurs and people.
Inverse interactions
In recent years, there have been negative consequences, even casualties, because of human-gaur interactions. However, the figures are insignificant. At times, gaurs enter agricultural lands and raid crops when the field is left unprotected. Labour productivity is also affected by gaurs grazing in the tea estates. Additionally, the presence of these large herbivores in human-inhabited areas prevents people from growing any vegetation close to their houses.
Furthermore, people feel afraid to go out at night, even to nearby places. Gaurs may occasionally cause damage to human properties, including houses, roofs, compound walls, and vehicles. Human deaths and injuries have occurred as a result of gaurs resting inside tea gardens—gaurs typically hide their entire body while resting among the tea plants, only exposing their horns and a small portion of their faces. When someone unknowingly strays close to the animal, the gaur gets startled and attacks them.
Kotagiri, which is 28 km away from Ooty—a popular hill station—is also becoming increasingly attractive to tourists since the place is less congested than Ooty. Tourists’ perspectives on gaurs differ from those of locals. They initially mistake them for domestic buffaloes. Once they identify the animals as gaurs, they get excited and approach to take pictures. Sometimes, they even try to take selfies with the gaur close behind them. This behaviour often startles the animal, leading them to attack the tourists. Locals believe that if a gaur cannot retaliate immediately, it will carry forward the memory of the incident and end up harming someone else instead. This is more likely to affect local people rather than tourists who stay there for a short period.
The way ahead
One of the key elements influencing continued coexistence in the Kotagiri landscape is the locals’ perceptions of gaurs. I have heard, observed, and understood that gaurs enter human-inhabited regions primarily in pursuit of food. Locals in Kotagiri indicate that, in recent times, gaurs have slowly started to include cooked vegetable waste in their diet. This behaviour may trigger gaurs to visit human-settled areas more often, potentially making people more vulnerable. Consequently, people’s attitudes towards the animal may change for the worse.
Meanwhile, the gaur population in Kotagiri is on the rise. In 2020, a survey conducted by the Tamil Nadu Forest Department estimated that 2000 gaurs were inhabiting the Nilgiri division. Furthermore, changes in land-use patterns, such as the conversion of tea estates into resorts and buildings, are resulting in the erection of more fences, reducing connectivity for gaurs to move between habitats. Considering factors such as the shift in the dietary preference of gaurs, the increase in gaur population, and the urbanisation of the landscape, will the fear and respect between gaurs and humans remain delicately balanced in the future as well?
The article was prepared with support from Dr. Madhuri Ramesh, Azim Premji University. It is based on findings from the Human-Gaur Relationship Project, which is a part of the Aralikatte: Nature-Culture Fellowship by the Wildlife Conservation Society-India. The project was funded by Rohini Nilekani Philanthropies and the fieldwork was supported by Keystone Foundation.
Fireflies are common insects in both temperate and tropical ecosystems. They feed on garden pests such as snails and slugs. Contrary to what their name suggests, fireflies are not flies—they are beetles. To be precise, they are bioluminescent beetles, i.e., insects that can produce light through biochemical reactions in their bodies. The human fascination with fireflies is embedded in many cultures and places around the world, and maybe it stems partly from some ancient envy, that insects should have learned to light a fire before we did. In this column, I showcase the importance of fireflies in two different archipelagic cultures: the first is from the Andaman Islands (India) and the second is from Japan.
The waye-dama
The Ang people (earlier known as the Jarawa) of the Andaman Islands consider fireflies to be the earthly equivalents of stars—both are called waye-dama. They believe that while the twinkling of the stars maintains cosmic rhythms such as the durations of day and night, the twinkling of the fireflies synchronises the rhythms of the forest with the sky, especially the play of heat and light. A retelling of an Ang tale describes the significance of fireflies in their culture:
One night, deep inside the forest, an Ang ancestor could not sleep and felt disturbed by the glow of waye-dama all around him. In a fit of temper, he broke off the branches on which the waye-dama were resting and threw it into the cold water in which the mangroves stood. As he fell asleep, the waye-dama began dying in the cold mangrove water and their body heat leached out. It turned the shells of the mangrove crabs red with heat, leaving them too tired to climb out of their tidal pools. (That is why to this day, mangrove crabs have to wait until the full moon has cooled down the forest before they can emerge from the water and lay their eggs.)
