Studying the world’s largest gathering of forest elephants with sound and field observation

In the far southwest of the Central African Republic, where dense forest gives way to a broad clearing, elephants gather in numbers rarely seen elsewhere. The place is known as Dzanga Bai.

Forest elephants are among the least visible large mammals in Africa. In closed-canopy rainforest, they move in small groups, often at night, communicating over long distances through low-frequency calls that travel beyond human hearing. Much of their social life unfolds out of sight.

Dzanga Bai is one of the few places where that pattern breaks. Here, elephants emerge from the forest to feed on minerals in the soil. They linger. Families converge, separate, and return. Individuals can be recognized over years. Behaviors that are otherwise inferred—through tracks, fragments of sound, or brief encounters—can be followed more directly.

For decades, the clearing has drawn researchers trying to understand a species that resists easy study. Long-term work here, including that of researchers such as Andrea Turkalo, has shaped much of what is known about forest elephants. Ivonne Kienast is part of that effort.

She leads the Dzanga Forest Elephant Project, part of the Elephant Listening Project at Cornell University. Her work combines long-term behavioral observation with passive acoustic monitoring. The objective is to understand how forest elephants live and to detect early signs of change. In practice, this means continuous field presence, physically demanding work, and coordination across a network of relationships that extend well beyond the clearing.

Kienast did not arrive in Central Africa through a conventional career path. She describes her trajectory as shaped more by circumstance than design. A childhood interest in animals led to an early focus on behavior. Opportunities came later and often by chance. Over time, she moved between countries and roles, gradually building experience across the region.

That commitment is anchored in the site itself. Dzanga Bai is unusual not only for the number of elephants that visit, but for how consistently they can be observed over time. In most forest settings, elephants are encountered briefly, if at all. Here, they can be followed across seasons and years. Calves play. Adults interact. Patterns in social behavior become easier to recognize.

The clearing is shaped by the elephants and essential to them. They dig for minerals, alter the structure of the ground, and maintain the open space. Without them, the forest would close in. Without the clearing, much of this behavior would remain difficult to track. The relationship is reciprocal and, in practical terms, irreplaceable.

The same predictability that allows for observation also carries risk. Elephants return to the same place repeatedly. Without protection, the site would be easy to exploit. Conservation presence, built over decades, has reduced poaching and allowed the population to stabilize. That stability relies on continued enforcement, funding, and cooperation with nearby communities.

The work centers on repeated counts and long-term tracking. Elephants are counted hourly, and individuals are identified across years. Changes in family structure are noted, sometimes revealing events that are not directly observed, such as the loss of a matriarch. Visual data is complemented by veterinary work and by acoustic monitoring systems that operate continuously across the landscape. These systems record gunshots as well as ecological soundscapes, providing a way to track both threats and broader environmental conditions.

Acoustic monitoring has become more common in conservation science. Technology allows for broader coverage and more precise analysis, while adding layers of logistical work. Data must be retrieved, processed, and interpreted. Its value depends on whether it can inform decisions on the ground. Kienast’s interest in accessibility—through simpler tools and local-language interfaces—reflects a practical constraint: tools only matter if they can be applied consistently in the field.

In the forest, the work is less structured. Tracking elephants through dense forest requires constant adjustment. Decisions are made quickly, often with incomplete information. Risks are present and managed through experience and coordination. The work is physically demanding and occasionally dangerous.

Kienast places particular emphasis on the development of local researchers. Training extends beyond data collection to writing, analysis, and communication. The aim is to move beyond creating assistants by supporting independent work. Kienast measures success by the extent to which the project can continue without her. In her view, continuity depends on distributing knowledge rather than concentrating it.

The same thinking shapes her relationships with surrounding communities. Trust develops over time, through repeated interaction rather than formal agreements. Local knowledge plays an important role, especially in understanding the forest beyond the elephants themselves. She acknowledges the asymmetries in her position and the risk that conservation discussions become detached from the realities of those who live alongside wildlife. Her approach remains practical: share knowledge, create opportunities, and allow ownership to take shape locally.

The project depends on a wider set of connections. Elephants, forest, and communities are closely linked. Tourism, research, and employment form part of this arrangement, alongside external funding that remains essential. Maintaining it requires ongoing effort and coordination.

Kienast treats this as something that requires ongoing attention. Her focus remains local. Broader trends in biodiversity loss are acknowledged but are not the primary frame. What matters is what can be observed directly: the condition of the elephants, the state of the forest, and the people who move through both.

