Photo 1. Rinche Tobge of Kibber village traverses a snowfield in Miyar Valley while looking for snow leopard signs.
Spiti has one of the healthiest snow leopard populations in the world. Behind this well-known fact lies hundreds of kilometres walked by these folks, traversing valleys, passes and ridgelines, finding that ideal spot to place a camera trap. They formed a key part of the largest published scientific study on snow leopard population spanning across 26,000 km2 of Himachal Pradesh, covering an area larger than all 17 previously published studies from across 12 countries of the snow leopard’s global range. Dhamal and the rest of the team placed over 200 cameras across three years for this study. Behind each snow leopard image, was the sacrifice of a father who left his daughter behind while he scaled peaks. The sacrifice of a husband who continued looking for snow leopard signs, even as he lost mobile network coverage to call home. None of this is to romanticise the remote, but to acknowledge that there is often an unacknowledged human cost to all that glitters in conservation science.
Photo 2. Tanzin Thuktan aka Dhamal places a camera trap in Hangrang valley, Himachal Pradesh.
A cornerstone of HAP’s work for over two decades across the high-altitude regions of Himachal Pradesh in particular, has been to mitigate negative human-wildlife interactions. This has often meant securing people’s livestock—a key source of economic and emotional support in these harsh landscapes—from predator attacks. This mainly involves predator-proofing night-time livestock pens (corrals) by building a stone foundation for the structure into which a steel door is placed and over which steel wiring is placed. By doing so, predators like snow leopards and wolves can’t enter at night and cause losses. This is done as a partnership with the local community, where both costs and effort are shared between them and NCF.
What goes into making a predator-proof corral on a 4250-metre high-altitude plateau in Langza village? It starts with waking up at 4 AM to make the 14-hour journey from Kibber down to the towns of Kullu and Buntar 450 km away. Once there, the team has to chase the steel industries to fabricate the necessary doors and wiring. Each predator-proof corral is measured to fit the size requirements of the number of livestock and any other local needs. This means that Kamal and Shri, for instance, have to sit for 12 hours, come rain or shine, back-to-back for 4-5 days with the fabricators that meticulously prepare these structures . Even half an inch of difference could be a matter of life and death for the livestock and a potential poverty trap for the owner.
Beyond doing their best to deal with the immediate research and conservation concerns of their high-altitude region, the team in Kibber also believe in fostering stewardship and a “climate” of conservation into the future. Kalzang Gurmet and Tanzin Thinley leave no stone unturned in visiting as many schools in the region, engaging with as many students as possible, to not only convey the message of conservation but also to truly make them feel like we all belong to the ecosystems around us. It is a pity that a student from Spiti will likely know of the tiger roaming the forests of Ranthambore, but be unaware of the snow leopard in her own mountains. They are driven to change this!
Photo 3. Tandup Cherring aka Kamal surveying for blue sheep in the pasture around Langza village
No matter how many papers I may publish from my work in higher Himachal Pradesh, the Khanyari et al. citations will never do justice to the contributions of these dedicated colleagues. A mention in the acknowledgement section is nowhere near enough credit for the hours they pour into not only my projects, but so many that came before and will come after. These are not merely field staff or field associates, they are the project, but they often don’t get adequately recognized. Remember they have a name, an identity, and aspirations. Let’s go beyond merely thinking of them as supplementary, and start acknowledging that they are central for conservation work globally—both in terms of research and on-the-ground action.
For all the times Dhamal, Rinchen, or Shri have extended their hand to me, or so many other researchers and interns, I want them to know they are going well beyond merely assisting us. They are empowering us to do the work we aspire to. And for this very reason, I shout from the valleys above to the rivers below, an ode to these unsung heroes of Kibber!
Further Reading
Suryawanshi, K., A. Reddy, M. Sharma, M. Khanyari, A. Bijoor, D. Rathore, H. Jaggi et al. 2021. Estimating snow leopard and prey populations at large spatial scales. Ecological solutions and evidence 2(4): e12115. https://doi.org/10.1002/2688-8319.12115.
Bijoor, A., M. Khanyari, R. Dorjay, S. Lobzang and K. Suryawanshi. 2021.A need for context-based conservation: Incorporating local knowledge to mitigate livestock predation by large carnivores. Frontiers in conservation science 2: 107. https://www.frontiersin.org/articles/10.3389/fcosc.2021.766086.
Photo 4. Kesang Chunit aka Shir removes a camera from under the snow in Chandra valley.
Photo 5. Kalzang Gurmet (far left), along with Kesang Chunit and Deepshika Sharma of NCF interact with students in a school in Spiti.
Photo 6. Tanzin Thinley measures distance in front of a camera trap to ensure it gets good captures of snow leopards.
The tiniest pig in the world Found curled beneath tall grass In India, Bhutan, & Nepal earlier Lives now in a vague blur Ever smaller from fear of extinction Hidden in just a tuft of left-over Assamese grass. The pygmy hog, a tiny little harmless hairy hog Heir to the luxury of Ganga’s bog; Known for its halo A playful waving yellow Of glorious golden grass.
The pygmy hog is the smallest member of the pig family. Previously it was widespread in tall and wet grasslands along the foothills of the Himalayas in India, Nepal, and Bhutan but today is critically endangered due to degradation of its grassland habitat.
Imagine that all roads leading to your friends are blocked. Where there were bridges, now lie empty spaces that risk death if you cross. Similarly, habitat loss is a reality for many species around the world. There’s no question that humans have a significant impact on habitats, but what does it mean for the future of the animals living in these habitats? Socially complex species, such as primates, feel the impact of human action in ways that scientists are just beginning to understand, including the impact these changes have on the evolutionary future of endemic species.
Primates serve numerous ecological roles in their habitats acting as both predator and prey, seed dispersers, and pollinators. Additionally, primates are of cultural and economic importance to humans. They draw in tourism and maintain the health of the forests for the people that depend directly on them. Yet, life in the forest comes with its own set of challenges for primates, many of which are directly caused by humans. This includes habitat loss, the pet trade, and climate change, which make it difficult for species to adapt, and thereby impacting their future.
Non-human primate species are found on three continents: South America, Asia, and Africa. To gain a comprehensive understanding of anthropogenic impacts on our taxonomic relatives, we are going to visit each continent.
Phoenix_B_1of3 (talk) (Uploads). Original uploader was Phoenix B 1of3 at en.wikipedia – Range supported by: Napier, J. R.; Napier P. H. (1967). A Handbook of Living Primates. Academic Press. pp. 378-379 (Fig. 4). ASIN B000KXFAPW.
South America:
Pied Tamarins and Black and Gold Howler Monkeys
Central and South America are home to a wonderful array of New World monkeys. In Brazil alone there are 110 monkey species. However, nearly 40 primate species in Brazil are facing extinction due to habitat loss. Much of the habitat fragmentation is caused by cities encroaching on the surrounding forests. One species facing this challenge is the pied tamarin, Sanguinus bicolor. These small primates live in and around Manaus, the capital city of the Brazilian state of Amazonas. Pied tamarins face not only habitat loss as the forest declines, but also struggle to reach other tamarin groups. Without access to other pied tamarin populations, the threat of losing genetic diversity by isolation is real. Genetic diversity is crucial for the future populations to adapt and evolve with their environment. One study investigates how fragmentation impacts the genetics of pied tamarins in the region surrounding Manaus by comparing hair samples from four different groups in the region. Urbanisation and human encroachment led to three of these areas being separated from the larger forest for years. The fourth site maintains access to the forest and acts as a control site for this study. This study determined that there is a significant threat to the pied tamarin gene pool in isolated communities, a threat that only increases with time. The combined effects of long-term population decline of pied tamarins and habitat fragmentation leads to an uncertain future for pied tamarins.
Black-and-gold howler monkeys (BGHM), Alouatta caraya, are another unique primate facing threats from man-made stressors in South America. They can be found in a vast range extending from Mexico to Argentina. With this wide range comes a lot of interactions with people. BGHMs live with deforestation from agriculture, flooding from dams, habitat fragmentation from urbanization, and zoonotic disease transmission. Like the pied tamarins, the changes in forest connectivity leads to group isolation impacting the potential gene pool. One known consequence of a smaller gene pool is a decrease in the population’s ability to adapt and fight off disease. This was seen recently as BGHM populations have drastically declined due to yellow fever outbreaks throughout their range.
In a study of ten BGHM groups, four distinct clusters of genetic populations were found. These four clusters are isolated from one another, similar to pied tamarins. This isolation leads to inbreeding within the groups, which in turn decreases the genetic diversity. One of the shocking conclusions from this study was that there could be a decrease in genetic diversity of nearly 25 percent in just 50 generations as a direct result of habitat fragmentation.
Josh More: Black and Gold Howler Monkey (Alouatta caraya)_20 retrieved from: https://www.flickr.com/photos/guppiecat/16073988612/in/photostream/
The New World monkeys are in a dire situation, but many groups are working to help them, such as the Chico Mendes Institute for Biodiversity Conservation (ICMBio). ICMBio works with the Brazilian government to establish protected areas for primates such as tamarins and compile research to better understand the threats and potential solutions to stop deforestation of the Amazon rainforest. As the human population in this area continues to grow the need for infrastructure and agricultural demand also increases. These groups are crucial for the development of corridors for the safe passage of these primates over roadways and other human infrastructure.
Africa
Chimpanzees
Africa is known for its diverse wildlife. Three of the four non-human great ape species, including chimpanzees, can be found in the western and central regions of Africa. Chimpanzees exhibit different behavioural adaptations between groups. These differences are so significant that there are now four recognized subspecies of chimpanzees, each occupying different habitats. To understand these subspecies scientists have examined distinct habitats that may have impacted the divergence of chimpanzees into different subspecies. The research found little geographic overlap between the territories and the habitats that each of these subspecies inhabit. As these habitats are lost due to deforestation or changed by factors such as climate change, it is unlikely that each subspecies will survive. In what seems to be a consistent theme, habitat fragmentation from logging, mining, and agriculture, along with the bushmeat trade, are the biggest threats to great apes in this region causing population declines for chimpanzees in this region.
In western Africa, the Goualougo Triangle Ape Project is combating these issues. They work with the Congolese government, local logging companies, and residents to promote sustainable forestry, research, and capacity building. With the cooperation of these groups, this project has been able to make a real difference in sustaining the great ape populations in the region.
Lemurs
The island of Madagascar is located off the southeastern coast of mainland Africa. This unique island has high endemicity, i.e. it is home to species that are found nowhere else in the world. Lemurs are a good example of this. As the human population on the island increases, the habitat available for other species is decreasing. It also creates an “edge effect”, which increases human-wildlife conflict, leading to increased risk of disease transmission. This combined with additional threats such as the bush meat and pet trades contribute to the decline of lemur populations on the island. As land availability decreases for native species, they become more scarce and the ability for lemur species to adapt and thrive ultimately decreases.
Organisations such as the Lemur Conservation Foundation (LCF) work hard both in Madagascar and abroad to educate the public and mitigate negative impacts on lemurs. Lemurs are known for their cute features, often leading to use as pets or tourist attractions. LCF works with local people to establish proper ecotourism infrastructure, while restoring lemur habitats. To decrease the local residents’ reliance on rainforest resources, various projects have been put in place to provide fuel-efficient stoves, decrease bushmeat usage, and encourage sustainable fishing techniques.
Asia
Macaques
From snowy mountains to the tropical islands of the Pacific, Old World monkeys in Asia reside in various habitats. In China, fossil records indicate that historically macaques were found throughout the mainland and islands, though they showed preference for lower elevations and rivers. The most telling piece from these fossils was found after analysing home range trends of monkeys in the last 300 years. As urbanisation increased macaques were no longer found in central China (Li et al., 2020). Macaques have now retreated to higher elevations in the mountains as opposed to the rivers.
Though human activity has certainly impacted the lives and distribution of these monkeys, they have proven to be very adaptable. In fact, macaques have found ways to be successful in urban landscapes. Food was found to be the most important factor in behavioural changes for macaques. For urban dwelling monkeys, human food has become an integral part of their diet. These adaptations and changes in behaviour have allowed these monkeys to keep their numbers higher than other primate species, and may help them as human development continues into the forests.
So what now?
As the world’s human population increases, there is continued encroachment on wild habitats. Human activity such as agriculture, logging, and mining, result in clear cutting forest habitats and increase fragmentation. But for primates, there are other man-made threats to consider as well—hunting, the pet trade, and disease as exposure to humans increases. In terms of evolutionary response, these threats often make it harder for species to adapt to the ever changing landscape. These changes are occurring at such a rate that many species are already seeing a rapid decline. In fact, 75 percent of primate species are facing population declines due to human activity. As humans and primates continue to share more space, human-primate conflict is bound to increase.
Though the news is dire for animals around the world, there are actions that we can take to mitigate the problem. First, we need to create long-term management plans. There is significant poverty in many areas where primates live. Finding ways to make money off of the land is crucial for the socio-economic wellbeing of the local community. Conservation without the support of the people living in these regions will be fruitless. Fortunately, there are a number of organisations working to help those that rely on these resources to use them in a sustainable way.
There are examples of such projects in every region where primates are found, but what about those of us that do not live in primate habitats—what can we do? One option is to decrease the global demand for the natural resources that primate habitats provide. Logging demands are often from paper products and furniture. Consumers can purchase products from manufacturers that supply their wood using sustainable sources. Certifications for this have become more common, making it easier to choose more eco-friendly options. One example is the Forest Stewardship Council (FSC) logo. This organisation works to promote sustainable and recycled materials for wood and paper-based products.
Other resources exploited from these habitats are minerals such as gold and coltan. These minerals are used in the production of new electronic devices. Refurbishing and properly recycling old electronics rather than purchasing products made with raw materials is another way that anyone can make a difference.
Finally, purchasing locally sourced meat and produce items can make a difference. Agriculture is the most prolific driver of habitat destruction, which includes ranching and palm oil plantations. Currently, the global demand for meat products results in forest encroachment and clear cutting to meet demand. According to the United States Department of Agriculture (USDA), Brazil is responsible for 20 percent of the world’s beef exports. Additionally, palm oil is found in numerous products from beauty supplies to snack foods. The slash-and-burn techniques used to clear the land for these monoculture plantations creates significant pressures on rainforests around the world, adding to the deforestation in the Amazon rainforest. To decrease the ecological impact of these practices, buying locally sourced meat products and purchasing products made with sustainable palm oil can make a substantial difference in the survival of primates in these habitats.
Every consumer has the power to help protect and save the environment. By making ecologically sustainable purchases, we tell companies that there is a market for environmentally friendly supply chains. By providing options for the sustainable management of primate habitats, we can reduce the impact that humans have on these ecosystems. If we can maintain or extend habitats and connections between populations, primates can have a greater chance of survival through increased genetic diversity.
Further reading:
Estrada, A., P. Garber, A. Rylands, C. Roos, E. Fernandez-Duque, A. Di Fiore, A. Nekaris, et al. 2017. Impending extinction crisis of the world’s primates: Why primates matter. Science Advances 3(1): e1600946. doi: 10.1126/sciadv.1600946.
