Journal articles on the topic 'Zoologists Australia'

John White, Surgeon-General of New South Wales, is best remembered for his handsome book Journal of a voyage to new South Wales published in London during 1790. He was a native of County Fermanagh in northwestern Ireland. He became a naval surgeon and in this capacity was appointed to serve as surgeon on the First Fleet which left England for New South Wales (Australia) in 1787. While living in New South Wales, White adopted Nanberree, an aboriginal boy, and fathered a son by Rachel Turner, a convict, who later married Thomas Moore. John White returned to England in 1795, became a Fellow of the Linnean Society of London and was granted the degrees of Doctor of Medicine and Master of Arts by the University of St Andrews. White was married twice, and was survived by his second wife and his four children, including his illegitimate, Australian-born son, Captain Andrew Douglas White. Dr John White died in 1832 aged 75 and is buried in Worthing, Sussex, England.While serving as Surgeon-General at Sydney Cove, New South Wales, between 1788 and 1794 John White collected natural history specimens and assembled a series of paintings of plants and animals. After returning to England, White lent these paintings to botanists and zoologists, and permitted copies to be made. Thus, he contributed substantially to European knowledge of the indigenous flora and fauna of Australia.

MY first impressions when I saw this book was ?what a remarkable achievement? and ?I want one for my library?. The author of this book, Stephen Jackson, hails from a long association with the zoo industry having worked for many years at Taronga Zoo and Healesville Sanctuary and more recently with the Animal Welfare Unit of the NSW Department of Primary Industries, so he comes with a commanding knowledge of the requirements for captive management of Australian mammals. He has spent considerable time formulating this volume; it is nicely presented, thorough in scope and clearly very authoritative. However, while expert information does not come cheap, the price of this book (are you sitting down?) at $240 puts it well out of the price range of many. I?m still gasping. This book is marketed for (generally underpaid) zookeepers, veterinarians, zoologists, researchers and students, but this price restricts it to being a specialist reference volume purchased by a limited number of users, zoological institutions, and university libraries with good acquisitions budgets. This is unfortunate as every wildlife carer, zoo, and breeding facility (in Australia and elsewhere) that holds or breeds Australian mammals should have one of these volumes. It would be fantastic to see a complete series of these ?Biology and Captive Management? books: Australian Birds: Biology and Captive Management, Australian reptiles..., Australian insects... etc.

The author makes a comparative study of American naturalist Abbott H. Thayer and Australian zoologist William J. Dakin, two civilian campaigners for military camouflage in two different wars who nevertheless share strikingly similar stories.

In the last 10 years, there has been a rapid proliferation of subdisciplines in the biological sciences. Such a burgeoning, especially in ecology and natural resource science, has been matched by the initiation of numerous specialist journals devoted to publishing articles in relatively restricted fields. But few of these new journals explicitly aim at seeking broad parallels in thinking and methodology among these subdisciplines or encouraging synthetic approaches at a time when environmental issues, for example, beg understanding of the big picture. It is therefore reassuring to find a journal (with a long history back to 1914 (Strahan 1994)) such as Australian Zoologist that continues to cater to specialists in zoology, but also published frequent articles of broad interest to all scientists. Better still, these papers are often topical and provocative, questioning dogma, pricking consciences, and seeking synthesis of larger issues and of most value is the creativity with which issues are addressed in Australian Zoologist.

Bert Main (1919?2009)was recognized both nationally and internationally as one of Australia's leading zoologists and a gifted naturalist. His research and ecological teaching on a wide variety of animals, including frogs, reptiles, birds, insects and marsupials, laid the foundations for three generations of graduate students who were inspired by his imagination and biological insight. His foresight and energy as an administrator on government bodies also led to the creation of some of Western Australia's most important National Parks and Nature Reserves that are vital for the preservation of Australia's rich biodiversity and form part of his enduring legacy.

The Baudin expedition to Australia included among its scientific staff Louis Depuch and Joseph Charles Bailly, the first professionally educated geologists to visit this country. Together with the zoologist François Péron, they carried out the earliest geological surveys along large parts of its coast. Their views on the origin of the major rock types were mainly guided by Neptunist thinking. However, in line with the beliefs of a number of French geologists at the time, they recognized basalt as a volcanic rock. Their identification of earth materials was hampered by the still imprecise definition of the physical properties of minerals and rocks. Their work provided the first detailed descriptions of the major rock types and their distribution along the margins of the continent and its islands, and led to some tentative conclusions with regard to the presence of mountains in the country's interior. The three investigators concluded that Australia was built on a foundation of granite, overlain by a variety of sedimentary rocks and fringed by extensive deposits of largely unconsolidated sediment, left behind by a retreating sea. Their mistaken identification of dolerite as basalt led them to believe that they had discovered evidence of volcanic activity in Australia. Issues such as the presence of marine organisms in rocks now above sea level, and the finding of various species of mollusks on Australia's shores, known to be extinct in Europe, led to lively discussions among a number of European naturalists.

We should take heart from the fact that the continuing decline of the Australian fauna is now well known in public circles. The pressure of human activities remains a formidable problem for those interested in the conservation of our animals ? but at least now very many people know about it. For this reason, there are some grounds for discussing further documentation and discussion of the decline in a celebratory fashion, and it is in this mood that I read the most recent special issue of the Australian Zoologist. No longer are we, the specialists, shouting into the void. Now, many others are listening, and we can anticipate that gradually they will also be roused to action.

THIS large, expensive and beautifully produced volume arrived on my desk in October 1999. There it has sat while I awaited it to be reviewed elsewhere. My intention was, and is, to not only review the book, but to review the reviews. I now have reviews by Allan Burbidge and John Blyth (Western Australian Bird Notes 95: 3-5), Walter Boles (Australian Zoologist, in press), w. (Ted) Davis (The Wilson Bulletin, in press), Stephen Debus (Australian Bird Watcher 18: 320-321), Ned Johnson (The Condor 103: 200), and Allen Keast (Emu 100: 341-2). Of these, Boles, Johnson and Keast are recognised avian systematists, while Burbidge, Blyth, Davis and Debus, as I am, are just plain old ornithologists. I say this because an Australian avian systematist once told me that I had no right to comment on the names of Australian birds because I was only an ecologist, but that has never stopped me before and will not now, and it appears that I am in good company.

