The Doodle Spot

Circumventing the elephant

2011-09-20T13:29:00.001+05:30

Published in Current Conservation 4.4

Farmers of the rainforests of Nigeria, Africa constructed an extensive network of earthen walls and moats. Astonishingly, in some places, the walls are 20 metres high and the moats 20 metres deep. What makes this even more remarkable is that Sungbo’s Eredo (meaning “Sungbo’s Ditch”) is thought to have been built around 1150 AD on the orders of a childless matriarch, Bilikisu Sungbo (although the dates don’t add up, locals believe that she is none other than the Queen of Sheba). The fortifications span 160 km encompassing an area of 1400 km2, the size of Delhi. Nearby Benin City has even more spectacular walls and trenches, extending 16,000 km and covering an area of 6,500 km2. This is thought to be the single largest archaeological phenomenon on the planet, an enterprise larger than the Egyptian pyramids. The zooarchaeologist, Juliet Clutton-Brock, believes they may be evidence of man’s earliest elaborate defense of crops against elephants. However, conflict with these pachyderms is thought to have started much earlier, when man first began to till the soil.

A millennium later, the range of devices that farmers use to keep elephants at bay is a tribute to the ingenuity of both, animals and humans. The simplest and most widespread (perhaps the oldest) practice is guarding crops through the night from tree top machans (or ground level tunsis, rickety shacks sometimes protected by a trench, used in north Bengal and Assam). When elephants are spotted, the vigilant farmers set up a cacophonic racket by lighting fire crackers, banging plates or rattling other noisy implements to scare the animals away. When extended families lived together, men took turns at guard duty. Now that nuclear families are the norm, the burden of chasing elephants falls on the man of the household night after night; hiring guards is not an option for poor farmers. The price of inadvertently falling asleep after a long day’s labour is catastrophic: the loss of the family’s sustenance for the next few months.

If an animal is repeatedly chased away from food, it gets irritable and elephants are no exception. Humans who haven’t slept well for days become crotchety. When bad-tempered members of two species confront each other, the stage is set for tragic accidents. The elephants’ dark coloration renders them almost invisible at night and drowsy farmers on patrol have been maimed or killed. Bursting fire crackers can goad elephants to take out their aggression on buildings or machans. Feeble torch lights, the barking of dogs and even a solitary human voice can cause a frustrated elephant to charge, sometimes with fatal consequences. Guarding crops is probably one of the most dangerous occupations in elephant country and several villagers tilling marginal lands have abandoned farming altogether.

In parts of elephant country, farmers complain that none of the commonly used methods such as torch lights and bursting fire crackers work anymore. In north Bengal and Assam, farmers have resorted to chasing elephants using mashal (a spear tip surrounded by a flaming ball of rags), birio (indigenous sling shots), poison arrows, flaming arrow heads, jute (fire balls on sticks), cycle tyres set afire, and more. Some of these cause grievous injuries to elephants and the pain can ramp up their aggression. In areas where damage caused by elephants is particularly high and farming has become unsustainable, men emigrate to cities for work leaving their wives to guard the crops. One agitated woman in Upper Kolabari village (north Bengal) shrieked, “We used to think that elephants were god, but not anymore. If they are killed, then finally there will be peace.” Eventually when she calmed down, she complained that she hadn’t slept for weeks and the stress of managing the farm and family while her husband was away was sapping her energy. The despondent woman was only voicing her threats, others more intolerant carry them out - they kill elephants with home-made guns, electric wires hooked up to high tension cables, and poison or explosive filled pumpkins.

In an effort to aid the beleaguered farmers, almost every division of the Forest Department in north Bengal and Assam forms a squad to chase elephants away during the harvest season. Depending on the obstinacy of the herd, it may take a few hours to a full night’s work to complete the job and the squad can only rush to one or two sites per night. On jeeps, tractors or trained elephants called kumki, they fire blanks to drive wild elephants away. One beat officer claimed proudly, “The elephants won’t budge if your vehicle goes, but as soon as our jeep arrives, they start moving.” During the harvest season, the field staff of the Forest Department is stretched to the limit, performing their regular duties through the day and chasing elephants every night without overtime or other benefits. On the other hand, farmers complain that these squads are inadequate and that the elephants return to the crops once the squads leave.

Perhaps the one method that has gained mythical powers of stopping elephants in their tracks is the electric fence. The non-lethal pulses of high voltage power carried along steel wires, unpleasantly jolts a barging elephant, warning it to stay away from the farm. As ingenious as it sounds, electric fences are no panacea. Desperate elephants have learnt a variety of tricks to get through fences – toppling trees onto them, using their tusks to rip or the soles of their feet to step on the wires and even running into them bringing posts and wires down! In Kenya, removing the tusks of eight fence-breaking bull elephants did not stop them from breaking 20 electric fences in the following five days. Once an elephant loses its fear of electricity, no fence, however sophisticated, appears to stop it.

Several NGOs in different parts of India are testing and implementing different methods of protecting crops from elephants. Perhaps the simplest innovation is the creation of voluntary youth groups to watch for elephants from machans. Young men spend their evenings playing card games while keeping an eye out for the pachyderms. Some of the other experiments range from using thorny plants to create a ‘biofence’, alternate inedible cash crops, bee hives along the perimeter of farms, trip wire alarms that alert sleeping farmers to the presence of elephants, and delivering chilli’s pungency through a variety of means (smoke, spray, paste smeared on a rope surrounding the crops). Some of them have shown initial promise but that is mainly because elephants stay away from anything new and unusual; if they put their minds to it, they seem to eventually overcome these obstacles. This talent inspired the ancients to create the elephant-headed god, Ganesa or Vinayaka, the super-human clearer of obstructions.

The crucial factor that determines the success or failure of any conflict resolution measure seems to depend on the elephants’ desperation for crops. In areas where there is abundant natural forage such as the Nilgiri Biosphere Reserve, elephants that are tempted by agricultural goodies, can be deterred by any of the methods. But in places such as Kodagu (Karnataka), Assam, north Bengal, Orissa and the Northeast where the assault on forests is intense and unrelenting, hungry elephants rely on human agricultural enterprise for their survival and they will overcome any challenge that man erects between them and the food they crave. Confining these giants with gargantuan appetites to fragmented insubstantial forests using fences, trenches, or walls is bound to fail (and unethical); but should these measures work, the elephants will in all likelihood eat through the forests and worsen the situation. Enriching the habitat by planting fodder, trees, and bamboo in elephant country has been suggested, but little is known of its efficacy.

We cannot hope to be successful by gnawing away at the habitat with one hand and with the other, curbing, altering and manipulating elephant behaviour and movement according to our convenience with the expectation that they will obey. That’s like trying to staunch a hemorrhage with several little band-aids. Wildlife managers are constantly on the look-out for measures that work decisively against elephants under any conditions, but unfortunately, there are none. At best, using the various measures in combination, changing them frequently and constantly improvising will buy us some time while a long-term habitat protection strategy is developed.

Conflict is caused mainly as a result of human actions, and this has to be at the heart of any attempt at resolution. Elephants are only compensating for what they have lost. In other words, it is not the elephants that are badly behaved, it is us. According to Project Elephant, 3% of India’s land surface is elephant country and of this, only 10% is affected by conflict. It is still possible to achieve a more amiable relationship with elephants if we put our minds to it and this is the time to do it before we irrevocably lose more elephant habitat.

Sugarcane leopards

2011-09-20T13:00:00.000+05:30

Published in Current COnservation 4.4

Most of Akole valley in the Indian state of Maharashtra was formerly semi-arid and drought prone. When rains allowed, farmers grew crops such as pearl millet, sorghum, and safflower. In the 1980s with the aid of irrigation, intensive cultivation began. From a dust-bowl, Akole valley was transformed into a lush mosaic with dense stands of sugarcane, rich velvety green of banana fronds and rangy stands of corn. Set amongst them were smaller plots of onion, sorghum, wheat, cauliflower and other vegetables grown for the wholesale markets of Mumbai. The scraggly hills that form a jagged horizon to the west were dry and sparsely covered in brush with a few tree plantations. Nothing in this landscape could be remotely described as an archetypal forest where wild mammals might roam through thick, concealing vegetation.

People here make a living through agriculture and animal husbandry. At one end of the spectrum, rich farmers focus on lucrative sugarcane and imported Jersey cattle while at the other, poor tribals survive on marginal rain-fed agriculture and graze goats on the scrubby hill slopes. Nomadic shepherds make seasonal migrations from further afield so their animals can forage on the fallow fields. Although little of this landscape is set aside for conservation, a large golden cat spotted with black rosettes prowls amongst the tall cane fields in the fertile green valley. Locals know there are leopards around, some have seen them, others have heard of them and some have lost of calves, dogs or goats.

How is it possible for large predators to live with humans in a rural area? Asking this big question are Vidya Athreya, a wildlife biologist and Sunetro Ghosal, a social scientist.

Prior to stumbling on this modern-day Eden, Athreya had spent a few years studying human-leopard conflict in a neighbouring district where 47 people had been mauled in three years. Throughout the past centuries and across countries in Africa and Asia, leopards have attacked thousands of humans and killed scores.

Why do leopards attack people? Are we just easy meat? Over the decades, several explanations were trotted out such as man-eaters suffered from debilitating injuries, broken canines, too few prey animals and/or little water in the forest, infrastructure development disturbing forest stretches, increasing numbers of leopards, improper disposal of corpses giving the scavenging cats a taste of human flesh, and loss of fear of people. But no definitive study actually supports any of these contentions.

Athreya declares that studying a situation where leopards and humans are able to coexist peacefully in an agricultural landscape provides the key to understanding why the cats maul people elsewhere. To this end, both Ghosal and Athreya set up their studies in Akole with funding from the Royal Norwegian Embassy in Delhi and the Research Council of Norway in Oslo. The Centre for Ecological Sciences (CES) and Norwegian Institute for Nature Research (NINA) provided scientific stewardship under their joint 'Wildlife-human interactions: from conflict to coexistence in sustainable landscapes' project.

What do these rural leopards eat? One relatively simple way of answering this is to examine the hair remains found in scats. Leopards, like several other wild cats, defecate on paths. In forests where trails are few, droppings are easy to find. Where do you begin to look for leopard excreta in the maze of paths crisscrossing a 300 sq.km agricultural area? What if these rural cats keep a low profile by avoiding paths and people altogether? To maximize the search effort, the team of research assistants spread wide, scouring hills, fields, towns, roads, paths, dry stream beds, every type of habitat. To their surprise, it wasn’t all that difficult to find leopard scats; they were everywhere!

The hair remains teased out of the excreta were examined under a microscope. In the absence of the usual wild prey such as deer and monkeys, these leopards were living mostly on dogs, feral pigs and livestock. The few wild animals on the menu were smaller still: mongooses, civet cats and rodents.

How well do leopards survive on this diet and landscape? Can agricultural fields hold thriving populations of these big cats? To answer these questions leopards had to be enumerated, but how? Each leopard can be identified by its unique pattern of spots so camera trapping offers a scientific way of counting individuals. Since both flanks of an animal are not identical, a pair of cameras was fixed facing each other. Twenty pairs of camera traps were set up in 40 sites over an area of 136 sq.km. for 30 days to estimate the density of leopards.

The camera traps were placed in areas where scats were numerous and where there was evidence of leopard activity such as pugmarks, scratches on trees. Although the team interviewed people, Ghosal found that those who did not own goats or dogs were hardly aware of the presence of leopards. For instance, although one lady said that she had never seen a leopard and denied that there were any around, one was caught on camera ten feet away from her house!

In the final tally, five adult males, six females and four cubs were distinctly recognizable in the photographs. Once the area of the trapping exercise was adjusted, the density came to as many as 5 leopards living in 100 sq.km of farmland! More remarkably, that same 10 x 10 km area also supported five striped hyenas and about 357 people! Clearly agricultural areas were rich hunting grounds for these wild cats. Other animals that triggered the cameras were rusty-spotted cat, jungle cat, and jackal.

Were these leopards seasonal migrants from the closest forest taking advantage of the abundant feral prey?

When an old leopard (named ‘Ajoba’) that fell into a well was rescued by the Maharashtra Forest Department, Athreya affixed a GPS transmitter around his neck. As is sometimes the practice, he was released about 60 km away at the western edge of the district boundary at Malshej Ghats. Thereafter, his GPS location was pinpointed every day by satellite and an international SIM card tucked in the collar transmitted this information by SMS to the NINA server in Norway. All Athreya had to do to access Ajoba’s location was log onto the server. As a backup, the collar also held a traditional short range VHF transmitter so should the GPS malfunction, the animal could be traced using a handheld receiver.

A translocated leopard typically returns to the site of its capture or ranges randomly over long distances, either lost or attempting to find its home; rarely does it settle down at the site of release. A few days after Ajoba’s release, contrary to expectations, his GPS tracer began to dot westwards on the map, in the opposite direction from the site of his capture. He crossed the busy Mumbai-Agra National Highway, and through the Kasara railway station giving Athreya several anxious moments. Stranger still, Ajoba didn’t linger at either Tansa or Tungareshwar Wildlife Sanctuaries but continued onwards crossing the Vasai Industrial area near Thane, on the densely populated outskirts of Mumbai city. After twenty five days on the move, he entered Sanjay Gandhi National Park and the GPS points stayed clustered in a 25 sq.km area for almost six weeks; he seemed to have settled down.

Then inexplicably Ajoba took a swim across the 100 metre Ullas River into the main section of the Park but returned. This may have caused the collar to malfunction as all further transmission stopped. Before settling down, Ajoba had traveled 120 km, and at several locations was very close to people. Remarkably not once did anyone notice the leopard. It is only because of his collar that we are aware of this wild cat’s extraordinary journey from the Ghats to the coast. Since Ajoba was quite an old animal, and had consistently walked in a single direction before settling down, the team doesn’t think he was lost; he was sure of his destination.

A leopardess caught in Nanashi, near Nashik, was collared and named Sita. She was in an advanced stage of pregnancy when she was released 50 km away. For a month she tried to return unsuccessfully. Then she gave birth at the site of release and her mothering instincts overruled the urge to return home. She hid in the forests during the day and prowled through neighbouring villages at night hunting dogs and goats. Four months later, when her kittens were old enough to follow, she returned home to Nanashi. Over the subsequent eight months, until the collar dropped off, she prowled a 25 sq.km* area.

Neither of these two animals’ case histories reveals the life for a typical leopard in Akole’s sugarcane fields. Then along came Jai Maharashtra, a young leopard and Lakshai, a leopardess. Although these animals were caught in separate locations, it was immediately obvious that they were related. After being radio-collared, Lakshai (who was missing a canine!) emerged from her drugged stupor and made a beeline for Jai. Eventually DNA testing showed that they were mother and son.

For the first two months after Lakshai had a litter, Jai, the dutiful older son, was always close at hand, staying with the kittens so their mother could go hunting. Perhaps leopards are not the solitary beasts we have been led to believe.

Compared to Ajoba and Sita’s long distance treks, Jai and Lakshai hardly moved at all. The resident animals holed up in sugarcane fields all day and emerged at night to hunt dogs and pigs within a range of 25 sq.km*. Schooled as I was in the paradigm that large wild cats belong in tall undisturbed forests, this revelation came as a shock. Until this moment, standing with Vidya just metres away from a hidden leopard, I had expected these cats to live in a wilderness area somewhere and make occasional forays into the sugarcane fields. But their GPS points clearly indicated that these leopards lived in farmlands 24x7. If they were ever translocated to a forest, it would seem like an alien world just as it would to any farmer! Leopards have long known to be adaptable animals, but in this landscape they act just like large pussy cats, keeping stray animals under control.

How do leopards use this landscape and when are they active? Most crucially, why don’t these leopards attack people? Do they wait until all human activity on the farms ceases at night before venturing out to hunt? To her surprise, Athreya found that the time stamp on the camera trap pictures showed that people and leopards were using the same paths at approximately the same time, often within minutes of each other. Since rural Maharashtra suffers all-day power shut downs, farmers visit their fields at night to turn on their water pumps. And this was also the time when leopards were prowling the pathways looking for prey, or patrolling their territories.

Despite living in such close proximity, what are the reasons for the lack of conflict? Athreya avers that we still know too little about the drivers of conflict but offers that inappropriate management such as translocation may only aggravate conflict. Continued collaring of animals, studying their movements and interactions with one another will provide a better understanding of when and why large cats attack on humans.

What factors promote tolerance towards dangerous predators in one’s neighbourhood? Ghosal’s social science study revealed that peoples’ attitudes to leopards were coloured by a three-way tension between their religious-social backgrounds, political-legal frameworks, and economic loss-insecurity (both personal and livelihood). Tribal and pastoral communities worship Waghoba and Waghjaimata, local deities symbolized by tigers or leopards. Combined with this religious ethic, tribals see themselves embedded alongside these predatory cats in a single dynamic landscape and do not apply for compensation even when they lose livestock. They also take greater care of their animals, so loss is minimized.

However, they feel powerless when Forest Department not only denies access to grazing on the hill slopes, but they believe the Department releases leopards in the hills to prevent them from grazing and collecting firewood! It is also worth mentioning that fewer leopards are found in the marginal areas used by tribals where there is little shelter or prey. Despite their weak politico-legal leverage, the strength of their religio-social backgrounds and ability to prevent losses has led to a positive attitude to leopards.

At the other extreme, a minority of rich urbanized farmers feel that these “government-owned” cats have no place outside protected forests. So they use their political clout to lobby for the removal of leopards. Since these farmers are negligent about securing their calves and goats, they suffer more losses to the predators and thus feel vindicated in their attitudes. Their disaffection is inadequately appeased by compensation. Yet, leopards thrive in these sugarcane fields because farmers leave them unmolested.

Most others have adapted to the presence of leopards in the landscape; some say they walk after dark in groups, armed with torchlight, and usually talk loudly so they do not inadvertently bump into a large cat. They also claim that leopards do not confront people but should it happen, they would give space for the feline to walk away. A lot of families confidently sleep out in the open while all the livestock and poultry are secured in enclosures.

New values such as seen in wildlife programs on television also exert a positive influence on people’s perception of the wild cat. Many take pride that leopards live in their midst and that researchers are studying them. All this has promoted tolerance of these cats in this landscape.

For instance, some women who were weeding, calmly watched a leopard walk past. Moments later, in the next farm, workers threw stones and sent the feline scurrying for cover. In the melee, one or two of them were scratched and they complained to the Forest Department. When the local official approached the first farm owner for permission to place traps on his land to catch the leopard, he flatly refused. None of his family or workers was hurt by the feline, he argued.

This study underscores the fact that leopards are being sustained in high densities in rural areas because of the easy availability of stray dogs and feral pigs. There are an estimated 128 dogs per sq.km in Akole town and around 3000 pigs in the township. With such easy pickings in abundant supply at their doorsteps, these fat wild cats do not need to undertake strenuous walks, and therefore their home ranges are small. Since the density of dogs is higher near towns, so too are leopard densities. On numerous occasions both Lakshai and Jai were within the town, walking between houses. Although DNA analysis of samples obtained from the scats is yet to be completed, Athreya made a preliminary identification of 20 individuals. Not surprisingly, six adult leopards were stalking and hunting dogs and pigs in a 4 sq.km town of 20,000 people. There were clearly more leopards lurking around Akole town than in the surrounding countryside.

During further study, Athreya has found similar situations where leopards live with people without conflict in other agricultural areas in India. It could even be the norm rather than the exception. Clearly when there are so many wild animals living outside protected forests, a policy for their conservation and management needs to be drafted. If these numbers of leopards are deemed too high, the most appropriate management measure would be to clean up towns reducing stray animal populations. Local Forest Department officials require crisis and people-management training in order to perform their jobs better. Compensation payments for livestock losses should be made less tedious and bureaucratic; it should be linked to effective protection so those who take better care of their livestock are rewarded, and support provided to those who lack the resources to adequately protect their animals.

Thanks to Indian cultural and religious traditions, most rural people are amazingly sympathetic to leopards, as long as humans are not harmed nor alienated from resource or land use in the name of conservation. If our management policies build on this existing foundation, people are more likely to share farmlands with large cats and accept them in their midst. This could set a precedent for the conservation of large predators in villages and farms across India and the world.

Bowling for Stumpy

2011-02-28T19:54:00.004+05:30

Edited version published in DNA on 27 Feb 2011

Stumpy, the cricket ball wielding chubby blue elephant is the mascot of the World Cup to be inaugurated on the 19th February. Ironically nowhere is this more appropriate than in Sri Lanka where the hosts will play Canada on 20th February, and Pakistan against Kenya on the 23rd. The venue of these clashes is the newly commissioned 35,000 seater Mahinda Rajapaksa International Stadium set in the middle of a coastal forest where Stumpy’s real life kith and kin battle with humans for their very survival.

Throughout this landscape, developmental projects sit amidst natural splendor. On either side of the broad slick Hambantota Bypass road, irrigated banana fields, tsunami rehabilitation settlements, the flashy international conference centre that may host the Commonwealth Heads of Government meeting were carved out of the elephant’s forest. Besides, an international airport (imagine the sales line, “arrive in a jumbo jet in jumbo country!”), a seaport and a railway line are in different stages of completion. Within a decade, Hambantota has transformed from a sleepy village to an enormous township in a hurry, fuelled by President Rajapaksa’s ambitious plans for his home constituency. It could be a run-of-the-mill development versus conservation story but it may not be, not just yet anyway.

About fifteen years ago, the Walawe Left Bank Irrigation Project brought perennial farming to the area. Then as more and more infrastructure projects were slated to come up, the Wildlife Department was asked to move the elephants to a nearby National Park. In 2006, a drive was launched to herd the estimated 100 elephants out of this 600 sq.km area. But imagine their surprise when they mustered about 250 elephants into the Lunugumvehera National Park. Even more amazingly, elephant biologist Dr. Prithiviraj Fernando estimates that between 300 and 400 elephants were left behind that continue to forage in the remaining 300 sq.km. of forests in the greater Hambantota area.

Strangely, the fate of elephants in the Protected forest was worse than the ones having to battle the developmental juggernaut sweeping through their forests. First the calves died inside the Park, followed by some adults; the rest, in poor condition, pace helplessly along the electric-fenced boundary, looking for a way out. It has been suggested that there is not enough foliage to support such a large population of elephants and it is just as likely that they are home-sick.

Outside the Park, people’s problems with the animals escalated despite removing half the area’s population of elephants. True, the pachyderms had lost about 300 sq.km. of habitat to the new developments and there were choice irrigated crops such as bananas, sugarcane, and coconuts for the picking. But these elephants, that had been subjected to the trauma of tens of thousands of firecrackers, people screaming and shooting at them during the attempt to drive them to the Park, had become fearless. Formerly shy retiring animals, they were now quick to lose their temper with any farmers who had the temerity to chase them. Out of desperation, people resorted to diabolical methods of maiming elephants by hiding explosives inside pumpkins. In this grim scenario, a World Bank funded project hopes to not only resolve these problems but create a unique Managed Elephant Reserve (MER) (under the National Elephant Conservation Policy 2006), a balancing act between development and elephant conservation.

For starters, the area’s zoning maps until the year 2030 have been overlaid with elephant distribution coordinates so any infrastructure plans necessarily includes the animals. A few members of the Hambantota elephant herds are being radio tracked to get an understanding of their use of the landscape and reaction to disturbance. This knowledge will feed into the overall management of the area for elephants. However, the biggest challenge facing the project is encroachment inside the newly conceived Reserve. People want land for cultivation, house plots, and some indulge in just plain outright land grabbing. Although the MER allows existing practices such as rainfed agriculture, it cannot sustain elephants if the habitat is splintered, fenced and diverted further for human use.

The Hambantota elephants are not alone in their plight. Whether it’s Sri Lanka, India, Burma or Thailand this is a tension riddled equation for both elephants and their human neighbours. At least here in southern Sri Lanka elephant biologists are being given the mandate to give the pachyderms a fair deal by the developers. Can Stumpy become the mascot for the development-and-conservation paradigm?

The best laid schemes of tigers and men

2011-02-26T12:14:00.004+05:30

Published in Governance Now, 26 Feb 2011.

The media leaves little doubt about the dire straits that we find the tiger in today. Millions of dollars are raised at home and abroad to secure the future of this magnificent beast. But the people who are paying dearly for the conservation of the charismatic big cat are the unglamorous local people who have had to quietly forsake their homes and traditional livelihoods to make way for the tiger. Here is an example of what’s happening across tiger reserves in the country.

In November 2010, the Soliga tribals of the Biligiri Rangaswamy Temple Sanctuary wrote a bitter letter to Jairam Ramesh, the Minister for Environment and Forests, asking to be poisoned first before turning the Sanctuary into a Tiger Reserve. The adivasis are not opposed to tigers; nor do they begrudge the enormous financial allocations being made every year for wildlife while their own lot remains depressingly the same. The real core of their anxiety is the 370 sq.km that is destined to be declared a Critical Tiger Habitat under the Wildlife Protection Act (WPA). Should this happen, about 1000 tribal households belonging to eighteen hamlets have to be relocated to create an exclusive zone for tigers. It is worth noting that over the last few years, the number of tigers in the sanctuary has increased even with the presence of these people and it is therefore debatable if such a radical move is necessary for tiger conservation. Be that as it may, at the very least, the tribals have to get a fair deal as is mandated by law.

Section 38-V (5) of the Wildlife Act says that before the notification of a Critical Tiger Habitat, the rights of local forest dwellers have to be honored, the possibility of coexistence ruled out, their impact on wildlife assessed, and if irreversible, only then shunt people out with the approval of the gram sabha (a village assembly that includes all the adults). Further, they need to be provided a package to resettle in a place that has all the basic amenities. A fair law! On paper.

In reality, there is a gaping fracture between words and action. Had the Soliga adivasis been taken into confidence from the beginning, when the proposal to make their forest a Tiger Reserve was being drafted, it’s unlikely they would have taken such an antagonistic stand. In this vitiated atmosphere, it’s doubtful if their gram sabhas will provide “free informed” consent to their own transfer of residence, one of the prerequisites for declaring an exclusive tiger haven. But resistance hasn’t deterred eviction of forest dwellers from other Tiger Reserves. When a range of basic amenities are lacking and hopes of making ends meet recede in the distance, their defiance eventually breaks down. Often, this is how “free informed” consent is obtained.

In addition to Critical Tiger Habitat, the Scheduled Tribes and Other Traditional Forest Dwellers Act, 2006, popularly referred to as the Forest Rights Act (FRA), mandates declaration of Critical Wildlife Habitats under Section 4(2) which stipulates the same actions as WPA.

The twin towers of critical habitats – the Wildlife Act and Forest Rights Act – mention fuzzy concepts such as, “irreversible damage”, “coexistence” and the more problematic “inviolate” without defining them. In 2007, a consortium of public service-minded organizations and institutions took it upon themselves to not only elaborate on these terms but also set out the criteria and protocols for declaration of these exclusive habitats. To this day, the advice stands ignored.

Even within the twenty-member Joint Ministry of Environment and Forests-Ministry of Tribal Affairs Committee, set up to investigate the implementation of the FRA, two contradictory views prevailed. One said ‘inviolate’ does not mean free of humans and that pursuit of activities not inimical to conservation could be allowed, while the other maintained that ‘inviolate’ meant free of humans and their activities; the Ministry of Environment and Forests appears to tacitly accept this latter, narrower definition.

The Joint Committee report also exposed a range of governance issues which stirred up a hornet’s nest. The Director General of Forests and the Central Unit of the Indian Forest Service Officers Association have cautioned that if the law is implemented as suggested by the report, it would lead to “a land scam of gargantuan proportions”, that local forest dwellers had no wherewithal to stand up to well-muscled external forces and emphasized that the integrity of the Forest Department officials ought not to be questioned. The successful fight by the Dongria Kondh tribals against one of the biggest corporations in the world over their sacred mountain, Niyamgiri, puts a lie to that belief. On the contrary, while the Karnataka State Forest Department has drawn up plans to move the Soligas out of the Biligiri Rangaswamy Temple Sanctuary, they confess helplessness in revoking the leases granted to large companies for 1800 acres of commercial coffee plantations smack inside the sanctuary!

In order to aid the states in identifying and creating Critical Wildlife Habitats, the Ministry of Environment and Forests had issued guidelines in October 2007 and when no further progress was made, revised them on 7 February 2011.

Although the Joint Committee rued the fact that the states were setting deadlines for the settlement of rights of forest people, often with an eye on upcoming elections, in reality no such deadline is set by law. Yet the Ministry’s new guidelines demand that states identify exclusive wildlife zones within three months. It would also like to extend these people-free zones to adjoining areas of protected forests although the FRA makes no such allowance. If any of the people living in the neighbourhood have to be moved, it is not clear which law governs their rights.

The guidelines further urge that local people be consulted, but that doesn’t mean an open discussion of the proposal. Instead, the forest dwellers will be told what is in store for them. While the FRA elevates local people to full-fledged partners in wildlife and forest management, the Ministry seeks to keep them under the thumb of the Forest Department.

To determine if people need to be shifted, two major criteria are outlined in the FRA – proof that local people are causing irreversible damage and are incapable of coexistence – but these make a mere guest appearance in Annexure 2 which deals with the financial outlay for rehabilitation of people. Why engage in the farce of determining if people have a negative impact on wildlife and if there was no scope for coexistence, when the decision to move people has already been made? The inescapable truth is that the guidelines are only concerned about identification and notification of the exclusive zones with the clear mandate to rid the area of people.

According to the FRA, the decision-making body is the gram sabha; the guidelines urge “even if only a few families” are willing to relocate, the proposal is to be submitted. One does wonder then how the mandatory consent of the gram sabha will be procured if only a few families agree. Divide and rule? Were these guidelines an attempt to restore powers to the Forest Department that had been taken away by the FRA? Was it a reaction to the devastating criticism by the Joint Committee? Has the FRA made any difference in forest governance and treatment of local people?

When protests hit the fan, the Minister for Environment and Forests issued a press statement “clarifying” the guidelines that only succeeded in confounding the problem further. Contradicting the guidelines, he says that these special wildlife zones will be declared only inside protected forests, not a squeak about the area “around” them. So what is a park manager to follow: the guidelines or the Minister’s communiqué?

The press statement then gets into a twist by suggesting that “consultations” meant “consent”. Consultation is a process of seeking opinion which could either lead to agreement or refusal. How could local people’s sentiments be taken for granted to assume that consultation was the same as assent?

In the meantime, the Planning Commission has slashed the budget for the National Tiger Conservation Authority by 25%, and it is likely that relocation of people from Tiger Reserves will be put on hold. This reprieve is the time to take stock of the next steps forward as there is no doubt that serious redressal is needed to bring policy in line with the laws. The promulgation of FRA promised a breath of fresh air: open and transparent decision-making. In its implementation, however, the heel of the Forest Department boot continues to squash the marginalized.

In this day and enlightened age, can we rightfully protect the tiger by impoverishing the people who have lived with it until now? Ironically, conservationists bemoan that the public is not more engaged with protecting wildlife and yet, they condone an undemocratic system that serves to turn any wildlife-tolerant tribal into an ardent opponent. Is it really so difficult to save the tiger without being unfair and callous to fellow human beings?

Alley cats

2011-01-29T11:42:00.001+05:30

Published in DNA

Unedited version -

It seems like open season on leopards. Over the last month, leopards accused of attacking people in states as far apart as Haryana, Maharashtra and Orissa, have been killed by hysteric mobs.

On the afternoon of Dec 18, 2010, a leopard is said to have attacked three farmers in a village near Gurgaon, Haryana. Panicky villagers hammered it with iron rods and lathis and finally, one of them shot it dead.

Another midday drama unfolded on Jan 9, 2011 in the town of Karad, Maharashtra. A child is reported to have spotted a leopard sitting atop a house. When a crowd of people gathered, the cat snuck into an empty building. Instead of trapping it inside by barricading the doorway, the mob stoned it. With no secure place to hide, the cat charged out and in the ensuing melee, six people were injured. The police chased it with lathis and fired in the air. A man stepped out of a bar, collided with the fleeing leopard and down they went. A police official rushed forward and shot the leopard dead before the man was seriously injured.

A couple of days later, on Jan 13, 2011 a leopard was spotted in a forest plantation about 5 km from Bhubaneswar, Orissa. But before forest officials could arrive, a mob beat it to death reportedly instigated by a local television reporter who wanted dramatic visuals.

Conservationists have urged the National Board for Wildlife, the National Tiger Conservation Authority and the Ministry of Environment and Forests to take action against the people involved. But why do such incidents occur?

In virtually all the cases reported by the press, the leopards were provoked to attack; left alone, they would have quietly skulked away. But how does one prevent an excitable mob from harassing a cornered animal? Imposition of curfew until the animal is safely out of the way is one option. The other is for the Police and Forest Departments to start working in tandem. The former controls the crowd providing the space for the latter to either trap or tranquilize the animal. However, the local Forest Department outpost has to have the skilled personnel and appropriate tools handy for the success of such an operation.

Why do such situations arise in the first place? It is often surmised that leopards are “straying” into villages and towns because infrastructure projects such as dams and mines are depriving them of home and prey. To prevent more such tragic episodes from occurring, some activists have called for the restoration of connectivity between forest fragments and a stop to all further forest loss. While these are inherently sound conservation goals, the question is: can they prevent the collision between people and leopards?

In order to manage conflict, you need to know what is causing it. Fortunately, we’ve learned a few lessons from studies conducted by the leopard researcher, Vidya Athreya in the agricultural fields of Junnar and Akole districts in Maharashtra.

Contrary to widespread belief, here, where there is virtually no forest at all, it is not the absence of prey inside forests but the abundance of feral animals in the countryside that encourages leopards (and other carnivores such as wolves and hyenas) to live with humans. It is futile to manage leopards in this kind of landscape without first cleaning up the garbage, controlling the numbers of stray dogs and feral pigs and securing livestock in paddocks for the night (which the Akole people do and there is no conflict). Elsewhere, when villagers report that leopards are prowling through their fields, the Forest Department hauls the animals away to a forest. Randomly picking up big cats from villages and dropping them in forests actually causes a very real threat to human life.

In Junnar, in the early 2000s, when leopards that had not hurt anyone were preemptively captured and relocated, they began attacking people. We do not yet fully understand why a seemingly benign action should have such a dramatic consequence. Despite evidence, relocating leopards still remains the management tool of choice.

Forests are finite repositories of big cats. As juvenile leopards reach adulthood, these highly territorial animals need to find new land to claim as their own. It is only natural that they explore adjoining agricultural areas where there is food and shelter. If left unmolested, they may settle down to live with humans without causing a problem.

The irrigation projects of the mid 1980s changed cropping patterns in this part of Maharashtra; tall, dense sugarcane stands began to dominate the landscape. This is also the time when the locals say that leopards began to live amongst them. Yet, over the last twenty years, the people suffered little anxiety. Astonishingly, leopards are even hunting in Akole town because of the concentration of stray dogs and feral pigs. Studying situations such as this, we’ve learnt that leopards are quite at home in the absence of forest and wild prey. Further insights into the lives and needs of these cats that live with humans will enable better management of leopard-man conflict in the future.

The Mystery Civet

2011-01-13T17:42:00.000+05:30

Published in New Indian Express Jan, 8, 2011

“The Malabar Civet may not even exist,” Divya Mudappa said softly, watching my face for a reaction. She didn’t mean that the creature had become extinct; she meant that such a species may have never existed. That’s an audacious statement to make but there are enough reasons to suspect that she might be right.

The Malabar Civet became known to science on the basis of a skin and a partly damaged skull donated by Lord Arthur Hay to the Asiatic Society of Bengal (ASB), Kolkata in 1845. The specimen tags say it came from South Malabar, Kerala, India, but whether the animal was captive or wild, hunted or traded and the exact location went unrecorded.

In 1874, Thomas Jerdon, a well-known figure in Indian natural history, writes that the Malabar Civet was very common and he had seen them on numerous occasions. He felt that the species ranged across the lowland coastal forests from Honavar in north Karnataka to Travancore (south Kerala) and perhaps even to Sri Lanka. This account formed the basis of all subsequent descriptions, range and status of the species by doyens such as Robert Sterndale (1884), William Blanford (1888), William Sclater (1891) and other naturalists until 2003. None of them ever saw the animal alive. In 1933 Pocock pointed out in his review of the species that Jerdon had probably mistaken the Small Indian Civet for the Malabar Civet! But by then, the latter was firmly established in the annals of Indian fauna.

Reginald Pocock, the famous mammalogist (1933), then suggested that the unique characters that set the Malabar Civet apart may be an artifact of captivity, but was nonetheless concerned by the rarity of the species.

In 1949, Angus Hutton reported seeing several Malabar Civets in the High Wavy Mountains, Tamil Nadu, where he was a tea planter. While he described these large civets to be fairly common in the evergreen forests, he had only seen one Small Indian Civet. The son of a civetone dealer based in Valparai, Hutton doesn’t mention how he distinguished the two species, but it is very likely that he misidentified the common Small Indian Civet as Jerdon had before him. What he called a Malabar Civet in a photograph was identified as a Small Indian Civet.

The first tangible evidence of the mysterious Malabar Civet popped up in 1987 when G.U. Kurup of the Zoological Survey of India, Kozhikode salvaged a skin from Elayur, about 25 km from his office. Another skin from the same source was lodged at the Calicut University museum while a third went missing. These skins apparently came from animals caught while a cashew plantation was being converted to rubber. Whether this was first hand information or hearsay is unknown.

A few years later, N.V.K. Ashraf procured an old stuffed specimen (the third one that went missing from Elayur in 1987?) and a fairly fresh skin from a tribal settlement in Poongode, about 15 km from Elayur. Both these specimens were given to the museum at the Wildlife Institute of India where they became decrepit and were subsequently dumped.

