Saturday, January 16, 2016

The vulture problem is more important than we think

Vultures are Revolting. Here's Why We need to Save Them -- National Geographic Magazine

Picture of a vulture ripping tissue from a wildebeest


Even Darwin called them “disgusting.” But vultures are more vital than vile, because they clean up carcasses that otherwise could rot and spread pestilence. Here a Rüppell’s vulture (Gyps rueppelli) rips tissue from the trachea of a dead wildebeest.
Story by Elizabeth Royte
Photographs by Charlie Hamilton James
Published December 10, 2015
At sunset the wildebeest seems doomed: Sick or injured, it’s wandering miles from its herd on the Serengeti Plain of Tanzania. By sunrise the loner is dead, draped in a roiling scrum of vultures, 40 or so birds searching for a way to invade its earthly remains. Some of the scavengers wait patiently, with a Nixonian hunch, eyes on their prize. But most are engaged in gladiatorial battle. Talons straining, they rear and rake, joust and feint. One pounces atop another, then bronco rides its bucking and rearing victim. The crowd parts and surges in a black-and-brown wave of undulating necks, stabbing beaks, and thrashing wings. From overhead, a constant stream of new diners swoops in, heads low, bouncing and tumbling in their haste to join the mob.

Picture of vulture flying in to eat carcass
A Rüppell’s vulture lays claim to a dead zebra in Tanzania’s Serengeti National Park, while other Rüppell's and white-backed vultures (Gyps africanus) move in for a piece of the action. More vultures will likely join the banquet. They can strip a carcass clean in minutes.
Why the fuss over a carcass so large? Why the unseemly greed? Because the wildebeest is tough-skinned and wasn’t killed by carnivores, it lacks an opening wide enough for general admission. And so the boldest birds compete furiously for access. As the crowd cackles and caws, a white-backed vulture snakes its head deep into the wildebeest’s eye socket and hurriedly slurps, with grooved tongue, whatever it can before being ripped from its place at the table. Another white-backed tunnels into a nostril while a Rüppell’s vulture starts at the other end; it’s eight inches into the wildebeest’s anus before another bird wrenches it away, then slithers its own head, like an arm into an evening glove, up the intestinal tract. And so it goes—40 desperate birds at five golf-ball-size holes. 
Picture of a vulture with blood dripping off its beak
Blood drips from a Rüppell’s vulture’s beak as it pauses mid-meal. The neck and head of Rüppell’s are sparsely feathered, the better to keep gore, guts, and fecal matter from clinging after a deep carcass dive.

Eventually, two lappet-faced vultures make their move. These spectacular-looking animals stand more than a yard tall, with wingspans of nine feet. (In treetops, they make stick nests as big as king-size beds.) Their faces are pink, their bills large and deeply arched, and their powerful necks festooned with crepey roseate skin and a brown Tudor ruff. While one lappet hammers a hole in the wildebeest’s shoulder, the other excavates behind a sinus, in hopes of finding juicy botfly larvae. Sinews and skin snap. Now a white-backed rams its head down the wildebeest’s throat and yanks out an eight-inch length of trachea, ribbed like a vacuum hose. But before the vulture can enjoy it, the four-foot-tall marabou stork that’s been stiffly lurking snatches the windpipe away, tosses it once for perfect alignment, and swallows it whole. Thanks to the labors of the lappets, which favor sinew over muscle, the wildebeest is now wide open. Heads fling blood and mucus into the air; viscera drip from vulture bills; two birds play tug-of-war with a ten-foot rope of intestine coated in dirt and feces. 
As the wildebeest shrinks, the circle of sated birds lounging in the short grass expands. With bulging crops, the vultures settle their heads atop folded wings and slide their nictitating membranes shut. No more sound, no more fury. As placid as suburban ducks, they rest, at peace with the world. 

The vulture may be the most maligned bird on the planet, a living metaphor for greed and rapaciousness. Leviticus and Deuteronomy classify vultures as unclean, creatures to be held in abomination by the children of Israel. In his diary during the voyage of H.M.S. Beagle in 1835, Charles Darwin called the birds “disgusting,” with bald heads “formed to wallow in putridity.” Among their many adaptations to their feculent niche: the ability to vomit their entire stomach contents when threatened, the better to take quick flight.
Revolting? Perhaps. But vultures are hardly without redeeming values. They don’t (often) kill other animals, they probably form monogamous pairs, and we know they share parental care of chicks, and loaf and bathe in large, congenial groups. Most important, they perform a crucial but massively underrated ecosystem service: the rapid cleanup, and recycling, of dead animals. By one estimate, vultures either residing in or commuting into the Serengeti ecosystem during the annual migration—when 1.3 million white-bearded wildebeests shuffle between Kenya and Tanzania—historically consumed more meat than all mammalian carnivores in the Serengeti combined. And they do it fast. A vulture can wolf more than two pounds of meat in a minute; a sizable crowd can strip a zebra—nose to tail—in 30 minutes. Without vultures, reeking carcasses would likely linger longer, insect populations would boom, and diseases would spread—to people, livestock, and other wild animals. 
Picture of a golden jackal fighting a vulture over a dead wildebeest
In the Serengeti a golden jackal takes umbrage at an immature white-backed vulture butting in on its meal of dead wildebeest.
 Earthbound carnivores such as jackals and hyenas have limited territories in which to find food. Aloft, vultures have a much better view of the daily menu: They can spot a carcass 20 miles away.
But this copacetic arrangement, shaped by the ages, is not immutable. In fact, in some key regions it’s in danger of collapse. Africa had already lost one of its eleven vulture species—the cinereous vulture—and now seven others are listed as either critically endangered or endangered. Some, like the lappet, are found predominantly in protected areas (which are themselves threatened), and other regional populations of the Egyptian and bearded vulture are nearly extinct. Vultures and other scavenging birds, says Darcy Ogada, assistant director of Africa programs at the Peregrine Fund, “are the most threatened avian functional group in the world.” 
On a sunny March day Ogada is traveling with her colleague Munir Virani in the Masai Mara region of Kenya. Virani is here not to study his beloved birds but to speak with herdsmen about their cows. Livestock husbandry, it turns out, is essential to vulture welfare. As our truck weaves through flocks of sheep and goats, Virani explains how the Maasai have in recent years leased their land, which rings the northern section of the Masai Mara National Reserve, to conservancies established to protect wildlife by excluding pastoralists and their livestock. Some Maasai claim the conservancies have lured more lions and other carnivores to the area. (The conservancies are contiguous and unfenced.) Meanwhile populations of wildebeests and other resident ungulates in the Mara ecosystem are facing threats from poaching, prolonged drought, and conversion of savanna to cropland and real estate. This in itself would be bad news for vultures, but there’s worse.