Hoffmann-La Roche supported the work of University of Queensland zoologist Robert Endean in the late 1960s, but the company’s deepening interest in the prospect of ‘drugs from the sea’ led them to establish the Roche Research Institute of Marine Pharmacology (RRIMP) at Dee Why, New South Wales. It was headed by Dr Joe Baker, an Australian organic chemist who had researched marine natural products. RRIMP took advice from several influential advisers, and Baker recruited chemists, pharmacologists, microbiologists, and marine biologists. Despite the conjecture, raised in some quarters, that RRIMP was established to mute the Australian government criticism of the pricing of Roche’s most famous product, Valium, I believe that the research venture was a genuine attempt to find lead compounds in organisms from Australian waters with a view to the development of new drugs. Changes in the research directions taken by Hoffmann-La Roche resulted in the closure of RRIMP in mid-1981, before any such success could be claimed for the Dee Why operation. RRIMP scientists, an elite but suddenly redundant group, secured positions in other Australian laboratories.

I BEGIN this review of Clifford Frith’s book on the Lord Howe Island Woodhen Gallirallus sylvestris with a ‘conflict of interest’ admission. Long ago, 1970–72 to be precise, while at the Australian Museum, I coordinated an environmental survey of Lord Howe Island. The survey was undertaken at the request of the Lord Howe Island Board for the museum to determine the status of the island’s flora and fauna. As the museum had a long association with Lord Howe Island commencing in 1869 when a team of scientists from the museum undertook a zoological survey of the island, the approach from the Board was well-received by museum staff many of whom participated in the survey. The survey was also joined by botanists from the Royal Botanic Gardens and zoologists from CSIRO.

In the late 1960s the Swiss pharmaceutical company Hoffmann-La Roche was attracted to the pharmacological potential of extractives from Australian marine organisms. At first the company supported the work of University of Queensland zoologist Robert Endean and work at the Great Barrier Reef Research Station on Heron Island. Within a few years, however, they severed their connection with Endean and established the Roche Research Institute of Marine Pharmacology (RRIMP) at Dee Why, New South Wales. Opened in April 1974, the Institute was led by Dr J. T. Baker, an Australian organic chemist who had researched marine natural products. State-of-the-art pharmacology was introduced with guidance from Professor Michael Rand of the University of Melbourne. The staff that Baker recruited included chemists, pharmacologists, microbiologists and marine biologists. Despite the conjecture, raised in some quarters, that RRIMP was established to mute the Australian Government's criticism of the pricing of Roche's most famous product, Valium, it is argued that the research venture was a genuine attempt to find lead compounds in organisms from Australian waters with a view to the development of new drugs. Before any such success could be achieved by RRIMP scientists, however, sweeping changes in the parent company resulted in the closure of RRIMP in mid-1981 and dispersal of its expert staff, mostly to other Australian laboratories.

PUBLISHERS have over time played enormous roles in the dissemination of written language and the communication of ideas through and between cultures. Too often they are dismissed as the rubber stamp on the title page or that part of the citations required in a bibliography. They are the least known yet most familiar names on a title page and for too many of us they are just an administrative necessity. The common image of the publisher is that of the business face and the practical production component of the publishing process. Compared to the author and the title of the book their names convey only broad categorical information to the readers. On joining the Pacific Conservation Biology, over ten years ago, I found that this stereotype was not true for Ivor Beatty. While he was all the things mentioned above he also entered into the publishing process with his red ink. His corrections to my manuscript were my first meeting with the man behind the name — he was the Beatty in Surrey Beatty & Sons. His corrections were a point of academic contention that I enjoyed with him; they were lesson well learnt. Many years before my first experience with Ivor’s red ink, on a lower rung of my educational ladder, I had chatted with Joe Forshaw about the disappearance of Australian publishers from the publishing of Australian biota. We could both recite a long list of names of well-known publishers who no longer published in Australia. The small market and prohibitive economic costs had pushed publishing off-shore. Australian science and its communication to Australians and the world were consequently suffering. The story is too familiar to repeat here and it occurs in many areas beyond publishing. However, Ivor Beatty continued publishing biological science in Australia. He provided the forum to get the message across the same forum that provides the authors a place to promote their ideas. Many of us have much to thank him for. It has been said that “It would be impossible to imagine any zoologist, botanist, ecologist or conservation biologist trained in Australia over the last 20 years who has not had their career influenced by contributions from Beatty’s publications” (Saunders et al. 2012). I concur: I cannot believe that any student or conservation biologist would not be citing from the extensive literature than has emanated from his publishing house. A search of any good university library would find many entries from Surrey Beatty & Sons under conservation headings and many with no comparable papers or chapters published elsewhere. As a student I benefited from this literature and as a professional academic my research continues to draw on publications that have moved through Ivor’s hands. While the authors and editors of the papers and chapters are ultimately responsible for the original ideas that are rarely or not published elsewhere, they would not have seen the light of day without Ivor’s hand. At the time of his passing I point to the litany of his publications from his lifetime of dedication to conservation biology and I celebrate his achievements and his life and I recall the publisher that corrected my manuscript with his red pen.

AUSTRALIA’S relatively recent discovery by Europeans and rapid loss of traditional knowledge without documentation means the accumulated knowledge of our natural history is scant compared to other continents (e.g., search for publications on the top-order predators of each continent for confirmation). Yet, as Mike Archer highlights in the Foreword to this book, this natural history information is fundamental for us to develop effective conservation strategies. Instead of focusing on accumulating this information, the competitive nature of academia limits the value of publishing simple natural history studies because of the low impact such studies invariably have (see Paul Adam’s chapter), while conservation managers are too busy to publish their natural history research particularly while they receive such little incentive to do so. The Natural History of Sydney offers a valuable remedy to this problem and Dan Lunney and his Royal Zoological Society of NSW editorial team deliver once again in servicing the intellectual needs of Australian zoologists.

