By Diana & Wynand

Before you read

Read the dive as a wildlife encounter whose ethics matter as much as its drama. The story begins with fear and thrill, but its real question is whether shark tourism can be practiced with enough restraint, regulation, and local value to support protection rather than spectacle.

Introduction

We’re Diana and Wynand, two passionate divers who met in Playa del Carmen, Mexico — a place that not only brought us together but also deepened our connection to the ocean. During our time living there, we both earned our divemaster certifications and loved exploring the local reefs. Diana went on to work as an underwater photographer, capturing the beauty and complexity of marine life.

In this article, we share our experiences diving with bull sharks off the coast of Playa del Carmen. Through these encounters, we’ve gained a deeper understanding of these often misunderstood creatures and their vital role in marine ecosystems. We also highlight how responsible shark diving can contribute to conservation efforts, turning thrilling underwater adventures into a force for protecting these incredible animals.

Diving with Bull Sharks

Ethics note

Responsible shark tourism depends on operator rules: distance, briefing, group size, and no-touch protocols matter as much as the sighting itself.

Diving with bull sharks offers the unique privilege of observing these magnificent creatures up close. Each dive allows us to witness their natural behaviors — gliding gracefully through the water, interacting with one another, and even forming curious relationships with other species, like remoras.

One of the greatest aspects of diving with bull sharks is how it challenges common misconceptions. Many people fear sharks, perceiving them as dangerous or unpredictable. But when you dive with them, you learn that they are not aggressive toward humans. Instead, they are curious and cautious, often keeping a safe distance unless provoked. This revelation often changes people’s views of sharks, transforming fear into admiration.

Watch the original video clip

Having the opportunity to observe them up close helps us understand their vital role in the marine ecosystem, as they act as top predators that maintain the health and balance of the ocean. We’ve seen many divers leave the water feeling more connected to the ocean and more passionate about shark conservation because of this direct interaction — especially in Playa del Carmen, where bull sharks gather from November to February to give birth.

However, this practice comes with both benefits and potential drawbacks. One advantage is the increased awareness and appreciation for bull sharks, as divers witness their natural behaviors in a non-aggressive environment. This type of eco-tourism encourages conservation and generates revenue for local communities, helping to shift the economic incentive away from shark fishing.

Additionally, researchers have used these dives to collect important data, such as ultrasound scans of pregnant sharks, without causing undue stress to the animals.

Bull Shark Gestation Season

Species note

Pregnancy and nursery timing can make disturbance more consequential, so seasonal wildlife encounters should be planned around biology, not only visitor demand.

During this time, pregnant females migrate to shallow, warm waters in the area of Sian Ka’an, to give birth. These coastal areas, especially mangrove estuaries, serve as crucial nursery habitats for their young. Protecting these habitats is essential for the continued reproduction and survival of bull sharks in the region, as they provide shelter from predators and abundant food sources for shark pups.

Feeding areas also play a significant role in the sharks’ life cycle. It has been theorized that female bull sharks return to the same areas where they were born to give birth themselves, demonstrating strong site fidelity. Therefore, maintaining and protecting these feeding and birthing areas is vital for the sustainability of the bull shark population.

Watch the original video clip

Conservation efforts, including shark-diving tourism, have gained prominence in Playa del Carmen. The controlled nature of shark diving helps raise awareness about the species and funds research initiatives aimed at better understanding their behaviors and protecting their habitats.

How Do We Dive with Sharks?

These encounters are not only exhilarating but also deeply educational, offering divers insight into the importance of conserving bull sharks and their habitats. Diving with bull sharks in Playa del Carmen is a truly transformative experience. Instructors provide detailed briefings about shark behavior, anatomy, and their role in marine ecosystems.

For many, sharks represent fear and danger, often due to exaggerated media portrayals, but witnessing them in their natural environment reveals a completely different reality. The controlled nature of these dives allows for a safe environment for both the sharks and the divers. Strict guidelines, such as staying anchored to the sea floor, maintaining small group sizes, and avoiding bright-colored equipment, ensure that the sharks’ natural behaviors are not disturbed while also keeping divers out of harm’s way.

When you’re submerged alongside these powerful animals, you quickly realize that they’re not the mindless predators they are often made out to be. Instead, they are calm, graceful, and surprisingly uninterested in humans as prey. This shift in perspective is one of the key reasons we believe everyone should experience diving with bull sharks.

Watch the original video clip

This knowledge, combined with the direct interaction, helps demystify sharks and emphasize their importance in maintaining a balanced oceanic food web.

Conclusion

While many fear sharks, diving with bull sharks offers an opportunity to transform this fear into admiration. It allows divers to witness the true nature of these creatures while also contributing to their conservation. This not only creates more informed individuals but also helps shift public perception, encouraging greater support for protecting shark populations.

Watch the original video clip

References

1. Bull Shark ConservationWebsite: https://www.floridamuseum.ufl.edu/fish/discover/species-profiles/carcharhinus-leucas/
2. The Truth About Scuba Diving with Bull SharksWhere Angie WandersWebsite: https://whereangiewanders.com/how-to-dive-with-bull-sharks-in-playa-del-carmen-mexico/
3. Bull Shark Research and ConservationSaving Our SharksWebsite: https://www.savingoursharks.org

Originally published at Untold Wildlife.

By Tamara Blazquez Haik

Before you read

Read this through the author’s long relationship with the Yucatan, not just one visit to Holbox. The force of the story comes from comparison over time: a familiar peninsula now showing development pressure, waste, wildlife displacement, and community resistance in the same landscape.

The last time I visited Mexico’s Yucatán Peninsula was in December 2023. I was hoping to meet and photograph the area’s iconic American flamingos (Phoenicopterus ruber) in all of their splendor. And so I did. I was able to photograph many of these birds’ magical moments as they fed on shallow mangrove waters, fought against each other (as graceful as they look, flamingos are very territorial!), and also when they flew across Yucatan’s wetlands and swamps.

Tourism, Urbanization, and the Rapid Loss of Mangrove Ecosystems

Place note

On a coast, development pressure rarely stays in one place. Roads, hotels, waste, boat traffic, and wetlands can all reshape the same wildlife system.

What I wasn’t expecting to see though, was the looming presence of “civilization” encroaching on these ecosystems and their residents. Throughout the wetlands surrounding Yucatan’s capital city of Merida, as well as some of its port towns like Progreso and Sisal, you could easily see how hotels, apartment buildings, and many other structures were being built without any consideration for the local biodiversity.

And sadly, this has become the norm in Mexico’s Yucatan Peninsula. As tourism continues to grow and expand, so does urbanization. This, of course, means devastating entire ecosystems to the detriment not only of species like the flamingos, but other animals like crocodiles for example, and of course, humans.

As a conservation photographer and storyteller I have traveled to the Yucatan Peninsula for about 10 years. I’ve been to places like the Calakmul Biosphere Reserve and Bacalar Lagoon both in the Maya Jungle, and other destinations. Back then though, urbanization was not as obvious and federal environmental protections were well in place.

However, things began to change in 2018 with the development of the Maya Train — a passenger train crossing the whole of the peninsula and the Maya Jungle. This train is already operational but its development brought a lot of deforestation and habitat destruction. Plus, many more hotel developments began construction as well.

Holbox Wildlife: A Semi-Pristine Refuge Under Growing Pressure

As such, I was truly baffled at how quickly the ecosystems in the Peninsula are being destroyed. However, not all hope is lost and some places, though already threatened, still resist such as Holbox Island. Holbox Island (pronounced “hol-bosh”) in Mexico’s Yucatan Peninsula is quickly becoming a favorite destination among tourists longing for that quiet island life. Holbox is not a particularly large island. It extends for just 42 km and the town itself is only 6km long. You can easily stroll from one point of the town to the other in about an hour or less if you’re a fast-paced walker.

The town is quaint and small. It’s a car-free destination, with unpaved roads and both locals and tourists move around the place using bicycles, golf carts, or quad bikes. The beaches are indeed paradisial: white, powdery sands, and calm, turquoise waters. The island’s residents main income comes from tourism. As such there’s a vast offer of tours like boating or kayaking around the island, with some if not all involving the local wildlife.

That’s right. Holbox is not just about the beautiful beach side hotels and delicious restaurants. Since the town encompasses barely 15% of the island’s territory, you might be wondering what else is left? Pristine nature is what’s left. Well, somewhat pristine nature that is.

While most of Holbox are undeveloped beaches, mangrove forests, rivers, and estuaries (all filled with wildlife I might add), there’s an obvious pollution problem within the island that is fueled by the island’s hotels and restaurants. You can also find debris that is constantly carried ashore by the ocean’s currents — with some of the plastic waste coming from places like Haiti or Guatemala just to name a few — making its way into these environments and posing a threat to the local biodiversity. Regardless, the island remains one of the last semi-pristine havens for wildlife in the Yucatan Peninsula.