Virani asks every Maasai we meet: Have you lost any livestock to predators recently? The answer is always, “Yes, and my neighbors have too.” Usually the lions attack at night, when the cattle are penned inside bomas—corrals ringed with thorny brush. The lions roar, then terrified cattle stampede, crash through the boma gate, and scatter. Dogs bark, waking their owners, but it’s usually too late. The killing of a single cow represents a loss of 30,000 shillings ($300), a significant blow to families that use livestock as currency (a bull can be worth 100,000 shillings).
Next comes retaliation: The men tie up their dogs, retrieve what’s left of the lion’s kill, and sprinkle it with a generic form of Furadan, a cheap, fast-acting pesticide that’s readily available under the table. The lion returns to feed, most likely with its family, and the entire pride succumbs. (Researchers estimate that Kenya loses a hundred lions a year in these conflicts. The country has roughly 1,600 lions left.) Inevitably vultures also visit the livestock carcass, or they eat the poisoned lions themselves. Whatever the vector, the birds, which can feed in “wakes” of more than a hundred individuals, all die as well.
It’s hard to believe that just a few granules of a compound designed to kill worms and other invertebrates can lay low an animal whose gastric juices are acidic enough to neutralize rabies, cholera, and anthrax. Indeed, Furadan was scarcely on Ogada’s radar until 2007, when she began receiving emails from colleagues about poisoned lions. “That raised some eyebrows,” she says. Tourism is Kenya’s second largest source of foreign income, and lions are the nation’s star attraction. In 2008 scientists and representatives from conservation groups and government agencies convened in Nairobi to share information on poisonings and plan a response. “Jaws dropped,” Ogada remembers. “The problem was far larger than any of us, working locally, knew.”
Once Ogada and others began to study the problem, they estimated that poisoning accounts for 61 percent of vulture deaths, Africa-wide. The anthropogenic threat is compounded by vultures’ reproductive biology: They don’t reach sexual maturity until five to seven years of age, they produce a chick only once every year or two, and 90 percent of their young die in the first year. Over the next half century vulture numbers on the continent are projected to decline by 70 to 97 percent. 
As bad as the African situation appears, it has been worse elsewhere. In India populations of the most common vultures—white-rumped, long-billed, and slender-billed—declined by more than 96 percent in just a single decade. Then in 2003 researchers from the Peregrine Fund definitively linked bird carcasses with cattle that had been treated with an anti-inflammatory called diclofenac. Initially prescribed for arthritis and other pain in humans, the drug had been approved for veterinary use in 1993. In vultures, diclofenac causes kidney failure: Autopsies reveal organs coated with white crystals.
The Indian die-off received a lot of attention because its downstream effects were so startling. India has one of the largest cattle populations in the world, but most Indians don’t eat beef. After millions of vultures fell victim to poisoning, dead cattle started piling up. Then the dog population—released from competing with vultures for scavenged food—leaped by 7 million, to 29 million animals over an 11-year period. The result: an estimated 38.5 million additional dog bites. Rat populations soared. Deaths from rabies increased by nearly 50,000, which cost Indian society roughly $34 billion in mortality, treatment expenses, and lost wages. India’s Parsi community in Mumbai was alarmed to note another change. The corpses they ritually place on elevated stone platforms for “sky burial”—in which vultures liberate the souls of the dead so that they can reach heaven—were taking months longer to disappear, because there were no vultures left to feed on them. 
After researchers proved that diclofenac was to blame for the vulture die-off, in 2006 veterinary use of the drug was banned in India, Pakistan, and Nepal. (It’s still given to cattle clandestinely.) Bangladesh followed suit in 2010, and in mid-June 2015, a coalition of conservation groups urged the European Commission to ban the drug’s use in animals. A response is pending. In combination with captive-breeding programs and vulture “restaurants,” which serve safe meat from farms or abattoirs to wild birds, the campaign has done some good. Nine years on, Indian vulture declines have slowed, and in some regions their numbers have even begun to increase. But the population of the three hardest-hit species remains a small fraction of its former millions.

Vultures are both lovers and fighters. They probably mate for life, which can be 30 years in the wild, and are attentive to their partners. Lappet-faced vultures (above) are known for being particularly affectionate.
Ogada isn’t hopeful that Africa will follow India’s lead in responding to the vulture crisis. “There has been little government action to conserve vultures in Kenya,” she says, “and no political will to limit the use of carbofurans,” the chemical family that includes Furadan. And although vultures in India face just one major threat—unintentional poisoning—vultures in Africa face many more.
In July 2012, 191 vultures died after feasting on an elephant that had been poachedand then sprinkled with poison in a Zimbabwean national park. A year later roughly 500 vultures were killed after feeding on a poison-laced elephant in Namibia. Why do poachers, intent on ivory, target vultures in this way? “Because their kettling in the sky over dead elephants and rhinoceroses alerts game wardens to their activities,” Ogada says. Ivory poachers now account for one-third of all East African vulture poisonings.

Conservationists in Namibia use a car side-door mirror on a pole to peek into a lappet-faced vulture’s nest in a tree. If they find a chick that’s old enough, they’ll retrieve it, wing tag it, and put it back. Females may lay only one egg every year or two, so every chick’s survival is critical to the population’s future.
Cultural practices have also taken a toll on vultures. According to André Botha, co-chair of the vulture specialist group at the Inter­national Union for Conservation of Nature, many of the birds found at poached carcasses are missing their heads and feet—a sure sign they’ve been sold for muti, or traditional healing. Shoppers at southern African markets have little trouble buying body parts believed to cure a range of ailments or impart strength, speed, and endurance. Dried vul­ture brain is also popular: Mixed with mud and smoked, it’s said to conjure guidance from beyond. 
Still, the biggest existential threat to African vultures remains the ubiquitous availability and use of poisons. FMC, the Philadelphia-based maker of Furadan, began buying back the compound from distribution channels in Kenya, Uganda, and Tanzania—and suspended sales in South Africa—following a 60 Minutes segment on lion poisonings in 2009. But the compound, in generic form, persists. Agriculture is the second largest industry in Kenya, and the nation has a long history of using toxins to combat outbreaks of disease and pests. Anyone can walk into a Kenyan agro-veterinary shop and, for less than two dollars, buy highly toxic pesticides off the shelf—to kill insects, mice, feral dogs, hyenas, leopards, jackals, and even fish and ducks meant for human consumption. (Poachers claim, erroneously, that removing the animal’s entrails, then slowly roasting the carcass, detoxifies the flesh.)
“You cannot have agriculture in the tropics without pesticides,” Charles Musyoki, former head of species management for the Kenya Wildlife Service, says. “So we need to educate the public about their correct and safe use.”
What the public understands now is that carbofurans are cheap, reliable, and—compared with stalking and spearing a predator—risk free. To date, the government hasn’t prosecuted a single poisoner of vultures. “Poisoning predators is just part of the culture,” Ogada says with a shrug. Indigenous groups have always protected their herds, and the descendants of Europeans—who introduced cheap synthetic poisons in the first place—have been slaughtering mammalian and avian carnivores in Africa for more than 300 years.

