Journal articles on the topic 'Nature conservation Victoria French Island'

The elusive nature of the long-nosed potoroo (Potorous tridactylus) has hindered the collection of long-term data for this threatened species. Between June 2005 and May 2009, data on the ecology of a wild population of long-nosed potoroos located on French Island, Victoria, were collected during a series of research projects. Over this period, 33 individual potoroos were trapped a total of 251 times. Up to nine individuals were known to be alive at once on the 15-ha study site of mature remnant native forest. Adult potoroos showed high site fidelity and significant sexual size dimorphism, with males heavier and having longer head and pes lengths than females. Congruent with other studies, we found no evidence of seasonality in breeding. Births occurred in every month of the year and the testis volume of males did not vary throughout the year. In contrast to previous studies, however, we did not observe peaks in breeding activity. Our research and review of existing literature suggests that the ecology of the long-nosed potoroo is strongly influenced by local environmental conditions and emphasises the need to consider long-term and site-specific data when developing management strategies to conserve this ecologically important species.

Koala (Phascolarctos cinereus) populations in southern Australia have a history of bottlenecks – earlier this century the species became extinct in South Australia, and almost so in Victoria. Subsequently large numbers of animals from island populations (founded from very few animals) have been translocated back to mainland sites and to other islands in the region. As part of a larger study of the genetic structure of koala populations in southern Australia, we have undertaken a survey of mitochondrial DNA restriction fragment length polymorphism (mtDNA-RFLP) variability. Genomic DNA from 91 koalas from five populations was examined using 23 restriction enzymes, and mtDNA fragments were detected using a domestic cat full-length mtDNA clone. Only one of the enzymes, TaqI, revealed polymorphism – a relatively low amount of variation compared with other mammals, although low mtDNA-RFLP variation has also been reported in Queensland koalas. French Island and populations established predominantly from French Island immigrant koalas, either directly or via other island populations, were indistinguishable by haplotype frequencies. The mtDNA data are thus consistent with the interpretation that the koala translocation programme has homogenized gene frequencies amongst those populations involved. South Gippsland is not recorded as having received translocated koalas directly, and has significantly different mtDNA-RFLP haplotype frequencies from all other populations examined. The fact that this distinction was not previously observed in nuclear gene frequencies may reflect predominantly male-mediated dispersal in koalas.

Between 1966 and 1969 17 chimpanzees, which had all been captured in the wild and had spent various amounts of time in European zoos, were released in Rubondo Island National Park in Lake Victoria, Tanzania. Now there is a healthy population of at least 20 chimpanzees, and it is likely that there is now a second generation of Rubondo-born animals. The author, who has been recording sightings of the chimpanzees since 1978, discusses this early rehabilitation experiment, sets it in the context of others and examines the problems of how best to cope with those animals that are confiscated while enforcing the laws prohibiting the capture of wild chimpanzees.

It is important to have knowledge of basic population parameters to understand how these vary geographically and temporally and how they contribute to population dynamics. This paper investigates three of these parameters in Victorian koala populations: sexual maturity, aspects of the breeding season, and the continuity of individuals’ breeding. The investigation was carried out in koalas of known-age in two free-living (Redbill Creek on French Island and Brisbane Ranges) and one semi-captive (the Koala Conservation Centre on Phillip Island) population as well as koalas of unknown age in four Victorian populations of overabundant koalas: Mt Eccles and Framlingham in south-west Victoria, French Island in Western Port and Snake Island in south Gippsland. At sexual maturity, female koalas had a mean age (±95% confidence interval) of 24.4 months (23.5–25.3 months), a mean head length of 125 mm (124–127 mm) and a mean body mass of 6.6 kg (6.3–6.8 kg). Only 7.4% of independent females (of unknown age) were carrying young when they weighed less than 6 kg. The breeding season was more restricted in the south-west populations. At Framlingham and Mt Eccles 85% and 91% of births, respectively, occurred between December and March. At Snake and French Islands only 46% and 53% of births, respectively, were recorded in the same period. In the Chlamydia-free population (Red Bill Creek) none of the koalas that were monitored stopped breeding and then resumed breeding in a subsequent season whereas many females from Chlamydia-infected populations (Brisbane Ranges and the Koala Conservation Centre) did so. This variation in reproductive patterns is likely to make an important contribution to the variation in the demography observed in different koala populations.

New Caledonia, a French territory in the south-west Pacific has a very high number of endemic taxa. The endemic fauna include a monotypic genus of parakeets – Eunymphicus. One subspecies, Eunymphicus cornutus uvaeensis, which is endemic to the island of Ouvéa in the Loyalty Islands, is seriously threatened by degradation of its natural habitat, natural predators and capture for sale to collectors. There are now only 200–500 individuals left in the wild. The parakeet is the emblem of Ouv–a and local people, together with research scientists, have formed a society with the aims of studying the parakeet in its natural environment, making the general public aware of its conservation requirements, combating smuggling, increasing its population by breeding it in captivity and, if possible, introducing it on to a neighbouring island.

SummaryKuhl's Lorikeet Vini kuhlii has a precarious status reflected by its disjunct distribution in the Pacific, with surviving populations in the Northern Line (Kiribati) and Austral Islands (French Polynesia) some 3,000 km apart, possibly as a result of Polynesian trade in red feathers. The species is extinct in the southern Cook Islands. On Rimatara (Austral Islands), where it is believed indigenous, it is still common but the recent introduction of the Rattus norvegicus is of concern. In the Northern Line Islands, R. rattus appears to have all but extirpated the lorikeet on Tabuaeran (Fanning Island), but one small population has apparently survived for over 70 years, an explanation for which may guide in situ conservation of Vini lorikeets on ship-rat-infested islands elsewhere. The arid and unpredictable climate of Kiritimati (Christmas Island) may preclude the establishment of lorikeets. Only on Teraina (Washington Island), where over 1,000 V. kuhlii survive, are there no confirmed threats and good in situ conservation potential.

SummaryThe Ultramarine Lory (Ultramarine Lorikeet, Marquesas Lorikeet, Pihiti) Vini ultramarina is one of the most threatened insular Lory species. Endemic to the Marquesas Islands, where it probably once ranged throughout the archipelago, it has been nearly extirpated from all but the tiny island of Ua Huka. Given the vulnerability of a single population inhabiting one small island, and the decline of the species in recent years, establishment of the Ultramarine Lory on another less disturbed island within its historic range has been proposed as a conservation strategy. This paper describes a 1991 survey evaluating the status of the Ultramarine Lory in the Marquesas Islands, and three subsequent translocations of birds from the island of Ua Huka to the island of Fatu Hiva. Twenty-nine birds were relocated during the period from 1992 to 1994 at the request of the Delegation de L'Environnement, French Polynesia. A preliminary survey, prior to the third translocation, indicates that previously transferred birds are surviving and may be reproducing; an intensive survey is planned in 1997.

SummaryThis paper documents the catastrophic decline of the ‘Critically Endangered’ Fatu Hiva Monarch Pomarea whitneyi since 2000 and presents population dynamics and conservation actions for the species between 2008 and 2017. The Fatu Hiva Monarch conservation programme has prevented the extinction of the species thus far. However, after an initial increase in the population size within the management area between 2008 and 2012, recruitment subsequently declined. Improvements in the method of trapping to control cats in 2016 and 2017 coincided with encouraging results in terms of juvenile monarch survival rates, although two adult birds disappeared during the same period. The initial hypothesis, that the population would recover once the main threat, black (or ship) rat Rates Rattus predation, was effectively controlled in the breeding territories, has not proved to be correct. An alternative hypothesis assumes that cat predation, mainly on young birds, is limiting monarch recovery. Control of feral cats has been undertaken since 2010, but the implementation of a new trapping method (leg-hold traps) combined with a significant increase in cat trapping effort, has coincided with an increase in the number of cats culled, as well as monarch post-fledging survival in 2016 and 2017. For the first time in the project, no mortality has been observed for monarch chicks, fledged juveniles or immature birds. If this alternative hypothesis holds, we would expect to recruit young birds into the monarch population in the next year or two. First, this will reduce the likelihood that the Fatu Hiva Monarch will become extinct and second, provide a source population to either repopulate the island following the eradication of rats and cats or to translocate birds to a rat and cat free island.

SummaryFossils and other evidence from the Southern Cook Islands show that the Rimatara Lorikeet Vini kuhlii, known as the Kura, was widespread in the group during prehistoric times and, it was probably extirpated due to exploitation for its red feathers. Today, it survives only on Rimatara in the Austral Islands, where it is known as the ‘Ura. On Rimatara during 5-11 August 1992 we saw/heard 263 ‘Ura, and estimated the total population at 900 birds. The mixed horticultural belt, about 32% of the island, was the most favoured habitat at 2.2 birds ha1 and it supported about 61% of the total population. The species was uncommon in the coastal coconut plantations and central hills, and rare in the makatea/feo. Rats, especially Rattus rattus, have often been associated with the loss of forest birds on oceanic islands and R. rattus is thought to be responsible for the decline in other lorikeets of French Polynesia. A preliminary trapping study located R. norvegicus and R. exulans, but not R. rattus. The highest conservation priority should be given to confirming the absence of R. rattus on Rimatara and the implementation of a major quarantine programme to ensure that it is not accidentally introduced. We recommend reintroducing the lorikeet to islands within its former natural range.

AbstractColumbidae (pigeons and doves) is one of the most threatened bird families in the world. I analysed data on the BirdLife International Species Information Database to examine the distribution and causes of threat among columbids. Of 304 species extant in the wild, 59 (19%) are threatened with extinction, 48 (83%) of which have restricted ranges. All but two threatened columbid species (97%) inhabit tropical forests, and of these, 45 are island species (78% of all threatened columbid species). The taxonomic distribution of columbids follows three coherent areas: the Americas; Europe, Africa, the Middle East and Central Asia; Asia, Australasia and Oceania. Asia, Australasia and Oceania support nearly two-thirds of all extant species and three-quarters of threatened species (44), most of which (84%) are restricted range insular species. Three countries within this area are the most important for the conservation of columbid diversity: Indonesia, the Philippines and French Polynesia. Together these three countries support 40% of extant species and half of all threatened species. The greatest causes of threat to columbids are (1) habitat loss and fragmentation due to agriculture and extraction, (2) hunting for food, and (3) alien predator species. Habitat loss and fragmentation are universal threats to columbids. Hunting, however, is a significantly greater threat to species in Asia, Australasia and Oceania than to species in the other two areas and urgently needs to be addressed. I discuss the conservation implications of these findings and make research recommendations to aid and encourage the conservation of threatened columbids and their habitats.

Although forest-dependent, tropical island endemic birds are particularly at risk of extinction, they remain largely understudied. In this context, we assessed the spatial occupancy, local abundance, and diel activity in three forest columbid species of hunting interest, the Ruddy Quail-Dove (RQD), Geotrygon montana; the Bridled Quail-Dove (BQD), Geotrygon mystacea; and the Zenaida Dove (ZD), Zenaida aurita, in Guadeloupe (French West Indies), using 5 camera-traps over 14 days on 24 survey stations, resulting in 1680 trap days. The number of observed RQD was too small to allow for a statistical comparison between habitats. BQD were more frequently observed at camera-trap stations that were dominated by tropical rainforest than those that were dominated by flooded forest. Conversely, ZD were more frequently observed at stations that were dominated by flooded forest and dry forest than at those that were dominated by tropical rainforest. High temperatures negatively affected the abundance of BQD, while the abundance of ZD was significantly lower in tropical rainforests compared to dry and flooded forests and tended to increase with canopy openness. The three species were diurnal. BQD significantly positively co-occurred spatially and temporally with small Indian mongooses, Urva auropunctata, whereas the temporal and spatial distribution of ZD overlapped significantly with that of domestic dogs, Canis familiaris, and domestic cats, Felis catus. Our results provide firm evidence that RQD remains scarce and is largely outnumbered by BQD in Guadeloupe which is in contrast with has been reported for other Caribbean islands.

Can Gio mangrove forest (CGM) is located downstream of Ho Chi Minh City (HCMC), situated between an estuarine system of Dong Nai - Sai Gon river and a part of Vam Co river. The CGM is the largest restored mangrove forest in Vietnam and the UNESCO’s Mangrove Biosphere Reserve. The CGM has been gradually facing to numeric challenges of global climate change, environmental degradation and socio-economic development for the last decades. To evaluate sediment quality in the CGM, we collected 13 cores to analyze for sediment grain size, organic matter content, and trace element concentration of Cd, Cr, Cu, Ni, Pb, Zn. Results showed that trace element concentrations ranged from uncontaminated (Cd, Cu, and Zn) to very minor contaminated (Cr, Ni, and Pb). The concentrations were gradually influenced by suspended particle size and the mangrove plants.ReferencesAnh M.T., Chi D.H., Vinh N.N., Loan T.T., Triet L.M., Slootenb K.B.-V., Tarradellas J., 2003. 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Summary Classified as Critically Endangered, the Ultramarine Lorikeet Vini ultramarina is one of the world’s most threatened lorikeet species. Endemic to the Marquesas Islands in French Polynesia, the species was formerly distributed over most islands in the archipelago, but is today found primarily on the island of Ua Huka, its range having contracted significantly in recent decades. Habitat alteration and loss, and over-exploitation of natural resources, are cited as impacting the Ultramarine Lorikeet, but the influence of introduced black rats Rattus rattus as predators has been implicated as the primary threat to the species. To assess population status and document aspects of the species biology, including habitat preferences and diet, we conducted the first systematic surveys of the species during two independent surveys spaced seven years apart (2002 and 2009). Population estimates of 2,011 ± 284 (in 2002) and 1,922 (in 2009) individuals on Ua Huka suggest the population was relatively healthy and stable between these periods. However, surveys and searches of other islands in the species’ contemporary range, where black rats occur, either failed to document the species or noted very few individuals. These findings highlight the critical importance of Ua Huka as a rat-free refuge and the value of our surveys as baseline estimates of the population status of the species. We discuss the conservation implications of our findings and propose recommendations to secure the species’ future survival.

