by Jane Goodall
How to Get Them Home?
All the effort, danger, and pain were wasted if plant hunters could not get their specimens back to Europe. And what a task that was. Back in 1482 BC, Queen Hatshepsut of Egypt was sending people to the Land of Punt (probably located in eastern Ethiopia or Eritrea) to make plant collections for her, which were carried back in reed baskets and jars of earth. Fortunately for the queen (and probably for those who delivered the specimens), the climatic conditions were excellent, and there were many slaves to carry freshwater, fans, sun blinds, and so on to keep the plants well watered, cool, and happy.
But those heroic, brave, and crazy plant hunters of the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries did not have it so easy. Their precious collections had to be protected from extreme changes in temperature, humidity, and altitude. And they had to endure long journeys—on foot, by horse, or by boat—in order to reach a port, and then to survive a long sea journey back to Europe by sailing ship.
Various plant hunters tried different methods. David Douglas, in the 1820s, used rolls of oilcloth for his dried plants, and waxed containers for bulbs. Most of his live plants did not survive. Other collectors tried growing their plants in chests covered by canvas, storing them in barrels, wrapping them in paper, or suspending them in nets from a cabin roof. Some tried putting plants in bladders, their roots sprinkled with damp loam and the neck of the bladder tied around their stems.
A major problem was that most ship captains and their crews thought that these specimens were a confounded nuisance. So while the plant hunters tried to ensure that their precious collections were put in the most protected parts of the deck, the seamen preferred to stow them forward, where they would be least in the way but where there was also more exposure to salt spray. Or they stuffed them belowdecks, where the plants suffered excess humidity and lack of light and fresh air, were sometimes in sweltering heat and at other times chilled by icy drafts.
Even when the plants were in good positions on deck, seamen sloshed water against boxes when swabbing (cleaning). The sailors were supposed to lift the lid of each box for a while each day to let in some air, but often they did not. Moreover, in bad storms the plants were often jettisoned to lighten the weight. Not surprisingly the plant hunters, who had suffered so much to obtain their specimens, frequently handed out generous bribes to captain, officers, and crew in the hope that the plants would make it home.
In 1819 it was reckoned that up to one thousand plants sent to England from China were lost for every one that survived the voyage and germinated. One collector recommended acclimatizing plants under close guard prior to the journey, then sending a gardener on board to tend them, and having personnel on hand to speed up their progress through the port of arrival. This was all incredibly costly, yet in spite of this, plant hunters were still sent out to collect and send back as much material as they could.
Finally, in 1834, there was a breakthrough that revolutionized the transport of live plant material around the world—and it came about by accident. Dr. Nathaniel B. Ward was a doctor and amateur naturalist. One day he put a caterpillar to pupate in mold in a glass jar with a lid—and forgot about it. When he remembered, he found that despite the lack of fresh air, two tiny plants were growing in the mold. And, thanks to his passion for natural history, he realized he had stumbled upon the perfect way to transport live plants.
His theory was tested when some English ferns and grasses were placed in two of his sealed glass containers and survived, in perfect condition, a six-month journey to Australia. The same two containers were then planted with Australian plants that were notoriously bad travelers—one species had never survived the voyage to England. But in their airtight containers all the plants flourished despite stormy seas and big fluctuations in temperature. From then on “Wardian cases” of various sizes became the standard method for sending live plant material across the ocean.
Plant Crazes
Some exotic flowers, originally transported from afar, were held in special regard. One example is the dahlia, named for a respected French botanist, Dr. Dahl. Dahlias used to grow in our garden at The Birches. They are beautiful, of course, but it is hard to imagine the frenzy they once roused in the plant fanciers of Europe.
The dahlia originated in Mexico, where it was once used as food. Specimens were sent to a French priest, chief gardener at the Escorial, in the year of the French Revolution. He was not interested in the blooms—he thought that the tuber might be a good alternative to the potato. But it was the blooms that captivated French society. The Jardin des Plantes in Paris somehow acquired a few tubers—which they killed by growing them in a hot and humid environment. Other tubers sent to England also rotted.
It was Napoleon’s Empress Josephine who managed to propagate them. She was very protective of her plants, and would allow no one else to care for them, doing all the work herself. But eventually she became so successful, and grew so many, that she had to put a gardener in charge. It seems somewhat surprising that, in the face of such proliferation, she refused to part with even one tuber when asked by a lady-in-waiting.
But this lady was determined, and begged her lover, a Polish prince, to steal one. He bribed the gardener to give him not one but one hundred. Of course Josephine came to hear about the theft: the lady-in-waiting and the gardener were fired and the Polish lover exiled. And then, in her fury, she ordered that every one of her dahlias be chopped up and dug into the ground! Never again was anyone to mention the plant in her presence. What an extraordinary reaction—a perfect example of dog in the manger.
Meanwhile a third shipment of dahlias from Mexico was successfully grown in Berlin, and the craze for acquiring dahlias spread through Europe. They were so coveted that in 1836 a bed of them was sold for 70,000 francs—which was an enormous sum at that time. And a single tuber was traded for a diamond.
