Siberian Wanderer Puts　Qingshui Wetlands in the Spotlight

The Taiwan Ecological Engineering Development Foundation (EEF) is a non-governmental environmental group whose first major accomplishment was restoring the terraced fields around the Ba­yan Settlement in Jin­shan, while innovating and supporting new local economic activities. For the last two years, funded by the New Tai­pei City Government and the Construction and Planning Agency of the Ministry of the Interior, they have been the adoptive caretakers of the Qing­shui Wetlands, and are about to begin implementing the “Qing­shui Wetlands Landscape Maintenance and Local Economic Development Plan.”

“Thank you very much, Ladies and Gentlemen!” The Siberian white crane appears to be taking a bow.

In the past, when rice was widely cultivated here, wet paddy fields left fallow for a season proved to be ideal habitats for migratory birds, and Qing­shui was called a major national-level wetland. It met all the conditions that migratory birds look for in a rest stop: ample water, food, shade and hiding places, the right wind direction, and an open space of at least 30 meters to take off, land, and serve as an early-warning belt.

But according to surveys undertaken over the last two years, while the variety of birds that pass through and/or stop over in the Qing­shui Wetlands has remained steady at over 80 species, the absolute numbers have dropped. How has this happened?

Up through the 1980s, the Qingshui Wetlands were simply a broad expanse of wet rice paddies. Later, some farmers diversified into specialized crops like wild rice stems, yams, and lotus. However, because prices for paddy rice remained low, the first generation of farmers here grew increasingly less interested in cultivating the land, and in the 1990s there was a surge in the amount of paddy land left continuously fallow. When the EEF surveyed this area two years ago, they discovered that of the three pieces of land into which the wetlands are divided by the Dan­shui–Jin­shan Highway and the Huang­qing Bridge, two-thirds had become dehydrated solid earth. Today the main flora is wild silvergrass. “This is what Nature does to land that no one cultivates or takes care of. It’s happening not only here in Qing­shui; in fact wetlands are being abandoned all over western Taiwan, where the cause is more often industrial development or pollution,” says Qiu Ming­yuan, the first executive director of the EEF and currently an unpaid deputy executive director.

What does that mean for migratory birds? This is the background against which Qiu sees the disappearance of wild birds in Taiwan and against which, at the end of 2014, the Siberian white crane (also known as the snow crane) made its appearance here.

On February 7, 2015, five days after World Wetlands Day, the EEF received a letter from the Red-Crowned Crane Association in To­ma­ko­mai City, Hok­kaido, Japan, thanking Taiwan for the group of people working for the survival of the Siberian white crane. What did this mean? How could people in Taiwan be working for the survival of a bird that doesn’t even winter in Taiwan?

Sometimes strolling about, sometimes spreading its wings to fly, the elegant dance-like postures of the Siberian white crane are endlessly fascinating.

It all started on December 10, 2014. On that day, a bird of the crane family (Gruidae), totally without fear of humans, landed on Peng­jia Islet off the north coast of Taiwan. It was first spotted by Liu Guang­zong of the local weather station, who posted a picture of it online asking for help in identifying it. It was finally confirmed to be a juvenile Siberian white crane, far off the beaten track for its species. Three days later the bird took off, and carried by the northeasterly monsoon winds, flew about 60 kilometers, landing in the Qing­shui Wetlands in a wild rice field next to a 7-Eleven on Provincial Highway 2 (the North Coast Highway). It was then discovered by bird lover Lin Zhi­wei, who was, in his own words, “out patrolling the paddies.” Word spread rapidly through the Internet, and on Day 3 reports started appearing in the media. On Day 4, the avian creature was surrounded by nearly 300 avid birdwatchers, and the normally placid Qing­shui Wetlands were awash in human visitors, the area humming like it was major holiday.

This was the first reported sighting of the bird in Taiwan, which would be exciting for any bird, but this one is especially significant. The Siberian white crane is included in both the Red List of the International Union for the Conservation of Nature (IUCN) and the Appendix to the Convention on International Traffic in Endangered Species (CITES) as a highly endangered species, second in the crane family to only the North American whooping crane. There are only about 3–4000 of these animals left. Most of them (over 95%) reproduce in the eastern part of Siberia, in the ­Sakha Republic of the Russian Federation. Each autumn they fly about 6000 miles to their winter home at Lake Po­yang in ­Jiangxi Province, mainland China, on the lower reaches of the Yang­tze River.

