by Tim Flannery
Towards the end of our climb we came to an abrupt low cliff, below which sprouted an abundance of metre-long, strap-like leaves with the most fantastic scarlet flowers waving at their tops. I recognised them as belonging to the lily family, and using our guidebook I soon identified them as Xeronema moorei, a rare plant found only in a few patches on New Caledonia’s peaks. I was incredulous that this extraordinary plant, whose flower stalks more closely resemble vastly oversized scarlet toothbrushes than any lily I knew, seemed to have no common name. Surely the Kanaks must have stories about the blood-red blooms, I thought, but the young men we were with knew nothing of such things. It struck me as a sad waste that beauty like this has blossomed every year for millions of years while only rarely have human eyes drunk it in.
The hut that was to be our base had been built as a refuge against the weather by Europeans who knew nothing of the local conditions on the mountain. It was not insulated and lacked a place to make a fire. I’ve never seen a shelter so unsuited to requirements. As the gloom deepened and the warmth of the day gave way to a cold drizzle, supper beckoned. But we had nets to set before dark and paths to reconnoitre for spotlighting later on. The rain was falling steadily by the time we returned to the hut to heat a can of stew on our Trangia. We were exhausted, but the rough-hewn boards of the hut floor did not tempt us to neglect our duty. Instead, we walked back down to the 1000-metre mark again, spotlighting and checking the nets we’d set.
I wasn’t in the best of moods as I slogged off through the steadily increasing rain, but as soon as I entered the forest both mood and exhaustion lifted. That night I saw things that I never imagined existed—I was in a Through the Looking-Glass world where life, shaped by ninety million years of splendid isolation, had created such hunters and hunted, plants and parasites they all might as well have originated in a distant galaxy.
Each leaf, each twig beside the path, was festooned with lichen and mosses big and small, their surfaces glistening in the torchlight with new-fallen droplets of rain. There were no possums, monkeys or indeed any terrestrial mammals in this world. Instead the leaves were grazed by slugs—huge, square, brightly patterned slugs, the largest ten centimetres from head to tail. They seemed to exist in every colour of the rainbow: some bright yellow with red lines, others grey with black lines, tan with yellow lines, or white with black.
The psychedelic molluscs moved through the silence of the night with all the solemn majesty of the moon, leaving in their wake silvery traces of their travels. Munching silently on the rotting vegetation that was their sustenance, they progressed so smoothly that their only movement seemed to come from the breathing-hole on their backs, which opened and closed in hypnotic slow motion.
Checking each mist-net and flowering tree, I saw nothing that might signal the presence of a bat. The forest was all but empty of large creatures, it seemed. But then the lion of this land in the clouds appeared. On a large leaf by the side of the path was a huntsman spider the size of my hand, its body glowing with an uncanny yellow phosphorescence. It sat imperturbable on its leaf—until I almost touched it. Puzzled by its indifference, I gently probed it with a stick, only to find that it had been transformed by an insidious, ramifying invader. The creature was not only dead, but glued to the leaf it sat upon. I levered it off to examine it more closely: its entire abdomen had been taken over by a fungus that glowed with the eerie phosphorescence that had first attracted me.
The fungal parasite must have somehow controlled the spider’s mind, bidding it to climb on to the great leaf above the forest floor—an ideal perch from which to spread fungal spores. It had bade the spider sit still, exposed to predators, while it spread its hyphae from abdomen to leaf, forming a holdfast the spider would never break. And then it had taken the creature completely, its invisible hyphae reaching into each limb and section, until all that remained of the spider was an empty shell.
Presumably, in time the dead huntsman would sprout tiny mushrooms, whose spores would blow free to infect yet other spiders. Just how a fungus can control a mind we cannot know. But I can tell you that high on forgotten mountains among distant islands, such things do occur.
