langscape magazine is a - terralingua...turning to “dispatches” from communities around the...

Langscape Magazine is a Terralingua Publication

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ISSN 2371-3291 (print) ISSN 2371-3305 (digital)

© Terralingua 2018

Langscape Magazine is an extension of the voice of Terralingua. It supports our mission by educating the minds and hearts

about the importance and value of biocultural diversity.

We aim to promote a paradigm shift by illustrating biocultural diversity through scientific and traditional knowledge, within an appealing

sensory context of articles, stories, and art.

ABOUT THE COVER PHOTOS Front: In Cayos Cochinos, Honduras, Mario Flores Aranda is promoting sustainable fishing, using a line loop for live capture so that undersize lobsters may be released unharmed.Photo: Antonio Busiello, 2015

Back: Rice harvest in a rotational farming field in the Hin Lad Nai community of northern Thailand, at the end of the farming year or quv. After harvest, the land will enter hsgi wa, the first year of fallow in the rotational farming cycle.

Photo: Nutandai Trakasupakhon, 2016

2 | LANGSCAPE MAGAZINE SUMMER 2018

LANGSCAPE MAGAZINE VOLUME 7, ISSUE 1,

Summer 2018Biocultural Diversity

Conservation: Communities at the Cutting Edge

TABLE OF CONTENTS

. n a t u r e . l a n g u a g e . c u l t u r e .

EDITORIAL ................................................4IDEASTUNUN KAYUTUKUN: Words Have PowerIlarion (Larry) Merculieff and Libby Roderick ......................................................6

BIOCULTURAL FEATURES OF URBAN GARDENS AND YARDS ENHANCE PLACE-MAKING AND BELONGING IN SOUTH AFRI-CAN TOWNSHIPS Duncan Haynes, Michelle Cocks, and Charlie Shackleton .............................................10

INNOVATIONS AS PART OF SUSTAINABLE PRACTICES IN BIOCULTURAL LANDSCAPES: Experiences from Rotational Farming in the Hin Lad Nai Community of Northern ThailandPernilla Malmer and Prasert Trakansuphakon ............................................ 15

DESIGNING BIOCULTURAL PROTOCOLS WITH THE EMBERA PEOPLE OF COLOMBIAGabriel Nemogá, Justico Domicó, and Alejandro Molina ...............................................20

A NEW APPROACH TO BILINGUAL MARINE CONSERVATION SCIENCE EDUCATION: The Collaborative work of Caribbean Communities and Marine Conservation without BordersThomas Dean King ................................................... 25

REFLECTIONSBIOCULTURAL DIVERSITY AS OBSERVED FROM THE HAWAIIAN NATIONHarvy King .................................................................29

INTO THIS PROCESSED WOVEN LANDMomoe Malietoa von Reiche ................................... 34

A FEW SHORT JOURNEYS ALONG THE NATURE-CULTURE CONTINUUM:Reflections on Community-Led ConservationJessica Brown .............................................................35

DISPATCHESCAN THE CENOTES BE SAVED? Biocultural Conservation in Yucatán, MexicoYolanda López-Maldonado....................................... 42

BIOCULTURAL HERITAGE IN FISHING VILLAGES IN THE FAR NORTH OF SWEDEN: Bringing Traditional Knowledge into the FutureJoakim Boström, Anna-Märta Henriksson, and Marie Kvarnström ..............................................48

THE SWEEPING DANCE: Cultural Revival, Environmental Conservation, and the Art of Broom-Making in St. LuciaLaurent Jean Pierre .................................................. 52

THERE IS SO MUCH MORE TO A STORY THAN MEETS THE EYE:Tales from the Dusun of Ulu Papar, MalaysiaMarina Aman Sham ................................................. 58

COMMUNITY AND BIOCULTURAL DIVERSITY CONSERVATION IN ETHIOPIA: Learning from Each OtherFassil Gebeyehu Yelemtu .......................................... 62

AN ANCIENT GAME OPENS THE DOOR TO INNOVATION IN THE FARMA VALLEY, SOUTHERN TUSCANY, ITALYAndrea Giacomelli .....................................................67

THE BIOCULTURAL FABRIC OF RENOSTERVELD:A Unique Ecosystem at the Heart of the Swartland, South AfricaEmmeline Topp ...........................................................73

WEB EXTRASTHE POWER OF PLACE NAMES:Embedding Bama Local Languages into the Australian Landscape Michaela Jeannaisse Carter, http://bit.ly/2MtAroD

BIOCULTURAL DIVERSITY ON THE BORDER:The Yaylas of the Western Lesser CaucasusSoner Oruç & Ceren Kazancı, http://bit.ly/2JW7SBA

VOLUME 7 ISSUE 1 | 3

hat does it mean for a community to “conserve” biocultural diversity? Our theme, “Biocultural Diversity Conservation: Communities at the Cutting Edge,”

has that idea at its core, and I think it’s worth taking a moment to delve into what this really means before inviting you to read on for a summary of the good contributions—articles, photo essays, and a poem—that make up this issue of Langscape Magazine. As someone who has spent most of his paid career reflecting on the creation and management of protected areas, I am perhaps more aware than most of the unexamined foundations of what it means to “do conservation.”

People don’t conserve places, nor do they conserve particular cultural practices—they conserve values that they associate with places and practices. I believe the key to understanding conservation’s meaning is to think of it as a cultural technique that people use to ensure the continuity of values that are important to them. It’s not the only way of doing this: perpetuating a religious or spiritual observance, maintaining one’s family traditions, teaching a young child to speak her grandmother’s native language, or learning and carrying on a traditional craft are other examples, and there are many more. The technique of conservation involves, first, identifying values in nature or culture (or, as readers of Langscape Magazine are particularly concerned with, the fusing of both into a single biocultural complex); second, persuading other people to recognize them; and third, convincing people to make very specific restrictions in their behavior so as to perpetuate them.

Aside from working on protected areas, I have also spent more than twenty years thinking and writing about biocultural diversity. One thing that has become apparent to me over this time is that communities are the “unit of selection” (to borrow an evolutionary term) when it comes to biocultural diversity conservation. Yes, individual champions are important, tremendously so, and the support of national and international organizations is unquestionably helpful. But the community level is where the perfect marriage of personal commitment and collective action is found, for it is communities that are the front-line stewards and protectors of special places and revered traditions. They too are the engines for innovative thinking and action that refresh the meanings—the values—of the biocultural presence that, ultimately, animate all of life on Earth.

The contributions to this issue of Langscape Magazine offer many angles on community-led biocultural diversity conservation. Here is a quick tour.

The “Ideas” section of this issue opens with a challenge from Ilarion (Larry) Merculieff and Libby Roderick to non-Indigenous people to rethink, from the ground up, how language works in the world. Drawing on the linguistic understandings and practices of the Unangan (Aleuts) communities of Alaska’s Pribilof Islands, as well as those of other Indigenous peoples, the authors argue in a direct and powerful way that words are not just abstractions but entities with intrinsic power that “must be chosen and used with utmost care.”

Cultivating and securing a sense of belonging is probably one of the most important motivators for biocultural stewards. As Duncan Haynes, Michelle Cocks, and Charlie Shackleton relate, amaXhosa urban residents in South Africa’s townships often infuse the spaces in and around their dwellings with rituals, plantings, and agricultural practices that replicate traditions from ancestral rural areas. These biocultural gestures serve to make their new house a “spiritual home” that is shared with ancestors.

The next three articles highlight inventive approaches that communities and their collaborators are developing to safeguard biocultural diversity. One of the great strengths of a community biocultural perspective is that it drills down into rich stores of local facts that contradict stereotypes. Pernilla Malmer and Prasert Trakansuphakon’s explication of the sustainable agricultural methods of a northern Thailand community is a textbook case. Rotational farming (often denigrated as “slash and burn”) tends to be condemned by Western conservationists as an environmental disaster, but the people of Hin Lad Nai have systematically pioneered rotational techniques centered on a versatile local tree species that belie such conventional wisdom. In a different kind of innovation, Gabriel Nemogá, Justico Domicó, and Alejandro Molina helped the Embera people of Colombia create their own biocultural protocols, “sets of rules and responsibilities that communities design to preserve their worldviews, values, knowledge, and spiritual relations with nature.” Through a community-driven process, these guidelines promise to help the Embera maintain their identity in the teeth of outside homogenizing

EDITORIAL

Valued DifferencesDavid Harmon

W


forces. Echoing some of the issues raised by Merculieff and Roderick, Thomas Dean King closes with a discussion about the work that the nongovernmental organization Marine Conservation without Borders is doing in conjunction with a variety of Caribbean communities to translate marine science concepts and conservation principles into local languages—thereby vastly increasing their relevance to local people.

The three contributions to the “Reflections” section call to us from the inner experiences of the respective authors. By immersing himself “in an integration of ancient Hawaiian ahupua’a resource wisdom and our modern ecological management,” Harvy King makes a personal endorsement of the responsibility “to live up to and maintain your values—to hold on to your ancestral line.” In a powerfully incised—and incisive—verse titled “Into This Processed Woven Land,” the poet Momoe Malietoa von Reiche asks us to mourn “a fractured landscape/Nervous leftovers of/Cultural powerlines” whose harmony, if it once existed at all, is now lost through human neglect. This section concludes with a thoughtful essay by Jessica Brown who deftly combines an account of her personal journey toward a biocultural perspective with similar recent developments on one of conservation’s biggest stages: the World Heritage Convention.

Turning to “Dispatches” from communities around the world, Yolanda López-Maldonado shares her perspective as a Maya woman on the continuing importance of cenotes—sinkholes that provide not only life-sustaining water to rural communities in Mexico’s Yucatán peninsula, but also vital spiritual connections to the landscape. Fish, and the entire cultural panoply that surrounds the enterprise of fishing, is the ancestral connection described in the article by Joakim Boström, Anna-Märta Henriksson, and Marie Kvarnström. A community-based organization called Kustringen, representing fishing villages in an archipelago in the far north of Sweden, is advocating for local environmental knowledge to be considered alongside Western scientific judgments in environmental policymaking by the national government.

In a photo essay, Laurent Jean Pierre introduces us to the Sweeping Dance of the Caribbean nation of St. Lucia, which depends equally on the conservation of an endangered species of palm and on the continuance of broom-making as an artisanal craft and industry. A different kind of creativity is related by Marina Aman Sham in her account of the Dusun of Ulu Papar, Malaysia, who are recording in written form several oral histories and tales of strength, conflict, and peacemaking on their territory as told by community elders.

Fassil Gebeyehu Yelemtu takes us on a personal journey of remembrance through his boyhood spent in various communities in

Ethiopia. In each one, he found himself lifted up when peers shared their own experiences growing up in rural areas—foodways, farming wisdom, plant knowledge, and so on—which imparted a feeling of solidarity in what might otherwise have been an isolating time. The next “Dispatch” is from Italy, where the ancient handball game palla a 21 has served to galvanize an entire rural valley to embrace traditions in danger of being lost. The upshot, as Andrea Giacomelli explains, is that valued and venerable cultural practices are being used as a springboard to new means of prosperity. This section ends with an account by Emmeline Topp of the battle to save the biocultural fabric of a globally rare landscape element, the renosterveld of South Africa’s Western Cape region. Maintaining this “living connection to the local ecosystem” requires both the protection of the “renosterveld biodiversity itself and its potential value for people.”

Two “web extras”—digital-only articles that are available exclusively online—round out this issue. Michaela Jeannaisse Carter tells of her efforts to assist the peoples of the Bama First Nations living in what is now called Queensland to re-embed their place names on the maps of (and in the consciousness of ) non-Indigenous Australians. Finally, Soner Oruç & Ceren Kazancı offer a joyful, enthusiastic account of their quest to document and honor the traditional knowledge associated with the highlands of the Western Lesser Caucasus mountains along the Georgia–Turkey border.

At the beginning of this editorial, I referred to conservation as a “cultural technique” to call out the fact that it is a tool that does indeed vary across cultures, even though as a kind of conceptual shorthand, it is often presented as something good and desirable that floats free, untethered to local situations. I hope that the images, narratives, and poetry gathered in this edition of Langscape Magazine will inspire you to think about the conservation of biocultural diversity in new ways and to support the efforts communities are making all over the world to ensure that the values at stake never disappear.

For retrospective overviews on the development and application of the concept of biocultural diversity, you may wish to take a look at two past Langscape Magazine articles, which are now available on our reading platform on Medium at http://bit.ly/2HEbenP and http://bit.ly/2sOR5qm

Bioculturally yours,

David HarmonGuest Editor, Langscape Magazine

Co-founder, Terralingua


Contrary to most people in modern societies who see words simply as vehicles for conveying information or expressing thoughts and feelings, people in traditional Indigenous societies view words as entities that carry great power; therefore, they must be chosen and used with utmost care. Most non-Indigenous people don’t view words this way; indeed, they frequently, casually, and sometimes violently chastise children, criticize those with whom they disagree, and express ingratitude without worrying about potential consequences to themselves, others, or life itself. Even brief exposure to any TV “talk” show makes it clear that violent communication has become the norm in modern society.

In Indigenous societies, speaking loving words in loving ways promotes harmonious relationships and is considered profoundly important to the health of individuals and communities; speaking negative, violent words

causes disharmony and is considered dangerous to all of life. The emotional, physical, and spiritual intent and energy behind spoken words have a very real force, one that affects a wide circle around those being spoken to. This view is consistent with a general Indigenous recognition of the power of

subtle energetic fields, a phenomenon that Western physicists and medical practitioners are just beginning to acknowledge. For example, Indigenous elders warn that all the energies surrounding a baby in the womb—including any words spoken by and to the mother—will impact the growth and development of the child. Food must be prepared with love (including all communication between the people preparing it) because the energies involved in the preparation will become part of the nutritional and spiritual value of the food when it is eaten.

Language and Views of the EarthFrom an Indigenous perspective, language derives from the vibrations

emanating from the lands and waters where it originally develops and evolves and is infused with the spirit of those places. Thus, words not only carry power, human intention, and specific meaning (often multiple meanings simultaneously), but also the literal energies of the places occupied by the peoples who speak them.

The industrial and scientific revolutions were driven and accompanied by a shift in how European thinkers viewed the Earth; this shift determined how we think about everything, including the energetic impacts of language. It involved moving from an “Earth-as-living organism” worldview to an “Earth as machine” paradigm. Beginning roughly in the 1500s in Europe, the Earth began to be viewed as a giant machine that ran efficiently, rather

Tunun Kayutukun

Ilarion (Larry) Merculieff and Libby Roderick

WORDS HAVE POWER

Above: Waves at St. Paul Island in the Bering Sea, Alaska. Waves are a visible manifestation of physical energy, but there is also a general Indigenous recognition of subtle energetic fields, which extend to language itself. Photo: Paul Melovidov, 2014

“People in traditional Indigenous societies view words as entities that

carry great power.”


than a living entity. No longer self-regulating and sacred, the Earth became a source and a “re-source” for economic exploitation and scientific inquiry. Language, too, had lost its spiritual connection to the living Earth.

Indigenous cultures did not participate in this changed way of relating to the Earth, except when forced to do so by colonization. Instead, they continued to view and relate to the Earth as a living organism infused with spirit. All forms of life were seen and experienced as complex, fluidly interconnected, interdependent, self-organizing, and self-regulating entities that contain and express individual as well as collective souls and spirit. All life forms had things to contribute to and teach human beings, and their inherent natures needed to be honored and viewed as gifts. Language, deriving from Earth, was a living force as well.

The Disconnection of English Language Words

As a result of these two very different ways of relating to words, we must be very careful when we translate Indigenous languages into English. Translation is a very tricky and inexact art, and it is dangerous to assume that we can truly understand what someone from another culture means simply by substituting a similar word or phrase in our own language. Lacking the deeper, wider, richer, and infinitely more complex context in which that word or phrase lives daily, we inevitably shrink and distort it to fit inside of our own.

“Translation is a very tricky and inexact art.”

Given that English is the world’s dominant language, the worldviews, concepts, and paradigms of Indigenous peoples suffer enormously from the deficit caused by translation of their words and phrases (not to mention entire stories and histories) into the language of their colonizers. Their expressions are often viewed through the lens of a mind that has unconsciously absorbed the fundamental assumptions and principles that underlie the dominant culture (e.g., mechanistic Earth, individualism, profit, nature as a “resource” for human exploitation, etc.). The English language embodies the assumptions and principles of its founders; from an Indigenous perspective, it is frequently an expression of the disconnection

from and commodification of life underlying European institutions, such as industrialization, private property, and Western science and law.

Let’s look at some of the ways in which a few English language words and terms express this disconnection and commodification. Let’s also look at some words from Alaska’s Native cultures that have been mistranslated and what more accurate translations might look like.

English Language TermsNatural resources. From an Indigenous standpoint, the lands,

waters, wildlife, plants, and elemental forces that surround and support human beings are part of a highly complex, interconnected, ever-changing, living network of “relatives.” There is no “human” separate from “nature.” All life forms—even those that appear inanimate to Western minds—possess a spirit and have much to teach and contribute to human beings. Humans are not superior to other forms of life, and they have no right to exploit the Earth solely to gratify their own needs and wants. Rather, they need to co-exist in a relationship based on reciprocity, respect, reverence, and partnership with other life forms. To refer to these “relatives” as “natural resources” implies that they have no independent spirits, no rights and needs of their own, and that they exist largely or solely to be used by humans.

Subsistence lifestyle. The term “subsistence” is a non-Indigenous word used by Westerners to refer to the harvesting of fish, wildlife, and plants that make up a significant portion of the diet of most Indigenous peoples. However, the harvesting of wild foods cannot be separated from all other aspects of Native life. In Indigenous communities, the gathering of fish, of animals, plants, and other food sources is at the center of culture, daily life, community, intergenerational relationships, education, philosophy, spirituality, dancing, storytelling, humor, and more. The term “subsistence lifestyle” is offensive to many Native peoples because it not only fails to recognize the integral role food harvesting in Indigenous cultures but also reduces an entire way of life to a simple preference. The term “lifestyle” implies that Indigenous peoples can “choose” a different way of living without the profound disruption that comes with losing connection with lands, waters, communities, languages, elders, and the cultures involved.

All life forms have things to teach human beings, and their inherent natures need to be honored and viewed as gifts. Photo: Paul Melovidov, 2014

From an Indigenous viewpoint, land, water, and all life forms are part of an interconnected, living network of relatives. Photo: Barbara Lestenkof, 2014


A duck hunt at sundown. For Indigenous peoples, the harvesting of fish, wildlife, and plants is at the center of culture and daily life. Photo: Barbara Lestenkof, 2014

Alaska Native(s). The term “Alaska Native(s)” is used by Westerners to encompass peoples represented by two hundred or more tribes within Alaska. This collective term for peoples from Alaska’s seven major Indigenous nations only came into use when their leaders recognized that they needed to unite to protect their ways of life in the face of pressures from white settlers and governments who intended to seize their traditional lands. It is often used as a proper noun; a more accurate use is as an adjective, that is “Alaska’s Native peoples.” Ideally, one refers to peoples by their proper names (e.g., Inupiaq).

Sustainability. The word “sustainability” has become a buzz word intended to describe actions or goals more in harmony with the Earth than others (which are “unsustainable”). We often hear about “sustainable businesses,” “sustainable development,” and so on. Wikipedia says, “In ecology, sustainability (from sustain and ability) is the property of biological systems to remain diverse and productive indefinitely. The organizing principle for sustainability is sustainable development, which includes the four interconnected domains: ecology, economics, politics and culture.”

“Indigenous peoples do not have a separate word for ‘sustainability’; rather, living

sustainably is a way of life.”

Indigenous peoples do not have a separate word for “sustainability”; rather, living sustainably is a way of life that encompasses all aspects of living in harmony with Mother Earth. Practicing “sustainability” without transforming our way of life is seen by Indigenous peoples as only a partial (sometimes misguided) response to the core dysfunction of modern societies: separation from Mother Earth, separation from others, separation from self.

Traditional ecological knowledge and local knowledge. The terms that Western science gives to Indigenous ways of knowing are “traditional ecological knowledge” or “local knowledge.” Indigenous elders always say knowledge without wisdom is useless and may be dangerous.

Scientists, researchers, and policy-makers often speak of “incorporating traditional ecological knowledge” into their work. They usually seek discrete information to fit the missions of their institutions, agencies, or legal mandates, such as population trends or the health status of wildlife. In doing so, they fail to understand the basis of Indigenous ways of knowing, which recognizes that information taken out of context results in distorted interpretations. When Yup’ik people study salmon, they observe the daily weather, climate in each season, vegetation along the river banks, actions of animals nearby, the kinds, directions, and intensities of storms that occur, and so on. Hence, they know with great accuracy what the salmon runs will be the following year. Western scientists often take discrete data points (e.g., numbers of salmon moving up a river for a few weeks) and extrapolate from that alone. Indigenous people know that any conclusion they arrive at regarding fish, wildlife, or habitat must be based on intimate

observation of all key elements impacting those things. Maximum sustainable yield. The Oxford Dictionary defines

“maximum sustainable yield” as “the maximum level at which a natural resource can be routinely exploited without long-term depletion.” Used in “resource management” to describe how much humans can take from a system without destroying it, the term assumes that typical Western scientific data are an appropriate baseline from which to make these kinds of decisions. Indigenous peoples know that these decontextualized data are extremely limiting in that they account for only part of a whole system (e.g., a fishery) and that the whole is greater than the sum of its parts . . . its totality is a mystery. Hence, a flexible, reciprocal, humble relationship with a system is required, and a respect for its holistic nature, not a maximum level of taking.

Indigenous PhrasesIt is worth learning some words from traditional Indigenous

languages because they communicate worldviews critical to healing Western individualism and moving towards a more holistic, life-sustaining worldview. Here are some Unangam Tunuu (Unangan/Aleut) words. The layered meanings go beyond literal translations into English, which is true for all Indigenous words.

Tanum Aawaa means “the work of the land,” yet it is layered with meanings. Storytellers open with the words Tanum Awaa, acknowledging that their stories come from the people, ancestors, land, and Creator.