The Wildlife Trust of India conducted extensive camera trap surveys in the lowland forests of Karnataka and Kerala between 2006 and 2008 and found no sign of the animal. Concern for the civet grew.

Around this time, two specialists in nocturnal small mammals, R. Nandini and Divya Mudappa began reviewing all accounts of the species and examining museum specimens. They discovered that the little known information was based on Jerdon’s originally erroneous identification and the rest on surmise. This was the point at which Divya wondered if the species existed at all.

Then how does she account for the various skins found in the late 1980s and early ‘90s, I asked. Civetone, the musk produced by the anal glands of civet cats, was much sought after for perfumery, religious offerings and ayurvedic medicine over the millennia. In ancient times there was a thriving trade in large civet cats from Ethiopia and Southeast Asia. Kozhikode, in Kerala, was a major sea port and Kerala also appears to be the origin of all six museum specimens.

Civets in the trade were the African Civet, the Large-spotted Civet from Southeast Asia and the northern Large Indian Civet. The “Malabar Civet” skins bear an astonishing resemblance to the Large-spotted Civet, enough to confuse even seasoned biologists. It’s possible that some escaped captive Large-spotted Civets ended up in collections or they thrived in a small pocket, somewhere near Kozhikode.

This line of argument is sure to raise the hackles of some biologists. But consider this: if the animal was as common as reported in early literature, then why are only a few skins available in museums? It is possible that the Malabar Civet may be remarkably sensitive to habitat change, and hunting pressures. But civet cats in general are adaptable creatures that live on a varied diet. Misled by Jerdon, biologists have perhaps been looking for it in the wrong places. The lack of authentic information makes it difficult to get to the bottom of this conundrum.

So if you are out in the southern forests and see a large civet, these are the characters to look for: a black mane along the back from the nape to the tip of the tail, three dark stripes on the throat, the lack of a dark patch below the eye, and a broad, black tail tip. Even a bad picture would be better than no picture at all!

Creatures of a Lesser God

2010-11-14T16:22:00.001+05:30

Published in the Financial Express 14 Nov 2010

Elephants and tigers, charismatic, sexy mega-mammals, are the mascots of wildlife conservation. Use them as umbrellas to protect a range of smaller less-popular species, said the wise ecologists. The amount of effort, publicity, concern (and millions of conservation dollars) elicited by these popular “umbrellas” is several orders of magnitude larger than any other creatures. We accept this inequality of the haves and have-nots just as easily as we accept it in human society. Today, however, in the grip of the tiger crisis, and with new research on a range of species from leopards to frogs, it appears as if the umbrella plan isn’t holding up. In some quarters, these are fighting words.

Take the long-snouted, fish-eating gharial. This crocodilian is extinct in Pakistan, Bangladesh, Bhutan, and Myanmar and found only in India and Nepal where we are down to under 200 breeding adults. Put differently, there is no other large animal so close to extinction in India today! The gharial’s only hope of survival seems restricted to the Chambal and Girwa rivers. There is no mega mammalian umbrella here; the crisis is so dire that we urgently need to address the threats to this riverine species head on.
On the other hand, the wet forests of the Western Ghats and the Northeast were declared biodiversity hotspots not because of the relatively sparse mega-fauna but the numerous little creatures. A myriad species of frogs, snakes and other small fry are found in isolated valleys and are not known to live anywhere else; extinctions are happening to life forms we haven’t even identified yet! The conservation of these “insignificant” creatures falls by the wayside when inordinate focus in placed on large mammals.

In practice umbrella conservation eventually focuses on just that species. For instance, long before the last tiger was poached in Sariska, the four-horned antelope had gone extinct in the Park. Although it was a prey species on which the tiger’s own existence hinged, this missing link in the food chain went completely unnoticed and un-mourned by most conservationists. Umbrella? Although the Tiger Task Force identified a whole range of systemic failures that led to the crisis, the presence of local people became an easy scapegoat for both government and conservationists. Despite the Supreme Court and Ministry of Environment and Forests directive, mines continue to operate around the Park with impunity. In addition to the message that local people are a disaster for wildlife, the fixation on large mammals whose survival is tied to tiny ‘protected’ forests jeopardizes conservation across the ‘unprotected’, greater part of the country.

These same “problematic” humans live with leopards far away from forests and sanctuaries, in the agricultural areas of Maharashtra. Not far from the Chambal, across the wetlands of Uttar Pradesh, the world’s tallest flying birds, the sarus crane, has survived alongside farmers for generations. Traditional agriculture has in fact benefitted a range of bird species such as jacanas, storks, shikras, egrets, herons, prinias, weaver birds, cisticolas and reptiles like monitor lizards, rat snakes and many more. All these ordinary farmers have been practicing conservationists while city slickers mainly preach, rant and rave. Here’s a conservation army to empower and enthuse, it’s time to look past the gates of sanctuaries and national parks and mega-mammals. And this is where the future of much of our biodiversity lies.

Satish “Batagur” Bhaskar

2010-10-15T16:04:00.001+05:30

By Rom Whitaker (as narrated to Janaki Lenin)

Published in Indian Ocean Turtle Newsletter 24, July 2010

In the early ‘70s the Madras Snake Park became a local hangout for young folks from nearby campuses like Indian Institute of Technology (IIT), AC College of Architecture and Madras Christian College. Thirty years later I run into some of these guys, sometimes in strange places. They're now mostly as paunchy and balding as I am and we trade a few stories and get into laughing fits over “the good old days”.

One of the characters who showed up back then was a soft-spoken engineering student named Satish Bhaskar. He was a teetotaling non-smoker, a real ascetic compared to the rest of us. His passion was the sea, and he spent more time swimming than in the IIT classroom. It’s not for nothing that his hostel mates called him Aquaman (privately)!

I was concentrating on crocs at the time, and whenever I could get away from Snake Park it was to survey gharial, mugger and saltwater crocodile habitat across India. At the same time, we also wanted to know sea turtle status: which species come to Indian shores, where, when and in what numbers. So, we really needed a full time sea turtle man.

Opportunely (for the turtles), Satish was getting disenchanted with his IIT course (after finishing most of it) and yearned to be a field man with a mission. The Snake Park had a tiny research budget, but it was enough to hire Satish as Field Officer (Rs. 250 a month, approx. US$ 28 based on exchange rates of that time) and get him out on his first few survey trips. When the fledgling WWF-India saw the good work he was doing for endangered sea turtles, Satish landed his first grant which really set him in motion.

About this time, the Madras Crocodile Bank was being born and Satish was its first resident. He helped to build the place (in between the sea turtle trips) but funds were so tight and sporadic that there were times when he had no work. So what did he do? He kept in shape by filling a bag of sand, carrying it to the other end of the Croc Bank, dumping it and starting again! Villagers still remember Satish hoisting a 50 kg sack of cement over his shoulder casually as if it were no more than a sleeping bag. This was the training that made him so tough in the field; it enabled him to walk most of India’s entire coastline, more than 4,000 km, over the next few years looking for sea turtles, their tracks and nests! He loved going to remote places which few Indians have the stamina or stomach for. “To him, swimming in shark infested waters was the most normal thing to do,” declares Shekar Dattatri, who has known him since the early Snake Park days.

Old Jungle Saying: Satish is incredibly kind to people. If he has anything that someone wants, he gives it away.

In 1977, Satish conducted the first surveys in Lakshadweep and zeroed in on an uninhabited island, Suheli Valiyakara, as the place for a focused green sea turtle study. The only problem was that the main nesting period is during the monsoon and no one goes there when the sea is so rough. In 1982, Satish left his young wife and three month old daughter, Nyla to maroon himself on Suheli for the whole monsoon, from May to September. It meant making elaborate preparations, like calculating the amount of food he would need. We sat with Satish and talked about things that could go wrong during this isolation – chronic toothache, appendicitis, malaria were just a few sobering thoughts. The Coast Guard provided some signal flares and there was talk of a two-way radio but eventually Satish just set sail and that’s the last we heard of him till September.

Actually that’s not true. A few months later, his wife Brenda back in Madras, received a loving letter from him. He had launched his message in a bottle on July 3rd and 24 days and more than 800 km later it was picked up by a Sri Lankan fisherman, Anthony Damacious, who very kindly posted it to Brenda along with a covering letter, a family picture and an invitation to visit him in Sri Lanka. The ‘bottle post’ was very romantic, but of course Satish’s spin was that he was trying to see if he could study ocean currents using this technique!

An emergency situation did arise on the deserted isle, and one that none of us could have predicted: a huge dead whale shark washed up on Satish’s little island and started rotting. The nauseous stench became so overpowering that our intrepid sea turtle man had to move to the extreme other end of the tiny island to a somewhat precarious, wave lashed spit of sand.

That year the monsoon abated late. So though Satish was packed and ready to go home by September 1st, (after 3 ½ months with only turtles and a radio for company), the relief boat from Kavaratti Island, over 60 km away did not arrive. Satish had run out of rations and legend has it that he survived on milk powder, turtle eggs, clams and coconuts for weeks. Fortunately, the lighthouse on neighbouring Suheli Cheriyakara needed servicing and a Lighthouse Department ship, the MV Sagardeep, arrived on October 11th. As Satish clambered aboard, Capt. Kulsreshta's first words were, "Take him to the galley!"

For a person with a gargantuan appetite, Satish could live on very little. On a trip to the Nicobars, Indraneil Das and he ran out of rations and water and they still had a day’s walk ahead of them. The former was half-dead when they ran into a party of Nicobarese who tried to feed them but Satish politely and firmly declined saying they had just eaten and didn’t allow Neil to eat either. Later he pointed that they had nothing to repay the poor people’s kindness! (This trip yielded five new species – two frogs, two lizards and a snake.)

On another occasion, on Little Andaman, Satish had again run out of rations and was surviving on “only biscuits and vitamins for 4 days.” He came upon an empty Onge tribal camp with some freshly barbecued turtle meat. He took some of the meat and left two biscuit packets in exchange mainly to avoid a spear through his back! Just counting the number of times he ran out of food in remote areas, we suspect that he deliberately starved himself to see how far he could take it.

Old Jungle Saying: Satish always travels with a kerosene stove and a pressure cooker. The former is to avoid burning wood as it is bad for the environment and the latter for cooking efficiency. He also carries an automobile inner tube to raft his supplies from canoe to shore and vice versa.

Through the 1980s, again thanks to WWF and other funds, Satish visited many of the islands of the Andamans. His were the first recommendations on sea turtle nesting beach protection. These helped give the Andaman and Nicobar Islands Forest Department a solid conservation basis to resist the efforts of big business and other Government Department interests in “developing” beaches for tourism.

Amongst all this serious work, he had time for research of another kind. Writing in Hamadryad, the Croc Bank Newsletter, he wonders if the sea krait was attracted to light, feigns dismay that this may be true and proceeds to try to make one climb his leg by playing with his torchlight!

By this time, Satish’s work was being appreciated by sea turtle biologists worldwide. Papers on the species inhabiting this region were very scarce indeed and his publications helped to fill that big gap. In 1979 Satish was invited to give a paper on the status of sea turtles of the eastern Indian Ocean at the World Conference on Sea Turtle Conservation, in Washington D.C. In recognition for his contributions to sea turtle conservation, Satish received a fancy watch and award from Rolex in 1984.

When Ed Moll came to India to do a freshwater turtle study, Satish became a key collaborator. He surveyed extensively for a highly endangered Batagur baska which nests on coastal beaches along with olive ridleys. Sadly the Bengalis have eaten the terrapin to near extinction and there are no known wild nests in India. It was at this time that he was nicknamed “Batagur Bhaskar”.

Old Jungle Saying: Satish has no sense of direction. He gets lost easily.

He spent many months, over several years, studying the hawksbill and green turtle nesting biology on tiny South Reef Island on the west coast of North Andaman. He described this island as “one of ten sites most favoured by nesting [g]reen turtles in India”. Saw Bonny, a Forest Department Range Officer stationed on Interview Island, regularly risked his life ferrying supplies to Satish on South Reef Island, even during stormy monsoon weather. Bonny deputed a department staff member from his camp to assist Satish who was working alone. Emoye spent a few days on South Reef, got fed up and wanted to return. Since the currents were strong and Satish was an accomplished swimmer, Emoye requested him to go along with him.

Over the years shark fishermen regularly hauled in sharks from this very channel. The sea was rough, it was after all the monsoon season. Being a modest and understated narrator, Satish rated his swimming skills as “below par” and claimed that his snorkeling flippers gave him confidence. To keep warm during the more than two kilometre swim, he wore two shirts. Emoye rested frequently on Satish to catch his breath and together the two of them swam across the channel.

A party of shark fishermen were camped on the beach in Interview when our intrepid swimmers landed. One of them remembered meeting Satish earlier and enquired, "Still loafing around? Still jobless?" He thought Satish was an ambergris-hunter. It was already dark when Satish and Emoye set out across the island to the forest camp. Half way, a bull elephant in musth trumpeted his warning from just 30 metres away and started to chase them. The two men ran for their lives. Later Satish would recount, “I had done some distance running in college but the penalty for losing was never as dire.” Already exhausted from their long and arduous swim, they couldn’t continue running and the elephant showed no signs of relenting. Remembering a Kenneth Anderson story, Satish threw his shirt down while continuing to run and was gratified to hear the pachyderm squealing with rage moments later. With the animal distracted, the men could finally stumble onwards to the forest camp. They made a pact – if the shirt was intact, it was Emoye’s; if not, then Satish’s. The next morning they found the shirt in three pieces completely smeared with muddy elephant footprints, while one bit had to be recovered from a tree. He later posted the pieces back to Brenda with a reassuring note.

Old Jungle Saying: Satish trusts people implicitly and they, in turn, don’t let him down.

In the mid 1980’s WWF-Indonesia contracted Satish to study the huge, intensely exploited leatherback sea turtle rookeries on the beaches of the Vogelkopf, the western most peninsula of the island of New Guinea, in Irian Jaya. This was a logistically tough place to work. First of all, there was no access from the landward side and one couldn’t even land a boat on the beach. This was why it had remained protected for so long. Then the people from neighbouring areas started taking tens of thousands of leatherback eggs. People swam ashore with jerry cans and sacks and floated the eggs back to boats.

However, Satish found a way to keep in touch. He would swim 100 m out to a passing longboat that was headed to Sorong, and hand his letters to someone on board with enough currency for stamps. There was one boat every 20 to 30 days. By late Aug 1985, he had tagged about 700 leatherbacks almost single-handedly.

Rather uncharacteristically, Satish never wrote up his report for WWF-Indonesia. I have no explanation why this happened nor did we ever discuss this. After a year had passed and there was no sign of the report, I was embarrassed as I had recommended him for the job. The document was sorely needed to put some laws in place very soon. I had my sense of justice as well so I wrote the report in his name.

Sadly, the 13,360 nests that he recorded in 1984 was probably the highest ever in recent years. Ever since then, the average number of nests has hovered way down around 3200. And this has resulted in yet another ‘Satish myth’ – the local people believe that Satish tagged the female leatherbacks with metal tags, and using a giant magnet drew all the turtles to his country! The local elders have refused to permit any more tagging of turtles on this beach.

Old Jungle Saying: He doesn’t like to crawl into a sleeping bag on cold nights; instead he wears all his clothes. Sometimes, he buries himself, except his face which is covered by a mosquito net, in the sand to get away from inquisitive island rats, mosquitoes and sand flies at night. He usually sleeps out of sight of others at camp, after playing a few riffs on his harmonica.

In 1993, while chugging past Flat Island, a small spit of land off the west coast of the Jarawa Tribal Reserve in the Andamans, Satish and his companions saw a pair of human footprints emerging from the sea and disappearing into the vegetation. Satish had evaluated this island as a prime green turtle nesting beach, and despite the others cautioning him of Jarawas (the hostile tribe who routinely finished off trespassers with arrows), Satish swam ashore. His companions watched in horror as he followed the footprints into the forest. While his friends feared the worst, he emerged from another side crouching behind a green turtle carapace, holding it like a shield. The fearsome tribals never showed themselves and Satish returned safely.

On a subsequent trip, some Jarawa came aboard the canoe. Satish later recalled admiringly that the Jarawa were powerful swimmers and he had been very impressed by the bow-wake their breast-stroke created. Everyone else cowered in the back while Satish calmly interacted with the tribals. The crew had already hidden the machetes and other metal objects that the Jarawa coveted for making arrow heads. Eventually the tribals left without harming anybody but did take some spoons.

Old Jungle Saying: Satish likes to catch everything.

Local intelligence was that the Galathea river, Great Nicobar, had a lot of crocodiles. After dark one night standing on the bridge spanning the river, Satish played his torch over the water. Suddenly his flashlight caught some small eye shines along the waters’ edge and he got very excited thinking they were baby salt water crocs. So he crept down to the edge of the river to catch them, but they turned out to be large spiders!

But he did encounter crocodiles. Once while lying asleep on a beach on Trinkat Island, Nicobars, he woke up to a rustling noise. He found a young croc looking at him through the mosquito net. In mock seriousness he later wrote, “I’m overlooking it this time but if the crocs that wake me get any bigger I’m headed back to Madras.”

The Karen of the Andamans are particularly fond of Satish. He earned their respect by treating young and old with courtesy and respect, and also with such exploits as swimming from Wandoor in Middle Andaman to Grub Island (a distance of about 1.6 km) and back, walking the entire coastline of Little Andaman even crossing swift streams such as Bumila and Jackson Creeks and doggedly surveying beaches no matter how big the obstacles. But that didn’t stop the Karen from teasingly nicknaming Satish, Cheto (Karen for ‘basket’, as it rhymes with Bhaskar!). Several older Nicobarese remember “the man who came looking for turtles” even today, many years after his last visit. He was perhaps the only man to ever find a reticulated python on the tiny island of Meroe (between Little Nicobar and Nancowry). The Nicobarese, who frequent the island, had never seen this species there before and were duly impressed. This python was later handed over to the Forest Department in Port Blair.

Satish notched identification marks on the carapaces of turtles that came ashore to lay eggs. Later, a bunch of titanium tags was sent by the Australian National Parks and Wildlife Service for tagging hawksbills on South Reef. In Vogelkopf, he tagged more than 700 leatherback turtles. There is no information on tag returns from any of these turtles. One reason may be that subsequent night surveys (after Satish left) were inconsistent on Andamans, Nicobars and Irian Jaya. Secondly, the English lettering which provides the return address means little to local people. Karen tribals have mentioned finding tags on turtles they ate but not knowing the significance of the metal, simply threw it away into the bush.

For not being a religious person at all, he has the morals of one. He doesn’t like anyone to tell him what to do, which made my job as boss difficult. (But he was conscientious about sending reports so he didn’t need to be reminded.) I clearly remember once when I suggested that he store his things in a tin trunk as they were being destroyed by termites, he took umbrage. “Would I tell you what to do, Rom?” he asked in his low pitched gruff voice with a touch of menace. I never made that mistake again! He is a perfectionist - wanting to do everything right and better than anybody else. He also has an exaggerated sense of justice – always rooting for the downtrodden (probably why he got along well with tribals, villagers and field people). In many ways, he is very un-Indian.

Old Jungle Saying: Nothing is useless; anything “useless” was just something for which Satish hasn't yet found a use.

Once while running to catch a bus to Mayabunder, his chappal broke. On being asked if he’d like to buy a new pair, he responded, "Only one broke - surely another one will wash up with the high tide". He tried very hard to keep South Reef clean of trash. On one occasion, he arrived in Madras with two sacks stuffed with rubber chappals that had washed ashore on the island. Legend has it that he took it to the recyclers.

After twenty years of doing some of the first baseline sea turtle surveys in the country, Satish retired to spend more time with his family. Soon thereafter, an UNDP (United Nations Development Program) - Wildlife Institute of India project did a more extensive survey of turtle nesting beaches. But since then, the 2004 tsunami has changed the profile of many Andaman and Nicobar beaches and we don’t yet know where new beaches are forming, or how the turtles have responded to this change. We desperately need a new Satish Bhaskar to continue the work.

Satish now lives in Goa with his wife Brenda (who was by the way, the Snake Park and Croc Bank’s secretary for many years!) and their three children (Nyla, Kyle and Sandhya). Satish is the man who kicked sea turtle conservation in India into high gear. There’s a strong lesson in all this and an inspiration to young naturalists who wonder, “What can I do to help?” Satish’s single-minded quest for sea turtles in his quiet, often unorthodox way, set the stage for the major conservation efforts being made today. Here’s a prime example of how one person’s passion for an animal and its habitat can help make the difference between survival and extinction.

Inputs from Aaron Savio Lobo, Allen Vaughan, Arjun Sivasundar, Atma Reddy, Manish Chandi, Manjula Tiwari, K. Munnuswamy, Nina and Ram Menon, Shekar Dattatri are gratefully acknowledged.

Also see an introduction by Kartik Shanker and a list of Satish Bhaskar's publications.

Book Review: Conservation at the Crossroads

2010-10-03T09:33:00.000+05:30

Published in Seminar Sept 2010

CONSERVATION AT THE CROSSROADS: Science, Society, and the Future of India’s Wildlife by Ghazala Shahabuddin. Permanent Black, Ranikhet, 2010, pp.288, Rs.595 .

In the increasingly polarized field of conservation in India, Shahabuddin’s writings tend to be inclusive and moderate, and this work is no exception. On the one hand is the include-people lobby that believes that local inhabitants can sustainably utilize forest resources, while on the other is the exclude-people lobby that promotes the relocation of people from forests. Which of these two approaches conserves optimum biodiversity? Can these contradictory positions be reconciled or are they mutually exclusive? These are the questions that face wildlife conservation today and now finally there is a book that explores these two major pathways over eight chapters. Shahabuddin is no stranger to these issues as she has co-edited an anthology of essays in a book, Making Conservation Work in 2007 and is Associate Professor at the School of Human Ecology, B.R. Ambedkar University, Delhi.

The total protection formula focuses on the Forest Department excluding people from forests by removing villages from protected areas, policing the area from all use, and restricting access to researchers. The community conservation strategy comes in a couple of forms such as Community Conservation Areas, Joint Forestry Management (JFM), and the World Bank funded India Ecodevelopment Project (IEDP). These have been implemented in various parts of India under diverse conditions. Critical to evaluating these management strategies is the independent researcher, who is frequently accorded step-child treatment by the Forest Department, thereby depriving itself of valuable insights in forest governance.

Despite “total protection” being the state’s forest management policy, Shahabuddin chronicles the widespread habitat degradation in India’s protected areas. Infrastructure projects such as roads, dams, and mines, as well as harvesting of forest products by a growing human population both within and without these forests have taken their toll. Using Sariska as an example, the author examines the deficiency in policy and governance. Prior to the tiger crisis, researchers had reported the extinction of the chinkara and the four-horned antelope, vital prey species of the tiger. It was also known that the habitat was degraded because of firewood and fodder collection, and grazing. By 1990, tree regeneration had already been severely hit, with growth stunted across the ecosystems, the diversity of species was plummeting and exotic invasive plants had made inroads. It was just a matter of time before the tiger disappeared.

On the other hand, the department kowtowed to powerful forces that had interests in mining and timber. The park is so small that the dynamite blasts in the mines on its doorstep can even be heard in the core area now. Despite these larger threats from outside the reserve, when the tiger crisis erupted, blame was pinned on the soft targets, local people. While little has been done to improve and secure the habitat, the entire focus of the remedial measures is on moving local people out and introducing tigers into Sariska.

At the other end of the spectrum, the pro-people lobby holds that the pristine nature model is a failure and promotes a more inclusive style of conservation. The community conservation paradigm co-opts local people as custodians of the forests who are also allowed to use it sustainably. However, some crucial questions remain unanswered. How much can be harvested without affecting the future regeneration of a species? Does extraction of such products negatively impact the ecosystem?
Collection of fruits, flowers, and seeds by people deprive birds and mammals of a plentiful seasonal resource. Dead wood collection may negatively impact hole-nesting birds. Shahabuddin rightly notes that few studies monitor extraction and evaluate its impact on the ecosystem. Since most Non-Timber Forest Produce (NTFP) are destined for markets, these tend to change the diversity of the forest until either the resource is over-exploited or the marketable species is selectively nurtured to the detriment of all others. In forests used by people, the species that fare the worst are the ones that are sensitive to habitat change and disturbance. In almost every case, livelihood concerns triumphed over the conservation agenda. Even in flagship projects such as the Annapurna Conservation Area Project in Nepal, biodiversity and degradation worries remain unaddressed.

Joint Forestry Management (JFM) was one of the largest exercises in the decentralization of natural resource management in India. Although “joint” is the operative word, in a majority of the cases decision-making powers were firmly in the hands of the department, with little or no involvement of the villagers. In many cases the benefit sharing agreements were not in place, so although villagers provided labour with the expectation of some returns, these did not materialize. For these reasons, people were suspicious of the department’s intentions; but on the positive side, JFM projects did succeed in providing a source of firewood and fodder by regenerating large areas of degraded landscapes.

The aim of the IEDP was to provide greater synergy between protected areas (and their custodians) and local people for biodiversity conservation. While the poorest people were the most dependent on forest resources, they were effectively sidelined from deriving any benefits from the project as they couldn’t afford the mandatory financial contribution. Conservationists felt that such projects were detrimental to conservation as it led to unnecessary infrastructure development within a protected area causing degradation, while overburdening the officials already charged with protection. Like the JFM projects, there was no consultation with the local people and this appears to be the crucial factor. Periyar and Kalakkad-Mundanthurai Tiger Reserves are celebrated success stories because they delegated decision making powers to villagers.

Did these community conservation programs promote biodiversity conservation? Definitely not, is the author’s resounding answer. The include-people champions say that the key to the success of any community conservation measure is security of land tenure. But, with an increasing human population, the corresponding demand for agricultural land and finite forest resources, can forest ownership alone drive sustainability, asks the author. While she agrees that land tenure has to be secure, she also adds that extractive pressure should be low, and access rights clearly-defined if effective conservation is to be practiced. How is it going to be possible to keep the extraction pressure low when there is no sign of the human population growth rate leveling off? Nevertheless, there is an incentive to support this paradigm as local livelihoods are entwined with the ecological services of a rich forest.

Shahabuddin also turns her attention to the state’s discouragement of scientific endeavour in this field. The Indian government took a conscious decision to exclude US funds and researchers from India and effectively stunted its progress in ecological research. Although the Indian economy has been liberalized, the Forest Department continues to perpetrate a Permit Raj. The department’s combative attitude to researchers is captured succinctly by the author, “It is as if science-based perspectives are viewed as a mortal threat by a forest department that believes it has a monopoly on knowledge of the forest.”

The title of the book begs the initial question whether conservation was ever on a straight path, when it appears to have staked a permanent spot at the crossroads. Towards the end, Shahabuddin reconciles that these are not mutually exclusive pathways, when the choice is restricted to only one of two directions. There is clearly no alternative to well-governed inviolate areas for ecosystem conservation. Community-inclusive strategies are complementary to total protection and both need to be treated on par if conservation goals are to be achieved. These are but many stairways to one goal.

The forest department is perhaps the single largest landowner in the country governing over 635,000 sq.km., and no large scale conservation initiative takes place without its approval. In case after case, the author concludes that the failure, or at least the limited success, of almost every conservation program in the country comes down to the department’s refusal to share decision-making powers with local people. (Indeed, a more appropriate title for the book would have been ‘Conservation at a Roadblock’!) The department does not appear to realize that for conservation initiatives to work, local people have to be made equal partners or that independent researchers are essential to evaluate the sustainability of harvests, and benefits to biodiversity conservation and livelihoods. Given the entrenched hegemonic power structure that dictates conservation policy and implementation today, the system does not have the capacity to engage with local people with trust, empathy and respect which predisposes these various strategies to failure. While the author hints at this institutional failure, she misses an opportunity to make a hard case for change within the department.

I do have a few other quibbles; the work suffers from a lack of editorial oversight. There are repetitions, inconsistencies, language issues, use of local names for tree species and tangents that could have been avoided and made this the high quality publication that it deserves to be. However, I recommend this book highly to anyone who is perplexed by the cacophony of voices evangelizing one or the other paradigm. As for the ones deeply rooted in their include-or-exclude people positions, they might find critical evaluations of their ideology and some common grounds for agreement with the opposite camp. The more consensus there is, the stronger conservation actions will be.

Narcondam - “Pit of Hell”

2010-07-07T20:00:00.001+05:30

The full version

Published in July 2010, Outlook Traveller

At daybreak, the ‘Pit of Hell’ emerged hazily from the horizon like a mirage. We had spent almost 24 hours fighting the wind across the Andaman Sea and for much of that time, totally out of sight of land. Four hours later, we reached the end of our almost 260 km voyage from Port Blair. We anchored off the north-eastern shore at Police Post Bay so-called for one of the remotest camps of any police force in the world. Inexplicably the ancient Portuguese called it “Barata (Cockroach) Bay”! It is also probably one of the few outposts that has no civilians in its precincts and consequently, an enviable nil crime rate. A group of paramilitary police of the Indian Reserve Battalion safeguard India’s claim to the most isolated island of the entire Andaman group. It seemed like a paid, policeman’s holiday but as we found out later, these brave-hearts marooned in the “pit of hell” were homesick and afraid of the wild jungle.

Police Post Bay

There was no idyllic sandy beach but the island had all the other hallmarks of an earthly paradise: a picturesque, densely forested hill looming 710 m out of the deep blue sea. So why the contrarian name: Narak-kund (Sanskrit for ‘pit of hell’)? Popular theory says that perhaps ancient Indian cartographers christened India’s only volcano (now drily and unimaginatively called Barren Island) as an infernal sink. But over time (as early as the year 1701), the larger, extinct volcano lying 150 km northeast of the rightful-owner of the name became known as Narcondam. It’s worth remarking that none of the other islands in the Andaman group were named by Indians. If a foolhardy crow was to fly from Port Blair to Rangoon (Burma), he’d spy verdant Narcondam along the way, about 114 km east of North Andaman.

A male Narcondam hornbill

About six months after the tsunami of 2004, Narcondam reportedly lived up to its name by spewing mud and smoke. This sudden activity in a volcano that last erupted more than 12,000 years ago ought to have made front page news (but didn’t). However, the news sang through the internet frequencies exciting volcano spotters around the world. Some speculated that the massive earthquake may have set off some magma movement under the tectonic plates. Eventually geologists at the Indian Institute of Technology, Mumbai, reported that it was a damp squib: clouds of dust caused by a landslide had given the impression of an eruption. This did little to convince the police personnel who were evacuated and the outpost abandoned for eighteen months. Nonetheless, there was still a shred of doubt: we wanted to be certain that India had only one active volcano.

For the following three days, we were to live aboard the 48 foot yacht, the Emerald Blue, and commute to shore in an inflatable dinghy. April, with its calm waves before the monsoonal currents set in, was one of the best months to land. Narcondam is a 1700 metre high, solitary oceanic mountain, of which more than 1000 metres lies below the surface of the sea. There were hardly any shallows and landing was tricky; the dinghy would have to surf onto a small ledge on the slope. Amongst the smooth round andesite boulders (of volcanic origin) bordering the shoreline, was a tiny little sandy beach with conveniently just enough space for all of us to make a quick jump into knee deep water before the next wave came crashing in.

Eight of us, with an interest in wildlife and wild places, were crammed on board the Emerald Blue for this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. While an extensive list of birds seen on Narcondam had been compiled by previous teams of birders, little was known about the rest of the animal and plant kingdom. Members of the team now hoped to add to that sparse information.

A recent birdwatchers’ newsletter had raised concerns about goats over-running the island. Since the 1500s it was a common mariners’ practice to drop off livestock such as goats, pigs, chickens and even giant tortoises on islands as nourishment for shipwrecked mariners. Indeed Alexander Selkirk, the prototype Robinson Crusoe, survived four years as a castaway on one of the Juan Fernández islands, off Chile on such feral goats. Narcondam was no exception: in 1899 A.O. Hume quoted Robert Tytler saying that “pigs, goats and fowls” had been released there. We don’t know if these were eaten up by unfortunate sailors or whether they eventually died out, but in 1976, the Indian Police brought two pairs of goats to keep their personnel stationed on the island well-stocked with animal protein. Perhaps the men got sick of eating mutton every day, because, by 1998, there were 400 of the voracious caprines rapidly eating their way through the native island vegetation.

Ornithologists lobbied for the removal of these animals, going so far as to argue that the island was being held together by tree roots and implying that should forest regeneration be adversely affected then not only the hornbill population but the whole island could collapse. Their worries were not misplaced, as one other iconic island bird, the dodo, was driven to extinction by introduced pigs, monkeys and carnivorous men a couple of centuries earlier on Mauritius. Although the Narcondam hornbill isn’t nearly as harried, the tiny size of its island home (7 sq.km.) severely handicaps its ability to survive any threat. So checking on the goats was high on our agenda.

A giant fig tree

Around the police camp were extensive coconut, banana and areca plantations (in 1916, this area was recognized by its groves of Burmese fishtail palms) and the place reeked of human feces. A yearling water monitor lizard and a gorgeous brilliant green Andaman day-gecko watched us from the safety of trees. Koel calls rang through the forest. In the absence of crows, whose nests would they parasitize? Pigeons, replied Divya Mudappa.

The force of the monsoonal stream had sliced through the embankments of a dry streambed as neatly as a knife through butter-fruit. The vertical walls of boulders were held in place by roots of trees. Still, a pipeline carrying water from a tiny perennial waterfall further upstream to the police camp had to be protected from rolling rocks dislodged by heavy rains and frequent earthquakes. Indeed in several locations, mangled lengths of pipes lay twisted and trapped under piles of debris.

The air was still and very humid; a hill myna high up in the canopy prattled away until silenced by the wild shrieking of a juvenile white-bellied sea eagle being mobbed by two pairs of squawking Narcondam hornbills. It was their nesting season, and predatory raptors were not welcome in the immediate air space. Further up the wash, the boulders below a huge tree were splattered with little brown scat-spots, telltale evidence of a nest directly above our heads. Soon the parents returned after seeing off the eagle, victoriously chuckling to one another. This was our first good look at this charismatic species: the father was a handsome honey-brown fellow while the female was an ordinary black. Since their enormous yellowish-red beaks were in the way, they had to tilt their heads comically sideways in order to see us. By counting the rings on the casque above the beak, we could tell the male was six years old. Disgusted by our presence, they took off screaming invectives.

Kalyan Varma urgently beckoned us over and pointed to a rusty brown bird lurking in the undergrowth. It was a slaty-legged crake, a species not recorded in the Andaman Islands before. Kalyan had been washing his face by the pool when he felt something pecking the Velcro on his footwear. It’s hard to tell whether the crake was mystified by the man or his Tevas. In an ironic situation for a photographer, the bird was much too close to his long lens for a picture!

The hornbills would have been similarly trusting of the first humans they had ever met. Indeed in 1898, the commanding officer of the ‘Elphinstone’, Lt. J.H. St. John, had observed that the birds were tame. But in the intervening century, they had been shot for museum specimens by visiting ornithologists as well as for the pot by the police force, so sadly the hornbills have become fearful of humans, just like any mainland animal. Not only the birds, St. John says even water monitors were as “tame as pet mice and one climbed into the lap of the Chief Commissioner’s niece and seemed to be quite at home.” Needless to say, these lizards were now scarce (apparently hunted by the resident humans) and the few big ones that we encountered went crashing into the undergrowth. The only trusting animals were the numerous skinks who investigated the falling crumbs from our mid-day snacks.

A young water monitor lizard

The forest undergrowth wilted in the heat, reflecting our state of being too. The resin (dhup) of the huge Canarium trees remained uncollected, unlike other islands where it is intensively harvested. At a tiny little beach, we spotted a hornbill chick in a nest hole high up on a tall, straight-boled Tetrameles tree. While the rest decided to get pictures of the parents feeding the little one, a couple of us set out for the lighthouse on the northwest tip of the island. It was a steep climb. The reward for climbing to the top was a spectacular view of Pigeon Island surrounded by an indigo blue sea.

Pigeon Island

Back at the boat, all of us jumped in the water to cool off after the long sweaty day. In the distance we could hear the hornbills squawking, there was a freshly caught snapper frying in the galley and we had the rare privilege of being in one of the most spectacular and isolated spots in the world. Narcondam, the hell-hole? No way! More appropriate would be Swargam, the heavenly abode! The only fine print is that the sun rises at an ungodly 5 am in this paradise (you can blame the westerly Indian Standard Time line).

Very early one morning, we set sail for the west coast. My main goal was to climb the summit, and we hoped to follow the detailed route mentioned in the latest edition (2009/2010) of the Southeast Asia Pilot (the Andaman section appears to have been written by two British nationals and it would be interesting to know how they got permission to go ashore). The estimated duration of ascent was three hours for the “reasonably fit and agile,” and descent was likely to take another two hours. It sounded like it could be done all in a day’s walk but much depended on our ability to land. That morning, the currents were strong and the waves crashed roughly over the rocky beach which was the designated starting point. Nick Band, the captain, made a quick reconnaissance and the prognosis was grim: landing there was a definite recipe for broken legs. Plan B was to attempt an ascent from the hornbill-nest beach on the north coast of Narcondam.

We managed to land but not without getting soaked by the turbulent waves. Within a few paces of starting up the hill slope, we were startled to see a trail. Goats? Rom Whitaker however, noticed the path leading into the roots of a tree. Any goat would have to be a midget to crawl into that tiny space; it could only have been a rat trail. The climb became steadily steeper and more difficult to negotiate with fallen rotting logs blocking the path. Marveling at the massive dhup trees that rose high and lofty as rockets and their fin-like buttresses provided a welcome break from the arduous climb. It was tempting to think that no human had climbed this ridge but in this increasingly explored world, one cannot say that with any certainty.

