I had the pleasure of introducing myself to readers of this column in a previous entry when I graciously agreed to an interview. You can read it here. I strongly advise you to do so. My ideas make for compulsive reading. And if you still don’t know who I am, I am Shoktel Kartington. Yes that’s right, the Kartington. The one and only. The best letter writer in the history of science.
If you are wondering where Kartel Shockington is, then he’s still around. But he was running out of things to say so I offered to step in. It was about time that somebody did really. Some of the ideas coming out in this column have been highly questionable, if not out-right seditious.
So, I’d thought I’d begin my contributions by explaining how we should think, rather how you must think, about conservation philanthropy and how it will save the planet.
You will all have heard the exciting news that Jeff Bezos is going to invest a billion dollars into conservation. That’s over 0.5 percent of his wealth. Talk about generosity! The man is a marvel. When you think about Bezos, ignore the fact that he looks like Dr. Evil. That is completely inappropriate. Dr. Evil was such a small-time crook. After all, it’s not as if he’s intent on reaching into everyone’s lives and extracting the last jots of happiness and fulfilment from the workplace, is it? The comparison is quite absurd. Dr. Evil is vain, ugly and, well, evil. Bezos has that rare form of beauty that only $150 billion can bestow.
I am astonished by some of the reactions to Bezos’ benevolence. Some people criticise it! That is utter foolishness. When someone offers you that amount of money, you don’t ask where it came from. You don’t ask how it was created. You don’t mention workers’ rights, toilet breaks or being the change you want to see in the world. When you are shown the money,you take the money. And then you cultivate a major donor relationship management plan so that you can take some more.
The objections to Bezos’ plan are quite simply absurd. Some people are suggesting that the money will just go to the usual suspects who have the brand presence to make this money look good. It will go into gold-plated pandas, the best possible new logo for Conservation Incorporated, or a bit more ranchland for the Nice Land Conservancy. But these are such pointless objections. Of course these funds must go there. Where else could they usefully go? The main purpose of large-scale philanthropy is to make the philanthropists look and feel good. The entire purpose of a strong conservation NGO brand is to provide that look and feel. This is how it has always been and will always be.
Other people are suggesting that this just typifies what is wrong with conservation. They claim that the world is going to pot because our economic systems and governments encourage us to consume more and more all the time, sucking up ever more resources, creating ever more waste, demanding ever more profits from tightly squeezed or surplus populations, such that eventually people become slaves to capital. They claim that locking nature away in small reserves while these systems remain dominant is simply sticking your head in the sand. They claim that…… SNORE!
Wake me up when you’ve finished belly-aching, you long-haired lefty losers! Anyone who has any sense knows that you are right, in a sort of tiresome, righteous, worthy way. But Bezos is offering $1,000,000,000!!! That’s more zeros than there are males of some species. We need fantasies of wealth like Bezos provides.
People with benevolence and zeros like Bezos are vital. I christen thee Benezeros! When the world is heating up dangerously, when conservation goals everywhere are threatened and in peril, we need people with his perspective. Very few people have burnt as much rocket fuel as he has for his own personal trip that allowed him to see the world from where he did, even if he ate just veggies for a few days. That takes guts, PR wizardry and, if I may say so, genius.
So, I would like to add my voice to the sensible chorus of right-thinking fellows who are lining up to pat beautiful brother Bezos on the back and tell him he’s a lovely. I would, of course, be willing to add my brand and reputation to help him save the planet, in between space trips. I have already laid plans to demarcate numerous protected areas on the lands of some of the poorest, least politically powerful people in the world that will provide instant verifiable achievements, only good publicity, and some very quick bang for all that buck.
Hoping to hear from you soon Bezos-Baby!
That, dear readers, is how we need to approach conservation philanthropy. I am looking forward to providing more pearls of wisdom in this column in due course. I ought to take the whole thing over really. I promise I will do, but first, I have a confession to make. It is this: I don’t actually yet physically exist. I am the spark of imagination in a being (Dr. Shockington) who is himself a spark of imagination of two humans. That makes me rather special—a squared spark if you will.
I would like to have a physical form however, and so my creators and I have reached a deal. I will be granted one in the next issue of this column. They are absurdly excited about this, MY CREATION DAY!
This article is part of the Creation series. Click here to read the next one.
Kartel Shockington catches up with a formerly unknown but clearly destined-for-greatness scientist.
One of the privileges of our role as Kartel Shockington is that we get to meet some of the brightest minds of our generation—and not just each other. Yesterday Kartel Shockington had the great privilege of meeting, if only in our mind’s eye, a new titan in conservation: Shoktel Kartington.
Shoktel is an entity who will one day take his place among the great conservation scientists. This is no exaggeration. It is an objective fact verified by at least two other conservationists. Kartington has not just done mundane things like discovering new species, or promoting social science in conservation. He has identified new fields of research endeavour. And he is amusing. He has even written a fake letter to one of the Great Journals, whose ‘t’s we do not deserve to cross, AND it was published. Not many of us can claim to have hoaxed any journal, let alone that one, let alone inadvertently…
We must try and learn from such people before they go completely bald and can no longer be taken seriously. Which may mean in our case that time is against us. But fortunately, we have been able to interview him via text messages. Here are his pearls of wisdom when we asked him for any advice he might have for young conservationists.
Dr. Kartington, what would you say to a conservationist seeking to expand their intellectual horizons?
Conservationists already have the broadest minds, but these days there seems to be a strange tendency to make gestures towards social science. I understand the need to gesture, even gesticulate, but anything more than that, anything meaningful, is totally misplaced. Understand society? Seriously?! We are conservationists! We understand Nature. The fact that any conservation happens through social change is completely irrelevant. We must stick to our basics. And that must mean something totally biological and preferably at the top of the food chain. Tomorrow’s conservationists need to study the largest bears, fiercest sharks, and most ravenous tigers, and also, preferably their parasites or gut flora. The next time I see someone inspecting an anaconda’s anus, I will personally walk up and congratulate them.
That’s very convivial of you Professor Kartington. But what should we do if we do meet a social scientist?
Well, try and be careful. Prevention is better than a cure and all that. You need to make sure you are wearing all the right protective gear—Foucauldian inhibitors, anti-Gramsci spray and the devices that suppress class consciousness—that sort of thing and then generally the moment simply passes you by. But if you do get caught out and have to do things like converse, then remember that this sort of interaction is all about appearance. A good deal of social science comprises only surface and image. It is basically like warm wax: it is the science of impressionable substances. If you listen carefully to a social scientist talking (and stay a safe distance away when doing so) you will rarely hear any actual words, or even intelligible syllables. There will be lots of arm waving, gazing intently at the ceiling, and mumbled conclusions to sentences. Just do likewise and you will be talking true social science in no time.
If more sustained interactions develop, then it may be necessary to begin to make your points in question form, but without invoking a question mark. Then you require your listeners to answer these non-questions for you. This is the key to sounding clever in social science. Thus, you might say ‘I think the issue you are raising here is the question of Nature’. Or ‘This is too normative, you need to approach this issue as a question of class contradiction.’ Or ‘You are invoking the younger Foucault, with a hint of Hegel, which I find most provocative’. I find that those three statements if uttered in that (or any) order, can get me through any awkward seminar discussion.
Do you think, Lord Sir Kartington, that conservationists these days are maybe not passionate enough about their subject?
Quite the opposite actually. They are ridiculously passionate. In this age of social media, far too many scientists have simply lost all semblance of objectivity. They not only emote, which is bad enough, but they do so in public. True science is about suppressing all emotion. I will admit that once, in my youth, I might have got excited about some of my science. When I got really close to gut flora, well, that was really a special moment. But I was resolute, I was firm, I did not give in. So, I simply cannot understand why the conservationists I see in conferences are always getting so excited—about new discoveries, or publications, or species they have saved. These are things for which the only proper reaction is polite applause and a quiet feeling of satisfaction. Much as my wife did after we conceived our first child.
Do you not feel that sometimes all major discoveries have already happened in our field? How can a new scientist start out afresh?
You’re right to ask this—if you are a researcher then it is vital to establish a brand. But that’s the wonderful thing these days, there are plenty of new disciplines out there waiting to be discovered. One enterprising young scientist has discovered both Conservation Geography and then Quantitative Conservation Geography in consecutive months! What panache! It really doesn’t matter that these fields might have existed for some decades or centuries. Just (re-)invent them anyway. I personally am about to discover ‘environmental history’, ‘ecological economics’ and ‘social medicine’. I thought about inventing political ecology but that would obviously be an oxymoron. There are no politics in ecology.
Finally, O demi-god Kartington, you must tell us—what was the journal that you inadvertently hoaxed?
I am dying to tell you, I honestly am, but our time is up. I will divulge all in due course!
Thank you so much for your time, O wondrous deity. We do hope that you will be back to dispel more pearls of wisdom as soon as possible.
It was another stunning morning in the Mariana Archipelago. At 5:20 AM, the moon was setting as the sun’s rays began to shimmer on the horizon. With no land in sight, it felt like waking up on an entirely different planet, complete with wispy violet clouds and piercing azure waters so clear it felt like you could see all the way to the bottom of the Mariana Trench. Our first job of the day was to deploy a 330-m long cabled hydrophone array (complete with a series of underwater microphones) off the back of the OscarElton Sette—our National Oceanic Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) research ship—where it would be towed until sunset. This array allowed us to eavesdrop and even determine the position of life hidden below the water’s surface. For this survey, we were in pursuit of marine mammals, specifically cetaceans (whales and dolphins). Little did we know just how busy our serene morning would become as we walked back inside to begin monitoring.
Although it was already 27°C (81°F) outside, the acoustics lab was a brisk 18°C (65°F), forcing us to bundle up as we got our computer systems up and running. Cetaceans produce a wide variety of sounds ranging from high-frequency clicks, whistles, and pulsed calls to low-frequency moans, groans, and tones that can travel over many nautical miles. We use specialised computer software called PAMGuard to visualise those sounds in various ways. For example, some of our monitors displayed spectrograms, scrolling plots of sound representing frequency or pitch (Y-axis) over time (X-axis). Others showed plots of more detailed acoustic measurements as well as the direction from which we received incoming sounds. PAMGuard also contains classification algorithms trained to recognise vocalisations of specific cetacean species which aids us in our interpretation of what we hear and see. The results appear as colour-coded symbols on yet another display. This particular morning, our monitors were blowing up with a mixture of orange and red classifications, indicating a large number of false killer whales (Pseudorca crassidens) in the vicinity, and we needed to localise them all.
False killer whales—a species of oceanic dolphin—are social animals who enjoy being in small subgroups that spread out over a large area. Combine this behaviour with their reputation of being incredibly cryptic and stealthy, and accurate abundance estimates can become rather difficult for scientists. We immediately called up to the bridge to request that the ship maintain speed and direction while we frantically localised and logged each new subgroup that appeared on our monitors. Our adrenaline was pumping as subgroup after subgroup passed us by. We were surrounded! Yet despite the cacophony of whistles, clicks, and burst pulses lighting up our monitors, our team of visual observers searching from the flying deck (highest platform on the ship) had seen nothing! Moments like these are an important reminder that no one method of surveying is superior to another in marine conservation research. Marine animals can be seen and not heard, or heard and remain unseen. That’s why NOAA has specific protocols in place to ensure the collaboration between multiple methodologies.
We let out a huge sigh of relief as the ship drove past the last subgroup of false killer whales, but we weren’t done yet. It was time to alert the visual team to the presence of this large family of cetaceans, turn our ship around, and combine forces to get an even better estimate of the number of individuals present. Grabbing the radio, we informed the visual team it was time to initiate the false killer whale protocol. Their response: ‘Bring it on!’ We then immediately hailed the bridge and requested a 180° turn. That’s right, we were officially in charge of steering our 1,827-tonne ship. As the Sette made the turn, we monitored the incoming localisations from the very chatty subgroups. Given the linear shape of the towed array, our system was incapable of differentiating between the left and right of the ship during our first pass; our localisations gave us bearings and distances from both sides of the Sette. Therefore, the visual team would have double the locations to investigate. However, vocalisations that continue as the ship turns will move across our monitor in such a way that we can determine their exact location. Thankfully, that’s exactly what happened. We could now direct the Sette towards each subgroup and tell the visual team exactly where to look.
The situation quickly became stressful; we called out position after position over the radio for the visual team to search to no avail. The false killer whales seemed determined to remain hidden below the surface despite our best efforts. Almost 20 minutes of searching passed with no visual confirmation. Time was running out before our cruise leader would determine our combined effort ineffective and send us back onto the survey track line. As an acoustician in this situation, emotions run high. The experience is as frustrating as it is humbling to realise that despite all the technology and talented team members at your disposal, we will always be at the mercy of the animals we wish to protect; you can’t train wild animals to make an appearance. As each subgroup came closer to our ship with each passing minute, we repeatedly begged them to surface! Our pleading desperation must have successfully radiated through the hull of the ship, and not a moment too soon as boisterous cheers rang out over the radio along with the declaration of visual confirmation at last!
Our false killer whale protocol was a success. We logged each subgroup we heard, noting those confirmed by the visual team, while also listing who had remained silent but surfaced for our visual team to see. Thanks to the efforts of our visual team, we had acquired visually verified recordings of false killer whales which, for an acoustician, is synonymous to obtaining the Holy Grail! Such recordings leave no doubt that a particular vocalisation is associated with a particular species and can subsequently be used to develop automated classification algorithms. Development of these kinds of algorithms is unquestionably the future of acoustic monitoring as the amount of data acousticians collect continues to grow exponentially. I’m talking petabytes… that’s millions of gigabytes! There is so much data that we simply do not have the resources to manually analyse it through human action alone. Excitingly enough, our very own lead acoustician had recently developed such a classifier for false killer whales earlier in the year, using visually verified recordings taken around the Hawaiian Islands. By incorporating these additional recordings from a different part of the world into her algorithm, she will help eliminate any site-specific biases that may exist within it by accounting for possible differences in dialects, ultimately increasing its accuracy in classifying this species globally. Fact: An automated classifier is only as good as the data on which it has trained.
Later that night I lay reflecting on the rewarding chaos that was our morning. It had been an incredible day of progress and I felt so proud to be a part of the team. The data we collected will help answer many uncertainties about cetaceans in this data deficient region of the world (e.g., estimations of their occurrence and abundance and information on their population structure). The data will also be utilised by the U.S. Navy in their modelling efforts to assess and mitigate the potential impacts of their activities on these amazing creatures. While I continued to reflect on the day, I checked that the alarm on my watch was set for 2 AM. A few weeks ago, our team had deployed a passive acoustic recording device called a DASBR (Drifting Acoustic Spar Buoy Recorder1) to drift with the ocean currents, hoping to record the vocals of cetacean species that tend to avoid passing ships. I was going to be part of the team to search the moonlit waters for its reflective buoy component on the surface of the sea so we could bring it home. Just another day in the life of a marine bioacoustician.
Want to hear more about the adventures aboard the 2021 Mariana Archipelago Cetacean Survey (MACS)? Check out the online story map for the entire 59-day ship survey at https://arcg.is/1KaPaW!
Further Reading
Gillespie, D., D. K. Mellinger, J. Gordon, D. McLaren, P. Redmond, R. McHugh, P. Trinder et al. 2009. PAMGUARD: Semiautomated, open source software for real-time acoustic detection and localization of cetaceans. The Journal of the Acoustical Society of America125(4): 2547–2547.
Wall, C. C., S. M. Haver, L. T. Hatch, J. Miksis-Olds, R. Bochenek, R. P. Dziak and J. Gedamke. 2021. The next wave of passive acoustic data management: How centralized access can enhance science. Frontiers in Marine Science 8: 873.
McCullough, J. L., A. E. Simonis, T. Sakai and E. M. Oleson. 2021. Acoustic classification of false killer whales in the Hawaiian Islands based on comprehensive vocal repertoire. JASA Express Letters1(7): 071201.
Pppfff! I heard the breath at the same moment my eyes caught sight of the rounded black fin slicing through the water. Pppfff! Pppfff! Two more full breaths, each one causing my heart to skip a beat as my anticipation was finally met. I had heard hundreds of dolphin breaths before, but these were different. These belonged to ‘J pod’, an endangered population of Southern resident killer whales that live off the coast of Washington State, USA. A population that spends less time inland each year as local salmon stocks decline. Despite my frequent whale-watching trips and luck at seeing the growing number of transient killer whales around my home, it had been seven years since I had last seen any residents, making this sighting special.
Residents? Transients? How can some killer whales be endangered while others are thriving? And why does this matter—a killer whale is a killer whale, right? Well, let us start at the beginning
What’s in a name?
Killer whales are one of the most popular species of cetaceans, easily recognisable by their distinct black and white markings. Despite their name, they are actually the largest members of the dolphin family. Killer whales were first named by sailors who watched them hunt and prey on larger species. Even their scientific name, Orcinus orca, comes from the Roman god of the underworld, Orcus, reflecting their status as the ocean’s top predator. Killer whales are found in every ocean of the world, and are considered to be the most widely distributed mammal, after humans.
Currently classified as a single species, there are ten recognised ‘ecotypes’ of killer whales. Most people are familiar with the common taxonomic ranks; remember kingdom, phylum, class, order, family, genus, and species? While not one of the major scientific classifications, an ecotype is defined as individuals or groups of individuals that share ecological adaptations. Differences in ecology are key to specialisation, which can lead to observable physical differences, reproductive isolation, and eventually separate species.
As a single species all killer whales have relatively similar genetics and morphologies. However, upon closer inspection, different populations have their own prey preferences, language communication, and exhibit mating only with similar populations. Identifying these different ecotypes aids in the further classification of the species and helps our understanding of their ongoing evolution.
Studying evolution
Studying killer whales in the wild is extremely challenging due to their marine environment, so scientists are only just beginning to learn about the differences in killer whale populations and how they might have occurred. Understanding the role marine habitats play in relation to oceanic evolution is complex—unlike a terrestrial environment, there are fewer physical barriers and resources in the ocean. Additionally, genomic studies of killer whales have shown that there is a low genetic diversity between killer whale populations worldwide, perhaps due to a long history of overlapping habitats or slower mutation rates in cetaceans. Killer whale evolution is therefore best described by looking at historical geography, ecological differences, and their social culture.
Geography: In theory, killer whales can travel anywhere throughout the world’s oceans. As apex predators, they are found in the largest densities in polar and temperate regions where marine productivity is highest, although it is not uncommon to find populations in the tropics. Perhaps the greater amount of landmass in the northern hemisphere has played a part over time in separating or reconnecting different northern populations, while in the southern hemisphere greater competition and niche divergence (the process in which animals use the environment in different ways to avoid competition) might have developed as there is a higher percentage of ocean coverage.
Ecology: Due to this lack of geographic separation, differences between killer whale populations are largely thought to arise from specialisation in different prey types. Killer whales have an extremely diverse diet and have been observed preying on more than 140 different species, including over 50 types of mammals. By specialising in distinct food requirements, it is thought that different populations can avoid competition, as well as limit the energy needed to travel, learn, and hunt a wide variety of different prey items.
Culture: Killer whales form large family groups known as pods with highly complex social structures that centre around female members. In conjunction with prey specialisation, cultural transfer of such things as communication, hunting tactics, and pod size has contributed to the further divergence of varying populations. While mating is hard to observe in the wild, it is believed that different ecotypes are reproductively isolated. These social differences likely cause pre-copulation barriers as different cultural pods rarely physically mix, which over time may lead to reproductive isolation as populations continue to evolve farther apart.
Current classifications Now we can start to see how and why different ecotypes have distinctive prey preferences, foraging behaviours, social cultures, geographic ranges, communication, physical characteristics, and to some degree, genetics. But what exactly makes each ecotype unique?
Map created by Technology for wildlife
The Southern hemisphere has five ecotypes of killer whales: Antarctic type A, large type B, small type B, type C, and subantarctic type D.