Originating in Turkey, tulips were first introduced to Europe in 1554. Within the next hundred years a tulip craze spread throughout the continent. Amazingly, the craze happened in the midst of the Thirty Years’ War, one of the most lengthy and devastating conflicts in Europe’s history, involving all the reigning powers of that era. Yet even as bloody battles raged, the wealthy citizens of Holland went wild over tulips. Plant hunters were dispatched to scour the Levant (the eastern Mediterranean) region for new varieties, and horticulturists created hybrids. The desire for tulips increased until it became, quite literally, a mania.
Big prices were fetched by bulbs sold to the general public. Speculators met at the house of a wealthy family in Bruges, where they traded in “paper” tulips—bulbs not yet in existence but promised by certificate. More than ten million of these nonexistent bulbs were exchanged, creating what we might describe as a Tulip Bubble.
There are many bizarre stories. A single bulb was exchanged for a carriage and a pair of horses, and another for twelve acres of land. One wealthy citizen, having paid a fortune for a particularly rare bulb, then found that a poor shoemaker had the same variety. First he bullied him into selling it for fifteen hundred florins, then he smashed the bulb to pieces in front of him, and finally told him he would have paid ten times as much.
And then there is the tale of a man who, hearing that his long-awaited rare tulip bulb had arrived in record time, together with his order of expensive silks, gave the messenger a lavish tip and some herrings for his dinner. The messenger, not knowing anything about tulips, saw what he took to be an onion lying there among the silks, picked it up, and ate it along with the herrings. That bulb was worth three thousand guilders—and so, of course, the wretched messenger ended up in jail.
Of course, this kind of craziness could not go on forever, and eventually people came to their senses. The high court ordered that all contracts that had been signed should be amicably resolved between trader and buyer. However, it was necessary to appoint a commission to deal with the problem. Today we look back on that time with incredulity. Yet, as I shall describe in chapter 8, certain rare o
rchids can, even today, lead to extraordinary and often illegal transactions.
From the start, Holland managed to get hold of the tulip market, and it is the same today. It is what tourists flock to see in the spring—the great fields of tulips in the Netherlands. Fields and fields of them, in all different colors. They are as much a symbol of the Netherlands as are windmills and clogs.
Modern Plant Hunters
The seventeenth and eighteenth centuries are sometimes referred to as the “Golden Age” for the European countries that were sailing the seven seas, claiming land in the tropics for their colonies. They were certainly not a golden age for the countries that were invaded and whose land, resources, and often people were stolen. But those years did provide the plant hunters of the time a golden opportunity, one that has not since been equaled, to travel on the great sailing ships to far-off places. They were sent out by botanical gardens or nurseries or private collectors—or appointed as botanists to the venture. They were, as we have seen, amazingly brave and amazingly tough, facing hostile natives, pirates, shipwrecks, disease, and more. But they were doing what they wanted to do, and after each expedition most of them willingly went back to face more of the same.
Their kind has no counterpart in the modern world. Botanists are usually part of well-organized expeditions carried out by local partners, and the conditions are very different. Of course there are still physical challenges, when they are searching for rare—or new—species in inhospitable, sometimes dangerous, terrain. They may get caught up in political violence and they sometimes get sick. But for the most part their main hardships are bureaucracy and red tape, getting visas to get into a country and permits to collect.
As we shall see in subsequent chapters, some modern plant hunters are no more than poachers in search of quick profit, and in many countries they have brought many plants to the brink of extinction through overharvesting for the commercial markets. We have indeed invaded and pillaged the kingdom of the plants. Fortunately more and more people are fighting to save them and their habitats. And our love affair with plants continues undiminished.
Chapter 6
Botanical Gardens
I was shown this extremely rare tree, Bastardiopsis eggersii, during my visit to the botanical gardens in Puerto Rico. It has not been seen in the wild in Puerto Rico since 1916. Preserving and trying to propagate endangered species is one of the reasons we need our botanical gardens. (CREDIT: © THE JANE GOODALL INSTITUTE / BY SUSANA NAME)
How many times, I wonder, have I found a few hours of peace in a botanical garden? On my lecture tours there are endless interviews, reporters, TV cameras, microphones. And because botanical gardens and arboretums are close to cities yet offer peaceful surroundings, film crews and photographers often select them as the ideal venues to provide the right “atmosphere.” But when the interview is over, I always try to stay on a little longer to wander among the gentle plants.
Of course it cannot be the same as time spent in the wilderness—the plants have been removed from their natural habitats, they are captives. But still, when cared for by loving and understanding hands, the captive plants have an aura of well-being. Perhaps they feel somewhat as I do when I am in a city—preferring to be in the country but still pleased when I am at least among friends.