Eventually, the ancestor woke up and began to stumble around because it was too dark to see without any waye-dama in the forest. As he tried to find his way, he fell over two strange things on his path—an empty Ang stomach and a tuberous root. As soon as they recognised him, the stomach and the root began complaining loudly. They ordered him to take them along with him, in the comfort of his beautifully woven basket. But once inside the basket, their complaints did not cease. Now, the stomach wanted to be kept inside his body and the root wanted to be cocooned inside the stomach. But both the stomach and the root were rigid with cold and the Ang did not know how to fit them all inside his body. Seeking guidance, he consulted the woodpeckers, who knew how to work with hard objects.
The woodpeckers took pity on the confused Ang and taught him how to extract resin and make a smouldering fire that would warm up his body. They told him that once his body was warm, he would be able to fit the stomach inside. He followed the woodpeckers’ instructions but was left with the problem of what to do with the root. Next the resin came to his rescue—it told the Ang to dip his fingers and toes in the mangrove water and seek the forgiveness of the waye-dama. When the Ang did so, the body heat of the crabs, which was essentially the fire of the waye-dama, flowed into his body and he was able to kindle a cooking fire to warm up the root and put it into his stomach. Ever since that day, the Ang people have respected the waye-dama for teaching them how to maintain the glow of life.
The hotaru
In Japanese culture too, fireflies or hotaru occupy a prominent position—many works of art depict people capturing, playing with, or simply admiring fireflies. In literature, hotaru represent the transience of life as well as intense love. The famous poet Kobayashi Issa is said to have written 230 haikus in the 18th century, all on fireflies, including:
A giant firefly: that way, this way, that way, this – and it passes by.
A tragic Japanese short story titled Hotaru no haka by Akuyuki Nosaka uses the symbolism of fireflies to describe real-life events around the bombing of Kobe, which was an important Japanese port, during World War II. The animé version of this story is well-known to English speakers as the poignant “Grave of the fireflies”. Until World War II, there were even bands of professional firefly catchers, who used mosquito netting to capture masses of fireflies and sold them in gauze-covered boxes to customers in large cities such as Osaka. There were shops and pushcarts as well, called mushiya, that specialised in the sale of different kinds of insects, such as singing crickets, jewel beetles, and of course, fireflies. Several Japanese traditional songs that are still sung today refer to fireflies:
Ho ho hotaru koi Atchi no mizu wa nigai zo Kotchi no mizu wa amai zo Ho ho hotaru koi
Ho ho firefly, come The water there is bitter The water here is sweet Ho ho firefly, come
Firefly tourism
In current times, nature tourism often replaces the deeper connection that nature worship fostered in earlier periods. In the case of fireflies, there is an entire network of locations that tourists visit for the sole purpose of viewing and admiring firefly aggregations. Firefly tourism, as it is called, attracts over one million tourists each year to over 12 countries—such as Mexico, United Kingdom, Croatia, Thailand and Japan—scattered across three continents (North America, Europe and Asia). Imagine a biochemical reaction in an insect driving such largescale movement of people! But what exactly is this intriguing phenomenon?
In fireflies, bioluminescence is caused when a compound called luciferin gets oxidised in the presence of an enzyme called luciferase. This reaction releases energy in the form of green or yellow light that makes the firefly’s abdomen glow. This glow is called “cold light” because it has neither ultraviolet nor infrared components. Amongst the 2000-odd species of fireflies, bioluminescence serves one or both of the following purposes: It helps the males and females of a species find each other during the breeding season, because the colour and pattern of the light pulses are often species-specific. It may also serve to warn predators that certain species of fireflies are toxic and keep the latter safe from predation.
However, fireflies are increasingly threatened by pesticide use and artificial illumination, because they are sensitive to chemicals and light. Therefore, well-run tourism packages will often insist on firefly-watching etiquette such as avoiding the use of perfumes or flash photography in their vicinity. The next time you see pulses of light in your garden or on a bush by the roadside, I hope you will take a minute to admire these luminous insects.
Further Readings
Pandya, V. 2016. In pursuit of fireflies: the poetics and politics of ‘lightscapes’ in Jarawa forests. In: New histories of the Andaman Islands – Landscape, place and identity in the Bay of Bengal, 1790-2012. (eds. Anderson, C., M. Mazumdar and V. Pandya). Pp 201–228. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Lewis, S. M., A. Thancharoen, C. H. Wong, T. López- Palafox, P. V. Santos, C. Wu, L. Faust et al. 2020. Firefly tourism: Advancing a global phenomenon toward a brighter future. Conservation science and practice 3(5): e391: https://doi.org/10.1111/csp2.391.
