Unnatural Histories

Genetically Modified Organisms

Welcome to the blog series Unnatural Histories!

The world’s a stage. So too in the natural sciences, George Evelyn Hutchinson talked of an evolutionary play being acted out in the ecological theatre. In the modern era, humanity has transformed the theatre into something unlike anything seen before. Crumbling walls, a leaking roof, the building is in a state of disrepair, collapse is imminent. With over a million species presently threatened with extinction, most of the contemporary performances in this ailing venue are, regrettably, tragedies.

Yet hope springs eternal. Many are ashamed by our collective environmental impact, and feel compelled to turn back the tide, to fight for a better tomorrow. Billions of dollars are spent on salvage operations, threat mitgation, and ecosystem repair. Global conservation efforts and rewilding initiatives seek to restore the theatre to its former grandeur - the show must go on!

But some argue we lack the resources and the vision to pull off such an ambitious rebuild. Others assert that nature does not stand still, and thus it is an act of folly to try and reconstruct the past, to preserve a snapshot of nature. The world as it was is confined to the annals of history. The world as it will be resides solely in the haze of future possibilities. To suggest otherwise is to play God. In this series we will describe the architecture of the modern ecological theatre, explore how this new environment has influenced the evolutionary stories of its actors, and speculate on the catalogue of dramas that await us.

Curtain up!

Contents

1. The Hitchhikers Guide
2. Dazzling Urbanites
3. Distress and Despair
4. Pick Up the Pieces
5. Do Not Disturb
6. Captivated

The Hitchhikers Guide

Don’t Panic
~ Douglas Adams

The concept of ‘survival of the fittest’ inevitably draws the same astute question: why is there so much diversity? This is an excellent question that, for the most part, baffles scientists. Explaining patterns of diversity is a major branch of the biological sciences, and answers to date are largely underwhelming in their explanatory power and often mind-bogglingly complex. Critics have a much easier time of it. If what you say about Darwinian evolution is true, the doubters assert, why does not one species dominate all others to the point of exclusion? Why isn’t there just one type of frog, the fittest, most well-adapted frog that drives all others to extinction?

In the modern era, the questions surrounding biodiversity and species coexistence are not as hypothetical as one would hope. A mass homogenization is taking place; a global experiment with potentially disastrous consequences. Animals and plants are being moved around the world both accidentally and purposefully. The end result is the same; something somewhere it’s not supposed to be. Instantly, the landscape changes - species that were once kings of their respective domains suddenly face a new challenger. They must fight tooth and claw to remain ‘the fittest’, but nothing in their evolutionary history to date has prepared them for this novel threat. Native species are completely naive to the alien’s tricks and tactics; powerless to prevent the newcomer from taking root, and defenceless against their rapid spread. Never underestimate the element of surprise. For the locals, the situation can only be described as dire. As we speak, invasive species are driving extinctions, reducing biodiversity, and in certain extreme cases, leading to entire collapse of ecosystems.

Ecosystems are intricate, interwoven fabrics, such that you cannot alter one aspect without having knock-on effects that percolate throughout the biota. Herein lies the destructive power of invasive species. Their impacts are often so far-reaching they are near-impossible to predict, and have only begun to be quantified. The most straightforward impact of invasive species is direct competition with residents that occupy the same niche. Indeed, a loose ‘one in, one out’ policy was elegantly described in the 1960s by researchers studying colonisation and extinction dynamics on islands. This delicate balancing act however, assumes that the system in question exists in a serene, idyllic state of equilibrium. Invasive species are, by definition, a severe disruption to the equilibrium, and tend to exert a much more damaging influence on local fauna. The result then, is typically more of a ‘one in, many out’ state of affairs. We have only scratched the surface when it comes to documenting the cascading, unpredictable impacts of non-natives. However, despite only the tip of the iceberg in view, we can readily surmise that if we do not divert our course, this thing is big enough to sink us.

Like a Duck to Water

May 3rd, 1890 - a transatlantic steamer pulls in sight of Ellis Island. The Statue of Liberty, dedicated only four years prior, is perhaps the only recognizable feature of the Manhattan skyline. It towers above the Hudson Bay, glistening water meets glistening steel. Passengers disembark, their necks craning upward to take in the spectacle. A mixture of awe and wonder strikes all that come to these shores. A new land, full of promise. But for some, the change of scenery is too drastic. Many long for the simple pleasures of home; we all yearn for the familiar.

A plan has been formed. A newly established amateaur dramatics society is keen to bring a piece of the old world to the new. Even small things, they contend, can alleviate the homesickness they and their families have developed over the preceding years. They proudly march with cages to their local green space, central park, and select a suitable spot. Eighty birds, representing a dozen or so of each species mentioned in the works of Shakespeare, are released, set loose in New York City to take root and multiply.

And they do take root. They do multiply. Now when little-Englanders reach the land of opportunity and take in their surroundings, the avifauna will no longer be entirely alien. Whenever one of the huddled masses feels lost or isolated, a glimpse toward the heavens will provide them with comfort and cherished memories. By any standards it was a veritable success. But in true Shakesperian fashion, a tale with innocuous beginnings will come to end in tragedy.

By the mid-20th century, one of these transplanted birds, the European starling, had consumed the continent. The starlings have out-competed native bird species for resources, including nesting sites and food. The locals never stood a chance. In response, some species have conceded defeat by way of rapidly evolving shorter bills and smaller body sizes such that their diet and habitat requirements no longer overlap with the European invader. Despite this flexibility, many native bird populations in North America have suffered precipitous declines.

Part of their success in North America stems from their ability to thrive in urban areas. Even in the densest concrete jungle, starlings can achieve flocks that are over a million birds strong. And they shit on everything. Those unfortunate enough to leave their car parked on the street under a roost tree wake up to a mountain of guano with not even a single inch of bodywork visible. Shooting and trapping, as well as the reintroduction of peregrine falcons and Cooper’s hawks, have had little to no effect. As we stand, scenes in Manhattan now resemble less Shakespeare, and more Alfred Hitchcock or one of the plagues of Egypt.

Citizen Cane

August 9th, 1935 - a cargo ship docks in Cairns harbour. The 102 toads on board are documented by customs and promptly transported to the arable region of Queensland. The toads are to serve as a biological control agent against a voracious beetle pest that is decimating Australia’s sugar production. The beetle itself is a non-native, hailing originally from Europe. The hope is that these South American toads can suppress the beetle invasion; fight fire with fire.

As it turned out, the toads ate everything but the beetles. With no native predators and an abundant source of naive prey sources, the toads proliferated. And they spread. Within ten years the toads had reached the Northern Territory, within twenty years they had colonised the western half of the continent. With sugar cane beetle populations largely unaffected, the Australian government now has two disastrous invasions to deal with.

Human-mediated colonizations have myriad consequences. Indeed the distinction between an invasive species and merely an introduced species is their perceived impact. Once an alien species reaches foreign shores, the outcome is not certain, but there is no going back - the walls have been breached. Cane toads are most certainly invasive. They are considered one of the most destructive non-native species on the planet. Each year, millions of dollars are spent on culling, trapping, and toad-proof fencing to mitigate their impacts. But the integrity of native ecosystems has already been compromised, at this stage damage-limitation is the best we can hope for.

Much of the cane toad’s detrimental impact derives from its acute toxicity. Anything that tries to eat them, mistaking it for something edible, suffers fatal or sub-lethal poisoning. For many predators the consequences are disastrous. Again, some local species have attempted to move out of the way of the steamroller by way of rapid adaptation. Evolution thrives under pressure. Black snakes, for instance, although certainly reduced in numbers as a result of cane toad poisoning, are over the worst and likely to recover. Their solution to the problem? Smaller heads. Snakes with small heads are not capable of stretching their jaws wide enough to consume a toad large enough to kill them. Natural selection at breakneck pace - snakes with big heads die, snakes with small heads survive; future generations of snakes all have small heads.

Several other species are maintaining the same head size and instead developing resistance to the toad toxins, and some have learned to stop viewing toads as prey items. Encouragingly, both of these novel adaptations can be induced through cleverly designed conservation measures; scientists are presently deploying food laced with small amounts of toxins in the hope that resistance is more speedily acquired. We are learning - that is perhaps the only positive one can take from this episode. We have learnt a tremendous amount about the physical process of invasion, the ecological and evolutionary responses of native fauna, and evaluating mitigation strategies. The hope then, is that we have learnt enough from our mistakes to prevent this from happening again. Or at the very least be more prepared when it does.

