Hope for Animals and Their World Read online

  Another challenge of the local communities is that they have no way to manage their waste—in particular, the growth of plastic waste is inundating the area. Most noticeable are plastic bags—the kind you get at the grocery store—which are littered everywhere: roadsides, fields, and even in the tamarins’ forest. But the bags weren’t just an eyesore. They put wildlife at risk because animals come into contact with plastic that may have food items on it, or can transmit disease. Or sometimes animals even ingest the plastic bags, creating a nightmare.

  So Proyecto Tití partnered with fifteen local women who are heads of households but did not have any consistent source of outside income. These women now crochet tote bags, not using wool yarn, but using plastic from the bags littering the ground. And while this sounds small-scale, these women have already recycled more than a million trash bags in the making of the “eco-mochilas,” as they are called.

  This solution-based program is a classic win–win, since the trash bags have become a valuable commodity. Anne pointed out that, “as the eco-mochilas grow in popularity, people from throughout the region know that they are helping to protect the tamarins and the forest as well.”

  Today there is a consortium of national and international conservation organizations working to protect the last remaining dry tropical forests in Colombia. Though the press most often references the dangers and drugs and crime in this South American nation, Anne pointed out that there is indeed hope for the future: “Most importantly, we are going to see a new protected reserve for cotton-top tamarins in coming years.”

  When I asked Anne what the future might look like for the cotton-tops fifty years from now in Colombia, she was optimistic. Not only have Proyecto Tití and other regional conservation groups helped to shift public pride and awareness, Anne said young people are taking a growing interest in conserving both wildlife and habitat. In fact, many Colombian students study wildlife biology in the United States or Europe and then return home to apply their knowledge. “What gives me hope,” she said, “is to see that next generation really coming into fruition right now, developing long-term conservation plans to save species in Colombia.”

  THANE’S FIELD NOTES

  Panamanian Golden Frog

  (Atelopus zeteki)

  If you have never held a common leopard frog, with its strikingly beautiful striped and shiny skin, you have missed one of life’s great joys. Unfortunately, today, you would be lucky to hear a leopard frog calling, much less catch one.

  There are many reasons for this, most of which people do not really understand. All around the globe, amphibians are under pressure—kind of like slimy canaries in the coal mine, warning us of hazards that we should heed before it is too late. Some blame climate change. Some blame UV exposure. But one thing for sure is that many amphibians are being killed by a chytrid fungus, chytrid being short for Batrachochytrium dendrobatidis, which attacks keratin in the dermal tissue of amphibians and suffocates them since they breathe through their skin. Scientists believe the fungus originated in Africa and was transported around the world in the 1930s by accident before anyone knew it even existed. It came on the backs of African frogs exported for medical research and the pet trade.

  Infected frogs can be treated if you capture them and give them a special antifungal bath in captivity. Unfortunately, though, you can’t treat the frogs and release them back into the wild, where the fungus is literally growing everywhere in some areas.

  Perhaps the most dramatic amphibious rescue effort anywhere is one now famous in west-central Panama, where the very last of the golden frogs cling to life. The frogs, which have radiant orange-gold skin, have long been an important symbol of pride for Panamanians. The ancient indigenous people even considered them to be totems of prosperity and virility. Besides being valued for their folklore and beauty, the golden frogs happen to be important members of the region’s ecosystem, as they primarily prey on mosquitoes and crop pests.

  In an effort to protect this beautiful amphibian from extinction, a handful of sweaty and tireless conservationists set up a “frog Hilton,” literally inside a hotel. The idea was to capture the endangered frogs in the nearby rain forest, cleanse them with the special bath, and then keep them in this quarantined hotel so they didn’t die from the lethal fungus. What began as a very temporary rescue effort, eventually ended up taking up four rooms in the hotel and housing more than two hundred threatened frogs, along with the additional areas needed for food storage, volunteer staff, and expedition preparations.

  This fascinating Hotel Campestre is also a favorite overnight destination for backpackers because of its immediate proximity to the forests and mountains at the edge of a dormant volcano’s crater, about fifty miles southwest of Panama City. The two principal players in this unusual frog spa are Edgardo Griffith, a Panamanian biologist who has worked for years with endangered amphibians, and Heidi Ross, a Wisconsin native who first came to Central America as a Peace Corps volunteer. When they go searching, they often find more dead frogs than live ones, but they refuse to give up. After a year in the Campestre, the collection of frogs totaled more than two dozen species, all of them threatened by the fungus.

  So this remote hotel became somewhat of a phenomenon for hikers and tourists as the legend grew that if you wanted to hear the raucous calls of male frogs, this was your last, best shot. Ross and Griffith ended up experts in amphibian husbandry—fixing filters and air pumps, as well as rearing tadpoles and various-size crickets and other insects to feed their brood. All the while, there was the nagging challenge of the long term. How would two people and a borrowed hotel make this work over the long haul? After all, Campestre couldn’t house these frogs forever—and yet it wasn’t safe to release them into the wild, where they would surely become infected.

