Why Wildlife?

Note: This is a repost from my old Philippine Wildlife website

Postscript

A young man seeking god asked an old man, “Please tell me, how can I see god?” the old man replied, “I don’t think I can help you with that. You see I have a different problem.” The old man then looked at the young man’s eyes and said, “I cannot not see god.”

— anonymous

 

Why wildlife? Admittedly we have a ton of environmental problems. There is pollution – air, water, ground, noise and light – and there is overpopulation. We have toxic and non-biodegradable wastes, deforestation, ozone depletion, global warming, drought and others that are very real and others not so. And these problems have dire and direct effects on humanity.

 

But somehow, the facts and reports that the earth will have a 5% temperature increase a hundred years from now, or that the world water level will rise another 2%, or that Filipinos now number 76.4 million, or that our water supply is being contaminated with heavy metals, or that we are running out of forests to absorb the carbons in the air do not touch base easily.  Many can’t comprehend the enormity of the problems because the problems maybe too enormous to comprehend. Many are complacent and will remain complacent until these problems are truly felt.

 

So why wildlife? Do you know the feeling that death only becomes important to you, or that you only think about death when it creeps very near you, when you find it in the vicinity? It is human nature, I guess, to feel and understand the loss when it affects us, only when it affects us; when the loss is something we have been attached to, when the loss is someone we love, we like or we know.  We only twitch in our seat when there is a link between us and the life lost.  Many of us will only awaken from the comfort of our slumber and to the reality of death when it stares deeply into our eyes.

 

And next to human life, we seem to value animal life next. Somehow, we find animals easy to like and easier to love. We are interested by their movements, entertained by their antics, amused by their ways, and endeared by their nature. We find it easy to establish a connection with them, both domestic and wild.  Domestic animals we have called our best friends and we have always had a connection with them. Wildlife on the other hand we have always admired. The older generation grew up with wildlife and they are full of stories about them. The present generation is struggling to find them and struggling even more to retain them.  The future generation might never experience them that is why all efforts are geared towards their participation in conservation.

 

The experience of wildlife is both unique and unforgettable. Seeing wildlife in the wild or in captivity or even in photographs, video or film, or reading about them or hearing about them establishes a human bond – a correlation of sorts that even borders on kinship.  It brings back certain perspectives on our webbed life and it pulls us down to baser things. And once we have established this connection, their death and disappearance will be felt, will be understood, will be recognized. Once we have formed a link, we become open to their plight, and there is an allowance for feelings of sympathy and empathy on their endangered predicament.  And this predicament more often than not we have brought upon them. We have introduced them to unnatural despair and to untimely death. But death they say is never timely. More true when it is in our hands.

 

I’m not preaching here but understanding and appreciating wildlife brings us an inch closer to seeing life (whatever life means) as a bigger picture. Stepping closer to the fabrics and threads somehow carries us farther from the quilt thereby seeing it more broadly.

 

Why wildlife? Because wildlife is like magic: it makes a profound impression on the young and the wonder sticks to you as you grow. You can never let it go, you can never shake it off. At the same time life in the wild is an indicator. They tell us how things are and how things might be for us. Their demise might be a clue to ours, too, in the not so distant future.

 

 

Isla Rasa

18 species in the entire world and one belongs to us. One belongs only to us. This pure, majestic white cockatoo with an orange-red speckle on its tail can only be found in our islands. Years ago their collective flight at dusk drew awe as they painted a white streak on a backdrop of black and orange. Years ago they sang in chorus as they glided and flapped in the sky they used to own. Years ago they had the luxury of a lush carpet of trees and greens, they had the freedom to choose where to roost, where to mate, where to wean their young. Years ago they were proud residents of the country whose name they bear.

But those were years ago.

Their freedom was restricted when food sources were taken and torn down. Their sky became no-fly zones with transgressors pulled down with a bullet or a pebble, which to a bird does not make a bit of a difference.

Then they were forcibly evicted.
Their homes were slashed and burned. They were shooed away like pests, like bugs, like stray dogs. They were driven away by the other residents of the country whose name they bear.

And then they were caged.
The withering of the numbers started when they were plucked like succulent benefits off a mango tree. They became victims during a mad-dash, free-for-all pet trade. A pet trade pandering to a people amused by dancing and talking birds. They became companions, buddies, entertainers, and ornaments.

In the last 20 years the population of the Katala drastically plummeted: A seemingly unfit ending to a species so pretty, so precious.

Before seeing them in the wild, I thought they were magnificent even in the cages. I thought they were amusing doing tricks. I thought they were a prized collection perched on someone’s porch. In fact I did not realized that ours was the most endangered cockatoo. And perhaps 75 million other Filipinos didn’t know either…or perhaps they just didn’t care. That is, until I went to Isla Rasa in Narra, Palawan. Roosting near the edge of the forested island was the last stronghold of the Katala. Claws clenched on swaying branches signified the flock’s final hold on existence. They spelled the difference between cockatoos on postcards and cockatoos in real life. Seeing them in all their freedom is such an awe-inspiring moment. Moments like these are the stuff legends are made of. Moments like these compel you to pray that they not be limited only to legends.

Looking at the 50 or so Katalas in that piece of paradise called Rasa, knee deep in mangrove mud, balance tested by the blowing “hanging habagat”, determination hounded by the sudden rising of the evening tide, injects in the body a fluid bliss. The experience elevates you somewhat. The moment alters you somehow. Going back to the boat before the tide engulfs and sitting there drenched under the Palawan sky, the brain begins carving the moment in the mind, making sure memories like these will never be forgotten.

And in Rasa, while looking at the birds with a stupid smile, you somehow get the feeling that they are smiling back. In Rasa you will find a glimmer of genuine hope in a Philippine Cockatoo’s eyes. In Rasa you will find a glimmer of hope in your own eyes.