A giant dhup tree

Half way up a steep climb, an exhausted Rom copped out. He promised to wait but knowing him too well, he’d be off either looking for lizards in the luxuriant valley below or heading back to the beach. There was precious little by way of birds or animals on this climb to keep a bored human entertained. Neither were any hornbills visible nor the fig trees that sustained them. It became steeper and more slippery; dislodged rocks rolled perilously downhill barely missing people behind, and like gibbons we used our arms to take our weight as footholds couldn’t be trusted.

A cool breeze blowing gently off the sea invigorated our catch-our-breath stops. Four hours from the starting point, we reached the top of a 430 m hill, but the summit of Narcondam still towered over us. Several humans had left evidence of their presence here by gouging their names on trees; the culprits must have come from the police camp which was at the foot of the hill on the eastern side. To reach the tallest peak we would have to descend at least 100 m to a valley and then climb another 400 m. Shankar Raman declared, “It would just take 2000 paces to climb that hill”. It seemed so simple, but there wasn’t enough time to do it and camping up there was out of the question. The vegetation at the higher elevations looked denser than the deciduous forest we had just climbed and therefore the going would be slower. (The thickly forested summit also bore testament to the fact that Narcondam hadn’t recently aspired for active volcano-hood.) We could descend to the police camp directly, but we were committed to returning the way we came as we had left Rom behind.

After a half hour rest, our clothes were still wet with sweat, but we decided to make a move. I was also beginning to worry about Rom; I saw visions of him lying unconscious or in pain with a broken leg. The descent was even more slippery than the ascent. We tried to climb down gingerly without dislodging any rocks but a few did escape. Like lumberjacks, we hollered down to the people ahead, “Rock!” but with the slope being so steep there was little they could do to get out of the way in time. Fortunately the rocks missed them; but once, Naveen actually jumped up in the air acrobatically to avoid being hit by a tumbling boulder. Quickly we learnt to wait till the others were behind a tree before sliding down a tricky incline. I imagined that Rom was probably asleep under a tree way down below, unaware of the rocks we were dislodging and perhaps one would hit his head. My disquiet grew worse; I refused to let anyone take any breaks, and I set a punishing rhythm.

A couple of hours later, we arrived exhausted at the beach to find Rom fully stretched out having a snooze to the soothing rhythm of the crashing waves. Apparently he had tacked a note for us on the tree where we had parted, but since we couldn’t remember the spot and being in a hurry, we never saw it. (If any of you find it, please mail it to me.)

Back at the police camp, we chatted about life on the island. They complained about hordes of rats that destroyed everything. We had caught glimpses of the rodents scurrying around in the trees near the plantations. Could they have jumped ship and colonized the island? In 1893, Major David Prain noted that “a rat swarms everywhere” and was the commonest mammal on the island. A decade ago we had experienced a similar situation on South Sentinel Island, another remote island almost 400 km in a straight line to the southwest, so perhaps it was normal for such a high density of rats to live on these isolated islands. Or maybe some early ship seeded these islands with rats as a surer food source than goats and pigs! Of goats, we had seen nary a sign; no pellets or tracks. Thankfully, besides a pair seen by a few police personnel just the previous week, an almost thorough removal had been executed.

On our last night we feasted on king mackerel seviche. Rom bemoaned that he hadn’t been able to see Narcondam’s only recorded snake, the paradise flying snake, a species found in Southeast Asia, but only on this island in Indian Territory.

Next stop was Manta Bay (nicknamed ‘Silly Manta’ after the description of the place read “silly numbers of mantas” in the Southeast Asia Pilot). As we pulled in, a medium-sized black manta swam below the surface. Excited, all of us jumped into the water, a couple with scuba and other with snorkels. Disappointingly, no other mantas were seen.

The Emerald Blue

Just past noon, with three sails hoisted and a strong wind behind us, we set course for Port Blair. Nick cut the engine, unfurled the two additional sails and silently, except for the sound of the yacht knifing through the waves, we sailed the old fashioned way. On a couple of occasions, we had to change direction to avoid colliding with oil tankers and cargo ships. From the early days of shipping, the distinctive profile of Narcondam has been a navigation aid, and even today this area appears to be a busy shipping corridor. As the island disappeared over the horizon, the nagging thought of not having reached the summit had me making plans for a return. That would entail the gauntlet of getting permits again. The devil in my head suggested: to hell with them, go on a fishing/diving trip and then find an excuse to climb the hill. Apparently by their very nature, the Gardens of Eden lead humans astray!

Desperate Neighbours

2010-03-14T10:17:00.003+05:30

Published in The Hindu 14 March 2010

“When there are elephants around, it does something to me” the man said quietly as he rubbed his belly in a universal gesture of nausea. We were visiting his hamlet in a tea garden near Siliguri, north Bengal, to investigate a recent incident of ‘shop lifting’ and destruction by a tusker locally known as Belcha (so named for his spade shaped tusks.). The villagers said that he had destroyed three shops and a granary that year. The ramshackle board and tin sheet shop was so flimsy that the elephant must have found it as easy as filliping a dolls’ house. Cookie jars, ubiquitous accessories in any village shop, still lay broken where they had fallen amongst the debris. Any treats lying exposed had long since been foraged. “What did he want from the shop?” I wondered out loud. “Salt and biscuits,” was the erstwhile shopkeeper’s tired answer. Enquiries about other elephant events pointed us to a neighbouring hamlet, and like vultures we followed in the wake of death and destruction.

The widow at Basti No. 5

At this hamlet, simply known as Basti No. 5, an elephant had killed a man ten days ago. Elephants had raided the family’s kitchen garden on two consecutive nights, and completely destroyed the crop of lenthil and tapioca. On the third night, when the family heard the unmistakable sounds of an elephant in their backyard, they fled their rickety shack. Unfortunately, the lone elephant was not in the backyard as they had thought but stood on the path blocking their exit. The terrorized family fled stumbling and whimpering into the night away from the gigantic dark hulk. While the mother and three children escaped, the elephant grabbed the father and hurled him into a hedge. They could not approach to see if he needed medical help for fear of their own lives as the elephant didn’t budge from the spot until dawn. By then it was too late. As the widow stood mute through our conversation with her neighbours, the awareness of her predicament hit me squarely in the solar plexus. A panchayat elder said that she would get Rs. 50,000 ex-gratia payment from the Forest Department whereas the official notification declares that she should be given Rs. 100,000. With three children to support, her insurance against starvation in shambles and her job at the tea garden insecure, the burden of providing for her family rested solely on her fragile malnourished shoulders.

Why do elephants leave their forest refuge and trouble their human neighbours? Are poor villagers the only affected party in this battle of wits and might? With support from United States Fish and Wildlife Services’ Asian Elephant Fund and Asian Nature Conservation Foundation, I sought the answers to these questions on the front lines of human-elephant conflict and among 130 scientific publications, articles, books and reports from Africa and Asia. As in any story there are two sides. While the human victims are the vocal, dramatic face of this conflict, the toll on elephants is invisible but just as catastrophic.

According to Project Elephant, the Ministry of Environment and Forests’ elephant-affairs body, only 22% of elephant territory in India is given the highest degree of protection as a National Park or Wildlife Sanctuary; the rest falls under an assortment of lax regimes such as reserve, revenue and private forests. In other words, the bulk of elephant territory lies in areas that are exploited and degraded by humans. Imagine that you have only the bedroom to yourself and the rest of your house is open to anyone to come and take what they like or even demolish with no thought of your well-being. That is precisely what is happening wherever there is high conflict in elephant country.

The few isolated studies that quantify the loss of elephant-used forests indicate that they are being destroyed literally right beneath the pachyderms’ feet. In one extreme case, Assam lost 65% of choice elephant habitat since 1972, with Sonitpur District alone losing about 30% of its lowland forests in 10 recent years. Elephant forests are also sliced and severed by highways, dam projects and railroads. Elephants live to be 50 years old so what do they do when they lose their homes? They do not just go away to other forested areas, instead they stick it out and try to adjust. What to eat in which area at what time of the year is learnt by rote from the time an elephant is a mere calf following in its mother’s and aunts’ footsteps. Their destiny is intrinsically coupled to their habitat. That is why despite the risk to their lives, they insist on crossing highways and railway tracks and even swim across reservoirs to use their home range. Degraded forests do not move us emotionally nor do they tell the story of this tragedy in the making.

A recent encroachment at Nameri, Assam

In the tea gardens of Sonitpur, a herd of six elephants has virtually no forests within what it calls home. This herd is not a typical family group that retires shyly by day, for there is nowhere to hide, to get away from the constant heckling and harassment. They are now fighting for their very survival with their backs pressed together and are as aggressive as bulls. It is said that other herds, that used to migrate north to Arunachal Pradesh’s Eaglenest Wildlife Sanctuary for the summer only, are now spending autumn and sometimes even winter as high as 3300 metres. There is nothing in the foothills of Assam to come back for. In a bid to gain political mileage, Bodo tribals were encouraged to fell and settle in the reserve forests of Sonai-Rupai, Charduar, Balipara, Nowduar, Biswanath and Behali and now both the elephants and people of the area are paying the price.

In other states such as Jharkhand and Orissa, mining and forest fires leave behind a scorched earth incapable of supporting elephants. In the northeast, the pressure of an increasing human population has shortened the jhum cycle to such a degree that there is not enough fallow time for secondary browse to grow. This was the mainstay of the elephant populations of these states in decades past. Across elephant habitats, widespread grazing by domestic cattle encourages inedible weeds to proliferate, suppresses the growth of grass and fodder plants, and exposes the soil. Firewood and bamboo collection puts humans in direct competition with elephants. These are not dramatic events but collectively it is nothing short of plundering the elephants’ food supply. When the inflation rate spiked recently and the cost of food escalated to unheard of heights, sociologists predicted food riots. If that is expected behaviour of civilized humans, is it any wonder that elephants are turning to crops and raiding food stores to survive?

The Rengali canal cutting across elephant habitat, Orissa

Elephants spend summer in one part of the forest and go to another for the winter. They are faithful to their home range whose extent is determined by the quality of the forest and where forage and water are located. A herd’s home range may be a tiny 100 km2 in Sri Lanka, 650 km2 in Mudumalai in Tamil Nadu or 3700 km2 in north Bengal. Whatever the extent of the range, elephants need access to all of it to survive. If parts of their home are blocked by human settlements, they will use the cover of darkness to walk through crops, and villages. Forsaking that inaccessible part of their home is usually not an option and conflict becomes routine along these passageways.

Despite adjusting, when making a living in their home range is no longer possible, elephants expand their range by seeking new pastures. For example, some elephants from Dandeli Wildlife Sanctuary in Karnataka have been visiting the neighbouring states of Maharashtra and Goa since 2002, reportedly because of the Kali hydroelectric project. Humans are no different; when we can’t eke out a living in villages, we migrate to the cities or even other countries in search of work. Such disturbances in elephant habitat disperse the resident herds, creating conflict in their wake. Wherever there is high intensity conflict with elephants, habitat loss is the central theme. Much like Alauddin’s genie, once the elephants are out of the forests, it is almost impossible to put them back inside. That is why we would do well to remember that it is easier to protect their habitat than to create it.

However, habitat loss is not the only reason for conflict. All along the human-elephant interface conflict inevitably rumbles at low intensity. An average adult elephant spends about 18 hours a day in the forest finding about 250 kg of food, a combination of grasses, bulbs, aquatic plants, leaves, bamboo, roots, bark, dry twigs, and fruits. Just beyond the periphery of the forests, humans grow crops that have been selectively bred for greater nutrition, and lesser toxins. Besides where there is no surface water, we plumb the depths with bore wells to cultivate sweet juicy sugarcane and bananas even when all else is dry in the forest. It would take an extraordinarily self-disciplined elephant to turn its trunk up at these treats growing right on the doorstep. Instead of wandering all day long searching for fodder in a forest, here is an opportunity to spend just a few hours a night gorging on so much food concentrated in one place. Is it any wonder that some elephants venture into crops and leave behind fibrous steamy dung balls? Yet research shows that amazingly there are indeed some elephants with ample opportunity to raid crops, which do not give in to temptation and strictly maintain their diet of wild forage. We do not yet know why this is so and studying such elephants may help us understand conflict better.

As if ransacking the elephants’ home isn’t enough, humans kill bull elephants for their tusks. Herds don’t escape the wrath of farmers either. Each region has its preferred choice arsenal to kill and maim elephants – electrocution and mouth bombs in the south, poisoning with pesticides, homemade napalm, poison arrows and gunshots in the north. Stressed elephants may avoid those areas of their home range where they perceive danger and may congregate to find safety in numbers. The habitat that could sustain a smaller herd of elephants may take a beating from such large herds. Eventually the forest becomes so degraded that it cannot sustain the same animals any longer. This drives these elephants to the closest available food: crops. And the vicious cycle of violence continues.

The remains of an elephant visit

Calves learn from their mothers and aunts what to eat, where to find water, which route to take. If crops are on the menu those calves will grow up to consider that as their birthright, a cultural trait. We share the same predilection for “home food”, variously called “comfort food”; there is no other explanation for the Tamilian esteem for curd rice! Young dispersing bulls, whose family has not had a history of raiding crops, may learn the behaviour from other bulls. This may explain why some elephants eat crops while others in the same area don’t.

It is essential to understand that elephants are social animals, intelligent, self-aware and capable of emotions just like humans. Their reactions to various pressures and stresses may vary according to their temperament, experience and learning. In other words, all elephants do not react alike to the same demands, though the general pattern of adjustment and reaction to human behaviour described here holds true.

It is commonly suggested that conflict is a result of growing elephant numbers. But in Assam, although the elephant population is decreasing, the conflict graph doesn’t show a corresponding downward trend. The Nilgiri Biosphere Reserve has one of the largest elephant populations and yet conflict is generally considered to be low. There is no evidence to tie elephant numbers to conflict but there is plenty to show that high and growing human numbers have an impact on conflict intensity. And this is the bottom line: in the overwhelming majority of cases the cause of conflict is human-driven and it is critical for us to recognize and acknowledge this if we are to find equilibrium in our relationship with elephants.

The Mega-Mahseer of the Cauvery

2010-02-05T08:15:00.001+05:30

Published in Outlook Traveller Feb 2010

Joe Assassa was the odds on favourite to win the contest; after all he had 16 years to get to know the river well. He appeared to be on a personal quest - Operation Big - and had already caught some massive mahseer in the preceding weeks. Bruce Schwack, the self-titled ‘Viagraja’, was another contender in more ways than one, for he and Joe shared a common vocation. What were the odds of two Viagra dealers competing in an angling competition in South India? (Actually pretty darn good, read on!) Conversation around the evening bonfire swirled predictably around pharmaceuticals while one of them liberally dispensed little blue pills which disappeared quickly and surreptitiously into pockets.

The “Masheer Classic 2009” was the first competition conducted by the Anglers’ Club. There were twelve contestants gathered on the banks of the Cauvery at the Bheemeshwari Fishing Camp in Karnataka on a Friday afternoon in December. Besides the two merchants of sex-stimulants, others had less-risqué professions such as a telecom executive, a magnesia company magnate, a landscape architect, a businessman, a writer for a British angling magazine, a freelance photographer.

Each angler, accompanied by a gillie (an old Scottish word for ‘fishing guide’), set out in a coracle (no longer lined with buffalo hide but with plastic tarp). The gillie chose the spot - mid-river rocks, reeds or the opposite bank - and indicated in which direction and how far to cast the tangerine-sized ragi dough wrapped around a hook. Although some used extra weights, the ball of local millet was heavy enough to sink to the bottom of the river where the large mammas hung out. Then one settled down comfortably watching the tip of the rod hour after hour. When little fish fed on the bait, the rod tip bobbed. When there was that slow, steady, strong pull that bent the rod down, the angler, suddenly adrenalized, yanked and hopefully hooked the fish, maybe a mahseer, but possibly an ordinary carp or cat fish. That was the general principle of ‘ragi-balling’, which most anglers agree is very sedentary.

As the largest and most challenging freshwater game fish in the world, the mahseer lives up to every interpretation of its name: ‘big tiger’, ‘big head’, ‘big scaled’, and ‘big front-end’. Such royalty does not take kindly to being caught and the spirited fight of even a little chap weighing about 5 lbs. can lead you to overestimate his size. This combative tendency makes mahseer the sport fish of every angler’s dreams. It grows to a monstrous size in the Cauvery, this is where the record 120 pounder (54.4 kg) was caught in March 1946 by J. de Wet van Ingen (of the famous family of taxidermists from Mysore). Obviously, the 1.69 metre (5.54 feet) long fish was mounted as a trophy and is now lodged at the Regional Museum of Natural History, Mysore. The second and third biggest mahseer were also caught in this river. In 1993, Mark Thompson set the record for Bheemeshwari with a 106 lb. mahseer.

Despite the popular myth that the monsters can only be taken on ragi, purists consider spooning the rapids to be the real challenge. Since the coracle was too unstable a craft to maneuver, the algae-covered rocks too infernally slippery, and the river currents too strong, the gillies generally discouraged the idea. Although ragi-balling has been used for a long time, van Ingen caught the record breaker on a spoon. So there is no need to sacrifice sport for size – one could do both, but it is just much harder reeling in a fighter when you are stumbling, falling on your back, bruising your shins and punishing your knees while fighting the current and the fish.

When you use plugs, flies and metallic spoons, the action is fast and furious; the angler needs some skill to fool the fish into believing that the lure is the real thing. There is no time to sit comfortably in a coracle and fall asleep gently rocked by the river currents. Despite the liberal sprinkling of asafoetida, cardamom and fennel, a ball of ragi didn’t masquerade as anything else; none of the fish were fooled and if you caught a mahseer, it was because it was really hungry. While spooning, anglers take care not to spook the fish; they wear dull colours, hardly ever speak and sneak around behind boulders and reeds, almost on all-fours. On the contrary, ragi-fed mahseer didn’t care if the gillies yelled to each other across the breadth of the Cauvery, or if the anglers didn’t stick to the dress code. Apparently there was no need to outwit such a dull (but hungry) monster; after all, they must know that when food balls start plopping down that humans are about and some may even remember that these treats to be thorny and dangerous.

After expectantly observing several casts and seeing few signs of action, I watched Basavanbhetta, the tallest hill overlooking the river, change colour and mood as the sun set. An eagle owl soared silently across the river, elephants on the opposite bank trumpeted and flocks of cormorants flew westwards into the redness. The wheeling Brahminy kites swooped low every now and then with no better luck than the anglers.

Rom Whitaker imagined what was happening at the bottom of the river around the bait. Hundreds of little ones were driving the interest in the ragi, he said. They dash to the bait as soon as it hits the water. There were some medium sized ones attracted by the swarming little fish and one or two large ones in the area warily wondering if the food ball was dangerous. Even though his rod was still with little sign of action, he said hopefully that it could still be good; a large one may be circling the bait keeping the others away. It started to look to me as if angling was just an excuse to feed the fish with every coracle feeding about five kilos of ragi dough per session.

As I spent time with each angler in turn, I began to quantify the factors that increase the chances of hooking a mahseer. On a sunny day, one said, “Cloudy weather makes them hungry”. On a cloudy day when the fishing was unproductive, another said, “Rain oxygenates the surface, changes temperature and flushes shore creatures into the water and triggers feeding”. Another added that the ideal condition was when the sun followed the rain. But luck appeared to negate all this knowledge. A novice angler, Pritam Kukillaya, beat the competition on the second day (in full sunshine) by hooking a 36 lb. mahseer. Experiences such as these make anglers equally eloquent about the effects of falling barometric pressure while nervously fingering their lucky beads.

So how much skill and knowledge did ragi-balling require? From observing the contestants, not a great deal it appeared. One retorted, “There is skill involved. You have to know when to yank the line so you hook the fish.” A day later, while an angler was reaching for a bottle of water, I watched the reel suddenly sing its high pitched, excited whine while the line stripped away: a fish had hooked itself. All the angler had to do was be at the right place at the right time. Skill, come again? Another suggested that expertise was needed to choose the fishing sites, but the gillies decided the best spot and anglers’ suggestions, with the exception of Joe perhaps, were usually over-ruled. However, there is no doubt that once a mega-mahseer is hooked, playing it does demand every ounce of energy and expertise.

Most anglers for mahseer use large reels, be it a spinner or a caster, because when a monster bites, it tends to run far and fast. “Your arms are nearly torn out from their sockets”, is Macdonald’s vivid description of the first rush in the 1948 classic, ‘Circumventing the Mahseer’. Can you imagine what Sanderson’s hands were like when his 110 lb. mahseer ran on that day in 1871 when all he had was a 400 yard hand line? (In 1897, H.S. Thomas, the author of ‘The Rod in India’ quotes G.P. Sanderson as estimating that fish to weigh 150 lbs. But in his own 1912 work ‘Thirteen years among the wild beasts of India’, Sanderson says he had no means of weighing the fish and modestly suggested the fish was “not less than 100 lbs”. The figure leapt upwards in 1928 when the curator of the Mysore Museum reported that it weighed 130 lbs. So how did the Sanderson fish get its 110 lb. tag? In 1943, Col. R.W. Burton pointed out that the dimensions of Sanderson’s fish were the same as another fish which weighed at 110 lbs.) Whatever the actual weight, there is little doubt that Sanderson was the first on record to break the 100 lb. barrier in the history of mahseer angling!

Reeling in a monster mahseer is a contest of will, strength and wits. The angler should know where to let the fish run to avoid breaking the line and gauge when his adversary is exhausted enough to be reeled in. Fights have lasted hours, and as the angler uses his back as a fulcrum to reel the fish in, back-aches are an inevitable price to pay. In one case, not even an hour into the fight, the angler’s arms began trembling with the tension (he eventually lost the fish). You can lose a large fish by misjudging the topography and the creature’s feistiness. The story of a loss may be entertaining around a camp-fire and to regale family back home, but earns no bragging points. The more emphatically your arms stretch wide, the more everyone thinks “Yeah right”. It is just one more in the anthology of The-One-That-Got-Away stories.

As if the constant posturing and undercurrent of competitiveness weren’t enough, businessman Dhananjai Golla (popularly called ‘Jai’) of the Anglers’ Club felt the hobby needed to be formalized as a sport. While angling is a multi-billion dollar industry in the West, in India, it slipped into oblivion with the end of the Raj and today remains a marginal sport. A handbook of the 19th century avows that there are only four “gentlemanly” sports: “hunting, hawking, fowling and angling.” The last is perhaps the only one that can be legally practiced by gentlemen of today. Among the older generation, it was usually the former hunters who turned to fishing as an alternative means of keeping their senses alive and honed. I was curious about what attracts younger people to the sport. One said angling was his way of relaxing, another said it gave him an excuse to spend some time alone in a reasonably remote and beautiful spot. Another derived pleasure from buying fancy fishing gear and testing it out in different locales. Yet another said that as a child he fared poorly in sports of any kind and when he stumbled on angling as an adult, he felt “this was it”. But the common refrain of every angler’s dream is to fight a fish, a rite of passage that makes men out of mere lads. There is no escaping the fact that this is a male dominated sport.

On the river the anglers were fairly spread out and often out of sight of each other, so the only witness to a mega catch was the gillie. Once caught, the mahseer was weighed, photographed and returned to the river. This “catch and release” concept provides sport without loss of life and is therefore sustainable. Since the fish cannot be brought to camp, the angler’s word supported by his gillie is accepted at face value. The contest was played by gentleman’s rules. A couple of anglers sprayed their ragi balls with fish pheromones to induce a feeding frenzy and increase the chances of catching a fish. When the competition catches on, the organizers will have to decide if such additives can be allowed while keeping in mind the difficulty of enforcing these rules.

At the end of the second day, Jai grumbled about losing a “monster”; the numerous rocks in the river truly tested the nylon monofilament. One advised that he only used a 50 lb. test line. Even though a 20 lb. line may be sufficient to catch a large fish, if it went under a rock, the line needs to withstand the pressure and abrasion. So why not over-compensate and use an 80 lb. line? To give the fish a fighting chance, replied Jai. Later I discovered that the true art of angling lies in catching monster fish with as light a tackle as possible. For instance, an angler who catches a 40 lb. fish on a 20 lb. line scores more than one who catches the same sized fish on a 50 lb. line. Besides a light line enables the casts go further out.

On the third morning, I figured that I might hear a lot more interesting stories and theories by watching Joe fish. Flightily, he said he had to run the idea by his gillie who in turn said that the boat was too small. “Tomorrow”, he promised. We were all heading our different ways homewards “tomorrow” so it was a non-happener. As I got ready to accompany someone else, another gillie who clearly hadn’t been let in on the story hurriedly beckoned me to join Joe. I brought him up to speed but he retorted, “No, no. Joe has big boat”. That’s why he wasn’t Joe’s gillie. During that session, Joe caught a beautiful 40 lb. mahseer (cloudy day) and beat the competition to the top spot.

What sex were the humongous fish and how does one tell them apart? One fisherman said that a cock-fish above 10 lbs. has a ‘beard’, a flap of skin under the chin that ends in a point. Another muttered the equivalent of “bovine droppings” under his breath. It is suspected that large mahseer are hens (Col. Burton caught a 41 lbs. cock fish from the Bhavani and mentioned that all mahseer above 50 lbs. were females) and there may be no way of telling the sex of the fish from just looking at them. So every mahseer angler’s dream fish was a hen, a girl! And the bigger she was, the more ecstatic the fisherman. This was deliciously Freudian! Now it was easier to fathom why there were two Viagra dealers at the event!

The dining room, the Gholghar, was adorned with pictures of anglers with their massive catch. The fish appeared to be over-weight; they were wider for their length than the pictures of the long, sleek fish from the Himalayas in Macdonald’s book. The reason seemed obvious enough. Joe said that fishing was good after weekends when scores of picnicking people dump leftovers into the river. In fact, he said, he caught his three largest ones (the pictures on display at the Gholghar) around Muthathi, the morning after thousands of people had celebrated the dawning of the New Year.

Further, Sunder Raj, the manager of the camp, said that every season they feed five thousand kilos of ragi to the mahseer to keep them within the protected 30 km stretch of river. If they weren’t fed, the fish were likely to migrate up and downriver where destructive dynamiting, netting and poisoning were rampant. Could this be why these mahseer appeared fat? Maybe not; the hump-backed mahseer of the Cauvery is known to have a greater girth to length ratio.

Once found in rivers and large streams all over the country, sadly, mahseer are today restricted to a few stretches of protected rivers. They are being exterminated by the dynamiters and poisoners even in fairly remote areas (see ‘Wild Water’, Outlook Traveller June 2009). Angling offers an opportunity for people to become knowledgeable about fish diets, hooks, lines, tides, currents, weather patterns amongst other variables. Such people with a stake in the health of the rivers may be the ones to campaign for river and mahseer conservation while paying for enforcement. Besides, their very presence on the river deters fish poachers. If it were not for the records of fish caught and released by anglers, it would be difficult to monitor the health of the mahseer population.

None beat Joe’s catch during the afternoon session although it fell short of his own personal best by several pounds. Pritam’s 36 lb. mahseer came second and Jehangir Vakil’s came third at 35 lb. The fish who refused to take the ragi balls were obviously the wily old crones. Angus Hutton, a former tea planter, recalled a story that hints at the existence of real monsters.

During the terrible drought of 1950/51, Angus visited the Krishnarajasagar reservoir on the outskirts of Mysore with the van Ingen brothers, Botha and de Wet. The water level was way down to the scum and all the junk people had thrown in over the years lay exposed. Some labourers were digging channels to divert the last remaining water to the Brindavan Gardens located below the dam. A muddy puddle caught the intrepid fishermen’s attention and they decided to investigate.

Botha drove the jeep as far down into the reservoir as he safely could. Normally this area would have been under a hundred feet of water. They pushed and shoved their coracle through the clinging mud with great difficulty for about 50 metres to the fetid green pool. De Wet gaffed around the bottom and soon snagged what he thought were the remains of a crocodile. It was a struggle to hoist the heavy carcass up and when the effort became even more vigorous, Angus feared the coracle would capsize and they would all drown in the muddy, sticky soup. Eventually when the stinky remains broke surface, they realized it was a part of a mahseer. The whole rotten piece fell back before de Wet could bring it onboard and he was left holding a single huge scale skewered by the gaff. The scale was roughly three times the size of the largest scale of the 120 lb. mounted trophy which led de Wet to estimate the mahseer to have been 300 lbs., or even 400! The episode was captured on 8mm film by Angus and is currently in the possession of Botha’s grandson. Ragi-balling for a 100 pounder seems modest when anglers could be kitting out with a 100 lb. line and enticing a 300+ lb. monster. So get on down to the river and let a truly feisty giant hen make you a man!

Getting there: Bheemeshwari is just 100 km away from Bangalore, off the Mysore highway. The turn off at Channapatna is currently a smoother road than the pothole-ridden one off Kanakapura.
Accommodation: The Fishing Camp has eight log cabins (Rs. 3250 per night), eight tents (Rs. 2750 per night) and two cottages (Rs. 3500 per night) overlooking the river. All are air-conditioned with hot and cold running water. Those anglers who have bust their backs can rejuvenate at the Ayurvedic massage centre on campus. The provided rates include all three meals, coracle ride, joy fishing, trekking, camera fees, forest entry fees and tax. For more details: http://www.junglelodges.com/V2/Bheemeshwari.htm
Angling Information: Angling season lasts mid-November to March. Coracles, gillies and ragi bait are provided by the Camp. The Camp also sells the necessary fishing license (Rs. 1250). Bring your own tackle (see http://www.junglelodges.com/V2/bheemeshwari_activities.htm for a recommended list). The gillies have recently been trained in fish handling, importance of mahseer conservation, and ecotourism and have also been equipped with a weighing scale, and miscellaneous other tools.

The Masheer Classic is expected to be held at the same time next year (www.anglersclub.in)
Things to bring: Hat, sunscreen, water bottle, shorts, warm clothing for the evenings, dark glasses, camera, shoes.

PS: Our friend, fish expert, Rohan Pethiyagoda, says "I have heard [the relationship between drop in barometric pressure to fishing success] from anglers many times, but it does not appear to make sense in the context of the depth of water in which mahseer operate. Even a massive barometric fall of 10% would represent only the equivalent of 1 m of water depth, which is well within the range of depths a large fish would routinely swim around in..."

THE IUCN’S NEW CLOTHES: AN UPDATE ON THE DHAMRA – TURTLE SAGA

2009-12-16T15:33:00.002+05:30

Published in Marine Turtle Newsletter 126

By Janaki Lenin (1,6), Ashish Fernandes (2), Aarthi Sridhar (3), B.C. Choudhury (4), Jack Frazier (5,6), Sanjiv Gopal (2), Areeba Hamid (2), Sandra Kloff (6), Biswajit Mohanty (6,7), Bivash Pandav (8), Sudarshan Rodriguez (3), Basudev Tripathy (4), Romulus Whitaker (9), Sejal Worah (10), Belinda Wright (11) and Kartik Shanker (3,12)

1 – IUCN/SSC/Crocodile Specialist Group, South Asia and Iran.
2 – Greenpeace, Bangalore India.
3 – Dakshin Foundation, Bangalore, India.
4 – Wildlife Institute of India, Dehradun, India.
5 – Smithsonian Institution, USA.
6 – Member, IUCN/CEESP/Social and Environmental Accountability of the Private Sector
7 – Wildlife Society of Orissa, Cuttack, India.
8 – Worldwide Fund for Nature-Nepal, Kathmandu, Nepal.
9 – Madras Crocodile Bank, Chengalpattu, India.
10 – Worldwide Fund for Nature-India, New Delhi, India.
11 – Wildlife Protection Society of India, New Delhi, India.
12 – Centre for Ecological Sciences, Indian Institute of Science, Bangalore, India.

Local communities – in every part of the world - define “conservation” within their environmental, social, historical, cultural, economic, and political milieu. In developing countries, where demand for natural resources (sought by communities and corporations alike) is not only high, but directly linked to life styles, effecting positive conservation action becomes a bedeviling proposition. It has been widely recognized that it is not enough to just create laws and enforcement mechanisms; for species to survive in the long-term, local communities must become partners in the conservation enterprise. A case in point is the conservation of olive ridley turtles in Orissa, India, where the conflicting demands of traditional fishermen/small scale fishing communities, mechanized fishers (including trawlers), international conservation organizations, local conservationists, enforcement authorities, the state government and corporate interests have created a monumental imbroglio (Shanker and Kutty 2005; Mathew 2004; Sridhar 2005; Shanker and Choudhury 2006; Wright and Mohanty 2006; Shanker et al. 2009).

Over the past 3 years, the waters have been further muddied by the direct involvement of IUCN/MTSG in advising a major corporation that is developing the largest port facility in South Asia, not surprisingly an environmentally and socially sensitive issue. The special issues of Marine Turtle Newsletter No. 121 and Indian Ocean Turtle Newsletter No. 8 carried eight articles with different perspectives on the IUCN’s and MTSG’s engagement with the ongoing port construction at Dhamra, Orissa, on the east coast of India. The port, being built by Dhamra Port Company Limited (DPCL), is located some 4 km from Bhitarkanika National Park, with one of the highest mangrove diversities in the world and less than 15 km from Gahirmatha Marine Sanctuary, one of the most famous turtle mass nesting beaches in the world. Shanker et al. (2009) provided a brief history of conservation and a summary of the current social and political context. Here, a section of the community, including academics, biologists, conservationists and other practitioners from a variety of institutions and backgrounds express their concerns for the biodiversity of the region, interactions with local communities, the conservation of olive ridleys, and most particularly, the interaction between IUCN and DPCL (the port promoters) and its implications on a broad range of issues fundamental to effective conservation (see for example Frazier 2008).

In numerous collective and individual letters (and other communications) to the IUCN and MTSG over the last three years, many of us have raised several concerns regarding the lack of consultation by IUCN and the MTSG with local conservationists (see MTN 121/ IOTN 8). Besides providing an update on our negotiations with TATA Steel and DPCL as well as the perception of IUCN’s impact in this region, we will focus on two concerns: firstly, the inadequacy of consultation, or even basic information-sharing, by IUCN/MTSG with national members, local fisherfolk organizations and civil society groups and NGOs, many of whom have long years of experience in this geographical area (for a full account, see MTN 121/IOTN 8); and secondly, the lack of clarity, transparency and the limited scope of IUCN’s agenda in the Dhamra case.

Negotiations with the DPCL and TATA – Weaving sweet nothings

Given the lack of meaningful dialogue with IUCN and MTSG, other attempts were made to develop dialogue and explore realistic measures for preventing environmental and social problems resulting from the development of Dhamra Port – consequences that are to be expected from such a massive development project. A coalition of local conservation groups approached the port promoters – TATA Steel and Larsen & Toubro (L&T), as well as the implementing company, DPCL. The following individuals and organisations took part in the dialogue process: Ashish Fernandes (Greenpeace India), Debi Goenka (Conservation Action Trust), Mitali Kakkar and Prahlad Kakkar (Reefwatch Marine Conservation), ND Koli (National Fishworkers’ Forum), Janaki Lenin (as Regional Chair of the IUCN’s Crocodile Specialist Group), Biswajit Mohanty (Wildlife Society of Orissa), Divya Raghunandan (Greenpeace India), Bittu Sahgal (Sanctuary Asia), Ravi Singh (WWF India), and Belinda Wright (Wildlife Protection Society of India). Throughout the dialogue, this collective of groups consulted others, including B.C. Choudhury, Jack Frazier, Sudarshan Rodriguez, Kartik Shanker, Aarthi Sridhar and Romulus Whitaker. Between October 2008 and February 2009, four meetings were held (the last of which was at the construction site at Dhamra).

At these meetings, the obvious gaps in the sole Environmental Impact Assessment (EIA) conducted in 1997 (for a totally different development site and a much smaller development project) were pointed out and the need to conduct a comprehensive, credible and independent impact assessment was stressed by the conservation alliance, some of whom are authors of this piece. It was also emphasized that a credible assessment should have been done prior to the commencement of construction work for the project. From the very first meeting on October 23, 2008, the Precautionary Principle was cited repeatedly to urge the port promoters to suspend construction until the completion of the new assessment (i.e., for a period of one year), which TATA Steel, L&T and DPCL refused to do. At the third meeting on February 10, 2009, at Dhamra, Mr. Sengupta, Vice President, TATA Steel, offered to consider deferring elements of construction by a few days to avoid interference with any fresh impact assessment but totally ruled out suspending construction or dredging. On February 20, 2009, the conservation alliance proposed a compromise and requested the company to suspend dredging during the turtle season, but this was rejected on the grounds that the latter had been advised that suspension of work was unnecessary. Requests that the port promoters share the expert advice (studies, evidence, recommendations, etc.) that recommended that suspension of work was not required, were rejected by the port developers at this meeting and subsequently (a letter from Greenpeace requesting this information was addressed to Mr. Muthuraman, Managing Director, TATA Steel dated February 27, 2009 has elicited no response) (http://greenpeace.in/turtle/category/docs Additional correspondence available on request). Not surprisingly, the conservationists present at this meeting considered this a poor demonstration of good intention/will and/or application of the precautionary approach by the company and its advisors.

