Soundscapes of ‘Lesser’ Nature (part three)

Soundscapes of Lesser Nature uses deep listening as a visceral way to understand the relationship between humans and nature. This soundscape ecology research project is being pursued as part of the Earth.fm Grants program for soundscape studies, 2023–2024.

‘Lesser nature’ refers to the ecology of human settlements in and around environmentally sensitive areas. The project hypothesizes that the soundscapes of these spaces can provide fresh insight into the conflicts and cooperation of human-nature dynamics in India – in a way more experiential than studying nature reserves’ sanitized enclosures. 

The project also attempts to understand the paradox of considering humanity as being detached from nature and of finding the remnants of ‘pristine, untouched, and exotic nature’ in order to preserve them – and ultimately the consumerism and commercialization underpinning this.

Field trips 4, 5, and 6: Thol Bird Sanctuary, Mehsana; Kori Creek, Lakhpat; and Poilwa, Nagaland

Field trips 2 and 3 were carried out during October and November 2023, in the forests of central India and the Dhauladhar mountain range of the Himalayas. Their purpose was to access the soundscapes of the oncoming winter. 

In the Dhauladhar mountains, the fieldwork resulted in sonically establishing the rather abstract idea of the approaching absence of biophony during the winter period, and the silence caused by the seasonal migration of birds from the region. 

However, a part of the same biophony was recorded in my further field trips as it migrated with the birds toward central India, and later the Arabian Sea. It appeared as if the soundscape was traveling through natural and human-made environments, juxtaposing itself with different types of wilderness along the way – complimenting the temporal nature of sound and, fundamentally, ecology itself. 

Or, maybe, listening to these soundscapes opened up my perspective toward the relationship of time to ecology. Either way, the observations which were made highlighted the possible nature of soundscapes as moving carriers of spatiotemporal information: entities capable of a multidimensional movement in time and space, rather than being merely linear or nonlinear. 

Thol Bird Sanctuary

During the winter, the Indian state of Gujarat becomes a favored destination for migratory birds, which arrive from both the relatively nearby Himalayas and from as far away as the Arctic Circle. 

Thol Bird Sanctuary, a stagnant, shallow-water lake, is part of the larger, discretely distributed wetland ecosystem in coastal (and partly inland) Gujarat. Along with more popular locations like Rann of Kutch salt marsh, lesser-known ones like Thol and Nalsarovar Bird Sanctuary draw a huge influx of birds escaping the harsh winters of the northern hemisphere. 

Due to its proximity to cities like Ahmedabad, between March and November Thol – a preserved sanctuary under Indian wildlife protection laws – also becomes a haven for bird-spotters and eco-tourists. As such, it is a temporary home both for birds and the gaze of humans interested in observing and experiencing nature. Flamingos, greylag geese, and demoiselle cranes are just some of the species easily spotted in Thol during the winter, along with a variety of herons, egrets, and other birds from South and Southeast Asia. 

However, while Thol was once isolated enough to serve its intended purpose, it is now being affected by air, water, and noise pollution due to increasing human activities in the area. 

It is also facing the various disadvantages of unregulated eco-tourism, as demonstrated by the plastic waste left behind and the chaos created by an overwhelming number of humans, which is hazardous for the sensitive biodiversity of the sanctuary. At the time of my visit in January 2024, the soundscape of Thol also seemed to be affected by the pre-wedding photo and video shoots happening at the golden hour of sunlight during sunrise and sunset, in conflict with the birds’ dawn and dusk chorusing. (November to April is the peak season for weddings in India.) 

The effective concentration of migratory birds in Thol, and similar bird sanctuaries in the region, justifies the approach taken by the preservation efforts behind them. But the broader wetland ecosystem of which the migratory birds become a temporary part during the winters is more revealing. A documentary film shoot in the winter of 2018–2019 revealed a larger population of migratory birds outside of these protected enclosures. Here, the birds faced a more hostile experience, including being poached for meat and other body parts – especially the flamingos. 

Many questions arose from this field trip. For whom are the sanitized enclosures of wildlife sanctuaries created and maintained? If the birds bring ecological relationships to these temporary homes, through non-invasive, sustainable, and ecologically driven paths of migration, why does human understanding of their migration seem so limited? Limited by socio-economic needs and – now more than ever – greed? 

Don’t we also pursue the idea of a home as a part of our social and cultural identity, with most of us living the majority of our lives in temporary homes? Do we like our homes detached from the larger reality, or do we want them to be co-existent with a true sense of habitation and wellbeing? 