The work builds through repeated visits and sustained observation. It proceeds through accumulation—of data, of relationships, of incremental change. Over time, Dzanga Bai has come to offer a view of what sustained conservation can look like in practice.

Kienast describes her motivation simply: it is a sense of being where she intends to be. The forest is both a place of work and a place she returns to regularly, and where change is measured in small, observable ways—who appears at the bai, which families return, what is no longer there.

An Interview with Ivonne Kienast

Rhett Ayers Butler and David Akana for Mongabay: How do you describe your role and institution affiliation?

Ivonne Kienast: I am the Principal Investigator and Head Researcher of the Dzanga Forest Elephant Project for the Elephant Listening Project, which is part of the K. Lisa Yang Center for Conservation Bioacoustics at Cornell University.

My main job is to do the research at Dzanga Bai and train local people on it—data collection on the elephants that visit the Bai—but we also run a passive acoustic monitoring system across Dzanga-Sangha. I train national researchers in research methods, scientific writing, and public speaking, and I try to create unique paths for each of them.

This initiative is a formal partnership between Cornell University and WWF CAR, dedicated to the Dzanga-Sangha Protected Areas.

Mongabay: What is your background and what inspired you to work in conservation?

Ivonne Kienast: I always loved animals. Since I was a child, we had dogs and tortoises, and I loved watching documentaries. I also had this idea of being a mix between Jane Goodall and Indiana Jones—living in the rainforest and saving animals from extinction. I’m a pretty empathetic person, and I really suffer when I see animals suffering.

I grew up in Argentina, and while the education was good, there weren’t many opportunities in this field. When I was about 16, a biology teacher brought in a book with a full chapter on animal behavior, and I just thought, ‘Oh my God, this is it.’ That’s when I knew I wanted to be a behavioral biologist.

The path to get here was very long and bumpy. Conservation itself was more a matter of chance—life taking me to the right places with the right people. I’ve been working in Central Africa for more than a decade now. I started in Gabon and then worked in Congo in two different parks.

At one point, I left Congo because I was being classified only as a primatologist, and I didn’t want to get stuck in that niche. I’m a behavioral biologist, and I wanted to keep that broader perspective. I even planned to go to Costa Rica and start over as a volunteer, partly because I wanted to be back in my own language and culture for a while. But COVID hit, and I got stuck in Argentina.

Then my current boss, who I had known for years, called me and asked if I wanted to take over Dzanga Bai. I said yes immediately—I didn’t even apply for the job. The good things in life just come to you.

For me, it’s never been about a career in the traditional sense. I’m not a career-oriented person. I’d start over as a volunteer tomorrow if I had to. It’s really about the work itself, the animals, and the people. This is what I always wanted—to be here, doing this. I’m living my dream.

Mongabay: What makes Dzanga Bai so unique, both ecologically and in terms of elephant behavior?

Ivonne Kienast: Dzanga Bai is the only known clearing where you can see more than a hundred forest elephants every day. There are many other clearings in the rainforest that elephants use, but no one has found another place like this. In other sites, if you’re lucky, you might see 40 or 50 individuals. Here, that’s the minimum.

The main reason they come is the minerals—such as salt, magnesium, manganesium, zinc—in the water beneath the clearing. There’s a geological layer that filters the water, almost like a natural filter, which seems to make those minerals accessible. But it’s not just that. There’s also a huge social component.

Forest elephants usually live in very small groups—just a mother and her offspring, and males are solitary. In the forest, they’re spread out and hard to observe. But here, they come together. You see families reunite, greeting each other, spending time together before they split up again. It becomes almost like a meeting point, or even a playground for the calves.

It’s also a very safe space for them. The water isn’t too deep, which matters for newborns, and the structure of the clearing allows them to interact in ways you wouldn’t see elsewhere. This is really the only place where you can continuously observe that kind of social behavior in forest elephants.

What’s also fascinating is that the bai itself is shaped by the elephants. You can see how they rub against the trees, and how they dig the water holes. If elephants disappeared, the forest would probably close in again. So the clearing exists because of them, and they depend on it at the same time.

It gives me goosebumps, because this only exists once in the world. As a researcher, it’s an incredible privilege—but it also comes with a responsibility, because there is nowhere else where you can study forest elephants like this.

