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Nine practices from Native American culture that could help the environment

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Monday, April 22, 2024

Since the first Earth Day in 1970, the world has experienced profound ecological changes. Wildlife populations have decreased by 69 percent, the result of habitat loss caused by rapid industrialization and changing temperatures. 2023 was the hottest year on record.Certain ancient practices could mitigate the deleterious effects of global warming. From building seaside gardens to water management in desert terrain, these time-honored practices work with the natural world’s rhythms. Some might even hold the key to a more resilient future and a means of building security for both Indigenous communities and other groups disproportionately impacted by climate change.Jim Enote, 66, has been planting a traditional Zuni waffle garden (or hek’ko:we in the Zuni language) since before he could walk.“My grandma said I started planting when I was an infant tied to a cradleboard,” said Enote, who grew up on the water-scarce Zuni Pueblo on the southeastern edge of the Colorado plateau. “She put seeds in my baby hands, and I dropped seeds into a hole.”Enote has continued this ancient garden design, creating rows of sunken squares surrounded by adobe walls that catch and hold water like pools of syrup in a massive earthen waffle. The sustainable design protects crops from wind, reduces erosion and conserves water.“Water is scarce here and becoming more so every year,” said Enote, referring to the increasing drought and heat caused by climate change. “So, I continue planting waffle gardens.”Before European settlers traveled to the American West, Indigenous people managed the landscape of northern California with “cultural burns” to improve soil quality, spur the growth of particular plants, and create a “healthy and resilient landscape,” according to the National Park Service.“The Karuk have developed a relationship with fire over the millennia to maintain and steward a balanced ecosystem,” said Bill Tripp, director of natural resources and environmental policy for the Karuk Tribe. “A good portion of the resources that we depend on, in the natural environment, are dependent on fire.”But in the mid-19th century, Indigenous burning was outlawed. Not only did that cause the Karuk to lose a vital part of their culture, but also, it invited potentially worse wildfires. The burns had reduced the amount of fuel accidental fires feed on.“They [forestry agencies] suppressed fire for so long we’re experiencing these massive burns,” said Tripp. A 2023 study published by the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences found that 10 of the largest wildfires in California’s history occurred in the last 20 years.“And, of course, they’re [fires] being exacerbated by climate change,” he said.Prescribed burning has returned as state and federal agencies recognize the importance of fire in managing forests. In 2022, California passed legislation affirming the right to cultural fire and is considering another bill (backed by the Karuk Tribe) to reduce the barriers to cultural burns on tribal lands.According to the Karuk Tribe, “Passage of this bill would be an act of cultural and environmental justice.”In New Mexico, there are 700 functioning acequias, centuries-old community irrigation systems that have helped the parched state build water resilience.These acequias — a design from North African, Spanish and Indigenous traditions — were established during the 1600s. The name can refer to both the gravity-fed ditches filled with water and the farmers who collectively manage water. Unlike large-scale irrigation systems, water seepage from unlined acequias helps replenish the water table and reduce aridification by adding water to the landscape. The earthen ditches mimic seasonal streams and expand riparian habitats for numerous native species.“For one, it’s a very good and sustainable system to take water from one source and put it into the community,” said Jorge Garcia, executive director of the Center for Social Sustainable Systems and secretary of the South Valley Regional Association of Acequias. “Without acequias, none of those ecosystems would exist in the way we know them today.”“We need to maintain those knowledge systems, especially if we continue through dry years,” said Garcia. “We're going to need all of that to survive.”The original carbon capture technologyU.S. forests are carbon sinks, sequestering up to 10 percent of nationwide CO2 emissions. Indigenous forestry can play a critical role in reducing global warming by restoring biodiversity and health to these ecosystems, including the management of culturally significant plants, animals and fungi that contribute to healthier soil.“We know that most of the carbon in the forest is stored in the soil, and healthy soil depends on diversity,” said Stephanie Gutierrez, a member of the San Carlos Apache Tribe and the forests and community program director for Ecotrust. “So, when forests are managed for a diversity of species or purpose and management outcomes, this will lead to better climate outcomes as well.”Yet tribal forestry remains severely underfunded and underutilized on public lands. Indigenous Hawaiians are reintroducing ancient food forests once destroyed by overgrazing, logging and commercial agriculture. These biodiverse edible forests increase food security and build nutrient-dense soils that sequester carbon.“Just think about that potential if we implemented tribal forestry practices on [not just] tribally owned lands. Adjacent landowners, community forests, national and state forests and parks should also work with tribes to incorporate their techniques,” Gutierrez said.The Hopi nation in Arizona receives an average of 10 inches of rain per year — a third of what crop scientists say is necessary to grow corn successfully. Yet Hopi farmers have been cultivating corn and other traditional crops without irrigation for millennia, relying on traditional ecological knowledge rooted in life in the high desert.“I like to call traditional ecological knowledge the things my grandfather taught me,” said Michael Kotutwa Johnson, a Hopi dryland farmer and academic. Hopi farming practices include passive rainwater harvesting, myriad techniques to retain soil moisture, and a reliance on traditional seed varieties superbly adapted to the desert.“The fact we are able to raise crops such as maize with only 6 to 10 inches of precipitation as opposed to the standard 33 inches of precipitation is outstanding,” Johnson said.As climate change drives increased drought and heat in the region, Johnson looks to the knowledge and practices that have survived thousands of years of climate extremes. “Our agriculture is integrated into our cultural belief system that has sustained us for millennia,” he said.In recent decades, an Indigenous-led plan has begun to restore salmon runs on the Klamath River.The salmon began to disappear in 1918 when the first of five dams blocked the path of the Chinook salmon as they made their way upstream to spawn.“The river was cut in half,” said the Yurok Fisheries Department Director Barry McCovey Jr. of the devastating impact the dam had on the salmon runs that Indigenous people depended on. Chinook salmon populations on the Klamath River have since declined by an estimated 90 percent due to habitat loss, poor water quality and climate change.“We’re seeing the system slowly heat up,” said McCovey, explaining that elevated water temperatures can lead to increased disease and toxic algae blooms. “You layer climate change on top [of habitat loss], and it’s not good news for salmon or anything that relies on a healthy river.”After removing the dams and implementing a massive river restoration, the salmon are returning. “The river, in its natural state, had that climate change resiliency built into it,” McCovey said.Seventy-five percent of global crop diversity has been lost in the past century, further threatening food security as agriculture becomes increasingly vulnerable to climate change.“Our oral histories and the historical record show extreme droughts,” said Aaron Lowden, a seed keeper and traditional farmer from the Acoma Pueblo, a village west of Albuquerque. “This isn’t the first time they’ve [seeds] been stressed out.”As former program director for Ancestral Lands and now Indigenous Seedkeepers Network program poordinator at the Native American Food Sovereignty Alliance, Lowden has successfully returned dozens of varieties of traditional arid-adapted seeds such as Acoma blue corn, Acoma pumpkin, Acoma melon and other crops to his pueblo.For Lowden, building this biodiversity is both a response to climate change and a step in restoring the health and sovereignty of the Acoma people.“Our people were systemically removed from these lifestyle ways and practices,” said Lowden, who has seen disproportionately higher rates of hunger, diet-related disease and food insecurity in tribal communities. “For me, it’s been trying to dismantle all of that.”When Swinomish fisherman Joe Williams walked onto the shore of Skagit Bay in Washington to help build the first modern clam garden in the United States, he was overwhelmed with a sense of the past and present colliding. “It was magic, really,” said Williams, who also serves as the community liaison for the Swinomish tribe. “I could feel the presence of my ancestors.”For thousands of years, the Swinomish built and maintained clam gardens on the coasts of the Pacific Northwest. They constructed rock terraces in low-tide lines to increase shellfish production. The gardens also help the clams weather the impacts of a changing climate by moderating water temperature and expanding habitat threatened by rising seas and ocean acidification.“That was how [ancestors] provided food for their communities, tending these gardens, living through climate change from then to now,” Williams said.“We are rediscovering this way of life that sustained our people through past natural climate change events,” he said. “We can utilize the playbook that our ancestors left us in terms of adapting to a fast-changing environment.”Climate-smart Indigenous designIn the field of architecture, Indigenous knowledge and technologies have long been overlooked. Julia Watson’s book “Lo—TEK: Design by Radical Indigenism,” published in 2019, examines Indigenous land management practices that represent a catalogue of sustainable, adaptable and resilient design, from living bridges able to withstand monsoons in northern India to man-made underground streams, called qanats, in what is now Iran.“Gatekeeping how we technologically innovate for climate resilience by the West can really limit us,” Watson said. “We’re looking for solutions that can adapt to climate extremes and huge fluctuations. These Indigenous technologies evolved from those conditions, molded by huge fluctuations, extreme fire events, water and food scarcity, and flood events.”Some of the techniques and solutions work with nature instead of attempting to conquer it.“[Indigenous technologies] are really intelligent and capture the DNA of the ecosystem and communities,” Watson said. “What’s incredibly sophisticated is a technology shaped by man and nature working together.”

