Buried Alive

You will probably never see a purple frog. In order to see a purple frog, you very much have to be in the right place at the right time. The place: a tiny fraction of a tiny but biologically rich mountain range in Southern India called the Western Ghats. The time: the summer monsoons. If you come to the Western Ghats in October, or go anywhere else but that few hundred square miles of wet plateau in June, you and the purple frog will miss each other entirely.

It is a great round blob of an animal, the purple frog, with a hard, beak-like nose for breaking into termite tunnels. Its eyes seem too small, its stance pigeon-toed, its call sounds like that of a chicken. It is such an unusual animal that it’s surprising it wasn’t discovered until 2003. The reason it remained hidden so long is that the purple frog is subterranean, burying itself alive for most of the year until it hears the drumming of the monsoon rains on the earth above, and clambers up to the surface to mate.

The Art of being Buried Alive is not an easy one to master. It requires you to slow your metabolism to a crawl, to live as if hibernating, but without being asleep. It is a self-imprisonment during which you cannot dare to plan your escape, or you will go mad. I imagine you can’t think at all. The purple frog is not in complete stasis: it hunts termites, its heart beats. But mainly, it squats in the dirt and listens. Who knows if the purple frog’s mind remains safely dreamless and null as it waits in the earth. Perhaps it does nothing but dream.

This waking hibernation has a name: estivation. For most animals that employ it, estivation happens during the dry summer months, but the Indian monsoon season starting in June makes the purple frog’s cycle unusual. Consider the lungfishes, those ancient and air-breathing fish whose shallow ponds which, for much of the year, do not exist. That’s right: there is a fish that can survive in a lake with no water. During the dry season, the lungfish buries itself in the mud, coats itself in a mucus cocoon, slows its breathing rate down to next-to-nothing, and estivates. It is awake. It waits for rain.

It’s been a long, dry summer.

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About quantumbiologist

Christian Drake, AKA The Quantum Biologist, is a naturalist and poet formerly of Albuquerque, NM and currently living deep in the backwoods of the Connecticut Berkshires. He has worked in aquariums and planetariums, national parks and urban forests. When not birding or turning over rocks to find weird bugs, he enjoys rockabilly music, gourmet cooking, playing harmonica and writing dirty haiku. View all posts by quantumbiologist

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