Mongabay: How do you actually study and track elephants at Dzanga Bai on a day-to-day basis?

Ivonne Kienast: We collect data every single day, and it’s very detailed. We count the elephants every hour, and we record the total number of individuals—males, females, adults, juveniles, and infants. But beyond that, we identify every individual that comes into the bai.

We track who is there, who they are with, and what’s happening in their families. If it’s a mother with her calves, we follow that over time. If someone is missing, or if an individual is injured, we note that. Over the years, you build up the life history of these families. For example, if a mother disappears and her calves start coming in alone, it usually means she has died—and that changes the whole story for that group.

We’ve been monitoring this site for decades, so that long-term dataset is incredibly powerful. It allows us to detect when something is not normal.

We also complement the visual observations with other methods. The veterinary team does necropsies when we find carcasses—not just for elephants, but also for species like buffalo or bongo—to understand causes of death and to monitor for diseases like Ebola or anthrax.

On top of that, we’ve built a passive acoustic monitoring system across the landscape. The recorders run 24/7, and they allow us to track sounds like gunshots, which helps the park understand where and when poaching is happening. They also give us information on elephant distribution and even broader ecosystem health, like bird and insect activity.

At the bai itself, we also use a body condition scoring system. We look at whether elephants are fat or skinny depending on the season. If I see animals in poor condition at a time of year when they should be healthy, that tells us something is wrong—maybe there’s a problem with food availability or stress in the system.

The key is that everything is continuous and long-term. Monitoring them every day for decades means we can pick up on subtle changes—whether it’s population trends, behavior, or even new things we don’t yet understand.

Mongabay: What is the day-to-day reality of working in the field here, and what kinds of risks do you face?

Ivonne Kienast: A lot of the work is unpredictable. You can plan everything, but once you’re in the forest, things don’t always go the way you expect.

For example, during collaring missions, you’re following elephants through dense forest, and you don’t always know exactly what you’re dealing with until you’re very close. You have to make decisions quickly—whether it’s a bull or a female, whether it’s safe to dart, how the animal is going to react. Sometimes the dart doesn’t work properly, or the elephant runs for kilometers before going down.

You also have to be very aware of the risk. You don’t just walk into the forest thinking, ‘Oh, this is fine.’ If something goes wrong, there may not even be a tree to climb. I wouldn’t say a charge is ‘fun,’ but it’s definitely something you don’t forget. We’ve had situations where a family of elephants charged us to protect one that had been darted.

At the same time, it’s very physical work. You’re running through the forest, crossing streams, trying to keep up with the team. You’re constantly dealing with heat, dryness, or rain depending on the season.

There’s also the unexpected moments—like waking up an elephant after a procedure and suddenly realizing how fast everyone can run when they need to.

So it’s a mix of planning and improvisation. You need to be careful, you need to trust the people around you, and you need to be ready for things to change very quickly.

Mongabay: How has technology changed the way you study elephants and manage conservation in this landscape?

Ivonne Kienast: One of the most important tools we use is passive acoustic monitoring. We have acoustic units deployed across the Sangha sector of the park, and they’re running 24/7 recording the sounds of the rainforest. That allows us to cover a massive area in a way that would be impossible just on foot.

A big application is tracking gunshot activity. We can identify not only where poaching is happening, but also when. For example, we were able to show that about 80% of gunshots occur between 7:00 PM and 2:00 AM. That kind of data is extremely useful for the park, because it helps them decide where to focus patrols and how to deploy rangers more strategically.

Right now, we still have to physically retrieve the data, but if we can move toward real-time monitoring, that would be a game-changer. You could send alerts directly to headquarters as soon as a gunshot is detected.

We also use acoustic data to understand elephant distribution across the landscape. There’s an existing grid in Congo through the Elephant Listening Project, and we’re trying to connect that with what we have here to see how elephants move across this whole tri-national area.

Beyond elephants, the acoustic data is also a really good indicator of environmental health. We can monitor birds and insects, and we’re working with national students to build a catalog of bird vocalizations, because that kind of database doesn’t really exist yet for this region.

At the same time, I’m very interested in making technology more accessible. I often think about simple tools—like apps for data collection or ways to translate technical information into local languages. A lot of what we do is limited not by the data itself, but by how accessible it is to the people on the ground. If we can bridge that gap, technology can really scale the impact of conservation.