Abstract A description is provided for Leptogium cochleatum. Some information on its associated organisms and substrata, habitat, dispersal and transmission, and conservation status is given, along with details of its geographical distribution (Africa (Ethiopia, Kenya, Lesotho, Madagascar, Sao Tome and Principe, South Africa, Tanzania), North America (Canada (Nova Scotia), Mexico, USA (Alabama, Arizona, Colorado, Florida, Georgia, Maine, Maryland, Massachusetts, Michigan, Minnesota, New Hampshire, New Jersey, North Carolina, Virginia)), Central America (Belize, Costa Rica, El Salvador, Guatemala, Nicaragua), South America (Argentina, Bolivia, Brazil (Bahia, Mato Grosso, Pará, Rio de Janeiro, Rio Grande do Sul, Santa Catarina, São Paulo), Colombia, Ecuador, French Guina, Peru, Surinam, Venezuela), Asia (China (Beijing, Yunnan), India (Andaman & Nicobar Islands, Karnataka, Maharashtra, Nagaland, Sikkim, Tamil Nadu, Tripura, Uttarakhand, West Bengal), Indonesia, Japan, Malaysia, North Korea, Papua New Guinea, Philippines, Russia (Primorsky Krai), Singapore, South Korea, Taiwan, Thailand, Vietnam), Atlantic Ocean (Bermuda, Cape Verde, Portugal (Azores, Madeira), Spain (Canary Islands), St Helena), Australasia (Australia (New South Wales, Queensland, Victoria), New Zealand, Norfolk Island), Caribbean (Cuba, Guadeloupe), Europe (Austria, Croatia, France, Greece, Ireland, Italy, Norway, Poland, Portugal, Romania, Russia (Krasnodar Krai), Spain, Sweden, Switzerland, UK, former Yugoslavia), Indian Ocean (Mauritius), Pacific Ocean (New Caledonia, USA (Hawaii), Vanuatu)). This species is used in the British Isles as an indicator when making ecological assesments.

Abstract A description is provided for Arcyria cinerea, one of the most consistently abundant and widespread myxomycete species associated with lianas, aerial woody remnants, leaves and inflorescences in tropical and mangrove forests. Some information on its associated organisms and substrata, interaction and habitats, infraspecific variation, dispersal and transmission, and conservation status is given, along with details of its geographical distribution (AFRICA: Algeria, Angola, Burundi, Cameroon, Democratic Republic of the Congo, Egypt, Equatorial Guinea, Gambia, Kenya, Liberia, Madagascar, Malawi, Mayotte, Morocco, Mozambique, Nigeria, Rwanda, Sierra Leone, Somalia, South Africa, Tanzania, Tunisia, Uganda, Western Sahara, Zambia, Zimbabwe; NORTH AMERICA: Canada (Alberta, British Columbia, Manitoba, New Brunswick, Ontario, Quebec, Saskatchewan), Mexico, USA (Alaska, Arizona, Arkansas, California, Colorado, Connecticut, Delaware, Florida, Georgia, Idaho, Illinois, Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Louisiana, Maine, Maryland, Massachusetts, Michigan, Minnesota, Mississippi, Missouri, Montana, Nebraska, New Hampshire, New Jersey, New Mexico, New York, North Carolina, North Dakota, Ohio, Oklahoma, Oregon, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, South Carolina, Tennessee, Texas, Vermont, Virginia, West Virginia); CENTRAL AMERICA: Belize, Costa Rica, El Salvador, Guatemala, Honduras, Nicaragua, Panama; SOUTH AMERICA: Argentina, Bolivia, Brazil (Alagoas, Amazonas, Bahia, Ceara, Mato Grosso, Minas Gerais, Paraiba, Parana, Pernambuco, Rio Grande do Norte, Rio Grande do Sul, Rondonia, Roraima, Santa Catarina, Sao Paulo, Sergipe), Chile, Colombia, Ecuador (including Galapagos), French Guiana, Guyana, Paraguay, Peru, Surinam, Venezuela; ANTARCTICA: Antarctica; ASIA: China (Anhui, Guangdong, Guangxi, Heilongjiang, Hong Kong, Jiangsu, Kwangtung, Yunnan), Christmas Island, Georgia, India (Assam, Chandigarh, Himachal Pradesh, Jammu & Kashmir, Karnataka, Madhya Pradesh, Maharashtra, Orissa, Uttarakhand, Uttar Pradesh, West Bengal), Indonesia, Iran, Japan, Kazakhstan (Aktobe, Atyrau, Pavlodar, West Kazakhstan), Laos, Nepal, Papua-New Guinea, Philippines, Russia (Altai Krai, Altai Republic, Chukotka Autonomous Okrug, Irkutsk Oblast, Khabarovsk Krai, Khanty-Mansi Autonomous Okrug, Krasnoyarsk Krai, Magadan Oblast, Primorsky Krai, Republic of Buryatia, Sakhalin Oblast, Tyumen Oblast, Yamalo-Nenets Autonomous Okrug), Singapore, Sri Lanka, Taiwan, Thailand, Turkey, Uzbekistan, Vietnam. Atlantic OCEAN: Ascension Island, Spain (Canary Islands); AUSTRALASIA: Australia (New South Wales, Northern Territory, Queensland, Tasmania, Victoria, Western Australia), New Zealand, Raoul Island; CARIBBEAN: American Virgin Islands, Antigua and Barbuda, Bahamas, Cuba, Dominica, Dominican Republic, Grenada, Guadeloupe, Haiti, Jamaica, Martinique, Puerto Rico, Trinidad & Tobago; EUROPE: Andorra, Austria, Belgium, Czech Republic, Denmark, Estonia, Finland, France, Germany, Greece, Iceland, Ireland, Italy, Lithuania, Luxembourg, Moldova, Netherlands, Norway, Poland, Portugal, Romania, Russia (Astrakhan Oblast, Chelyabinsk Oblast, Kalinigrad Oblast, Komi Republic, Krasnodar Krai, Kursk Oblast, Leningrad Oblast, Moscow Oblast, Murmansk Oblast, Orenburg Oblast, Perm Krai, Republic of Bashkortostan, Republic of Karelia, Rostov Oblast, Smolensk Oblast, Tver Oblast, Voronezh Oblast, Volgograd Oblast, Vologda Oblast), Slovakia, Slovenia, Spain, Sweden, Switzerland, Ukraine, UK; Indian OCEAN: Mauritius, Reunion, Seychelles; Pacific OCEAN: French Polynesia, New Caledonia, USA (Hawaii)).

Abstract A description is provided for Fuligo septica, a myxomycete which occurs on litter, fallen leaves, bark, decorticated branches, rotten stumps, fallen trunks, rotten wood and burnt logs of a very wide range of plants. Some information on its associated organisms and substrata, interactions and habitats, economic impacts, intraspecific variation, dispersal and transmission and conservation status is given, along with details of its geographical distribution (AFRICA: Algeria, Burundi, Democratic Republic of the Congo, Equatorial Guinea, Eritrea, Lesotho, Liberia, Madagascar, Malawi, Mayotte, Morocco, Nigeria, Sierra Leone, South Africa, Tanzania, Tunisia, Uganda, Zimbabwe; NORTH AMERICA: Canada (Alberta, British Columbia, Manitoba, New Brunswick, Newfoundland, Northwest Territories, Nova Scotia, Nunavut, Ontario, Prince Edward Island, Quebec), Mexico, USA (Alabama, Alaska, Arizona, Arkansas, California, Colorado, Connecticut, Delaware, Florida, Georgia, Idaho, Illinois, Indiana, Iowa, Kentucky, Louisiana, Maine, Maryland, Massachusetts, Michigan, Minnesota, Mississippi, Missouri, Montana, Nebraska, Nevada, New Hampshire, New Jersey, New Mexico, New York, North Carolina, North Dakota, Ohio, Oklahoma, Oregon, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, South Carolina, South Dakota, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, Vermont, Virginia, Washington, West Virginia, Wisconsin, Wyoming), Mexico; CENTRAL AMERICA: Costa Rica, El Salvador, Guatemala, Honduras, Nicaragua, Panama; SOUTH AMERICA: Argentina, Bolivia, Brazil (Bahia, Maranhão, Paraiba, Pernambuco, Roraima, Santa Catarina, São Paulo, Sergipe), Chile, Ecuador (including Galapagos), French Guiana, Guyana, Paraguay, Peru, Uruguay, Venezuela; ASIA: Brunei, China (Fujian, Guizhou, Jiangsu, Zhejiang), Georgia, India (Assam, Chandigarh, Himachal Pradesh, Tamil Nadu, Uttar Pradesh, Uttarakhand), Indonesia, Iran, Japan, Jordan, Kazakhstan (Akmola, Aktobe, Almaty, East Kazakhstan, Karaganda, former Kokshetau, Kostanai, North Kazakhstan, Pavlodar, former Tselinograd, West Kazakhstan), Malaysia, Nepal, North Korea, Pakistan, Papua-New Guinea, Philippines, Russia (Altai Krai, Khanty-Mansi Autonomous Okrug, Krasnoyarsk Krai, Magadan Oblast, Novosibirsk Oblast, Tyumen Oblast), Singapore, South Korea, Turkey, Uzbekistan, Vietnam; ATLANTIC OCEAN: Spain (Canary Islands); AUSTRALASIA: Australia (New South Wales, Queensland, South Australia, Tasmania, Victoria, Western Australia), New Zealand; CARIBBEAN: American Virgin Islands, Antigua and Barbuda, Cuba, Dominica, Dominican Republic, Guadeloupe, Jamaica, Martinique, Puerto Rico, Saint Lucia, Trinidad and Tobago; EUROPE: Andorra, Austria, Belarus, Belgium, Croatia, Czech Republic, Denmark, Estonia, Finland, France, Germany, Greece, Hungary, Ireland, Italy, Latvia, Lithuania, Luxembourg, Moldova, Netherlands, Norway, Poland, Portugal, Romania, Russia (Astrakhan Oblast, Chelyabinsk Oblast, Chuvash Republic, Kaliningrad Oblast, Komi Republic, Krasnodarsk Krai, Kursk Oblast, Leningrad Oblast, Moscow Oblast, Murmansk Oblast, Orenburg Oblast, Pskov Oblast, Republic of Karelia, Stavropol Krai, Tver Oblast, Volgograd Oblast), Serbia, Slovakia, Slovenia, Spain, Sweden, Switzerland, Turkey, Ukraine, UK; INDIAN OCEAN: Christmas Island, Mauritius, Réunion, Seychelles; PACIFIC OCEAN: French Polynesia, Marshall Islands, New Caledonia, Solomon Islands, USA (Hawaii)).

Abstract A description is provided for Lycogala epidendrum, a wood-inhabiting myxomycete which occurs on dead branches, twigs and wood, rotten logs, stumps and trunks, cut logs and other woody debris. Some information on its associated organisms and substrata, interactions and habitats, economic impacts, intraspecific variation, dispersal and transmission and conservation status is given, along with details of its geographical distribution (Algeria, Angola, Burundi, Cameroon, Congo, Democratic Republic of the Congo, Egypt, Liberia, Malawi, Morocco, Nigeria, Rwanda, Sierra Leone, South Africa, Tanzania, Uganda, Zambia; Canada (Alberta, British Columbia, New Brunswick, Newfoundland, Nova Scotia, Ontario, Prince Edward Island, Quebec, Saskatchewan), Mexico, USA (Alaska, Arizona, California, Connecticut, Florida, Georgia, Illinois, Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Maine, Maryland, Massachusetts, Michigan, Minnesota, Mississippi, Missouri, Montana, Nebraska, New Hampshire, New Jersey, New York, North Carolina, Ohio, Oregon, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, South Carolina, Tennessee, Texas, Vermont, Virginia, Washington, West Virginia); Costa Rica, El Salvador, Guatemala, Honduras, Nicaragua, Panama; Argentina, Chile, Colombia, Brazil (Acre, Amazonas, Maranhão, Pará, Paraiba, Pernambuco, Piauí, Rio de Janeiro, Rio Grande do Norte, Rio Grande do Sul, Roraima, Santa Catarina, São Paulo, Sergipe), Ecuador (including Galapagos), French Guiana, Guyana, Paraguay, Peru, Suriname, Uruguay, Venezuela; China (Fujian, Guangxi, Guizhou, Hainan, Jiangxi, Sichuan, Xinjiang, Yunnan, Zhejiang), Georgia, India (Assam, Chandigarh, Himachal Pradesh, Jammu & Kashmir, Karnataka, Maharashtra, Sikkim, Tamil Nadu, West Bengal), Indonesia, Iran, Japan, Kazakhstan (Almaty, East Kazakhstan, Kostanay, North Kazakhstan, former Kokchetau, former Taldy-Kurgan, former Tselinograd), Kyrgyzstan, Malaysia, Mongolia, Nepal, Papua-New Guinea, Philippines, Russia (Altai, Altai Krai, Chukotka Autonomous Okrug, Kamchatka Krai, Khabarovsk Krai, Khanty-Mansi Autonomous Okrug, Krasnoyarsk Krai, Magadan Oblast, Novosibirsk Oblast, Primorsky Krai, Tomsk Oblast, Yamalo-Nenets Autonomous Okrug), Singapore, South Korea, Sri Lanka, Taiwan, Thailand, Turkey, Uzbekistan, Vietnam; Bahamas, Spain (Canary Islands); Australia (New South Wales, Northern Territory, Queensland, South Australia, Tasmania, Victoria, Western Australia), New Zealand; American Virgin Islands, Antigua and Barbuda, Cuba, Dominica, Dominican Republic, Grenada, Guadeloupe, Jamaica, Martinique, Puerto Rico, Saint Lucia, Trinidad and Tobago; Andorra, Austria, Belgium, Bulgaria, Croatia, Czech Republic, Denmark (including Faroe Islands), Estonia, Finland, France, Germany, Greece, Iceland, Ireland, Italy, Kosovo, Latvia, Liechtenstein, Lithuania, Luxembourg, Moldova, Netherlands, Norway, Poland, Portugal, Romania, Russia (Kaliningrad Oblast, Krasnodar Krai, Leningrad Oblast, Moscow Oblast, Rostov Oblast, Vladimir Oblast, Volgograd Oblast), Serbia, Slovakia, Slovenia, Spain, Sweden, Switzerland, Ukraine, UK; Christmas Island, Mauritius, Réunion, Seychelles; Cook Islands, French Polynesia, New Caledonia, USA (Hawaii)).

