by Evan Antin
As I flew home, with sore muscles, bruised arms and legs, a sunburn that shouldn’t have been, considering all the sunscreen I’d slathered on, and a big, tired grin on my face, I thought about what an awesome opportunity I’d been given. Thirteen years ago, the first time I set foot in Africa and almost immediately came down with a case of dysentery I thought might kill me, I could not have dreamed of coming back as a team member for such a challenging and inspiring conservation program. Every passing year working with animals and raising awareness about conservation issues teaches me a little more deeply, though, that there is room for anyone who wants to be a part of this movement. For me, respecting, admiring, and understanding wildlife has become a key piece of who I am and who I want to be. I can’t wait to see what gnarly adventures still lie ahead.
11
Philippines
In early 2018, my old pal Joey Brown had moved from Fiji and its crested iguanas to a new and even more endangered species: the Philippine crocodile. These animals are the rarest crocodilians (a term that includes all crocodiles, alligators, gharials, and caimans) and one of the most endangered species in the world. Their numbers aren’t even in the thousands—they’re in the low hundreds. In order to keep these animals from going extinct, Joey had partnered with the Mabuwaya Foundation through his master’s program at the University of Oklahoma to learn more about the crocs’ movements, diets, reproductive cycles, and nesting habits. Like with the iguanas, knowing where they were going, what they were doing, and what they were eating would help people keep them safe. The foundation already had an established Head Start program to capture and foster newly hatched crocs for their first one to two years of life, so they’d get their first true tastes of the world when they were bigger, stronger, and a lot less vulnerable than they’d be as hatchlings. This was one more facet of the great work this organization is doing.
If there is any cause I can fully get behind, it’s definitely croc conservation. As soon as Joey invited me, I started shuffling my schedule to make sure I could travel there.
Luzon is the largest and most heavily populated island in the Philippines, the top of a cluster of islands in the Pacific shaped like an inverted V. Joey’s base was in the Northern Sierra Madre Natural Park, in the northeastern corner of Luzon—a remote rural area that encompasses the largest protected forest in the Philippines.
Before I could observe and pitch in with Joey’s conservation work, we had to cover a couple hundred miles, taking us from huge, vibrant, urban Manila far up into the mountains.
The first thing you have to do to travel efficiently in the Philippines is forget everything your mom or dad ever taught you about vehicle safety. By the time I arrived, Joey had made arrangements for us to ride in (actually on) a jeepney. The gist of this mode of transportation is that you, your gear, and the spare tire ride on the roof of an old truck, bus, or army jeep. You sit within the perimeter of a low-slung metal frame bolted to the roof—basically a luggage rack. On a fancy jeepney, it might have two rungs and rise eight inches off the frame. Many have just a single rung—more a formality than a security feature. I guess it goes without saying that jeepneys have no seat belts (even on the inside) and no emission standards. The Philippine government has been trying for years to limit these vehicles, to keep people from riding up top, and to retire the older models and get them off the road, but this mode of transportation is cheap and deeply ingrained in the society, so it’s definitely not going away without a fight.
We started out in heavy traffic, but it didn’t take long for the pavement to give way to dirt roads. Small sections where the ground had washed away were patched with boards, and there were countless tarps covered in drying rice grains along these rural byways. Our route was, to put it generously, one lane wide, so when we met another jeepney coming our way, both vehicles had to edge as far over as possible, and one had to stop completely while the other eased by. We could have high-fived the passengers on the roof of the other truck.
The farther north we traveled, the more lush and green and unspoiled the scenery got, until we finally reached the Philippine Sierra Madres, the natural park’s unspoiled primary forest, and the Catallangan River, where we’d soon be scouting crocs. After a day of bro-ing out and catching up on what each of us had been up to since we’d hung out in Fiji a year before, we set up a subcamp along the river near where we thought we could pick up the trail of an adult female croc Joey had fitted with a transmitter.