Aang Waan means “hello my other self.” Unangan greet each other every day with these words, acknowledging their interconnectedness. In the worldviews of Indigenous peoples, words that separate human beings from “All That Is” cause all human suffering and the degradation of fish, wildlife, and habitat.

Cowax raandeethuk. When Unangan hunters mortally wound a Steller sea lion, the sea lion swims in a circle. This is interpreted by the hunters as preparation for death. The circling shows that the animal has completed its life journey and is preparing its spirit to go on to the next


life. The phrase demonstrates that Unangan hunters understand that the animal has a spirit and understands the ritual of dying.

Kelax exuumnax, kelax kusuuthax. Unangan greet each other daily by saying “good morning, the morning tastes good.” This phrase points to the fact that speakers are using all their senses and all the gifts of the “real human being”—including touch, taste, smell, hearing, gut feeling, heart sense, thought, and intuition—to experience the present moment in integrated ways.

Indigenous languages contain ways of looking at the world that English cannot replace. They contain words steeped in meaning and connected at multiple levels, whereas English is generally precise and separated. The world needs Indigenous languages for many reasons, including that they reflect an intimate connection with the lands, waters, and creatures, and ways to understand what hurts or benefits them. These languages are fast disappearing; we must save them because words have power.

Ilarion (Larry) Merculieff has over forty years of experience serving his people, the Unangan (Aleuts) of the Pribilof Islands and other Indigenous peoples locally, nationally, and internationally in a number of leadership capacities. He speaks in various venues nationally and internationally about the wisdom of Indigenous elders with whom he works.

Libby Roderick is Director of Difficult Dialogues at the University of Alaska; editor/co-author of Start Talking: A Handbook for Engaging Difficult Dialogues in Higher Education, Stop Talking: Indigenous Ways of Teaching and Learning and Difficult Dialogues in Higher Education, Alaska Native Cultures and Issues, and other publications; and an acclaimed singer/songwriter.

Further ReadingAlaska Native Knowledge Network. (n.d.). Resources for compiling and exchanging information related to Alaska Native knowledge systems and ways of knowing. Retrieved from http://www.ankn.uaf.edu/

Merculieff, L., & Roderick, L. (2000). Stop Talking: Indigenous Ways of Teaching and Learning and Difficult Dialogues in Higher Education. Anchorage, AK: University of Alaska Anchorage Press.

Roderick, L. (2010). Alaska Native Cultures and Issues. Fairbanks, AK: University of Alaska Press.

Unangan storytellers begin by acknowledging that their stories come from the people, ancestors, the land, and the Creator. Photo: Barbara Lestenkof, 2014

Unangan hunters understand that when a mortally wounded sea lion swims in a circle, it is demonstrating an awareness that death is coming and that its spirit will soon

be going to the next life. Photo: Paul Melovidov, 2014


South African cities and towns continue to reflect legacies of colonialism and apartheid, during which urban black Africans were restricted to living in designated areas, locally termed “townships.” Generally, townships were poorly serviced, with a high proportion of informal structures, backyard dwellers, and widespread poverty. The democratic transition in the early 1990s allowed all citizens free movement, resulting in a surge in urbanization. Many new urban dwellers took up residence in informal settlements on urban peripheries. The new democratic government sought to address the backlogs in housing and service delivery with significant investments into township areas. This included the development of low-income housing developments, locally termed “RDP” areas (named after the government’s Reconstruction and Development Programme) in most towns of the country. The RDP’s objective was to provide a “formal” house situated in a “properly planned” settlement. It was based on a series of unexamined assumptions made by foreign consultants and planners rather than through participatory processes to identify the needs and priorities of urban residents. Consequently, the RDP has been critiqued as offering houses but not homes.

“Housing developments were based on a series of unexamined assumptions made by foreign

consultants and planners rather than through participatory processes to identify the needs

and priorities of urban residents.”

Place- and Home-MakingProcesses of place- and home-making enable feelings of rootedness

and belonging. Conceptually, “place” is conceived as a “space” imbued with meaning. “Home” is understood to incorporate place identity, in the sense of a person or persons belonging to a space. Symbolic meanings can be significant in constructing narratives of “home.” Security, comfort, privacy, and space for self-expression are also important in the creation of “home.” Activities within garden spaces are useful to explore processes of home- and place-making as they represent residents’ negotiated relationship to place. Home gardens may also represent locales for preservation of traditional knowledge and biocultural diversity practices. Biocultural diversity studies indicate

RDP housing has been critiqued as unimaginative and as limiting opportunities for place-making. Photo: Tony Dold, 2016

BIOCULTURAL FEATURES OF

Urban Gardens & YardsENHANCE PLACE-MAKING & BELONGING IN South African Townships

Duncan Haynes, Michelle Cocks, and Charlie Shackleton


that social and ecological circumstances contribute to how one defines, understands, and interprets the world.

Within this context, we undertook a study to assess elements of yard modification (such as the creation of gardens) and to understand whether it contributed to a sense of well-being, rootedness, and belonging among amaXhosa urban residents in Eastern Cape towns. IsiXhosa speakers (who make up a large majority of the population of the Eastern Cape province) differentiate between a “house,” indlu, and a “home,” ikhaya. Ikhaya refers to a spiritual home where the ancestors reside. Access to a rural home influences whether one develops a spiritual home in the urban space. A biocultural diversity lens was incorporated into our analysis to acknowledge a Xhosa cosmological framework within which acts of place-making are performed. Of a total of 590 households’ yards surveyed, fifty-five percent reflected modifications related to processes of place-making, such as growing vegetables; collecting imifino, a wild leafy pot herb that is cooked as spinach; planting fruit and shade trees and decorative plants; and planting of medicinal and culturally relevant plants and tree species. Another such modification is placing a temporary or permanent ubuhlanti, a type of kraal (a thorn or brushwood enclosure for livestock) that is considered sacred as it represents places where the izinyanya (ancestors) reside and watch over their descendants. Within these enclosures, idini (ritual sacrifices) are performed with the animal tethered to a pole called an ixhanti. Following the sacrifice, the horns of the beast are attached to it as a mark of reverence.

“A biocultural diversity lens was incorporated into our analysis to acknowledge a Xhosa

cosmological framework within which acts of place-making are performed.”

Vegetables and Traditional Food PlantsVegetable gardens consisted primarily of contemporary vegetable

types to supplement the cost of bought groceries. Those with access to larger spaces also grew what are locally referred to as “Xhosa vegetables,” including pumpkins, maize, beans, and imifino. Study participants expressed that these species were particularly tasty and healthy and, being traditional, also reflected their identity as amaXhosa.

Medicinal and Culturally Relevant Plants and Trees

Commonly grown medicinal plants included umhlonyane (Artemisia spp., used to treat common colds and coughs), ikhala (Aloe ferox, used for internal parasites), and ingcelwane (Bulbine latifolia) and umgobeleweni (Clivia nobilis), both of which are used to maintain impilo, or “fullness of life.” It embraces both physical health purity through ritual practice and making oneself free of “pollution.” Misfortune and ill health are often believed to be caused by a breach of customs and traditions or by supernatural powers. Ingcelwane is used to cleanse the body regularly by vomiting (gahba), steaming (futha), and purging (cima). One gardener

related that he felt pride in growing these plants and teaching his sons about being Xhosa and to maintain impilo, even within an urban area.

“One gardener related that he felt pride in growing these plants and teaching his sons about being

Xhosa and to maintain impilo, the ‘fullness of life,’ even within an urban area.”

Plants were also grown along the fence or at the entrance of a home to protect residents from evil spirits sent by malevolent forces and sorcery. Itswele lomlambo (Tulbaghia alliacea) was the most common species; it is planted to protect the household from umamlambo, a “snake familiar” (a kind of spirit that acts as an assistant to a witch or wizard). Intelezi (Tillandsia spp.) were often hung in trees or on gate posts to protect occupants from evil forces and lightning.

Umnquma trees (Olea europaea Africana, a type of olive) are also planted in gardens. This tree is considered sacred as the first portion of sacrificial meat at a ritual is served on wild olive tree leaves. A ritual is deemed ineffective if this practice is not adhered to. Although traditionally harvested from the wild, scarcity there appears to have encouraged its planting in urban gardens. Mrs. Mthembu said, “My husband [now deceased] planted this tree. He announced (i.e., spoke at a ceremony to both guests and ancestors) that it would provide branches for family ceremonies.” She added, “It is a sacred tree; whenever he harvested branches from the tree [for ritual purposes], he would recite the names of his clan.” Others expressed interest in growing sorghum, tobacco, and calabash plants, which are offered as gifts to the ancestors when a ritual is hosted. The value and significance of these plants was expressed by recipients when they were given traditional seeds by the main author: “This is a gift forever,” and “Such a gift can span multiple generations.”

Ma Mhlaba’s garden with ikhala (Aloe ferox), intelezi (Tillandsia) hanging from the umnquma tree (Olea europaea), and Itswele lomlambo (Tulbaghia alliacea) planted

along the fence. Photo: Ella van Tonder, 2017


Sacred Places: Kraal (ubuhlanti) and Tethering Pole (ixhanti)

Some urban residents constructed and maintained an ubuhlanti and/or placed an ixhanti in their gardens. IsazisiMzi is a ritual performed to relocate ancestors to one’s new kraal and home. In Mr. Xulu’s words, “My ancestors are here, I brought them. . . . I said: ‘Now we are passing through the gate; you will please reside here and protect us.’”

The presence of ubuhlathi or ixhanti in the garden space indicates to all that the occupants’ ancestors have been installed there. The act is seen as ensuring that the family receives protection and blessings from its ancestors. The ubuhlathi or ixhanti is accessed and used when rituals are performed. It is also accessed when male members of the family wish to communicate with their ancestors. This may include simply sleeping in the kraal or performing a ritualized wash and purging.

“The value and significance of these plants was expressed by recipients when they were given traditional seeds by the main author:

‘This is a gift forever.’”

Fruit and Shade Trees, Decorative Plants and Features

Common fruit trees planted included peaches, apricots, and guavas. These often sprouted from seeds thrown into compost piles and were transplanted to a desired spot. Intentional planting of fruit trees often coincided with the residents’ permanent settling into the house and thus acts as a symbol of habitation time. This may create a special relationship with the planter: “I planted this peach tree when I was a small boy; now it is like my child.” Other trees were valued for their shade under which residents enjoyed sitting and relaxing.

Sacrificed meat being served on branches of umnquma inside a kraal (ixhanti on the left). Photo: Tony Dold, 2010

An ubuhlanti and ixhanti incorporated into the urban space. Photo: Ella van Tonder, 2017


Tshawe still has links with his rural home, ikhaya. Within his urban home, he has invested considerable energy in decorating his garden by creating and maintaining a hedge, which he jokingly refers to as his “urban kraal”; this “makes his house more private” and gives him great sense of satisfaction and pride.

“I planted this peach tree when I was a small boy; now it is like my child.”

BenefitsUrban residents derive numerous benefits from the modifications

of their yard spaces, such as personal pleasure and pride in being able to grow one’s own vegetables and collect imifino. Participants felt that such opportunities allowed them to pass Xhosa knowledge on to their children. Yard spaces also provided outlets for self-expression through maintaining decorative and landscaping features. For many, the garden also provided a place to relax and de-stress, to quietly reflect and remember, or to take their minds off troubles. The planting of medicinal plants was highly valued as it enabled ready treatment of common ailments and maintaining one’s impilo. The placement of culturally relevant plants within the garden also helped to ensure that residents felt protected from evil spirits. For those who had no links to a rural

spiritual home, the ability to relocate and house one’s ancestors within the urban space allowed their urban house (indlu) to become ikhaya, a home, and created place-belonging.

Biocultural Diversity and Place-MakingUsing a biocultural diversity lens facilitated a more holistic

interpretation of processes of place-making and place attachment within the Xhosa urban context. Many of the plants, trees, and cultural structures contained within urban gardens are deeply embedded within this particular cultural context and have provided the residents with a deeper sense of well-being, rootedness, and belonging. Residents who actively engaged in yard modification felt that not engaging in such processes would impede their capacity to express and display aspects of their personal and cultural identities. Among those with no ties to a rural home, the presence of the ubuhlanti and ixhanti was particularly important, as their presence ensured that their indlu, house, become ikhaya, home.

Residents did, however, experience constraints in expressing their biocultural practices in the garden. While residents valued traditional plants and “Xhosa vegetables,” some were difficult to obtain in the urban space. For example, the Indigenous version of umhlonyane was scarce, resulting in most residents growing the European variety.

Mr. Mila enjoying the warmth of the late afternoon sun against the wall of the ubuhlanti. Photo: Ella van Tonder, 2017


Acknowledgements. We are grateful to the local residents who worked with us and willingly shared their knowledge. Acknowledgment is made to Ella van Tonder and Tony Dold for the photographs. This work was sponsored by the National Research Foundation of South Africa; any opinion, finding, conclusion, or recommendation expressed in this material is that of the authors, and the NRF does not accept any liability in this regard.

The authors are researchers and post-graduate students based at Rhodes University and who are part of a program that aims to understand the multiple realities and intensity of urban dwellers’ worldviews, including their appreciation of, needs for, and uses of urban green spaces and elements therein.

Further ReadingAntonsich, M. (2010). Searching for belonging: An analytical framework. Geography Compass, 4(6), 644–659.

Dold, A. P., & Cocks, M. L. (2012). Voices from the Forest (1st ed.). Johannesburg, South Africa: Jacana Media.

Lehohla, P. (2016). Community survey 2016 in brief (Report 03-01-06). Pretoria, South Africa: Statistics South Africa.

Marchetti-Mercer, M. C. (2006). New meanings of “home” in South Africa. Acta Academica-University of the Free State, 38(2), 191–218.

McAllister, P. (1997). Ritual and social practice in the Transkei. African Studies, 56(2), 279–309.

Some expressed that the small size of plots was restrictive, as traditional Xhosa vegetables require more space to grow. Additionally, the expense of fencing a temporary house also appeared to limit further yard modification and place-making for some.

These insights provide a means to begin understanding processes of place attachment through yard modification. This is relevant to many amaXhosa urban residents, who, despite numerous limiting factors, continue to engage with biocultural practices within their urban homes. Such considerations have

not been taken into account by planners and government housing efforts, because the emphasis has been on merely providing houses to low-income communities. Such a premise fails to engage holistically with the needs of amaXhosa urban residents to be able to incorporate cultural identities into their urban place-making. Urban residents modify their lived landscape through the inclusion of plants, trees, and structures that reflect aspects of their personal and cultural identities. They speak of this engagement as contributing to an enhanced experience of the urban reality.

After all her work is done, Ma Mhlaba enjoys her afternoon tea with a view of the plants in her garden. Photo: Ella van Tonder, 2017


Rotational farming is traditionally practiced in a variety of biocultural landscapes across the world and contributes to sustainable livelihoods and biodiversity conservation. Despite this, it is sometimes viewed as unsophisticated and even illegal, in particular, by powerful actors who prefer forests be used for exploitation or as “wilderness”—where no people should live. However, rotational farming landscapes have been inhabited and nurtured since time immemorial, and their richness in biodiversity, when applied along with traditional practices and tenure rights, can play an important role for biodiversity conservation. This is why the Hin Lad Nai community, in the Chiang

Rai Province of northern Thailand, decided to document its knowledge, innovations, and learning over generations: first, for the benefit of the community, as a means to mobilize its knowledge; and, second, to help others understand that rotational farming can be sustainable and that it supports a good life, enriching rather than destroying biodiversity.

In rotational farming, as in all farming systems, new knowledge is continuously innovated, tested, and validated as part of communities’ efforts to maintain and enhance their livelihoods and to adapt to new needs and environmental and societal changes. Validation of knowledge in Indigenous and local communities is often about building evidence for the governance and management decisions for nurturing biological and cultural diversity that are made on a daily basis within territories.

Pernilla Malmer and Prasert Trakansuphakon

Innovations as Part of Sustainable Practices in Biocultural Landscapes

Innovations as Part of Sustainable Practices in Biocultural Landscapes

EXPERIENCES FROM ROTATIONAL FARMING IN THE HIN LAD NAI COMMUNITY OF NORTHERN THAILAND

“Rotational farming can be sustainable, enriching rather

than destroying biodiversity.”

Above: Fallow area where P’dav trees have been actively promoted. Hin Lad Nai farmers conduct experiments to maximize the agricultural benefits of P’dav.

Photo: Naruchai Sudsearee, 2016Left: Like many rotational farmers in the Hin Lad Nai community, Hsau Weij

is an innovator, developing new methods that lighten his workload while increasing the harvest. Photo: Nutdanai Trakansuphakon, 2016


An example of a young P’dav tree in a rich fallow field. Photo: Naruchai Sudsearee, 2016

This requires sorting out which aspects of knowledge are useful and legitimate—a process that is specific to each knowledge system and the place where it is operational. All of our diverse cultures and their knowledge systems, including Western science, have their own mechanisms for how validation processes are maintained, with unique institutions, actors, and practices.

A good example is how the Hin Lad Nai farmers innovated a new practice in their use of a common tree, called P’dav (Macaranga denticulata), growing in their rotational farming areas. Among the Karen communities, P’dav is known for growing in any kind of forest or soil and for contributing to soil regeneration. The leaves of P’dav retain water well when it rains, and they also decay quickly, enriching and fertilizing the soil. The farmers know from practice and continual

observations that the soil has improved because it is soft, black, and full of earthworms.

Thirty years ago, Mr. The Ne, one of the original settlers in Hin Lad Nai, was worried about Hsau Weij, his youngest son. He said to him,

“My son, you can’t work in rotational farming fields like your other brothers and sisters, because you are small and in poor health. But despite this, there is a way to ensure your rice grows well and that your harvest is as good as the others’, but you will work less than them, which is good for you as a small boy.”

The solution was to select a fallow field covered with P’dav trees. The P’dav is a small tree, characterized by a soft trunk and branching roots that spread at shallow depths around the stump. It propagates only from seeds and not with shoots from the trunk.

Innovations Emerging from Ancestral Knowledge and Practices

Hsau Weij, now fifty-nine years old, acted on what his father had taught him, combined it with the knowledge of the elders, and adapted those teachings in his own experiments on P’dav planting methods, tree caretaking, and seed collection. Hsau Weij selected a fallow area covered with various kinds of plants and grass, particularly some well-known grass varieties that are not good for the soil, such as Nauf ne si (the Karen name). (The use of the word “fallow” is an approximation of the Karen agricultural practice of maintaining soil fertility, which involves counting the number of years after a field has been intentionally burned; sowed with rice, vegetables, and root crops; and its recovery observed. Here, “fallow” should be understood as a field that has been intentionally burned and sowed with the traditional food crops, and then seeded with P’dav after the rice harvest.) At first, this fallow looked like any other, but the soil was unsuitable for farming and the rice yield was low. Based on lessons learned from his father, Hsau Weij noticed that P’dav seeds ripen in July and can be collected from August to September after weeding the nauf moj pgaj (“Mother of grass”). Hsau Weij collected good seeds from five- to six-year-old P’dav trees in other places and sowed them in the fallow area.

Planting P’dav seeds is often done with the assistance of a knife scabbard with a small hole in the bottom, which allows the seeds to fall to the ground slowly and steadily. Hsau Weij tied the knife scabbard to his waist, and with every step he took, the P’dav seeds fell to the ground along the line where he walked. After a few months, small P’dav seedlings started to sprout along the field. Many farmers now use this method for sowing seeds.

Farming a P’dav Field and a Normal Fallow Field

Another farmer, Mr. Somboon Siri, received P’dav fallow lands from his uncle, and fourteen years on, he continues experimenting with P’dav; he has six fallow tracts, three with P’dav and three with other trees. In Somboon’s experience, farming the P’dav fallow land requires less weeding than farming among other trees. Also, the produce of rice


is higher: land with P’dav trees yielded ten tangs (one tang = ten kg) more rice from the same amount of seeds.

Another finding from Somboon’s experiments is that rice fields with P’dav have fewer damaged plants, pests, and weeds compared with normal fields. Plants in the P’dav field are healthier and stronger than in the “normal” fallow fields. This means that rice or other crops in the P’dav fields have better immunity to disease than in normal fallow fields. Somboon adds that crops from P’dav fallow fields are more reliable because they are less susceptible to damage from rain.

When he accidently left a part of a P’dav fallow field uncultivated, Somboon noticed how quickly the P’dav trees grew. The big P’dav trees are now a source of seeds to be planted in other places or fallows. He also noticed that wildlife (such as birds and rats) ate the seeds and dispersed them through their dung in near and distant fallows. Therefore, by maintaining this P’dav grove, he can leave the distribution of P’dav to nature instead of having to replant seeds himself.

Benefits of P’dav TreesHumans and animals benefit from P’dav forests in myriad ways,

from the abundant fruit they bear to the firewood they provide. The large quantities of fruit from P’dav trees attract different animals, both domestic and wild, such as birds, wild chickens, squirrels, rats, buffalos, cows, and bees. This makes for rich foraging for animals and hunting and trapping for humans.

From the scientific literature, it is clear that P´dav provides positive physical attributes, such as shade, that help to control the spread of grasses and weeds that degrade the soil. Two- to three-year-old P’dav trees shed their leaves, and these keep the soil surface cool, hold rainwater, and turn into black, fertile soil suitable for farming sooner than the soil in normal fallows. P’dav trees grow quickly and outcompete other tree species. In addition, the large leaves of P’dav trees make them suitable for growing shade-loving plants such as coffee.

Last but not least, farmers say that P’dav can help recover poor soil after periods of intensive crop cultivation, allowing an area to be regenerated and farmed again in only five years. In summary, this innovation leads to more reliable production in the rotational farming system.

P’dav trees shed their leaves, and these keep the soil surface cool, allowing it to hold rainwater and eventually turn into black, fertile soil suitable for farming. Photo: Naruchai Sudsearee, 2016

“Hsau Weij acted on what his father had taught him, combined it with the knowledge of the elders, and adapted those teachings in his own experiments.”