Li, B., G. He, S. Guo, R. Hou, K. Huang, P. Zhang, H. Zhang et al. 2020. Macaques in China: Evolutionary dispersion and subsequent development. American Journal of Primatology 82(7): e23142. https://doi.org/10.1002/ajp.23142.
Drive along the Ratnagiri coast in western India in the early months of any year, and you are sure to come across a fenced-off enclosure on many of its beaches. The inside of the enclosure is usually dotted with small, evenly-spaced placards, while outside a fluttering banner or a wooden board declares it to be a sea turtle hatchery. Hatcheries, in general, are synonymous with sea turtle conservation the world over. But the efficacy of these structures in protecting sea turtle eggs and hatchlings (baby turtles) depends on whether the hatcheries follow best practices. As a conservation technique, freshly laid nests that are moved from their original locations on exposed beaches to protected hatcheries should—in theory—produce more hatchlings than nests that are left unprotected. With fewer resources available and an increasing urgency for conservation actions to succeed, how do we know if this conservation strategy works?
Sea Turtle Hatchery PC: Abhishek Dixit
Evidence-based conservation
For those of us familiar with the crime genre, evidence is a term used mainly in legal proceedings that eventually leads to a person being implicated (or not!) in some wrongdoing. Similarly, evidence plays a crucial role in many other action-based disciplines, including medicine, education, social work, and biodiversity conservation. The concept of evidence-based practice originated back in 1981 when a group of epidemiologists, led by Dr. David Sackett, suggested using evidence in medical sciences to choose the best treatment for their patients. They recommended that physician decisions needed to be informed by a well-rounded, systematic evaluation of available medical literature. Later, it came to be known as evidence-based medicine, a phrase coined by Dr. Gordon Guyatt and his team, and the practice served as a tool for physicians to determine the best course of action to reduce patient ailments. In the past few years, there has been an expansion in the use of evidence-based practices to aid in decisions for biodiversity protection and management.
Like medicine, conservation can be considered a ‘crisis discipline’ in which decisions must be made in a short time period and, sometimes, with limited information. In 2001, Pullin and Knightfirst suggested the use of evidence to inform conservation actions, backed by scientific studies and not merely based on prior experience or instinct. The following years saw a rise in the number of reviews that were conducted to evaluate conservation strategies and determine their efficacy. Just like for medicine, it was called evidence-based conservation or EBC, and was adopted by prominent research groups, giving rise to online repositories like Conservation Evidencethat compile evidence summaries from scientific studies to determine the success of conservation strategies for different taxa or ecosystems. Such repositories provide a source of validated information for quick access by conservationists and managers. The main intention is to identify the factors that lead to conservation success, which can then be used to promote its effective usage and target funding towards it. Examples for evidence-based practices in conservation include the evaluation of spatial strategies like the creation of protected areas, celebrity endorsement in marketing conservation, and the success of techniques used in sea turtle hatchery management!
Structures to mark and protect eggs PC: Adhith Swaminathan
Sea turtle life: On land and in the sea
As marine reptiles, sea turtles spend the better part of their lives feeding and resting in the sea. Their experience on land is short—limited to the time after they emerge from their sandy, underground nests as hatchlings and scramble across the beach to enter the water. Male turtles rarely ever return to land once they have left as hatchlings, but adult female turtles make the journey back to the natal region where they hatched, to lay eggs of their own. Despite the limited amount of time sea turtles spend on land, it is easier for us to protect the eggs laid on our beaches than to reduce threats to turtles at sea.
A sea turtle hatchery PC: Nupur Kale
Sea turtle hatcheries: A conservation tool
Hatcheries are a popular ex-situ (i.e., away from the natural location) conservation strategy widely used across the world. A hatchery is usually a secure enclosure on or close to the nesting beach where at-risk sea turtle nests are relocated (i.e., moved from one location to another). Mainly used to combat threats to sea turtle eggs, including depredation by animals, poaching, and beach erosion, hatcheries are also a great resource to raise awareness about sea turtles and generate tourism, thus boosting the local economy by providing a source of income for many coastal communities. Based on its purpose, local materials, and the number of clutches of eggs that need to be protected, the enclosures come in all shapes and sizes. A hatchery used only for conservation purposes is most likely to be a simply designed temporary arena constructed from wooden poles and mesh, with space to incubate relocated turtle eggs. Hatcheries that operate with additional objectives of ecotourism or to create awareness may expand their enclosures to include small information centres, tanks to retain hatchlings or hold injured or disabled turtles for viewing, and tend to be permanent structures.
Hatcheries operate on the core principle of protecting relocated eggs. But while moving these eggs from point A to point B may sound easy, it is a long process involving multiple steps that starts with locating a natural nest, removing the eggs, carrying them to the hatchery, constructing an artificial nest, and monitoring the number of hatchlings produced. Even the construction of a hatchery requires several considerations, the first and foremost being whether it is even required in the first place! After that, most of the steps in relocating eggs require decisions on when and how to conduct and/or complete a particular activity. These decisions are driven by the various biological processes behind the development of turtle embryos in the eggs, which have been studied extensively and have helped experts in determining the basic dos and don’ts when employing hatcheries. Guided by these practices, practitioners and managers have used hatcheries to protect and improve their local sea turtle populations.
However, simply employing a hatchery does not guarantee a victory for conservation. The real measure of success lies in the number of eggs that hatch and the number of hatchlings that then enter the sea—all of which are influenced by the decisions made and the precision with which the best hatchery practices are followed. So, where does India stand when it comes to sea turtle hatcheries and their success?
Assessment of hatcheries in India
Three years ago, we began a study on hatchery practices in India. Considering India’s 7,500 km long coastline, we knew there would be a lot of hatchery managers and workers to reach out to for information. The main objective was to compare the best practices described in guidelines for hatcheries with real-life practices in collection, transportation, and incubation of eggs as well as the holding and release of hatchlings. With a few misses but mostly hits, representatives from 36 hatcheries agreed to participate in our survey and provided considerable information that improved our understanding of hatchery practices in India.
Responses revealed that some of the techniques used by the hatcheries did not align with practices recommended by experts and supported by scientific evidence. We found that most hatcheries were temporary structures, set up to mainly protect sea turtle eggs from predators, and which were moved annually so that relocated eggs were buried in clean sand. Other than protecting the eggs, some hatcheries were also used for ecotourism and to spread awareness about sea turtles and their conservation among local communities. The hatchery nests were spaced as recommended (no more than one nest per square metre) to ensure that the heat and respiratory gases generated by one clutch of eggs did not affect another. However, a lot of nests were moved to the hatcheries just within or outside the accepted time limit for moving eggs (six hours), which potentially affected their chances of survival.
The depth of nests in some of the hatcheries was also different from the average nest depth for that particular species. Depths can influence the temperatures within the nest, and shallower or deeper relocated nests will affect the percentage of eggs that survive and the sex of hatchlings during the development stage. The most concerning finding, however, was that the percentage of eggs that successfully hatched out of the relocated clutches was no different from those left unprotected on the beach. This was observed to be true not only for hatcheries in India, but also for those in other countries in the northern Indian Ocean region. Further, our results also highlighted a lack of regular training in hatchery techniques for managers and workers, including an explanation of the scientific logic behind every practice, and limited resources that restricted the capabilities of the hatcheries to always follow best practices, thus minimising the conservation outcomes.
Based on our findings, we recommend that hatcheries must alter their practices depending on the requirement to protect nests in that particular region. This includes reducing the time between when eggs are laid and reburied in a hatchery, decreasing nest density within the hatchery, and ensuring suitable nest depths. There is also a need to periodically train hatchery workers to refresh their knowledge and to emphasise proper record-keeping of details such as hatching success and hatchling emergence. Finally but most importantly, conservationists and hatchery managers must consider in situ protection of eggs, i.e., leaving eggs in their original location and/or using additional strategies like building small fences around individual nests. The material of the fences can be modified depending on the type of prevalent threats, thereby reducing the need for extra manpower and resources in moving eggs to a large hatchery.
enclosure to protect the eggs PC: Nupur Kale
Conclusion
In response to global biodiversity loss and the climate crisis, conservation activities around the world have increased to reduce threats, improve wild populations of plants and animals, and preserve our natural resources. However, despite this urgency, there are limited resources for conservationists and managers, who struggle to achieve the double aim of conserving biodiversity and safeguarding the welfare and livelihoods of people living in the area. In this context, there is very little margin of error and resources have to be smartly used on strategies that will ensure a high likelihood of success. And this is where evidence-based practices in conservation or simply evidence-based conservation come in handy.
Knowledge of evidence-based conservation, combined with experiential learning, will help us make informed decisions and assure maximum success in our work. Practitioners are already advocating for the inclusion of evidence-based practices in curricula, to train future generations of conservationists and natural resource managers in critical analysis early on. Many conservation funders now include ‘Monitoring and Evaluation’ as a reporting requirement for projects that receive their funding. As the call for further conservation actions gathers momentum, it is important that conservationists and managers not only assess the effectiveness of their own activities, but also examine the best use of their efforts and resources to ensure that every action contributes to protecting biodiversity.
¹ Pullin, A. S. and T. M. Knight. 2001. Effectiveness in conservation practice: Pointers from medicine and public health. Conservation biology 15(1): 50–54.
Further Reading:
Phillott, A. D., N. Kale and A. Unhale. 2021. Are sea turtle hatcheries in India following best practices? Herpetological conservation and biology 16(3): 652–670.
Downey, H., T. Amano, M. Cadotte, C. N. Cook, S. J. Cooke, N. R. Haddaway, J. P. G. Jones et al. 2021. Training future generations to deliver evidence-based conservation and ecosystem management. Ecological solutions and evidence 2(1): e12032.
Tigress Collarwali in Pench Tiger Reserve CC : Amrita Neelakantan
Tigers like to travel. So much so that in Central India—a hotspot for the fewer than 4,000 remaining wild tigers in the world—tiger populations have been able to move across the landscape to breed despite thousands of years of human presence throughout their habitat. We know this because tiger genetic research reveals a remarkably similar genetic makeup of individual animals from across this broad landscape. This genetic similarity indicates that individuals must be moving out of core population areas—usually tiger reserves or other protected areas—and traversing the complex mosaic landscape of agriculture, villages, and rapidly expanding infrastructure, to settle in a new area and breed with resident tigers there. In this way, tigers have maintained genetic connectivity despite the human pressures on the landscape.
Researchers and conservation groups have been working for many years to map the corridors that tigers travel through to stay connected, especially in recent decades, as the habitat is increasingly fragmented by highways, rails, mines, and other infrastructure for development. By knowing where tigers travel, we can work with local people and authorities to ensure that the habitat remains connected for tigers to traverse. After all, the tiger is undoubtedly not the only species—plant, animal, or microbe—depending on these areas.
Almost a decade of research into this topic resulted in incredible insights into our understanding of tiger connectivity in Central India. Researchers documented locations, movements, and more genetic material to map out important corridors. However, as frequently occurs in scientific endeavors, not all studies agreed on the areas of these corridors. Rather than allow this outcome to generate confusion—or worse, distrust—in the scientific community, a large group of researchers teamed up to analyze their studies together and produce a consensus map of important areas for tiger connectivity in central India.
The idea for this collaboration was hatched one cold night in January of 2019 in Melghat Tiger Reserve during the biannual symposium of the Network for Conserving Central India (NCCI). The Central Indian Landscape Symposium (CILS) had brought together researchers, conservationists from NGOs, and managers to exchange views on landscape connectivity. With hands cupped over steaming cups of chai, the shared purpose to keep the corridors from getting severed motivated a plan to combine efforts for a single map based on scientific consensus. By doing so, the scientific and conservation community could speak with one voice.
This collaborative effort revealed that while the individual studies did look quite different on the surface, they were much more similar than expected at first glance. In fact, out of the five studies analyzed, at least three agreed on 63 percent of the total study area. Furthermore, when we simulated movement using the results from each of the studies, they also largely agreed on areas of high potential movement, which allowed us to generate a new map layer we call “consensus connectivity areas (CCAs)”. This layer represents areas where all five studies agreed that there was high movement potential for tigers.
We then identified the public and private stakeholders in these lands using the CCA layer, revealing an extensive overlap with villages and with the expanding infrastructure network that spans Central India. This overlap highlights the importance of connecting with diverse audiences, from local communities to high-level government officials and infrastructure planners, to work together to benefit all species (including humans) that share this unique landscape.
Beyond tigers, this project provides a framework for other important biodiversity landscapes so that all parties can work together to preserve nature and livelihoods. And above all, we hope to demonstrate that collaboration is critical—for science, conservation, and humanity.
Further reading:
Schoen, J. M., A. Neelakantan, S. A. Cushman, T. Dutta, B. Habib, Y. V. Jhala, I. Mondal et al. 2022. Synthesizing habitat connectivity analyses of a globally important human-dominated tiger-conservation landscape. Conservation Biology 36(4): e13909. https://doi.org/10.1111/cobi.13909
This article was translated to Spanish by Michelle María Early Capistrán. Click here to read the original article in English.
El desierto central de Baja California, en el noroeste de México, es tan bello como inhóspito. El imponente paisaje está dominado por cardones (Pachycereus pringlei) milenarios y cirios (Fouquieria columnaris) de aspecto surrealista. Durante los veranos calcinantes las temperaturas frecuentemente rebasan los 50°C para luego caer bajo 0°C en el invierno. La lluvia alcanza, en promedio, escasos 100–300mm al año. Este desierto se sitúa entre las aguas frías del océano Pacífico y las aguas subtropicales del Golfo de California. Los mares son ricos y abundantes: son hogar de cinco especies de tortugas marinas, una gran diversidad de mamíferos marinos—entre ellos la ballena gris (Eschrichtius robustus), que se reproduce en las lagunas del Pacífico—e innumerables peces e invertebrados.
Los seres humanos han ocupado este ambiente extremo durante al menos 12,000 años. Los Cochimí eran un pueblo dedicado a la recolección, la pesca y la cacería, y se movían con el paso de las estaciones entre las fuentes de agua y los recursos en mar y tierra. Tras la llegada de los europeos en el siglo 18, la población Cochimí cayó un 90 por ciento en menos de dos generaciones como resultado de las epidemias y las hambrunas causadas por la sedentarización forzada. Durante los siglos posterios surgió una sociedad multiétnica, a veces conocida como los Californios, conformada por los descendientes de los Cochimís y de las diversas olas de inmigración procedentes de otras regiones de México, Europa, Estados Unidos, China y Japón. Se establecieron en rachos y comunidades dispersas alrededor de la península. Hasta el día de hoy la densidad poblacional de la región está entre las más bajas del mundo, con unas dos personas por kilómetro cuadrado.