That night sleep came late, and the dawn all too soon. After once again checking our nets, I summoned the energy to climb the hundred metres or so to the very summit of Mont Panié. The peak was in fact a small plateau, and in the scrubby habitat there grew a few dozen splendid pine trees, the largest thirty metres tall. They were Araucaria schmidii, an ancient type of pine belonging to a genus that last flourished during the age of dinosaurs. At that time such pines grew throughout the world, but today they exist only in Australia, South America and the islands of the southwest Pacific. Araucaria schmidii is arguably the rarest of all, being unique to the summit of Panié. Around me was its entire world population—just a few dozen plants.
After two nights atop the mountain, during which time it hardly stopped raining, we descended to the coast, checking our mist-nets as we went. The only mammal we found in any of them was a single specimen of the New Caledonian flying fox.
Evaluating such a result is difficult. Should we call it a failure? Certainly, based on such a brief survey, we can’t rule out the possibility that a monkey-faced bat inhabits New Caledonia’s highest peak. I think of the achievement as akin to leaving a few marks in the sand—marks that might one day guide a new generation of adventurers to hidden treasure.
Yet how to evaluate our work in the islands as a whole? To some, our adventures might seem to be nothing more than a romantic frolic. After all, why should anyone care about an obscure creature found only on a distant island? Would the world lose anything with its extinction? It can hardly be argued that island life is crucial to our own survival, for its impact on the maintenance of the Earth system must be immeasurably small. But there is more to life than mere survival. Who, after all, would not wish to see a living dodo? And how much richer would the economy of Mauritius be if that island still had, strutting around its forest, the astonishing and ridiculous dodaars, or knot-arses, as the seventeenth-century Dutch explorers lucky enough to see these gigantic, flightless pigeons in life called them?
The economic benefits of eco-tourism may be one reason for preserving island biodiversity, but for scientists there is a very different reward. Island species are of exceptional interest to anyone wishing to know how the evolutionary process works. That should include all of us, for evolution by natural selection is the force that shaped us and all the living world. If we hope to know ourselves we would do well to grasp its workings, and nowhere are they as intriguing or instructive as on islands.
During our sojourns on islands to the south and east of New Guinea we had investigated the influence of distance, island size, island age and isolation on the mammals whose ancestors had managed to reach these miniature worlds. We had discovered ten mammal species which were previously unknown to science. And, sadly, we had learned that some species documented by previous adventurers had almost certainly become extinct, among them the emperor rat of Guadalcanal. We also discovered that some, such as the giant rat of Malaita, had perished before they could even be documented and named by a scientist.
Importantly, as a result of our work, there was sufficient material now to write the very first complete account of the mammals of the southwest Pacific region, making it easier for those who follow to target and undertake their own research work. We hoped that in time such work would add the evidence required to effectively conserve all of the region’s mammals. Indeed our efforts had already laid the basis for some conservation initiatives. The International Union for the Conservation of Nature’s rankings of species, which help determine which ones should be a priority for conservation action, relied on our accounts. We also wrote reports for the governments of the Pacific Island nations, documenting the richness of their biological heritage and the need for conservation. Unfortunately, such conservation is not a high priority for many of them.
Perhaps the greatest treasur
e of the Scott expeditions was the wealth of experience gathered by those who worked on the surveys. Wherever we went in the islands we encountered neglected histories. The impacts of nineteenth-century missionaries could be seen almost everywhere, in the form of the ‘Mother Hubbard’ dresses favoured by the local women and in the tiny churches tended by native pastors that dotted the islands. And it’s impossible to ignore the fact that this was a setting for the greatest human conflict ever fought. The World War II battlegrounds of the Pacific campaign remain littered with airstrips, some almost as long as London’s Heathrow, whole fleets of sunken warships and aircraft, armies of coral-crusted jeeps, trucks and tanks—indeed military remanié of all types. And, perhaps most memorably, we all experienced the kindness of strangers.