Holbox is home to more than 400 species of birds, 93 species of mammals, and more than 400 species of flora. The Yum Balam Nature Reserve can also be found on the island, covering most of Holbox’s territory. The mangroves, rivers, and beaches covering this area are fantastic. You’ll surely come across crocodiles, birdlife such as tiger herons, and sometimes even the flamingos flying in from the mainland.

I recently visited Holbox Island and got to witness how peaceful and almost untouched its mangroves and some beaches remain. I was only able to spot three flamingos as they continuously fly to and from the mainland. My naturalist guide was surprised to find even those three birds, as normally they are all hanging out back in the mainland during December and most of the winter months. Yet, once again, he didn’t hesitate to mention that flamingo numbers in Holbox continue to increase as the wetlands in the mainland continue to be razed.

Other birds like the reddish egret (Egretta rufescens) is also a common sight both in Holbox and in the overall peninsula, as is the bare-throated tiger heron (*Tigrisoma mexicanum). *But some of the stars of the show, which are even very popular animals among tourists on the island, are the crocodiles. Many people take to the mangroves and rivers in hopes of spotting these reptiles as they sunbathe or just float around the rivers leisurely.

Actually, during my stay on the island, my guides and I were able to spot a baby crocodile on one of the beaches. They rarely venture outside the mangrove, but what caught my attention is how fascinated people seemed to be with the animal. No one was bothering them and they just admired the little guy from a reasonable distance.

There were even some photographers taking the chance to take a nice portrait of the croc. And I think that’s what makes Holbox different and well on its way to be a much more sustainable destination than its counterparts along the peninsula: its industry is indeed focused on ecotourism ventures rather than nightlife or anything along those lines.

Throughout Holbox you’ll find several options for renting a kayak, boat tours taking you to birdwatching hotspots, horseback riding, scuba diving and snorkeling, and even whale shark watching. This last one though is a bit controversial as it has gotten out of hand in recent years. Also, some of the raccoons venturing into the town in search of food (attracted by the garbage and pollution) are sometimes poisoned.

Community-Led Conservation and the Future of Holbox Wildlife

Community note

Local cleanup brigades matter most when they connect waste removal with prevention, monitoring, and pressure on the systems that keep producing the pollution.

Due to these issues, a movement is surging in Holbox — surprisingly fueled by sustainable tourism. Several of the tour operators on the island, such as an agency named Azul Tourquesa, organize monthly beach and mangrove cleanups in hopes of collecting plastic waste and other for its correct disposal and management. Other tour operators and birdwatching guides also organize similar activities, and the best part is that both the local authorities and hotels seem eager and willing to engage.

This gives the island and both its human and non-human residents a hopeful future. And as long as the mainland continues to embrace a predatory tourism model, wildlife like the flamingos are sure to turn towards Holbox and its community-based conservation actions. The island also has an animal sanctuary for stray dogs and cats, and they also take in injured wildlife like raccoons. Recently they took to the streets to protest against the unknown residents poisoning the wildlife.

Sometimes we look at some places and think everything is doomed, especially with the constant and ever-growing tourism and urbanization industries resulting in serious pollution issues. But at the very least, sustainable tourism has great hopes when it comes to being a tool for wildlife conservation. And this exactly what the community-based initiatives in Holbox teach us: when we work together to protect nature, even fragile ecosystems can have a chance at a brighter and better future. Every action counts no matter how small or simple it may seem.

Originally published at Untold Wildlife.

By Dhrubajyoti Bhattacharjee

Before you read

Read this as a local memory story as much as a birding story. Ordinary records become meaningful when trees, ponds, gardens, and familiar species begin to disappear quietly, because a dated observation can prove that wildlife was here.

Take a moment to remember the garden from your childhood, wherever it was. Maybe it was a courtyard, a balcony, or a dusty patch behind your grandmother’s house. There were sparrows, weren’t there? Dozens of them, hopping under chairs, squabbling in the dirt, slipping in and out of a gap over the door to a nest you were told not to touch. A tailorbird scolded from the hibiscus. Somewhere, a barbet called out, always hard to find, camouflaged within the leaves. You didn’t call it birding, and you didn’t have binoculars. The birds were just there, part of everyday life.

Now go back to that same garden today, in your memory or in person, and count the sparrows. Many of you will struggle to reach five. Some of you will not find one.

This is what I want you to remember before we go on: birding doesn’t only happen far away in forests or national parks with guides, permits, and expensive cameras. It used to happen all around you, every morning, for free, but now it’s quietly fading. The birds didn’t move to a national park. They slowly disappeared from our lives while we were busy with other things.

I cannot tell this story for your town. I can only tell it honestly, from my own perspective, from a town where I was born and grew up. So let me guide you to Agartala. A small town in the foothills of the Himalayas and the capital of the north-eastern Indian state of Tripura.

When I was a boy, the road in front of our house was lined with old Krishnachura trees, and every May the whole street turned red beneath them. The barbets and koels argued in those branches all afternoon, and the shade was deep enough that people pulled chairs out to sit under it in the worst of the summer heat. Those trees are gone now. The road is wider. There are no flowers in May, and there is no shade.

Looking back, what stands out to me isn’t just that the trees were cut down. It’s that no one kept track of what got lost with them. No one wrote down that flamebacks nested in the dead betel-nut tree, or that green pigeons visited when the fruits ripened. There was no list and no protest. The birds left, and the town didn’t notice because no one was paying attention.

This is the quiet point I want to make. In Agartala, and probably in your town too, the rarest species isn’t a bird. It’s the birdwatcher. And when a bird has no one watching, it has no one to protect it.

People, even those who love nature, think birding only happens in sanctuaries, reserves, or up in the hills. Those places are great, but they can distract us. The birds are already here: in your garden, your neighbor’s mango tree, the bamboo at the end of the lane, or the wire above your scooter.

Step outside to your balcony, rooftop, or to the steps outside your door. Stand still for a few minutes. You might hear the towit-towit-towit of a common tailorbird scolding from a hibiscus, or perhaps another morning singer you remember from childhood. The birds are all around you; watching them and listening to their songs requires no permit, guide, or four-wheel drive. It requires only that you decide to pay attention.

The real challenge isn’t access. It’s building the habit of noticing, something most of us were never taught to do.

When no one notices a bird, it is left undefended. We often see birds as decoration, just pretty things that brighten our mornings. But they are part of our natural infrastructure.

One tailorbird family can eat thousands of caterpillars in a season. Sunbirds and barbets pollinate wild figs and flowering trees. Pigeons and bulbuls help plant future forests by carrying seeds far away. Kingfishers and egrets keep our ponds healthy. Birds are also our best indicators. When sparrows disappeared from Indian cities over the last twenty years, it wasn’t just sad; it was a sign that something was wrong with our air, water, pesticides, and the places where birds nest.

A town with healthy birds is a town still healthy for its people.

But an instrument is useless if no one checks it. I’ve seen this happen on my own street many times: a pond is marked for filling, a row of old trees is slated for cutting, or a garden with mango and bamboo is sold for a new building. No one stands up to say, “This is where the cormorant nests,” or “This is where the kingfisher fishes.” No one says it because no one knows. There’s no record, no count, no way to name what’s lost.

The pond is filled overnight, a “Plot for Sale” board goes up, and an entire small ecosystem dies without an obituary.

This is the main point. We sometimes tell ourselves that birds who lose their homes will just move to the forest. Most won’t; they aren’t forest birds. Sparrows, tailorbirds, spotted doves, and pied mynas evolved with our gardens and village ponds. When we remove those places, we don’t move the birds somewhere else. We erase them. And we do it without protest, because the people who might have spoken up were never there.

The simplest conservation is often the most powerful: noticing and speaking up for what’s around you. The good news is that starting a birding culture is surprisingly easy and cheap. You don’t need a department, a budget, or a permit. All it takes is a few people willing to walk together early on a Sunday morning, a WhatsApp group, one pair of binoculars to share, and a practice of teaching anyone who joins. Almost every birding group in India started this way, with just a few determined people and a list. Maybe you could start the first group in your area.

The list is what matters. If you record what you see on a platform like eBird, your morning hobby becomes a data point, and thousands of data points become the record we need. That record can help stop ponds from disappearing quietly. Connect with others through groups like Ataavi. When a pond is about to be filled, the difference between protest and silence is whether someone can prove the cormorants were there.

And bring the children along. There’s a generation growing up now that has never seen a woodpecker, never sat quietly under a tree, and never experienced the birds calling at daybreak. For these children, even the sparrow is becoming just a story their parents tell. A child who never notices birds won’t grow up to vote for, plan, or build a city that protects them.