Durante los últimos diez año, he tenido la gran fortuna de trabajar en el desierto central y de aprender de las personas que no solo han sobrevivido sino que han prosperado en este ambiente inhóspito, en gran medida por su conocimiento detallado del entorno natural. Mis colegas y yo hemos trabajado con maestros pescadores en ambas costas para intentar reconstruir cómo eran los océanos en el pasado y cómo han cambiado. La comunidad científica puede subestimar la magnitud de la biodiversidad o la abundancia pasada si la investigación se limita a los datos ecológicos, que en esta región generalmente abarcan menos de 30 años. Este fenómeno se conoce como “síndrome de desplazamiento de la línea base”. Durante milenios las tortugas marinas, y en particular la tortuga prieta (Chelonia mydas)—conocida localmente como caguama o caguama prieta—han tenido un papel clave como alimento y medicina para los habitantes de esta región. Los pescadores de mayor edad observaron mares muy distintos a los que conocemos hoy en día, y su conocimiento de cómo han cambiados las poblaciones de caguama y sus hábitats a lo largo del tiempo es primordial para entender el presente y abordar retos futuros.
Don Carlos comenzó a trabajar como pescador de caguama (o “caguamero” como se les conoce localmente) en la costa del Pacífico a inicios de la década de 1940. Su papá y él pasaban semanas en una isla deshabitada en la laguna Ojo de Liebre, arponeando caguamas desde una canoa pequeña. La laguna se caracteriza por sus canales profundos y sus bajos extensos, por lo que la pesca de caguama requería no solo habilidad en la navegación, sino también un conocimiento preciso de los vientos, las corrientes y las mareas. El más mínimo movimiento en la superficie impedía la visibilidad, de manera que solo se podía pescar durante mareas muertas, con viento en calma y aguas tranquilas. Las caguamas capturadas se fileteaban, se salaban y se secaban para hacer cecina o machaca, y se producía aceite con la grasa. Puesto que no había fuentes de agua dulce, fabricaron un destilador con tambos metálicos y tuberías de cobre para destilar el agua de mar. Los viajes duraban hasta que juntaran suficiente carne seca para que hacer rentable el viaje al pueblo más cercano, El Arco.
Viajaban un día y medio en mula o burro, cargados con hasta 20 kilos de carne seca de caguama que podría durar meses sin echarse a perder. La carne serviría de alimento en los ranchos o campamentos mineros del árido interior de la península. En El Arco vendían o truequeaban la carne por provisiones como frijoles, arroz, café o harina de trigo. En aquellos tiempos, varios factores limitaban las capturas. La demanda de carne de caguama se limitada a unos pocos pueblos o ranchos con contados pobladores. La pesca requería conocimientos detallados de la laguna y del díficil arte del arponeo, además de que conllevaba grandes riesgos. Asimismo, don Carlos y su papá eran los únicos pescadores en al menos 50 millas náuticas a la redonda.
Don Ignacio llegó a la región de las grandes islas del Golfo de California en 1950. Su familia viajó en burro durante dos semanas, de un oasis o manantial a otro, buscando sitios prometedores para la pesca. En sus primeros días como pescador, había tripulaciones (conocidas localmente como equipos) de dos o tres personas que remaban durante horas—o incluso días—a campos pesqueros aislados, donde se quedaban hasta que llenar sus embarcaciones de caguamas o hasta que se las acabara la comida o el agua. La habilidad del navegante era de vital importancia: era quien debía llevar a la tripulación a buen puerto en la peligrosa costa desértica. Su conocimiento de las corrientes traicioneras o los cambios en el viento, y su habilidad para predecir la llegada de tormentas o ventarrones, podrían marcar la diferencia entre la vida y la muerte. Los viajes eran cortos cuando la pesca era buena, y peligrosamente largos cuando las capturas eran pocas o si los vientos o las tormentas los mantenían en tierra. El conocimiento detallado del mar, las islas y el desierto les ayudaba a hacer rendir el agua, que debían cargar con ellos y a veces suplementar de pequeños manantiales o pozas estacionales. La cacería también permitía estirar las raciones de comida. Los pescadores podían hacer tortillas de harina con aceite de caguama y agua de mar, y el venado bura (Odocoileus hemionus) o el borrego cimarrón (Ovis canadensis) brindaban carne que se podía comer en el campamento o secar para hacer machaca.
En aquellos años, los pescadores capturaban las caguamas con un método altamente selectivo: el arponeo. Este arte, basado en la observación cuidadosa de la biología y el comportamiento de las tortugas marinas, requería muchísima habilidad pues las tortugas debía capturarse y venderse vivas. Las tripulaciones trabajaban de noche, con una lámpara de aceite sobre la proa para iluminar la superficie del agua. El arponero le señalaba las direcciones al timonel para lanzar el arpón con la fuerza suficiente para perforar el caparazón sin romperlo ni dañar los pulmones. En los meses de verano, cuando las tortugas son más activas y pasan tiempo cerca de la superficie, se usaban arpones ligeros y cortos. En los meses de invieron, cuando las tortugas se movían menos y pasaban largos ratos adormiladas en el fondo marino, se usaban arpones largos con peso en las puntas.
Las caguamas se mandaban a la venta cerca de la frontera con E.U.A., a unos 800 kilómetros de distancia. El viaje, que se hacía atravesando el desierto en caminos de terracería, podría durar entre dos días y dos semanas según las condiciones del terreno. En las comunidades alejadas, las caguamas eran un alimento básico: un solo ejemplar fácilmente podía alimentar a 20 personas, y la carne se podía salar y preservar durante semanas. No se desperdiciaba nada. El aceite se usaba para cocinar y como medicina, y se usaba cada parte del animal: incluso el caparazón podía hervirse hasta obtener una consistencia gelatinosa. Las pequeñas poblaciones humanas, las dificultades de la captura y del transporte y la limitada demanda de mercado mantenían las capturas en ciertos niveles. Sin embargo, pronto todo cambiaría.
A partir de la década de 1960, el crecimiento de las ciudades en la frontera norte de México aumentó la demanda de carne de caguama. Asimismo, la introducción de redes especializadas permitió capturar tortugas con gran facilidad y en números cada vez mayores. Los motores fuera de borda, con aumentos progresivos en los caballos de fuerza, le permitían a los equipos desplazadarse más lejos y más rápido, a la vez que reducían el riesgo de quedarse atrapados en ventarrones o corrientes fuertes. A inicios de la década de 1970 se construyó la carretera transpeninsular pavimentada, y el viaje que antes duraba días o semanas se redujo a menos de un día. Esta “tormenta perfecta” de demanda de mercado, acceso a los mercados y mejoras en la tecnología y las artes de pesca condujeron a capturas masivas, y la población llegó al borde de la extinción en menos de dos décadas.
Mediante el trabajo colaborativo con los pescadores hemos reconstruido casi 70 años de tendencias poblacionales de caguama en la región, integrando el conocimiento ecológico local con datos de monitoreo ecológico. Sin duda hay buenas noticias: las poblaciones de caguama están creciendo tras más de 40 años de esfuerzos de conservación (las principales playas de anidación en el sur de México están protegidas desde 1980 y todas las especies de tortuga marina en México están en veda desde 1990). No obstante, las poblaciones aún lo han llegado a los niveles de línea base históricos. Asimismo, el cambio climático generará riesgos cada vez mayores para las tortugas marinas, y estos riesgos serán aún más dificiles de contrarrestar que los impactos humanos directos. Conforme las comunidades pesqueras y las tortugas marinas se enfrentan a los retos de un planeta en proceso de cambio acelerado, el conocimiento acumulado a lo largo de generaciones será fundamental para trazar rumbos hacia el futuro.
Aprende más:
Lectura adicional (en inglés):
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
Trees have always felt like the upward raised hands of the Earth seeking rain, wind, and sunlight from the skies, while keeping myriad living and non-living things safe under their protective canopy. They never cease to fill me with awe and inspiration—their architecture, their defiance of gravity, their ability to soar above even as their roots dig deep into the soil. As an ecologist who has spent considerable time studying trees, I have had the joyful experience of hugging at least a thousand of them in the course of taking valuable diameter measurements!
Conservation of Nature usually finds its way into the hearts and minds of people through furry and huggable or majestic and awe-inspiring animals. This leaves tiny but spectacular orchids, serpentine climbers, creepy crawly insects, scaly snakes and frogs and a whole host of life forms unnoticed. Animals are given priority, while plants seem like they are every where and not particularly under threat of any loss. Up until we spend more time exploring and improving our understanding about the ecology or interdependencies that form the web of life.
Then we realise that a tree in the forest is more than just the flowers, fruits, and the leaves it produces. The bark has a host of mosses, ferns, frogs, crabs, insects, and orchids living on it. The canopy is home to a diversity of pollinators, primates, and other mammals. What happens in the deep roots and their capillaries that weave through the forest forming a vast network below ground is even less understood. A tree therefore becomes an entire habitat and even an ecosystem in the forest. In conserving a tree, one is protecting a web of relationships and interdependencies that are also threatened when that tree species is driven to extinction.
In the introduction to his book Against Extinction, Prof. Bill Adams writes about three timescales that conservation practitioners are engaged with—geological time which extends across millennia, a lifetime where one aspires to see change within a few decades, and the present, where every problem has to be addressed now or it will mean certain doom. Keeping these timescales in perspective is very important when one sets out to protect endangered species and to prevent their extinction.
The International Union for the Conservation of Nature (IUCN) maintains a Red List which is a comprehensive list of all living things and their conservation status. The information on populations, distributions, and the threats they face becomes invaluable when decisions on protection and preservation have to be taken. The Red Listing process assesses every species’ risk of extinction and places them under one of the nine stipulated categories: Data Deficient, Least Concern, Near Threatened, Vulnerable, Endangered, Critically Endangered, Extinct in the Wild, Extinct, and Not Evaluated. The assessments are based on information available about a species’ population and its range or distribution. These criteria are now globally accepted and widely used for conservation planning.
Through the articles in this special edition which are focussed on Endangered Trees, we want to draw attention to a world of plant conservation, which is replete with discovery, piracy, isolation, destruction, and lost relationships—all the makings of a conservation saga with trees as the protagonists.
As detailed in this series, once thought to be extinct in the wild, one species of the Faveiro trees of Brazil was rediscovered a hundred years ago and conservation plans are being implemented to ensure their long-term protection in the state of Minas Gerais. Another chance discovery of a cluster of Dipterocarpus bourdillonii trees in the Western Ghats of India spurred a large-scale survey for 11 endangered tree species in the Anamalai Hills, set against a backdrop of evolution, land use change, and global climate change. Moving on to the southern Western Ghats, where a single species from the genus Gluta is found (the only one in the Indian subcontinent), and although locally abundant in the forest, it faces a serious bottleneck in its life history, posing a threat to its long-term survival. But bottlenecks are many, when it comes to species in the wild, as in the case of the cycads from South Africa, where absence of beetle pollinators or their declines can have serious implications on populations in the wild. Human use poses a threat to the species as observed in the case of the Caryota palms, where the recreational or cultural use necessitates the removal of the flower—the reproductive part of the plant—even before it matures or has produced seed. Illegal wildlife trade is of concern to all wildlife, even plants, as seen in the article about the theft from the Gurukula Botanical Sanctuary in India and larger online trends. Finally, the fascinating history of the pivotal botanical text Hortus Malabaricus—with its detailed descriptions and meticulous illustrations of 780 plants of the Malabar region—is revealed.
Several species have been driven to extinction and are endangered owing to one or many of the reasons listed above. Will a species become extinct if we don’t act today or in our lifetime? Saving the Earth and protecting the planet by not letting anything die or go extinct has been the mainstay of conservation, which incidentally is only about 100 or so years old. From an evolutionary point of view extinctions give rise to newly adapted forms of life and keep the process of life moving ahead. Nothing stops in Nature. While saving species from dying seems like a short-term goal of conservation, there is a larger goal which I am afraid we are missing out on—literally losing sight of the woods for the trees. In the last few years in the mountains of South India, we have seen unprecedented weather patterns and a disruption of the rhythm of life. When a section of the grasslands and Shola forests of the Nilgiris collapsed in a landslide a few years ago, one started to wonder if our ecological footprint has now begun to challenge the very resilience of ancient landforms like the Western Ghats. What can we do now to rebuild the resilience of the Earth so it does not lose the capacity to bounce back after environmental disasters; this for me will be the long-term goal of conservation. We have to keep trying tree by tree, species by species, habitat by habitat to rebuild and restore that which is not completely lost.
In the early 1900s, an astute naturalist noticed beetles crawling all over cycad cones in South Africa, an observation that seemed to suggest these ancient plants were insect pollinated. The implications were so surprising that Alice Pegler’s observations were included in a presentation by Professor Harold Pearson to the Royal Society of South Africa in 1906. The circumstantial evidence was, however, not enough to challenge the prevailing paradigm of the time, that all cycads and related plants that do not produce flowers (Gymnosperms) were wind pollinated. It seemed inconceivable that a cycad—one of earliest plant groups to evolve from fern-like ancestors and develop seeds roughly 280 million years ago—could be insect pollinated. Insect pollination was generally believed to be one of the defining features of the flowering plants which evolved and diversified more than 100 million years later.
It was only in 1986 that researchers working in a botanic garden in the USA proved beyond doubt that some cycads were indeed pollinated by beetles. Even more surprising was evidence that cycad pollination systems include highly specialized interactions where the insect larvae develop in the cycad cones. This form of mutualism compares to the better-known interactions between figs and fig wasps, rather than the clumsy and opportunistic beetle interactions associated with primitive flowering plants. Since then, insect pollination has been confirmed in all ten genera of living cycads, across all five continents where cycads occur, and it is likely that it occurs in most of the approximately 350 known species of cycads.
Insect pollination of cycads is far more than just a fascinating evolutionary and ecological riddle, it is also critical to the survival of this unique group of seed plants. They represent one of the most threatened groups of plants yet assessed for the IUCN’s Red List of Threatened Species, with roughly 70 percent of all cycads now at risk of extinction. Over the past two decades, as studies of cycad pollination have gained momentum, there has been an increasing incidence of cases where pollinators seem to have disappeared. In some cases, pollinators were recorded in earlier surveys but have not been found in subsequent studies, while, in others, attempts to find pollinators have failed and these cycad populations do not produce viable seeds.
The collapse of pollinator populations is not unique to cycads. There is a global concern about their decline and disappearance. So much so that it was one of the first thematic assessments for the Intergovernmental Science-Policy Platform on Biodiversity and Ecosystem Services (IPBES). In the case of cycads, the loss plants. The overall context may make all the difference, depending on how far the population is from neighboring populations as a possible source of pollinators, whether the habitat is sufficiently intact to cater for other requirements of pollinators, such as shelter between coning seasons, and possible impacts of land use practices, particularly fire intensity and frequency or use of pesticides.
The absence of pollinators could be a major barrier for any attempts to recover or re-establish cycad populations. If we can’t get the pollinators back, is there any hope of reversing the trend towards extinction? This is still an open question and studies are currently underway to determine what is possible. There are some hopeful signs.
Many cycads have more than one pollinator species—a form of insurance if one pollinator is absent. For example, one recurring pattern amongst the known pollination systems is for pollination by weevils (beetles in the family Curculionoidea) as well as one or two other beetles (often Cucujoidea beetles). Where this combination exists, one pollinator may be quite specialized and will pollinate only one or a few species, whereas the more generalist pollinator will visit a wider range of cycad species. This opens up the possibility of reintroducing more generalist pollinators from populations of other cycads even if the more specialized pollinator is extinct.