In a botanical garden in Puerto Rico, a Franciscan priest took me to the “Bamboo Chapel,” a small, hidden clearing where the light is dim and green and stands of bamboo meet high overhead. He wanted to create the right atmosphere for a conversation between us for a book he was writing. We spoke of the mystical feelings that sometimes come over me when I am in nature, the sense of oneness with the trees, the plant and animal life around me, and it was getting dark when we finally stopped talking. As we left, we passed a pond and stopped to watch a beautiful white heron, motionless in the fading light, and then saw him catch a fish. He flew low over the water and passed by us so closely that I could hear the beat of his wings.
Another time, I was taken to a famous moss garden in Japan, and I longed to take off my shoes, for there can be few sensual pleasures to rival walking barefoot on a soft expanse of moss. But it was a formal occasion and I had to be content with crouching down and laying my hands on the green living carpet.
There was one visit, to the Africa House of the Munich Botanical Garden in Germany, that was especially important for me. I was there for a short interview for some news program. I can close my eyes and almost feel the warm, humid air that was such a blessed contrast to the cold, gray winter day outside, and the feeling that I had arrived in a familiar and loved world—I recognized so many of the plants and trees. I was in communion with my surroundings.
An old gardener was there, tending his plants, loosening the soil around one of the small palms. The film team asked if he would stop digging—just for ten minutes, they said. Looking a bit disgruntled, he stood watching. The interview did not take long, and the gardener went back to his work. I went over to him and, with the help of one of the film team, explained that I wanted to talk to him for a moment. Now looking really fed up, he drove his shovel into the ground and stood with arms crossed. Had he not been inconvenienced enough? he seemed to say.
I told him that I had lived for a long time in an African forest and that this place made me feel at home. I said it was obvious he loved it too, and I wanted to thank him for his work. His expression changed. He wiped his hands on the seat of his trousers, then took my hand in both of his, shaking it up and down. I saw that there were tears in his eyes as he thanked me and said he was honored to welcome me.
So often when we visit such places, it is the director who shows us around. Very occasionally he or she may call out a gardener for special recognition, but not often. Yet it is the gardeners whose hard work maintains the garden, who have a feeling for the plants that is often, I suspect, the sort of love that I feel for them myself. So I was delighted when I visited a botanical garden in Puerto Rico and the director summoned all the gardeners together to introduce themselves and shake hands. I was with Susana Name, who is from Argentina and is my “Spanish voice” in Latin America, and she was able to translate their shy comments.
The Raison d’Être of Botanical Gardens
Botanical gardens are not simply havens of respite from the busy world; they play, and have played for centuries, a tremendously important role in the world of plants. They educate the public, preserve history, and conduct cutting-edge research on ways of growing and propagating plants. These are the places that hold many of the specimens sent back all those years ago by the plant hunters whom I introduced in the last chapter. I hope that by sharing my own experiences I shall encourage more people to go to these wonderful oases of peace, learn about the plants, and explore their world with new eyes and new understanding.
Our modern-day botanical gardens evolved from the ancient “physic gardens,” dating back three thousand years. The main purpose of these gardens was to cultivate plants that were believed, rightly or wrongly, to cure a wide range of ailments. They were mostly created in ancient Egypt, Mesopotamia, and the Roman empire, but they have an especially long and rich history in Europe. Aristotle (384–322 BC) is said to have had one in Athens, which he used for teaching purposes. And his pupil Theophrastus, known as the Father of Botany for his work and writing on plants, is thought to have inherited and developed that garden after his teacher’s death.
For the most part, the early plant collections in Europe were propagated and tended by monks and their apprentices. And although medicinal plants made up the bulk of these collections, there was often a vegetable patch and orchard as well. Then, in 1621, the University of Oxford Botanic Garden (the oldest in Great Britain) was established. Sir Henry Danvers, 1st Earl of Danby, contributed £5,000 (that’s almost $5.5 million in today’s money) to create a garden for “the glorification of God and for the furtherance of learning.” The garden is indeed glorious and focused on education to this day.
Over time, as the craze fo
r collecting exotic and rare plants spread, botanical gardens became living museums, trying to acquire and propagate ever more species from ever more distant parts of the world, serving a role in educating the public and providing botanists with places to study and share information. Horticulture became supremely important in the botanical-garden world, and the scientist played an ever more significant role.
Today, in response to a desperate need, a growing number of botanical gardens are engaged in the vital task of protecting plants in the wild and saving species from extinction. I recently learned that twelve thousand of the thirty-three thousand plant species that are listed as globally threatened are known to be in botanical-garden collections. They are being studied and protected, but also displayed, so that visitors can be made more aware of the importance of preserving the beauty and diversity of the plant kingdom.
I cannot think of a better way of illustrating the importance and beauty of botanical gardens than by describing the two I know best, the Chelsea Physic Garden and the Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew, established in 1673 and 1759 respectively. Both are in England; both are known around the world.
A Secret Garden in Chelsea
No wonder the Chelsea Physic Garden is sometimes called “the secret garden,” for who could guess that such a green and peaceful place was hidden away in the very heart of London? Founded by the Worshipful Society of the Apothecaries of London, this was where their apprentices came to learn about the medicinal secrets of the plant kingdom. But the society was not wealthy, and for a long time the apothecaries struggled to maintain their garden.