Wilhelm Blandowski is best known for the scandal that surrounded his attempts to name a number of new species of freshwater fish after prominent members of the Victorian scientific establishment. Although this 19th Century anecdote is diverting, it belies, I believe, the significant contribution that the first paid Victorian government zoologist made to the ichthyology of the Murray-Darling Basin. Although his claim to new species was exaggerated, his collections, assisted by Gerard Krefft were the most diverse to that date. There is no doubt – because Blandowski tells us as much – that the expedition’s success in collecting so many species, as well as information on distribution, habitat, size and diet, can be attributed to the knowledge of the local Aboriginal people, the Nyeri Nyeri. That Blandowski realised that this knowledge existed and acknowledged it, is unusual for the time. The information provided, although broadly consistent with what we know of the species’ current habits, is scanty and there is some uncertainty as to the location where most of the species were collected. Interpretations based on illustrations, written descriptions and extant specimens suggest that many species that were collected in 1856/57 no longer occur in that region of the Murray-Darling Basin. Blandowski’s collections also hint at the possibility that the distribution of the spotted galaxias, Galaxias truttaceus Valenciennes 1846, normally considered coastal, may have formerly extended much further up into freshwater.

During the course of a voyage of discovery to Australia the zoologist François Péron, aided in its early stages by the geologist Louis Depuch, took regular measurements of air and water temperatures at the surface of the sea and, on four occasions, at various depths in the equatorial parts of the Atlantic Ocean. The data they collected made a useful contribution to a better understanding of the oceanic environment. A comparison of their findings with results obtained on the voyages of Captain Phipps to northern latitudes and by scientists on Captain Cook’s second voyage in waters of the South Pacific Ocean, enabled Péron to declare that temperatures in the world’s oceans, at all latitudes, decreased with depth. Considering the implication of this trend to ideas on the temperature in the interior of the Earth, Depuch sided with scholars who believed that its centre was hot, while Péron, relying on his own observations and those of other investigators, tended to favour the cold Earth theory, but was hesitant in reaching a firm conclusion.

ABSTRACT The 2021 annual forum of the Royal Zoological Society of NSW raked over the ashes of the unprecedented “Black Summer” bushfires of 2019–2020 in eastern and southern Australia to assess how forest ecosystems and their constituent fauna had fared. This paper provides an overview of the 21 studies that were presented at the forum, now as papers in this theme edition of Australian Zoologist. All the authors were unanimous in their agreement about the unparalleled extent and severity of the fires and the magnitude of their ecological impacts. Whereas much of the focus of the 2019–2020 fires was on vertebrates, significant research was also carried out on a diverse range of invertebrate taxa. The studies of the invertebrate groups found that different taxa respond variably to fire and also emphasised the difficulties in judging the full impact of the fires due to taxonomic impediments. An underlying theme in almost all studies was that long-term and broad-scale monitoring of fauna and faunal habitats is essential if we are to build a robust understanding of how animals respond to fire, and in turn how managers can mitigate the impacts of fire in future. Such monitoring will need to incorporate the effects of other disturbance factors, such as habitat fragmentation, drought, salvage logging and longwall mining, that interact with fire, and also trial new methods to track and assist fauna to cope with the changing fire regimes. Several studies advocated the use of novel and emerging technologies to achieve better monitoring of fauna, while others proposed mapping of large scale, as well as micro-refuges, to maximise fire resilience, or the use of supplementary resources such as nest boxes and artificial roosts to replace those lost in fires. We concur with all the authors that a critically important way to protect and manage our native fauna is through expanded and sustained research and monitoring programs, and by making the key results available to managers and policy makers via peer-reviewed publication.

The Scottish zoologist Henry Charles Williamson was one of a group of young men who initiated fisheries science in the late Victorian age, schooled under Professor William Carmichael McIntosh at St Andrews University. Initially working for the Fishery Board of Scotland, Williamson contributed original studies on fish anatomy, morphology, systematics and life cycles; decapod Crustacea life-history stages; fish diseases and parasites. He was at the forefront of attempts to transport herring ova to Australia and New Zealand to introduce this European food fish to antipodean waters. That involved him researching how to retard development of ova using low temperatures and developing glass settlement-plate techniques for their transportation. He left Scotland in 1925 to spend five years in the Canadian Pacific, studying salmon migration by tagging and latterly becoming responsible for pilchard and herring work there too. Returning to his home town of Dundee in retirement, he lived a quiet life, giving talks to local groups, supporting his church's administration and contributing articles to the fishermen's press. Sadly he died before he could complete the two volumes on fishes that he was in the course of writing.

When Johann Wilhelm Theodor Ludwig von Blandowski (1822-1878), was appointed Government Zoologist on 1 March 1854, Victoria gained a scientist, who had attended Tarnowitz Mining School and science lectures at Berlin University. He had been an assistant manager in part of the Koenigsgrube coal mine at Koenigshütte, but as a consequence of some kind of misdemeanour, resigned from the Prussian Mining Service and joined the Schleswig-Holstein Army in March 1848. After resigning his Lieutenant’s commission and trying unsuccessfully to obtain another appointment in the Prussian Mining Service, he left for Adelaide in May 1849 as a collector of natural history specimens. After some collecting expeditions and earning a living as a surveyor he moved to the Victorian goldfields. He undertook official expeditions in Central Victoria, Mornington Peninsula and Western Port and in December 1856 he was leader of the Murray-Darling Expedition, but control of the Museum passed to Frederick McCoy with Blandowski relegated to the position of Museum Collector. Feted on his return from the Expedition, he fell out with some members of the Royal Society of Victoria over somewhat puerile descriptions of new species of fishes and he also refused to recognise McCoy’s jurisdiction over him. After acrimonious arguments about collections and ownership of drawings made whilst he was a government officer, Blandowski resigned and left for Germany, where he set up as a photographer in Gleiwitz in 1861, but some kind of mental instability saw him committed to the mental asylum at Bunzlau (now Boleslawiec, Poland) in September 1873, where he died on 18 December 1878. Assessments of Blandowki’s scientific and artistic career in Australia have been mixed. The biographical details presented provide the opportunity to judge assessments of Blandowski in Australia against his actions both before and after his arrival there.