Type A killer whales migrate between the tropics in the winter and Antarctica in the summer. They forage mostly on minke whales and elephant seals in ice-free, open water. Large type B, also called pack ice killer whales, have a dorsal cape and large eye patch. They can sometimes appear yellow due to local diatom algae buildup on their skin. These whales have a circumpolar range, feeding on ice seals in loose pack ice. They are known to wave-wash ice floes in groups to sweep their favourite prey, Weddell seals, into the water. Small type B killer whales also exhibit a yellow diatom film and a dorsal cape, but these whales have a narrower eye patch and a lighter grey colour than large type B. They frequent the Gerlache Strait on the western side of the Antarctic peninsula, feeding on penguins. Type C killer whales live deep in the pack ice of eastern Antarctica in the Ross Sea where they forage for fish. These are physically the smallest of all killer whale ecotypes. Finally, type D subantarctic killer whales are very rarely seen, and have only recently been described. They have large, round heads with tiny eye patches. Sightings have been circumglobal in subantarctic waters, often around islands.
In the Northern hemisphere are the other five ecotypes of killer whales: Type 1, type 2, offshore, transient, and resident.
Type 1 Eastern North Atlantic killer whales are smaller, and often seen in Norway foraging for fish such as herring, mackerel, and sharks. Type 2 Eastern North Atlantic killer whales are larger with a slanted eye patch. Rarely observed, this ecotype ranges in the North Atlantic, hunting other cetaceans. Offshore killer whales have faint saddle patches and range between Alaska and Southern California along the outer continental shelf, making sightings infrequent. Living in large family groups, they feed mainly on sharks, whose rough skin wears their teeth to the gum line. Transient Bigg’s killer whales are large with closed saddle patches, occurring in both offshore and coastal waters of the North Pacific. Favourite prey items include other mammals, such as seals, sea lions, otters, minke whales, and the calves of larger whale species. Resident killer whales exhibit open saddle patches with rounded dorsal fins. They forage for fish, oftentimes exclusively salmon, in coastal waters of the northeast Pacific. This is the most studied type of killer whale, with the Southern resident population being the most thoroughly researched group of marine mammals worldwide.
Why does this research matter for conservation?
Recent genetic studies strongly suggest that type A, B, C, and probably type D killer whales each be classified as their own species, with other ecotypes listed as subspecies until further research is conducted. Type 1 and 2 killer whales are closer to the beginning of the speciation process than the Antarctic populations but already show extensive differences. Other studies have found that despite overlapping ranges, transient and resident killer whales share no recent common ancestor, also suggesting distinct species. Understanding what makes different populations of killer whales unique can not only lead to a better understanding of their life histories, but also better conservation and management strategies.
Recent genetic studies strongly suggest that type A, B, C, and probably type D killer whales each be classified as their own species, with other ecotypes listed as subspecies until further research is conducted. Type 1 and 2 killer whales are closer to the beginning of the speciation process than the Antarctic populations but already show extensive differences. Other studies have found that despite overlapping ranges, transient and resident killer whales share no recent common ancestor, also suggesting distinct species. Understanding what makes different populations of killer whales unique can not only lead to a better understanding of their life histories, but also better conservation and management strategies.
The Southern resident population off the coast of Washington State is an excellent example of why this research is important for conservation. These whales are a large part of the culture and history in Washington, with over 500,000 people whale watching every year in their home range. However, the group has been steadily declining over the last several decades. Due to an abundant global population of killer whales and difficulty in determining separate species, the population was previously not eligible for protection under the Endangered Species Act of the United States or able to receive additional benefits.
Researchers then began looking into the evolutionary histories of killer whales for ways to differentiate groups from one another, and in 2005 the Southern residents were deemed a distinct population segment. This designation enabled them to be listed as endangered and paved the way for other killer whale populations to be evaluated. Further research has determined that anthropogenic threats such as a lack of food from dam development and overfishing, pollution, and increasing boat traffic are the major causes of the Southern residents’ decline. This has led to supplemental boating laws, citizen science programs, watershed and salmon restoration projects, and a state-wide Orca Task Force made up of different government agencies that work together to find solutions specifically to protect this population. These conservation actions, while directed at saving the killer whales, impact more than just the Southern residents and help the entire regional ecosystem.
These efforts would not be possible without the research and knowledge of killer whale ecotypes and speciation, and are inspiring change for killer whale research worldwide. Hopefully, the global diversity of killer whales can be preserved, as we are only just beginning to learn exactly what makes them unique.
Further Reading
Bruyn, P. J., C. A. Tosh and A. Terauds. 2012. Killer whale ecotypes: Is there a global model? Biological Reviews 88(1): 62–80. doi:10.1111/j.1469-185x.2012.00239.x
Hoelzel, A. R. and A. E. Moura. 2016. Killer whales differentiating in geographic sympatry facilitated by divergent behavioural traditions. Heredity 117(6): 481–482. doi:10.1038/hdy.2016.112
Leduc, R. G., K. M. Robertson and R. L. Pitman. 2008. Mitochondrial sequence divergence among Antarctic killer whale ecotypes is consistent with multiple species. Biology Letters 4(4): 426–429. doi:10.1098/ rsbl.2008.0168
I kick my fins below the surface of a sparkling sea, and blue haze transforms to reveal the contours of a shipwreck. Through my mask, I examine the colourful patches of sponge and coral that have colonised the ship’s hull. A school of fish rounds the ship’s prow in search of food or protection. On the ocean floor, this remnant of human life has a new part to play. Pausing a few metres above this human-made reef, I prepare my camera and my data collection sheets, printed on special waterproof paper. I signal to my dive buddy and we begin to record evidence of its conservation impacts.
Human-made reefs—hard, persistent structures submerged in the ocean by humans, including shipwrecks, oil rigs, fishing traps, piers, rock piles, and artistic sculptures—represent a unique blend of human and marine life. The mechanical sound of my breaths reminds me that before scuba diving was invented, it would have been unthinkable to find or monitor a shipwreck such as this one. Restless pioneers developed and refined the unwieldy tanks of compressed air that allow me to explore these sunken worlds and undertake research on them. The sea used to be a place where things were blindly sought or feared: fish, whales, monsters. It was a place where things were lost: ships, cargo, people. It was rarely a place where things could be observed or built.
Human-made reefs first emerged in coastal communities thousands of years ago, when people created stone fishing traps and sea walls and occasionally fell victim to accidental shipwrecks. In the last century, they have grown in popularity, along with our ability to access and transform the marine environment. Though some human-made reefs come to rest on the seabed by accident, they are increasingly submerged deliberately to fulfil a range of purposes, including the creation or improvement of fishing grounds, management of coastal erosion, extraction of oil and gas, tourism opportunities, art, and conservation.
These reefs have taken on a unique and controversial role in marine conservation. In a single article, they were described as “bastions for marine life” and “slapping the seas with the big almighty hand of humankind and damaging yet another part of the Earth.” Many scientific questions remain unanswered. The creation of hard substrate in the ocean provides space for marine life to colonise, but it is unclear which organisms this will benefit most, or the extent to which human-made reefs produce new ecosystems rather than simply attracting components from elsewhere.
Human-made reefs are difficult to access and easy to forget once they have been created—particularly if they don’t conform to ideals of success. Some structures create stunning visuals, which loom large in the public perception of human-made reefs. In others, vast clean-up efforts of tires or subway cars have been required after materials degraded in currents and salt water. However, the vast majority of human-made reefs are not monitored or assessed. This is limiting our ability to learn and inform future conservation practice in collaboration with other sectors, particularly as conservation pledges can play a role in the permitting processes that allow human-made reefs to be constructed. Conservationists are raising important questions about the responsibility inherent in creating and managing human-made reefs, but also about deciding whether to remove them (for example, in cases where toxic materials have been used).
One of the challenges in assessing the conservation potential of human-made reefs is that we have little idea of how many exist or where they are located. They are often created or found by groups of people who do not talk to each other—fishers, archaeologists, the oil and gas industry, tour operators, and conservationists—and the collection of this data is not a global priority. Nevertheless, UNESCO estimates that there are over three million shipwrecks in the ocean, and the Florida Fish and Wildlife Commission estimates that 70–100 projects are built every year, with 3,330 created since 1940. The Reef Ball Foundation claimed in 2007 that it had submerged over half a million of its patented concrete structures in 59 countries.
Human-made reefs (HMRs) present a fascinating confluence of human and marine life, meaning that we need to understand not only fish and corals, but also people and patterns in the creation and social uses of these reefs. My PhD research at the University of Oxford focused on integrating methods to find and assess their conservation impact to shape future policy, as my supervisors and I discussed in a paper published in BioScience. I trialled these methods around the island of Cozumel, Mexico, where I conducted a social and ecological assessment of HMRs found around the island. The process of assessing different structures and interviewing people from fishers to archaeologists, conservationists and tour operators, impressed upon me the extent and range of ways we are transforming the ocean—even in this one small patch.
The shipwreck I described at the beginning of the article was sunk intentionally almost 20 years ago, in an attempt to draw tourists away from beleaguered coral reefs and provide a new place for marine life to settle. On previous dives, I assessed submerged statues of marine conservationists Sylvia Earle, Ramón Bravo, and Jacques Cousteau. I also visited a futuristic landscape dotted with concrete “alien eggs” (as described by a local diver, though they are more commonly known as Reef Balls), created in an attempt to restore coral and provide habitat for fish.
Each of these human-made reefs is creating a new space in which people and marine life mingle, prompting new ideas about how we will coexist in the future. The ocean is changing in myriad ways, and the effects of climate change, pollution, and overfishing are taking a toll. The place of human-made reefs in future marine ecosystems has yet to be determined. I believe we have the potential to shape it for good through accurate reporting, ongoing assessment of social and ecological impacts, and honest discussions about diverse views.
For now, it is time to take a breath and contemplate the many human-made reefs before us: figure out what works, what doesn’t, and how we can take action to make room for people and nature in the collective future of our oceans.
Further Reading
Castelló y Tickell, S., A. Sáenz-Arroyo and E. J. Milner-Gulland. 2019. Sunken Worlds: The Past and Future of Human-Made Reefs in Marine Conservation. Bioscience 69: 725–735. https://doi.org/10.1093/biosci/biz079.
Pitcher, T. J. and W. Seaman Jr. 2000. Petrarch’s Principle: how protected human-made reefs can help the reconstruction of fisheries and marine ecosystems. Fish and Fisheries 1(1): 73–81. https://doi.org/10.1046/j.1467-2979.2000.00010.x.
The central desert of Baja California in northwestern Mexico is as beautiful as it is unforgiving. The dreamlike landscape is dominated by centuries-old cardon cacti (Pachycereus pringlei) and otherworldly boojum trees (Fouquieria columnaris), their common name in English aptly borrowed from Lewis Carroll’s “Hunting of the Snark”. Temperatures rise above 50°C in the scorching summers, and often plunge below 0° in winter, with a scarce 100–300mm annual rainfall. Nestled between the cold waters of the Pacific Ocean and the subtropical Gulf of California, the seas are rich and abundant: home to five species of sea turtles; diverse marine mammals, including grey whales (Eschrichtius robustus) that calve in the Pacific lagoons; and countless fishes and invertebrates.
Humans have inhabited this extreme landscape for at least 12,000 years. Cochimi people were nomadic foragers, fishers, and hunters who moved seasonally, traversing between water sources and resources on land and at sea. After European contact in the 18th century, the Cochimi population dropped 90 percent within two generations as a result of epidemics and famines caused by forced sedentarisation. In the following centuries a multi-ethnic society, sometimes known as Californios, was formed by the descendants of the Cochimi people, Spanish and Mexican settlers, and subsequent waves of immigration from various regions of Mexico, Europe, the United States, China, and Japan. They established small, dispersed communities and ranches throughout the peninsula. To this day, this isolated region has a population density of about two people per square kilometre, among the lowest in the world.
I’ve been fortunate to work in the central desert for the past ten years, learning from people who have not only survived but thrived in this harsh environment thanks largely to their detailed knowledge of the natural world. I’ve worked with master fishers on both coasts to try and reconstruct oceans in the past and how they have changed. Scientists may underestimate the magnitude of past biodiversity or abundance if research is limited to available ecological data—which in this region generally spans less than 30 years—a phenomenon known as “shifting baseline syndrome”. Sea turtles, and green turtles (Chelonia mydas) in particular, have played a fundamental role as food and medicine for the regions’ inhabitants for millennia. The oldest fishers witnessed an ocean vastly different from what we see today, and their knowledge of how green turtle populations and habitats have changed over time is critical for understanding the present and for addressing future challenges.
Don Carlos started working as a sea turtle fisher on the Pacific coast in the early 1940s. He and his father would spend weeks at a time on an uninhabited island in Ojo de Liebre Lagoon, harpooning green turtles from a small canoe. The lagoon is known for deep canals and broad shallows, and turtle fishing required not only skill in navigation, but precise conditions of winds, currents, and tides. The smallest ripples in the surface water impeded visibility, so fishing was only possible during neap tides, with calm winds and still waters. Any turtles caught were filleted and salted, and their fat was boiled down into oil. Without any source of freshwater, they rigged a distiller from oil cans and copper pipes to distil seawater. Voyages would last until there was enough salted meat to make an overland journey to the nearest village, El Arco, worthwhile.
They would travel a day and a half by donkey or mule, packed with some 20 kilos of sea turtle jerky that could last for months without spoiling, and would be eaten in isolated ranches or mining towns. At El Arco, the meat was sold or traded for rations such as beans, rice, coffee, or wheat flour. In those days, several factors restricted sea turtle catches: demand was limited to a few towns or ranches, populated by a handful of people; fishing itself required detailed knowledge of the lagoon, extraordinary skill, and no small measure of danger; and Don Carlos and his father were the only fishers working in an area of at least 50 square nautical miles.
Don Ignacio arrived in the Midriff Islands of the Gulf of California in 1950. His family journeyed overland for two weeks by donkey, from one oasis or spring to the next, searching for promising fishing grounds. In his early days as a fisher, crews of two or three people would row for hours, or even days, to remote fishing camps, where they stayed until they either filled their canoes with turtles or ran out of food or water. The navigator’s skill was vitally important: the knowledge to read treacherous currents and shifts in the winds, to predict oncoming storms, and to guide the crew to safe (though uninhabited) harbours along the desert coast could mean the difference between life and death. Trips were short when fishing was good, and dangerously long when catches were scarce or when wind or storms kept them ashore. Detailed knowledge of the desert coast helped them stretch out supplies of water, sometimes supplemented from small springs or seasonal pools, and hunting skills could help stretch out food supplies. Fishers would make flour tortillas with sea turtle fat and sea water, and game such as mule deer (Odocoileus hemionus) and bighorn sheep (Ovis canadensis) provided meat that could be eaten at camp or salted.
Fishers primarily caught green turtles with a highly selective method: harpooning. This art, based on the careful observation of sea turtles’ behaviour and biology, required tremendous skill as the turtles were bought and transported live. Crews worked at night, with an oil lamp over the bow to illuminate the surface. The harpooner would signal the direction to the helmsman and throw the harpoon with just enough force to pierce the shell without breaking it or striking the lungs. Short, lightweight harpoons were used in summer months, when turtles are mobile and spend time near the surface. Long harpoons with weighted tips were used in winter months, when the turtles would lay dormant on the seafloor.
Green turtles were sent to market 800 kilometres away, near the U.S. border. The journey across the desert could take from two days to two weeks, depending on conditions. In the community, sea turtles were a staple food: a single turtle could easily feed 20 people, and its meat could be salted and preserved to last for weeks. Nothing was wasted: rendered fat was used for cooking and as medicine, and every part of the animal—including the shell, which could be boiled down to a gelatinous consistency—was used. The small human populations, difficulty of capture and transport, and limited market demand kept captures at a certain level. However, things would soon change. From the 1960s onward, the growth in cities along the U.S.-Mexico border increased market demand for sea turtle meat. With the introduction of specialised set-nets, turtles could be captured easily and in far greater numbers. Offboard motors, with ever-increasing horsepower, allowed crews to move farther and faster, and reduced the risks of getting caught in winds or strong currents. The paved trans-peninsular highway, built in the early 1970s, reduced the journey to market centres from days to hours. This “perfect storm”of market demand, market access, and improved fishing technology led to massive captures that drove the population to near-extinction within two decades.
By working with fishers to estimate past green turtle populations and integrating them with ecological monitoring data, my colleagues and I have reconstructed over 70 years of green turtle population trends in the region. There is certainly good news: populations are growing after more than 40 years of conservation efforts (critical nesting beaches in southern Mexico have been protected since 1980, and all sea turtle captures in Mexico have been banned since 1990). However, populations have not reached historical baseline levels, and sea turtles face growing threats from climate change, which will be far more difficult to mitigate than direct human impacts. As fishing communities and sea turtles face the challenges of a fast-changing planet, the knowledge gained over generations will be critical for charting courses into the future.
Acknowledgements
The author acknowledges and thanks all the fishers, and their families, who opened their homes and shared their experiences. Research was funded by Consejo Nacional de Ciencia y Tecnologia (CONACyT) academic grant no. 289695. The author also thanks Nemer Narchi for his valuable feedback and comments.
Further reading
Early-Capistrán, M. -M., E. Solana-Arellano, F. A. Abreu-Grobois, N. E. Narchi, G. Garibay-Melo, J. A. Seminoff, V. Koch et al. 2020. Quantifying local ecological knowledge to model historical abundance of long-lived, heavily-exploited fauna. PeerJ 8: e9494. https://doi.org/10.7717/peerj.9494
Feeding response? Check! Good vocal response? Check!
Then, watched by a dozen visitors with cameras at the ready, I carefully tube-feed AP047 and give him finely filleted pilchards. The ensuing ruckus from AP047 wakes AP048 with a start. Now, AP048 has been a cause of worry: bloated tummy, poor feeding response, and barely a whimper when awake. I tube-feed him diluted formula fortified with medicines and try to coax him into eating some fillets. He is not as happy with the food as his brother, who has since tried to eat more than his share from in between my fingers. AP048 gives me a that’s-enough-for-now yawn and settles back against his little teddy bear.
Very well.
Thirty penguin chicks fed.
Eleven more to go.
The Chick Rearing Unit
I had been studying zebrafish brains in a lab. Wanting both a break and a challenge away from my natural laboratorial habitat, I made my way to Cape Town, South Africa, to volunteer at the Southern African Foundation for the Conservation of Coastal Birds (SANCCOB). I was an intern in the Chick Rearing Unit (CRU) for about six months and had the most fantastic time. Here, I worked with African penguin babies, played mom to hundreds of crowned cormorants, and played fish-catch with Pete, a particularly cheeky pelican.
Recently featured in a Netflix docuseries called ‘Penguin Town’, SANCCOB is a rehabilitation centre for coastal birds. They rescue and tend to a variety of birds, particularly the endangered African penguins, for their subsequent release back into the wild. Carers are forbidden from mollycoddling the birds so that they remain wary of humans and do not treat us as easy food providers. In fact, while hand-rearing the cormorant chicks, we would wear a gigantic black poncho and mask our faces as well. All this to ensure that the chicks didn’t imprint on us, instead assuming they had an exceptionally large parent.
For the most part, I tended to African penguins who were brought in as eggs or chicks. The chicks would then be graded based on their weight, how well hydrated they were, and the appearance of their down feathers. Typically, eggs or chicks would be brought in by rangers, having been identified as either abandoned or threatened. We would systematically enter the details in the system, maintaining records for each individual that was brought to us.
A typical morning shift in the CRU would begin at 5 AM with the penguin chicks chirping away in their crates, letting me know exactly how hungry they were. Taking care of endangered species is a delicate business where approximation doesn’t cut it. The chicks first needed to be weighed and transferred into clean crates, no matter how hungry they were. The weighing helped calculate how much they needed to be fed based on their weight gain and other notes from the vet. I found two aspects of the early morning shuffle particularly endearing. One, getting a feeding response from the chicks by teasing their beaks with my fingers, which would get them ready to glug down the fish I’d feed them. Two, I would always prep the crates with a little, soft toy for the penguins to nuzzle against, should they feel cold, sleepy, or just generally snuggly.