More than biodiversity has been lost to the world in the two short decades since our work was completed. In the aftermath of decolonisation, entire societies have been irrevocably altered by civil war and economic turmoil. We were lucky enough to see the Solomon Islands when Honiara was a thriving and harmonious town. We drank kava with chiefs in Fiji before they were caught up in military coups, and we camped on remote tropical beaches before they were overtaken by resort hotels. Perhaps we caught the islands in the last moments of a golden age before the twenty-first century intruded. At least that’s what it feels like now.
Having completed our surveys of the southwest Pacific Islands, our work was far from over. Lying to the northwest and west of New Guinea is another great scatter of islands, on which evolution had led to the development of yet more unique biological realms. If we could extend our surveys into this area, a definitive history of the mammals of all of the Australasian islands could be written. This region lies within the great island archipelago of Indonesia, and it was there that, beginning in 1990, the Scott expeditions would concentrate. The wonders we were to discover in these western isles would eclipse even those of the southwest Pacific. But that is another story, the telling of which must await another book.
Afterword
Some readers may wonder why it was necessary for us to collect so many specimens for museums. After all, it necessitated the deaths of many individual animals, which may seem contradictory to our ultimate goal of the conservation of endangered species. It’s important to understand that throughout the area in which we worked wild animals are an important food source. Where possible we took our samples (which usually included the skin, skull and liver) from individual animals that had been caught by local people for food. Where this was not possible, we collected samples sufficient to identify species using our own traps, nets and guns. Our techniques involved catching animals alive where possible, holding them in canvas bags until they could be examined and either released or humanely killed and sampled. Small animals needed as samples and not destined to be eaten by local people were by preference euthanased with a drop of Nembutal (which stops the heart) on the tongue, or an injection.
Why were so many samples required? The science of taxonomy, the classification of species, enables scientists to identify endangered species. Without it no conservation work can be done. Imagine being a biologist who realises that a population on an island is threatened with extinction. You want to help, but the first thing you need to do is to identify the species. This means that its fur and teeth need to be compared with the type specimens of similar species. Type specimens are the first individuals of a species to be named. They are like the flag-bearers for a species, and they are held in museum collections around the world. Having identified your species, you need to determine whether it is present on other islands, or only on the island in question. This requires adequate samples from all islands within the potential distribution of the species. Multiple samples are often required, for any island can be home to similar-looking species, which nonetheless are genetically and ecologically distinct.
During our surveys, we were often collecting the very first samples of a species from the island we were visiting. It was pioneering work in the vein of the nineteenth-century explorers. Anyone wishing to build on our work today could set about things very differently. Advances in DNA technology mean that identifications can now be made by sampling just a few hairs. Yet they would still rely heavily on comparisons with the extensive samples of skins, skulls and tissues that we collected over two decades ago.
For all its excitement and the value of the research, I don’t think I could do the work today that I did back then. As I’ve got older I’ve found it harder and harder to kill animals, however good the cause.
It’s hard to believe that twenty-five years have passed since I first voyaged to the islands. Back then I was a very different person—naive, filled with a restless youthful energy, and dangerously overconfident. I was also more careless, and I realise now with regret that my notebooks from the period reflect merely the bare bones of what happened—mainly where I went and what creatures we found. This story deals with far more than that, so is necessarily drawn heavily from memory, sometimes aided by photos taken at the time. To the best of my abilities it reflects my experiences, though of course others may recall things differently.
Among the Islands is not a straightforward recapitulation of what happened all those years ago. In order to maintain the narrative I’ve occasionally merged events that occurred over several expeditions. And because I’ve chosen a geographic arrangement of materials, the timing of various expeditions is sometimes left unstated, as a strict chronology would only confuse the reader. In some instances I’ve had to rely upon the accounts of others, who related their experiences to me soon after the events occurred. Where this is the case I make it clear in the text.