The Art of Governing Rotational Farming Diversity

The discussion among the rotational farmers continues: each family can see advantages and disadvantages of these methods, depending on the specific location of their rotational areas and their family’s circumstances. For one thing, farmers are still struggling to find a balance between grass and tree cover. Cultivation is difficult when there is too much grass, but the grass is good for fodder and for wild animals to hide in. Additionally, different fallow stages provide for different needs for both humans and wildlife. For example, it is easier to cultivate after burning when the grasses have been consumed. In the first year of fallow, the grasses begin to return. In following years, more grasses, along with palm trees, start growing, and these provide fodder for wild animals. Later in the rotation, dense trees provide cover for animals, especially while breeding and raising young, from predators and human hunters. Many of those trees blossom and bear fruit. From the second year and onwards, the fallow is common land; this means that anyone in the community can go and harvest root crops, aubergines, medicinal plants, and all that grows there after the first year’s initial sowing and harvest. Without the fallow, there would not be vegetables to collect, and many varieties of seeds would be lost, animals would decrease, and endangered species would become extinct.

As a poem of Karen communities says, “htof loo auf taz saf, pgaz k’nyau loo auf bu wa,” meaning, “birds find fruits, human find white rice.” The knowledge of the Hin Lad Nai community is expressed through memorization and summarized into poetry, stories, and songs called hta. These represent a collective knowledge system based on everyday life experiences. Knowledge that is expressed and documented in written form (as in this article) can be seen as a translation that helps us as outsiders grasp the richness of Hin Lad Nai knowledge and practices. We Followed the Elders’ Steps, We Followed the Old Man’s Steps

The Karen elders express ancestral wisdom in a hta that says,Pgaz mi le plez maz div iz, pgaz pgaj le plez maz div izP’ maz paux pgaz mi av hki, P’ maz paux pgaz pgaj av hkiP’ meij t’ maz taj div iz, lauz maj moj dauv paj av mizLoosely translated, this means that the younger generation needs to

follow in the steps of their elders, or else they will lose their ancestors’ knowledge and way of living.

The P’dav experience is one among many innovations emerging from farmers’ traditional knowledge and practices in Hin Lad Nai that

In Hin Lad Nai rotational farming, rituals are celebrated at each stage of cultivation. Photo: Pernilla Malmer, 2016

A community leader, Chaiprasert Phokha, carefully storing root crops in the field. Photo: Pernilla Malmer, 2016


Pernilla Malmer is Senior Advisor at SwedBio, a knowledge interface connecting science, policy, and practice at the Stockholm Resilience Centre, Stockholm University, Sweden. She is an agronomist by training with transdisciplinary expertise comprising agricultural biodiversity and agroecology, Indigenous and local knowledge systems, and corresponding links to social-ecological resilience and human well-being.

Prasert Trakansuphakon belongs to the Karen people in Thailand. He has been a leader and practitioner of social development among Indigenous peoples in Thailand and Southeast Asia for over twenty years. His expertise comprises Indigenous knowledge; natural resource management, in particular rotational farming; Indigenous education; and Indigenous peoples’ rights. He holds a PhD in Sociology.

Further ReadingMalmer, P., Tengö, M., Abudulai, S., Chituwu, C., Gebeyehu, F., Gichere, N., . . . Muriuki, M. (2018). International exchange meeting and walking workshop: Experiences from piloting a multiple evidence base approach for mobilisation of indigenous and local knowledge for community and ecosystem wellbeing, Tharaka, Kenya, 6–11 March 2017. Workshop report. SwedBio at Stockholm Resilience Centre, Stockholm, Sweden.

Malmer, P., Tengö, M., Belay Ali, M., Cadalig Batang-ay, M. J., Farhan Ferrari, M., Mburu, G. G., . . . Trakansuphakon, P. (2017). International exchange meeting for mobilisation of Indigenous and local knowledge for community and ecosystem wellbeing. Hin Lad Nai, Chiang Rai province, Thailand, 13–15 February 2016 (Workshop Report). Retrieved from SwedBio at Stockholm Resilience Centre website: http://swed.bio/wp-content/uploads/2017/05/Walking-Workshop-Report-Hin-Lad-Nai.pdf

Tengö, M., Brondizio, E. S., Elmqvist, T., Malmer, P., & Spierenburg, M. (2014). Connecting diverse knowledge systems for enhanced ecosystem governance: The multiple evidence base approach. Ambio, 43(5), 579–591. doi:10.1007/s13280-014-0501-3

Tengö, M., Hill, R., Malmer, P., Raymond, C. M., Spierenburg, M., Danielsen, F., . . . Folke, C. (2017). Weaving knowledge systems in IPBES, CBD and beyond? Lessons learned for sustainability. Current Opinion in Environmental Sustainability, (26–27), 17–25.

Trakansuphakon, P., & Hin Lad Nai Community. (2017). Mobilising traditional knowledge, innovations and practices in rotational farming for sustainable development. A contribution to the piloting of the multiple evidence base approach from the community of Hin Lad Nai, Chiang Rai, Thailand (Report). Retrieved from SwedBio at Stockholm Resilience Centre website: http://swed.bio/wp-content/uploads/2016/11/MEB-Pilot-Report-Thailand_2016.pdf

strengthen the existing evidence of the sustainability and positive effects of their rotational farming system on wildlife, biodiversity, and biocultural and spiritual values.

Hin Lad Nai is part of a network of volunteering communities in different parts of the world, piloting a “multiple evidence-based approach” in which Indigenous, local, and Western scientific knowledge systems are seen as equally valid, legitimate, and useful for sustainable development. A multiple evidence-based approach emphasizes the value of letting each knowledge system speak for itself, within its own context, and the validity of knowledge that occurs within, rather than across, knowledge systems. It is often argued that for knowledge to be valid it needs to be tested through scientific experiments. However, in many Indigenous and local knowledge systems, knowledge may be tested and evaluated through everyday practice or approved by an elder or other experts, such as a shaman, representing the recognized institutions and expertise within that knowledge system. Bringing knowledge together, mobilized from a diversity of knowledge systems, on their own terms, creates an enriched picture from different perspectives.

In the case of Hin Lad Nai, innovations also include diversifying and cultivating new crops and new products originating from other knowledge systems, such as bamboo and honey, that have provided new sources of income. However, Hin Lad Nai has never taken for granted the appropriateness of any new knowledge: they bring in innovations that appear relevant from different sources and test them. If they are

not useful, they are not adopted. The community members trust their own validation of new information, through their own unique knowledge system.

The process of documentation and research have brought new insights to the fallow system of Hin Lad Nai. It has made the elders realize the need to articulate the dual contributions of the rotational farming system

to food production and wildlife conservation. “We have to take up the challenge to present the evidence we have from our Indigenous and local knowledge to outsiders who think that fallow systems are destroying the environment and forest,” says Prasert Trakansuphakon, from the Pgakenyaw Association for Sustainable Development, who has partnered with Hin Lad Nai on its community research. This evidence from Indigenous knowledge can contribute to better policy- and decision-making. Trakansuphakon also insists that policies for development and conservation must be endogenous in order to be sustainable and not destructive for the communities and their belief systems and practices. “Self-governance is part of the right to self-determination,” he concludes.

“A multiple evidence-based approach emphasizes the value of letting each knowledge system speak for itself, within its own context.”


Gabriel Nemogá, Justico Domicó, and Alejandro Molina

At the insistence of civil society leaders and organizations, the 2015 peace agreement between the Colombian government and the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (FARC, or Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia) included a section addressing ethnic issues. Since the agreement’s approval, the government has met enormous internal resistance from traditional privileged elites against the implementation of the peace agreement; the ethnic provisions have not been a priority at all. In fact, the peaceful post-conflict environment contributes to the obscuring of the ongoing drama of hundreds of communities that are still fighting for their ancestral lands. In this challenging situation, communities continue to take actions to reclaim their right to their territories, protect their biocultural heritage, and secure a better future for their children and coming generations.

In Colombia’s recent history, the Embera people are one of the Indigenous groups most impacted by forced displacement and violence. Along with other Indigenous nations, such as the Wananni, Guandule (formerly known as Kuna), and Afro-Colombian communities, the Embera share the richly biodiverse Chocó region. Repeatedly displaced

within their own territory, the Embera communities of the Urabá subregion strive to protect their biocultural heritage. This is the story of their resilience and of our efforts to bring Indigenous worldviews to bear on the realms of policy and legislation.

“In Colombia’s recent history, the Embera people are one of the most impacted by forced

displacement and violence.”

The Embera communities of Chigorodocito and Polines are located in the northwestern part of the Antioquia province and form a biocultural complex within an area of high endemism in plant and animal species. The Indigenous council Cabildo Mayor Indígena de Chigorodó (CMCh in Spanish) represents the resguardos (Indigenous collective lands) of Yaberadó and Polines and covers five communities, including Chigorodocito and Polines, where our work took place. The population is around 2,250 people in the two resguardos, which currently cover approximately fourteen thousand hectares. Displaced

The working group on territory and infrastructure meets at a workshop on the biocultural community protocol, Polines Community Library. Photo: Dinson Bailarín, 2017

Designing Biocultural Protocols Embera People of Colombia

with the


to their present location since the 1980s, the Embera engaged in land reclamation and sought legal recognition of their lands with the national government. With the support of the Indigenous Organization of Antioquia (OIA), they secured the title to their collective territories between 1987 and 2003.

In the new locality, Embera communities encountered strong pressure from established sectors to adopt the social and commercial practices of the region. Engaging in dealings outside of the immediate community and pursuing trade for individual gain has impacted Embera solidarity, thereby reducing the opportunities for collective work and community affairs. Additionally, like many other Indigenous communities around the world, the Embera face a double threat to preserving their ancestral knowledge and wisdom: elders who have been keepers of the knowledge, wisdom, and ceremonial practice are passing away; and, simultaneously, youth are not fully committed to and engaged in preserving their ancestral legacy. These threats are made worse by the strong assimilation trends of the surrounding market economy, material consumerism, and systematic institutional practices that erode Indigenous identities, languages, and traditional knowledge.

Bringing Indigenous Worldviews into Policy and Legislation

Led by the CMCh, the Embera are working towards the re-establishment of their way of life in territories where guerrilla and paramilitary groups disrupted their cultural and social networks. The CMCh is concerned about the rapid erosion of cultural traditions, reduction of the number of Embera speakers, and the loss of ancestral knowledge. In July 2015, I started conversations with the CMCh about developing a project called Bringing Indigenous Worldviews into Policy and Legislation on Traditional Knowledge and Biodiversity.The basic premise of this project is that conservation of cultural

diversity, in general, and traditional knowledge associated with biodiversity (TKB), in particular, could lead to the conservation of biodiversity and ecosystems but not the other way around. Thus, the overarching goal was to contribute to the protection of TKB through a community-designed biocultural protocol. As defined by the human rights organization Natural Justice, biocultural protocols are the sets of rules and responsibilities that communities design to preserve their worldviews, values, knowledge, and spiritual relations with nature.

By developing a biocultural protocol from the bottom up, members of the communities—including leaders, elders, healers, parents, and youth, both men and women—engage in active identification and self-awareness about their biocultural heritage. Based on their community’s worldview, people prioritize histories, values, cultural expressions, and special and sacred sites for protection; in addition, they define and design the actions to be undertaken through the protocol. For this project, we established a community Embera Biocultural Heritage Protectors’ team with two members from each community, combined with the communication unit of the CMCh.

A Forced Change on “Being Embera”Subtle and open discrimination reinforces changes in cultural

patterns and social interactions of Embera communities. A tacit rejection of Embera culture coincides with further exposure to media (e.g., TV, radio), official education, and Christian proselytism. Leaders from different religious sects and denominations ( Jehovah’s Witnesses and various Protestant churches) continually travel to the communities and involve Embera host families in proselytizing talks. Once they gain trust with some members of the communities, they move in and openly organize religious meetings, targeting jaibanás (traditional healers) and their ancestral practices. Accusations of witchcraft against jaibanás are common as a tactic to diminish healers’ social and spiritual recognition,

Location of the municipio (municipality) of Chigorodó, Colombia. Source: CMCh, 2014The late Teresa Bailarín Majoré (1949–2017), an Embera elder who was an

exceptional keeper of her people’s biocultural heritage. Photo: Justico Domicó, 2017


force them to hide their practices, or make them move to a different community.

The identification of one’s self as “being Embera” is also openly repressed when people interact with the population in the nearest town, Chigorodó. The Embera language is not accepted for legitimate use in everyday trade; moreover, adult women and men, but especially young people, feel ashamed of wearing their traditional clothing. Girls and boys face stronger pressure to abandon their Embera identity, speak Spanish, and dress more like non-Indigenous kids. At the city’s high school, they have to wear standard school clothing if they do not want to be a target of bullying and discrimination. Women have shown more resilience and continue wearing their traditional parumas (similar to skirts) and colorful shirts in town. Men, on the other hand, opt faster for a more Western-like appearance and predominantly wear jeans and shirt.

At the community schools, teaching still occurs in Spanish. Although Chigorodocito’s school teachers speak Embera, their dialect, Embera-katio, is different from the local dialect, Embera-eyábida. Teaching in Spanish encourages the use of this language at community school meetings. Moreover, schooling in Spanish indirectly dissuades the use of the Embera language within community and family life in general. At the Polines community, the balance is more favorable. Polines has an elementary and high school, and at least four teachers are bilingual and completely fluent in Embera-eyábida. Nevertheless, not all the teaching is doable in the Embera-eyábida dialect at the elementary school level because printed materials to support teachers’ work in each grade is limited or nonexistent. Recently, the OIA and other organizations have begun to support the production of the first written Embera dictionary. Work on Embera syntax, grammar, and phonetics still needs to be pursued on a broader scope.

Building Endogenous ResearchDuring the training of the protectors’ team, in addition to

modules on biocultural community protocols and biocultural heritage, sessions comprised basic concepts on intellectual property rights and international legal instruments, such as the Convention on Biological Diversity, the International Labour Organization’s C169 Convention, and the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples. The dominant oral tradition among the participants forced a re-orientation of the activities toward more practical group exercises and fewer individual text readings. Recognition and involvement of the community’s perspective were guaranteed through the active participation of community members. All the gatherings and workshops were conducted in Embera-eyábida, with sporadic translation to Spanish to facilitate communication with non-Embera speakers.

Members of the protectors’ team led the research activities in collaboration with elders and community leaders. In each community, the team carried out two workshops. The team also designed practical teaching exercises and demonstrations of cultural practices. At Chigorodocito’s elementary school, for example, the team organized a one-day children’s body- and face-painting workshop, under the direction of the jaibaná, or traditional healer. In this exercise, the jaibaná guided the procedure and the Embera protocols for the use of the jagua plant (Genipa americana).

Through a couple of community activities, one in Polines and one in Chigorodocito, the team identified key themes for the protocol. In this process, members of the team surveyed the families in the Chigorodocito community and carried out a sharing circle at the high school in Polines to prioritize the themes, as seen in the following list. In both communities, the families surveyed and the participants in the sharing circle were purposely selected to include gender diversity.

A protectors’ team Embera Biocultural Heritage Training workshop, Chigorodocito. Photo: Gabriel Nemogá, 2017


The team also conducted four unstructured interviews with elders and leaders to guarantee a more integral representation of community stakeholders. Based on discussions developed in working groups, the team elicited the following themes for the protocol:

• Indigenous identity and history (Embera origin story)• Indigenous governance and justice• Territory and sacred sites

• Ancestral wisdom and knowledge• Education and language• Health and medicinal plant knowledge• Duty to consult and prior inform consent• Cultural practices and expressions, including traditional

housing (tambo), traditional songs (truambis), and other music, dances, handicrafts, weaving

A sacred forest, Chigorodocito. Biocultural protocols allow communities to decide what priority to give to such places. Photo: Justico Domicó, 2017

A plenary session at a workshop on the biocultural community protocol, Polines Community Center. Photo: Dinson Bailarín, 2017


The protectors’ team agreed on a working definition of Embera biocultural heritage as follows: “Our cultural heritage is what distinguishes us as Embera in connection with our territory, our language, our way of life, our ceremonies, beliefs, thoughts, practices, knowledge, innovations and cultural expressions. It is the cultural legacy of our ancestors. Our forest is sacred and is an integral part of our way of life; it provides us with food, medicine, air, water, minerals and joy. We are committed to care, respect, protect and recreate the richness of forest life with its rivers, animals, plants and the spiritual beings” (Biocultural Protocol Draft, December 2017).

“Our forest is sacred and is an integral part of our way of life; it provides us with food, medicine,

air, water, minerals, and joy.”

This definition of biocultural heritage underlines the knowledge system of Embera people and their inextricable link to the forest and different beings that they recognize in their territory. Indeed, this definition partially coincides with the CMCh’s earlier introduction (in 2014) of an annual community cultural exchange. This gathering rotates every year to a different community. Communities demonstrate ancestral dances and songs, as well as skills for the preparation of traditional food and drinks. During these exchanges, the Embera language is used exclusively. The protectors’ team’s definition of biocultural heritage emphasizes the connection with the territory and a sense of responsibility and care for the forest.

Although the CMCh has been able to keep this annual celebration going, in 2017 budget limitations restricted community participation.

After postponing the event three times, it finally took place in October 2017 in the community of Guapa Alto. The protectors’ team contributed in different capacities to its realization, coordinating activities and taping presentations. CMCh’s leaders expressed their satisfaction with the event, but regretted that some ancestral practices, such as the preparation of Embera food and drinks, are now becoming irregular activities in the communities’ life.

The Bringing Indigenous Worldviews into Policy and Legislation on Traditional Knowledge and Biodiversity project shows that the biocultural framework is not only a generative theory for conducting research, but it also represents an ethical position that recognizes and respects the interests of Indigenous peoples and local communities in their knowledge, territories, and resources. In practical application of the biocultural diversity framework, the Colombian Constitutional Court granted legal personhood rights to the Atrato River by Sentence T-622 of 2016. The design of a biocultural community protocol is a complex and ongoing process. In December 2017, the protectors’ team analyzed and discussed a draft version in Chigorodó. After adjustments, the protocol will be submitted for formal adoption by the CMCh.

By working from a biocultural diversity framework, this project recognizes the intrinsic link of traditional environmental knowledge to Indigenous worldviews and ways of life. The protection of TKB will be effective only if the mechanisms involve safeguarding communities’ ways of life in connection to their territories. The CMCh has undertaken a remarkable effort to preserve the Embera biocultural heritage, addressing the challenges and opportunities of a unique, volatile, and changing situation after the peace agreement between the Colombian government and the FARC.

Acknowledgments. This work was possible thanks to the support of the Cabildo Mayor Indígena of Chigorodó (CMCh) and its Chief, Samuel Borja. The members of the protector’s team demonstrated their inspired motivation to protect the Embera biocultural heritage: Maria N., Luis E., Arcangel, and Justico Domicó; Dinson and Arles J. Bailarín; and Dora A. Carupia. Financial support came from the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council (SSHRC) Partnership Grants IDG 2016 and the University of Winnipeg. Gabriel R. Nemogá-Soto is a descendant of the Muisca Indigenous People of Colombia and has a PhD in Human Ecology (University of California-Davis). Currently, he is Full Professor at the University of Winnipeg and has been a Visiting Professor at several universities. His research interests include traditional knowledge systems, indigenous education, biocultural studies, bioethics, and biodiversity law.

Justico Domicó currently leads the Communication Unit of CMCh and the Embera Biocultural Heritage Protectors’ team.

Alejandro Molina is a social communicator and works as CMCh’s advisor.

Further ReadingCabildo Mayor Indígena de Chigorodó. (2014). Manejo Forestal Indígena en el Urabá: 10 Años de Aprendizajes y Desafios. Chigorodó, Colombia: Author.

Community Protocols. (n.d.). Toolkit for the development of Biocultural Community Protocols. Retrieved January 28, 2017, from http://www.community-protocols.org/toolkit

Nemogá, G. (n.d.). Protocolos Comunitarios Bioculturales. Retrieved January 28, 2018, from https://grnemogas.wixsite.com/pcbiocultural

Nemogá, G. (2016). Diversidad biocultural: Innovando en investigación para la conservación. Acta Biológica Colombiana, 21(1), Supl. 1, 311–319. doi:10.15446/abc.v21n1Supl.50920


Thomas Dean King

Marine Conservation without Borders (MCwB) is a nongovernmental organization that translates scientific ideas into oral languages that currently lack words to express such concepts. MCwB’s Executive Director, Robert C. “Robby” Thigpen, has built a network of collaborators among a diversity of linguistic communities and conservation advocates throughout the Caribbean. MCwB draws on this network in its journey to develop a more authentic, relevant, and effective marine conservation education curriculum. This story will focus on how Robby came to recognize an issue with how conservation science education is approached in the Caribbean and what MCwB is doing to address this need.

The story begins in Belize. Robby first visited in 2004, interning with the Northern Fishermen’s Cooperative Society. He brought a blend of marine biology and cultural anthropology, integrating knowledge and methods from each discipline to learn about and from the fishers and the ecosystems from which they draw their livelihoods. “Carrying out my investigation in this manner allowed me to learn from the traditional ecological knowledge of these fishers,” Robby says. “These shared learning experiences gave me insight into things about their families, local fishing mechanisms, and the education system that I could not have otherwise learned.”

Returning to Belize frequently to visit the fishing families he lived with and worked among, Robby has watched the children in these families grow up; the school-aged children he knew are now having their own families, and those who were infants are now in school. One of his favorite ways to pass the evenings was helping his host families’ children with homework. It was from this vantage point that he learned about the education system. Robby began picking up on difficulties they had with some assignments. The challenges were not the difficulty of the subject matter, but instead related to language differences between home and school, between the language people use to talk and that used in textbooks.