Mongabay: What is the current status of the forest elephant population here, and how do you interpret those trends given what’s happening elsewhere in Central Africa?

Ivonne Kienast: The last census in 2020 estimated between 2,500 and 3,000 elephants in the Dzanga-Sangha Protected Areas. From our data at Dzanga Bai, we see around 1,400 unique individuals visiting the clearing every year.

From what I observe on the ground, the population here is pretty stable. I see a lot of newborns, and overall it looks like a healthy population. I wouldn’t say it’s growing rapidly, but it has definitely stabilized over the last ten years.

That can seem to contradict broader reports. For example, when I see figures saying there are only a few hundred elephants left in the entire Central African Republic, I really question that. If we are directly observing over a thousand individuals at one site, those numbers don’t make sense. The methodology behind some of these large-scale estimates can be very spotty. I’m not someone who agrees with a method just because it has been used for 30 years—if it contradicts what we are actually seeing, then something is off.

I think the stability here comes down to protection. Law enforcement has improved a lot over the years—more rangers, better training, more funding. We’ve had 36 years of conservation presence in this area, and that is finally paying off.

Poaching is still there, but it has gone down significantly. Before the improvements, we might lose 30 elephants in a year. Now it’s more like six or seven. And most of the large-scale poachers are not local—they come from outside.

What’s really interesting is the elephants’ behavior. In places with heavy poaching, elephants tend to come to clearings only at night. Here, they are highly active during the day too. Sometimes you even hear a gunshot in the distance, and they don’t react. They feel safe here—and that tells you a lot.

Mongabay: How do you monitor and respond to poaching in this landscape, and what have you learned about how it operates?

Ivonne Kienast: Poaching is still a reality here, so a big part of our work is understanding when and where it happens. One of the most useful tools for that is passive acoustic monitoring. We have recorders running across the park, and they allow us to detect gunshots over a very large area.

What’s interesting is that we can now quantify patterns that people only suspected before. For example, we were able to show that about 80% of gunshots happen between 7:00 PM and 2:00 AM. That matches what you see in the bushmeat markets—species that are easier to hunt at night.

We share that information with the park, so they can identify hotspots and decide where to focus patrols or station more rangers. Right now, all patrols are on foot, so it’s not like we can respond instantly, but it helps make the system more strategic. If we can move to real-time monitoring in the future, that would make a huge difference—you could send alerts directly when a gunshot is detected.

At the same time, a lot of information comes from relationships on the ground. The trackers and community members often have a very good sense of what’s happening. When they find a carcass, they immediately start thinking about who might be responsible. That kind of local knowledge is incredibly valuable.

The situation has improved a lot. With stronger law enforcement, poaching has gone down significantly over the years. But the risk is always there. Dzanga Bai is actually one of the easiest places to kill elephants because they are so predictable—they come to the same place every day. So without protection, it would be extremely vulnerable.

What’s encouraging is that the elephants behave very differently here compared to other places. In areas with heavy poaching, they only come at night. Here, they are highly active during the day too. That tells you they feel safe—but it also means that maintaining that security is absolutely critical.

Mongabay: How do relationships with local communities and Indigenous knowledge factor into your work?

Ivonne Kienast: We’ve built a really strong relationship here, and that didn’t happen by accident. From the beginning, every patrol that came through, we invited them in and explained what we do and why it matters for them as well. They told us it was the first time anyone had approached them like that. It made them feel part of the work, and over time that built a lot of trust.

That trust is incredibly important. People feel comfortable sharing information with me—even as a white woman—which is not something you can take for granted. When they find a carcass, they often already have ideas about who might be responsible. They share what they hear in the village, and that kind of informal knowledge is very valuable.

When it comes to Indigenous knowledge, it’s a bit complex. For elephants specifically, it doesn’t play as much of a role in the formal data collection or analysis. But when it comes to the forest itself, their knowledge is just incredible. They can read the forest in a way that no one else can.

For example, we’ve been trying to set up a phenology program to understand fruiting patterns in the forest. I can ask them which trees elephants or gorillas feed from, when those trees produce fruit, and how that changes over time. They know all of that by heart. That level of understanding is unmatched.

So even if the formal science sometimes relies on different methods, the work would not function without that local knowledge. It’s really about combining those perspectives—what we measure, and what they already know.

Mongabay: A big part of your work seems to focus on developing local researchers and ensuring continuity. What does that look like in practice?