Morning shifts would usually end with my tag-team member coming in to take over for the evening shift. We would have a quick exchange of everything that had happened with the penguin chicks, including pointing out which chick had developed a cold, which ones would soon develop one, which chick was bloated, and whether any meds had to be changed—the works.
The many moods of a growing penguin chick
I soon established a good routine for feeding the birds, prepping their meals, administering their meds, and keeping the CRU spotless. With my training out of the way, I realised that I had been blessed with an insider view into the lives of penguin chicks. When penguin chicks hatch with a ninja-like flipper kick out of their eggshell, they are soggy little blobs with their eyes still shut to the world outside. This is the most vocal stage and they use their beaks as little tactile sensors to get familiar with their surroundings. Once they dry and fluff out, we move them out of the incubators and into little pots, where they remain with a soft toy friend that provides the warmth and physical contact that a penguin parent would have in the wild.
Vocal and energetic feeding responses are a marker of good health. Poor responses get flagged so that we know which young ones need extra care and looking after. Since they aren’t being reared in the wild—an environment where they would gain robust immunity through food regurgitated by their parents—we have to be extremely careful to maintain a high standard of hygiene at the Unit.
As they get older, penguin chicks recognise that their human carers are not conspecifics and start to treat us with a rather haughty countenance. They are no longer keen on food, nor very vocal. However, this behaviour, which is in stark contrast to their younger days, is considered normal. Once a little older still, they regain their vocal nature. Some are exceptionally loud and curious, and invariably get housed in a crate with a penguin who would rather not be bothered at all.
During my six months at SANCCOB, there were two occasions when the CRU (and I) suffered from empty nest syndrome when all our chicks had grown up and been moved to the Nursery. The Nursery is where I worked with several other birds, a lot of whom could very well fly. It took a lot of coaxing to suppress my survival instincts and not bolt when faced with a sharp beak flying at me.
Conservation is everyone’s business
There I was, a young grasshopper, absolutely clueless about animals and birds. Yet, I was welcomed by this remarkable and driven community of conservationists, marine biologists, and numerous local and international volunteers, all doing their part to save an endangered species. I worked with 18-year-olds who were volunteering as part of their gap year activities, as well as a couple of 70-year-olds who just wanted to do their bit for conservation. I saw how Cape Town tackled the loss of its once abundant population of penguins as a society. It wasn’t only the rangers and conservationists who were doing their part ceaselessly. The local community also immediately alerted the concerned authorities, if they saw an injured or abandoned bird in their vicinity.
Even at the height of the pandemic, SANCCOB was readily supported with a seemingly endless supply of newspapers, towels and medicines. Although I wasn’t in Cape Town then, seeing and hearing about it warmed my heart. At the end of my stay, I was armed with a lot more empathy towards nature and its caretakers, and had SANCCOB confirm what we all need to realise—conservation is everyone’s business!
Further reading:
1. Algoa Bay oil spill leads to oiled seabirds admitted to SANCCOB. 2019.
3. Klusener R., R. Hurtado, N.J. Parsons, R.E.T. Vanstreels, N. Stander, S. van der Spuy, K. Ludynia. (2018) From incubation to release: Hand-rearing as a tool for the conservation of the endangered African penguin. PLOS ONE 13(11): e0205126.
For a substance that is often dubbed as ‘whale vomit’, ambergris has an unexpectedly interesting history that spans different cultures and continents.
Historical records from the 9th century onwards indicate that the Arabs valued it for its medicinal properties and they knew it was always found along the seashore. The famous physician Ibn Sina wrote that a fountain in the middle of the ocean spouted ambar, while another physician, Yuhanna ibn Sarabi, insisted it was a marine mushroom that periodically got washed ashore. In later times, the Arabs believed that when whales consumed this substance, it scorched their innards and made them throw up. Perhaps its lumpy greyish white appearance reminded them of the embers of a fire and stoked this explanation. Despite its dubious origin, the Arabs believed that when ambergris was given to people in medicinal doses, it strengthened the body, heightened the senses, and acted as an aphrodisiac (of course).
Moreover, they probably introduced it into the Indian mainland in the 8–9th century, where it was known as sugandhi dravya (an aromatic product) or matsyika (a product from a fish). In addition, we know from a precise account by an Arab merchant, Sulaiman of Basra, that ambergris was found along the island shores of the Bay of Bengal during the south-west monsoon and that the Nicobaris bartered it with outsiders, in exchange for iron.
In the European world, ambergris was known to the Greeks and Romans through their trade links with the Arabs and Indians. However, they believed it was the resin of a tree. It is likely that during the Crusades (11–13th century), the use of ambergris became known to a larger number of European countries, such as Spain, Italy, England, and France. In fact, the word ambergris itself comes from French— ambre gris means grey amber. The colour differentiated it from real amber, which is a yellow fossilised plant resin (ambre jaune).
The Arabs sold ambergris to the Chinese too—records from the 13th century indicate that the Chinese valued its medicinal properties, although they had a different explanation for how it was formed. They believed that the Sea of the Arabs contained many dragons and when these monsters slept with their mouths open (like guileless children), their spittle formed hard lumps in the sea water and got washed ashore as ambergris.
The European appetite for trade had increased considerably by this time and naval expeditions were sent to different corners of the world. For instance, the explorer Marco Polo’s travelogue mentions that many ships called at the islands of Socotra, Zanzibar, and Madagascar to obtain ambergris. He also notes that the Nicobaris harpooned the whales, dragged them ashore, and disembowelled them to extract ambergris and spermaceti oil. By the 14th century, ambergris was well-known to Europeans as gemma marina, the treasure of the sea. However, most Europeans unimaginatively believed it to be a type of bitumen that oozed up from the sea floor. The Chinese Ming emperors also sent out naval expeditions in the 15th century. Explorers such as Fei Hsin wrote that Sumatra was a major collection and trading post for ambergris, and its rulers sent back some to the Ming emperors as tribute.
Another novel theory about ambergris emerged in the 16th century: a Portuguese pastor and traveller Duarte Barbosa (brother-in-law of the navigator Ferdinand Magellan) reported that his informants in the Maldives had told him that ambergris was the marinated guano of large birds that roosted on cliffs along the seashore. The Maldivians classified ambergris into three types: the brown, worthless minabar which had been eaten and vomited by whales, the grey puambar that had been weathered by exposure to sea water and the white ponabar which was the freshest and the most valuable. The Mughal record Ain-i-Akbari written by Abu’l Fazl in the same era, also describes various theories including that it might be the dung of the sea cow. Like the Maldivians, Fazl noted that the cream-coloured variety, ashhab, was the most prized and it was used to make a perfume, ambar-i-ashhb. He mentioned three more grades of ambergris in decreasing order of value: the pale greenish ambar, the yellow khash khashi, and a black variety that was considered to be dross.
Also in the 16th century, a Portuguese physician who lived in Goa, Garcia da Orta, reported finding ambergris along the south Indian coast and observed that it contained the ‘beaks of birds.’ By then, the Portuguese were selling ambergris to the Chinese and complaining that in European markets, the ambergris was adulterated with benzoin, beeswax, aloe shavings, musk, and civet scent. In 1574, while translating Garcia da Orta’s work on Indian pharmacopeia, a botanist from Belgium, Carolus Clusius, identified ambergris as a type of whale excrement and surmised that the beaks reported by da Orta must have been those of cuttlefish.
A century later, the Spaniards were obtaining ambergris by trading with the Araucanian people in western South America and English whaling ships occasionally reported finding it in the intestines of whales hunted near Greenland. Wealthy English households of the 17th century consumed ice creams flavoured with nutmeg, orange-flower water, and ambergris. At the other end of the world, the French physician Francois Bernier, who spent over a decade traveling around India, wrote that India sourced ambergris from Maldives and Mozambique. Despite widespread trade and consumption, speculations about its origin continued.
In 1667, the Royal Society of London sent out a survey, comprising 38 questions, to different parts of the East Indies, to gather more information on ambergris. As before, its nature exercised—and eluded—many great minds of the day, such as Nicolas Lemery (who described acid-alkali reactions), Robert Boyle (who formulated Boyle’s law), and Robert Hooke (who articulated the cell theory). In fact, Lemery and some others believed ambergris was made of honeycombs. However, this theory was methodically disproved by a Dutch physician, Englebert Kaempfer, who was posted in Japan during the same period. Further, he reported that the Japanese considered it to be whale dung, which was congruent with the accounts of European whalers.
Finally, in 1783, a German physician, Dr. Franz Schwediawer, interviewed “two captains of ships, men of good sense and veracity” and carefully examined many pieces of ambergris. In addition, he marshalled all the available facts and wrote a report that was read out to the Royal Society by his friend, the famous botanist and explorer Sir Joseph Banks. His report persuasively argued that ambergris was the hardened dung of sperm whales (thus confirming the Japanese accounts) and that the embedded material was indigestible matter, such as cuttlefish beaks.
Even after its coarse origins were explained, ambergris continued to be popular in elite circles. For instance, it was consumed by the Medici court and features in the recipes compiled by Princess Anna Maria Luisa in the 18th century. In fact, to compete with the splendour of the Spanish court, her father the Grand Duke Cosimo III de Medici ordered his physician, Francesco Redi, to create a special secret recipe for hot chocolate: it was jasmine-flavoured and required expensive spices such as cinnamon, vanilla, and “2 scruples of ambergris”.
Today we know that ambergris is a waxy secretion produced by a sperm whale’s intestines, when they are chafed for a long time by chitinous cuttlefish beaks and, therefore, it is not dung in the strict sense of the word. In other words, this highly prized substance is found only in whales with serious indigestion. Ambergris gets released into seawater when the whale manages to excrete the waxy lump in its bowels or when the whale dies and decomposes. Fresh ambergris is black and odoriferous, but it becomes more aromatic with oxidation and weathering. Or as Dr. Schwediawer put it, “The older it grows, the more it seems to become agreeable”.
Further Reading:
Dannenfeldt, K. H. 1982. Ambergris: The search for its origin. Isis 73(3): 382–397.
Schwediawer, F-X. 1783. An account of ambergrise, by Dr Schwediawer; presented by Sir Joseph Banks, P.R.S. Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society 73: 226–241. https://doi.org/10.1098/rstl.1783.0015
Srinivasan, T. M. 2015. Ambergris in perfumery in the past and present Indian context and the Western world. Indian Journal of History of Science 50.2: 306–323.
Yolanda had her 15 minutes of fame in 2021. She was the first tiger shark to record a journey from Galapagos Marine Reserve in Ecuador to Cocos Island National Park in Costa Rica. The shark was tagged on an expedition led by Dr. Alex Hearn from the organisation MigraMar, with support from the non-profit organisation OCEARCH, the Galapagos National Park Directorate, and scientists from the Charles Darwin Foundation. Yolanda travelled at least 700 kilometres from the point where she was tagged in 2014 to where she was registered in 2021, providing valuable information to researchers studying the migratory movements of marine species between biodiversity hotspots in the Eastern Tropical Pacific Ocean (ETPO).
The ETPO is a vast region that extends from the Gulf of California in northwest Mexico all the way to the Piura region in Peru. The confluence and influence of various marine currents makes the ETPO a highly dynamic environment, allowing the existence of contiguous warm (tropical) and cold (temperate) ecosystems. As such, the ETPO hosts one of the most functionally diverse ecosystems found in the world. In recognition of the uniqueness of this area, the governments of Costa Rica, Panama, Colombia, and Ecuador signed a joint declaration in 2004 that created the Eastern Tropical Pacific Marine Corridor (CMAR for its acronym in Spanish), which acknowledges the ecological connectivity between marine protected areas (MPAs) and promotes the sustainable use and conservation of biodiversity.
When the CMAR was created there was no information on how exactly ecological connectivity occurred in the region. To gain a better understanding of this, scientists have been collecting data for over a decade by tagging marine species with acoustic and satellite technologies. The resulting location data have revealed that, just like Yolanda, several other marine species use well-defined migratory routes to move across the ETPO. The decade-long project has allowed researchers to understand migratory species’ susceptibility to threats when moving beyond the protective boundaries of MPAs. For example, the critically endangered scalloped hammerhead shark constantly migrates between Galapagos and Cocos, and while doing so, faces extensive pressure in unregulated fishing areas that lie between both MPAs. Information on this and other species have given managers valuable insights for marine spatial planning and improvements in protection for other threatened and protected species, such as leatherback sea turtles, green sea turtles, and thresher sharks.
A critical result of this decade-long research has been the identification of ‘swimways’—areas used by migratory species to move between feeding, resting and breeding grounds. The aim is to protect these routes and safeguard the integrity of interconnected open water and reef ecosystems between the different MPAs in the ETPO. MigraMar has identified two swimways in the region: the Cocos-Galapagos swimway, which connects Cocos Island National Park in Costa Rica and the Galapagos Marine Reserve in Ecuador; and the Coiba-Malpelo swimway, connecting Coiba National Park in Panama and Malpelo Flora and Fauna Sanctuary in Colombia.
These findings motivated scientists and conservationists to advocate for more effective protection of highly migratory species by increasing the size of existing MPAs and promoting cooperation between countries. While the CMAR is not a legally binding instrument for the protection of open water ecosystems, the creation of swimways would allow Yolanda, and other marine species, to safely migrate between these iconic MPAs.
There are, however, challenges associated with the swimways initiative. Nature knows no borders, and thus protecting these ecosystems requires a paradigm shift from a local, single-species focus to a more holistic, regional management approach. These highly mobile species’ migratory routes are not only vast, but also in many cases remote, which makes international collaboration critical for effective management, control, and surveillance of marine resources in jurisdictional waters and the high seas. Moreover, it is also important to understand how implementing MPAs can be beneficial for the productive sector. A clear example of this is the Galapagos Marine Reserve, which hosts tourism and artisanal fishing activities within its borders and also benefits— via the spillover effect—the industrial fishing fleet that occurs right outside its limits.
2021 was a positive year in the political arena for the consolidation of the swimways initiative. During the recent UN Climate Change Conference (COP 26) in Glasgow—almost two decades after the CMAR was created—the governments of Costa Rica, Panama, Ecuador, and Colombia announced their commitment to further conserve and promote sustainable development of this marine corridor. The four countries agreed to increase the size and improve the management of the MPAs in the CMAR, as part of their commitment to protect 30 per cent of the world’s land and ocean by 2030. Panama took the lead in June 2021 by adding 50,519 km² to the Cordillera de Coiba Marine Protected Area. A few months later, Costa Rica expanded its oceanic MPAs to 54,844 km² (Cocos Island National Park) and 106,285 km²,(Seamounts Marine Management Area), for a combined protected area of 161,129 km². At the beginning of 2022, Ecuador announced the creation of ‘Hermandad’, a new 60,000-km² marine reserve in the Galapagos. Hermandad, which means sisterhood/brotherhood in Spanish, symbolises the connection of these waters with Ecuador’s neighbouring country, Costa Rica, and the importance of protecting the ecological connectivity between Cocos Island and the Galapagos. More recently, Colombia expanded the Malpelo and Yurupari MPAs to 47,300 km² and 117,600 km², respectively, and also created a new 27,400-km² MPA called Colimas and Lomas. Through the combined actions of these four countries, there has been a fourfold increase in the protection of oceanic waters of the CMAR region.
The expansion of these marine protected areas not only offers hope to restore the populations of endangered marine species, but also to strengthen ties between countries connected by the ocean. The expansion of these areas also offers a unique opportunity to secure the identified swimways, and help Yolanda and other migratory species to safely travel across the region.
Further Reading
Bucaram, S. J., A. Hearn, A. M. Trujillo, W. Rentería, R. H. Bustamante, G. Morán, G. Reck et al. 2018. Assessing fishing effects inside and outside an MPA: The impact of the Galapagos Marine Reserve on the Industrial pelagic tuna fisheries during the first decade of operation. Marine Policy 87, 212–225.
Peñaherrera-Palma, C., R. Arauz, S. Bessudo, E. Bravo-Ormaza, O. Chassot, N. Chinacalle-Martínez, E. Espinoza et al. 2018. Justificación biológica para la creación de la MigraVía Coco-Galápagos. Portoviejo, Manabí, Ecuador: MigraMar y Pontificia Universidad Católica del Ecuador Sede Manabí.
We are thrilled to announce an exciting new initiative that will give us a chance properly to celebrate the great achievements of conservation−the ‘Shockington Conservation Awards’.
This global initiative will promote all that is beautiful, true and just in our noble cause, and honour, properly, the hardworking people who labour so tirelessly for it. Laureates of our awards will receive a personalised, bespoke certificate, which has our unique signature upon it, their citation and an IOU for a substantial sum of money, that will be exchangeable for actual gold pieces just as soon as we have found the appropriate corporate sponsor with a sufficiently guilty conscience.
We have listed the initial achievements for which we have set out prizes, with current nominees, and we would welcome further additions to it.
AND THE NOMINEES ARE……….
1. The Most Powerful Protected Area Generating Machine
After careful consideration we have decided to present this award to the David Attenborough Building in the University of Cambridge because it is home to the world’s largest concentration of conservation planners devising new large-scale protected area distributions.
The DAB may in fact have the unusual distinction of housing more plans that might entail the relocation and/or economic displacement of people than any other place on the planet (other than perhaps the White House).
Unfortunately, a small technical hitch has meant that this great building has itself been located in the wrong place, and needs to move a couple of hundred feet to the right in order to make way for a small but important new protected area on Grafton St. But as soon as this move is accomplished, the DAB will be eligible to receive this great accolade. We look forward to the occasion.
2.The Most Assiduous Forester
Awarded to Prof T. Crowther’s Laboratory for their repeated tree-hugging, tree-supporting and tree-affirming publications
3. Most Efficient Use of the Same Idea (I)
The judges were unable to make an award in this category.
4. Most Efficient Use of the Same Idea (II)
The first prize is awarded to Kartel Shockington (yes that’s us!), for repeating the same idea for a prize within two lines. That’s panache that is. Second prize to Linus Blomqvist, Ted Nordhaus and Michael Schellenberger for their publication of Nature Unbound, a book about conservation that is, unwittingly, clearly a sequel to Nature Unbound, also about conservation, by Dan Brockington, Rosaleen Duffy, and Jim Igoe. If other budding authors wish to be eligible for this award in the future then other titles they could reproduce include The Jungle Book, A Tale of Two CITES and Sense and Sustainability.
5.The Ostrich Award for Nailing, and Solving, the Problem.
Our Laureate for this award is the software Marxan for enabling a vital strategic move for conservation planning.
There are two basic approaches to human despoilation of the environment. One approach observes that our economies are governed by greed, encourage excess, and economic strategies and metrics are all about ramping up treadmills of economic growth. Therefore, we need to tackle the incentives and systems which are at the root of these evils.
Whilst a worthy task, this is difficult. Opposing capitalism risks offending Americans, who would label us as socialists. It would also threaten our vital corporate funding. Conservation cannot go there. So, we need a second approach, and in Marxan we have one which can ease our consciences brilliantly. It allows us to move the despoilation into a different place, and recategorise the planet so there are still some nice bits left for rich tourists to enjoy.
Marxan, if you will forgive an inappropriate metaphor, kills two birds with one stone. It deals with the strategic task AND it solves the mathematical problem of resource allocation. In the process it even produces thousands of beautiful maps that we can publish in the Greatest Journal Ever. Not only is it a brilliant tool for optimally identifying appropriate allocation of conservation resources at small scales, but in the hands of the right planners (especially anyone located in the DAB), it can re-invent the planet as if capitalism caused no problems at all.
6. The Dodo Award for Making Wildlife Disappear
This may seem a strange award to make to any conservationist, but the point here is that if there is too much wildlife, well we wouldn’t have conservation at all. It is important therefore to introduce wildlife deficiencies strategically to make sure that conservation always has relevance and purpose.
Our Laureate for this award goes to Bernado Strassburg and colleagues for a brilliant paper on restoration that removed all wildlife from any agricultural land. That’s 33 percent of the planet cleansed of all biodiversity in a line of code! It is one of the neatest solutions to the land sharing / sparing debate that we have ever encountered.