TATA Steel has publicly pledged to withdraw from the project should it cause unacceptable negative impact on the turtles and their nesting habitat. However, they had rejected a Greenpeace commissioned study nor have they cooperated in implementing an independent assessment. This situation left the conservation alliance with no option but to disengage from the dialogue process until such time that the port promoters were willing to reconsider their stance. From information made available on the IUCN website, the only source of information that has been made available by IUCN, the participating organizations and individuals can only presume that the company’s reluctance to conduct such a basic, universally required exercise for any development project, particularly in an environmentally sensitive area, was instigated by their IUCN advisors. Subsequently, an arribada took place in Gahirmatha in March 2009 and this was used as evidence to show that dredging did not negatively impact turtles and their habitats, while ignoring any mention of the long-term impacts on the coastline.

Continuing impasse with IUCN and MTSG – Invisible revelations

In November, 2008, several months after their interaction with the Dhamra project began, the IUCN planned a one day technical workshop at Bhubaneswar, Orissa. Presentations by the IUCN consultants on their activities at Dhamra dominated the agenda, while the meeting organizers ignored the fundamental concerns repeatedly expressed by local membership over the preceding months. Besides, some MTSG and IUCN members and several organizations with a long history of involvement in the Dhamra port issue were not even invited to participate. These objections were raised before the workshop, but no attempt was made to resolve them, despite repeated requests by several members to the MTSG and the IUCN.

In the end the workshop was postponed and finally convened again in February 2009, with exactly the same agenda. While a few select institutions received invitations seven weeks earlier, most received their invitations just three weeks prior to the workshop. Contrary to the statements issued by MTSG and IUCN, numerous key individuals and institutions (many of the same ones who had been eliminated from the earlier invitation list) were simply not invited. The lack of participation in drafting the agenda, the short notice and selective invitations did not inspire confidence, and many IUCN members (WWF, WPSI) and MTSG members (B. Pandav, K. Shanker, W. Sunderraj, B. Tripathy, R. Whitaker) declined to attend. Besides the staff of DPCL and IUCN, representatives from eight out of approximately 24 IUCN member organizations in India, four NGOs and two universities participated. Hence, less than a third of the key actors participated in the workshop. Nonetheless, the press release (http://www.uicn.org/about/union/secretariat/offices/asia/?2759/Vulnerable-Olive-Ridley-turtles-find-diverse-support-in-Orissa-India) issued after the February 24-25, 2009 ‘workshop’ in Bhubaneswar gives the impression that there was widespread agreement and support of the IUCN-DPCL partnership.

On 24 April 2009, some of us requested the IUCN to provide details of their agreement with the port developers, financial and technical reports and recommendations given to the company. Specifically, we requested copies of:
1. The Terms of Reference/Scope of Engagement of the IUCN with the Dhamra Port Project.
2. The final agreement between the IUCN and DPCL/TATA Steel.
3. Financial details pertaining to the IUCN’s involvement with DPCL: particularly, how much are IUCN representatives being paid to advise DPCL?
4. Reports and recommendations submitted so far by IUCN/MTSG to DPCL.
5. Periodic assessments and compliance reports from the commencement of IUCN’s work till the present.

On 29 April 2009, Michael Dougherty, Regional Communications Coordinator, Asia Regional Office, IUCN, responded saying that these documents were circulated during the February 2009 workshop. However, colleagues who attended the workshop (among the authors of this piece) refute this claim; these documents were not made available during the workshop or at any other time. On 18 May 2009, we made the same request again. Moreover, an earlier letter was sent to the MTSG chairs (8 May 2009) requesting this information and further details on dredging and other port activities, but this also elicited no response. Hence, it has been difficult – if not impossible - to get basic information from the IUCN, and requests for specific information are not adequately answered.

While some field trip reports and recommendations are now available on the IUCN website (http://www.iucn.org/about/union/secretariat/offices/asia/asia_where_work/india_programme_office/dhamra_port/), most documents including the agreement between IUCN and DPCL and its financial details have been declared confidential. In short, the relationship between IUCN /MTSG and local organizations and conservationists contradicts the lofty rhetoric on the IUCN website, reminiscent of “self-laudatory monologue” typical of large international NGOs (Igoe & Sullivan 2009). We do not agree with IUCN’s claim that there is open discussion, sharing of information and positive conservation outcome.

IUCN’s impact – Naked but not transparent

Any recommendations and mitigation advice to port developers is handicapped by the lack of a scientific assessment of the environmental impacts of the project on the coastline and the ecosystems in close proximity, not to mention social and economic impacts on marginalized inhabitants of coastal communities. In general, such attempts to bridge the gap between industry and conservation have raised concerns for both ecological health and justice (Frazier 2005; Igoe & Sullivan 2009).

There is simply no reliable environmental impact assessment, nor – it would appear – any interest in producing one. It is widely believed that the IUCN capitulated to industry’s demands instead of insisting on a meaningful EIA, despite the fact that this is a basic pre-development requirement that is virtually a world-wide standard. The impacts of dredging of sand and other bottom sediments near the nesting beaches of Gahirmatha Wildlife Sanctuary (C.S. Kar pers. comm.) is apparently not being addressed by IUCN/MTSG as evidenced by the lack of reference to this in any report. The impact of annual dredging to maintain a 19 km shipping channel, and subsequent impacts on coastal currents and food webs are unknown. This is especially worrisome given the dramatic changes to the geomorphology of the Gahirmatha beaches during the last two decades (Shanker et al., 2004; Prusty and Dash, 2006). Little is known of the recommendations being made by the IUCN/MTSG to DPCL to mitigate coastal erosion, invasive species or the other concomitant negative impacts of ports, if indeed any such recommendations are being made.

MTSG’s advice to the company seems to have focused on two actions: to use deflectors on the dredger’s drag-head to shield turtles and to use light shades to reduce the disorientation of turtles and hatchlings during nighttime operations. These are likely to reduce some short-term negative impacts of the port development activities on turtles. Remarkably, the latest communiqué posted by the IUCN on its website (http://www.iucn.org/about/union/secretariat/offices/asia/asia_where_work/india_programme_office/dhamra_port/) indicates that the IUCN-DPCL agreement is primarily to draft an Environmental Management Plan (EMP), and that this will be drafted in the second phase of the project. However, now more than two years after the agreement was developed, the only advice that seems to have been provided are a few isolated sea turtle mitigation measures. Hence, conservationists in India are mystified and deeply disappointed by the obsessive focus on sea turtles to the exclusion of other life forms and ecological interactions, particularly since the port site lies just 4 km away from Bhitarkanika National Park (a regionally important RAMSAR site and proposed UNESCO World Heritage site).

IUCN’s engagement with the private sector is said to be governed by the private sector guidelines (http://liveassets.iucn.getunik.net/downloads/ps_20guidelines.pdf), which include the preparation of a due diligence report, yet this essential document is not available on its websites. There is no information available to suggest that this was ever done. The lack of environmental precaution by the corporation and regulatory failure of the Ministry of Environment and Forests (see epilogue) has resulted in the flouting of environment laws and regulations (see MTN 121/ IOTN 8). Local conservationists view IUCN’s willingness to over-ride its own private sector guidelines in order to partner with a powerful corporation (and thereby attain significant corporate funding), as aiding and abetting an ecologically and socially devastating project, while undermining their own efforts to make the state and corporations play by environmental rules. It is particularly worrisome when IUCN has refused to collaborate with, or even recognize, local conservation NGOs or community groups.

Local individuals and groups have demonstrated their willingness to enter into meaningful discussion and constructively engage with both the company or IUCN (as summarised above), but they have been repeatedly spurned by these large, powerful organizations. Both the National Fishworkers’ Forum and the Orissa Traditional Fish Workers’ Union have opposed the project (See IOTN 8 and 9). Yet, without their crucial support, the sustainability of project recommendations is in jeopardy. Within the conservation community, IUCN has demonstrated that it is acting in isolation (if not in opposition) by refusing to seriously consider the opinions of local groups. International staff and contractors with their tenuous and ephemeral connections and superficial knowledge of the highly complex issues involved are hardly the way to effect change in the current context.

Partnerships with industry: A global strategy to curb biodiversity loss or new suit?

The collaboration with DPCL is part of IUCN’s global strategy to curb biodiversity loss. High-level dialogues and partnerships with extractive industries have been set up, e.g., the IUCN-ICMM (International Council on Mining and Metals)
(http://www.iucn.org/about/work/programmes/business/bbp_our_work/bbp_mining/), the EBI (Energy and Biodiversity Initiative) (http://www.theebi.org/) and the controversial partnership with Shell. These interactions generally aim to develop voluntary codes of good environmental and social conduct and to integrate considerations of biodiversity protection in the development of extractive industry projects.

Although there is value in interacting directly with the private sector to address environmental issues, and not withstanding IUCN’s good intentions, many IUCN members worldwide, affected people, indigenous groups and advocacy organizations are deeply concerned about the way IUCN is handling these partnerships, and this concern has been elaborated in the specific case of the Dhamra Port development (Frazier 2008). At the last World Conservation Congress in Barcelona, no less than 60% of the NGO members supported a resolution to end IUCN’s partnership with Shell (Igoe & Sullivan 2009). IUCN’s partnership with DPCL is another example that justifies concern for all the reasons stated above (as well as others).

It is critical that the IUCN and MTSG develop partnerships with local groups and address the range of conservation concerns engendered by the Dhamra project. Anything short of that runs contrary to the Precautionary Principle and the IUCN/MTSG’s own conservation mandate, but instead fits the general behaviour of large international NGOs that are notorious for undermining local groups to achieve their own agenda (Frazier 2005, Igoe & Sullivan 2009). When local environmental organisations and affected peoples lose confidence, then IUCN should reevaluate its partnership with the private sector and efforts should be made to bring these communities into the process.

While we believe that it is necessary and possible to engage constructively with the DPCL and TATA Steel, this has to be done in a manner that truly considers local stakeholders and gives credence to local opinions and concerns. If these basic principles are not observed, any potential value of the IUCN- private sector partnership will be reduced to cheap greenwashing.

Epilogue

Recently obtained documents from the offices of the Forest Department of Orissa show that the land on which the Dhamra port project is being built is a Protected Forest. The project does not have the mandatory clearance from the Government of India’s Ministry of Environment and Forests for usage of such land and has therefore violated the Indian Forest Conservation Act, 1980. An application has been filed in the Supreme Court by conservationists Bittu Sahgal, Romulus Whitaker and Shekar Dattatri seeking punitive action, and on October 9, 2009, the court issued notices to the Ministry of Environment and Forests and the state government of Orissa.

Literature cited

FRAZIER, J.G. 2005. Biosphere reserves and the Yucatan Syndrome: Another look at the role of NGOs. In: R. Smardon and B. Faust (eds.) Biosphere Reserve Management in the Yucatan Peninsula - Special Edition. Landscape and Urban Planning 74: 313-333.

FRAZIER, J. 2008. Why do They do That? Ruminations on the Dhamra Drama. Marine Turtle Newsletter. 121: 28-33.

IGOE, J. & S. SULLIVAN. 2009. Problematising Neoliberal Biodiversity Conservation: Displaced and Disobedient Knowledge Executive summary of workshop held at Washington D.C., American University, Department of Anthropology, May 16-19, 2008, http://www.iied.org/pubs/pdfs/G02526.pdf.

MATHEW, S. 2004. Socio-economic aspects of management measures aimed at controlling sea turtle mortality: a case study of Orissa, India. Paper presented at the Expert Consultation on Interactions between Sea Turtles and Fisheries within an Ecosystem Context, Rome, 9-12 March2004. FAO Fisheries Report No. 738, Suppl. Rome, Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations (FAO), 2004. 238p.

PRUSTY, B.G. & S. DASH. 2006. The effect of rookery geomorphology on olive ridley nesting in Gahirmatha, Orissa. In: Marine Turtles of the Indian Subcontinent (eds. Shanker, K. & B. C. Choudhury), pp. 384-392. Universities Press, Hyderabad, India.

SHANKER, K. B.C. CHOUDHURY, A. FERNANDES, S. GOPAL, A. HAMID, C. KAR, S. KUMAR, J. LENIN, B. MOHANTY, B. PANDAV, S. RODRIGUEZ, A. SRIDHAR, W. SUNDERRAJ, B. TRIPATHY, R. WHITAKER, S. WORAH & B. WRIGHT. 2009. A little learning …..: the price of ignoring politics and history. Marine Turtle Newsletter 124: 3-5.

SHANKER, K., B. PANDAV & B.C. CHOUDHURY. 2004. An assessment of the olive ridley turtles (Lepidochelys olivacea) nesting population in Orissa, India. Biological Conservation 115: 149 – 160.

SHANKER, K. & R. KUTTY. 2005. Sailing the flagship fantastic: myth and reality of sea turtle conservation in India. Maritime Studies 3(2) and 4(1): 213-240.

SHANKER, K. AND CHOUDHURY, B.C. 2006. Marine turtles in the Indian subcontinent: a brief history. In: Marine Turtles of the Indian Subcontinent (eds. Shanker, K. & B. C. Choudhury), pp. 3-16. Universities Press, Hyderabad, India.

SRIDHAR, A. 2005. Sea turtle conservation and fisheries in Orissa, India. Samudra Monograph. International Collective in Support of Fishworkers, Chennai, India.

WRIGHT, B. AND MOHANTY, B. 2006. Operation Kachhapa: an NGO initiative for sea turtle conservation in Orissa. In: Marine Turtles of the Indian Subcontinent (eds. Shanker, K. & B. C. Choudhury), pp. 290-303. Universities Press, Hyderabad, India.

Peeling the onion: the politics of conservation and corporations at a sea turtle rookery

2009-12-16T15:21:00.001+05:30

By Kartik Shanker, Janaki Lenin and Ashish Fernandes

The Hindu Survey of The Environment 2009

There is a large body of work on the impact of development on the environment, including rigorous historical accounts, and careful studies on governance, institutions and political ecology and economy. More visible however is the widespread, somewhat histrionic rhetoric, from pro-development capitalists and environmental activists. A common thread between those in favour of development and those advocating environmental sustainability appears to lie in the realm of social and environmental justice and equity. One can therefore ask if those who claim to subscribe to this common goal – ie. “self-proclaimed” socially responsible corporations and environmental conservation organisations – actually do justice to it in their actions.

Typically, this battle between environment and development has been cast as a fight between “good versus evil” (or at best, “good versus misguided”) by both sides. However, the role of big international NGOs (or BINGOs) in conservation has been questioned in recent years. In his seminal article, “A challenge to conservationists: can we protect natural habitats without abusing the people who live in them?” in World Watch in 2004, Mac Chapin questioned the corporate funding of large international conservation NGOs working in developing countries, such as Worldwide Fund for Nature, The Nature Conservancy and Conservation International, and their drive to establish protected areas from which indigenous people are excluded. While displacement of people to enable infrastructure development such as dams is well-known, people are also evicted in the name of conservation, dubbed ‘conservation refugees’ by Mark Dowie.

Currently, many of these large conservation organisations work with or receive significant funds from large corporations. For example, Conservation International’s website states “We partner with businesses such as Wal-Mart, Starbucks, and McDonald’s to help them establish “green” benchmarks and embrace environmentally sound practices.” IUCN has major partnerships with Royal Dutch Shell, Total (French Oil Giant) and other agreements are in the pipeline. Recently, the partnership between Shell and IUCN came under considerable criticism at the World Conservation Congress held at Barcelona in October 2008. According to the agreement, the partnership aims “to enhance the biodiversity conservation performance by Shell” and “to strengthen IUCN’s capacity for leadership in business and biodiversity”. Though more than 60% of the IUCN membership voted for a motion to end the agreement, it was rejected on a technicality.

In India too, there is substantial controversy over the conflicting demands of environmental conservation and development, and the role of policy in facilitating change. For example, the recent suggested replacement of the Coastal Regulation Zone (CRZ) Notification, 1991, with a Coastal Management Zone Notification, is believed to be driven by business interests that would result in the development of the coast, at the cost of local inhabitants and habitats. The politics of conservation and development, involves a variety of players, and is not simple. We illustrate this here through the battle over a port and a sea turtle nesting rookery involving many actors, including large corporations, international conservation organisations, local conservationists, and many others.

A brief history of sea turtle conservation in Orissa

Olive ridley turtles nest en masse at several beaches in Orissa, mainly Gahirmatha, Rushikulya and Devi River Mouth. Sea turtle conservation started in Orissa in the mid 1970s, when Robert Bustard, a FAO consultant, visited Bhitarkanika on a crocodile survey, and discovered the mass nesting beach at Gahirmatha. Over the next two decades, various organisations including the Forest Department, Central Marine Fisheries Research Institute (CMFRI), and Utkal University were involved in sea turtle research and conservation. During the late 1970s and early 1980s, following the introduction of mechanized boats, there was large scale exploitation of adult turtles in Orissa (>50,000 turtles per season) for sale as meat in West Bengal. Due to the implementation of the Wild Life (Protection) Act, 1972 by the Forest Department in the early 1980s, and conservation efforts by many individuals and organisations, this was eventually stopped. Notably, late Prime Minister Indira Gandhi expressed her support for sea turtle conservation in Orissa and facilitated the involvement of the Coast Guard, which helped in enforcing regulations.

Despite an alert issued by the CMFRI, the mortality as incidental catch in trawl nets continued to increase dramatically through the 1990s, and in recent years, more than 10,000 dead turtles wash up on the Orissa coast annually. The unpredictability in the extent and timing of arribadas, declining size of nesting turtles, aggravated by the huge mortality of adult turtles, is believed to be indicative of an impending decline in olive ridley populations in Orissa. It has also become clear that changes in the geomorphology may be leading to the decline in nesting at Gahirmatha, while nesting in Rushikulya appears to be increasing, and mass-nesting in the Devi region has not occurred for more than a decade.

Through the 1990s, many conservation organisations and programmes such as Operation Kachhapa focused on mitigating trawler related mortality through enforcement and media campaigns. Around the same time, the USA extended its domestic law to all its trading partner countries, requiring shrimp trawlers to use Turtle Excluder Devices (TEDs). Following extensive protest and deliberation at the WTO (in which India was one of the complainants), the US position was upheld. Though mandated through law in Orissa, few trawler owners are inclined to use TEDs for a variety of reasons. As elsewhere, such as the USA, trawler owners protested that only one of the causes of turtle mortality was being targeted.

The focus on trawlers created a vitiated atmosphere, in which most fishermen perceived conservation as anti-people. In 2004, recognising the impasse between fishing communities and turtle conservation, local and national conservation organizations and individuals, community organisations, and fishworker support organisations came together under the umbrella of the Orissa Marine Resources Conservation Consortium (www.omrcc.org). This group has been attempting to promote the conservation of marine biodiversity, including turtles, along with the livelihoods of the poor artisanal fishermen. The laws are conducive to this goal as they mainly seek to prohibit mechanised fishing in near-shore waters, which is beneficial to turtles and traditional fishermen. Today, a large number of international, national, local and community-based organisations are involved in various aspects of sea turtle conservation in Orissa (see india.seaturtle.org).

History of the port at Dhamra

The Dhamra Port has been in the pipeline for over a decade now. Clearance to build a port was granted in 1997 taking advantage of an amendment to the Coastal Zone Regulation (CRZ) Notification that allowed the expansion of minor ports (Dhamra is a notified minor port) with clearance issued by the Ministry of Surface Transport rather than the Ministry of Environment and Forests (MoEF). The power to clear such projects has since returned to the MoEF. The port was to be built by International Seaports (India) Private Limited under an agreement with the Government of Orissa. In 2004, Tata steel and L&T agreed to develop the port as a 50:50 joint venture through the Dhamra Port Company Limited (DPCL) which was awarded a concession by the Orissa Government to build the port. According to the website, it will be the deepest port in India and strategically close to the mineral belts in nearby states (http://www.dhamraport.com/). Although the characteristics of the current port proposal vary from that of International Seaports Limited, the environmental clearance granted to the latter was used. It is widely considered that the scientific and legal validity of the EIA and environment clearance for Dhamra port are questionable, given the change in scale and location of the project.

The opposition to this port citing negative impacts on sea turtles picked up again about 3 years ago, with Greenpeace being the most outspoken critic. Citing concern for sea turtle conservation, representatives of Tata & DPCL then contacted several biologists around the country and requested that they conduct studies (offshore distribution studies of olive ridley turtles with satellite telemetry) to see if sea turtles would indeed be adversely affected by the port. Biologists and subsequently NGOs such as Bombay Natural History Society (BNHS) and WWF declined to engage with DPCL unless the company agreed to a fresh EIA and to stop construction while studies were ongoing.

In 2006, DPCL contracted the IUCN, to draft an environmental management plan. The IUCN, working through its voluntary body, the Marine Turtle Specialist Group, undertook the project, over-ruling the opposition expressed by almost all its local members. Members of the MTSG in India believe the agreement was effected without due process, a lack of transparency, in contravention of the precautionary principle, and therefore likely to undermine local efforts towards sea turtle conservation in Orissa. To illustrate the extent of protest, IUCN’s involvement in the project is opposed by WWF, Greenpeace, OMRCC, Wildlife Protection Society of India, Wildlife Society of Orissa, biologists working at the Wildlife Institute of India, Indian Institute of Science, WWF, Gujarat Institute of Desert Ecology, and several local conservation organisations. Despite protests and numerous letters, the IUCN and MTSG continue to engage with the company.

While IUCN’s advice to use deflectors on dredgers and light reduction may reduce negative impacts on turtles, the need is for an environmental management plan, based on a comprehensive impact analysis. Inexplicably, the IUCN advisors who stressed the need for a fresh EIA in their scoping mission, today conclude that it is unnecessary. The focus on sea turtles to the exclusion of other biodiversity, particularly in Bhitarkanika National Park which is closest to the port site, and ignoring the consequences of coastal erosion/accretion, invasive species brought by visiting ships and the other concomitant negative impacts of ports, is likely to have long term fallout. So too is the IUCN’s refusal to work with local conservation organisations, while partnering with a major international corporation.

Over the last 6 months, the port promoters (Tata Steel and L&T, as well as DPCL) have held meetings with a coalition of local conservation groups. The conservationists continued to stress the need for a comprehensive, credible and independent impact assessment given the very obvious gaps in the 1997 EIA. Again, due to the refusal to pause construction (or even dredging during the nesting season) while studies were ongoing, the dialogue did not lead to a resolution.

Corporate conservation: a tangled web

Clearly, all parties have taken some actions ostensibly to effect positive impacts on the environment. IUCN, through the MTSG, has stuck to the argument that its engagement with the project will be beneficial for sea turtles. Local conservation groups have argued for a broader conservation outlook which addresses a wider set of concerns including habitat conservation and local livelihoods. Tata Steel/DPCL’s willingness to accept some environmental safeguards may have been (and still be) an opportunity to mainstream some of these as regulations in port and coastal development.

However, both conservationists and corporations have also been remarkably similar in their singular approach to meet their mandates. The corporation has been clearly unwilling to negotiate on the critical issue of a faulty EIA or to consider halting construction. As noted sea turtle conservationist Jack Frazier has repeatedly stressed, big conservation NGOs, especially IUCN, have largely ignored a range of other issues such as the impact on social development, environmental consequences of social change, impacts on fisheries, introduction of invasives through bilge water disposal, and most importantly impacts on the coastal ecosystems. Conservationist organisations have a lot more in common with corporations than they would like to believe, particularly in the way that they use information selectively. And large international conservation organisations appear to have much in common with their benefactors, especially in the way they function and make decisions.

In conclusion, it is not clear that such conservation – corporation partnerships are beneficial for long-term conservation of species and habitats, especially when done in contravention of the precautionary principle, in opposition to local conservation groups, and with little transparency. By focusing exclusively on sea turtles to the neglect of coastal ecosystems and people, it appears as if this BINGO has either abdicated its role as a leader in the field or has set its bar so low that it does no more than provide a green chit to the company. In developing nations such as India where resources are scarce, the long term viability of conservation depends substantially on local support. Lack of attention to social issues can alienate local communities from conservation, ultimately jeopardizing the survival of species and habitats.

Acknowledgements: This article has benefited from comments and discussions with Jack Frazier, Sudarshan Rodriguez and Aarthi Sridhar. For more articles on this issue, see the Marine Turtle Newsletter (www.seaturtle.org/mtn) and the Indian Ocean Turtle Newsletter (www.iotn.org).
Authors

Kartik Shanker is with the Centre for Ecological Sciences, Indian Institute of Science, Bangalore & Dakshin Foundation, Bangalore.
Janaki Lenin is the IUCN/SSC/Crocodile Specialist Group’s Regional Chair for South Asia and Iran.
Ashish Fernandes is an Oceans Campaigner for Greenpeace, Bangalore.

Trails in the Misty Mountains

2009-10-09T10:20:00.002+05:30

Outlook Traveller Oct 2009

It is said that Somerset Maugham had a transcendental experience at Neterikkal Reservoir in Kalakkad-Mundanthurai Tiger Reserve. I had a more worldly expectation; I went armed with a long wish list of animals, birds and insects. As we climbed up the road through Bombay Burmah Trading Corporation’s (BBTC) Manjolai tea estate, RC, our Kani guide, pointed to a distant grassy platform as our destination, Kudiravetti.

The tops of crotons and rose bushes that border the front yard of the rest house had been cropped by sambhar. Below us spread the Manimuthar and Karaiyar reservoirs, and the towns of the plains. The Kudiravetti grassland had few trees and a strong wind made hovering in one spot difficult for a black-shouldered kite. Despite its remote location, the rest house had electricity and running water. Hotel Manikanda Vilas in Oothu, just 15 minutes drive away, was the feeding station.

That night as we drove around the tea estate our light beams picked up the ‘eye shine’ of gaur, and sambhar grazing on the succulent grass. Although the chilly mountain air kept us awake and alert, we were startled by the brilliant eye shine of a large leopard stalking sambhar. Not a bad start. Despite our excitement and curiosity, we drove on so as not to interrupt the hunt or disadvantage the predator. The rest of the night didn't show up anything spectacular.

The next early morning we set off to visit Muthukulivayal, a two hour drive away. As the sun warmed up, scimitar babblers and Eurasian blackbirds got busy and it was tempting to dawdle along the way. We had to hurry to beat the mist. Crossing the various bridges around the Upper Kodayar reservoir revealed extensive vistas of forest as far as the eye could see. A herd of 17 gaur (check mark on my list) crashed through the forest as we approached. We gave them a five minute head start before venturing after them. At the top of a grassy knoll, we watched the herd disappear behind the hill. A huge black bull, so muscle-bound he could barely walk, brought up the rear.

We scanned the rocky outcrops for Nilgiri tahr but there was no sign of them. Unwilling to return just yet, I glassed the rocks again and came to rest on three immobile rocks balanced on a large rocky slope. I excitedly gestured everyone over and pointed to the tahr. Maybe I was losing it entirely; they were rocks after all. Just then, the three basking rocks peeled away from the slope. Then others stood up on nearby rocks and the final tally was eight tahr (check). All of them made their way sedately across the grass, up the slope and over the crest. Elated at having seen the tahr and gaur, we gorged on a celebratory breakfast of idlis and coconut chutney. My trip was made and everything else could only be icing.

Our host, Mr P, announced that our booking did not allow us to stay more than two nights and we’d have to vacate the next day. This could be bad. We considered the alternatives, none of them simple or bother-free. Eventually we decided we’d ask Mr P to re-check and sure enough, we were alright. There was no need to panic. I began to suspect that Mr P reveled in crises.

We returned to Muthukulivayal the next evening hoping to get a good shot of the gaur. We did indeed come across three herds but they were very skittish. The safe distance was several hundred metres, no good for a decent picture. One lone bull grazed in the dull light and Gireesh waited for a silhouette against the sky shot. When he did crest the hill, Gireesh whispered, “He looks like a rabbit!” Later that night, we came upon another lone gaur bull grazing in the tea estate that ignored us completely. He grazed with single-minded concentration. We cleared our throats to get his attention; he wasn’t falling for that trick. Finally when Ravi turned off the engine, the gaur looked up long enough in the middle of a bite. Instead of a majestic stately creature, it looked like he was having a ‘duh’ moment.

After sunset, we spotted a leopard (check) near the Upper Kodayar dam who disappeared into the undergrowth like a ghost. On the other side, a couple of gaur with two tiny calves stood silhouetted on a short bluff overlooking the road. Although we were close by, they didn’t run away. RC surmised that the leopard may be stalking the calves and they were playing it safe by being out in the open, by the road. We didn’t hang around to learn the outcome of this unraveling event.

On our return, Mr P had another crisis ready for us: one of the bridges that permits access to Kudiravetti was to be demolished the next day and we would have to leave by 6 am. It turned out that the demolition was slated for 4 pm only; by then we would have left. So yet another crisis fizzled out with no major intervention. We figured he had earned the nickname of Mr Crisis Queen.
Another morning, we set off for Kakachi to trek up the Sengeltheri path. We parked the car near the Forest Department bunker called Fern House and explored the forest patch along the road. The enormously winged tree nymph butterflies (check) flapped and soared lazily through the trees. Large velvety brown, aromatic nutmeg fruits lay by the roadside, apparently eaten by lion-tailed macaques and other creatures. Tree ferns grew luxuriantly along the streambanks.

While birdwatching along the road, Ravi amazed us by spotting a large-scaled green pit viper on a branch about 25 feet off the ground. Try as I may, I just could not see it among the jumble of leaves, and branches. Since pit vipers are known to sit in the same spot for weeks, sometimes even months, we returned that night to see if we could eyeshine the snake. No luck, their pupils are too small. The next day I was finally able to see the snake stretched along a twig, a couple of inches to the right of where he had been before. Subsequently we spotted it regularly on our trips up and down that road until we left a couple of days later. This is a real ‘sit and wait’ predator!

With a pair of mountain imperial pigeons quietly honking at each other, we set off up the path behind Fern House. We were armoured in our choice of anti-leech weaponry: Ravi liberally dusted his socks and shoes with snuff, RC smeared Clinic Plus shampoo around his chappals, Gireesh’s leech socks were sprayed with insecticide and powdered with snuff while my leech socks were doused with insecticide. The smell of RC’s sweetly perfumed foot gear wafted up as I followed him up a steep slope.

It was impossible to tell what species of massive trees lined our path; they were so tall that their leaves were way up in the canopy. Helpfully, researchers had labeled some trees along the path and I saw the most humongous Calophyllum of my life. It was a steep uphill climb that expanded the capacity of our lungs to the limit. The spiny rinds of cullenia lay strewn along the path; the aril, or seed lining of this fruit is a favourite food of lion-tailed macaques. As the sun rose, beams of light filtered through the tree trunks and lit the forest floor. Distant calls of Nilgiri langurs and the drumming of the white-bellied woodpecker resonated through the forest. At a junction of two paths, we hear a constant, rapid, loud clicking sound. RC said “elephant stomach rumbling or the whiskers of a tiger vibrating.” He turned circumspectly onto the Sengeltheri path to investigate while I walked straight down to a large swamp. I was pretty sure they were frog calls but local tribal intelligence maintained that it was the tremendously vibrating whiskers of a tiger.

Seeing us, a giant Malabar squirrel set up a din that sounded like one of those light flashing toy guns. We had breakfast on the rocks while I mused over the enigma of the skid tracks all around us. Gaur apparently have no sense of balance here; even on perfectly level ground they appeared to slip and slide. Beyond the rocks, a path split off which RC said was made by elephants. He reluctantly led the way on my suggestion. After a while he refused to continue as the terrain was flat and should an elephant charge there was no way to escape. Back on the main path, courting butterflies chased each other in the sun beams. A lot of the time in the rainforest is spent with our heads thrown back and with binoculars glued to our eyes. To maintain this posture, one needs a neck of cast iron and arms of steel.

We wondered what Mr Crisis Queen had waiting for us at base camp. It wasn’t long in coming. Twenty people were expected to visit that night. There were only 3 rooms of which we had 2. None of the rooms were large enough for even 3 people to share. We anticipated unpleasant drunken noisiness. Only five people came up while the others stayed elsewhere. What did I tell you?

Next morning as we reluctantly left the forest behind us, I realized that my faculties were alert to movements, sounds, colours, and textures; I was no more a sluggish domestic buffalo. It may not have been an out of body experience, but the energy the forest gave me and the sharpening of the senses allowed my mind and body to encompass the world.

Descent into the Valley of the Hornbills - A Kameng Odyssey

2009-06-07T16:55:00.011+05:30

Outlook Traveller June 2009

“I’m an Indian and even I don’t want to visit this place. It’s a punishment posting for me, I’m sorry to say. But I have no choice, I’m building a dam here. Why did you people choose to come here?” asked a loud voice that cut through our dinnertime conversation rudely. The man was drunk and we were suddenly tongue-tied. No one tried to reply to his befuddled face and eventually the engineer’s embarrassed colleagues hustled him away. How was one to tell him that the idea of visiting this part of the world had made us salivate with anticipation? However, we didn’t blame him for his uncharitable thoughts. If we had been stuck in Seppa (christened “Septic Seppa” for its garbage and disarray), we would have also rudely barged into someone else’s party and asked the same question. But we were just transiting through this frontier town and had another 60 km to go.

At our destination, Marjangle, a Nishi village set on a one-vehicle dirt track on the Arunchal hillside, we set up camp on the gravelly beach and went to sleep to the soothing sounds of the River Kameng gurgling over pebbles. Kameng trickled out of a lake below the 6858 m Gori Chen glacier on the Indo-Tibetan border. It rushes down western Arunachal Pradesh increasing in volume until it meets the Brahmaputra near Tezpur, Assam. This expedition was to be the third descent of the Kameng.

The next morning, an audience watched us break camp. There was an audible gasp when the tents were collapsed and packed into bags. Pretty soon, the only things left standing were the crafts - two rafts, one catamaran for cargo and a safety kayak. A second “cat” would be put in much later in the trip. Long after sun-up, we were all kitted up, briefed on safety issues and had boarded our respective rafts. “Will you bring us a woman or two next time you come,” asked the village elder while we waited for the “cat” to get loaded up. We turned to each other, “Did he really say that?” The elder repeated his request and we pretended to ignore him. He upped the ante, “I’ll give you [an animal’s] head” and he spaced his hands out in front of his chest. I wondered what animal he was offering to trade but to seek clarification is to signal willingness to negotiate. Our presence was provocative enough that he unsheathed his sword and began an impromptu dance on the river’s edge. The cameras came out which goaded him to dance some more. Eventually the “cat” was ready and we set off. Considering how recently (right up to the 40s and 50s) head-hunting and slave-taking were part of the area’s history, we got away easily.

Two young hunters watching us portage the rafts over boulders

The river was low as the last monsoons had not been adequate. We decided to forge ahead nonetheless. The rafts snagged on boulders and often just the whole crew, comically bouncing up and down in unison was enough to free them. The “cat”, weighed down by cargo, needed more hands-on shifting and shaking to make it budge. Sometimes, we carried baggage around non-existent rapids delaying us by hours. On the first day, we barely made 8 km of the total of 116 km.

We were tired, yes, but the kitchen crew and the river guides slogged the most, making several trips transporting the heaviest bags, pushing and pulling rafts out of rocks, over boulders, setting up the kitchen, cooking, pumping water into the decanter for drinking, loading and unloading all the gear every day. At the end of a very rough first day, Anvesh (the safety kayaker) moaned in mock misery, “Why did I not listen to my father and study to be an engineer?” I remembered the homesick engineer at Seppa and thought Anvesh had it good.

Every afternoon, while we set up camp, Rom would stalk off with a fishing rod hoping to catch a chocolate mahseer or snow trout, but any fish would do. The local fish didn’t fancy his American spinners. The kitchen staff helpfully made a ball of wheat dough for bait. On the Cauvery in south India, Rom had successfully caught mahseer on ragi balls. The Himalayan fish didn’t even taste it. The local fishermen we met along the way advised using insect baits. The dynamite blasting we heard every day, however, didn’t bode well. Throwing a stick of the explosive into the river stuns all the fish in that area and they float belly up, easy pickings for the lazy fisherman. The larger fish go into the pot, while the smaller fish float down river, unnecessarily dead.

Once camp had been set up, vegetables chopped for dinner and the next day’s breakfast and lunch, we sat by the fire roasting our wet suits, and polypropylene underwear (The “polypros” were essential especially if we fell into the freezing water.). The trick to speed drying is not to let them hang from a post but to stand in them by the fire. But by the time we pulled ashore, everyone eagerly anticipated getting out of the wet, clingy, heavy suits so this wisdom was wasted knowledge. We were shooting through rapids within a short time of donning our fire-dried and smoked suits and it was no wonder that none of the river guides ever bothered drying theirs. Nonetheless we hassled it every night for those first few minutes of comfort every morning. All our belongings went into a waterproof bag that had to be vacuum packed to withstand the tumbling through the rapids. Unfortunate souls who didn’t pack well had to dry their sleeping bags and clothes by the fire. In one case, even a passport!

The next day, the speed of travel increased as the Pakke River joined the Kameng and we didn’t have to stop for every little pile of boulders. And we finally encountered some pretty hairy rapids, the Pakke Socksucker (Class 4 +). The rapids were spaced out in 4 stages and we managed to get through the first two easily while the third almost had us! Just as we were digging into our shoes (and socks) for the last stage, Arvind, the river guide, yelled “BACKPADDLE, BACKPADDLE”. Our adrenalin-fueled paddle-work took us ashore; we had been about to shoot straight into a logjam. There was no choice but to haul out and hoist baggage and raft over the boulders, paddle across a still pool to a beach. Exhausted, this is where we camped.

The Gruesome Geyser

The next morning we woke up to discover that the river level had gone up overnight. Our campfire was inundated and the still pool had turned into a cascading waterfall. It had rained upriver; and it could only get better. The day’s highlight was Gruesome Geyser (Class 5). We braced ourselves for the washing machine turbulence and I was mundanely hoping not to lose my contact lenses. But then, anticlimax: the river guides decided not to risk it; so we portaged the bags over the boulders. Once the rescue team signaled “ok”, by holding one closed fist on top of the head, to each other, the guides rafted down. Thus we chickened out of rafting two of the best-named rapids of the river!

