On World Environment Day, out with Eucalyptus

A new directive of the Karnataka forest department boosts our hopes to end the scourge of eucalyptus monoculture. Will it also address our water crisis?

An informative signpost in Dandeli speaks fondly of the virtues of the aggressively introduced eucalyptus

As with Indian cities coping with the many-tentacled monster of unplanned urbanisation, Bangalore faces a humongous water crisis. While that is no closely guarded state secret, it is a dismaying paradox for a city that was once abundant with standing freshwater reserves despite not being close to a river. With myopic and foolhardy urbanisation, we have squandered our gifts. 

In 1960, Bangalore had 280 lakes; today there are 17. Of these, most are contaminated by untreated sewage and are unfit for use as sources of potable water. Over time, Bangaloreans have encroached upon the city's lakes to reclaim land for construction. Some of the city's major residential areas, stadia and transport terminuses stand on reclaimed wetlands. During a malarial outbreak a few decades ago, authorities blamed these marshy tracts for supporting breeding grounds of mosquitoes. Soaking up the stagnant water, the authorities decreed, would address the problem. 

In came Eucalyptus, a tree native to Australia that has been traditionally used to drain swamps, most notably by Jewish settlers in Israel in the previous century. First introduced in India in the 1790s by Tipu Sultan in Nandi Hills near Bangalore, Eucalyptus globulus was subsequently planted on a vast commercial scale in the Nilgiris in 1843 to meet demand for firewood and pulpwood. In fact, eucalyptus has been in the Nilgiris for so long that some people argue that the hills are so named for the bluish hue imparted to them by stands of Blue Gum viewed through the mist. In truth, the hills take their name from the indigenous Kurinji, which carpets the meadows of the sholas when it blooms every twelve years.

Hybrid varieties of exotic eucalyptus have been reared in nurseries and planted across the country, where these fast-growing trees have gradually replacing native mixed indigenous forest. The drive gathered steam in the early 1980s with administrations advocating “social forestry” to generate a replenishable supply of fuel and timber for rural communities. 

Eucalyptus has a lot going for it as a commercial plantation tree. It grows quickly, producing more wood every year than many native species for a comparable volume of water intake. Eucalyptus cultivation offers livelihood opportunities for planters, who sell the wood harvested to brick-making kilns, where it is used as firewood. Eucalyptus oil is also used in aromatherapy and medicine. 

Though studies attempting to prove the role of eucalyptus in lowering the water table have yielded mixed and often conflicting results, opinions stand enthusiastically divided on the role that the tree plays in depleting the table as test results show wide local variation. In April, however, Karnataka's water minister blamed eucalyptus plantations for depleting groundwater levels in the basins of the Arkavathi and Kumudvathi rivers, which originate in Nandi Hills. That was sort of like pointing the finger at Tipu Sultan, while it is the forest department's unmitigated enthusiasm for social forestry that really calls for containment. 

Under the aegis of social forestry, standing tracts of natural indigenous forest have often been replaced with commercial eucalyptus monocultures (as also varieties of introduced Australian acacia and casuarina). A paper authored by a conservator of forests in 1996 defending the forest department's stand on promoting eucalyptus extols the tree's many virtues including “drought resistance, fast growth and fire hardiness” among others. 

The chief bone of contention for environmentalists, apart from the tree's many debated negative properties, is its virulent exoticity. Over this issue, environmentalists and planters have clashed frequently. Apart from flower nectar, the tree offers nothing to animals or birds. However, planting has continued unmitigated. It is possible to observe, deep inside wildlife sanctuaries in Karnataka and Andhra Pradesh, luxurious stands of eucalyptus flourishing in the native forest. 

In March, C H Vijayashankar, Minister for Forests in the Karnataka cabinet, announced that eucalyptus monocultures on forest land would be stopped. The ministry, he said, recognized that eucalyptus has contributed to serious environmental degradation, especially of arable soil, and depletion of the water table. 

