DROUGHT
By F. KINGDON WARD
THE long drought which began in the early summer of 1933, and has continued with scarcely a break ever slim, is now becoming almost a commonplace. It is, therefore, a matter of more than academic interest to consider some of the possible effects of a really pro- longed drought in a thickly populated and industrialized country. It is, indeed, highly improbable that an island, facing the broad Atlantic Ocean, and backed by a con- tinental land mass, should ever suffer the agonies of gradual desiccation. But it is not impossible. The coast of Annam in the extreme south-east of Asia, though fronting the China Sea, and backed by the mountainous spine of Laos, is extraordinarily arid ; nor must it be forgotten that, nearer home, Spain is far more in need of rain than is Britain. These are, useful analogies. Moreover, while the continent may normally be depended on -to intercept the rain, yet in actual practice it does not always do so, since the great plain of Europe stretches with scarcely a rise from East Anglia to the Urals. Nor is a coastal island, any more than an oceanic island, necessarily moist—witness Socotra.
Before we can prophesy the effects of drought, we must study the results of prolonged drought. This is not difficult. In every continent there are deserts. Men have -crossed the Gobi desert, the Sahara and Central Australia ; as well as the semi-desert regions of the world, such as Arizona. They have recorded their observations and impressions. If the layman were asked what are the most outstanding features of deserts, he would be likely to reply, lack of vegetation, and lack of animal life, including, of course, man. In other words, shortage of water inevitably implies a diminution of life. An absolute desert, if there was such a thing, would be absolutely lifeless. At the other extreme are regions which suffer from perpetual rain, and consequently are covered with vegetation so dense, so quick growing, and so ineradicable, that man cannot overcome it. Such regions also are uninhabited—the interior of New Guinea for example.
The next peculiarity that might be noticed about deserts is the sameness of the surface, whether com- posed of sand, gravel or baked earth ; to which might be added the sameness of the vegetation. One or a few species of plants constantly recur over vast areas. Moreover, the plants often assume bizarre forms, the cacti of the North American desert area, and the Kalahari desert euphorbias (often erroneously called cacti) being the best known. Torrid heat in summer is often succeeded by bitter cold in winter ; the one is as inimical to normal vegetation as the other. Such then being some of the ultimate results of desiccation, it might be interesting to speculate on the gradual evolu- tion of a desert ; the more 'so since many observations testify to the fact that some desert regions have not long been desert. Our enquiry into the utter darkness of history must needs include the migration of tribes from the stricken area, in search of water, game and arable land ; the building of irrigation works ; the extermination of many plants and animals, and the survival, with modification, of others. But such gradual drying up might need centuries ; so that any one genera- tion could adapt itself intelligently to the conditions of the moment. Much more potent in its effects would be a prolonged drought, in a thickly populated and highly-organized state like Britain. For it is a matter of common observation that the more " civilized " we become, the less able are we in our crowded urban areas to cope with nature's ruthless moods. The terrible effects of an earthquake in a modern city arc obvious and cannot be mitigated. An unusually heavy snow- fall in Tibet hurfs nobody. The same thing in Britain dislocates and holds up urgent traffic, severs telegraphic and other communication and indirectly. if not directly, is responsible for many deaths and much suffering.
Let us then consider a few of the first results of prolonged drought over the whole of the British Isles. No type of vegetation is less resistant to drought than forest. Owing to their bulk, trees take time to die, and are not the first to show signs of distress. But their doom is sealed. The first to go will naturally be the shallow-rooted species, particularly those on light soils ; but the others will soon follow them. In the second or third year we might expect the complete deforestation of the land. Before then, however, all the annuals will have disappeared ; their seeds could not germinate without a sufficiency of water. Last to perish would be the grasses.
Hand in hand with the rapid disappearance of the vegetation would come complete revolution in the animal world. Birds such as did not migrate would die whole- sale ; for the dry earth would quickly become sterile of insect life, as of seeds, and there would be no berries on the dying trees. The disaster to stock needs no emphasis ; all herbivorous animals would die in a comparatively short time. But before they died, they would weaken. The smaller rodents, such as hares and rabbits, and moles, would more easily fall a prey to the carnivores ; and one might expect a great; if temporary, increase in vermin, such as stoats and weasels. The same argument holds, of course, for birds of prey. With each sudden upset of the balance of nature. reactions would set in throwing every temporary adjustment still further out of gear, and hastening disaster. Meanwhile, the intelligent ani- mal, man, would do what he could. But knowing no precedent, being careless of, and deaf to history, and above all, being incredulous of disaster on such a scale, he would start slowly.
There would be warnings, for the most part unheeded. Then water would be restricted and finally rationed. The last dry summer cycle in this country found no shortage of water ; but since then the increased supply has kept pace with the increasing population, and not with the increasing use of water, which is a very different thing. Baths, sanitation acid gardening now account for a much greater volume of water per head of population than they did thirty years ago. It is reasonable to sup- pose that the water supply for baths and gardens at any rate, would soon be cut off. Our streets could not be watered, and the resulting dust would become a serious menace. Pulmonary disease would be rife. The only substitute for modern sanitation is a system of inciner- ators ; and while these were being installed epidemics might break out. Ponds and small streams would dry up, and the atmosphere in the neighbourhood might become noisome from the stink of decaying pond life. The number of dragon flies, midges, and other insects with aquatic larvae would diminish. The lack of fresh vegetables and of fresh milk would be fraught with the gravest consequences, more particularly to the young ; and infinite torment of flies which are far more abundant in hot, dry countries than they are in England, would complete the chaos . . . scavenging would be all that remained to do.
Previous page