A vendor in Durban, South Africa, proffers vulture heads for sale as muti—traditional medicine. Dried and smoked, vulture brains are also thought to provide visions of the future. The birds’ own prospects are bleak. Six of eight species in the country are endangered.
After a long day of speaking with Maasai herdsmen, Virani and Ogada are eager for the sun to set, not to escape the heat but to witness the flicking of an electrical switch. In the gloaming, Virani parks his jeep outside a compound that sits in the pounded dust bowl between the 50,000-acre Mara Naboisho Conservancy, to the east, and the 400,000-acre Masai Mara reserve, to the west. Under a velvet sky glimmering with stars, Virani stares at a boma and, when a dozen lightbulbs strung between fence posts blink on, breaks into a grin. 
Balloon safari operators, who ascend before daybreak, have complained about this nighttime light pollution. But to Virani these flashing bulbs, connected to a solar battery, are a minor miracle, the safest, most cost-effective way to keep predators away from cattle pens and short-circuit the retalia­tory poisoning that’s decimating vultures. 
“The lights cost between 25,000 and 35,000 shillings per boma,” Virani says—between $250 and $350, with the Peregrine Fund picking up half of that. “Prevent one cattle predation, and they’ve paid for themselves.” In their first six months of deployment in this part of the Mara, lion attacks on 40 bomas with arrays went down by 90 percent. So far, carnivores and elephants—which commute between the conservancies and the reserve, often through Maasai vegetable patches—are still avoiding the lights, but lack of maintenance and mismanagement of the systems (siphoning power to charge phones, for example) have reduced their effectiveness. Still, demand for the arrays far outpaces supply.
On the Serengeti, about 150 miles to the south of the Masai Mara, the sun rises on three adult hyenas, shoulder deep in yet another dead wildebeest. Now and then the feathered audience that has gathered at this theater-in-the-round advances toward the stage, only to be rebuffed by the principal actors raising their chins and curling their black lips. The vultures take the hint. There is, between the four-legged and the two-, a palpable respect: Hyenas rely on vultures to locate kills, and vultures rely on hyenas to quickly bust them open.

A shopkeeper at a market in Durban, South Africa, offers the brains of a vulture for sale. The alleged power of the dried and smoked brains to provide a vision of the future makes such practices popular among gamblers.
Eventually the hyenas are full enough to retreat, cuing the birds to swarm. Now the carcass rocks back and forth as two dozen vultures rip, slurp, pry, and tug. Suddenly a lappet drops out of the sky, then bashes skulls with two other lappets standing innocently on the periphery. The aggressor wheels, ducks its head, raises its massive wings, then mounts the wildebeest in triumph. “They are the most amusing animals,” Simon Thomsett, a vulture expert affiliated with the National Museums of Kenya, says, binoculars to his eyes. “You certainly couldn’t spend this long watching a lion.”
Hours pass, the bloody players come and go: hyenas, jackals, storks, scavenging eagles, and four species of vulture. Despite the apparent hysteria, everyone gets a chance, partitioning the carcass in time and space according to social status and physical ability.
Both Thomsett and Ogada, who often collaborate, have spent much time pondering what would happen if vultures were subtracted from this cast of characters. Running field experiments with goat carcasses over a two-year period, Ogada learned that in the absence of vultures, carcasses took nearly three times as long to decompose, the number of mammals visiting carcasses tripled, and the amount of time these animals stayed at the carcass also nearly tripled.
Why do these data matter? Because the longer jackals, leopards, lions, hyenas, genets, mongooses, and dogs commune with one another at a carcass, the more likely they are to spread pathogens—which die in vulture stomachs—to other animals, both wild and domesticated. By eating wildebeest placenta, Thomsett tells me from his perch in the jeep, vultures also prevent cattle from contracting malignant catarrh, an often fatal herpes virus. And by reducing carcasses to bones within hours, they suppress insect populations, linked with eye diseases in both people and livestock. 
“Vultures are more important, in terms of services to humanity, than the ‘big five’ that everyone comes here to see,” he says. Their loss, scientists believe, would likely set off an ecological and economic catastrophe.

Sprinkled on carrion, a few ounces of the insecticide carbofuran (above) can kill a hundred vultures. Poisoned birds that are caught quickly or haven’t consumed too much may be saved if given a dose of the drug atropine and fed charcoal, which absorbs the poison. 
Although poisoning is the proximate driver of Africa’s vulture decline, the plain-speaking Thomsett stresses its root cause: too many people. Kenya’s population is expected to reach 81 million, from today’s 44 million, by 2050. And the Maasai are among the fastest growing groups in the country.
Thomsett lowers his binoculars and expands on the list of anthropogenic threats to Kenya’s vultures. Farmers are planting corn and wheat around protected areas to feed the growing population, he says. Less grassland means fewer ungulates for vultures to eat. The government hasn’t been able to stop drilling for geothermal wells within 300 meters (328 yards) of endangered Rüppell’s nesting sites, he continues. Vultures are also killed in collisions with high-tension power lines. The Kenya Wildlife Service has yet to write, let alone implement, a strategic plan for vulnerable vulture species. (Such a plan is imminent, the service’s Charles Musyoki told me.)
In December 2013 Kenya passed an act that imposes a fine of up to 20 million shillings ($200,000) or life imprisonment on anyone linked with killing an endangered species. And the Kenya Wildlife Service is said to be planning a campaign to shift the public’s perception of vultures. But without better investigating and enforcement of anti-poisoning laws, to say nothing of convicting perpetrators, Ogada and Thomsett agree, such campaigns won’t be nearly enough to save the region’s birds. More immediately effective, they say, would be for the government to accept an offer from a landowner in southwestern Kenya. He has offered to sell land containing one of the nation’s most important breeding cliffs for the critically endangered Rüppell’s vulture.
Thomsett continues to observe the vultures wallowing in putridity, making detailed sketches of their heads and feet in a thick notebook, until the birds have eaten their fill and the wildebeest resembles a wrinkled blue-gray rug, with hooves. In the days to come, any remaining scraps of skin and sinew will be ravaged by the elements, by insects, fungi, and microbes. The ungulate’s larger bones will persist for years, but in the meantime its basic building blocks will cycle on—in the soil, in vegetation, and in every glorious vulture that fed on its prodigal abundance today. 

A white-backed vulture recovers at the VulPro facility after being poisoned with carbofuran. The bird was later released.
A photojournalist specializing in wildlife and conservation, Charlie Hamilton James evaded a charging rhino, fought off illness from a tick bite, and drove through vulture feeding frenzies to photograph this story.


Sunday, January 10, 2016

This goat was supposed to be a Siberian tiger’s dinner. Now they are best friends, and it is charming Russia. - The Washington Post

 The Washington Post



What a truly amazing story!  Amur has lost his appetite for goat it seems.