One afternoon, while I was out walking in a field before sunset, a birdwatcher halted his car beside me. He leaned out and asked, “Have you seen anything?” referring to lynxes. On hearing my negative response, he complained: “Look how dry the Sierra is! I’ve never witnessed anything like this. There are no lynxes, no birds, no blossoms, and, thus, no fruits for the animals… There is no life. The landscape has fallen into a profound silence.”
In the heart of Sierra de Andújar in southern Spain lie the dehesas—agrosilvopastoral systems with a predominant grassy layer and sparse Quercus and Fraxinus trees—that attract numerous wildlife enthusiasts throughout the year. Due to its socio-environmental conditions, 39 percent of the mammal species and 48 percent of the birds in Spain can be seen in Andújar.
The dehesa landscape in the Sierra de Andújar, Spain, in early spring
Amongst the rich fauna of the region, the Spanish imperial eagle (Aquila adalberti), Eurasian otter (Lutra lutra), and the cat with golden eyes—the Iberian lynx (Lynx pardinus), stand out as the most eagerly anticipated animals for wildlife observers.
Iberian lynx (Lynx pardinus) is one of the most sought after species for wildlife enthusiasts in the Sierra de Andújar landscape
Despite extensive conservation efforts over the last two decades, the Iberian lynx remains endangered. The 2022 Iberian Lynx Census, promoted by the Spanish and Portuguese environmental authorities in partnership with NGOs, revealed 326 females of reproductive age. To ensure the long-term survival of lynx populations, scientists estimate that at least 750 reproductive-age females need to persist in the landscape.
If the Iberian lynx is now found in many parts of the peninsula after assisted reintroduction, this is partially thanks to Sierra de Andújar, which, along with Doñana which is also in southern Spain, is home to the only two surviving populations of the feline. Nevertheless, it is probably in Sierra de Andújar where most of the genetic diversity of the Iberian lynx is preserved. This has a practical implication for lynx conservation because losing this diversity might jeopardise the long-term viability of the other populations.
The Iberian lynx mates from December to February, when winter temperatures are low. After 65 to 72 days of gestation, late spring and early summer usually yield cute observations of newborn cats playing around while the mother hunts. Or at least this is what is expected to happen in Andújar.
Most known females in Andújar did not breed in 2023, and this situation has been observed in the landscapefor several years. In 2013, for example, only 15 cats were born from 64 reproductive females. This trend is often attributed to a prevailing scarcity of prey, particularly rabbits (Oryctolagus cuniculus), constituting more than 90 percent of the lynx’s diet.
European rabbits (Oryctolagus cuniculus) comprise a significant proportion of the Iberian lynx’s diet
Some critical factors affect rabbit populations in the Iberian Peninsula, such as habitat fragmentation, hunting, and disease outbreaks—mainly myxomatosis and rabbit hemorrhagic disease. However, little is known about climate change, another factor that potentially affects both predators and prey.
Whether hotter winter temperatures—which are more and more common in southern Spain—followed by drier springs will preclude the breeding of Iberian lynxes is still an open question that deserves close attention. According to climate change projections, minimum winter temperatures in Andújar in 2030 are expected to be on average 1.37ºC higher (and ranging between 0.01ºC to 2.94ºC) than the historical period from 1970 to 2000 in a stabilising climate change scenario. On the other hand, spring precipitation (30 mm/month, on average) is expected to reduce by 0.20 mm/day. Thus, the region suffering from successive and longer dry periods and more frequent heat waves could already be experiencing the effects of climate change.
The high temperatures and the lack of rainy days during the 2023 spring transformed the colour palettes of the landscape from dark green to dry yellow in just two-and-a-half months. This change, expected to happen gradually and by mid-summer, affected the observations of the Iberian lynx as well as other mammal and bird species in Sierra de Andújar. To avoid the heat and to save water, animals naturally restrict their activities and movement across the landscape.
Instead of dark green, the dry Sierra landscape turned prematurely yellow in the middle of spring 2023
The spring of 2023 was not the first silent spring for the lynxes in Andújar. It probably won’t be the last. My real desire, shared by all those who engage in observing wildlife in the Sierra, was to follow a pregnancy, witness the birth of kittens, and hear them playing throughout the changing seasons. While I spotted females of reproductive age and adult males, the environmental conditions did not favour mating.
Fewer and fewer females of reproductive age, like the one photographed here, are giving birth
While I am happy for the reproductive success of other Iberian lynx populations, where rabbits are not a limiting factor for their survival, I wish only the best for the Andújar´s population and its unique—and essential—genetic diversity. I hope that next spring, there will be plenty of energy and noise from a new generation of golden-eyed cats that will contribute to saving the species from extinction. And that the dehesa ecosystems of Sierra de Andújar flourish with a splendid array of colours and a healthy abundance of life.