Scorched Earth

June 20th, 1938 - a cargo ship docks in the port of Mobile, Alabama. On board are thousands of ornamental plants, set to adorn gardens and windowsills across the nation. With such a profusion of goods, it is rather unsurprising that the colony of small, red ants taking temporary residence at the base of a potted Hibiscus went unnoticed by customs. Once ashore, the colony found a suitable patch of earth to set up camp, largely unaware of how far they had travelled, and, as ants do, began to forage. From humble beginnings, as they say.

Fiercely aggressive, and forming huge super colonies, the red imported fire ant quickly outcompeted and displaced native ant species. And they spread. Within twenty years the ants had reached Texas, Louisiana, Mississippi, and Georgia. Despite their early flourish, there remained a cautious optimism that the ants would not spread much beyond the southern states on account of the harsher winters experienced in the rest of the continent. However, a few decades later it became apparent that the ants were evolving a higher tolerance to cooler temperatures, facilitating their northward march.

Although we often focus on the detrimental impacts and evolutionary responses of native species to introductions, the invaders are subjected to perhaps an even greater pressure, that of being thrown into a completely alien environment. Again, evolution thrives under pressure. Within fifty years the distribution of fire ants in North America was transcontinental. In a matter of a few generations, fire ants evolved to be more aggressive than in their native range, an extremely useful trait when attempting to dislodge native incumbents. At the same time, the ants perfected a novel reproductive strategy to expedite their expansion; “budding”, a process in which a group of workers and a queen leave the main colony to establish new ones nearby, allowed the ants to spread into unoccupied territory at a much faster rate.

Eating virtually anything and everything, as well as damaging the roots of several important cash crops, the accidental introduction of fire ants to North America has become an invasion of colossal proportions. Since the Mobile ‘landing’, human trade routes have brought fire ants to the shores of Asia and Australasia, and the same unfortunate drama is playing out again and again. Fire ants are spreading across China, Taiwan, Australia, and New Zealand. The invasion is now a global one, with no end in sight.

Coda - Bullfrog Moan

Have you ever woke up with them bullfrogs on your mind?
I got the bullfrog blues and I can’t be satisfied,
Mexico got ‘em,
Japan got ‘em,
Cuba got ‘em,
Jamaica got ‘em too,
I got the bullfrog blues and I can’t be satisfied,
Italy got ‘em,
France got ‘em,
Brazil got ‘em,
the Netherlands got ‘em too
I got the bullfrog blues and I can’t be satisfied,
Canada got ‘em,
China got ‘em,
Brazil got ‘em,
And Columbia got ‘em too,
I got the bullfrog blues and I can’t be satisfied,
Uruguay got ‘em,
Venezuela got ‘em,
Argentina got ‘em,
And South Korea got ‘em too.

Dazzling Urbanites

The rats have all got rickets
They spit through broken teeth
~ John Cooper Clarke

As a rule, urbanisation is bad for wildlife. Rather intuitively, the conversion of natural habitat to a mosaic of concrete, metal, and tarmac leads to population declines of many species and an overall loss of biodiversity. Green spaces become few and far between; animals struggle to survive in the remnant fragments. Their behaviour and reproductive cycles are severely disrupted by the incessant noise and fast pace of modern human societies. For many, it is nigh on impossible to keep up.

A small minority of species however, thrive in the big city. Some creatures have successfully adapted to the urban lifestyle and taken advantage of the new, formidable landscape that others have been driven out of. After all, it is not strictly the loss of habitat that results from urbanisation, but more so a dramatic shift in habitat. Survival of the fittest plays out in concrete jungles like any other. Darwinian selection applies to Accra just as much as it applies to Amazonia. The rules of the game have not changed, merely the theatre. And in such a novel setting, the strategies for success are often quite different from those that emerge in forests or prairies. Squirrels, pigeons, mosquitos. These are the new superstars that tower over the competition. All have found a way to not only scrape by, but to dominate.

Bright Lights, Big City

For the first 25 years of my life I lived in a city. First London, the Big Smoke. A small garrison on the outskirts of the Roman Empire, Londinium has become one of the largest urban centres in the world. A place of kings and playwrights, football fans and fishmongers. As a budding biologist, the natural history museum in south Kensington held particular appeal, with its breathtaking Victorian architecture and mesmerising collection of curiosos. At 18 I left London for Sheffield, the former steel capital of the world, the current home of snooker. Built on seven hills, steep cobbled streets wind their way through row upon row of terraced houses. Quintessential Yorkshire. Good beer abounds. Yes I do like cities. They have character, they have goings on. There is magic in the hot, noisy air.

But I yearned for something different. As a young man I decided to emigrate to southwest Virginia, in the heart of the Appalachian mountains of North America, to pursue my doctorate degree. I was to study salamanders, a charismatic group of amphibians that includes newts, axolotls and hellbenders. My choice of study location was simple - the Eastern US has more salamanders than anywhere in the world. The university resided in a small, isolated town, several hours from the nearest metropolis. In every direction, a veritable paradise of cool mountain streams, moss-draped boulders, and humid forests that stretch for thousands of miles. So much to see, and so much different from whence I’d come.

Of all the new sights and surroundings, the one that stood out, the one that seemed most unfamiliar, was the darkness. At night it gets dark. Properly dark. A darkness I had never experienced before. To a lifelong city-dweller it was unsettling. Without any contrast, I had taken the night lights of cities for granted. I had become accustomed to 24-hour illumination - neon signs, street lamps, blue-tinged, starless skies. These collective phenomena have been jocularly dubbed ALAN by urban biologists studying their effects - ALAN stands for Artificial Lights At Night.

ALAN is a form of pollution that has been found to have detrimental effects on many species including humans. Exposure to ALAN has been linked to increased risk of obesity, diabetes, and cardiovascular disease, and even some types of cancer. More intuitively ALAN also disrupts circadian rhythms and alters the behaviour of animals. Much can be drawn from the contrasting proclivities of human beings in urban and rural settings. Wildlife is similarly more nocturnal in cities; birds can still be heard singing at midnight, leaving them exhausted and confused. Flowers open at odd times of day because they do not receive the appropriate environmental cues; if pollinators do not respond in kind, the plant’s reproductive success is put in serious jeopardy.

On beaches around the world, sea turtle hatchlings emerge from their nests in the wee hours. They are timing their emergence to avoid the myriad avian predators that are active during daylight hours. Hatchlings have learnt to follow the light of the moon reflecting off the ocean surface to reach the safety of the ocean. However, on developed coastlines, the ALAN emitted from raucous bars and late-night shops completely swamps out anything the moon can muster. Disorientated, the hatchlings march toward the town. Even if they manage to avoid being run over by traffic or falling down storm drains, they will eventually succumb to dehydration.

Geckos are now a ubiquitous feature of cities in tropical climates. Their adhesive toe pads allow them to navigate walls and windows without trouble. The vertical surfaces that dominate urban landscapes offer no challenge, and the heat-absorbing property of concrete provides cold-blooded reptiles with enough warmth to remain active almost indefinitely. Moreover, geckos are one of the few species to benefit from ALAN. Artificial lights attract moths, their primary prey item, from far and wide. At dusk, every security light and shop sign turns into a banquet. These small, unassuming lizards have never had it better. With the increased availability of food, and the ease with which it can be obtained, gecko populations in urban areas have resources to spare. Females lay twice as many eggs as their counterparts in forested habitats, and numbers have skyrocketed.

Skyscrapers

Pigeons, above all other avian species, have made cities their home. The pigeon has a long and fascinating history, dating back over 5,000 years. The wild ancestor of the domestic pigeon is the rock dove, native to Europe, North Africa, and parts of Asia. The ancient Egyptians were the first to domesticate pigeons, using them for food and as messengers. The Greeks and Romans did the same. Genghis Khan used them. Right up until the First World War, carrier pigeons were used to transmit military messages across battlefields during conflict. With the advent of the telegraph and later, the telephone, the use of pigeon post declined.