During this time, he also noticed that there was little conservation science in the schools’ curriculum, and marine conservation science was nearly absent. For a region that is defined by its proximity to and dependence on the Caribbean Sea, it was clear this was a need to be addressed. Robby became singularly focused on bringing the language of science and concepts of conservation to the languages of Belizeans’ homes. He found that other

THE COLLABORATIVE WORK OF CARIBBEAN COMMUNITIES AND MARINE CONSERVATION WITHOUT BORDERS

A New Approach to Bilingual Marine Conservation

Science Education

Above: The Garifuna community is the only one allowed to fish in Cayos Cochinos, Honduras. Mario Flores Aranda is promoting sustainable fishing, using a line loop for live

capture so that undersize lobsters may be released unharmed. Photo: Antonio Busiello, 2015


people agreed with his observations. This was the start of the expansive network he has built, and through it, he has confirmed his concerns with people in communities from Mexico’s Yucatán to Honduras to Colombia. He also found that academic research on the issue supported what he was hearing from MCwB project collaborators.

One thread in this research suggests that people tend to reject new information when it is presented in a secondary language, especially when they perceive a negative bias and when that bias reflects poorly on their language or culture. Simply put, people tend to reject what they don’t understand, especially when they see themselves poorly represented. Students who are more comfortable in their mother tongue may be perceiving language exclusion from a monolinguistic curriculum as a negative bias, thereby not engaging with subjects in the classroom or even rejecting the content outright.

“Garifuna people communicate better and more accurately and effectively in their own language;

therefore, [not having materials in Garifuna leads] to confusion and misunderstanding of the message

about solutions to these natural resources and environmental issues.”

—Rony Figueroa, Garifuna American Heritage Foundation United; MCwB Editor

Moreover, students are very unlikely to take these “foreign” concepts home to their parents or siblings. As a result, students (and parents) may develop

a resistance to the lessons being taught. The result is low engagement and lack of ownership or connection with fundamental concepts supporting biocultural diversity conservation goals. Parents and adults working as fishers may share a tendency to reject new fishery or environmental regulations—not because they disagree with the goals or rules themselves, but because they do not understand them when not presented in their home language. Without understanding and engaging in the issues threatening

Zaida Majil and Robby Thigpen study an early draft of the Treasures collection in Kriol. Zaida, now in her 20s with her own children, helps MCwB with ethno-translating of

Kriol. Photo: Robby Thigpen, 2009

Treasures of the Caribbean book cover in Kriol for Belize showing fishing boats mooring in Belize River near the Swing Bridge, Belize City. Photo: Robby Thigpen, 2012

Mangrove Ecosystems book cover in Wayuunaiki for Colombia; Aminta Paláez Guariyu and Alvaro Andrés Moreno Munar, ethno-translators. Photo: Madison Heltzel, 2018


biocultural diversity in their communities, opportunities to identify locally appropriate solutions may be lost. This is worrisome because food security and livelihoods depend upon healthy marine ecosystems, the basis for sustainable fishing and tourism.

So, what is to be done? At MCwB, we think there is a better way to develop curricula for linguistically diverse classrooms to make learning more accessible and, in the process, promote greater engagement and understanding among students and communities. First, MCwB aims to make marine conservation science concepts accessible by developing books in local languages with relevant examples highlighting livelihoods and ecosystems with which students are familiar (landscapes, animals, fish, and plants). This approach provides a secondary benefit of promoting the goals of biocultural diversity. Putting local languages in school curricula contributes to language and cultural preservation and engages students by elevating their languages and traditional ecological knowledge (TEK) to an equal place with national languages of instruction (LOI) and associated knowledge of conservation science.

“Western science concepts can be difficult to understand. [What MCwB is doing] is a better way; it takes our local

knowledge and treats it like it is important.”

—Hilario Poot Cahun, Universidad Intercultural Maya de Quintana Roo; MCwB ethno-translator

MCwB’s mission is to bring conservation science to people in and on their own terms so they may more easily understand it and use it in their lives. This approach provides Indigenous and historically marginalized language groups new tools to foster civic engagement in conservation issues. MCwB’s initial program, Treasures of the Caribbean, is a series of lessons designed to teach conservation science concepts in a bilingual format tailored to communities with Indigenous, Creole, and Afro-Caribbean languages.

To develop these books, we rely on two types of contributors: ethno-translators and TEK experts. Using local specialized skills and knowledge helps ensure the final products are derived from the communities who will use them. The bilingual format presents one home language paired with a national LOI. Getting the translations right is the most difficult part and relies on a process to create neologisms (new words) for conservation science concepts in the home languages. Drawing on Robby’s network, we build collaborative working groups for each book. We look for people from each geo-linguistic area to participate as ethno-translators and TEK experts.

Creating authentic and relevant neologisms is important because they are what bring together TEK with scientific concepts in the home language. Robby explains that “these fishers know these systems intimately,” but “their traditional ecological knowledge does not always fully account for new and persistent negative external pressures.” TEK and scientific knowledge are more powerful together. By bringing them together, people can begin seeing them as equally important perspectives in understanding locally defined issues and problems. In this way, our work functions as a leveling mechanism, flattening historically unequal relationships by explicitly placing communities’ TEK and home languages on an even footing with national languages and institutions.

The Treasures project is providing a way to blend local TEK with scientific knowledge through well-designed and authentic bilingual curricula so that students can discuss conservation in their home language. The process produces a culturally relevant and more accessible translation. When learning is relevant and accessible to students, they are better engaged to understand the concepts and interact with the subject matter.

“It allows us to embrace our language and understand and comprehend these concepts as if they were our own.

Learning from a book made for a Kriol audience will be great. There won’t be any barriers for not understanding.”

—Celeste Castillo, Student, University of Belize, Belize City; MCwB Ethno-translator

When people see and experience their home language presented on an equal footing with the dominant LOIs, it establishes a relationship and sense of ownership to the concepts. Our project collaborators emphasize ownership and how they are empowered when they see their mother tongues represented alongside “official” languages.

Rony Figueroa of the Garifuna American Heritage Foundation United expressed these values while editing the Mangrove Ecosystems book in Garifuna: “I feel positive, empowered, and proud . . . It’s inclusive,” adding, “It will help [us] take ownership [of these concepts] in the effort of conservation, and it will entice more Garinagu to get involved . . . It will give the Garifuna people a sense of ownership.”

“I self-identify with the project because the project takes into account the culture and language of the Garinagu

and our knowledge of the sea.” —Elmer Mauricio Enríquez, Úara Garifuna; MCwB Ethno-translator

By representing home languages in school, people feel as if they are being invited to participate. They may be more open to engage in discussion because they see how it can be done in their home language, in many cases for the first time.

UNESCO’s policy paper If You Don’t Understand, How Can You Learn? summarizes research on learning gaps for students in multicultural communities where many children speak a mother tongue that is not the dominant LOI in classrooms. The paper emphasizes the importance of developing “linguistic diversity within educational systems” and documents three challenges in this endeavor to improve learning outcomes. MCwB’s approach meets two of these challenges—curriculum development and the provisioning of teaching—head on and, at the same time, mitigates the problem of teacher recruitment.

Curricula development is the primary focus of the Treasures collection. We plan to facilitate distribution through our website and in targeted outreach to communities. Teacher recruitment is a need because it is difficult to find qualified teachers proficient in Indigenous language materials. While MCwB is not equipped to place teachers across the Caribbean, our bilingual materials mitigate the need by making books that use multiple languages accessible.


Consider Livingston, Guatemala, where the LOI is Spanish. Livingston is home to Maya and Garinagu people, whose home languages are Q’eqchi’ and Garifuna. Imagine the difficulty of finding teachers proficient in two of these three languages, much less in all three and with subject matter experience in biology, ecology, or another subject. Now imagine the students and teachers having conservation science curriculum in bilingual combinations of Garifuna/Spanish and Q’eqchi’/Spanish. A local teacher proficient in one language with basic experience in one or more of the others may lead a class in their own primary language while the students follow in the language with which they are most comfortable.

“I think it helps because people feel you really are talking to them . . . to their hearts not just their minds; also it facilitates understanding even more. . . . It is another

tool to reach out to people in a way that respects their home language and makes them more ready to

internalize the information.” —Silvaana Udz, The National Kriol Council of Belize & Ming Chuan

University, Taiwan; MCwB Ethno-translator

The challenges our project contributors shared about biocultural diversity conservation issues facing their communities centered around two main themes: moving from awareness to action and negotiating difficult choices between traditional and commercial livelihoods. Although people have awareness of conservation issues, they do not take consistent action to eliminate or mitigate the risks and threats to biocultural diversity in their communities.

Commercialization of traditional livelihoods and development of new livelihood options make for difficult choices for people looking to earn a wage and put food on the table, to say nothing of seemingly mundane things like how to dispose of their trash. The challenges also cut deeper, as these issues emerge at the intersection of cultural traditions and economic opportunity, where people experience conflict within themselves and with one another when making livelihood and conservation decisions.

Rony Figueroa explained that people are aware of the need to protect the environment, but they feel constrained by tough choices. This is especially acute for the smaller fishers and their traditional livelihoods, who must deal with resource scarcity in the face of industrial commercial competition: “There is no information in Garifuna language on how to protect and nurture fish and fishing. [There is a gap in] knowledge on how to protect and harvest conch, lobster, etc.”

While the books comprising the Treasures collection are a promising contribution to biocultural diversity conservation, they are not a solution in themselves. The books in our Treasures curriculum are tools to help communities help themselves. They are

a foundation to make information and learning more accessible so that people are better equipped to engage within and across community and language boundaries to work together in finding and negotiating solutions. With new tools in their language, people might be equipped to move from awareness to action and feel they can be part of the solutions rather than feeling stuck in the daily struggles of living with the consequences of others’ solutions for them. Our hope is that our efforts will germinate more robust and vibrant community action, whereby people may be more empowered to engage in issues of biocultural diversity to find solutions on their terms—solutions of, for, and by the people who need them most.

Trash disposal is a big problem throughout the Caribbean. Crocodiles, seen here feeding on trash left behind Ambergris Caye, Belize, have become dependent on human refuse. Photo: Miriam Boucher, 2015

Thomas Dean King serves on the board of directors of Marine Conservation without Borders. He has worked in the Northern Lagoon of Belize with the fishermen of Caye Caulker, where he explored the interdependency between the management of two common pool resources vital to the community’s resilience: the lobster fishery and the provisioning of credit to members of the fishing cooperative.

To learn more about and support Marine Conservation with Borders and the Treasures of the Caribbean projects, visit https://marinefrontiers.org/ where you can meet our international team of collaborators, read about the projects, and explore ways to get involved.

Further Reading

Ellis, C., Thierry, G., Vaughan-Evans, A., & Jones, M. (2017). Languages flex cultural thinking: Cultural perception in bilinguals. Bilingualism, 21(2), 219–227.

Nair, S. K. (2015). Mother tongue in the discourse of primary education: A cognitive approach. International Journal of Mind, Brain & Cognition, 6(1–2).

UNESCO. (2003). Education in a multilingual world (UNESCO Education Position Paper). Retrieved from http://unesdoc.unesco.org/images/0012/001297/129728e.pdf

UNESCO. (2016). If you don’t understand, how can you learn? (Policy Paper #24, Global Education Ministering Report). Retrieved from http://unesdoc.unesco.org/images/0024/002437/243713e.pdf


As humankind’s connection to land and water evolved, our development of agriculture produced the availability of abundant food systems. Our civilizations grew; our cultures became more diverse. Religious and spiritual relationships between humans and nature maintained overall well-being and progressively improved the quality of life. Then, something changed. Spirituality became neutralized; the dynamic and cyclical flow of all living things and the reverence for that interconnectedness of life were reduced to forms of structured devotional worship maintained in shrines, temples, and churches. In the doom and gloom over our global social and environmental challenges, we cannot look only to God for our salvation. The time has come to transform our psychology from our modern, religiously founded vantage. Instead, we must step back into nature; we must return to our roots as stewards of land, freshwater, and oceans that swell across the horizon.

The opportunity and inspiration for me to write this article comes from having attended the International Union for the Conservation Nature’s World Conservation Congress, held in Hawaii in September

2016. The following commitment opportunities were identified by the world congress:

• Linking Spirituality, Religion, Culture, and Conservation;• Engaging and Empowering Youth;• The Challenge of Sustaining the Global Food Supply and

Conserving Nature; and• The Challenge of Preserving the Health of the World’s Oceans.Since then, I’ve been immersed in an integration of ancient Hawaiian

ahupua’a resource wisdom and our modern ecological management.Since before science and technology, from the darkness of antiquity,

humans have created art. Art is beautiful. Any figure or form of a person’s life could be said to be his or her art. As our technology has evolved so has our art. The earliest artworks of humans will captivate us for as long as we are able to maintain our civilization. To be able to understand certain aspects of culture, we must look to how people express themselves in this way. Hawaiian culture is incredibly important to consider when we look to Indigenous cultures

Text and Photos by Harvy KingLily pad pond of antiquity, Ahupua’a Hakipu’u. 2017

Biocultural Diversity as Observed from the Hawaiian Nation

Biocultural Diversity as Observed from the Hawaiian Nation


West Oahu community supporting East Oahu taro farmer at Ahupua’a Hakipu’u. 2017

Looking south along the Kaneohe Bay from the Moli’i fishpond rock wall. 2017

“We must return to our roots as stewards of land, freshwater, and oceans that swell

across the horizon.”


to help reclaim control over today’s global environmental challenges. The traditions and value systems of Indigenous Hawaiian/Polynesian cultures are passed down orally. In Hawaiian history, the culture, environment, and the people are one mind, body, spirit in a collective responsibility of caregiving. The Hawaiian word for responsibility is kuleana. A person’s kuleana is to their family (ohana) and the land that sustained them (aina), all interwoven in a system of resource management understood as ahupua’a. An ahupua’a is a geographical valley within any of the Hawaiian Islands. The ahupua’a is also the flora and fauna and every species of life within the ecosystem, from the mountain to the sea, mauka to makai. Central to each ahupua’a is the freshwater source, or wai. The root of this style of resource management is the food and the livelihood of the people. The literal root crop, taro or kalo, was the traditional staple of the Hawaiian people and part of their creation story. Hawaiian ahupua’a wisdom understood the natural flow of life and cultivated it.

Ahupua’a is all-encompassing and recognizes the simple concept that a whole ahupua’a can be affected by the slightest change. Ahupua’a can be easily understood as the homeostasis of the land and people, measured in abundance of food. The notion of wealth becomes the vitality of the people.

This is true richness, wai wai. The very connection between the people and the natural environment is food. Everyone collectively contributes through a system of caregiving. The only responsibility is to take good care, to malama. Historically, a hierarchy of responsibility through chiefs and priests maintained the flow of ancestral knowledge that provided life to the people.

“In Hawaiian history, the culture, environment, and the people are one mind, body, spirit in a collective

responsibility of caregiving.”

In Western culture, as the scientific revolution solidified, so began to unfold the true nature of the biology of the planet. The theory of evolution and its mechanism of adaptation, according to the need to survive, struck like lightning into the collective awareness of human understanding. Humans dove deeper, peering down into forms and figures at atomic level and back again. We developed a model of DNA and observed as the information it carries is copied into RNA, translated through protein synthesis into multicellular organisms that use and transfer energy. The transformation of

Introducing children to a taro patch for the first time with the Hawaii Nature Center. 2017


the sun’s energy into all the life on Earth is only possible because of water, which creates a condition of connection known as a hydrogen bond. Water is life. Photosynthesis and cellular respiration resemble very closely an ancient Hawaiian concept, only two letters long, called ha. Ha is the Breath of Life. Aloha is to share this space of understanding of our place in the cosmos. Aloha is a sense of belonging to the cosmic unfolding.

Dr. Christian Giardina of the U.S. Forest Service recently spoke at the University of Hawaii Sustainability Summit on the “Biocultural Fabric of Land and Seascapes.” His emphasis was on the integration between ancient and modern systems of knowledge and the need to better define traditional knowledge. In the same panel discussion called Meeting of Wisdoms, Kealakaʻi Kanakaole of Big Island spoke on Hawaiian traditional wisdom. Hawaiians developed a system that managed humans, not nature. He explained that ancient Hawaiians managed their life source, which was the human element and water. To Hawaiians, the gods were anything that humans could not produce, which was everything in nature. Hawaiians could only control the flow of their own life force, the full understanding of which was reserved for those who were known as “Keepers of the Gods.” Other members of the Kanakaole family, Ku’u and Luka, spoke at the panel discussion and touched on other areas of Hawaiian wisdom. The oral tradition of chanting and prayer retained the information of the rainy seasons, the cycles of nature, from generation to generation. The ancient wisdom of recognizing interconnectedness using practicality and logic helped develop the techniques of continual use according to reciprocal relationships where Hawaiians were, effectively, in communication with nature.

Another layer to this traditional culture is that Hawaiians are known to have practiced human sacrifice. The historical context of these practices and their origin is often scrutinized, with good reason. Much of this history is not well defined and often a matter of speculation. By contrast, the kapu system, which was the form of law traditionally practiced by Hawaiians, is well known, and within it the act of breaking kapu was punishable by death. To go against the kapu value system was to go against the natural order. By doing so, a person had forfeited the right to live and could only escape death if he or she could make it to a pu’uhonua, or place of refuge, where the worship of the gods was reserved for the high priests. It is speculated that earlier Hawaiian governance systems were predominantly peaceful. An important perspective from this time was that humans do not control death or decomposition. To me, the most profound Hawaiian teaching also comes from this era. It is called ka’anani’au, or simply put, the rolling beauty of time.

With this understanding we can begin to bridge the gap in how we operate today as a society. I have learned that the true reign of power and influence doesn’t happen sitting in a chair—it happens standing tall, just as the mountain tends to do. The knowledge that was imparted to me by an Indigenous Hawaiian elder has begun to weave who I am into the culture here. The mission of Ho’i Ho’i Ea, the Hawaiian cultural nonprofit for which I am a regular volunteer, is environmental conservation through Hawaiian cultural education and restoration, which encourages a deeper understand of Hawaii’s history and values. This is a nonprofit founded by a disadvantaged and displaced Hawaiian farmer. He has encouraged me to seek out new opportunities to apply myself with these understandings.

I’ve been able to attended the University of Hawaii Sustainability Summit for two consecutive years. The summit’s emphasis on integrating cultural knowledge with Western science is at the forefront of how Hawaii will best address being self-sufficient and sustainable, while struggling from a variety of social crises. Just this kind of integration is planned at the National Estuarine Research Reserve that was recently inscribed at the He’eia watershed in the Kaneohe Bay. The new reserve means to include the use of cultural practices to study the ecosystem. Much research has been done around the ecology of Hawaiian Indigenous cultural practice, but not yet at this scale and level of environmental protection. Another example of a contemporary application of ahupua’a wisdom comes from the City and County of Honolulu, which recently established the Office of Climate Change, Sustainability, and Resiliency to effectively navigate the uncharted waters of our future. Current areas of concern with regard to the climate change are the effects of flooding in the coastal zone and saltwater inundating vital freshwater systems.

I’m currently attending The Green Program, which is an experimental intensive initiative on sustainable food and energy systems. The emphasis of this program is to view Hawaii as a place to introduce models of complex systems understanding, as opposed to the traditional linear models. The Green Program directly relates to the United Nations’ seventeen Sustainable Development Goals.

Personally, my biggest concern is the field of economics. Hawaii is still tapped into an economic system that encourages the neglectful abuse of fair housing markets as well as unequal distribution of natural resources. The public interest of the people of Oceana is manipulated to justify the gentrification of areas that are very much at risk of sea level rise in the first place. To top it off, the public health system cannot move fast enough to educate people on the need to massively increase food production within the state. Hawaii currently imports ninety percent of its food. If all commerce were to cease, Hawaii would only have enough food to last ten days.

“The metaphor of weaving together all of the values, just the way a rope is woven, illustrates the

strength of the Hawaiian culture.”

The metaphor of weaving together all of the values, just the way a rope is woven, illustrates the strength of the Hawaiian culture. Polynesians are well established as ocean-faring people. The Polynesian explorers required rope to assemble and operate their double-hulled canoes. Without the strong rope, there was no ability explore beyond the island they inhabited. With every foot of rope woven, another generation of people inherited the responsibility of carrying the cultural practices into the next generation. There is a disconnect in the modern age in which the systems of power and religion are not adequately sustaining the general population with proper management practices. The greatest effect this has is on the youth, and it begs the question: What will happen when we run out of rope? What are the effects of neglecting our values? The greatest responsibility is to live up to and maintain your values—to hold on to your ancestral line. This is the very thing that keeps us from getting lost into abysmal nothingness.


Harvy King is from Guatemala, raised in Michigan. Currently in Hawaii, he is a U.S. Navy veteran, former aircraft mechanic, and an Environmental Compliance Coordinator recently stationed at the Marine Corp Base Kaneohe Bay. He is currently acting secretary with the Hawaiian nonprofit Ho’i Ho’i Ea and Butcher in Haleiwa.

Further ReadingCook, B. P., Withy, K., & Tarallo-Jensen, L. (2003). Cultural Trauma, Hawaiian Spirituality, and Contemporary Health Status. California Journal of Health Promotion. Retrieved from http://www.cjhp.org/Volume1_2003/IssueHI-TEXTONLY/10-24-cook.pdf

Meyer, M. A. (2003). Ho’oulu: Our Time of Becoming. Honolulu, HI: Ai’ Pohaku Press.

Stone, M. (2009). Yoga for A World Out of Balance. Boston, MA: Shambhala.

University of Hawai’i. (2018). Hawai’i Sustainability in Higher Education Summit. Summit conducted on Hawai’I Island, Hawai’i. Retrieved from http://www.hawaii.edu/sustainability/hshe18/

Ulu, or breadfruit, growing on location at Hakipu’u. 2017


into this processed woven land

In the cool

Of morning

Moving waters fall

Silently seeking

Pathways to the sea

Blue veined

Crisscross a fractured landscape

Nervous leftovers of

Cultural powerlines that

Carved vertical earths

Into umbered lakes

Reflecting

Deceptive silver linings

In the sun

Shades of a troubled

Paradise

Lost in camouflaged lushness

Azure oceans of time

Fly backwards

Past contemporary textures

Now embedded deeply

Into this processed woven land.

The poet’s note of explanation:

If there was harmony once in Samoa’s natural lands, it is gone forever. The balance and fragility of these landscapes have undergone severe fragmentation through natural disasters and through human failure in maintaining the contemporary environment.