Ivonne Kienast: For me, one of the most important parts of this project is making sure it doesn’t depend on me. The goal is that one day this is led entirely by Central Africans.

A lot of what I do is training people—not just in data collection, but in research methods, scientific writing, and public speaking. I try not to train everyone in exactly the same way. I look at what each person is interested in and what the project needs, and then we build a path around that.

We’ve seen people grow a lot through this. Someone like Michael wanted to learn bioacoustics, so we focused on that. Others are being trained in animal behavior, or thinking about pursuing a masters or a PhD. It’s about creating opportunities that didn’t exist before and helping people move forward.

At the same time, there are real challenges. The education system here is very limited, and even basic things—like using a computer or working in English—can be a barrier. All the scientific tools and papers are in English, so everything takes much more effort. I’ve had to teach people from the very beginning, even how to use a computer. But over time, you see progress. Someone who couldn’t write before is now sitting down after fieldwork and trying to put things together—that’s huge.

We also work with students from the University of Bangui and run programs for younger people. The idea is to create a pipeline, so that over time you have more and more people who can take on these roles.

For me, success is when I can step away and the work continues. There are people here who already know the elephants better than I do. If something happened to me tomorrow, the project would go on—and that’s exactly how it should be.”

Mongabay: How do you approach education and outreach in the community, and has that changed how people see elephants and conservation?

Ivonne Kienast: I work a lot with children, because they’re open-minded and like sponges soaking in knowledge. With adults, the conversation often turns into something more transactional—like, ‘How much will you pay me to go there?’ But kids are different, they are not focused on retribution and are more open to learn.

Before they come to Dzanga Bai, many of them only think of elephants as big, dangerous animals that destroy crops or kill people. And we don’t tell them that’s not true—because it is—but we try to show them something more. We show them that elephants are living beings with emotions, with families, with relationships.

When they come to the bai and actually see them, it changes something. Some of these children have lived here their whole lives and have never seen an elephant before. Seeing them together, seeing how they behave, it creates a different kind of connection.

We also try to link that to their everyday lives. I tell them, ‘You see these tourists? They come here because of the elephants. The person making bread, the person selling bananas—those are jobs created because people come to see this place.’ If the elephants and the forest disappear, those opportunities disappear too.

It’s not just about loving animals or understanding ecology—it’s about showing that this place has value, and that it’s connected to their future.

I’ve seen that shift not just in the children, but also in the team. At the beginning, an elephant was just an elephant. Now we know them as individuals. When one dies, people recognize it immediately and feel that loss. That kind of connection—that empathy—is something you build over time, and it really changes how people relate to conservation.

Mongabay: You’ve been quite candid about the limitations of traditional conservation approaches. How do you think the field needs to evolve?

Ivonne Kienast: I think one of the big issues is the way conservation is often tied to academia. There’s so much pressure to publish, to follow a certain path, and it doesn’t always match the reality on the ground. For me, that was a real conflict. I was doing a PhD while running this project, and it felt like having two full-time jobs on two different continents. It felt like I wasn’t giving 100% to the conservation work, which to me is what really matters here if we are talking about immediate impact.

There’s also this older model of the ‘lone researcher’—the idea that one person knows everything, that knowledge is something you hold. I don’t believe in that. If all the knowledge sits with one person, then when they leave, it disappears.

What we’re trying to build is something different—where the knowledge is shared, where it becomes institutional, and where local people are the ones leading it in the long term. I don’t need to be the only one who can identify every elephant. If we can create tools or systems that allow more people to do that, that’s better.

I think conservation needs to move away from that idea of individual expertise and toward something that is more collective, more practical, and more grounded in the reality of the place.

Mongabay: You’ve reflected on identity and the idea of decolonizing conservation. How do you think about your role in that context?

Ivonne Kienast: Sustainability and conservation can be difficult to talk about without sounding entitled. I hear tourists say things like, ‘Oh, these poor little children,’ and it just feels wrong.

I’m a Latina woman, so I’m a minority in many ways—but here, I’m also white and privileged. That’s something you have to be very aware of.

When people talk about ‘decolonizing conservation,’ it can feel strange to say we are ‘giving it back’ to Africans, because it should have been theirs all along. So for me, it’s not about giving anything back—it’s about making sure people have access to opportunities and knowledge so they can take ownership of what is already theirs.