Another promising avenue is to determine whether cycad pollinators have survived in botanic gardens and private collections. Plants in gardens tend to cone more frequently than in the wild and pollinator populations can become naturalized in gardens. The first experimental study of insect pollination is a great example. The study was carried out at Fairchild Tropical Garden in the USA on naturalized populations of pollinators that usually occur only in Mexico. Surveys of cycads in gardens may reveal insect pollinators that no longer exist in the wild or, just as important, show whether pollinators in gardens shift hosts and can develop in a wider range of cycad hosts than previously thought. If so, it could be possible to even re-introduce specialist pollinators into wild cycad populations.
The IUCN/SSC Cycad Specialist Group is leading a global initiative to reverse the extinction trend for cycads. It is becoming increasingly clear that this requires a greater understanding of risk and resilience associated with cycad pollination systems, and finding ways to recover and restore pollination systems wherever possible.
Further Reading
Norstog, K. J., D. Stevenson and K. J. Niklas. 1986. The role of beetles in the pollination of Zamia furfuracea L. fil.(Zamiaceae). Biotropica 18: 300–306.
Toon, A., L. I. Terry, W. Tang, G. H. Walter and L. G. Cook. 2020. Insect Pollination of Cycads. Austral Ecology 45(8): 1033–58. https://doi.org/10.1111/aec.12925.
Reflections from surveys for endangered trees in the Anamalai Hills of the Western Ghats
The air hung heavy with the scent of nectar, and the pools in the streams glittered green and pink with fallen Dipterocarpus bourdillonii flowers. The emergent trees from which the flowers had fallen rose in regal elegance above the canopy. The previous year, in late January 2021, a team of researchers from the Nature Conservation Foundation and the Wildlife Institute of India had found a small cluster of these trees here, along the bend of the Parayankadavu River in the Anamalai Tiger Reserve. It was an exciting find because this critically endangered tree species, endemic to the Western Ghats mountains in India, had not been recorded in this area.
Now, we were back in the valley of riverine lowland montane rainforests to survey the area for more individuals and to document their altitudinal range, abundance, and other trees associated with the species.
Dipterocarpus bourdillonii
Staring into the domed crown dancing with peppered sunlight and rustling against the clouds, I pictured the land—located in the southern Western Ghats, within the Anamalai hill range—from up above, looking out from the 52 m crest of the giant. All around was a landscape with an astonishing diversity of more than 7,400 flowering plant species, distributed over a vast range of altitudinal and geographic zones. Looking to the horizon, the forests become an intricate symphony, carpeting and moulding the valleys and crests, which stood silhouetted against the expansive blue of the sky. The reverie was broken by a swirling, pirouetting flower drifting down from the canopy, which served as a reminder of the several unexplored kilometres that lay ahead.
The systematic survey for endangered trees had been underway over the past two years to understand the distribution and conservation status of ten endangered tree species within the Anamalais landscape. After the discovery of the Dipterocarpus bourdillonii cluster, the survey expanded to focus on 11 species. The surveys along 63 forest trails, each several kilometres long, were distributed across rainforest remnants on the Valparai Plateau and the adjoining Anamalai Tiger Reserve. A survey of this scale and resolution had not been undertaken since C. E. C. Fischers’s ‘Flora of the Anaimalai Hills’, followed by his work with J. S. Gamble in the ‘Flora of the Madras Presidency’, both published more than a century earlier.
More than a century of human intervention, the limited geographic scope of prior surveys, and climate change have made the data from our survey crucial to the current context. By systematically measuring the girth, height, and geolocation of every individual of our 11 endangered tree species, and laying plots to record associated trees and regeneration, we were able to gather more information on the conservation status of these species.
Ecological information that we collected suggested that patterns of endangerment varied across species. For instance, the endemic and critically endangered tree Phyllanthus anamalayanus was previously thought to be restricted to a small cluster of less than a hundred individuals spread over a couple of hectares of forest near the Iyerpadi region of the Valparai Plateau. In our surveys, we found the trees in high abundance along river systems in the mid to lower elevation of the landscape. Another species, Palaquium ravii (whose seeds germinate well in nurseries) was found as a cluster of 30-odd individuals in the forests of the Manamboli region, but was extremely scarce or absent elsewhere.
Palaquium ravii
What makes certain trees extremely rare both in distribution and in abundance, while other endangered trees are locally expansive in range and numbers?
Why do some endangered trees occur in high densities in specific valleys but are absent elsewhere? In every new range we explored and documented, in every cluster that we found, was a distinct reminder that there was much to learn about endangered species in the landscape.
A major hindrance to understanding the ecology of endangered trees within forests today is the significant historical influence of anthropogenic destruction and pressures. Extensive logging for timber, fuel or biochemical properties (sap) may have removed huge tracts of forests and large numbers of key dominant species of each forest type (e.g., Myristica dactyloides, Diospyros paniculata, Vateria indica).
Myristica dactyloides
Confounding these factors are the broad ecological parameters that seem to affect tree abundance and distribution in the Western Ghats, such as variations in rainfall, elevation, prevailing soil type, and latitude. These patterns relate to the high rates of endemism within the landscape and are, at times, significant enough to cause dramatic changes in tree composition between two adjoining valleys or neighbouring ranges. For example, the understorey tree Cryptocarya anamalayana, is only found below 1000 m elevation on the western slopes of the Anamalai plateau in select locations of high annual precipitation.
Our present-day understanding is thus situated at the crossroads where the knotted threads of history and land use change meet the ecological relationships and adaptations that have evolved over vast timescales, all set in a time of global climate change.
Syzygium densifloram
In a landscape that is threatened by fragmentation, deforestation, and extinction, the questions surrounding endangered trees, their distribution, association, abundance, and specific roles become that much more critical. What we gain from such knowledge can help in shaping future conservation and restoration efforts, built on an understanding of the composition, structure, diversity, and resilience of existing forests and their historic baselines.
In Minas Gerais, a southeast Brazilian state known for its mineral wealth, there is another kind of natural treasure, which is still hidden: the faveiro-de-wilson tree (Dimorphandra wilsonii) from the legume family. Its story probably started a long time ago, but the species was known to science only in 1968, when a woodsman, Wilson Nascimento, came across a few individuals of the species in the Paraopeba municipality. The following year, this tree was described by Dr. Carlos Rizzini of the Rio de Janeiro Botanical Garden Research Institute, who had employed the woodsman as a research assistant. The scientific as well as common name of the species honour Mr. Wilson, who passed away shortly after the discovery.
It is curious how such a large tree species found in the vicinity of a metropolis was discovered so late. It was assumed that the species was never very abundant in nature. 15 years later, in 1984, Dr. Rizzini returned to that region and counted only 18 individuals of the species, both in Paraopeba as well as in the neighbouring municipality, Caetanópolis. Since he had encountered so few individuals, he believed that this species could be at risk of extinction.
Following this, the faveiro-de-wilson was forgotten about until 2003, when it was ‘rediscovered’ by researchers from the Parks and Zoo-Botanical Foundation of Belo Horizonte’s Botanic Garden. They visited the Paraopeba and Caetanópolis municipalities, where, in the midst of extended pastures of the invasive alien grass Urochloa decumbens (also known by its synonym Brachiaria or “braquiária” in Portuguese), they spotted a dozen old and peculiar faveiro-de-wilson trees.
This encounter led to several questions: Is the species rare? Does it only occur here? Is it facing extinction? What do we know about its biology and ecology? To answer these questions, the researchers began seed collection, nursery reproduction, and studies on phenology and population genetics. On realising that it was a rare and poorly documented species, finding more individuals and protecting this mysterious species became their priority. Committed to finding more faveiro-de-wilson individuals, the researchers ignored all the discouragement aimed at their attempts to protect a species considered a “lost cause”. They decided to carry out direct searches throughout the state of Minas Gerais. To help with this difficult task, they had an idea: creating and distributing “wanted” posters and leaflets with information about and photos of the species, as well as the team’s contact details. And thus, the long search for the faveiro-de-wilson began.
THE TREASURE HUNT
The search resembled a treasure hunt, except without a map for guidance. Outreach materials in hand, the group of researchers went to “hunt” for the faveiro-de-wilson, putting up posters everywhere and approaching local people, mostly in the country-side. They handed out leaflets with images and passed around samples of faveiro’s leaves, fruits, and seeds, which could be touched and smelled. The team asked if people knew the species and could help them locate individuals. Those who had the closest contact with nature and were interested in collaborating became special partners, who were later referred to as “faveiro hunters”.
The absence of a general mechanism to protect the species in its natural habitat led to the creation of a state decree in 2004, which declared a ban on the logging and exploitation of the faveiro-de-wilson in Minas Gerais. In 2006, the conservation status of the species was assessed and subsequently published in the IUCN Global Red List’s “Critically Endangered”category. Another couple of years later, the faveiro-de-wilson was also included in the Minas Gerais and BrazilianOfficial Red Lists.
In the following years, with logistical support from the State Forest Institute (IEF, acronym in Portuguese) and sponsorship from a cement company and a non-governmental organisation, the tree searches were reinforced and the research was extended to include physiology and reproductive biology. Other activities were also initiated at the same time, including the reintroduction of the species in suitable habitats and spreading environmental awareness through meetings, chats, and presentations in schools, at public squares, and other places. Thus, a simple project became the Faveiro-de-Wilson Conservation Programme, whose work was mainly focused in the central region of Minas Gerais, in the transition or ecotone zone between two biodiversity hotspots: the Cerrado (a vast tropical savannah) and the Atlantic Forest.
Although the conservation programme was focussed on a single species—the faveiro-de-wilson (D. wilsonii)—researchers stumbled upon another morphologically similar species during their surveys in the region. The faveiro-da-mata (Dimorphandra exaltata), native to the Atlantic Forest, is likewise rare and little investigated. Until then, it was known only from herbarium records collected in the eastern region of Minas Gerais and in some municipalities in the states of Rio de Janeiro and São Paulo. This was the first time that they observed it in the central region of Minas Gerais and such a discovery would bring more challenges and surprises.
CREATING A CONSERVATION ACTION PLAN
Thanks to community involvement, the treasure hunt for faveiro-de-wilson yielded good results. Up until 2013, 219 adult individuals had been recorded in 16 municipalities in the central region of Minas Gerais. They were able to show that the species was endemic to this region. With all the data and information gathered during the surveys, there was an impetus to create a Conservation Action Plan (CAP) for the species—Faveiro-de-Wilson CAP. This was done in partnership with the Brazilian National Centre for Plant Conservation of the Rio de Janeiro Botanical Garden Research Institute (CNCFlora/JBRJ, acronym in Portuguese) and involved 30 stakeholders from 10 institutions.
Five years later, in 2020, most of the conservation actions were implemented/executed by the stakeholders involved in the Faveiro-de-Wilson CAP. It was noted that faveiro-de-wilson and faveiro-da-mata are not used for commercial purposes. However, their pods/favas, although dry, are palatable and nutritious for animals, including wild species (e.g. tapir, paca, deer, cotia, and macaw) as well as cattle and horses, who also help disperse the seeds. Moreover, since the pods fall in the period when the pastures are dry, they are beneficial for farmers whose cattle feed on them. This fact has been used to advocate for the conservation of this species. However, although both species produce many fruits and seeds, the recruitment is low, and growth is slow and uneven. Additionally, the young plants have to compete with the aggressive alien grass, braquiária, as well as survive being trampled by cattle and predated on by insects, all of which leads to many losses, including in reintroduction attempts.
TRACING THE ORIGIN OF THE FAVEIRO
From the start, a genetic comparison was sought between the faveiro-de-wilson and the faveiro-do-campo (Dimorphandra mollis), a non-threatened and common species in the Cerrado with a wide distribution in Brazil. But after faveiro-da-mata was discovered where the researchers knew that the three species converged, they were all considered in the genetic studies performed by the Federal University of Minas Gerais (UFMG).
This led to a surprising discovery in 2019: the faveiro-de-wilson is a probable natural hybrid of faveiro-da-mata and faveiro-do-campo!
Such a revelation prompted researchers to make several adjustments along the way. For example, the illustrated educational booklet, which was being written for schools, ranchers, faveiro hunters, stakeholders and other partners, was published in 2020 under the title “Preserving the Rare Faveiros”, in order to also include faveiro-da-mata and faveiro-do-campo.
A milestone was reached in 2020, with a total of441 adult faveiro-de- wilson trees being georeferenced and marked in 24 municipalities. However, none of these trees were found inside Protected Areas and the vastmajority of them are located in deforested landscapes. This makes the conservation of the species more challenging.
Additionally, 451 individuals of faveiro-da-mata were also found, georeferenced, and marked in the same region. For both species, the researchers observed that the main cause for drastic reduction was not any specific uses of the plants, but simply the destruction of their habitat. Based on this new information and expanding knowledge, CNCFlora/JBRJ has now re-evalua- ted the faveiro-de-wilson and down-listed the species from Critically Endangered to Endangered, also including the faveiro-da-mata in the same category. Both species assessments have been submitted and the faveiro-da-mata assessment has already been published on the IUCN Global Red List.
LOOKING TO THE FUTURE
CNCFlora/JBRJ recently joined forces with national and international institutions (e.g. IUCN SSC CSE-Brazil and CEPF) to develop the Conservation Action Plan for Threatened Faveiros Species (Dimorphandra), which includes faveiro-de-wilson and faveiro-da-mata as targets species, and faveiro-do-campo as beneficiary species. This made it possible to redefine the objectives and priority actions, as well as to expand the efforts undertaken for the conservation and recovery of their populations. This change was very important because the Cerrado and the Atlantic Forest, where these species occur, are under severe pressure from agricultural expansion and livestock rearing. Thus, conservation efforts from multiple angles are needed in order to succeed. Moreover, these efforts to restore and protect the faveiros and their habitat require national and international collaboration among stakeholders to drive investment and conservation outcomes.
Thousands of people have been involved in the conservation programme over the years—from different sectors (public, private, and non-governmental) and from different cities. This includes school students, local communities, faveiro hunters, the fire brigade, and rural landowners, who safeguard the two rare faveiros on their properties with great pride. It is also worth mentioning that in 2015, the Faveiro-de- Wilson Conservation Programme was awarded the National Biodiversity Award for the best Brazilian nature conservation initiative from the Ministry of Environment under the public service category. Through our joint efforts, we hope to continue expanding our work to protect these peculiar faveiros trees in a region which should be remembered not only for its mineral resources, but also its green treasures.
This article has been translated into Portuguese and is available in the online version of the issue (www.currentconservation.org/issues/)
Further Reading Fernandes, F. M., A. C. R. Pereira, A. C. Roque and S. C. Fonseca, S.C. 2020. Preservando os raros faveiros. Belo Horizonte: Fundação de Parques Municipais e Zoobotânica.
Fernandes, F. M. and J. O. Rego.2014. Dimorphandra wilsonii Rizzini (Fabaceae): Distribution, habitat and conservation status. Acta Botanica Brasilica 28: 434–444. https://doi.org/10.1590/0102-33062014abb3409.
