Part 1: Jane Goodall

Jane Goodall is an incredible woman. A force to be reckoned with. She has a rare tenacity and a fierce sense of personal responsibility for her impact on the planet. In her own words:

“What you do makes a difference, and you have to decide what kind of difference you want to make.”

This year, Think Inc. delivered an Australia wide tour in collaboration with the Jane Goodall Institute; a ‘fire side’ chat with the woman herself, fronted up by a casual talk from Jane. I attended the Melbourne event at the Plenary on June 16th, where Jane Goodall told of her childhood fascinations with animals, the unfolding of her dream to work with animals in Africa, and spoke on her now long history of global activism.

This is a woman who worked crappy secretarial and hospitality jobs to scrape together enough pennies for the boat ride from England, around the Cape of Africa, on to Nairobi. A woman who essentially pioneered the field of animal behavioural science, in spite of being badly ridiculed by much of the scientific community. And a passionate activist that admits she has not been in the same place for more than two or three consecutive weeks for some 30 years.

Jane Goodall’s personal story brings together true anthropological discovery, which is still unfolding today (see Part 3: First Humans)–but which had more of a wild west-type twang through the course of the C20th (see Part 2: The Leakey Legacy)–with pressing modern day issues: environmental degradation, overconsumption and human desperation in the developing world.

In writing this three-piece blog series I came to realise that, in truth, there is little I can say to elucidate Jane Goodall’s work, insight and ferocity that she does not immediately demonstrate herself. Just watch her.

 

 

To end on a moral note as Goodall did herself, the crux of Jane’s fear for the world seems to be this; in spite of the undeniable evidence for human-induced climate change, in spite of the devastating degradation of natural habitats carried out by our species, so many of us continue to do nothing. And as she emphasises, our time to make a difference is already on the clock.

“The greatest danger to our future is apathy,” she says.

Since attending Jane’s Think Inc. talk, I have started to realise how often the children and teenagers I meet through my education and science communication work have already adopted, at their fledgling age, a wholly hopeless outlook on our planets future.

I, myself, am wholeheartedly committed to realism but, as Jane clearly indicates herself, we need, absolutely, to remain optimistic. In fact, our future depends on it.

“You would be amazed at what inspired children can do.” – Goodall

 

Information on the Roots & Shoots program referred to at the end of this video can be found here, with some 23 schools participating in Victoria alone at the time of writing.

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Pooter power !

 

 

Extra-happy happy snaps of the fossil conservation process.

Each photograph is captioned with a brief description of the technique featured, but for a romanticised description and more detail of the ‘how’s’ and ‘why’s’ see the rockdoc article Patients.

Patients

Rock conservation’ has a certain ring to it… a ring that registers amongst the highest calibre of beyond-boring, watching-grass-grow type activities. It’s the kind of stuff we hope our dreams are never made. Not sending emails, not ironing, not rock conservation. These activities, we suppose, seep in and infest our colourful humanity with stupefying fuddy-duddyness, changing us from people into some embodiment of dreary.

The term ‘rock conservation’ refers to the treatment and storage of geological material in order to prolong its natural life. It is a curatorial process essential to the maintenance of important scientific resources worldwide.

“…these patients will help form the foundations of palaeontological research that will enrich and expand our understanding of life on this sweet planet we call home.”

Largely, the process involves an assessment of the stability of the rock patient in question: whether it is rich in clay minerals and likely to delaminate and crumble with time, whether it has through-going cracks or fossil roots that will encourage it to fall apart when handled, etc.. This assessment, and the treatment to be administered in response, is carried out by one we might affectionately (and very colloquially) call the ‘Rock Doctor’.

As the resident Rock Doctor in my lab, I paint my patients with paraloid B67, which seeps into the pore spaces between grains and holds them together like liquid bandaid. I take carefully measured strips of cotton bandage and wrap the rocks, to act as a splint and reinforce the paraloid. I patch broken pieces back to their other halves with epoxy resin. And I make custom-fit straight jackets using polyurethane foam, to hold the bigger rock slabs tightly together while they are split to reveal as-yet unseen fossil layers.

Although the execution of these tasks is roughly three quarters fuddy-dreardom, the remaining quarter of a rock doctor’s role can only be described as a shiny, rather pleasant privilege.

The privilege has it’s genesis here; these patients will help form the foundations of palaeontological research that will enrich and expand our understanding of life on this sweet planet we call home. Whether as small puzzle pieces falling into shapely gaps, or as ripples that perpetuate outwards, crossing paths with other concepts and creating something novel, the information extracted from these fossils can be invaluable. And this is true whether we seek to gaze into the labyrinth of deep time, or to look into the possible futures that extend before us.

Furthermore, a minority of lucky rocks that pass through the hospice of rock doctors find a moment in the limelight, featuring in geology exhibits that seek to capture the hearts and minds of public visitors. Although my patients are unlikely to see any such fame (destined for storage in the GNAS collection outside Wellington, New Zealand, or offshore on the Chatham Islands from which they hark), it is the insightful journey they travel in the interim that makes my patients special.

For the potential insights they conceal, my patients are worthy of the utmost care, considered treatment and delicate love.

Arcing from mundane to wondrous, I find myself with the utmost patience for these rock doctor tasks.

 

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