So take them outside, not to a contractor’s park, just outside. Point and name the bird, even clumsily; “the one with the red under its tail, that’s a bulbul” is enough. Curiosity is contagious. A child with a bird notebook is a future watcher, and a future watcher is a future defender.

Agartala is not a city that has lost its birds. It is a city in the slow process of losing them, one felled tree and one filled pond at a time. A new apartment block in the wetlands is slowly making it difficult for the birds, and we are silently losing them, which is the worst way to lose anything, because it leaves no proof that it was ever there. The same is almost certainly true of wherever you are reading this.

Tomorrow morning, before the town starts up, open your window. Maybe you’re in an apartment block, a school field, a village pond, or a city park anywhere in the world. Listen for the chirps. Look for the sparrow you have stopped noticing. Watch an egret stand at the corner pond while the pond is still there. You don’t have to travel anywhere to begin, and you don’t have to know all the names. You only must become the rarest bird in your town, the one that is watching.

Whether the rest of them stay is, mostly, up to us.

There are many birds you can meet without leaving your city

I am sharing a few species from my town. Every species below was photographed by me within or around Agartala, from a balcony, a rickshaw, a school field, or a walk to the market. If you’re reading this elsewhere, look for birds in your own spaces: balconies, parks, ponds, or street corners. You can discover your own list and use tools like eBird, Merlin Bird ID, and iNaturalist, or connect with local birding groups to help you identify and record what you see.

The garden regulars

The drummers and the diggers

The water watchers

Habitat note

Water birds can reveal the condition of ponds, drains, wetlands, and flooded edges. A changing bird list may be an early sign of changing water habitat.

The ground walkers

The skulkers and the sentinels

The seed carriers

Ecology note

Seed-eating and fruit-eating birds can move plant life through a city. Even common birds may be part of urban regeneration in quiet ways.

If you photograph birds in and around your town, share them. Tag the location. Build a record. The first step in protecting something is to prove beyond a doubt that it was here.

Originally published at Untold Wildlife.

By Eleanor Jolliffe

Forget sex in the city. In Greenford, a leafy but distinctly urban part of Ealing, they’ve introduced beavers to the city. Just 10 minutes from Greenford station and 50 yards from McDonald’s, you’ll find the Ealing Beaver Project, a mosaic of ponds, channels and woodland. After a summer of heatwaves, it is conspicuously lush and seemingly a few degrees cooler than the congested roads it sits under.

A different answer to flooding

Beavers were introduced to this part of Ealing in 2023, partially to prevent flooding. After frequent floods affected Greenford station, local authorities considered creating an artificial reservoir using concrete and heavy machinery. A group of conservationists, led by Sean McCormack, suggested a different idea: beavers.

By creating dams, digging channels and felling small trees, the semi-aquatic rodents slow water flow during floods. McCormack says what makes them so brilliant is that their dams create complex wetlands. Sometimes referred to as ecosystem engineers or keystone species, beavers build dams that trap water and woody debris, soak nearby soil, and create conditions for wetland species to establish.

When flood protection meets drought

Following a public consultation in the area, which McCormack says was met with overwhelming public support, beavers were introduced in October 2023. This marked Britain’s first and only beaver enclosure fully accessible 24 hours a day, 365 days a year. Since 2024, across the beavers’ second and third winters onsite, the station has not flooded for the first time in over a decade.

However, with August confirmed by the EU’s Copernicus Climate Change Service as the joint hottest month on record, flooding is not top of mind. Tied with July 2023 and driven by a combination of climate change and El Niño, August 2026 saw average temperatures over the month hit 1.65°C above pre-industrial levels. The Met Office found the summer’s temperature increase was approximately 130 times more likely because of human-caused climate change.

The impacts of August’s record-breaking heat are severe. Drought struck two-thirds of England, triggering hosepipe bans for almost 30 million households. Meanwhile, farmers are expecting the lowest harvests since records began in 1984 after crops were stunted by heat. Fire and rescue services also responded to 1,132 wildfires this year, up from 848 the previous year.

Beavers, the flat-tailed rodents hunted to extinction in the UK about 400 years ago, offer some respite from drought. In McCormack’s words, while beavers “don’t care about urban flooding or mitigating droughts” when building dams for their own protection, “they turn the entire landscape into a giant sponge that can absorb a flood event and release it slowly.”

In a very arid, fire-prone landscape, this creates “oases of green, lush, damp, marshy land, and if a wildfire is ripping through the landscape, beaver wetlands act as a break.” Beaver wetlands do not burn, he says: “You can’t burn wet soil.”

Across the canal, a control site

Across the canal from the project is a control site. It has a similar geographic location and habitat type, but no beavers. McCormack took me there, and the contrast was striking. “It’s just bone dry,” he said. “There’s no aquatic or invertebrate life compared to here because there’s no moisture in the system.”

We should be explicit: this is not a perfect scientific experiment. There is ample data to capture, but as a volunteer-run organisation, the project does not have the resources to conduct extensive scientific research. The ecosystems at the sites are very similar, though the beaver site has a brook with running water while the control site’s ponds, now dried up after the summer drought, would typically be static. Even with those limits, the comparison gives us a strong idea of the beavers’ impact on their local environment.

Moreover, research from Devon found that a beaver enclosure on intensively managed grassland stored an additional one million litres of water across 13 dams. Onsite in Greenford, even with the beavers, water levels dropped to their lowest point yet after this summer’s temperatures. Still, the beavers have kept virtually all the water coming onto the site there.

One tool, not a climate cure

Let’s be clear, says McCormack: “Beavers are not this panacea for climate change. That’s stupid, that’s for sure over-egging it. But they’re certainly one of our solutions.” What beavers do very well, he thinks, is teach us that sometimes nature-based solutions are best.

According to the Met Office, in our current climate we can expect a summer like the one just experienced every nine years. Previously, a summer like this would have been exceptionally unlikely, occurring approximately every 1,000 years. Against this bleak backdrop, the nature-based solutions beavers bring by helping put water back into our landscapes are increasingly worthwhile.

Originally published at Untold Wildlife.

By Wesley Klijnstra

I still remember the feeling of entering the jungle of Bukit Lawang in Sumatra, Indonesia, in 2019. I had travelled to Indonesia with my camera, excited about the possibility of photographing wildlife, but I had no idea that this particular experience would change the way I looked at photography and its purpose.

I had never been in a real tropical jungle before. The moment we started walking, I realised this was going to be very different from anything I had experienced. Our local guide led the way, and I simply followed his instructions. The terrain was challenging, with steep climbs, thick vegetation and narrow paths. At certain points, we were walking alongside deep ravines where one wrong step could have disastrous consequences.

It was physically demanding. The climbs were steep, the ground wasn’t always easy to navigate, and I had to concentrate on every step. Carrying my camera equipment made it even more challenging. But I wasn’t thinking about how difficult the journey was. I knew what we had come to see, and that kept me going.

After what felt like a long journey through the jungle, we finally reached an area where our guide knew we might encounter the animals we were looking for.

And then I saw one.

An orangutan moving through the trees.

I immediately reached for my camera. It started coming closer, moving naturally through the branches. Then more appeared. Before long, we were watching several orangutans, including mothers with their babies.

I remember looking at them through my viewfinder and being amazed by what I was witnessing. Their expressions, their movements and the way they interacted with each other were incredible. There was something almost human about the way they observed their surroundings. They seemed so intelligent and curious.

For a moment, I was completely focused on photographing them. I wanted to capture as much as possible because I knew how special this encounter was. Seeing these animals in their natural environment, surrounded by the forest they call home, was something I will never forget.

A note on Bukit Lawang

Bukit Lawang has a long history of orangutan rehabilitation. Since the supplementary feeding programme ended in 2015, and orangutans with different histories move freely through the surrounding forest, it can be difficult to define precisely how wild any particular individual is. Today, visitors may encounter both wild and formerly rehabilitated orangutans in the same forest landscape.

But while I was enjoying this extraordinary experience, our guide began telling us something that would stay with me long after that day.

He explained the threats orangutans face, how their natural habitats are disappearing and how human activities are putting their future at risk. Their homes are being destroyed, leaving these animals with less and less space to survive.

I remember listening to him and looking back at the orangutans in the trees. Just moments earlier, I had been thinking about how fortunate I was to photograph such beautiful creatures. Now I was thinking about what their future might look like.

It was heartbreaking to realise that animals so intelligent, so beautiful and so important to their ecosystem were being pushed towards extinction because of human actions.

What affected me most was the passion in our guide’s voice. You could tell how much he cared about these animals. He wasn’t simply explaining facts to a group of tourists. He genuinely wanted people to understand what was happening and why protecting these animals and their environment mattered.

His words made me look at my camera differently.

I had been photographing wildlife for years, and I had always loved capturing animals in their natural environments. But that day I started thinking about what those photographs could actually do.