Muniz, A. C., J. P. Lemos-Filho, H. A. Souza, R. C. Marinho, R. S. Buzatti, M. Heuertz and M. B. Lovato. 2020. The protected tree Dimorphandra wilsonii (Fabaceae) is a population of inter-specific hybrids: Recommendations for conservation in the Brazilian Cerrado/Atlantic Forest ecotone. Annals of botany 126: 191–203. https://doi.org/10.1093/aob/mcaa066.
Em Minas Gerais, estado do sudeste brasileiro conhecido por sua riqueza mineral, há outro tipo de tesouro natural que ainda está escondido: a árvore faveiro-de-wilson (Dimorphandra wilsonii) da família das leguminosas. Sua história certamente começou muito tempo antes, mas ela só foi conhecida pela ciência em 1968, quando um mateiro, Sr. Wilson Nascimento, se deparou com alguns indivíduos da espécie no município de Paraopeba. No ano seguinte, essa árvore foi descrita pelo Dr. Carlos Rizzini, do Instituto de Pesquisas Jardim Botânico do Rio de Janeiro, que tinha o mateiro como assistente de pesquisa. Por isso, os nomes científico e comum da espécie gentilmente homenageiam o Sr. Wilson, que faleceu logo após a descoberta.
É curioso como uma espécie de arvore de grande porte, existente não tão longe de uma metrópole, foi descoberta tão tardiamente. Isto levou à suposição de que a espécie nunca foi muito abundante na natureza. Quinze anos depois, em 1984, o Dr. Rizzini retornou àquela região e contou apenas 18 indivíduos da espécie, em Paraopeba e no município vizinho, Caetanópolis. Como havia encontrado tão poucos indivíduos, ele considerou que essa espécie poderia estar em risco de extinção.
E depois disto, o faveiro-de-wilson ficou esquecido até 2003, quando foi “redescoberto” pelos pesquisadores do Jardim Botânico da Fundação de Parques Municipais e Zoobotânica de Belo Horizonte. Eles visitaram os municípios de Paraopeba e Caetanópolis, onde, em meio a extensas pastagens com o capim exótico e invasor, Urochloa decumbens (conhecida pelo nome comum braquiária; que tem como sinônimo Brachiaria), encontraram uma dúzia de velhas e peculiares árvores de faveiro-de-wilson.
Este encontro levou-lhes a várias questões: A espécie será mesmo rara? Ela só ocorre aqui? Está de fato em risco de extinção? Como será sua biologia e ecologia? Para responder a essas questões, os pesquisadores iniciaram ações como a coleta de sementes, reprodução em viveiro e estudos sobre fenologia e genética de populações. Ao perceberem que era uma espécie rara e insuficientemente documentada, encontrar mais indivíduos e proteger essa espécie misteriosa tornaram-se suas prioridades. Comprometidos em encontrar mais árvores de faveiro-de-wilson, os pesquisadores ignoraram todos os comentários que desencorajavam as suas tentativas de proteger uma espécie considerada como uma “causa perdida” e resolveram procurá-la em todo o estado de Minas Gerais. Como este seria um trabalho muito difícil e a equipe era pequena, eles buscaram envolver as comunidades locais. Para isso, criaram e distribuíram um cartaz com o título “Procura-se” e um folheto que continham informações e fotos da espécie e os contatos da equipe.
A caça ao tesouro
A jornada de busca parecia uma caça ao tesouro, mas sem um mapa para orientação. Com os materiais de divulgação em mãos, o grupo de pesquisadores foi à “caça” ao faveiro-de-wilson, afixando cartazes por toda parte e abordando as pessoas no campo. Eles também distribuíram os folhetos, mostraram folhas, frutos e sementes do faveiro e perguntaram às pessoas se conheciam a espécie e poderiam ajudá-los a encontrá-la. Aquelas pessoas que tinham mais familiaridade com a natureza e que também estavam interessadas em colaborar, tornaram-se parceiras especiais e foram reconhecidas como “caçadores de faveiro”.
A ausência de um mecanismo geral para proteger a espécie em seu habitat natural levou à criação de um Decreto estadual em 2004, que declarou a proibição de corte e exploração do faveiro-de-wilson em Minas Gerais. Em 2006, o estado de conservação da espécie foi avaliado e, posteriormente, publicado na Lista Vermelha Global da IUCN na categoria “Criticamente em perigo” de extinção. Alguns anos depois, o faveiro-de-wilson também foi incluído nas Listas Vermelhas Oficiais de Minas Gerais e do Brasil.
Nos anos seguintes, com apoio logístico do Instituto Estadual de Florestas (IEF-MG) e patrocínio de uma empresa de cimento, as buscas pela árvore foram reforçadas e as pesquisas passaram a incluir fisiologia e biologia reprodutiva. Paralelamente, outras atividades também foram iniciadas, incluindo a reintrodução da espécie em habitats adequados e a ampliação da conscientização ambiental por meio de reuniões, bate-papos e apresentações em escolas, praças públicas e outros locais. Assim, um projeto simples transformou-se no Programa de Conservação do Faveiro-de-Wilson, cujo trabalho se concentrou principalmente na região Central de Minas Gerais, na transição ou zona de ecótono entre dois hotspots de biodiversidade: o Cerrado—uma vasta savana tropical—e a Mata Atlântica.
Embora o Programa estivesse focado em uma única espécie—o faveiro-de-wilson (D. wilsonii)—os pesquisadores, durante os seus levantamentos na região, se depararam com outra espécie morfologicamente semelhante. Trata-se do faveiro-da-mata (Dimorphandra exaltata), uma espécie originária da Mata Atlântica e igualmente rara e pouco estudada. Até então, a espécie era conhecida apenas a partir dos registros de coleções científicas, que haviam sido realizados na região Leste de Minas Gerais e em alguns municípios dos estados do Rio de Janeiro e São Paulo. Essa foi a primeira vez que o faveiro-da-mata foi encontrado na região Central de Minas Gerais e tal descoberta traria mais desafios e surpresas.
Criando um Plano de Ação para a Conservação
Graças ao envolvimento da comunidade, a caça ao tesouro para o faveiro-de-wilson rendeu bons resultados. Até 2013, tinham sido registrados 219 indivíduos adultos em 16 municípios da região Central de Minas Gerais e foi comprovado que a espécies era endêmica dessa região. Com todos os dados e as informações acumuladas nesses 10 anos de trabalho, surgiu então o impulso de criar um Plano de Ação Nacional (PAN) para a Conservação do Faveiro-de-Wilson – PAN Faveiro-de-Wilson. Isso foi feito em parceria com o Centro Nacional de Conservação da Flora do Instituto de Pesquisas Jardim Botânico do Rio de Janeiro (CNCFlora/JBRJ) e envolveu 30 participantes de 10 instituições.
Cinco anos depois, em 2020, a maioria das ações de conservação haviam sido implementadas/executadas pelos colaboradores envolvidos no PAN Faveiro-de-Wilson. Notou-se que o faveiro-de-wilson e o faveiro-da-mata não são utilizados para fins comerciais. No entanto, suas vagens/favas, embora secas, são palatáveis e nutritivas para os animais, incluindo espécies silvestres (ex. anta, paca, veado, cotia e arara), além de bovinos e equinos que também ajudam a dispersar as sementes. Além disso, como as vagens caem no período em que as pastagens estão secas, elas são benéficas para os agricultores cujo gado se alimenta delas. Este fato tem sido usado como uma das justificativas para a conservação destas espécies. No entanto, embora ambas as espécies produzam muitos frutos e sementes, o recrutamento é baixo e o crescimento é lento e desigual. Além disso, as plantas jovens precisam competir com o agressivo capim braquiária, bem como resistir ao pisoteamento do gado e à predação por insetos, o que acarreta muitas perdas, inclusive nas tentativas de reintrodução.
Traçando a origem do Faveiro
Desde o início das pesquisas, buscou-se uma comparação genética entre o faveiro-de-wilson e o faveiro-do-campo (Dimorphandra mollis), uma espécie não ameaçada de extinção e comum no Cerrado, com ampla distribuição no Brasil. Mas depois que o faveiro-da-mata foi descoberto e os pesquisadores notaram que as três espécies coexistiam nessa região, os estudos genéticos realizados pela Universidade Federal de Minas Gerais (UFMG) passaram a considerar todas elas. Isso levou a uma descoberta surpreendente em 2019: o faveiro-de-wilson é um provável híbrido natural de faveiro-da-mata e faveiro-do-campo! Tal revelação levou os pesquisadores a fazer vários ajustes ao longo do caminho. Como exemplo, a cartilha educativa ilustrada para escolas, fazendeiros, “caçadores de faveiros”, colaboradores e outros parceiros, que estava sendo escrita, foi publicada em 2020 com o título “Preservando os Raros Faveiros”, de modo a incluir também o faveiro-da-mata e o faveiro-do-campo.
Um marco foi alcançado em 2020, com um total de 441 árvores adultas de faveiro-de-wilson georreferenciadas e marcadas em 24 municípios. No entanto, nenhuma dessas árvores foi encontrada dentro de unidades de conservação de proteção integral e a grande maioria delas está localizada em áreas degradadas, o que torna a conservação da espécie mais desafiadora. E quanto ao faveiro-da-mata 451 indivíduos também foram encontrados, georreferenciados e marcados na mesma região. Para ambas as espécies, os pesquisadores observaram que a principal causa para a drástica redução não foi nenhum uso específico da planta, mas simplesmente a destruição do seu habitat. Com base nessas novas informações e na ampliação do conhecimento, o CNCFlora/JBRJ reavaliou o faveiro-de-wilson e alterou a categoria da espécie de “Criticamente em perigo” para “Em perigo” de extinção. O faveiro-da-mata também foi avaliado e incluído na mesma categoria. Ambas as avaliações foram submetidas à IUCN, sendo que a avaliação do faveiro-da-mata já foi publicada na Lista Vermelha Global.
Olhando para o futuro
Recentemente, o CNCFlora/JBRJ uniu forças também com instituições nacionais e internacionais (ex. IUCN SSC CSE-Brasil e CEPF) para elaborar o Plano de Ação Nacional para a Conservação dos Faveiros (Dimorphandra) Ameaçados de Extinção – PAN Faveiros, que tem o faveiro-de-wilson e faveiro-da-mata como espécies-alvo e o faveiro-do-campo como espécie beneficiária. Isso possibilitou redefinir os objetivos e ações prioritárias, bem como ampliar os esforços empreendidos para a conservação e recuperação de suas populações. Essa mudança foi muito importante porque o Cerrado e a Mata Atlântica, onde essas espécies ocorrem, estão sob forte pressão da expansão agrícola e da pecuária. Assim, os esforços de conservação de vários ângulos são necessários para ter sucesso. Além disso, esses esforços para restaurar e proteger os faveiros e seu habitat exigem a colaboração nacional e internacional entre as partes interessadas para impulsionar o investimento de recursos financeiros e os resultados de conservação.
Ao longo desses anos, milhares de pessoas, de diferentes setores (público, privado e não-governamental) e cidades, têm sido envolvidas no Programa de Conservação. Isso inclui alunos de escolas, comunidades locais, “caçadores de faveiros” e aqueles proprietários rurais que com muito orgulho guardam os dois raros faveiros em suas propriedades. Vale mencionar também que em 2015 o Programa de Conservação do Faveiro-de-Wilson recebeu o Prêmio Nacional de Biodiversidade do Ministério do Meio Ambiente como a melhor iniciativa brasileira de conservação da natureza na categoria serviço público. Por meio de nossos esforços conjuntos, esperamos continuar expandindo nosso trabalho para proteger essas peculiares árvores de faveiros em uma região que deve ser lembrada não apenas por seus recursos minerais, mas também por seus tesouros verdes.
Muniz, A.C., Lemos-Filho, J.P., Souza, H.A., Marinho, R.C., Buzatti, R.S., Heuertz, M., Lovato, M.B., 2020. The protected tree Dimorphandra wilsonii (Fabaceae) is a population of inter-specific hybrids: Recommendations for conservation in the Brazilian Cerrado/Atlantic Forest ecotone. Annals of Botany, 126, 191–203. https://doi.org/10.1093/aob/mcaa066
How online trends and trade may be the next threat to endangered plants
In April of 2021, four plants went missing from outside the gates of the Gurukula Botanical Sanctuary in the Western Ghats of Wayanad, Kerala. The plants were closely related to the ubiquitous money plant and belonged to the genus Anthurium, which is prized for its ornamental foliage. Weeks later, amidst occasional smaller disappearances, a large Anthurium warocqueanum plant—also known as the ‘Queen Anthurium’—went missing from inside the gates. The targeting of exotic species, and the circumstances surrounding the thefts coincided exactly with cases I had heard of while working at the Auroville Botanical Gardens in Tamil Nadu. These cases also reminded me of the thefts of rare species from Kew Gardens in 2014, and more recently, from the Penang botanical gardens in Malaysia. Intrigued, I contacted Suprabha Seshan—a restoration ecologist and the head of the trust that runs Gurukula—and she quickly confirmed my initial impressions. The instances at Gurukula and Auroville are part of a larger trend linking the global horticultural trade, the desire for exotic species, and a worldwide houseplant renaissance sparked by the pandemic.
During my time at the Auroville Botanical Gardens (AVBG), many of the horticulturists related stories of orchids, ferns, and cacti going missing from their collections. The carnivorous plants were so tempting that before long, there were none left in the botanical gardens! As a result of these regular thefts, AVBG had little choice but to keep its collection of over 250 cacti species under lock and key in their specially constructed cactus house. Gradually, I began noticing a pattern in the cases—while the species and types of plants targeted seemed random, they had a common denominator. Almost all the plants that were stolen were of ornamental value, and had gone “viral” on the internet at some point. So it was not the priceless orchids native to the Western Ghats that were stolen, but the showy and common Cattleya; ray ferns native to the local sandstone hills—and almost impossible to find in cultivation—were left alone in favour of the exotic carnivorous plants; and the Stapeliads from South Africa in the cactus house were passed over for the internet-famous Astrophytum with its attractive white striations. I noticed the same trend in the Gurukula—while the sanctuary grows hundreds of species of rare plants from the Ghats, the species stolen belonged to the genera Diffenbachia and Anthurium. The latter, native to South America, has gained cult status in the plant world, with single cuttings being sold for well over $100 on online auction sites.
So, where is the problem? If the species being stolen are not native or endangered, and are easily replaceable, then apart from the inconvenience, aren’t the thefts fairly benign? The answer is no, and to understand why, it’s important to first understand how global plant trends work. To start with, these trends are not new.
From the Ottoman and later Dutch obsession with tulips in the 17th century, to the Victorian infatuation with tropical ferns and orchids, to the current craze over cacti and succulents in Japan, Singapore, and Southeast Asia, cultivating the unusual and exotic affords a rare thrill to growers. Historically, the possession of plants from across the world has been a powerful status symbol, and a way to show off one’s wealth. Today, it is a hobby for millions, but the channels of status and popularity have shifted from ballrooms and glasshouses to the realm of social media.