After a few days of team paddling, we were finally just developing a rhythm. In the heart of the rapids, with the water deafening in our ears, Arvind yelled “HARD FORWARD, HARD FORWARD.” We obeyed him reflexively but sometimes we were paddling the air so hard that we almost lost balance and fell in. When the raft was in danger of being buffeted, we hunkered down and held on to the safety rope. If we weren’t where we were supposed to be on a rapid, we would have to instantaneously go “OVER RIGHT” or “OVER LEFT” without conking our counterpart’s teeth with the back of the paddle. It seems very easy to fall into the rapids, perched as we were on the side tubes. Seat belts would be life-threatening if the raft flipped. In fact, a slamming hard turn through a boiling rapid caused one rafter to fall in. He went under for a moment but the rapids quickly spat him out. Later the guides told us that some particularly ugly mothers can pound an overboard rafter underwater for a minute or more before releasing him. But Max came shooting out of the rapids, face and feet pointing skywards. We were downriver and paddled hard to get to the centre of the current to meet him. Several hands hoisted him aboard, a textbook rescue. The rapid was christened the Max Ejector.

We stopped under the bridge spanning the river at Pakke village; the rapids ahead needed scouting. School kids clutching fragments of textbooks and notebooks in their hands crowded around, a few also had catapults, and all had runny noses. One of the older ones shyly asked, “The last year when the kayakers came, they gave us American food. It was very tasty. Do you have any American food? We’d like to taste it once more.” Unfortunately every article was packed in the wet bags which were lashed to the rafts and the catamarans and there was no way we could unpack kit and caboodle there. Another poked the inflatable raft and asked what was it made of. Rom countered, “What do you think it is made of?” and the thoughtful youngster replied “elephant skin”. Last year, a man had tried to puncture the inflatable “cat” with his dagger, perhaps not maliciously but out of curiosity. Some of the kids wanted to get into the raft and we were afraid that it might capsize because once a few got on, there was no way we could hold back the others. Although we said it was dangerous, we did wish we could take them for a ride. Our trip wasn’t bringing any benefits to local people directly, but we could share the fun at least. As we prepared to leave, one of the kids hailed us. We had left a rescue bag behind.

Eamon, one of the river guides, studying the medical kit for a quick cold fix

That afternoon, the river was flat and we paddled extra time to get past Seppa. Filth, plastic bottles and other debris, the familiar symbols of modern civilization littered the banks. Perched inches above this sewage-stinking filth, sometimes being splashed with it, felt disgusting. A few hundred metres away was a sandy beach dominated by two large fig trees, which was to be our camp. Anvesh warned everyone against hanging anything on them as they were colonized by weaver ants. We could see the small parcels of nests on the crown silhouetted against the sky. These little Napoleans of the forest are disproportionately fierce in protecting “their” trees. Make the mistake of leaning on the tree or hanging anything on it, and their stinging bites are enough to sow terror in your memory forever.

The next day, we rafted through 23 rapids (Class 4) within a few hours. Arvind talked of hydraulics, spill-overs and whirlpools and when he described his strategy for riding them, we felt like teenage adrenalin junkies. But he seemed so confident that we suppressed any glimmer of sanity. This was white water nirvana. Anvesh, who had been complaining earlier, couldn’t stop beaming. He eskimo-rolled more times an hour than any sea otter.

Confluence camp

Somewhere along the way we entered Pakke Tiger Reserve. After seeing a lot of slashed and burnt hillsides, finally there was old growth forest of the kind we sought. At every pit stop we found leopard tracks. On a sandy promontory overlooking the confluence of Kameng and Bichom, we struck camp (Confluence Camp). Drawing inspiration from the spectacular setting, Rom headed for the rocky pools upriver. Fishermen must be exceptional optimists to go out repeatedly in the face of so much failure. Hours later, a dejected Rom returned to camp mystified by the seeming lack of life in the river. Earlier that day we had seen a dead fish bobbing amongst some rocks, a victim of dynamiting. It was the very same species of labeo, an algae-eating carp that we had seen with fishermen, and at the market in Seppa. Where had all the other fish gone? In particular where were the mahseer?

The river narrowed and passed through “Gorgeous Gorge” with vegetation dripping down its steep stony walls and contorted trees perched precariously on the edge. The river was swift flowing but deep and there were no boulders to add fizz to our journey. We drifted along gazing up at the towering cliff sides, content in the knowledge that there were no roads or any infrastructure for a few miles around. It’s a miracle that in this country of a billion plus people, one could still lose oneself in the wilderness.

That evening we camped at the wildest spot on the entire trip. It had been named “Stampede” last year, after a lone, curious elephant had been startled enough to run right through the middle of camp, missing the guy ropes of a few tents by inches. True to Anvesh’s tale, an elephant had walked down the steep beach, swam across the river, climbed up onto our beach and disappeared into the jungle. When we thought back on our day’s journey through high gorges, this was the first place that was negotiable by elephants; we were going to camp in the middle of an elephant highway!

One of the crew caught a large grasshopper for Rom and he went off to try yet again, while some of us ventured to explore the forest behind the camp. We followed the stream silently, ears alert to sounds of elephants feeding. Despite it being far away from humanity, there were abandoned fishing traps on the river. High up in the nearest hill, we heard the bleating of goats. Yikes! We were close to humans, I muttered dismissively. It was while I was climbing over some large boulders that I realized that the elephants had also done the same. I would never have believed that possible had it not been for the tracks imprinted in the sand. Large ones and little baby ones. A leopard had also walked along the river as had others, such as civets or martens. Colonies of little towers, about three inches high, rose in the drier parts of the river bed; it was dirt that had passed through the gut of earthworms. Birds of unknown pedigree flitted amongst the red flowers of the bombax trees. Contentment and peace settled over me at the sight of all this life.

Back at camp, I mentioned the goats to Rom who refused to believe us. He said it was a bird making the bleating call. That was hard to believe just as it was hard to believe that there were goats in the middle of the forest. While we stood there debating, three pairs of Great Indian hornbills, their great wings beating “whoosh whoosh whoosh” flow homewards in the dusk. There was nothing more to be said.

We had two fires going that night, one at either end of the camp, to keep out the elephants. We also agreed that if an elephant did approach we would yell and make for the high ground on one side of camp. Another wondered if we should take turns staying awake and keeping watch. Eventually after dinner, everyone was so exhausted, we just crawled into our tents and went to sleep. A brief spell of rain put out the fires unbeknownst to us. Despite the failed precautions, all the tents were still standing the next morning!

We were about to position ourselves for the day’s first rapids, when one of the “cats” loaded heavy with bags hit a major hydraulic which swung it around and left it perched precariously. Bhim would have slipped back and continued on had a subsequent wave not hit him just then and he capsized. Meanwhile the other raft had already made it through and they rescued Bhim and towed the “cat” to quieter waters. We managed to raft through this white water without mishap and the men rushed over to help.

Trying to set right a flipped catamaran

One side pulled and the other side pushed, it was evenly matched. The fulcrum had to shift to set the “cat” back on its tubes. It was exhausting to even watch the struggle. The force of the rushing water didn’t help the efforts at all nor was there any way of accessing the bags to lighten the load. Finally one of the crew crawled through the gap under the “cat”, a risky maneuver, and pushed hard. The free tube flew through the air and landed with a splash on the other side sending the “pulling” team into the water. Anvesh declared this was the first “cat” flip he had had in the last 12 years.

Landslides caused by road construction

About 16 rapids later, when the sun was nearly overhead, we began seeing earth-diggers, trucks, roads, colonies of construction workers. These were precursory signs of the dam that was being constructed across the Kameng. Debris slid into the river, landslides marked the points where roads had unsettled the stability of the slope. The boulders rolled down, bounced off the slope, flew through the air to land in the water with a big splash. The river guides’ shrill whistles pierced our ears. They were trying to attract the attention of an earth mover way up on a hill slope that was dropping the boulders into the river. Eventually a passing car conveyed our message and the machine stopped.

We had long flat stretches to paddle against a strong headwind until we reached the outskirts of Bhalukpong by late afternoon. The vehicles stood ready to whisk us away to Nameri Eco Camp where we were greeted by the nonstop raucous chatter of hill mynas, and parakeets. After 7 days of paddling, it felt good to rest our weary bodies on soft mattresses, eat dinner at a table, have a hot shower and clean the sand from our ears. The fishing may have been disappointing, but the rafting certainly was way beyond our expectations. The trip had all the makings of a rite of passage; we felt totally renewed despite being completely wrung out.

The triumphant team

Membership Excluder Devices

2008-09-18T08:26:00.008+05:30

- Janaki Lenin and Rom Whitaker

Published in http://www.seaturtle.org/mtn/archives/mtn121/

Evidently, some time in late 2006, the IUCN signed an agreement with the Dhamra Port Company Ltd (DPCL) toward “developing a sound environmental management plan for development and operation of the Dharma Port” (http://cms.iucn.org/about/union/secretariat/offices/asia/asia_where_work/india_programme_office/dhamra_port/index.cfm), but details of the agreement do not appear to have been made public. It seems IUCN sought specialist assistance from the MTSG, through its voluntary Co-Chairs, Roderic Mast (Conservation International) and Nicolas Pilcher (Marine Research Foundation). Mast and Pilcher, in turn seem to have concluded that Pilcher should represent the MTSG in this matter. Pilcher, seemingly with the support of Mast, undertook investigations and made various recommendations in the name of the MTSG and IUCN.

There are several contentious issues arising out of IUCN and MTSG’s involvement in this project. Of concern here, several IUCN and MTSG members, particularly those from India, are troubled by the lack of transparency in IUCN and MTSG involvement. The SSC has provided guidance on these matters through their ‘Terms of Reference for SG [Specialist Group] and TF [Task Force] Chairs 2005-2008’ and ‘Guidelines and Advice for SG and TF Chairs 2005-2008’. We endeavour to analyze if the process of involvement followed these terms and guidelines.

Information Exchange:

The SSC rightly prioritizes “Communication and networking” as “a crucial role of SG and TF Chairs, as the establishment of effective communication is essential to the functioning of any SG/TF.” Added specifically to this direction is the provision of “Up-to-date information on the most important threats to biodiversity and the actions being taken to mitigate these threats”.

In an important and controversial case such as the Dhamra Port facility, even basic information on the involvement of IUCN and the MTSG, such as the terms of agreement between DPCL and IUCN is not available. Meetings between MTSG leadership and Indian members were never convened, and Indian members have been sidelined.

A lively discussion of the Dhamra project dominated the Annual Meeting of the MTSG held at the 28th International Sea Turtle Symposium in January 2008, but no minutes of what transpired have been circulated, even to members*.

Consultation:

The SSC advises the SG Chairs to: “Make interventions on technical issues in the name of the Group, ensuring adequate consultation within the Group prior to making such interventions” and “Where such issues are potentially controversial, wide consultation and review within Groups, as well as consultation with the Species Programme staff and the Office of the Chair, is expected.” Recognizing the voluntary nature of the efforts made by SG members, the SSC sees one benefit of consultation being: “An ability to influence policy and decision making within the group, the SSC and ultimately the IUCN through the World Conservation Congress”.

The MTSG Co-Chairs insist that consultations about MTSG involvement with DPCL occurred, specifically involving Indian MTSG members B.C. Choudhury, Bivash Pandav and Kartik Shanker. But these people state that there has been no consultation. The MTSG leadership says that no minutes of these consultations were recorded, and to prove their claim of consultation, an email dated 29 August 2006, from Kartik, the then Regional Chair, was referred to. But this message merely provided background information on the Dhamra issue to the Co-Chairs. According to Pilcher, B.C. Choudhury and Bivash Pandav did not respond to emails, so it is unclear how that constitutes consultation. It does not appear that MTSG members outside India were consulted at all. The case for broader consultation and involvement with local MTSG members, which arguably did not happen in this case, is considered fundamental to the ability of the MTSG and any other SSC-Specialist Group to function effectively. After all, specialists who speak the local languages, live and work within the socio-political system, and have dedicated decades of their lives to conservation should have something useful to contribute. Besides, the absence of any local participation jeopardizes the long-term sustainability of the project.

Conflict of Interest:

The SSC advise that “Chairs should transparently reveal their own conflicts, but they need not exclude themselves from discussion or relinquish their leadership role.” With regard to ‘Managing Money’ the SSC is more specific, “Implementing conservation action should largely remain the domain of individual SG members or groupings of members. The SG Chair and other SG officers play an important role in supporting their members but not in the implementation of projects or programmes, per se.”

Using one’s knowledge and expertise to further the cause of conservation of biodiversity is not an unethical way of earning a living. In this case, there are press reports of consultant’s fees paid by DPCL. If a paid job was offered to the SG, by what process or selection criteria did an overseas Co-Chair and his organization get the job? Should it have been offered to in-country members? When these questions were raised with the broader MTSG membership, on an e-mail discussion list, no clear and transparent answers were forthcoming. Indeed, the MTSG Regional Chair for India (Kartik) resigned over what he considered a failure to observe due diligence on behalf of the MTSG Chairs.

Dispute Mediation:

The SSC Guidelines recognize that disputes between Specialist Group members will occur from time to time, and suggests SG chairs should remain impartial, transparent, be trusted, respected and thus able to exert authority.

In this case, the MTSG Co-Chairs have initiated a process, in the name of the MTSG, that has unquestionably caused a dispute between MTSG members and the Co-Chairs. The lack of transparency in the process and the leadership’s vested interest in the project has eroded confidence that members need to have in the Co-Chairs, making it improbable that they would be able to mediate disputes. It is difficult to see how this dispute can be resolved amicably within the MTSG, unless the SSC and/or the affected members of the MTSG and the Co-Chairs appoint an independent arbiter. There has been some casual discussion between the Co-Chairs and three of the Indian MTSG members about a possible meeting in Bhubaneshwar, India, around September 2008, but four other Indian MTSG members have not been included in the exchange of emails.

Discussion:

Specialist Group members provide the SSC and IUCN with unique human resources; people skilled in the technical challenges of conserving plants and animals, people familiar with the different national contexts in which conservation needs to be pursued, and people so committed to the IUCN and its conservation goals that they are prepared to volunteer their efforts. All they expect in return is to be treated with professional respect and be included in the processes of advancing conservation, particularly within their own countries.

For the Indian MTSG members, who have long been significant contributors to the MTSG, and who have been active in fostering sea turtle conservation within India for decades, their marginalization is inexplicable. One can only imagine the response that would occur in other countries, if Indian MTSG consultants were engaged to solve such a controversial development problem, without engaging local MTSG members from the country involved. Attempts by the Indian MTSG members to obtain clear and transparent explanations about the MTSG involvement in the Dhamra project have been met with elusive responses, couched in derogatory terms, which has further aggravated the situation and added to the frustration. Hence our attempt to explain the situation, as we see it.

* The minutes were finally received by the authors on 10 July 2008, after the submission of this piece.

This article was greatly improved by comments from Jack Frazier, Ashish Fernandes and others who prefer to remain unnamed.

Gharial Crisis Update

2008-09-18T08:26:00.001+05:30

PA Update April 1, 2008

As of March 29, 2008, 111 gharial (54 males, 48 females and 9 unknown) have been found dead on the Chambal. The first report of the mass die-off was received on Dec 8, 2007. The mortality was limited to the lower 40 kms of the National Chambal Sanctuary, the stretch closest to the Yamuna, killing about 33% of the adult/sub-adults (between the sizes of 1.6 m and 3.5 m). There are an estimated 1130 gharial found in 4 populations in India, of which nearly 1000 were counted in the Chambal during the survey of 2008.

During the initial days of the investigation, parasite overload and heavy metal concentration in the internal organs were bandied as the possible causes. However, these were subsequently ruled out by international crocodile veterinarians. The Ministry of Environment and Forests instituted a Crisis Management Group headed by Ravi Singh, the CEO of WWF-India. Post mortems conducted by experienced crocodile vets revealed visceral and articular gout, caused by kidney failure. What caused this is still a matter of speculation. Toxins in the ecosystem, perhaps in the fish or in the environment, is an avenue of investigation. The other speculation is that the gharial may have indulged in gluttony until their metabolism could not handle it anymore in the cold winter months, leading to gout.

Although the National Chambal Sanctuary is a 428 km stretch of river, the gharial live in 4 main groups. The affected area is close to one of the large groups and the incident may have wiped out a majority of the adults/sub-adults of this area. However surveys of 2008 reveal that this is not a static system allowing the incident to be isolated. Instead, animals were seen moving downstream to occupy the area vacated by the dead gharial. In 2007 surveys revealed that the affected area had 153 adults/sub-adults, while in 2008, the same area has 128 adults/sub-adults. So this stretch of river could become a sink for the Chambal population.

Crocodile biologists say that it is critical to monitor nesting this year to assess reproductive success. Loss of fertility may indicate continued toxin presence. The future course of action is to conduct extensive toxicology tests to identify the lethal toxin and its source, and studies on gharial behavioural ecology.

The various organizations involved in the operation to get to the bottom of the crisis are:
1. Ministry of Environment and Forests, Government of India
2. Forest Departments of Uttar Pradesh (UP) and Madhya Pradesh (MP)
3. RiverWatch – a joint initiative of Gharial Conservation Alliance (GCA) and Worldwide Fund for Nature-India (WWF)
4. IUCN/SSC Crocodile Specialist Group
5. The San Diego Zoological Society
6. AZA Crocodile Advisory Group, (USA)
7. Ocean Park, Hong Kong
8. Madras Crocodile Bank/Centre for Herpetology, Chennai
9. La Ferme aux Crocodiles, France
10. Wildlife SOS, Delhi and Agra
11. University of Florida, Gainesville
12. The City University, Hong Kong
13. Indian Veterinary Research Institute (IVRI), Bareilly
14. Defence Research and Development Establishment, Gwalior

The Road from Perdition

2008-02-03T13:11:00.000+05:30

'Damned Gharial' in Tehelka Feb 3, 2008

http://www.tehelka.com/story_main37.asp?filename=Op020208change.asp

The ungainly body and short stubby legs are improbable attributes for the role of Sylvester Stallone in ‘Cliffhanger’. And yet, the gharial has been hanging on the precipice of existence by its toenails for the last few decades. The future survival of an animal, that outlived the dinosaurs, depends on whether we can give it a leg up over the abyss.

The gharial’s body plan is fine-tuned to make the best use of the habitat it had chosen for its final staging ground. It is a specialist like no other crocodile in the world; deep rivers to live in, sand banks on which to bask and lay eggs, and plenty of fish to eat are prerequisites. This choosiness ensured the survival of the gharial into the 20th century.

Today, however, these very same adaptations have morphed into the three nails on the gharial’s coffin. Developing India built mega-dams across gharial rivers, silting them up. The building boom that began in the 1990s in nearby cities like Delhi and Agra is fed by sand from the gharial’s nesting grounds on the Chambal. Fishermen deplete its prey while fishing nets become underwater curtains of death.

In the 1970s it was estimated that between Nepal and India less than 200 gharial survived. Within this narrowed range, the 425 km long unsullied stretch of the Chambal was the best gharial real estate. An ambitious crocodile conservation project was launched by the Government of India with collaboration from the United Nations Development Fund (UNDP) and the Food and Agriculture Organization (FAO). Project Crocodile was touted as one of the most successful conservation programs in the world and yet no one has ever heard of it. Crocodile sanctuaries were declared, a crocodile research institute set up and captive rearing stations built. Somewhere along the way, conservation action ground down to lethargy and ineptitude.

In any conservation program, habitat protection is the first commandment, but it could not be enforced in the Chambal ravines, ruled by bandits and warlords. The other most significant habitat, the River Girwa in the Katerniaghat Wildlife Sanctuary, remains stable for now. Obtaining local people’s support is the second commandment, but it was deemed too difficult to do under the circumstances. Having thrown out the two most important tenets of conservation, what did Project Crocodile do? Over the years it released thousands of expensively captive reared gharial into the rivers – the Chambal, the Girwa, the Ken, the Son and the Mahanadi. The released animals were not monitored so no one knows what became of them. But annual census figures showed a steady climb upwards. That’s like adding apples to a basket and then counting them! In fact that was the recommendation of the gharial Population and Habitat Viability Assessment – to continue releasing captive reared gharial indefinitely. When the number of gharial in the Chambal reached 1200 in the mid 1990s, crocodile conservationists, biologists, bureaucrats and politicians basked in their achievement – the species had been saved from extinction. But beneath this rosy picture, the gharial was barely hanging on.

The Government of India stopped further funds for the captive rearing project but the State governments persisted with the releases on a smaller scale. The routine annual census stopped. And then in 2004, the hollowness of gharial conservation thus far was revealed. Dr. R.K. Sharma of the Madhya Pradesh Forest Department set off the alarm – gharial numbers were plummeting. With fewer apples being added to the basket, the numbers didn’t look so optimistic anymore. Surveys of 2006 came up with less than 200 breeding adults between India and Nepal thereby putting the gharial on the Critically Endangered category of the 2007 Red List. A task force called the Gharial Conservation Alliance (GCA) was formed with the express purpose of reversing this dismal trend. Realizing that river dolphins, otters and water birds had similar needs, the GCA in partnership with WWF-India set up River Watch. Instead of focusing on individual species and working separately, River Watch intends to look at the big picture – the state of our rivers.

Even as this initiative was being galvanized and strategy chalked out, came the horrific news – more than 80 out of about 320 subadult and adult gharials have mysteriously died over a 70 km stretch of the lower Chambal in little more than a month: a 25% mortality in the 2 - 2.5 metre size class! The epicenter of this disaster is near Etawah (Uttar Pradesh), at the confluence of the Yamuna and Chambal. Postmortem reports indicated liver cirrhosis, cause unknown. Subsequent reports pointed to the presence of heavy metals in the tissue samples. Across the river in Madhya Pradesh, a concerned Mr. Suhas Kumar, the Chief Conservator of Forests, circulated the reports to international crocodile veterinarians who ruled out liver cirrhosis. Lethal levels of heavy metals should have killed the other animals sharing the same waters – fish, birds, otters and river dolphins – but it did not. A pathogen is suspected, but where did it come from and why are only large gharials affected and not the vulnerable juveniles, remain unanswered questions.

A team of international croc veterinarians are expected to arrive later this month to assist Indian colleagues in finding the cause of this catastrophe and to suggest ways of stemming it. If the gharial overcomes this crisis, it will become the touchstone of our commitment to treat rivers as a precious resource. The GCA is in desperate need of funds to galvanize action for the gharial. For further information please contact mcbtindia@vsnl.net

Conservation of the people, by the people, for the people…. so help me God.*

2007-11-05T12:16:00.000+05:30

Making Conservation Work
Eds. Ghazala Shahabuddin and Mahesh Rangarajan
Permanent Black, Delhi
298 pages
Hard cover. Rs. 595

The prosaic title notwithstanding, the essays in this book pack a punch. The editors, Shahabuddin and Rangarajan, set the stage in the Introduction by examining what caused the Sariska debacle. Readers will remember that this was the park where the tiger was declared locally extinct in early 2005. It provided ammunition to two diametrically opposed camps to “prove” their arguments. One camp claimed it was the presence of villagers in the park that was detrimental to the tigers while the other accused the colonial mindset of Indian wildlife laws and policy.

Sariska was a pampered park; being close to the nerve centre of Delhi, it received a lot of funds and VIP attention. It also had more guards per square kilometer than almost any other park in the country. Villagers living within the park were recipients of largess, not available to inhabitants of most other reserves. It had everything going for it and yet the tigers vanished. In the flurry of accusations that followed, the Tiger Task Force was set up, and its report was alternately trashed and celebrated by conservationists of both camps. However, they were unanimous in their criticism of the state's manner of functioning. And true to form, the state ignored the recommendations of the Task Force, revived the relocation-of-villagers policy (which is doomed to failure by its woeful inadequacy), proposed reintroducing tigers from other parks and pretends that the crisis is only a minor setback for conservation. In this contentious atmosphere, sharing the experiences of the contributors of the book opens new vistas of wildlife conservation and governance.

Perhaps the most interesting article in the book is 'Threatened Forests, Forgotten People' by Aparajita Datta of the Nature Conservation Foundation (NCF). Datta sets out the political dynamics of conservation in Namdapha National Park in Arunachal Pradesh. The Lisu tribals are caught in the far corner of the state sandwiched between the park on one side and the international border with Myanmar on the other. Accused of being latter day encroachers from Myanmar they enjoy no citizenship rights or tribal status. Recognizing that the basic needs of the people in this remote corner of India have to be addressed first, NCF supports six kindergarten schoolteachers thereby ensuring the education of 330 Lisu children. Malaria takes a heavy toll and a patient seeking medical help has to walk for seven days to reach a doctor. As a first step one Lisu tribal has been trained as a healthcare provider. In tandem, NCF biologists have also conducted wildlife surveys, extended the range of mammals previously known only in neighbouring countries and lobbied with the Lisu against traditional hunting practices. Initiatives such as this, which tie conservation with solutions to existential struggles, go far in salvaging the vitiated relationship between people and the state.

Other articles deal with similarly alternative approaches to conservation of the oceans, deserts, and forests by incorporating local people into the equation. Interestingly, the NCF is involved with another innovative approach - restoring the rainforests of the Valparai plateau of Tamil Nadu. Collaborating with the management of the various tea estates, Mudappa and Raman have planted numerous rainforest species on degraded private lands that are unfit for tea cultivation thereby providing corridors for animals such as elephants, lion-tailed macaques, leopards, and hornbills among others. Not enough of this kind of restoration is being undertaken in the country and yet anyone with a bit of initiative and effort can contribute towards enhancing the quality of habitat available for plants and wildlife.

In other essays, Kartik Shanker elaborates on an alliance of fishworker organizations and conservation groups that are working for sea turtle (and fish) conservation in Orissa, Priya Das explores participatory conservation in Kailadevi Sanctuary in Rajasthan while Nitin Rai examines the economics of harvesting Garcinia fruits in Karnataka - evidence that conservation need not stop with creating reserves and making sure no one touches the wildlife within. Two other chapters critique the current forest management policy by focusing on Kuno Wildlife Sanctuary and Sariska.

Crucial to conservation success is political will. It is clear that in a democracy where the stake to power is dependent on appealing to the majority, conservationists have to redress their approach if they are to achieve their goals. Otherwise the majority of the voting public does not care, or worse, sees conservation as an elitist preoccupation of the middle class. This is the biggest shortfall of the conservationist agenda. While this book manages to bring conservation concerns and issues to the reading public, it is a pity that the standard of writing is uneven – while some articles are exciting, a couple are so dreary they are hard to get through.

Ghazala Shahabuddin is an ecologist at the Environmental Studies Group of the Council for Social Development, Delhi. She has monitored habitat fragmentation, people's utilization of forest resources and its impact on the biodiversity of Sariska. Mahesh Rangarajan is Professor of History at the University of Delhi. He is the co-editor of Permanent Black's series called Nature, Culture, Conservation to which this book is a worthy addition.

* apologies to Abraham Lincoln and George Washington.

Species Roulette

2007-10-08T13:45:00.000+05:30

Published in Outlook Oct 15th.

This is the untouched version -

The World Conservation Union’s press release a fortnight ago set the wires on fire - 180 species of animals and plants on the threshold of extinction were added to the global Red List this year alone. While the list of species in dire straits grows longer, we can at least celebrate the several new ones discovered in India within the last few years.

Birds are a thoroughly catalogued group through the efforts of the British Raj ornithologists. For much of the century, competitive bird watchers have had to be satisfied with no more than an occasional re-discovery, such as the Forest Owlet. For decades interested birders searched randomly for this species in the wilds across the country, with no success. When a group of American ornithologists arrived in late 1997 to look for the bird, they zeroed in on the four locations where it had been seen previously. They hit the jackpot in the forests just outside Mumbai!

But new discoveries? None for a very long time. Even the grand old man of Indian ornithology, Salim Ali, never had the honour of discovering one. So when Ramana Athreya walked out of Eaglenest National Park in Arunachal Pradesh two years ago with evidence of a new species of bird, the Bugun Liocichla, it sent an electric jolt of excitement among birders. The fact that a professional astronomer had this rare privilege caused much consternation among the more territorial ‘twitchers’. But then such is the game of Species Roulette – some play it hard, some win it cool.

The pretty little bird hit the international headlines (even sharing space with a topless (human) model on page 3 of The Sun). Such is the global clout that birds command, followed only by mammals. Discovering a large primate is a gilt-edged invitation to the Biological Hall of Fame. The last time a macaque was discovered was way back in 1903 in Sumatra. More than 100 years later, a burly macaque dashed across the road bringing biologists from the Nature Conservation Foundation to a screeching halt. A new monkey, the Arunachal Macaque, named for its home state, had just checked into the roll call of Indian fauna. But while we have just become aware of its existence, the local people were all too familiar with the monkey’s crop raiding propensities - an ironic situation where one man’s prize catch is another’s pest.

Far from the media glare, however, new species of reptiles are popping up from the remote forests of the Northeast and the Andaman and Nicobar Islands as well as in small fragmented forests of the Eastern Ghats of Orissa. This is truly the Age of Herpetological Discovery. While any other specialist would love to bask in the glory of finding at least one new species, researchers now discovering myriads of frogs face a problem peculiar to new parents – finding appropriate names (but in the hundreds)! Despite losing more than 80% of its forests, India is giving Costa Rica and Sri Lanka a run for their frogs.

The unique Pig-nosed Frog from the Western Ghats is the most significant of these discoveries. The only member of an ancient family, reportedly 50 to 100 million years old, it hunkered deep underground while the dramatic environmental and physical changes sweeping the earth wiped out whole groups of animals and saw new ones evolve. This dinosaur among frogs was only discovered in 2003.

Another herpetological breakthrough was the re-discovery of the Indian Egg-eating snake, a toothless, specialist egg swallower. It was first found in Rangpur (now in Bangladesh) in 1863. Subsequently a few surfaced in Nepal and the Indian states of Bihar, West Bengal and Uttarakhand before disappearing altogether. Expeditions were proposed, old reports pored over as herpetologists planned to resurrect the enigmatic snake. In 2003, a specimen of the long lost Indian Egg-eater turned up in Wardha, Maharashtra without much fanfare. It’s not often that a species presents itself on a platter but it is up to the beholder to realize its true value. For about 14 years the species was staring us in the face – intrigued snake enthusiasts from various cities in Gujarat sent pictures seeking its identification. Then it had not occurred to any of the established herpetologists that the creature could emerge more than a thousand kilometers away from its known range. It was dismissed as an aberrant form of a tree snake until the sharp eyes of Frank Tillack, a professional German bricklayer and a self-taught ophiologist, identified the snake for what it was.

Yet another case of effortless species discovery occurred at the field station of the Andaman and Nicobar Islands Environmental Team in 2004. Lizard researcher Shreyas Krishnan woke up with a bad hangover one morning. Despite the heavy downpour he hobbled to the kitchen hoping a cup of strong tea would clear his head. When he heard a splash in the rapidly growing pond outside, he hoped it was a frog. If it was a lizard he was duty bound to take a look, an inconvenient proposition at the moment. A lizard it was, and one that neither he nor any of the numerous visiting herpetologists had ever seen before. Shreyas had discovered not only a species of lizard, but a whole new genus. As a bonus he had also discovered an instant cure for the worst hangover!

Wet squelchy forests are not the only frontiers of biological exploration; barren degraded forests are too. The spectacular Peacock Tarantula was named on the basis of a single specimen obtained at Gooty (Andhra Pradesh) railway station’s timber yard in 1899. Although the place has no habitat, naturalists doggedly searched the area for the spider. About 102 years later, a four-member team concluded that the tarantula must have arrived at the yard as a stowaway in a hollow log. They focused on old railway lines with suitable habitat for a large tree-dwelling spider. Finally, some distance from Gooty, they found the most beautiful spider in the world in a totally degraded forest. Within five hours. While this re-discovery went totally unnoticed in India, it set the network of European and American animal dealers buzzing. Within a year 12 specimens of the tarantula were smuggled out of the country and the babies hit the pet trade the following year. In 2005 when I visited an exotic pet expo in the United States each baby was worth US $ 350, down from $ 1000 in 2003.

The above examples are just a few highlights of recent developments. Scanning two Indian scientific journals revealed the discovery of 31 new species of fish, numerous insects and countless plants just within the last three years. The bottom line is anyone can find a new species; so put on your high-heeled boots, get out your wide brimmed hat and play Species Roulette. Imagine immortality: a tick with your name on it!

Book Review: Environmental Issues in India

2007-09-22T15:56:00.000+05:30

The Varying Shades Of Green

Business World, September 2007

Most people including conservationists think that when a species is in trouble, all it requires is a chunk of protected forest. However, in a high population density India, there are several other constituents or stakeholders involved — local people utilise the forest to graze their cattle and/or collect plant material for a living. How to deal with these people has split the conservation community in two. While one group argues for their relocation out of the forest, the other advocates giving them rights to the forest.

Arun Agrawal and Vasant Saberwal, for example, argue that “cultural sensibilities have combined with an overarching concern with human impacts on the environment, to generate conservation rhetoric on the need to keep people and livestock out of protected areas”. A few chapters later, Ullas Karanth cautions against confusing conservation issues with livelihood issues and concludes “sacrificing the remaining 3 per cent or so area under wildlife reserves is unlikely to make any dent on human problems, which we have been unable to solve by using and abusing the remaining 97 per cent of the land area”.

The relocation lobby tacitly backs the third main constituent, the forest department whose mandate is to conserve these forests despite obvious mismanagement, while the other side views it as an adversary that denies people their traditional rights while selling out to Big Industry. Who is the better guardian of the forest has become the fundamental question fissuring the conservation community.

Understanding the political tangle that includes the aspirations of local people, the limitations of the forest department and the need for landscape conservation, can reduce the increasing polarisation within the Indian conservation community. This is precisely what this reader offers. The anthology of 33 essays is a first for India and promises to be an indispensable tool for anyone interested in Indian conservation and environmental movements. The book spans timelines and histories of various regions, peoples and struggles. India is a microcosm of dilemmas facing much of the developing world that seeks to balance the survival needs of people and wildlife.

Much blame for the precipitous status of several species of animals is heaped on the doorstep of the British Raj. Citing archaeological evidence, Mahesh Rangarajan, editor of the volume, records the collapse of species well before colonial times. For example, over-hunting and habitat loss exterminated the barasingha from Baluchistan by 300 BCE. Several species of plants found in western Indian sites are now extinct. Indians weren’t the traditional paragons of conservation as some romantics will have us believe.

Had we followed the Gandhian model of rural economy would we have avoided the state we find ourselves in? In an incisive essay, Ramachandra Guha evaluates whether Gandhi was the patron saint and Nehru the villain of the environmental movement. The author reminds us that the majority of Indians rejected Gandhi’s model of rural economy. Whereas Nehru, the romantic who “was deeply appreciative of the natural beauty of India”, as the democratically elected representative of the people, acted on the “overwhelming consensus” for rapid industrialisation. However, one of Gandhi’s disciples, Mira Behn was environmentally proactive; nearly 60 years ago she sent Nehru a critique of the forest management policy accompanied by pictures in which she identified the lack of involvement of villagers and the monoculture of pine. To this day, we continue to debate these issues.

Modern global environmental concerns such as nuclear energy and climate change also find a place in this volume. In recent years there have been controversial claims promoting nuclear energy as the new “green energy”. True, it is a low polluting source of energy unlike coal. However, Eliot Marshal puts the cost of going nuclear in perspective: a Natural Resources Defenses Council physicist is quoted as saying that to avoid a 0.2 degree Celsius rise in global temperature at the end of the century, the world would need to build “1,200 new plants in all, at a rate of about 17 per year”. Then there are the attendant concerns over safety hazards, nuclear waste disposal and the misuse of reprocessed plutonium. The book doesn’t offer easy answers, but to present these different perspectives in a single volume is a major first step.

However, there are numerous typographic errors; the punctuation is random. And references mentioned in the text are not in the list at the end. Dates quoted for publications within the text differ from the references at the end. Authors’ names are misspelt. These are irritations that an international publisher of such stature could have easily fixed. Despite these drawbacks, the book is a real steal for the price.

MAHESH RANGARAJAN, is a well-known historian of ecological change as well as a frequently visible TV commentator on Indian politics. He has been a Fellow of the Nehru Memorial Museum and Library, New Delhi, and served as corresponding editor of the journal Environment and History. His books include Fencing the Forest; the two-volume Oxford Anthology of Indian Wildlife.

The Song of the Ganges Gharial

2007-09-13T17:00:00.000+05:30

Published Seminar 577, September 2007

Circa 1996: The impossible had been achieved. The gharial, which had been on a rapid slide to extinction, had been pulled back. Conservationists slapped each other’s backs. In those dismal days when the future of the tiger in India was thrown in doubt and the premier conservation undertaking for its benefit, Project Tiger, was exposed for its hollow claims, Project Crocodile was touted as being one of the most successful conservation efforts in the world. The morale of Indian conservationists received a rare boost while they struggled to fight a seemingly graver battle for the tiger.

The last of an ancient lineage
The gharial is the only true descendant of an ancient family of crocodiles that lived on earth 100 million years ago. A fossil of a sea-faring gharial, recently unearthed in Puerto Rico, was dated to at least 23 million years ago while another giant, a 15 metre long gharial, was excavated from Niger in the 1990s. After the last Ice Age, the gharial staked out about 20,000 square kilometres of rivers, spanning Pakistan to Myanmar, as its territory. Not for the gharial the still waters of ponds or lakes where other crocodilians thrive. This is a true specialist: a river-dweller that eats only fish. Unfortunately, the gharial’s narrow choice of habitat and diet inevitably led to its downfall.