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Since the first Earth Day in 1970, the world has experienced profound ecological changes. Wildlife populations have decreased by 69 percent, the result of habitat loss caused by rapid industrialization and changing temperatures. 2023 was the hottest year on record.

Certain ancient practices could mitigate the deleterious effects of global warming. From building seaside gardens to water management in desert terrain, these time-honored practices work with the natural world’s rhythms. Some might even hold the key to a more resilient future and a means of building security for both Indigenous communities and other groups disproportionately impacted by climate change.

Jim Enote, 66, has been planting a traditional Zuni waffle garden (or hek’ko:we in the Zuni language) since before he could walk.

“My grandma said I started planting when I was an infant tied to a cradleboard,” said Enote, who grew up on the water-scarce Zuni Pueblo on the southeastern edge of the Colorado plateau. “She put seeds in my baby hands, and I dropped seeds into a hole.”

Enote has continued this ancient garden design, creating rows of sunken squares surrounded by adobe walls that catch and hold water like pools of syrup in a massive earthen waffle. The sustainable design protects crops from wind, reduces erosion and conserves water.

“Water is scarce here and becoming more so every year,” said Enote, referring to the increasing drought and heat caused by climate change. “So, I continue planting waffle gardens.”

Before European settlers traveled to the American West, Indigenous people managed the landscape of northern California with “cultural burns” to improve soil quality, spur the growth of particular plants, and create a “healthy and resilient landscape,” according to the National Park Service.

“The Karuk have developed a relationship with fire over the millennia to maintain and steward a balanced ecosystem,” said Bill Tripp, director of natural resources and environmental policy for the Karuk Tribe. “A good portion of the resources that we depend on, in the natural environment, are dependent on fire.”

But in the mid-19th century, Indigenous burning was outlawed. Not only did that cause the Karuk to lose a vital part of their culture, but also, it invited potentially worse wildfires. The burns had reduced the amount of fuel accidental fires feed on.

“They [forestry agencies] suppressed fire for so long we’re experiencing these massive burns,” said Tripp. A 2023 study published by the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences found that 10 of the largest wildfires in California’s history occurred in the last 20 years.

“And, of course, they’re [fires] being exacerbated by climate change,” he said.

Prescribed burning has returned as state and federal agencies recognize the importance of fire in managing forests. In 2022, California passed legislation affirming the right to cultural fire and is considering another bill (backed by the Karuk Tribe) to reduce the barriers to cultural burns on tribal lands.

According to the Karuk Tribe, “Passage of this bill would be an act of cultural and environmental justice.”

In New Mexico, there are 700 functioning acequias, centuries-old community irrigation systems that have helped the parched state build water resilience.

These acequias — a design from North African, Spanish and Indigenous traditions — were established during the 1600s. The name can refer to both the gravity-fed ditches filled with water and the farmers who collectively manage water. Unlike large-scale irrigation systems, water seepage from unlined acequias helps replenish the water table and reduce aridification by adding water to the landscape. The earthen ditches mimic seasonal streams and expand riparian habitats for numerous native species.

“For one, it’s a very good and sustainable system to take water from one source and put it into the community,” said Jorge Garcia, executive director of the Center for Social Sustainable Systems and secretary of the South Valley Regional Association of Acequias. “Without acequias, none of those ecosystems would exist in the way we know them today.”

“We need to maintain those knowledge systems, especially if we continue through dry years,” said Garcia. “We're going to need all of that to survive.”

The original carbon capture technology

U.S. forests are carbon sinks, sequestering up to 10 percent of nationwide CO2 emissions. Indigenous forestry can play a critical role in reducing global warming by restoring biodiversity and health to these ecosystems, including the management of culturally significant plants, animals and fungi that contribute to healthier soil.

“We know that most of the carbon in the forest is stored in the soil, and healthy soil depends on diversity,” said Stephanie Gutierrez, a member of the San Carlos Apache Tribe and the forests and community program director for Ecotrust. “So, when forests are managed for a diversity of species or purpose and management outcomes, this will lead to better climate outcomes as well.”

Yet tribal forestry remains severely underfunded and underutilized on public lands. Indigenous Hawaiians are reintroducing ancient food forests once destroyed by overgrazing, logging and commercial agriculture. These biodiverse edible forests increase food security and build nutrient-dense soils that sequester carbon.

“Just think about that potential if we implemented tribal forestry practices on [not just] tribally owned lands. Adjacent landowners, community forests, national and state forests and parks should also work with tribes to incorporate their techniques,” Gutierrez said.

The Hopi nation in Arizona receives an average of 10 inches of rain per year — a third of what crop scientists say is necessary to grow corn successfully. Yet Hopi farmers have been cultivating corn and other traditional crops without irrigation for millennia, relying on traditional ecological knowledge rooted in life in the high desert.

“I like to call traditional ecological knowledge the things my grandfather taught me,” said Michael Kotutwa Johnson, a Hopi dryland farmer and academic. Hopi farming practices include passive rainwater harvesting, myriad techniques to retain soil moisture, and a reliance on traditional seed varieties superbly adapted to the desert.

“The fact we are able to raise crops such as maize with only 6 to 10 inches of precipitation as opposed to the standard 33 inches of precipitation is outstanding,” Johnson said.

As climate change drives increased drought and heat in the region, Johnson looks to the knowledge and practices that have survived thousands of years of climate extremes. “Our agriculture is integrated into our cultural belief system that has sustained us for millennia,” he said.