Papali‘I Momoe Malietoa von Reiche is a Samoan author, artist, and educator. Her published books of poetry include Solaua, a Secret Embryo (1974), Pao Alimago on Wet Days (1979), Alaoa, above the Gully of Your Childhood (1986), and Tai, the Heart of a Tree (1989).

Momoe Malietoa von Reiche


Jessica Brown

REFLECTIONS ON COMMUNITY-LED CONSERVATION

In late 2016, I made my first visit to the sacred forest that belongs to a village in the Togo mountain range of eastern Ghana, hiking up a small mountain to the forest accompanied by a dozen or so people from the community. The sun was beginning to set over the Volta Lakes as we crested the hill just below the forest. It was a magnificent sunset, although, of course, it meant that we would later be descending the mountain in the dark. But the mood of the entire group was buoyant as we arrived at the edge of the sacred grove, having made a few stops along

the way to observe certain rituals: spilling libations and petitioning the forest’s spirits for permission to enter.

Once within the forest, we did not pass beyond a point near the entrance shrine—an invisible boundary recognized by everyone from the community—but stood together and peered into the deep grove of trees as more rituals were performed. Despite the fading light, I

A Few Short Journeys Along the Nature-Culture

Continuum

A Few Short Journeys Along the Nature-Culture

Continuum

Above: The village chief and elders of a community in the Togo Range of Ghana at a sacred spring. Care of this spring is vital to the health of this community. Photo: Jessica Brown, 2016


could easily see that the tree cover extended over a large portion of the mountain. Farmland now surrounds this relict of ancient forest but does not actively encroach upon it. Eventually, we descended in the darkness, jubilant, singing our way down the mountain.

“Eventually, we descended in the darkness, jubilant, singing our way down the mountain

from the sacred forest.”

This is a landscape under robust and vital community-led governance, its natural values inextricably linked to the cultural practices of the people who serve as its stewards. Our lateness in ascending the mountain that afternoon was precisely due to the vitality of this traditional governance. To visit the sacred forest, the necessary protocols must be followed. As with most rural villages in Ghana, all visitors are expected to meet with the chief or a surrogate, such as the regent, to explain their purpose and seek permission. Our visit was not unexpected—a local nongovernmental organization that works closely

with this community had advised it of our visit and accompanied us there. When we arrived (later than planned), we were quickly ushered into a courtyard to meet with the village leadership: the chief, the traditional priest, and the village spokesperson (or “linguist,” as they are called in Ghana). A pleasant conversation ensued (interpreted from Ewe, the local language, into English) and, after some time, permission was granted. An enthusiastic group of guides soon assembled. And that is why it was rather late in the day when we finally began our journey up the mountain.

I have since visited this community and its sacred forest a second time (arriving earlier on that occasion and ascending in the daylight) and am continuing to learn about local people’s relationship with this cultural landscape, including the customary law and practices governing their use of the forest and surrounding farmlands. And in May 2018, at the invitation of the village leaders, I will return for a third visit: this time to help launch a collaborative project to empower the community and several partners to map the boundaries of the sacred forest, drawing on traditional knowledge.

View of Volta Lakes from just below a sacred forest in the Togo range of Ghana. Photo: Jessica Brown, 2016


These stewardship practices at the local level do not exist in a vacuum: policies at the national level are critical to their being sustained over the long term. Over a decade ago, when Ghana passed legislation in support of Community Resource Environmental Management Areas, it created the kind of enabling policy environment that is so important to fostering community-led stewardship of the country’s special landscapes. With this legislation in place, the prospects are greatly improved that traditional governance of the sacred groves found throughout Ghana, as well as other areas under community stewardship, will continue to thrive.

“Stewardship practices at the local level do not exist in a vacuum: policies at the national level are critical to their

being sustained over the long term.”

This living example of community-led stewardship of a special landscape is paralleled at sites throughout Ghana—as it is in myriad (bio)cultural landscapes and seascapes all over the world.

I offer this story of my visit to the sacred grove because it represents one small step in my own personal journey of seeking to understand, more deeply, the interlinkages between nature and culture, and the fundamental role of communities in stewardship. This journey has played out over two decades, in part through my involvement in global conservation networks such as the World Commission on Protected Areas of the International Union for Conservation of Nature (where I chair the Specialist Group on Protected Landscapes) and also through more recent collaborations with the other two advisory bodies to the World Heritage Convention, the International Council on Monuments and Sites (ICOMOS) and the International Centre for the Study of the Preservation and Restoration of Cultural Property (ICCROM). It is likewise inextricable from my work with the New England Biolabs Foundation, whose mission is to support communities in stewardship of landscapes and seascapes and the associated biocultural diversity. As someone originally trained in nature conservation, I have found this to be an endlessly intriguing and challenging pursuit. And, so it seems, the journey continues.

In rural communities of Ghana, traditional authorities play an important role in the governance of natural resources and stewardship of sacred natural sites, such as forests. Photo: Jessica Brown, 2016


Journeys Along the Nature-Culture Continuum

Like many of my colleagues, I have long been troubled by the nature–culture divide in conservation planning and practice. While things are slowly changing in the world of heritage conservation (by which I mean natural, as well as cultural, heritage), the divide persists—embedded as it is in many protected area designations and conceptual planning models and further reinforced by public policies, the delegation of institutional responsibilities, and the allocation of resources.

“Bridging the nature–culture gap is critical to making protected areas of all kinds relevant to people and

meeting future conservation challenges.”

Bridging the nature–culture gap is critical to making protected areas of all kinds relevant to people and meeting future conservation challenges. We risk ignoring the “full value of parks,” as Dave Harmon and Allen Putney reminded us in their 2003 publication, unless we embrace a diverse array of values—natural as well as cultural and, with respect to cultural values,

tangible as well as intangible—in protected areas planning, designation, and management.

And yet, the reality we actually inhabit transcends these divisions; the bridge between nature and culture is all around us. The landscape and seascape (or “waterscape”) are, after all, both source and expression of the biocultural diversity of life. As Adrian Phillips has written, “Landscape is a meeting ground—a place where nature and culture are intertwined—and a place that holds the past and the present, as well as tangible and intangible values.” Why, then, are integrative approaches not the norm?

These days, we find ourselves speaking more frequently of journeys of discovery along the nature–culture continuum. Calls to adopt more integrative, biocultural approaches to conservation are being taken up in the planning of major conferences and other joint initiatives. Notably, this has involved collaboration among key institutions from both the “nature” and “culture” sides of the spectrum, including the International Union for Conservation of Nature (IUCN), ICOMOS, ICCROM, and the United Nations Educational, Scientific, and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) World Heritage Centre. It has included prominent thematic streams at a few recent, major international conferences: for example, the “Nature–Culture Journey” that was part of IUCN’s 2016 World Conservation Congress in

The Sian Ka’an Biosphere Reserve and World Heritage Site encompasses diverse coastal and marine environments, including sandy beaches, rocky beaches, sand dunes, mangroves, shallow bays, and coral reefs. Photo: Jessica Brown, 2015


Hawai’i, and the more recent “Culture–Nature Journey” embedded in ICOMOS’s General Assembly in Delhi in late 2017. Looking ahead, when the United States Committee for ICOMOS convenes its annual symposium at the end of this year, it will carry forward the culture–nature theme as being central to more effective conservation in a changing world.

“These days, we find ourselves speaking more frequently of journeys of discovery along the

nature–culture continuum.”

These gatherings have provided a needed space within which to deepen the dialogue and exchange among a widening group of practitioners, researchers, and stewards that find themselves stepping away from one or the other polarities of the nature–culture continuum in search of more holistic approaches. Following the IUCN Congress, Nora Mitchell, Brenda Barrett, and I brought out a compilation of essays on the theme of Nature–Culture Journeys: Exploring Shared Terrain (published as a special issue of the George Wright Society’s journal, The George Wright Forum) that reflect on what this journey means to each of us. In explorations of the “entangled dimensions” of nature and culture, the importance of place attachment, and how the nature–culture divide manifests—and is bridged—in World Heritage, the authors illuminate new directions in this ongoing process.

The View from World HeritageArguably, in the case of World Heritage these nature–culture

divisions are magnified, and at the same time, the conditions are enhanced for their potential reconciliation. The World Heritage Convention presents a tremendous opportunity to advance integrated approaches to conservation, bringing together as it does natural and cultural heritage within one international instrument. Forty-five years since its adoption, however, challenges remain. Letícia Leitão observed (in her contribution to the aforementioned compilation of essays) that “a truly integrated consideration of these two dimensions is yet to be conceived. For most of the Convention’s history, cultural and natural heritage have been conceptualized and implemented as parallel but largely separate worlds.”

“The World Heritage Convention presents a tremendous opportunity to advance integrated approaches to

conservation, bringing together as it does natural and cultural heritage within one international instrument.”

Importantly, however, the World Heritage Convention continues to evolve. Writing in the same compilation, Peter Bille Larsen and Gamini Wijesuriya argued that, although the divide has persisted, the momentum is now building for approaches to World Heritage that embrace the interconnections between nature and culture. They describe a number of parallel developments. As the convention has spread beyond its European mainstays, there is now a broadening array of World Heritage sites whose heritage values and attributes defy narrow conceptions of nature and culture. Further, there has been a shift in thinking in both the nature and culture fields away from ideas of “freezing heritage as ‘static’ values and

attributes to one of recognizing heritage as dynamic, interrelated, and complex.” And what constitutes “heritage expertise” is being understood much more broadly and inclusively, as expressed here by Larsen and Wijesuriya:

“A growing critique from civil society, not least Indigenous peoples, also underlines the need to shift from heritage as an exclusive expert domain towards one building on local community perspectives and values that often defy narrow nature–culture distinctions. Where nature conservation just a few decades ago was dominated by natural scientists and management experts, it today includes Indigenous and local community voices often stressing interlinkages through local knowledge, livelihood practices, and age-old landscape connections. In many cultural sites, the significance of natural values and local socio-environmental dynamics are equally gaining importance.”

Alongside those described above, a number of developments over the past decade or so have set the stage for integration of nature and culture and for more inclusive approaches that engage Indigenous peoples and local communities in stewardship of World Heritage. One important development was the 2007 decision to include Community as the “fifth C” in the strategic objectives of the World Heritage Convention (complementing those of Credibility, Conservation, Capacity-building, and Communication), thereby explicitly recognizing the important role of communities in conservation of World Heritage sites. This decision, taken at the thirty-first session of the World Heritage Committee in 2007 in New Zealand, reflects an increasing demand for community engagement at all stages of the World Heritage process and for rights-based approaches that link conservation and sustainable development. In parallel, the emergence of the governance concept in protected areas has provided an important framework for recognizing and supporting the vital role that Indigenous peoples and local communities play in stewardship. Finally, an emphasis on achieving management effectiveness in all kinds of protected areas, including World Heritage sites, has highlighted the need to forge strong partnerships with communities.

“There is an increasing demand for community engagement at all stages of the World Heritage process and for rights-based approaches that link conservation

and sustainable development.”

An earlier milestone was the 1992 inclusion of the cultural landscapes category within the framework of the convention. The revision of the World Heritage Operational Guidelines to include this category, recognizing outstanding examples of the “combined works of nature and man,” created a new opportunity to inscribe sites that embody the interactions between humans and nature and contain diverse tangible and intangible values.

Connecting Practice One promising example of an effort to bridge the nature–culture

divide in World Heritage practice on the ground is Connecting Practice, a joint initiative of IUCN and ICOMOS to explore a more genuinely integrated consideration of natural and cultural heritage under the


convention. Specifically, the project aims to “explore, learn and create new methods of recognition and support for the interconnected character of the natural, cultural and social value of highly significant land and seascapes and affiliated biocultural practices.” It does this, in part, by bringing together interdisciplinary teams, drawn from different parts of the nature–culture spectrum, for joint missions at World Heritage sites. While each assignment involves unique objectives, all of the teams are tasked with exploring the cultural and natural heritage of these sites, while teasing out their “entangled dimensions.”

In early 2015, I was fortunate to participate in one of the Connecting Practice teams undertaking a mission to Sian Ka’an Biosphere Reserve and World Heritage Site on Mexico’s Yucatán Peninsula. Our team was composed of two “nature” people and two “culture” people, though it soon became evident that none of us fit neatly into one or the other categories. Not surprisingly, our interests were much broader, underpinned by a desire to find ways to approach our work more holistically. We arrived at our mission site eager to get to know the Sian Ka’an landscape and seascape and find those entangled dimensions!

Our assignment in Sian Ka’an opened our eyes to a key challenge in World Heritage: managing for multiple values beyond those recognized for their Outstanding Universal Value (OUV). This can be particularly challenging for World Heritage sites designated in the early days of the Convention. Inscribed as World Heritage in 1987, Sian Ka’an was listed for natural criteria only because these features were the ones identified as rising to the level of OUV. This has posed various challenges in taking an integrated approach to nature and culture in site management. Sian Ka’an’s natural values are many: exceptional biodiversity, and an intricate system of rivers, lagoons, and sinkholes called cenotes. Sian

Ka’an encompasses 110 kilometers of the Meso-American Barrier Reef and associated marine and coastal ecosystems, including extensive areas of mangroves and wetlands.

The current World Heritage designation does not explicitly include the site’s archaeological features, as these were not thought to represent OUV. These features include several Maya temples—dramatic evidence of that ancient civilization—but also subtler human-made features, such as canals and the ancient sacbe paths that traverse the forest. These cultural features were somehow invisible to the original evaluators and, therefore, ignored in the nomination document, as was the vibrant contemporary culture still evident in nearby Maya communities.

“Sian Ka’an’s cultural features were somehow invisible to the original World Heritage evaluators and,

therefore, ignored in the nomination document, as was the vibrant contemporary culture still evident

in nearby Maya communities.”

Indeed, it was within these contemporary Maya communities, and within the broader landscape and seascape just outside the boundaries of the Sian Ka’an World Heritage Site, that our Connecting Practice team found nature–culture connections being made most actively. During our mission, we saw projects that keep alive traditional knowledge of medicinal plants and pass along stories to younger generations, livelihood initiatives drawing on traditional practices of beekeeping and farming, and efforts to promote local gastronomy based on heirloom varieties of crops.

A curandera in the community of Señor explains the medicinal qualities of a vine. A number of projects are promoting the revival of traditional ecological knowledge and transfer to

younger generations in communities near Sian Ka’an. Photo: Jessica Brown, 2015

A COMPACT project on carbon capture has supported Indigenous communities, such as the Ejido de Felipe Carrillo Puerto, in forest stewardship in the landscape around Sian Ka’an.

Photo: Omar Martinez Castillo, 2011


Jessica Brown is Executive Director of the New England Biolabs Foundation, whose mission is to foster stewardship of biocultural landscapes and seascapes. She has three decades of experience with community-based conservation, having worked in countries of Africa, the Caribbean, Mesoamerica, Andean South America, Central and Eastern Europe, and the Balkans. She chairs the Protected Landscapes Specialist Group of IUCN’s World Commission on Protected Areas.

Further ReadingBrown, J., & Hay-Edie, T. (2014). Engaging Local Communities in Stewardship of World Heritage: A Methodology Based on the COMPACT Experience. World Heritage Paper No. 40. Paris, France: UNESCO World Heritage Centre.

Harmon, D., & Putney, A. D. (2003). The Full Value of Parks: From Economics to the Intangible. Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield.

Mitchell, N., Brown, J., & Barrett, B. (Eds.). (2017). Nature–Culture Journeys: Exploring Shared Terrain (Thematic Issue of The George Wright Forum). Retrieved from http://www.georgewright.org/node/15366

Ortsin, G. (2015). Ecological and socio-cultural resilience in managing traditional sacred landscapes in the coastal savannah ecosystem of Ghana. In K. Taylor, A. St. Clair, & N. Mitchell (Eds.), Conserving Cultural Landscapes Challenges and New Directions (pp. 129–143). New York, NY: Routledge.

Phillips, A. (2005). Landscape as a meeting ground: Category V protected landscapes/seascapes and world heritage cultural landscapes. In J. Brown, N. Mitchell, & M. Beresford (Eds.), The Protected Landscape Approach: Linking Nature, Culture and Community (pp. 19–36). Gland, Switzerland: IUCN World Commission on Protected Areas.

These and many other projects linking livelihoods and conservation in the communities near Sian Ka’an have been supported by the COMPACT (Community Management of Protected Areas for Conservation) initiative of the United Nations Development Programme/Global Environmental Facility (in partnership with the UNESCO World Heritage Center and the United Nations Foundation) through community facilitation, small grants, capacity-building, and networking among project leaders. With extensive on-the-ground experience at World Heritage sites in diverse regions, COMPACT has developed a participatory method for engaging local communities in the conservation and shared governance of World Heritage and other globally significant protected areas. As a consultant with SGP over the past several years, I have had the opportunity to visit COMPACT projects not only in Sian Ka’an but in several other of the initiative’s target landscapes, including Mount Kenya, Mount Kilimanjaro, and the Meso-American Barrier Reef Reserve System of Belize, and to support recent work in collaboration with the UNESCO World Heritage Centre to adapt and replicate the COMPACT model at new sites.

At the time of our Connecting Practice mission in Sian Ka’an, Julio Moure, the COMPACT local coordinator, was working with communities and partners such as the Maya Intercultural University on projects to sustain Mayan language and culture, including recovery of native seed stock, reviving the use of natural dyes for handicrafts, and the production of bilingual manuals (in Spanish and Yucateq Maya) presenting traditional ecological knowledge in formats relying on images, symbolic representations, and legends. We learned of a carbon capture project involving a Maya community in the Ejido de Felipe Carillo Puerto and of another effort linking five ejidos (communal farms sanctioned by the state) to improve forest conservation and secure timber certification within a 200,000-ha area. We spent a morning kayaking with a group of women who are training to be tour guides in the canals, rivers, and wetlands of Sian Ka’an and who wove local stories and traditional knowledge of the plants and animals we were seeing into their interpretation of this waterscape.

Recently, in a session of the ICOMOS Scientific Symposium in late 2017, I had the opportunity to reflect on the experience of our Connecting Practice team in Sian Ka’an and what it had taught us about bridging the nature–culture divide to adopt more integrated approaches to conservation. Among the take-home lessons from that mission were these simple observations: a) World Heritage offers an excellent framework within which to explore how we can better bring together nature and culture, conceptually as well as in on-the-ground conservation practice in all kinds of landscapes and seascapes; b) we need to work together—and we can! It’s a matter of creating the opportunities and “setting the table” for collaborative work, such as through the opportunities offered by the Connecting Practice initiative; c) by working together, not only are we able to better understand each other’s perspectives but we are also sometimes able to jointly tease out new problems and opportunities that might have been ignored had we been working alone; and d) particularly when the disciplinary and institutional divides are deeply entrenched, however, this process inevitably takes time and patience. Real progress will require engagement by a broader group of actors than just the World Heritage advisory bodies, of course. It will require investment by donors. It will rely on the engagement of a diverse array of institutions, ranging from government bodies to academic institutions, to NGOs, to community-led institutions responsible for the traditional governance of natural and cultural heritage.

Within this latter group are found those responsible for the day-to-day stewardship of so many of the world’s landscapes and seascapes and of the biocultural diversity found in these places. These contemporary stewards have much to teach us about connecting nature and culture, as I learned in the landscape surrounding Sian Ka’an and later on the edge of the sacred forest in Ghana. In reflecting on my own nature–culture journey, I am reminded of how often they have been my guides.


BIOCULTURAL CONSERVATION IN YUCATÁN, MEXICO

Can the Cenotes be Saved?

“This is the account of how all was in suspense, all calm, in silence; all motionless, still, and the expanse of the sky was empty. . . . There was nothing standing, only the calm water, the placid sea, alone and tranquil. Nothing existed.”

—Popol Vuh It’s rainy season in Yucatán, in the south of Mexico, and for

more than eight months, a great portion of the water that falls as rain will infiltrate and reach the Maya soils and, sometimes, a stream will disappear into a cave or cenote, recharging the groundwater aquifer. Along with caves and springs, cenotes (from the Mayan word d’zonot, “sinkhole”) are types of karst—a landscape underlain by eroding limestone. Cenotes can vary in size from a very small individual sinkhole to whole interconnected cave systems and can be found both on land and inshore marine areas. In principle, all cenotes in Yucatán are connected; however, it is possible that, due to sedimentation, some cenotes are now isolated because ducts have become filled.

Cenotes are the home of important endemic species; they feed springs and support wetlands; and they provide our water needs. Nevertheless, some environmental problems (such as pollution and biodiversity loss) particularly affect the Ring of Cenotes—a globally important groundwater system, now designated as a World Heritage site by the United Nations Educational, Scientific, and Cultural Organization (UNESCO)—that was created by the Chicxulub meteorite impact sixty-five million years ago. (This is the event that is thought to have caused the extinction of Earth’s dinosaurs.)

“Cenotes are the home of important endemic species; they feed springs and support wetlands; and

they provide our water needs.”

Despite these problems, Indigenous peoples search for personal and spiritual meaning in many cenotes of Yucatán.

Text and Photos by Yolanda

López-Maldonado

Tranquil water typifies the cenotes of Yucatán, Mexico. 2014

42 | LANGSCAPE MAGAZINE SUMMER 2018 Volume 6 Issue 2 | 42

Most of the rural communities in Yucatán depend, directly or indirectly, on groundwater resources derived from the more than two thousand cenotes. Beekeepers, farmers, Maya elders, women, children—all of them are the direct local resource users and are also responsible for taking care of and protecting the cenotes.

Yes, I Am an Idealist: I Am a Maya WomanSacred natural sites are areas of land or water having special

spiritual significance to peoples and communities and may include mountains, hills, forests, groves, rivers, lakes, lagoons, islands, springs, and caves. They are the oldest protected areas of the planet, constitute

Local wells (pozos) are used to extract water from the cenotes. 2014

Sacred cenote in Chichen Itza, Yucatán. 2017


biodiversity hotspots, and are useful for conservation. However, sacred natural sites are subject to a wide range of threats, including culture change, which can lead to loss of spiritual values that safeguard them. Protecting sacred sites is especially critical in Indigenous communities, as these places constitute sources of cultural identity.