Could they make someone stop and look at an animal they had never really noticed before? Could a photograph make someone curious enough to learn about an endangered species? Could sharing the story behind an image encourage someone to care about protecting nature?

I realised that photography could be more than a way of preserving memories or creating beautiful images. It could also be a way of giving wildlife a voice.

That experience in Sumatra became an important turning point for me. The orangutans had given me an experience I would treasure forever, but they had also given me a reason to use my photography for something bigger.

Since then, I have wanted my wildlife photography to contribute to conservation and the protection of natural environments. And I don’t believe this should be limited to orangutans or endangered species alone.

Every animal has a place in nature. Every ecosystem has value. Whether it is a rainforest in Indonesia, the African savannah, the forests of Europe or the wetlands of the Netherlands, I believe these environments deserve to be protected.

I want people to understand that conservation isn’t only about saving the animals we find beautiful or fascinating. It is about protecting the balance of nature and recognising that we share this planet with countless other species.

This is also why I want to connect my photography with meaningful action. Through the sale of my wildlife and nature prints, I want to dedicate a portion of the proceeds to conservation organisations and projects that work to protect animals and their natural habitats.

I know I cannot change everything on my own. I am one photographer, based in the Netherlands, with a camera and a passion for wildlife. But I believe that small contributions can become part of something much bigger.

If one photograph inspires someone to learn about orangutans, if one print helps contribute towards protecting a habitat, or if one story makes someone think differently about the natural world, then I believe my photography has achieved something meaningful.

When I look back at my photographs from Bukit Lawang, I don’t just see beautiful orangutans or memories of an incredible adventure. I remember the difficult climb, the narrow jungle paths, the excitement of spotting the first orangutan and, most importantly, the words of our guide.

I went to Sumatra hoping to photograph orangutans.

I left with a different understanding of why they need to be photographed, remembered and protected.

The orangutans stole my heart that day. And although I have travelled to many countries and photographed countless animals since then, that encounter will always have a special place in my life.

I hope that one day I can return to Sumatra and see those forests thriving, with orangutans still moving freely through the trees and mothers raising their babies in the wild.

Because they deserve a future. And so does every other animal sharing this planet with us.

I want my photographs to be remembered not only for what they show, but also for what they stand for.

Originally published at Untold Wildlife.

By Jair Luke Sam

Before you read

Jair's encounter opens a window onto the Little Rann's seasonal wetlands, where water, salt, and microscopic life sustain a remarkable community of birds.

A Childhood Dream of Flamingos

Some dreams arrive suddenly.

Others wait patiently for years.

Mine began in front of a television.

As a child, I was captivated by wildlife documentaries. While most people remember the roaring lions of the Serengeti or polar bears wandering across Arctic ice, I found myself mesmerized by something far quieter, flamingos.

I remember sitting cross-legged on the floor, watching countless National Geographic documentaries that transported me to places I could barely pronounce. Vast African lakes shimmered beneath the morning sun; their shorelines painted in impossible shades of pink. Thousands upon thousands of flamingos moved together like a single living organism. Every now and then the entire flock would rise into the air, filling the screen with wings streaked in crimson, black and soft rose.

They seemed almost unreal.

Elegant.

Graceful.

Almost mythical.

What fascinated me wasn't just their beauty. It was the places they lived. Lonely salt lakes. Endless wetlands. Landscapes so wild that they seemed untouched by time. Flamingos were never simply birds in those films, they were symbols of wilderness itself.

Back then, seeing one in real life felt impossible.

Years passed.

Life became busier. School gave way to exams, responsibilities multiplied, and those childhood afternoons spent watching wildlife documentaries slowly became distant memories. But somewhere in the back of my mind, that image remained, a horizon filled with pink birds taking flight over silent wetlands.

Some dreams refuse to fade.

The Little Rann in the Monsoon

When I learnt that the Little Rann of Kutch in Gujarat was one of India's most remarkable flamingo landscapes, I knew I had to visit. Most birders come during winter, when migratory birds transform the Rann into one of the richest birding destinations in Asia.

I went during the monsoon.

Friends thought it was an unusual choice.

"Why visit a salt desert when it's flooded?"

That question, I would soon discover, misunderstood the Little Rann entirely.

The Little Rann isn't really a desert, not in the way most people imagine. For much of the year it appears dry, harsh and almost lifeless. But with the arrival of the southwest monsoon, everything changes.

Rivers flowing from mainland Gujarat spill into the basin. Rainwater spreads across the flat landscape, turning vast stretches of cracked earth into shallow wetlands. The famous white salt flats disappear beneath a sheet of water. Islands of slightly higher ground, known locally as bets, emerge like tiny archipelagos surrounded by a shimmering inland sea.

It is a landscape in transition.

Neither land nor lake.

Neither desert nor marsh.

Standing still beneath enormous monsoon skies, it feels as though nature has not yet decided what it wants this place to become.

The monsoon had transformed everything.

The scent of wet earth hung heavily in the air. Dark clouds drifted lazily overhead, occasionally allowing shafts of golden sunlight to illuminate patches of emerald grass. Every puddle reflected the sky. The entire landscape seemed alive.

It was difficult to imagine this same place becoming a blinding white salt desert just a few months later.

Following a Lone Flamingo

The next morning began quietly.

The kind of quiet that only exists after a night of rain.

There was no rush.

No grand plan.

Just the hope that somewhere out in the flooded wilderness, the birds would reveal themselves.

As we walked past the resort’s golf course, my eyes drifted almost absentmindedly toward one of the shallow water hazards.

Then I stopped.

Standing alone in the water was a bird that had lived in my imagination since childhood.

A flamingo.

For a few seconds, I couldn’t move.

After years of watching documentaries, reading books, and dreaming about distant wetlands, I was finally looking at one through my own eyes.

Not on a television screen.

Not through the lens of someone else’s camera.

But here.

In front of me.

Its reflection shimmered in the still water as it swept its strangely shaped bill from side to side beneath the surface. Occasionally it paused, lifted its head, and droplets rolled down its pale pink neck before falling silently back into the wetland.

It was impossibly elegant.

And completely alone.

That was the first thing that struck me.

Flamingos are among the most social birds on Earth. They gather in flocks that can number in the thousands. Solitude seemed almost unnatural for a bird whose life revolves around companionship.

What was it doing here?

Had it become separated from a larger group?

Was it simply feeding before continuing elsewhere?

Or was there a hidden flock somewhere beyond the flooded horizon?

The flamingo offered no answers.

Instead, it continued feeding in perfect silence, occasionally glancing toward the distant wetlands stretching beyond the resort.

Then, without warning, it straightened its neck.

Its wings unfolded.

Pink.

Crimson.

Jet black.

Colours I had admired for years on television suddenly burst into life before me.

The flamingo began to run across the shallow water.

One stride.

Two.

Three.

Then, with effortless grace, it lifted into the humid monsoon sky.

I looked at our guide. He smiled. “We should follow it.”

The flamingo climbed steadily, its broad wings beating with surprising power before it settled into an effortless glide. Against the dark monsoon clouds, its pale pink body stood out like a brushstroke across the sky.

Within moments it was little more than a distant silhouette.

Yet somehow, we never lost sight of it.

Our jeep rolled out of Rann Riders and onto the muddy tracks leading into the Little Rann. The resort disappeared behind us, replaced by an ever-changing landscape that seemed impossible to define.

It was breathtaking.

And wonderfully alive.

Every kilometre revealed something new.

The flamingo was still ahead of us.

Sometimes we lost it against the clouds, only for it to reappear moments later, its long neck and trailing legs unmistakable.

Where was it leading us?

The tracks became progressively wetter.

The jeep lurched through puddles and patches of sticky clay, tyres occasionally slipping before finding grip again. Finally, after nearly an hour of weaving through flooded grasslands and shallow wetlands, our guide brought the vehicle to a gentle stop.

“This is as far as we go.”

Ahead of us lay an immense mudflat. It looked deceptively solid. The first step proved otherwise.

My boot sank several centimetres into the grey clay with a soft squelch. Pulling it free required far more effort than expected, and by the third step, each boot seemed to have doubled in weight.

The mud had a personality of its own. It clung stubbornly to everything.

Every few metres we had to stop and scrape away thick layers of sticky clay from our boots before continuing. Walking demanded complete concentration. One careless step could leave you ankle-deep, laughing and struggling to regain your balance.

Yet no one complained.

There was something oddly enjoyable about it.

The silence.

The open sky.

The anticipation of not knowing what waited beyond the next stretch of wetland.

The only sounds were the distant calls of lapwings and the occasional splash as tiny fish disturbed the surface of nearby pools.

After nearly twenty minutes of careful walking, the landscape opened before us.

A broad, shallow lagoon stretched across the horizon.

It appeared almost empty.

Almost.

Then I noticed a faint wash of colour reflected in the water.

Not blue.

Pink.