  Enter Bill Konstant and the Houston Zoo. Bill is the director of science and conservation for the zoo, and was able to rally support for the golden frog efforts. The support came in the form of volunteers and funding from numerous American zoos and botanical gardens, including the Buffalo Zoo, Cleveland Metroparks Zoo, and Rhode Island’s Roger Williams Park Zoo. Amphibian experts not only joined the rescue mission but also helped to design the special facility that would hold the frogs and toads after their temporary stay at the Campestre. The new facility, called the El Valle Amphibian Conservation Center (EVACC), opened in 2007 and is located on the grounds of the El Nispero Zoo.

  Bill is a combination rare in the field of wildlife conservation. Like many field biologists, he is highly educated and experienced, but he is also a scrapper and a doer. As he puts it, “Just because circumstances are dire for the golden frog and other amphibians, there is no reason to give up. In fact, it is time to raise the clarion call to action, because as long as there are frogs, there is hope.” With a smile, he adds, “Besides, frogs know how to be frogs. That’s their job. Ours is to figure a way to solve this mess so they can get back to their forests, streams, and wetlands.”

  Until it’s safe for the golden frogs to return to the wild, the state-of-the-art facility will be the only safe haven for Panama’s golden frog. In fact, organizers imagined the facility being a model for other threatened species that might need to be temporarily or permanently removed from the wild to be saved.

  The question now remains—when will it be safe for the frog to return to the wild? Or will it ever? With persistence and gained knowledge, perhaps the streams of Panama will ring with the hopeful call of male frogs again. Time will tell.

  PART 4

  The Heroic Struggle to

  Save Our Island Birds

  Introduction

  Ever since that time long, long ago when humans first set off in flimsy boats to explore the Seven Seas, island species have been at risk. Many of these animals, insects, and plants evolved over millions of years, perfectly adapting to the environment in which they lived—an environment without competition from terrestrial predators or trampling herbivores. Some birds, like the well-known species o
n the Galápagos, never needed to develop flight-or-fight behaviors, never learned to fear.

  And so, from the start, seafaring humans—whether they stayed and colonized an island, or merely paused in passing to stock up on water and food during long sea journeys—found island birds easy prey. The flightless dodo was eaten to extinction; the flightless kakapo nearly was.

  Settlers brought their livestock with them, mainly goats and pigs. Rabbits were introduced to provide food and quickly multiplied. Stoats, imported to hunt the rabbits when their populations got out of hand, found island fauna easy prey. Cats initially provided pest control services when rats disembarked from visiting ships but soon, adapting to a feral lifestyle, began to hunt the unsuspecting birds. Many alien species of plants were introduced, some of which adapted quickly to the new conditions and spread. The native animals and plants simply could not cope with such unexpected invasions. The delicate balance of nature was interrupted, again and again, with disastrous results. Countless island species disappeared along with the dodo; countless others were brought to the brink of extinction.

  While doing the research for this book, I met and spoke to some extraordinary and dedicated people who have been fighting to turn back the clock on these islands. I have been learning about the Herculean efforts required of them as they struggle to save unique and very precious life-forms, both animal and plant, from extinction. It cannot be done without hard work, absolute commitment, and a willingness to face hardship and sometimes danger. And one of the most difficult, challenging—and often controversial—aspects of their work is, of course, the task of removing alien species from island habitats.

  In other words, these biologists have been forced over the years, and around the world, to poison, trap, or shoot thousands and thousands of innocent creatures. They must not relax. The work is intensive, and usually very expensive. The same techniques cannot be used on all. The larger ones, like goats and pigs, can be hunted. Cats can be shot initially, but as their numbers are reduced they have to be trapped. Rats are even more difficult, mainly because of their sheer numbers—only poisoning has so far been effective. And there is always the possibility, with both trapping and poisoning, that the wrong animals will be killed, especially native rodents. On one island in the Pacific, the bait was taken by land crabs—it did not harm them, but hundreds of rats escaped. On Canna Island in the Hebrides, biologists evacuated 150 endangered canna mice (a distinct subspecies) before successfully exterminating the approximately ten thousand brown rats that had invaded this small island. (The mice will soon be reintroduced.)

  “Pest” Species Versus Endangered Species

  It is not surprising that the large-scale eradication of so many luckless creatures has led to opposition from many of those concerned for animal rights. They argue, with justification, that the welfare of the “pest” animals is not adequately addressed. The biologists are accused of cruelty and indifference to the suffering of living beings who also have a right to exist. After all, none of them chose to invade the islands where, when given free range, they set about living off the land. Unfortunately, this was very destructive. Goats are particularly skilled in this respect. They are intelligent and adaptive. They need little water and can eat almost anything. When they have finished off all the ground foliage, they even climb trees. Rabbits, while smaller in size, are far superior in their ability to multiply. And think how even a well-fed domestic cat can inflict severe damage on local bird and rodent populations. On an island, the impact of feral cats can be devastating.

  My friend Don Merton, who has been involved with restoring islands for decades, told me how, in the late nineteenth century, the lighthouse keeper’s cat on Stephen’s Island, New Zealand, killed all eighteen of the last Stephen’s Island wrens known to science, and laid them at its owner’s doorstep. This wren was just one of the countless endemic species exterminated by animals unwittingly taken to islands by humans.