Only time will tell if the move will address, at least in part, some of Bangalore's water woes. Meanwhile, nature enthusiasts will unanimously give eucalyptus the finger.

A farewell salute?

Water Wars - The battle of the bottle

Bellandur, the Bangalore suburb where I live, does not have piped water supply. It is an ecosystem of swank software parks, malls and hypermarkets densely clustered with high-rise apartments milling around what were traditionally villages but now degraded partially to slums and shanties. There is a huge multilevel Maruti automotive service center here off the arterial Outer Ring Road that services about 50 cars a day (and nearly 80 on weekends). Other service stations flourish nearby -- there are enough vehicles to keep them going. Cars are washed continuously for about 6 hours a day under high pressure jets of water. 

About a kilometre behind my apartment stretches Bangalore's largest natural lake -- Bellandur Tank. All of 148 sq km, it is a sprawling water body completely sullied by untreated sewage. I would have described it as a "freshwater" lake but somehow, that doesn't ring true. Drains carrying untreated sewage and flotsam stream into Bellandur Lake from the farthest flung areas of the city. Each drain gathers industrial effluents, domestic wastewater and runoff from rain from all over the city. According to a study conducted by the Indian Institute of Science's Centre for Ecological Sciences (CES), over 400,000 litres of untreated wastewater are emptied into the lake every day. The study found that the total wastewater generation in the catchment area of the lake is over 2,60,000 cubic metres a day. The residential sector contributes 98 per cent of this waste.


The outlets of the lake, towards Yamalur on the edge of the HAL airport, are thick with effluent foam. Inorganic waste (including plastics and rubber) is often burned on the banks of the lake and carcasses of animals and abattoir waste dumped here. Eutrophication as a result of the copious inflow of wastewater has darkened the water to murky opacity. Few birds -- except hardy egrets, herons and purple swamphens -- frequent the lake. I'm not sure if there are fish in the lake anymore and, if there are any, if they can be eaten without serious risk to health. The waters of the lake exude a foul smell at all times, a smell that wafts up into our homes in the dry season or during a storm, when falling rain disturbs the murky surface.  


The burst of construction activity during the last eight years has led to a heavy strain on resources. Despite some scratchy and sporadic attempts at rainwater harvesting among some residential and commercial communities, groundwater levels have depleted significantly. Our own apartment complex, once serviced by three deep borewells, now purchases water at about Rs 1,500 for a tanker load. On certain days, when the demand for tanker water is higher, this rate shoots up. Adjoining areas on the Sarjapur main road have not had groundwater at all in over a decade, despite their proximity to marshy wetlands. They depend entirely on tankers.

The tanker lobby, therefore, is doing brisk business responding to the increasing demand while the supply lasts. Rumours are rife that tanker owners are stalling the plans of the Bangalore Water Supply and Sewerage Board to extend supply pipelines to the suburb. Tanker operators, whose supply originates primarily in a large number of borewells, contribute to lowering the water table with their constant drilling activities. A great amount of water is also wasted in transit, splashing out of poorly secured tankers. 

The greatest demand is for drinking water. The borewell water in this area has a high concentration of dissolved solids, which makes it hard and unsuitable for drinking or cooking. Subsequently, the demand for reverse osmosis (RO) water filters are high, and nearly every home (especially homes with kids) has installed a kit. These kits cost from Rs 10,000 to Rs 17,000 depending on brand and capacity. RO water filtering is a wasteful process, generating one litre of potable water for every three litres wasted. The waste water can be used to water plants (but how many apartments have gardens?), wash clothes (but how can it be diverted into washing machine inlet pipes?) or clean floors and flush toilets. Most of the waste water just runs off into drains - and we are talking of an enormous volume of it. Add to that the wasteful use of water in shower cubicles, double-faucet sinks and washbasins, toilet flushes and dripping taps.