Better still, these wildlife distributions have now been imported en masse into other models, including an attempt to identify places where wildlife are threatened. Thus, no wildlife are now threatened on agricultural lands, because no wildlife are there! This has made it rather easy for several large fertiliser companies and farming unions to come on board and sponsor this award.
In addition to these allocated prizes the judges would welcome nominations for:
The Barbie-Saviour award for the conservationist whose life is most likely to be optioned by a major film-maker. Eligibility: Any white conservationist working in an exotic environment.
The Most Compassionate Conservationist Eligibility: Any conservationist who is in touch, and we mean seriously in touch, with their feelings.
Burton-Speke Most Original Re-Discoverer Award. Eligibility: Anyone who claims an original first sighting of something locals have known about for ages or completely reinvents an already existing field of study.
Biggest Map (Any map, about anything, just so long as it is enormous) Eligibility: Has to have been published in a very important journal, but in a tiny and scarcely legible way
Hi! My name is Preeti. I’m a melittologist, which means that I’m a scientist who studies bees. I study all sorts of things about bees, such as their diversity, environment, food, and their importance. I would like to introduce you to my friend, Robyn. She is an organic farmer from Australia. I first met Robyn at the Navdanya Biodiversity Farm in Dehradun, where I work.
Workers building the broken parts of the honeycomb
Robyn discovered a swarm of honeybees (called Apis indica by scientists) in one of the rubbish bins on the farm. The bees seemed to have built their hive and resided in the bin for several months. She was thrilled by their presence and would occasionally check on them. One fine morning in June 2020, she noticed many dead bees scattered around the bin. The lid was raised more than usual, exposing the honeycomb inside. The bees were working hard to build new combs to replace the damaged areas of the hive. Robyn noticed that in these new combs, the cells were fresh, regular, and creamy white, and had not yet been filled with honey.
When Robyn informed me about the dead bees she had found. I eagerly went to investigate. It was the peak of summer, and finding dead drone (male) bees around beehives was a common sight. This is because flowers become challenging to find around this time. Hence, honeybee workers (females) drive all the drones out of the hive because they feed on the already scarce food reserves. That’s why I was surprised to discover that none of the dead bees around the bin were drones.
Dead bees around the rubbish bin
Instead, they were all female worker bees. Worker bees have a strong relationship with their hive. They attack any intruder by delivering a painful sting, which injects bee venom. The worker bees die afterwards because they lose their stomach along with the sting, which gets stuck in the intruder’s body. On inspecting the dead bees closely, I found no signs of the stings being lost. I looked around the bin for more evidence and found something intriguing—a scat! That is what scientists call the poop of carnivorous mammals. My wildlife biologist colleagues confirmed that the scat belonged to a mongoose.
Mongoose scat may be mistaken for the poop of other similar animals, such as civets and porcupines. What differentiates it from the others is the shape, size, and contents. Mongoose scat is as thick as your little finger and as long as the diameter of a 10-rupee coin, and usually contains body parts of insects or other small animals, as well as the occasional fruit seed. Thus, we concluded that the Indian grey mongoose (or Herpestes edwerdsii according to scientists), the only mongoose species found around the farm, was the culprit who had visited the beehive!
Mongoose scat with scale for reference
Insects are a common food resource for mongooses. Robyn and I initially suspected that the mongoose simply attacked the hive to feed on the bees. Yet, many questions remained unanswered. If the mongoose did, indeed, come for the bees, why did it leave hundreds of them uneaten? Why destroy the hive? Why were there no broken pieces of beehive scattered around the bin? We were curious to discover the answers to these questions.
We started by doing some research on the diet of mongooses. From books, scientific papers, and the internet, we learned that mongooses eat live animals such as birds, small rodents, insects, reptiles, as well as fruits. Beetles form a large part of their diet compared to other insects. Some studies showed that they ate bees too. Yet, there were no clear leads to any of our questions regarding the hive. We scratched our heads over it for days together until—eureka! A possible explanation struck me. The mongoose may have come to eat the honey, and in the process, it consumed parts of the hive. The worker bees would have responded with an attack. The Indian grey mongoose is famously known to survive venomous snake bites due to their thick and tough fur. The bees might have died from exhaustion, trying hard to sting the intruder.
And this was how Robyn and I solved the mystery of the dead bees! Yes, you may ask why scientists have not reported honey in the mongoose diet previously. It is probably because honey is not visible in the scat. In science, one answer often leads to another question. Now we were left wondering whether mongooses have a sweet tooth. Now, who amongst you are nature detectives would like to carry out this new investigation?
“Conclusion! Indian grey mongoose Herpestes edwerdsii had visited the beehive.”
In Western Maharashtra, India, one can find several shrines of Waghoba, a deity representing a big cat, both tiger and leopard. The Warlis, as well as several other indigenous communities in the region, worship Waghoba as an integral part of their belief system.
To learn more about this deity and its significance to human-leopard interactions, we—a group of researchers from Wildlife Conservation Society-India, Wildlife Conservation Trust and Norwegian Institute for Nature Research—conducted a study across Mumbai Suburban, Thane and Palghar districts of Maharashtra. From November 2018 to April 2019, we explored the landscape to document how extensively the Waghoba deities were found, and interviewed people within the Warli community (Nair et al. 2021). By the end of the fieldwork, we had located 150 shrines! We also learnt a lot about Waghoba, including origin stories, myths, beliefs, iconography, rituals, experiences, and festivals. Through these stories and practices, we got a glimpse of the ways in which the people of that landscape comprehend the challenges of living with leopards.
Below is one version of Waghoba’s origin story that was narrated by a Warli interviewee:
Pc: Nikit Surve
‘Human-wildlife conflict’ and ‘livestock depredation’ may be relatively recent concepts for people working in conservation, but narratives such as the above show us that these challenges are not at all novel to the people in this landscape. They are entwined in the stories that have been passed down orally for innumerable generations within the communities.
The origin story narrates how Waghoba, due to his nature, kills livestock and the ways in which his mother negotiates a deal between the people and Waghoba to maintain co-existence. The festival of Waghbaras is a manifestation of this negotiation. Waghbaras is celebrated every year across western Maharashtra, including in the middle of cosmopolitan Mumbai. People offer livestock as a sacrifice to Waghoba, in exchange for his benevolence and protection from danger and harm, especially from big cats.
By listening to their stories and learning about their rituals and practices, we learnt that the people in this landscape don’t see leopards as just a menacing beast. They see Waghoba, and thus the leopard, as someone who is bound by his nature of being a big cat, while also being bound by a promise he has made to his human kin. Such a complex and nuanced picture of the being creates a space for the leopards to survive not only in the landscape but also within the Warli society.
Original paper:
Nair, R., Dhee, O. Patil, N. Surve, A. Andheria, J. D. C. Linnell, V. Athreya. 2021. Sharing Spaces and Entanglements With Big Cats: The Warli and Their Waghoba in Maharashtra, India. Frontiers in Conservation Science 2: 683356. doi: 10.3389/fcosc.2021.683356
Around midday in the hot sun, my 85-year old grandma, Yashodamma, came across a spectacled cobra (Naja naja) in her backyard. She lives by herself in a village called Humcha, located in the heart of the Western Ghats, the Shimoga district of Karnataka, India. In her absence for a couple of months, the cobra had probably found an undisturbed space in her backyard and made itself at home. This snake is highly venomous and one of the big four in terms of snakebite and human deaths across India. However, grandma’s first reaction on noticing it was not fear, as one would expect. Rather, she thanked the snake for appearing before her and prayed that it would not harm anyone. In Hinduism, spectacled cobras are considered to be the deity Nagaraja.
She kept an eye on the snake’s movement to make sure that it did not enter the house. Around 4 PM. she saw it slither across the road and towards the neighbour’s house. It then hid inside a gutter with only the tail visible to grandma. Out of curiosity, she continued to watch its activity. After an hour, the cobra’s tail started to wiggle strangely. A few minutes passed before it climbed slowly out of the gutter, body enlarged. It seemed to be struggling after ingesting something big. After a few more minutes, the snake appeared to be writhing in agony. By now, it had moved back towards grandma’s portico. Suddenly, it regurgitated an undigested rat, but continued to writhe with the shape of something else still in its stomach.
By this time, grandma realised that the snake was in agony and had started to feel its pain. She did not want to call any snake rescuers because many with poor knowledge would just catch and release the poor creature far away, adding to its stress. She placed a bowl of water near the snake but it was of no help. Around 7 PM, the snake died with its mouth wide open in grandma’s portico. She wept like there was a death in the family, informed the neighbours, and called a poojari (Hindu priest) to perform the cobra’s last rites. Nobody knew the cause of death for sure, but grandma concluded that the cobra had swallowed a pair of rats that had been poisoned by people. Rat poison is commonly used to keep the rat and bandicoot populations around the village in check.
This is one of several stories that show how coexistence with and tolerance of wildlife—even when they can be dangerous to humans—is cultural in India. Deep-rooted cultural values and norms, particularly amongst rural communities, are the reason wildlife continues to thrive in a densely populated country. For example, most elements of nature are worshipped as deities by Hindus—the elephant as Ganesha, turtle as Vishnu, boar as Varaha, wind as Vaayudeva, river as Kaveri, and so on. There is an intrinsic understanding of ecology and natural laws in daily life, which people also celebrate through seasonal festivals. Grandma knew how to safely share space with a venomous cobra, realised that releasing it far away from its territory would add stress, and understood the importance of the food chain and how disastrous poisoning rats was to the snake—something that the younger generation have to be taught in schools and Universities. She mourned the death of the snake for three days and on the fourth day, she was emotional while narrating the tragic story to my mother. Her connection to the snake was a combination of science and emotion towards the creature.
People’s relationship with nature and wildlife varies across cultures and can depend on religious beliefs, traditional practices, and daily lifestyles. Unfortunately, with increasing urbanisation and commercialisation, people are losing touch with nature as well as their culture. And as cultural connections to wildlife disappear along with grandma and her generation alike, the few practices that remain continue without their original meaning and relevance. Worship (in Hinduism) is limited to idols confined within constructed temples, while living Nagarajas end up as roadkill, Ganesha and Varaha are electrocuted, Vishnu is illegally traded, Vayudeva and Kaveri are polluted, and their habitats destroyed. With much of India’s wildlife living outside protected areas, retaining our deep cultural connection with wildlife is all the more important for their continued survival. Although grandma’s story strengthened my conviction that conservation is not possible without emotions and cultural values, it left me with several questions. How can wildlife conservation be brought back as an important aspect of culture? Is it the responsibility of our educational systems alone or do our families and the larger society have a role to play too? Ultimately, humanity is built around and shaped by culture, and retaining the true essence of that culture is what conservation needs the most today.
In the inky darkness of a lush Brazilian rainforest, a hungry predator is on the hunt. A Brazilian pit viper (Bothrops jararaca) is coiled, ready to ambush any prey that crosses its path. A patient hunter, it waits for the perfect moment to strike. An unsuspecting rodent scurries past. In a flash, the viper strikes. Two hypodermic needle-like fangs sink into the rodent, injecting it with lethal venom. The viper’s venom wreaks havoc on the rodent’s circulatory system. Within seconds, the cocktail of toxins present in the venom causes a severe drop in the rodent’s blood pressure, rendering it unconscious. Soon, the rodent stops moving. The snake can now feast on its prey. The venom has done its job.
Thousands of miles away, an adult human male is on the prowl. He scans through the colourful racks of the pharmacy, looking for his prescription medication. Like millions of humans, he suffers from hypertension, a contributor to humanity’s biggest killer—heart disease. He finally finds his medication: Captopril, a tablet that keeps his blood pressure in check. Its origin? Elements from the lethal pit viper venom which just killed the rodent. Behold snake venom: an unlikely elixir for humans.
Why venom?
It isn’t easy being a snake in the wild. Food is scarce and hunting prey is a task. Having no limbs and being dependent on external factors to regulate body temperature don’t help either. What weapon could snakes possibly deploy to counter these disadvantages?
A weapon which rapidly debilitates prey would be ideal. Over millions of years, snakes have evolved proteins, peptides, and enzymes in highly specialised glands to produce just that kind of weapon: venom.
These proteins, peptides, and enzymes act as toxins and attack specific biological pathways. Toxins are generally classified into three types: neurotoxic (impacting the central and peripheral nervous system), cytotoxic (impacting cells), and haemotoxic (impacting the cardiovascular system). Evidently, snake venom has evolved to attack some of the most sensitive systems in any animal. With its circulatory or nervous system in jeopardy, an envenomated animal’s chances of escaping from a snake are greatly reduced. However, it’s not just snakes that evolved to produce venom. Through random genetic mutations, distinct taxa such as sea anemones, bees, scorpions, and even some primates independently evolved to produce venom in ‘repurposed’ salivary glands—a phenomenon called convergent evolution. When these mutations proved advantageous, those species thrived due to natural selection favouring them.
The toxins started out as proteins involved in everyday physiological processes. Through genetic mutations, these seemingly harmless proteins evolved to be highly effective toxins that could target specific biological pathways. Take, for example, phospholipase type A2 (PLA2), a protein that is present in the venom of virtually all snake species. An ancestral, non-toxic PLA2 probably helped cells maintain a steady state. But a series of random genetic mutations eventually led to the evolution of PLA2 with an arsenal of neurotoxic, myotoxic, and haemotoxic functions.
Venom is fast-acting, effective, and debilitating. But is that all there is to it?
Beyond a deadly cocktail
Angiotensin-converting enzyme (ACE) is an enzyme that promotes the constriction of blood vessels, resulting in an increase in blood pressure. In the late 1960s, researchers discovered that Brazilian pit viper venom contained a peptide called Bradykinin potentiating factor (BPF) that could selectively inhibit ACE. This discovery aligned well with the fact that snake venom functioned by inducing a drastic drop in blood pressure, and was leveraged to develop a synthetic analogue of BPF, which could be used to treat hypertension by lowering blood pressure. Thus, Captopril (sold under the brand name Capoten) was the first ACE-inhibitor hypertension drug to be approved for human use.
Snake venom has proved to be a hit among drugs for cardiovascular ailments: Tirofiban (sold under the brand name Aggrastat) is used to treat unstable angina, a condition where insufficient blood flow to the heart—usually due to the formation of blood clots in the coronary artery—results in chest pain. Tirofiban is a synthetic version of a protein found in the venom of the saw-scaled viper (Echis carinatus), a snake responsible for a significant number of envenomations in India. Saw-scaled viper bites usually result in internal haemorrhaging. This is due to a protein in their venom known as echistatin, which binds to certain receptors on platelets, thereby preventing the timely formation of blood clots and leading to internal bleeding and shock.. While the viper uses this protein to ensure its prey is immobilised, humans benefit from a synthetic version of echistatin by using its clot-preventing property to treat unstable angina.
Another example is Integrilin, a drug used to prevent clot formation in heart attack patients, which uses a similar synthetic protein derived from the venom of the Southeastern pygmy rattlesnake (Sistrurus miliarius barbouri).
What does the future hold?
While these are but a few of the snake venom-derived drugs currently used to treat human ailments, there are several others undergoing testing. From the possibility of black mamba venom being used as a formidable painkiller to the prospect of desert black snake venom being used to treat infertility, snake venom is proving to be a treasure trove of potential treatments for various human conditions.
Snakes are generally looked upon with fear and disgust. The general attitude toward snakes, especially venomous snakes, is that they are repulsive and scary creatures. Evidently, there is a whole lot more to venomous snakes. Perhaps it’s time to stop looking at snakes as vermin, and instead, look at them as animals who, although dangerous at times, have the potential to do humanity much good.
Further reading:
Jenner, R. and E. Undheim. 2017. Venom: The secrets of nature’s deadliest weapon (Illustrated ed.). Smithsonian Books.
Mohamed Abd El-Aziz, T., A. Garcia Soares and J. D. Stockand. 2019. Snake venoms in drug discovery: Valuable therapeutic tools for life saving. Toxins11(10): 564.
The hazel dormouse is classified as ‘Vulnerable’ in the UK, due to a loss of suitable habitat. The species has been lost from much of its original range, particularly in the north of England, and remaining populations are declining by 3.8 percent per year. To restore dormice to areas where they are now extinct, a reintroduction programme was set up in 1993 by the People’s Trust for Endangered Species (PTES) and English Nature (now Natural England).
For a reintroduction to succeed, it is vital to select suitable sites based on the habitat requirements of the species. Dormice are habitat specialists, preferring diverse woodlands with a well-developed understorey. With a reduction in the size and distribution of this habitat, it’s difficult to find appropriate sites for future reintroductions. In this new study published in Conservation Science and Practice, we investigated how habitat suitability mapping could assist this process.
To create our dormouse habitat suitability map, we needed to identify which habitat characteristics are shared by sites where dormice are present. Firstly, we collected 51 maps which each contained details about a certain type of habitat, for example broadleaved woodland or distance to roads. We then combined this habitat information with a map showing where dormice are still present (using data from the PTES National Dormouse Monitoring Programme). This revealed that dormice prefer a high amount of broadleaved woodland, a steeper than average slope gradient, and less arable land nearby. Next, we used these results to calculate overall habitat suitability scores, which were then projected onto a map of England (see map below).
Map showing habitat suitability for the hazel dormouse, with lighter colours being more suitable than darker colours. The white dots represent where dormice are still found and are surveyed multiple times a year as part of the National Dormouse Monitoring Programme. The yellow stars represent the location of the existing 24 reintroduction sites used in this study. Taken from Cartledge et al.,2021.
We wanted to find out whether these habitat variables also influenced dormouse numbers at the 24 existing reintroduction sites. The same habitat factors identified from the habitat suitability mapping (broadleaved woodland, slope, and arable land) also affected the reintroduced dormice, showing just how important it is to select sites with suitable habitat for dormouse reintroductions. Interestingly, we found no effect of the site size on dormouse numbers, therefore finding suitable habitat should be prioritised when selecting future reintroduction sites. Note this doesn’t necessarily mean that site size isn’t important! However, it does mean that habitat variables were much more important for the dormice at the 24 reintroduction sites we investigated.
We then used all this information to take a closer look at the county of Cheshire, where the third ever UK dormouse reintroduction took place (in 1996). Unfortunately, there are no longer any signs of dormice using the nest boxes at the site. Why? It’s possible that the absence of habitat management has led to mature woodland which is no longer suitable for the dormice. This is further supported by our results, which also suggested that the original reintroduction site is no longer suitable. However, our habitat suitability maps can be used to identify potential sites for future reintroductions. We found that there are 45 other woodlands in Cheshire which are suitable. There are a few areas which contain clusters of suitable habitat, which we would recommend for future reintroductions, with the idea of setting up connected populations of dormice.
The habitat suitability score could have other uses for dormouse conservation. Dormice are a protected species, requiring mitigation if they live in an area of development. Our map could also be used to locate sites which are most likely to contain dormice. In the long-run, this could help to minimise the effort of surveyors and disturbance to the animals that live there.
Overall, this habitat suitability method could be used as a tool to identify potential sites for future reintroductions and to find priority areas for survey during mitigation and development. The same method could also easily be translated into suitability maps for other species, thus having the possibility of assisting reintroduction programmes for other species.
Further reading:
Cartledge, E. L., M. Baker, I. White, A. Powell, B. Gregory, M. Varley, J. L. Hurst et al. 2021. Applying remotely sensed habitat descriptors to assist reintroduction programs: A case study in the hazel dormouse. Conservation Science and Practice: e544. https://doi.org/10.1111/csp2.544
Wembridge, D., I. White, N. Al-Fulaij, E. Marnham and S. Langton. 2019. The State of Britain’s Dormice 2019. People’s Trust for Endangered Species. Retrieved from https://ptes.org/wp content/uploads/2019/11/SoBD-2019.pdf.
Semi-arid landscapes such as grasslands and savanna ecosystems support a high diversity of mammalian herbivores and carnivores across the globe. In India, these ecosystems cover ten percent of the land surface out of which less than five percent comes under its Protected Area network. Here, although these semi-arid landscapes are often termed as ‘wastelands’, they are important grazing grounds for millions of pastoralists who depend on livestock. Due to neglect, such landscapes are subjected to various threats, such as fragmentation, habitat degradation, conversion to agriculture, and urbanisation, which in turn threaten several important species, including the Indian grey wolf.