In recent decades, an Indigenous-led plan has begun to restore salmon runs on the Klamath River.

The salmon began to disappear in 1918 when the first of five dams blocked the path of the Chinook salmon as they made their way upstream to spawn.

“The river was cut in half,” said the Yurok Fisheries Department Director Barry McCovey Jr. of the devastating impact the dam had on the salmon runs that Indigenous people depended on. Chinook salmon populations on the Klamath River have since declined by an estimated 90 percent due to habitat loss, poor water quality and climate change.

“We’re seeing the system slowly heat up,” said McCovey, explaining that elevated water temperatures can lead to increased disease and toxic algae blooms. “You layer climate change on top [of habitat loss], and it’s not good news for salmon or anything that relies on a healthy river.”

After removing the dams and implementing a massive river restoration, the salmon are returning. “The river, in its natural state, had that climate change resiliency built into it,” McCovey said.

Seventy-five percent of global crop diversity has been lost in the past century, further threatening food security as agriculture becomes increasingly vulnerable to climate change.

“Our oral histories and the historical record show extreme droughts,” said Aaron Lowden, a seed keeper and traditional farmer from the Acoma Pueblo, a village west of Albuquerque. “This isn’t the first time they’ve [seeds] been stressed out.”

As former program director for Ancestral Lands and now Indigenous Seedkeepers Network program poordinator at the Native American Food Sovereignty Alliance, Lowden has successfully returned dozens of varieties of traditional arid-adapted seeds such as Acoma blue corn, Acoma pumpkin, Acoma melon and other crops to his pueblo.

For Lowden, building this biodiversity is both a response to climate change and a step in restoring the health and sovereignty of the Acoma people.

“Our people were systemically removed from these lifestyle ways and practices,” said Lowden, who has seen disproportionately higher rates of hunger, diet-related disease and food insecurity in tribal communities. “For me, it’s been trying to dismantle all of that.”

When Swinomish fisherman Joe Williams walked onto the shore of Skagit Bay in Washington to help build the first modern clam garden in the United States, he was overwhelmed with a sense of the past and present colliding. “It was magic, really,” said Williams, who also serves as the community liaison for the Swinomish tribe. “I could feel the presence of my ancestors.”

For thousands of years, the Swinomish built and maintained clam gardens on the coasts of the Pacific Northwest. They constructed rock terraces in low-tide lines to increase shellfish production. The gardens also help the clams weather the impacts of a changing climate by moderating water temperature and expanding habitat threatened by rising seas and ocean acidification.

“That was how [ancestors] provided food for their communities, tending these gardens, living through climate change from then to now,” Williams said.

“We are rediscovering this way of life that sustained our people through past natural climate change events,” he said. “We can utilize the playbook that our ancestors left us in terms of adapting to a fast-changing environment.”

Climate-smart Indigenous design

In the field of architecture, Indigenous knowledge and technologies have long been overlooked. Julia Watson’s book “Lo—TEK: Design by Radical Indigenism,” published in 2019, examines Indigenous land management practices that represent a catalogue of sustainable, adaptable and resilient design, from living bridges able to withstand monsoons in northern India to man-made underground streams, called qanats, in what is now Iran.

“Gatekeeping how we technologically innovate for climate resilience by the West can really limit us,” Watson said. “We’re looking for solutions that can adapt to climate extremes and huge fluctuations. These Indigenous technologies evolved from those conditions, molded by huge fluctuations, extreme fire events, water and food scarcity, and flood events.”

Some of the techniques and solutions work with nature instead of attempting to conquer it.

“[Indigenous technologies] are really intelligent and capture the DNA of the ecosystem and communities,” Watson said. “What’s incredibly sophisticated is a technology shaped by man and nature working together.”

Read the full story here.
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Five Native tribes are coming together to protect a California cultural landscape

A coalition of five California desert tribes will co-manage the 624,000-acre Chuckwalla National Monument.