The logistics of this operation were way too much fun to feel like research. Basically, we’d hike upriver for a few hours, walking up these lush green jungle mountains, climbing over massive gray-blue boulders, and winding our way along the water. Once we’d gone a few miles, we’d throw on our snorkeling gear, wade into the water, and let the relatively gentle rapids carry us back.
So there we were, floating downriver, taking in the scenery, scouting for croc lairs. Heaven? Eden? Disneyland? All of the above. Along our way downstream, we stopped to snorkel at rocks and crevices at the river’s edge. One of the things that sets the Philippine crocodile apart from so many other crocodilian species is its preference for clean, running water. Typically I’d expect to be pursuing crocs in murky, still swamps and ponds, but these guys like it right along the edges of the river. So each time we found a good rocky shelf—or, even better, an underwater cave—we’d hold our breath and free dive down to see if anybody was home. When we found a croc, one of us would set up the snare while the other filmed the capture. Once we had each croc subdued, we’d pull it onto the shore and assess it for Joey’s database. We carried a scale, measuring tapes, a data log, and duct tape, to temporarily secure the crocs’ dangerous jaws shut.
If a croc was already in Joey’s records, we’d update the file and do a herp lover’s wellness check: a quick once-over, noting gender and taking several different measurements along the head, body, and tail. If a croc was newly caught, first we’d check it for a microchip. When we found a croc who didn’t have a chip, we put one in. Joey had located crocs ranging in size from juveniles barely two feet long to a male who was a whopping three hundred pounds and three yards long—a huge specimen for this species. Even at that extreme size, though, swimming with these guys in the open water is typically safe—they’re not big enough to be (or inclined to be) man-eaters. Getting bit was a remote possibility, but getting eaten was not.
In addition to recording microchip information, Joey was outfitting some of the crocs with radio telemetry trackers. Crocs that were over a yard long had trackers sutured onto the top of their tails, and for smaller crocs Joey had devised a strap—essentially a leather hip pack—to go on over their back legs, with a figure-eight belt under their thighs. It sat on their top sides, oriented down their tails, like a tiny croc backpack. The best thing about this ingenious design was that it didn’t inhibit the croc’s mobility at all. It’s a set-it-and-forget-it fashion accessory, but one that provides the conservation world with invaluable data. Joey’s little custom croc pack was so effective he was able to publish a scientific article about it. It was awesome being there to watch this unique research method unfold.
We were hot on the trail of one croc in particular during this trip, a female Joey had fitted with a satellite tracking unit who’d ventured so far upriver she was in a part of the park he hadn’t yet explored. This was new territory for both of us, and it was an area of truly unspoiled (maybe even untouched) forest. Once we got close to the croc’s tracker, we were able to download its data and discover where she’d been in the previous days and how she’d been moving around the park.
We never found that elusive croc during my stay, but we did come upon a gorgeous female of similar size on the way back to the village a couple nights later. She was caught in a trap that Joey’s local research assistants had set very close to our base camp, and she wasn’t especially happy to see us. She thrashed and whipped her tail and generally made it known that she was pissed that we were disturbing her day. A full-grown P
hilippine croc is definitely big enough to hurt you, but these animals are not man-eaters. This species simply doesn’t look at people and see a food source. In this case, the croc just wanted to be left alone. Joey and I were happy to oblige, but first we needed some data that could help protect not just this individual but also her species. And getting that data meant doing a little bit of messy veterinary work out there in the jungle. We would have to accomplish the equivalent of pumping a croc’s stomach.
