Showing posts with label Forests. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Forests. Show all posts

Thursday, May 24, 2018

A different purple - in the hills of Yercaud

April 2018

The hills were alive
with the colours of the Crepe Myrtle.
Pride of India.

Lagerstroemia




Thursday, March 15, 2018

Lalchandji and the tigers

Sounds like something out of a Ruskin Bond book.

I looked up the terrain on Google Maps, and it is just as Raza Kazmi describes it  - Pilibhit is a thin horse-shoe-shaped strip of Terai forest bound by tall sugarcane fields on all sides except for the slender forest corridors connecting it to the Shivalik forests of Uttarakhand to its west, Shuklaphanta national park (in Nepal) to its north and Dudhwa tiger reserve to its east.


The Tiger in my Backyard

The lonely life of a forest bungalow guard in UP’s Pilibhit tiger reserve.

Written by Raza Kazmi | Published: January 21, 2018 12:05 am

“Just as dusk begins giving way to the night, I bolt myself inside the rest house. I have my dinner there and stay locked till daybreak. If someone arrives at the main gate at night, he opens the gate himself, I don’t go out. Tigers and leopards regularly enter the compound and there is just one solar light near the kitchen that works. Everything else is engulfed in darkness. Just a few days ago, two tigers came inside the campus and roared for a good two hours while I was holed inside this godforsaken bungalow all alone, waiting for dawn,” says Lalchandji, the chowkidaar at the Mala forest rest house in Uttar Pradesh’s little-known Pilibhit tiger reserve, as he rakes up the dying embers of the small fire we had lit to shield ourselves from the cold.
His caution isn’t without reason. There is a palpable fear among forest staff and locals all across this tiger reserve that has witnessed, perhaps, the worst spate of tiger attacks in India in recent history. More than 20 people have been killed by the striped cats over the past few months, more than one-third of the fatalities being in a 5 km radius of the Mala bungalow. The conflict is primarily fuelled by the unique geography of this tiger reserve. Pilibhit is a thin horse-shoe-shaped strip of Terai forest bound by tall sugarcane fields on all sides except for the slender forest corridors connecting it to the Shivalik forests of Uttarakhand to its west, Shuklaphanta national park (in Nepal) to its north and Dudhwa tiger reserve to its east. The tall sugarcane provides good cover to the big cats as well as their prey, and, consequently, tigers regularly move about in these fields. Villagers must enter as well to tend to their fields and so the stage for tragedy is set. The forest department asks residents to avoid moving about in and around the forest after dark, and to move in large groups if they must.

Lalchandji, however, has no such safety net to fall back on. The ageing veteran stands guard all alone at the bungalow — except for occasional short visits during the day by fellow staff members — because, as he nonchalantly puts it, “Who else will take care of it if not me?” He isn’t a chowkidaar by designation, though. “I am an ardali [orderly]. I got regularised after working nearly three decades on daily wage. I got posted as an ad-hoc chowkidaar here 15 years ago when the last guy died. They have forgotten me here since,” he says with a shrug.
He would have made his peace with this life, but for the the “damn tigers and leopards”. “They won’t leave me in peace even during the day, sometimes. Just a few months ago, three large tigers walked into this fallow field in broad daylight,” he says, pointing towards a small field, barely 15 feet behind me, that was seasonally used to raise nursery crops. “There I was taking a nice bath in the sun when suddenly there were a few peacock calls. The next thing I know, three full grown tigers suddenly walk out of the forest, casually jump over the barbed wire fence and lie down in this field.” His tone betrays a rare hint of excitement. “I was so flustered I couldn’t even get my clothes on! I ran half-naked into the kitchen and bolted the doors. And don’t even get me started on that rascal leopard who climbed up the roof of my quarter!” he scoffs. I try not to laugh at this amusing tirade, but it’s a difficult task: he speaks of them like a grumpy old man expressing his annoyance at street urchins. “They make my life miserable,” he complains, before lapsing into silence. “But, at least, they give me company on lonely days,” he says.
The deer are a big draw for predators in the area. (Photo: Raza Kazmi)Just as he is finishing his story, his phone rings. He squints his eyes, takes out his ancient phone, and then presses the reject button. “Ye ek aur narak bana rakha hai jeevan ko is saale phone ne.” (This damn phone is another object that is making my life hell), he groans. “People from home keep calling, asking me to come for festivals and functions. I have just had three holidays in the last one year. I even spent Diwali alone here. In the silence of the night, I could hear the faint sounds of celebration from Mala village,” he says, his voice plaintive. “This damn phone rang just then, a call from home. I rejected the call…stupid mobile phones,” he mutters.
I ask him why he doesn’t press for leaves. After all, his home is only about 6 km away and his health has steadily declined over the past two years. “Didn’t I tell you already? Who will take care of this place then?” he says and lapses into silence. “But it is going to be over soon. I will be retiring in two months’ time. Then, I will rest for as long as I want. I have some land, maybe I will start farming again,” he says, as a flock of oriental pied hornbills settle on a fig tree for the night.
The glowing red embers of the fire have begun dying. We retire for the night. The next morning, I find him restlessly pacing around the fire he has lit close to the kitchen. I greet him and he lets out a broad smile. “You are sleeping easy here. A leopard walked right past your head in the night!” he says, showing me fresh pugmarks next to the bungalow’s verandah. “Stupid leopard,” he chuckles.