Today, domestic pigeons can be found throughout the world and are still used for racing and as pets. Feral populations of domestic pigeons can be found in virtually every major city. Their long historical association with humans has predisposed them to urban life. They quite content using buildings, bridges, and statues as roosting and nesting sites. They will eat virtually anything that humans drop or leave unguarded. Urban pigeons have larger brains than their rural counterparts, possibly due to the cognitive demands of navigating such a complex, highly dynamic landscape. They are so successful, train stations and office buildings will spend considerable money covering every possible perching spot with rows of spikes as a deterrent. But such attempts are largely futile.

Pigeons are not the only birds to conquer the concrete jungle. Crows, house sparrows, and European starlings have all successfully adapted to urban environments. The key to success in all these cases appears to be an indiscriminate nature. All of these species have a cosmopolitan diet; they will eat most things and are not above scavenging from trash piles and dumpsters. And all of these species will build a nest anywhere they can. This generalist, flexible life-style has allowed a handful of birds to achieve extraordinary population sizes and exist at very high densities. Apart from chickens, house sparrows are the most common bird in the world. Starlings are next. For those that can hack it in the hustle and bustle of cities, the rewards are great.

Peregrine falcons, once an endangered species, almost driven to extinction in the mid-half of the 20th century, have recovered. And they have cities to thank. From New York to New Delhi, they gleefully take advantage of the hyper-inflated populations of their prey. They nest on some of the tallest buildings in the world. Being so isolated, their growing chicks enjoy an unprecedented level of safety. The multistory buildings that now dominate city skylines also provide the perfect vantage point from which to swoop down and snatch an unsuspecting pigeon in flight. For Peregrines, cities are sanctuaries, a refuge from the threats that drove their historical declines - pesticide poisoning, shooting, and egg poaching. Perhaps more a savage indictment of our impact on wild areas than a testament of the welcoming nature of urbanity.

Any Port in a Storm

Not all cities are the same. The aforementioned Sheffield, for instance, proudly claims to be the greenest city in Europe. Parks, gardens, and remnant forest dot the industrial landscape. Such a mosaic of semi-natural areas can lessen the harsh realities of urban living, providing food, water, and refuge for native wildlife. Myriad species benefit from Sheffield’s gardens. Back yards often contain a tremendous diversity of plants and habitats. Indeed in recent years, conservationists in Britain have successfully shifted public opinion to move away from manicured lawns toward more ‘wildlife friendly’ gardens. Planting native flowers attracts bees and butterflies. In turn, the insects will attract birds and bats. It doesn’t take much to create an ecosystem; once you set the ball rolling, nature is good at building from the ground up. Some homeowners go so far as to construct habitat features in their gardens to support particularly affable species - nesting boxes for hedgehogs, ponds for frogs and newts, and rock piles for lizards and snakes.

However, ornamental plants, non-native species from around the world that are cultivated for their aesthetic value, remain a staple of the English green space. And this foreign window dressing can completely negate any of the benefits that an urban garden might confer. Many ornamentals are chosen for their hardiness, as well as their beauty, and this trait becomes a source of all problems. Case in point, Japanese knotweed. Put it in the ground and you have a pretty bush that lives for years and requires little to no care. But you plant it at your peril. Japanese knotweed has reached infamy around the globe as an extremely destructive invasive Once it becomes established, all hope is lost. Knotweed is so pervasive it can alter soil chemistry and disrupt nutrient cycling. It develops such a monopoly on water and mineral resources, that many native species are driven out. The presence of knotweed in your garden has the power to reduce property value. Knotweed is a particularly extreme case; hydrangeas from Asia - an easy to maintain bush that yields voluptuous florets of violet and pink - offer a more typical example. They have been linked to the decline and loss of native plants in parts of the United States where they festoon front lawns. Moreover, these ornamentals are not attractive to native pollinators or wildlife. They take up space, but provide nothing for the local fauna. Ornamental gardens can be as inhospitable as an unadorned square of asphalt.

Distress and Despair

It’s more than rain that falls on our parade tonight
It’s more than woe-begotten grey skies now
~ Tom Waits

Down Under your Boots

The flight to Johannesburg is 11 hours. Almost half a day. It is easy to forget how far south the tip of the African continent extends. Africa evokes heat - the shimmering haze that rises from the great plains, the endless ocean of baked Saharan dunes, the oppressive humidity of the equatorial Congolese rainforest. But Southern Africa is decidedly temperate. The Cape of Good Hope lies at 39 degrees latitude, level with Sydney, Australia, and snow during the winter is not unheard of. Halfway around the world is halfway around the world, whichever direction you head. I am here to visit Mponeng, the deepest gold mine in the world. Tunnel 1 stretches more than 2.5 miles below ground, and a trip from the surface to its deepest point takes over an hour. The X may mark the spot, but it provides no information on how far you will have to dig. Never underestimate the pertinacity of human beings. Greed consumes us all.

I have been advised not to take a rental car from the airport. Since its founding, Johannesburg has been a somewhat lawless city, and bandits have been known to spot tourists as they leave the arrival terminal, follow them into the countryside, and rob them at gunpoint. The locals say things are getting better and the crime rate is dropping, but not to tempt fate, I hire a cab. Our driver, Paul, is there to meet us at the baggage claim. He shakes my hand, crushes the life out of it in fact. “Welcome to Jo’Burg”. He is a short, stocky man, with a shaven head and a scar across his face that stretches from his ear to his top lip. On closer inspection he is missing a piece of his ear. He can’t be much older than me, but his injury adds several years to his appearance. And his glassy eyes add several more; he has seen a lifetime’s worth already.

On the drive, I learn that the cab driver is an ex-policeman. He served for 20 years before retiring from the force in 1999. But the scar on his face, he tells me, is more recent. We stop at a red light, and he explains that at traffic intersections like this, it is safest to drive straight through them. In these parts, hijackers linger at the intersections, waiting for unsuspecting victims. Two years ago, a couple tried it on him. One man smashed the driver side window and shoved a broken bottle in his face, slicing through his cheek. But they had messed with the wrong mark - he shows me how he feigned compliance and dropped his hand to his side, seemingly to unbuckle his seatbelt to surrender the car. Only when his hand comes back up, he is now holding a pistol, drawn from his concealed holster. Two shots and the man drops to the floor, the remains of the bottle smash beside him. Glancing in the mirror he sees a second assailant, creeping up behind the car on the passenger side. Leaning over the back seat, three more shots are sufficient to dispatch him. It is with a strange satisfaction that he describes killing the men. I think he tells me the story to put me at ease, to illustrate that I am in safe hands, but it has the opposite effect.

We leave the city limits and are instantly transported into another world. A world of rural poverty. Abject. A level of poverty that has to be seen to truly believe. In the developed world, we pretend like it doesn’t exist. By glimpsing the true state of being, the realities of our present, our moral house would be crippled. And so we reflexively turn away. Out of sight out of mind. Given the segregated layout of South Africa’s largest city, I think they are doing the same thing. Paul points to a man on the side of the road. South Africa has eight national languages, he explains, and contains a multitude of ethnic groups. He then proceeds to outline his hierarchy of those groups, and their corresponding intelligence levels. There is something almost refreshing about such overt racism. Back home, the racism is underhand and masked in a cloud of ambiguity and suggestion. Paul is nothing if not upfront. I desperately try to change the subject. Music is my passion, and I have found in my travels that music has an innate levelling power, the ability to transcend languages and cultures. The joyous artform renders all bigotry impotent; in the face of music, prejudice becomes rizzable. Or so I thought. “Yes, exactly!” he exclaims. “Like the piano, you have the black keys and the white keys…”. I need to get out of this car.

We are almost there. We are heading south west, we have passed through the slums of Soweto, and are now in the heart of the Witwatersrand Basin. Beneath the tarmac we travel on lies the very source of this nation. The Witwatersrand holds one of the largest gold deposits in the world. Gold was first discovered here in 1884. Much like Klondike and California, prospectors flooded into the area to seek their fortune. Mostly British expats from the Cape Colony, they were not well received by the Dutch immigrants who had been farming these lands since the 1600s. Tensions grew, and fighting between the two sides broke out in 1899. I’m not sure whether Paul’s intelligence hierarchy took into account the fact that two groups of Europeans bitterly fought each other over who had the rightful claim to this land. Utterly moronic. At any rate, the British Army were called in, and 180,000 troops led by Lord Kitchener invaded the two Boer republics centred around Pretoria and Bloemfontein. Outnumbered, the Boers employed guerrilla tactics, attacking British supply lines and storage depots. In retaliation, the British adopted a scorched earth policy. They destroyed farms, burned crops, and established the world’s first concentration camps. Over 100,000 people, mostly women and children, were forcibly imprisoned. Thousands died. Out of fear that they might aid the Boers, Black Africans were also interned. Thousands died. The Boers finally surrendered in 1902, after three years of senseless violence. The British Empire annexed the two republics, forming the colonies of the Transvaal and Orange River. In 1910, the two colonies were merged with the Natal and Cape Colonies. This is how South Africa came to be.

