Removed from their lands by a tiger conservation project, Indigenous villagers in Northeast India reconnect with their forest home through hornbill conservation.
WORDS AND IMAGES Upayan Chatterjee
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“If we choose to walk into a forest where a tiger lives, we are taking a chance.” Searching online for images captioned with this famous Peter Benchley quote might be your best introduction to the world of India’s tigers. Sharp portraits of the regal felines, roaming a wide range of habitats from dense mangroves and rolling grasslands to dry deciduous forests, would flood your screen.
India’s booming tiger-tourism industry, commanding up to INR 200 crores (USD 24 million) annually in certain states, shall have you in thrall. But these biased visuals undermine India’s ever-shrinking wilderness as effectively as Benchley’s sensationalist portrayal of sharks in his book Jaws maligned those majestic sea creatures. The discourse on wildlife in the world’s most populous nation needs to fast outgrow notions like Benchley’s, which paint coexistence as inherently dangerous. In India, people have roamed the tigers’ forests for eons without feeling threatened or needing to push out their non-human neighbors. But tourism, revenue, and the allure of tiger sightings have drowned those quiet Indigenous ideals of sharing space. Finding those ideals today demands a kind of silence that only exists off the popular tiger-tourism beat.
The Nyishi tribal community had long shared this space with tigers. Project Tiger pushed them out.
In the dense tropical rainforest of Pakke Tiger Reserve in the eastern Himalayan state of Arunachal Pradesh, revving jeeps are still infrequent. Tigers don’t show themselves easily. They leave scratches on ancient trees and pugmarks by the forest’s streams, but their traces vanish abruptly amid leaf litter on the rainforest floor or along bouldery trails winding up a hill. The Nyishi tribal community had long shared this space with tigers. Their intimate relationship with Pakke’s wild denizens had a mysterious, almost mythical character. Then, Project Tiger pushed them out, severing their connection to their forest home.
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As part of India’s flagship tiger conservation effort, Nyishi villages were resettled outside the inviolate tiger reserve forest demarcated by the state. The Pakke River was used as a natural boundary, separating Nyishi settlements from the forest. Along this eastern boundary of Pakke Tiger Reserve today, elderly inhabitants of Darlong, Seijosa, Bally, Mabuso, Golosso, Jolly, and Langka villages peer longingly across the gushing river to the forest that had once been theirs.
Conversations revealed silent interactions with animals and the truth of coexistence beyond conflict.
When I interviewed Nyishi Elders, hoping to bring forth their memories and perspectives of Pakke’s forests, conversations revealed silent interactions with animals and the truth of coexistence beyond conflict. Radak-Burrah (Burrah is a colloquial term used to refer to Elders) talked of leopards scurrying up great rainforest trees. Dungro Natung mentioned inquisitive tigers. Takkar Tana reminisced of a black panther resting in the winter sun. They mentioned conflict, too. Radak’s memories of tigers preying on livestock or Mem Tachang’s description of the night when elephants ravaged an entire season’s harvest brought forth grim realities of survival at the fringes of wilderness. But the Elders’ foundational ethos of coexistence never falters. Conflicts are accidents. Rampaging herds and straying tigers are troublesome neighbors. Obligations of tradition mandate acceptance. Refusing to share space with non-human life forms is unthinkable.
Nyishi folklore commands that humans and tigers must show mutual respect by not crossing one another’s paths too often. But India’s modern vision for forests seems too impatient to include these perspectives. Under the regime of policies that “include” Indigenous communities in conservation only through casual employment as forest guards or elephant handlers, Indigenous knowledge struggles to be heard. And when people cease to be able to apply traditional knowledge, it ceases to flow. Youth grow oblivious to the ways of the forest.
Enter the Hornbill Nest Adoption Project. Great hornbills (paga) have forever been a cultural icon among the Nyishi and have regularly been hunted. The byopa (traditional headgear worn by Nyishi men) used to be carved out of the great hornbill’s casque (the enlarged bone on the bird’s upper mandible) until the Wildlife Trust of India popularized the use of artificial ones. “But ours used to be a very intimate method,” Budhiram Tai, the Gaon-Burrah (village head) of Darlong, pointed out, talking of how the old ways of hunting required detailed knowledge of the forest and were regulated by traditional restrictions. “Guns undermined all of that,” he lamented. And the youth no longer remained afraid of mythical sentinels (maalik), who haunt wrongdoers that dare to harm a mating pair of hornbills.