Those who don't have RO filters installed depend on bottled water suppliers. Pitchers (of 5, 10, 20 and 50-litre capacities) are home delivered, often two to a home. A residence of four occupants consumes about 12-15 litres for cooking and drinking -- a 20-litre pitcher lasts about two days. Where does the water in the pitchers of mineral water come from? No one can tell for sure, but since there's a great quantity of them in the market, their source can't be that big a secret. It's most probably tap water -- or worse, lake water -- that's treated and packaged. And, of course, every supermarket in the vicinity stocks crates and crates of bottled water marketed by every major brand. They cost from Rs 12 to Rs 50 for a litre. You are spoilt for choice. And so is your wallet.


In 2006, The Hindu reported that the total annual per capita consumption of bottled water "grew from about 1.5 billion litres to five billion litres" in the five-year span between 1999 and 2004. That makes India the tenth largest consumer of bottled water. Offices serve bottled water at conferences, especially to foreign visitors and customers. Many of these water bottles are opened and not completely consumed. The water is most often thrown away with the waste. That also brings us to the problem of disposal -- what happens to all those plastic bottles? They end up in landfills, along with plastic waste imported from the First World (see the video at the end of this post).


The Times of India recently reported the state government's plan to construct four artificial lakes in Bangalore to resolve the city's water woes. One of the locations mentioned is Bellandur. It would be a good idea to try to clean up the big lake first - even if some of us die trying.


 
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Interestingly, this video by The Story of Stuff handles the problem of bottled water in a scientific, sensitive and sensible way. The example of Cleveland, Ohio is equally applicable to any city in the world. The message: let's clean up our tap water and stop our pathological dependency on bottled water. Why pathological? Because our need for bottled water is generated artificially (and with great artifice, indeed). You must watch this - it will change your mind.

As much as possible, I don't drink bottled water. I try to carry water with me when I'm on the move. And whenever I travel long distances, I try to reduce my dependence on packaged drinking water by filling up bottles and lugging them along. There are health risks, though, but I find that the practice of boiling water reduces most of them. I have noticed this most in Kerala, where smaller restaurants and teashops serve hot water. That's comforting in two ways -- you know for a fact that it's been boiled, and nothing slakes thirst like hot water. Try it!

Sankey by twilight

It's as urban a lake as you can get in Bangalore but Sankey Tank in the precincts of Malleshwaram is crawling with evening walkers even at twilight. Above the shouts of children at play, other signs of life stir.

A flock of domestic ducks paddles a few laps while a pond heron tries to get some work done before turning in for the night. 

The great rain trees stretch their maze of tentacles to grab what's left of the darkening sky, then peer sullenly into the water at their own limpid images.

Strictly not for the birds

I posted this on another blog in 2002: In 1999, as an intern training at the editorial office of The Week in Kochi, I came to be known as the Birdman thanks to a feature on Kashmir’s Dal Lake that I had to rewrite. I peppered the piece with pintails, garganey and shovellers, adding colour and cackle to what arrived on the desk as a pretty drab report. It never occurred to me that the news of my skills would be tom-tommed all the way to the sacred cabins of the top brass. One day a senior editor came up to my workstation, and bent down sheepishly for a seemingly conspiratorial exchange. “Do ducks have pricks?” he hissed. “No,” I said, inadvertently mimicking his whisper, and pretending to conceal my shock. “Then how do they do it?” he asked incredulously. “Birds belong to Class Aves, they have no external genitalia,” I said, trying in vain not to sound professorial. “Both sexes have a cloacal aperture, which is differentiated internally. Often the male may have cloacal spurs to secure the moment of contact.” “Which means…” “Which means ‘sex’ between birds is merely cloacal contact,” I said, shrugging. “Oh…” he said, his face betraying great dismay. “Yes, sir,” I empathized. “The joys of intercourse, more specifically intromission, are strictly not for the birds.” UPDATE: The beloved bird scientist Gopi Sundar updates me thus: Ducks are among the few aves who have semi-pricks

swans have slightly bigger ones

:)