All language subtitles for The Living Planet s01e04 Jungle.eng

(HOWLING)

(LOUD SQUAWKING)

I am sitting surrounded
by the greatest proliferation of life

anywhere on the surface of the earth.

I'm up in the canopy of the jungle,
the tropical rainforest.

Here there is a greater bulk of life,
both animal and plant -

and a greater diversity too -
than can be found anywhere else.

This huge proliferation comes
from two main causes: Warmth and wetness.

The wetness comes
from the abundant equatorial rains,

the warmth from the tropical sun.

Between them, those two factors
have created the jungle,

which stretches in a broken
green band right round the earth.

This particular patch lies
in South America, right across the equator,

stretching for 600 miles
both north and south of it

in a vast blanket,
almost unbroken except for the rivers.

Here there is probably more unexplored
territory than anywhere else in the world.

Travel east from here along the course
of that greatest of rivers, the Amazon,

and you reach the Atlantic.

Continue along the line of the equator,
across the ocean,

and you come to the west coast of Africa,

another gigantic river, the Zaire -
that used to be called the Congo -

and another vast tract of jungle.

Eastern Africa doesn't get as much rain
and the jungle dwindles into savannah,

but across the Indian Ocean
the great green rainforest reappears

along the western edge of India and Sri Lanka.

It covers south-east Asia,
Burma, Thailand and Malaysia,

the huge islands of Borneo and Sulawesi
and the smaller archipelagos of Indonesia,

and farther east still, New Guinea.

Beyond lies the vastness of the Pacific,

for the most part empty of land
except for scatterings of tiny islands,

until, having girdled the earth
around the equator,

you come back to the greatest
expanse of all, the Amazon jungle.

The kind of tree I've climbed doesn't grow
in groups but as isolated individuals,

and it's by far the tallest tree
in this particular jungle.

It's a kapok,
and it grows to over 200 feet high.

If the canopy of leaves
formed by the rest of the jungle

can be called a sea of leaves,
then the crown of the kapok

is an island which rises above that sea,
and it has a climate all of its own.

There is more sunshine up here than below
and there's also wind,

which is virtually unknown
in the depths of the forest.

The wind causes some problems.

It can rob a tree of its moisture
by evaporation from the surface of its leaves,

so the kapok has very small leaves.

The wind also brings a benefit -

it distributes the kapok seeds,
which are extremely fluffy.

They float gently across the top
of the canopy for mile after mile.

The crowns of these giant trees are the home

of the biggest and most fearsome
of all jungle birds.

There are flying hunters
very like this one in most jungles.

In South America the harpy,
in Africa the crowned eagle,

and here in Malaysia the hawk eagle.

All patrol above the surface of the canopy,
occasionally plunging down into the leaves

at great speed to seize a squirrel,
a bird or even a monkey.

All produce just one nestling

which they must feed with meat
for almost a year

until it too is big enough to hunt.

These high outposts above the jungle
are excellent vantage points

from which to scan life in the canopy below.

Few other creatures dare fly above that sea
of leaves when there are eagles about.

Coming down from the airy
sunlit branches of the kapok,

you leave the breeze and the dazzling
sunshine and enter a different world.

Here the warm still air is heavy with moisture,

there's hardly a breath of breeze,

the leaves above cut out much of the sunshine.

The canopy - millions of leaves stretching
in a vast endless mosaic of green,

each leaf exactly angled to collect
the maximum amount of light.

Many have a special joint
at the base of their stalk

that enables them to twist and follow
the sun as it swings overhead.

It's an isolated world,
many of whose inhabitants

are born here and will die here,
without ever leaving it.

Insects are everywhere.

There seems no limit to the variety
of their shapes and colours.

Some prey on others, most derive
their sustenance from the trees,

collecting the seeds, sipping the nectar,
sucking the sap and munching the leaves.

Weaver ants use the leaves
as walls for their nests.

Workers, feet hooked on one leaf,
lock their jaws on the edge of another

and haul the two together.

