Thoughts about European (Night) Train Travel

Another month, another long-distance train traversing central Europe at night. Its nearing the end of a sunny evening in summery Vienna. The night trains start to dominate the Departures screen at the Vienna Hauptbahnof. I am at Platform 8 for my night train to Rome. Its already an hour late without having even left, since we still wait for it to approach the platform to begin its journey. My destination is the city of Naples, a city exactly opposite in character to Vienna. Rome is my connecting stop, and I am afraid I might miss my connection to Naples because of this unforeseen and totally unexpected delay. Before today, its hard to remember a delay of more than 10 minutes on any Austrian train.

Although the train network in Austria, and generally across Europe remains excellent, the night train experience does not seem everyone’s cup of tea. Back home, night trains are completely par for the course, and nobody even raises a whimper about the difficulty/inability to sleep at night on a (sometimes ferociously) moving bed with open windows. Here people seem much more circumspect, evidenced by how sparsely-populated train bogeys have been on the night trains I have taken.

My wonderful luck continues, and when the train finally does come, it turns out I am alone in my 6-person compartment. Moreover, trains that take you across countries and borders while you’re sleeping does sound like a fascinating prospect. It’s a nice feeling to wake up to those familiar text messages on your phone about phone roaming charges and a different landscape outside the window.

Train travel remains expensive, despite the existence of discount cards for every member of the family. Or to put it another way, air travel is artificially cheap and simply out-competes train prices for the same route. It does not, however, reflect the true cost of flying, which is easily many times higher than the train for the same distance. This remains a glaring environmental cost that countries and its citizens bear, and private airline companies thrive at the cost of state-owned railways. For flights being so cheap, there remains hardly any incentive for the average consumer to choose the train. For some routes, flying is cheaper than the cost of average meal in a not-so-fancy restaurant. Alternatively, it might be cheaper to get to, and out from, the airport than the cost of the flight itself. Why does the impending climate emergency not translate into economy-wide actions? Travelling remains a privilege. For the people who can afford this privilege, surely taking the more eco-friendly option can be incentivised?

The Land Systems Community Unites – I

The schedule says 8.30 is the official opening ceremony of the conference. Its Switzerland, and these things usually start on time. Back at the hostel, I wake up before my alarm goes up at 7, a rather surprising occurrence because of an alcohol-fuelled previous evening. How can one do science without alcohol, right? More on the science-alcohol-conference relationship later.

I make it well in time at the venue, the main building of the University of Bern. Out at the front, there is a beautiful garden and a stunning view of the Alps behind it. The setting makes quite a good distraction from the science that we are about to get introduced to. Our community of land system scientists is rather small, and the Open Science Meeting, as it is called, is a good time to renew old acquaintances and make some new networks. It is also a community which is rather free from competitive biases and ill-feelings despite (or maybe because of) being extremely inter-disciplinary, an aspect which I really respect and admire.

The organizers of the conference have really gone to great lengths to ensure a truly unique experience. As part of registration for the conference, we get a cloth bag, a glass bottle (with instructions to refill with tap water, which in Bern is pure and fresh) and a small chocolate (ofcourse, its Switzerland!). The glass bottle especially is a cool accessory – not only does it negate the use of thousands of plastic bottles during the conference, but is a beautiful keepsake and memento.

Soon, the conference is declared open, and my supervisor is the first one presenting his, and our group’s, research as one of the keynote speakers. A couple of more such keynotes later, its already time for the first coffee break!

Now is the time for the conference to diverge into parallel sessions. I attend a session on ‘water-energy-food nexus’, and see one of my colleagues give a wonderful peek into her work on emissions from global fruits and vegetables production. As individuals, an apple a day might keep the doctor away, but its production does not make the planet any healthier in terms of CO2 emissions.

The format of these sessions is simple, but rather taxing for someone to contribute fully, in my opinion. Each speaker gets to present his/her research for 10 minutes, with about a couple of minutes thrown in for questions. Given the breadth of the session themes, the talks vary widely in scope, focus and approach. By the end of the first session and the following lunch break, I am already tired. There are still 2 more such sessions and a poster session to go! I miss the latter of the remaining sessions, an interactive session on some of the prominent land system issues of the day (like ‘‘should we ‘use’ only half of the earth and leave the other half to ‘nature’?’’) because it looks like a wonderful afternoon outside and my head has no space left for more science.

The poster session in the evening is another wonderful glimpse into the science that our community does. It is the first day of my first academic conference, and I am overwhelmed. If I see a future for myself in academia, maybe I need to get used to this.

The First-time Conference-goer

I am on my way to Bern, for my first proper academic conference, where I present some of the first results from my PhD. This has been at the end of quite a long wait and preparation (academic as well as administrative). I got to know of the conference and its deadlines barely a couple of weeks into my PhD, and so had to submit a quick abstract of what I wanted to present. The organizers were gracious enough to give me that opportunity, in a format they described as a ‘Flash Talk’, aka a quick 3-minute dash. After that, it was a case of applying for some additional travel funding, and many days later, I am finally sitting on the train towards the Swiss capital.