Wilhelm Blandowski was the first zoologist employed by the Victorian Government, being appointed Officer of the Museum of Natural History by Governor La Trobe on 1 April 1854. Although he remained in this position for less than four years he left an important legacy by beginning the documentation of Victoria’s mammalian fauna before the full impact of European pastoralism and feral animals had become apparent. In particular, the 1856-57 zoological survey expedition to the lower Murray-Darling region provided a unique insight into the mammalian community that existed there before European occupation triggered a sudden decline in mammal species diversity, as happened progressively across the southern two thirds of Australia over the subsequent 90 years. Of the 34 mammal taxa recorded by the Blandowski Expedition, ten are extinct, nine no longer occur in the region, four are still present but with greatly reduced and fragmented distributions, seven have broad distributions in the region little changed since Blandowski’s time, although severely fragmented, and the remaining four have probably expanded their distributions. The contributions of Blandowski and his assistant Gerard Krefft to our understanding of the nature and causes of these mammal declines are examined and discussed. Unfortunately, the surviving contemporary documentation of the Expedition and the associated specimens is inadequate to shed much light on the factors that triggered the initial mammal declines, but the results do not support recent suggestions that predation by the introduced house cat Felis catus was pivotal.

How people coexist and interact with animals has become an intensely debated issue in recent times, particularly with the rise of the animal protection movement following the publication of Peter Singer’s book Animal Liberation in 1975. This paper discusses some shortcomings of the philosophical positions taken in this complex debate. Singer has helped put animals on a new footing as a group that cannot morally be ignored, but his focus is mainly on individual, familiar animals that are used or abused by humans. The argument of this paper is that the ethics of managing wildlife hinges on a broader view of animals, and their contexts, than is apparent from Singer’s text. Wildlife managers aim to conserve populations of a wide range of species, and their habitats, but some mechanisms for achieving these aims, such as research and the control of invasive animals, are frequently opposed by elements of the animal protection movement. We need to adapt our attitude to animals, particularly wildlife, away from the traditional legacy of a few familiar species to embrace an ethic that is more ecological and relevant to Australian contexts. The case argued here has been to see the critical role of context — geographical, ecological, historical, relational — as a basis for a degree of reconciliation between conservation-oriented wildlife managers and the rising interest in the ethics of animal use. There is much to be gained for zoologists, wildlife managers and conservation biologists by framing key elements of their case in ethical arguments. Conversely, the challenge for those in the animal protection movement is to expand their philosophical ideas to include the ethical imperative of the conservation of populations of wildlife.

ABSTRACT The peer-reviewed Australian Zoologist, first published in 1914, is Australia’s longest-lived zoological journal. Its publication history shows changes in the zoological topics covered over the last 100 years, including the animals studied, characteristics of the authors and readership, and the influence of the databases used to study the journal on information retrieval. Searches in different databases retrieved different numbers of papers; Scopus (including secondary documents not in the database but cited by documents that are in the database) was the most comprehensive. Although authors from 22 countries contributed papers over the history of the Australian Zoologist, over 90% of authors were Australian. Most international authors came from the USA, the UK, Canada and New Zealand. Approximately two-thirds of authors citing Australian Zoologist were Australian-based, but there were still 10 or more authors from each of thirty-four other countries citing Australian Zoologist: while regional, the journal has an international profile. Highly cited papers in Australian Zoologist had high mean Scopus percentile ranks (20th century 83.9, 21st century 73.7), indicating that in comparison to their fields globally, these papers are used well above average. Considering all papers published in Australian Zoologist, over time the proportion of papers in the categories ‘Biodiversity & Conservation’ and ‘Environmental Sciences & Ecology’ rose significantly, reflecting the increased research in these areas. Between 2013 and 2019, when relevant metrics are available in Scopus, Australian Zoologist declined in no metric measured while improving significantly in CiteScore, Highest Percentile, and % Cited, indicating increasing references to Australian Zoologist papers by other peer-reviewed publications. Between 2010 and 2019, 2.1% of Australian Zoologist papers were ranked within the top 10% in their fields globally, based on citation impact. Authors considering publishing in Australian Zoologist should note that longer papers are acceptable, colour imagery (including photographs) is encouraged, the journal is visible in major databases, it is cited internationally and there are no page charges.

Species boundaries delineating tropical sea anemones (Cnidaria, Actiniaria) of the zooxanthellate genus, Heteranthus Klunzinger, 1877, are unclear. There are currently two valid Heteranthus species: type species Heteranthus verruculatus Klunzinger, 1877, first reported from Koseir, Egypt, and H. insignis Carlgren, 1943, from Poulo Condore, Vietnam. In describing the latter from a single, poorly preserved specimen, zoologist Oskar Carlgren expressed apprehension with traits he had used to establish this species. Carlgren’s doubts persisted later in writing when he found a similar-looking sea anemone from the Great Barrier Reef. Crucial details to positively identify either species have since remained limited. Here, we re-diagnosed Heteranthus and re-described its type species based on observations of specimens we have obtained from Singapore and Pulau Ambon (Indonesia), and of museum material collected elsewhere across the Indo-West Pacific region (n > 180). Supported by molecular phylogenetic evidence, the family Heteranthidae Carlgren, 1900 was reinstated and re-diagnosed. Heteranthus verruculatus is encountered in the lower intertidal region amongst seagrass, in rocky crevices, or coral rubble. It occurs as solitary individuals or in clonal clusters, well-camouflaged against the substratum. Individuals were observed to frequently propagate by longitudinal fission, resulting in a varied appearance. Type material of H. verruculatus and H. insignis were re-examined and as we found no differences between them, the two were synonymised. We inferred that Carlgren probably misinterpreted cnidae and histological data in defining H. insignis as a distinct species. This revision clarifies the taxonomy and geographic range of H. verruculatus, an Indo-West Pacific species that is found from the Red Sea to subtropical Australia and Hawaii.