Because checking to see what a croc’s been eating can be a dangerous job and is a process the animal doesn’t like to participate in, it’s not something that’s done every day. With a veterinarian helper on hand, though, it was a perfect time for Joey to investigate the diet of this animal. Using a narrow PVC tube, duct tape, and a hose, we created the kind of makeshift pump used to evaluate crocodilian diets around the world. We placed the PVC tube in her mouth and then taped her jaw securely shut around it. This allowed us hands-on access and eliminated the possibility of being bitten. However, it didn’t do a thing to dull her teeth, so we needed to stay mindful that a good head thrash would cut us up. We threaded a flexible hose through the tube, past the croc’s mouth and into her stomach. Keeping her head and body tilted upright, we proceeded to fill her stomach with water, using a manual hand pump, and to gently massage it as well—this was to suspend most of the food content inside her stomach. Once we got a backflow of water, we knew her stomach was full.
If you’re thinking it sounds like we were out there waterboarding crocodiles, keep in mind that crocs can hold their breath for several minutes at a minimum and likely closer to an hour. A couple minutes of pumping water into this animal’s stomach was not a threat to her well-being.
After she was full, we tilted her the opposite way, head down. We positioned a small-mesh fishing net in front of her mouth and started massaging her stomach again (to encourage her to vomit up its contents). And then, voilà, crocodile vomit poured out, just like we’d hoped it would. Gross? You bet. But for a croc, also a habitual part of digestion. They are built to digest almost anything, although there are still bits and pieces they can’t process—most notably fur—and once they’ve gleaned all the nutritional value they can get from a meal, they puke up what’s left.
This particular treasure hunt revealed a snake skeleton, monitor lizard bones, and, most interestingly, hundreds of snail shells. This was consistent with Joey’s findings from other spot checks of croc eating habits. He was discovering that snails are a significant part of their diet—more than anyone had thought. Knowing what an animal eats to survive is always a key component in a plan to preserve the species. I found it fascinating and kind of adorable that these scary ambush predators weren’t slashing out of their water to grab big animals, the way we see crocodiles hunting on TV. They’re just gently cruising these waterways and casually nibbling on snails. I found them even more endearing after learning this fact about these somewhat peaceful predators.
With her stomach empty, her transmitter checked, and her weight and length measured, our croc captive was ready to go. Since she’d made a point of thrashing around and letting us know just how annoyed she was at our disturbance, we took a few extra seconds to set up filming for her release. I got above her and sat gently just behind her shoulders, keeping most of my weight on my own feet and holding the base of her neck to keep her from lashing out. I held my camera ready. Joey stepped into the water with his GoPro, ready to capture the moment. When I let her go, the croc leaped into the river, briefly going airborne on the way. We got video of that leap and her splashing into the water from both in the air and underwater—an awesome way to capture the moment.
One of the things you learn when you’re doing conservation work is that if you aren’t helping local people connect with and respect the animals, you’re wasting your time. Joey and the Mabuwaya Foundation were doing an amazing job with this side of the equation in the Philippines. Joey was going into schools with juvenile crocs (and donations of school supplies) to teach students about the value of the species and how rare they are. Mabuwaya was so involved with the community that the local school had even changed its mascot to a crocodile a few years back. Joey also met with local farmers to explain the plight of the crocs and how close they are to going extinct. Rather than kill a croc that shows up on their land, where it might pose a danger, locals learn that they can contact the foundation and have it relocated. I had a chance to get out into some of these communities with my old friend and meet some of the locals during my visit, and I can honestly say that there is almost nothing more rewarding than helping to educate a local population (especially kids!) about what they can do to help save their own endangered species.
Not a Bear, Not a Cat
Palawan is the last ecological frontier in the Philippine Archipelago, a long, narrow, largely undeveloped sliver of land jutting out into the Pacific, with the South China Sea to its north and the Sulu Sea to its south. This is a place that’s been ranked “The Most Beautiful Island in the World,” and it lives up to that high bar not only because of its gorgeous beaches and blue water but also (at least as far as I’m concerned) because of its rugged jungle and wealth of unique endemic species. Among these are the Palawan leopard cat, the Palawan hornbill, the Palawan water monitor, and, my personal favorite, the Palawan bearcat (a.k.a. the binturong).