From my observations, the process of demarcating spaces for wildlife preservation in India follows predominantly visual criteria for setting boundaries between the human and more-than-human worlds. The latter could be more effectively preserved by a multi-sensory and -disciplinary approach. 

Instead, convenience minimizes the discourse around the treatment of spaces that are co-inhabited by a diverse range of living beings in a state of constant flux. This convenience delays the much-needed integration of the socio-cultural and -political factors of human settlement geography into the processes of ecological preservation. 

The rise of revenue-centric eco-tourism also poses a serious threat to the already loosely held ownership of these preserved spaces, where access is regulated – that is to say, strictly restricted according to affordability. 

Does eco-tourism need to be better defined, beyond merely being a method to generate revenue from and around nature?

Lakhpat

In India, consumerism around ecology often seems to be driven by an attempt to evade ‘unpleasant’ urban and semi-urban ways of living. And this consumerist idea is becoming increasingly influenced by what the ecology being consumed has to offer in terms of its ‘exotic/untouched/pristine/unexplored’ value. This evolution, aligned with the rise of the internet and, subsequently, social media, is relevant to the human-nature relationship and the critical balance required within it to holistically understand the world that we inhabit. 

Firstly, this phenomenon exposes the foundational idea behind the formation and maintenance of urban centers in India: that they exist in our imagination and shared realities as symbols of socio-economic growth, and nothing more. The conception of the city as an aspirational space seems to be failing. And a clear understanding of the image of a city as a phenomenon fuelled by the movement of human lives, purely to keep a certain idea of growth running relentlessly, seems to be gaining increasing acceptance. However, this realization still lacks a proper framework to process its impacts at an individual level, other than finding possible escape routes. 

Secondly, the phenomenon exposes that this realization of cities as symbols of progress and success, the dread arising from it, and the possibility of finding an escape route for temporary relief, is nothing short of a privilege to begin with. 

In addition, it exposes the inequalities underpinning our experience of climate anxiety; it is different for those causing the undesirable changes in our living environment than for those facing its brunt.

But the escape route, and the temporary relief in question, are creating an impulsive urge to seek spaces offering isolation, silence, curated desolation, and – for want of a better phrase – exotic abandonment. This consumerist pursuit creates a bridge between the narrow, destructive ideas foundational to the city, and to the perceived right to wilderness which now remains characteristic only of ecologically sensitive areas.

Another set of questions arise: is the consumerism around ecology reflective of the human-nature relationship, or of human individuals’ relationships to humanity at large? Is this all to urgently address and understand the broader human condition facing abandonment due to impending, and much more severe forms of climate crisis? Are isolation and silence really synonymous with one another? 

Lakhpat is an abandoned ghost town in the far west of India, located on the Kori Creek, a tidal creek adjoining the border with Pakistan. This walled town is inhabited by a few people who primarily take care of its religious monuments, alongside a significant presence of India’s Border Security Force (BSF). 

Once an important port town, Lakhpat lost its socio-economic relevance due to a massive earthquake in the 19^th century which caused the Indus River to change its course. The river had been the epicenter of the flourishing town’s port activities, meaning that it was reduced to nothing due to factors beyond its control. 

Along with archaeological and religious heritage, I also observed huge but little-known coal mines on the way from Bhuj to Lakhpat, as well as the barrenness of the desert, where the vast expanses of thorny wilderness and sand dunes amplified a sense of nothingness. I visited Lakhpat just prior to the arrival of the harsh summer of 2024, when the soundscape ecology of the white, salty desert had nothing to offer except for the extreme winds howling through Lakhpat Fort and the occasional sounds of small birds taking refuge in its walls. Field recordings in Lakhpat amounted to a profound, eerie silence. 

Nevertheless, I had wanted to visit the town since reading about it online, a decade ago. The charm of an abandoned place, the silence that comes with it, and preserved heritage symbolic of the dynamics between the human and the more-than-human world, only increased my interest. But when I finally visited, with a slightly more nuanced understanding of the concepts of travel and ecology, I found myself estranged with the peace that I experienced there. For reasons I can’t comprehend, or at least articulate, I found Lakhpat to be an example of the transience of human habitats, which are solely dependent on socio-economic growth at the cost of natural resources. 

Confronting this is, indeed, monumental. 