Hot Topic

I am tired. After the transatlantic redeye flight, I still have a 6 hour drive ahead of me. Dulles International is a crushing disappointment for anyone visiting the US for the first time, the nation’s capital no less, and expecting to be awed, for it to live up to what they had seen, read, or imagined. It is a miserable terminal. Grey, unfriendly, and absolute chaos. I have never seen such a badly organised port of entry. For a country that obsesses over immigration, you’d think they would invest in their border administration. But apparently not. Instead, they invest in xenophobic, militarised mall cops that speak with either contempt or indifference to families visiting relatives for the first time. If the goal is to dispel overly-romanticised views of America and give a harsh dose of reality from the off, a strong first impression that the US is just as shitty as anywhere else, if not more so, then they have succeeded. Sometimes it is easier to go to Charlotte, North Carolina, and head up I-77, but there are fewer direct flights. Cost prohibits me from getting a connection to one of the smaller domestic airports.

Fortunately, I pass through customs without too much trouble. I have learnt that this process is a crapshoot. Maybe you are unlucky and catch a young poser, John Wayne-type, that immediately assumes everyone trying to get in must be some kind of threat, a national security risk, and he grills you to the nth degree. I have seen doddery octogenarians driven to tears being interrogated in this way. Clearly for some of these people English is not their first language and thus no amount of yelling in their faces is going to help them understand your inexplicable questions. The majority can only decipher the loathing facial expressions, and they are left scared and confused. At other times, during a shift change or on New Year’s Eve when staff are trying to clock off early, a border guard might glance at my passport and wave me through. The inconsistency highlights the ridiculousness of the former. Besides, these days, they scan your retinas everytime you set foot in an airport, they know exactly who you are.

I head past the baggage claim, through the automatic doors, and out onto the crowded street. It is June, sweltering. Straddling the Potomac River, Washington DC emerged from the swamp. The entire southeastern coastline is a floodplain, and although much has been drained and built upon, the climate, and particularly the mosquitoes, bely this history. To escape the humidity I make a beeline for the mountains. Luckily for me, my destination is a straight shot down I-81, into the heart of southern Appalachia. A tourist might take the scenic route down Skyline Drive and onto the Blue Ridge Parkway, taking in the stunning vistas across the Shenandoah Valley, the Peaks of Otter, and Rock Castle Gorge. But this diversion would double my journey time, and besides, I am too sleep-deprived to enjoy Virginia’s scenic mountain roads.

By mid afternoon, I reach my destination. Buchanan County lies at the tri-state border between Kentucky, Virginia, and West Virginia. For many years, this mountain chain marked the edge of the American frontier. In the 1760s, venturing further west was forbidden by royal decree. With the crown’s grip loosening on the American colonies, Daniel Boone achieved infamy when he crossed the Cumberland Gap to explore the continental expanse beyond the mountains. But I am not here for the history lesson. Many immigrants never ventured past this invisible boundary line. Scottish settlers found a home away from home in Appalachia, something resembling the harsh, rugged terrain of the west highlands. They flocked here in their droves, bringing with them fiddles and flutes, jigs and reels. This is where bluegrass was born. But I am not here for the rich musical heritage. Appalachia has become synonymous with poverty. Since the decline of the timber industry, prosperity here hinges on the black gold that lies deep within these ancient mountains. This is coal country.

For over two hundred years Appalachia has served as the coal mining hub of North America. And they are running the taps dry. In the last few decades, facing dwindling reserves, mining companies have adjusted their operations to reduce costs and stay afloat. Rather than constructing tunnels and painstakingly searching for small seams of ore, companies have discovered that it is much cheaper to simply blow up entire mountains and sift through the debris. Surface mining, or strip mining, is the new standard here. Whilst more economically viable, surface mining is also environmentally vicious. When you remove entire mountain tops, huge areas of bare, scorched earth are now exposed to the elements. Erosion is catastrophic. Southern Appalachia receives considerable annual rainfall - that is why the forests are so lush and green. Flash flooding is not uncommon in these parts, as the product of torrential storms rolls down the mountain slopes and submerges the valleys. But now when flooding occurs, the cascading waters bring with them an additional threat. Rain that falls on an exposed mountain, scarred from surface mining, washes down sediment, heavy metals, and industrial chemicals. Flood waters become a soup of hazardous materials. Streams and rivers are poisoned.

Mass die offs of fish are common downstream of coal mines. The toxic runoff can be transported for tens of miles. Die offs can be triggered indirectly too. Dramatic shifts in water chemistry caused by the influx of foreign substances can lead to algal blooms that starve the water of oxygen and choke all life below the surface. Mountain streams harbour species that are adapted to cold, fast-flowing water. Temperature spikes caused by intentional discharge from retention ponds, or from the removal of riparian trees that provide shade, can be above the lethal limit for many inhabitants. The eastern hellbender, North America’s largest amphibian, has resorted to cannibalising its own offspring to acquire the additional energy needed to survive in these harsh conditions. Even seemingly innocuous changes can prove fatal if they occur in excess. From a mine-pocked landscape, sand and silt is flushed into waterways in alarming quantities. The rocky stream- and river-beds are buried, eliminating critical habitat for a host of benthic organisms. Appalachia is a hotspot for freshwater mussel diversity - the Tennessee River alone has more species than China and Europe combined. But degradation of their habitat has rendered freshwater mussels the most endangered group of animals in the United States; thirty species went extinct in the last century.

Impervious Surfaces

Kickoff is at 2pm on a cold February day. An FA Cup fourth round tie. The oldest football competition in the world, the FA Cup, is still going strong after 140 years. This afternoon’s Lancashire derby is a fitting homage. Wigan Athletic host Bolton Wanderers at the DW Stadium. Local rivals abound in this part of the country. The away bus has only travelled 7 miles to reach the opponent’s ground. Bolton has won the tournament four times in its history, but their last victory was back in 1958 in the wake of the Munich air disaster. In the ensuing half-century, they have themselves fallen on hard times. Wigan, for their part, have never lifted the trophy. In front of 20,000 expectant fans, the players line up in position, check their boots, and wait. A whistle blows and the game begins.

Lancashire is the wettest part of England. And if stereotypes are anything to go by, that’s saying something. In Wigan, where I currently stand pitchside, it rains on average every other day. This grey, drizzly climate made Lancashire perfect for cotton weaving. Raw cotton from the southern plantations arrived at the Liverpool docks and was transported across the region to be processed. During the heart of the industrial revolution, thousands of mills sprung up across the county and by 1860, Lancashire was producing half of the world’s cotton. To fuel the countless new machines in each textile factory, coal mining boomed. Lancashire boasted 400 mines at the height of coal extraction during the 19th century. Thirty million tons a year. But with the prevailing Lancastrian weather, drainage was always a problem. Mine shafts would quickly flood, causing hazardous conditions and halting work. Canals and ditches were dug, but bringing the water to the surface had to be done laboriously by hand until, in Manchester, Lancashire’’s largest city, James Brindley invented a modified steam engine that forced water to flow backwards and out of the mine shafts. It was an engineering marvel that was replicated across the nation. Productivity was saved! But at what cost?

As the coal reserves dwindled, operations became more wasteful. For every ton of ore dug up, less and less usable resources could be extracted. Thus, an ever increasing majority of material was simply piled up around the entrance of the mines and left to fester. Slag heaps, the conical mounds created by this discard, can rise to hundreds of metres high. Centuries of discarding has created an artificial topography on this historically flat coastal plain. The inefficiencies of man dominate the landscape. Mining has undoubtedly caused, and continues to cause, vast environmental damage. Indeed, by increasing the efficiency of mining operations the environmental toll only grows. Expediting the transport of contaminated water to the surface and maintaining yield by increasing waste are our key innovations. We have learnt, however, something about the resiliency and structuring of ecosystems, by studying the fallout.