Chuckwalla National Monument is more than an epic expanse of towering rocks, hidden canyons, ghost flowers, smoke trees and its namesake lizard. One of America’s newest protected public lands is a birthplace, a crossroads, a beloved relative and a historical document to the tribes of the California desert.Stretching across 624,000 acres from the Coachella Valley to the Colorado River at the state’s border with Arizona, this landscape possesses a spirit and energy that flow through every object, every living thing and every molecule of air within it, according to tribal members. When an ecosystem is so ingrained in your psyche, so essential to your culture and so central to the stories you tell about your reason for being, you have no choice but to safeguard it.This is the galvanizing sentiment behind the recent creation of an unprecedented commission for California that brings together five tribes to advise the U.S. government on the management of a monument that holds specific meaning to each and is a treasure to all.The Torres Martinez Desert Cahuilla Indians, the Fort Yuma Quechan Indian Tribe, the Cahuilla Band of Indians, the Chemehuevi Indian Tribe and the Colorado River Indian Tribes each have passed resolutions recognizing their role on the commission. Processes to appoint commission members and write bylaws started this fall. “Tribal Nations, including the members of the Commission, have been connected to this landscape since time immemorial and will continue to steward this landscape into the future,” said Daniel Leivas, chairman of the Chemehuevi Indian Tribe. (Chemehuevi Indian Tribe) “Rather than be in conflict, there is mutuality,” said Daniel Leivas, chairman of the Chemehuevi. “The forming of this commission is a testament to a willingness to come together for the same purpose: for the future of our children and for our ancestors.”Ordinarily, the establishment of a land use panel — one with no veto power at that — would not be considered historic or particularly memorable. But given the grim history of Native peoples’ encounters with the U.S. government — forced removal from ancestral territories, treaties undermined by unscrupulous lawmakers in Washington, cultural erasure and genocide — this commission holds special significance, especially for its founders.It offers a high-profile platform not just to advocate for the land but to speak truth about the different Native people who feel kin to it. The Ladder and Painted Canyon Trail inside Chuckwalla National Monument, a protected area in Southern California established in January 2025 by President Biden. (Tecpatl Kuauhtzin / For The Times) For millennia, these nomadic tribes traversed the area to trade with each other and set up settlements in sync with the seasons. The Cahuilla people believe they originated among the red walls and leaning stone outcroppings of the Painted Canyon, and burial grounds throughout the site attest to its sacred place in their culture. The Chemeheuvi believe that its streams carry the memories of their ancestors. Fort Yuma Quechan Chairman Zion White, a newly appointed Chuckwalla commissioner, feels it’s his duty to carry on the work of his elders who’ve been fighting for generations to assert their cultural connection to that ecosystem. (Fort Yuma Quechan Indian Tribe) Quechan “lightning songs” directly reference locations contained within Chuckwalla’s borders, said Zion White, a Quechan cultural singer. “I talk about those places when I sing those songs,” said White, who was recently selected to represent his tribe on the commission.Modeled in part on the intertribal commission set up to protect Bears Ears National Monument in Utah, the Chuckwalla commission was mandated in President Biden’s January proclamation establishing the monument. The commission will have direct contact with the federal Bureau of Land Management. “It’s really an acknowledgment of that sovereignty that we possess as tribes, to be able to come together and have this body that directly engages with the federal government,” he said. Chuckwalla National Monument is an epic expanse of towering rocks and hidden canyons. (Tecpatl Kuauhtzin / For The Times) The commission takes shape at a pivotal moment, as the Trump administration has asserted its right to reverse national monument proclamations, calling out Chuckwalla National Monument by name. The administration has also pared down the size and regulatory authority of environmental agencies, and has acted to open more protected public lands and marine areas to natural-resource extraction and other potentially harmful activities.Indeed, the lands immediately surrounding Chuckwalla have seen an onslaught of housing, tourism and extraction projects in recent years.The tribal leaders say they have no illusions about the influence of the commission. Co-stewardship is not the same as control — which is the promise and aim of tribes that reclaim ancestral territories through “land back” agreements.Even so, the monument and commission mark a step forward, said Bennae Calac, director of tribal engagement for the Chuckwalla monument campaign and a member of the Pauma Band of Luiseño Indians. Michael Madrigal, the president of the Native American Land Conservancy and a citizen of the Cahuilla Band of Indians. (Cierra Breeze / Idyllwild Arts) Calac was instrumental in bringing the desert tribes together to push for the proclamation and craft the language for it — one of the few examples of Native Americans anywhere in the U.S. taking the lead on a monument effort. “What’s happened with this administration, it doesn’t matter to the tribes,” Calac said. “They’re going to use their sovereignty and their power to continue to care for the land, whether it’s this administration or the next. That’s what the tribes have always done historically. We just want an administration that’s going to work with us.”This clear-eyed realism is characteristic of Native people in this state on both land stewardship and the federal government, said Brittani Orona, a Hupa environmental and public humanities scholar and assistant professor of Native American Studies at UC Davis.Having previously worked on crafting other co-stewardship agreements while at California State Parks, Orona said she’s interested to see how the Chuckwalla commission’s relationship with the U.S. government plays out. Given the emotional burden of partnering with a government that tried to eliminate you, and given the federal restrictions that have long kept Indigenous people from accessing or using federal lands for cultural purposes, “generally, land back is the goal,” Orona said. A field of wildflowers in Chuckwalla National Monument, with the Mule Mountains in the background. (Bob Wick) “Co-stewardship isn’t perfect,” said Orona, who is not involved with the coalition that advocated for Chuckwalla or the commission. “It’s something that’s been forced upon us to think about. But people use it to great effect.” The successful tribe-led campaigns for Bears Ears, Chuckwalla and the recently designated Sáttítla National Monument in Northern California — with a combined area of more than 2.2 million acres of ancestral lands — are prime examples, she said.For tribes directly linked to Chuckwalla, the emphasis now is on cementing a healthier relationship with the government and fortifying their bond with the land.“There has been a lot of loss for Native nations, having places taken from us,” said Mike Madrigal, a citizen of the Cahuilla Band of Indians and president of the Native American Land Conservancy. “This monument designation goes a long way toward repairing [that damage].” “The Chuckwalla National Monument is more than a habitat filled with trees, plants, and wildlife; for the Torres Martinez Desert Cahuilla Indians, it embodies life itself, and we are intrinsically linked to it, committed to safeguarding it,” said Joseph Mirelez, chairman of the Torres Martinez Desert Cahuilla Indians. (Torres Martinez Desert Cahuilla Indians) The reservation of the Torres Martinez tribe of the Cahuilla band abuts the Chuckwalla monument in the date palm-studded hub of Thermal. Tribal Chairman Joseph Mirelez described his people’s relationship to this desert, the Santa Rosa Hills and the adjacent Salton Sea as tangible. You can see it in the remains of ancient fish traps and fire pits that dot the area where the shores of the sea once stood before it shrank, and in the vertiginous box canyons inside Chuckwalla.An outsider might view the bands of red that give the Painted Canyon its name as simply one of Chuckwalla’s abundant geological wonders. Mirelez sees in those hues the blood spilled by Mukat, a key figure in the tribe’s origin story who was exiled there.“We can physically see where we come from and we know where we’ve been — we’re reminded of it all the time,” Mirelez said. “The good thing about the intertribal commission is that we all share the same types of stories.”This coalition among interconnected cultures that hold one another in mutual high regard gives the commission a kind of weight that may be hard for an outsider to appreciate but is crucial to understanding how Indigenous Californians operate as governing entities. We’re going in this as sister tribes, as brother tribes, and we’re making decisions as a collective. — Joseph Mirelez, chairman of the Torres Martinez Desert Cahuilla Indians. “The tribes in Southern California — we get minimal resources from the feds, so we have to maximize those resources,” Mirelez said. “That’s how we’re used to operating. We’re going in this as sister tribes, as brother tribes, and we’re making decisions as a collective.”“Will we always agree? Obviously not,” he said. “But at least we understand what the collective is trying to accomplish, and that makes it easier.”Too often, Mirelez said, the needs of tribes are unfairly portrayed as standing in conflict with the priorities of other Californians, such as economic development and job creation in neighboring non-Native communities.“I’m not anti-development, but I think it depends on what the cost is,” Mirelez said. “If there’s a burial site — we’ve got to figure out how to work around that. So it’s good that we have a tribal lens to look at stewardship of it to make sure that we’re protecting our assets — our cultural artifacts and our stories.”The people who joined forces to pushed for, and who will sit on the commission, are all part of a “cycle of creation that has been forged from time immemorial,” Chemehuevi Chairman Leivas said when explaining the traditional beliefs of the Nüwü, as his people often refer to themselves.“Now that’s a Nüwü spiritual way of looking at things, as opposed to this materialist representation of monetary wealth and consumption and greed.”Mirelez views the establishment of the commission as a beginning rather than an end unto itself. Although the commission is still in its early stages, he said that all of the involved tribes agree on what they’d like to achieve in the future.“We all have the same vision — we want full management of Chuckwalla,” Mirelez said. “It’s just figuring out when the time is right to get that accomplished.”

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Punk Builds a Greener Future

A worldwide but borderless DIY culture rejects consumerism and embraces reuse — and focuses on mutual aid. The post Punk Builds a Greener Future appeared first on The Revelator.