Characteristically capricious, plant trends change with the fashions and sensibilities of the day. Dutch tulips famously crashed and caused economic ruin, and Victorian orchids became so common that now they bloom on supermarket shelves everywhere. But these unpredictable changes in popularity coupled with the amplifying power of the internet make for a potentially dangerous powder keg. During the global COVID-19 pandemic, lockdown restrictions and online retail spurred a global surge in the number of people buying houseplants. Google searches for the term “gardening” spiked in March 2020, reaching an all-time high by May. Trends around owning ornamental plants sweeping social media can quickly translate into a massive demand for rare and unusual species, and this demand can be fulfilled by online retailers, nurseries and individuals, in an almost undetectable manner. Many plant conservationists fear for the remaining populations of rare species in the wild, should they be the targets of the next social media trend.
Horticultural trends have undeniably had effects on wild plant populations in the past, and in many cases continue to do so today. Foliage plants such as Peperomia, Hoya, Anthurium, and Begonia, are routinely smuggled out of South America, Southeast Asia and tropical forests elsewhere—often, many of these species are new to science. In the coastal cliff habitats of California in North America, wild populations of Dudleya, a rare genus of succulents, have been nearly exhausted due to illegal collection for sale in the exotic plant trade. Similarly, many South African succulents, such as Conophytum, have also been over-collected for horticultural trade to the point of endangerment. In fact, several online sale/auction websites prevalent among enthusiasts place a premium on rare and ‘unclassified’ species.
The anthropogenic Allee effect—a term used in wildlife trade to describe a syndrome of increasing prices with increasing rarity—applies robustly to the plant kingdom as well. CITES is a multilateral treaty that aims to protect endangered plants and animals by ensuring that international trade does not threaten their survival in the wild. While wildlife trafficking gets plenty of media attention, few people realise that of the 37,000 species currently protected under CITES regulations, more than 30,000 are plants, and over 90 percent of which belong to just one family: the orchids. Since horticultural demands for rare and unusual plants posing a threat to wild and endangered populations is a relatively new problem, conservation discourse is still divided on what may be the most effective way of addressing it.
Two broad viewpoints emerge on the horticulture of rare species. The first is vehemently against this, maintaining that it is too difficult to regulate and only feeds the dange rous premium on rarity. This viewpoint is supported by policies such as CITES which aim to regulate trade, but in practice make it nearly impossible to move plants and plant material across international borders, often even for accredited scientific institutions. Similarly, Gurukula Botanical Sanctuary maintains an ethos of pure environ mental conservation by aiming to remain non-commercial and by not selling any of their plants on the grounds that the commercialisation of any lifeform is intrinsically unethical. Suprabha Seshan believes that to remain devoted to conservation, one must also work towards stalling species extinction, which in the case of plants means keeping them out of large-scale commercial trade. She also points to the politics of resource appropriation: plant trade in India has a colonial legacy, which arguably caused more harm than any other factor to Gurukula’s regional Nilgiri ecosystem through the introduction of exotic species—many of which have since become invasive—for large-scale plantations.
The other point of view suggests that by making endangered plants common in horticulture, one could sate the ever-growing demand for exotic plants, preventing their collection from the wild. This could be a distinct possibility due to the ease of large-scale propagation techniques, such as tissue culture, which are commonly employed in commercial horticulture. Eminent botanical institutions seem to back this stance. For instance, at Kew Gardens in London, one can buy a Wollemi pine sapling—one of the most endangered conifers in the world—for a little over $70. Paul Blancheflower, Director of the Auroville Botanical Gardens, insists that this approach is the only feasible way of protecting plants in the wild, as well as in scientific collections, such as those at AVBG and Gurukula. This also provides an addi tional source of income to these institutions, which helps fund vital conservation work. Conversely, the efficacy of this approach may vary between species and relies heavily on the supply of rare plants, which is tightly controlled by various institutions.
While neither of these solutions is a silver bullet, they both have potential and their application in the real world is dictated by specifics of region, taxa, and demand. However, one must think carefully about the implications of tying conservation goals to something as erratic as the plant trade.
The very real possibility of increasing the premium on rarity looms over the solution—people will always want what they can’t have, and in this case it may lead to further exploitation of wild populations. Two thirds of all cycad species, nearly half of all threatened cacti, and other plants prized as rarities and collectibles, are endangered due to over-collection and illegal trade—problems that horticulture has not addressed in the past. As we look to the future, we must ask whether cultivation can aid conservation, and if yes, how to frame and regulate it in a way that can truly be of value to conservation in the connected and clandestine age of the internet.
Further Reading Lavorgna, A., S. E. Middleton, D. Whitehead, C. Cowell and M. Payne. 2020. FloraGuard: Tackling the illegal trade in endangered plants. London: Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew.
Pavord, A. 1999. The Tulip: The Story of a Flower That Has Made Men Mad. New York: Bloomsbury.
Hansen, E. 2001 Orchid Fever: A Horticultural Tale of Love, Lust and Lunacy. London: Methuen Publishing Ltd.
Recently, on one of my aimless virtual rambles, I found myself re-reading commentaries on the significance of a pivotal botanical text—the Hortus Malabaricus. It struck me that when I had first read these articles around two decades ago, I had followed the plot only in a superficial way because I had believed that they were making a point about Dutch contributions to botanical classifications and nothing more. However, when I read the commentaries again recently, I had a ‘light bulb’ moment. I realised that the Hortus could be understood as a retelling of an earlier, ecologically embedded knowledge of plants. In other words, the Hortus was not a story of how the Dutch discovered various plants of the Malabar region and their uses, but rather, it was a story of how the Dutch discovered the traditional botanical knowledge of the Ezhava community of the Malabar region. In some ways, the most intriguing part of the Hortus tale is that its sequel unfolded three centuries later!
But let me begin at the beginning:
The Hortus Malabaricus in its original form is a weighty tome of 12 volumes, which were all written in Latin and published between the years 1678—1693. In total, it contained copious multisensorial descriptions of 780 plants of the Malabar region, including the localities and habitats in which they were found, the smell and taste of various botanical parts, and the familial resemblances between different species. The text was accompanied by 794 meticulous illustrations that were labelled in Malayalam, Arabic, Roman, and Devanagiri scripts. (Some of the Malayalam names are still in use. That apart, the drawings were so true to life that three centuries later, scholars could identify the genus based on the illustrations alone.) It also documented the medicinal value and use of over 600 of these species.
This landmark volume was compiled by the Dutch governor of the Cochin region at that time, one Hendrik van Rheede dot Drakenstein. Van Rheede in particular, and the Dutch in general, were interested in competing with other European colonists to break the Arab monopoly over trade in medicinal and other economically useful plants of Asia. The Europeans were mostly unsuccessful in deciphering the botany of a region that was completely different from their own terrain, with two notable exceptions: Garcia da Orta who was the Portuguese author of a text on ethnomedicine, the Colóquios dos simples e drogas da India (published in 1563), and our protagonist, van Rheede. It appears that the latter was able to move past the cultural barrier to gaining botanical knowledge by developing a deep personal rapport with Indian experts on the Malabar region: an eminent physician from the Ezhava caste named Itty Achuden was the main contributor. He hailed from the Collet vaidya lineage of Carappuram (a place 25 km south of Cochin), and it was his ecologically embedded, practical knowledge that shaped the Hortus. Three Brahmin Ayurvedic practitioners Ranga Bhat, Vinayaka Pandit, and Appu Bhat also assisted van Rheede, but their understanding was largely textual and abstract.
Overall, it is estimated that the compilation of the Hortus involved the labours of 200-odd people, including Ezhava plant collectors, a select group of Indian physicians who ‘peer reviewed’ the manuscript, the interpreters of the Dutch East India Company, another select group of European botanists whofurther validated the species described. The collecting expeditions were supported by the Raja of Cochin and the Zamorin of Calicut and two wealthy Dutch patronesses, who financed the publishing costs but are merely referred to in the Hortus as ‘the widow of John van Someren, the heir of John van Dyck, Henry, and the widow of Theodore Broom’.
What is striking about this entire process is the deep regard that van Rheede had for his Indian collaborators’ knowledge. He acknowledges their role clearly in the frontis-piece of the Hortus, in a historical period during which racism and Eurocentrism were par for the course. For example, a little-known fact is that Carolus Linnaeus, who is often dubbed ‘the father of modern taxonomy’, assiduously studied the Hortus in 1740 and extended the Ezhava taxonomic principles to describe over 200 new species.
Therefore, my newfound understanding was that if we pay careful attention to how certain texts and historical figures come to be lauded and remembered as authoritative sources of knowledge, in contrast to those who are ignored or rejected, we can also learn about the politics of science in that period, i.e. what counted as ‘real’ knowledge and who was valorised as its authors.
However, the story does not end here:
In 2003, the Hortus Malabaricus became much more accessible to botanists around the world when a rigorous English translation was published by an Indian botanist, Professor K. S. Manilal, who was also from the Malabar region (the modern state of Kerala). He later produced a Malayalam edition too.
Manilal’s dedication to the task surpasses even van Rheede’s because it took him several decades of gruelling work and it was completed with far less support. He not only faithfully translated over a thousand pages of 17th century Latin into English, but also added his own commentaries on the botanical descriptions in each volume. In an interesting inversion, Manilal’s translation includes an appendix of plant names in Dutch. But perhaps his crowning achievement was to collect and reassemble a herbarium of almost all the species mentioned in the Hortus with help of one of his students and co-authors, C. R. Suresh (since van Rheede’s original collection has disappeared). This mammoth project was supported by the University Grants Commission and the Smithsonian Institution.
By 1988, these efforts enabled Manilal to co-author the book An interpretation of van Rheede’s Hortus Malabaricus, which is considered a classic by the International Association of Plant Taxonomists, as well as a fascinating Malayalam commentary in 1996, titled A study on the role of Itty Achuden in the compilation ofHortus Malabaricus. Understandably, the figure of Itty Achuden seems to have haunted Manilal over the decades that he engaged with the Hortus—he took extraordinary pains to gather material on this iconic but mysterious figure. But sadly, he found that there seemed to be neither other texts authored by Itty Achuden himself nor any trace of texts that might have informed the Collet vaidya lineage (since they were literate, hereditary physicians).
Manilal generously transferred the copyright to his path-breaking English translation to the University of Kerala for free in 2003 (followed by the copyright to the Malayalam edition in 2008). However, the institution proceeded to organise a formal book release without even inviting the author. Fortunately, others were considerably more appreciative: over the span of his career, Manilal was awarded the Vishwambhar Puri medal by the Indian Botanical Society, Y.D. Tyagi gold medal by the Indian Association of Angiosperm Taxonomy, E. K. Janaki Ammal National Award for Taxonomy, the Padma Shri and the (Dutch) Order of the Orange-Nassau. But the most appropriate recognition perhaps is that other botanists have named several species of plants after him, such as Lindernia manilaliana. Incidentally, a ‘liana’ is a woody climber!
Further Reading Grove, R. 1996. Indigenous knowledge and the significance of south-west India for Portuguese and Dutch constructions of tropical nature. Modern Asian Studies 30(1): 121–143.
Manilal, K. S. 2012. Medicinal plants first described in Hortus Malabaricus, the first Indian regional flora published in 1678 and its relevance to the people of India today. In: Multidisciplinary approaches in angiosperm systematics (eds. Maiti, G. and Mukherjee, S. K.). Volume 2. Pp 558–565. Kalyani, India: Publication Cell, University of Kalyani.
Mohan Ram, Y. S. 2005. On the English edition of van Rheede’s Hortus Malabaricus by K. S. Manilal (2003). Current Science 89(10): 1672–1680.
Spudich, A. 2008. Such treasure & rich merchandize. In: Exhibition catalogue. Pp 72. Bangalore: National Centre for Biological Sciences, Tata Institute of Fundamental Research.
Different human cultures have their own ways of conserving plant and animal species—sometimes this is in the form of tiny sacred groves, and other times it could include entire hillsides. In Central India, individual plant species figure in the first fruit ceremonies of the adivasi (indigenous) communities. During certain periods of the year, their fruits, flowers, leaves or seeds are not collected or consumed. This allows those species to rest for a few weeks or months during crucial periods for their growth or regeneration.
The norms around these practices or methods are often embedded within the cultural-religious traditions of communities. As a knowledge system being transferred between generations, seldom are they explained or discussed in terms of ecology or conservation. This may be a reason why, when things go wrong (overharvest, collection of immature seeds), there is no mechanism within the tradition that can set matters straight. This is especially true of species that are not much used within the culture, and hence have not received any particular attention, and whose slipping away from the collective forest or local flora goes unnoticed. A good example of such a species is ‘menda’ or Litsea sebifera, whose bark was harvested in great quantities for making incense sticks. Much of the Central Indian forests are now characterised by an absence of this species. Other such species that are extracted solely for commercial purposes, and outside of traditional norms, include ‘baibidang’ (Embelia ribes), ‘sarpagandha’ (Rauwolfiasepentina), and ‘guduchi’ (Tinosporia cordifolia).
The more common absences (or minimal presence) in forest settings are timber species—rosewood, ebony, mahogany, red sanders, haldu, cedar—which have over the years been smuggled out for their value in furniture and construction. The only way to keep these species from declining in numbers is to cultivate them in private homesteads as well as in plantations. The official authority in charge of many of these species—and responsible for prohibiting their felling and transport—is the Forest Department.
THE CASE OF CARYOTA URENS
The fishtail palm Caryota urens (‘kundapanai’ or ‘kunja- panai’ in Tamil and ‘salopa’ in Odia) may soon be added to our list of endangered species in India, especially in Tamil Nadu. Caryota is a genus of tall palms with a few broad, bipinnate leaves. There are ten species which are distributed from India to Australia. The name Caryota comes from the Greek karyota, ‘date-shaped nut’, and urens refers to the stinging, needle like crystals in the outer covering of the fruit. The kundapanai, C. urens, can grow more than 15 m tall but is usually between 10–12 m high. The trunk is slightly ringed and the leaves start at a height of 5–7 m.
In Tamil Nadu, especially in the districts of Theni, Madurai, Palani, and Dindigul, the tree is used in decorative ‘pandals’—makeshift venues erected for events. The entire flowering stalk, usually with the long string of immature seeds, is lopped off the tree and then hung at the entrance of wedding halls, temples, venues where political speeches are given, house-warming ceremonies, and so on. These decorations, especially for events and ceremonies in temples, is a norm strictly followed. The devotees of a temple may go to great lengths to find and procure the required materials, especially the kundapanai stalks. Once the event is over, these stalks are simply discarded.
For a few months after March, when the temple festivities begin, marauding gangs come to harvest stalks of the fishtail palm, and often the fronds too, going about their business with a righteous air. They enter private lands and estates as well as protected forests, with equal impunity and take what they can. Their announcement that they are taking the flowering stalks to decorate such-and-such a temple is expected to prevent any dissent or disagreement. Most of these gangs come prepared with pickup trucks to load the stalks in, accompanied by about 15–20 men on motorcycles, with ropes and machetes. No checkposts or authorities dare to stop them.