Indian grey wolves are the apex predators of these semi-arid landscapes and conserving wolves means not only conserving the habitat, but also the other species associated with it. Wolves in India are overshadowed by more charismatic species like the tiger and elephant, even though they are included under Schedule-1 of Wildlife Protection Act (1972)—the highest level of protection. For a large-ranging species like the wolf, it is important to understand not only the extent of the area in which it is present, but also the factors that help in the persistence of the species. Wolves generally reside outside protected areas, in the agricultural matrix, where due to high human densities, they often come into conflict with people. But well-managed protected areas can act as breeding centres for wolves. Therefore, identifying suitable patches and managing those patches efficiently inside protected areas could pave the path for wolf conservation in the larger landscape. Our recent study focused on identifying such important patches in the Kailadevi Wildlife Sanctuary (KWLS)—the last stronghold of wolves in Rajasthan.
We assessed the factors that govern the selection of sites by wolves, by dividing the whole of KWLS into grids and collecting data on the presence and absence of signs in those grids. Wolves generally occur in low densities, and methods such as radio-collaring are difficult to implement due to logistical constraints. But presence-absence can be inferred through indirect signs, such as pugmarks, scats (droppings), scratch marks, etc., which, combined with the use of sophisticated statistical techniques, can help in identifying important habitats for wolves.
Despite various threats that wolves face all across its distribution in India like loss of habitat, fragmentation, and persecution due to livestock loss, wolves have managed to survive in highly human-dominated landscapes, such as KWLS. In the absence of wild prey, such as chinkara (Indian gazelle), due to overgrazing by livestock, wolves have adapted by preying on livestock, which creates conflict with humans. Through our study we urge that immediate actions should be taken towards restoring the degraded habitat, and incentivized voluntary village relocation should be carried out to create space for the recovery of wild prey populations and to reduce the pressure of predation on livestock. Moreover, an efficient livestock compensation scheme should be put in place to reduce retaliatory actions against wolves. Our findings have the potential to aid wolf conservation not only in KWLS, but also in other wildlife reserves and sanctuaries across India and to help elevate the status of semi-arid landscapes in India from that of ‘wastelands’ to grasslands.
Further Reading
Mahajan, P., D. Khandal and K. Chandrawal. 2021. Factors influencing habitat-use of Indian Grey Wolf in the semiarid landscape of Western India. Mammal Study 47(1): 1-15. https://doi.org/10.3106/ms2021-0029
Protected areas—be it national parks, nature reserves and the like—are usually thought of as the most important means of conserving nature as well as the biodiversity and ecosystem services associated with them. At a global level, the number of protected areas as well as the total area under protection have steadily increased over the last decades. Yet, their distribution is severely biased towards certain regions, countries and continents.
Given the extraordinary threat biodiversity faces under the current and future climatic changes, it is uncertain which regions of the world will serve as refuges for the world’s fauna and flora. Thus, it is important that the existing protected areas ideally cover the full spectrum of environmental conditions, so that as many animals and plants as possible can still inhabit the optimal environmental niche where they can thrive.
To ensure this, we need to know which environmental conditions are over- or underrepresented by the current global protected area network. For this, we calculated the percentage area under protection across different environmental conditions. For the marine realm, we looked at factors such as sea surface temperature, sea surface salinity, and bathymetry (depth to the seafloor), and for the terrestrial realm, we considered temperature, precipitation, and elevation, which are among the main determinants of species richness in both realms. Combining the information on environmental conditions with the distribution of currently protected areas, we were able to assess the coverage across different environmental conditions. We not only did this for each factor (e.g., temperature) individually, but also for the pairwise combinations of the respective factors (e.g., temperature and precipitation). This was because the environmental niche of a species is often not just described by a single variable, but a combination of them.
Considering only one variable at a time, we found that for the terrestrial realm, high temperature, low precipitation as well as medium and very high elevation conditions were underrepresented. While for the marine realm, low and medium sea surface temperature, medium and high sea surface salinity conditions, as well as the deep sea were underrepresented. Looking at the pairwise combination of variables, we found that both cold and very dry terrestrial environments, i.e. deserts, had mostly low protection. This was also the case for low sea surface temperature as well as low and medium sea surface salinity conditions across most depths for marine environments.
Our findings indicate which biophysical conditions currently lack protection and where areas with these conditions are located. Together with biodiversity measures this information can be used to guide current and future conservation efforts, which will hopefully help to establish a more comprehensive global protected area network that will be more resilient to current and future climatic changes.
Further Reading
Biber, M. F., A. Voskamp and C. Hof. 2021. Representation of the world’s biophysical conditions by the global protected area network. Conservation Biology. https://doi.org/10.1111/cobi.13822.
Suppose you are taking shelter from a storm, and you find that your roof has not one but many, many leaks. The very thing that provides refuge from the downpour is now compromised, and unless you can patch every leak, you’re going to need to take refuge under another roof. For your shelter to protect you, it needs to keep out all the rain, not just some of it.
Apply this concept to conservation and you have what an interdisciplinary team of researchers are calling the domains of refugia, a new conceptual framework that can help us understand where natural communities can find shelter from multiple threats. The storm that is threatening the persistence of species or populations on the landscape, from which we need “shelter”, isn’t from a single threat. It’s a whole suite of threats, such as habitat loss, invasive species, shifting patterns of fire and water, and climate change.
In practice, conservation planning or management often focuses on a single threat—for example, climate change. The domains of refugia concept provides a new framework to recognize multiple threats and identify areas that can serve as refugia from them. In this framework, domains are social, ecological, or physical drivers, processes, or cycles that exert influence on landscape structure, function, or composition, such as changing climate or patterns of wildfire, that can act as a threat. The framework is structured around three questions: What threats do species and natural communities need protection from in the study area? How can refugial conditions be quantified and mapped? How can we use domains of refugia to inform conservation planning and management? These generalizable questions can be applied to different regions around the world, with adjustments made to accommodate different domain types and data sources, including land use maps, climate data, and fire history, among others.
We applied this framework to a Southern California landscape—a hotspot of biodiversity with a Mediterranean climate characterised by hot, dry summers and mild winters yielding annual precipitation levels typically less than 12 inches. While natural communities are adapted to persist in this already demanding landscape, they face many threats including changes in fire regime, unprecedented drought, human activities, and climate change. We found that sites with a high refugial capacity—aptly referred to as super-refugia—have on average 30 percent less frequent extremely warm summers, 20 percent less frequent fire events, 10 percent less exposure to altered channels and riparian areas, and 50 percent fewer trails than the surrounding landscape. The presence of these super-refugia sites are not insignificant—covering an area of nearly 8200 km2, roughly four times the size of Mauritius—yet are greatly under-represented in the existing protected area network. By characterising and identifying refugial conditions in this Southern California landscape, we have the ability to inform immediate efforts to expand protected areas.
Like our leaky roof, there are multiple threats to species and natural communities that we must consider when constructing our conservation plans and strategies. The highly adaptable domains of refugia framework maps these threats on a landscape scale, and provides us the ability to identify our shelters from the storm—super-refugia—and act now to safeguard them.
Figure 1. Refugia are sites with low exposure to multiple threats that can provide suitable conditions for species to retreat to, persist in and potentially expand from to other suitable sites. Domains are social, ecological or physical drivers, processes or cycles that exert influence on landscape structure, function or composition. Spatial variability of exposure to multiple threats across landscape domains (labeled 1-4) can create patterns of refugia (seen on right). Some sites may provide refugia from all threats, which we refer to as super-refugia (a), whereas other sites may provide refugia from only a few or some (b & c) or none (d) of the identified stressors of the landscape.
Further Reading
Isabel M. Rojas, Megan Jennings, Erin Conlisk, Alexandra D. Syphard, Jack Mikesell, Alicia M. Kinoshita, Krista West, Doug Stow, Emanuel Storey, Mark E. De Guzman, Diane Foote, Alexandria Warneke, Amber Pairis, Sherry Ryan, Lorraine E. Flint, Alan L. Flint, Rebecca Lewison. 2021. A landscape-scale framework to identify refugia from multiple stressors. Conservation Biology https://doi.org/10.1111/cobi.13834
The COVID-19 pandemic has impacted lives everywhere, including my own. It has been almost a year since I left the office and began working remotely. This change has left me grappling with feelings of isolation that I have never felt before. However, isolation is a phenomenon that impacts species beyond humans. I have come to empathise with one that is native to my hometown in Whatcom County, Washington—the Oregon spotted frog (Rana pretiosa). Their decline has been exacerbated by population isolation, which occurs when small populations of a species can no longer reach each other.
The Oregon spotted frog and I
The Oregon spotted frog is my neighbour on the Pacific Northwest coast of the United States of America. They are typically found at lower elevations in still water ponds connected by streams or ditches. Named after the black spots found across their back, Oregon spotted frogs can be green, tan, or red, and they have bright yellow or gold eyes. These frogs were once found in wetlands from southwestern British Columbia to northern California. But they now occupy only 10–30 percent of that territory, concentrated in limited areas of western Washington, southwestern British Columbia, and Oregon. Before the pandemic, I regularly travelled a similar distance, visiting family and friends in British Columbia and Northern California. I now only travel within my small city. This restriction in range makes me claustrophobic at times. However, for the Oregon spotted frog, this habitat limitation has led to them being listed as ‘threatened’ in the U.S. Endangered Species Act and as ‘endangered’ in Canada. There are multiple factors influencing the decline of the species. However, the loss and alteration of their wetland habitat is listed as one of the main causes.
Isolation and its consequences
Oregon spotted frogs rarely stray from wetlands. They utilise shallow ponds in the spring during their breeding season, while deeper waters suit their active lifestyle in the summer. In the winter, they seek natural springs, beaver features (areas with water overflowing stream banks or pools created by a dam), and other wetlands with emergent vegetation. Feeding, basking, mating, and movement between seasonal habitats all occur in the water. However, connected landscapes with habitat requirements for all seasons have become increasingly rare. This restriction of movement now feels similar to how almost all my activities are limited to my apartment. Yet, my experience differs from that of the Oregon spotted frog in that I have the option of leaving.
This isolation due to lack of aquatic habitat connectivity occurs at both the population level as well as between seasonal habitats. Population isolation occurs as groups of Oregon spotted frogs that used to congregate during breeding can no longer reach each other. While I currently feel isolated from my family and friends, these frogs have been dealing with isolation from their extended family and friends for generations. This has led to sub-divided genetic groups with low genetic diversity, or genetic variation, due to inbreeding. Maintaining and improving connectivity between seasonal habitats is important for the survival of individual frogs, while reducing population isolation improves the chances of survival of the species overall.
Aquatic habitat connectivity can be disrupted in several ways, with human structures and processes playing a major role. Similar to how I’m restricted by the physical constraints of signs, tape, plastic shields, walls, and other barriers to enforce social isolation; impervious surfaces, such as roads, can create physical barriers between populations of Oregon spotted frogs. Further, unsuitable habitats can also act as a barrier to connectivity if water quality, hydrology, and plant species composition impede movement between habitat patches.
Since receiving my first dose of the COVID-19 vaccination, I’m able to foresee an end to my isolation. While vaccine creation and dissemination brings hope for the end of the worst impacts of the virus, the future of Oregon spotted frog habitat improvement is grim. They have evolved to rely on aquatic habitat for much of their life history. Factors such as precipitation and temperature can have an enormous impact on the connectivity between populations. If the streams and ditches they use to move are dry or too warm, they become further isolated. Climate change projections for the Pacific Northwest also indicate that there will likely be a reduction in the overall water availability, which would create a reduction of water connectivity for the Oregon spotted frog. This in turn leads to further isolation. However, the good news is that we can work towards conservation solutions, similar to how we have worked towards mitigating the effects of the COVID-19 pandemic.
Conservation solutions
Conservation solutions for the Oregon spotted frog are complex and require a multi-pronged approach, similar to the COVID-19 pandemic. We are utilising social distancing measures, vaccine development and deployment, and protective equipment to bring an end to the pandemic. Conservation solutions for the frog depend on decreasing their isolation through maintaining habitat connectivity, expanding and maintaining Oregon spotted frog habitat, and the founding of additional populations.
Captive breeding and head-starting
Some work is already ongoing to potentially reintroduce Oregon spotted frogs into areas that were likely part of their former range. Similarly, captive breeding, reintroduction, and head-starting programmes are underway in Canada and the United States. In head-starting programmes, young individuals are removed from wild populations and raised in captivity during vulnerable life stages, before being reintroduced into the population. This is comparable to how more vulnerable human populations, such as the elderly or those with autoimmune disorders, had special grocery store hours and other measures to protect them until the vaccine became available.
Captive breeding with reintroduction and head-starting programmes help conserve Oregon spotted frogs by introducing more genetic diversity into isolated populations. However, there are a few challenges. Some studies have shown that wild populations can be harmed by captive-reared reintroductions. This is because those animals do not survive as well, despite increasing genetic diversity. It also takes many captive frogs to have sufficient genetic diversity. This problem is currently being improved by a new method that involves freezing sperm from different individuals, minimizing the number of males needed to be kept in captivity. However, like social distancing measures, captive breeding and head-starting are only temporary measures. Predictive modeling suggests that these measures can likely reduce short-term extinction, but they will not save the species in the long term. It is common in reintroduction programmes for the original threats that cause a species’ decline to continue to impact the introduced animals and the population as a whole. Thus, it is imperative to also address the issue of habitat loss and alteration.
Habitat improvement
Habitat loss is considered the leading cause of decline of the Oregon spotted frog. Reversing the loss of habitat is important for improving genetic diversity in the frog populations. As with COVID-19, where achieving a high proportion of vaccinated individuals is the only way to end the pandemic; improving, maintaining, and creating suitable Oregon spotted frog habitat is essential to ensuring their long-term persistence.
Of special concern is the loss and alteration of shallow breeding wetlands. This, in part, is caused by invasive reed canary grass (Phalaris arundinacea). Controlling invasive aquatic plants is difficult because herbicides can cause damage to amphibians and many mechanical or manipulative approaches have limited effectiveness. Fortunately, recent work has shown that some herbicides can be used without harm to the Oregon spotted frog to control the reed canary grass. These herbicides are now being applied, but eradication takes several applications over a few years.
Cattle grazing was also shown to successfully reduce reed canary grass in these habitats in 2003. However, livestock cannot remove the plant permanently, and can also lead to adverse impacts by contributing to water quality issues. To be used effectively, it should be limited to open thick stands of reed canary grass. Studies are being conducted to understand the full impact of grazing on Oregon spotted frogs. Similarly, mowing reed canary grass is a short-term solution because it will not remove the grass permanently. These solutions are reminiscent of utilizing protective equipment, such as masks, against COVID-19. They are not completely effective. However, if implemented repeatedly and universally, protective equipment can help minimise the spread. In the case of the cattle grazing and mowing, it can help to rebuild populations until more permanent solutions are found.
Apart from invasive plant management, other habitat improvements can also be made. We have all sought ways to improve our lives at homes, in order to deal with overwhelming feelings of social isolation. I have personally bought new books and other sources of entertainment. I have also created an office for myself at home.
Introducing and protecting beavers (Castor canadensis) is one way to improve Oregon spotted frog habitat. Beavers help create suitable habitats and increase habitat connectivity. Improving water connectivity between habitats is just as essential. Even man-made ditches can help the frogs travel farther to overwintering habitats. Additionally, improvement or maintenance of water quality, hydrology, and vegetation are also important for creating suitable habitat and ensuring habitat connectivity. Habitat improvements must focus on the physical, spatial, and environmental requirements of the Oregon spotted frog to be effective.
Conclusion
Population isolation—due to lack of habitat and water connectivity—is leading to the decline of the Oregon spotted frog, and we are largely to blame. Some of the last remaining suitable frog habitat is in my hometown. Until recently, I wasn’t aware of their existence. If it were not for my own isolation during the COVID-19 lockdown, I would not have empathised as deeply with their plight. For the effective conservation of the Oregon spotted frog, habitat concerns should be addressed, populations should be augmented, and populations need to continue to be monitored. This requires both community and global involvement. Much of the Oregon spotted frog habitat in Whatcom County is on private land. Local residents, like myself, can help by spreading awareness of the frog’s struggles and the different methods that can be deployed to increase habitat and water connectivity. Awareness can then lead to further community action, such as improving water quality in local waterways and advocating for beaver protection.
Further Reading
Duarte, A., J. T. Peterson, C. A. Pearl, J. C. Rowe, B. McCreary, S. K. Galvan, and M. J. Adams. 2020. Estimation of metademographic rates and landscape connectivity for a conservation-reliant anuran. Landscape Ecology 35(6): 1459–1479.
Funk, W. C., C. A. Pearl, H. M. Draheim, M. J. Adams, T. D. Mullins, and S. M. Haig. 2008. Range-wide phylogeographic analysis of the spotted frog complex (Rana luteiventris and Rana pretiosa) in northwestern North America. Molecular Phylogenetics and Evolution 49(1): 198–210.
Robertson, J. M., M. A. Murphy, C. A. Pearl, M. J. Adams, M. I. PáezVacas, S. M. Haig, D. S. Pilliod, et al. 2018. Regional variation in drivers of connectivity for two frog species (Rana pretiosa and R. luteiventris) from the U.S. Pacific Northwest. Molecular Ecology 27(16): 3242–3256.
You know how the saying (kind of) goes, ‘Always judge a book by its content page?’ That is at least what I was thinking when I started reading Janaki Lenin’s book, Every Creature Has a Story. Not only does it have a beautiful cover, it has a riveting Contents page. Here are a few examples–
Airborne Sleep Sticklebacks Hold Their Water Wasps Enslave Spiders to Weave for Them Pregnant Fathers Laziness Has Its Uses Did Moby Dick Sink the Pequod?
And it just gets better from there. Underscored by a tagline that tells readers, What Science Reveals About Animal Behaviour, author and filmmaker Lenin’s book is a collection of 50 essays, updated and selected from her column in The Wire. Lenin’s series offers a fascinating understanding of animal behaviour, while breaking down complex science and research for the reader.
For instance, in ‘Rodent Monogamy’ Lenin considers the question of what makes some prairie voles ‘stick to one mate and the others wander?’ Explaining research that otherwise would be gobbledygook for many of us, she explains the way vasopressin, a hormone produced by the hypothalamus influences social behaviours. It’s enthralling stuff, suffused with generous doses of humour and insight.
I was fascinated by ‘The Scent of a Fur Seal’, where Lenin writes about the curious case of Antarctic fur seal mothers being able to locate their offspring after having travelled as far as 240 km over five to ten days in search of food. Countless documentaries came to mind as I read this chapter slowly, taking it all in. As a children’s book author, I have always read in stories on how seahorses make for great dads, as males are the ones who get pregnant. Lenin talks to Camilla Whittington and her colleagues at the University of Sydney, Australia, to understand this better. Including how on a full moon night, the father produces ‘isotocin, the fish equivalent of oxytocin’ to induce labour. Never looking at a full moon night in the same way again! And that a ‘big-belly seahorse dad’ can produce some 1,100 babies.
Another example of good paternal behaviour that Lenin cites is that of ‘young male moustached warblers’ who, if the fathers do a runner, step into incubate eggs, feed the female’s young chicks, and keep predators away. Surrogacy in the bird world, who’d have thought that there were so many examples, and such sound reasons for them.
There are lots of aha moments in the book, awe-and aww-inducing ones as well. Like when Lenin explores the question ‘Are Humpback Whales Altruistic?’ It turns out, they do go out of their way to rescue their own kind, and sometimes other creatures! Marine biologist Robert Pitman, who is with the National Marine Fisheries Service, US, offers insight into their Good Samaritan motivation—along with his colleagues, he has compiled some 115 cases of humpbacks confronting killer whales in the Pacific and Atlantic Oceans.