Much like Krakatoa, slag heaps present us with a clean slate, and allow us to observe how nature starts afresh. The rules of life are more apparent when you observe things from the beginning. The colonisation patterns and priority effects that dictate species interactions are laid bare. The formation of living biota can be witnessed in real time. The first to arrive on the barren hillside are opportunists, plants with thousands of small seeds that carry on the wind, transporting them far and wide. These plants show rapid vegetative growth - their strategy is that of ‘first come, first serve’. However, some plants, whilst slower to arrive at the slag heap, are more efficient at exploiting the fresh mineral soil. They invest more resources into establishment, quite literally laying down their roots. They are playing the long game. In time, the initial colonisers will be ousted, sent searching for new lands. Fortunately, there are many other slag heaps in this part of the world.

The succession of ecological communities is a general principle that we have gleaned from studying abandoned mines, but it is important not to forget the context. What we are observing is incredibly unnatural. The land being reclaimed is far from representative; we are not talking about an empty field or a denuded pond. This is one of the most extreme habitats on the planet, more akin to a hydrothermal spring or a deep ocean trench. The plants that can survive here as such, are themselves exceptional. Those able to colonise industrial wastelands are those capable of tolerating the toxic melange their roots are exposed to in the soil. There are undoubtedly species that have the number of seeds, the growth rates, etc., to thrive, and yet do not. In such a hostile environment, fitness is defined by those that can produce the correct combination of proteins, hormones, and antioxidants that prevent heavy-metal poisoning. We must take care not to draw too much inference from such an atypical case.

Back at Wigan’s ground, the final whistle blows. The game ends goalless. Resolute, watertight defending wins the day. Dubbed by the critics a bore-draw. But such is life, such is football. For me, I would take fairness over spectacle any day of the week. Neither side was able to dominate, break through the lines, and claim victory. It seems only equitable therefore, that in such circumstances the spoils are shared. After decades of competition, the teams are evenly matched, they have learnt how to combat and counter everything that is thrown at them. A sense of harmony is achieved, a delicate equilibrium, at least for today. But there is always tomorrow. Nature never stands still, the gears of selection keep turning. In this dog-eat-dog world, coexistence is fleeting, an aberration. The replay is scheduled, this time on Bolton’s home turf, the Reebok Stadium, where battle will be resumed and fates will once again hang in the balance.

Pick Up the Pieces

Jagged jigsaw pieces
Tossed about the room
And now I hear the sound of sirens
Come knifing through the gloom
~ Gil Scott Heron

Useless Fragments

Twenty minutes north of the state capital, Madison, the drive through rural Wisconsin is uninterrupted corn.

Endless fields of husks and stumps in various stages of harvest and decay.

Red barns punctuate the beige landscape.

Goose Pond was the first land purchased by the Southern Wisconsin Bird Alliance, back in 1968.

For 60 years, the 60 acres that include the pond have served as a wildlife sanctuary, particularly as a stopover refuge for migrating waterfowl.

The place is unassuming; a small wooden entry sign and a gravel pull off are all that announce one’s entrance into the sanctuary.

I park next to the only other car in sight, and spy its owner 50 yards further down the road, pointing his binoculars toward a thicket.

By the time I have finished my coffee, donned a sweatshirt and exited the vehicle, the man is already returning to his car, heading in my direction.

“See anything exciting this morning?”. “Pretty quiet… There’s a Harris’s Sparrow back there in those bushes, and that’s pretty unusual for round here at this time of year. But there’s a hunter across the road, so the ducks have all been spooked away.”

On the water itself, I see no birds.

I do not blame them.

Isolation directly influences biodiversity.

As Charles Darwin explored the Galapogos archipelago, he noted that islands close to the South American continent hosted a larger menagerie of species than those further out to sea.

Distance itself acts as a barrier to migration.

Certain plants and animals simply cannot achieve long, oceanic journeys. Even for those species that can travel far, the chances of finding distant islands is low, and thus colonizations are comparatively rare.

With a diminished ‘propagule pressure’, as biologists say, extinctions outpace immigrations, and the long-term richness of the biological community remains depauperate.

These same principles apply to fragments of habitat, newly isolated by the destructive forces of humankind.

Habitat fragmentation is a process that occurs when large, contiguous habitats are divided into smaller, isolated patches.

A copse of trees surrounded by acres of barren, deforested timberlands is extremely unlikely to receive migrants from neighbouring sites.

The species that have managed to cling on as all around them is laid to waste, seeking refuge in the last remaining fragment of forest, are on their own.

No one is coming to save them.

Without influxes of new blood to bolster numbers and vigour, the patch will slowly be whittled down to nothing.

We steal from the earth, and we leave nature to pay back the debt.

Size also matters.

With the degree of isolation being equal, smaller islands have fewer species than larger islands.

Intuitively, the smaller the island, the less habitat available for species to inhabit.

Certain plants and animals cannot survive with such measly accommodations, they need space.

And like before, even for those species which can get by on lilliputian parcels of land, they will be subjected to high rates of competition and restricted to small populations.

Small populations are inherently more susceptible to extinction.

This fact underpins the entire endeavour of conservation.

When we label a species as endangered or threatened, we typically do so because there aren’t that many of them left.

Our collective efforts in conservation, whether it be through habitat restoration or captive breeding facilities, are directed to try to generate more of them.

For good or ill, we lament rarity.

Yet a common species in a small patch is still at risk.

Small patches are vulnerable to stochastic events, random variability in physical and biological processes.

Natural disasters are an obvious case.

A wildfire in the great boreal forests of Canada might not even register as if it only kills 100 trees; in the grand scheme of things, this meagre level of destruction goes unnoticed.

But the same wildfire on a small island, or in an isolated forest fragment, could turn the entire biota to ash.

On the biological side, genetic drift disproportionately threatens small populations.

Random changes in allele frequencies, brought about by unequal breeding success or chance deaths of certain individuals with unique genetic makeups, leads to an overall loss of genetic diversity and increases the likelihood of inbreeding.

As I stand by my car ready to leave the Goose Pond Wildlife Sanctuary my mind drifts to Africa, to the endless plains of Tanzania and Kenya.

In these parched landscapes, a watering hole is a magnet for wildlife.

During the dry season, animals flock from miles around to seek refuge and succour, some respite from the harsh aridity.

But there is a limit.

If the surrounding landscape is too inhospitable, or the distance to travel too far, then the oasis will be devoid of life.

At a certain point, the sanctuary is not within reach or not worth the perilous journey to reach it.

Fragments differ from true islands in one important aspect.

Namely, islands are surrounded by the void, whereas fragments are surrounded by hostility.

No matter how pristine a fragment is, intrusion from its edges will inevitably diminish its pulling power, and ultimately its worth.

Suddenly I am brought back from my mental safari to the cold November day in central Wisconsin.

My contemplations are halted as the tranquillity briefly turns to chaos.

Across the road a succession of gunshots crack the air, desperate wing flaps, and finally a small splash as a carcass hits the water.

It seems that in 60 years, the ducks have not learned exactly where the boundary lines for the adjacent properties lie, i.e., where the sanctuary ends and the hail of bullets begin.

Judging by the poor showing today, they do not have many more years left.

Agro

On my way back from Goose Pond, I stop at the Sassy Cow Creamery just outside of Columbus. Three generations of the Baerwolf family have been working this land since its purchase in the 1940s. Since that time, the herd of Holstein Friesians has grown to almost one thousand. Dairy is synonymous with Wisconsin, and I am surprised by how few cows I have seen during our travels in the cheese state; dairy cows are kept indoors I am told. Although I arrive a little early to the creamery after my aborted waterfowl expedition, I still fell in the window for the lunchtime special. Comfort food is high on my agenda, and their grilled cheeses with a cup of tomato soup fits the bill perfectly. I enthusiastically place my order and await a culinary distraction from the morning’s disappointment. I opted for the pesto sandwich, the classiest item on the menu. Basil, tomato, and homemade mozzarella is hard to beat, and true to form, it proves to be a delectable combination.