A male hunting in the dry grasslands of the Sierra in late spring
In an increasingly urbanised world, tensions between humans and large carnivores are mounting. Urbanisation exacerbates the issue of conflict between humans and large carnivores as our spaces begin to overlap and human-carnivore interactions become more frequent. These interactions can have negative outcomes on one or more of the interactants. Both parties are affected by urbanisation, with carnivores losing their habitat and potentially posing a threat to human lives, property and livelihood. As apex predators, large carnivores play a crucial role in keeping ecosystems balanced. A decrease in carnivore populations can lead to trophic cascades—predator removal alters the abundance among other trophic levels, such as prey and plants—impacting ecological services like regulation of disease, wildfire, and invasive species, carbon sequestration, and biogeochemical cycles.
Due to these serious implications, it is imperative to understand how these changes impact the evolution of both humans and large carnivores. Historically, the overlap in localities between humans and large carnivores has driven co-evolution between humans and certain species, and has even led to extinctions. With interactions increasing over time, humans have adapted through technological strategies, such as weapons, poisons, repellents, fences, and traps. Large carnivores, in turn, have been adversely impacted due to reduced species richness, diversity, population size, and gene flow. With overlap in shared space continuing to increase, it is critical to examine its effects on species’ evolutionary trajectories and mitigate the negative impacts that could lead to the extinction of biodiversity.
Historical impacts
Humans and large carnivores have coexisted for over four million years. The competitive interactions between humans and large carnivores placed pressure on both parties, creating an opportunity for co-evolution. This created an ecological circumstance for humans to scavenge, while at the risk of predation. In fact, the pressure large carnivores put on humans likely influenced the shift towards cooperative defence, cooperative breeding, and changes in reproductive investment.
Early human co-evolution occurred specifically with hyenas, bears, and wolves that overlapped in localities, leading them to adapt to each other. Due to overlapping spaces, these carnivores likely interacted with early humans in various situations. Hyenas were able to exploit human-related feeding opportunities while providing a protective presence and ecosystem services by clearing carcasses, bones, and food scraps. Neanderthals are speculated to have explored hyena dens and exploited their bone and meat storage.
Similarly, bear dens were occasionally explored for materials and also used for shelter. At the same time, bears were noted to have utilised hominid remains as Neanderthal burial practices were typically held within their habitat. Thus, Neanderthals promoted a broader feeding niche for these scavenging species through their burial practices and provisioning of specific types of carcass scraps. Moreover, one of the most evident examples of co-evolution between early humans and carnivores is with wolves. Wolves and humans cooperatively hunted, and wolves provided services such as resource transportation and guarding. Over time, this commensal relationship led to the emergence of the domestic dog and hybrid pack-families composed of humans and dogs.
While early humans co-evolved with some carnivore species, fossil records indicate that they also negatively impacted the diversity of large carnivores such as early lions, sabre-toothed cats, and giant bear-dogs. Scavenging and kleptoparasitism initially drove their extinction, however, increased brain size, locomotor adaptations, and advanced tool use by humans further escalated the exploitation and reduction of the carnivore guild. Some of these factors contributed to co-evolution between humans and certain large carnivore species, such as hyenas, bears, and wolves. However, those that did not benefit from humans faced a greater risk of extinction. Simple tools and weapons created by humans put them on an even playing field with carnivores, but as technology improved, the balance fundamentally altered and shifted in favour of humans.
Modern impacts
In modern times, urbanisation is a key contributor to the imbalance between humans and large carnivores. Urban proximity can have effects on species richness and distribution. Previously, native species richness was negatively associated with urban intensity but not proximity.
However, urbanisation may not have the same effect on all species. Solitary species such as mountain lions were found to be less abundant with increasing proximity, while scavenging animals such as coyotes were found to be more abundant with proximity. Furthermore, a recent study found that while spatial avoidance did not occur in brown bears, their temporal behaviour did change. In human-dominated landscapes, brown bears have adapted by becoming more nocturnal.
Besides the emergence of behavioural adaptations, urbanisation can also generate genetic changes within large carnivore populations. Habitat fragmentation caused by urbanisation disrupts habitat connectivity due to the emergence of human avoidance behaviours. In a study focused on bobcats, it was found that gene flow had decreased as a result of habitat fragmentation. In fact, the reduced gene flow was so significant that it resulted in two genetically different sub-populations of bobcats. As urbanisation becomes more prevalent, gene flow may continue to decrease leading to more sub-populations, inbreeding and overall less genetic diversity, culminating in higher risk of extinction.
