“Since they’re expensive,” she says, “Japanese people want to keep them as pets and not release them into the wild.’’ According to Aya Yatsumoto, of the Environmental Cooperation Office in the Ministry of Environment, they’re exempt because they’re not considered threats to wild Japanese beetles. Satanas and Hercules beetles, however, aren’t among them. Japan’s Invasive Alien Species Act-which aims to prevent adverse effects from introduced animals and plants on ecosystems, human security, agriculture, forestry, and fishing-prohibits the import of 148 species of animals and plants. Bolivia’s Environment Ministry classifies the satanas beetle as endangered, and under the Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species of Wild Fauna and Flora, which regulates cross-border trade in animals and plants, importing and exporting them, is strictly regulated. In Bolivia, capturing, collecting, or storing wild animals has been prohibited since 1990, and laws allow for prison time of up to six years for people who get caught. I sold them to Mexican who worked with the Japanese.” “In a season, about 70 beetles can be captured per person. “On a good morning, we can catch up to five,” he says. Zambrana lovingly places the three beetles in a Tupperware container with air holes in the lid and a slice of banana for them to snack on. (Prices vary according to the size, shape, and length of the horn.) On display in pet shops in Japan, the showiest satanas beetles may have a price tag of $500. With their impressive horns, they’re coveted by bug lovers, especially in Japan.Įvery January to May, satanas hunters in the mountainous municipality of Coroico hope to earn up to $30 for each live beetle they snag. Along with the Hercules beetle (Dynastes hercules), they’re members of the subfamily of rhinoceros beetles. In the end, this hunt yields three Dynastes satanas, big shiny black scarab beetles endemic to Bolivia and known locally as lightbulb breakers. An hour passes before the silence is broken by the whirr of wingbeats-beetles careening toward the glow in the forest-and, Zambrana hopes, entrapment in his cloth. In the clearing, he sets up a small generator to power a 250-watt lightbulb placed behind a white cloth suspended between two sticks. on a February morning in 2019, Zambrana is slashing at vegetation with a machete on a forested mountainside about 60 miles northeast of Bolivia’s capital, La Paz. One must run to grab them before they bury themselves.”Īt 3 a.m. “First comes the female, and then the male. COROICO, BOLIVIA“We need dark nights-they don’t come when the moon is out,” Reynaldo Zambrana explains.
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