Cows are often the scapegoat of climate change. ‘If only we were all vegetarian…’ the environmentalists decry. But cattle farms often take up a fraction of the space that corn and soybean fields do. If we are measuring the destruction of the planet in terms of acreage rather than CO2 emissions, the vegetarians are forced to concede their compliance in the pilfering of the earth. The crop farmer consumes every available inch of land, whilst using vast quantities of pesticides to keep wildlife at bay. Fields look like manicured lawns of tall yellow grass where every effort has been made to achieve a monotonal expanse. A cow pasture, on the other hand, can resemble something distinctly more countrified. A copse of trees here, a babbling brook there. Not all farms are equal, and sometimes a single hedgerow is the difference between nature’s salvation and nature’s ruin.

Unfortunately, there is almost a perfect correlation between how profitable a farm is and how environmentally destructive it is. In order to maximise income, one must maximise devastation. It makes sense that only by creating the most unnatural state do you see the most unnatural gains. Thus, to combat the economic incentives of wanton abandon, there necessarily must be legal restrictions if there is to be any space for nature under agricultural capitalistism. Compared to the history of domestication, we are in the infancy of environmental farming regulations. At most, the air and water quality is monitored downwind and downstream of ag operations, and fines levied if levels of pollutants and toxins exceed nationally set limits. These penalties are, of course, positive. Emissions have been reduced and water is safer to drink. However, when I hear of farms receiving clean bills of health from government agencies, there is part of me, the cynical part of me, that gets a whiff of something akin to doping in sports. The result of cracking down on the use of performance enhancing drugs in competitive athletics was not the reduction in the use of performance enhancing drugs. The result was athletes and trainers figuring out creative ways to beat the tests, and lab scientists finding new chemical compounds that had yet to be banned. The problem is not resolved, just driven underground, made more surreptitious. It would be unwise to convince ourselves that farmers are above such duplicitous behaviour.

To date, most laws aim to limit environmental impacts beyond property boundaries. But regulating what happens within the confines of the barbed-wire fence or the dry-stone wall is equally important. In parts of the midwest from whence I write, it is all farms. Field after field, from horizon to horizon, only interrupted by roads and powerline right-of-ways. To monitor the environmental health of areas adjacent to farms is to monitor asphalt and drainage ditches. In such instances, it is the nature of the farm that dictates the nature of the land, because the farm is the land. There must be, therefore, if we are to preserve the biological integrity of our planet, stricter rules on what a farm should look like. The details of how regulators adjudicate sufficient ‘greenness’ are not as important as the overarching principle. Namely, if you have no desire to visit a farm, you should have no desire to consume its products. When proposing actions to improve the aesthetic and ecological properties of agricultural land, particularly in a country like the United States, thorny issues of freedom and private property come to the fore. But food, water, and air are basic human rights. We the people have skin in the game.

The Sassy Cow Creamery also has a small store selling local milk, cheese, and cured meats at reasonable prices. I saunter through the aisles as I digest my meal, exploring each shelf like I would a cabinet of curiosity. Ultimately, I decide I do not need any more foodstuffs in my fridge, and save the grocery hoard for a future visit. However, although I’m now quite full, I feel it would be irresponsible not to take an ice cream to go. They have over 50 flavours, after all. It is mid October, the onset of fall, and seasonal offerings abound. Apple Pie, Cinnamon Swirl, Pumpkin Praline; I peruse the selection through the curved plexiglass counter. After much deliberation, I pass over the autumnal specials and settle on the Coconut Cow, a coconut ice cream with chunks of chocolate and crushed almonds. Only retroactively did I realise that this was the components of a ‘mounds’ bar, an ice cream emulation. I simply chose it owing to my love of coconut, and despite my ignorance, I chose wisely.

Parklife

With the disappointment of our day’s outing at Goose Pond, we are reluctant to go home empty-hearted. There is one birding spot, less than a mile from my apartment, that is as dependable as they come. Returning to the city outskirts, I drive along the beltway, take junction 263A towards Stoughton, pass the Walmart, carry on over the roundabout. And then, my destination pulls into sight. The concrete sign, twenty feet high, reads Madison Metropolitan Sewerage District. A stone’s throw from the highway, and with the incessant rumbling of traffic and treatment plant machinery, this is a surprising place to find a wildlife haven. But it is here nonetheless, where idyllic wetlands are to be found, inhabited by Sandhill Cranes, Snow Geese, Green Herons, Painted and Softshell Turtles, Muskrat, you name it. The cranes are undoubtedly the highlight. At this time of the year, the majestic, prehistoric birds are gathering in preparation to fly south for the winter. In a few weeks, they will depart for Florida en masse. But for now they are gracing my presence. I can hear them before I can see them. Their resonant trumpeting call put all other water birds to shame. The honk of the Canada Geese is pitifully muted in comparison. And then my eyes turn skyward. Hundreds of birds, each four feet long and seven feet across, cruise overhead, set in formation like fighter planes. It is to be seen to be believed. One of the greatest natural spectacles I have been fortunate enough to witness. But why are they here, next to a sewage treatment facility, of all places?

By the 1930s, the Sandhill Crane had almost been hunted to extinction. At their zenith, there were only twenty five breeding pairs left. But now, almost a century later, the birds number in the hundreds of thousands. Wetland restoration and changes to hunting laws are thought to be chiefly responsible for their dramatic recovery, and the Sandhill Crane stands as one of North America’s great conservation success stories. Cranes are now so abundant in Wisconsin, they are considered a pest species by farmers. Between corn and potato crops, Sandhill Cranes inflict two million dollars worth of damage each year. Recently, the Wisconsin Legislative Council formed a committee to find a solution. There is considerable pressure to establish a Sandhill Crane hunting season, but conservationists are understandably hesitant, warning that doing so may undo all the hard work that has brought them back from the brink. Environmental groups implore farmers to explore alternative, non-lethal solutions, but impatience reigns and tensions are running high.

At the sewage works, a couple of decades ago, three of the capacious overflow retention ponds were restored to serve as migratory bird refugia. The propaganda claims the wastewater company did this out of the goodness of their hearts, but as someone who briefly worked in this industry, I can smell political spin from a mile away - it carries further than the effluent. My instinct tells me this environmental reclamation was mandated. One too many accidental spills, one too many permit violations, one too many complaints from the local residents. There is only so much that can be swept under the rug. At this point, the council offers an ultimatum, put it right or else. Paying fines is often the default solution. The fine often amounts to less than it would cost to make operations at the plant more environmentally friendly, so companies will inevitably follow the path of least expenditure. However, here it seems, either the fines were considered no longer enough, or the company decided to win some public favour in exchange for all the cash it has been forced to hand over.

Particularly in urban areas, green spaces that can support wildlife are small, isolated fragments. Walls and fencing block movement, roads present deathtraps, pollution levels are off the chart. It is amazing then, that any animal can survive at all. But they do. Cities showcase the tenacity of the natural world. If there is one silver lining from the Anthropocene, it is that we have witnessed with our own eyes the remarkable never-say-die attitude of the earth’s biota. This truth is self-evident. The great tangled web has survived asteroids, global volcanic activity, ice ages, and millennia without oxygen. But it is not until you are fully confronted with it. To see it with your own eyes can you truly appreciate the miracle that is life. The resilience of life is not in question. We, despite much flaunting, are not the destroyer of worlds. Our power is only to diminish, to temporarily dampen the endless symphonic resonance of being. The recovery of life is the question. Specifically, in what form and over what duration will recovery take place? That is the power we hold. The power to impede or accelerate recovery, and the power to stack the odds in favour of certain species that will survive into the new age.

Do Not Disturb

Work is of two kinds:
first, altering the position of matter at or near the earth’s surface relative to other matter;
second, telling other people to do so.
~ Bertrand Russell

Competitive Exclusion

Quantitative biology experienced a golden period in the first half of the 20th century. The fields of population genetics, predator-prey dynamics, and community ecology all emerged and flourished in the interwar years. Fueled by the political climate, biologists understandably had Darwinism - survival of the fittest - at the forefront of their minds. Fear gripped nations. Never has the cutthroat nature of nature spilled over into human societies more so than under fascist and communist regimes. In 1934 Adolf Hitler obtained the presidency in Germany. In the same year, a soviet scientist was carefully examining petri dishes in his Moscow laboratory, unravelling one of the fundamental rules of life.

