BARDIYA, Nepal — Ram Raj Dhakal, 22, jolts awake to an alert on his phone. A wild elephant has strayed into a village near Thakurdwara, on the fringes of Bardiya National Park. At 11 p.m. in Nepal’s southern jungles of Bardiya, the air is finally cool after a scorching day, carrying the scent of damp grass. Dhakal quickly alerts his friend, hops onto a motorbike, and speeds through the foggy winter night.

When they arrive, chaos unfolds before them. Frightened villagers, armed with fire torches, yell and wave their arms to drive the elephant away. The massive creature lurches forward, agitated. Dhakal and his friend Chaudhary launch a drone into the air. The loud buzzing mimics the sound of a swarm of bees, one of the few things elephants fear. Slowly, the elephant retreats, disappearing back into the jungle. Another night, another crisis averted.

For the past two years, this has been a part of their job for the four months after the monsoon, the period when elephant incursions peak as the pachyderms raid farms, destroy crops, and sometimes enter villages or homes for food.

Dhakal is lithe, his frame built more for agility than brute strength. At first glance, he hardly looks like someone who could stand his ground against a wild elephant. Yet, in the dense grasslands of Bardiya, he and his friends have taken on the daunting task of driving them away. They’re among the 15 core members of the Community-Based Anti-Poaching Unit (CBAPU) at Thakurdwara. Local community members say CBAPU’s efforts have saved several homes from being trampled, though the volunteers themselves have kept no formal count of their attempts.

The conflict

Nepal’s population of wild Asian elephants (Elephas maximus) is currently estimated at 255-265, with an additional 150 domesticated elephants. Between 2019 and 2023, the Bardiya-Banke Complex, a protected area formed by the adjacent Bardiya and Banke national parks, saw 76 human-wildlife conflict incidents. Those incidents resulted in 54 people being killed and 22 injured. The wildlife involved in most of these cases were tigers, elephants and leopards. In one of the most recent incidents, on March 17, two women were killed in tiger attacks. Studies indicate that the rising number of human and livestock casualties has fueled retaliatory killings.

The Tharu people, an Indigenous community native to the forests and floodplains of western Nepal, have lived alongside the forest and its wild inhabitants for generations. Their ecological knowledge has fostered a relationship of coexistence. But decades of extractive modernization, especially during Nepal’s autocratic Rana rule from the mid-19th century to the mid-20th century, saw hunting, large-scale deforestation, and agricultural expansion disrupt ecosystems, displacing both wildlife and the very communities that once coexisted with them. Now the locals live under a pall of fear, and their fears are not overstated.

Finding balance

In response, a combination of interventions has emerged, led by conservation organizations, the national park authority, and local communities. Bardiya National Park, with support from foreign aid, has facilitated the installation of electric fences along some neighboring farms to deter elephants. Beyond physical barriers, alternative livelihood programs such as ecotourism and wildlife guiding offer economic incentives for communities to reduce their dependence on forest resources. Community-based patrols, including those run by CBAPU, play a crucial role in monitoring wildlife movements and alerting settlements to potential threats.

Yet for all these measures, losses are inevitable. According to the Department of National Parks and Wildlife Conservation (DNPWC), the Nepali government offers financial compensation to those affected by wildlife encounters: up to $150 for minor injuries and up to $7,500 for the families of those killed. This compensation seeks to alleviate some of the hardship caused by these events. But the system is a minefield of paperwork that many farmers, with little formal education, struggle to navigate. CBAPU volunteers say they step in where they can, guiding victims through the bureaucracy to ensure claims are filed and paid.

Nepal has made remarkable strides in conservation, but the balance remains precarious. Electric fences break. Funds run dry. As habitats shrink and human-wildlife encounters grow more frequent, conservation efforts must continuously adapt, striving to protect threatened species while ensuring the livelihoods of communities living on the frontlines.

A grassroots force

Established in 2009, CBAPU was initially formed to combat poaching, but has since expanded its mission with operating units across most of Nepal’s national parks and conservation areas. Through the implementation of CBAPU, Nepal has demonstrated that zero poaching is attainable with the active involvement of local communities. The country has accomplished this remarkable feat several times: first in 2011 for rhinos, and again for the full year ending in 2014, protecting rhinos, tigers and elephants from poaching. More importantly, the units have mobilized local youths, many of whom might have otherwise migrated elsewhere, recasting them as dedicated jungle guides, Dhakal says.Today, in Bardiya, it’s a volunteer-driven movement of more than 3,300 members spread across 93 CBAPU units.

