I wrote about the Godwits of Mangalajodi and here is a piece after my own heart.
Birdwatching: Flying wild
How a village near Odisha’s Chilika Lake, once infamous for hunting, transformed into a haven for migratory birds
A whiskered tern. Photographs by Ananda Banerjee/Mint
Today, the
Mangalajodi marshes on the northern fringes of Odisha’s Chilika Lake are
again a haven for water birds. Thousands of them flock there every
winter, from November-February. The black-tailed godwit, the Siberian
bluethroat, an assortment of ducks, geese, grebes, harriers, bitterns,
herons, snipes, gulls, terns and crakes—you get to see them all. Many of
them fly thousands of miles south to beat the harsh winter in
their breeding grounds. According to local bird guides, some migratory
birds have even started staying back in the area.
Chilika is the
largest coastal lagoon in the country. It is spread over 1,100 sq. km
and three districts: Puri, Khurda and Ganjam. Mangalajodi is one of 132
villages that dot this vast lake adjoining the Bay of Bengal. It is a
poor, sleepy fishing village with a population of about 5,000, most of
whom live off the land. So a wild duck for the pot or a waterfowl for a
feast is not uncommon.
But in the early
1990s, the birds came under attack on a much bigger scale as Mangalajodi
gained notoriety for the exploits of Kishore Behera. He is said to have
begun poaching as many as 4,000 ducks daily, using nets, traps and
pesticides, supplying the birds to markets nearby. Behera came to be
known as the “Veerappan of Chilika”, a reference to the infamous
sandalwood smuggler who eluded the authorities for years.
By 2001,
Mangalajodi had begun to be described as a “poachers’ paradise”. The
Bombay Natural History Society (BNHS) reported that the number of birds
had dwindled to an estimated 5,000 during the migratory season, down
from the many thousands, or hundreds of thousands, that would be spotted
earlier.
That was a time when
“villagers were expected to carry a wild duck as a gift to officials to
get work done, or if they were visiting family or friends outside
Mangalajodi,” says Nilanjan Behera, founding chairperson of the
Mangalajodi Ecotourism Trust (MET), a community-owned and operated
eco-tourism enterprise that has been working on conservation issues
since 2010.
Slowly but surely,
efforts such as MET’s have brought about a remarkable change in
Mangalajodi. The villagers are now involved in conservation. Binod
Banik, 29, who dropped out of school in class VIII and was my guide for
the two days I spent in the village, can easily spot about 70 of the 211
bird species recorded in the village. Bala, who effortlessly navigates
the boat through the tangle of floating vegetation, knows exactly where
to find an elusive crake in the reed beds.
Both Binod and Bala
are members of MET. Their new-found winter professions have given them a
certain social status and a better life; in summer, Banik works at a
shop, while Bala goes back to fishing. The number of visitors to their
village has been going up every season, and there is a growing pride
among villagers in showcasing the avian diversity and setting an example
in conservation.
Sugyan Behera, a
bird guide, shows off a photo album in which his father, also a guide,
has neatly pasted the currency notes of different countries that he and
12 other guides got as tips. George Washington, the first US president,
looks down from the one-dollar bill in the plastic album, which also
has a Bhutanese ngultrum, Bangladeshi taka, United Arab Emirates dirham
and currencies from South-East Asian countries.
Mangalajodi is
slowly turning into a birding destination, says Nilanjan. India Post has
recognized the change, releasing a special cover on Mangalajodi in
association with the Eastern Indian Philatelic Association.
The transformation,
however, wasn’t easy. Nilanjan recalls the day he was mocked by his
college teacher as someone who belonged to a village of poachers. That
was in the 1990s. “I wanted to do something to change the image,” he
says.
“The marshland of
Mangalajodi comes under the revenue and irrigation departments. So the
forest department had no land or presence in and around Mangalajodi.
There was no control over poaching. Also, the village had little idea
about conservation and wildlife protection,” says Nilanjan.
With the help of
Wild Orissa, a non-profit, they formed a bird protection group called
Sri Mahavir Pakshi Suraksha Samiti (SMPSS) in 2000. In 2010, this became
the MET, with the Royal Bank of Scotland (RBS) Foundation India and
Indian Grameen Services, a non-profit, playing a pivotal role in its
establishment. Today, it provides alternative livelihoods for 70
households.
The turning point
came in 1996, when they managed to convince Kishore Behera to give up
poaching and take up pisciculture. Other poachers followed suit.
It took another
decade or more for the SMPSS to get organized as a community-based
conservation project, but this was the period when birdlife began
returning to the village. Gradually, the villagers, too, began to
understand how avian tourism could help them. Many villagers work under
MET as boatmen, guides, souvenir shop operators and hospitality service
providers.
Today, the
marshland teems with birds. According to the BNHS, Mangalajodi sees
around 150,000 migratory birds every year; it’s designated as an
Important Bird Area (IBA) by BirdLife International, the world’s largest
nature conservation partnership.
N. Sunil Kumar,
director, RBS Foundation India, says: “Mangalajodi has struggled to get
out of the infamy it had gained due to bird poaching in the 1990s.
Today, the place is considered one of the best to spot different species
of birds.”
It is now off the
radar of Kishore Behera, who has left the village, and on the radar of
tourists. Around 1,000 tourists visit every season. A number of hotel
chains are showing interest in the area.
It is equally
clear, however, that Mangalajodi cannot sustain mass tourism. Much,
then, will depend on how Mangalajodi and MET walk the tightrope between
economics and environment.
