A wild goose chase (2)
The lecture was scheduled for six pm, more than five hours away. Enough time for me to get home and change. I was smelly and dusty from rushing across the city. Needless to say, Dr. W, like everybody else on campus, wore clothes which looked like they had just come from the drycleaners.
“Sorry about this”, I said sheepishly, indicating my own crumbled outfit and lied: “Crowded bus with no aircon”. Dr. W smiled understandingly and told me not to worry and come as I was. I gritted my teeth. I was certain that the man could embark on a month-long field trip, deep into the bush with only muddy, croc-infested tanks and rivers to wash in and still look impeccable, wheras I could not even remain clean after a few hours in the city.
Dr. W gave me directions to the venue from a bus stop which was off the map. I was sure I would end up getting lost, so I asked him to mark the place for me, thanked him and set off in that direction to find out exactly where to go and how to get there. It was all very straightforward: take the bus to the university but get out at Albert Crescent and change into the 177 to Horton Place. That done, I turned back towards Fort Station, where I got caught up in heavy traffic. It was already late and it was a long wait for the Negombo bus, leaving me to wonder whether another accident had blocked the Colombo Road. When we eventually got underway, I realized before we had even reached the city limits that I would never make it home and back again in time. Cursing my luck, I turned back. I had not taken much money with me, certainly not enough to buy a new dress or trousers, and, squeezed onto a crowded bus, I was now sweatier and dustier than I had been before.
The traffic was so heavy that, by the time we pulled into Colombo there was no time to cool off somewhere with airconditioning as I should have done in the first place; I had to set off for the lecture straight away. I masked my odour as best as I could with citronella. The mosquitoes were coming out anyway.
On the way to the lecture, I had resolved to phone John who would be worried by now. However, there were no public phones or call-shops in the leafy embassy quarter where the SLAAS was situated. When I reached the venue, I resignedly lit up a cigarette and tried to relax.
The talk was organised by the Wildlife and Nature Protection Society of Sri Lanka (WNPS). As the room began to fill up with people, I cast around for Dr. I., nodding and smiling nervously at any woman roughly my age and wondering what she might look like. A woman with cropped hair wearing trousers and a blue top seemed to fit the type, but she went outside to have a smoke without giving me another glance. An older woman in a sari sat down in the same row as me, two chairs away. She returned my smile but she did not say a word. It had turned 6 o’ clock, but I had to allow for the ‘academic quarter hour’. When the talk started at 18:15 prompt, nobody had approached me.
The topic was the status and conservation of the Sri Lankan elephant. The animals were hunted out of the wet zone during the colonial era when much of the land was turned over to plantations. Subsequently, elephants were crowded into ever smaller areas of the dry zone as it underwent renewed irrigation schemes. At present, Sri Lanka is home to about 4000 elephants in the wild and ca. 300 in captivity, representing 10% of the world population of Asian elephants.
Habitat reduction brought about by increasing population growth has led to increased friction between elephants and humans. Each year, 100-150 animals are lost, mainly as a result of this conflict. Sixty percent of these animals are shot, fewer than 10% are known to have died from natural causes. Conversely, sixty five people are killed by elephants each year, most of them during the harvests in March and September.
Past attempts to address the human-elephant conflict have met with only partial success. Translocation of elephants is impractical in many respects; there are not many areas of suitable habitat remaining. Other solutions include deterrents provided to farmers to scare off elephants, often put to other uses, or electric fencing which is expensive and the elephants soon devise ways of bridging it. Compensation for damage to crops, injury or loss of life is woefully inadequate. Modern approaches will have to consider ways for humans and elephants to co-exist.
Starting in 1995, Dr. W and his team carried out telemetry studies on 18 animals in the northwest and southeast of the island to establish their home ranges in relation to wildlife sanctuaries in the respective areas. Predictably, the home ranges of individuals living in populated areas were larger than of those living in more suitable habitats, increasing the possibility of human-elephant conflict. There is no evidence of migration. Except where elephants are crowded into small areas, trapped by the expansion of farmland, the herds are small and losely organised.
Encouragingly, the preferred habitat of elephants in agricultural areas appears to be the chena scrub vegetation which grows in areas subjected to the traditional slash-and-burn cultivation in the dry- and intermediate zones. In the study area, the elephants move into the chena during the dry-season when it is not under cultivation but spend the wet season entirely within the boundaries of the adjacent parks. A chena buffer zone around the national parks, rather than fences, could therefore provide a ‘co-existence area’ in which there is relatively little scope for conflict between elephants and people. Local farmers could act as guides to show visitors the elephants roaming there in the dry season, thus generating an income during the times when they can’t work their fields. If there is a political will, community based schemes could be devised to manage the elephant population with the help of the people living in the area.
“Elephants mean different things to different people”, Dr. W concluded: “We have to find ways in which everybody can benefit.”
He finished his talk to enthusiastic applause right on time.
The talk was followed by the obligatory question and answer session which dragged on. Every senior member of the WNPS asked at least one question as a matter of academic curtesy. This was followed by announcements for the next meeting. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat and kept glancing at the clock. The last bus back to Negombo left at eight. I did not have enough money for a taxi and there were no more trains. At seventeen minutes past seven, I was tapping both my toes and my fingers. At long last, the meeting concluded. Further long minutes passed while I waited for Dr. W to finish shaking hands with his admirers. Elephants, unlike dugongs, have many fans. Eventually, I got through to him, thanked him for the talk and asked after Dr. I.
“Ah,” he said glancing around: “She is not here, is she?”
This question was directed at the woman in the blue top who stood behind him.
“No. She said she might not come, she is still at work.”
I flashed a smile and nodded: “Never mind, I’ll give her a call at home!”, thanked Dr. W again and practically ran out of the building fervently hoping I would manage to catch the Negombo bus. At the traffic lights on the corner to Horton Place, I jumped onto the first bus which pulled to a stop. It wasn’t the 177.
In the rambling bus, it was impossible to focus on the map. Now and then I ducked underneath the armpits of people jammed up against me to catch a glimpse out of the window, hoping to spot a landmark, but any attempts at following the journey proved to be hopeless. Eventually, we reached what I took to be the Galle Road.
“Galle Road?” I shouted out. I think I saw the conductor nod, so I jumped off at the junction, waving 10rs at him for my fare. He declined as the bus pulled off, doubtlessly glad to be rid of the madwoman.
I could not see a roadsign, so I crossed the street and jumped on the first bus that would aim in the right direction if I had guessed my position correctly. I was in luck. The conductor nodded when I asked for ‘Fort Station’ as I handed over my fare. I nearly cried, relieved and diappointed at the same time. Once again, I was left just with a number. A different number to be sure, and I had actually spoken to Dr. I, however briefly, but in effect I was back where I had started.
I made it home on the last bus, which I had caught with ten minutes to spare. There had been no time to phone John.
Tags: The Whales of Trincomalee, Tag Index
Denni