While they hold the leaves in position,

other workers use the colony's grubs
as tubes of glue, gently squeezing them

so that they produce threads of sticky silk

which they weave
back and forth across the junction.

Eventually they produce an enclosed globe
within which they can rear their young.

The insubstantial green terraces
of the canopy are the pastures of the jungle

and a multitude of creatures graze on them.

These in South America are squirrel monkeys,

but every jungle has its monkey troops
that scamper with total confidence

through the branches,
fastidiously selecting the right kind of tree,

the juiciest bud... or the particular shoot
that most takes their fancy.

There are no seasonal changes here
comparable to winter and summer in the north,

so there is no one time for the shedding
and the renewal of leaves.

Neither is there any particular
season for flowering.

In this eternal summer,
trees vary greatly in their flowering cycles.

Some bloom every ten months,
others every fourteen.

A few may only flower once in a decade.
But the rhythm is far from haphazard,

for all the individuals of one species
produce their flowers at about the same time,

as they must if they are
to cross-pollinate one another.

With so little breeze within the canopy,
the trees can't rely on the wind to pollinate.

Most depend on insects and other animals,

bribing them with lavish feasts
of pollen and nectar.

Bigger creatures have to be persuaded
to transport the heavier seeds.

Their rewards are the fruits.

Birds do much of this work during the day,
swallowing the entire fruit,

digesting the flesh and voiding the seeds
later and elsewhere.

At night, other creatures take on the job.

The majority of bats eat insects,
but in the tropics many have specialised

in collecting fruit
and live on nothing else.

There are a great number
of different kinds of figs in the jungle,

each with its own fruiting rhythm.

Since the bats are such accomplished fliers,
they can range far over the jungle

and can always find figs
of some kind, ripe somewhere.

Some feast on them in the trees,
many prefer to carry them away

and feed in the familiar safety
of their roosts.

Trees can be cropped in many different ways.

The pygmy marmoset
has specialised in collecting sap.

The front teeth in its lower jaw project forward,

and with them it scrapes away the bark
causing the sap to run.

Marmosets live in families,
each with its own territory in the branches,

and each has at least one of these sap wells

which the family keeps open and productive
and vigorously defends.

Still though the air is, it carries
the microscopic spores of ferns and mosses

which lodge in the crevices
of the tree bark and sprout.

As they flourish and decay,
their remains accumulate into a compost

on which other plants can grow.

Their dangling roots collect moisture
from the humid air,

and so the broad branches become balconies
loaded with orchids and bromeliads.

Bromeliads are relations of the pineapple

and each one has its own
population of animal lodgers.

The rosette of leaves forms a chalice
that is always full of water,

a useful drinking place for the canopy animals.

For some frogs, it's more than that.
It's a nursery.

This little female arrow poison frog
laid her eggs on a leaf.

As they hatched, she allowed a tadpole
to wriggle up onto her moist back.

Now she must find a pond for it to swim in.

She reverses into the water and allows
the surface tension to pull her tadpole off.

Several species of arrow poison frogs
use bromeliads like this,

and most regard their parental responsibilities
as being over at this stage.

Mosquitoes are likely to lay here,

so with luck, there should be some
wriggling larvae for the tadpole to feed on.

But this frog doesn't take that chance.
Every three or four days,

she returns to every plant where she left
a tadpole and in each she lays more eggs.

But these are not fertile.
They are food for the tadpole

and will sustain it until it's big enough
to catch insects for itself.

For such frogs, like so many creatures up here,

the canopy is a complete world,
suspended above the surface of the earth,

that they never need leave.

When you descend from the canopy,

you leave behind the most densely
populated part of the jungle

and enter a kind of aerial
halfway house of spindly saplings,

hanging lianas and bare branchless trunks.

Here, I am about halfway down,
about 70 feet above the floor,

midway between the ceiling of leaves
in the canopy and the carpet of leaves below.

Up here, there are very few leaves -
these huge tree trunks don't sprout many.