At first, I thought it was another trick of the light.

The monsoon sky had been playing with colours all morning.

But as we walked closer, the pink began to take shape.

Long necks. Slender legs. Graceful movements.

Flamingos.

Not one. Not two. But an entire flock.

Spread across the lagoon, a couple of dozen Lesser Flamingos fed quietly in the shallow water, their reflections shimmering with every ripple. Some stood shoulder to shoulder, methodically sweeping their specialized bills from side to side beneath the surface. Others rested on one leg, occasionally preening feathers that seemed almost white until the sunlight revealed delicate shades of blush and rose.

It was impossible to know which bird we had followed from the resort. The lone flamingo had become part of something much larger. We settled quietly at the edge of the wetland, careful not to disturb them. Through my binoculars, every movement became a lesson in adaptation.

Flamingos feed upside down, an extraordinary behaviour made possible by one of the most specialized bills in the bird world. Their tongue works like a powerful pump, forcing water through fine comb-like structures called lamellae that filter out tiny algae, diatoms, insect larvae and microscopic crustaceans. It is those tiny crustaceans, rich in natural pigments called carotenoids, that give flamingos their famous pink colour.

Without them, flamingos would be almost white.

Editor’s note: what Lesser Flamingos eat

Much of a Lesser Flamingo’s world depends on life too small for us to see: microscopic cyanobacteria and algae are its main food. Pigments in that diet contribute to its pink colour, connecting the beauty above the water to the life within it. Learn more about Lesser Flamingo feeding ecology.

The birds fed patiently, each one tracing gentle arcs through the water as though choreographed. Occasionally two birds would raise their heads together, exchanging soft, goose-like calls before returning to feed.

There was no urgency. No competition. Only quiet rhythm.

Now I was standing only a few dozen metres away, watching them through my own eyes.

The dream had become real. And the morning was far from over. Time seemed to lose all meaning. How long we stood there, I honestly couldn’t tell. Perhaps it was thirty minutes. Perhaps it was an hour.

Out in the Little Rann, time isn’t measured by clocks. It is measured by the movement of clouds, the changing light on the water, and the lives of the birds around you.

The flamingos carried on as though we didn’t exist.

One by one, they drifted through the shallow lagoon, sweeping their heads gracefully from side to side beneath the water. Every few seconds they would lift their bills, allowing tiny droplets to fall back into the wetland before taking another slow step forward.

Their impossibly long legs moved with remarkable precision through the soft mud, disturbing little more than a few ripples. The surface of the lagoon mirrored every movement, creating the illusion that another flock was feeding beneath them.

From time to time, one bird would pause, stretch its neck high above the others and quietly survey its surroundings before returning to feed. Others busied themselves with grooming.

A flamingo’s feathers are its passport to survival. Every feather must remain perfectly aligned and waterproof. Using their bills, the birds carefully worked through each feather, spreading oils that keep their plumage in perfect condition. Occasionally one bird would stretch both wings to their full extent, revealing brilliant flashes of scarlet hidden beneath otherwise pale feathers.

I found myself smiling.

For years, I had watched these birds on television, wondering what it would feel like to stand beside them. The documentaries had shown the spectacle. They had shown the migrations. The breeding colonies. The aerial shots of endless pink lakes. But they had never captured the feeling. They couldn’t show the scent of rain-soaked earth carried by the monsoon breeze. They couldn’t recreate the sticky mud clinging stubbornly to your boots. They couldn’t let you hear the quiet conversations between flamingos drifting gently across the wetland. Some experiences simply refuse to fit inside a screen.

As the morning wore on, the light began to change. The clouds that had shielded us for much of the day slowly parted, allowing sunlight to spill across the lagoon. Almost instantly, the birds seemed brighter. The water became a mirror of silver. Every reflection sharpened. Every feather glowed. The entire wetland felt alive.

Then something changed.

It was almost too subtle to notice at first. One flamingo stopped feeding. Then another. Heads began to rise across the lagoon. The soft murmur of feeding birds gave way to gentle calls echoing over the water.

Our guide whispered quietly. “They’re getting ready.”

Ready for what?

Within moments, several birds began walking with greater purpose.

One stretched its wings. Another shook water from its feathers.

The flock seemed connected by an invisible thread, each bird responding to movements almost before they happened.

Then, without warning, one flamingo leaned forward and began to run.

Its long legs slapped against the water’s surface, sending tiny sprays of droplets into the air. A second bird followed. Then a third. Within seconds, the entire lagoon erupted into motion.

Dozens of flamingos raced across the shallow water together. Powerful wings beat furiously. Water exploded beneath them.

The silence that had defined the morning disappeared beneath the deep rhythm of beating wings.

One after another, the birds lifted effortlessly into the humid monsoon air.

For a brief moment they flew directly towards us.

My heart raced.

The sound was unforgettable. Not loud. Not chaotic. Just the steady, powerful rhythm of wings cutting through damp air.

The flock climbed together, forming a loose ribbon of pink against towering grey clouds.

Their reflections shimmered below them until birds and sky became almost impossible to separate.

I lowered my camera. Some photographs are never taken. Not because you miss the opportunity…

…But because the moment deserves your complete attention.

This was one of those moments.

I simply watched.

The flock circled gracefully above the wetland once, almost as if taking one final look at the lagoon that had sustained them.

Then they turned north, gradually shrinking against the enormous sky until each bird became nothing more than a tiny speck.

And finally…

Nothing.

Only clouds. Only silence. Only ripples spreading slowly across the water where they had stood only moments before.

We remained there for several minutes.

No one spoke.

There was nothing left to say.

As we began the slow walk back across the mudflat, I looked over my shoulder one last time.

The lagoon appeared empty again.

If someone had arrived a few minutes later, they would never have known that dozens of flamingos had transformed it into one of the most beautiful scenes I had ever witnessed.

It reminded me how fleeting wildlife encounters really are.

Nature doesn’t perform on schedule.

It doesn’t wait for visitors, it simply allows us, every now and then, to witness something extraordinary.

Walking back through the sticky monsoon mud, I couldn’t stop thinking about how delicately balanced this place is.

The Little Rann exists because of water, but only in the right amount.

Each year, the southwest monsoon breathes life into these wetlands. Rain and rivers flood the basin, creating a temporary world of shallow lagoons and marshes that support countless insects, crustaceans, fish, amphibians and birds. As the months pass, the water slowly evaporates, leaving behind the saline conditions that make this ecosystem so unique.

That balance is becoming increasingly unpredictable.

During our visit, many people spoke about how much rain Gujarat had received. Roads had flooded. Wetlands were fuller than usual. While no single monsoon can be blamed entirely on climate change, scientists have found that a warmer atmosphere can fuel heavier rainfall events, and across many parts of India these extremes are becoming more common.

For flamingos, those changes matter, too little water, and their feeding grounds dry up before enough food develops. The very food that the depend upon is now at risk because of algal crises and beta-carotine loss.

Too much freshwater, and the salinity changes, altering the delicate communities of algae and tiny crustaceans that colour their feathers and sustain their lives.

Even small changes can ripple through an entire ecosystem.

And it isn’t only these flamingos. Around the world, birds are quietly telling us the same story.

Shorebirds arrive at wetlands that have been replaced by apartment complexes, seabirds travel farther because warming oceans have shifted the fish they depend upon, mountain birds climb higher as temperatures rise, And, migratory birds encounter storms that did not exist when their ancient flyways first evolved. Even here, in the Little Rann, this place has been declared a ‘wasteland’ and the Narmada canal has been causing chemical biomagnification in this precious wetland.

The Little Rann should be declared a ‘Ramsar Wetland’ of international importance. This will help it to be removed from the category of “Wasteland” in government records, which will legally prevent the expansion of the surrounding industrial zone (GIDC).

Research shows that excess fresh water from the Narmada Canal from the Sardar Sarovar Hydro Project is being released into the Rann without planning. This fresh water is changing the saline habitat here, which is killing the blue-green algae that flamingos need. The solution is to create a hydrological gate system that regulates the flow of water only as needed.

But, it’s not a losing battle, as groups like The Corbett Foundation and Project Noah are helping raise awareness about flamingo conservation in Gujarat.

Birds cannot hold climate conferences, they cannot write reports. They simply adapt for as long as they can.

And when adaptation is no longer enough, they disappear.

Perhaps that is why birds matter so much.

They are among nature’s first storytellers.

If we are willing to watch, and more importantly, to listen, they tell us how healthy our planet truly is.

When I was a child, flamingos were something I admired from the comfort of my living room, a dosa in my plate, I watched as their lives unfolding on a National Geographic screen thousands of kilometres away.

I never imagined that one day I would be standing in the monsoon mud of the Little Rann of Kutch, watching those same birds through my own binoculars as they rose into a sky heavy with rain.

Dreams have a funny way of finding us.