I am continually fascinated by the economy that gets established around a major academic conference. People fly in from near and far (I am taking the train from Vienna, because #flyingless) to take part, since this is THE conference to be seen and present in for our scientific community. We like to call ourselves Land System Scientists. I like the term, don’t you? One can say taking multiple flights and contributing to emissions somewhat defeats the purpose of our research, but we are limited in terms of the solutions for this.

An app has also been established for the whole conference, where one can do everything from checking the workshop sessions and list of speakers to messaging other attendees directly and set up meetings. This is a level of engagement that I am totally unaware of, new to, and probably also uncomfortable with. The utility and convenience of the app is rather obvious, but sometimes I prefer to take a step back.

In no way does this reduce the importance of the conference itself – the planet today is at a crossroads, and land system science (which answers questions on the who, what, where, how and why of our relationship with terrestrial ecosystems) has the potential to lead the way towards solutions which are desired, viable and sustainable. Conferences are a festival of science, and the ever-growing community of land system scientists need a platform like this to come together, discuss and collaborate. Meeting inspirational people doing some stunning work in beautiful cities is part of the reason why I do what I do, and the conference gives me an opportunity to do just that. More power to our community!

Fieldwork in the Forest – II

The Monsoon is in full flow in Sirsi and the rains continue through the days and nights. At the field station, the continuous pitter-patter on the roof breaks through the calls of various insects and animals, and drowns out the sounds of the small stream behind the station.

Raghu has come early on his bike today, ready and dressed with his raincoat, ankle-high gumboots and a cloth covering for the boots on which he will sprinkle some red chillies before he enters the forest to ward off the leeches. He has got an extra pair of these cloth shoe-covers for me as well.

My first day inside the forest, I had gone into the forest with a false sense of bravado, in sneakers. By the time I got back to our field station, leeches had overwhelmed my feet. The same mistake would never be made again.

Breakfast is in a small family-run dhaba in the next village, some 2 kilometres from our field station. The settlement consists of a few houses, a couple of shops for daily essentials and a this dhaba. This is our usual breakfast spot, which doubles up as an evening outpost for chai. Our morning staple at the dhaba is simple yet delightful, a local variation of fried wheat flour served with coconut chutney. Chai, as usual, is on point. I make sure to have 2 cups, for I am never satisfied with one.

We set off for our field site on his bike, passing villagers who are calmly walking down the road, gunny sacks over their heads to shield them from the rain. A few kilometres down the road, we take a nondescript turn where the road ends and a muddy trail begins. The bike gamefully persists on the trail, finding relatively dry spots to pass over, spots which still exist only because of the dense canopy we are under.

Progress on the trail is slow, but we are in no hurry either. Remote inside the forest, there is a hut which serves as our checkpoint. Raghu parks his bike, and we put on our leech safety gear. The cloth shoe-covers come on, and red chilli is lightly sprinkled on them. On we go!

Monsoons, and the season for the vipers to come out. It is dark with the dense canopy on top of us, while we had started out from the field station to a much brighter day. The change is stunning and hardly subtle. I am careful with using my hands to navigate among the trees and bushes, since the vipers are known to be coiled on branches and camouflage extremely well.

This is our field site. The canopies bear the brunt of the rainfall, while we get on with our work on tree inventories with some wildlife for company.

How much forest is in your coffee?

I work on global forest change, and on most days, it is a sobering job. The world loses significant amounts of forest every year, much more than it grows back. The rates of deforestation in so-called ‘deforestation hotspots’ (the Amazon basin, south-east Asia) have slowed lately, but still remain alarmingly high. According to some estimates, several million hectares of forest have been lost each year between 2010 and 2015. These are forests which, if left undisturbed, would take years to grow back to their original state.

What’s driving these losses? Agricultural expansion to grow everyday commodities is responsible for more than three-quarters of all deforestation in tropical regions. These commodities include soy, beef, palm oil, cocoa, the basis for much of what we eat, drink and use everyday. The impacts of these changes are not only environmental, but also social and economic.

As an individual, it might make you think about one’s impact on the environment. Common activities of ours having disproportionate impacts on the forests around the world. Our morning cup of coffee contributing to deforestation in South America. Cosmetics that we use driving forest loss in south-east Asia. Not only has that cocoa been grown on land where a forest once used to stand, but getting it from farm to plate has been the result of a massive global endeavour involving a complex supply chain. The maintenance of that supply chain itself may have come at a cost to the environment. At times, the environmental costs might barely scratch the surface. The allied impacts of consumption might include any of biodiversity protection, human rights, illegal logging, food security and social justice.