Abstract A description is provided for Auricularia auricula-judae, found on dead branches of Sambucus nigra. Some information on its morphology, dispersal and transmission and conservation status is given, along with details of its geographical distribution (Africa (Benin, Côte d'Ivoire, Congo, Democratic Republic of the Congo, Ghana, Ethiopia, Gabon, Kenya, Madagascar, Malawi, Nigeria, Rwanda, São Tomé and Principe, Sierra Leone, South Africa, Tunisia, Uganda, Zambia), Asia (Armenia, Azerbaijan, Bhutan, Cambodia, China, Fujian, Hainan, Hong Kong, Manchuria, Shaanxi, Yunnan, Cyprus, Republic of Georgia, India, Assam, Chhattisgarh, Himachal Pradesh, Jammu and Kashmir, Karnataka, Kerala, Maharashtra, Manipur, Meghalaya, Nagaland, Rajasthan, Sikkim, Uttarakhand, West Bengal, Indonesia, Iran, Israel, Japan, Laos, Lebanon, Malaysia, North Korea, Pakistan, Palestine, Papua New Guinea, Philippines, Russia, Altai Republic, Amur Oblast, Jewish Autonomous Oblast, Khabarovsk Krai, Primorsky Krai, Republic of Sakha, Sakhalin Oblast,, Singapore, Korea Republic, Sri Lanka, Taiwan, Thailand, Turkey, Vietnam), Atlantic Ocean (Portugal, Madeira, Spain, Islas Canarias), Australasia (Australia, New South Wales, Northern Territory, Queensland, Victoria, New Zealand), Caribbean (American Virgin Islands, Cuba, Haiti, Jamaica, Puerto Rico), Central America (Costa Rica, El Salvador, Guatemala, Honduras, Panama), Europe (Andorra, Austria, Belgium, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Bulgaria, Croatia, Czech Republic, Denmark, Estonia, Finland, France, Germany, Greece, Hungary, Irish Republic, Isle of Man, Italy, Jersey, Liechtenstein, Lithuania, Luxembourg, Malta, Moldova, Netherlands, Norway, Poland, Portugal, Romania, Russia, Belgorod Oblast, Karachay-Cherkess Republic, Krasnodar Krai, Kursk Oblast, Leningrad Oblast, Moscow Oblast, Republic of Adygea, Republic of North Ossetia-Alania, Serbia, Slovakia, Slovenia, Spain, Sweden, Switzerland, Ukraine, UK), Indian Ocean (Mauritius), North America (Canada, Alberta, British Columbia, New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, Ontario, Prince Edward Island, Quebec, Mexico, USA, Alabama, Alaska, Arizona, Arkansas, California, Colorado, Connecticut, Florida, Georgia, Idaho, Illinois, Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Louisiana, Maine, Maryland, Michigan, Minnesota, Mississippi, Missouri, Montana, New Hampshire, New Jersey, New Mexico, New York, North Carolina, Ohio, Oregon, Pennsylvania, South Carolina, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, Vermont, Virginia, Washington, West Virginia, Wisconsin, Wyoming), Pacific Ocean (French Polynesia, Guam, Norfolk Island, USA, Hawaii), South America (Argentina, Bolivia, Brazil, Amazonas, Bahia, Espírito Santo, Mato Grosso, Pará, Paraná, Pernambuco, Rio de Janeiro, Rio Grande do Norte, Rio Grande do Sul, Rondônia, Roraima, Santa Catarina, São Paulo, Chile, Colombia, Ecuador, French Guiana, Guyana, Paraguay, Peru, Suriname, Venezuela)) and host (S. nigra).

Abstract Many of the national parks in East Africa are equally as famous for their iconic landforms as they are for their diversity and concentrations of fauna and flora. The newly formed Ngorongoro-Lengai Geopark in northern Tanzania is the first geopark to be established in the region, but there is remarkable potential for geotourism in the majority of the national parks. The most spectacular landforms have been shaped by the East African Rift System. Formation of the two major rifts in the region, the Albertine Rift (or western branch) and the Gregory Rift (or eastern branch), was accompanied, or in some cases preceded, by extensive alkaline volcanism. The rifting and volcanism are primarily Late Cenozoic phenomenon that dissected and overprinted the older regional plateaus. Rifting impacted the regional drainage and captured major rivers, including the Victoria Nile. Chains of ribbon lakes formed in the rift valleys. The Albertine Rift consists of a sequence of sedimentary basins with deep freshwater lakes, but the shallow soda lakes of the Gregory Rift are associated with mostly volcanic terrains. Plateau-style volcanic outpourings smoothed out the older land surfaces, created near-lunar landscapes in parts of the rift valley, and built up rift shoulders to tremendous elevations. Magma erupted from central conduits formed giant stratovolcanoes which reveal evidence of explosive, Plinian-style volcanic activity. East Africa includes some of the largest and best preserved calderas on Earth. The Ngorongoro Caldera is a world heritage site. The ice-capped peaks of the two largest volcanoes in the region, Kilimanjaro and Mount Kenya, are among the highest free-standing mountains on Earth. The region includes active volcanoes, several of which are potentially hazardous as they are located near urban centres. Examples include Longonot-Hells Gate (Kenya), Mount Meru (Tanzania) and Nyiragongo (Democratic Republic of Congo). East Africa is renowned for the unusual rapidity of Darwinian evolution during the past thirty million years, including evolution of primates and hominins, and it is not a coincidence that significant palaeoanthropological discoveries have been unearthed from the Oldupai Gorge and Laetoli sites in northern Tanzania. The evolutionary period coincides with the onset and persistence of rifting and volcanism. Speciation is following an island-style pattern in East Africa, despite the continental setting, as regional plateaus are being dissected by the ongoing rifting and volcanism into smaller and smaller geological terrains. This is illustrated by restriction of the endangered Mountain gorilla to regions where afromontane forests developed in rift-related uplands isolated by extensive savannah grasslands.

Abstract A description is provided for Ganoderma applanatum. Sporophores of this fungus are found on both living and dead trees, where the fungus causes a decay of heartwood resulting in a white soft spongy heart and butt rot. Some information on its associated organisms and substrata, dispersal and transmission, habitats and conservation status is given, along with details of its geographical distribution (Africa (Angola, Benin, Congo, Democratic Republic of the Congo, Equatorial Guinea, Ivory Coast, Kenya, Madagascar, Morocco, Mozambique, São Tomé and Principe, Sierra Leone, South Africa, Sudan, Tanzania, Togo), Asia (Azerbaijan, Brunei Darussalam, China (Anhui, Fujian, Gansu, Guangdong, Guangxi, Guizhou, Hainan, Hebei, Heilongjiang, Henan, Hong Kong, Hunan, Jiangsu, Jiangxi, Jilin, Nei Mongol Autonomous Region, Qinghai, Shaanxi, Shanxi, Sichuan, Xinjiang, Yunnan, Zhejiang), Christmas Island, Cyprus, Georgia, India (Assam, Chhattisgarh, Gujarat, Himachal Pradesh, Jammu & Kashmir, Karnataka, Kerala, Madhya Pradesh, Maharashtra, Meghalaya, Orissa, Punjab, Rajasthan, Uttarakhand, Uttar Pradesh, West Bengal), Indonesia, Iran, Israel, Japan, Kazakhstan (Almaty, East Kazakhstan, Kostanay, South Kazakhstan), Laos, Malaysia, Nepal, North Korea, Oman, Pakistan, Papua New Guinea, Philippines, Russia (Altai Krai, Altai Republic, Irkutsk Oblast, Kamchatka Krai, Kemerovo Oblast, Khanty-Mansi Autonomous Okrug, Krasnoyarsk Krai, Novosibirsk Oblast, Omsk Oblast, Primorsky Krai, Sakha Republic, Sverdlovsk Oblast, Tomsk Oblast, Tyumen Oblast, YamaloNenets Autonomous Okrug), Singapore, South Korea, Sri Lanka, Taiwan, Tajikistan, Thailand, Turkey, Uzbekistan, Vietnam), Australasia (Australia (Australian Capital Territory, New South Wales, Northern Territory, Queensland, South Australia, Tasmania, Victoria, Western Australia), New Zealand), Caribbean (American Virgin Islands, British Virgin Islands, Cuba, Dominican Republic, Guadeloupe, Haiti, Jamaica, Puerto Rico, Trinidad and Tobago), Central America (Belize, Costa Rica, El Salvador, Guatemala, Honduras, Nicaragua, Panama. Europe: Austria, Belarus, Belgium, Bulgaria, Czech Republic, Denmark, Estonia, Finland, France, Germany, Greece, Ireland, Isle of Man, Italy, Latvia, Lithuania, Luxembourg, Netherlands, Norway, Poland, Portugal, Republic of North Macedonia, Romania, Russia (Arkhangelsk Oblast, Belgorod Oblast, Bryansk Oblast, Chuvash Republic, Ivanovo Oblast, Kaliningrad Oblast, Kaluga Oblast, Kirov Oblast, Kostroma Oblast, Krasnodar Krai, Kursk Oblast, Leningrad Oblast, Mari El Republic, Moscow Oblast, Nizhny Novgorod Oblast, Orenburg Oblast, Oryol Oblast, Penza Oblast, Perm Krai, Pskov Oblast, Republic of Bashkortostan, Republic of Tatarstan, Samara Oblast, Smolensk Oblast, Tula Oblast, Tver Oblast, Udmurt Republic, Vladimir Oblast, Vologda Oblast, Voronezh Oblast, Yaroslavl Oblast), Serbia, Slovakia, Slovenia, Spain, Sweden, Switzerland, Ukraine, UK), Indian Ocean (Seychelles. North America: Canada (Alberta, British Columbia, Manitoba, New Brunswick, Newfoundland and Labrador, Northwest Territories, Nova Scotia, Ontario, Prince Edward Island, Quebec, Saskatchewan), Mexico, USA (Alabama, Alaska, Arizona, Arkansas, California, Colorado, Connecticut, Delaware, District of Columbia, Florida, Georgia, Idaho, Illinois, Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Louisiana, Maine, Maryland, Massachusetts, Michigan, Minnesota, Mississippi, Missouri, Montana, Nebraska, New Hampshire, New Jersey, New Mexico, New York, North Carolina, North Dakota, Ohio, Oklahoma, Oregon, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, South Carolina, South Dakota, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, Vermont, Virginia, Washington, West Virginia, Wisconsin, Wyoming)), Pacific Ocean (American Samoa, Cook Islands, Federated States of Micronesia, Fiji, French Polynesia, Guam, Marshall Islands, Samoa, Tuvalu, USA (Hawaii)), South America (Argentina, Bolivia, Brazil (Acre, Alagoas, Amapá, Amazonas, Bahia, Espírito Santo, Minas Gerais, Pará, Paraíba, Paraná, Pernambuco, Rio de Janeiro, Rio Grande do Sul, Rondônia, Roraima, Santa Catarina, São Paulo), Chile, Colombia, Ecuador, French Guiana, Peru, Suriname, Uruguay, Venezuela)).

Abstract A description is provided for Tremella mesenterica, a parasite on mycelium of (perhaps exclusively) Peniophora spp. Some information on its associated organisms and substrata, dispersal and transmission, habitats and conservation status is given, along with details of its geographical distribution (Africa (Benin, Democratic Republic of the Congo, Morocco, South Africa, Tunisia), Asia (Armenia, Azerbaijan, China (Hong Kong, Sichuan, Yunnan), Georgia, India (Chhattisgarh, Karnataka, Kerala, Madhya Pradesh, Maharashtra, Meghalaya, Sikkim), Iran, Israel, Japan, Kazakhstan (Almaty, East Kazakhstan), Lebanon, Malaysia, Philippines, Russia (Altai Krai, Amur Oblast, Irkutsk Oblast, Jewish Autonomous Oblast, Kamchatka Krai, Khabarovsk Krai, Khanty-Mansi Autonomous Okrug, Omsk Oblast, Primorsky Krai, Sakha Republic, Sakhalin Oblast, Sverdlovsk Oblast, Tyumen Oblast, Yamalo-Nenets Autonomous Okrug), South Korea, Sri Lanka, Taiwan, Tajikistan, Turkey, Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan), Australasia (Australia (Australian Capital Territory, New South Wales, Northern Territory, Queensland, South Australia, Tasmania, Victoria, Western Australia), New Zealand), Caribbean (Jamaica, Puerto Rico), Central America (Costa Rica, Honduras, Panama), Europe (Austria, Belarus, Belgium, Bulgaria, Croatia, Czech Republic, Denmark, Estonia, Faroe Islands, Finland, France, Germany, Greece, Hungary, Iceland, Ireland, Isle of Man, Italy, Jersey, Liechtenstein, Lithuania, Luxembourg, Moldova, Netherlands, Norway, Poland, Portugal, Romania, Russia (Arkhangelsk Oblast, Belgorod Oblast, Bryansk Oblast, Chuvash Republic, Ivanovo Oblast, Kaliningrad Oblast, Kaluga Oblast, Kirov Oblast, Komi Republic, Kostroma Oblast, Krasnodar Krai, Kursk Oblast, Leningrad Oblast, Mari El Republic, Moscow Oblast, Murmansk Oblast, Nizhny Novgorod Oblast, Novgorod Oblast, Perm Krai, Pskov Oblast, Republic of Adygea, Republic of Bashkortostan, Republic of Dagestan, Republic of Mordovia, Republic of Tatarstan, Tula Oblast, Tver Oblast, Udmurt Republic, Vladimir Oblast, Voronezh Oblast, Yaroslavl Oblast), Serbia, Slovakia, Slovenia, Spain, Sweden, Switzerland, Ukraine, UK), Indian Ocean (Réunion), North America (Canada (Alberta, British Columbia, New Brunswick, Newfoundland and Labrador, Northwest Territories, Nova Scotia, Ontario, Prince Edward Island, Quebec, Saskatchewan, Yukon), Mexico, USA (Alabama, Alaska, Arizona, Arkansas, California, Colorado, Connecticut, Delaware, District of Columbia, Florida, Georgia, Idaho, Illinois, Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Louisiana, Maine, Maryland, Massachusetts, Michigan, Minnesota, Mississippi, Missouri, Nebraska, Nevada, New Hampshire, New Jersey, New York, North Carolina, Ohio, Oklahoma, Oregon, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, South Carolina, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, Vermont, Virginia, Washington, West Virginia, Wisconsin, Wyoming)), Pacific Ocean (USA (Hawaii)), South America (Argentina, Brazil (Bahia, Mato Grosso do Sul, Minas Gerais, Paraná, Rio Grande do Sul, Rio de Janeiro, Santa Catarina, São Paulo), Chile, Colombia, Ecuador, French Guiana, Guyana, Peru, Venezuela)).

Mapping and Assessment of Ecosystems and their Services (MAES) has been widely applied on the European Union (EU) mainland, whereas the EU Overseas entities still bear potential for implementation. This paper presents novel applications of the MAES procedure in the EU Outermost Regions and Overseas Countries and Territories ("EU Overseas"). Eight case studies from different geographical areas were analysed through a comparative assessment by applying an established framework following key steps in the MAES process, in order to stipulate lessons learned and recommendations for MAES in the EU Overseas. These key steps include the identification of policy questions, stakeholder networks and involvement, application of MAES methods, dissemination and communication and implementation. The case studies were conducted and analysed under the umbrella of the EU MOVE pilot project, including the Azores, the Canary Islands, Saint Martin, French Guiana, Martinique, Reunion Island and the Falkland Islands. Each case study represented different governance, policy and decision-making frameworks towards biodiversity and environmental protection. Case studies predominantly addressed the policy domains of Nature and Biodiversity Conservation and Marine and Maritime Policy. Ecosystem Services (ES) were assessed across a wide range of themes, biomes and scales, focusing on terrestrial, coastal and marine ecosystems. Results show that the implementation of the case studies was accompanied by extensive communication and dissemination activities. First success stories were visible, where the MAES exercise led to meaningful uptake of the ES concept to policies and decision-making. Yet, there is still work to be done - major bottlenecks were identified related to the MAES implementation centring around financial resources, training and technical expertise. Addressing these aspects can contribute to an enhanced implementation of MAES in the EU Overseas in the future.