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It was at this stage of cultural dilution, in 2011, that the Nature Conservation Foundation (NCF, an independent NGO focused on science-based conservation) decided to extend an existing hornbill conservation project beyond the protected forests of Pakke Tiger Reserve. The Nyishi were meant to be at the helm of the project. Traditional hunters were already adept at scouting hornbill nests. The Hornbill Nest Adoption Project sought to use this knowledge in conserving the species. Budhiram and his friend Pahi Tacheng from Mabuso were among the first “nest protectors” to start working with NCF. “After scouting nests, we were to look after them,” Budhiram reminisced. He described how his perspective shifted through year-round observation of hornbill nests: “The pair would start looking for a suitable nest from around the end of January, and it would be spring [March–April] before the female moved in.” Hornbills generally nest in the hollows of old rainforest trees, and females confine themselves inside the chosen hollow by sealing its opening with mud and excreta. The male feeds his mate through a narrow opening during the whole incubation period until the eggs hatch and fledglings are strong enough to fly. “When they leave the nest in the monsoon season [July–August], I feel a bit sad. But hornbills generally return to the same nest unless the nest tree or its surroundings have been disturbed.” That is why, Budhiram went on to explain, nest watchers keep observing the hollows even after the active nesting season (February–August) is over.
Budhiram’s understanding of hornbill behavior is intricate. He pointed to subtle differences in the nesting behavior of the great, the wreathed, and the oriental pied hornbill species with immense clarity. “But I have never been to school. I cannot write,” he added. Budhiram’s knowledge was based entirely on experience. Yet, he had the intrinsic wisdom to ban hunting in Darlong and to create a formal fund to reward villagers who report hunting incidents by means of fines collected from the offenders. “A hundred eyes are always better than just two,” Budhiram smirked. “Today, hunting incidents in Darlong are so rare that I don’t even remember what penalties I had set.”
Refusing to share space with non-human life forms is unthinkable.
There were others like him. Pahi Tachang of Mabuso and Rikam Gyadi of Seijosa were both very wise. They could accurately identify seeds that the male hornbill brought for its mate. But they found it hard to record such data with the rigor required to aid NCF’s scientific research. In 2013, when nest protectors were given personal diaries to jot down their observations, Tajik Tachang, a lanky youth from Mabuso, had to help Pahi Tachang.
“But I didn’t enjoy being just an assistant,” Tajik said while reflecting on his association with the hornbill conservation program. “I resented earning less than what the nest protectors were paid.” Tajik had received formal education up to the eighth standard (eighth grade in North America). He wanted to build on that. In 2014, when NCF attempted to train nest protectors in GPS-tagging of nesting sites, some of the Elders had difficulty in engaging. But Tajik excelled. He then spent two months helping Elders across the entire landscape, contributing to the observation of almost every nest and roosting site under study. When NCF’s hornbill conservation program began spreading its wings and was extended beyond Pakke to Buxa Tiger Reserve in West Bengal, the need for a local project coordinator arose. Tajik was the obvious choice.
“But this also increased the volume of his work,” Tajik’s wife said. “He is seldom at home. These days, he is always running after the hornbills.” Tajik smiled meekly and tried to dissuade his son, Michael, from playing with my camera. Clouds covered the hilltops that formed the backdrop for Tajik’s namlo (the traditional Nyishi house, made of wood and bamboo). Herds of cows and mithun (a local cattle breed with immense cultural importance) returned to the village in long organized files. An evening like any other descended on Mabuso.
