OF CROWS AND MICE

The other day, my wife suddenly looked up from her morning coffee and asked a perfectly reasonable question:

'Where have all the crows gone?'

This may not sound like a big deal. But if you’ve ever lived in Tokyo, you’ll understand the gravity of the situation. For years, our mornings weren’t greeted by the delicate chirping of sparrows, but by the full-volume cawing of crows that sounded like they were holding an emergency meeting outside our window.

Imagine the ravens at the Tower of London. Slightly less aristocratic, but just as loud.

And yet, recently, it’s been… quiet. Suspiciously quiet.

As it turns out, this is not an accident. Tokyo once had a serious crow problem. Around the year 2000, Tokyo had close to 19,000 crows. They thrived on what can only be described as an all-you-can-eat buffet of unsecured rubbish bags, particularly in entertainment districts and near the bay. They ripped open trash, redecorated pavements with leftovers, and occasionally expressed dissatisfaction by pecking pedestrians in the back of the head.

So, Tokyo did what Tokyo does best. It identified the issue, introduced regulations, required netting over rubbish, installed better collection systems, set traps – and quietly reduced the crow population by more than 80 percent.

No dramatic campaigns. No press conferences with slogans. Just steady, methodical countermeasures.

Today, the birds remain – but at what officials beautifully describe as 'an appropriate level.'

Not eradicated. Not victorious. Just… appropriate.

This reminds me of a Swiss newspaper article I came across recently, which was so quietly unhinged that I had to read it twice, just to make sure it’s not satire.

What I learnt is that municipalities are paying cash for mouse tails.

Not metaphorically. Not symbolically. Literally.

Have a rodent problem in your field? In parts of Switzerland, the official solution is not poison, nor consultants or task forces. It’s children, pensioners, and the occasional over-motivated hobbyist, handing in mouse tails at the local depot in exchange for cold, hard Swiss francs.

CHF 1 to CHF 1.50 per tail, depending on the village. Inflation-adjusted, presumably.

One municipality near Lake Constance recently felt the need to remind residents that this service exists, because not a single franc had been paid out all year. The mayor’s concern was not moral, ecological, or psychological. It was a budget that was waiting to be spent.

'We’ve been offering bounties for ages,' he explained. 'But nobody claimed any money.'

In Switzerland, when a system exists and nobody uses it, the correct response is not to question the system. It is to send a newsletter.

The logic behind the mouse bounty is, admittedly, sound. Voles reproduce enthusiastically. Left alone, they devastate fields. Poison harms other wildlife. Paying people per tail is considered more ecological, more direct, and, in its own way, more participatory.

It also creates a fascinating micro-economy, giving children pocket money and pensioners a reason to get out of bed at 5 a.m.

One retired gentleman famously managed to 'blow the annual mouse budget' by catching hundreds of mice per month. The municipality responded in the most Swiss way imaginable: by cancelling the programme entirely.

What I love most about this story is how completely unremarkable it is to the people involved. Mouse hunting is described as a 'tradition.' Something passed down from grandparents. Something that 'keeps you fit.'

There are techniques. Preferred traps. Optimal seasons. Even competitive pricing between neighbouring villages, leading to the glorious concept of 'mouse-tail tourism' – where rodents are trapped in one village and discreetly cashed in across the border at a more competitive rate.

This is Switzerland at its finest: free markets, federalism, and rodents accidentally becoming economic migrants.

Different countries. Different animals. Very different philosophies of control.

And yet, nature remains stubbornly entrepreneurial.

Because just last week, on one of my regular walks through our neighbourhood – past spotless pavements and neatly tied garbage bags secured under regulation nets – I heard a familiar rustling sound coming from inside an open rubbish container.

I didn’t need to look twice.

Rats.

Yes, even here.

Even in a city globally admired for its cleanliness and administrative precision.

Which makes me wonder whether I should politely ask the municipalities what they think of the idea of introducing a rat tail bounty. I'm not sure, though, the scheme would have many takers.