Yucatán is an area with many places of cultural and environmental significance, most of them water related, including traditional sacred natural sites such as springs, landscapes. and caves, as well as human-made monuments. The Maya, one of the ancient cultures that developed in the region, have a particular worldview related to the use of the cenotes as a source of freshwater.

As an academic woman, through science I learned that freshwater represents an important life-sustaining resource. As a Maya woman, I was taught about the importance and the sacredness of life, and this has instilled in me an extreme curiosity about and feeling of awe for nature. Born and raised in Yucatán from a Maya background, I directed my efforts to caring about what surrounds me: water.

Due to the universality of water, however, I strongly believe that this is not only a question of science, since there is enough evidence of the importance of water management to past and present societies—of which the Maya of Yucatán are one example. The Maya developed a complex system of water management dependent on water collection and storage devices. The hydraulic system was tailored to local biophysical conditions and adaptively engineered to the evolving needs of a growing population. But, most importantly, my cultural group has a particular cosmology, worldview, and traditional ecological knowledge related to water that has been handed down through generations.

“As an academic woman, I learned that freshwater is a life-sustaining resource. As a Maya woman, I was taught

about the importance and sacredness of life.”

My interest in cultural issues is closely linked to my background. I grew up in a small community in Yucatán, where dramatic ecological,

Bringing Indigenous knowledge back into the hands of my community. 2015


social, and cultural changes have been taking place ever since the Spanish conquest. These events played a major role in accelerating the assimilation of Maya people into the “non-Indigenous population,” which included a decrease in the use, continuity, and preservation of our traditions.

“For me, the exchange of cultural information and histories with my mother re-affirmed my identity and was

an empowering, as well as a grounding, experience.”

From a young age, I regularly visited cenotes with my mother. Some days the weather was so warm that we were ready to enter and swim in the cenotes located around my community. However, before entering the cave we had to ask for permission from the spirits living in there. We did the same every day that we visited the cenotes. For me, the exchange of cultural information and histories with my mother re-affirmed my identity and was an empowering, as well as a grounding,

experience. My vision since those times is to support conservation of cenotes by respecting Maya wisdom.

Over the years, I also realized that the importance of the water to the Maya is simple: everything is related to water and the underworld, where supernatural beings live, where the souls of the dead go, and where ancestors reside. Historically, practices and culture were oriented toward water in general and rainfall in particular. Archaeological sites with such evidence are signs of long-term spiritual connection and cultural importance. This suggests that the cenotes in the Maya area were culturally valued and respected in the past.

For the contemporary Maya of Yucatán, the situation is different. Cenotes are commercially used primarily for tourism and agriculture, despite the evidence everywhere of the ancient sacredness of groundwater in the Yucatán. Many of the cenotes contained ancient Maya pottery, fire pits, and human and animal remains below the water table, but some of them are now contaminated and degraded. Sacredness appears to be understood by some of the population, but

A Maya elder during our visit to the cenotes. 2014


certainly not all. Some believe that cenotes are the abode of deities and spirits and understand that cenotes were primarily used for rituals in the past. Through disempowerment and dispossession brought about by colonization, however, it has become difficult for Indigenous peoples to relate to their environment.

As a way to support community initiatives by Indigenous peoples to revitalize their culture, preserve traditional knowledge, and safeguard the future of cenotes as important cultural and spiritual places, I decided to enroll in a PhD program and started a research project on cenotes in 2013. PhD projects related to hydrological aspects of nature can be based on scientific papers and adopt many forms, but most of them tend to exclude the cultural values and knowledge of Indigenous people. From the beginning, I felt that embarking on a PhD was an opportunity to give voice to my ancestors. This motivated me to develop and build relationships with Indigenous people and local communities in Yucatán and to take part in a process of coproduction of knowledge, so that I could share the knowledge and skills that I learned during my PhD studies throughout community events, workshops, and activities with youth. This was a pivotal moment in my journey to becoming a guardian of our sacred natural sites.

“From the beginning, I felt that embarking on a PhD was an opportunity to give voice to my ancestors.”

My work was guided by Maya elders, mentors, and local community members who, through their knowledge and along with the incorporation of scientific findings, allowed me to contribute towards cenote conservation. My goal was to help to revitalize Maya Indigenous knowledge to preserve sacred natural sites through the emotional involvement of the Maya with the environment.

Cultural and Spiritual Values of CenotesThe Maya have survived for millennia by using and managing their

groundwater resources. Cenotes were sacred sites and important elements for survival during the dry season. They played a major role in religion, politics, and subsistence; provided fish, clay for pottery, and stalactites to build altars; and were associated with rituals and ceremonies. They were thus set aside as religious sites, as places inhabited by spirits. Cenotes needed to be culturally protected, and evidence of this can be found throughout the entire Maya zone. Although local people value and have some knowledge about the resource, they continue to have a heavy impact on it.

By bridging natural and social sciences with the knowledge held by the Indigenous people and by developing actions with different groups, through carefully planned local projects, and cooperation, I believe that it is possible to protect cenotes and to work together for a better ecosystem.

Learning from the PastCulture and traditions from the past and current knowledge can

be brought together to increase the range of knowledge available to address some of the problems. For example, groundwater use in the Maya region has depended on an intimate knowledge of

the resource. Nowadays, the population still practices some water-oriented ceremonies, but values, beliefs, and meanings regarding cenotes’ sacredness seem to have declined. Although some ancient Maya Indigenous beliefs still exist, cenotes have been suffering from this erosion of values. Naturally there is always cultural change and thus the loss of some values, changing the ways in which groundwater is used, but these values can also change still further—toward conservation. Such changes would necessarily involve deliberation and mutual learning among the people engaged.

But how do the Maya people value the cenotes at present? One way to understand this is through an analysis of how they ascribe meaning to them. For example, when asked, almost all the people in Yucatán believe in spirits and supernatural beings that guard the entrance of the cenotes and caves. Some seemed to know of the ancient institution of cenote guardians, spiritually powerful humans or animals, and mentioned that the guardian of the cenote is a snake: “To be a guardian you have to have knowledge and special powers as X’menes [Maya healers] used to have. No one has it now; it is something which someone was born with” (student, female, 21 years).

They believe that those beings punish people who enter the cenotes without permission. However, there is no agreement regarding current management and what can be done to protect cenotes. Overall, the responses suggest that the link between sacredness and cenotes has been broken, even for some who acknowledged spiritual powers: “I don’t know the cenotes, and I’ve never been into a cave, but I know that there exists some spirit that inhabits there and protects the entrance of the cenote” (student, male, 20 years). Linguistics often provides insights into local perceptions: people in the communities recognize well over twenty ways to characterize “water” in the Mayan language, but they were not able to express the specific concepts of “contaminated water” or “polluted water.” Besides, the majority of the population did not understand that all cenotes are part of a single, interconnected groundwater system and cultural values did not seem to be considered. Thus, with little coordination among users and government, conservation of cenotes is a challenge.

“Cenotes are part of a culture thousands of years old and cannot be managed in isolation from it.”

We cannot ignore people’s strong desire to learn about cenotes, restore cultural practices, and revitalize the values of sacred places, despite the profound sense of loss of local and traditional knowledge (e.g., rainwater harvesting) and a lack of self-recognition as custodians. Confronting those problems means that there is a need for cultural and environmental revitalization and recognition of cenotes as sacred natural sites. Cenotes must be understood as an integral part of the society that uses the resource. Because cenotes are interconnected through the groundwater basin, they cannot be managed as isolated entities. Similarly, cenotes are part of a culture thousands of years old and cannot be managed in isolation from it.


Yolanda López-Maldonado is an Indigenous researcher with experience in freshwater issues and Indigenous peoples. She has focused on social aspects of nature conservation and worked for international organizations in social issues and science fields and has collaborated with communitarian organizations. She is combining natural and social sciences with traditional ecological knowledge that respects Indigenous knowledge.

Further ReadingBerkes, F. (2018). Sacred Ecology (4th ed.). New York, NY: Routledge.

Huntington, E. (1912). The Peninsula of Yucatán. Bulletin of the American Geographical Society, 44, 801–822.

López-Maldonado, Y., Batllori-Sampedro, E., Binder, C., & Fath, B. (2017). Local groundwater balance model: Stakeholders’ efforts to address groundwater monitoring and literacy. Hydrological Sciences Journal, 62(14), 2297–2312. doi:10.1080/02626667.2017.1372857

López-Maldonado, Y., & Berkes, F. (2017). Restoring the environment, revitalizing the culture: Cenote conservation in Yucatán, Mexico. Ecology and Society, 22(7). doi:10.5751/ES-09648-220407

Maffi, L., & Woodley, E. (2010). Biocultural Diversity Conservation: A Global Sourcebook. London, England: Earthscan.

Ceremonial items on the table: the green cross, copal, and the traditional beverage. 2017


Bringing Traditional Knowledge into the Future

In the villages of the Kalix archipelago in the far north of Sweden, the community-based organization Kustringen is aiming to conserve local and traditional knowledge, practices, and innovations related to fishing and archipelago life in general. The archipelago lies in the Bothnian Bay, the northernmost part of the Baltic Sea. Learning from our elders and bringing their knowledge to future generations is a lifeline and a great part of the identity of our small communities. New laws and regulations challenge the possibilities of carrying on our valued traditional fishing practices, which are closely linked to our identity and quality of life. If we lose this, part of our soul and our connectedness as communities may be lost. Our struggles to get a degree of local governance have long been neglected by the regional and national authorities. We ask ourselves what it is that makes “scientific” knowledge more accepted and valued than local, traditional knowledge that builds on the communities’ experiences, observations, and practices from our lives in the archipelago’s landscapes for hundreds, even thousands, of years.

Above: Jenny Lundbäck and Joakim Boström fishing at sunrise in the Bothnian Bay. Photo: Roland Stenman, 2016

Left: Map of areas with high and low intensity of by-catches of sea trout as documented by the local Kalix fishers in Kustringen. Kustringen proposes that the fishing prohibition could be lifted in the areas with few sea trout

by-catches without affecting the sea trout population.

Biocultural Heritage in Fishing Villages

IN THE FAR NORTH OF SWEDEN

Joakim Boström, Anna-Märta Henriksson, and Marie Kvarnström


For the five Kalix villages of Påläng, Ryssbält, Storön, Nyborg, and Ytterbyn, the traditional customs and practices of our ancestors in living from sea and land are still very much part of our lives. In the past, fishing was a must for life in these villages. The fish, together with seal hunting and small-scale farming, provided the means for people to live quite well. The knowledge of the fishers of the past, inherited over many generations, about where and when to fish, how the different fish species moved with the seasons, how to read wind, sea, and ice, and much more was almost inexhaustible.

“The knowledge of the fishers of the past, inherited over many generations, about where

and when to fish was almost inexhaustible.”

Wherever you go in the coastal villages along the Bothnian Bay, you find traces of fishing. Some are historical remnants with a nostalgic or museum status, but many ports, fishing camps, sheds, and boats are still in use today, similar to those used for centuries. Near the fishing villages along the coast, you can often find stone mazes, in the local language called trombolistáns, some of them dating from the thirteenth century. Their use is surrounded by mystery and speculation; maybe they were used in ceremonies to appease weather, winds, fishes, or gods.

While the fishers of the Bothnian Bay were mostly men, the women in the fisher families took care of the catch, an important component of which was herring. They and their children gutted the herring, and later their husbands made hard salted or fermented herring, important food for the winter.

Over the last half-century, the fisher families discovered that roe from the small fish vendace could be sold as a delicacy. The women developed a process for preparing the roe, which had to be cleaned from blood and scales. This was a tricky business—each fish yields only three to five grams of the precious roe. The women realized that one has to flush the roe quickly with a lot of water and then let it dry without damaging the tiny granules. They tested different materials for the holders to dry the roe and eventually found a kind of nylon that had the right structure. The next problem for the women to solve was to determine the best temperature to dry the roe. Those experiments still form the basis for preparing the vendace roe from Kalix today, which is sold at prices of up to 3800 SEK (Swedish kronor) per kilo. Since 2010, Kalix Löjrom, the caviar of Kalix, has been accorded the Protected Designation

of Origin (PDO) status issued by the European Union as a geographical indication of the origin of traditional specialty products; it is the only Swedish product with PDO status. Kalix Löjrom is often served at royal dinners and at the Nobel Prize banquets. The roe preparation is still very much a traditional family business, and it is common to have three generations of family members working together to produce this delicacy.

“The roe preparation is still very much a traditional family business, and it is common to have three generations of

family members working together to produce this delicacy.”

Fishing in the archipelago is still a vital part of life for most people, as is being out in the forests to pick berries and mushrooms or hunt moose or small game. The villages’ fishing waters are not divided between individual owners but shared in community associations. Each fishing rights holder gets to use the different fishing spots according to a system unique to each village, which can be based on auctioning of spots for limited periods or on rotational systems.

Two voices summarize what fishing means to people in the villages: “Fishing gives an incredible sense of freedom. Being out at sea and

catching fish that can be gutted, salted, and grilled over the fire brings peace to the soul. We have lived from fish since times immemorial, and the fish are in our genes. Some words that summarize its importance: freedom, joy, friendship, happiness, fatigue. The list can be made long and includes joy, hard work, and sorrow.”

“Fishing gives an incredible sense of freedom. Being out at sea and catching fish that can be gutted, salted, and grilled

over the fire brings peace to the soul.”

“The significance of fishing can, to some extent, be compared to being able to go out and pick berries or mushrooms in the woods, to be able to retrieve resources from nature to the household. It is our culture, our past and present, it is something that gives us identity and togetherness. Being able to fish for the household needs also has an economic aspect, and it is environmentally more sustainable compared to buying fish in the store, which has been transported long distances.”

Brothers Sven and Henning Olofsson from Storön, Kalix, on a seal hunt in the southern part of Bothnian Bay in the 1930s. Photo: Gustaf or Knut Olofsson, 1930s

The know-how of when, where, and how to fish in the Kalix archipelago has been transferred from generation to generation. In this photo from the 1950s, Einar and Sven

Olofsson have caught so much vendace that they had to skip a day of moose hunting to take care of the catch. Photo: Jan-Olav Innergård, 1950s


In recent decades, new challenges to maintaining our biocultural riches have emerged for fishers in the Kalix archipelago. They are of two kinds: new fishing regulations and the growing number of seals.

In 2006, a Swedish law was enacted that prohibits fishing in Bothnian Bay waters less than three meters deep between April 1st and June 10th and between October 1st and December 31st. The purpose was to protect the sea trout population in the area. Suddenly, fishing was prohibited in large areas where it had been a vital part of the local household economy and way of life for many generations. The traditional artisanal fishing for whitefish, perch, and pike during spring and autumn is now almost extinct, since the prohibition periods coincide with the main traditional fishing periods.

And then in 2009, the European Union introduced a law that bans all selling of fish and fish products from the sea without a professional fishing license. This means that our community members in the Kalix archipelago can no longer sell surplus fish unless we acquire a professional fishing license, a process which is costly, complicated, and uncertain of approval.

“Community members in the Kalix archipelago can no longer sell our surplus fish unless we acquire a professional fishing license, a process which is costly, complicated, and

uncertain of approval.”

The other “new” challenge is the return of the seals. For centuries in the past, seals were an important source of food, pelts, and oil for local communities in Kalix. Even today, there are people from the older generation who can tell stories about seals and seal hunting and share their traditional knowledge about how to use the seal as a valuable resource, and this is very much part of the local intangible biocultural heritage.

During the 1960s, the seal populations in the Baltic Sea declined sharply as a result of contamination by industrial chemicals such as PCBs and DDT. The seals became almost extinct, and in 1974 seal hunting was banned. Over time, the waters of the Baltic Sea became gradually less polluted, and in the 1990s the seal populations started to increase again. Today, there are so many gray seals (Halichoerus grypus) and ringed seals (Pusa hispida) in the Bothnian Bay that traditional fishing with nets is virtually impossible in many areas. The seals gather around our boats as soon as we lower the nets into the water, and they immediately start eating the fish from the nets. The local communities have alerted researchers and politicians that there is an acute problem with the unmanaged seal population. What will happen if the seal populations continue with the same explosive rate of growth? Will there be diseases, famine, or fish stocks that collapse?

As a result of the recent challenges, many people in the coastal communities are experiencing a loss of connection with their local landscape and seascape and a loss of quality of life. The knowledge and storytelling around fishing, and the possibility to fish for the household and for parts of the family income, have joined people together for many generations. As a response, fishers in the villages Påläng,

Ryssbält, Storön, Nyborg, and Ytterbyn have formed a local association, Kustringen (the Coastal Ring) and started to work together to document local knowledge and seek a dialogue with the local, regional, and national authorities on possibilities for local comanagement of our local fisheries to preserve our biocultural heritage.

“The knowledge and storytelling around fishing, and the possibility to fish for the household and for parts

of the family income, have joined people together for many generations.”

In a World Wildlife Fund-sponsored mapping project by Kustringen, around forty local fishers mapped our collective knowledge about fishing. We provided information on fishing sites, species abundance, seasonality of fishing, and so on based on memory and documentation from the 1950s until the present. We also collected photos and stories related to fishing. One important result is a map of areas where by-catches of sea trout have been frequent and areas where little or no trout have been caught over the years. In the areas having no by-catches of sea trout, we propose that the fishing ban be lifted and that Kustringen be given the mandate to provide data on the status of fish stocks over time. The professional coastal fishers in the area have regional self-management of fishing quotas, in consultation with the Swedish Agency for Marine and Water Management and supported by research done by the Swedish University of Agricultural Sciences. This could be a useful model for the authorities to consider in development of similar comanagement for the small-scale artisanal and household fishers in the Kalix archipelago.

“Government authorities and academics need to learn to meet the local natural resource users as equals, take into account our local and traditional knowledge, and

listen to what we have to say.”

Kustringen has tried to initiate dialogue with local, regional, and national authorities, but their response has not been very encouraging so far in spite of several meetings held. The members of Kustringen believe that our government authorities and academics need to learn to meet the local natural resource users as equals, take into account our local and traditional knowledge, and listen to what we have to say. They need to realize that laws, paragraphs, statistics, and research are not always the only ways to create long-term sustainable management of biodiversity and ecosystems. What local resource users have to say is not schemes to maximize personal benefits, but knowledge that has enabled people to live and manage their natural resources in a sustainable way for many generations. We continue to organize workshops where government representatives and scientific organizations are invited to meet with the local communities for mutual exchange of knowledge. In spring 2018, Kustringen will invite seal researchers and county administrative board representatives to discuss options to deal with the current problems associated with growing seal populations. Some seal researchers have started to listen to the local fishers, which is a good sign.


Over the years, Kustringen has collaborated with the Swedish Biodiversity Centre at the Swedish University of Agricultural Sciences. Here, a few researchers were mandated by the government to support the continued use of traditional ecological knowledge for the benefit of future generations. Their work is linked to a growing international recognition of the importance of traditional ecological knowledge, and they find Kustringen’s work very valuable.

Some of the villages also have their own community initiatives for dialogue. Every year in July, the village of Storön celebrates the Day of

the Fish, and this year Storön’s community center will organize a panel discussion about fishing traditions and the rules that have hampered the use and transfer of local traditional knowledge. The moderator is a well-known Swedish TV journalist, born in the area, and there will be panelists from fishers’ organizations, as well as politicians and researchers.

Local and traditional knowledge should be an important part of life and identity for every society. Passing on such knowledge unites people, land, and sea and makes us feel at home.

Joakim Boström is a navigating officer on an ice-breaker in the Bothnian Bay, chairman of the community-based organization Kustringen, and an active household fisher.

Anna-Märta Henriksson was born and lives on Storön in the Kalix archipelago. She is alderman of Storön and interested in fishing and local culture.

Marie Kvarnström is a biologist at the Swedish Biodiversity Centre, Uppsala.

Joakim, Anna-Märta, and Marie are passionate about passing on local traditional knowledge to future generations.

Further ReadingHenriksson, A-M. (2011). Säljakt, säljägare, episoder. Retrieved from http://www.storon.se/saljakt.php (In Swedish)

Kvarnström, M., & Boström, J. (2018). Biodiversity, ecosystems, local knowledge and customary use in the Kalix archipelago. In H. Tunón (Ed.), Nordic IPBES-like Assessment of Biodiversity and Ecosystem Services in Coastal Ecosystems (pp. 29–61). Case Areas, TemaNord: 2018:532. Copenhagen, Denmark: Nordic Council of Ministers.

Nilsson, P., & Tivell, A. (2011). Ecomapping i Kustringen: Kunskap är makt – Lokal kunskap och lokalt inflytande. Retrieved from https://www.slu.se/globalassets/ew/org/centrb/cbm/dokument/publikationer-cbm/cbm-skriftserie/skrift56.pdf

Axelia Henriksson, the granddaughter of

Anna-Märta Henriksson and a new-generation fisher.

Photo: Anna-Märta Henriksson, 2014


“What is it that one has in one’s dwelling place, that until you dance with it, it does not work for you?”

“The broom.”—Traditional St. Lucian Tim Tim riddle

Latanyé brooms (brooms made from the indigenous palm Coccothrinax barbadensis, locally known as Latanyé) have been around in St. Lucia for a long time. Their origin is shrouded in legend, which situates their invention in ancient times. The ancestors would use their hands, or at best sticks and branches, to clean their dwellings and surrounding areas—until women started bunching twigs together and discovered that it worked better, and finally one of them dreamed of using the Latanyé palm, which would be far more durable and efficient.

Through continued experimentation, people began to add vertical sticks to the Latanyé brooms so that one could sweep standing. They developed a special sweeping motion that evolved into a unique “sweeping dance,” which was practiced as a form of “entertainment exercise” during housework and was transmitted across generations.