This goat was supposed to be a Siberian tiger’s dinner. Now they are best friends, and it is charming Russia.

MOSCOW — An unlikely friendship between a tiger and a goat who was supposed to be his dinner has charmed Russia.
In a zoo in the far reaches of Siberia, predator and prey have become best buddies. Amur the tiger and Timur the goat’s charmed life started in late November, when Amur decided not to eat the goat unleashed into his enclosure.
The intention was that the goat would be a gastronomic delight, not a playpal. But instead the two animals appear to have bonded, sharing a food bowl and appearing to play with each other by romping through Amur’s pen.
Before the new year, they had already drawn enough attention that the Primorsky Safari Park set up a live webfeed of the enclosure. But they rocketed to stardom when one of Russia’s state-run television networks unveiled a 44-minute documentary odeto their friendship during the slow news week between New Year’s Day and Orthodox Christmas on Jan. 7, a time when all of Russia is on holiday.
“The situation is really weird. For three years running we have fed Amur a huge number of goats, rabbits, roosters and rams,” said Dmitry Mezentsev, the general director of the Primorsky Safari Park, in a telephone interview from the zoo, which is in Russia’s far southeast, seven hours ahead of Moscow.
“As a rule, Amur gets prey twice a week. My only explanation is that this couldn't have happened without interference of the higher power,” the zoo director said.
The friendship started after the goat, seemingly unfazed that it was on the dinner menu, chased the tiger out of his sleeping place, a converted aviary, and claimed the comfortable area for its own. Amur, apparently confused that the goat was not properly submissive, went to sleep on the roof.
“Amur has never rejected prey before,” Mezentsev said. “There was just one case when the goat given to Amur lived through the night. Amur ate him the following morning.”
Since their first encounter, the pair have spent their days together, watched by an increasing number of Russians who want to see the strange match.
“Every morning Santa Claus brings a treat of apples and cabbage for Timur, and meat for Amur,” the zookeeper said. The zoo has given up feeding goats to the tiger, instead switching to a two-rabbit diet, twice a week, and supplementing with other meats every day.
Timur and Amur enjoy playing with a ball, one snatching it from the other and running away, as the other tries to catch up, Mezentsev said. They are prepping for the 2018 World Cup, which will be held in Russia, he joked.
Amur, a Siberian tiger, has benefited from conservation efforts promoted by Russian President Vladimir Putin. The species, also known as the Amur tiger, is endangered, and there are an estimated 550 alive. But population levels have stabilized in recent years. Putin released three cubs into the wild in 2014. They drew headlines when one wandered into China and snacked on local farmers’ livestock before returning to Russia.
Lena Yegorova contributed to this report.

Sunday, January 3, 2016

A visitor to my mother's garden

Actias selene - Indian moon moth.  (Picture taken by my mother)

Moments of magic that a little green and little calm bring into our lives.  My mother's garden is a little oasis for creatures in the neighbourhood.  A peacock rested here not so long ago, sunbirds are always busy in the creepers, babblers hop and babble as they shop for worms, and then today this beautiful moth emerged!

The wonders of Nature never cease to amaze me.  What beauty in a creature so ephemeral.  I learnt that these moths are silk spinners and they also have a life cycle that is evanescent and fleeting.

They emerge out of their silk cocoons without a mouth - their only job to mate.  It seems that they usually hatch mid morning, and wait for the sun to dry their wings, by nightfall they are ready to fly and find a mate, and in a week they are dead, having (hopefully) done their job of ensuring the survival of the species.

The pale green of its wings giving it a good camouflage, the wispy delicate tail, the little "moons" on its wings, pink legs, a white hairy body and the distinct red brown margin, all evident as it swayed in the light January breeze.

From descriptions, this particular one seems to be a female, less pink on the tail and antennae which are less stubby.  If so, she would be releasing pheromones tonight and attracting a male from as far away as four kms.

I will keep an eye on that hibiscus plant, for maybe just maybe there is a set of eggs that will be laid, and my mother's garden would have done its bit in helping this endangered species continue to thrive.

Indian moon moth videos, photos and facts

Wednesday, December 30, 2015

Chennai after the deluge: How social media came to the rescue



My favourite bits:



"If one lived in the suburbs abutting the Adyar or Cooum rivers or in the suburbs that used to be lakes before greedy real estate developers (and greedier citizens like us) turned them into urban jungles, it was likely a nightmare."
"Social media was amplifying aid requests from a small part of the city. The wealthier, social media-savvy side. There were several parts, particularly in north Chennai that were in scarily bad shape and had no one tweeting or Facebooking on their behalf. Social media, we realized, was a middle-class-centric echo chamber. "
"NRIs simply had not heard back from their old folks in West Mambalam and Ashok Nagar for 24 hours, and that was enough for them to assume that escaped crocodiles that had mutated thanks to submerged electrical wiring were on their way to devour their parents." 
"the uncomfortable truth this incredibly huge army of volunteers is likely to conveniently ignore is that the poor in India live in conditions that no civilized society should tolerate.
The slums on the banks of the Cooum have always been mosquito-infested hellholes and now they are mosquito-infested sludge-filled hellholes." 
 "We also realized that in the entire group of 200, there was not a single public health expert or even someone with experience in relief operations. It was a bunch of really passionate folks figuring things out on their own, and while definitely making a difference, could have done so much more if governments and institutional experts in relief were less sceptical about social media and its ability to connect people.
We had no access to information from the National Disaster Response Force in terms of where they were operating, who they had already rescued and where food packets were being air-dropped."

Monday, December 21, 2015

‘Just look out of the window’

‘Just look out of the window’ - Madurai - The Hindu

A chat with Geetha Iyer, well-known consultant on science and environment education, leads one to view spiders and other insects with a tolerant eye