In the suffocating heat of The Treehouse, we writhe in the basement, between the walls of peeling posters and rusted pipes, veins bulging, throats raw from screaming. A fist slams against the wall. A boot crashes into the concrete floor. I adjust my foam earplugs. I hate wearing them, but there’s this tinny, soft ringing sound in my head lately. Now my friends won’t let me go anywhere without them. It’s like that here — this tough love, this looking out for one another, this community. Drenched in other people’s sweat, I slither to check in on the bands in my kitchen, a makeshift green room. We talk like we know each other. They’re sitting on their amps, writing on my walls, plucking at their instruments. I ask if they need anything. They say no, and they ask me too. The Treehouse is more than just my home. It’s a refusal. Together, my housemates Austin, Savannah, and Matt scraped together what we had to build a hub of community, a stronghold against the stiff-collar, hypermasculine, Midwestern college-culture: a DIY music venue. Punk isn’t a sound — it’s a verb. It’s a pulse. It’s action. It’s where grief is communal and rage has a melody. It’s the blueprint we write together, in marker and melody and mutual aid. Punk, like the countercultures before it, is bound by folklore — a web of shared stories, anthems, and ethics passed hand to hand in photocopied zines and scrawled on bathroom walls. You learn to build from nothing. To sew patches over holes and turn them into declarations. To scrape together gas money for a friend’s tour and call it love. Here, we don’t consume culture — we create it. Rip it apart and hand it back stitched in threadbare glory. We mend what others throw out — stitching new life into castoffs, scavenging beauty from dumpsters, turning waste into resistance. We reject the disposability of things — and people. Punk’s environmentalism was never polished. It didn’t wear linen or shop organic. In Goths, Gamers, and Grrls, the 2010 book on youth subcultures, sociologist Ross Haenfler argues that punk’s fiercely anti-corporate, DIY ethic allowed working-class kids to reject not just the music industry’s glossy gatekeeping, but the consumer logic embedded in everyday life. Haenfler, who has followed the clean-living punk subculture known as “straight edge” for more than 35 years, tells me that his own rejection of alcohol began as a resistance to peer pressure but grew into a political consciousness. As he writes in his 2006 book Straight Edge: Clean-living Youth, Hardcore Punk, and Social Change, “Straight edge is more than just not drinking or using drugs; it is a way of life that includes values, shared ethics, and community.” In his work, Haenfler defines straight edge not only as personal abstinence from substances, but also a broader moral and political identity. He notes that for many, straight edge extends to vegetarianism or veganism, anti-consumerism, and feminist or anti-racist beliefs. It’s a countercultural response to mainstream norms around not only consumption, but to masculinity. “If you learn to question alcohol culture, you might also question other things we take for granted,” he says. For many straight edge punks, that questioning extended to factory farming, environmental destruction, and capitalist consumption itself. Their abstinence wasn’t just personal — it was political. Neo-Luddism, veganism, and anti-addiction activism emerged from that same ethos. “Subcultures like punk show how collective identity, fun, and resourcefulness can fuel powerful movements,” Haenfler told me. It’s DIY with a purpose — sustainability without sanctimony. Who Gets to Live Cleanly? In his essay “The Rise of Aesthetic Environmentalism,” originally published in the book Saving the Planet: The American Response to the Environment in the Twentieth Century, historian Peter Rothman describes how a shift from radical environmental politics to curated, upper-middle-class green lifestyles took shape in those very suburbs punk rejected. After the first Earth Day in 1970 and the formation of the EPA under Nixon, environmental concern entered the mainstream. But by the 1980s and ’90s, especially under Reagan and later Clinton’s neoliberal centrism, environmentalism was increasingly depoliticized. The countercultural energy of groups like Earth First! gave way to market-friendly “eco-chic” branding, where buying the right shampoo or driving a hybrid became substitutes for systemic change. Rothman argues that aesthetic environmentalism, rooted in a consumer identity, offered a soothing balm for the privileged — allowing people to feel virtuous without disrupting the structures that caused ecological harm in the first place. Punk stood in direct opposition. It asked: who gets to live cleanly? Straight edge kids refused not just drugs and alcohol, but factory farming and corporate food systems, making their bodies into sites of protest. DIY punks built alternative economies and infrastructures out of material necessity. If aesthetic environmentalism shopped its way toward a greener world, punk scavenged one into being — stitched from what had been discarded, loud enough to be heard through boarded-up buildings and abandoned lots. One was born from comfort; the other from collapse. Why Here, and Why Not Somewhere Louder? In December of 2024, the brick roads of Urbana, Illinois froze over. The biting cold burned through even my wool coat, and the ice made me stand still. My ears were ringing. I took a moment to look around, because despite its inconvenience, there was beauty to be found in the silence and desolation. I found myself across the street from a simple two-story home with white siding and a sloped roof, immortalized on the cover of the band American Football’s 1999 self-titled album. What was once just a student rental had become a kind of pilgrimage site, a quiet landmark in the emo and DIY geography of the Midwest. Emo and DIY found a home in the flatlands of the Midwest — especially Illinois, where suburban sprawl met post-industrial decline in perfect disharmony. There’s something about Illinois’s geography that lends itself to longing: endless highways, hollowed-out downtowns, a hundred miles between one sleepy town and the next. Out here, youth culture didn’t erupt in coastal clubs — it simmered in basements, VFW halls, and garages. The absence of mainstream infrastructure didn’t discourage kids; it demanded they make their own. As music journalist Leor Galil detailsn his 2013 Chicago Reader article “Midwestern Emo Catches its Second Wind,” the Midwest’s emo boom was enabled by the abundance of small towns and the lack of traditional music infrastructure, forcing young people to carve out space for themselves in overlooked corners of the map. Illinois became a nucleus. Urbana-Champaign, Bloomington-Normal, and Chicago’s sprawling collar suburbs gave rise to a circuit of basement shows and DIY tours that defied music industry logic. Bands like Cap’n Jazz, American Football, and Braid didn’t come from glossy studios — they came from rented houses with sagging porches and living rooms barely big enough to hold a drum kit. In his 2000 book Popular Music and Youth Culture: Music, Identity and Place, sociologist Andy Bennett argues that suburban alienation and a lack of youth-oriented public spaces drove young people toward DIY production, but Illinois gave this theory flesh: a place where isolation bred intimacy, and boredom became a crucible for art. This wasn’t just music — it was mythology, built night by night on folding chairs and word-of-mouth. And like any folklore, it carried values. Dr. Simon Bronner, a folklorist and scholar of youth subcultures, argues that punk is not just a music scene — it’s a tradition. “Punk culture, as I have known it, basks in its social difference and oppositional stance,” Bronner tells me, “Among its shared values has been a fight for rights — including animal rights. The environmental connection is countering, in its culture, the state of the planet owing to consumerism.” It’s an oral tradition carried in zines, show flyers, patches, tattoos. It’s a living archive, one that binds local scenes into a global movement. And through this folklore, punk carries with it a deep well of environmental ethics. Where Do You Go When You Need to Be Heard? I was eighteen when I slipped through the doors of the High Noon Saloon in Madison, Wisconsin, chasing the promise of noise and something that felt like direction. The band was Days N Daze — gritty, chaotic, gutterpunk with banjos and washboards — and I