There's nothing much but empty space,
so very few creatures come here to feed,

and apart from birds and some flying insects,
the only creatures I'm likely to see

are those that use these huge
tree trunks and the dangling lianas

as vertical highways between
the world above and the world below.

Snakes with no legs and claws
with which to hold on

might not seem to be well suited
to climbing, but in fact

some can ascend the vertical trunks
with astonishing ease.

The paradise tree snake of Borneo
maintains its grip

by pressing sideways with its coils
and propels itself upwards

by sending ripples down the line of angled
backward-pointing scales on its underside.

But it has an even more
unexpected accomplishment.

By pulling its ribs forwards, it flattens
its body, turning it from a rod into a ribbon

so that it catches the air, and by waving
its coils it can, to some extent,

control the direction of its glide.

But in these Borneo forests
there are even better gliders.

This squirrel has a cloak of furry skin
that stretches from its wrist to its ankle.

When it's about its normal business,
the skin looks a bit untidy,

as though the animal were rather sloppily
dressed, but when the squirrel leaps,

then it becomes
the very summit of gliding grace.

Most other mammals in this midway zone
travel from tree to tree along the lianas.

Marmosets are capable jumpers
and confidently leap a yard or so.

But they are not always convinced
that they can make it.

The uakari is not nearly so athletic.

It sometimes avoids too big a jump by
throwing its weight back and forth on a sapling,

so that it sways and carries it
across to the next tree.

Few large creatures visit
this middle part of the jungle to feed,

for there are comparatively few leaves here,

but lizards scuttle up and down the trunks,
for there, as almost everywhere else,

there are insects to be collected.

Spiders hunt here too.

These termites collected their food
from rotting vegetation on the ground.

They are laboriously carrying it all up here
because it's up here, within the trunks,

that they have built their nest.

Other termites hang their nests from branches

and these are often commandeered by others.

A bird originally dug this hole,
but the bat took it over

and now uses the termites' work
as a convenient roost

from which to hawk for insects.

The pillar-like trunks of the huge trees
provide homes for a few birds.

A big bird like a macaw needs
a nice open approach to its nest,

and the hole is relatively safe,
for few non-flying robbers can reach it.

This hole started when a dead branch fell,
but the macaws have enlarged it greatly.

They usually have just two chicks,

but keeping them properly fed
is a considerable labour,

for they will stay in the nest hole
for over three months.

Like all parrots, macaws feed their young

by regurgitating
chewed-up fruit from their crop.

Both parents labour away,
bringing loads of fruit throughout the day,

for it's bulky food and the youngsters
need a great deal of it.

Holes in tree trunks
are very valuable properties.

Only a few creatures can make them,
but plenty will gladly move into them.

So, after one family has left, other creatures
soon turn up to inspect the vacant property.

The golden lion marmoset, like all
its family, is incurably inquisitive.

They may already have a hole of their own,

but it's always worth inspecting
alternative accommodation.

And their curiosity has paid off -
the hole contains a meal, a few cockroaches.

As it approaches the ground, the huge
creeper-swathed trunk of the kapok

flares out into buttresses
which the tree needs for its stability,

for its roots are very shallow.

The fact is that the forest floor
is not a very fertile place.

This is partly because it is so dark,
much of the light having been cut off

by the tiers of leaves up in the canopy,
and partly because the torrential rains

wash away much of the nutriment
that is in the soil.

So the roots of the kapok tree, and indeed
of any other plant that grows down here,

have to find their sustenance not deep
in the soil, but from up on the surface -

from this, in fact, the litter of dead leaves
that's continuously falling down from above.

And the processes which release
that sustenance are in fact very swift.

For down here there's very little wind,
so it's extremely humid; it's also very warm,

and those two factors together
suit the processes of decay very well.

Bacteria and moulds work unceasingly.

Fungi proliferate, spreading
their filaments through the litter.

Within days of a leaf landing,
they creep all over it,

breaking down its tissues and returning
its nutrients back to the soil,

where the roots of the trees,
close to the surface, quickly reclaim them.