Sometimes they arrive quietly, in a flooded wetland at the edge of a salt desert, sometimes they begin with a single bird standing alone on a golf course.

And sometimes, if you’re willing to follow pink wings into the unknown, they leave you with memories that will stay with you long after the footprints in the mud have disappeared.

Additional context

Read beside the story

Editorial context

• The Little Rann connects land and sea. River water mixes with tidal water from the Gulf of Kutch, while elevated islands called bets provide habitat above the surrounding salt flats.
• India supports both Greater and Lesser Flamingos, including residents and winter visitors. BNHS researchers study their movements to better understand the wetlands they depend on.
• The Rann also sustains salt workers and fisherfolk. Protecting its seasonal rhythms means considering these livelihoods alongside its wildlife.

What readers can do

• Watch with binoculars or a long lens, give feeding and resting flocks space, and follow local guides and sanctuary rules.
• Follow the American Birding Association’s Code of Birding Ethics
• Keep a field notebook of the birds you see, their behaviour, and the changing water conditions. It is a simple way to deepen your connection with a wetland over time.

Useful terms

Ecotone

A transition between ecosystems. The Little Rann connects terrestrial habitats with a seasonal coastal wetland.

Cyanobacteria

Photosynthetic bacteria often called blue-green algae. Along with algae, they are important food for Lesser Flamingos.

Explore further

• David Harper on Lesser Flamingo feeding ecology, Freshwater Biological Association (2025)
• India’s description of the Wild Ass Sanctuary, UNESCO Tentative List (2006 submission)
• BNHS flamingo research in India
• Kothari’s field reporting on the Little Rann and its livelihoods (2026)

Originally published at Untold Wildlife. Story and photographs by Jair Luke Sam.

From the National Geographic Summit

Before this Untold Story arrived, Sophie Darlington joined Alice Aedy on stage at the National Geographic Summit in Amsterdam for a conversation on her path as one of wildlife cinematography’s pioneering women. The moment included a small on-stage toast to Jane Goodall, and Untold Wildlife team members were in the audience as Sophie reflected on craft, persistence, representation, and the responsibility to hold doors open for those who follow.

A Way Into the Wild

Wildlife filmmaking didn’t come to me through a film school, a camera assistant scheme, or anyone’s careful plan. I left Ireland at nineteen and went to Tanzania because of a tree — a beautiful, massive fig tree that conjured up imaginings of a totally different space and light. I scraped and saved and made any tentative contact I could, and finally got to see that fig, ‘The Tree Where Man Was Born’. And whilst I was there, a BBC natural history film crew passed through the lodge I was staying in, and — bingo — there it was: I wanted to be a wildlife filmmaker, to somehow bottle that light and, like this crew, turn it into a story.

I could, and probably should, have gone to film school as they suggested, but formal study and I have never really got along — apprenticing has always been the way I learn, watching someone put their camera in the right spot to make an image leap out from the TV. What I had instead was a stubbornness to try something uncomfortable just to see how it fit, and the good fortune to land somewhere the work was actually being done.

The way in, when it came, did not look like a job in filmmaking at all. I started as a camp manager for Hugo van Lawick, learning the rhythm of life on the Serengeti — as well as how to order carrots over a crackly radio signal — before I ever held a film camera. Hugo had spent decades filming alongside Jane Goodall, and the generosity of that camp, his camp, and the talented camera people around him became my film school. I spent years under those skies learning the craft by watching, carrying, failing, and slowly being trusted with more. That is not the route anyone would design. It is the route that was open to me, and I ran at it.

I got lucky: in a land where very few women were filming solo — fewer than I could count on one hand — Hugo was my champion. Doors opened because individual people chose to open them, and because I kept showing up, I got to walk through. Talent matters, but access matters just as much, and access is something others grant or withhold.

Filming in a wilderness like the Serengeti, you wake each day and let nature write the script. I was keyed into that; we all were in that camp — witnessing a cheetah brother and sister, only recently parted from their mother, learning how to hunt, the sister much better than the male: she’d paid attention. But they managed as a team, and then learned how to be alone… the male keened for his sister for days, but survived. The extraordinary moment as the first wildebeest arrived over a horizon, only to be followed by thousands, hundreds of thousands; the colour of the sky as a storm kicked in — a deep iron — and the gold of the grasses more saffron and vivid than anything has a right to be, the migration making a perfect black line erratically carving through it. Those moments stay with you.

Learning by Looking

Without a formal education to fall back on, mentorship was not just a pleasant extra — it was the whole foundation. I learned how to convey emotion in a non-speaking cast from watching people who had mastered it; Owen Newman’s films taught me that the job was never just to show an animal but to make an audience feel something for it. Beauty and emotion, I believe, are not decoration. They are how you make a viewer care — and people protect what they have learned to love. That is what the storytelling is for. Everything I know about pointing a camera at a wild creature, I owe to people who took the time to teach me when they had no obligation to.

Editor’s note: Sophie’s credits sit inside some of the landmark natural history series of recent decades, including The Hunt, Planet Earth II, Dynasties, Our Planet, A Perfect Planet, and Queens. Read this story with that scale in mind: behind the quiet apprenticeship she describes is a body of work that has helped shape how millions of people see the wild.

Who Holds the Camera

Decades on, Queens gave me the chance to be on the other side of that exchange. It was the first major wildlife series steered by a women-led team, telling stories of female leadership in the natural world — matriarch elephants, lionesses, hyena, Ethiopian wolves, the quiet authority of animals we had too often overlooked. Leading photography alongside fellow DoP Justine Evans mattered, but what mattered more was bringing on younger female filmmakers and handing them real responsibility, not token shots. My first shoot on the series was during lockdown — I’d met Field Producer Faith Musembi on Zoom and knew specialist film driver Sammy Munene very well, but had never met cinematographer Manu Akasta before — and we piled into the vehicle to meet some of the elephant families Faith had researched. The dawning that I was the only member of the crew not from Kenya was quite a moment. Faith said something that has stayed with me ever since: “Representation doesn’t just matter, it is everything.”

People sometimes ask what women specifically bring to filming wildlife, and I am wary of tidy answers, because the danger is implying there is one female way to see. What I will say is this: who holds the camera shapes which stories get told, and how. For a long time the genre was filmed by a narrow group of people, and inevitably it reflected a narrow set of instincts about what was worth pointing at. Widen the range of people behind the lens and you widen the range of behaviour, emotion, and lives that make it onto the screen. Queens did not invent female animal leadership — it simply pointed the camera at it, because a different set of eyes thought to.

My advice rarely changes. Start with respect — the animals owe you nothing, and the work is better when you remember you’re a guest in their world. The caring has to be real, too; animals and audiences can both tell when it isn’t. Lean on other people — I love the ones in this field, and we’ve carried each other through hard shoots and made better films for it. Then just shoot. Anything, constantly, badly at first. Working out what you actually want to say with a camera takes years, and nobody’s route in is tidy. Mine least of all.

Being invited into the American Society of Cinematographers and the Academy, as the first dedicated wildlife cinematographer, put me in rooms I’d had no way into. The only thing worth doing with that is bringing others in — which is why I give time to mentoring and to collectives like Illuminatrix, so the next person with no obvious way in has somewhere to land.

The legacy I care about is not a list of credits. It’s whether, thirty years from now, a nineteen-year-old with no map and no formal training can find their own way in — their own camp, whatever shape it takes — and whether the wild will still have enough left in it to be worth filming when they get there.

https://youtu.be/Mh_8FbsITvg?si=V2a6XMKP8ZyOwmx9

Read more Untold Stories on https://www.untoldwildlife.org/stories

Many conservation stories begin with urgency — a rare wildlife sighting, an animal rescue, a species under threat. These moments matter. They draw attention to the challenges facing the natural world. But when a photographer returns to the same landscapes year after year, something else begins to emerge.

The story is quieter.

Over time, the work shifts away from single moments toward the deeper patterns that shape a place. Landscapes reveal themselves not only through wildlife, but through the lives of the people who move through them and care for them, often in ways that are not immediately visible.

Conservation is rarely defined by a single action. More often, it is shaped by relationships — with land, with wildlife, and with the communities whose lives are tied to those environments.

Photography helps reveal those relationships.

Discovery

Learning to pay closer attention

Many photographers are first drawn to wild places by the hope of seeing something exciting — a leopard emerging from long grass, a mass movement of wildebeest across the landscape, moments that feel unexpected and alive.

These experiences can be powerful, and they often become the images people remember. But spending more time in the same places begins to change what draws your attention.

The focus shifts.

Instead of searching for a single moment, you begin to notice how a place is lived in. How people and wildlife move through the same space. How daily activity continues to shape life and land.

Photography becomes less about capturing sudden moments, and more about observing what is present.