Dhakal says he goes out at least 20-25 times a month to chase elephants and other animals away from villages. They collaborate closely with national park staff, using camera monitoring around community forests to track wildlife movements and send real-time alerts to farmers and villagers. Many of their techniques, such as fire torches, laser lights, and mimicking loud animal sounds, help safely redirect wildlife when they venture too close to human settlements. Beyond immediate interventions, they also spend time with local communities, teaching them safety etiquette for navigating the forests and minimizing dangerous encounters.

Ajit Thumbahangphe, a senior conservationist with the Bardiya Conservation Programme (BCP), has spent years mitigating human-wildlife conflict in Nepal. He’s seen young people, once at risk of migration or a life of poaching, find purpose in protecting their homeland.

“The CBAPU initiative is a brilliant idea,” he tells Mongabay. “It’s not just preventing migration; it’s transforming youth into conservationists, equipping them with skills that protect biodiversity and secure livelihoods.”

He says he believes conservation can’t succeed without community involvement, and that in Nepal, the CBAPU units are proving to be the forest’s strongest stewards.

But their work comes with significant challenges. CBAPU members operate voluntarily, with no fixed salary or financial security, making it difficult to sustain long-term efforts. The lack of proper safety measures also puts them at constant risk. Without consistent funding, maintaining their operations and expanding their impact remains a challenge.

A personal mission

Hemanta Acharya’s office sits at the edge of Thakurdwara’s community forest, a simple concrete structure where the scent of damp paper and old wood emanates. Wildlife posters cover the yellowing walls, their edges curling from the humidity. As we speak about the community’s patrol system, an elderly woman appears in the doorway, a file folder clutched tightly in her hands. She lost her livestock to a leopard attack a few nights ago. Without hesitation, other CBAPU members move to assist her, guiding her through filing for compensation with quiet dedication.

For Acharya, the local CBAPU president, this mission is personal. Years ago, his father was killed by an elephant while trying to chase it away from a village. Instead of succumbing to grief, Acharya channeled his loss into action. He envisioned a movement when locals would not only protect their own but also find ways to coexist with wildlife.

“I wanted to make a difference,” he says. “I hoped no one else would have to go through what my father went through.”

Under his leadership, CBAPU has become a leading example of community-led conservation in Nepal, blending local knowledge with modern tools to build resilience against a growing crisis.

At the CBAPU office, dumri ghas, also known as elephant grass, grows in small, promising saplings under a greenhouse. For generations, locals have risked their lives venturing deep into forests to collect this grass to feed their livestock, often crossing paths with the very creatures the plant is named after. Now, these same young plants grow just steps from the CBAPU office. The purpose is simple: to keep people out of the forest by bringing the grass to them. Here, they grow more than 26 varieties of forest vegetation, including rare wild fruits like mauwa, agai, pedar, kusum and jamun, alongside various grasses and medicinal plants, distributing them free of charge to the villagers.

Within just one year, they’ve provided these resources to up to 700 community forests and distributed plantings of more than 3,000 plants to locals. These efforts are rooted in Indigenous knowledge, as they involve the replanting of native species that are vital for both sustaining local ecosystems and preserving traditional farming practices. The idea is that each handout reduces the need for a journey into wildlife territory, simultaneously preserving Indigenous knowledge and protecting both human and animal lives.

Community conservation at a crossroads

Ashok Kumar Ram, the chief warden of Bardiya National Park, praises the dedication of the young volunteers. “Groups like CBAPU play a crucial role in poaching prevention and conservation awareness, often without funding or legal backing,” he says. “The core problem is the lack of legal recognition and financial support.

“How long can volunteering continue? What if someone gets injured?” he asks. “If CBAPU is to work with us sustainably and lawfully, they must be compensated, but we lack government funding to do so. This year, even our salaries are uncertain.”

With USAID recently cutting millions in conservation aid to Nepal, including funding for biodiversity programs, Bardiya’s financial strain has deepened. Ram says that without legal recognition and sustainable funding, the momentum built by community-led conservation efforts like CBAPU could stall.

Dhakal reflects on his journey with the community conservation efforts. He began at age 15, he says, not out of love for the wilderness, but out of fear.

“Back then, I didn’t care much about the wild. I was just afraid,” he recalls. “Now, even a bug seems precious.” His evolution, he says, was inspired by the passion of other young volunteers. “We don’t do this for money,” Dhakal says, his voice low and resolute. “We do it out of both fear and love for the wild, for our people. Over time, we’ve realized, if we don’t step up, who will?”

Banner image: Scarecrow to protect a fields and crops. Image by Tulsi Rauniyar for Mongabay.

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