didn’t know a single person there. That’s where I met Sam. He had a sharp grin, a denim vest heavy with patches, and a presence that made space feel less hostile. We danced like we already knew each other, screamed like we’d done it a hundred times. It wasn’t until much later that I found out — that was one of his first punk shows, too. We were both just kids, wide-eyed under the grime, trying to belong to something louder than ourselves. That night, something permanent settled in my ears — a soft, high whine that never left. My tinnitus started at that show. Years later, I heard the opening lines of Hemlock Chaser’s song at a show — “I don’t know much ‘bout social ecology…” and when the fiddle kicked in behind the fury, I pushed through the crowd to see the band. I knew it was Sam. He was there, bow in hand, weaving resistance into melody. Photo: Danny Talaga. Used with permission. That night in Madison wasn’t just a show. It was the beginning of a throughline — of people, of noise, of care made loud. By the time I transferred to the University of Illinois in the middle of my sophomore year, I felt like I’d already missed the window to belong anywhere. Everyone had their friend groups, their routines, their lives already underway. I thought I’d be alone for a long time. But then I found the house shows. The Mirror, Waluigi’s Mansion, Green House — names that sounded like inside jokes until they became sacred spaces. You didn’t need to know anyone to be welcomed in. The shows felt like they ran on instinct, like someone had just decided that the living room needed to be louder. No one cared that I was a transfer student, they cared that I showed up. The Champaign scene didn’t just make space for me — it gave me something to help build. Showing up turned into helping out — loading gear, working the door, talking cops away. Eventually, my basement became The Treehouse. Not because I planned it, but because punk scenes grow like weeds — wild, resilient, thriving wherever they’re allowed to take root. We strung a circus tent from the tree in the front yard and cleared enough space in the basement for amps, bodies, and borrowed lighting. We built a computer out of things we found in the trash during move-in. Can a Local Ethic be Global? The Treehouse isn’t just a venue — it’s an ecosystem. Bands crashed on our couches, people brought food donations for the local shelter, and I patched a hole in the hall someone kicked in. What I’d seen in Madison — what Sam had shown me — was alive here too: punk as mutual care, as rhythm you live by, not just a genre you consume. We weren’t just making shows. We were building something that could hold all of us. The more I traveled, the more I realized how far The Treehouse extended beyond its basement walls. I went to shows in Bloomington-Normal, where the pits were just as wild and the hospitality just as generous. I drove through snowstorms to catch sets in Minnesota, where strangers passed me plates of food like I’d lived there my whole life. No one asked who I was — they asked if I needed anything. Every basement felt familiar. Every off-key group chorus pointed to something shared. The lyrics might change, the weather might shift, but the ethos remained: care over clout, presence over polish. That’s when I started to understand that these scenes were decentralized but uncannily aligned. That’s the power of folklore. Bronner tells me that folklore enables geographically distant communities to mirror each other. “Subcultures form trends that pervade adult society,” he says. The punk scenes of Central Illinois aren’t anomalies — they’re part of a uniform, borderless network of resistance. And that network doesn’t stop at the Atlantic. When I spoke with Michal, a Czech organizer and co-founder of Fluff Fest — a European hardcore festival centered on veganism, environmentalism, and inclusion — he was candid about the cost of commitment. “The festival ended out of exhaustion and complete burnout,” he told me. “It was one of the most wasteful things on earth. We had to truck in water, power everything with gas generators. Weather became unpredictable. I’m still in debt from the final edition.” For over a decade, Michal and his team hosted thousands of punks on a grassy airfield in Rokycany. They raised funds for refugee support, animal rights, and grassroots organizations. And yet, even this act of resistance was haunted by the contradictions of the modern world — emissions, consumption, and the ever-lurking threat of capitalist co-optation. Michal’s reflection is vital. Punk doesn’t always win. But its failures are often more honest than institutions’ successes. Fluff Fest wasn’t perfect, but it was transparent, intentional, and brave. “I don’t want to enforce lifestyle on anyone,” Michal said. “Straight edge and veganism can be powerful choices, but they’re not my identity anymore. What matters is making people think. Asking them to reflect on how they consume, where their money goes.” Who Builds the Future? This ethos — critical, flexible, values-driven — is exactly what makes punk a blueprint for environmentalism. Not a perfect one, but a real one. This ethos finds sharp expression in radical environmental groups like Earth First! Founded in 1980, Earth First! rejects compromise and embraces direct action. Tree sits, road blockades, anti-logging protests — these aren’t hypothetical ideals. They’re inherited tactics, borrowed from the same DIY playbook punk lives by. Earth First! shares more than an ethos with punk — it shares its methods, aesthetics, and values. Their benefit shows feel like hardcore gigs. Their pamphlets read like zines. Their defiance, like the music that fuels them, is raw and immediate. Likewise, Food Not Bombs — an anarchist collective reclaiming food waste to cook free vegan meals in public — turns punk’s anti-consumerism into survival. It began in the 1980s and now exists in over 1,000 cities worldwide. They feed communities, fight corporate food systems, and center mutual aid as the alternative to capitalist neglect. Like Michal’s festival or my own shows, Food Not Bombs isn’t about saving the world all at once. It’s about showing up, using what you have, and trusting that a better world begins at the street level. Institutions have failed. Governments delay. Corporations greenwash. Environmental NGOs make compromises that leave frontline communities behind. Punk doesn’t promise perfection. But it offers something else: persistence. It teaches us that rebellion can be ritual. That defiance can be joyful. That movements built on shared stories — not savior complexes — are the ones that last. DIY venues like The Treehouse may never appear in policy reports or climate models. But in basements and backyards across the world, young people are organizing food drives, printing radical literature, fundraising for land defenders, and building communities that refuse to look away. Punk’s folklore isn’t handed down by institutions — it’s whispered between sets, scrawled in notebooks, screamed in choruses. And that folklore carries something vital: not just a critique of the world, but a vision for what else could be. There is a future not built for us, but by us. Resistance isn’t inherited. It’s learned from the people beside you, from the songs and stories that refuse to die. In the ruins of the systems that failed us, punk offers tools. Not escape, but engagement. Not utopia, but solidarity. Not saviors, but friends. All Noise Is Signal The ringing in my ears hasn’t gone away. Some nights, it’s louder than others — like a quiet alarm I can’t turn off. It’s the cost of screaming, of listening, of being there. Memory etched in sound. The afterimage of music, of bodies, of resistance. A reminder that this movement lives in the body. That punk isn’t clean or consequence-free. It’s loud. It leaves marks. But those marks mean we were here. That we showed up. That we chose noise over silence, and community over comfort. It’s what follows you home from the show — what hums beneath the quiet, what binds you to every basement, every flyer, every friend who handed you earplugs, a mic, or a plate of food. It’s folklore with frequency. A personal archive, vibrating in your bones long after the amps are shut down. Punk’s refusal to die lives in that ringing. It’s not just a warning. It’s a thread. A signal. A stubborn pulse that says: We were here. And we’re still listening. Previously in The Revelator: Moby: Veganism, Skepticism and Punk Rock The post Punk Builds a Greener Future appeared first on The Revelator.