Normally the Siberian white crane stays with its clan and they fly south in a group. So how did this one end up in Taiwan? Experts have suggested that, given that Lake Po­yang is suffering from drought and is at only about 10% of its normal area, the group was forced to fly farther south, and this one lost its way in bad weather, fell out of touch with the group, and ended up in Taiwan.

The uncharacteristic appearance of the endangered Siberian white crane in the Qing­shui Wetlands was a major event not only for birdwatchers in Taiwan, but also for the global conservation community. However, the bird’s behavior left rather nonplussed the many wildlife photographers who rushed to the scene thinking that this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to capture an image of this bird, for they didn’t need any of their fancy camera gear such as giant telephoto lenses. The bird showed no fear of humans, and in fact would walk straight at the crowd, so that anyone with a cell phone could get a great image. One little girl even went so far as to walk over and, very gently, pick up the bird, saying it was friendlier than animals in the zoo!

On Day 8, the New Taipei City Government (NTCG), the Forestry Bureau of the Council of Agriculture (also responsible for animal protection), and various experts visited the scene, after which the NTCG convened a conference with relevant agencies and specialists. Some at the conclave advocated feeding the bird, while others said it should be returned to its original habitat. But in the end it was decided that “it arrived naturally, and should leave naturally,” and the authorities adopted a policy of “protection without interference.”

The juvenile Siberian white crane showed no fear of humans, often approaching to within arm’s length, making it an easy target for even the least sophisticated cameras.

As a result of this decision, ­Zhuang Guo­liang of the NTCG’s Animal Protection and Health Inspection Office got the oddest assignment of his life. Each day he was to report to the Qing­shui Wetlands and “punch in” on “crane protection detail.” He had to make sure that bird lovers did not cross the barrier line, that the bird was not disturbed by street dogs, and that it was not hit by a car when it took a stroll around the neighborhood or flew too low toward the street. It was midnight by the time he could “punch out,” after which he was replaced for the intervening hours by a private security guard.

There was at the same time a complete mobilization of public and non-governmental organizations. Besides assigning bodyguards to provide “boots on the ground” protection, right from the very beginning the NTCG put up a barrier line around the wild rice field, along with a sign saying: “Please love and protect it; please keep your distance; please do not harass or agitate it.” The ward chief, Li Wei­ren, had 14 LED bulletin boards put up broadcasting information about the Siberian white crane, and the EEF created a Facebook page for “Jin­shan White Crane,” blogging about the bird’s activities each day and sharing photos taken by admirers. The most determined and persevering photographer of all was probably Chen Cong­long. He could stand out in the open in the wind and rain and cold for eight hours a day, each and every day, just to get the best possible picture of the avian visitor.

Of course the white crane had no idea that so many people were working tirelessly on its behalf, or quietly sending their moral support for its protection. It simply put all its energy into “clearing away” the astounding per diem of 250 to 300 apple snails from the field. However, on Day 20, it finished off all the snails in its wild rice field, and was left crying with hunger for two days. A grandma living in the neighborhood, with all the best intentions, went out to feed it, but she was stopped by Qiu Ming­yuan, who told her: “Once you start to feed it, that little white crane will never be able to leave this wild rice field.”

After two days of hunger pangs and cries, the white crane gathered its courage and flew off to the paddy fields on both sides of the Huang­qing Bridge. There it found an inexhaustible supply of apple snails, and also began to try chowing down on roots and stems of crops. It also exhibited territoriality, chasing off white egrets and Eurasian magpies.

A juvenile Siberian white crane that strayed from its migratory route and landed in the Qingshui Wetlands in Jinshan attracted crowds of bird lovers and wildlife photographers.

But nature is not benevolent, and the migratory journey is a risky and dangerous one. Behind every tranquil and harmonious image of the white crane, there are deadly threats from both Nature and humankind. A zoo would be the safest place in theory, but to imprison a once-wild bird in an aviary would be no different than premeditated murder. Not long ago, a red-crowned crane that had lost its way and ended up in Korea died after being placed in a zoo.

For weary avian travelers, the best and most important thing is to ensure that the Qing­shui Wetlands are cleaned up, restored, and sustainably managed. There was an opportunity to get started on this work back in 2008, when four red-crowned cranes stopped in Qing­shui on their way south. Their appearance forced the government to halt work on the widening of the highway. But once they left, the project was started right back up again. At that time the EEF had yet to appear on the scene, so the visit by the Siberian white crane at this time may be just the providential second chance that the wetlands need.