What would you do if you saw spider’s webs around your house? The majority would go into a frenzy of cleaning. But not Geetha Iyer.
This science teacher of many years and well-known consultant on science and environment education thinks of spider webs as the first line of defence against household insects.
Geetha is also a passionate advocate of raising awareness about neighbourhood biodiversity. “It means,” she says, “look out of your window and observe.” “Observe” is another favourite word with this sprightly lady. The cornerstone of our biology lessons is observation, she points out. “But looking at a formalin-bleached cockroach or frog in a jar is not observation. Observation is something that will evoke a previous memory, raise a question in the mind, or evoke a sense of awe. It is the beginning of learning,” she says with great feeling. “And there is nothing like neighbourhood biodiversity to promote observation.”
There’s that term again. By now, I begin to understand what she means. So far biodiversity conjured up visions of soaring mountains, dense forests, and animals like tigers, lions, elephants and pandas.
But Geetha is talking about something much simpler. She’s talking about flies, spiders, lizards, butterflies, moths; about crows, mynahs, pigeons and sparrows.
“I’ve lived in cities like Mumbai, Delhi, Jaipur, Chennai…. And everywhere there are trees. Where there are trees, there will be birds even if it’s only a crow or a mynah. Did you know there are different kinds of mynahs?
“People see a black bird and immediately say ‘Oh! Crow!’ But if they ‘observe’, they might see the red eyes and greyish-green beak of the male Asian koel.”
She brings up the issue of spiders and lizards and how many people run screaming from these harmless animals. Lizards feed on insects and mosquitoes, she says, and are not dangerous unless they fall into your food.
“This business of lizards licking food is a fallacy,” she says scornfully. “Most likely it was there because of an insect on your food.” She agrees that one really can’t have spider webs in one’s living rooms but “in the backyard or on balcony corners is okay. One kind preys on cockroaches but is rarely seen.” Spiders definitely have my vote then, I think.
Speaking of spider webs and pigeon droppings, something she says sticks in my mind. “A super-sanitised environment is not good for one’s immune system. Biodiversity is also closely linked with well-being and health. By not allowing biodiversity to flourish around you, you are denying space for those that could well check the population of dengue/malarial mosquitoes.”
Even if children are asked to write about biodiversity or environment, it’s usually downloaded from the Internet, rarely about first-hand experience. She narrates an incident from one school. The Std. V NCERT textbook had a lesson on laws to protect wildlife and instructs teachers to discuss the implications with students. The teacher asked if the decision to make snake catching a punishable offence was correct. One girl’s answer was: Catching snakes and exhibiting them is for livelihood, so give them other ways of making a living before you make this a punishable offence. Otherwise they will be forced to beg or left without any way to live a decent life. “And do you know what the teacher said?” Seeing her expression, I could guess. “This is a wrong answer. Go check the textbook and write what it says.”
She reflects on her days as biology teacher and how she used to look for opportunities to take children out of the classroom. “At Apeejay School, NOIDA, the Yamuna was across the road. In winter, there would be many migratory birds. I used to take the children bird watching. Today, there’s a four-lane expressway. No way can you cross the road now.” What if the school is in the middle of a concrete jungle? “Use potted plants. There will be grasshoppers or flies.”
She has quite a bit to say about flies. “In the insect world, the fourth largest group is flies. Not all are the kind you want to swat. Many are beautiful. They are pollinators and pest controllers. For us, fly means carrier of disease. But if you watch a fly carefully, you’ll see it cleans itself more often than we do. A fly tastes its food with its feet, so it has to land on different stuff. Humans throw garbage in the open, defecate in open spaces and then complain about the fly carrying disease.”
In an attempt to create more awareness, she has curated the content for the Biodiversity module of Wipro’s Earthian programme for schools. Geetha shows me the pamphlet of commonly seen fauna, which helps one spot the difference between a chameleon and a garden lizard, or a grasshopper, a mantis and a Katydid. There’s a card game and a booklet with activities to facilitate observation  and personal experience of biodiversity. The material for schools is available for download athttp://www.wipro.org/
earthian/school.php#HTP
As we wind up our chat, Geetha says, “We don’t need any new curriculum. If schools can engage with forest departments, they can actually use the forest to study the regular curriculum and fulfil the classroom requirements. Even parks and gardens can be used for biodiversity studies, if natural areas of wilderness are not accessible. And environment education won’t be the namesake project it is today.”




Biodiversity is also closely linked with well-being and health..



Bustard population less than 300 now

Bustard population less than 300 now - The Hindu



The population of Great Indian Bustard, a critically endangered species, is estimated to be less than 300 now and its numbers are declining owing to alteration of its habitats due to industrialisation, mining and agricultural practices, the government on Friday said.
“The Great Indian Bustard is one of the critically endangered species of birds in India and is confined in six states — Rajasthan, Gujarat, Maharashtra, Madhya Pradesh, Karnataka and Andhra Pradesh.
“Population of this species is estimated to be less than 300. The population of this species is declining due to alteration of important bustard habitats due to industrialisation, mining, intensive agricultural practices, etc,” Environment Minister Prakash Javadekar told Lok Sabha in a written reply.
He said that the Gujarat government has submitted a Species Recovery Plan of Rs 187.13 crores for a period of ten years for Great Indian Bustards to the Union government for financial assistance during 2014-15 and the proposal has been examined by the ministry.
He said that the proposal for rationalisation of Great Indian Bustard Sanctuary was received by the ministry which was recommended by the Standing Committee of National Board for Wildlife in its 36th meeting.
“The recommendation of the Standing Committee has been forwarded to the Maharashtra government,” Mr Javadekar said.
He said that the species has also been identified as one of the species component under “recovery programmes for saving critically endangered species and habitats” of the centrally sponsored scheme of Integrated Development of Wildlife Habibats.
Financial assistance of Rs 65.36 lakh and Rs 110.63 lakh has also been provided to Maharashtra and Rajasthan in the current financial year for conservation of the species, he said. - PTI