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. Given these constraints, kangatarianism is unlikely to become widespread and indeed it should be viewed as at best a temporary exigency. As the climate warms and rainfall becomes more erratic, even animals which have evolved to suit Australian conditions will come under increasing pressure, and humans will need to reach Kübler-Ross’ final state of grief: acceptance. In this case, this would mean acceptance that our needs cannot be placed ahead of those of other animals.ReferencesAmpt, Peter, and Kate Owen. Consumer Attitudes to Kangaroo Meat Products. Canberra: Rural Industries Research and Development Corporation, 2008.Appleby, Bryce. “Skippy the ‘Green’ Kangaroo: Identifying Resistances to Eating Kangaroo in the Home in a Context of Climate Change.” BSc Hons, U of Wollongong, 2010 <http://ro.uow.edu.au/thsci/103>.Archer, Michael. “Zoology on the Table: Plenary Session 4.” Australian Zoologist 39, 1 (2017): 154–60.“Assn. Backs Kangaroo Conservation.” The Beverley Times 26 Feb. 1971: 3. 22 Feb. 2019 <http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article202738733>.Barone, Tayissa. “Kangatarians Jump the Divide.” Sydney Morning Herald 9 Feb. 2010. 13 Apr. 2019 <https://www.smh.com.au/lifestyle/kangatarians-jump-the-divide-20100209-gdtvd8.html>.Black, Rosemary. “Some Australians Angry over Idea for Kangaroo and Emu-Flavored Potato Chips.” New York Daily News 4 Dec. 2009. 5 Feb. 2019 <https://www.nydailynews.com/life-style/eats/australians-angry-idea-kangaroo-emu-flavored-potato-chips-article-1.431865>.Boyle, Rhianna. “Eating Skippy.” Big Issue Australia 578 11-24 Jan. 2019: 16–19.Cawthorn, Donna-Mareè, and Louwrens C. Hoffman. “Controversial Cuisine: A Global Account of the Demand, Supply and Acceptance of ‘Unconventional’ and ‘Exotic’ Meats.” Meat Science 120 (2016): 26–7.Conservation of Kangaroos. Melbourne: Australian Conservation Foundation, 1970.Des Purtell and Associates. Improving Consumer Perceptions of Kangaroo Products: A Survey and Report. Canberra: Rural Industries Research and Development Corporation, 1997.Ellicott, John. “Little Pay Incentive for Shooters to Join Kangaroo Meat Industry.” The Land 15 Mar. 2018. 28 Mar. 2019 <https://www.theland.com.au/story/5285265/top-roo-shooter-says-harvesting-is-a-low-paid-job/>.Garnaut, Ross. Garnaut Climate Change Review. 2008. 26 Feb. 2019 <http://www.garnautreview.org.au/index.htm>.Gammage, Bill. The Biggest Estate on Earth: How Aborigines Made Australia. Sydney: Allen and Unwin, 2012.Golder, Hilary, and Diane Kirkby. “Mrs. Mayne and Her Boxing Kangaroo: A Married Woman Tests Her Property Rights in Colonial New South Wales.” Law and History Review 21.3 (2003): 585–605.Grant, Elisabeth. “Sustainable Kangaroo Harvesting: Perceptions and Consumption of Kangaroo Meat among University Students in New South Wales.” Independent Study Project (ISP). U of NSW, 2014. <https://digitalcollections.sit.edu/isp_collection/1755>.Haslam, Nick. “The Five Stages of Grief Don’t Come in Fixed Steps – Everyone Feels Differently.” The Conversation 22 Oct. 2018. 28 Mar. 2019 <https://theconversation.com/the-five-stages-of-grief-dont-come-in-fixed-steps-everyone-feels-differently-96111>.Head, Lesley. “The Anthropoceans.” Geographical Research 53.3 (2015): 313–20.Kangaroo Industries Association of Australia. Kangaroo Meat. 26 Feb. 2019 <http://www.kangarooindustry.com/products/meat/>.“Kangaroo Meat Sales Criticised.” The Canberra Times 13 Sep. 1984: 14. 22 Feb 2019 <http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article136915919>.“Kangaroo to Be Food ‘Salesman.’” Newcastle Morning Herald and Miners’ Advocate, 2 Dec. 1954. 22 Feb 2019 <http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article134089767>.Kübler-Ross, Elisabeth. On Death and Dying: What the Dying Have to Teach Doctors, Nurses, Clergy, and their own Families. New York: Touchstone, 1997.Jackson, Stephen, and Karl Vernes. Kangaroo: Portrait of an Extraordinary Marsupial. Sydney: Allen and Unwin, 2010.Lappé, Frances Moore. Diet for a Small Planet. New York: Ballantine Books, 1971.N’Tash Aha (@Nsvasey). “‘I’m a Kangatarian’ isn’t a Pickup Line, Mate. #LoveIslandAU.” Twitter post. 27 May 2018. 5 Apr. 2019 <https://twitter.com/Nsvasey/status/1000697124122644480>.“NSW Code of Practice for Kangaroo Meat for Human Consumption.” Government Gazette of the State of New South Wales 24 Mar. 1993. 22 Feb. 2019 <http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-page14638033>.Oxford University Press, Australia and New Zealand. Word of the Month. June 2017. <https://www.oup.com.au/dictionaries/word-of-the-month>.Pascoe, Bruce. Dark Emu, Black Seeds: Agriculture or Accident? Broome: Magabala Books, 2014.Probyn, Elspeth. “Eating Roo: Of Things That Become Food.” New Formations 74.1 (2011): 33–45.Steinfeld, Henning, Pierre Gerber, Tom Wassenaar, Vicent Castel, Mauricio Rosales, and Cees d Haan. Livestock’s Long Shadow: Environmental Issues and Options. Rome: Food and Agriculture Organisation of the United Nations, 2006.Trust Nature. Essence of Kangaroo Capsules. 26 Feb. 2019 <http://ncpro.com.au/products/all-products/item/88139-essence-of-kangaroo-35000>.Victoria Department of Environment, Land, Water and Planning. Kangaroo Pet Food Trial. 28 Mar. 2019 <https://www.wildlife.vic.gov.au/managing-wildlife/wildlife-management-and-control-authorisations/kangaroo-pet-food-trial>.Willett, Walter, et al. “Food in the Anthropocene: The EAT–Lancet Commission on Healthy Diets from Sustainable Food Systems.” The Lancet 16 Jan. 2019. 26 Feb. 2019 <https://www.thelancet.com/commissions/EAT>.Wilson, George. “Kangaroos Can Be an Asset Rather than a Pest.” Australasian Science 39.1 (2018): 39.Zukerman, Wendy. “Eating Skippy: The Future of Kangaroo Meat.” New Scientist 208.2781 (2010): 42–5.