This raises the question: What is it that has attracted the EEF to Qing­shui? For Qiu Ming­yuan, his affection for the Jin­shan area comes from his mother. The first bird photo his mother took in her life was in Jin­shan—it was of a common sandpiper, a migratory bird that is a very frequent winter visitor to the Qing­shui Wetlands.

Qiu’s mother was none other than Qiu Lu Su­lan, the renowned “bird-loving granny.” Armed with only a primary-school education, she later learned photographic developing, though she spent most of her working life running her own beauty salon. At age 60, in pursuit of a lifelong dream, she began to take a camera out into the fields to photograph birds.

In Ye­liu in 2004, thanks entirely to her daily commitment and effort (and not luck!), “Grandma Sulan” made the first-ever recorded sighting in Taiwan of a migrating Siberian accentor. In 2006, at age 64, she was named the recipient of NT$1 million from the Keep Walking Fund to pursue her dreams.

The year that Grandma Su­lan won the funding, Qiu Ming­yuan, then 40 years old, resigned his job at the National Freeway Bureau, where he had been for 17 years, in order to accompany his mother on her travels. Together they visited India, Sri Lanka, Japan, and other locations to do bird photography. The next year Ho­chen Tan founded the EEF, and he hired Qiu as executive director. Thus did Qiu join Taiwan’s ecological renaissance movement.

The EEF has only four and a half staff members on its organizational chart. But without it, there would be no “Ba­yan Settlement” that is today a partner of the United Nations’ Sa­to­yama Initiative. When they first moved into the Ba­yan area to restore the stone irrigation channels, the EEF had a hard time convincing local farmers to adopt “ecologically friendly cultivation” (no use of weedkillers or chemical fertilizers). In order to win them over, they had to pay double the market price for the sweet potatoes the farmers raised using these methods. One year after the EEF launched the Ba­yan project, Qiu won a five-year grant in support of the project from the Forestry Bureau. A documentary that he directed about the project was released as Sa­to­yama Taiwan: A Paradise of Ocean and Fields.

Have we met before? The picture shows the striking difference in physique between the wayward migrant and a local resident bird.

Grandma Su­lan passed away from lung cancer in 2013. On her deathbed she asked Qiu to do three things for her: to give up drinking soda, to look after his dad, and to do something positive for the country and society. Today, Qiu—who no longer drinks soda—is determined to restore the Qing­shui Wetlands to their former glory. And the arrival of the Siberian white crane just happened to coincide with the EEF’s completion of their initial environmental survey and definition of problems.

Qiu has already come up with a restoration proposal. In his plan, he calls on the relevant authorities to buy up the core land where there is water in the fields, there is plenty of food, and migratory birds already come to nest. This land totals only about 10,000 square meters in area. “You could buy it all with the budget equivalent of 30 seconds of fireworks,” he says, referring to the amount spent on the elaborate annual New Year’s Eve pyrotechnics display.

In the remaining area, Qiu hopes to replicate the Ba­yan experience, with continual promotion of ecologically friendly cultivation, creative enterprises, and distinctive local products. He has already announced that vis-à-vis landowners in the wetlands who agree to use ecologically friendly cultivation, the EEF will pay double what the local farmers’ association pays for their products. Farmers who intend to leave their land fallow can join in a special program for flooding their fields from September to March, the migratory bird season, under which they will receive a subsidy of NT$1000 per month per 1000 square meters. Additional bonuses will be paid for each nest of a protected species discovered in the land, if the nest produces viable young who fly off on their own.

But where will the money come from? Qiu has never been worried about this problem. He has discovered along his way that the most beautiful thing about Taiwan is that, so long as you want to do something to protect this land, if it rains then somehow, sometime, someone will put up an umbrella over your head!

One day—and it is a day that Qiu Ming­yuan is sure will come—the Qing­shui Wetlands will be visited by more red-crowned cranes, Siberian white cranes, and other migratory birds, and the birds and the farmers will share the resources. Why is he so confident? “This piece of land, that our ancestors sheltered, that sits at the intersection of mountains and sea, is simply too precious to disappear.”

Sometimes strolling about, sometimes spreading its wings to fly, the elegant dance-like postures of the Siberian white crane are endlessly fascinating.

Conservation efforts in the Qingshui Wetlands are already bearing fruit: The photo shows the white crane searching for apple snails, a favorite food.