Sunday, November 15, 2015

AirBnB in Jordan

AirBnB in Jordan: Cave Edition - The Gazelle



AIRBNB IN JORDAN: CAVE EDITION

IMG_0929
It was late in the evening, and none of us had a working phone. Because we were traveling in Jordan, phone credit that normally lasted three months was eaten up in 32 seconds. The weather was getting cold, and we had no idea where we were and what we were going to do.
“Guys, I think I am out of balance,” said Miha as we exited a highway somewhere on our way to Petra.
“Just ask somebody where Little Petra is,” said Abhi.
Little Petra was where our AirBnB host had directed us over the phone, before our call was interrupted by the silence of deficient phone credit. 
When we stopped the car and started questioning random pedestrians, everyone told us something different. Most agreed that Little Petra was a hotel. This did not square with our original plan, however, because our host was supposed to be a man living in a cave.
IMG_1053
Two weeks earlier, I had walked in on my friend Miha looking at an AirBnB listing for a cave. We had been swayed by the novel idea of living in the mountains of Jordan, as well as the host’s claims to have decent Wi-Fi, so we booked it.
Now that we were driving down a highway in Jordan, however, we were beginning to doubt our plan.
So we did what most people would do: We continued on straight, hoping to see a miraculous sign pointing us to the right place. And there it was — a board showing the directions to Little Petra.
From the expression on Max’s face, I could read the following words: “Guys, I have no idea where we are, but I am not willing to sleep in one car with the three of you, and I also don’t want to die tonight.” So we continued. It was 11 p.m. when we arrived at a dead end of only mountains and desert. I think all of us, at that moment, had lost hope.
Suddenly, a sharp light illuminated our side windows, and we looked over to see an old, pink SUV rolling to a stop next to us. Max put his window down, and a stranger with a big smile on his face repeated the phrase that we had been hearing at least 50 times a day:
“Welcome to Jordan!”
A few minutes later, we were in our host’s car somewhere in the mountains. In addition to the four of us, there were two strangers sitting in the back.
“Sprichts du Deutsch?” Ghassab, our host, addressed Max.
Though Max had been working on a project that required him to take a pledge of silence for the day, Ghassab did not give up. For 15 minutes, he continued his monologue in German as Max occasionally nodded or smiled.
“You know, my friends, you did not call me. I was waiting for you the whole day,” Ghassab explained.
“We are sorry, Ghassab, but we could not reach you on the phone and then we ran out of balance,” Miha tried to excuse us.
“Don’t worry, my friends. It’s OK. You can come anytime, in the evening or in the morning. Doesn’t matter,” Ghassab was trying to cheer us up a little bit, since he probably sensed that things had not gone according to plan for us.
At this moment, however, a strange noise came from the back of the car and we suddenly stopped.
“Oh, what is it now?” I thought. When we got out of the car, my fear materialized — a flat tire. “Great, we’re in the middle of mountains surrounded by desert without water or food.”
That thought suddenly made my other fears, including my future major declaration and recent midterms, seem much less relevant.
“How far is the cave?” I asked Ghassab.
Ghassab pointed at the big rock next to us. “It is right here, my friend.” 
IMG_0950
Ghassab opened the door and let us in. Though it looked like a big mushroom from the outside, the cave’s interior was really welcoming and appealing.
“This cave is thousands of years old. We built only the fourth wall,” said Ghassab proudly.
The two other strangers, a French woman and a Jordanian man, came out of the car and introduced themselves while Ghassab lit a gas lamp and began making us tea. 
We spoke a bit as we got comfortable, listening to Ghassab explain how he inherited the cave from his Bedouin family. He pointed out the lights across the border with Israel, which we could see due to our cave’s proximity. 
The atmosphere was perfect. After six hours of traveling, we felt we deserved the most beautiful view in the world.
“You know, I studied in Germany when I was younger,” he told us. “I had to learn the language perfectly in one year, otherwise I would not be able to stay there.”
Later, I went for a short walk and climbed a nearby peak. Sitting on the edge of the cliff, surrounded by darkness, I could only see Israel in the distance. There was something about the atmosphere that made me uncomfortable, and it took me a while to realize that it was the silence. 
As I was listening to it, I was struck by the realization that I had not heard real silence for a very long time. There was nothing. No air-conditioning blowing in my room, no people chatting in the library or in the quiet rooms. It was real silence.
IMG_0407
Since it was warm outside, we decided to sleep outside the cave that night. I remember waking up at 4 a.m. to the most beautiful sky I have ever seen — pink-blue and with a spread of stars. 
When I entered the cave in the morning, Ghassab looked at me and said something in surprised Arabic. I suddenly got scared that I had inadvertently done something inappropriate.
“You have a round face and you are blonde,” he explained. “You look exactly like my daughter’s friend from Europe. Are you him?”
“No, I don’t think I am him. And I don’t think I am blond,” I said.
“No, no, my friend, you are blond. Jordanians girls will really like you. You go to Amman and you will get a lot of girls,” Ghassab insisted.
Miha, Abhi and Max joined us in the cave for breakfast. Ghassab offered us some hummus, bread, donkey milk and what he called camel eggs.
“I brought camel eggs only for you — look how big they are. I also had to milk a donkey this morning!” he said.
“So, is donkey milk healthy?” I asked.
“Very healthy, my friend. Look at me. You will be strong like me,” Ghassab reassured us. “You know my friend, I am a psychic. I can tell you about your future.” 
“Ok, go ahead. Try me.” 
“Take an egg. I will tell you based on the inside of an egg,” he said.
I did not hesitate and started peeling the egg, sprinkling some salt on the top and digging at the soft white surface with a small spoon. As soon as the yolk appeared, Ghassab sighed. He then glanced at me with a pitying expression that made him look like he had just swallowed something very sour. My heart started to pound.
“Well? What does it mean?” I asked impatiently.
“Oh no, my friend.” He sighed again.
“Ok, what is it?” I joked. “Am I going to die soon?” 
“No, my friend. You know. You and ladies, it is not that positive. You are friends, but no more,” he predicted.
Meanwhile, Abhi was opening his egg. Ghassab looked at him and said: “But you, my friend, you are going to have many girls!”
I didn’t like my prediction, so I attempted to open another egg. However, Ghassab stopped me and said, “Only one egg a day my friend — no more.”
IMG_1163
After the breakfast we started discussing our origins. Miha said he was from Slovenia. I followed by saying that I come from Slovakia.
“Oh, Slovakia! You know this word Slovak – it is where everybody comes from,” he said to us.
Miha tried correcting him. “Ghassab, the word is Slavic, not Slovak — ” 
“Yes, Slovak. Slovenians come from Slovakia. Everybody from Europe comes from Slovakia,” he insisted. While Miha helplessly struggled to accept his new origin, I was suddenly very proud of my country.
We packed to leave, but there remained one problem – the flat tire. After saying goodbye to the cave, we had to wait 20 minutes for another SUV to pick us up. Then we sat in the back of the trunk for the most wild and dangerous ride of our lives since Ferrari World opened. 
Staying in a cave with Ghassab had been an extraordinary experience. I would definitely do it again for the silence in the mountains — trust me, you haven’t heard such silence before — the view and, last but not least, Ghassab himself.
All photos courtesy of Peter Hadvab. Peter Hadvab is a contributing writing. Email him at feedback@thegazelle.org.

Wednesday, November 11, 2015

Changing relationships between farmers and heronries



The state of Tamil Nadu in South India
has had a long history of creating and
managing water bodies, especially in the
plains. (The general term ‘water body’
has been used in this note to avoid con-
fusion resulting from the use of terms
like ‘tanks’, ‘ponds’, ‘wetlands’, ‘lakes’,
etc. in administrative parlance.) This is
attributed largely to the spatial and tem-
poral variance of rainfall distribution in
the state, which is concentrated over the
months of October to December during
the northeast monsoon, and June to Sep-
tember during the southwest monsoon
1.
Estimates suggest that there are about
39,200 irrigation water bodies in the
state which serve various purposes such
as irrigation, domestic and livestock use,
fishing, groundwater recharge and flood
control
2–4. Started in the 1960s, foreshore
planting by the Tamil Nadu Forest De-
partment on some of the water bodies
was crucial in the creation of a number
of heronries in the state
5. A ‘heronry’ is a
general term that refers to nesting colo-
nies of waterbirds like storks, egrets,
herons, cormorants, etc.
6. Consequently,
some of the heronries were declared as
bird (wildlife) sanctuaries, with a work-
ing arrangement between the Tamil Nadu
Forest Department and Public Works
Department or Rural Development and
Panchayat Raj Department on aspects of
ownership, management and protection.
This eliminated traditional practices like
desilting of the tank, fishing, firewood
collection, grazing by the locals, etc.
which were earlier regulated by a combi-
nation of self-regulation and prudence as
well as customary rules. Interestingly, all
the 14 bird sanctuaries of the state are
water bodies, and with the exception of
one bird sanctuary in the western district
of Erode, the others are located on or



near the east coast and are a part of a
system of interconnected water bodies.