And as the fungi themselves flourish,
so they put up their spikes and umbrellas,

from which they spread their spores
through the jungle.

The most spectacular of all growths
on the forest floor is not a fungus but a parasite.

To find it, you must discover first its host,

a particular species of vine
that grows in Sumatra.

If the plant is infected, a huge solid bud
will periodically emerge from its roots.

When it's swollen to the size of a cabbage,
it slowly, over a period of four days, opens.

Rafflesia. Its body is a network of filaments

that run through the tissues
of the vine, absorbing its sap.

It has no stem or leaves of its own.

The only time it becomes visible
is when it puts out these monstrous flowers,

the largest in the world.

The petals are leathery
and covered in raised warty patches.

It gives off a powerful smell
which to our noses is revolting,

for it is the stench of rotting flesh.

The local name for it
is "bunga banki", corpse flower.

That smell is irresistibly attractive to flies
which feed on carrion, and they flock here.

It's they that pollinate the flower.

The seeds are small
and probably carried through the jungle

on the hooves of pig or deer that might
tread on the flower inadvertently

and later, elsewhere, kick the bark
of another trailing vine stem

and so infect that with another Rafflesia.

The forest floor is littered with the debris
of trees, huge fallen trunks,

branches ripped off by a storm
and leaves falling in a steady gentle rain.

It's here that the termites collect their food,
removing it particle by particle

and carrying it away for treatment in their nest.

Their incessant labour,
like the work of the fungi,

is a crucial link in the life of the forest,
for the termites are bringing

the nutrients in the wood
back into circulation.

Few other creatures can eat dead wood
and leaves, but lots can eat termites.

The workers are guarded by soldiers.

This particular kind have nozzles on their heads
from which they can squirt a sticky repellent.

But they can do little
against attacks from above.

Spiders sling silken ropes across the marching
columns and, hanging from them,

lasso the workers one at a time
and haul them up to be eaten in mid-air.

A whip scorpion. It doesn't have a sting
like a true scorpion, but it scarcely needs it.

The tip of its long antennae
tell it where there's prey.

Yet another varied population of creatures
lives within the leaf litter.

Down here it's always moist,
so soft-bodied, wet-skinned creatures

can survive very well.

A planarian worm smoothes its way
by laying down a carpet of slime.

Peripatus, halfway between a worm
and a millipede, and a hunter of spiders.

Beetles. One of the few creatures
apart from termites that eat rotting wood.

Such inhabitants of the litter are, in turn,
food for hunters from beneath the soil.

A blind, legless burrowing lizard.

Not all these leaf and wood feeders
are defenceless.

This phasmid, a large flightless
prickly stick insect, has a powerful kick.

It gives warning of its strength
by rattling its useless wing covers.

The smaller, less savage litter feeders
are collected by little mammals

that trot through the leaves, deftly
snapping up a termite here, a beetle there.

In the Madagascar rainforest, a tenrec,

a more distant cousin of the European hedgehog
than its coat of prickles would suggest.

In African forests, the elephant shrew,
highly strung, skittish,

prone to career off
at suicidal speed if it's startled.

Its long sensitive trunk enables it
to investigate the depths of the leaf litter

with the minimum of noise and disturbance.

But there is one inhabitant of the forest floor

who makes more varied use
of more parts of the jungle than any other.

Human beings have lived here
for tens of thousands of years,

perfecting the techniques
and accumulating the knowledge

that enables them to meet
all their needs from the jungle.

The Waorani in Ecuador,
or Auca as they used to be called,

are among the few people left who have
not abandoned any of their ancient skills.

Their favourite fruit is chonta, a kind of palm,

but its trunk is armoured with the most
ferocious spines and impossible to climb.

The Waorani know how to deal with that -

lash a small stick to the end
of a pole with a strip of bark,

put a ring of lianas around your ankles
and then climb a smooth-barked cecropia tree

growing alongside the unscalable chonta.