Talk about a species that’s not on the curriculum at veterinary school. Is it a bear? Is it a cat? Um, no. It’s neither. The binturong is a mammal with a big bushy tail, wide-set eyes, an open face, long whiskers, and a heavy, low body. It kind of resembles a weasel, if you can imagine a massive, sixty-pound tree-dwelling weasel with the face of a bear cub, a cat’s whiskers, and a howler monkey’s prehensile tail. Oh yeah, and wolverine claws. Best of all, there’s something about the facial structure of these animals—mouths wide and upturned—that makes it look like they’re always kind of smiling.
One last uniquely bearcat feature is that they smell, strangely and truly, like popcorn. The first time I ever got close to one in the wild, I smelled it first. I tracked it for hours that night, knowing there was absolutely nothing else in the jungle that could be emitting that particular odor. Unfortunately, I never found the bearcat—I just got to smell it.
During this trip, I visited the Palawan Butterfly Eco-Garden, where a binturong rescue program is going strong. I had been on the grounds for only minutes when one of the handlers came up with a seven-month-old female bearcat, who took one look at me and decided I’d be fun to climb. While I interacted with the handler, she crawled all over me, sitting on my shoulders, arching across my head, snarfling my ears, my neck, and my phone, and generally making me feel like the luckiest man alive.
That interaction was made all the more special when the sanctuary’s owner, Roy Rodriguez, explained that the bearcat who’d befriended me was the first the facility had bred in captivity. Roy is a Philippine native who found himself struggling to accept how many of Palawan’s endemic species were endangered and being taken for granted. His appreciation for wildlife was misunderstood by many of his friends and family members, but instead of stewing about it, he decided to take action and opened a sanctuary. These days, he’s getting a lot more Filipinos excited about their native wildlife. The breeding program he initiated is a big step toward strengthening the numbers of these sweet and vulnerable mammals, whose population has decreased by around 30 percent in the last forty years.
Wild binturongs aren’t outright aggressive, but they can and will be very dangerous if approached on their home territory. And since they’re so rarely spotted in their own environment (because left to their own devices, they’d spend almost all their time high in the trees), they’re coveted by poachers, who sell their parts to medicine men who believe they have healing powers (spoiler alert: they don’t). These poachers also sell them as pets (another spoiler alert: they do not make good pets).
The sanctuary’s bearcats had never seen a veterinarian, so Roy and I agreed
that the timing was perfect for them to have their first checkup.
Doing an exam on a wild animal—even one as sweet as a seven-month-old captive-raised binturong—poses some unique challenges. Without the formalities of an enclosure and an exam table and a lab coat, it was pretty much a sure thing I was going to get shat on. Sure enough, as soon as I tried to direct this little sweetheart, instead of just letting her have her way with me, she dropped a massive butt-clapping fart and then splattered bearcat feces all over me. It’s an occupational hazard I’ve gotten used to, though, and with that out of the way, we were able to get down to the actual exam.
I checked her nails and nailbeds, looking for any defects or infections. Bearcats, like many arboreal species, need to have healthy fingers and claws. I checked her teeth to ensure that none were fractured and that her gums looked healthy. I palpated her abdomen—as well as her appendages, including that long, muscular tail—and her lymph nodes. I peered into her ears, searching for parasites or signs of infection, and listened to her baby binturong heart, which had a good, strong, synchronous beat, with no murmur. The whole time, I let her play with my stethoscope and fed her a steady supply of banana bites, to keep the exam low-key and comfortable.
During my visit, Roy received a call: a few hours away, a mother binturong had been shot by poachers, and her three orphaned babies were for sale. An illegal pet trader was on his way; he would buy them, then smuggle them out of the country. We didn’t want those babies to leave the country for many reasons, the first being that without a mother or anyone experienced in how to care for them, they’d all likely die. Besides that, these creatures didn’t belong in Laos or Korea or China or wherever they were headed. They belonged in Palawan.