Open access to occurrence records in a standardised format has strong potential applications for many kinds of ecological research and bioresources management, including the assessment of invasion risks, formulation of nature protection, biomedical and management plans in the context of global climate and land-use changes both in the short and long perspective. The accumulation and aggregation of data on the occurrence records of small mammals are relevant for the study of biogeography and for ecological surveys including construction of the spatial distribution and ecological niche modelling of species ' distributions in the context of global climate change. The author has created a dataset of 2408 rodents and tree shrews occurrence records from Vietnam, collected from November 2007 to May 2022. A number of zoologist colleagues also provided genetic samples. A considerable part of these data has been published previously in a number of papers; however, most of these data have yet to be presented. These records cover a significant part of the range of many rodent species in Southeast Asia and provide new data on their distribution. The data were obtained during a number of different field expeditions, where some animals were caught by the author and some were provided by other researchers, resulting in different accuracy levels of geographic coordinates and altitude estimates may range from 10 to 1000 metres in area and from 1 to 100 metres for elevation. A number of samples were genetically examined to avoid inconsistencies with the taxonomic identification. With the help of colleagues, the author created a set of georeferenced occurrence records, adapted to the controlled vocabulary of Darwin Core format datasets, removed duplicates and standardised the format of records using commonly-used unified data structure. This paper presents the resulting dataset of rodents (mostly of Muridae and Sciuridae) along with other small terrestrial species (Scandentia Tupaidae) occurrence records in the territory of Vietnam and Laos. Much of the distribution data are currently available as open source GBIF databases and potentially may be combined into a united framework for better data resolution. The dataset presented here combines occurrence records of many species over a significant part of their recent natural range, in Vietnam and Laos. The author presents a validated and comprehensive dataset of rodents' occurrence records, based on genetic samples collection compiled during 15 years working in Vietnam (from 2007 to date). Prior to this project, a considerable part of the information about Vietnamese rodents was not available to a wide range of researchers to use these spatial data for analyses by modern methods, for example, for analysis based on geographic information systems (GIS technologies). This dataset now is available for any researchers who use the data format prepared in accordance with Darwin Core standards. For different countries of Southeast Asia and beyond, there are a lot of additional occurrence records for a number of species listed here which may be combined, but a considerable part of them is still scattered over a number of separate literary sources, while another is still presented as maps, field notes and huge amount of museum zoological collections records. The final set was created by a combination of species occurrence records and uniform data structure with verification of the samples' geographic coordinates. Most samples were genetically or/and morphologically verified for correct taxonomical identification, because the most part of the samples presented was carefully investigated by the author himself, both for morphology and genetic attribution. Therefore, the dataset expands the available information on the spatial and temporal distribution of a number of small mammals’ species in Southeast Asia. All original notes and geographical localities were carefully checked and any duplicate and erroneous records have been removed from the final dataset. To the date of publication of these data, the GBIF database https://www.gbif.org contained 1408 rodent occurrence records from Vietnam (Fig. 1) along with 240 Scandentia records (Fig. 2), primarily the data on museum materials, including four large collections, such as the Field Museum of Natural History (Zoology) Mammal Collection (646 samples), Australian National Wildlife Collection provider for OZCAM (537), MVZ Mammal Collection Arctos (109), Museum of Comparative Zoology, Harvard University (69) and six other minor collections comprising single specimens. Actually, as for the small terrestrial mammals, Vietnam remains one of the least representative regions in Southeast Asia. Here, we present new data containing 2408 occurrence records, including 2237 rodent records, along with 171 Scandentia ones (Fig. 3). Thus, the data significantly expand our knowledge about actual ranges of a number of species, including rare and endangered ones.