The beginning of conservation action
It all began in 1970 when a disturbing report by the biologist, S.Biswas said that the gharial had simply vanished from the Kosi River and recommended that the other rivers be surveyed. In 1973, conferring with Bombay Natural History Society’s scientists and funded by Worldwide Fund for Nature (WWF), a team from the Madras Snake Park did extensive surveys across every major river and stream throughout the gharial’s range in India and Nepal – the only two countries in the world that are now home to the reptile. By this time the gharial had been declared extinct in Pakistan, Myanmar and Bangladesh. Although Bhutan was also a gharial country, its mountainous terrain limits its range to a few stretches of river close to the India border. The headcount came to only 200 gharial; the population had crashed by about 98% in 30 years.

Something radical had to be done and in 1975 the Government of India set up Project Crocodile with the support of the United Nation Development Fund’s (UNDP) Food and Agriculture Organization (FAO). With alarm bells ringing in its ears, Project Crocodile went to work for the benefit of the three endangered Indian crocodilians – the mugger, the salt-water crocodile and the gharial. It delineated 20,000 square kilometres as sanctuaries and set up several captive rearing projects. Of these the gharial occupied six sanctuaries spread over 240 square kilometres while 16 captive rearing centres were to act as its wet nurses. Although the initial project proposal included concessions such as croc farming as an alternate livelihood for fishermen who would be affected by the conservation measures, it was not implemented and the gharial was soon to pay the price for this oversight. However, those were heady days and such “minor” blips did not dampen the spirits of croc conservationists who strongly believed they could turn the tide.

A training centre (later to become the Wildlife Institute of India) for crocodile biologists was set up in Hyderabad and several Ph.D students were recruited, who were to become the frontline field workers for the gharial. Besides declaring sanctuaries and fostering research, a captive breeding program was initiated as well. But India didn’t have a captive male, and in fact there were only an estimated 10 to 20 adult males in the world at that time. The Frankfurt Zoo in Germany had the only captive male which was donated to the project. To kick-start the program some eggs were even bought from Nepal during the first year. One of the primary thrusts of the conservation plan was to rear hatchlings from eggs (collected both from the wild and captivity) for 3 to 4 years until they reached the length of 1.2 metres (4 feet) before releasing them in the rivers. The idea of “head-starting” was to provide hatchlings the safety of enclosed concrete ponds guarded from predators during the most vulnerable period of their lives. In the following 30 years, 12,000 eggs were collected and over 5000 such head-started gharial were returned to the wild in five sanctuaries. Since the Chambal River is the last “wild” river in North India, it held all the hopes for the future of gharial – even today it holds 48% of the population. And this is where Project Crocodile focused its attention by releasing 3500 animals here alone. Gharial numbers surged in the subsequent years and the picture looked rosy. And then the rug was yanked from beneath.

Unwitting wardens of the Chambal
Uniquely for India, the National Chambal Sanctuary straddles 3 states – Uttar Pradesh, Madhya Pradesh and Rajasthan – including some of the wildest areas that were out of bounds for the state machinery. The ravines on the banks of the river were the hideout of some dreaded bandits, the most infamous among them being Phoolan Devi, the Bandit Queen. These outlaws ruled the roost, making sure that the area remained untouched by the Government’s development plans. Nobody wanted to invest in any industry or buy real estate in these parts. Researchers and Forest Department personnel were vulnerable targets and they made sure they were not caught in the field after dark.

Phoolan Devi however, captured one croc researcher, Dhruvajyoti Basu, and snatched away his binoculars. When he pleaded saying they were not his and the Forest Department would give him much grief if he lost them, the bandit gave him a signed voucher declaring that she, Phoolan Devi, had “borrowed” the binoculars. He was then set free, unharmed. Others who faced the wrath of the outlaws were not so lucky. Ironically, the gharial (and the habitat) thrived under the unwitting but ruthless “protection” by the bandits.

Change of guard
In the mid-1990s in response to state offered amnesty, the brigands started to give themselves up one by one. The police were slow to fill the power vacuum thus created. Other anti-socials – local mafias – began setting up shop. While the outlaws had restricted themselves to fobbing off the rich, the mafia began to systematically exploit the resources – sand mining (to feed the building boom in cities like Delhi and Agra), fishing in the Sanctuary, turtle poaching and so on. One official, speaking off the record, said the large scale sand mining had brought down banditry in the region, thereby indirectly demonstrating that addressing the livelihood needs of the people is key to achieving conservation success! Poor villagers, struggling to make a living from agriculture, irrigated their fields with water siphoned off the river leaving the lower reaches of the river shallow in summer.

A District Collector who visited the place recently to put a stop to the illegal activities was beaten up and his police escorts were reduced to mute spectators. Although the National Chambal Wildlife Sanctuary is governed by three-states, there is limited enforcement of conservation agendas and people there do pretty much what they want. (Recently, however, the Forest Department sought permission to shoot illegal sand miners to enforce the law.)

Not to be outdone, the government water authorities such as the Irrigation Department built barrages, irrigation canals, artificial embankments and controlled other gharial rivers to an extreme degree – impounding the river during the lean summer months (when all the aquatic animals are imprisoned in a few deep pools), and opening the sluice gates in one go after the rains, causing a veritable tsunami (washing down everything caught in its powerful currents – uprooted trees, gharial, dolphins). All these activities impacted the gharial directly.

However, once gharial conservation was deemed a great success (when the population in the Chambal climbed to over 1200 between 1993 and 1997), the Government of India withdrew money from the expensive croc breeding and release program. No surveys were conducted between 1999 and 2003 but that didn’t worry too many people as the gharial had after all been saved. In 2004, croc conservationists were shocked when Dr. R.K. Sharma, a gharial biologist of the Madhya Pradesh Forest Department, alerted them to the news that the gharial numbers had nose-dived and there was visible degradation of the habitat.

Back on the brink
The last assessment in 2006 revealed that the gharial was in even more distress than 2003; there are no more than 200 wild breeding gharial in Nepal and India. This situation may seem marginally better than the dire straits the gharial found itself in the early 1970s but now the pressures on the habitat have multiplied and the quality of what remains is deteriorating. Besides, the future viability of the species is compromised because the 200 breeders are spatially separated. The massive influx of funds and the release of 5000 captive-reared gharial have not achieved any significant reversal. More barrages and dams are on their way for almost every river that is home to the gharial. The situation is even worse in the other range country: Nepal.

Today the gharial’s domain is a mere 2% of its former range, limited to a couple of hundred square kilometres and dwindling. The future of the gharial is so threatened that its Red List status was recently revised from Endangered to Critically Endangered, one stop away from Extinction. It is, today, the most endangered large animal in India, more gravely endangered than the tiger.

What went wrong?
Although a critical scientific assessment of past conservation achievements (including one that grades threats according to their severity) has not yet been done, the picture outlined here was arrived at by connecting survey numbers, field visits, and reports (by various workers). In hindsight, three shortfalls in the conservation program were identified – the habitat was never secured, local people were not taken on board; monitoring of the released juveniles was not done (all these “boring” issues were addressed in every set of recommendations dating from the 1970s, but were ignored in favour of the seductive simplicity of reintroductions) and the significant conservation headway (designation of croc sanctuaries, successful captive breeding, research, publicity and international support) that was made has slowly unravelled under the sustained onslaught of river resource exploitation. This resulted in widespread deterioration of gharial habitat (barrages, dams caused the rivers to silt up, sand mining on basking and nesting beaches), and depletion of prey by illegal fishermen. Several large adult gharial drown in fishing nets and get ensnared by hooks laid by turtle poachers every year. The few that are lucky enough to survive in the nets face a more horrible fate. Fishermen cut the long fragile snouts of the gharial tangled in their nets before setting them free. These handicapped gharial will slowly starve to death within a year. Tolerance is obviously on a short leash.

In India, conservation is generally driven by biologists with little or no inputs from social scientists. The exclusive (throwing fishermen out of the sanctuary and curtailing any human activity) and unsympathetic (no alternate livelihood options offered to the affected people who became destitute overnight) state conservation policies have replaced any existing traditional conservation values with bitterness and anger. The gharial has become the symbol of people’s alienation from their natural resources and there is no support for its continued existence.

The majority of the crocodile conservationists in India may believe that the gharial is again facing extinction because reintroduction efforts are down to a minimum. The reality is that the expensive “head-starting” programs may have achieved little. Since the released gharial were not monitored, no one knows how many survived. Out of the thousands released, only hundreds remain. We can only surmise that they did not have the wherewithal to deal with the strong currents (nor did they possess the muscle tone after being reared in still pools) and the absence of calm tributaries may have resulted in most of these young ones being flushed out of the sanctuaries into the inhospitable habitats downstream during the annual monsoon floods. It is also possible that these captive reared, hand-fed gharial were unable to catch live prey. In some areas such as the Satkoshia Gorge Wildlife Sanctuary only two out of 700 released animals remain (a mortality rate of 99.7%). In Katerniaghat Wildlife Sanctuary four nests were recorded in 1977, but the release of 909 gharial (including 112 in 2006) in the following years resulted in 20 nests in 2006. This implies a mere 2.5% of thirty years of reintroduction efforts. In the Chambal, despite receiving the lion’s share of funds and captive-reared gharials, there were only 68 nests recorded in 2006, up from 12 in 1978. Again this represents only 2% of the reintroduction efforts. While conservation studies worldwide have demonstrated that habitat protection is all that is needed for a species to recover, reintroduction is a radical intervention generally reserved for a stage of no return.

For the past decades, surveys revealed annually increasing numbers of gharial and this fact was used to claim that conservation efforts had been a great success. But the point is, gharial numbers were being artificially boosted by reintroductions every year. So the moment the head-starting program came to a standstill, the numbers of wild gharial plummeted. If success is measured by the ability of a population to self-sustain, the question that needs to be asked is - did gharial reintroductions ever achieve conservation success? While some conservationists argue that extinction had been averted by such sustained releases, it is also possible that the modicum of protection given to the habitats was the cause of the increase in nest numbers. The important thing to realize is that the reintroduction of gharial did not lead to the re-colonization of habitats such as Ken and Satkoshia where no nesting has been recorded in decades. The four existing breeding populations – Chambal, Katerniaghat, Son and Rapti-Narayani (Nepal) – already had reproducing females when these efforts began.

The head-starting program has never complied with any of the norms laid down by the 1998 IUCN Guidelines for Reintroductions. Given that the threats to gharial have never been addressed, nor existing conflicts mitigated, it makes little sense to keep dumping thousands of hapless young gharial (most to face certain death) into the rivers. Even captive reared adults were reintroduced with little or no effort spent on maximizing their chances of surviving in a landscape to which they were ill adjusted. Despite the enormity of past failure, reintroductions have not stopped nor critically evaluated. On the contrary, the pressure to allow such arbitrary releases is high even today, because of captive breeding successes, resultant overcrowding in zoos and rearing centers, and the “feel-good” factor. So why don’t the managers stop the captive breeding? For fear of reduced budgetary allocations in the subsequent years and indeed, more gharial are slated for release in the coming winter months.

Head of the table
The gharial requires deep, free-flowing rivers unfettered by dams and barrages. Fish, the prey of gharial (otters, river dolphins and several species of water birds), need clean and clear water to breed. Gharial must have undisturbed sand banks to bask and nest. We are also talking here about an intact, protected river habitat, on which our own survival hinges. Ecologically, the passing of the gharial signifies a collapsed ecosystem – polluted waters, drastic drop in water levels, erosion and siltation – all conditions that make any life in the rivers untenable. People need to see the gharial for the critical environmental services it offers – it eats the predatory catfish thereby boosting the productivity of fish yields, and it cleans up the injured, sick and unfit fish from the genetic pool; it plays the same role of top predator of the rivers that the tiger plays in the forest. The wise ancients recognized the critical role played by the gharial and made it the steed of none less than Ma Ganga herself, making it the cultural and ecological icon of the most sacred river in the world.

New Directions in Gharial Conservation
The gharial and its fellow river fauna really need the support of policy makers who should re-evaluate the proposal to interlink our rivers (thereby dooming them). The past mistakes have demonstrated the need to redress conservation priorities more broadly if the gharial and other riverine species are to survive. India is the only long-term hope for the gharial in the world.

The Madras Crocodile Bank based Gharial Multi-Task Force (GMTF) has set a science-based agenda that will identify threats to the species, survey historic habitats, such as the Brahmaputra, which are currently devoid of any gharial population, study the ecological role of the gharial, while also working with social scientists to understand the alternate livelihood needs of the people in the hope that they will once again accept the gharial as the icon of their river. The GMTF hopes to re-orient the gharial conservation strategy using science while accepting that wildlife management is really no more than people management in this situation – if all the human generated pressures are minimized, the species will automatically respond. It is only in extreme cases where a habitat exists but the species has been extirpated that intrusive animal management such as reintroduction is needed.

River Watch, a partnership between GMTF and the Worldwide Fund for Nature-India, is still in its formative stage and realizes that if our rivers are to survive, an integrated conservation plan is needed. It will focus on habitat protection while bringing together conservationists working for all river fauna, including the highly endangered Ganges river dolphin, smooth coated otters, mahseer and several species of endangered freshwater turtles, under one umbrella. River Watch, based in the WWF-India office in Delhi, intends to prioritize river conservation by drafting Management Plans for the various Protected Areas along river systems, developing and strengthening the policy and legislation for Integrated River Basin Management and lobbying for their implementation. While it will coordinate between departments such as Irrigation, Fisheries and Forest, River Watch will also network with our neighbouring countries such as Pakistan, Bangladesh, Nepal, Bhutan and Myanmar. It will campaign against over-harvesting of fish and water as well as any construction on rivers that works to the detriment of its habitat and fauna. It hopes to formulate guidelines for river ecotourism as well as promote use of safe fishing gear and teaching fishermen how to deal with accidentally captured gharial and dolphins. River Watch will collaborate with national and international partners in conservation, research and education to achieve its goals.

Gharial: the icon of civilization
It is not mere coincidence that all the great civilizations of the world rose on the banks of rivers. Rivers are still the lifeline of our existence, for example, the Indus and Ganges river basins support more than 10% (600 million people) of the world’s population. By working to conserve such animals as the gharial and river dolphins, we are in reality only preserving our very own life support system. While the pressures on rivers increase day by day, we are guardedly optimistic that people are already seeing reason and are finally ready to save the gharial and the rivers that are its home.

BIG BUCKS FOR LITTLE STARS

2007-06-02T08:19:00.000+05:30

The unedited version.
Published as 'Uncovering the Tortoise Trade Route', The Hindu, Saturday, Jun 02, 2007

For years, a pair of smugglers – Umesh Kishore Tekani, alias Mexx, in Singapore and Wai Ho Gin, nicknamed Bobby Gin, based in California – smuggled Indian star tortoises, among others, into the US by calling them “toy figures.” Another character, John Pen Tokosh, had tried the same trick, which landed him in prison for a year in June 2006.

While our papers today are full of tiger and lion poaching, what passes unnoticed is an equally well-organized criminal network of smugglers ripping off our star tortoises, much sought after in the international pet trade. In India, star tortoises feature on Schedule IV, the lowest rank of protection under the Wildlife Protection Act. A smuggler can be penalized with a maximum of three years in prison or a Rs. 25,000 fine but they are rarely jailed for trading in a Schedule IV animal. Besides, the people apprehended are usually just the couriers or mules and not the actual kingpins of the trade. Local hunters, reportedly members of the Hakke Pakke tribe, catch these animals from the dry scrub forests of Chittoor and Madanapalle districts in Andhra Pradesh and Kolar District in Karnataka and they are paid no more than $ 1 for each animal. By the time the animal reaches American shores each tortoise can fetch anywhere from $ 350 to $ 1000.

Occasionally there have been fanciful claims that the seized animals were captive-bred (The Hindu, July 28, 2005). However, such an assertion is merely a fig leaf to cover the government’s pathetic enforcement record and to downplay the impact on the wild population. In a communication to TRAFFIC (the trade monitoring arm of Worldwide Fund for Nature) in the year 2000, Conservation International’s tortoise expert, Peter Paul van Dijk wrote, “This species is not bred anywhere in the world in the quantities needed to supply the commercial demand.”

In 2005, wildlife authorities gloated that smuggling had declined (The Hindu, Sep 29, 2005), but in reality it was merely a breakdown in intelligence gathering. At least 9500 Indian star tortoises squeaked through their hands that year and were traded internationally with legal documents. “Also noteworthy is the fact that most of the seizures in India have occurred at airports. This indicates that there is either a total lack of intelligence gathering by the wildlife authorities or connivance at the lower levels,” says an official of the Wildlife Protection Society of India.

Tortoises are smuggled out of India to transit countries such as Thailand and Malaysia where the smugglers seem to be a step ahead of law enforcement. An animal dealer who was raided in Bangkok in January 2007 produced Lebanese export papers for 1000 Indian star tortoises! Chris Shepherd of TRAFFIC Malaysia writes, “The only department within Peninsular Malaysia which can currently enforce CITES regulations for the Indian Star Tortoise is the Royal Customs and Excise Department.” If Customs fails to nab an illegal shipment as it enters the country, then the smugglers are home free. They can then sell them openly without fear of prosecution as indeed happens. According to a study conducted over a two-week period by TRAFFIC-Malaysia, 173 Indian star tortoises were offered for sale in 24 out of 31 pet shops visited. The shopkeepers reported that more than 80% of the star tortoises they received were from India while the rest came from Sri Lanka. The ready availability of Indian star tortoises in Malaysia is illustrated by Shepherd’s statement, “When asked if it was possible to acquire a large batch of 20-30 animals, traders usually requested only 1-2 days to acquire the tortoises.”

At the last meeting of CITES (Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species of Wild Fauna and Flora) nations in 2004, Malaysia gave an assurance that it will amend its laws to fix this loophole, but nothing has been done and stars continue to be smuggled through its borders. CITES strives to control the international trade in wildlife species by implementing licensing regulations. As a CITES Appendix II animal, the Indian star tortoise needs an export permit only to facilitate its legal crossing of international boundaries (besides any local legal restrictions). The export permits can be issued only “if the export will not be detrimental to the survival of the species.” And therein lies the crux of the issue - except for a couple of studies, Indian star tortoises have never been studied in the wild, nor their distribution and status mapped. So nobody knows how the current levels of exploitation have impacted a slow breeding reptile. But regardless of these concerns there are some countries (where star tortoises are not found) unscrupulous enough to issue the export permits.

According to the CITES trade database (www.cites.org) between 1975 and 1994, about 9200 star tortoises were exported with CITES certificates, mostly to Japan. Aware that wild-caught, smuggled Indian star tortoises were finding their way into the international trade with export permits issued by some countries, CITES issued a Notification in 1994 recommending its member countries not to accept any export or re-export permit for tortoises unless these documents were verified. There followed a five year lull period (if about 270 animals per year could be called that) and then in the year 2000, Lebanon entered the picture and the total number of tortoises traded under CITES began rocketing.

The smugglers picked their country right – Lebanon is not a signatory to CITES and since 2003 has re-exported more than 9000 Indian star tortoises claimed to be captive bred (in Kazakhstan of all places!). However, Kazakhstan, a party to CITES, has not reported exporting a single star tortoise since 2000 (the year it became party to CITES). Lebanon also exported 6000 more tortoises without disclosing the source. There are only 3 countries in the world where the species is found – India, Pakistan and Sri Lanka – and in the last 12 years they collectively exported 1038 star tortoises only. So where did the thousands of tortoises come from? All indications are that they came from India routed variously through Thailand and Malaysia with Lebanon laundering these illegally procured animals by providing fraudulent export documents. It is doubtful if these star tortoises even touched Kazakh or Lebanese soil.

Between the years 1995 and 2005, a whopping 32,000 tortoises were traded and of these Japan accepted the export permits for 20,000, contravening the CITES notification of 1994. From 2002 to 2004, Afghanistan, a country where the star tortoise is not found in the wild, exported more than 5000 of them listed as “wild caught” to that black hole - Japan. While Japan is the single largest market for scores of laundered tortoises, thousands more are smuggled to the high paying markets of Europe and the US.

Between 2001 and 2004 less than 7000 star tortoises were confiscated across India, while 19,000 were recorded to have been traded internationally with fraudulent papers. Within the last few years, in an act of ‘spring-cleaning’, several old CITES Notifications were cancelled including the one on trade in tortoises. Today there is no cautionary advice on the subject. In 2005 (at the same time that Indian authorities were claiming a slump in smuggling) the trade hit an all time high of 9480 animals. (There are no figures for 2006 on the CITES database yet.) If these are the “legally” traded numbers worldwide, the numbers smuggled without papers is definitely several times higher.

Meanwhile the US authorities showed a distinct lack of creative imagination by refusing to see the star tortoises as “action figures”. After four years of surveillance, they swung into action on May 17, 2007 and indicted Bobby Gin (and Mexx if he’s ever caught) on a dozen charges of conspiracy, smuggling and money laundering. If convicted on the first two, they’ll get five years in prison and twenty years for the latter. While the severity of the punishment was no doubt because of the CITES Appendix I tortoises they also smuggled, it’s a damn sight better than India’s record in convicting smugglers of even Schedule I species, clearly illustrating how seriously wildlife crime is viewed in this country.

Obviously India must slam down on wildlife crime while pushing countries such as Malaysia and Thailand to do more to prosecute smugglers. Japan has to be coerced to reject dubious export permits such as those issued by Lebanon. CITES needs to demonstrate that it is indeed an effective mechanism in controlling such illegal international trade. How can CITES signatory countries so blatantly accept documents from non-party nations such as Lebanon? When the tortoise route spans the Middle East, Europe, Asia, and the US, a united stand against smuggling is the only way to stop exploitation of the species in the wild. Hopefully the upcoming meeting of CITES nations to be held at The Hague between 3 and 15 June will re-assess measures taken against the global illegal trade in wildlife and perhaps this charismatic little tortoise will win a reprieve.

FROM THE JAWS OF EXTINCTION…

2007-05-18T14:36:00.000+05:30

Published: BBC Wildlife June 2007

With its fantastically long, tooth-filled snout, the gharial takes the crocodile design to the extreme. Sadly, such weaponry has been useless in saving the species from a dreadful decline and its last hope rests with ROMULUS WHITAKER and his colleagues.

Story by Janaki Lenin

THE SUN BLAZED overhead. It was midday and we had been walking for hours. I wanted to believe that the wisp of blue in the distance was the River Padma – our destination – but I worried it was a mirage. The river is the official boundary between India and Bangladesh, and has changed its course so many times I feared it might have vanished altogether.

Finally, a ribbon of cobalt swam into view. We reached the brow of the high bank, knees buckling with exhaustion, when, in the water below us, we saw a crocodile with an unfeasibly long snout. Was it a gharial or just another illusion?

The reptile’s sleek body glistened in the sun. She seemed unafraid of us, and we guessed she was guarding eggs buried in the sandbank. Instantly revived, we dug until we found the nest, watched suspiciously by its owner. We were hoping to rear her young safely in captivity and then release them, but she didn’t know that. Still, she didn’t attack us.

GOING TO POT That was in the mid-1980s. We didn’t know it then, but this may have been the last time gharials nested in Bangladesh – a symptom of the species’ decline across its entire Asian range. The problem was that no one knew enough about this unusual croc to be able to help it. This is what prompted me to work as much as I could in gharial country – India, Bangladesh and Nepal.

What sets the gharial apart from all other crocodilians is its incredibly long snout, which it wields like chopsticks. These slim jaws, lined with sharp teeth, are ideal for catching fish. But they have another function. When a male reaches adolescence, at about age 12, a wart-like appendage begins growing on the tip of his snout. This is the ghara (Hindi for ‘pot’, which it resembles), and it completely covers and presses down on the nostrils. When the male breathes out forcefully, it produces a flatulent noise that carries across the water. The politest term I can come up with for this noise is ‘buzz-snort’. It serves two purposes – to attract females and warn off rivals.

We heard the buzz-snort in action near Rajghat on the Chambal River in northern India. We saw a big male gharial patrolling and heard his underwater territorial jaw-clap – the gharial is the only croc to advertise its presence in this way under water (some biologists think this could be a method of stunning prey as well as marking territory). It was an early winter morning, and when he surfaced and buzz-snorted, we could see the vapour leave his nostrils. Though it was winter, when crocs bask on the sandbanks to warm up, this adult male spent most of his time in the water, attending to his harem of females and alert to any male who might try to usurp his position.

Fights between male gharials involve terrific displays of prowess. The territory-holder surges forward, churning the water into a froth with his tail. If the intruder remains unintimidated, the two males engage in combat. Their slender snouts clash like swords in the air, though they seem too fragile for such violent action – indeed, you can often hear the crack of a tooth splintering or bone hitting bone. Eventually, one gharial will prevail and the other retreat.

MUM’S THE WORD The testosterone that fuels these fights between males ebbs after mating. Then the females go to war, battling over the best nest sites. Their conflicts are less brutal than the males’, though the same rule applies – the larger individual invariably wins. Once the territory squabbles are over, a mother gharial makes a 40-50cm-deep nest hole with her hind feet, into which she lays about 50 large eggs. She then covers the nest, tossing sand over the area to hide her tracks from predators such as hyenas, jackals and mongooses, before returning to the river to keep watch from a distance.

Many crocodilians are attentive parents, but little was known about how gharials care for their young until I observed our captive-breeding population. One day I noticed a mother begin to dig up her nest. As I got closer, I could hear her babies calling from beneath the sand, just as other young crocs do. It can take mother crocs hours to assist their babies to the water, as they cannot see exactly where the youngsters are. They often mistake rocks, egg shells, clods of dirt, even baby turtles for their own young, and will tenderly carry them to the river.

This female dug with her front feet until she flipped out a baby, which landed by her hind feet. She then ‘back-heeled’ it through the air into the water. She excavated the rest of the nest without jettisoning any more youngsters, and then turned around and slid into the river. Her 36 babies followed, rather like ducklings.

Alerted by all the activity, the male lurked nearby. When he swam close, the babies climbed onto his head, transforming him from an aggressive fighter into a devoted parent. Both adults then guarded the youngsters. In the wild, their behaviour is no doubt similar. It’s likely that family groups are only split up when monsoon rains wash the juveniles away.

RIVER DEEP
Up to 100 years ago, the gharial’s buzz-snort resonated along the deep rivers of the northern Indian subcontinent. Not for the gharial the still waters of ponds or lakes where other crocs thrive: this is a hardcore river-dweller that eats only fish. Unfortunately, this narrow choice of habitat and diet has been the gharial’s downfall. Its rivers are being dammed, which isolates populations. After the last Ice Age, the gharial staked out about 20,000km2 of rivers, spanning Pakistan to Burma. Today, its domain is a mere 200km2 and dwindling.

To counter this decline – and that of other Indian crocodilians – Project Crocodile was set up in 1974 by the Indian Government with help from the UN. Throughout the 1970s and 1980s, we carried out surveys, behavioural studies and captive breeding. We reared thousands of youngsters and released them in protected areas. Sadly, few of these pioneers survived for long – but we didn’t know why.

For example, the beautiful Satkosia Gorge in Orissa appears to have everything a gharial could want – fish, sandbanks, protection – and threats such as bamboo-rafting and net-fishing have been eliminated. Yet only two of the 700 gharials released here in the past three decades have survived. When I visited the Gorge during the monsoon in mid-July, I saw how small streams had become torrents. The river roared up to nine metres above its dry-season mark, eroding the banks and uprooting trees. The released gharials were obviously being flushed downriver, out of the protected area and even into the sea. One was seen on a beach, others in mangroves and ponds. Those that took refuge in tributaries were caught in fishing nets.

Fishing is a massive problem. In supposedly protected areas, we saw several gharials whose snouts had got tangled in nylon fishing nets. It was clear that, despite the rules, gill nets were being set at night, entangling gharials that tried to swim through them or attempted to eat the netted fish. The crocs didn’t drown, but they were left unable to open their jaws and thus in danger of starving to death. In other places, dam construction disturbed nesting gharials and local people raided the nests for eggs to eat.

Clearly, though the gharial’s slide towards extinction had been slowed, our 30-year strategy of captive-breeding has not been enough. The species faces an uncertain future and its survival is closely linked with the needs of the humans dependent on the rivers. Our campaign (see right) is part of a much larger initiative to ensure the survival of these rivers. The threats – from development, pollution and climate change – increase day by day, but we are guardedly optimistic that people are at last ready to do what it takes to save the gharial, the ultimate icon of a healthy river.

SIZE MATTERS!

2007-02-28T10:10:00.000+05:30

Published in Sanctuary Asia Vol XXVI No. 6, Dec 2006

Kalia was a woman-eater. He was estimated to be a 23 to 24 foot (7.01 to 7.32 m.) salt-water crocodile who ruled a 10 mile (16.66 km.) stretch of the Dhamra River in Bhitarkanika, Orissa. The then Raja of Kanika wrote in 1973 that this unusually dark skinned reptile eluded shikaris including his grandfather and father for 50 years. In 1926, the captain of a ship on a run from Chandbali to Calcutta eventually shot it. The injured reptile crawled onto the bank taking shelter in the reeds and tall dry grass. Seizing the opportunity, the villagers set fire to the vegetation killing the croc.

For several years, Kalia’s skull welcomed visitors to the palace in Rajkanika while the bangles and anklets found in his belly were displayed on a table, gruesome reminders of a horrific period in the region’s history. J.C. Daniel and S.A. Hussain of the Bombay Natural History Society were the first to measure the salt-water crocodile’s skull in 1973 and reported that it was the largest skull in the world at 100 cm.

Robert Bustard and Romulus Whitaker wanted an accurate figure and in 1974 they went up to Bhitarkanika to measure the skull. It was hanging way up on the wall out of reach and it wasn’t a simple job getting it down. So using a stick they came up with 98 cm. Years later, Rom realized that they had made a mistake. Instead of measuring the skull from snout tip to the occiput (back of the head of the upper jaw), they had measured it all the way to the back of the lower jaw, a mistake that several people continue to make thus confusing the issue of crocodile morphology.

If you are wondering why the measurement of the skull has to be so specific, it’s because crocodile biologists use it to extrapolate croc sizes. The length of the skull (measured along the median line from the tip of the snout to the back of the occiput) is multiplied by seven to arrive at the animal’s total length. Scientists came up with this equation after measuring hundreds of alligators in the United States and rapidly biologists around the world began using it to estimate the lengths of several species of crocodiles.

Although there have been several reports of bigger crocodiles being shot in Australia – one was estimated to be 27 ft. (8.23 m.) – there is not a shred of evidence (skull, skin or photograph) to prove the hunters’ claims. In the 19^th century, a monstrous 33 ft. (10.06 m.) croc was reportedly shot in Bengal and the skull lodged at the British Museum of Natural History. When the skull was measured it was only 60 cm. long and a simple arithmetic puts the animal at 13.78 ft. (4.20 m.).

For a couple of decades Rom tried unsuccessfully to access Kalia’s skull and in recent years began to fret that it might have disintegrated. Through Aurodam David in Auroville, we finally met Shivendra Bhanjdeo, the Yuvaraj of Kanika. He confirmed Rom’s worries – the skull was indeed falling apart and he wanted assistance in preserving it. Rom, in turn, sought the help of Dr. Russ McCarty, paleontologist at the Florida State Museum in Gainesville, who is a professional preserver of bones. He recommended a substance called Butvar (polyvinyl butyral). It wasn’t available in India, so friends kindly brought over a pound of the white crystals.

Earlier this year, we went up to Bhubaneshwar where the skull had since been moved from Rajkanika. It wasn’t in as bad a shape as we feared – the sutures holding the various parts of the skull were still intact. A slice of the upper jaw was missing (as it was even in the 1973 photograph); the captain must have shot the animal through the body. The skull had to be cleaned thoroughly and an enterprising businessman friend, Vinny took on the dirty work – alternately brushing and pumping jets of air with a bicycle pump, he managed to get most of the grit out. It was impossible to reach the crevices and the tooth sockets, so he hauled it off to the local tyre puncture fixer. It was only because Vinny was barking orders that the bewildered mechanics did what was needed. After being air-blasted, the skull returned looking several shades whiter. The Butvar had to be dissolved in acetone (without forming lumps, just like good gravy) and the thick glue brushed on the skull. An iron tub (plastic melts when it comes in contact with acetone) of adequate size was found and with the heavy skull levered by a long bamboo pole, the Butvar was poured over it. The preservative soaked into all the cracks, crevices and pores virtually encasing it and now the skull is good to last another 100 years and probably a lot more.

Finally, the moment Rom had been waiting for 30 years arrived. The tip of the snout to the occiput measured only 73.3 cm. We added three centimetres for the four per cent shrinkage when the skull dried out, and checked and double-checked the measurements. There is no doubt about it, by using the standard ratio for crocodile head length to total body length, Kalia would have measured 17.52 ft. (5.34 m.), significantly short of the 23-24 footer that it was claimed to be.

Some experts however, have expressed doubt if the 1:7 ratio can be applied universally. While the ratio is consistent in alligators, it varied wildly in crocodiles. In 1979, while Rom was doing a crocodile survey in Papua New Guinea, tribal hunters proudly showed him the skin of a crocodile that measured 20.34 ft. (6.2 m.). The fresh skull was 72 cm. long making it a 1:8.6 ratio. The behemoth had drowned in a tiny barramundi net.

In another instance, Australian croc biologist Grahame Webb measured a salt-water croc skull at 66.6 cm. belonging to a freshly killed 20.18 ft. (6.15 m.) animal. This ratio of 1:9.23 made Kalia a whopping 23.11 ft. (7.04 m.), closer to the Raja of Kanika’s claims. As a final test, we measured the closest giant at hand, Jaws III, at the Madras Crocodile Bank. The ratio was 1:9. The emerging theory is that young crocodiles may follow the 1:7 ratio, but as they grow older, the skull doesn’t keep up with the rest of the body, until at 35+ years of age they reach 1:9. If we could estimate these growth changes, it would be relatively simple to estimate the age of crocs.

Recently, we traced the skull of a false gharial from Borneo to the Munich Museum. It measured 81 cm. (snout tip to occiput). So the current record holder for the largest crocodilian skull in the world is not a salt-water crocodile (the traditional favourite) but an endangered long-snouted fresh-water reptile. It seems likely that none of these ratios would apply to gharials and false gharials so we can only speculate what length the Bornean false gharial reached.

Among crocodiles however, the largest skull, measuring 76 cm, belonged to a salt-water crocodile from Cambodia, now at the Paris Museum. The second largest skull (73.5 cm) is of an American crocodile at the American Museum of Natural History, New York and the Kanika skull ranks third in the world. There may yet be other larger skulls collecting dust in private collections but until they are measured, all stories of humungous crocodiles remain in the realm of old hunters’ tales.

The crocodile census conducted in Bhitarkanika in January indicated the presence of a 23 ft. (7.01 m.) crocodile (would we love to put a tape measure on that beast!!). Given the high degree of protection the Crocodile Sanctuary enjoys from the Orissa Forest Department (and the salt-water crocodiles themselves), it seems that this is one of the few places on the planet where these giant crocodiles will continue to rule into the 22^nd century.

Crocs of the tidal zone

2007-02-27T09:03:00.000+05:30

Published as a chapter in Sundarbans Inheritance, Sanctuary Books, 2007

Narrated by Rom Whitaker; written by Janaki Lenin

Abdul Aziz Mulla, a honey collector, stumbled upon a saltwater crocodile nest just as the eggs were hatching. Since he couldn't see the female anywhere close by, he picked up a baby croc, which immediately started squawking in alarm as baby crocs will do. The mother, which had slipped into a muddy wallow on his approach, heard its baby's call and swung into defensive action, erupting from hiding to grab his leg. He threw the baby croc at her, which is all she really wanted. A few bad scars later, even Abdul admitted she wasn't a man-eater. Surprisingly, this was just one of the few croc attack accounts I heard in the Bangladesh Sundarbans about 25 years ago.

I spent three weeks in the mangrove forest aboard the 10-metre-long District Forest Officer's launch, Bana Sundri in 1981. With its six-man crew we conducted perhaps the first crocodile survey undertaken in the Sundarbans. The swamp was always notorious for its man-eating tigers and we had a 24-hour armed escort; while I appreciated the necessity, I soon began to chaff at the lack of privacy. Celebrity-hood was never my bag!

The best place to start my study was by interviewing the people who lived on the edges of the crocodile swamps. Interestingly, apart from their myths and legends, few really knew about crocodile natural history or behaviour. Many actually confused the nests of wild pigs and crocs, and I found myself personally checking each nest they thought they had located. This involved crawling on hands and knees through thorny Phoenix palms and 1.5 m. tall tiger ferns, not named for its feline looks but because its dense stands are a favoured hide-out for tigers.

Visibility at such times was about as far as my nose. Elsewhere humans are usually the hunters -- the kings of the forest. In the Sundarbans the tables are turned. You feel hunted; just prey. Understandably, we constantly looked over our shoulders, listening for every small sound and, I am not ashamed of admitting, quaking in our shoes. It was the poor visibility combined with constant reminders from everyone I met that made walking in the tiger's turf as heart-pounding as running a marathon at high altitude. Yes, the armed guard was always behind me with his ancient and cumbersome Enfield .303 cocked. But that itself was a creepy feeling. Would I end up as tiger fodder, or would a jumpy guard armed with an unpredictable rifle accidentally get me?