The town seemed to be an ideal escape from the city, both physically and ideologically. Still, it remains a rather obscure travel destination, with the nearby Rann of Kutch drawing all the attention, particularly during the famous Rann Festival which celebrates the region’s local culture. This camping event, which overdoes its human-made vibrancy to counter the barren reality of desert ecology, is attended by visitors from all over the world: luxurious, excessive, expensive, transactional, and consumerist. Accessible to the ones who can afford to escape the cacophonic urban world and deep-dive into a fabricated silence. 

Lakhpat could be a mindful destination, but only if we were traveling to understand what has already happened, what is happening, and what will happen to the world around us if we don’t consider the impact of our negligence on it. And if we stop pursuing consumerism as a solution to every misery that we are going through. 

Poilwa

Nagaland, a hill state in Northeast India, is home to the Naga people and several other Indigenous groups. Previously one of many smaller kingdoms and territories annexed into India when the country’s political boundaries were being drawn, after independence in 1947, Nagaland has been both estranged from the complex idea of the Indian nation and embroiled in a decades-long armed conflict, which continues to date. 

Apart from the socio-economic, cultural, and political phenomena constantly shaping the identity of Nagaland, an ecological crisis is also deepening at an alarming pace. Resource extraction, depletion of forest reserves, and the imposition of homogenous ideas of urbanization are causing rampant alteration of the ecosystem. On this field trip, I became stuck in what was later revealed to be one of the worst landslides in Nagaland’s recent history. This evident consequence of damage being caused in the hilly areas of India has also been seen from other landslides in various parts of the country, including the states of Uttarakhand, Himachal, and Kerala. 

There is very little mainstream knowledge about Nagaland. I have read that it is a state with one of the highest literacy rates in India, and that Christianity is one of its main religions. It is famous for Naga chilies, and for its mystical-mythical tribal traditions – including being obscurely known as a land of head-hunters. And, of course, for the widely accepted and validated entry point to Nagaland for foreigners: the Hornbill Festival, which celebrates the culture and heritage of all the region’s ethnic groups. 

My field trip to Nagaland was too short to add much to my knowledge about the region. Traveling for a documentary film shoot, I only recorded a few soundscapes when possible. 

Still, I found Nagaland to be following community-driven livelihood systems with ecology at their core. (Village) Councils steer the direction of progress, with the state administration facilitating its implementation. Natural resources are primarily owned by communities, following a shared system of accountability towards life, livelihood, and growth. 

This bottom-up form of governance is unique to the region. A strong civic sense – unconventional by comparison to the standards I’ve grown up with – conspicuously prevails. Society at large seems to be processing the same challenges of survival as anywhere else on the planet, but with a community-driven approach that could prove to be highly pragmatic as time passes. 

It may sound mundane, but various instances of teenagers and young adults having peaceful and articulate roadside conversations about history, politics, and what is happening to the world around them came as a culture shock to me. Not to mention finding a college education in pure sciences and social sciences strongly rooted in real-time case studies involving students’ lives, and their social, political, cultural, and environmental backgrounds…

I will have to spend more time in this region to gain a deeper understanding and broaden my perspective, but my initial experiences give me hope. 

A trail downhill from the village of Poilwa led to a stream surrounded by hilly slopes covered in jungle and traditional step-farming. In August, the forest was enveloped in the resonating sound of cicadas. The cicadas in Poilwa were more baritone sounding, and had slower swells than what I had heard previously. In Nagaland, they start chorusing in April and continue until the monsoon recedes: quite different to central India, where I come from, where the forests are (usually) filled with cicadas and their calls during the peak of summer and the arrival of the monsoon season. 

While this came as a surprise to me, for a friend who lives in the region, the sound of cicadas is a reminder of the last part of the summer, which will be followed by a long, cold winter. She also told me that, for some tribes, the first chorus of cicadas is a signifier for cultivation to begin, while for others the volume of the cicadas’ song is indicative of how much rainfall to expect that year. 

There is still a lot to learn – and this feeling, as always, is humbling. 

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Bhaskar is one of five recipients of the earth.fm Grants field recording program, and will be sharing his journey, research, and encounters on the site’s blog. His focus is on the relationships and dynamics between humans and the more-than-human world, the paradox of protected natural areas, and delusions about ‘exotic’ nature within the world of conservation.

🎧 Listen to Bhaskar’s recordings on earth.fm

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All photos and recordings courtesy of A Bhaskar Rao