That’s really how I see my role. I try to share what I know, to open doors where I can, and to support people in building their own paths. If that helps them take ownership of this place—their place—then that’s enough.

Mongabay: How dependent is conservation here on external funding, and what happens if that support disappears?

Ivonne Kienast: It’s completely dependent. Without donor funding, the park would stop existing. And if that happens, the elephants would be killed and the people here would be very miserable, because there would be no sustained economy.

There’s no easier place to kill elephants than Dzanga Bai. They come to the same place every day. If no one is there to protect them, people will come in and kill them—it’s as simple as that.

We’ve already felt what happens when funding is cut. Grants from the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service have been lost, and they were supposed to support several years of work. That kind of loss is felt immediately across the system.

I don’t think governments in this region are in a position yet to fully support conservation on their own. In countries where people are struggling with basic needs—health, food, infrastructure—there are so many other priorities.

So for now, external funding is essential. Without it, not only does conservation collapse, but the broader system around it—the jobs, the stability, the protection—collapses as well.”

Mongabay: What keeps you going in this work, given the challenges and setbacks you face?

Ivonne Kienast: It’s not the money, definitely not. I always joke about that. For me, it’s happiness—I’m living my dream. I wouldn’t change this for anything. When I’m here, I feel like I’m home. I miss people, of course—my family and friends—but I don’t miss a place. But when I’m away, then I miss the forest.

That doesn’t mean it’s easy. There are frustrating days—when you find a poached elephant, or when something goes wrong with the project, or even when there are internal challenges. There’s always a level of disappointment when you think about what’s happening globally with climate or biodiversity.

But I try not to focus too much on that scale. On the global level, it’s hard to see the impact of what you’re doing. Here, you can see it. You see how people are changing, how children experience the forest for the first time, how the team grows, how the elephants are doing. That’s what keeps me grounded.

What really keeps me here is the people. I trust my life to the trackers we work with. The team is incredible. That’s what makes the difference.

And then, of course, the elephants. Seeing healthy animals, seeing babies being born—that’s something I never get tired of. As a behavioral biologist, that’s everything. It reminds you why you’re here.

Mongabay: How do tourism and external perceptions of this region affect the work you’re doing here?

Ivonne Kienast: Dzanga Bai has huge potential as a tourism site, and I really believe it should be more widely known because it’s so unique. But the reality is that very few people come. Last year we had around 800 tourists, which is not a lot for a place like this.

A big part of that is access—it’s difficult to get here—but the bigger issue is perception. The Central African Republic is classified as a Level 4 ‘Do Not Travel’ country, and that really shapes how people think about it. They assume it’s extremely dangerous, that they’ll be killed if they come.

Of course, there are risks, but a lot of that perception is driven by misinformation or a lack of information. For example, many tourists actually come through Cameroon or Congo, so they never even stay in Bangui. The city has good hotels and restaurants, but people don’t feel safe enough to experience it.

That perception also affects research. Some universities won’t allow students to come because of those travel advisories. I only managed it because I pushed back and said I would go anyway.

At the same time, tourism is important. It creates value for the park and for the community. The more people who come and see this place, the more it reinforces why it should be protected. So there’s a real gap between what this place is, and how it’s perceived from the outside.”

Mongabay: You’ve suggested that protecting elephants isn’t just about the animals themselves. How do you think about conservation more broadly in this landscape?

Ivonne Kienast: When I started, I was very focused on the animals—I wanted to study behavior, to understand them. But over time, you realize that you can’t protect animals in isolation.

To protect gorillas or elephants, you need to protect the forest. And to protect the forest, you need to work with the people who live there. Everything is connected.

You see it very clearly here. The park isn’t just about biodiversity—it’s also about livelihoods. There are hundreds of families who depend directly on the park. Tourism, research, lots of jobs—it all feeds into the local economy. If that disappears, the pressure on the forest increases immediately.

The same goes for law enforcement, education, and community relationships. If one part of the system breaks down, it affects everything else. You can have the best scientific data in the world, but if you don’t have trust with the community, or if there’s no protection on the ground, it won’t make a difference.

That’s why the work has to happen at multiple levels at the same time. It’s not just about collecting data or publishing results—it’s about building something that functions as a whole system.

I learned that over time. At the beginning, I was doing pure research. Now, I see that conservation only works if all these pieces come together.

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Credits

Rhett Butler Editor

This story first appeared on Mongabay

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