The sweeping dance occurs out of necessity to get the job done. Your willing partner (the broom) may inspire you to move in a brisk rhythmic or energetic motion, and your alignment with it will determine the pace and the harmony of your movements. Your dance can be swift and enjoyable if your partner is light and can shuffle well around the corners, or it can be slow and painstaking if it ’s heavy and ungainly and your steps are hard to negotiate. Your dance may involve multilateral movements while negotiating the corners or resemble a fusion of motions similar to those deployed in the game of curling. On the other hand, it also includes swirling, spiraling, and dwindling while

Laurent Jean Pierre

Sweeping DanceThe

Artistic lacing of the Latanyé palm to the broom handle. Photo: Nadge Augustin, 2017

CULTURAL REVIVAL, ENVIRONMENTAL CONSERVATION,AND THE ART OF BROOM-MAKING IN ST. LUCIA

stroking into several directions at diverse angles sweeping out dirt and dust above and beneath.

Broom making itself evolved into a specialized craft and industry in St. Lucia, providing brooms for domestic use and beyond. The art of weaving the Latanyé palm, with or without a broomstick, is as practical as it is artsy and personal. There are two main ways of weaving the palm leaves: one is to fasten them to a stick or handle, and the other is to create handles for hand-held brooms without sticks. Broom handles give one a firmer grip and better control during the sweeping exercise and/or dance. With the stick attached, on the other hand, the user does not have to stoop during sweeping and has a longer reach to make sweeping easier. The weaving can be simple, but with time it evolved into a special artistic display. Each broom maker can trace their own work by the weaving design, in a way similar to a personal signature. The weaving art is unique in that it gives the broom maker a chance to display their specific or peculiar creative designs. Some have of late incorporated colorful ropes to enhance the brooms’ appearance and appeal.

“The sweeping dance occurs out of necessity to get the job done. Your willing partner (the broom) may inspire you to move in a brisk rhythmic or energetic motion.”

The Latanyé palm is found in the wild, only in specific areas (dry coastal cliffs) of difficult access. Initially, sustainable harvesting methods were practiced. With a booming growth of the industry, however, spurred by a rising demand for the brooms and the prospect

of significant profits to be made, harvesting of the palm in the wild, without replanting, became unsustainable.

In 1990, the Latanyé palm was declared a “vulnerable species,” according to the International Union for the Conservation of Nature (IUCN) Red List criteria. Indiscriminate harvesting continued, nevertheless, and led to increasing scarcity of the resource and serious endangerment of the palm species and to a “boom and bust” cycle in the industry. Imported brooms, including synthetic ones, began to be introduced, but they were inferior in quality and “didn’t find the corners,” while they also damaged the furniture because of the coarse material they were made of. Furthermore, the remains of these non-biodegradable brooms began to litter the environment, supplanting the compostable leaf litter from discarded Latanyé brooms.

Latanyé palm.

Anthony Johnny doing the “sweeping dance.” Photos: Laurent Jean Pierre, 2018


Meanwhile, those brooms that were still made locally from Latanyé palm leaves also became inferior, as they were made from immature palm fronds taken from a shrinking wild supply of those palms, and therefore, they disintegrated easily. This unsustainable phase of the sweeping dance continued until people began to develop environmental consciousness and became concerned that the Latanyé species might disappear altogether. They felt that the loss would be not only ecological, but also economic, as an important local craft and industry would disappear. It stands to reason that, whenever the raw material is lost, the art is most likely to disappear too.

People realized that their traditional Latanyé sweeping dance, although superior, was waning and began to look into their heritage for ways to revitalize it. The old saying “New brooms sweep clean, but old brooms know the corners” began to take on new meaning: not only that the traditional Latanyé brooms get suppler as they age

and thus better at “finding the corners,” but also that the traditional brooms are better than the new imported ones—ecologically, economically, and in every other way.

“Traditional Latanyé brooms get suppler as they age and thus better at ‘finding the corners’

and are better than the new imported ones—ecologically, economically, and in every other way.”

The St. Lucia National Trust, a local environmental organization, called attention to the plight of the Latanyé palm by recommending that it be included in a local “endangered trees” series of stamps meant to raise environmental awareness among the population. An assessment of the status of the Latanyé palm species in the wild conducted by the Forestry Department confirmed my research and revealed the extent of the problem.

Donald Slinger harvesting leaves from the Latanyé palm from the wild. Photo: Laurent Jean Pierre, 2001, reproduced digitally by Nadge Augustin, 2017

Above: Carrying Latanyé palm after harvesting from the wild. Photo: Laurent Jean Pierre, 2001, reproduced digitally by Nadge Augustin, 2017

Below: Small dusting brooms and short-handle brooms made from the Latanyé palm (Coccothrinax barbadensis), for sale at a local roadside shop. Photo: Nadge Augustin, 2017


Overharvesting and unsustainable harvesting regimes were pushing the wild stocks farther and farther away from human habitation, making it quite a time-consuming undertaking to go harvest the raw material. Therefore, harvesting was no longer done by artisans themselves but by other gatherers, who did not necessarily practice proper conservation techniques as established by the traditional folk. In recent times, indiscriminate Latanyé palm harvesting had even become a way for a new breed of drug users to make the quick cash they needed to sustain their habit. As a result of these harvesting pressures, the Latanyé was in serious trouble. The conclusion was that the imported brooms had overstayed their welcome and that, according to tradition, people should upend the traditional brooms in a corner of the house to suggest to the overstaying “guests” that it was time to leave!

To promote the need to go local again—to both grow local and buy local—researchers and activists disseminated information about

the cultural values and economic and ecological advantages of the local brooms and expressed the urgent need for conservation, including replanting the palms and enhancing the overall sustainability of the industry.

Then, in 2001, St. Lucia experienced the worst drought in twenty-seven years, which led to the loss of several wild stocks of Latanyé palm that had already been weakened by overharvesting and unsustainable harvesting practices. The Forestry Division and the local community responded to the emergency by establishing trial plots of Latanyé in several areas on the island. That involved collecting and propagating seedlings from wild stock to reforest the depleted wild stock and introducing the plant to new sites, including private and crown lands to make harvesting easier. They successfully embarked on a replanting drive, combined with promotion of proper harvesting techniques that dovetailed traditional sustainable methods with contemporary scientific methods.

Above: Depleted stands of Latanyé palm. Photo: Nadge Augustin, 2018 Below: Imported synthetic brooms contribute to nonbiodegradable litter.

Photo: Nadge Augustin, 2018

A plot of Latanyé palm in cultivation. Photo: Nadge Augustin, 2017


“To promote the need to go local again—to both grow local and buy local—researchers and activists disseminated information about the cultural values

and economic and ecological advantages of the local brooms.”

Farther afield, that same year the plight of the Latanyé was highlighted at the International Congress of Ethnobiology, held at the University of Kent in Canterbury. That included the display of a Latanyé-themed collage artwork by Heather Butcher. Also, I was inspired to embark on an ambitious research project to ascertain the status of local broom-making industries worldwide. In the process, I collected a number of brooms from several countries, which are now housed at the University of Michigan’s Museum of Anthropological Archaeology, USA, in a collection named the Laurent Jean Pierre Broom Collection.

As a result of these efforts, although imported brooms are still in circulation and sold at our markets, the Latanyé broom has regained its rightful place as the dominant product. Latanyé palm is now cultivated by many, especially the broom makers themselves. Traditional harvesting regimes have been revived, resulting in better quality brooms and a revitalized industry.

“Traditional harvesting regimes have been revived, resulting in better quality brooms

and a revitalized industry.”

The palm is now seen growing along roadsides as well as in house gardens, with a dual purpose as both an ornamental and an economic plant. Local observers have indicated that the birds are now active participants in the reforestation process. Thus, the growth of the local broom industry is currently strong. Long live the dream!

A St. Lucia stamp series featuring local endangered trees. The Latanyé palm appears in the stamp at the top of the set of three on the right side. Photo: Nadge Augustin, 2017

Anthony Johnny, a street vendor of brooms. Photo: Nadge Augustin, 2017


Laurent Jean Pierre has worked with local communities on the island of St. Lucia and in the wider Caribbean for over two decades. He helps them address such issues as food security, plant identification and taxonomy, and traditional knowledge documentation. An ethnobotanist by training, he is also a farmer in the St. Lucian community of Bexon.

Further ReadingChristiansen, H. (1999). Perceptions of the Sustainability of Juncus kraussii Harvesting at the Greater St. Lucia Wetland Park (Master’s thesis, University of Kent at Canterbury, UK).

Cunningham, A. B. (1987). Commercial craftwork: Balancing out human needs and resources. South Africa Journal of Biology, 53(4), 259–266.

Cunningham, A. B., & Milton, S. J. (1987). Effects of basket-weaving industry on mokola palm and dye plants in Northwestern Botswana. Economic Botany, 41(3), 386–402.

Davis, D. S., Droop, S. J. M., Gregerson, P., Henson, l., Leon, C. J., Villalobos, J. L., . . . Zantovska, J. (1986). Plants in danger: What do we know? Gland, Switzerland, & Cambridge, England: International Union for Conservation of Nature and Natural Resources.

Howard, R. (1979). Flora of the Lesser Antilles, Leeward and Windward Islands (Vol. 3). Cambridge, MA: Harvard University.

A young woman, Linda Pierre, learning the art of lacing the broom palm to the handle. Photo: Laurent Jean Pierre, 2001, reproduced digitally by Nadge Augustin, 2017

Ethnobotanical art: Laurent Jean Pierre’s Latanyé broom research project captured in collage artwork by Heather Butcher of Kent, Canterbury, UK, 2001. Photo: Nadge Augustin, 2017


Malaysia is a vast country with a mosaic of cultures blending Asian and European influences. Its natural heritage spans rainforests that are home to many species of endemic wildlife, the great heights of its mountains, and seas filled with amazing underwater creatures. I am from Sabah, the Malaysian portion of the island of Borneo, and am a native to my land. I would like to share my own journey of discovery of those who share this land with me.

“My family is a classic example of cultural amalgamation, a blending of cultures to create a new one. Some would

say we were an example of the degradation of our cultures of origin.”

As I was growing up, I often heard those around me proclaim how we live in this alluring Malaysian state with a heterogeneous and culturally diverse population boasting over thirty ethnic groups and more than eighty local dialects. My father, like so many others from his generation, moved away from his kampung (meaning “village” in our national language, Malay) as a young man to seek a successful career for himself, raising his three girls in an urban setting with his West Malaysian wife of

mixed Chinese–Indian descent. As a result, we became a classic example of cultural amalgamation, a blending of cultures to create a new one. Some would say we were an example of the degradation of our cultures of origin. By failing to learn our parents’ native languages, my sisters and I inadvertently undermined their continuity, adding to one of the major threats to traditional knowledge and wisdom.

In 2009, I was introduced to the work of a nonprofit organization invested in protecting biocultural diversity. The Global Diversity Foundation (GDF) first worked on projects in Morocco before expanding to other regions around the world. When I encountered it, the GDF program in Sabah was exploring how protected areas and Indigenous communities could converge to support both biodiversity conservation and sustainable livelihoods. This intrigued me. Biocultural diversity was a relatively new concept to me, one that pushes us to adopt an integrated perspective on the diversity of life and to holistically address the protection of natural and cultural resources. Through an online learning platform created by GDF, I read case after case on how environmental degradation is hastened by social, economic, and political

TALES FROM THE DUSUN OF ULU PAPAR, MALAYSIA

There is So Much More to a Story

than Meets the Eye Marina Aman Sham

Agricultural landscapes are a common feature for Dusun communities in the Crocker Range. Photo: Stanley Kurumbong, 2010


pressures on Indigenous peoples and the lack of recognition of their rights, thereby limiting their ability to steward their biocultural diversity and live well.

After taking on an official role with GDF, I met with the community research teams from Bundu Tuhan and Ulu Papar, two communities in a remote part of Sabah living at the periphery of Kinabalu Park and Crocker Range Park and surviving primarily as subsistence farming and fishing communities. They described some of the important work they had been doing in collaboration with GDF and other nonprofits and local government authorities, including marking and mapping out their landscapes to show forest types, land use, historic sites, and graveyards. Based on these maps, they developed a community protocol to document the importance of their way of life and culture, ancestral lands, and territories. The community research teams had conducted household interviews to learn how households relate to the plants, animals, and landscapes around them. They created short films to share the stories of their lives and the issues they face. They engaged with new audiences to share their findings and promote the unique biocultural values of their lands. I heard from Remmy Alfie, a community researcher from Bundu Tuhan, a village nestled at the foothills of Mount Kinabalu, about a community forest that occupies two-thirds of a 1255-hectare native reserve and is governed

by his community through a village management plan. I trekked out to Kalangaan village in Ulu Papar where the Gayatas Stone stands erect, displaying marks that depict the number of enemy heads a fearsome female leader had taken. This stone is protected by the Ulu Papar people for its cultural and historical significance.

Unfortunately, as Jenny Sanem, an Indigenous Dusun from the community of Buayan, told me, the loss of local knowledge among the youth is very real. When she first started working as a community researcher in 2007, she admitted that although she was born in Buayan, she did not know much about it except that it is one of the nine villages collectively known as Ulu Papar. At the time, she was a 21-year-old who had moved away from Buayan to work as a shop attendant in Donggongon town. Jenny talked about her experience as a member of the Ulu Papar Community Research Team. Over the years, Jenny and her peers were trained in various research and outreach techniques, including photography and participatory videography (a community filmmaking approach), as well as household interview techniques and community mapping (including the application of GPS and participatory three-dimensional modeling). She spoke passionately about how these new skills enabled the creation of Ulu Papar Tales, a booklet published earlier this year that features nine oral histories and tales of strength, conflict, and peacemaking on Dusun territory as told

The Ulu Papar community still uses traditional equipment to fish from its rivers, an activity that has been passed down over generations. Photo: Inanc Tekguc, 2010

by community elders. The stories in Ulu Papar Tales—published in four languages—demonstrate their people’s long and continuous presence in the area. In essence, the booklet transformed Ulu Papar oral histories into the written word—a valuable contribution to the knowledge base of Ulu Papar.

“Ulu Papar Tales features nine oral histories and tales of strength, conflict, and peacemaking on Dusun territory

as told by community elders.”

As an example of one of the tales, here Angeline Dingon from Buayan recounts an episode that led to peacemaking between villages:

“During a time of war between the villages of Kionop and Tiku, two brothers from Kionop, Sidui and Kadui, were known to be the strongest and most feared warriors. In Tiku, Lumingou and Binagal, also siblings, were the strongest; Lumingou was the elder of the two. Sidui and Kadui were eager to kill Lumingou and Binagal. One day, they traveled to Tiku River to spy on Binagal and Lumingou. When they reached the river, they saw Lumingou and Binagal walking together on their way to fish. But what they saw surprised them and they did not dare approach the duo: as Luminggou and Binagal walked along the river, the bottom of their feet did not touch any of the rocks. Kadui and Sidui hid themselves and watched quietly, letting Lumingou and Binagal pass them without making any contact. Kadui and Sidui returned to their village because they felt they were unable to match the

strength of Binagal and Lumingou. They held a meeting and slaughtered a pig, agreeing not to fight anymore.”

The Gayatas Stone in Kalangaan village bears the marks made by a legendary female warrior during wars long ago. Photo: Jenny Sanem, 2008

Extract from Chapter 5 on Kadui & Sidui, Ulu Papar Tales. Photo: GDF, 2017


Communities in ActionThe training in outreach and advocacy skills, and eight years’

worth of information on resource use and cultural values, including the oral histories now published in Ulu Papar Tales, empowered Dusun communities in Ulu Papar and Bundu Tuhan to speak up. They reached out to local government agencies and civil society groups about the issues they face and, through structured workshops, became active participants in decision making on land use, including areas designated as community use, buffer and transitional, zones to Crocker Range Park and Crocker Range Biosphere Reserve.

“Training in outreach and advocacy skills empowered Dusun communities in Ulu Papar and

Bundu Tuhan to speak up.”

It didn’t stop there. Some of the youth started their own projects. Supported by their village leaders, they took the lead in building a communally owned and managed resource and outreach center to promote the biocultural heritage of Ulu Papar. They re-energized a legally registered community group to provide formal grounds for them to take matters into their own hands and effectively engage with others who support the upholding of their traditional values.

Their voices have grown stronger. They continue to use the results from investigations of local resource use, valuation of landscapes, and

Indigenous ecological knowledge. They have taken this work to the frontline of an ongoing struggle to save their ancestral lands against the destructive development of the Kaiduan Dam, a mega-dam proposed by the Sabah government that would flood the lands of most Ulu Papar residents, displacing and unmaking communities whose lifestyles and traditions are completely meshed with the place they have called home for so long. Through their own sheer determination, and with the help of friendly NGOs, I hope against hope that they are successful in this quest and that the communities who have stewarded the mountains of my beautiful homeland for millennia will continue to do so far into the future.

Marina Aman Sham started working with the Global Diversity Foundation in 2009 and, in her current role, showcases GDF’s work supporting communities as they improve their livelihoods while conserving their biocultural diversity. She also works with the Global Environments Network, a collective that promotes collaboration and innovation among emerging environmental changemakers.

Further ReadingGlobal Diversity Foundation. (n.d.). Southeast Asia. Retrieved February 26, 2018, from https://www.global-diversity.org/southeast-asia/

Global Diversity Foundation. (2017). Ulu Papar Tales. Retrieved from https://www.global-diversity.org/wp-content/uploads/2017/04/Ulu-Papar-Tales.pdf

Jenny Sanem (in striped shirt, left) listens to Angeline Dingon tell the story of two warriors from Kionop as her fellow researcher, Patricia, takes notes. Photo: Rabani Ayub, 2012


I shall tell the story of my community in this article, but let me first say a few words about my interest in biocultural diversity conservation. Being exposed to the modern world and looking at unsuccessful stories of nature conservation, I always ask myself what the missing link of conservation is. As we all know, the common approach to nature conservation is demarcation of parks and game reserves to protect them from humans’ intervention and sometimes the delineation of buffer zones to ensure isolation between humans and nature. Because of this, communities are becoming disconnected from their roots and other beings in nature, which implies that the knowledge base about nature is deteriorating over time. Memories from the past, some held since deep ancestral time, are becoming increasingly faded, and eventually the very identity of a people becomes lost, together with their traditions of respecting and loving nature as their host, guide, and protector in the everlasting course of life on Earth.

The community story that I am going to tell is not associated with conservation in protected areas. Rather, it is the story of a community living in a very fragmented landscape, challenged by the degradation of its biodiversity due to population pressures, the expansion of agriculture, and recurrent drought.

“Memories from the past, some held since deep ancestral time, are becoming increasingly faded.”

On the other hand, I will also tell you about the passion and strong culture of this community in terms of up keeping an intimacy with and knowledge of biocultural diversity. This is the story of my community, in which I was born and raised and have spent most of my life. My

Text and Photos by Fassil Gebeyehu Yelemtu

LEARNING FROM EACH OTHER

Community & Biocultural Diversity Conservation

in Ethiopia

Above: Farming with oxen is common in rural Ethiopia. The soil is fertilized naturally by dung and residue of straw from harvested crops. 2018


community is located in the northwestern part of Ethiopia in the South Wollo administrative zone. My home village is known as Kolo, but I grew up in the Masha and Koreb areas, which are not very far from there.

Memories from My ChildhoodWhen I was about six years of age, my father brought me to Addis

Ababa, the capital city of Ethiopia, where my cousin used to live. She sent me to school, and I lived with her until the eruption of the 1975 revolution in which the military regime overthrew the monarchy of King Haile Selassie I. Right after the revolution, I could no longer stay in Addis because the ruthless military administration detained my cousin as well as other members of the extended family. My father then took me back to my home community.

My father sent me to the nearest government school to continue my education, but the school, particularly the junior high school, was far from home, and I had to walk for one and half days to reach it. Because of the distance, I had to take some whole-grain flour with me to cook my own food on a daily basis; I used to stay away from my parents for at least a month at a time. I lived in a rented room in a small township called Fito with some other students. Each of us used to bring different kinds of grains and prepared different types of foods. Consequently, we became accustomed to sharing cooked foods and tasting different types

of traditional dishes. We all shared a single kitchen, which also created an opportunity to experience how to cook different stews, breads, and snacks. Some of my friends came with teff (Eragrostis tef, a type of millet cereal with very tiny seeds) and sorghum flour to prepare enjera (a flat fermented bread used as the main type of food in meals). Some of them used to make chechebsa (a flat bread made out of wheat flour that is mixed with hot spiced butter); others used to bring roasted beans, peas, and so on. While sharing and tasting different items, we used to discuss the food we ate, the type of seed it came from, and the seeds’ distinct characteristics in terms of when and where to grow them, how long it took them to mature, and how they could be stored, and so forth. My friends and I were sharing experiences in regard to farming livelihoods that were also complementary to some of our classroom learning, such as biology, geography, agriculture, and home economics.

“My school was far from home, and I had to walk for one and half days to reach it.”

Claiming My Identity and Cultural RootsMany of my friends had experiences of working in farm lands with

their parents, including plowing with oxen, weeding, digging with hoes, and rearing animals. We also used to share stories that we listened to our parents tell around the fire. I gathered that the common feature of

The landscape near my community. It is very much a cultural landscape of small-holding farms with a diversity of crops and other plant species. 2018


all the stories told was that each was associated with people’s feeling of intimacy with the entire Universe, including the intrinsic relationship with the geographic and cultural landscape of one’s home territory. In this type of lifeways, every creation is recognized as part of the Universe–Earth community. Some parts of the Universe, such as the Moon, have a great role to play in biocultural diversity conservation. For example, a woman from a neighboring community told me that “my father used to cut his sorghum only following the Moon cycle, and he never harvested without consultation with the Moon. The type of sorghum which grows in our area is a long-maturing Sorghum, which takes about nine months to be matured for harvest. My father used to say that if he harvested sorghum before the Moon gets its full, circular shape, then the harvested sorghum would be threatened by weevils and other pasts shortly after harvest. The amount of yield would thus also be less when compared to the expected level of production.” She further explained that “the last month of harvest for this particular sorghum is November” (planting being in March) and that “farmers must await until the Moon gets to its full size and shape.”