From looking at bird song to parenting behaviour and literary history to prey-predator relationships, the author takes on complex subjects with panache and offers scientific reasoning and research in each essay, separating fact from anecdotes. What’s also fantastic is that Lenin delves into different species, but mostly she looks at oft-ignored ones—from ants to snails and shrews to wasps. It’s bizarre, it’s enthralling, and it’s witty. And she does all of this with clarity and a scientific curiosity which is really infectious.
In her Introduction, Lenin admits that it hasn’t always been easy. The basis of the essay was a column, which means short deadlines and so she appreciated the chance to ‘update and tinker’ with stories for the book. ‘As if the challenge of getting the science right and communicating it accurately weren’t enough,’ she writes, ‘I also aspired towards another goal—to entertain and connect with readers who knew nothing about the animals.’ That is a good goal to aspire to, and Lenin achieves it and how.
Also, I must admit, having this book in hardback, given that it’s so beautifully produced (not to mention extensively researched), makes it a joy to hold and read.
When it comes to animal behaviour, few Indian books approach the subject from the lens of science for mainstream narratives. Usually these strands are restricted to academia, which is why Every Creature Has a Story becomes something of a landmark publication. Especially at the time it has been published—we’re entering into what is now being called as the Sixth Extinction, we’re firmly in the Anthropocene, not to mention a pandemic, and it’s become imperative, as developmental biologist K Vijay Raghavan, in his foreword to the book writes, ‘to understand earth’s many remaining natural wonders better, even as we strive to restore it to stability.’ And Every Creature Has a Story does just that.
I’m not going to lie, I am bonkers for bats. I can point to three bat-related experiences that have piqued my curiosity and tugged at my wonderment. These experiences helped teach me that bats are fascinating, they benefit all of our lives, are an essential part of the ecosystem, and need our help now. Though some of my stories might have some saying “no, thank you”, I hope that by the end you share my appreciation for the coolest creatures ever.
Up Close and Personal
I grew up in the middle of nowhere, the kind of town where you have to drive a few miles to get to the nearest grocery store and walk ten minutes to get to the next house over. One day my family and I returned home to find a little brown creature in the stairway. It was fuzzy, had a small snout, little black eyes, and large ears. At first glance, I thought it was a mouse, but after closer inspection, I could see wings! This little bat got stuck in our house, and my mom donned some gloves to scoop it into a container. Feeling sorry for the little bat, I put a piece of banana in the container. Of course, since all bats in the Pacific Northwest—and almost all bats in North America—are insectivorous, the bat didn’t even touch the banana. When evening came we put the container outside, left the lid off, and within an hour, it flew away. This was the first time I had ever seen a bat up close, and to me, it didn’t seem so scary.
If you ever come across a bat somewhere it shouldn’t be, contact your local wildlife agency or rehabber. If you absolutely need to move it, make sure you wear gloves or find ways to collect the animal using a box to keep you both safe. There are a lot of mysteries about our bat populations so if you find a colony of bats, report it to your local wildlife agency. This could fill in gaps in knowledge about our local species.
In reading this you may be wondering, aren’t bats dangerous? What about rabies? Viruses? Even COVID-19? Bats are thought to be rabid, but it is very rare for a bat to have rabies, and even more rare for a bat to infect a person. Usually, when someone is bitten it is because they picked up the bat without precaution and the bat is trying to defend itself. In the U.S., if a bat bites a human the bat must be tested for rabies. Testing for rabies requires killing the bat, whether or not the bat is sick.
COVID-19 is believed to be a zoonotic disease that originated from an animal and has yet to be determined which animal or species it spread from. A few species of bats and other animals have been found to carry similar coronaviruses, which makes them suspected culprits. However, you cannot get COVID-19 from any North American bats. Blaming bats and eradicating or killing them will not solve issues of the current or any future pandemic. Humans are putting themselves in danger by destroying natural habitats and bringing wild animals in close contact with themselves and other animals. Bringing together different species in an unnatural and stressful environment, such as live and wet markets, give viruses new opportunities to spread.
Considering other viruses or diseases, bats should not be feared but learned from. They have incredible immune systems that work differently from humans’. When bats fly, their body temperature rises to what would be considered a fever for humans, then their temperature plummets when they torpor, or hibernate. This makes it very difficult for a virus to survive because it must endure such a wide range of temperatures within a 24-hour period. This is thought to be one of the reasons bats live unusually long for their size.
Currently, in North America, a disease called Whitenose Syndrome (WNS) is devastating whole colonies of bats. The disease is caused by a fungus called Pseudogymnoascus destructans (Pd) that attacks bats while they are hibernating. This disturbance awakens infected bats during the winter when there are little or no insects available to eat. This depletes their fat stores, causing the bats to starve to death. Finding a bat during this season is especially important to report to your local wildlife agency. If WNS is the culprit, they will be able to gather more information about the disease. People do not have to worry about getting sick from WNS, but they should worry about accidentally spreading it. If you go into caves or near colonies it is important to clean and sanitize any clothes, equipment, or shoes between locations. It is thought that people are responsible for the spread of Pd from Europe to North America and across state lines. It seems that bats should fear people and not the other way around.
I Can Hear You but I Cannot See You
Bats are difficult to research. They are nocturnal, have the ability to fly very far, very fast, and many bats roost in inconspicuous spaces. Their unpredictable flight pattern while chasing insects makes it difficult to observe a single bat for longer than a few seconds. As night falls, it becomes difficult to see bat silhouettes zigzagging against the darkening sky. This poses the question, how do they see with no light? Bats are not blind nor do they have superb eyesight. So, what is their biological version of night vision goggles? They have something better: the ability to echolocate.
Historically, people would shoot bats with shotguns to study them. Nowadays a great way to learn about bats is through detecting their echolocation calls. Echolocation allows bats, and a few other animals, such as dolphins and shrews, to project sound that will bounce off objects like echoes. These echoes return and are translated by skillful ears into a sort of image. With this, a bat can determine how far away an object is, how big it is, and even what it is. Even though bats use sound to depict their surroundings, we cannot hear them because the series of chirps (or calls) most bats produce are at a higher frequency than humans can hear. Bat detectors are devices that translate the calls into a lower audible frequency. In some cases, knowing the frequency and waveform shape of the call is enough information to identify the species of bat.
To further my studies in the field, I went out with a bat detector to listen for bats. Recording calls cannot tell us how many bats are in the area, but it can tell us if bats are present. Bats are often associated with caves or forests, but did you know that some bats live in or frequent large cities? I recorded bat calls within the city of Seattle with an Echo Meter Touch, a bat detector that plugs into a smartphone. The accompanying app by Wildlife Acoustics identifies the species of bat in real-time. I recorded a silver-haired bat, big brown bat, and little brown bats all of which are known to live in the Seattle area. The neat thing about bat detectors is that when you are listening to the bats, you are not disturbing them and it allows you to ‘see’ them in the dark when you cannot watch them.
Grumpy Faces and Angry Squeaks
By far the most exciting experience I ever had was a class field trip to Dusty Lake. Before this I liked them, but this was the moment that I really fell in love with bats. In the evening we set up a mist net trap above a small stream. A mist net resembles a very thin volleyball net with pouches which allows scientists to safely get their hands on bats (or birds). In practice, a bat will fly into the net and become stuck in a pouch. The researcher will free the bat, take measurements and notes on each individual captured. Carefully handling the bat allows for detailed data gathering, species identification, and leaves them unharmed, if not a little upset.
I had seen a bat up close before, but nothing compared to watching the interaction between my professor and the bats. My professor did all of the work while the rest of us watched in awe. As the bat was being handled it made a little grumpy face, let out a series of small frustrated squeaks, and struggled like mad to escape. Once my professor was done, he would place the little bat either in the breast pocket of his shirt or on top of his shoulder. Lo and behold the bats would just hang out—no more anger, no more squeaking, they just sat on him until they were ready to go, and then they would just fly away.
Observing these small creatures at close quarters eliminated any and all fears I ever harboured. As I did more research, I learned bats are more similar to humans than most people would think. Bats are social animals and have a sense of community. They have been found to share food and in some cases will adopt pups who lost their mom. Bats are not the evil beings they are advertised to be in movies and horror stories but are magnificent hard workers, who just happened to get stuck with the graveyard shift.
The Takeaway
You may wonder where you can see bats. Well, bats are everywhere! Or, almost everywhere. Bats live all around the world, except for in very cold climates such as Antarctica. There are over 1,400 species of bats worldwide, which are split into two groups: the microbats and megabats. Microbats are echolocators, tend to be smaller and eat a variety of prey, depending on the bat species. This includes anything from insects, scorpions, fish, nectar, and even blood. All bats in North America are part of this group, with the vast majority being insectivores. Megabats, on the other hand, tend to be larger, have better eyesight, a better sense of smell, and smaller ears in comparison. These bats are also known as the Old World fruit bats and primarily consume fruit and nectar. Their fruit eating habits actually help reforest lands by planting new trees. By eating fruit and pooping out the seeds as they fly, species of megabats disperse the seeds of mangoes, figs, bananas, and avocados, making them vital to the production of many of our favorite commercial fruits.
If you would like to observe a wild bat, just pop out around sunset and look toward the sky. Bats are most active during warmer months, and if you want to increase your chances, head to a body of water such as a lake or stream. If you are really lucky, and you happen to be near a bat colony, you might be in for quite a sight. The largest known colony—and largest known mammalian congregation—resides in Bracken Cave, Texas. Here you can watch millions of Mexican free-tailed bats exiting the cave together. There are many areas with large colonies of bats, and with a little research you might find one close to you.
All bats are incredibly important to both the ecosystem and people. They pollinate plants, disperse seeds, and eat an unfathomable number of insects. Bats need to be a high priority in research so we can learn how best to conserve them. Further, bats do not only need support from scientists, but they need support from you and me. If you are a fan, share your enthusiasm, tell your friends and family. Physical actions can also be taken, like preserving snags (dead trees) for homes, restoring native vegetation and habitat, planting night-blooming flowers, keeping your cat indoors, or joining a citizen science project to study bats yourself. Some ongoing citizen science projects include the Long Island Bat Watch, the Spotted Bat Project hosted by Oregon State University, and Neighborhood Bat Watch throughout Canada. There are many ways to help bats no matter where you live, how old you are, and what you do. Stand up for those who hang upside down and give them the support they need.
Further Reading
Gorbunova, V., A. Seluanov, and B. K. Kennedy. 2020. The world goes bats: living longer and tolerating viruses. Cell Metabolism 32(1): 31–43.
Hoyt, J. R., A. M. Kilpatrick, and K. E. Langwig. 2021. Ecology and impacts of white-nose syndrome on bats. Nature Reviews Microbiology 19: 196–210.
Konda, M., B. Dodda, V. M. Konala, S. Naramala, and S. Adapa. 2020. Potential zoonotic origins of SARS-CoV-2 and insights for preventing future pandemics through one health approach. Cureaus 12(6): 1–9.
“As food, caterpillars are regulars in the village, but meat is a stranger.”
− A Yansi saying from the Democratic Republic of the Congo (1)
The practice of using insects as a food source is older than you might think, and is intertwined with humanity’s food culture, both in the past and present, and with clues to the future.
The story begins far back in evolutionary time. To set the stage: it is around the same time as the extinction of the dinosaurs, and warming global temperatures are causing a radiation and diversification of flowering plants. Important pollinators like insects follow, as do insectivorous vertebrates (insectivorous: consuming insects as food, predominantly used for non-human animals). The first primates, the common ancestor of all apes, monkeys, and human beings today, likely evolved around this time too, 50 million years ago. This scrappy ancestor of ours was likely insectivorous as well. Like the aye aye, tamarins, and the marmoset, several smaller primate species living today remain predominantly insectivorous.
Our story flashes forward down the human evolutionary line to the genus Australopithecus, evolving shortly after our split from our last common ancestor with the chimpanzees six million years ago. These ‘upright walking apes’ have specialisations to furnish a relatively newer innovation—walking on two legs. Bipedalism requires major adaptations in the hip joints, back, knees and feet. Many Australopithecines also show another important specialisation—the use of tools.
Tool use and diet
The archaeological site of Swartkrans is a limestone cave in the Cradle of Humankind World Heritage Site in South Africa, in which fossils have accumulated over time. It is the site of some of the oldest known bone tools used by the Australopithecine, A. robustus. Of particular interest here are highly polished bone tools around the size of a sausage. They have a wear pattern on the ends, consisting of fine striations parallel to their long axis. This pattern, combined with the fact that it was found on so many tools in one area, rules out the possibility of it being caused by non-human agents like weathering or gnawing by hungry carnivores. They were human tools!
These tools were generally thought to have been used to dig up tubers, which continue to be an energetically important food source today. In 2001, researchers Backwell and d’Errico took a second look. They created experimental tools, used them for various tasks, and then used microscopy to compare the resultant wear patterns with the archaeological specimens. The surface modifications on the artefacts matched those of tools used to dig into termite mounds. Termite mounds consist of uniformly sized soil that has been finely sorted, and so unlike digging into rocky uneven soil for tubers, fine parallel wear is produced. In case of digging for tubers, the tool needs to be manoeuvred in different directions—so the pattern showed scarring that was deeper and multi-directional. Further studies have suggested a multi-use hypothesis: early humans might have used the bone tools for termite foraging in addition to digging for tubers, processing hide and harvesting bark.
In the habitat of early hominids, social insects like termites would have been abundant and easy to locate, making them a viable, nutritious addition to the diet. Even as Homo sapiens has evolved, that has remained true. The fact that early humans likely had insects in their diet demonstrates what a perfectly natural dietary component they are. A diet incorporating insects, with the appropriate cultural and social knowledge of which to eat and when, is as natural as a diet eating shrimp and lobster, insects’ arthropod cousins.
Choosing what to eat
Today, more than 2000 species of edible insects are consumed by human beings. The UN’s Food and Agricultural Organisation (FAO) estimates that insects make up the traditional diets of around two billion people.
For both hominid ancestors and modern foragers and cultivators, several considerations are made about which edible insects are eaten. What species of insects are consumed depends generally on how big they are and how many are available. To make the effort to catch them worthwhile, they must be easy to locate, preferably in large quantities. Beetles (Order Coleoptera) are the most diverse insect group, so, unsurprisingly, they are also the most commonly consumed. Caterpillars, bees, wasps, ants, and termites, along with grasshoppers and crickets, are among some of the other commonly eaten insects.
There is a rich history of edible insects in traditional and street food culture in tropical regions worldwide. Insects are consumed at various life stages and may be eaten raw, fried, boiled, roasted or ground. Edible insect consumption was widespread among pre-colonial populations in most of Asia, Africa, and large parts of South America.
Mopane worms (Gonimbrasia belina), the brightly coloured caterpillar of the Emperor moth, have been eaten for generations across Southern Africa. They are available seasonally and are generally handpicked, often by women and children. The caterpillars are gutted, boiled and sun-dried, which can preserve them for several months. Depending on how they are prepared, they can taste like everything from tea to burnt steak. Mopane worms are a profitable harvest, both nutritionally and economically, and they are increasingly beingcommercialised.
In Australia, witchetty (witjuti) grubs refer to the large, white larvae of several moths and beetles. It is most commonly used to refer to the larvae of the cossid moth Endoxyla. They are eaten raw or lightly cooked and are an important ‘bush food’ to Aboriginal Australians.
Fried spiders, while not technically insects, are a Cambodian delicacy. The practice started out as a ‘hunger food’ in response to crippling food scarcity during the bloody regime of the Khmer Rouge. The spider is the Thai zebra tarantula, which are safe to eat, cook quickly and have high amounts of protein and zinc. Today, the spiders are a popular deep-fried street food and tourist attraction. Worryingly, increased deforestation has threatened the spiders’ natural habitat, leading to concerns over the sustainability of this food source.
Several edible insects are also ‘pests’ on crops. In Burkina Faso, the shea caterpillar (Cirina butyrospermi), known colloquially as ‘chitoumou’, feeds off trees grown to produce shea butter. The seasonal collection and sale of these edible caterpillars represent a valuable income source for women in the region. The caterpillars are an important source of animal protein. If you wish to eat them immediately, the larvae may be boiled in water, and fried in butter, but the caterpillars may also be boiled and sun-dried to preserve them for sale in markets.
While wild-harvested edible insects are important supplements to traditional diets, they are often seasonal.
In central Japan, the edible wasp Vespula flaviceps is a delicacy. The wasps are traditionally gathered in late autumn when the nests are the largest. The process of collecting the wasps involves first creating a bait of meat to attract the carnivorous worker wasps. When a wasp is attracted, it is offered a wasp-sized piece of meat attached with a marker, made of cotton wool or plastic. If this process is successful, the wasp is followed through the forest to locate the nest. Smoke is used to sedate the wasps, and the nest is dug out for harvesting.
The harvesting is time-consuming, energy-intensive, and following the wasps across the forested mountain landscape is dangerous. Today, there has been a push for domestication, with wasp collectors relocating nests to human-made hive boxes.
Domestication is often expensive and unsuccessful, but, in this case, economics is not the primary motivator for keeping the wasps. The species remains deeply significant to the food culture, with annual festivals organising competitions for the biggest wasp nest, either harvested or cultivated. Celebrations of the wasp harvest involve various delicacies, and an opportunity to exchange knowledge about collection and cultivation.
Nutritional benefits
Edible insects present an important nutritional opportunity in a changing world. World hunger is on the rise, affecting 690 million people worldwide (2).
The world’s population is estimated to be well over nine billion by 2050. Increasing our livestock production to meet these demands would increase the pressure for land and freshwater and release increased amounts of the greenhouse gases associated with conventional meat sources.
Meeting the challenges of feeding humanity, today and in the future, will require a restructuring of our global food production systems. Edible insects are rich in protein and have an energy content similar to other sources of meat like chicken and beef. Excluding domesticated sources, fat is hard to come by in the natural world, and edible insects are an important source of the nutrient. The specific nutrient profile varies across insect species and can depend on what the insects are fed on, their stage of development, sex, and environmental factors. A higher fat content is found in insect larvae and soft-bodied species like termites, while crickets and grasshoppers, having a hard exoskeleton have lower fat levels. Although data on the exact quantities is limited, edible insects are also sources of micronutrients like zinc, calcium and vitamin A. Iron levels in insects also tend to be higher than most plant-based alternatives to meat protein.
Insects in a changing world
While humanity’s ancestors might have subsisted by wild-foraging on insects for their diets, we may not be so lucky. Worldwide, insects are facing an apocalypse. Recent studies have predicted that insects could vanish within a century at their current rate of decline. The main cause of this decline? The intensification of agriculture and pesticide use. Traditional indigenous knowledge of the management of these insects and their habitat is also fast disappearing.
To avoid the unsustainable overexploitation of already-imperilled wild edible insect populations, the FAO proposes a solution—the rearing of insects for food and animal feed. Better knowledge of insect ecology, life cycles, and ecosystem dynamics could help increase efficiency while maintaining nutritional quality.
Small-scale rearing of insects has a lighter environmental impact than typically Western forms of animal protein. Demand for animal protein increases the demand for grain and protein as fodder for livestock. Around six kilograms of plant protein are needed to feed livestock to produce one kilogram of high quality animal protein. Being cold-blooded, insects can convert feed into increased body mass more efficiently—crickets can convert feed to meat with an efficiency two, four and twelve times that of chicken, pigs and cattle, respectively.
Edible insects produce fewer levels of greenhouse gases than most livestock and require considerably less water. As it can be done in vertically stacked boxes, insect-rearing does not need extensive land-clearing to expand production. (A necessary addendum: further research is needed into potential allergens associated with edible insects and to ensure that environmental benefits of insect rearing are retained when scaled up.)
Insects also provide household level livelihood opportunities, as this ‘mini livestock’ already forms a part of street food culture in many parts of the world. In urban and rural areas, involvement in cultivation, processing and sale of insects can provide a source of nutrition and extra income to marginalised groups like women and the landless.
What’s stopping us?
At this point, it would be worthwhile to consider why we don’t already have insects as a part of our collective diet. Developing countries are seeing an increasing ‘westernisation’ of their diets. Western countries historically tend to look upon the practice as taboo (see: any season of the reality show Fear Factor). The reasons are probably twofold—the climate in northern latitudes is colder and necessitates eating meat. By comparison, in the tropics, several edible species might be found all year round, and harvests can be more predictable.