The cecropia doesn't grow next door
to the chonta by accident.

The Waorani plant one
beside every chonta tree they find,

clearing a space for it so that
it can get sufficient sunshine to grow.

Within only a few years,
it's stout enough to be climbed.

The Waorani know their individual chonta trees

as well as if not better
than a fruit farmer knows his orchard,

and they visit them regularly.

They grow all over the jungle, and often
the people have to make long journeys

to collect their fruit and walk for hours
carrying the heavy stems back to their huts.

Chonta can be eaten in all kinds of ways
except one, raw. It has to be cooked.

The Waorani now have a few metal cooking pots
but they still make some from clay,

coiled and then baked in an open fire.

Hammocks are woven from palm fibre,
cups and basins made from gourds,

and the hut itself
from branches thatched with leaves.

The pet parrot eats its chonta raw. The family
are going to get theirs as an alcoholic porridge,

and the cook chews it,
adding her own spittle so that it will ferment.

The parrot chicks also take their chonta
pre-chewed from their foster parents' mouths,

just as they would
from the beaks of their real parents.

The people traditionally are entirely naked,
except for a string around their waist.

In these temperatures,
clothes are not needed for warmth.

But the Waorani take great pride
in their appearance

and need little excuse to decorate themselves.

The seeds of the achiote plant,
when squashed, produce a vivid red paint.

Black comes from charcoal
mixed with the juice of the genipa plant.

Face and body painting lasts a long time, for like
many forest people, the Waorani sweat very little.

In the humid air, sweat doesn't
so readily evaporate and cool the body

as it does for people elsewhere,

and the Waoranis' skin
doesn't produce it in great quantity.

A vine is the source
of that famous poison, curare,

with which the Waorani tip their blowpipe darts.
Scrapings from it are wrapped in leaves

and water poured through the mash
to dissolve out the poison.

The darts are made from slivers of palm wood.

A steel knife has been obtained from outsiders
by barter and is a treasured possession.

But even now the Waorani may do this job
with a stone blade or an animal tooth.

The curare has been boiled down
into a sticky paste.

Carefully, each dart is tipped with it
and then put in front of the fire to dry.

Fibres from the seeds of the kapok tree,
deftly twirled round the back end of the dart,

will give it an airtight fit
in the barrel of the blowpipe.

In Waorani hands it's lethally accurate.

Hunters communicate
with one another in the forest

by using the buttresses of the giant trees.

(THUMPING)

Such thumps are audible for miles,

and in the forest, where you can't see
for more than a few yards around you,

sound is much the best form of communication.

The jungle animals certainly exploit it to proclaim
their territorial rights and to summon their mates.

(VARIOUS ANIMAL AND BIRD CALLS)

In each jungle, there's one mammal
up in the canopy

which has become the champion singer:

In Madagascar the indiri lemur,
in South America the howler monkey

and in south-east Asia the gibbon.

The siameng, with a huge resonating
throat sac to amplify its voice,

has the loudest call of all gibbons.
Families sing to one another across the valleys.

(HUGE DIN OF CALLING)

Sound is not so effective
beside the thundering waterfall,

so one frog that lives in such a place
in Borneo uses sign language.

Tree lizards, up in the branches where
they can easily see all over their small territory,

use a flag on their throat.

Many birds use both media -
sound and vision.

These calls, echoing across
the Borneo forest, are invitations

to one of the most spectacular theatrical
performances in any jungle anywhere.

(LOUD BIRD CALL)

The display will take place on a stage that has
been carefully cleared and cleaned by the dancer.

It's an argus pheasant.

The cock has summoned a hen with his calls
and now he leads her to his display ground.

The immense fans, lined with eyespots, are
the greatly elongated feathers of his wing coverts.

There are no pheasants in South America.

There, the dancers come
from another family, the cotingas,

and one of them, the cock of the rock,
performs in competitive groups.

As many as forty male birds
assemble in one patch of the forest,

but each has his own cleared arena
on the ground beneath him.