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Despite his wife’s affectionate complaints, Tajik maintained his habitual calm while describing how his work often pits him against a large majority of villagers. “When I snatch gultis (slingshots) from children or scold them for disturbing the shrikes, minivets, or bulbuls, their parents don’t like that. I try to reason with them about these being distractions for their children’s education, but changing the mindset of a hunting tribe is often not so easy.” The integrity of his efforts, however, is clearly reflected in the conservation program’s impact. The Hornbill Nest Adoption Program initiated by NCF in partnership with the Ghora-Aabhe Society (a council of village Elders) and the Arunachal Forest Department earned accolades for Pakke at the India Biodiversity Award (2016) for conservation of threatened species. It has, since then, grown to include eleven Nyishi villagers from ten different villages (2021 data) with 152 hornbill chicks having fledged successfully from the 40 hornbill nests monitored by them. But the footprint of this program perhaps extends far beyond just numbers. When joking about how Michael, upon being asked about his ambitions at school, had mentioned wanting to be a hornbill, Tajik unknowingly revealed an intangible but immensely observable effect that the project had on children: it showed Nyishi youths a way back to their forests.
Conflicts are accidents.
Dinna Brah of Darlong village is one of the very few young Nyishi women whose education extends beyond high school. After graduating in anthropology, she hopes to work toward developing ecotourism around Pakke. The seeds of her interest were sown through observing the roosting of wreathed hornbills in Darlong while she was still in school. Dinna then went on to inculcate this interest among those younger than she was, while also contributing to projects like a study of marbled cats and the annual tiger census in Pakke Tiger Reserve.
“It is so unfair that the Indian Forest Service only looks at the scores of pen-and-paper exams and assigns no weight to on-the-ground knowledge,” Dinna remarked while we sat watching an incredible sunset by the Pakke River at Darlong. Wheezing sounds of the hornbills’ wings filled the air. Scores of wreathed hornbills flew over the village toward a designated roosting site across the hillside. Like Michael, I wished I were a hornbill and could see how the towering bandardima (Dysoxylum sp.) and bhelu (Tetrameles sp.) trees looked from above. At the very least, I craved a close encounter with Pakke’s hornbills.
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Hope lured me into the deep shadows under the rainforest canopy. Dinna’s elder brother, Rasham, accompanied me. It was spring. Huge swarms of bees hummed amid blooming simul trees (Bombax ceiba). Broadbills whistled. As half-eaten ramtamul (Horsfieldia kingii) seeds fell from the skies, I craned my neck for a glimpse of the hornbills that dropped them from above. Rasham was unfazed. He knew one couldn’t see beyond the close-knit ceiling of a rainforest. Beyond the forest, mangled by elephant herds, the Decorai streambed opened up before us. A black stork stood patiently by the stream. We waited with it for hornbills to turn up at the tall trees lining the river. They never arrived.
When shadowy canopies engulfed us again beyond the riverbed, we were no longer pursuing hornbills. Off the hook of expectations, we touched the leaves of touca palms (Livistona jenkinsiana) and smelled the bark of an ancient gansarai (Cinnamomum glanduliferum). And then, suddenly, the hint of a hornbill peeped from behind a thick black tree. Its proximity felt unreal until Rasham’s hushed confirmation came. As we pressed ourselves against the tree trunk and peeked around it, we saw the hornbill on a low perch. The bright yellow pouch beneath the male wreathed hornbill’s beak was unmistakable in the afternoon sun. A female flew in. Her pouch was a dazzling blue. They nestled against each other, touched beaks, and pruned each other’s feathers for a virtual eternity. The wreathed hornbills sat against the setting sun for as long as we stayed. And they stayed close enough for Rasham to be able to count the stripes on their beak and joke about how they were almost too young to form a mating pair. The hornbills reasserted what the Elders had taught. The forests’ spirits give you the most when you do not ask.
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Support the Cause: Adopt a hornbill nest through the Hornbill Nest Adoption Program at ncf-india.org/eastern-himalaya/hornbill-nest-adoption-program. Adopting one hornbill nest costs INR 6000 (USD 125) per year. The funds will cover the nest watchers’ salary and other associated costs.
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Upayan Chatterjee hails from the state of West Bengal, India. He is interested in exploring the cultural diversity in and around India’s forests and in reporting on the threats faced by Indigenous wisdom in today’s rapidly changing socioeconomic landscape. He has written for national and local outlets on several topics centered around wildlife in India.