Sometimes, one might want to ask, ‘how much forest is in my coffee?’

Fieldwork in the Forest – I

The journey is on its last legs. The front vipers work vigorously to help the driver navigate the winding turns on the way to the bus stand. Inside the bus, some people are already on their feet arranging their belongings, while others are waking up from their sleep with a yawn. I am reaching Sirsi, a small town in north-west Karnataka. I have come down with the overnight bus from Bangalore – ‘executive class’, as the bus proclaims. The night has been rough – my seat proves to be sticky and refuses to recline, and the bumps on the roads do not help. My lower back grumbles and complains, and calls out for its all-weather antidote, a cup of chai.

People are taking shelter from the rain in the tin sheds of the bus stand through unrelenting rainfall. The dhaba at the bus stand is just about opening its shutters, and getting started for the day. I am one of its first customers today. I approach the guy behind the counter. He is busy with his morning prayers, head bowed to the statue of a deity he has neatly kept on the side of the cash counter. He finishes, and looks up at me. I ask for chai, and in return he nods and gestures towards the empty tables, some still having the chairs kept upside down on top of them. His eyes remain fixated on me, a guy with a backpack and a plastic fishing rod in the middle of the Monsoons in rural Karnataka. Is he crazy?

I am here for fieldwork in the forests which surround the small town. These tropical evergreen forests are part of the Western Ghats, now a World Heritage Site. The month of June, in the peak of the Monsoon season is hardly a good time for this, but this is the best that time and my project allows. Its peak humidity and continuous rainfall. You want the rain to stop, but then the humidity is unbearable, so you want the rain to continue to escape the humidity. It’s a vicious circle.

Meanwhile, I ask for some idlis with my chai. I am waiting for Raghu, my field assistant, who lives with his family in a small apartment in town. A middle-aged guy, he is incharge of our field activities in the region. He soon arrives at the bus stand on his motorbike and joins me for breakfast. His presence is timely, for he navigates the conversation about who I am and what I am doing here with the owner of the dhaba smoothly. Soon, we are on his bike and making our way towards our field station.

We arm ourselves with raincoats for the rain continues. Even my backpack gets a rain cover for itself. The ride to our field station is serene. The town is left behind quickly, and soon we are riding along lush forests on both sides. Raghu has a helmet for himself, and he has got a small one for me too. With the rain lashing you left, right and centre, it would be impossible otherwise.

Our field station is a beautiful farm house on the highway to the famous beach town of Gokarna. Sloping roofs, even a cow shed towards the back. There is a ready supply of freshwater – a small river flows behind the farmhouse. Since the rain does not subside, we settle down to make a few more cups of chai and watch the Monsoon clouds envelope everything around us.

Hiking to a volcano – II

An hour to our destination and an early morning start means that it is time for a post-breakfast/pre-lunch nap on the deck of our boat. We are on our way to the volcanic island of Stromboli, and its active 1000 meter-high volcano. Surrounded by other islands big and small across the landscape and still not out in the open sea, the boat chugs along serenely. Soon the island and its volcano becomes faintly visible, anticipation cutting short my nap. The volcano towers over the rest of the landscape, its peak faintly visible from the smoke originating from its vents.

Stromboli is the second volcano that we will hike and study, in our trip to the Aeolian Islands. The hike is expected to take about 3 hours, and our group of about 25 people have been assigned a guide, since it is forbidden to climb without one. He has reserved a storeful of hard hats and other safety equipment (face masks, shoes) for us, and each one of us is issued some gear for the climb. It is the middle of May, stiflingly hot, and the plan is to start the ascent in the late afternoon so that the sunset provides an ideal contrast for witnessing the explosions atop the volcano. That means we have a couple of hours before the climb, a time spent enjoying a granita and completing my nap.

It is almost 1430h by the time we start the hike. Our guide, a guy about my age, is very particular about order and pace, and so we maintain a consistent (consistently slow, in my opinion!) pace. It is a gentle beginning, leaving the small huts of the town behind as we move towards the volcano. Small shrubs and other vegetation is shrugged aside as we tread the oft-hiked path to the peak. As with Vulcano, the vegetation quickly gives way to a bare, ash-laden surface. The hats do not help with the heat, so they are quietly dispensed to our backpacks, only to re-emerge later. It is a not a difficult climb, just a gentle increase in elevation around occasional bends. We take occasional breaks to catch breath and take photos of the landscape, and of ourselves. Huddled together while having bananas, we discuss volcanic styles, volcanism at Stromboli, the history of the volcano and volcanic disaster risk reduction. For field scientists, this is a moment to savour.