Special Care Notice This article contains images of deceased people that might cause sadness or distress to Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander readers. Introduction Like many cities, Perth was founded on wetlands that have been integral to its history and culture (Seddon 226–32). However, in order to promote a settlement agenda, early mapmakers sought to erase the city’s wetlands from cartographic depictions (Giblett, Cities). Since the colonial era, inner-Perth’s swamps and lakes have been drained, filled, significantly reduced in size, or otherwise reclaimed for urban expansion (Bekle). Not only have the swamps and lakes physically disappeared, the memories of their presence and influence on the city’s development over time are also largely forgotten. What was the site of Perth, specifically its wetlands, like before British settlement? In 2014, an interdisciplinary team at Edith Cowan University developed a digital visualisation process to re-imagine Perth prior to colonisation. This was based on early maps of the Swan River Colony and a range of archival information. The images depicted the city’s topography, hydrology, and vegetation and became the centerpiece of a physical exhibition entitled Re-imagining Perth’s Lost Wetlands and a virtual exhibition hosted by the Western Australian Museum. Alongside historic maps, paintings, photographs, and writings, the visual reconstruction of Perth aimed to foster appreciation of the pre-settlement environment—the homeland of the Whadjuck Nyoongar, or Bibbulmun, people (Carter and Nutter). The exhibition included the narrative of Fanny Balbuk, a Nyoongar woman who voiced her indignation over the “usurping of her beloved home ground” (Bates, The Passing 69) by flouting property lines and walking through private residences to reach places of cultural significance. Beginning with Balbuk’s story and the digital tracing of her walking route through colonial Perth, this article discusses the project in the context of contemporary pressures on the city’s extant wetlands. The re-imagining of Perth through historically, culturally, and geographically-grounded digital visualisation approaches can inspire the conservation of its wetlands heritage. Balbuk’s Walk through the City For many who grew up in Perth, Fanny Balbuk’s perambulations have achieved legendary status in the collective cultural imagination. In his memoir, David Whish-Wilson mentions Balbuk’s defiant walks and the lighting up of the city for astronaut John Glenn in 1962 as the two stories that had the most impact on his Perth childhood. From Gordon Stephenson House, Whish-Wilson visualises her journey in his mind’s eye, past Government House on St Georges Terrace (the main thoroughfare through the city centre), then north on Barrack Street towards the railway station, the site of Lake Kingsford where Balbuk once gathered bush tucker (4). He considers the footpaths “beneath the geometric frame of the modern city […] worn smooth over millennia that snake up through the sheoak and marri woodland and into the city’s heart” (Whish-Wilson 4). Balbuk’s story embodies the intertwined culture and nature of Perth—a city of wetlands. Born in 1840 on Heirisson Island, Balbuk (also known as Yooreel) (Figure 1) had ancestral bonds to the urban landscape. According to Daisy Bates, writing in the early 1900s, the Nyoongar term Matagarup, or “leg deep,” denotes the passage of shallow water near Heirisson Island where Balbuk would have forded the Swan River (“Oldest” 16). Yoonderup was recorded as the Nyoongar name for Heirisson Island (Bates, “Oldest” 16) and the birthplace of Balbuk’s mother (Bates, “Aboriginal”). In the suburb of Shenton Park near present-day Lake Jualbup, her father bequeathed to her a red ochre (or wilgi) pit that she guarded fervently throughout her life (Bates, “Aboriginal”).Figure 1. Group of Aboriginal Women at Perth, including Fanny Balbuk (far right) (c. 1900). Image Credit: State Library of Western Australia (Image Number: 44c). Balbuk’s grandparents were culturally linked to the site. At his favourite camp beside the freshwater spring near Kings Park on Mounts Bay Road, her grandfather witnessed the arrival of Lieutenant-Colonel Frederick Irwin, cousin of James Stirling (Bates, “Fanny”). In 1879, colonial entrepreneurs established the Swan Brewery at this significant locale (Welborn). Her grandmother’s gravesite later became Government House (Bates, “Fanny”) and she protested vociferously outside “the stone gates guarded by a sentry [that] enclosed her grandmother’s burial ground” (Bates, The Passing 70). Balbuk’s other grandmother was buried beneath Bishop’s Grove, the residence of the city’s first archibishop, now Terrace Hotel (Bates, “Aboriginal”). Historian Bob Reece observes that Balbuk was “the last full-descent woman of Kar’gatta (Karrakatta), the Bibbulmun name for the Mount Eliza [Kings Park] area of Perth” (134). According to accounts drawn from Bates, her home ground traversed the area between Heirisson Island and Perth’s north-western limits. In Kings Park, one of her relatives was buried near a large, hollow tree used by Nyoongar people like a cistern to capture water and which later became the site of the Queen Victoria Statue (Bates, “Aboriginal”). On the slopes of Mount Eliza, the highest point of Kings Park, at the western end of St Georges Terrace, she harvested plant foods, including zamia fruits (Macrozamia riedlei) (Bates, “Fanny”). Fanny Balbuk’s knowledge contributed to the native title claim lodged by Nyoongar people in 2006 as Bennell v. State of Western Australia—the first of its kind to acknowledge Aboriginal land rights in a capital city and part of the larger Single Nyoongar Claim (South West Aboriginal Land and Sea Council et al.). Perth’s colonial administration perceived the city’s wetlands as impediments to progress and as insalubrious environments to be eradicated through reclamation practices. For Balbuk and other Nyoongar people, however, wetlands were “nourishing terrains” (Rose) that afforded sustenance seasonally and meaning perpetually (O’Connor, Quartermaine, and Bodney). Mary Graham, a Kombu-merri elder from Queensland, articulates the connection between land and culture, “because land is sacred and must be looked after, the relation between people and land becomes the template for society and social relations. Therefore all meaning comes from land.” Traditional, embodied reliance on Perth’s wetlands is evident in Bates’ documentation. For instance, Boojoormeup was a “big swamp full of all kinds of food, now turned into Palmerston and Lake streets” (Bates, “Aboriginal”). Considering her cultural values, Balbuk’s determination to maintain pathways through the increasingly colonial Perth environment is unsurprising (Figure 2). From Heirisson Island: a straight track had led to the place where once she had gathered jilgies [crayfish] and vegetable food with the women, in the swamp where Perth railway station now stands. Through fences and over them, Balbuk took the straight track to the end. When a house was built in the way, she broke its fence-palings with her digging stick and charged up the steps and through the rooms. (Bates, The Passing 70) One obstacle was Hooper’s Fence, which Balbuk broke repeatedly on her trips to areas between Kings Park and the railway station (Bates, “Hooper’s”). Her tenacious commitment to walking ancestral routes signifies the friction between settlement infrastructure and traditional Nyoongar livelihood during an era of rapid change. Figure 2. Determination of Fanny Balbuk’s Journey between Yoonderup (Heirisson Island) and Lake Kingsford, traversing what is now the central business district of Perth on the Swan River (2014). Image background prepared by Dimitri Fotev. Track interpolation by Jeff Murray. Project Background and Approach Inspired by Fanny Balbuk’s story, Re-imagining Perth’s Lost Wetlands began as an Australian response to the Mannahatta Project. Founded in 1999, that project used spatial analysis techniques and mapping software to visualise New York’s urbanised Manhattan Island—or Mannahatta as it was called by indigenous people—in the early 1600s (Sanderson). Based on research into the island’s original biogeography and the ecological practices of Native Americans, Mannahatta enabled the public to “peel back” the city’s strata, revealing the original composition of the New York site. The layers of visuals included rich details about the island’s landforms, water systems, and vegetation. Mannahatta compelled Rod Giblett, a cultural researcher at Edith Cowan University, to develop an analogous model for visualising Perth circa 1829. The idea attracted support from the City of Perth, Landgate, and the University. Using stories, artefacts, and maps, the team—comprising a cartographer, designer, three-dimensional modelling expert, and historical researchers—set out to generate visualisations of the landscape at the time of British colonisation. Nyoongar elder Noel Nannup approved culturally sensitive material and contributed his perspective on Aboriginal content to include in the exhibition. The initiative’s context remains pressing. In many ways, Perth has become a template for development in the metropolitan area (Weller). While not unusual for a capital, the rate of transformation is perhaps unexpected in a city less than 200 years old (Forster). There also remains a persistent view of existing wetlands as obstructions to progress that, once removed, are soon forgotten (Urban Bushland Council). Digital visualisation can contribute to appreciating environments prior to colonisation but also to re-imagining possibilities for future human interactions with land, water, and space. Despite the rapid pace of change, many Perth area residents have memories of wetlands lost during their lifetimes (for example, Giblett, Forrestdale). However, as the clearing and drainage of the inner city occurred early in settlement, recollections of urban wetlands exist exclusively in historical records. In 1935, a local correspondent using the name “Sandgroper” reminisced about swamps, connecting them to Perth’s colonial heritage: But the Swamps were very real in fact, and in name in the [eighteen-] Nineties, and the Perth of my youth cannot be visualised without them. They were, of course, drying up apace, but they were swamps for all that, and they linked us directly with the earliest days of the Colony when our great-grandparents had founded this City of Perth on a sort of hog's-back, of which Hay-street was the ridge, and from which a succession of streamlets ran down its southern slope to the river, while land locked to the north of it lay a series of lakes which have long since been filled to and built over so that the only evidence that they have ever existed lies in the original street plans of Perth prepared by Roe and Hillman in the early eighteen-thirties. A salient consequence of the loss of ecological memory is the tendency to repeat the miscues of the past, especially the blatant disregard for natural and cultural heritage, as suburbanisation engulfs the area. While the swamps of inner Perth remain only in the names of streets, existing wetlands in the metropolitan area are still being threatened, as the Roe Highway (Roe 8) Campaign demonstrates. To re-imagine Perth’s lost landscape, we used several colonial survey maps to plot the location of the original lakes and swamps. At this time, a series of interconnecting waterbodies, known as the Perth Great Lakes, spread across the north of the city (Bekle and Gentilli). This phase required the earliest cartographic sources (Figure 3) because, by 1855, city maps no longer depicted wetlands. We synthesised contextual information, such as well depths, geological and botanical maps, settlers’ accounts, Nyoongar oral histories, and colonial-era artists’ impressions, to produce renderings of Perth. This diverse collection of primary and secondary materials served as the basis for creating new images of the city. Team member Jeff Murray interpolated Balbuk’s route using historical mappings and accounts, topographical data, court records, and cartographic common sense. He determined that Balbuk would have camped on the high ground of the southern part of Lake Kingsford rather than the more inundated northern part (Figure 2). Furthermore, she would have followed a reasonably direct course north of St Georges Terrace (contrary to David Whish-Wilson’s imaginings) because she was barred from Government House for protesting. This easier route would have also avoided the springs and gullies that appear on early maps of Perth. Figure 3. Townsite of Perth in Western Australia by Colonial Draftsman A. Hillman and John Septimus Roe (1838). This map of Perth depicts the wetlands that existed overlaid by the geomentric grid of the new city. Image Credit: State Library of Western Australia (Image Number: BA1961/14). Additionally, we produced an animated display based on aerial photographs to show the historical extent of change. Prompted by the build up to World War II, the earliest aerial photography of Perth dates from the late 1930s (Dixon 148–54). As “Sandgroper” noted, by this time, most of the urban wetlands had been drained or substantially modified. The animation revealed considerable alterations to the formerly swampy Swan River shoreline. Most prominent was the transformation of the Matagarup shallows across the Swan River, originally consisting of small islands. Now traversed by a causeway, this area was transformed into a single island, Heirisson—the general site of Balbuk’s birth. The animation and accompanying materials (maps, images, and writings) enabled viewers to apprehend the changes in real time and to imagine what the city was once like. Re-imagining Perth’s Urban Heart The physical environment of inner Perth includes virtually no trace of its wetland origins. Consequently, we considered whether a representation of Perth, as it existed previously, could enhance public understanding of natural heritage and thereby increase its value. For this reason, interpretive materials were exhibited centrally at Perth Town Hall. Built partly by convicts between 1867 and 1870, the venue is close to the site of the 1829 Foundation of Perth, depicted in George Pitt Morrison’s painting. Balbuk’s grandfather “camped somewhere in the city of Perth, not far from the Town Hall” (Bates, “Fanny”). The building lies one block from the site of the railway station on the site of Lake Kingsford, the subsistence grounds of Balbuk and her forebears: The old swamp which is now the Perth railway yards had been a favourite jilgi ground; a spring near the Town Hall had been a camping place of Maiago […] and others of her fathers' folk; and all around and about city and suburbs she had gathered roots and fished for crayfish in the days gone by. (Bates, “Derelicts” 55) Beginning in 1848, the draining of Lake Kingsford reached completion during the construction of the Town Hall. While the swamps of the city were not appreciated by many residents, some organisations, such as the Perth Town Trust, vigorously opposed the reclamation of the lake, alluding to its hydrological role: That, the soil being sand, it is not to be supposed that Lake Kingsford has in itself any material effect on the wells of Perth; but that, from this same reason of the sandy soil, it would be impossible to keep the lake dry without, by so doing, withdrawing the water from at least the adjacent parts of the townsite to the same depth. (Independent Journal of Politics and News 3) At the time of our exhibition, the Lake Kingsford site was again being reworked to sink the railway line and build Yagan Square, a public space named after a colonial-era Nyoongar leader. The project required specialised construction techniques due to the high water table—the remnants of the lake. People travelling to the exhibition by train in October 2014 could have seen the lake reasserting itself in partly-filled depressions, flush with winter rain (Figure 4).Figure 4. Rise of the Repressed (2014). Water Rising in the former site of Lake Kingsford/Irwin during construction, corner of Roe and Fitzgerald Streets, Northbridge, WA. Image Credit: Nandi Chinna (2014). The exhibition was situated in the Town Hall’s enclosed undercroft designed for markets and more recently for shops. While some visited after peering curiously through the glass walls of the undercroft, others hailed from local and state government organisations. Guest comments applauded the alternative view of Perth we presented. The content invited the public to re-imagine Perth as a city of wetlands that were both environmentally and culturally important. A display panel described how the city’s infrastructure presented a hindrance for Balbuk as she attempted to negotiate the once-familiar route between Yoonderup and Lake Kingsford (Figure 2). Perth’s growth “restricted Balbuk’s wanderings; towns, trains, and farms came through her ‘line of march’; old landmarks were thus swept away, and year after year saw her less confident of the locality of one-time familiar spots” (Bates, “Fanny”). Conserving Wetlands: From Re-Claiming to Re-Valuing? Imagination, for philosopher Roger Scruton, involves “thinking of, and attending to, a present object (by thinking of it, or perceiving it, in terms of something absent)” (155). According to Scruton, the feelings aroused through imagination can prompt creative, transformative experiences. While environmental conservation tends to rely on data-driven empirical approaches, it appeals to imagination less commonly. We have found, however, that attending to the present object (the city) in terms of something absent (its wetlands) through evocative visual material can complement traditional conservation agendas focused on habitats and species. The actual extent of wetlands loss in the Swan Coastal Plain—the flat and sandy region extending from Jurien Bay south to Cape Naturaliste, including Perth—is contested. However, estimates suggest that 80 per cent of wetlands have been lost, with remaining habitats threatened