Raza Kazmi is a Jharkhand-based conservationist and a keen student of India’s wildlife history.

Monday, March 5, 2018

The magnificent Rutland Island that needs to be 'saved' from a defence project

16th April 2017

Continued from here.

The MNS group was visiting the Andaman islands and staying at ANET in Wandoor.  Through the efforts of Mr Shankarnarayan, we had obtained permission to visit Rutland Island!  

We set out, if I remember right at around 6am in the morning.  The sun was up, and we travelled in our van along the thinly populated areas, going east first and then south, hugging the coast of the main island.

There was a little hamlet called Manjery, which amused and delighted me, as there is a Manjeri in Kerala that's famous in the family, but I am digressing. After about 45 minutes, through the tree cover, we spied the waters, and what a lovely sight it was!

We were at Pongibalu jetty, from where we were to take an open motorboat to Rutland.

The pictures below do not do justice to the natural beauty we saw.  Clear waters,  colourful fish darting in schools, mangroves at the edge, blue skies and a lovely breeze to counter the sharp April sun.

We were lucky to have with us Manish and Sathya from ANET, along with the forest department guide, to take us through what we saw and experienced.

The views from Pongibalu, to the north
South and west, with Rutland Island in the distance.
Once again, the literally earth-shaking events of the tsunami were in evidence.  On the right is the old jetty which has subsided and gone under water.  (Click on the picture to get a better look)  Rutland island has continuous freshwater, and that is the pipe that brings it to the main island.
Two boat trips were needed to ferry us across, and as we waited for our ride, we watched the fishes dart in and out from under the jetty platform, glinting as they caught the sun at certain angles.  There were a lot of garfish or sea needles, and their long needle-shaped snouts made them easy to spot.

Then there were schools of parrotfish! What colours!  Hard as I tried, I could not manage a picture of them, so fast were they in darting in and out.

The boat returned and we set off.

Rifleman island?

We crossed a tiny island called Rifleman, and rounded the Diligence Straits before we saw the jetty on Rutland Island.  We were going to the one inside the cove, not the more exposed one further east.


Looking out from Rutland Island at the jetty


As we moved in, off the beach we learned that there are no original inhabitants (Jangil tribe) anymore, and there is one small village of settlers, but otherwise the island is basically uninhabited, with no roads as such.

That is all set to change as there is an approved plan to set up some defence installations and missile testing.  Really?  Seriously?  Isn't there any other place they could use?  Any other island?


We stayed on the trail and there were TALL garjan trees (Dipterocarpus alatus or are they turbinatus?) that we
had to crane our necks to see.  Magnificent, thats the only word that came to my mind.
I of course had to see every tall tree, and therefore made very slow progress!  The seeds are
what we used to call "helicopters" as kids, twirling down with gravity.  The tree is in the
"Critically Endangered" list of IUCN, one more reason to leave this island alone.