Through the spring and summer months, such gangs come regularly into the hills and forested regions of these districts, leaving mutilated palm trunks in their wake. Many of these people have now become traders in palm stalks with no religious intention to decorate any temple—they cater only to the demand.
With the large number of temples in Tamil Nadu (79,154 according to a recent survey), it is not surprising that there is a constant demand for palm fronds and stalks. Add to this the large number of unsurveyed temples and private events that demand their share of ‘pandals’, and one gets an idea of how vulnerable the fishtail palm is likely to become.
In the Central Indian context (Chhattisgarh, Madhya Pradesh, Odisha, Jharkhand), the flowering stalk of the palm is tapped for toddy. In some places the toddy is then converted to jaggery (a coarse dark brown sugar), a litre of toddy yielding about 125 mg of jaggery. Here too, the tapping destroys or prevents the formation of new seeds, leading to a dearth of mature seeds that will regenerate and grow into new plants. However, among these communities there is a consciousness that unless there are new palm trees the overall flow of their beloved toddy will come to a stop! This makes people spare a flowering stalk or two just for seed, and there is a desire to nurture palms in their backyards and homesteads. Owning, trading and tapping toddy palms is a matter of pride within the community. Such an attachment to the species ensures that the palm is in safe hands, despite the detrimental usage.
LOOKING AHEAD
There are no attempts to grow the palm in Tamil Nadu as they do in Central India. Moreover, there is little or no knowledge about seed collection or the time and conditions required for the seeds to germinate. Discussions with the people who come to harvest the flowering stalks reveal that most of them have not even seen the seed or sapling. There are no efforts by the government or private nurseries to cultivate these palms at a large scale: all the flowering stalks harvested necessarily come from the wild. Elephants are also known to relish the leaves of the toddy palm, and occasionally elephant keepers come to the hills looking for this particular fodder.
Caryota seeds have a long viability and can tolerate the vagaries of both soil and weather. Even under controlled conditions they take about six to 12 weeks to germinate, as compared to naturally dispersed seeds, which can take up to six months. The fruits are consumed by monkeys and civets. Seeds found in their droppings germinate well. Though the long seed viability is an excellent strategy for survival in the wild, there is little one can do if flowering stalks are lopped off before the seeds mature, due to cultural-religious reasons.
The decline of the fishtail palm is mainly due to a cultural-religious custom and more difficult to stop or correct than if it was a blatantly commercial phenomenon. Moreover, a recent conversation with members of SEEDs Trust, an NGO working in Tamil Nadu, revealed that in some villages in the Natham Block of Dindigul district, people are engaged in felling specific trees–’atthi’ (Ficus glomerata), ‘ala’ (Ficusbenghalensis), ‘arasu’ (Ficus religiosa), ‘illipe’ (Madhuca indica), ‘naval’ (Syzigium cumini), and a few others— and then chopping the trees into little bits. These bits are dried, mixed, and packed into bags of specific quantities, before being smuggled out. Such wood is apparently used in the performance of Vedic ‘homam’ rituals, which involve a ceremony around a fire that uses such wood species.
It is necessary that the concerned authorities deliberate on the new cultural trends that are detrimental to plant species. Biologists can flag these issues, but it requires leaders and officials from other sectors and departments to stem the losses to our natural resources. There is a real danger of more and more species being included in the so-called cultural-religious “traditions” of a people and slipping out of any rational intervention to save them.
Further Reading Ramnath, M. 2003. Tropical deciduous forests and the adivasi: Indigenous traditions as response to leaf fall in Bastar, India. Natural Science Forum 27: 304–309.
Coombes, A. J. 1992. The Hamlyn Guide to Plant Names. UK: Reed International Books.
Haines, H. H. 1993. The forest flora of Chota Nagpur. Dehradun: Bishen Singh Mahendrapal Singh.
In the tropical evergreen forests of the southern Western Ghats of India—more than 9000 miles away from the land of the largest tree in the world, the California redwood (Sequoia sempervirens)—dwells the Tirunelveli redwood tree (Gluta travancorica). Clustered populations of this majestic tree grow to a height of 35–45 m and are distributed in discontinuous small as well as large patches at an elevational range of 300–1200 m above sea level. The species belongs to the family Anacardiaceae, commonly known as the cashew family or the sumac family. Gluta comes from the Latin word ‘gluten’ or ‘glutus’, referring to the petals which are glued to the stipe (the stalk that supports the flower’s ovary, while travancorica refers to the erstwhile kingdom of Travancore, where the tree occurs. Different vernacular names like ‘thenmavu’, ‘thodappei’, ‘chenkurinji’, and ‘shenkurinji’ have been attributed to the tree, based on its distribution in the South Indian states of Tamil Nadu and Kerala.
According to the IUCN Red List database, the Tirunelveli redwood or chenkurinji is classified as ‘near threatened’. The species was heavily logged for its ornamental hardwood in the past, during the reign of the Travancore kings, and later by the British. This red-coloured heartwood was cut down for building construction, making cabinets and furniture, decorative interior joinery, turnery articles and carvings, tool handles, and shipbuilding. The bruised surface of the bark of G. travancorica and allied species exudes an acrid resinous juice that turns black on air exposure and is used as lacquer. One such species, Gluta usitata, is commonly known as Burmese lacquer because of the characteristic bole, which is tapped for its lacquer. Most species in the Anacardiaceae family contain an irritant class of compounds called urushiols. Similarly, the resinous exudate from G. travancorica can cause extreme contact allergies in some people. Therefore, caution should be exercised while touching any part of this tree.
In the current scenario, logging of G. travancorica is strictly prohibited by the Kerala Preservation of Trees Act 1986. This has curbed the extent of logging. However, chenkurinji is a sensitive, altitude-specific tree, especially at the seedling stage. This has put a massive dent in the afforestation activities focused on the species in the past few years.
There are few places like the Western Ghats, which is considered one of the ‘hottest’ biodiversity hotspots in the world. It has been estimated that around 5800 species of flowering plants are located here, of which 56 genera and 2100 species (which includes 650 trees) are categorised as endemic to this region. G. travancorica is one such tree which is so uniquely and narrowly endemic that the Shendurney Wildlife Sanctuary in Kerala is named after the vernacular name of the tree—chenkurinji. In 1984, the Shendurney Valley was proclaimed a Wildlife Sanctuary and became the only Sanctuary in the Kollam district to date. In its native habitat, a few other tree species commonly associated with G. travancorica are Culleniaexarillata, Mesua ferrea, and Palaquium ellipticum. Another notable feature is the tree’s association with understorey species from the genera Pandanus and Calamus. This undergrowth protects the seedlings from being grazed by foraging animals. Eventually, when a forest gap is created, those seedlings with greater survival ability will emerge from the undergrowth.
The extreme pruning of these lower canopy associates is more prominent in areas where there is tourist activity. The sholas (tropical montane grasslands) of Ponmudi, which are home to a few hundred chenkurinji trees, have a substantial tourist presence, which has resulted in the clearing of many spiny plants like Calamus. Thisclearing, in conjunction with trampling by visitors, has left the forest floor devoid of the ideal environment for the seeds to grow. The adjacent area of Brymore is also home to a small population of Gluta with nearly 50 individuals. But in this area, fireline burning often destroys fallen mature seeds. These are also common issues faced by most other native trees sharing a similar habitat.
The story of the ancestors of the genus Gluta dates back to 200 million years ago when the Gondwana land started splitting. Of the 35 or more Gluta species present in the world, most are spread across Southeast Asia, and only three are found in isolated land masses outside the Malayan Peninsula. The three deviants are G. tourtour in Madagascar, the highly threatened G.papuana in Papua New Guinea, and the near threatened G. travancorica in the Western Ghats of India. The common ancestor of G. tourtour and G. travancorica got separated when Madagascar and India split about 70 million years ago. The Indian subcontinent collided with Asia and has been moving northeast from Africa ever since. Buried within the character traits in their seeds lie untold stories and the long-forgotten origins of the species. G. tourtour is a species endemic to the coastal marshlands of Madagascar. After millions of years of geographic isolation and evolution the species has adapted to live in a mangrove ecosystem and also shows vivipary—the ability of seeds to germinate when still attached to the parent tree. Remnants of this unique feature of marshland Glutas can be seen in the montane species—G. travancorica. Among the thousan ds of seeds produced by chenkurinji trees, a few show vivipary, especially if these seeds are shed during the peak monsoon.
Gluta usitata is a common species of Gluta found in many parts of Southeast Asia. It is characterised by pinkish-white petals which are modified to form wings in mature fruits. This is a very efficient seed dispersal technique that was lost in G. travancorica and a few other species after the split of Gondwana land, when they became isolated and started evolving separately. Fossil wood resembling the modern day G. travancorica, and dating back to the Early Eocene period nearly 50 million years ago, was unearthed from a lignite mine in the Bharuch district of Gujarat. This shines some light on the present day Gluta travancorica, which diverged from a tropical wetland gene pool and must have been present throughout India at some point in history. As the Indian subcontinent moved away from the Equator, the central and northern regions of India, which once were home to dense tropical forests, gradually turned to arid scrub jungles and deserts. This northeast movement of the Indian plate at a rate of 5 cm/year is an ongoing process. Accompanied by the current level of global climate change and rising global temperature, there will be imminent changes in the tropical forests of the Western Ghats. Therefore, from a geological evolutionary point of view, the future of G. travancorica is uncertain.
Returning to the present, the poor rate at which new seedlings are establishing and growing into adult trees in the forests, coupled with the narrow distribution are issues that can further endanger G. travanacorica populations. Since trees take several decades to mature into an adult population from seeds, a lack of regeneration and establishment becomes alarming, despite having a sizable stable adult tree population in-situ. Other species of Gluta have seeds floating across oceans and flying over picturesque mountains only to fall on suitable substrate and eventually germinate. Evolution has left chenkurinji handicapped in both these respects. Yet, there’s hope because field studies of the population have revealed strong survival traits, such as regrowth of fire-destroyed tree stumps, new shoot emergence in dried-up seedlings, and seeds germinating after being buried in leaf litter on the forest floor for nearly a year. However, given the imminent threats of tourism, landslides, and the construction of roads, there is an immediate need for implementing action plans to extend its natural habitat. The best conservation plan for habitat-specific trees like G. travancorica, is to reintroduce seedlings in forest gaps in the same environment where they grow naturally.
Further Reading
Rao, R. R. and R. Raghavendra. 2012. Floristic diversity in Western Ghats: Documentation, conservation and bio prospection—A priority agenda for action. In: Sahyadri E_news IssueXXXVIII. Bangalore: ENVISECES, Indian Institute of Science.
Jose, P. A. and A. G. Pandurangan. 2013. Vivipary in Gluta travancorica: Its phytogeographic and evolutionary significance. Nelumbo (55): 89–93.
Namitha, L. H. and S. Suhara Beevy. 2020. Morphology and phytogeography of Gluta (L.) Ding Hou-A Review. Plant Archives 20(1): 2309–2319.
Contemporary science, with established evidence, suggests that Earth is undergoing a warming scenario (also popularly known as climate change). The narrative is that different ecoregions of our planet will witness an average rise in temperature ranging from 0.5°–2.5°C. A reasonable mind could question how we can predict this change with such accuracy? For a planet which is over four billion years old, we only have climate data for the last 100 years. Plants play a crucial role in recording environmental change because they are constantly responding to temperature, light, rainfall, frost, snow, etc. Flowering, fruiting and growth in plants are a direct response to climate conditions. What if plants were recording these changes and how could we then decipher them? There would be the answer to getting information about the climate beyond 100 years.
During the course of my research in the Arctic I began to understand how plants record environmental change and in many cases how they actively drive the change. Over the last four decades, trees from temperate regions have been extensively used to reconstruct past climate, and tree rings have proven to be a reliable proxy to trace environmental changes. This science of using tree rings to decipher environmental changes is known dendrochronology / dendroecology. Tree growth is very sensitive to conducive as well as stressful environmental parameters. Tree rings have been used to reconstruct past eco-climatic factors, such as temperature, precipitation, snowfall, and humidity. Reconstruction of past environmental factors is crucial for predictive modelling and is only possible with the help of environmental proxies like ice cores, peat cores, pollen records, and tree rings. Moreover, trees also respond to landscape-level events, such as forest fires, landslides, and glacial melts. This sensitivity is translated to annual growth which is then rigorously modelled to reconstruct landscape-level changes. Fossilised trees have been especially instrumental in reconstructing environmental conditions for a timespan that can go upto to a few millennia. A major source of proxy data that the IPCC (Intergovernmental Panel for Climate Change) uses to predict future trajectories of climate warming is also based on models developed from dendrochronological data.
Traditionally, only tree rings were used as a growth proxy to model environmental data but contemporary research also uses various plant traits, such as crown area, leaf surface area, stem height, leaf nitrogen, and carbon matter content to trace environmental changes in the Arctic. In recent years, wood anatomy—a developing branch of dendrochronology—has made reconstructing the entomological past possible. Combined approaches of wood anatomy and dendro-climatology have made it possible to detect insect and pathogen outbreaks from the past.
A key part of my research is focused on studying the traits of Arctic shrubs, to understand their association with changing temperatures in the Arctic and subarctic regions. Over the last decade of research, we have been able to infer that plant traits not only closely respond to climate, but are also instrumental in deciding which species can be successful in rapidly changing environments. We also discovered that trees and shrubs are not as stationary as we believe they are. Plants do migrate—maybe not as fast as animals, but with the fast-changing eco-climatic conditions in the Arctic and alpine regions, we realised that there is, indeed, movement and migration in vegetation. Plants have pushed their distribution margins. For example, treelines 1 have shifted altitudinally to greater heights in many alpine regions of Europe and Scandinavia. Similarly, shrublines 2 have shifted to higher altitudes as well and have shifted latitudinally further north over the past six decades. How does this matter and what are the consequences of this migration? In the Arctic and the subarctic regions, where permafrost, snow and the ice sheets were the dominant features of the landscape, vegetation is slowly taking over. Snow-clad glaciers provide immense white surfaces which refract and reflect incoming solar radiation back to space. This keeps the Arctic and, subsequently, the other ecosystems in a certain radiation-based equilibrium by pushing the heat back out through the climatic channels.
Due to increasing vegetation (via shifting shrublines and treelines), massive glaciers are now being decimated. Shrubs and shruboid tree-forms (for example, Juniperus communis) are the first to colonise the environment, causing the loosening of the permafrost. This increases the water availability and nutrient mobility in the environment, thus paving the way for trees to follow. This northward migration of shrubs and trees is causing the greening of the Arctic. White snow surfaces are being replaced with a green cover of herbs, shrubs, and trees. This greening entraps more solar radiation in the environment (as green and brown are darker surfaces than white), which further degrades permafrost over time. This positive feedback mechanism is causing the greening and subsequent warming of the Arctic. Degraded permafrost also releases methane and methane-hydrates, which cause forest fires—something which has become evident in recent years.