by climate change, suburban development, agriculture, and industry (Department of Environment and Conservation). As with the swamps and lakes of the inner city, many regional wetlands were cleared, drained, or filled before they could be properly documented. Additionally, the seasonal fluctuations of swampy places have never been easily translatable to two-dimensional records. As Giblett notes, the creation of cartographic representations and the assignment of English names were attempts to fix the dynamic boundaries of wetlands, at least in the minds of settlers and administrators (Postmodern 72–73). Moreover, European colonists found the Western Australian landscape, including its wetlands, generally discomfiting. In a letter from 1833, metaphors failed George Fletcher Moore, the effusive colonial commentator, “I cannot compare these swamps to any marshes with which you are familiar” (220). The intermediate nature of wetlands—as neither land nor lake—is perhaps one reason for their cultural marginalisation (Giblett, Postmodern 39). The conviction that unsanitary, miasmic wetlands should be converted to more useful purposes largely prevailed (Giblett, Black 105–22). Felicity Morel-EdnieBrown’s research into land ownership records in colonial Perth demonstrated that town lots on swampland were often preferred. By layering records using geographic information systems (GIS), she revealed modifications to town plans to accommodate swampland frontages. The decline of wetlands in the region appears to have been driven initially by their exploitation for water and later for fertile soil. Northern market gardens supplied the needs of the early city. It is likely that the depletion of Nyoongar bush foods predated the flourishing of these gardens (Carter and Nutter). Engaging with the history of Perth’s swamps raises questions about the appreciation of wetlands today. In an era where numerous conservation strategies and alternatives have been developed (for example, Bobbink et al. 93–220), the exploitation of wetlands in service to population growth persists. On Perth’s north side, wetlands have long been subdued by controlling their water levels and landscaping their boundaries, as the suburban examples of Lake Monger and Hyde Park (formerly Third Swamp Reserve) reveal. Largely unmodified wetlands, such as Forrestdale Lake, exist south of Perth, but they too are in danger (Giblett, Black Swan). The Beeliar Wetlands near the suburb of Bibra Lake comprise an interconnected series of lakes and swamps that are vulnerable to a highway extension project first proposed in the 1950s. Just as the Perth Town Trust debated Lake Kingsford’s draining, local councils and the public are fiercely contesting the construction of the Roe Highway, which will bisect Beeliar Wetlands, destroying Roe Swamp (Chinna). The conservation value of wetlands still struggles to compete with traffic planning underpinned by a modernist ideology that associates cars and freeways with progress (Gregory). Outside of archives, the debate about Lake Kingsford is almost entirely forgotten and its physical presence has been erased. Despite the magnitude of loss, re-imagining the city’s swamplands, in the way that we have, calls attention to past indiscretions while invigorating future possibilities. We hope that the re-imagining of Perth’s wetlands stimulates public respect for ancestral tracks and songlines like Balbuk’s. Despite the accretions of settler history and colonial discourse, songlines endure as a fundamental cultural heritage. Nyoongar elder Noel Nannup states, “as people, if we can get out there on our songlines, even though there may be farms or roads overlaying them, fences, whatever it is that might impede us from travelling directly upon them, if we can get close proximity, we can still keep our culture alive. That is why it is so important for us to have our songlines.” Just as Fanny Balbuk plied her songlines between Yoonderup and Lake Kingsford, the traditional custodians of Beeliar and other wetlands around Perth walk the landscape as an act of resistance and solidarity, keeping the stories of place alive. Acknowledgments The authors wish to acknowledge Rod Giblett (ECU), Nandi Chinna (ECU), Susanna Iuliano (ECU), Jeff Murray (Kareff Consulting), Dimitri Fotev (City of Perth), and Brendan McAtee (Landgate) for their contributions to this project. The authors also acknowledge the traditional custodians of the lands upon which this paper was researched and written. 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IntroductionTasmania hangs from the map of Australia like a drop in freefall from the substance of the mainland. Often the whole state is mislaid from Australian maps and logos (Reddit). Tasmania has, at least since federation, been considered peripheral—a region seen as isolated, a ‘problem’ economically, politically, and culturally. However, Tasmania not only cleaves to the ‘north island’ of Australia but is also subject to the gravitational pull of an even greater land mass—Antarctica. In this article, we upturn the political conventions of map-making that place both Antarctica and Tasmania in obscure positions at the base of the globe. We show how a changing global climate re-frames Antarctica and the Southern Ocean as key drivers of worldwide environmental shifts. The liquid and solid water between Tasmania and Antarctica is revealed not as a homogenous barrier, but as a dynamic and relational medium linking the Tasmanian archipelago with Antarctica. When Antarctica becomes the focus, the script is flipped: Tasmania is no longer on the edge, but core to a network of gateways into the southern land. The state’s capital of Hobart can from this perspective be understood as an “Antarctic city”, central to the geopolitics, economy, and culture of the frozen continent (Salazar et al.). Viewed from the south, we argue, Tasmania is not a problem, but an opportunity for a form of ecological, cultural, economic, and political sustainability that opens up the southern continent to science, discovery, and imagination.A Centre at the End of the Earth? Tasmania as ParadoxThe islands of Tasmania owe their existence to climate change: a period of warming at the end of the last ice age melted the vast sheets of ice covering the polar regions, causing sea levels to rise by more than one hundred metres (Tasmanian Climate Change Office 8). Eleven thousand years ago, Aboriginal people would have witnessed the rise of what is now called Bass Strait, turning what had been a peninsula into an archipelago, with the large island of Tasmania at its heart. The heterogeneous practices and narratives of Tasmanian regional identity have been shaped by the geography of these islands, and their connection to the Southern Ocean and Antarctica. Regions, understood as “centres of collective consciousness and sociospatial identities” (Paasi 241) are constantly reproduced and reimagined through place-based social practices and communications over time. As we will show, diverse and contradictory narratives of Tasmanian regionality often co-exist, interacting in complex and sometimes complementary ways. Ecocritical literary scholar C.A. Cranston considers duality to be embedded in the textual construction of Tasmania, writing “it was hell, it was heaven, it was penal, it was paradise” (29). Tasmania is multiply polarised: it is both isolated and connected; close and far away; rich in resources and poor in capital; the socially conservative birthplace of radical green politics (Hay 60). The weather, as if sensing the fine balance of these paradoxes, blows hot and cold at a moment’s notice.Tasmania has wielded extraordinary political influence at times in its history—notably during the settlement of Melbourne in 1835 (Boyce), and during protests against damming the Franklin River in the early 1980s (Mercer). However, twentieth-century historical and political narratives of Tasmania portray the Bass Strait as a barrier, isolating Tasmanians from the mainland (Harwood 61). Sir Bede Callaghan, who headed one of a long line of federal government inquiries into “the Tasmanian problem” (Harwood 106), was clear that Tasmania was a victim of its own geography:the major disability facing the people of Tasmania (although some residents may consider it an advantage) is that Tasmania is an island. Separation from the mainland adversely affects the economy of the State and the general welfare of the people in many ways. (Callaghan 3)This perspective may stem from the fact that Tasmania has maintained the lowest Gross Domestic Product per capita of all states since federation (Bureau of Infrastructure Transport and Regional Economics 9). Socially, economically, and culturally, Tasmania consistently ranks among the worst regions of Australia. Statistical comparisons with other parts of Australia reveal the population’s high unemployment, low wages, poor educational outcomes, and bad health (West 31). The state’s remoteness and isolation from the mainland states and its reliance on federal income have contributed to the whole of Tasmania, including Hobart, being classified as ‘regional’ by the Australian government, in an attempt to promote immigration and economic growth (Department of Infrastructure and Regional Development 1). Tasmania is indeed both regional and remote. However, in this article we argue that, while regionality may be cast as a disadvantage, the island’s remote location is also an asset, particularly when viewed from a far southern perspective (Image 1).Image 1: Antarctica (Orthographic Projection). Image Credit: Wikimedia Commons, Modified Shading of Tasmania and Addition of Captions by H. Nielsen.Connecting Oceans/Collapsing DistanceTasmania and Antarctica have been closely linked in the past—the future archipelago formed a land bridge between Antarctica and northern land masses until the opening of the Tasman Seaway some 32 million years ago (Barker et al.). The far south was tangible to the Indigenous people of the island in the weather blowing in from the Southern Ocean, while the southern lights, or “nuyina”, formed a visible connection (Australia’s new icebreaker vessel is named RSV Nuyina in recognition of these links). In the contemporary Australian imagination, Tasmania tends to be defined by its marine boundaries, the sea around the islands represented as flat, empty space against which to highlight the topography of its landscape and the isolation of its position (Davies et al.). A more relational geographic perspective illuminates the “power of cross-currents and connections” (Stratford et al. 273) across these seascapes. The sea country of Tasmania is multiple and heterogeneous: the rough, shallow waters of the island-scattered Bass Strait flow into the Tasman Sea, where the continental shelf descends toward an abyssal plain studded with volcanic seamounts. To the south, the Southern Ocean provides nutrient-rich upwellings that attract fish and cetacean populations. Tasmania’s coast is a dynamic, liminal space, moving and changing in response to the global currents that are driven by the shifting, calving and melting ice shelves and sheets in Antarctica.Oceans have long been a medium of connection between Tasmania and Antarctica. In the early colonial period, when the seas were the major thoroughfares of the world and inland travel was treacherous and slow, Tasmania’s connection with the Southern Ocean made it a valuable hub for exploration and exploitation of the south. Between 1642 and 1900, early European explorers were followed by British penal colonists, convicts, sealers, and whalers (Kriwoken and Williamson 93). Tasmania was well known to polar explorers, with expeditions led by Jules Dumont d’Urville, James Clark Ross, Roald Amundsen, and Douglas Mawson all transiting through the port of Hobart. Now that the city is no longer a whaling hub, growing populations of cetaceans continue to migrate past the islands on their annual journeys from the tropics, across the Sub-Antarctic Front and Antarctic circumpolar current, and into the south polar region, while southern species such as leopard seals are occasionally seen around Tasmania (Tasmania Parks and Wildlife). Although the water surrounding Tasmania and Antarctica is at times homogenised as a ‘barrier’, rendering these places isolated, the bodies of water that surround both are in fact permeable, and regularly crossed by both humans and marine species. The waters are diverse in their physical characteristics, underlying topography, sea life, and relationships, and serve to connect many different ocean regions, ecosystems, and weather patterns.Views from the Far SouthWhen considered in terms of its relative proximity to Antarctic, rather than its distance from Australia’s political and economic centres, Tasmania’s identity undergoes a significant shift. A sign at Cockle Creek, in the state’s far south, reminds visitors that they are closer to Antarctica than to Cairns, invoking a discourse of connectedness that collapses the standard ten-day ship voyage to Australia’s closest Antarctic station into a unit comparable with the routinely scheduled 5.5 hour flight to North Queensland. Hobart is the logistical hub for the Australian Antarctic Division and the French Institut Polaire Francais (IPEV), and has hosted Antarctic vessels belonging to the USA, South Korea, and Japan in recent years. From a far southern perspective, Hobart is not a regional Australian capital but a global polar hub. This alters the city’s geographic imaginary not only in a latitudinal sense—from “top down” to “bottom up”—but also a longitudinal one. Via its southward connection to Antarctica, Hobart is also connected east and west to four other recognized gateways: Cape Town in South Africa, Christchurch in New Zealand; Punta Arenas in Chile; and Ushuaia in Argentina (Image 2). The latter cities are considered small by international standards, but play an outsized role in relation to Antarctica.Image 2: H. Nielsen with a Sign Announcing Distances between Antarctic ‘Gateway’ Cities and Antarctica, Ushuaia, Argentina, 2018. Image Credit: Nicki D'Souza.These five cities form what might be called—to adapt geographer Klaus Dodds’ term—a ‘Southern Rim’ around the South Polar region (Dodds Geopolitics). They exist in ambiguous relationship to each other. Although the five cities signed a Statement of Intent in 2009 committing them to collaboration, they continue to compete vigorously for northern hemisphere traffic and the brand identity of the most prominent global gateway. A state government brochure spruiks Hobart, for example, as the “perfect Antarctic Gateway” emphasising its uniqueness and “natural advantages” in this regard (Tasmanian Government, 2016). In practice, the cities are automatically differentiated by their geographic position with respect to Antarctica. Although the ‘ice continent’ is often conceived as one entity, it too has regions, in both scientific and geographical senses (Terauds and Lee; Antonello). Hobart provides access to parts of East Antarctica, where the Australian, French, Japanese, and Chinese programs (among others) have bases; Cape Town is a useful access point for Europeans going to Dronning Maud Land; Christchurch is closest to the Ross Sea region, site of the largest US base; and Punta Arenas and Ushuaia neighbour the Antarctic Peninsula, home to numerous bases as well as a thriving tourist industry.The Antarctic sector is important to the Tasmanian economy, contributing $186 million (AUD) in 2017/18 (Wells; Gutwein; Tasmanian Polar Network). Unsurprisingly, Tasmania’s gateway brand has been actively promoted, with the 2016 Australian Antarctic Strategy and 20 Year Action Plan foregrounding the need to “Build Tasmania’s status as the premier East Antarctic Gateway for science and operations” and the state government releasing a “Tasmanian Antarctic Gateway Strategy” in 2017. The Chinese Antarctic program has been a particular focus: a Memorandum of Understanding focussed on Australia and China’s Antarctic relations includes a “commitment to utilise Australia, including Tasmania, as an Antarctic ‘gateway’.” (Australian Antarctic Division). These efforts towards a closer relationship with China have more recently come under attack as part of a questioning of China’s interests in the region (without, it should be noted, a concomitant questioning of Australia’s own considerable interests) (Baker 9). In these exchanges, a global power and a state of Australia generally classed as regional and peripheral are brought into direct contact via the even more remote Antarctic region. This connection was particularly visible when Chinese President Xi Jinping travelled to Hobart in 2014, in a visit described as both “strategic” and “incongruous” (Burden). There can be differences in how this relationship is narrated to domestic and international audiences, with issues of sovereignty and international cooperation variously foregrounded, laying the ground for what Dodds terms “awkward Antarctic nationalism” (1).Territory and ConnectionsThe awkwardness comes to a head in Tasmania, where domestic and international views of connections with the far south collide. Australia claims sovereignty over almost 6 million km2 of the Antarctic continent—a claim that in area is “roughly the size of mainland Australia minus Queensland” (Bergin). This geopolitical context elevates the importance of a regional part of Australia: the claims to Antarctic territory (which are recognised only by four other claimant nations) are performed not only in Antarctic localities, where they are made visible “with paraphernalia such as maps, flags, and plaques” (Salazar 55), but also in Tasmania, particularly in Hobart and surrounds. A replica of Mawson’s Huts in central Hobart makes Australia’s historic territorial interests in Antarctica visible an urban setting, foregrounding the figure of Douglas Mawson, the well-known Australian scientist and explorer who led the expeditions that proclaimed Australia’s sovereignty in the region of the continent roughly to its south (Leane et al.). Tasmania is