About halfway to the top, the first sounds of the roar of the volcano are heard. By now, the town of Stromboli is faint in the distance, while the Tyrrhenian Sea extends far and wide. Soon enough, we come across one of the few checkpoints of the hike – a bunker meant to protect researchers and other visitors from stray bombs exploding from the surface of the crater. Since researchers frequently visit Stromboli to analyse its activity, the bunker is an important safety infrastructure present for times of emergency. Volcanic beds are seen left and right – rows of neatly-stacked layers of soil as vestiges of eruptions past. Meanwhile, the volcanic explosions get louder, rhythmic and more frequent. We are almost there!

The memory of the last few steps is drowned by the roar of the volcano. At the top, surrealism awaits! We are right at the edge of level ground, beyond which there is a massive bowl-shaped crater, at whose base are 4 volcanic vents. The vents explode at a frequency of every 10 minutes, with bombs of rock and other material exploding from its surface. It is almost like a game, predicting which vent would be activated next.

Apart from the volcano itself, nothing can be heard. Nobody speaks a word. Minutes pass by and still nothing. Many of us are finally restored to reality by the sounds of the next group of people climbing to experience Stromboli for themselves. Our time at the volcano is over, we have to make way.

It doesn’t end meekly. This incredible experience is wrapped up by a peculiar descent. We are at the top of a massive mountain of ash. Many evenings spent on playground slides come roaring back as we are asked to slide down on volcanic ash to go down and get back to civilization. What took us 3 hours to climb up, barely takes 45 minutes to climb down.

Hiking to a volcano – I

‘Uno quatro stagioni, per favore!’ It was past lunchtime, and the small town of Milazzo was in the middle of an afternoon nap. I found myself a pizzeria off the main square while I was waiting for my ferry to Vulcano, one of the 7 volcanic islands (together called the Aeolian Islands) in the Tyrrhenian Sea off the Sicilian coast. Milazzo is a hub for tourists and holidaymakers out to catch a ferry to these islands, but we were there much too soon before the start of the holiday season. The ferry itself was uneventful – the sea was calm and clear, surely a relief for passengers prone to sea-sickness. A little under two hours later, we were at Vulcano.

Vulcano is home to the La Fossa volcano and a famous hot spring. A rotten egg smell pervades through the island due to Sulphur discharges from La Fossa and the hot springs. As expected, the island itself has the distinction of having a style of volcanism named after itself, the Vulcanian type of volcanic eruption. The 320m-high La Fossa, which last erupted in 1889-90, dominates the landscape. The morphology of the volcano itself is peculiar – halfway to the top, bare earth and intermittent vegetation gives way to black ash. It is unlike anything I have ever experienced before.

Our hotel was right beside the beach, offering a stunning view of the sea and the islands of Alipudi and Filicudi in the far distance. The activity on the island is usually restricted to the area around the port, and it is here in the evening that we treat ourselves to a granita at an outlet with branches spread as far as Australia. Granita is a delicious flavoured iced slush (available with or without cream, depending on your inclination), and one can accompany the granita with a brioche, a rich and tender pastry.

The trek to La Fossa starts a few hundred metres from our hotel. A signpost is testimony to this, its weathered state having stood the test of time and apathy. The winding path starts on solid mounds of bare earth, but the last part involves walking on ash. Vegetation is scarce and decreases rapidly with ascent. Barely 10 minutes into the trek, a refreshment van comes into view. Since the La Fossa ascent is suitable for trekkers of all ages, the van can serve as a first pit stop for groups aiming for a rather leisurely ascent to the top.

The trail itself is fascinating: as we gain height, the other islands in the island chain come into view in the far distance, along with glimpses of the clear waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea, so clear that one can see the ripples created by ferries and cruise vessels in the water. Large and small volcanic rocks are strewn across the landscape: remnants of volcanic eruptions past. While there is only one major trail to the top, prominent signboards present at each curve are no doubt reassuring for nervous trekkers.

Our first and only stop is a flat outcrop of land about 200m from the top. This area provides a 270 degrees view of the landscape. Filicudi and Alicudi are smokey in the distance from the gas releases on top of their resident volcanoes. The narrow strip of land to Vulcanello comes brightly into view, with Lipari behind it.

The last 200m ascent is almost a blur, lost in the excitement of experiencing a volcanic vent. It exceeds expectations: the vent is a conic-shaped figure, with smooth tapering at the edges, on which I currently stand. Rotten egg is the dominant smell around us, from the numerous small vents spread out all across the body of the vent, spewing out yellow-coloured Sulphur gas into the atmosphere. While continued concentrated exposure to Sulphur can be dangerous, right now the exposure is below threat levels. A small monitoring station of the INGV (the Italian national institute for the study of volcanoes) stands to measure gaseous concentrations in real-time. Other trekkers are visible all across the top of the vent, looking out for good spots for capturing the landscape and of the volcano itself.

I am like an excited kid, speechless and spell-bound. Multiple photos later, we sit down for a quick lunch. Lunch on the fringes of a volcano! There are good days, and then are days like this one.