Walking in the mangroves is a seriously tough business. I was often knee deep in mud in some places, thigh-deep in others. If a tiger did actually turn up running was never going to be an option. The big cat had the advantage of enormous snowshoe-like paws, but the aerial roots, the pneumatophores, of some mangrove trees would be an impediment even for the cat. My feet slipped and slid sideways as I tried to step between the sharp spear-like roots, straining muscles unused to this strange manner of walking. Meanwhile, monkeys jumped artfully from pneumatophore to pneumatophore and deer raced through them faster than a tiger possibly could. Any two-legged human treading this swamp was at a major disadvantage.

Once you are out of the tiger’s turf, you walk straight into bull shark waters. The first time I returned after a walk in the mangroves, I recall trying to wash the black gooey mud off my legs in the river before getting on the launch and was chastised for my trouble. In the boat crew’s view my white legs were ideal shark bait so I was ordered to always hop up on the launch first, scoop up a bucket of water from the river and only then wash my legs… away from of jaws of water-borne predators.

When the tiger does not make it into their conversation, people who visit the Sundarbans talk of crocodile attacks. It’s more hype than fact. Though that might have been true in the old days when crocs were common, 25 years ago I found no evidence to support the stories. Also there was confusion about whether people had been attacked by sharks or crocs. None of the scars from the injuries I physically examined were caused by crocodiles and six or seven victims down the line I was inclined to think that the so-called croc attacks was the work of sharks. People sifting for shrimp seedling were especially at risk because bull sharks commonly hunt in muddy waters along the shore. Some are maimed by relatively small sharks, about 1.5 or 1.8 m. long, which would grab a leg or an arm and shake vigorously tearing off skin, flesh, part of an arm, or a leg. As for the crocs, I just never saw enough of them. Nor it would appear do most land animals because deer, wild boar and tigers seemed to have no qualms about swimming across creeks, streams and rivers as evidenced by the many pugmarks and hoof prints visible on the edges of muddy banks.

When darkness fell, I would stop conversing with humans and begin working on what I loved best – looking for crocs. I used a powerful spotlight that made crocs’ eyes shine, giving them away. High tide was never any good to me as the reptiles would be deep in the mangroves. I found myself gliding along the waterways using the same methods that croc hunters once did, to devastating effect, in the 1950s when the skin industry was at its peak. Three decades later the few surviving crocs in the Sundarbans were still wary of humans.

Days passed. And despite scouring ideal croc habitat night afternight, frustration began to set in. The only crocs I was able to spot were hatchlings or yearlings. Though I followed up on local advice: “Go downriver to such and such place and you will see them basking” all I ever saw were a few slide marks. Then, out of the blue (brown actually!) one day, I saw the broad back of a monster croc – an 18 footer (5.5 m.) -- swimming languidly out in the middle of the Bhola River. I am unlikely to forget that sighting because it was one of the precious few crocs I ever saw in the Sundarbans. Ultimately after covering over 433 km. of mangrove creeks and rivers in three weeks, I counted just six, and saw evidence of six more during that survey. That’s a density of 0.028 crocs per km.

Drifting along the mud-lined and mangrove clothed waterways of the Sundarbans, watching the forest go by day after day can get monotonous so I would entertain myself fishing. Occasionally we would stop at a forest rest house and I would go out looking for snakes to take my mind off the survey that was not working out quite as I had hoped. When I go snake hunting, I don’t like people around; I like to concentrate on what I’m doing. But since the forest was ‘dangerous’ I could not casually wander off on my own. One afternoon while the guard was catching some shut eye post-lunch I sneaked off to look for snakes around the dighi, a freshwater pond away from the main river. I found some interesting water snakes and was totally engrossed when I suddenly heard shouting -- the guard was running towards me with his rifle ready. I quickly looked around to see if I was about to be pounced on by Dakshin Ray, the tiger god. The guard was angry: “If you get eaten by a tiger, they will blame me.” And I responded: “Yeah, but I’m right here. The rest house is in plain sight.” It was then that he narrated the hair-raising story of a Forester who had been taken by a tiger right in that dighi months earlier.

My survey was not particularly exciting in terms of snakes either. Cruising along one of the meandering mangrove rivers in a launch one day I saw a largish snake swimming across at speed and I scooped it up with a landing net. The boat crew was horrified that I had dumped a monocled cobra on the deck. As it sat hissing and dramatically displaying, the six crew members stood nervously as far back as the boat would allow, causing it to rock precariously. “Throw it back. Throw it back,” they yelled in unison and I replied in my best American-Bengali accent, “Nai… nai… nai. I want to take it to the shore and take pictures.”

My will prevailed and as they took me ashore I jumped into the mud. It was tricky – I had a camera around my neck, a cobra in one hand, a stick in the other, and was stuck up to my knees in mud. I did manage to get pictures, however, and this made an impression on the boat crew who talked about it all the way back. They then told me about the king cobra that climbed up the anchor rope of the launch that they “somehow beat off” before it could crawl aboard.

That night while the boat lay anchored in the middle of the river, I heard many tales of tigers with superhuman talents. Like ghost stories, everyone in the Sundarbans has his own tiger tale. The boatman narrated particularly extraordinary stories of tigers stealthily climbing aboard anchored fishing boats in the middle of the river and making off with adult men without waking anyone else. For effect he informed me that tigers make people lose not only their voice, but drains energy from their limbs so they cannot run. In a philosophic aside, he quoted the motto of the Sundarbans “Jale kumir, dangai bagh” -- crocs in the water, tigers on land.

If merely floating midstream could cause so much fear, I can only imagine what they thought about crawling through the mangrove slush. The armed guard walking with me in the thick bush was a psychological prop, but the benefit of doubt would have to be given to a determined tiger against the old bolt action .303 of the shaky guard. Nevertheless, even I was grateful for company as this halved the odds of a tiger attacking me! (Besides, a gun going off with a bang would probably scare any sane cat away.) Nobody went into the Sundarbans alone, whether fishermen, wood cutters or honey collectors. The bigger the group, the lower the risk. People sought safety in numbers for the same reason fish schooled together. I found myself inwardly happy that there was a part of the planet where humans were forced to think and behave like prey animals. Early man must have felt the same fear when sabre-toothed cats prowled around his campsites.

These people whose lives were governed by the tides lived in a fantastic world of terror and mythology embroidered with fact. I just could not tell what was real and what was not. A group of honey collectors spoke, as expected, about crocs and man-eating tigers and surprisingly, a few people who “got away.” One might imagine that if a tiger got a hold of you that was where the story would end. But in one case a charismatic honey collector spoke of a tiger that made the mistake of catching a man by the leg rather than his neck and began dragging him away, still alive. When the man realised that he was bouncing around between the hind legs of the tiger, he is said to have reached up to bite hard on the tigers’ testicles until it let him go. This was probably the only tiger attack story in the world that made everyone roll on the floor with laughter. There were other cases of people who actually fought tigers with their axes or machetes. And one man in the group philosophically concluded that “people are eaten by tigers because they torture the forest.”

What really scared the daylights out of me about the Sundarbans was not being attacked by an animal; it was being caught in a storm while paddling a canoe. I was there in April, the pre-monsoon storm season. If we were surveying by canoe at night, we ventured out only after carefully reading the skies for signs of an impending storm. One night, we misread the signs and got caught by the weather gods in Bainkari Khal. The chop of the waves even in that little creek was so bad that the canoe was swamped within minutes. Sharks and tigers were the last things on our minds when we jumped into the mud to haul the canoe up out of the water. The craft was our lifeline and the strong current kept trying to pull it away from us until we managed to tie it to some mangrove roots. We were covered in mud from head to toe and the strong wind against our damp clothes chilled us to the bone. Shivering, we crouched in the donghy, retying it periodically as the tide came in. For an hour and a half the wind tore through the forest shaking down sticks and leaves and sending them flying around like dangerous confetti. Lightning struck all around us and we just hung on for dear life. During this season, a lot of boats get lost and people lose their lives.

In the aftermath people remembered a super storm that hit in 1978-1979. The tidal surge had been between six and nine metres high, and people had to climb fast to stay above it to survive. Fortunately, because of the optimum salinity, mangroves species grow to over 15 m. tall in the swamp forests of Bangladesh. Along with the clinging humans, tigers, wild boar and even deer had been seen on trees together with the snakes and other creatures. When the storm subsided, 200,000 people and as many animals lay dead among the mangrove roots.

Mangroves are one of the most vital buffers against super storms anywhere in the world as we recently discovered when the huge tsunami hit Asia. No other place in the world attracts as many devastating storms as the Sundarbans does. If you trace the paths of a hundred cyclonic storms spawned in the Bay of Bengal, about 90 of them hit the Sundarbans. Without the mangroves to absorb the fury of the elements, a tidal surge up the Meghna River would flatten many villages and towns in its path.

Despite this critical function, the Sundarbans has been systematically whittled down to roughly half its original extent. For centuries, mangrove wood was extracted for construction of piers and jetties because they are naturally resistant to damage by saltwater. Much continues to be burned as firewood. When there were working plans for timber extraction, one tree specie was particularly discriminated against – the baen or Avicennia officinalis. These big, mature trees rot at the base creating big holes where tigresses are able to deposit their litters, pythons their eggs, and where a host of creatures such as civets, mongooses and monitor lizards can find a home. These old, rotten trees were useless as timber and were the ones removed for firewood.

I was told of a female python that was found incubating her eggs in one such tree hole. It was promptly killed and her four metre long skin hung in the launch that was my home in the Sundarbans. It was one of the biggest Indian python skins I had ever seen. As if to confirm the story, I discovered a shed python skin in one such huge tree hollow.

Many years later when I returned to the Indian Sundarbans in 2003, my spotlight survey was just as fruitless, though we did see a few more small crocs. It was the same old story. In contrast, in 2006 I counted 65 saltwater crocodiles in Bhitarkanika in an hour’s cruise. So why were there so many in Orissa? It has to be because pro-active conservation helped the crocodile make a remarkable recovery. The number of crocs of all sizes in Bhitarkanika, a comparatively small 672 sq. km. forest, is around 1,500. That’s a density of 10 crocs per km. Yet in the 10,000 sq. km. of the Sundarbans, which ought to have many times more crocs, reportedly supports only a miniscule population.

I am puzzled by the appallingly slow recovery of the saltwater crocodile in the Sundarbans (both sides of the border) despite nearly three decades of protection. Could lack of ideal nesting sites be the reason? Croc nests are not only obvious mounds; the females also draw attention to them by creating visible tracks. So it is vital to have undisturbed nesting areas with little or no human interference. In the years past, people collected eggs opportunistically to eat, but only two active nests had been found in recent years. Once croc exploitation reaches a certain threshold, their chance of recovery hits a point of no return unless the nest sites are vigorously protected.

Like crocodiles, monitor lizards too have been hammered by the skin industry. People camped in large parties on the edge of the Sundarbans and used dogs to corner and kill monitors with ruthless efficiency. So, even though the habitat was intact the numbers of these lizards seemed pitifully low. Someone should investigate what is preventing them from recovering.

The river terrapin, Batagur, is another reptile in trouble. The mangrove swamps once abounded with these huge turtles that were hunted for meat with baited hooks. The method was simple, a rope was strung across a fairly large river with hundreds of hooks and each hook was baited with the little yellow mangrove fruit of Sonneratia apetala that turtles love. My crew demonstrated how they used to catch them years ago, but all they could show me were the half a dozen captive terrapins being reared in village ponds.Today, the turtle is more or less extinct with small chance of recovery.

To understand what happened to the Sundarbans in the early days of human colonisation I looked at the Andamans where some of the pioneering human settlers of the smaller mangrove ecosystem were Bangladeshi refugees. The first thing they did was to clear the area, where the freshwater meets the saltwater, of all vegetation – mangrove trees, Nypa palms, Phoenix palms, the lot. Apparently, this is the best rice growing zone. This is also prime croc nesting habitat. In the Sundarbans, when the monsoon combines with high tide, storm surges sweep up through the mangroves drowning croc nests. The only place where croc nests will not be inundated is the non-tidal rice growing area.

What really drove this poignantly home to me was finding the bones of a female croc still on top of the remains of an old nest on the edge of the Sundarbans that had been freshly cleared for rice planting. She had been killed while guarding her nest. Ironically it was her maternal protective instinct that sealed her fate as she could easily have swum away from her tormentors. This epitomises how crocs were wiped out. The first wave of hunters killed the animals for their skins, the second wave of egg collectors robbed nests and the final nail in the coffin was the loss of prime nesting habitat.

The only available habitat left for crocs in the Sundarbans now is the tidal zone and although babies were successfully hatching in some years, they need freshwater to drink. During the rains they survive on rainwater, but after this when the rivers slow down to a trickle and saltwater flows in from the sea, baby crocs do not have a hope in hell of surviving. Which meant the yearlings I was seeing on my night surveys were probably a doomed lot.

Besides habitat, the other important factor is the prey base. Fish is a primary food source for crocs, monitors, and turtles, so I checked on the fishing trends. The high shark population inhibited fishermen from getting into the water to drive fish, so some used tame otters to do their job for them. Once the net was set up the otters corralled the fish along the shoreline. The mullet jumped through the air in panic and some actually leaped onto the shore and lay flapping in the mud. But most fishing is still done with traditional nets and the size of the mesh is one standard method of estimating resource exploitation. Typically people started out with nets of five to eight centimetre mesh size. Then gradually the mesh size got smaller, and now they use what can only be described as mosquito nets to pick up even the tiniest fish. Of all the other pressures stacked up against the aquatic reptiles, this is perhaps the main whammy – the bottom of the food chain is collapsing.

We had gone to the Sundarbans expecting to see crocodiles rule the tidal forest but came away instead with the realisation that despite the vastness of the mangroves, these animals had been systematically wiped out.

There can be no one silver bullet recommendation to set things right. The deep malaise afflicting the Sundarbans needs systematic long-term research, coupled with instant, effective conservation action. For a start, a comprehensive survey is needed to pinpoint nest sites for focused protection. I was thinking about this when a loud thump jolted the boat and almost knocked us overboard. The propeller had hit a submerged log and the blade had broken. The choking exhaust fumes caught us fully in the face as the boat sputtered into silence. Until the propeller was fixed we stewed in our sweat as we drifted downriver watching macaques picking the debris left by the receding tide.

Dogs and Us

2007-01-14T13:06:00.002+05:30

Photo credit: Nikhil Devasar
A pack of stray dogs attacking a nilgai in Sultanpur Wildlife Sanctuary, near New Delhi.

An earlier draft was published as Stray Scare in Sunday Express

14/1/07

Four-year old Nina bent down to pat the little stray puppy that was curled up asleep on the pavement. Before anyone could prevent it, the puppy had ripped her lip. The traumatized girl was quickly whisked away to the doctor for stitches and anti-rabies shots. In this incident, both the dog and the little girl are victims of our poor management of stray dogs. The puppy was an insecure, poorly fed, abused animal at the mercy of passing humans. Like millions of others, it had to fight a daily battle to stay alive, dodging traffic, finding shelter against the harsh summer sun and rain. No wonder he had misinterpreted Nina’s approach with suspicion and had launched into an offensive. This is not an isolated incident but typifies a growing problem that we have to resolve now for the sake of dogs and people.

Rabies:

The first point we simply cannot ignore when we are talking about stray dogs is that India tops the world in rabies deaths. Rabies is 100% fatal, just like AIDS and stray dogs are the Number One transmitters of the disease in India. It is hard to get any figures on human rabies cases as the Ministry of Health does not require hospitals to report cases. The best estimate available is the WHO’s National Multi-centric Rabies Survey of 2003, which puts the figure at 20,000 rabies deaths a year in India (tragically, half of them are small children). Doctors candidly state that the infected person is treated as an outpatient, given a heavy course of tranquilizers for a week and sent home to die as peacefully as can be hoped. According to the WHO’s 2003 report, there are an estimated 22 million dogs in India of which 14 million are strays.

Population Control:

In India Animal Birth Control (ABC) is presently the sole legal method of stray dog control in India. Ironically, Rule 7.9 states, “Female dogs found to be pregnant shall not undergo abortion (irrespective of stage of pregnancy) and sterilization and should be released till they have litter (sic).” The very rules that are meant to control the stray dog population mandate that stray pregnant female dogs should be allowed to give birth on the streets! Hardly ethical and humane!

Pet ownership:

The abundance of garbage coupled with the dogs’ innate fecundity are not the only reasons for the burgeoning stray dog population (as it is made out to be). Irresponsible dog owners are largely to blame – they abandon unwanted puppies and dogs on the streets. Even well to do families may dump their pets when they move to another city, or to an apartment complex with a no-pet policy. When there is no protocol or effective law in place to check this practice, we can continue to sterilize strays for the next 50 years and still not reach the intended target. It’s like trying to mop water from the floor while the tap remains open. Besides, ABC does not prevent dogs from attacking people nor is a sustainable rabies control protocol in place for the sterilized animals.

Feeding strays:

To further complicate matters there are numerous voluntary organizations which actively feed stray dogs. For instance, in 2001 the Ministry of Culture disbursed Rs. 10 crores to such organizations on Mahavir Jayanthi for the purpose of feeding stray animals. So even if we clean up our streets and make garbage inaccessible to stray animals, there is enough food given by sympathetic souls to sustain a huge population of strays. All the organizations working towards reducing the stray dog population should work out an integrated policy for the problem.

Ineffective population control:

The WHO recommends that for ABC to be effective, at least 70% of the total population has to be targeted within 6 months. However, the reality falls far short of these recommendations.

According to the estimates released by animal welfare organizations, New Delhi alone has about 200,000 stray dogs. Contrary to WHO recommendations, 20,000 dogs is the admitted annual capacity of the 6 to 8 animal welfare organizations responsible for the implementation of Animal Birth Control in Delhi. That means only 5% of the total stray dog population is sterilized over a period of 6 months, 65% less than recommended. Although 20,000 dogs are sterilized a year, it still leaves the rest of the population (180,000) free to breed. Let's assume that only half of this remaining population (90,000) is female and that only half this number (45,000) is able to breed successfully (not juvenile, too old, or unhealthy) and only two pups survive per litter. That results in 90,000 dogs added again to the population. Although dogs reproduce twice a year, we'll keep the estimate conservative. Sterilizing 20,000 dogs still results in the population growing by nearly four times in one year! This estimate does not include the thousands of abandoned un-neutered pets that are added to the stray dog population each year. (According to the International Fund for Animal Welfare one female dog and her offspring can produce 67,000 puppies in 6 years!).

Charity or essential service:

Although the ABC programme is funded by taxpayers it is largely performed on a voluntary basis by NGOs with limited (urban) reach. Unless the infrastructure to deal with tens of millions of dogs at one go is in place, the good intentions of the many dedicated NGOs will remain futile. Dogs are capable of breeding faster than any organization can sterilize them and the bottom line is, they are the biggest reservoirs of the rabies virus.

Where is the Plan?

Currently, there is no strategic Action Plan that clearly evaluates how many years it will take at the rate of how many sterilizations per year to reach a target of zero stray dogs. The stray dog population control functions on an ad hoc basis and any claims of its effectiveness is challenged by the lack of planning, infrastructure, funds and a scientific policy.

Street Dogs:

India is disturbingly the only country in the world to follow a policy of returning sterilized stray animals to their respective localities. In a scene reminiscent of the Roman gladiator days, we are daily witnesses to these strays dodging traffic, getting run over by vehicles, fighting with each other, and suffering from diseases like parvo, enteritis, distemper, cancer and mange. According to the WHO’s 2003 data, an average of 17 million people get bitten by dogs every year in India of which 76% (about 12 million) are caused by strays. The Government of India’s annual medical cost for treating these bites runs close to Rs. 1.5 billion, while poor people form nearly 88% of the rabies mortality figure says the same report.

Is it surprising then that in many areas, the public view stray dogs as a nuisance and vans returning the strays after sterilization are stoned and chased away. Such stray dogs are released in the outskirts of towns and villages, and sometimes in forests to fend for themselves.

Are Sanctuaries for Wildlife?:

Dogs (like cats) are natural born predators and it is very difficult to teach them otherwise. Stray dogs are incredibly damaging to wildlife killing untold numbers of monitor lizards, birds, snakes, and other wild creatures. No discerning environmentalist would want to trade our dwindling wildlife for a world of free-ranging feral domestic animals. On the remote beaches of the Andaman and Nicobar Islands, 90% of the highly endangered leatherback sea turtle nests are destroyed by stray dogs; they are actually helping to push this largest of all sea turtles to the brink of extinction. Closer to home, packs of stray dogs regularly bring down black buck and deer inside Guindy National Park in Chennai and at the Vandalur Zoo. In Mumbai, the leopards of Sanjay Gandhi National Park proliferate on an unnatural diet of stray dogs, resulting in dozens of human and leopard deaths. Stalking and hunting stray dogs means the big cat is also watching human behaviour at close quarters. In several recently documented cases in Junnar, Maharashtra, leopards killed humans while chasing dogs.

Dogs regularly kill spotted deer in Lal Bagh Park, Bangalore and in Bori Wildlife Sanctuary, Madhya Pradesh. According to the Forest Department, dogs kill blackbuck, especially females in the act of giving birth, in the Great Indian Bustard Sanctuary, Nannaj, Maharashtra. In late 2004, thousands of stray dogs caught in the Hubli/Dharwad area of Karnataka were released in Dandeli Wildlife Sanctuary, Karnataka. In March 2005, ten deer were killed by stray dogs in Van Vihar National Park in Bhopal.

In parts of India stray dogs transmit rabies to wolves and jackals, creating a wildlife conflict situation that results in scores of wild wolves and jackals being killed by panicky humans. In Aurangabad district, a rabid wolf bit 12 people in a single day of whom 3 died despite receiving anti-rabies treatment. It is irresponsible to leave unmanaged populations of potentially dangerous predators such as domestic dogs to run wild in our streets and forests. India needs a large-scale publicity campaign to educate people on the necessity of sterilizing their pets and the State has to provide the infrastructure for cheaply affordable sterilizations. Unless this is done as a government initiative, stray dog population control has little chance of being successful. Rabies control cannot be effective if run as a voluntary charity as it is right now. It needs an effective campaign similar to the drive that eliminated that other scourge, small pox, in this country and requires the same kind of publicity and mobilization that goes into eradicating polio.

Is feeding enough?

When responsibly cared for, dogs are truly man’s best friends, but the issue of stray dogs has mushroomed into India’s worst public health problem involving animals. What we need is a meeting of minds to hammer out a solution to a problem that is rampant in both urban and village areas. Animal welfare doesn’t stop with feeding animals; it includes taking care of them and ensuring the animals don’t suffer from preventable diseases such as rabies. We have created a problem that has gotten out of control and now we need pragmatic, effective, humane solutions based on the best scientific advice, to prevent incidents such as the 1200 dogs poisoned in Kashmir recently (reported on 28^th November 2006) or the 6 year old girl who was killed by 15 stray dogs at 7.30 am on 5^th January 2007 in Bangalore or the 55 year old man who was killed and eaten by strays late evening on the 4^th January 2007 in Chandigarh.

Co-author: Meghna Uniyal Rabies Prevention and Dog Population Control Download

Film Review: The Right to Survive

2006-12-15T07:26:00.000+05:30

“The Right to Survive”

Turtle Conservation and Fisheries Livelihoods

Directed by Rita Banerji and Shilpi Sharma.

Produced by: International Collective in Support of Fishworkers.

This is a long needed film – one that highlights the alienation of local people in the name of conservation. But it is too long and quite difficult to keep track of what battle is being fought where. We had to view the film twice and take extensive notes to figure out what it was about.

The film tells us that there are 3 main turtle nesting areas on the Orissa coast and 3 classes of fishing being used in these areas:

Gahirmatha – motorized and traditional fishermen

Devi – trawlers

Rushikulya – traditional fishermen

Gahirmatha – It was never made clear in the film if the motorized fishermen are fishing illegally in the Core Area of Gahirmatha. This area isn’t just a turtle sanctuary but is also a nursery for fish stocks. And by the film’s own admission over-fishing has seriously depleted fish catch in these areas. So advocating fishing here albeit by traditional fishermen who have minimal impact, is really shooting oneself in the foot – if we want to sustain fisheries in our rivers and seas, we need such Protected Areas where fish and shrimp can replenish themselves. This becomes especially urgent as recent Food and Agriculture Organization reports state that unless we do something about it, by the year 2048 fishing will be an extinct occupation.

Rushikulya – This area seems to function as an example of how conservation and fisheries can work together, like keeping the trawlers from Andhra Pradesh out and local groups rescuing baby turtles. But this situation is not highlighted enough or even identified within the film as an example to the fisheries sector or the Forest Department.

Devi – Here there is no protection, it is subject to intensive trawling, and the trawlers refuse to use the Turtle Excluder Devices (TED). The identified offenders were the day trawlers. The simple, large-meshed trawl guard to keep turtles out of the nets was ingenious but was only shown for a few seconds in passing with no discussion and left the viewer asking for more.

Although the use of these guards could make day trawlers turtle-friendly, the film left its initial accusations hanging: that day trawlers messed up the livelihoods of the traditional fishermen and that fish stocks were rapidly depleting. After making the statement that protection of fish resources will automatically protect turtles it is perplexing that no conclusions are made. When everywhere else in the world TED efficacy is identified as a way of minimizing the impact on turtle mortality while maximizing fish catching potential (with a loss of only 10%), here we have a trawler worker saying he loses 90% of his catch using TED. In the absence of any rebuttal, his words can only be taken as the gospel truth. It is curious that a tried and tested device such as TED is dismissed as causing such significant losses, and the trawl guard which has not been tested is being promoted as a turtle-friendly device!

Several vital points were passed over, especially the protection of the moving turtle congregation and alternate livelihoods for the Gahirmatha fishermen. Turtle conservationists Aarthi and Kartik’s opinion that we still have plenty of time to be creative and change methodologies could be deadly for the unique phenomenon of the Orissa Ridley arribadas. Considering that we know little about sea turtle biology and the fact that the average size of adult females coming ashore to lay eggs is getting smaller, the demise of the arribada could even spell the death of the species. Seeing tens of thousands of turtles come ashore should not make us complacent about their future. On the human side, the rising tide of suicides among the Gahirmatha fishermen further underlines the need for urgent action. Unfortunately the film didn’t stress this urgency.

Who are the main losers if the various ports and oil rigs come up? Do trawlers stand to lose along with turtles and traditional fishermen? The film did not mention the likely fall-out of these developments and who will be impacted. While the unstated purpose of the film is apparently to revoke the Central Empowerment Committee’s strictures on fishing in the turtle nesting sites, the film missed a crucial opportunity to focus the fight against a common enemy – Big Industry. Perhaps this should have been a key argument that might even unite the trawlers, traditional fishermen and turtle conservationists.

The bottomline however, is this: just because industry is a bigger threat to turtles does not absolve the responsibility of the fishing community (be they traditional, motorized or trawlers) to nurture fish stocks for the future by respecting Protected Areas for the vital function they have been established (including sea turtle conservation).

Although well-shot, the visuals have no story within themselves and merely illustrate the narration making it unexciting and pedantic (how many ‘boats on the sea’ shots does it take?). The graphics are good and effective. The editing has little rhythm - paying more attention to the rhythm of the narration rather than the inherent rhythm of the shots. The questions left unanswered, the missed opportunities for pushing arguments, the lack of any definite conclusions makes the film seem unfocussed, vague and results in more confusion than clarity.

“The Right to Survive” could have been a seminal documentation of the problem but unfortunately falls far short of the stated goal “attempts to provide a solution for tomorrow”. This may have been a more effective 30 minute film.

Co-written with Rom Whitaker

The Last Great Indian Unknown

2006-10-24T14:34:00.000+05:30

Published as cover story in Outlook Traveller Oct 2006

The bridge washed away in May and no vehicle could cross the boulder-strewn, mischievously gurgling M’pen River. There was no choice but to walk the 18 km to Deban. Once we got there, there would be no guarantee that we could cross the Noa-Dehing River and the Deban Nullah into the Buffer Zone of Namdapha National Park where we hoped to camp for the following week. We'd just have to try our luck.

It was an embarrassingly large entourage for two people to camp in the forest for a few days. There were seven porters, two tour guides, a cook, his assistant and a mass of things to carry that included literally everything but the kitchen sink - stove, gas cylinder, tents (different ones for sleeping, dining, shower and toilet), provisions, toilet seats, etc. I vetoed the blankets, pillows and a folding dinner table. I tried to veto the rasogolla tins but the cook wouldn’t hear of it.

The M'pen River wrapped itself around us, firmly nudging us downriver with the muscular persistence of a large python. It was already mid morning and the forest was quiet – you quickly get used to the steady metallic droning of the cicadas. The only other creatures about were large wood spiders and leeches. There were plenty of the small plain brown leeches but the ones that took my breath away were what I consider to be the world’s prettiest leech – a spectacularly beautiful large velvety brown one with sparkling emerald green stripes. They sat inert on leaves angling for passers by. Once onboard, they worked their way to a patch of bare skin and sucked their fill of blood. Given a choice of bloodsuckers like mosquitoes, ticks, horse flies, I’ll take leeches any day. They do not have parasites or transmit diseases the others are notorious for. They just suffer from a bad PR machine that promotes the larger-than-life prejudice against slimy, wormy limbless creatures.

As the road skirted the boundary of the Park all we could see were Chakma settlements and fields. Namdapha itself was hidden from view by a steep embankment. The commonest plant along the way was a colonizer I was familiar with - eupatorium. A weed that came with ships’ ballast from the West Indies in the late 1880s, it has colonized most of our National Parks and Sanctuaries. It was easy to fantasize being a pioneering explorer in this remote jungle; this weed brought me down to earth. Eight km later, when the road swung into Gibbons Land, we got our first real view of Namdapha National Park. The towering trees occluded the sky, the variety of birds heard but not seen, and the occasional glimpse of a forested mountain were tantalizing. I had learnt not to hope for too much, as the rainforest is very miserly in revealing its secrets. Namdapha is reportedly the only place in India to see the four cats - tiger, snow leopard, clouded leopard, and leopard. But I knew that if I saw even one of them here, I had the good deeds of all my previous births to thank. What I could, however, hope for were butterflies, birds like hornbills and hoolock gibbons, India’s only ape.

At Deban, it was clear that we were never meant to get to Namdapha’s Buffer Zone. Deban Nullah was declared treacherous (too deep and the current too swift), the boatman had been transferred and the captive elephants were loose in the forest until the tourist season began in October. So we were going to have to chuck our carefully considered plans and instead make the best of the Miao-Vijoynagar Road. The guesthouse and its grounds looked like a Government guesthouse franchise – the concrete construction, the marigolds and crotons, the pine trees and the lawns. But on the bright side, it had a comfortable bed with a mosquito net.

MV Road, as it is marked on the map, was actually non-existent. In 1974, the Public Works Department (PWD) set out to build the road but twenty-four years later, they had reached only as far as Deban, a distance of ten km (that’s forty metres a year!). In 1998 the Forest Department decided that enough progress had been made and threw the PWD out. The only route to Vijoynagar is the Lisu path which wove along the southern bank of the Noa-Dehing River. The Lisu are forest people whose settlements, Gandhigram and Vijoynagar, on the other side of Namdapha, hugged the border with Myanmar. Their knowledge of the flora and fauna of this forest is unparalleled. During the open season they worked as porters and forest guides but with the rains all the Lisu, down to the last soul, had migrated back home to emerge only in October.

Although we were so far east, Arunachal Pradesh still patriotically followed Indian Standard Time. This meant that the sun rose at 4 am. At 7.30 am (about 10 am daylight time, long after the dawn chorus of birds and gibbons had ended) we headed for Hawa Camp, a spot five km further up the MV Road.

Lush, waist high vegetation lined the path. With shirts tucked into our pants and leech socks protecting our legs, we were all right. Leech socks look like Christmas stockings, made of woven cotton or canvas that cover the leg below the knee. They are worn over regular socks and inside the shoes. While the fashion-conscious would shudder at its crude cut, it effectively protected your legs from becoming a bloody mess at the end of a forest walk. The leech was to become the undeniable mascot of the trip. Pronounced "leese" by the Assamese, Wancho and Singpho people alike, we halted every ten yards, for de-leeching. It was a futile exercise – the longer you stood still removing leeches, the more the leeches got on.

It was too late in the day to see any animal and I contented myself with horticultural delights. Rocky outcrops covered with ferns, philodendrons dripping from tree trunks, the translucent green of the birds’ nest fern, a spectacularly large black orchid flower, the pink flowers of Impatiens (balsam) and colourful begonias lined the path. It was difficult to take one’s eyes off the slippery path to see the beauty of the forest above. Recent rains had churned the earth into a chocolate sauce consistency that threatened everyone’s ability to remain on two feet. In places the path wound around the sheerest edge of the slope and losing one’s step here could mean a rapid and bone-jarring descent of a km or two. Japang Pansa, a Wancho tribal, who was our guide warned that this was no place to lose one’s balance and fracture bones as it would take two days just to reach anyone at the bottom of the slope. Two captive elephants had tumbled down the slope and died, he said. Ouch!

The sheer size and spread of this forest made my head light; most of the rainforests I knew in South India were finite little oases hemmed in on all sides. Namdapha is one of the two largest protected rainforests in India at 2000 sq km, a whopper compared to that other iconic rainforest of the South, Silent Valley which measures only about 90 sq. km. Namdapha is also contiguous with Hukaung Valley Wildlife Sanctuary (21,000 sq.km) in Myanmar, the world’s largest tiger reserve making it one of the most extensive rainforests in all of Asia. When we arrived sweaty and breathless at the wayside clearing that is Hawa Camp, I gulped in the rare view of the Noa-Dehing River below and the forested mountain slopes beyond. Japang said aloud what was on my mind, “This is just one day of our lives but for the Lisu, this is their entire life.”

How do the Lisu survive in this remote corner of India, out of reach of medical help? Japang answered matter-of-factly, “If anyone is seriously ill, they just die. Every July-August a lot of them die of malaria.” In clear weather, it would take a healthy Lisu five days to walk from his village, across Namdapha to Miao. To survive in Gandhigram or Vijoynagar means complete reliance on one’s knowledge of medicinal herbs and edible plants with no outside support of any kind. Do the Lisu wear leech socks, I wonder? Japang says, “No, they just brave it; their skin is too thick for leeches to get through.”

On the way down, a raucous, piping birdcall echoed through the forest. Rufous woodpecker. Japang filled me in on the peculiar breeding habits of this bird. It lays its eggs in an ant nest about 2 to 3 m off the ground. Don’t the ants eat the baby birds when they hatch? He said the village elders told him that the chicks smelt like ants so they were left alone.

Although Japang had served in Namdapha for many years and patrolled its paths all year round, he had never seen a tiger here. There was no rancour in his voice when he said that visiting tourists had seen one in November. Such is the way of the forest.

After that ten km trek and nary a hide of any animal, the sight of a troop of Hoolock Gibbons feasting above the Deban guesthouse was welcome. As I watched a hairy arm shoot out of the foliage to grab handfuls of fruit, I noticed something moving around next to it. It was a baby gibbon – a recent addition to the 2500 left in the world – fuzzy and blond. It seemed an odd time to have babies but we were to see more of them throughout the trip. Papa gibbon was disconcerted by our focused interest on his baby although we were 75 metres below. Even at that distance you cannot mistake who the father was; he was black while she was blond.

Japang, pointing to the northern horizon where the clouds obscured the sky, said that on a clear day one could see Daphabum, the snow-capped mountain that presided over Namdapha. No outsider has ever gone there, Japang said. An army expedition ended in failure a couple of years ago and the only people who have been there were the Lisu. They had described Daphabum as a place littered with plane wrecks from the Indo-China War of the early 60s. They scavenged the scraps, and melted them to make woks and other kitchen utensils. A Chinese pilot crash-landed his plane there and the intact cockpit is still used by the Lisu to sleep in when they visit the mountain. I was incredulous. Japang insisted that it could be true, as he had recovered pieces of aircraft from the Namdapha River which originates in Daphabum.

It rained all through the night and into the morning. My plan of going down to Gibbons Land with Japang had to be canceled. I thought if we put on our raincoats we could go but Japang held me back, “The path would have become a river. Wait till it stops.” Instead we watched the Noa Dehing rapidly turn into a roaring muddy river, carrying heavy tree trunks like matchsticks. Japang mentioned that the M’pen River, on the way home, may also be running full with this rain and we might have to camp there for a couple of days until it subsided. As we sat out of the rain watching the river fill up, Japang recalled an incident when he had been on patrol with a party of eleven Forest staff in the Buffer Zone. They had been marooned by a flash flood. They had run out of food quickly and the Chakma fed them for three days until their supplies ended too. “So those of us who knew about such things went into the forest for edible leaves; others went to the river to catch fish. There were so many fish in the river then. We could stand in the water and wait for a large fish to swim by and we’d hit it with a machete or club. We cooked the fish and the forest leaves together and lived on that for a few days. Despite that we became weak and could barely move. In the meantime our families were very worried. They were finally able to get the boatman to rescue us after 12 days.” If the M’pen was flooded we would be stuck in a similar position and I had no illusions about how the team would fare.

Leading this team was a novel experience for me. Until then I had always been part of a team led by an experienced and hard taskmaster – wake up before dawn, instant noodles the only sustenance, and jungle walks late into the night. I had felt inadequate, a novice naturalist and on this trip I felt like a one-eyed jungli leading the blind through the rainforest. I had to make concessions for the rookies on the team who had never been in a forest before. A couple still suffered from aches and pains of the trek to Deban. Our walks would have to be limited to no more than 10 km a day.