caught in a balancing act, as it fosters international Antarctic connections (such hosting vessels from other national programs), while also playing a key role in administering what is domestically referred to as the Australian Antarctic Territory. The rhetoric of protection can offer common ground: island studies scholar Godfrey Baldacchino notes that as island narratives have moved “away from the perspective of the ‘explorer-discoverer-colonist’” they have been replaced by “the perspective of the ‘custodian-steward-environmentalist’” (49), but reminds readers that a colonising disposition still lurks beneath the surface. It must be remembered that terms such as “stewardship” and “leadership” can undertake sovereignty labour (Dodds “Awkward”), and that Tasmania’s Antarctic connections can be mobilised for a range of purposes. When Environment Minister Greg Hunt proclaimed at a press conference that: “Hobart is the gateway to the Antarctic for the future” (26 Apr. 2016), the remark had meaning within discourses of both sovereignty and economics. Tasmania’s capital was leveraged as a way to position Australia as a leader in the Antarctic arena.From ‘Gateway’ to ‘Antarctic City’While discussion of Antarctic ‘Gateway’ Cities often focuses on the economic and logistical benefit of their Antarctic connections, Hobart’s “gateway” identity, like those of its counterparts, stretches well beyond this, encompassing geological, climatic, historical, political, cultural and scientific links. Even the southerly wind, according to cartoonist Jon Kudelka, “has penguins in it” (Image 3). Hobart residents feel a high level of connection to Antarctica. In 2018, a survey of 300 randomly selected residents of Greater Hobart was conducted under the umbrella of the “Antarctic Cities” Australian Research Council Linkage Project led by Assoc. Prof. Juan Francisco Salazar (and involving all three present authors). Fourteen percent of respondents reported having been involved in an economic activity related to Antarctica, and 36% had attended a cultural event about Antarctica. Connections between the southern continent and Hobart were recognised as important: 71.9% agreed that “people in my city can influence the cultural meanings that shape our relationship to Antarctica”, while 90% agreed or strongly agreed that Hobart should play a significant role as a custodian of Antarctica’s future, and 88.4% agreed or strongly agreed that: “How we treat Antarctica is a test of our approach to ecological sustainability.” Image 3: “The Southerly” Demonstrates How Weather Connects Hobart and Antarctica. Image Credit: Jon Kudelka, Reproduced with Permission.Hobart, like the other gateways, activates these connections in its conscious place-branding. The city is particularly strong as a centre of Antarctic research: signs at the cruise-ship terminal on the waterfront claim that “There are more Antarctic scientists based in Hobart […] than at any other one place on earth, making Hobart a globally significant contributor to our understanding of Antarctica and the Southern Ocean.” Researchers are based at the Institute for Marine and Antarctic Studies (IMAS), the Commonwealth Scientific and Industrial Research Organisation (CSIRO), and the Australian Antarctic Division (AAD), with several working between institutions. Many Antarctic researchers located elsewhere in the world also have a connection with the place through affiliations and collaborations, leading journalist Jo Chandler to assert that “the breadth and depth of Hobart’s knowledge of ice, water, and the life forms they nurture […] is arguably unrivalled anywhere in the world” (86).Hobart also plays a significant role in Antarctica’s governance, as the site of the secretariats for the Commission for the Conservation of Antarctic Marine Living Resources (CCAMLR) and the Agreement on the Conservation of Albatrosses and Petrels (ACAP), and as host of the Antarctic Consultative Treaty Meetings on more than one occasion (1986, 2012). The cultural domain is active, with Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery (TMAG) featuring a permanent exhibit, “Islands to Ice”, emphasising the ocean as connecting the two places; the Mawson’s Huts Replica Museum aiming (among other things) to “highlight Hobart as the gateway to the Antarctic continent for the Asia Pacific region”; and a biennial Australian Antarctic Festival drawing over twenty thousand visitors, about a sixth of them from interstate or overseas (Hingley). Antarctic links are evident in the city’s natural and built environment: the dolerite columns of Mt Wellington, the statue of the Tasmanian Antarctic explorer Louis Bernacchi on the waterfront, and the wharfs that regularly accommodate icebreakers such as the Aurora Australis and the Astrolabe. Antarctica is figured as a southern neighbour; as historian Tom Griffiths puts it, Tasmanians “grow up with Antarctica breathing down their necks” (5). As an Antarctic City, Hobart mediates access to Antarctica both physically and in the cultural imaginary.Perhaps in recognition of the diverse ways in which a region or a city might be connected to Antarctica, researchers have recently been suggesting critical approaches to the ‘gateway’ label. C. Michael Hall points to a fuzziness in the way the term is applied, noting that it has drifted from its initial definition (drawn from economic geography) as denoting an access and supply point to a hinterland that produces a certain level of economic benefits. While Hall looks to keep the term robustly defined to avoid empty “local boosterism” (272–73), Gabriela Roldan aims to move the concept “beyond its function as an entry and exit door”, arguing that, among other things, the local community should be actively engaged in the Antarctic region (57). Leane, examining the representation of Hobart as a gateway in historical travel texts, concurs that “ingress and egress” are insufficient descriptors of Tasmania’s relationship with Antarctica, suggesting that at least discursively the island is positioned as “part of an Antarctic rim, itself sharing qualities of the polar region” (45). The ARC Linkage Project described above, supported by the Hobart City Council, the State Government and the University of Tasmania, as well as other national and international partners, aims to foster the idea of the Hobart and its counterparts as ‘Antarctic cities’ whose citizens act as custodians for the South Polar region, with a genuine concern for and investment in its future.Near and Far: Local Perspectives A changing climate may once again herald a shift in the identity of the Tasmanian islands. Recognition of the central role of Antarctica in regulating the global climate has generated scientific and political re-evaluation of the region. Antarctica is not only the planet’s largest heat sink but is the engine of global water currents and wind patterns that drive weather patterns and biodiversity across the world (Convey et al. 543). For example, Tas van Ommen’s research into Antarctic glaciology shows the tangible connection between increased snowfall in coastal East Antarctica and patterns of drought southwest Western Australia (van Ommen and Morgan). Hobart has become a global centre of marine and Antarctic science, bringing investment and development to the city. As the global climate heats up, Tasmania—thanks to its low latitude and southerly weather patterns—is one of the few regions in Australia likely to remain temperate. This is already leading to migration from the mainland that is impacting house prices and rental availability (Johnston; Landers 1). The region’s future is therefore closely entangled with its proximity to the far south. Salazar writes that “we cannot continue to think of Antarctica as the end of the Earth” (67). Shifting Antarctica into focus also brings Tasmania in from the margins. As an Antarctic city, Hobart assumes a privileged positioned on the global stage. This allows the city to present itself as central to international research efforts—in contrast to domestic views of the place as a small regional capital. The city inhabits dual identities; it is both on the periphery of Australian concerns and at the centre of Antarctic activity. Tasmania, then, is not in freefall, but rather at the forefront of a push to recognise Antarctica as entangled with its neighbours to the north.AcknowledgementsThis work was supported by the Australian Research Council under LP160100210.ReferencesAntonello, Alessandro. “Finding Place in Antarctica.” Antarctica and the Humanities. Eds. Peder Roberts, Lize-Marie van der Watt, and Adrian Howkins. London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2016. 181–204.Australian Government. 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About half way through Yann Arthus-Bertrand’s film Home (2009) the narrator describes the fall of the Rapa Nui, the indigenous people of the Easter Islands. The narrator posits that the Rapa Nui culture collapsed due to extensive environmental degradation brought about by large-scale deforestation. The Rapa Nui cut down their massive native forests to clear spaces for agriculture, to heat their dwellings, to build canoes and, most importantly, to move their enormous rock sculptures—the Moai. The disappearance of their forests led to island-wide soil erosion and the gradual disappearance of arable land. Caught in the vice of overpopulation but with rapidly dwindling basic resources and no trees to build canoes, they were trapped on the island and watched helplessly as their society fell into disarray. The sequence ends with the narrator’s biting remark: “The real mystery of the Easter Islands is not how its strange statues got there, we know now; it's why the Rapa Nui didn't react in time.” In their unrelenting desire for development, the Rapa Nui appear to have overlooked the role the environment plays in maintaining a society. The island’s Moai accompanying the sequence appear as memento mori, a lesson in the mortality of human cultures brought about by their own misguided and short-sighted practices. Arthus-Bertrand’s Home, a film composed almost entirely of aerial photographs, bears witness to present-day environmental degradation and climate change, constructing society as a fragile structure built upon and sustained by the environment. Home is a call to recognise how contemporary practices of post-industrial societies have come to shape the environment and how they may impact the habitability of Earth in the near future. Through reflexivity and a ritualised structure the text invites spectators to look at themselves in a new light and remake their self-image in the wake of global environmental risk by embracing new, alternative core practices based on balance and interconnectedness. Arthus-Bertrand frames climate change not as a burden, but as a moment of profound realisation of the potential for change and humans ability to create a desirable future through hope and our innate capacity for renewal. This article examines how Arthus-Bertrand’s ritualised construction of climate change aims to remake viewers’ perception of present-day environmental degradation and investigates Home’s place in contemporary climate change communication discourse. Climate change, in its capacity to affect us globally, is considered a world risk. The most recent peer-reviewed Synthesis Report of the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change suggests that the concentration of atmospheric greenhouse gases has increased markedly since human industrialisation in the 18th century. Moreover, human activities, such as fossil fuel burning and agricultural practices, are “very likely” responsible for the resulting increase in temperature rise (IPPC 37). The increased global temperatures and the subsequent changing weather patterns have a direct and profound impact on the physical and biological systems of our planet, including shrinking glaciers, melting permafrost, coastal erosion, and changes in species distribution and reproduction patterns (Rosenzweig et al. 353). Studies of global security assert that these physiological changes are expected to increase the likelihood of humanitarian disasters, food and water supply shortages, and competition for resources thus resulting in a destabilisation of global safety (Boston et al. 1–2). Human behaviour and dominant practices of modernity are now on a path to materially impact the future habitability of our home, Earth. In contemporary post-industrial societies, however, climate change remains an elusive, intangible threat. Here, the Arctic-bound species forced to adapt to milder climates or the inhabitants of low-lying Pacific islands seeking refuge in mainland cities are removed from the everyday experience of the controlled and regulated environments of homes, offices, and shopping malls. Diverse research into the mediated and mediatised nature of the environment suggests that rather than from first-hand experiences and observations, the majority of our knowledge concerning the environment now comes from its representation in the mass media (Hamilton 4; Stamm et al. 220; Cox 2). Consequently the threat of climate change is communicated and constructed through the news media, entertainment and lifestyle programming, and various documentaries and fiction films. It is therefore the construction (the representation of the risk in various discourses) that shapes people’s perception and experience of the phenomenon, and ultimately influences behaviour and instigates social response (Beck 213). By drawing on and negotiating society’s dominant discourses, environmental mediation defines spectators’ perceptions of the human-nature relationship and subsequently their roles and responsibilities in the face of environmental risks. Maxwell Boykoff asserts that contemporary modern society’s mediatised representations of environmental degradation and climate change depict the phenomena as external to society’s primary social and economic concerns (449). Julia Corbett argues that this is partly because environmental protection and sustainable behaviour are often at odds with the dominant social paradigms of consumerism, economic growth, and materialism (175). Similarly, Rowan Howard-Williams suggests that most media texts, especially news, do not emphasise the link between social practices, such as consumerist behaviour, and their environmental consequences because they contradict dominant social paradigms (41). The demands contemporary post-industrial societies make on the environment to sustain economic growth, consumer culture, and citizens’ comfortable lives in air-conditioned homes and offices are often left unarticulated. While the media coverage of environmental risks may indeed have contributed to “critical misperceptions, misleading debates, and divergent understandings” (Boykoff 450) climate change possesses innate characteristics that amplify its perception in present-day post-industrial societies as a distant and impersonal threat. Climate change is characterised by temporal and spatial de-localisation. The gradual increase in global temperature and its physical and biological consequences are much less prominent than seasonal changes and hence difficult to observe on human time-scales. Moreover, while research points to the increased probability of extreme climatic events such as droughts, wild fires, and changes in weather patterns (IPCC 48), they take place over a wide range of geographical locations and no single event can be ultimately said to be the result of climate change (Maibach and Roser-Renouf 145). In addition to these observational obstacles, political partisanship, vested interests in the current status quo, and general resistance to profound change all play a part in keeping us one step removed from the phenomenon of climate change. The distant and impersonal nature of climate change coupled with the “uncertainty over consequences, diverse and multiple engaged interests, conflicting knowledge claims, and high stakes” (Lorenzoni et al. 65) often result in repression, rejection, and denial, removing the individual’s responsibility to act. Research suggests that, due to its unique observational obstacles in contemporary post-industrial societies, climate change is considered a psychologically distant event (Pawlik 559), one that is not personally salient due to the “perceived distance and remoteness [...] from one’s everyday experience” (O’Neill and Nicholson-Cole 370). In an examination of the barriers to behaviour change in the face of psychologically distant events, Robert Gifford argues that changing individuals’ perceptions of the issue-domain is one of the challenges of countering environmental inertia—the lack of initiative for environmentally sustainable social action (5). To challenge the status quo a radically different construction of the environment and the human-nature relationship is required to transform our perception of global environmental risks and ultimately result in environmentally consequential social action. Yann Arthus-Bertrand’s Home is a ritualised construction of contemporary environmental degradation and climate change which takes spectators on a rite of passage to a newfound understanding of the human-nature relationship. Transformation through re-imagining individuals’ roles, responsibilities, and practices is an intrinsic quality of rituals. A ritual charts a subjects path from one state of consciousness to the next, resulting in a meaningful change of attitudes (Deflem 8). Through a lifelong study of African rituals British cultural ethnographer Victor Turner refined his concept of rituals in a modern social context. Turner observed that rituals conform to a three-phased processural form (The Ritual Process 13–14). First, in the separation stage, the subjects are selected and removed from their fixed position in the social structure. Second, they enter an in-between and ambiguous liminal stage, characterised by a “partial or complete separation of the subject from everyday existence” (Deflem 8). Finally, imbued with a new perspective of the outside