A small army of people needs to be thanked for their contributions to our efforts. The work could not have taken place without the generous support of the governments of Papua New Guinea, the Solomon Islands, Fiji and New Caledonia, particularly the ministries and departments involved in wildlife conservation. At the Australian Museum, I benefited from the wholehearted support of everyone, from the director Des Griffin down to the cleaners and guards, who worked so hard behind the scenes to make my job easier. All have my deepest thanks, as do the villagers of the regions I visited. Without their goodwill and assistance, nothing could have been achieved.
My greatest debt of gratitude lies with those who made up the Scott expedition team. We were never certain whether our funding would be renewed from year to year, and I appreciate the enormous patience and generosity of spirit required to go on in the face of the possibility that there’d be no money for salaries next season. Furthermore, all endured significant trials and risks in carrying out their work. Without exception they performed magnificently. The core team included: Ian Aujare, Tish Ennis, Dr Diana Fisher, Pavel German, Dr Sandra Ingleby, Tanya Leary, Peter Manueli, Dr Harry Parnaby, Lester Seri, Dr Alexandra Szalay and Dr Elizabeth Tasker. To them all, many thanks. What adventures we had!
References
1 Malinowski, B. The Sexual Life of Savages in North-Western Melanesia, George Routledge and Sons, London, 1929.
2 Meek, A. S. A Naturalist in Cannibal Land, T. Fischer Unwin, London, 1913, p. 76.
3 Ibid, p. 78.
4 Damon, F. From Muyuw to the Trobriands, University of Arizona Press, Tucson, 1990, p. 55.
5 Meek, A. S. A Naturalist in Cannibal Land, T. Fischer Unwin, London, 1913.
6 Brass, L. J. et al. ‘Results of the Archbold Expeditions,’ No. 75, 1956. ‘Summary of the Fourth Archbold Expedition to New Guinea,’ in Bulletin of the American Museum of Natural History, No. 111(2), 1953, p. 144.
7 Hempenstall, P. J. Pacific Islands under German Rule, ANU Press, Canberra, 1978, p. 151.
8 Troughton, E. Le G. and Livingstone, A. A. ‘Last Days at Santa Cruz’, The Australian Zoologist, 111(4), 1927, pp. 114–23.
9 Woodford, C. M. A Naturalist Among the Head Hunters, Being an Account of Three Visits to the Solomon Islands in the Years 1886–1888, George Phillip and Sons, London, 1890.
10 Hill,
J. E. A Memoir and Bibliography of Michael Rogers Oldfield Thomas, FRS, British Museum of Natural History, Historical Series, 18(1), London, 1990, pp. 25–113.
11 Andersen, K. ‘Diagnoses of new bats of the families Rhinolophidae and Megadermatidae’, Annals and Magazine of Natural History 9(2), 1918.
12 Flannery, T. ‘Stuffed & Pickled’, Australian Natural History, 22(10), 1988.
13 Keesing, R. and Corris, P. Lightning Meets the West Wind. The Malaita Massacre, Oxford University Press, Melbourne and Oxford, 1980.
14 Ibid.
15 Ibid, p. 135.
16 Ibid, pp. 135–6.
17 Ibid, p. 188.
18 Ibid, p. 203.
19 Troughton, E. le G. ‘The Mammalian Fauna of Bougainville Island, Solomons Group’, Records of the Australian Museum XIX (5), 1936, p. 341.
20 Fisher, D. ‘An Ecological Study of a New Species of Monkey-Faced Bat from the Islands of New Georgia and Vangunu, the Solomon Islands’, Research report to the Mammal Department, Australian Museum, 1992.
21 Endicott, W. ‘A Cannibal Feast at the Feejee Islands’, Danvers Courier, 16 August, 1845; reprinted in: Wrecked Among Cannibals in the Feejees, Marine Research Society, Salem, Massachusetts, 1923.
22 Hill, A. V. S. and Serjeantson, S. W. (eds.) The Colonisation of the Pacific. A Genetic Trail, Clarendon Press, Oxford, 1989.