Human-large carnivore co-evolution also affects species relations. In some cases, humans do not affect the occupancy of species, but the interactions amongst themselves. Changes in large carnivore populations have resulted in trophic cascading effects that extend to mesocarnivores, herbivores, and plants. This phenomenon, known as the human shield effect, argues that humans employ a top-down effect on apex predators, which in turn affects mesopredators and increases their spatial overlap. Mesopredators indirectly benefit from the decreased occupancy of the apex predators they compete with. This effect is displayed through the increasing co-occurrence of species such as coyotes, grey foxes, bobcats, and skunks with human activity. These results reflect the evolutionary impact humans can have on entire communities.
Mitigation efforts
Given that its effect on carnivores is evident and escalating, mitigation efforts are vital to consider as a response to urbanisation. Informed urban planning is one strategy for combating the evolutionary impacts of urbanisation. The most effective urban planning focuses on the areas and species most heavily impacted and at risk of extinction. Species that have limited ranges and available habitat are particularly vulnerable to the risk of extinction. As a result, the focus should be on urban areas that are biodiversity hotspots and hold endemic species.
Mitigation efforts should consist of protecting the habitat of endemic and range-restricted species and coordinating urban development to prevent contiguous urban clusters that hinder habitat connectivity. For example, the United Nations’ Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs) incorporated urban conservation strategies into their global urban agenda. The 15th SDG aims to protect and restore biodiversity within ecosystems. This specific goal has several targets with indicators that set measurable outcomes of action by 2030.
While habitat protection is an important strategy to mitigate the evolutionary impacts of urbanisation, so is decreasing species’ attraction to urban areas. Species that have not successfully adapted to urban environments due to inflexibility in diet, movement patterns, and social behaviours can be negatively impacted by urbanisation. However, scavenger species such as red fox, coyote, Eurasian badger, and raccoon can achieve high densities within urban areas due to the ecological opportunity provided through food and shelter.
Additionally, large carnivore species such as bears, hyenas and wolves living adjacent to urbanised areas can benefit from scavenging opportunities. With this in mind, utilisation of urban areas may seem beneficial for scavengers. However, these outcomes can often lead to human-related killings, either due to conflict or encounters with man-made objects such as vehicles. Deterrents and reduction of feeding opportunities are two effective ways to minimise carnivore attraction to urban areas and anthropogenic mortalities.
Conclusion
Co-evolution between humans and large carnivores is a profound evolutionary dynamic due to the ecological roles of both interactants. In the early ages, both drove each other to adapt through an evolutionary arms race. In modern times, humans have the upper hand due to vast technological advancements. Urbanisation is an outcome that can have some significant impacts on large carnivores, such as decreased species richness, behavioural change, reduced gene flow, and increased species interactions within carnivore guilds.
With urban populations projected to become the majority, it is crucial to further investigate and mitigate the negative evolutionary effects and pressures exerted on large carnivores by humans. Given the critical role apex predators play in the ecosystem, the evolutionary effects on large carnivores may trickle down to the rest of the community in unforeseeable ways. Protection of natural habitat and behavioural aversion towards humans can serve to minimise interactions and evolutionary impacts. Simultaneously, further research is needed to investigate the effectiveness of these and other strategies as the issue of urbanisation continues to grow.
Further Reading
Carter, N. H. and J.D. C. Linnell. 2016. Co-adaptation is key to coexisting with large carnivores. Trends in ecology & evolution 31(8): 575–578.
Gámez, S. and N.C. Harris. 2021. Living in the concrete jungle: carnivore spatial ecology in urban parks. Ecological applications 31(6): e02393.
Hussain, S., M. Weiss and T. Nielsen. 2022. Being-with other predators: Cultural negotiations of Neanderthal-carnivore relationships in Late Pleistocene Europe. Journal of Anthropological Archaeology 66: 101409.
Simkin, R. D., K. C. Seto, R. I. McDonald and W. Jetz. 2022. Biodiversity impacts and conservation implications of urban land expansion projected to 2050. Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences of the United States of America 119(12): e2117297119.
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.
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.”
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.
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.
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.
(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!
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
“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/
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!
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 toabsolute 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.
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
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.
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
“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.
“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.
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.
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.
“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.
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.
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 crabis 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.
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.
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.