world borne out of the experience of reflexivity, liminality, and a cathartic cleansing, subjects are reintegrated into the social reality in a new, stable state. The three distinct stages make the ritual an emotionally charged, highly personal experience that “demarcates the passage from one phase to another in the individual’s life-cycle” (Turner, “Symbols” 488) and actively shapes human attitudes and behaviour. Adhering to the three-staged processural form of the ritual, Arthus-Bertrand guides spectators towards a newfound understanding of their roles and responsibilities in creating a desirable future. In the first stage—the separation—aerial photography of Home alienates viewers from their anthropocentric perspectives of the outside world. This establishes Earth as a body, and unearths spectators’ guilt and shame in relation to contemporary world risks. Aerial photography strips landscapes of their conventional qualities of horizon, scale, and human reference. As fine art photographer Emmet Gowin observes, “when one really sees an awesome, vast place, our sense of wholeness is reorganised [...] and the body seems always to diminish” (qtd. in Reynolds 4). Confronted with a seemingly infinite sublime landscape from above, the spectator’s “body diminishes” as they witness Earth’s body gradually taking shape. Home’s rushing rivers of Indonesia are akin to blood flowing through the veins and the Siberian permafrost seems like the texture of skin in extreme close-up. Arthus-Bertrand establishes a geocentric embodiment to force spectators to perceive and experience the environmental degradation brought about by the dominant social practices of contemporary post-industrial modernity. The film-maker visualises the maltreatment of the environment through suggested abuse of the Earth’s body. Images of industrial agricultural practices in the United States appear to leave scratches and scars on the landscape, and as a ship crosses the Arctic ice sheets of the Northwest Passage the boat glides like the surgeon’s knife cutting through the uppermost layer of the skin. But the deep blue water that’s revealed in the wake of the craft suggests a flesh and body now devoid of life, a suffering Earth in the wake of global climatic change. Arthus-Bertrand’s images become the sublime evidence of human intervention in the environment and the reflection of present-day industrialisation materially altering the face of Earth. The film-maker exploits spectators’ geocentric perspective and sensibility to prompt reflexivity, provide revelations about the self, and unearth the forgotten shame and guilt in having inadvertently caused excessive environmental degradation. Following the sequences establishing Earth as the body of the text Arthus-Bertrand returns spectators to their everyday “natural” environment—the city. Having witnessed and endured the pain and suffering of Earth, spectators now gaze at the skyscrapers standing bold and tall in the cityscape with disillusionment. The pinnacles of modern urban development become symbols of arrogance and exploitation: structures forced upon the landscape. Moreover, the images of contemporary cityscapes in Home serve as triggers for ritual reflexivity, allowing the spectator to “perceive the self [...] as a distanced ‘other’ and hence achieve a partial ‘self-transcendence’” (Beck, Comments 491). Arthus-Bertrand’s aerial photographs of Los Angeles, New York, and Tokyo fold these distinct urban environments into one uniform fusion of glass, metal, and concrete devoid of life. The uniformity of these cultural landscapes prompts spectators to add the missing element: the human. Suddenly, the homes and offices of desolate cityscapes are populated by none other than us, looking at ourselves from a unique vantage point. The geocentric sensibility the film-maker invoked with the images of the suffering Earth now prompt a revelation about the self as spectators see their everyday urban environments in a new light. Their homes and offices become blemishes on the face of the Earth: its inhabitants, including the spectators themselves, complicit in the excessive mistreatment of the planet. The second stage of the ritual allows Arthus-Bertrand to challenge dominant social paradigms of present day post-industrial societies and introduce new, alternative moral directives to govern our habits and attitudes. Following the separation, ritual subjects enter an in-between, threshold stage, one unencumbered by the spatial, temporal, and social boundaries of everyday existence. Turner posits that a subjects passage through this liminal stage is necessary to attain psychic maturation and successful transition to a new, stable state at the end of the ritual (The Ritual Process 97). While this “betwixt and between” (Turner, The Ritual Process 95) state may be a fleeting moment of transition, it makes for a “lived experience [that] transforms human beings cognitively, emotionally, and morally.” (Horvath et al. 3) Through a change of perceptions liminality paves the way toward meaningful social action. Home places spectators in a state of liminality to contrast geocentric and anthropocentric views. Arthus-Bertrand contrasts natural and human-made environments in terms of diversity. The narrator’s description of the “miracle of life” is followed by images of trees seemingly defying gravity, snow-covered summits among mountain ranges, and a whale in the ocean. Grandeur and variety appear to be inherent qualities of biodiversity on Earth, qualities contrasted with images of the endless, uniform rectangular greenhouses of Almeria, Spain. This contrast emphasises the loss of variety in human achievements and the monotony mass-production brings to the landscape. With the image of a fire burning atop a factory chimney, Arthus-Bertrand critiques the change of pace and distortion of time inherent in anthropocentric views, and specifically in contemporary modernity. Here, the flames appear to instantly eat away at resources that have taken millions of years to form, bringing anthropocentric and geocentric temporality into sharp contrast. A sequence showing a night time metropolis underscores this distinction. The glittering cityscape is lit by hundreds of lights in skyscrapers in an effort, it appears, to mimic and surpass daylight and thus upturn the natural rhythm of life. As the narrator remarks, in our present-day environments, “days are now the pale reflections of nights.” Arthus-Bertrand also uses ritual liminality to mark the present as a transitory, threshold moment in human civilisation. The film-maker contrasts the spectre of our past with possible visions of the future to mark the moment of now as a time when humanity is on the threshold of two distinct states of mind. The narrator’s descriptions of contemporary post-industrial society’s reliance on non-renewable resources and lack of environmentally sustainable agricultural practices condemn the past and warn viewers of the consequences of continuing such practices into the future. Exploring the liminal present Arthus-Bertrand proposes distinctive futurescapes for humankind. On the one hand, the narrator’s description of California’s “concentration camp style cattle farming” suggests that humankind will live in a future that feeds from the past, falling back on frames of horrors and past mistakes. On the other hand, the example of Costa Rica, a nation that abolished its military and dedicated the budget to environmental conservation, is recognition of our ability to re-imagine our future in the face of global risk. Home introduces myths to imbue liminality with the alternative dominant social paradigm of ecology. By calling upon deep-seated structures myths “touch the heart of society’s emotional, spiritual and intellectual consciousness” (Killingsworth and Palmer 176) and help us understand and come to terms with complex social, economic, and scientific phenomena. With the capacity to “pattern thought, beliefs and practices,” (Maier 166) myths are ideal tools in communicating ritual liminality and challenging contemporary post-industrial society’s dominant social paradigms. The opening sequence of Home, where the crescent Earth is slowly revealed in the darkness of space, is an allusion to creation: the genesis myth. Accompanied only by a gentle hum our home emerges in brilliant blue, white, and green-brown encompassing most of the screen. It is as if darkness and chaos disintegrated and order, life, and the elements were created right before our eyes. Akin to the Earthrise image taken by the astronauts of Apollo 8, Home’s opening sequence underscores the notion that our home is a unique spot in the blackness of space and is defined and circumscribed by the elements. With the opening sequence Arthus-Bertrand wishes to impart the message of interdependence and reliance on elements—core concepts of ecology. Balance, another key theme in ecology, is introduced with an allusion to the Icarus myth in a sequence depicting Dubai. The story of Icarus’s fall from the sky after flying too close to the sun is a symbolic retelling of hubris—a violent pride and arrogance punishable by nemesis—destruction, which ultimately restores balance by forcing the individual back within the limits transgressed (Littleton 712). In Arthus-Bertrand’s portrayal of Dubai, the camera slowly tilts upwards on the Burj Khalifa tower, the tallest human-made structure ever built. The construction works on the tower explicitly frame humans against the bright blue sky in their attempt to reach ever further, transgressing their limitations much like the ill-fated Icarus. Arthus-Bertrand warns that contemporary modernity does not strive for balance or moderation, and with climate change we may have brought our nemesis upon ourselves. By suggesting new dominant paradigms and providing a critique of current maxims, Home’s retelling of myths ultimately sees spectators through to the final stage of the ritual. The last phase in the rite of passage “celebrates and commemorates transcendent powers,” (Deflem 8) marking subjects’ rebirth to a new status and distinctive perception of the outside world. It is at this stage that Arthus-Bertrand resolves the emotional distress uncovered in the separation phase. The film-maker uses humanity’s innate capacity for creation and renewal as a cathartic cleansing aimed at reconciling spectators’ guilt and shame in having inadvertently exacerbated global environmental degradation. Arthus-Bertrand identifies renewable resources as the key to redeeming technology, human intervention in the landscape, and finally humanity itself. Until now, the film-maker pictured modernity and technology, evidenced in his portrayal of Dubai, as synonymous with excess and disrespect for the interconnectedness and balance of elements on Earth. The final sequence shows a very different face of technology. Here, we see a mechanical sea-snake generating electricity by riding the waves off the coast of Scotland and solar panels turning towards the sun in the Sahara desert. Technology’s redemption is evidenced in its ability to imitate nature—a move towards geocentric consciousness (a lesson learned from the ritual’s liminal stage). Moreover, these human-made structures, unlike the skyscrapers earlier in the film, appear a lot less invasive in the landscape and speak of moderation and union with nature. With the above examples Arthus-Bertrand suggests that humanity can shed the greed that drove it to dig deeper and deeper into the Earth to acquire non-renewable resources such as oil and coal, what the narrator describes as “treasures buried deep.” The incorporation of principles of ecology, such as balance and interconnectedness, into humanity’s behaviour ushers in reconciliation and ritual cleansing in Home. Following the description of the move toward renewable resources, the narrator reveals that “worldwide four children out of five attend school, never has learning been given to so many human beings” marking education, innovation, and creativity as the true inexhaustible resources on Earth. Lastly, the description of Antarctica in Home is the essence of Arthus-Bertrand’s argument for our innate capacity to create, not simply exploit and destroy. Here, the narrator describes the continent as possessing “immense natural resources that no country can claim for itself, a natural reserve devoted to peace and science, a treaty signed by 49 nations has made it a treasure shared by all humanity.” Innovation appears to fuel humankind’s transcendence to a state where it is capable of compassion, unification, sharing, and finally creating treasures. With these examples Arthus-Bertrand suggests that humanity has an innate capacity for creative energy that awaits authentic expression and can turn humankind from destroyer to creator. In recent years various risk communication texts have explicitly addressed climate change, endeavouring to instigate environmentally consequential social action. Home breaks discursive ground among them through its ritualistic construction which seeks to transform spectators’ perception, and in turn roles and responsibilities, in the face of global environmental risks. Unlike recent climate change media texts such as An Inconvenient Truth (2006), The 11th Hour (2007), The Age of Stupid (2009), Carbon Nation (2010) and Earth: The Operator’s Manual (2011), Home eludes simple genre classification. On the threshold of photography and film, documentary and fiction, Arthus-Bertrand’s work is best classified as an advocacy film promoting public debate and engagement with a universal concern—the state of the environment. The film’s website, available in multiple languages, contains educational material, resources to organise public screenings, and a link to GoodPlanet.info: a website dedicated to environmentalism, including legal tools and initiatives to take action. The film-maker’s approach to using Home as a basis for education and raising awareness corresponds to Antonio Lopez’s critique of contemporary mass-media communications of global risks. Lopez rebukes traditional forms of mediatised communication that place emphasis on the imparting of knowledge and instead calls for a participatory, discussion-driven, organic media approach, akin to a communion or a ritual (106). Moreover, while texts often place a great emphasis on the messenger, for instance Al Gore in An Inconvenient Truth, Leonardo DiCaprio in The 11th Hour, or geologist Dr. Richard Alley in Earth: The Operator’s Manual, Home’s messenger remains unseen—the narrator is only identified at the very end of the film among the credits. The film-maker’s decision to forego a central human character helps dissociate the message from the personality of the messenger which aids in establishing and maintaining the geocentric sensibility of the text. Finally, the ritual’s invocation and cathartic cleansing of emotional distress enables Home to at once acknowledge our environmentally destructive past habits and point to a hopeful, environmentally sustainable future. While The Age of Stupid mostly focuses on humanity’s present and past failures to respond to an imminent environmental catastrophe, Carbon Nation, with the tagline “A climate change solutions movie that doesn’t even care if you believe in climate change,” only explores the potential future business opportunities in turning towards renewable resources and environmentally sustainable practices. The three-phased processural form of the ritual allows for a balance of backward and forward-looking, establishing the possibility of change and renewal in the face of world risk. The ritual is a transformative experience. As Turner states, rituals “interrupt the flow of social life and force a group to take cognizance of its behaviour in relation to its own values, and even question at times the value of those values” (“Dramatic Ritual” 82). Home, a ritualised media text, is an invitation to look at our world, its dominant social paradigms, and the key element within that world—ourselves—with new eyes. It makes explicit contemporary post-industrial society’s dependence on the environment, highlights our impact on Earth, and reveals our complicity in bringing about a contemporary world risk. The ritual structure and the self-reflexivity allow Arthus-Bertrand to transform climate change into a personally salient issue. This bestows upon the spectator the responsibility to act and to reconcile the spectre of the past with the vision of the future.Acknowledgments The author would like to thank Dr. Angi Buettner whose support, guidance, and supervision has been invaluable in preparing this article. 