In 1999, the TV movie Shark Attack depicted an attack by mutant great white sharks on the population of Cape Town. By the time the third entry in the series, Shark Attack 3, aired in 2002, mutant great whites had lost their lustre and were replaced as antagonists with the megalodon: a giant shark originating not in any laboratory, but history, having lived from approximately 23 to 3.6 million years ago. The megalodon was resurrected again in May 2021 through a trifecta of events. A video of a basking shark encounter in the Atlantic went viral on the social media platform TikTok, due to users misidentifying it as a megalodon caught on tape. At the same time a boy received publicity for finding a megalodon tooth on a beach in South Carolina on his fifth birthday (Scott). And finally, the video game Stranded Deep, in which a megalodon is featured as a major enemy, was released as one of the monthly free games on the PlayStation Plus gaming service. These examples form part of a larger trend of alleged megalodon sightings in recent years, emerging as a component of the modern resurgence of cryptozoology. In the words of Bernard Heuvelmans, the Belgian zoologist who both popularised the term and was a leading figure of the field, cryptozoology is the “science of hidden animals”, which he further explained were more generally referred to as ‘unknowns’, even though they are typically known to local populations—at least sufficiently so that we often indirectly know of their existence, and certain aspects of their appearance and behaviour. It would be better to call them animals ‘undescribed by science,’ at least according to prescribed zoological rules. (1-2) In other words, a large aspect of cryptozoology as a field is taking the legendary creatures of non-Western mythology and finding materialist explanations for them compatible with Western biology. In many ways, this is a relic of the era of European imperialism, when many creatures of Africa and the Americas were “hidden animals” to European eyes (Dendle 200-01; Flores 557; Guimont). A major example of this is Bigfoot beliefs, a large subset of which took Native American legends about hairy wild men and attempted to prove that they were actually sightings of relict Gigantopithecus. These “hidden animals”—Bigfoot, Nessie, the chupacabra, the glawackus—are referred to as ‘cryptids’ by cryptozoologists (Regal 22, 81-104). Almost unique in cryptozoology, the megalodon is a cryptid based entirely on Western scientific development, and even the notion that it survives comes from standard scientific analysis (albeit analysis which was later superseded). Much like living mammoths and Bigfoot, what might be called the ‘megalodon as cryptid hypothesis’ serves to reinforce a fairy tale of its own. It reflects the desire to believe that there are still areas of the Earth untouched enough by human destruction to sustain massive animal life (Dendle 199-200). Indeed, megalodon’s continued existence would help absolve humanity for the oceanic aspect of the Sixth Extinction, by its role as an alternative apex predator; cryptozoologist Michael Goss even proposed that whales and giant squids are rare not from human causes, but precisely because megalodons are feeding on them (40). Horror scholar Michael Fuchs has pointed out that shark media, particularly the 1975 film Jaws and its 2006 video game adaptation Jaws Unleashed, are imbued with eco-politics (Fuchs 172-83). These connections, as well as the modern megalodon’s surge in popularity, make it notable that none of Syfy’s climate change-focused Sharknado films featured a megalodon. Despite the lack of a Megalodonado, the popular appeal of the megalodon serves as an important case study. Given its scientific origin and dynamic relationship with popular culture, I argue that the ‘megalodon as cryptid hypothesis’ illustrates how the boundaries between ‘hard’ science and mythology, fiction and reality, as well as ‘monster’ and ‘animal’, are not as firm as advocates of the Western science tradition might believe. As this essay highlights, science can be a mythology of its own, and monsters can serve as its gods of the gaps—or, in the case of megalodon, the god of the depths. Megalodon Fossils: A Short History Ancient peoples of various cultures likely viewed fossilised teeth of megalodons in the area of modern-day Syria (Mayor, First Fossil Hunters 257). Over the past 2500 years, Native American cultures in North America used megalodon teeth both as curios and cutting tools, due to their large size and serrated edges. A substantial trade in megalodon teeth fossils existed between the cultures inhabiting the areas of the Chesapeake Bay and Ohio River Valley (Lowery et al. 93-108). A 1961 study found megalodon teeth present as offerings in pre-Columbian temples across Central America, including in the Mayan city of Palenque in Mexico and Sitio Conte in Panama (de Borhegyi 273-96). But these cases led to no mythologies incorporating megalodons, in contrast to examples such as the Unktehi, a Sioux water monster of myth likely inspired by a combination of mammoth and mosasaur fossils (Mayor, First Americans 221-38). In early modern Europe, megalodon teeth were initially referred to as ‘tongue stones’, due to their similarity in size and shape to human tongues—just one of many ways modern cryptozoology comes from European religious and mystical thought (Dendle 190-216). In 1605, English scholar Richard Verstegan published his book A Restitution of Decayed Intelligence in Antiquities, which included an engraving of a tongue stone, making megalodon teeth potentially the subject of the first known illustration of any fossil (Davidson 333). In Malta, from the sixteenth through eighteenth centuries, megalodon teeth, known as ‘St. Paul’s tongue’, were used as charms to ward off the evil eye, dipped into drinks suspected of being poisoned, and even ground into powder and consumed as medicine (Zammit-Maempel, “Evil Eye” plate III; Zammit-Maempel, “Handbills” 220; Freller 31-32). While megalodon teeth were valued in and of themselves, they were not incorporated into myths, or led to a belief in megalodons still being extant. Indeed, save for their size, megalodon teeth were hard to distinguish from those of living sharks, like great whites. Instead, both the identification of megalodons as a species, and the idea that they might still be alive, were notions which originated from extrapolations of the results of nineteenth and twentieth century European scientific studies. In particular, the major culprit was the famous British 1872-76 HMS Challenger expedition, which led to the establishment of oceanography as a branch of science. In 1873, Challenger recovered fossilised megalodon teeth from the South Pacific, the first recovered in the open ocean (Shuker 48; Goss 35; Roesch). In 1959, the zoologist Wladimir Tschernezky of Queen Mary College analysed the teeth recovered by the Challenger and argued (erroneously, as later seen) that the accumulation of manganese dioxide on its surface indicated that one had to have been deposited within the last 11,000 years, while another was given an age of 24,000 years (1331-32). However, these views have more recently been debunked, with megalodon extinction occurring over two million years ago at the absolute latest (Pimiento and Clements 1-5; Coleman and Huyghe 138; Roesch). Tschernezky’s 1959 claim that megalodons still existed as of 9000 BCE was followed by the 1963 book Sharks and Rays of Australian Seas, a posthumous publication by ichthyologist David George Stead. Stead recounted a story told to him in 1918 by fishermen in Port Stephens, New South Wales, of an encounter with a fully white shark in the 115-300 foot range, which Stead argued was a living megalodon. That this account came from Stead was notable as he held a PhD in biology, had founded the Wildlife Preservation Society of Australia, and had debunked an earlier supposed sea monster sighting in Sydney Harbor in 1907 (45-46). The Stead account formed the backbone of cryptozoological claims for the continued existence of the megalodon, and after the book’s publication, multiple reports of giant shark sightings in the Pacific from the 1920s and 1930s were retroactively