Most of the Andaman archipelago depend on rainwater for fresh water.  However Rutland Island has freshwater streams running through it, and from one such stream, a huge pipe carries water to the main south Andaman island, as was seen in the picture of the jetty.

Our Forest Guide can be seen standing on on one of the chambers along the pipe way.

He explained to us how the forests of the island were dense and covered with cane, bamboo and lianas and creepers, along with the forest giants, and the mixed forest is healthy and vibrant.

The giant evergreens, were just that.  

There are many Dipterocarps it seems!  


Another Dipteorcarpus variety (I think), this one in seed.
The rattan canes (Calamus longisetus) were everywhere.  Manish showed us the 'hooks' that these climbers have by which they successfully climb over everything!
The sun was high in the sky, and the air was humid.  We were all sweating profusely, even though our path was more or less in the shade of the large trees.

The tree species would require several weeks of visits for me to note and identify properly.  There were endemics like Planchonia andamanicus, Padauk - we saw a large fallen tree, Andaman crepe myrtle - Lagerstroemia hypoleuca, besides Siris, Junglee badam and other familiar trees.



The Evergreen Giants
 
The overgrowth 

Shades of Green 


Emerald Gecko!


We found a bus-stop like rain shelter and all crowded into it, to sit and cool off, when Shubha spotted this brilliant green critter on the tree in front.  Phelsuma Andamanesis (Andaman Island Day Gecko) is found only in the Andamans, and we were privileged to spot it.  (Photo by Ramesh)  Click on the picture to see the beautiful colourations in detail.
It moved in and out of view as it circled the bark in search of  its lunch of insects.

We moved off the trail and settled by a little freshwater pond, where Pritam decided that the only way to cool off was to get right in.  So he strode in, and settled in the middle of the shallow pond, (with a surly look on his face which discouraged any smart comments), with only his hat-covered head out of water.  He did emerge in a little while in a better frame of mind it has to be said!

His mood improved even more when he spotted the Andaman Bulbul and Coucal in the foliage by the pond.  There were orioles too.  Watersides always lead to good bird sightings.

After a picnic lunch, we turned back on the trail to return to the jetty. I think the plan was to traverse the entire length of the island, but given the speed of our progress we made it only half way!

I don't think we quite know all the floral and faunal treasures that Rutland Island holds and yet the GOI wants to come in with this defence project.  Call me naive, a bleeding heart, anti-development or whatever, but this whole project makes no sense to me.

If we could move the neutrino project out of the Western Ghats, why not this as well?

Terns awaited our return at Pongibalu. 




That evening, we strolled back to the Wandoor beach, via the Lohabarrack Sanctuary entrance.  The waters are enclosed by a kind of net, and as the sun goes down, the local police are out with their whistles getting the people off the beaches.  The threat of salt water crocodiles is very real.  

As the skies darkened, we engaged in some black humour as we discussed how inadequate those nets seemed in the face of a large saltie.  

It seems we were not far from the truth, as an attack in November 2017 led to the death of one man on that very same beach.