Culture
Activism
Climate

Opinion: Lewis & Clark nickname change to River Otters is a unnecessary culture wars overreaction

Lewis & Clark recently changed its school nickname from Pioneers to River Otters.

When I was a senior at Lewis & Clark College 50 years ago a friend and I ran the first down chains for home football games. As I recall, pay was $10 per game. We almost certainly were overpaid. Then again, we were among the few L&C students not on the team who cared much about the school’s football games. Or even knew that they were taking place. Autumn afternoons in the Pacific Northwest trend toward warm and sunny. There was plenty to do besides sitting to watch a team playing at the lowest level of intercollegiate athletics. There were plenty of seats to be had in Griswold Stadium. All objective evidence suggests this remains the case. I don’t think anyone has a problem with this. Few students choose to go to L&C because of the athletic program. There are more important reasons. This is a liberal arts school with an impressive student-to-faculty ratio. The professors are there primarily to teach and engage with their students, and not to turn the heavy lifting over teaching assistants while they pursue research. L&C was among the first institutions of higher education in the nation to feature and encourage overseas study programs. The law school is recognized annually as one of the best in the country for environmental law. The campus atop Palatine Hill in Southwest Portland annually is ranked as one of the most beautiful in the country. All of which makes the school’s decision to wade into the culture wars by changing the name of its nickname -- or mascot -- perplexing. L&C athletic teams have been known as the Pioneers, sometimes shortened to Pios, since 1946. Henceforth, they will be called the River Otters. River otters are cuddly, near-sighted members of the weasel family. The reason for the change? Pioneers are seen as evocative of the westward expansion across North America by people of European heritage. This is a narrow interpretation of a word that Merriam-Webster says can be defined as “a person or group that originates or helps open up a new line of thought or activity or a new method of technical development.” In other words, exactly what should be happening on college campuses, even the one on Palatine Hill. The school will tell you the decision came as the result of a survey of the campus community – students, staff, faculty and alumni – and after nearly 40 community dialogues. As a participant in a small, community dialogue session in 2023 that also included L&C president Robin Holmes-Sullivan, it became clear to me that this part of the process was window dressing. The decision to drop the Pioneers nickname already had been made. Less than half of the students responded to the community mascot survey, which more than anything underscores the perception the school’s nickname isn’t a burning issue on campus. So, why make it one? Let’s be clear. White, westward expansion was a disaster for the native peoples in its path. This is documented and undebatable. When Pioneers are defined as white men in buckskins, well, that is a problem. So, why define it that way? There are multiple generations of living L&C athletes who competed proudly under the Merriam-Webster definition of Pioneers as leaders in thought and methodology. They have taken lessons learned on playing fields, courts and in the water and applied them to post-collegiate success in a wide variety of professional fields. They didn’t come to L&C solely for athletics, but because the school offered them opportunities to pursue academic excellence while also participating in college sports. Colin Oriard, inducted into the school’s Sports Hall of Fame in 2023, took part of one year away from the basketball program to study in Spain. Try that at the Division I level. When I was at L&C, the student body president played on the offensive line. It’s not a good moment for higher education in this country. Small, liberal arts schools that expect their students to think critically and embrace a diversified college experience are being squeezed by the skyrocketing cost of attendance, a shrinking pool of applicants and a hostile administration in Washington D.C. In other words, this is the worst possible time to create a social justice controversy when there hadn’t been one before. Last summer, I received an email from the L&C Board of Alumni asking me to participate in a survey about why alumni giving is down. It was a slap-the-forehead moment. Talk about cause and effect. Transforming the Pioneers into cuddly, nearsighted River Otters contributed to that problem. That change won’t solve it. -- Ken Goe for The Oregonian/OregonLiveKenGoe1020@gmail.com Goe is a 1976 graduate of Lewis & Clark, and member of the L&C Sports Hall of Fame If you purchase a product or register for an account through a link on our site, we may receive compensation. By using this site, you consent to our User Agreement and agree that your clicks, interactions, and personal information may be collected, recorded, and/or stored by us and social media and other third-party partners in accordance with our Privacy Policy.

Culture
Education
Water

This rural congressional district would be upended by redistricting

Modoc County, meet Marin County. It might be your new political boss.  A ranching region along the Oregon border with just 8,500 residents, Modoc flies flags advocating secession from California. Now, if Gov. Gavin Newsom’s new redistricting plan goes through, Modoc would instead get pulled into the heart of liberal California.  CalMatters political reporter Jeanne […]

Emma Harris holds a belt buckle she was awarded as a prize for winning a branding competition, at the Brass Rail Bar & Grill on Sept. 3, 2025. Photo by Miguel Gutierrez Jr., CalMatters Modoc County, meet Marin County. It might be your new political boss.  A ranching region along the Oregon border with just 8,500 residents, Modoc flies flags advocating secession from California. Now, if Gov. Gavin Newsom’s new redistricting plan goes through, Modoc would instead get pulled into the heart of liberal California.  CalMatters political reporter Jeanne Kuang traveled to Modoc to speak with residents there, who say they’re most concerned Newsom’s Prop. 50 is a death-knell for rural representation. They told her their views on water, wildlife and forest management would be overshadowed in a district that includes Bay Area communities that have long championed environmental protection. Nadine Bailey, an agricultural water advocate: “They’ve taken every rural district and made it an urban district. It just feels like an assault on rural California.” Newsom’s proposal calls for splitting up the 1st Congressional District, which is comprised of 10 rural counties and is solidly Republican. Rep. Doug LaMalfa, a rice farmer, would likely lose his seat.  Here’s Jeanne: Modoc County and two neighboring red counties would be shifted into a redrawn district that stretches 200 miles west to the Pacific Coast and then south, through redwoods and weed farms, to include the state’s wealthiest communities, current Democratic Rep. Jared Huffman’s home in San Rafael and the northern end of the Golden Gate Bridge, all in uber-liberal Marin County.  Read the full story here. CalMatters events: Join us Sept. 24 in Sacramento for a special event celebrating CalMatters’ 10th anniversary and Dan Walters’ 50th year covering California politics. Hear directly from Dan as he reflects on five decades watching the Capitol. Plus, attendees can enter a raffle and win a private dinner with Dan. Members can use the code “MEMBER” at checkout for a discounted ticket. Register here. Another event: CalMatters, California Forward and 21st Century Alliance are hosting a Governor Candidate Forum on Oct. 23 in Stockton at the California Economic Summit. Top candidates for governor will address pressing economic challenges and opportunities facing California, and field questions on why they are best suited to lead the world’s fourth-largest economy. Register here. Other Stories You Should Know The ethnic studies classes that never happened A student uses their laptop in an ethnic studies class at Santa Monica High School in Los Angeles on March 28, 2023. Photo by Lauren Justice for CalMatters Right now, California’s high schools should be teaching a one-semester class focused on marginalized communities, thanks to a mandate passed by the state Legislature in 2021.  However, that effort has been hindered by a lack of funding in the state budget and the Trump administration’s campaign against diversity and inclusion programs.  As Carolyn Jones reports:  The class was meant to focus on the cultures and histories of African-Americans, Asian Americans, Native Americans and Latinos, all of whom have faced oppression in California. The state’s curriculum also encourages schools to add additional lessons based on their student populations, such as Hmong or Armenian.  Albert Camarillo, Stanford history professor: “Right now, it’s a mixed bag. Some school districts have already implemented the course, and some school districts are using the current circumstances as a rationale not to move forward.” Read more here. And lastly: The fate of health care legislation Pharmacist James Lee gives a patient information about her prescription at La Clinica on Sept. 26, 2019. Photo by Anne Wernikoff for CalMatters A series of health care bills on Gov. Gavin Newsom’s desk would improve access for Californians who can’t afford prescription drugs, shorten delays to medical decisions, and address threats to personal privacy. Kristen Hwang and Ana B. Ibarra have the details. California Voices CalMatters columnist Dan Walters: How Newsom channeled Jerry Brown 1.0 in his flip flop on oil.  CalMatters contributor Jim Newton: Why Alex Padilla changed his tune on nonpartisan redistricting. Other things worth your time: Some stories may require a subscription to read. UC employees sue Trump for forcing ‘ideological dominance’ and ‘financial collusion’ // LA Times  Republican leaders in DC are worried about California’s AI regulation // Politico

Culture
Forests
Health

‘You’re going about your day and suddenly see a little Godzilla’: Bangkok reckons with a giant lizard boom

Viral videos have shifted public opinion about water monitors, long held in contempt in Thai culture, even as rising numbers of the reptiles pose problems for residentsShortly after dawn, Lumphini Park comes alive. Bangkok residents descend on the sprawling green oasis in the middle of the city, eager to squeeze in a workout before the heat of the day takes hold. Joggers trot along curving paths. Old men struggle under barbells at the outdoor gym. Spandex-clad women stretch into yoga poses on the grass.Just metres away, one of the park’s more infamous occupants strikes its own lizard pose. About 400 Asian water monitor lizards call Lumphini Park home, and this morning they are out in full force – scrambling up palm trees, swimming through the waterways and wrestling on the road. Continue reading...