The performers squabble among themselves
while they wait for their audience.

And here it is, just one. A single drab female.

The dancers descend, each to his own stage.

The dance itself consists of little more
than a few bobs and bounces

in the shafts of sunshine that spotlight the stages,

though there may be squabbles among
the performers during the course of it.

The female may or may not be impressed
by the relative merits of the costumes

or the dance steps,
but in some way she makes a selection.

A tap on the back of the winner
and he claims his prize.

The jungle is a very stable, unvarying place.

There's no wind down here, the humidity
and temperature remain much the same.

Even the length of the days and the nights
remains almost the same throughout the year.

And what's more, it's a very ancient place too.

Mountains get eroded by glaciers
within thousands of years.

Plains turn into deserts inside centuries,

lakes fill up with mud
and become swamps inside decades.

But the jungle is millions of years old.

And that may be an explanation of one
of its most extraordinary characteristics,

the great diversity of animals
and plants that are found here.

It's as though this great age has enabled the
forces of nature to produce specialised creatures

to live in every tiny niche
in this ancient and stable environment.

Just consider, for example,
how many creatures have developed

not just a generalised camouflage
but a close and precise impersonation.

A young stick insect looks like a poisonous ant.

Yet when it grows up, it becomes a prickly twig.

A beetle has become a winged seed.

A bug dresses itself in a costume of lichen.

A mantis is a dead leaf.

A lizard, dappled foliage.

Leaves, twigs, tendrils and stems,
some fresh, some green,

some apparently blotched with mould.
None vegetable, all animal.

A stump on a branch?
No, a bird on its nest. A potoo.

The fertility of the jungle depends
not only sunshine but on rain,

and nowhere does it fall more abundantly
than here in the tropics.

A big storm is preceded by a violent gale
which for a few minutes lashes the tall trees

and rocks the canopy.

The huge heavy drops begin to fall,
first slowly and then in drenching torrents.

In places,
the floor of the forest becomes a flood,

sweeping in sheets through the trees
down to the rivers.

When the storm has passed, then the blessings
of the water it has brought can be enjoyed.

The jaguar is an excellent swimmer
and seems positively to enjoy doing so,

for it's seldom found far from water.

It actually hunts as it wades,
catching crocodiles and frogs and even fish.

One of the small creatures
which doesn't enjoy a soaking

manages to pass the storm in perfect dryness
and is still snug in its remarkable shelter.

The leaf of this heliconia is hanging
in an unnaturally protective way.

The creatures lodging beneath have bitten
through the veins along the mid-rib,

so that the two sides flop down around it
and keep out the splashes.

It's a pair of white tent-making bats.

The storm has brought water to the thirsty.

It has knocked down valuable fruit for the hungry,
well worth storing for a later date.

But it can also bring death to the aged.

(CREAKING TIMBER)

A giant kapok has fallen. Maybe it had lost
one of its huge branches from decay

and was already badly out of balance
before the storm.

The great weight of water hanging on its foliage
was finally more than it could carry.

The death of this old tree
was the starting gun for a feverish race.

The competitors are the spindly seedlings
mostly buried under this wreckage of branches.

Had this tree not fallen, they would
have been doomed to an early death,

because once they had consumed the food
in the big seeds from which they sprouted,

there would have not been enough light
down here for them to grow any further.

But this tree fall has changed all that.

The huge rent in the canopy above is both
the prize and the finishing post of the race.

Those seedlings that can grow fast and get up
there quickest will get their place in the sun,

spread their branches, flower and set seed,

but the rest will have no chance.

The process is extraordinarily swift.

To begin with, shrubs appear
which specialise in open sites like these.

They flower quickly and disperse their seeds
to other temporary clearings,

but in a year or so the sapling trees
have over-topped them.

As they grow higher, some begin to flag.

Only one or two complete the course to sunlight,
where they will spread their branches.

So the jungle floor once more
becomes darkened by shadow

and the green canopy is again complete.

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