As the western world braced itself for yet another global conflict, Georgy Frantsevich Gause published “The Struggle for Existence”. How very apropos. In it, he outlined the competitive exclusion principle. Put simply, two species competing for the same resources cannot coexist. According to this principle, if two things occupy the same ecological niche, one will inevitably outcompete and displace the other. This is what he had observed time and time again when pitting various bacterial strains against each other. Invariably, there was only one outcome, only one winner. But this raises an interesting question. Why is it that in nature, we see millions of species, many of which appear strikingly similar to the eye? If survival of the fittest and competitive exclusion are truisms, then how do we explain diversity? The simple yet counter-intuitive answer is that competition does not exist in nature. At least not for very long.

Species avoid competition by ensuring that their niches do not overlap. More accurately, natural selection will act to reduce competition between species by selecting for divergent niches. This is often achieved by dividing up the available resources like slices of a pie. With a million species, the portions become very small, i.e., species tend to become very specialised on one particular ecology. Of course, everybody wants more pie, but such is the nature of specialisation that if you try to compete with someone else for their slice, you risk losing your own. This is essentially how biodiversity is maintained. Darwin first observed resource partitioning amongst the finches on the Galapagos Islands. The various species had evolved different beak sizes and shapes, which allowed them to specialise on different types of food. Therefore, even though the finches shared the same habitat, after several generations of natural selection, they were no longer in direct competition. In the greater Antilles, a group of small lizards have undergone a similar pattern of divergence. Members of the genus Anolis like to forage on vegetation; to reduce niche overlap on the crowded Caribbean islands, species have partitioned their habitat vertically. One species forages in low-lying shrubs, one species forages on tree trunks, and one species forages high in the canopies. As a result of this specialisation, the lizards do not interfere with each other.

Humans are displacing all other life on earth. We are the ultimate generalists. We want all of the pie. Our ecological niche has become so vast that we have put ourselves into direct competition with virtually everything else. We deforest huge swathes of land for fuel and wood products. We clear acres and acres for agriculture that provides food only for ourselves. Thus, the ultimate resource that humans compete with other species for is space. As a result, a large part of conservation acts to partition resources spatially, to restrict human activities in certain regions, and thereby facilitate coexistence. Protected areas like national parks are a form of spatial segregation. On a smaller scale, conservationists will fence off nesting beaches for turtles and shorebirds, or construct hedgerows at the edge of farm fields to provide habitat for bees and butterflies. We spend billions of dollars to combat extinction. It should not be surprising that this work is expensive. We are, after all, trying to cheat one of the fundamental laws of biology.

Goldilocks

Despite largely negative connotations of the word ‘disturb’ in common parlance, in the biological world, not all disturbance is bad. In fact, environmental disturbance is one of the primary sources of biodiversity. In many instances, disturbances such as fire, flood, or drought can create opportunities for new species to establish themselves in previously occupied niches. This allows for coexistence of multiple species, as each is able to occupy the niche under different conditions. In essence, the resources are partitioned in time. When a tree falls in a forest it creates a clearing that rapidly accumulates a suite of fast-growing, light-loving plants. These plants will eventually be shaded out and replaced. It is only through repeated disturbance events that such species can persist. A mature forest is only the last stage in a long succession of vegetative communities that emerge at various times post-disturbance.

Without disturbance events, i.e., in a static environment, a handful of species will be able to outcompete all others leading to a depauperate community. Walking through a mature pine stand will reveal this truth; the pines have excluded all other trees and their dropped needles prevent the formation of any herbaceous understory. Without disturbance, nature is quite boring. However, if the disturbance events are too frequent or too ferocious, then no species will be capable of taking root, resulting in an equally monotonous landscape. A coral reef ravaged by an intense ocean storm is a sorry sight indeed. There are few survivors, and the once bustling coastal community resembles a ghost town with only the echoes of life. Humanities impact on the planet is also in this category of “too much disturbance”. Observations on the temporal ebbs and flows of biological communities have been formulated into an ecological theory, namely the intermediate disturbance hypothesis, positing that a moderate level of disturbance in an ecosystem promotes the highest species diversity. Moderate disturbance creates new opportunities for species to colonise and prevents any one species from becoming excessively dominant without causing excessive damage to the established ecosystem.

The intermediate disturbance hypothesis makes conservation very difficult. The word conservation itself is troublesome. ‘Conserve’ means to maintain constant. In physics, the word is used to describe laws for things that don’t change: the conservation of energy, the conservation of angular momentum. Biological systems however, are inherently dynamic. To ‘conserve’ an ecosystem or a species therefore, does not make much sense, it is an exercise in futility. As a result, sometimes when we try to protect those imperilled or endangered, our efforts do not have the desired consequences. In an attempt to coddle nature, we remove all sources of disturbance and continue to lose biodiversity as a result. The goal of conservation should not be to eliminate disturbance, but to remove the extreme, chronic disturbances of humanity whilst keeping the historical, natural disturbance regime that acted as the crucible for the biotic communities we are trying to protect. This kind of management is a delicate balancing act that often requires constant intervention, constant artificial manipulation, to mimic the processes of the past. What we are actually trying to conserve therefore, is the dynamic properties of biological systems, the dynamism that creates and maintains diversity. Unfortunately, many of these dynamic processes have already been undermined, such that our goal in the 21st century is less one of conservation and more one of restoration. As one can imagine, the latter presents a much greater challenge and price tag than the former.

Detritus

Another challenge for biodiversity conservationists is that most of life’s processes are invisible to the naked eye. The vast majority of living things are microscopic. Bacteria, viruses, protozoa, archaea, all go about their business unseen. But the effects of these creatures are impossible to miss, and indeed are fundamental to the working order of the natural world. Without them, the cogs of life would grind to a halt. For instance, the very existence of plants would not be possible without the cycling of nitrogen through its various forms - from ammonia to nitrites, and from nitrites to nitrates. Despite the abundance of nitrogen gas in Earth’s atmosphere, plants have no way of exploiting it. To be taken up by roots and used for vegetative growth, the nitrogen must first be transformed. Sadly for plants, nitrogen gas is incredibly stable. Occasionally a bolt of lightning is powerful enough to rip apart nitrogen atoms and oxidise them, but this is hardly a reliable source. No, the only effective means of nitrogen fixation is the respiratory and digestive actions of microbes. Without microbes there would be no plants. Without plants there would be no animals. Single-celled organisms prop up the entire chain of being. Conservationists would be wise not to forget this.

Even larger organisms can often go unnoticed. Species that live underground are routinely neglected by biologists and the public alike when considering the richness of the natural world. Out of sight, out of mind. But again, just because humans fail to notice them does not mean that they exert no meaningful impact on ecosystem processes. Take a shovel and drive it into different parts of the world, and you will find a tremendous variety of soils. One might conclude that differences are largely the result of geology or historical seismic activity, volcanoes and the like. But this is not the full picture. Biology generates far more diversity than geology could ever dream of, and the fingerprints of life pervade the soil as much as they do a coral reef. The success or failure of agriculture can hinge on the humble earthworm, nature’s plough. In temperate regions they comprise more biomass than any other subterranean species and their activity breathes life into soil. The feeding and respiration of earthworms promotes the decomposition of leaf litter, cycling nutrients back into the soil to be reused by plants. The extent of their burrowing dictates how quickly water drains through the soil, thereby allowing plant species to grow that would otherwise drown. Human activities have caused a precipitous decline in earthworm numbers across the globe - farmers and environmentalists should both be worried.

The last group of organisms that we overlook at our peril are those of the past. Nature does not exist in a vacuum, and the properties of the present day hinge ultimately on what came before. The clay that accumulates in the slow moving parts of rivers or the limestone that demarcates the boundaries of an ancient seabed; many of the recognizable rocks and mineral soils are formed by the deposition and compaction of biological material. Clay would not exist without algae, limestone would not exist without snails. The ground we stand on would be far less rich if not for the three billion years, the countless generations, of life and death that have decorated the planet’s surface. This is perhaps the biggest challenge for conservation. Certain features of quote unquote ‘healthy’ ecosystems are irreplaceable. If they are lost it would take another three billion years to get them back. In time we will perhaps develop an alternative to fossil fuels, a synthetic substitute or novel technology that allows us to ignore our unabated pilfering of the earth. But if we do not learn from our mistakes then we do not really solve any problems, and I worry that an ecosystem will be more difficult to keep running than a 2004 Honda Civic.