Shortly after dawn, Lumphini Park comes alive. Bangkok residents descend on the sprawling green oasis in the middle of the city, eager to squeeze in a workout before the heat of the day takes hold. Joggers trot along curving paths. Old men struggle under barbells at the outdoor gym. Spandex-clad women stretch into yoga poses on the grass.Just metres away, one of the park’s more infamous occupants strikes its own lizard pose. About 400 Asian water monitor lizards call Lumphini Park home, and this morning they are out in full force – scrambling up palm trees, swimming through the waterways and wrestling on the road.Every now and then, a scaly interloper veers in front of a runner, oblivious to the morning stampede. “The big ones are usually fine because they move quite slowly and you can kind of hop over,” says Jayla Chintanaroj, a Bangkok resident who often runs in the park. “But the small ones can be quite fast. There have been a few times I’ve almost tripped over one.”Asian water monitor lizards – the world’s second-largest lizard – have adapted to city living in Bangkok’s Lumphini Park. Photograph: Gloria DickieThe Asian water monitor (Varanus salvator) is the world’s second-largest species of lizard, reaching lengths of about two metres (7ft). It can be found in rivers, lakes and swamps across south-east Asia and into India and China. Increasingly, however, the dark brown lizard can be spotted in urban areas, joining an exclusive league of animals that have carved out a stronghold in cities.It was like a massive lizard onsen Jacuzzi. It was awesomeAs the urban lizard population explodes, authorities are receiving more calls about conflicts: lizards intruding upon popular fishing spots, raiding livestock, and even crawling into people’s homes.Yet, at the same time, the water monitor lizard – once derided in Thai culture – has never been so popular, buoyed up by social media. JX Ang lives close to the park, and says he has become a fan of his scaly neighbours. “It’s actually really nice to see them when you’re going about your day and then suddenly you see a nice little Godzilla swimming through the water,” he says. Ang fondly recalls a time he witnessed more than 10 lizards leisurely soaking in a park fountain on a hot day.“It was like a massive lizard onsen Jacuzzi. It was awesome.”The lizards thrive in the park’s network of khlongs, or canals. Photograph: Romeo Gacad/AFP/Getty ImagesFor environmental authorities, the lizard boom represents a new challenge: to carefully manage the population without disrupting one of Bangkok’s growing ecological attractions.No one knows exactly how many lizards are prowling through Bangkok and its tapestry of more than 1,600 canals, known as khlongs, where the lizard thrives. The city, local people boast, has more canals than Venice.The khlongs provide the perfect cover for water monitors, which feed on a near-constant buffet of fish, birds, chickens and organic waste, helping to dispose of animal carcasses and control rat populations.“In urban areas, they have no natural enemies, which gives them a high survival rate,” says Thosapol Suparee, a deputy director-general of the Bangkok metropolitan administration’s environmental department.The lizards have a ready supply of fish in the park’s canals, but they also eat birds, chickens and organic waste. Photograph: Pacific Press/LightRocket/Getty ImagesUnlike the larger Komodo dragon, which has a venomous bite capable of taking down a water buffalo, the Asian water monitor is considered mostly harmless to humans – making it easier to ignore.One 2024 study tried to assess the urban takeover of monitor lizards across south-east Asia, but struggled to do so. “Despite being … the largest lizard with established populations in urban areas, [Varanus salvator] has drawn relatively little attention from ecologists regarding its colonisation of numerous major cities across Asia,” the authors wrote.“Sometimes these ecological or zoological phenomena are very obvious in urban areas, yet they still don’t get enough research,” says study co-author Álvaro Luna, of the European University of Madrid.Lumphini Park is one place where lizard numbers are closely tracked, as large reptiles running amok in the park can cause problems including “fear and disturbance during rest or exercise”, Suparee says. “On roads, water monitors may also pose risks for accidents.”The large lizards have become a hit on social media, drawing visitors to the park. Photograph: Lillian Suwanrumpha/AFP/Getty ImagesThe surveys show the park lizard population is rapidly increasing. Ideally, Suparee says, the population should stay below 400. In the past, rising numbers of lizards spurred authorities to intervene, with wildlife officials capturing and relocating dozens from Lumphini in 2016. But a female lizard lays a clutch of about 20 eggs at a time, and numbers swiftly bounced back.The lizards are mostly harmless but can be a trip hazard or nuisance. Photograph: David Bokuchava/AlamyThat may not be the worst thing. While the monitor lizard has long been held in contempt in Thai culture (the Thai word for monitor lizard – hia – is considered a highly offensive swear word), public opinion has begun to shift.Many people trace the turning point to a 2021 viral video that captured a 6ft-long lizard climbing a convenience store’s shelf – a quintessential snapshot of modern Thai life. People began to rally around the creatures, and they are increasingly seen as a draw for tourists.“I’ve seen on TikTok and Instagram, people are like: ‘When you’re in Thailand, you have to come to Lumphini Park to see these monsters!’” Chintanaroj says.City officials have also embraced the lizard’s rising stardom. Earlier this year, a large statue of a monitor lizard was installed near one of Lumphini’s artificial lakes. “It was erected to show that water monitors are not just park animals, but also represent the richness of Bangkok’s ecosystem,” Suparee says.A statue of an Asian water monitor lizard in Lumphini Park, where they ‘represent the richness of Bangkok’s ecosystem’. Photograph: Gloria DickieNational authorities see opportunities to exploit the lizard beyond tourism. Although water monitors are protected in Thailand, in July the government moved to begin permitting restricted breeding for commercial purposes – such as leather goods – citing their growing numbers.Somying Thunhikorn, a forestry technical officer with the department of parks and wildlife, says: “We think this decision will benefit the private sector and communities with conflicts, as well as reduce illegal hunting and the impact to water monitors in the wild.”Wildlife officials catch a lizard to be relocated. Photograph: Munir Uz Zaman/AFP/Getty ImagesThe initial stock must come from one of the department’s breeding stations, home to “nuisance” lizards, in Ratchaburi province. All lizards must be microchipped to prove they have not been illegally taken from the wild.So far, commercial farming permits have been issued for about 200 of the lizards, Thunhikorn says.Ang says he is not sure how to feel about Thailand’s move to begin farming the charismatic reptiles. After all, he says with a laugh: “They’re the original Moo Deng.”Find more age of extinction coverage here, and follow the biodiversity reporters Phoebe Weston and Patrick Greenfield in the Guardian app for more nature coverage

Culture
Water
Extinction

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An experimental short film from Iran.

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