Wednesday, January 21, 2015

Success stories and learnings


Restored Forests Breathe Life Into Efforts Against Climate Change

Wednesday, June 6, 2012

How to Make a Forest | OPEN Magazine

How to Make a Forest | OPEN Magazine

How to Make a Forest

...with minimum fuss and maximum effect
It is possible to make the most adverse circumstances bend to extraordinary will. The story of one such green warrior in the Doodhatoli mountains of Uttarakhand
Way to go
SACHCHIDANAND BHARATI Building water tanks to save the forest
SACHCHIDANAND BHARATI Building water tanks to save the forest
Before their menfolk started migrating out in droves, before rainwater started running off the eroded slopes of the Doodhatoli mountains in Uttarakhand, the people here had suffered an erosion of confidence and dignity. So Sachchidanand Bharati didn’t believe it when he read in 1993 about the region’s age-old water management systems. It was an account of large ponds called taal (like Nainital), small ponds called khaal, and chaal, a string of small, terraced tanks to catch water running off the slope.
If the book was right, the name of Bharati’s village—Ufrainkhaal—meant it was built around a small pond. But there wasn’t one. He went around asking old people, but nobody knew of the existence of a small pond in Ufrainkhaal, 6,000 feet above sea level in the mountains north of the Jim Corbett National Park.
A teacher in the village intermediate school, Bharati had cut his teeth as a young volunteer in the Chipko movement of the 1970s, hanging around environmentalist Chandi Prasad Bhatt. He was well known in the neighbourhood for rallying the villagers of the area against a government logging permit in 1982 to fell the forests that sustained them. His efforts were non-violent and successful: the government had to rescind the logging permit. But the forests were degraded because rain, which was plentiful, ran off the slopes into distant valleys, eroding the soil along the way. The rainwater had to be retained on the slopes.
But there were no accounts to be found of building khaals and chaals to catch the gushing runoff. Bharati decided to experiment with designs and sites in 1993. The hill folk knew their terrain, knew terraced farms and thought, as Bharati found, in three dimensions, unlike the plainspeople. But the water scarcity and the degraded forests had made livelihoods impossible, and the villages were bereft of men, who had gone ‘down’ in search of employment.
Bharati began talking to the women who were left behind. In the first year, they built a chaal on a monsoonal channel that had dried up. After the next monsoon, it retained water longer, the surrounding soil remained moist, the forest looked healthier. Over the next five years, Bharati’s Doodhatoli Lok Vikas Sansthan built several chaals in Ufrainkhaal and neighbouring villages, improving their design through trial.
They had broken free of the vicious cycle of drought/flood—more water meant the forests were getting more dense, which in turn retained even more water. The big test came during the drought of 2000-01. Forest fires are a regular feature in the pine plantations that pass for government forests in the region—pine kills all undergrowth and its needles pile up into a tinderbox. The fires did not spread to the regenerated oak forests, which have soil moisture and diversity. Yet there was the fear that the fires will engulf them, so the village women who had built the chaals turned out in numbers to prevent fires in government forests. Three women died in these efforts. The fire was controlled.
The women guard the forest with their lives. Literally. Their method is remarkable. Guard duty is determined by khakhar, a stick with bells tied on top. Whoever sees the khakhar pitched in front of her house takes the next turn at guard duty. When she gets tired, she goes and pitches it in front of a neighbour’s house. Simple. No duty roster, no register, no grievance. They don’t need official orders or coercion to protect what is theirs.
They also don’t need a budget or an office building or a development project. Their only major expense is on the sweets they distribute at their camps; this is met through donations from friends and well-wishers. Labour is contributed without cost. The annual expenses seldom exceed Rs 25,000.
No need for full-time staff either. Apart from the school teacher Bharati, there are three others who work for this non-organisation. There is Devi Dayal, their postman; Dinesh, a vaidya who practises ayurveda; and Vikram Singh, who runs a grocery shop. All four have to meet lots of people every day. Messages get conveyed and relayed just fine with homegrown IT that mainly resides between the ears, and people turn up to volunteer without Facebook reminders.
Bharati and his colleagues have steadfastly rejected the trappings of a formal organisation. They don’t issue press releases or seek publicity, they do not demand development funding. In fact, they once refused an FAO offer of a grant of Rs 1 crore. The villagers here know a healthy forest is essential to survive, and they revel in being its protectors. When the government offered a watershed development project, Bharati politely refused.
Yet they have built about 20,000 chaals in about 125 villages over the past 19 years—the numbers are estimates, because they don’t go around counting and documenting their work; they just do it, and move to the next task. And they don’t have fancy terms like ‘social forestry’, ‘community forestry’ or ‘Joint Forest Management’ to describe their work either. The largest of their regenerated forests is in Daund, which spans about 800 hectares.
It’s not just the expanse either. The canopy of their regenerated forests is 100 feet high. The humus on the floor is several inches thick. There are birds and wild animals. There is water for the forest, for agriculture and to grow fodder. There is liquidity for all kinds of life.

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