Climate might explain the lack of eating insects, but not the associated disgust. The origin of human disgust is all too often dependent on culture, on history, mobility, and, in this case, colonialism. The consumption of insects by indigenous peoples was often looked upon as further evidence of their differences from the colonialist’s ideal, and was used as a justification for the dehumanisation and atrocities that followed. Disgust is often used to maintain hierarchies. Similar problems arise out of dominant perceptions of class, caste and tribe, where associated insecteating is looked down upon, leading to the loss of these food practices.
Food and power
While considering how we can use the opportunity (both nutritional and environmental) that insects provide us, it is equally important to recognise that overhauling our food production systems provides us with the opportunity to not simply reinforce the power imbalances that brought this present crisis upon us. Resource extraction must benefit the people most threatened by food insecurity.
Since 2010, insect products are increasingly being sold online as the edible insect movement has gained traction in predominantly white countries. They are priced far higher than meat products, limiting their access from most of the world. Further, their increasing popularity among those with resources drives prices up, meaning that traditional consumers eventually may no longer have access.
Edible insect products in the market reveal little information on the social and ecological contexts of their production. A more democratic approach would involve consideration of who produces, controls and benefits from this resource. Visualising a more democratic food production system that truly benefits the underprivileged will depend on how the profits are distributed within the trade chain.
Food challenges are not due to a lack of food but due to structural inequalities. What structures will we be reinforcing through our food choices, both old and new?
Footnotes
(1) Muyay, T. 1981. Les insectes comme aliments de l’homme: Serie II, Vol. 69. Democratic Republic of the Congo, Ceeba Publications.
(2) FAO, IFAD, UNICEF, WFP and WHO. 2020. The State of Food Security and Nutrition in the World 2020. Transforming food systems for affordable healthy diets. Rome, FAO.
Further reading
Dobermann, D., J. A. Swift and L. M. Field. 2017. Opportunities and hurdles of edible insects for food and feed. Nutrition Bulletin 42(4): 293–308.
Payne, C. L. R., A. Badolo, S. Cox, B. Sagnon, D. Dobermann, C. Milbank, P. Scarborough et al. 2020. The contribution of ‘chitoumou’, the edible caterpillar Cirina butyrospermi, to the food security of smallholder farmers in southwestern Burkina Faso. Food Security 12(1): 221–234.
Müller, A., J. Evans, C.L.R. Payne and R. Roberts. 2016. Entomophagy and power. Journal of Insects as Food and Feed 2(2): 121–136.
Folklore depicts the rich cultural heritage of a society’s past and plays a significant role in shaping its beliefs and customs. They help inculcate values, transfer knowledge, and promote wisdom in individuals of that society. According to the study published in the journal Frontiers of Environmental Science in February 2021, folktales are also influential in paving the way for human-wildlife coexistence in the high altitudes of the Himalayas in Ladakh, India.
The study, authored by Dr. Saloni Bhatia and collaborators, presses us to consider folklore as a tool to understand people-wildlife interactions in the “Land of High Passes”.
“We, who are interested in conservation, tend to look at everything in a sort of utilitarian perspective, but the cultural things transcend the realm of conservation. It’s more of a way of life,” says Bhatia, who is currently associated with IIT-Bombay for her postdoctoral studies. People’s perception of wildlife is often driven by their traditional and cultural values, norms and practices. Scientists have recently started to identify the importance of multidisciplinary research that takes these parameters into account to understand the complex mechanisms of human-wildlife coexistence.
This study tried to dissect the cultural values behind the human-wildlife relationships in the Indian Trans Himalayan region. Archived documents and semi-structured interviews with the locals were used to collect narratives about ibex, wolves, and snow leopards, as well as a mythical carnivore called seng ge or snow lion, often mentioned in the local Tibetan Buddhist folklore. They found that ibex were mainly associated with utilitarian and optimistic views. “The cultural connections that people have with ibex are far more nuanced and deep. If one were to think about a cultural flagship, then ibex would be more appropriate than a snow leopard,” states Bhatia.
The study also revealed that wolves and snow leopards are likened with protective deities, incorporating a positive symbolism in these carnivores. More recently, such values have been overwhelmed by the animals’ negative impact on human life in terms of livestock loss and human injuries. Consequently, they are chiefly being associated with negative symbolism. The mythical snow lion outvalues all the other carnivores in positive symbolism.
The study presses us to pay more attention to understanding the cultural dimensions of human-wildlife coexistence. According to Bhatia, practitioners should engage in “customised conservation messaging” to get locals on board in conservation endeavours, with a focus on issues that the locals care about. The positive perspectives can be a factor to promote grassroots conservation, whereas the negative ones can be used to initiate conversations with the locals to promote coexistence. For example, the apparent parity between a snow lion and a snow leopard could be utilised to preserve the latter.
Apart from the conservation aspect, the value of this study lies in the repository of Ladakhi folklore. Similar methods can be applied across the country to produce a national repository of indigenous knowledge. This will help understand the complex cultural aspect of how wildlife is sharing space with humans in a densely populated country like India. Furthermore, elderly people with vast knowledge of the ecology of the landscape can act as catalysts to initiate conservation dialogues at the grassroots. They can mentor young practitioners who can imbibe the knowledge and utilise it to ensure the persistence of wildlife in these ever-changing landscapes.
Every place might have different stories and perspectives on similar or other animals, and the approach to nature conservation should be designed accordingly. “When you do conservation messaging and don’t understand these nuances as a practitioner, then it is difficult to draw up a message that people can relate to,” adds Bhatia.
To promote the long-term coexistence of humans and wildlife, socio-economic and cultural aspects of the locals and the ecological facets should be given equal importance in current day wildlife research. “We tend to approach conservation from a very narrow perspective defined by our own set of values,” says Bhatia, “but if you just open up to the world and keep yourself open and empathetic and compassionate, there are multiple perspectives, and there’s so much out there to learn from.”
Folklore has the potential to influence people’s perceptions of wildlife. This can be used as a framework to acknowledge the value of this cultural practice to understand the intricate details of the human-wildlife coexistence and ensure the persistence of wildlife in the country.
Further Reading
Bhatia S, K. Suryawanshi, S. M. Redpath, S. Namgail, C. Mishra. 2021. Understanding People’s Relationship With Wildlife in Trans-Himalayan Folklore. Frontiers of Environmental Science 9: 595169.
After working as an ecologist for over 30 years, Stephen Redpath decided to retire early from his professorship at the University of Aberdeen and take up landscape painting full time. In a conversation conducted over email, Hari Sridhar and Manini Bansal asked Steve Redpath about this decision, where his art draws ideas and inspiration from, and how being a scientist has influenced how he paints the natural world.
Hari Sridhar: In 2019, after spending over 30 years working as an ecologist, you decided to take up landscape painting. Tell us about the origins of this interest, and what motivated you to make this switch at this point in your career?
Steve Redpath: I have always had a deep love of the natural world. My earliest memories are of birds and landscapes and associated feelings of joy and connection. I grew up in a creative household—my parents were weavers in west Wales—so there were always books on art and colour and design lying around. I always enjoyed drawing and painting. The woollen mill was in a beautiful part of the world, and I spent much of my childhood outside, birdwatching, looking for nests, tickling fish and just messing about. I met a friend of my parents when I was 10 years old and he said I could get a job as an ecologist, which I thought was amazing. A job watching birds all day! So, I set course for a degree in Ecology, which I did at Leeds University in the north of England. I followed that up with a PhD and a job at the Institute of Terrestrial Ecology. I spent 13 glorious years collecting data and, yes, watching birds. But slowly I got sucked into management and committees and grant writing etc., which I didn’t enjoy so much, although it did have its rewards. However, I did particularly enjoy teaching and interacting with lively, young, ecologists full of passion for doing something positive in the world.
About 15 years ago, I started struggling with my mental health, and in 2009 I had a breakdown. A couple of things really helped me out of this horrible time: my lovely family and art. I drew and painted and filled up books with, what were, to be honest, mostly pretty dreadful paintings, but the process of painting was so exciting and mesmerizing. It also shut out the endless noise that was in my head. From that moment I made two decisions. One was to focus my academic life on human-wildlife conflict, which I found fascinating, and, secondly, to retire from my job at Aberdeen University at 60 years old and pursue a life as an artist.
After 10 years, I had manoeuvered my University job into something that was very stimulating. The teaching was great, I was working on some fascinating research and field projects with some wonderful people around the world. I especially loved working with the Snow Leopard Trust, Nature Conservation Foundation, and with academics from a wide diversity of disciplines. I also had two amazing years spending time with brilliant ecologists, political scientists and psychologists in Sweden. Everything was going to plan. Then in 2019, I became ill and was eventually diagnosed with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome (CFS) or Myalgic Encephalomyelitis (ME). This is such a debilitating illness, which sucked the energy out of me and left me with reduced cognitive function (the doctors called it ‘brain fog’). I had to stop work and I was eventually forced to retire at the age of 57.
This was not what I planned, but suddenly I had time to focus on painting. It was odd. I had no energy; I could not read and on some days I even struggled to speak. But I could paint. It clearly used a different part of my brain. Since then, I have painted virtually every day. In my head, I have this huge store of images and feelings of a life in the natural world, after a career as an ecologist, and a feeling that I could let go and explore who I am through my painting. What a treat!
HS: Walk us through your process, i.e. how you decide what to paint and how to represent it? How much of what you draw is based on memory versus painting “live”?
SR: There is no single process, and, if I’m honest, I sometimes find it hard to understand what is going on. Some days, especially when my CFS is bad, I will sit and paint whatever comes out. In a way, I just observe myself. At these moments, I’m not trying to represent a place. I’m just lost in the joy of watching pigment, water and paper interact. It is wonderfully meditative. Once I’ve started painting, I may make a decision to add some contrast or introduce a new colour. So, I suppose, I observe and respond and observe and respond. (Picture 1)
On other days, I will have a place in mind, for example, a bit of coastline or an upland landscape. Again, I won’t try and reproduce an exact representation—it is the feel I’m after. To me, painting is all about emotion—my response to the natural world and my attempts to capture that feeling on paper. I paint for me and I try not to think about how others will respond. So, in these situations, I chose a palette and I add a little more “editorial” control over the process, although, in reality, a lot of it is still simply observing myself (Picture 2)
Sometimes, I will try to express a specific emotion, rather than a place. For example, it may be the frustration of living with CFS (Picture 3). In these cases, I start with that feeling and then let go.
I also sketch outdoors a lot (Picture 4) and, increasingly, paint in other media such as acrylics or oils (Picture 5). In addition, I bring my sketches back to my studio and use them as an aid. Direct painting is very exciting, but a challenge when you live with CFS. It is only something I can do on “good” days. But even when I sketch outdoors, I find that I am more interested in the feel of a place and less interested in, for example, whether specific trees are in the right place or I have the line of the mountain exactly right. There is a wonderful magic that can happen when you paint and observe for hours in situ. I find I start to see the landscape differently and this affects how I portray it. I see new colours and contrasts and the whole thing becomes emotional and alive. A connection forms between the landscape, the painting and myself. It is glorious and fleeting, and it is a state I’m constantly striving for. I find I have a dialogue with the painting—it “talks” to me and I talk to it and a relationship forms.
This all may seem a bit odd for a man of science, but it is how I perceive the process. I try not to think about it too much. I’m simply having too much fun.
HS: That you sketch outdoors a lot suggests that you live and work in a place where you have easy access to natural landscapes. Could you describe the place where you live and also tell us a little bit about what sketching outdoors involves?
SR: I am very fortunate to live in one of the most beautiful places in the world—Aberdeenshire in the north east of Scotland. It is a place filled with beautiful habitats, from the coastal estuaries and large sea-bird colonies up the famous rivers of the Dee and the Don to the mountains of the Cairngorm National Park. An endless supply of glorious places to visit and sketch. We also have that delightful northern light that is very special. I live in a small village on the edge of the national park, with mountains, forests, lakes and farmland within easy access (Picture 6)
When I go for walks, I tend to take a sketchbook, pencil, charcoal and maybe some pastels or watercolours. I’m always looking—it may be a simple line I’m trying to capture in my book, or the fall of light and shade over a field, or the colour of a distant hill. I fill up books with simple sketches and often use these for later inspiration in the studio (Picture 7). Often, I will sketch with my non-dominant hand, or I sketch “blind”—without looking at the paper at all. I find these approaches produce more interesting and satisfying reflections of what I am observing.
HS: I’m intrigued by your method of drawing with your non-dominant hand or without looking at the canvas. Could you tell us a little more about how this works foryou?
SR: Just like being an ecologist, being a painter involves careful observation. To me, this doesn’t mean trying to reproduce an exact representation, like a photograph, but being honest about the feel of a place, of capturing the interplay of light and tone and contrast, to represent the energy of a landscape at that time. To sit and really see, and then try to let that seeing flow onto the paper. Sometimes, I find that using my dominant hand hinders that flow, maybe because the hand has memories of movements and tends to move in specific ways. Using the non-dominant hand gives more freedom of expression and allows for uncertain movements, which add greatly to the picture. However, I think what I enjoy the most is drawing “blind” (Picture 8), through which I can spend all my time seeing and trust my hand to reproduce. It is amazing. Maybe the tree is in totally the wrong place (for example, in the sky), but the feel of the whole piece is there. I find it fascinating that you can capture the essence of something or somewhere even if spatial configuration is scrambled.
HS: In a couple of your earlier responses, you’ve alluded to how being a scientist has influenced your art. Can you reflect on this a little more, in particular, about ways in which the scientist/ecologist view of the world both helps and hinders your art?
SR: Much has been written about the divide between Art and Science cultures. I tend to ignore all of that. They both seem innately interwoven in my life and I have always loved both. Consequently, I don’t feel that my life as a scientist hinders my painting. On the contrary, science has taught me the value of careful observation and patience, which are fundamental to life as an artist. My life as a field ecologist, working in amazing places, and observing birds and nature, has helped my painting enormously.
Of course there are big differences in the practice of Science and Art, but I think both are trying to find truths about the world or about our individual experiences of living in the world. The main difference for me is that my time is no longer spent with a notebook and binoculars, but with a sketchbook (the binoculars are still there). I still love the excitement of natural history and the joy of finding a nest or walking in the uplands listening to calling curlews or exploring the coast and the large breeding colonies of guillemots and razorbills that occur near Aberdeen. So, on some days, I will watch and not sketch, and on other days, I will be painting and be unaware of the nest nearby. It seems a perfect life—living in a glorious place, exploring the natural world and trying to capture my experience of it on paper.
HS: What has changed about the way you, literally, see the natural world, i.e. the thought processes running through your head when you’re in nature, after you took to painting? Do you find yourself paying attention to different aspects now, compared to when you were a field ecologist?
SR: Interesting question. As an ecologist I used to be more attuned to species I was studying, but as I have focused on painting, I think I have become more attuned to the feel of being in a place, and I am certainly more aware of the light. Sometimes, I can get very moved by watching light and shadows play out over a hillside. It is a more holistic experience—the light, the contrasts, the colours, the tones, the sounds, the smells, the wind, the movement – all these things I feel more. Isn’t that wonderful!
HS: Earlier, you said that sometimes you draw upon a memory of a specific place when painting. Are there any instances where you have tried to capture, in your painting, a particular field experience, or even tried to portray a theme related to your scientific work?
SR: I had to think about this one. I have never tried to recreate a specific field experience or a theme related to my work. But why not? I think the general experiences I have been through—the landscapes I have lived in and walked in and got wet in and observed are there for sure. I also think the tension that is inherent to my work on conflict and those conversations with people with divergent views is there for sure, but I am less interested in trying to represent a specific event. It is more about absorbing all that work and then allowing it to come out as it comes out. My paintings are, in part, a reflection of my lived experiences as well as the reflection of direct observation. I know some people use art as propaganda—for example, to express a pro-conservation position, or highlight a particular problem, and that is fine of course, but that is not why I paint. I am searching for some sort of honesty and truth about the way I see and feel landscape and the way my experiences affect that representation.
HS: What are your thoughts on how drawing and painting can play a role in the communication of science and conservation? Are you aware of any examples where you think this has been done well?
SR: As I have said, I paint for myself. I paint because I have this compulsion to put pigment on a surface and watch how it interacts with water and other pigments. I paint because I want to capture how I see and feel the world around me. I know there are many brilliant artists who paint to highlight the plight of a species or the loss of habitat or to raise awareness of a particular issue. In that case, there is a direct and specific line of communication. Obviously, I still feel passionately about conservation and the plight of the natural world, and this will inevitably feed into my painting, but not in such a direct way. I am happy with a painting when it moves me and captures how I feel about a place. If that moves other people and makes them think about hope and the beauty of our world, then great. But it isn’t, specifically, the driver for me
HS: After your retirement, have you continued to stay in touch with your earlier research interests in any way? If you don’t mind my asking, are there aspects of your university job and being an ecologist that you miss?
SR: My first love was natural history and I will always maintain that passion. As to my research, my chronic fatigue has made it almost impossible to stay in touch. I often struggle to read papers and follow argumentation. There is much that I do miss. I miss the amazing people I worked with all over the world and I miss the joy of teaching keen students. I do also miss the challenge of working on human-wildlife conflicts, but it was a stressful job at times. As an ecologist, I absolutely adored the fieldwork, and trying to understand the species I was studying; for example, I spent a long time trying to get into the head of a hen harrier! I miss that intensity. But now, I am content to observe and to try to portray a fleeting glimpse of the world I experience, on paper.
HS: Before we end, is there anything you would like to add, that hasn’t been covered by the questions I’ve asked, but is relevant to the theme(s) of this conversation?
SR: My whole life, I have felt passionate about the beauty of the natural world, and I had 30 years as a working ecologist / conservation scientist. I wanted to make a difference and help find positive solutions to some of the thorny problems we face. In many ways, this is a traumatic discipline, and I’m sure that contributed to my breakdown and ongoing feelings of anxiety. Working in this field, it is easy to become overwhelmed by feelings of hopelessness. Art helps me deal with the effects of this trauma, and for that I will always be grateful. One of the joys of art is that it can give hope, connect people and touch something inside them to help them celebrate our world. Ecologists are not always good at speaking about hope and beauty and love. Art can open these doors and help start conversations about how we can find positive, effective ways forward. I would encourage anyone to pick up a pencil or brush and make some marks on something. Who knows where it will take you.
In the last 20 odd years, conservation has suddenly become a universal idea, whether it is about tigers, global warming or jam. Global in the sense that the internet is: accessible to a few, comprehensible to fewer, and useful to a particular stratum of the global village. Certainly less ubiquitous than coke, but perhaps more so than fast cars. Most people tend to think of conservation either as a noble cause that one ought to be committed to, or at least something good and proper to have in the right modest quantities.
Conservationists thus tend to think of themselves as noble missionaries, in quest of the Holy Grail of pristine wilderness or environmental sustainability, depending on which camp you belong to. Some, like the animal rights gang, act with religious zeal on their convictions. Others, like the biologists, tend to be cocooned in their discipline (with perhaps a slightly exaggerated view of its importance). And yet others, like the large international organisations, tend to be forces of neo-colonisation, not unlike the multinationals they purport to detest. Of course, without a doubt, there are noble individuals in these organisations (and who is to say there are none in Coke and Pepsi). It should come as no surprise then that conservationists have the entire range of human frailties at their disposal.
In our never-ending quest to create more confusion and further muddy the waters, we argue here that we should recognise the afflictions which affect the normal functioning of the body ecologic, just as any disease would. We have already critiqued various half-baked ideas such as Half-Earth (1) and compassionate conservation (2) and discussed megademophobia, an obsessive fear of population increase (1). However, as usual, we missed a trick. In fact, we missed the entire gamut of conservation diseases that affect this demographic. We attempt to make amends here with the Official Shockington Guide to Conservation Ailments And Diseases (OSGCAAD).