One of the most well-known bird sanc-
tuaries of the state is the Vedanthangal–
Karikili (thangal = shallow wetland),
which is situated at a distance of approxi-
mately 85 km south of Chennai. The
water body is part of the Lower Palar
Anaicut system and is a nesting ground
for nearly 17 species of waterbirds
5.
Vedanthangal is often cited as an example
of community-led conservation, as is the
Koonthankulam–Kadankulam (kulam =
tank) bird sanctuary in Tirunelveli dis-
trict
5,7. The bird droppings that enrich the
waters of Vedanthangal–Karikili and
Koonthankulam–Kadankulam are stated
to have served as organic enrichment for
the intensive paddy–horticulture cultiva-
tion in the landscape (Table 1). Systems
to manage the inflow and outflow of
water were evolved by the local zamin-
dar (landlord) in consultation with the
community, and the marginalized sec-
tions within the community were vested
with the responsibility of maintaining the
water body. The zamindar spearheaded
the protection of birds by punishing
hunters and poachers and incentivizing
the households which protected them.
Likewise, a landlord in Koonthankulam
played the role of a custodian of birds,
by incentivizing protection efforts. Over
time, this evolved into a local tradition
with the people desisting from engaging
in activities detrimental to birds. In both
cases, the villages came to be defined by
the birds. Farmers and local communities
around many of the sanctuaries used the
arrival of birds as one of the key indica-
tors to monitor local climate, and this in
many instances assumed the character of
‘divinity’. The association between local
communities, water bodies and birds was



symbiotic with the use of agricultural
fields for foraging by birds and the use of
guano-rich silt from the water body as
fertilizer.



Interactions with the farmers of the
state’s delta region, however, suggest
that there is a need to re-examine the no-
tion of this symbiotic association. For in-
stance, farmers reported that the presence
of birds during the initial phases of
paddy cultivation, especially before the
crop is transplanted, leads to crop dam-
age. They address this issue by creating
noise using ingenious solutions such as
the use of cassette tapes. In various parts
of the world migrant waterfowl, includ-
ing ducks, geese, coots and cranes have
been reported to damage crops like rice,
corn, wheat and soybean by feeding,
trampling and grazing
8,9. While Gole10
reports crop damage by Bar-headed
goose to the winter crops in India, man-
aging rice cultivation by flooding rice
fields after harvesting and use of effi-
cient agronomic practices and equipment
can benefit the birds and at the same time
prevent crop losses
11. On the flip side,
the presence of birds in the agricultural
areas attracts poachers and hunters,
which results in conflicts with the Forest
Department.



While the agrarian tradition of
Koonthankulam has remained more or
less the same over the last many years, in
Vedanthangal–Karikili there has been a
marked change in land use in recent
years. Due to its proximity to the city of
Chennai and speculative land transac-
tions, agriculture has ceased to be of sig-
nificance around the water body. Large
tracts of temporary and permanent fallow
lands typify the landscape, and the resi-
dent communities wish to capitalize upon
the presence of the birds to create ‘green



Table 1. Details regarding two important bird sanctuaries in Tamil Nadu



OPINION



page1image51328
page1image51488
Bird sanctuary
(BS)



Vedanthangal
Koonthankulam–Kadankulam



Location
(district)



Kancheepuram
Tirunelveli



Area16
(sq. km)



0.30
1.29



No. of nesting
waterbird species
5



17
15



Major crops cultivated
around the BS
17,18



Paddy, gingelly, groundnut, finger millet,
vegetables



Paddy, groundnut, cotton, banana, vegetables



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page1image57320
CURRENT SCIENCE, VOL. 109, NO. 3, 10 AUGUST 2015



403





OPINION



page2image920
townships’. As the irrigation service of
the water body becomes redundant, the
guano-enriched water is perceived to be
a problem.



Water bodies that continue to be of
significance to agriculture with large
ayacuts (area under agriculture) such as
Vaduvoor and Karaivetti, are under regu-
lar maintenance by the Public Works
Department, while in contrast, water
bodies with lower service to farmers
such as Udayamarthandapuram or Vet-
tangudi are accorded low priority. Con-
sequently, they are characterized by
silting of feeder tanks and embankments,
derelict sluices and seepage. Agarwal
and Narain
12 contend that the deteriora-
tion of tanks began soon after independ-
ence as they were brought under the
Public Works Department that was un-
aware of existing indigenous systems of
managing them, besides inadequate fund-
ing for maintenance. Discussions with
farmer groups and the Panchayats, espe-
cially in Kanchipuram and Ramana-
thapuram districts indicate that this was
one of the many corollaries of the social
reform movement in Tamil Nadu. Water
bodies are valued and protected by local
communities for their ecosystem ser-
vices, especially irrigation, and when the
management is local or perceived to be
inclusive in its approach
13. A change in
the management, especially to a system
that is seen to exclude local communities
and their interests may undermine the
intangible ecosystem services provided
by the water body.



With specific reference to bird sanctu-
aries, contamination of water with large
quantities of bird excreta, sediments and
agricultural chemicals run-off results in
high biochemical oxygen demand,
thereby degrading water quality and re-
ducing aquatic diversity, including native
fish species
14. The bird sanctuaries were
observed to be infested with invasive fish
species such as Tilapia (
Oreochromis
mossambicus
) and Giant African Catfish
(
Clarias gariepinus), which are capable
of surviving in unfavourable environ-
mental conditions
15. The Giant African
Catfish not only decimates other aquatic



fauna, it is also not the food for any of
the birds due to its large size (R. J. R.
Daniels, pers. commun.). Tilapia, which
was introduced in Tamil Nadu to ensure
the availability of low-cost animal pro-
tein, was found to be widely represented
in nearly all the bird sanctuaries. The
cessation of fishing leases and permis-
sions granted by the state departments
has further intensified this problem. In
bird sanctuaries that are part of the
Lower Cauvery basin such as Karaivetti
and Udayamarthandapuram, the major
problem is the loss of area of the water
body due to the extensive growth of
weeds like
Eichhornia crassipes and
Ipomoea carnea. In Ramanathapuram
district, water bodies such as Kanjiranku-
lam and Chitirangudi are overrun by
Prosopis juliflora and the planted Acacia
nilotica
, aggravating the existing water
stress.



Evidently, the issue of managing the
bird sanctuaries is rather complex not
only due to changing scenarios within
the landscape, but also because of the in-
volvement of multiple line departments
in protecting and managing the water
bodies. Also, the much celebrated sym-
biotic relationship between local com-
munities and birds in Tamil Nadu needs
to be revalidated and contextualized for
the current time-period. Based on the
validation, management systems and
processes need to be evolved as the state
embarks on a mission of ensuring the
wise use of wetlands, which is the key
tenet of the Ramsar Convention on Wet-
lands, 1971.