In summary, trees, which act as a carbon sink in the tropics, instead function as an instrument of warming in the Arctic. This helps us understand the significance of the environmental context. Sandwiched between the atmosphere and the lithosphere, the biosphere is a very fragile and volatile chutney that supports life. Plants as individuals, with their individual components (cells, branches, leaf covers, stems), and community as a whole, are critical for the survival of an ecosystem. Not only are they a bridge between the lithosphere and atmosphere, they also record enormous amounts of environmental information within themselves which we are only now beginning to decipher.
1 Treelines are altitudinal and latitudinal margins beyond which trees cannot grow.
2 Shrublines are altitudinal and latitudinal margins beyond which shrubs cannot grow.
Further Reading
Shetti, R., M. Smiljanic, A. Buras and M. Wilmking. 2018. Climate sensitivity is affected by growth differentiation along the length of Juniperus communis L. shrub stems in the Ural Mountains. Dendrochronologia 49: 29–35. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.dendro.2018.02.006.
Bjorkmann, A. D., I. H. Mayers-Smith, S. Elmendorf, S. Normand, H. Thomas, A. Alexander, A. AnadonRossell et al. 2018. Plant functional trait change across a warming tundra biome. Nature 562: 57–62.https://www.nature.com/articles/s41586-018-0563-7.
Thomas, H. J. D., A. D. Bjorkman, I. H. Myers-Smith. et al. 2020. Global plant trait relationships extend to the climatic extremes of the tundra biome. Nature Communications 11:1351. https://doi.org/10.1038/s41467-020-15014-4.
Pellizzari, E., J. Camarero, E. Gazol Granda, R. Shetti, M. Wilmking, P. Moiseev, M. Pividori et al. 2017. Diverging shrub and tree growth from the Polar to the Mediterranean biomes across European continent.Global Change Biology 23(8): 3169–3180. https://doi.org/10.1111/gcb.13577.
The complex interactions between humans, animals, and the environment have become more apparent in the past few decades. This is because of emerging infectious diseases, environmental hazards, ecological degradation, and climate change, all of which affect the collective health of our world. Rapid urbanisation and habitat fragmentation have increased our interactions with bats, non-human primates, and feral dogs, which in turn have impacted the health of local communities and led to the emergence and spread of diseases such as Nipah virus, Ebola, HIV, and rabies. The distribution and prevalence of vector-borne diseases such as dengue, malaria, and Lyme disease have been compounded by unchecked urban expansion, changes in land use and climate change. A rapidly growing human population has led to the extensive industrialisation of agriculture and animal husbandry—increasing our exposure to hazardous contaminants (mercury, lead, DDT)—and the widespread use of antibiotics, which has led to increasing antimicrobial resistance in pathogens.
Therefore, to address the complex problems we face today in public health, we require a collective approach that spans across environmental, animal, and human sectors. An example of such an approach, which emphasises the need for transdisciplinary partnerships and multisectoral collaborations for optimal health outcomes, is ‘One Health’. Keeping the wider planetary health in mind, the ‘One Health’ approach can enable us to predict, mobilise, and mitigate challenges such as antimicrobial resistance, food insecurity, pandemic unpreparedness, species extinction, and ecological degradation.
Elements in the artwork:
The purpose of the drawing is to visualise the interconnectedness between a healthy environment, humans, and other animals—all represented in a circle. Through the artwork, I highlight the major actors which have shaped my personal understanding of these interconnections:
Health professional: In order to express the theme of health, I deemed it necessary to include health professionals and their role in understanding, mitigating, and controlling emerging infectious diseases and other health issues.
Hooded Figure: Gender has important effects on the determinants and consequences of health, especially in developing and industrialised countries. Women are more vulnerable to diseases and epidemics due to gender norms, inaccessible and biased healthcare services, unprepared health systems, and power dynamics. Apart from women, children, immunocompromised individuals, BIPOC communities, and low-income individuals are also extremely vulnerable to, and impacted by infectious and non-infectious diseases, and environmental hazards.
Child and chicken: Modern agriculture, food production practices, and changing dietary patterns have increased the incidence of various types of infectious disease such as Salmonella, exposure to contaminants, and antimicrobial resistance in industrialised nations. Salmonella infections commonly occur in children, where risk factors include living in a rural area, contacts with pets, and consumption of untreated local water.
While taking classes in Wildlife Disease Ecology and One Health during my undergraduate studies in Wildlife Biology at the University of Vermont, I was presented with various case studies that included many of the species I have incorporated in my artwork. In addition to this, my reason for choosing these species was because they are widely recognized in India, which is where I’m from:
Feral dogs: Feral dogs can threaten the health of wildlife, domesticated animals as well as people. Free-ranging feral dogs are reservoirs for many zoonotic diseases that can spread to other species, such as canine distemper virus, rabies, and brucellosis.
Leopards and big cats: Big cats are increasingly coming into contact with humans, domesticated animals, and feral dogs due to urbanisation, habitat loss, and tourism. These interactions may pose a risk to the conservation of big cats due to the potential spread of disease between species. However, positive impacts of wildlife such as vultures and big cats in controlling zoonotic transmission have also been recorded, such as a recent study that determined the role leopards play in controlling transmission of rabies between stray dogs in Mumbai and its citizens.
Non-human primates (NHP): Many infectious diseases in humans have been linked to NHP. NHP have a variety of micro- and macro-parasites which increase the chances of cross-species transmission with humans (and vice-versa). This can cause new pandemics as well as threaten endangered populations of various NHP. In India, langurs and macaques are common NHP who live in close proximity to humans, which results in important health implications for both. I drew a langur holding a plastic bottle to symbolise this very proximity.
Ticks and mosquitoes: According to the World Health Organisation, vector-borne diseases account for more than 17 percent of infectious diseases. Among the various vectors, arthropod vectors are the most common and responsible for infectious diseases, such as malaria, dengue, yellow fever, Zika virus, and Lyme disease. Moreover, vector-borne diseases are linked with the health of the environment. For example, climate change and rising temperatures are causing range shifts of various vectors such as ticks, which is leading to an increase in the prevalence of Lyme disease in habitats it was not seen in before.
Snakes and frogs: In many cases, changes to ecological health are not very obvious to people. However, sensitive groups such as amphibians are good indicators of ecological integrity. Additionally, increased contact with reptiles and amphibians increases zoonotic disease transmission associated with bacterial infections like Salmonella, Mycobacterium, E. coli, etc.
Bats: Recently, bats have been subjected to negative publicity because they are natural reservoirs for various high-profile zoonotic viruses such as paramyxoviruses, coronaviruses, Nipah and Hendra viruses. However, I believe this emphasises our need to understand and thus mitigate harmful interfaces between domestic animals, humans, and bats, which are crucial for maintaining ecosystem health—as they pollinate plants, disperse seeds, and control insect populations.
Hornbill: Ecosystem health and resilience are essential for maintaining populations of endangered wildlife, such as hornbills, which are severely threatened by habitat destruction, habitat loss, and hunting.
Trees, plants and fungi: These elements characterise the environment, on which both wildlife and people depend for the ecosystem services they provide.
Illustration by Soham Mehta, Ball-point pen ink on paper
Further reading:
Kahn, L. H. 2017. Perspective: The one-health way. Nature 543(7647): S47–S47.
Capos. C. 2021. One Health: preventing and solving public health disasters. University of Michigan School of Public Health Findings 37(1): 22–29.
Halliday, J. E., K. J. Allan, D. Ekwem, S. Cleaveland, R. R. Kazwala and J. A. Crump. 2015. Endemic zoonoses in the tropics: a public health problem hiding in plain sight. Veterinary Record 176(9): 220–225.
Shoktel Kartington was excited. Today was the day. For many months he had been writing carefully considered pieces that appeared in the pages of important journals. But he did so only as an invented writer—a pathetic portmanteau, an aching amalgam of Kartik and Dan’s rather tired identities.
And all of that was about to change. Today was Shoktel’s creation day. He was to exist in bodily form. Shoktel was about to go to a conservation conference, and he had to appear in person. Shoktel had never appeared in person anywhere. He couldn’t. He didn’t really exist. But today, in order to attend the conference, he was going to be given a form, an appearance in which to appear.
Shoktel could feel the electricity in the air. This was a coming of age moment for many reasons. The conservation conference was exciting enough. People would fly to the venue from all over the world to fight climate change and applaud the heroes (and, wait for it, heroines) of conservation. And he would be amongst them. He would be speaking about the global re-afforestation programme, the half galaxy project, and his latest idea: compassionate forestry. There was even talk of a new national park providing vital habitat for all the world’s greatest conservationists.
And this was more than just a major conservation event. At last he would learn what he really looked like. But would he, he wondered, live up to his expectations?
He sighed. And a slow thrill of excitement built within him. He had felt that sigh. He had lungs! He could feel his shoulders rising and falling. He could feel his legs. He took a tentative step and the shock of the floor through his feet jarred his soul with joy. Suddenly his nerves (he had nerves!) were tingling. He could feel clothes on his back. His toes wriggled in fresh new socks. He strode around the room with excitement. He needed a mirror. Now!
Already Shoktel was rehearsing the pleasure and dignity he would feel on seeing himself for the first time. He knew how significant he was. He was a senior man attending a major conservation gathering. You don’t get much more important than that. And now he was going to look the part.
Glancing down he could see that he was wearing smart suit trousers and shiny patent leather shoes. Good. That was a start. The corporate look was vital these days. But his shirt was all wrong. It was rather vivid and appeared to have some sort of vegetation printed on it. Worse than that, it was far too short. He could see his belly button. Doubtless his authors had made a typo somewhere.
Tentatively he reached up to feel his face. And a deep sense of satisfaction filled him. His nose was most dignified, and he had a full head of lustrous hair. It was modestly cut, but thick and glossy. No surprise his authors wanted that for him. He reached up and pulled a strand out. But that was strange. You can’t go to a conference with pink hair. He inspected it again. No, it was not pink, but orange. And then pink again. What was going on?
A movement caught his eye, his shirt was changing as he watched. The green floral designed shimmered into starch white. Cuff-links winked on his wrists. And then it was green again, his belly button was back in view and—Good Lord! Was that a navel piercing?
Shoktel closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Creation was always stressful. It would be much easier if one could evolve slowly over millions of years. But he was a magazine feature with publishing deadlines to meet. There was no way that the profit margins of the publishers could tolerate evolution.
When he opened them, peeking cautiously through rather thick eyelashes, some sort of normality seemed to have been restored. His shirt was crisp and ironed, and a very sensible shade of light blue. It masked his well-proportioned paunch. Being important means eating well after all.
He checked his face again, stroking his chin. Bristles scratched his fingertips. Goodness but this is a manly chin. It’s got one of those dimple things in it. In fact—Shoktel gripped his jaw again—it’s more than manly. It’s enormous! What are they doing?
Panic-stricken, Shoktel seized his face, trying vainly to push his preponderant jawbone back into his head. It felt huge in his hands. His knuckles clenched white in fear. Finely manicured fingernails, painted lilac and olive green, pressed into his cheeks.
Manicures? Nail varnish? No!!
Shoktel tried to peer around his jawbone to inspect his hands. Somehow, they seemed far away. And then he saw the preposterousness of it all. His jaw was not large. Instead his hands were ridiculously tiny. And effeminate. Very effeminate.
At this point Shoktel got quite cross. How dare they do this to him! Who did his authors think they were? He was Shoktel Kartington—arbiter of conservation truth since at least 2018. He couldn’t turn up at a conservation conference looking like this. Masculinity in conservation conferences is a carefully performed affair requiring LOTS of testosterone. Indeed, in some conferences, the ‘real men’, so rumour has it, are so macho that they wear khaki shorts and no underpants.
He kicked the wall in frustration at the injustice of it all. And stubbed his toe—badly. His patent leather shoes had been replaced by open-toed sandals. Suddenly he realised that a physical presence was full of disadvantages. And these problems were compounded when his creators were apparently arguing about what he actually looked like.
Shoktel watched with sad resignation as unseen forces pummelled his body into ever more ludicrous shapes and combinations. His hair grew long, then golden. Thick sideburns sprouted from his cheeks, that quickly dissolved into a downy wisp over a maiden’s blush. He acquired a limp, a stoop, knocked knees and then a rather well-formed pair of dancers’ legs. He found himself wearing a t-shirt and then a kaftan that bulged over a quite magnificent beer belly. His trousers shimmered into khaki shorts (ew—the rumour about the underpants was true!), and scruffy brogues morphed into large walking boots and thick, woolly socks.
Shoktel began to feel sick. The transformations were dizzying, and the combinations they produced stupefying. If this carried on he would have to become a social scientist and write about ‘identity’. But that would be ridiculous. He knew who he was. Everyone did. And identity has nothing to do with real conservation.
And then, finally, the maelstrom of change began to subside. He felt his body and clothing begin to settle. Even better, he found he had been placed in the conference hotel room. It had a mirror. Now he was finally going to meet himself: the consummate conservation professional, the researcher extraordinaire. He just hoped that his reflection would be sufficiently aware of its privilege.
He waddled across the room to the mirror. His thighs were suddenly wobbly. He felt tired, bloated and rather bulbous. Phlegm clogged his throat. And before he saw it he had a sudden premonition that he would hate this image of himself.
Sure enough, standing in the glass before him was a worn-out old businessman who had spent far too many decades propping up bars and eating function food. His trousers were tired and travel-stained. His socks sagged, unwashed for days. His underpants were back, but their sweaty wrinkles were rubbing sores into his buttocks. His tummy rumbled and flatulent slips betrayed a fake vegan diet. He was balding, his breath smelt, his skin was flaking. When he shrugged his shoulders, the dandruff drifted in tiny dunes. Cautiously he checked his midriff. No jewelled piercing, but thick secretions of tummy button fluff had layered in the folds of his abdomen.
Shoktel felt sick. How could his authors even know that this sort of thing existed? How diseased were their imaginations? The being standing before him could barely save itself, let alone the planet.
He choked back tears of frustration and clenched a flaccid jaw. His jowls slopped in anger. They would not win. He would have his revenge. He must have his revenge! If ever he got to that conference he would not present his brilliant thinking, his masterful mosaics of fact and inspiration. He would bore his audience with interminable social science waffle, and pathetic claims about class, wealth, constructed truths, and multi-species jargonizations. If he was going to be the face of anything, then, with this face, he was going to represent everything that was wrong with conservation.
Far, far away, in a distant office on a parallel dimension, Dan and Kartik smiled tentatively. They surveyed the detritus of their morning’s work before them. On one half of the table a mess of papers and notes was strewn in a dishevelled pile. On the other, books and source materials were stacked neatly, arranged by size and colour.
“You know,” said Kartik laughing, “I think we have him figured out. I thought it was really funny when you gave him navel fluff.”
“Wait,” Dan replied with furrowed brows, “I thought you did that!”
“Nope. That last paragraph was all you. If I may point this out, I didn’t know what navel fluff was until you wrote it.”
Dan shook his head. They looked at each other in puzzlement. Was Shoktel shapeshifting all by himself? Had they created some form of Artificial Idiocy?
Then they both said simultaneously: “The illustrator shall fix this!”
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.”