associated with relict megalodons (Shuker 43, 49; Coleman and Huyghe 139-40; Goss 40-41; Roesch). A Monster of Science and Culture As I have outlined above, the ‘megalodon as cryptid hypothesis’ had as its origin story not in Native American or African myth, but Western science: the Challenger Expedition, a London zoologist, and an Australian ichthyologist. Nor was the idea of a living megalodon necessarily outlandish; in the decades after the Challenger Expedition, a number of supposedly extinct fish species had been discovered to be anything but. In the late 1800s, the goblin shark and frilled shark, both considered ‘living fossils’, had been found in the Pacific (Goss 34-35). In 1938, the coelacanth, also believed by Western naturalists to have been extinct for millions of years, was rediscovered (at least by Europeans) in South Africa, samples having occasionally been caught by local fishermen for centuries. The coelacanth in particular helped give scientific legitimacy to the idea, prevalent for decades by that point, that living dinosaurs—associated with a legendary creature called the mokele-mbembe—might still exist in the heart of Central Africa (Guimont). In 1976, a US Navy ship off Hawaii recovered a megamouth shark, a deep-water species completely unknown prior. All of these oceanic discoveries gave credence to the idea that the megalodon might also still survive (Coleman and Clark 66-68, 156-57; Shuker 41; Goss 35; Roesch). Indeed, Goss has noted that prior to 1938, respectable ichthyologists were more likely to believe in the continued existence of the megalodon than the coelacanth (39-40). Of course, the major reason why speculation over megalodon survival had such public resonance was completely unscientific: the already-entrenched fascination with the fact that it had been a locomotive-sized killer. This had most clearly been driven home by a 1909 display at the American Museum of Natural History in New York City. There, Bashford Dean, an ichthyologist at the museum, reconstructed an immense megalodon jaw, complete with actual fossil teeth. However, due to the fact that Dean assumed that all megalodon teeth were approximately the same size as the largest examples medially in the jaws, Dean’s jaw was at least one third larger than the likely upper limit of megalodon size. Nevertheless, the public perception of the megalodon remained at the 80-foot length that Dean extrapolated, rather than the more realistic 55-foot length that was the likely approximate upper size (Randall 170; Shuker 47; Goss 36-39). In particular, this inaccurate size estimate became entrenched in public thought due to a famous photograph of Dean and other museum officials posing inside his reconstructed jaw—a photograph which appeared in perhaps the most famous piece of shark fiction of all time, Steven Spielberg’s 1975 film Jaws. As it would turn out, the megalodon connection was itself a relic from the movie’s evolutionary ancestor, Peter Benchley’s novel, Jaws, from the year before. In the novel, the Woods Hole ichthyologist Matt Hooper (played by Richard Dreyfuss in the film) proposes that megalodons not only still exist, but they are the same species as great white sharks, with the smaller size of traditional great whites being due to the fact that they are simply on the small end of the megalodon size range (257-59). Benchley was reflecting on what was then the contemporary idea that megalodons likely resembled scaled-up great white sharks; something which is no longer as accepted. This was particularly notable as a number of claimed sightings stated that the alleged megalodons were larger great whites (Shuker 48-49), perhaps circuitously due to the Jaws influence. However, Goss was apparently unaware of Benchley’s linkage when he noted in 1987 (incidentally the year of the fourth and final Jaws movie) that to a megalodon, “the great white shark of Jaws would have been a stripling and perhaps a between-meals snack” (36). The publication of the Jaws novel led to an increased interest in the megalodon amongst cryptozoologists (Coleman and Clark 154; Mullis, “Cryptofiction” 246). But even so, it attracted rather less attention than other cryptids. From 1982-98, Heuvelmans served as president of the International Society of Cryptozoology, whose official journal was simply titled Cryptozoology. The notion of megalodon survival was addressed only once in its pages, and that as a brief mention in a letter to the editor (Raynal 112). This was in stark contrast to the oft-discussed potential for dinosaurs, mammoths, and Neanderthals to remain alive in the present day. In 1991, prominent British cryptozoologist Karl Shuker published an article endorsing the idea of extant megalodons (46-49). But this was followed by a 1998 article by Ben S. Roesch in The Cryptozoology Review severely criticising the methodology of Shuker and others who believed in the megalodon’s existence (Roesch). Writing in 1999, Loren Coleman and Jerome Clark, arguably the most prominent post-Heuvelmans cryptozoologists, were agnostic on the megalodon’s survival (155). The British palaeozoologist Darren Naish, a critic of cryptozoology, has pointed out that even if Shuker and others are correct and the megalodon continues to live in deep sea crevasses, it would be distinct enough from the historical surface-dwelling megalodon to be a separate species, to which he gave the hypothetical classification Carcharocles modernicus (Naish). And even the public fascination with the megalodon has its limits: at a 24 June 2004 auction in New York City, a set of megalodon jaws went on sale for $400,000, but were left unpurchased (Couzin 174). New Mythologies The ‘megalodon as cryptid hypothesis’ is effectively a fairy tale born of the blending of science, mythology, and most importantly, fiction. Beyond Jaws or Shark Attack 3—and potentially having inspired the latter (Weinberg)—perhaps the key patient zero of megalodon fiction is Steve Alten’s 1997 novel Meg: A Novel of Deep Terror, which went through a tortuous development adaptation process to become the 2018 film The Meg (Mullis, “Journey” 291-95). In the novel, the USS Nautilus, the US Navy’s first nuclear submarine and now a museum ship in Connecticut, is relaunched in order to hunt down the megalodon, only to be chomped in half by the shark. This is a clear allusion to Jules Verne’s 20,000 Leagues under the Sea (1870), where his Nautilus (namesake of the real submarine) is less successfully attacked by a giant cuttlefish (Alten, Meg 198; Verne 309-17). Meanwhile, in Alten’s 1999 sequel The Trench, an industrialist’s attempts to study the megalodon are revealed as an excuse to mine helium-3 from the seafloor to build fusion reactors, a plot financed by none other than a pre-9/11 Osama bin Laden in order to allow the Saudis to take over the global economy, in the process linking the megalodon with a monster of an entirely different type (Alten, Trench 261-62). In most adaptations of Verne’s novel, the cuttlefish that attacks the Nautilus is replaced by a giant squid, traditionally seen as the basis for the kraken of Norse myth (Thone 191). The kraken/giant squid dichotomy is present in the video game Stranded Deep. In it, the player’s unnamed avatar is a businessman whose plane crashes into a tropical sea, and must survive by scavenging resources, crafting shelters, and fighting predators across various islands. Which sea in particular does the player crash into? It is hard to say, as the only indication of specific location comes from the three ‘boss’ creatures the player must fight. One of them is Abaia, a creature from Melanesian mythology; another is Lusca, a creature from Caribbean mythology; the third is a megalodon. Lusca and Abaia, despite being creatures of mythology, are depicted as a giant squid and a giant moray eel, respectively. But the megalodon is portrayed as itself. Stranded Deep serves as a perfect distillation of the megalodon mythos: the shark is its own mythological basis, and its own cryptid equivalent. References Alten, Steven. Meg: A Novel of Deep Terror. New York: Doubleday, 1997. Alten, Steven. The Trench. New York: Pinnacle Books, 1999. Atherton, Darren. 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