Optimistically I made plans to leave for Gibbons Land with Japang at 5.30 the next day. The others would follow after breakfast. The day was bright and clear with the haunting ululating songs of Hoolock gibbons. All worries of swollen rivers receded from my mind. As we walked in blessed silence watching Great Indian Hornbills at fruiting fig trees, I nearly jumped when a loud “aar aar aar” came out of the bushes to my left. A moment later a small yellow and brown weasel-like animal shot up the embankment. Yellow-throated marten. Even before we could react, a young marten ran across the path and dived into the bushes. Japang moved forward to investigate when another marten crying similarly in alarm scrambled up the embankment. They had been feeding on a flying squirrel – just the head, skin and intestines remained. We left them to it and continued on. Japang surmised that the squirrel might have come down to the ground where it may have been killed by the martens. Why would it come down? Because it couldn’t fly, its skin may have become heavy with the rain. Or the martens killed the squirrel up in the trees and it fell down and they followed it. We’ll never know.

Numerous pugmarks of various small mammals were imprinted into the fudge-like mud; if we were better jungle watchers, these could tell us many a tale. But neither Japang nor I were that well-versed and we had to let the jungle hang on to its mysteries until the next time when I promised myself I’d go out with a Lisu. While Japang was invaluable, there was a lot he didn’t know. Without his aid, I’d probably never have seen the yellow-bellied leaf bird, long tailed minivet, dollar bird, great barbet or the racket-tailed drongo. Namdapha is a bird watchers hotspot where names such as purple cochua, green cochua, beautiful nuthatch and Blandford’s rosefinch come alive. The Park encompasses a range of altitudes - all the way from the floodplains of the lowlands to the snows of Daphabum. Such diversity of habitat spawns unique plants and animals, many not even known to science. The vast expanse of forests on the southern and northern banks of Noa-Dehing haven't been explored at all.

While waiting for others to show up at the Forest Department outpost in Gibbons Land, a flock of Brown Hornbills flew from tree to tree. Japang explained that these birds were unique in the hornbill world. Most female hornbills incarcerate themselves in a tree hole for the entire time it takes to incubate eggs and raise their babies. The male hornbill is the sole provider of the family during the female’s confinement. Should the male get killed, it’s curtains for the female and babies. Brown Hornbills, however, live in family groups and therefore the female hornbill has not only her mate but also her sons to provide for her.

Moti Jheel is a pond atop a hill, the only other "sight" to see along the MV Road. Although we had done ten km already, the fair weather wasn't going to last long. The team agreed to do the additional ten km that afternoon. Before we set out, the team bargained with the cook for the last spoonfuls of salt with which to thwart the leeches. The path to Moti Jheel was quite different from MV Road that we had been on so far. The canopy was entirely closed with minor breaks over streams. The forest was dark, leeches thick, and the climb steep. Birds’ nest ferns graced tree branches and there was hardly any undergrowth at all. It seemed like no one had been here in years, but Japang insisted he had come up in March. A wild pig guarding her family grunted in warning. We stood stock still until the pigs moved off into the forest and Japang gave the all clear. About an hour and some later, we unexpectedly arrived at a primeval pond coated with green algae. None of us would have been surprised if a Loch Ness-like monster or a hand holding Excalibur emerged out of the water. This was Moti Jheel. Mythology aside, it was hard to imagine what life forms lived in this pool. Japang looked at the water thoughtfully and wondered aloud if a huge snake could live in there. In reality, it was probably home to nothing more than a few turtles, frogs and assorted insects but then, there could well be a few surprises in store if explored further. The walk downward was slippery and our tired feet slipped and slid with leeches hanging on for dear life.

We spread out along the road intent on getting rid of leeches from our footwear. It was a black day for leeches – they were tortured with salt, sugar, tobacco and DEET. Within minutes those gorgeous green and brown leeches had turned into flaccid, colourless, lifeless bodies lying along the road. That night, one of the leech-paranoid members laid a white trail of salt around his sleeping bag like medieval Europeans hung garlands of garlic to ward off vampires.

It began to rain seriously that night. By morning the campsite was flooded. Japang sounded dire warnings about M’pen in spate. Tawang, a Wancho porter, was dispatched at 6 am. If he didn’t return by 10, he had crossed M’pen and we were to follow. At the appointed hour, already driven stir crazy, I picked up my knapsack and began heading out. Not even ten yards down the road, I met Tawang. Bad news. It looked like we may have to camp here one more night at least. I was worried. If we were marooned here we would not last very long – we were not forest-hardened enough to survive on forest leaves and roots. So far the rainforest had granted me more than I had dared to hope. I fervently wished our luck would hold a bit longer. An hour later the rain abated and we decided to give it a shot. The river had subsided since that morning but it was a lot fuller than the last time we had crossed it. Big smooth boulders underwater were a hazard and many a time we nearly fell into the swift current. Shikari, the Chakma porter, had the big tin trunk with crockery. This was going to be a challenge. But Shikari just tied a rope to the handle of the trunk and floated it across the river looking for all the world like a man walking a big rectangular dog on a leash.

Just after everyone had crossed without mishap, we heard a distant rumbling. I looked questioningly, pat came the answer “the mountain is falling” – a landslide. Soon the clouds closed in over Namdapha and the heavens opened up as we sped towards Dibrugarh blasting Assamese folk songs in our wake. As I gazed at the white clouds receding in the distance I knew I'd be back to explore that last great Indian Unknown.

The gharial on the brink

2006-10-24T14:29:00.000+05:30

Published in 'The Hindu' 8th October 2006

Wispy tendrils of mist rose delicately from the water surface, tinged gold by the dawn. Your breath hangs as little clouds of vapour as you gaze upon the Girwa River on a cold winter morning. A trio of hollow clapping sounds from the other side of the river, half a kilometer away tells you that an adult male gharial is advertising his presence. It is the height of the breeding season. The place seems trapped in a time in early history when man was still clad in animal skins. It is only as the sun rose higher and burns the mist off the water that the world comes into focus with appalling clarity. The 5 km stretch of the Girwa River in Katerniaghat Wildlife Sanctuary is one of the only three wild breeding sites left in the world for the most unique of all the crocodiles. This gentle crocodile has become the most endangered large animal in India, twenty times more so than the tiger.

For the thirty years of Project Crocodile, initiated and supported by a joint Government of India/Food and Agriculture Organization (FAO)/UNDP programme, the National Chambal Sanctuary was the focus of intense gharial conservation efforts. The only Protected Area spread over three states – Uttar Pradesh, Rajasthan and Madhya Pradesh – the Chambal has over 100 km of river that can be called suitable gharial habitat. So it was natural for conservation attention to be centred here.

Bandits as protectors

Traditionally, the Chambal has been protected by its reputation. The local residents lived under the thumb of the dacoits, and for a long time Chambal’s infamous icon was Phoolan Devi. The ravines afforded effective protection to bandits who successfully evaded any attempt to capture them. Gharial protection could then afford to be minimal only; the dacoits made sure no outsiders trespassed. Dedicated crocodile researchers from the State Forest Departments collected wild nests to be incubated at Kukkrail in UP and at Morena, MP. The resulting hatchlings were reared for three years, protected from predators under a programme hatched by FAO consultant Bob Bustard. When they reached a metre in length, they were released in the wild.

Over 5000 such juveniles were introduced into the Protected Areas of Chambal, Girwa, Son, Ken and Mahanadi rivers. Surveys to monitor how the gharial were faring had to be conducted only during the day. On the Chambal river at least, nights belonged to the bandits, but not for long.

The mafia takes over

When the notorious Chambal bandits started to give themselves up in the 1990s, the inadvertent protection that the National Chambal Sanctuary enjoyed began to unravel. The state police machinery didn’t sweep into the void created by the brigands and soon the Chambal became the hangout of the other anti-social element, the mafia. While the bandits of the earlier era were happy to sponge off the rich landlords and traders, the mafia exploited the natural resources. While one group excavated sand to feed the building boom in cities like Delhi and Agra, another poached freshwater turtles. While the sand-miners destroy basking and nesting sites, the turtlers kill gharial which get accidentally snagged by the thousands of vicious hooks. Fishing is banned in the National Chambal Sanctuary but there is no enforcement. Fishermen chop the snouts or kill gharials deliberately when they became helplessly entangled in their nets. Besides, fishing depletes the prey of the gharial, depressing the habitat’s ability to support larger numbers of the animal.

During the dry summer months, the river runs shallow as water is pumped to irrigate cucumbers and other crops. Barrages, dams, electricity pylons and other developments are driving the final nails in the river’s coffin. The Forest Department, charged with protecting the wildlife and resources of the Protected Area has no protection itself from the armed locals. Any outsider is liable to be kidnapped and held for ransom. Under these circumstances patrolling and protection has naturally been at a bare minimum. The Chambal is going down the drain and the future of gharials, turtles, river dolphins, otters and water birds looks bleak.

The Gharial Multi-Task Force

The first alarm bells rang in 2004, when researchers Dr. R.K. Sharma and Dhruva Basu compiled survey findings of the last ten years which showed a drastic decline in gharial numbers. Surveys conducted in 2006 reveal a worsening decline. At the recent meeting of the Crocodile Specialist Group of the World Conservation Union, in France, the Gharial Multi-Task Force was set up with a Core Group consisting of all the main gharial researchers in India and Nepal, the only two countries where wild gharial survive. One of the first tasks of the Task Force was to assess the population trend of the gharial. Has it declined sharply enough to justify uplisting in the Red Data Book from Endangered to a Critically Endangered species?

Although the revision hasn’t been effected yet, the initial assessment is startling. The area once occupied by the gharial has shrunk by over 98%, and the numbers have plummeted by 97% in the last sixty years. In the 1940s between 5,000 and 10,000 gharials were found from the Indus river system in Pakistan to the Irrawady in Myanmar, covering 20,000 sq. km. Today about 200 adult animals occupy less than 250 sq. km. When Project Crocodile came into effect, there were an estimated 200 gharials of all sizes left in the world. Thirty years and a massive crocodile conservation exercise later, the gharial numbers are creeping down to their lowest low in the early 1970s. But now the pressures on gharial habitat have multiplied and quality of what remains is deteriorating. The question is can we achieve now what we failed to do then?

If gharials die, so do we

The gharial requires deep, free-flowing rivers unfettered by dams and barrages. The water has to be clean and clear for its fishy prey to breed. Gharial must have undisturbed sand banks to bask and nest. We are also talking here about an intact, protected river habitat, on which our own survival hinges. It’s not for nothing that the wise ancients depicted Ma Ganga astride the gharial.

Six years ago, the world saw through Project Tiger’s hollow claims of success. Today, India’s second largest species conservation programme, Project Crocodile, is in danger of being similarly discredited. What went wrong? The quick answer is that the ‘simple’ part of the job was admirably well done: 12,000 gharial eggs collected, incubated and hatched, over 5000 juveniles released into Protected Areas and sporadic monitoring done. But the ‘hard’ part was ignored: there was little or no effort to get the river people on the side of the gharial and the conservation movement. As a result today, there are 2 gharial left out of over 700 released in the Mahanadi river in Orissa! In the Girwa about 60 of all sizes survive while over 900 were released. The Chambal has fared marginally better with about 78 adults out of the over 3500 gharial released.

Despite years of conservation education we are today facing the worst environmental crisis in history. The only way to reverse this trend is for every citizen to put conservation at the top of the priority list. We need a rejuvenation of political will that will encourage and support conservation efforts of the State Forest Departments and NGOs. And to save the gharial what we need now is a holistic approach to river conservation. The ban on fishing and turtle poaching has to be enforced while at the same time working with local communities for alternate livelihood options. The inter-linking of rivers is predictably the worst thing that could happen to all our riparian wildlife and has to be appraised by hydrologists and biologists before we flush away all our river resources. The gharial, turtles and dolphins are not the only ones dependent on healthy rivers; our own survival depends on it.

HOW TO AVOID BEING BITTEN BY SNAKES

2006-10-03T16:40:00.000+05:30

In houses and gardens:

v Learn to identify the local species of snakes and which ones are venomous. You need worry only about avoiding the venomous ones.

v Piles of debris (stacks of bricks, firewood, etc.) and rubble are good hiding places for snakes.

v In areas of known snake activity, keep the surrounding area clear of low bushes, and hedges which are clear at the root base. The idea is to avoid providing cover for the snakes while approaching the house and for you to have a clear range of vision.

v Keep the house and surrounding area free of all rodents (prey) and rodent burrows (shelter).

v Use a torch/flashlight when walking outdoors at night.

v Sleep off the ground on a cot or bed.

v If you see a snake, it is best to let it find its way out of the house by itself. If it is well settled in, use a hockey stick like curved stick to pick up the snake and drop into a tall bucket with lid. The snake can now be moved outdoors.

v Do not try to kill the snake as you can get bitten in the process.

v Encourage ratsnakes to live in the garden as they will eat all other snakes.

v Don’t reach into spots you cannot check for snakes first.

v A dog trained to fear snakes (get their nose bitten by a harmless watersnake when they are puppies) will warn you of the presence of one.

Outdoors:

v Avoid reaching your hands in to stacks of straw, wood, etc.

v While walking at night always use a torch.

v Always wear footwear (of any kind).

v Watch where you step.

There is only one sure cure for venomous snakebite: antivenom serum. Most snake bites are not dangerous, only 10 to 15% of venomous bites prove serious enough to be potentially fatal. Check if the local hospital stocks anti-venom serum ahead of time. In case of a bite, go to the hospital immediately. First aid measures like pressure bandages, tourniquets, cut and suck are NOT recommended.

FIRST AID (courtesy http://www.lfsru.org/firstaid.htm)

The best and most effective instant action to take in case of snakebite is to follow the four point plan below:

Reassure the victim

Keep calm. Fear and panic will only raise the pulse rate and blood pressure and move the venom into the system faster. Tell the patient that most snakebites are from non-venomous species. Even most venomous bites are rarely serious but all bites should be watched for symptoms.

Immobilize the bitten limb without compression.

If the bite is on a hand or arm place it in a sling bandage or use a piece of cloth to support the arm. In the case of a leg bite, keep it still on a cushion of cloth or straw.

Carry the patient to hospital as fast as safely possible.

Don’t waste time washing the wound, seeking traditional remedies or applying any drugs or chemicals to the patient. Keep the patient as immobile as possible; carry the patient on a stretcher or ride in a vehicle, boat or bicycle. DO NOT WASTE TIME.

On the way to the hospital note any of the following signs and tell the Doctor.

The Doctor will want to know if any of the following signs or symptoms were seen on the journey to the hospital:

a) Difficulty in breathing

b) Drooping eyelids

c) Appearance of any unusual bruising

d) Swelling. Carry a pen and mark the limit of the swelling every 10 minutes or so

e) Drowsiness

f) Difficulty in speaking

g) Bleeding from the gums

h) Bleeding from the wound that does not seem to stop

Setting Free - issues relating to wildlife rescue and rehabilitation

2006-08-10T10:31:00.000+05:30

Zoos' Print Vol. XXII No. 8, August 2007

One early morning we found a gunnysack on our doorstep that contained a baby toddy-cat. Its eyes were barely open and it lay asleep in blissful slumber. I fed it some milk with a small-animal feeding bottle left over from the days when I was rearing a litter of mongooses. As he grew and became more active by the day, I felt less energetic. He was nocturnal and I had to stay awake and play with him as I took my role as mummy seriously. I had read Joy Adamson’s books and was completely carried away by the romance of rearing baby animals.

When he was half-grown, we decided it was time to move him out of the house and introduce him to his future home. We propped a large cage – 5 feet x 5 feet x 7 feet –under the banyan tree behind the house and gave him a branch and a small sleeping box. A month later we opened the small door at the top of the cage so he could easily climb onto the banyan tree. He was frisky. He ran up to the top of the tree and came running towards us and ran up again. He wanted us to climb up and play with him! A couple of days later, he disappeared. The crown of the banyan tree was contiguous with a long hedgerow of palmyra trees. During the hot summer nights, scores of palm fruits drop to the ground with their husks torn apart. I like to think that our toddy-cat is one of the nocturnal feeders.

Over the years I wondered if I did right. I fed the toddy-cat bananas and other fruits and he loved to clamber up when I had a cup of yogurt. Where would he find bananas and yogurt in the wild? I also hand fed him; would he know where to find food now that he was on his own? Having interacted only with a couple of humans, would he know how to behave with another toddy-cat – would he know when and how to display submissiveness? Would he recognize and avoid predators like Great Horned Owls and pythons? I reprimanded him when he used his teeth too hard or when he jumped on me suddenly. Had I unwittingly altered his natural behaviour without thinking about the far-reaching effects it would have in his life out in the real world? Before the toddy-cat’s cage was opened, I didn’t get him screened for diseases. He could have harbored any infection and spread that to the wild toddy-cat population. After spending his growing years in the safe security of a well-bedded sleeping box, would he go through the trees looking for similar beds? I also do not have a clue what I had done to the local wildlife by releasing a series of small carnivores into the same habitat. It was time to re-consider why I went through the effort of rearing these wild creatures when everything seemed set against their survival. The unavoidable truth was that it made me feel good.

There are hundreds of people like me around the country who rescue birds, mammals, and reptiles. Most rehabilitators rear such animals in their homes and one fine day decide to release them in the jungle “where they belong.” On the other hand, most wildlife biologists and managers stay clear of such animal welfare concerns and as a result the rehabilitators are left to their own devices. Handicapped by the lack of guidelines that prescribe how to rear, where to rehabilitate these animals and with little scientific background and usually nil post-rehab monitoring, it is difficult for rehabilitators to judge if their methods work and what percentage of released animals survive.

The few studies that have occurred show that the overwhelming majority of such rehabilitated animals die of various causes. Listed here are some of common mistakes:

(a) Imprinting the young animals on humans

(b) Acclimatizing the animal to food that it is unlikely to find in the wild

(d) Inadequate response to predators

(e) Behaviour alteration

(f) Choice of habitat for release

(g) Kind of release - soft or hard

(h) Non-assessment of the impact of the release on the resident population of the species at the site

If all this makes wildlife rescue seem like an expensive and difficult enterprise, that's because it is. In most cases rescuing animals interferes with the cycle of nature. Orphaned and injured animals if left alone will become prey to predators thus ensuring the continuance of natural law. We are interfering when we 'rescue' these animals and bring them home. Often animals are rescued on the mistaken belief that they need rescuing - every year several leopard cubs stashed by their mothers in the security of tea bushes are “rescued” forever making these large carnivores unsuitable for life in the wild.

Ideally wildlife rescue is recommended when every single animal’s life counts for the future survival of the species. In almost every other case the amount of money, time and effort needed to rear the animals may be better utilized in protecting the habitat. Perhaps the only exception to this rule is rescuing of animals who endanger the lives of humans, (venomous snakes), animals affected by a natural or artificial calamity (oil slick, development projects).

If, after reading these words of deterrence, you find yourself in a position where rescuing an animal is necessary then help is at hand. The World Conservation Union (IUCN) has requested Mike Jordan, Chair of the Re-Introduction Specialist Group (Europe and North Asia), to frame the necessary guidelines. A preliminary round of consultation with the South Asian members took place in Coimbatore in late Nov 2005 and a manual is expected to fill the long felt lacuna.

Viji, the Turtle Girl

2006-08-10T10:20:00.000+05:30

When you delve into the history of herpetological conservation in India, as I did recently, you keep bumping into one personality called J. Vijaya. I have never met her and all I knew of her was that she spent most of her short life working on turtles and that there is a small memorial to her right next to the turtle pond at the Madras Crocodile Bank. Viji (as Vijaya was called) was India’s first woman herpetologist when such a career was unknown in this country.

Student days

Viji came to the Madras Snake Park as a volunteer in late 1975. She was then a first year zoology student at Ethiraj College, Chennai. She assisted the keepers in cleaning the cages, made sure that visitors didn’t throw stones at the animals, helped in the office and library and filled in for anything else that needed doing. Shekar Dattatri, then a school boy joined the Snake Park as a volunteer a few months later and remembers her as a very quiet person with the insular, focused interest of a Dian Fossey.

While Shekar played truant from school and spent all week hanging around the Snake Park, Viji could only visit on weekends. Besides doing little projects at the Snake Park, the duo went on short field trips together with the Irula tribals - to Vellore looking for rock lizards, to Mambakkam, Ottiyambakkam and Chitlapakkam and other places looking for small creatures like scorpions, lizards, snakes and geckos. Caring for animals in captivity at the Snake Park and observing wild ones in their habitat was a steep learning curve.

The first published mention of Viji surfaces in the September 1980 issue of Hamadryad, the newsletter of the Madras Snake Park in its early years and later Madras Crocodile Bank, when she wrote a short note on the breeding behaviour of mugger crocodiles. A September 1981 editorial mentions that she was working as a Research Associate on a project (which included checking wild scats and feeding captives) to assess the effectiveness of monitor lizards as rat predators. She had graduated by then and was working full-time at the Snake Park.

A turtle biologist is born

In those early days when herpetological conservation was still nascent, Romulus Whitaker, her boss at Madras Snake Park was assigning various people to different critters – Satish Bhaskar to nesting sea turtles, Valliappan to sea turtles in the meat markets of Tuticorin – and he might have put Viji onto freshwater turtles. Once, Rom and a team from Snake Park including Viji, went to the Indian Institute of Technology campus to catch a couple of crocs that had escaped from the Children’s Park Zoo. Near the edge of the huge sewage treatment ponds, they came upon hundreds of turtle eggshells, dug up and strewn around by mongooses. That was the first inkling they had about how common the Indian flapshell Lissemys punctata and the Indian black turtle Melanochelys trijuga were. Viji began collecting data on the turtles’ nest size, number of eggs per clutch and nest survival (precious few!) and that may have been the decisive moment.

Shekar remembers returning from a field trip to Sri Lanka with Viji clutching an old frayed bag of the Indian black turtles. At the Customs check, she had to open the leaking bag for inspection when the turtles began pissing in unison. It made an already cumbersome procedure smellier. He laughed as he recalled affectionately, “She’d do things that I wouldn’t dream of doing.”

At this time, Edward Moll, the Chairman of the World Conservation Union’s Freshwater Chelonian Specialist Group needed an assistant for a nation-wide survey of turtles and Rom, who was a member of the group recommended Viji, who was just 22 then, for the job.

The first surveys

The survey got underway in August-September 1981 and she traveled up to West Bengal (the major consumer of freshwater turtles in the country) to meet up with Pankaj Manna of the University of Calcutta, the other team member. With Pankaj as translator, they began with the meat markets. Thousands of Indian softshell turtles Aspideretes gangeticus and narrow-headed softshell turtles Chitra indica came for sale during the winter months - when the water was low and the creatures were easy to trap, hook, or catch with bare hands. The price of turtle meat plummeted from Rs. 18 to Rs. 5 per kilo during these months; “it was cheaper than beef,” Viji reported.

From Gorakhpur, Uttar Pradesh, she wrote about the movement of the turtle trade - most went to Bengal but some found their way to Assam. Initially turtle exploitation was confined to the states immediately around Bengal. But by the time of her visit, states further upriver like UP were being hunted for the Bengali markets (Viji would eventually discover that turtle exploitation extended as far up as the Punjab). On a typical day, 10 baskets of 10-20 turtles each, along with freshwater fish from reservoirs and rivers were sent by train from UP alone. The market was big and the business competitive; at least 20 agents worked the River Rapti. Viji also documented how turtles were caught by harpooning and hooking. The hapless turtles were flipped on their backs and their flippers stitched together with binding wire for the journey to Bengal. In 1981, the catchers were already complaining about the small size of turtles (5-10 kg. range); 10 years earlier they were easily able to catch 40-70 kg. ones. Based on Viji’s findings Ed Moll estimated that 50,000 to 75,000 Indian flapshells, 7,000 to 8,000 large softshells and at least 10,000 to 15,000 hardshell turtles were coming into the Howrah market in Calcutta annually. He felt that the latter was probably an underestimate, because on one day in May 1983 (off- season), he witnessed over 350 large hardshell turtles being auctioned off.

It can’t have been easy doing this work as most of the places Viji visited were the ‘badlands’ or ‘wild west’ of India – the Chambal ravines with its dacoits, Bhagalpur (at time of the infamous Bhagalpur blindings), crowded, goon-infested parts of UP. But she was totally oblivious to anything besides turtles. The black and white pictures she took of the gory Ridley sea turtle slaughter on Digha beach and in the meat markets of Calcutta, shook the public when India Today magazine ran them in the early 1980s. This was the first media expose ever done on the free-for-all trade in sea turtles and highlights the difference one individual can make for conservation.

Prime Minister Indira Gandhi took action (another woman who dramatically affected conservation in India) immediately and overnight, sea turtle exploitation was cut to a trickle. Mrs. Gandhi also wrote to the Coast Guard asking them to protect sea turtles, a tradition that still continues. Ironically, the present govt. has abdicated its role as caretaker of India’s wildlife by allowing ports and other developments along the coast that are detrimental to the turtles’ continued survival.

The forest cane turtle

The forest cane turtle (at that time Heosemys silvatica) was at the top of the agenda of the Freshwater Chelonian Specialist Group. Viji decided to go and look for the obscure little turtle in Kerala which hadn’t been seen for 67 years. Only two specimens of the species had ever been recorded by a Dr. Henderson (of the Madras Museum) in October 1911 from Kavalai. Henderson describes the locality as “20 miles from Chalakudi, the starting point of the forest tramway service.” When Viji planned her trip, she discovered that ‘Kavalai’ meant ‘crossing or junction’, the tramway had long since fallen into disuse and every district in Kerala seemed to have a village by that name. She somehow made contact with the Kadar tribals in Chalakudi and sought their help. She wrote: “The ‘Moopan’, or headman, was appointed to accompany me as he was the oldest man available to accompany a girl into the forest. Moopan, whose actual name I was never allowed to address, was a dignified man four and half feet tall with a serene face. Rain or shine, we would go out with his big umbrella and his sickle, which he used to chop off plants to make way in the jungle.” She was finally able to find a cane turtle in July 1982 and that shot her into the international herpetological limelight.

Shekar remembers that first turtle well. “The first time Viji got one back to Madras, she brought it to my house. So long as it was daylight and as long as someone was watching it, the turtle would not come out. When it was pitch dark, it would slowly put its head out. The moment you shone a torch, it went back in. This was the most bizarre creature I’ve ever met.” Perhaps what captured everyone’s imagination most was that Viji saw wild cane turtles ‘dive’ under leaves when frightened, just the way an aquatic turtle would dive into the water. Henderson also recorded the fact that this turtle “did not affect the neighbourhood of water, a fact borne out by the absence of webbed digits.”

In December 1982, one of the female cane turtles Viji brought back laid a clutch of two eggs. She discovered that this species wasn’t a vegetarian as earlier thought. Besides eating fruit and fungi, it fed on invertebrates such as millipedes, molluscs and beetles. From knowing virtually nothing about the animal, Viji made a quantum leap in documenting what this turtle was about.

Unbeknownst to the scientists who considered the turtle “lost” for close to 70 years, several cane turtles were sold in the European pet trade as Tricarinate hill turtle Melanochelys tricarinata or Indian black turtle in the 1960s and 70s. One of the turtle hobbyists who bought several was Reiner Praschag who maintained them in captivity in Austria for many years.

Research and conservation

Rom remembers a clutch of Indian flapshell turtle eggs Viji had been incubating under a tin roof shed at the Croc Bank. It had already been about 300 days when Rom remembers writing them off as dead, but Viji persevered. The Irula tribals had told Viji that the sound of thunder makes turtle eggs hatch. A couple of weeks later, it rained for half an hour and on cue the eggs hatched. Viji excitedly said that there had been no thunder; the rain beating on the tin roof was what did it. It would be wonderful to learn more about this intriguing aspect of turtle behaviour.

By the end of 1982, Viji had a captive breeding group of cane turtles and Travancore tortoises established at the Croc Bank. She set up a field camp in the Nadukkani forest (a very remote and pristine forest, with the least damage wrought by fire), Kerala to study these two chelonians. It was several kilometres from the nearest Kadar village and it was a challenge to get there even on a good weather day. She lived alone in a cave, the former abode of leopards and bears, for several months at a time far from any help should anything have happened.

Here she captured and notched 125 turtles; if any of these turtles were caught again she would know how far they had traveled since being released. She also extended the range of what was being called India’s rarest turtle to Neyyar Sanctuary in Kerala (200 km. south of Kavalai), and to Agumbe in Karnataka (over 200 km. north of Kavalai).

Shekar also mentions Viji’s incredible sense of direction. He said anyone going into the forest with her didn’t have to worry about keeping track of where they were going or mentally marking particular trees to find their way back. She could wander through an unfamiliar forest for kilometres, without stopping to take stock of her bearings, and yet unerringly find her way back without an effort. Besides, while the rest of the group was cautiously keeping an eye out for elephants, she merely strolled through paying no attention to leeches, ticks or elephants. She was completely at home in the forest and no inconvenience fazed her.

In addition to capture-mark-releasing of turtles, Viji also carried out the first studies in Indian forests on tracking the movements of turtles. In 1983, Viji’s operating budget was about Rs. 900 a month (including salary). There was no way that the Snake Park could afford radio telemetry equipment but she did the best she could with what was available. She stuck a spool of thread onto the carapace of the turtles with Araldite and let them wander. Following the thread, she could then get at least a general idea of daily activity patterns and even figure out the approximate home range of the animals she was studying.

The end

Ed says Viji was an excellent field biologist whose best traits were her perseverance and her ability to observe. She did not have a strong biological background to interpret the data she was collecting and Ed invited her to Eastern Illinois University to do her Masters. In September 1984, Viji left for the States to do her post graduation under Ed Moll and later returned to India to do field studies. In April 1987, she was found dead, of unknown causes, in the forest she loved; she was 28.

Epilogue

In 2006, 19 years later, her name was formally given to the cane turtle that she spent so much of her time studying – Peter Praschag, the son of Reiner Praschag, and several other herpetologists analysed the DNA of Reiner’s now-dead turtles and recently re-named the turtle Vijayachelys silvatica in her honour. It is a monotypic genus, which means that there is no other turtle like it to share the name of Vijayachelys. Just as there are very few other people like Viji.

This article was based on interviews with filmmaker/conservationist (and one of Viji’s few friends), Shekar Dattatri, Rom Whitaker and Ed Moll, her professor.

THE AGUMBE RAINFOREST RESEARCH STATION

2006-02-24T17:24:00.000+05:30

Published in Hornbill July-September 2005

If you are a researcher in the Western Ghats who is tired of staying in Inspection Bungalows or Forest rest houses under the threat of eviction anytime and your experience of life in the jungle is the same as mine, read on. My memory of working in the rainforests of the Western Ghats goes like this – wet tent, damp firewood, leeches galore, mouldy clothes, an unending series of dinners of semolina, instant noodles, rice and dhal and a desperate craving for pizza. Of course, there is the bright side of camping – of time spent watching a giant millipede make its way across the leaf litter, glow-worms that light up the night like earth bound stars, lizards that seem like butterflies as they glide from tree to tree, waking to the call of the Malabar Whistling Thrush. For a late blooming naturalist like me whose idea of comfort was four walls and a bed, the dreariness of camping (which hits a low at nightfall) outweighed the joyfulness (during the day) and I suspect that’s the reason why so many field researchers drop by the wayside in India. Rom Whitaker decided that if the researchers can’t be brought to the mountains, then the mountains will have to meet them half-way. That was how the idea of the field station began more than a year ago.

But why in Agumbe, you may well ask? Agumbe holds a special place in Rom’s affection as he caught his first king cobra there back in 1971. He has since visited the place as often as he can. When the rest of the country’s towns and cities are undergoing a vast transformation, Agumbe has remained the same for the last 35 years and that appealed to Rom. Ok, there are a couple of tea stalls extra but that is the only visible change. The people are still warm and effusive, bringing you hot steaming cups of heavenly kashayam (a non-caffeinated medicinal drink) to ward off the rainy chills. It also helps that the people here have a reverence for king cobras, missing elsewhere. In one case a king cobra strayed into a bathroom and the people of the household lived with it for three days before seeking our help. They consider it a god who has graced their house and they were very particular that we didn’t harm the snake (or anger it) in any way. “That’s half the battle won,” Rom said in admiration. After living all his life in places where it was hard to convince local people to let snakes live, it was a welcome sign of relief that he didn’t have to do any proselytizing here. Rom’s dream was also to have a station where king cobras casually cross the backyard to drink from the spring and he found it in Agumbe.

Agumbe is only a non-glamorous Reserve Forest but adjacent to one of the last surviving lowland rainforests, Someshwara Wildlife Sanctuary and the more famous Kudremukh National Park. A couple of kilometers from the town into the Reserve Forest, Rom came across an eight-acre agricultural land. When we heard that the family was looking for a buyer we began scrounging for money. We didn’t have any but Rom’s mum, Doris Norden, said she had some money she would like to give him for the cause. Hectic parleying began with the owners but before the deal could be concluded Doris died. Exactly a year later, Rom bought that piece of land with money his mother had willed him and finally Rom was the proud owner of land in prime king cobra territory.

In April 2005, Rom won the Whitley Award, which would help set up cottages, buy basic scientific equipment, and a vehicle. The land is not connected to the electric grid and Rom decided he wanted a place that was a model of sustainability – a hybrid of solar and hydel electricity would power the station. It’s easier said than done unless you have expert help which we found in Jos van den Akker of Auroville. Jos found ways to cut costs and put us in touch with hydel power expert, Ramasubramanian.

We needed help with building designs and blueprints so Srikumar Menon, a faculty member of the Manipal Institute of Technology volunteered his help. A team of his architectural students have come up with a design for the cottages and during the first week of December 2005, construction will begin. It finally seemed likely that the rainforest research station would transcend from a dream to reality.

Naturenet Café is the name of the local village information centre that Rom dreams of setting up in tandem with the field station. With high speed broadband and intranet connectivity, local farmers can find the best market prices for their produce, school students can get trained in the new technology, information on sustainable ways of farming, land use, ecology, wildlife will be made available here. Passing tourists can purchase locally made handicrafts and information on the rainforest, not to mention hot cups of kashayam, king cobra T-shirts and merchandise. For me, it’s just the place to do emails without having to hike up to Thirthahalli or down to Manipal.

It has been a frustrating few months – we had the money and the designs but the monsoon was in full swing. At the time of writing Agumbe had already received more than 7000 mm of rain, reportedly next only to Cherrapunji. As we sat in the courtyard of the old mud farmhouse and watched the rain swirl round and round, a flock of woolly necked storks walked in and out of the mist. Birders visiting the station made a casual list of 200 species of birds, barking deer visit the land in plain sight of the house, a troop of common langurs are shy neighbours and of course there are the king cobras.

P. Gowri Shankar is the intrepid Education Officer who lives on site. In between visiting local schools and colleges on environment education campaigns, he has caught 18 king cobras from people’s houses, gardens, wells and plantations. Early this year he became the first researcher to ever witness a wild king cobra making her nest. Rom scurried around for a video camera to send Gowri but by that time nest building was complete. The mother abandoned her nest after a few days because of local disturbance nearby – a land owner decided to set fire to a massive trunk of tree which smoldered for days. Smoke is anathema to snakes and it effectively drove the mother snake away. Similarly temperatures and humidity of two other nests (both also abandoned by the mother snake) on private estates were monitored throughout the entire period of incubation and the results of the first such studies of wild nests are beginning to emerge. In all instances, Rom put his hand deep into the nest to put in data loggers and reported that the packed mound of vegetation kept the eggs dry during the torrential rains. The output from the data logger however, suggests that the pile of leaf litter does not raise the temperature of the nest chamber. These wild nests took a lot longer than captive eggs to hatch because of the low temperatures they incubated in but they produced very healthy, sturdy babies. Surprising too was the hatching rate of 99% - we thought we were doing well with 60% in captivity. The natural incubator the mother king cobra makes from leaves somehow keeps the eggs healthy while no man-made incubator seems capable of maintaining the high humidity without a fungal attack.

One observant villager mentioned that he had seen the mother king cobra bask in the morning light and then go into her nest. Perhaps she was bringing additional heat into a cool nest to aid incubation? Maybe there was survival merit in speeding up incubation so the eggs remained vulnerable only for a short time. Until we find a nest with a guarding female, this will remain mere speculation. And therein lies the conundrum – female king cobras in the Western Ghats seem to be very sensitive to disturbance. They seem to flee at the first smell of danger and yet we have heard of occasional persistent females who tried to return to their nests for days despite being repeatedly chased away by people. It’s a matter of time before we come upon a determined nest guarding king cobra and until then the questions will remain.

In March this year Gowri was called to a house to catch a king cobra that had fallen in to a well. After considerable difficulty he pulled out a male. The very next day the same people called Gowri to catch a king cobra which had fallen into the well. It turned out to be a female. Intriguingly this leads us to surmise that female king cobras may actively seek their mates.

In April we visited a nest abandoned by the mother king cobra who had been making a nest in the same place for the last three years, according to the villagers. If this is true (and you can be sure we will be there next nesting season) this will be the first recorded evidence of king cobra nest-site fidelity in India. Every single nest site we have seen in the last two years has been GPS marked (as was every capture and relocation) and in the following years, it would be interesting to see if nest-site fidelity is the norm.

One of the questions also remaining to be answered is – why do king cobras gravitate towards habitation. For years, the standard reply was because rats live with people; rat snakes come to eat rats and king cobras follow to eat the rat snakes. But there is a possibility that king cobras living close to villages may seek coolness during the hot dry months and warmth in the cold rainy months. We make convenient cave-like dwellings (we call houses) that provide the optimum temperature for a snake when the weather is harsh.

We hope the Agumbe Rainforest Research Station will function in just the same way for researchers – a cool place to hang out in the middle of the rainforest.