Across many landscapes in East Africa, conservation is closely tied to everyday life. Livestock grazing patterns influence wildlife movement. Fishing communities help maintain coastal ecosystems. Rangers and community leaders work together to protect land that supports both people and wildlife.

These relationships are not always obvious at first glance. But when photographers return over many years, they become clearer.

What first appears to be a wildlife landscape is also a human one — shaped by knowledge, responsibility, and long familiarity with the land.

Learn

What returning reveals

Some landscapes do not reveal themselves all at once.

On a first visit, a place often presents its scale and beauty — open plains, forests stretching to the horizon, wildlife moving across the land. It is easy to focus on what is immediately visible.

But returning again and again allows different details to surface. Over the years, I have found myself noticing things I would have missed on those first visits.

A herder with his cows crossing a valley in the early morning light.

A ranger beginning a patrol before sunrise, boots still dusty from the previous day.

A fisherman checking nets along a mangrove shoreline, pulling them in slowly against the tide.

Individually, these moments may seem small. But over time, they begin to form a deeper picture of how landscapes are lived in and sustained. You begin to understand that conservation is not separate from daily life — it is shaped by it.

Seeing Change

With time, another layer begins to emerge.

Change.

Some of it is subtle.

A grazing area that feels more pressured than it did before.

A coastline where the waterline now has more plastic washed up.

Wildlife moving differently through a landscape that is becoming more fragmented.

These changes are not always visible on a single visit. They reveal themselves slowly, over months and years.

Returning allows you to notice not only what is present, but what is shifting — and sometimes, what is being lost.

This is often where the urgency of conservation becomes most real.

Not in a single dramatic moment, but in the gradual changes that reshape a place over many years.

Protect

Conservation as a shared responsibility

The longer one works within conservation landscapes, the clearer it becomes that protection rarely comes from a single action.

Instead, it grows through cooperation, patience, and a shared sense of responsibility.

Wildlife protection depends on healthy ecosystems. Those ecosystems depend on people who value and care for the land. And that care develops through connection, learned knowledge, and continuity.

Photography can help make these relationships visible.

By going back to the same places over many years, it becomes possible to document not only the beauty of a landscape, but also the effort that sustains it.

The most meaningful conservation stories are often the quietest ones.

They are found in the steady work of people who care for the land, in the dedication required to protect wildlife, and in the relationships that allow both to continue. Learning to see these connections takes time.

But once they become visible, they can change how we understand conservation — and the role each of us plays in protecting the places we love.

Read more Untold Stories on our website.

A dhow made entirely out of recycled plastic sets sail on the shores of Lamu, Kenya. Built by the Flipflopi Project, from waste collected within the community, the vessel is more than just a boat; it is a declaration that change is possible. The Flipflopi Project was born out of the growing plastic pollution crisis threatening the island, and today it transforms approximately 10–12 tonnes of plastic each month into usable products. In doing so, it embodies the principles of the circular economy, turning discarded material into a floating symbol of Lamu’s deep cultural heritage. Their vision was compelling enough to draw support from global conservation partners such as IFAW (discussed further below).

The Wave that Started It All

Ben Morrison, one of the co-founders of The Flipflopi project, conceived the idea of building a dhow from plastic waste. This idea had sparked after noticing that tides of plastic are slowly overtaking Lamu’s clean, white beaches.

The biggest challenge while starting up was that no one believed in the grand idea of making a functional dhow out of plastic. After approaching several craftsmen, Ben Morrison found Ali Skanda. As a custodian of a five-generation legacy of traditional dhow craftsmanship, and with the “kila kitu inawezekana” (translated from Kiswahili to “anything is possible”) mindset, the idea took a significant leap forward.

As plans shifted from paper to practice, they faced another hurdle. Without a local recycling facility, the collected plastic had to be processed off-island. The first prototype, mixed with sand, was brittle. The second prototype, made entirely out of plastic, developed air bubbles that risked structural failure.

Therefore, to make the dhow functional, a compromise had to be made — its size was reduced by half. After two and a half years of extensive back-and-forth between the Flipflopi team and the company producing the beams, alongside Ali painstakingly shaving bubbles off the beams, piece by piece, the recycled planks came together to bring ‘Flipflopi Ndogo’ to life.

The Three Pillars Powering Flipflopi

Innovation

Creativity is an element of Flipflopi that stands out like a sail catching the first wind. This is illustrated by Ali’s ability to build a dhow from scratch, without any reference. Generational expertise has brought out his unique, innovative skills, allowing his dhows to have both structural integrity and a distinctive appearance.

The Flipflopi project places innovation in the hands of local artisans. Manufactured plastic is carved into pieces of art by Lamu’s proficient craftsmen, bringing an aspect of creativity to a once plain plank of plastic. These techniques are typically reserved for wood, yet the adaptation to an entirely different material proves to be a meeting point between tradition and transformation.

Education

Locally, Flipflopi achieves its main goal of awareness by targeting the spread of information from the grassroots level. This involves community outreach programs, such as teaching the locals of Lamu how to separate different types of household trash, therefore simplifying recycling. Another form of community outreach is visiting local schools to explain the impact of plastic pollution on the surrounding environment.

Globally, Flipflopi has made various short films, a children’s story book, and implemented an open-source policy, as outlined below:

“We are outsourcing everything we learn. We are proud to know that everyone does not have to start from scratch. Start where we have reached.” ~ Ali Skanda, co-founder of The Flipflopi Project

Ali emphasizes Flipflopi’s unique aspect of sharing with the world every step of their process. By sharing their mistakes, methods, and creativity, every individual can learn and build on their progress, hence accelerating meaningful change.

An admirable aspect of Flipflopi is its commitment to giving back to the community. In order to carry innovative skills forward to Lamu’s community, vocational training was introduced. Extensive training surrounding ways to incorporate boat-craftsmanship alongside circular economy-based creativity has been effective in training 84 students to date, with more on the horizon.

Influence

FlipFlopi’s final pillar is influence. Initiating change was one of their most significant achievements in spreading awareness. This change successfully contributed to the implementation of concrete measures combating plastic pollution through rules and regulations, as outlined below:

2017 Ban on single-use plastics — Then Kenya’s Minister for Environment, as well as IFAW Board member and Flipflopi advisor, Professor Judy Wakhungu, implemented a nationwide ban on the use, manufacture, and importation of single-use plastic bags in Kenya. This legislation has substantially reduced plastic pollution in both land and marine environments by promoting the transition to reusable alternatives.

2020 Government ban on single-use plastics in protected areas — In 2020, the Kenyan Government further strengthened its stance by implementing a ban on the entry of single-use plastics in protected areas such as national parks and national reserves.

These transformations over the years highlight how grassroots and community-led initiatives such as Flipflopi can collectively influence policy and behavioural change on a national level.

Closing the Loop: From Waste to Use

The Flipflopi project has adopted various methods to collect plastic. One of which includes having locals drop off plastic at the processing site in return for money. For example: 15ksh($0.12)/kg of hard plastics collected.

Another idea they brought to the table is setting up net bags around highly polluted areas to intercept waste. They collect plastic waste from net bags as well as village households during their door-to-door collecting service, occurring around 3–4 times a week around the villages. This process collects approximately 10–12 tonnes of plastic per month.

Once collected and weighed, the plastic gets sorted into its 7 types (examples shown in brackets):

1. PET (plastic bottles)
2. HDPE (jerikans)
3. PVC (pipes)
4. LDPE (Plastic bags)
5. PP (diapers)
6. PS (Styrofoam)
7. Miscellaneous (DVDs)

Sorting is the most delicate part of recycling, because different types of plastic have different melting points and physical properties (hardness or softness). This means that the plastic must be sorted efficiently to ease the melting process. Without proper sorting, the cooled plastic solidifies into clumps, producing a weak, low-quality material that is often unrecyclable and ultimately deposited in landfills.

Once sorted, PETs, LDPEs, and rafia bags are individually taken to a machine known as the baler. During the initial phases of the Flipflopi project, it was observed that processing PET in a crusher proved to be far more challenging than using a baler, primarily due to the toughness of PET and the high cost of frequently replacing the machine’s blades. Consequently, the team opted to invest in a baler. The baler works by pushing plastic against a wall inside the chamber with immense strength, expelling air, and reducing its volume significantly. This process is crucial as it enables larger quantities of plastic to be transported at once, lowering costs due to the compacted bales occupying less space. It is also time-efficient because plastics do not have to be sorted by color. The crusher is still used to crush hard plastics such as HDPs and PPs only once they have been sorted by color and type.

LDPEs are processed in the agglomerator, which is a machine that crushes plastics into small flakes for easier processing. Thereafter, the plastic flakes are put into a washline, where chlorine is used as treatment to remove the odour, and are finally dried in the sun.