Captivated

Staring through the bars of a Cuban jail, Alejandro remembers the good times. A full moon illuminates the unadorned brickwork that surrounds him. A mirror would make the space seem larger, he muses. Imprisoned since he was a child, each day that passes, each moment that transpires, intensifies his desire to experience something new. Such sameness fuels the yearning for otherness, regardless of what that entails. Change is life-affirming. For Alejandro, the monotonous regularity of his existence threatens to consume him. He rests his head on the pillow, grateful to see the back of another hollow day. With a deep sigh, he closes his eyes.

There is no greater sorrow than to recall happiness in times of misery
~ Dante

Desperate Measures

As a boy, I have fond memories of taking the Bakerloo line to Regent’s Park. A particularly picturesque corner of north London, a stone’s throw away from Bkaer Street and the throngs of Conan Doyle fans who have made the pilgramige to admire the terrace house supposedly inhabited by the mythical detective. Here, we are also not too far from King’s Cross, where another blue plaque afixed to the wall demarcates the entrance to platform nine and three quarters. Appropriately, the British Library sits in between these two infamous locations of british literature. But I am not here for any of these attractions. I am here for the zoo. Opened in 1828, the ZSL facility lays claim to being the oldest scientific zoo in the world. But at such an age, I was not interested in science. I wanted to see something cool. Upon entering I would race to the reptile house. As a little Englander, snakes, frogs, and lizards epitomize the transporting power a zoo can posess. On the outside, an unassuming shed. On the inside, a menagerie of exotic animals from every corner of the globe that, by all rights, I should have never had the opportunity to see. But here they were. Nose pressed against the glass, I was in awe.

I still hold that the inspirational woder a zoo can bring to impressionable children is enough justification for their existence. However, in recent years, due to funding pressures and animal rights activism, zoos have had to take on a more utilitarian role. The proportion of animals in zoos that are endangered species has increased dramatically. Many zoos now bill themselves as conservation ‘arks’, where punters now marvel at the good work they are doing. Conservationists often view captive rearing in zoos as a last-resort intervention, one final throw of the dice to prevent a species from blinking out of existence. Through the release of captive animals back into their natural habitats, it is hoped that the declines of wild populations can be curtailed and perhaps even reversed. Captive rearing is a popular strategy in conservation because it appeals to people’s emotions. Seeing cute baby animals being raised in captivity is heartwarming and can attract public attention, which in turn can attract sponsors who are impressed by the large numbers of animals being raised. However, captive rearing is not a golden bullet for conservation. For one, the majority of reintroduction events have failed. Failure typically results from inadequate knowledge of a species’ biology, interventions that occur too late when the situation is already beyond hope, or simply bad luck. In many instances, failure occurs from a combination of all three. Even for reintroductions that succeed, the financial cost of rearing and release leads some to question whether such extreme measures are worth it.

Captive rearing alone cannot address the complex problems facing endangered species. For one, it fails to address the root causes of population declines. Species have been extirpated from the wild due to habitat destruction, pollution, disease, and climate change. If these threats persist, releasing captive reared animals will amount to nothing. To invest in captive reading when the underlying problems have not been effectively mitigated is putting the cart before the horse. The situation gives rise to puppet species - species that are no longer capable of surviving in the wild on their own. Their continued existence relies wholly on people painstakingly raising them in captivity, only to then release them into a now inhospitable landscape. They are released to their certain deaths, and once the last individual succumbs, the process repeats. Year on year. It becomes similar to farming, but instead of raising animals to provide food for humans, we are raising animals to provide food for an invasive mink or blue catfish. If captive rearing is deemed necessary, it should be done with a clear understanding of its limitations and costs.

A False Sense of Security

Captive rearing can have unintended consequences on the development of animals, which may impact their chances of survival in the wild. Animals in captivity often develop morphological abnormalities caused by inadequate nutrition, lack of exercise, or exposure to stressors that are not present in their natural habitats. Captive animals are also more susceptible to disease outbreaks than their wild counterparts. This is partly due to the stress of captivity, which can weaken the immune system of animals. Additionally, the close proximity of captive animals can facilitate the spread of infectious diseases, making it difficult to control outbreaks once they occur. Even when captive animals appear healthy, there may be invisible problems brewing. Many birds, insects, and amphibians rely on the earth’s magnetic field and the night sky to navigate during their annual migrations. Much of this directional know-how is imprinted on the animal at a very early age. For animals that spend the first few months or even years of their lives in a windowless rearing facility, their spatial awareness is nil. They are then transported several miles to a release site, a completely foreign landscape, and left to figure it out on their own. Instantly lost, most captive animals wander aimlessly until they die from dehydration, starvation, or if their wandering takes them to a highway, vehicle collision.

One of the most concerning issues with captive rearing is that it can inadvertently select for captivity. Darwinian selection is omnipresent. Just as we have intentionally selected for desirable characteristics in livestock (large udders in dairy cows, fast growth in broiler chickens), we have unintentionally selected for certain traits in captive populations of endangered species. Captive rearing almost invariably leads to animals becoming more tame. Whilst tameness is extremely desirable for companion animals such as dogs and cats, it is completely at odds with the survival instinct. Tame animals will be more likely to naively approach humans or other natural predators, and often become overly dependent on humans for food and shelter. Without the need to hunt or fight for territory, captive animals typically exhibit reduced aggression and reduced exploratory behaviour. Particularly for social animals that learn these behaviours from parents or siblings, animals raised in captive isolation can never acquire the skill set to survive in the real world. Suddenly they are plunged into a world where they must learn to find food and shelter on their own. This rarely goes well.

The Family Inheritance

In the 1990s, the wild population of Florida panthers was estimated to be as low as 20 individuals. With such limited options, the panthers were forced to mate with siblings and cousins; chronic inbreeding is a salient problem for critically endangered species. This particular inbreeding depression manifested as heart defects and low sperm counts - with both survival and reproduction in jeopardy, the panther’s prospects looked dire. For such species that have dwindled down to perilously low numbers, captive colonies provide a means to preserve genetic diversity and mitigate the threat of inbreeding. The Chatham Island robin, the Iberian lynx, and the American bison have all been rescued, genetically speaking, through captive efforts. However, given budget and space constraints, captive colonies may be as small or smaller than the wild populations they hope to bolster. As such they can be equally susceptible to inbreeding and its associated problems, and sometimes unintentionally make things worse. If captive colonies are themselves inbred, then they stand little chance of surviving upon release, let alone acting as a species’ saving grace. For example, the small size of the original captive colony for the California Condor was its downfall - poor hatchability and a high mortality rate among young birds resulted in several decades (and more than several million dollars) of next to no impact on the wild population.

A lesser known genetic risk of species reintroductions is outbreeding depression. Whereas inbreeding causes problems from the mixing of genes that are too similar, outbreeding causes problems from the mixes of genes that are too different. The breeding of individuals that are distantly related can sometimes result in incompatible combinations of DNA that produce offspring that are either completely non-viable, or have severely reduced fitness. Rio Grande cutthroat trout were once widespread in the southwestern United States, but their numbers have declined precipitously due to habitat loss and competition with non-native trout species. In an effort to save them from extinction, individuals from a stable population were transported thousands of miles and introduced to increase the genetic diversity of a struggling population. The resulting hybrid offspring however, did not survive to reproductive maturity. We live in an age where plants and animals travel unnatural distances. Through human means, whether intentional or unintentional, we have shuffled the deck of life in ways never before seen. The myriad problems caused by so-called invasive species are well known. The decimation of Australia’s native fauna following the introduction of the cane toads or the ongoing destruction of North American forests at the hands of the emerald ash borer serve as cautionary tales. The unforeseen consequences of releasing animals into new places should be on the forefront of the minds of conservationists desperate to make a difference by any means necessary. We play god with nature at our peril.

…

At midnight a faceless guard approaches and tells Alejandro to collect his things. The powers that be want him to hack it in the real world, to try and make something of himself, for the benefit of society. On order of the judge he is to be released in three hours. No time to prepare, the time is now. Sink or swim. He is flooded with emotions. Released. Thoughts of freedom fill him with joy. But the joy is soon replaced with fear. Released. Released to a world he does not know. Released to a world that took his parents. How will he live? How will he survive? A set of keys jangles, the cell door swings open. He surveys the four walls one last time, before gazing out at the moon and his destiny. He gulps, and steps into the unknown.