6. Urfi, A. J., The Painted Stork: Ecology
and Conservation
, Springer Science &
Business Media, New York, 2011, p. 163.



7. Krishnan, M., The Vedanthangal Sanctu-
ary for Water – Birds
, The Madras State
Forest Department, Madras, 1960, p. 25.



8. Hunt, R. A. and Bell, J. G., In Bird Con-
trol Seminars Proceedings, 1973, Paper
104, pp. 85–101;
http://digitalcommons.
unl.edu/icwdmbirdcontrol/104



9. Cleary, E. C., In Prevention and Control
of Wildlife Damage
(eds Hyngstrom, S.
E., Timm, R. M. and Larson, G. E.), Uni-
versity of Nebraska Cooperative Exten-
sion Service, Lincoln, Nebraska, USA,
1994, pp. El39–El55;
http://icwdm.org/
handbook/birds/Waterfowl.asp



10. Gole, P., Aquila, 1982, 89, 141–149.

11. Stafford, J. D., Kaminski, R. M. and
Reinecke, K. J.,
Waterbirds, 2010,



33(sp1), 133–150.

12. Agarwal, A. and Narain, S. (eds),
Dying



Wisdom: Rise, Fall, and Potential of
India’s Traditional Water Harvesting
Systems
, Center for Science and Envi-
ronment, New Delhi, 1997.



13. Mitsch, W. J. and Gosselink, J. G., Ecol.
Econ.
, 2000, 35(1), 25–33.



14. Tilman, D., Proc. Natl. Acad. Sci. USA,
1999,
96(11), 5995–6000.



15. Ganie, M. A., Bhat, M. D., Khan, M. I.,
Parveen, M., Balkhi, M. H. and Malla,
M. A.,
J. Ecol. Nat. Environ., 2013,
5(10), 310–317.



16. http://www.forests.tn.nic.in/WildBiodiver-
sity/birdsanctuaries.html



17. Care Earth Trust, Wetland Action Plan –
Vedanthangal Bird Sanctuary, Tamil
Nadu Forest Department, 2014, p. 113.



18. Care Earth Trust, Wetland Action Plan –
Koonthankulam Bird Sanctuary, Tamil
Nadu Forest Department, 2014, p. 186.



ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS. We thank the
anonymous reviewers for their comments.
This note is based on an assignment awarded
to Care Earth Trust by the Tamil Nadu Biodi-
versity Conservation and Greening Project of
the Tamil Nadu Forest Department to evolve
Wetland Action Plans for 11 bird sanctuaries
of the state.



Avantika Bhaskar and Jayshree Vencate-
san* are in Care Earth Trust, #5, Shri
Nivas, 21st Street, Thillaiganga Nagar,
Chennai 600 061, India.



*e-mail: jvencatesan@gmail.com



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page2image53984
page2image54144
1.



2.



3.
4.



5.



Balachandran, S., Asokan, R. and Sri-
dharan, S.,
J. Earth Syst. Sci., 2006,
115(3), 349–362.

Palanisami, K. and Easter, K. W.,
Tank
Irrigation in the 21st Century – What
Next
? Discovery Publishing House, New
Delhi, 2000, p. 189.



Palanisami, K. and Meinzen-Dick, R.,
Irrig. Drain. Syst., 2001, 15(2), 173–195.
Sakthivadivel, R., Gomathinayagam, P.
and Shah, T.,
Econ. Polit. Wkly., 2004,
XXXIX(31), 3521–3526.



Subramanya, S., Indian Birds, 2005,
1(6), 126–140.



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CURRENT SCIENCE, VOL. 109, NO. 3, 10 AUGUST 2015 


Sunday, November 8, 2015

One of my favourite places

One of the most charming places close to home is RV, with the most charming people in it as well.



One of those charming people is Shantharam, and I was delighted to find this in the papers.



Green Valley of Learning - The New Indian Express



V Shantaram, director of the Institute of Bird Studies & Natural History
The munificent shade provided by the banyan tree could function as the classroom. There is no teacher to guide or shout instructions. There aren’t any books, and no rules. The subject of study is all around—perched on trees, camouflaged in the foliage, some preening themselves while others are screeching and cooing. This is the campus of the Institute of Bird Studies & Natural History, a bird sanctuary in Madanapalle, Andhra Pradesh. Both fall under the aegis of Rishi Valley School.
Aligning itself with founder Jiddu Krishnamurti’s ideology of compassion towards all living beings with his observations on birds, animals and nature being well documented, a six-month correspondence course in ornithology was introduced in 1997, much before the institute was set up in 1999.
“The course is open to people from any background. Although professionals in ecology and conservation are taking advantage of it, the course has attracted a lot of retired people and housewives who are pursuing it as a hobby,” says V Shantaram, director of the institute.  
For students, the Rishi Valley School campus is a practical learning ground with its huge tree cover, bird life and other forms of biodiversity. “Krishnamurti planned to develop a world university, but it fell through. Rishi Valley School was started in 1930 in this remote place with barren surroundings except for a centuries-old banyan tree. Tree plantation followed, gaining momentum in the 80s when the revenue department handed over 150 acres of land to the school on lease for afforestation. With an additional habitat of a percolation point that provided rainwater harvesting, bird life on the campus began to grow,” explains Shantaram.
So what came first, the institute or the bird sanctuary? “The latter,” says Shantaram, the credit for which goes to S Rangaswami, naturalist, author and educator at Rishi Valley School. “In the late 90s, Rangaswami found a dramatic increase in the bird life and decided to conduct a survey. He invited people from other places, which is when I came there,” says Shantaram. “From the 70-80 species found here in 1977, we were able to list 150 species, probably due to the positive changes in the habitat. In 1991, Rishi Valley School was declared a bird preserve.”
The bird preserve may not have become the Institute of Bird Studies and Natural History had Rangaswami decided to move on after authoring his book, Birds of Rishi Valley and Regeneration of their Habitats, in 1994. He introduced a correspondence course in ornithology.
The reins of running the institute was later handed over to Shantaram. “Rangaswami invited me to join and I came here in 1978 as the resident ornithologist. From the 175 species when his book was written, the number has grown to 230, which I have documented,” says Shantaram.
The correspondence course is of six months, with students welcome to come to the institute and observe birds as part of the practical component. Shantaram also teaches at the main school. “Students who are 17 and above can join. Once an eight-year-old boy got through the course, while our oldest student was an 80-year-old lady,” he says.
Students have to answer a question paper after the first three months and another at the end of the course, after which they get a certificate. The course fee is “a minimum donation of `1,000. Upon feedback from students and others, the course syllabus is always up for revision,” says Shantaram. The institute’s mascot is the yellow-throated bulbul, “which is special to south India and is listed as ‘threatened’. We keep seeing it here regularly,” he says.

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