The plastic flakes are processed either using a sheet press or an extrusion machine. Flakes from the agglomerator are fed into the extrusion machine, where they are melted at their respective melting points and molded into beams or planks. Once formed, the plastic is cooled and stored, ready for use in carpentry.

The sheet press machine is an important factor in the R&D sector of Flipflopi. Since any form of plastic can be pressed into a sheet, using the sheet press has enabled a greater understanding of how different plastics behave, thereby allowing them to develop new ideas for recycling plastics. Magunia, which are plastic woven sacks, are an example of a material that can only be pressed into sheets. Due to their high abundance in East Africa, it is essential to find ways to recycle them, hence highlighting the importance of using the sheet press machine.

Once the plastic has been molded into beams and planks, the carving process begins.

This is an aspect of Lamu’s culture that has been integrated into the Flipflopi project.

Traditional craftsmen have been brought together to create intricate, unique designs.

The beauty of it revolves around the fact that the craftsmen simply go with the flow while carving — no practice, no template.

Offcuts from carpentry are crushed into smaller pieces, then melted and molded by a smaller extruder, thereby exemplifying Flipflopi’s embodiment of a circular economy.

The craftsmen’s tools are made by the only blacksmith in Lamu: Omari Shali. From creating a fire to molding metals into various shapes, he can craft precise and personalized carving tools that allow for the most accurate detailing.

Where Plastic Pollution Ends, Conservation Begins

Every piece of plastic recycled is a turtle freed from entanglement, a child spared from toxic exposure, and an ecosystem saved from silent destruction.

As an organization creating a lasting social change, inspiring environmental action, and protecting wildlife and its habitats, the Flipflopi project stands as a role model for future generations.

By advocating for conservation as a shared responsibility, the children of today will be inspired to carry the legacy forward and set more eco-initiatives afloat.

What Can You Do?

1. Sign the petition to ban the manufacture of single-use, destructive plastics in the East African Member States
2. Donate to support The Flipflopi Project or the International Fund for Animal Welfare
3. Adopt small daily changes: use reusable plastic, recycle, and change destructive consumption behaviour
4. Initiate and support local clean-up initiatives
5. Spread awareness: Be a voice amplifying Flipflopi’s message

Continuing the Wave of Change

Despite the nationwide ban on single-use plastic bags, challenges persist when ocean currents bring in plastic from surrounding countries. Flipflopi’s next wave of change builds on its legacy of influence and tackles this problem by advocating for a ban on non-essential, single-use plastics that cannot be recycled fully, or at all, in East Africa. By omitting materials that cannot re-enter the production process, Flipflopi aims to further close the loop from a linear to a circular economy.

Following Flipflopi Ndogo, their next eco-initiative is a dhow that can sail across the globe — a 24-meter beast made from 70 tonnes of plastic! They aim to scale their expeditions from along the East coast with Flipflopi Ndogo, to across seas with their next breakthrough in creation.

Uniting for Impact

Grassroots innovations rarely thrive in isolation. Scaling impact requires partnership, which can be seen through Flipflopi’s collaboration with the International Fund for Animal Welfare (IFAW). As a global force in conservation, IFAW works to protect wildlife and habitats through advocacy, rescue and rehabilitation efforts, community engagement, and strategic partnerships.

By partnering with Flipflopi, IFAW has successfully scaled its impact and influence, demonstrating how its commitment to habitat protection and community engagement can amplify local initiatives such as The Flipflopi Project into a global force in conservation. Together, they prove that protecting our oceans and wildlife is not just the responsibility of large organizations or policymakers, but also of communities and individuals. The partnership illustrates that when innovation, dedication, and strategic collaboration converge, even the most daunting environmental challenges can be met with evident, lasting impact.

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If you are reading this, you probably know the importance of prides of lions in controlling herbivore populations in the African savanna, the crucial fertilizing function carried out by large whales in the oceans or even the “maintenance” of coral reefs by sea turtles.

At the same time, it is also very likely that you have never seen a whale, or that you have not been within 5,000 km of a pride of lions in the wild, and yet you are aware of their importance, of their fundamental role in maintaining global ecosystems. You are aware of all this thanks to the work of committed people, who dedicate their lives to showing all of us who “can’t see a lion up close” that said lion matters, who feel that it is worth fighting for the conservation of our fellow planet companions.

But, what if I told you that we have other companions, much smaller, much more unknown, present in all the ecosystems of the planet, directly responsible for the existence of lions, whales and turtles… and that most of us have not seen either, despite how close we are to them…

Let me introduce you to the wonderful and unknown world of microscopic organisms.

What are microscopic organisms?

When I talk about microscopic organisms I am referring to all living beings that we cannot see with the naked eye; bacteria, fungi, protozoa, nematodes and much more, since, although it may sound surprising, they constitute 90% of the planet’s biodiversity. Under this name I include organisms made up of a single cell, such as bacteria, protozoa or microalgae, to multicellular organisms such as rotifers, tardigrades, water fleas or even many larval stages of animals that in their adult state we can see with the naked eye.

They are responsible for the recycling of matter and energy in the biosphere, they control biogeochemical cycles, they are the main CO2 fixers…

In fact, all living beings depend, in one way or another, on the activity of microscopic organisms.

The air we breathe

We all need oxygen to breathe (or almost all of us). It is estimated that approximately 30% of the oxygen we breathe is a direct product of photosynthesis carried out by trees and plants, but what happens to the remaining 70%? To discover it we must not look on land through binoculars, but in the water and through a microscope.

Cyanobacteria, diatoms, dinoflagellates, microalgae… an endless number of tiny beings, almost invisible to the naked eye, are responsible. All of them constitute what we know as phytoplankton and not only contribute substantially to the production of oxygen, but act as the basis of the trophic chains of all aquatic ecosystems and even directly affect the regulation of the planetary climate (they are largely responsible for the formation of clouds over the ocean).

The water we drink

As far as we know, there is no life without water. Seas, oceans, lakes and rivers constitute complex ecosystems with very delicate balances. Without the presence of organisms such as ciliated protozoa, rotifers or amoebas, the populations of bacteria present in the water would not have their main natural regulators, so these ecosystems would no longer be a suitable environment for the development of other forms of life and a reliable source of drinking water. Its activity is so efficient that we have even copied that system and adapted it to our water purification plants.

The land we eat from

Most of the food we consume depends directly or indirectly on the activity of microscopic organisms in the soil. Bacteria, fungi, nematodes, springtails… are the main people responsible for soil health. They facilitate the penetration of water, allow oxygenation, decompose organic matter and release nutrients that are then used by the plants on which all terrestrial organisms feed directly or indirectly.

Without their activity, the ground would be nothing more than a sterile and uninhabitable surface.

A personal beginning

My fascination with the natural world began very early. By the age of eight, I had already watched every single National Geographic documentary in our home. I used to go into the woods to watch birds, deer, and wild boars, proudly saying that when I grew up, I wanted to be a biologist. I was, so to speak, the odd kid who was into bugs.

Life took my studies in a very different direction, but my love for nature never faded. We had a microscope at home, and yet, somewhat shamefully, I didn’t really use it until after finishing university.

From that first day, though, everything changed: I discovered an entire universe of shapes, colors, and movements that I had never imagined.

I discovered that a single drop of puddle water could contain entire ecosystems, that some animals are so incredibly small they could slip with ease through the eye of a needle. I learned that the gut of a termite is home to countless tiny symbionts that look like spaceships, and that there are creatures capable of reproducing both sexually and asexually at once…

It was impossible to keep it to myself. That’s how I started taking my first (very bad) photomicrographs and videos through the microscope. I still have countless hard drives filled with my earliest images and videos (more valuable to me for their memories than for their professional or aesthetic quality) now gathering dust in some forgotten corner of my studio.

What began as a hobby soon became a passion and, little by little, a central part of my professional life.

Why don’t we see them?

Let me now get a little more personal. The incredible importance that these microscopic beings have for the maintenance of all life on the planet seems undeniable, and yet why don’t we see them? I am not referring to the technical difficulties of observing them directly, but to the fact that such relevant actors in the planetary ecosystem do not have a presence (or barely have one) in the media, platforms, television or magazines dedicated to environmental conservation.

It was these facts, having them so close and not seeing them, that they are so important and that no one shows them to you, that convinced my father Rubén Duro to incorporate the microscopic world into the traditional nature documentary, and it was him who showed me that new universe that no one else had shown me.

Since then I have dedicated myself to investigating this wonderful microworld and trying to convey my passion for it through video and photography.

I am sure that the day will come when the lion and the tardigrade, the whale and Stentor have the same level of recognition, in which the conservation of ecosystems is advocated taking into account these tiny but essential protagonists. And I like to think that I am doing my bit so that day is ever closer.

A safari from home

If something I have told has managed to awaken your curiosity about these tiny beings, here is a short video that I made a few years ago with the intention of showing the diversity and beauty that we can find in a mountain stream.

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