Vertabratitis in conservation is the expression of the broader problem of taxonomic chauvinism, or taxoplasmosis which makes certain taxa irresistible to biologists. The most common forms of this disease are mammaloma, an inordinate obsession with conserving mammals but preferably large ones.
Mammaloma
A casual survey of the conservation load of lions and tigers (catatonia), elephants (pachydermatitis), apes (apendicitis), pandas (Long fo mi syndrome), and whales (orcaitis) demonstrates the widespread nature of this disease. But there are other forms as well, such as ornithalgia, which can be diagnosed by twitching in patients. And then there is herpes, which results in a compulsion to collect every frog (amphibiosis) or lizard (schincophrenia) or grab every snake (serpentitis). And then, of course, some harbour an unhealthy relationship with sharks, which is known as elasmobronchitis.
Catatonia
Ornithalgia
Herpes
Elasmobronchitis
The obsession with sea turtles (chelora) is truly global and can be found in almost every coastal province in the world. This leads to claims that sea turtles are endangered, even if they are found in every ocean, sea and bay; a mania for moving eggs to hatcheries; and alarming levels of affection for the ridiculously cute hatchlings. Sea turtle people have long been at loggerheads about whether the symptoms include flat or leather backs, or turning green (or black in the east Pacific). It remains a ridley.
Though somewhat rarer, many cases of invertebratitis have been recorded too. Some suffer from lepidospirosis, and are seen hopping around with butterfly nets, while others have an inordinate fondness for beetles, and can only be cured by a coleonoscopy. The latter is not to be confused with an inordinate love of The Beatles, which we do not believe needs curing. And yet others can’t stop chirping about What Katy Did. A few harbour an unhealthy obsession with shellfish, resulting in Crustacea, which can lead to atrophy in their mussels causing them to clam up. And those who learn to dive get immediately infected with coralory disease.
Though several of the above diseases have been widespread and can be quite infectious, some individuals developed immunity, while others received a vaccine against taxoplasmosis in general. However, these individuals were then found to be susceptible to diversititis, which is the belief that greater diversity is always better. So tropical rainforests trump the tundra. And consequently, global conservation priorities typically focus on the tropical countries of the south that have the misfortune to be both poor and the confluence of some complex relationship between species richness and the environment. A common symptom of this disease is frequent use of the word ‘biodiversity’ and may manifest as hot spots. A rare reverse form of this disease, where victims actually prefer lifeless landscapes, does occur and is known as bipolar disorder.
The above traits tend to be mutually exclusive. It is rare to find someone presenting with catatonia and orcaitis at the same time. Although they may both twitch. But a common chronic condition that can co-occur with all the above is discoveritis, which is the relentless drive to find new species. Almost 20,000 new species are described each year, so this is quite a common condition, and advances in molecular taxonomy are making the progression of this disease quite relentless. Small close family groups of marmosets, chimpanzees, and gibbons are now discovering that they are, in fact, barely related at all.
Aunts are a different species from their nephews and nieces, and a whole genus distant from their great grandparents. This has the obvious advantage of creating instant rarity. Once abundant populations can be rendered critically endangered with the swipe of a swab. The late Georgina Mace even complained that it was impossible to work out extinction trends in primates because of the plethora of new species.
One of the most crippling diseases is animalia. This goes far beyond vertebratitis and diversititis in conferring rights upon individuals. In its extreme form, this can extend to granting person-hood to every plant and animal that ever lived, and vice versa. (3) The symptoms can include blurry vision, confused behaviour, excessive emotionality, and a poor diet.
And then there are disorders whose exact cause is not known. Prejaculation (a self-explanatory term) is a knee jerk response to just about anything, which occurs well beyond the conservation community. In this demographic, frequently proclaiming the imminent extinction of a species (usually in the press) is an obvious symptom. Many species, particularly large iconic vertebrates, have had to draw on Mark Twain to state that the ‘reports of death grossly exaggerated’. Other, tinier, unknown ones have slipped quietly away into that good night, but who cares.
And finally, there is Pristianity, the predominant affliction of 20th century conservation, the desire to set aside exclusionary protected areas, exclusively for fellow Pristians. Some might argue that this is more a religion than a disease, but honestly, we can’t tell the difference. Believed to have originated in the Wyoming province of the People’s Republic of America, this has spread to all countries of the world. While some believe it may be in remission, there are particularly virulent forms that still surface from time to time. This, if anything, is a pandaemic.
Unfortunately, many people do not take these diseases seriously, or refuse to get vaccinated or just refuse to stay home when they should. Many of these diseases have had super spreaders, and several have seen community transmission. Some are in remission, others are not. We call here for a formal recognition of these conditions (preferably by the use of the phrase ‘well then son, you’ve got a condition’), so that one can institute a programme of treatment and rehabilitation. This will inevitably cost bazillions of dollars of taxpayers’ money. But if it helps build resilience to more diseases that might jump from the wild into human society, then we would have done a good thing. We think.
Epilogue We attempted to publish this in several conservation journals without any success. We conclude that conservationists do not possess a humerus.
Footnotes
(1) Shockington, K. 2018. Half-Earth is half-hearted: Make way for Thanos and the half-universe. Current Conservation 12(4): 32–34.
(2) Shockington, K. 2019. Compassionate halfism. Current Conservation 13(3): 32–34.
(3) Shockington, K. 2019. The Planthood of Persons. Current Conservation 14(2): 34–36.
Futher Reading
Buscher, B., R. Fletcher, D. Brockington, C. Sandbrook, W. M. Adams, L. Campbell, C. Corson et al. 2017. Half Earth or Whole Earth: Radical ideas for conservation and their implications. Oryx 51(3): 407–410.
Oommen, M. A., R. Cooney, M. Ramesh, M. Archer, D. Brockington, B. Buscher, R. Fletcher et al. 2019. The fatal flaws of compassionate conservation. Conservation Biology 33: 784–787.
Mace, G. M. 2004. The role of taxonomy in species conservation. Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society B 359: 711–719.
Pawar, S. 2003. Taxonomic chauvinism and the methodologically challenged. Bioscience 53(9): 861–864.
Shanker, K. and M. A. Oommen. 2021. The authoritarian biologist reloaded and deep ecology redux: Conservation imperialism and the battle over knowledge, money and space. In: A Functioning Anarchy (eds. Sundar, N. and S. Raghavan). New Delhi: Penguin Random House.
As a kid, I’d spend hours observing ant trails, curious to find out what would happen if I broke the trail. It turns out I wasn’t the only one curious! Scientists have been studying these creatures for over centuries and myrmecologists (ant biologists) spend their entire lives studying ant communication.
Ants are able to communicate in several ways—with chemical and physical signals, sounds, and body language. How? Mostly with their antennae. They use these forms of communication to recognize members of their colony, give warning signals to approaching predators, inform other members of the colony of new food, and grow the colony during mating season (during ‘nuptial’ flights, named after a word describing human weddings).
With these superpowers, they communicate not only with ants, but also other living things! Sometimes these tiny superheroes play the role of bodyguards for thorny plants like Acacia. The ant colony nests inside the trees’ hollow thorns, but repays this favour by protecting the plant from hungry herbivores that are on their way to nibble the leaves . This is a ‘give and take relationship’, where two different species have significant impacts on each other.
Another example is the relationship some ants have with seeds called elaiosomes. These ants are vegetarian and love to feed on nectar and fleshy structures attached to these seeds. In return, they help the plants by pollinating their flowers and dispersing seeds.
Some ants are farmers. They loosen up the soil, allowing water and oxygen to reach plant roots. Ants also help to keep the environment clean by feeding on organic waste and dead organisms. For example, carpenter ants make use of dead or diseased wood to build nests, subsequently speeding up the process of decomposition.
But remember, some ants can be pretty dangerous too! Among all ants, army ants are the most evolved predators. They are known to attack as a group and can hunt organisms ranging from insects to reptiles. Army ants can expertly search for food, and have sharp tooth-like structures called mandibles to attack their prey. The trap-jaw ant, a type of army ant, has sensory hairs projecting from its labrum (a lip-like structure) and when they touch prey, the mandibles involuntarily open and grab the prey before it can escape.
While such foolproof mechanisms prove to be deadly for several organisms, not all are fearful of the ants. Many animals, such as spiders, pangolins, and bears, feed on ants as their primary source of nutrients. In fact, because of ants’ nutritional value, some tribes in India are known to consume them as a part of their regular diet. The Mavilan tribal community of Kerala prepares ant chutney by mixing ants with turmeric, grated coconut, chillies and salt. The chutney is believed to cure asthma.
These brilliant organisms have not just fascinated biologists, but also people across a range of professions. For example, software developers have studied ant behaviour to help them design problem-solving operations, or algorithms, for computers. Some algorithms have also been inspired by the structure of ant colonies—for example, the Ant Colony Optimization Algorithm. The first algorithm was created by studying a trail of ants as they navigated a path between their colony and a food source.
As the human population continues to grow and crowd into busy cities, architects are taking inspiration from the intricate structures of anthills to make best use of space. Several species of ants use their own bodies to build ‘living bridges’ to traverse small crevices. Inspired by this, many architects are figuring out how to use materials with high elasticity to make utilitarian structures.
For as long as anyone can remember, kids have grown up listening to the popular story of the ant and the grasshopper from Aesop’s Fables. The tale narrates how the hardworking ant stores food for the upcoming harsh winter as against the ignorant grasshopper who wakes up at the last minute and is left with no food for the cold season. Ants have also been mentioned in religious books, where several myths and beliefs revolve around these tiny creatures. In fact, ants have even made it to the realm of science fiction—Antman is a favourite superhero amongst fans of the Marvel universe!
Next time you see an ant, follow in its tracks and observe what it’s doing—you may discover another phenomenal aspect of its life, because there are so many questions about them left unanswered even today.
Dr. Dani Rabaiotti is a researcher based at the Zoological Society of London’s Institute of Zoology. She has previously studied bats and foxes, but is now involved with the ‘Hot Dogs’ project, which looks at how climate change might affect the behaviour of African wild dogs.
Dani has also written Does it Fart?, True or Poo?, and Believe it or Snot, which provide serious answers to silly (but important!) animal behaviour questions.
Read on to find out more about Dani and her conservation work.
WHAT MADE YOU WANT TO BECOME A CONSERVATIONIST? I grew up watching a lot of natural history shows, and I’d say that was probably the main driver. It wasn’t necessarily spending time outside; it was more spending time watching TV and then going to zoos and aquariums as a child. It just really made me passionate about animals—so although I wasn’t too much of a scientist, I knew that I wanted to work with animals and that I had to do science in order to do that.
DO YOU HAVE A FAVOURITE ANIMAL OR HABITAT? When I was really small, I wanted to be a marine biologist because I loved the marine environment. I learned to scuba dive when I was 15, and I just have a real soft spot for marine animals. I could watch fish forever and I love all marine invertebrates—crabs, sea cucumbers, nudibranchs . I still love going to the National SEA LIFE Centre Birmingham Aquarium and seeing all the marine animals.
HOW DID YOU END UP WORKING ON WILD DOGS WHEN YOU ORIGINALLY LOVED SEA CREATURES? I think for me it was about what I enjoyed doing and studying. You get one impression of marine biology from watching television—going scuba diving all the time in nice warm water —but in real life, there is a lot of chemistry involved and studying things under a microscope, which isn’t really what I wanted to do. Scuba diving ended up being more of a hobby, which is great—too much of anything can make it less enjoyable. I still go scuba diving when I get the chance, and I do go to zoos and aquariums, but I also enjoy hiking.
WHAT DOES A TYPICAL DAY LOOK LIKE? There are different ways to be a conservation biologist, so for me, it looks like working with the data collected by people in the field—a whole team of people based out in Africa. What I do is manage the data collection and analyse the data when it comes in. I sit at a computer and build a lot of mathematical models in a coding programme.
I also do a lot of work with captive dogs at the zoo, where we can trial some of the technology that we use in the wild. On a day where I go to the zoo, I might go in and film the dogs getting fed or walking around while they are wearing a collar that collects data about their movements. This helps us improve how we collect and understand the data collected from Africa.
That is quite different from what a day would look like for our field team, and this is why it is so important that you have many different people who do different things. Our field team would get up in the morning, check on the wild dogs, collect data on one group of dogs, enter the data, go check on a different group of wild dogs, come back and enter those data, and so on. On the other end is me, receiving the data and using it to build mathematical models.
WHEN YOU BECAME A CONSERVATIONIST, DID YOU EXPECT TO HAVE TO USE MATHS? I hated maths but I enjoyed the problem-solving element of it. I think part of the reason I hated it was the way it was taught—there was a problem that we had to solve and it was really boring, without any interesting examples. But once I got my own dataset, it all just clicked into place. It is just a problem-solving process and it doesn’t matter if you don’t know all the ‘proper’ ways of doing things or all the technical language around it. At the end of the day, if you know you’ve got a wild dog and you want to find out how far it’s moving every day, then you’ve got to do a bit of maths—and that’s interesting and can give you some really interesting insights into animal behaviour. I think the really key thing is, even if you don’t enjoy something , you can link it with something else that you are interested in. And often it turns out that you don’t actually dislike it—you just didn’t enjoy the way that thing was taught.
WHAT OTHER SKILLS DO CONSERVATIONISTS NEED? A key element for working in conservation is being able to read across quite a lot of different subjects—maths, ecology, biology, social science. You don’t have to specialize in one area, but just be reasonably good at a few things. Also, conservation is all about people; being able to talk with people is really important, and being able to tell them about something in a way that is clear and helpful to them.
WHAT ADVICE WOULD YOU GIVE TO YOUNG PEOPLE INTERESTED IN GETTING INVOLVED WITH CONSERVATION WORK? I think the important thing is to find what works for you and your schedule. If you’re at school during the week, then you can’t go and volunteer every day, but maybe you could do one day a week. Or maybe you could get involved in a club or a hobby . Go to places (online or in-person) where you will meet people who are already working in the field. Try to learn about the job beyond what you see on television. I think the best piece of advice that people gave me was that you don’t have to do fieldwork abroad. There are lots of local opportunities that are really helpful and easier to get involved in. Also, don’t be put off if you don’t see people like you in the conservation community. If you love it, forge your own path that will work with your life and your circumstances.
I am exhausted. Drained. So hungry. My wings feel jittery, like they still want to be flying. My legs feel wobbly, like they might give way at any moment. Ten days straight I’ve been in the air! You get used to it.
But now I’m here, finally here… Alaska! I’ve flown here from New Zealand, my second home over in the Southern Hemisphere. It was starting to get pretty cold there, and the food was running low, so I decided it was time to head north. I do this every year, moving back and forth across the globe with the seasons, chasing an eternal summer. A bit crazy? Maybe. But I wouldn’t change it for the world.
I’m a bar-tailed godwit, a large migratory shorebird from the Scolopacidae family. Sometimes, if I’m feeling a bit fancy, I go by the name Limosa lapponica. I have brown, white and grey plumage, long, gangly legs, and a suuuuper long bill which scoops up at the end—perfect for catching bristleworms! I make the huge journey across the globe twice a year. That’s right—12,000 kilometres twice a year. Over the course of my lifetime, I’ll fly the distance from the earth to the moon. You could call me an elite athlete.
And let me tell you, I eat like an elite athlete. Right now, I’m skinny as anything (flying uses up a loooot of energy), but you should have seen me ten days ago! I ate so much I thought I might explode! And with all that extra weight on me, it’s fair to say that my take-off wasn’t the most graceful thing in the world…
I’m always tired at the end of my flight, but I’m particularly exhausted this time round. Why? Well, to tell you the truth, something odd happened on my flight over. Odd and…and scary. You see, I always stop over half-way on my northward migrations for a quick rest and refuel. The Yellow Sea is my go-to. It’s a big inlet that sits in between China and Korea, and it’s full of mudflats that are full of delicious critters. Prime shorebird territory! There’s one particular mudflat I stop at every single time I make the journey from New Zealand to Alaska. It’s a favourite amongst shorebirds—during peak migration time, you’ll see tens of thousands of us wading through the flats, pecking at the water in a hungry frenzy.
But this time when I turned up, it was just… gone. All I could see were pipelines and ships and concrete everywhere. Had I got the location wrong? Was my navigation off? Surely not — it was always perfect, guided precisely by the earth’s magnetic field. Then what was going on? I flew around the area for a while, scanning for any sign of the mudflat I knew and loved.
Nothing. I started panicking. If I couldn’t find food, then I wouldn’t survive the next leg of my journey. I kept flying and flying, directionless, losing stamina with every wingbeat. Eventually I spotted a small flock of birds heading east. Did they know of another mudflat nearby? I frantically caught up to them and followed behind for a while, hoping, hoping. And then I saw it—a glint of water down below, a flutter of life. I flew down with the other birds to check out what I’d spotted.
Rich, gooey brown mud as far as the eye could see. Streams of water flowing in every direction, leaving trickly tracks where they travelled. And birds! So many birds, all foraging away to their hearts’ content. I was going to be OK.
I guess that mudflat is my new pitstop now. It’s nice enough. But it’s not my old mudflat— nothing can compare! And who’s to say this new one won’t vanish by next year? Frankly, I’m worried.
But I must focus on the present. Right now, I’m safe and happy. Right now, it’s time to sleep, to eat, to be still for a while.
Ahh… it’s good to be home. The Alaskan mud feels delicious under my feet, cool and oozy. The water is pink in the evening light, sparkling like an upside-down chandelier. Wading through the shallows, I can see all sorts of little critters zipping about in the water and hidden in the mud—shellfish, bristleworms, sea snails, clams…
I could guzzle down a tonne right now!
Each year, millions of birds migrate back and forth along an international ‘superhighway’ called the East Asian-Australasian flyway, which stretches from the Arctic tundra all the way down to Australia and New Zealand.
Land development all along the flyway — but particularly in the Yellow Sea—poses a serious threat to migratory shorebirds like the bar-tailed godwit. Many shorebird species have suffered significant declines over the last few decades, as more and more critical habitat is developed over.
As our understanding of the negative impacts of land development on these birds grows, so too does the pressure on governments to take action. Governments around the world are beginning to implement policies that reduce land reclamation and improve habitat quality along the flyway, but there’s still a long way to go.
We need to keep spreading the word about these incredible birds, and keep pushing for effective conservation action.
It is safe to say that for a dung beetle, poop is life and not vice versa. These unique little crawlies not only feed on dung but make a living out of it—literally. Can you imagine living in a house made of poop? Before you jump to say “Eww”, hear these beetles out. Some dung beetles live inside a dung pat and are called “dwellers”, some are “tunnellers” and tunnel underneath the ground, whereas some simply roll away a dung ball and are called “rollers”. These beetles have played an important role in nature, by quietly recycling dung on the earth’s surface, since millions of years.
These dung–loving beetles can be found in every continent except Antarctica, in habitats ranging from forests, grasslands, agricultural fields to deserts even. Any geography where dung or decaying organic matter is present, the beetles will be there. For a dung beetle, where there is dung, there is a way.
In ancient Egypt, dung beetles were considered sacred. One particular species—Scarabaeus sacer—was linked to the sun god, Khepri. The ancient Egyptians believed that Khepri was responsible for the sun’s rising and setting each day just like the dung beetle would turn pieces of dung into a ball and roll it away.
There are thousands and thousands of species of dung beetles, belonging to various families under the superfamily of Scarabaeoidea of class Insecta. Some of the beetles do not depend only on dung, but also feed on detritus (bodies or segments of dead animals, like dead millipedes for example) and other decaying organic matter. This means that these beetles and their dung-feeding habits are not exclusive to any one particular species or genus.
With the constant removal of dung, these beetles prevent the breeding of parasitic flies and other pests that are found in dung. Often seeds can be found in animal poop, so while moving or burying dung balls, dung beetles contribute to the dispersal of seeds, which is important for the survival of several plant species. While tunneling and maneuvering dung across or into the soil, dung beetles create passageways for air, water, and nutrients from the dung to move into the soil.
Dung beetles might seem small and insignificant, but they play a vital role in the day-to-day functioning of nature. So, the next time you see one, be sure to give it as much attention as a tiger in a forest.