  But, let me repeat, none of the introduced species went voluntarily to the islands. They had no more choice than the early cargoes of prisoners off-loaded at Botany Bay. We put them there. Just as we put mongooses in the Virgin Islands to kill snakes. We put arctic foxes on the Aleutian Islands where, safe from their predators, they could breed and provide skins for the fur trade—while at the same time decimating some of the island fauna and damaging the whole ecosystem. We took European red foxes to Australia so that people could hunt them with horses and hounds—and the foxes hunted the smaller indigenous marsupials and birds. The only crime of these so-called pest species is that they have been—just like Homo sapiens—too successful.

  It comes down to a conflict between concern for the individual and concern for the future of a species. Even the needs of individuals within the population being saved are sometimes subsumed for the good of the species. Animals raised in captivity may be released into the wild in the certain knowledge that 30 percent or more will not make it. I have always been an advocate for the individual. But after learning how some of the efforts to save the very last members of an amazing and unique species—such as the kakapo or the Zino’s petrel—almost failed because of cat predation, and looked at the utter destruction caused by goats and rabbits, I had to rethink my position.

  If only there were really humane ways of removing the alien species. But sterilization, as sometimes practiced with stray dogs and cats, simply wouldn’t work, and even if you could live-trap all the predators—where would you put them? What could you do with shiploads of pigs and goats that had been corralled? If only the unfortunate invaders had never been introduced, if only there was an ethical way of removing them. But they were, and there isn’t—and they have to go. After all, as Don said to me, alien predatory animals in order to survive must kill hundreds if not thousands of native birds and other wildlife each year—so causing suffering that is unseen and ongoing.

  And even though I grieve for the slaughter of the invaders, I am filled with admiration for the persistence of those who work so hard to remove them from the islands. Don Merton, who first succeeded in eradicating rats from islands in the early 1960s, was a true pioneer in techniques for removing alien species. He developed methods for removing invasive species that have been modified for eradication projects around the world. No one wants to devote themselves to killing—yet as we have seen, to protect the birds and their defenseless young it must be done.

  All of these island birds exist only because of the determination and ingenuity of those who refused to let them die. I have attempted to do justice to the extraordinary men and women who have saved these island birds from joining the dodo in the void from which there is no return. They have endured many setbacks. They must be patient, persistent, and resilient, as well as tough and courageous—and possibly a little crazy. And as you will see, they are.

  Black Robin or Chatham Island Robin

  (Petroica traversi)

  My story of the black robin began when I met Don Merton in the early 1990s. He is quiet and soft-spoken and, like so many people who have accomplished extraordinary things, he is modest. Don had been invited to a reception held to welcome me to New Zealand, and we were not able to talk long. But he gave me a glimpse of the fascinating work he did, and his passion for saving endangered birds. The rest I have learned from subsequent chats on the telephone and e-mail correspondence. And of course, from reading about his work.

  His love affair with wildlife began in the 1940s when he was a small child, growing up on the east coast of New Zealand’s North Island. “From the age of about four years,” Don told me, “I was nutty about wildlife and spent much time watching birds, lizards, and insects—especially looking for birds’ nests.” When he was five years old, his grandmother came to stay and brought with her a canary. “That little yellow bird sang its way through the 1940s and … ignited my passion for birds,” Don said. One day he and his brothers “gave my grandmother’s canary a (European) goldfinch chick to foster. It adopted the chick as its own and raised it.” T
hirty-five years later, his recollection of this incident eventually saved the black robin species from imminent extinction. (I shall tell more about that later.)

  He was twelve years old when he made the decision to devote his life to trying to save birds that were in danger of extinction. And he certainly followed his dream, beginning his career in 1960 (the same year that I arrived at Gombe National Park in Tanzania) and playing a key role in the rescue and recovery of some of his country’s—and the world’s—most endangered birds. It all began in 1961 when he spent a month on Big South Cape Island—now known by its indigenous name Taukihepa (off the southwest coast of New Zealand’s Stewart Island)—which still retained its full quota of indigenous wildlife. Indeed, along with two other tiny adjacent islands, it was the final refuge for several animals formerly abundant and widespread on the mainland, including the South Island saddleback.

  Don Merton with one of his beloved black robins. A childhood memory of his grandmother’s canary helped Don figure out a way to save this endearing bird from imminent extinction. (Rob Chappel)

  Rats and Other Invasive Animals

  That trip, along with subsequent field trips to remote areas, led Don to wonder why it was that on mainland New Zealand, despite hundreds of thousands of acres of seemingly intact forest and other habitats, native wildlife was in such a predicament. Why had massive extinctions and reductions in the range of so many species occurred? Don and some colleagues were convinced that the impact of predatory mammals introduced by European settlers, on purpose (such as cats, ferrets, and stoats) or accidentally (rats and mice), was the primary reason. But some leading biologists (educated in Europe or North America) argued strongly that predation was natural, and it was habitat loss that was primarily affecting wildlife in New Zealand.