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Kangatarianism is the rather inelegant word coined in the first decade of the twenty-first century to describe an omnivorous diet in which the only meat consumed is that of the kangaroo. First published in the media in 2010 (Barone; Zukerman), the term circulated in Australian environmental and academic circles including the Global Animal conference at the University of Wollongong in July 2011 where I first heard it from members of the Think Tank for Kangaroos (THINKK) group. By June 2017, it had gained enough attention to be named the Oxford English Dictionary’s Australian word of the month (following on from May’s “smashed avo,” another Australian food innovation), but it took the Nine Network reality television series Love Island Australia to raise kangatarian to trending status on social media (Oxford UP). During the first episode, aired in late May 2018, Justin, a concreter and fashion model from Melbourne, declared himself to have previously been a kangatarian as he chatted with fellow contestant, Millie. Vet nurse and animal lover Millie appeared to be shocked by his revelation but was tentatively accepting when Justin explained what kangatarian meant, and justified his choice on the grounds that kangaroo are not farmed. In the social media response, it was clear that eating only the meat of kangaroos as an ethical choice was an entirely new concept to many viewers, with one tweet stating “Kangatarian isn’t a thing”, while others variously labelled the diet brutal, intriguing, or quintessentially Australian (see #kangatarian on Twitter).There is a well developed literature around the arguments for and against eating kangaroo, and why settler Australians tend to be so reluctant to do so (see for example, Probyn; Cawthorn and Hoffman). Here, I will concentrate on the role that ethics play in this food choice by examining how the adoption of kangatarianism can be understood as a bargain struck to help to manage grief in the Anthropocene, and the limitations of that bargain. As Lesley Head has argued, we are living in a time of loss and of grieving, when much that has been taken for granted is becoming unstable, and “we must imagine that drastic changes to everyday life are in the offing” (313). Applying the classic (and contested) model of five stages of grief, first proposed by Elisabeth Kübler-Ross in her book On Death and Dying in 1969, much of the population of the western world seems to be now experiencing denial, her first stage of loss, while those in the most vulnerable environments have moved on to anger with developed countries for destructive actions in the past and inaction in the present. The next stages (or states) of grieving—bargaining, depression, and acceptance—are likely to be manifested, although not in any predictable sequence, as the grief over current and future losses continues (Haslam).The great expansion of food restrictive diets in the Anthropocene can be interpreted as part of this bargaining state of grieving as individuals attempt to respond to the imperative to reduce their environmental impact but also to limit the degree of change to their own diet required to do so. Meat has long been identified as a key component of an individual’s environmental footprint. From Frances Moore Lappé’s 1971 Diet for a Small Planet through the United Nations’ Food and Agriculture Organisation’s 2006 report Livestock’s Long Shadow to the 2019 report of the EAT–Lancet Commission on Healthy Diets from Sustainable Food Systems, the advice has been consistent: meat consumption should be minimised in, if not eradicated from, the human diet. The EAT–Lancet Commission Report quantified this to less than 28 grams (just under one ounce) of beef, lamb or pork per day (12, 25). For many this would be keenly felt, in terms of how meals are constructed, the sensory experiences associated with eating meat and perceptions of well-being but meat is offered up as a sacrifice to bring about the return of the beloved healthy planet.Rather than accept the advice to cut out meat entirely, those seeking to bargain with the Anthropocene also find other options. This has given rise to a suite of foodways based around restricting meat intake in volume or type. Reducing the amount of commercially produced beef, lamb and pork eaten is one approach, while substituting a meat the production of which has a smaller environmental footprint, most commonly chicken or fish, is another. For those willing to make deeper changes, the meat of free living animals, especially those which are killed accidentally on the roads or for deliberately for environmental management purposes, is another option. Further along this spectrum are the novel protein sources suggested in the Lancet report, including insects, blue-green algae and laboratory-cultured meats.Kangatarianism is another form of this bargain, and is backed by at least half a century of advocacy. The Australian Conservation Foundation made calls to reduce the numbers of other livestock and begin a sustainable harvest of kangaroo for food in 1970 when the sale of kangaroo meat for human consumption was still illegal across the country (Conservation of Kangaroos). The idea was repeated by biologist Gordon Grigg in the late 1980s (Jackson and Vernes 173), and again in the Garnaut Climate Change Review in 2008 (547–48). Kangaroo meat is high in protein and iron, low in fat, and high in healthy polyunsaturated fatty acids and conjugated linoleic acid, and, as these authors showed, has a smaller environmental footprint than beef, lamb, or pork. Kangaroo require less water than cattle, sheep or pigs, and no land is cleared to grow feed for them or give them space to graze. Their paws cause less erosion and compaction of soil than do the hooves of common livestock. They eat less fodder than ruminants and their digestive processes result in lower emissions of the powerful greenhouse gas methane and less solid waste.As Justin of Love Island was aware, kangaroo are not farmed in the sense of being deliberately bred, fed, confined, or treated with hormones, drugs or chemicals, which also adds to their lighter impact on the environment. However, some pastoralists argue that because they cannot prevent kangaroos from accessing the food, water, shelter, and protection from predators they provide for their livestock, they do effectively farm them, although they receive no income from sales of kangaroo meat. This type of light touch farming of kangaroos has a very long history in Australia going back to the continent’s first peopling some 60,000 years ago. Kangaroos were so important to Aboriginal people that a wide range of environments were manipulated to produce their favoured habitats of open grasslands edged by sheltering trees. As Bill Gammage demonstrated, fire was used as a tool to preserve and extend grassy areas, to encourage regrowth which would attract kangaroos and to drive the animals from one patch to another or towards hunters waiting with spears (passim, for example, 58, 72, 76, 93). Gammage and Bruce Pascoe agree that this was a form of animal husbandry in which the kangaroos were drawn to the areas prepared for them for the young grass or, more forcefully, physically directed using nets, brush fences or stone walls. Burnt ground served to contain the animals in place of fencing, and regular harvesting kept numbers from rising to levels which would place pressure on other species (Gammage 79, 281–86; Pascoe 42–43). Contemporary advocates of eating kangaroo have promoted the idea that they should be deliberately co-produced with other livestock instead of being killed to preserve feed and water for sheep and cattle (Ellicott; Wilson 39). Substituting kangaroo for the meat of more environmentally damaging animals would facilitate a reduction in the numbers of cattle and sheep, lessening the harm they do.Most proponents have assumed that their audience is current meat eaters who would substitute kangaroo for the meat of other more environmentally costly animals, but kangatarianism can also emerge from vegetarianism. Wendy Zukerman, who wrote about kangaroo hunting for New Scientist in 2010, was motivated to conduct the research because she was considering becoming an early adopter of kangatarianism as the least environmentally taxing way to counter the longterm anaemia she had developed as a vegetarian. In 2018, George Wilson, honorary professor in the Australian National University’s Fenner School of Environment and Society called for vegetarians to become kangatarians as a means of boosting overall consumption of kangaroo for environmental and economic benefits to rural Australia (39).Given these persuasive environmental arguments, it might be expected that many people would have perceived eating kangaroo instead of other meat as a favourable bargain and taken up the call to become kangatarian. Certainly, there has been widespread interest in trying kangaroo meat. In 1997, only five years after the sale of kangaroo meat for human consumption had been legalised in most states (South Australia did so in 1980), 51% of 500 people surveyed in five capital cities said they had tried kangaroo. However, it had not become a meat of choice with very few found to eat it more than three times a year (Des Purtell and Associates iv). Just over a decade later, a study by Ampt and Owen found an increase to 58% of 1599 Australians surveyed across the country who had tried kangaroo but just 4.7% eating it at least monthly (14). Bryce Appleby, in his study of kangaroo consumption in the home based on interviews with 28 residents of Wollongong in 2010, specifically noted the absence of kangatarians—then a very new concept. A study of 261 Sydney university students in 2014 found that half had tried kangaroo meat and 10% continued to eat it with any regularity. Only two respondents identified themselves as kangatarian (Grant 14–15). Kangaroo meat advocate Michael Archer declared in 2017 that “there’s an awful lot of very, very smart vegetarians [who] have opted for semi vegetarianism and they’re calling themselves ‘kangatarians’, as they’re quite happy to eat kangaroo meat”, but unless there had been a significant change in a few years, the surveys did not bear out his assertion (154).The ethical calculations around eating kangaroo are complicated by factors beyond the strictly environmental. One Tweeter advised Justin: “‘I’m a kangatarian’ isn’t a pickup line, mate”, and certainly the reception of his declaration could have been very cool, especially as it was delivered to a self declared animal warrior (N’Tash Aha). All of the studies of beliefs and practices around the eating of kangaroo have noted a significant minority of Australians who would not consider eating kangaroo based on issues of animal welfare and animal rights. The 1997 study found that 11% were opposed to the idea of eating kangaroo, while in Grant’s 2014 study, 15% were ethically opposed to eating kangaroo meat (Des Purtell and Associates iv; Grant 14–15). Animal ethics complicate the bargains calculated principally on environmental grounds.These ethical concerns work across several registers. One is around the flesh and blood kangaroo as a charismatic native animal unique to Australia and which Australians have an obligation to respect and nurture. Sheep, cattle and pigs have been subject to longterm propaganda campaigns which entrench the idea that they are unattractive and unintelligent, and veil their transition to meat behind euphemistic language and abattoir walls, making it easier to eat them. Kangaroos are still seen as resourceful and graceful animals, and no linguistic tricks shield consumers from the knowledge that it is a roo on their plate. A proposal in 2009 to market a “coat of arms” emu and kangaroo-flavoured potato chip brought complaints to the Advertising Standards Bureau that this was disrespectful to these native animals, although the flavours were to be simulated and the product vegetarian (Black). Coexisting with this high regard to kangaroos is its antithesis. That is, a valuation of them informed by their designation as a pest in the pastoral industry, and the use of the carcasses of those killed to feed dogs and other companion animals. Appleby identified a visceral, disgust response to the idea of eating kangaroo in many of his informants, including both vegetarians who would not consider eating kangaroo because of their commitment to a plant-based diet, and at least one omnivore who would prefer to give up all meat rather than eat kangaroo. While diametrically opposed, the end point of both positions is that kangaroo meat should not be eaten.A second animal ethics stance relates to the imagined kangaroo, a cultural construct which for most urban Australians is much more present in their lives and likely to shape their actions than the living animals. It is behind the rejection of eating an animal which holds such an iconic place in Australian culture: to the dexter on the 1912 national coat of arms; hopping through the Hundred Acre Wood as Kanga and Roo in A.A. Milne’s Winnie-the-Pooh children’s books from the 1920s and the Disney movies later made from them; as a boy’s best friend as Skippy the Bush Kangaroo in a fondly remembered 1970s television series; and high in the sky on QANTAS planes. The anthropomorphising of kangaroos permitted the spectacle of the boxing kangaroo from the late nineteenth century. By framing natural kangaroo behaviours as boxing, these exhibitions encouraged an ambiguous understanding of kangaroos as human-like, moving them further from the category of food (Golder and Kirkby). Australian government bodies used this idea of the kangaroo to support food exports to Britain, with kangaroos as cooks or diners rather than ingredients. The Kangaroo Kookery Book of 1932 (see fig. 1 below) portrayed kangaroos as a nuclear family in a suburban kitchen and another official campaign supporting sales of Australian produce in Britain in the 1950s featured a Disney-inspired kangaroo eating apples and chops washed down with wine (“Kangaroo to Be ‘Food Salesman’”). This imagining of kangaroos as human-like has persisted, leading to the opinion expressed in a 2008 focus group, that consuming kangaroo amounted to “‘eating an icon’ … Although they are pests they are still human nature … these are native animals, people and I believe that is a form of cannibalism!” (Ampt and Owen 26). Figure 1: Rather than promoting the eating of kangaroos, the portrayal of kangaroos as a modern suburban family in the Kangaroo Kookery Book (1932) made it unthinkable. (Source: Kangaroo Kookery Book, Director of Australian Trade Publicity, Australia House, London, 1932.)The third layer of ethical objection on the ground of animal welfare is more specific, being directed to the method of killing the kangaroos which become food. Kangaroos are perhaps the only native animals for which state governments set quotas for commercial harvest, on the grounds that they compete with livestock for pasturage and water. In most jurisdictions, commercially harvested kangaroo carcasses can be processed for human consumption, and they are the ones which ultimately appear in supermarket display cases.Kangaroos are killed by professional shooters at night using swivelling spotlights mounted on their vehicles to locate and daze the animals. While clean head shots are the ideal and regulations state that animals should be killed when at rest and without causing “undue agonal struggle”, this is not always achieved and some animals do suffer prolonged deaths (NSW Code of Practice for Kangaroo Meat for Human Consumption). By regulation, the young of any female kangaroo must be killed along with her. While averting a slow death by neglect, this is considered cruel and wasteful. The hunt has drawn international criticism, including from Greenpeace which organised campaigns against the sale of kangaroo meat in Europe in the 1980s, and Viva! which was successful in securing the withdrawal of kangaroo from sale in British supermarkets (“Kangaroo Meat Sales Criticised”). These arguments circulate and influence opinion within Australia.A final animal ethics issue is that what is actually behind the push for greater use of kangaroo meat is not concern for the environment or animal welfare but the quest to turn a profit from these animals. The Kangaroo Industries Association of Australia, formed in 1970 to represent those who dealt in the marsupials’ meat, fur and skins, has been a vocal advocate of eating kangaroo and a sponsor of market research into how it can be made more appealing to the market. The Association argued in 1971 that commercial harvest was part of the intelligent conservation of the kangaroo. They sought minimum size regulations to prevent overharvesting and protect their livelihoods (“Assn. Backs Kangaroo Conservation”). The Association’s current website makes the claim that wild harvested “Australian kangaroo meat is among the healthiest, tastiest and most sustainable red meats in the world” (Kangaroo Industries Association of Australia). That this is intended to initiate a new and less controlled branch of the meat industry for the benefit of hunters and processors, rather than foster a shift from sheep or cattle to kangaroos which might serve farmers and the environment, is the opinion of Dr. Louise Boronyak, of the Centre for Compassionate Conservation at the University of Technology Sydney (Boyle 19).Concerns such as these have meant that kangaroo is most consumed where it is least familiar, with most of the meat for human consumption recovered from culled animals being exported to Europe and Asia. Russia has been the largest export market. There, kangaroo meat is made less strange by blending it with other meats and traditional spices to make processed meats, avoiding objections to its appearance and uncertainty around preparation. With only a low profile as a novelty animal in Russia, there are fewer sentimental concerns about consuming kangaroo, although the additional food miles undermine its environmental credentials. The variable acceptability of kangaroo in more distant markets speaks to the role of culture in determining how patterns of eating are formed and can be shifted, or, as Elspeth Probyn phrased it “how natural entities are transformed into commodities within a context of globalisation and local communities”, underlining the impossibility of any straightforward ethics of eating kangaroo (33, 35).Kangatarianism is a neologism which makes the eating of kangaroo meat something it has not been in the past, a voluntary restriction based on environmental ethics. These environmental benefits are well founded and eating kangaroo can be understood as an Anthropocenic bargain struck to allow the continuation of the consumption of red meat while reducing one’s environmental footprint. Although superficially attractive, the numbers entering into this bargain remain small because environmental ethics cannot be disentangled from animal ethics. The anthropomorphising of the kangaroo and its use as a national symbol coexist with its categorisation as a pest and use of its meat as food for companion animals. Both understandings of kangaroos made their meat uneatable for many Australians. Paired with concerns over how kangaroos are killed and the commercialisation of a native species, kangaroo meat has a very mixed reception despite decades of advocacy for eating its meat in favour of that of more harmed and more harmful introduced species. 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