I remember my uncle told me that, in his youth, people were closely connected with nature and that their day-to-day activities were guided in consultation with the spirit of the territory. Some religious and spiritual elders used to play mediatory roles to connect the material and spiritual worlds. These elders were knowledgeable about the characteristics of

each member of the Earth community. They used to predict rains by examining the direction of wind, the feeling of moisture, the behavior of animals, and so on. Farmers used to consult them on what to do, based on their observations and consultation with the spirits. When they did rituals, they made use of gifts from nature. Such gifts included special food prepared from particular varieties of seeds, special essences collected from particular types of wood from the forest, spices, honey, and many more. Elements from nature such as special types of stones, leafy and root plants, chickens with different colors, sheep, goats, cows, and even wild animals such as hyena, guinea fowl, and others used to be part of the ritual process in different ways.

“I remember my uncle told me that, in his youth, people were closely connected with nature and that their day-to-day activities were guided in consultation with the

spirit of the territory.”

I personally was taught that killing animals from the wild is not culturally acceptable, as it is believed that doing so would bring a curse and attract more attacks by them. Another uncle told me that he and many community members knew how to interact with leopards through poetic singing to make them cool down in the case of a sudden encounter. Some people also used to play traditional flute music for the

A woman drying different varieties of seeds, both for consumption and for ritual purposes. 2018


leopard so that it would not attack. In the old days, under this kind of people–nature relationship, life was different. Many people say that the cultural landscape of my home community was very different only seventy or eighty years ago. A number of rivers used to flow then, and wild fruits were abundant. Farmers used to grow many types of crops, and some of them were mainly used to serve as a means of connection with the divine or spirit world to get a blessing for a good harvest. Some of these cultural and spiritual activities were practiced during my childhood, but now most of them are abandoned.

“Some crops were grown mainly to serve as a means of connection with the divine or spirit world to get a

blessing for a good harvest.”

Consequently, most traditional seed varieties are extinct and have been replaced by monoculture crops raised with the mindset of a cash economy. Trees are cut down, and soil erosion has come to be a major problem. Rivers are dried up and wild fruits are no longer available. But still, I remember my roots and believe in the potential power of my community to reverse things so long as their cultural values are respected and memories of the past restored to reclaim a physical, mental, and social connection with the entire Earth community. In sum, the history

of my community is embedded in these kinds of practices, connections, and interactions, which form a unique expression of biocultural diversity—values that are, even today, not beyond conservation in the face of stress and hardship.

Respecting Natural Law as a Guide to Community Livelihood and a Way to Achieve Biocultural Diversity Conservation

This story of my community suggests that biocultural diversity conservation can be achieved through changing the mindset of people while maintaining cultural and spiritual practices. On the other hand, those communities that have managed to retain their diverse culture and spiritual practices need to be encouraged and supported because they are living according to what they know as natural law, which is also referred to in formal legal philosophy as Earth jurisprudence. Earth jurisprudence declares that the welfare of the entire planet is a central legal concern because the well-being of humans and all living things depends on it. I want to reiterate the fact that, despite the pressures of land fragmentation and the deforestation associated with it, erratic rainfall, recurrent drought, and soil erosion, my community is still inextricably attached to their land emotionally. Their perceptions and world outlook are attuned with the formulations of Earth jurisprudence

Farmers used to grow many kinds of crops. Here, a man stands beside the haystacks produced from different varieties of crops, which serve as animal feed. 2018


Fassil Gebeyehu Yelemtu is currently a general coordinator of the African Biodiversity Network, which has more than twenty NGO partners across Africa. His PhD from Durham University, England, explored with small-scale farmers local meanings, uses, and understandings of seeds, and the mechanisms by which these understandings are gained.

Further ReadingBerry, T. (2006). Evening Thoughts: Reflecting on Earth as Sacred community. San Francisco, CA: Sierra Club Books.

Bishop, R., & Glynn, T. (2003). Culture Counts: Changing Power Relations in Education. London, England: Zed Books.

Cullinan, C. (2003). Wild Law: A Manifesto for Earth Justice. Cambridge, England: Green Books in association the Gaia Foundation

Harding, S. (2009). Animate Earth: Science, Intuition and Gaia (2nd ed.). Cambridge, England: Green Books.

so that they still engage in some cultural practices in the spirit of claiming back their traditional identity. Doing this is the foundation of sustainable biocultural diversity conservation.

“Despite the pressures of land fragmentation, deforestation, erratic rainfall, recurrent drought,

and soil erosion, my community is still inextricably attached to their land emotionally.”

I want to take the experience with my community one step further before ending this short essay. Through the course of my life’s journey,

including experience with different African countries, I have learned that many rural communities acquire their insights and knowledge through inspiration and interaction with nature, in which they adapt diverse cultural and spiritual practices to respond to ever-changing human needs and fluctuations in the environment. They recognize the significant role of the entire Earth community in sustaining lifeways so that they build and keep an innate relationship with nature and all of its facets. This relationship provides deep knowledge and multidimensional insights to people in many communities—my own included. It is because of this fact that they can be said to be on the cutting edge of biocultural diversity conservation.

A mother and children from one of the neighborhood communities. Children “learn in action”: they internalize their culture while being part of the daily work. 2018


An Ancient Game Opens the Door

to Innovation

To reach the Farma Valley in Southern Tuscany, Italy, you need to stray far off the standard tourist routes south of Siena and away from the seaside, too. Set in the heart of the Metalliferous Hills, the valley covers approximately 120 square kilometers and includes three natural conservation areas with a total extension of a little over two thousand

hectares. The population is very sparse, with one of the lowest densities in Italy. The valley is home to three communities, Piloni, Torniella, and Scalvaia, with a total of fewer than five hundred inhabitants.

Andrea Giacomelli

IN THE FARMA VALLEY, SOUTHERN TUSCANY, ITALY

A handmade palla a 21 ball. Photo: Andrea Giacomelli, 2007


The natural heritage of the Farma Valley includes flora and fauna and, notably, some of the lowest light pollution levels in Italy. The valley’s

dark night skies are due primarily to its extremely low population density. Culturally, it includes archaeological sites, such as a prehistoric quarry and

historic medieval iron mills and castles. The three hamlets also maintain the tradition of an ancient handball game called palla a 21 (or palla eh!). It is one of the jeux de paume, or ancestors of tennis, that are found throughout various parts of Europe. In the villages of the Farma Valley and three others nearby, palla a 21 has maintained its “roots” character: the ball is handmade, and the game is played in the square of the village.

The combination of all these elements makes the Farma Valley a unique spot. At the same time, its position—not close to the

A palla a 21 tournament, with a player from Torniella serving to the opposing team (Scalvaia). The ball can be spotted against the sky. Photo: Andrea Giacomelli, 2012

The Farma Valley is in southern Tuscany, Italy, about 100 km south of Florence. The villages of Piloni, Torniella, and Scalvaia maintain the tradition of playing an ancient handball game, palla a 21.

Photo: Andrea Giacomelli, 2017


sea or to more famous sites—makes it less renowned compared with iconic Tuscan locations.

In recent years, public agencies—and, to a limited extent, private stakeholders—have been investing in maintaining Farma’s historic landmarks and natural resources. However, the valley’s relatively remote location represents a challenge to providing the continuity of care and resources needed to maintain these assets for the benefit of the local communities and of visitors. It is no simple matter to ensure a return on investment in the Farma Valley.

On the other hand, local communities have always been active in keeping alive

the spirit of their places and actually “making things happen” on their land, mostly relying on their own resources and fundraising capabilities.

The Belagaio Castle, at the center of the natural reserve system of the valley. Its surroundings also host a horse breeding facility run by Carabinieri Forestali, the national force in charge of environmental protection. Photo: Andrea Giacomelli, 2008

The cafe in Torniella has been the hub of the projects for several years. Photo: Andrea Giacomelli, 2014


Starting in 2007, in addition to traditional events and activities (such as the May Day celebrations, the ancient handball tournaments during the summer, or the wild boar hunting season during the winter), people of the Farma Valley have created several new distinctive biocultural projects. They were triggered by a 2007 cultural mission to Chicago, Illinois, USA, where a selection of palla a 21 players presented demonstrations of this ancient game as part of the summer calendar of activities offered by the city’s Department of Culture.

“Recognizing the valley’s dark night skies as an asset, a citizen science project on light pollution monitoring

was launched in 2008 and eventually gained international visibility.”

This mission, albeit presenting a completely “out of the box” cultural product, had the effect back home of creating an improved awareness among the local communities of the value of the Farma’s tangible and intangible assets. It also suggested synergies to develop new actions, with the primary objective of protecting and promoting the biocultural uniqueness of the valley. Building on the “social network” represented by the palla a 21-playing community and recognizing the valley’s

dark night skies as an asset, a citizen science project on light pollution monitoring, called BuioMetria Partecipativa, was launched in 2008, eventually gaining international visibility. This connected the local communities to international research activities, with the valley hosting scientific projects, symposia, and internships.

These developments helped spark local interest in the concept of participatory mapping, and so in 2015 a group of residents started to compile a “community map.” Against the backdrop of the current official base maps of the area, maintained by the Tuscan government, hunters and lumberjacks have been recording place names and trails that are off of the “official radar,” but are part of local family history and activities in the valley. These points of interest have been digitized and made available as open data, enabling the production of “augmented” local maps that have been distributed both in the villages (for example, to revise tourism information signage that dated from the 1990s) and online.

The projects also incorporate significant outreach activity, with events being alternately hosted in the valley and in “outside” locations, both in Italy and abroad. Over one hundred of these events have been held since 2008, linking the people of the valley with others belonging to extremely diverse sectors, ranging from trekking clubs to university

A stargazing session during an event on night sky promotion and protection at the Belagaio reserve. Photo: Federico Giussani, 2017


Fabiano Spinosi, Pietro Guiggiani, and Andrea Bartalucci review the Farma Valley Community Map, discussing effects of a recent flood. Photo: Andrea Giacomelli, 2018

A detail of the community map, reporting points of interest such as chestnut drying sites, water springs, and hunting locations.

Over 200 points of interest have been collected to date. Photo:

Andrea Giacomelli, 2017


Andrea Giacomelli has an MS in environmental engineering, a PhD in hydrology, and over twenty years of experience in geographic information systems. In 2006, she decided to engage in interdisciplinary projects in rural areas, combining culture, environment, and open innovation. The results of this activity to date may be found at http://www.pibinko.org.

Further ReadingGiacomelli, A. (2007, November 18). Palla a 21 from Tuscany to Chicago and Back [Video file]. Retrieved from https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f7dGyq5qHdI

Giacomelli, A. (2009, May 12). How dark is the sky in Maremma? [Video file]. Retrieved from https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sl41ZOu3DTE

Giacomelli, A., & Ceccarini, G. (2015). Integrating Culture, Environment, and Open Innovation for Awareness Raising: A Case from the Farma Valley, Tuscany. Proceedings of the Innovation in Environmental Education: ICT and Intergenerational Learning Conference, Florence, Italy. Retrieved from https://www.researchgate.net/publication/310441845_integrating_culture_environment_and_open_innovation_for_awareness_raising_a_case_from_the_farma_valley_tuscany

Claudio Spinosi, a palla a 21 player, smiles seeing shots of some of his past games before the opening of the photo exhibition on the game. A selection of these shots was also presented at an exhibit in San Francisco, California, USA, later that year. Photo: Andrea Giacomelli, 2008

departments, from video makers to players of ball games similar to palla a 21, from emerging rock bands to students taking internships in collaboration with these projects. In fact, the Farma Valley may

be seen as a living lab where traditional forms of community cultural conservation have merged with state-of-the-art information and communication technologies and with artistic skills.


The Biocultural Fabric of

RenosterveldA UNIQUE ECOSYSTEM AT THE HEART OF THE

SWARTLAND, SOUTH AFRICA

Text and Photos by Emmeline ToppA typical Swartland scene at De Brug. The black hilltop in the distance is remaining renosterveld. 2017


“You know how the Swartland got its name? It’s the Black Land,” the farmer tells me. His face is lined beyond his thirty-two years, decades of weather and work deepening its contours and tanning its skin. “When the Europeans first arrived two hundred years ago, all they saw was this renosterveld, black when dry in the summer, black when wet with rain.”

As I look upon the Swartland now, only fragments of this black bush remain. Most of the land is covered in huge green-golden fields of winter wheat and countless rows of stunted grapevines clinging to wire frames. Renosterveld is Afrikaans for “rhinoceros field,” referring to the dusty grey hide of the now-extinct black rhinoceros that used to roam South Africa’s Western Cape. The rhinoceros fields of the Black Land.

The names belie a region threaded with color and vitality. The Swartland is part of the Cape Floristic Region, a recognized global biodiversity hotspot on account of its thousands of endemic plants, captivating in their beauty and richness, which form part of the unique biocultural diversity on the southernmost tip of the African continent. Beginning approximately two thousand years ago, the KhoiKhoi pastoral peoples crossed the Swartland, leaving large sections relatively undisturbed. Following agricultural conversion, renosterveld is now the most endangered habitat in South Africa, with less than five percent remaining in the Swartland. As an ecologist, I am keen to understand the drivers shaping this landscape, including differing community values attached to renosterveld.

A peacock Morea flower (Morea villosa). This once common species is now considered “vulnerable.” Swartdam, Swartland. 2017


Moorreesburg is a rural Swartland town approximately two hours north of Cape Town. I stay on a farm on the slopes of the largest remaining fragment of renosterveld in the area. Most remaining fragments are found on slopes that are too steep and rocky to plough. For farmers, the renosterveld is often of little concern or seen as an unproductive nuisance—and, simultaneously, part of their heritage. For practical reasons, they notice its animal life more than the botany and are very tuned in to issues of predation and pest control.

“As a principle I enjoy having it on the farm,” a wine grape producer says of the small seven-hectare patch among his hundred hectares of vineyards. “I do enjoy walking through every now and again. I’ve seen lots of snakes, scrub hare, duiker [antelope], lots of birds, skilpad [tortoise], the Cape fox, porcupines, and we have a

problem with the feral pigs. I don’t want to say it’s good for nothing; I just can’t use it.”

Other farmers explain they have come a long way since uncontrolled plowing. The long-standing discordancy of renosterveld is that, in botanists’ eyes, its value is so great that clearing for arable land is inconceivable.

“As an ecologist, I am keen to understand the drivers shaping this landscape, including differing community

values attached to renosterveld.”

“It’s not even viable!” One elderly resident of the Swartland, and steward of one of the very few remaining lowland renosterveld patches,

A classic wind-powered water pump, one of the agricultural symbols of the Swartland. 2017


tells me. “And that makes me so mad. Why do they have to [plow] it? That koppie has Spider lilies [Ferraria uncinata], Spiloxene [Cape star flower] and the peacock Morea [Morea villosa] flowering up there, and they don’t know it’s there.” The koppie she refers to is a nearby hillside with relatively recent clearance.

“The local farm workers, they come through the koppies with their children on the way to school, and I want those

children to be able to learn about what’s in there.”

Her own patch stands fragile amid invasive Port Jackson acacia trees and pesticide clouds over the neighboring vineyards. Yet recent

visits from local amateur botanists and researchers give her hope that more people will come and foster awareness of the precious nature of renosterveld. “The local farm workers, they come through the koppies with their children on the way to school, and I want those children to be able to learn about what’s in there.”

Chiefly, the farmers here have one major challenge on their minds: drought. The Western Cape has had record low levels of winter rain for three years running, and it hangs over the land like a phantom, causing the worry in my host farmer’s eyes. He undertakes drilling everywhere on the land, shining a mirror down the holes, in search for the glint that tells of more groundwater. In the local Spar supermarket, families discuss the increasingly severe water restrictions. Signs are mounted on the roads out of town listing

Traditional medicine sourced from the Swartland renosterveld by the local Rastafarian bush doctors. 2017


ways to save water: “Keep Showers to 2 Minutes,” “Heavier Laundry Loads Less Often,” and “Recycle Shower Water to Flush Toilets.” In the crowded Moorreesburg churches on Sundays, the community prays collectively for rain. “Day Zero” looms on the horizon, the date when officials will have to turn off Western Cape taps and begin rationing water. The land is desperately thirsty.

Fire is drought’s equally dangerous sister. Yet it plays an important role in renosterveld ecology. Two years ago, on my host farm, a huge veldfire (naturally occurring wildfire) ravaged the eastern slopes, and the once-thick shrubs became black charcoal stalks. The following spring, a most glorious flowering of bulbs was visible on the slopes for the first time in eighty years.

Some farmers plan to use fire to manage renosterveld and, in doing so, continue their family relationship with the land. One

young farmer’s tiny koppie is the last piece of natural heritage on her family farm. In a sea of vines and wheat fields, backed by huge grain silos, it is choked with too-high renosterbos (Elytropappus rhinocerotis) and taaibos (Searsia spp.) following years of fire suppression. “I found out about fire management on Facebook,” she says. “I saw all these photos up there of flowers after a burn. They used to have agricultural shows around here, and my grandmother showed flowers every year. I’d like to keep the tradition.” Recent research on burned renosterveld patches has rediscovered species that were previously thought to be extinct, such as Polhillia ignota, a shrub species in the Fabaceae family. Her plan is to burn the patch next autumn and bring it back to life.

Other natural resource conflicts demonstrate the many community values of renosterveld. One very large fragment, formerly

Kicking up dust on the Swartland roads. 2017


Emmeline Topp holds an Erasmus Mundus MSc in Sustainable Forest and Nature Management (University of Copenhagen, University of Padova) and is a currently based in the agroecology group of Georg-August University and the Faculty of Sustainability, Leuphana University, Lüneburg, Germany. Her interests include biodiversity conservation, sustainable land use, and human–nature relations.

Further ReadingAston Philander, L. (2011). An ethnobotany of Western Cape Rasta bush medicine. Journal of Ethnopharmacology, 138(2), 578–594.

Cousins, S. (2017). Renosterveld remnants of the Swartland: A rainbow of colour and rarity veiled in black. Veld & Flora, December, 158–162.

Esler, K. J., Pierce, S. M., & de Villiers, C. (2014). Fynbos Ecology and Management. Pretoria, South Africa: Briza.

Newton, I., & Knight, R. (2005). The use of a 60-year series of aerial photographs to assess local agricultural transformations of west coast renosterveld, an endangered South African vegetation type. South African Geographical Journal, 87(1), 18–27.

Winter, S., Prozesky, H., & Esler, K. (2007). A case study of landholder attitudes and behaviour toward the conservation of renosterveld, a critically endangered vegetation type in Cape Floral Kingdom, South Africa. Environmental Management, 40(1), 46–61.

a landfill site and home to a motocross trail network, was recently designated a nature reserve. Now motocross is officially forbidden.

“‘I found out about fire management on Facebook,’ a young farmer says. ‘I saw all these photos up

there of flowers after a burn. They used to have agricultural shows around here, and

my grandmother showed flowers every year. I’d like to keep the tradition.’”

“Motorbikers and quad bikers are up there anyway,” one municipal employee tells me. “It damages the plants and causes erosion. And the other problem is the bush doctors; they dig up renosterveld plants for medicine. It’s completely unregulated and very damaging.”

I am curious about the extent to which this traditional ethnobotanical knowledge is a part of the community. In the vibrant section of Moorreesburg by the taxi station, an open sack is spread across the concrete pavement. On one side of the sack are bulbs and roots and, on the other, bunches of herbs and wrapped leaves. The local Rastafarian bush doctors here point to large bulbs of cinnamon root, good for piles and clogged arteries; pungent wild mountain garlic with a bunch of squid-like tentacles; bunches of renosterbos and wild sage for tea or smudging (removing unwanted spirits from a house by spreading smoke); paper bags of aloe leaves; ointments prepared with aloe and Vaseline for sores and infections; and “elephant’s feet” and kankerbossie (cancer bush, Sutherlandia frutescens). “I can cut a piece for you, 20 rand, 30 rand, how much you need,” the bush doctor offers.

I see that the critically endangered renosterveld is home to this unregulated activity, but I am gladdened by the living connection to the local ecosystem. It is an enterprise that requires the renosterveld biodiversity itself and its potential value for people. Added to this,

some local farm workers still hunt and trap for food in the veld, including guinea fowl and porcupines, and the thorny scrub patches can also be seen as places of natural bounty. The myriad community values of the patches enrich them beyond any value they may have as wilderness.

“Lightning-speed urbanization is another of the major pressures on critically

endangered renosterveld.”

Together with the endemism of the flora and fauna, the cultural diversity of South Africa’s Western Cape renders the Swartland even more incomparable. South Africa has eleven national languages, more than any other country in the world. On the farms surrounding Moorreesburg, farmers and farm workers speak a variety of Afrikaans, English, isiZulu, and isiXhosa. This diverse population is increasing and the Swartland needs new, wider roads, new housing. Lightning-speed urbanization is another of the major pressures on critically endangered renosterveld. Many of the municipal-owned patches are earmarked for imminent development, leading some community members to plan emergency transplanting of fragile renosterveld geophyte species from these areas. In this biocultural hotspot, so much is at stake on all sides.

The renosterveld, then, is a multifaceted natural resource woven into the very heart of the Swartland. The future for the community is full of challenges: a rapidly shifting sociopolitical landscape and an alarming lack of rainfall threatening its very existence. It is also full of hope. Species previously believed to be extinct can be rediscovered. Seemingly devastating fires yield thrilling floral rainbows in spring. And many members of the community continue to walk across the koppies, part of life progressing despite adversity, their footsteps weaving more colorful stories through the rhinoceros field.


Terralingua n 1: the languages of the Earth, the many voices of the world’s diverse peoples. 2: the language of the Earth, the voice of Mother Nature. 3: an international non-governmental organization (NGO) that works to sustain the biocultural diversity of life – a precious heritage to be cherished, protected, and nurtured for generations to come. ¶ From Italian terra ‘earth’ and lingua ‘language’

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“A growing critique from civil society, not least Indigenous peoples, also underlines the need to shift from heritage as an exclusive expert domain towards one building on local community

perspectives and values that often defy narrow nature–culture distinctions. Where nature conservation just a few decades ago was dominated by natural scientists and management

experts, it today includes Indigenous and local community voices often stressing interlinkages through local knowledge, livelihood practices, and age-old landscape connections.”

—Peter Bille Larsen and Gamini Wijesuriya, as cited by Jessica Brown

langscape magazine is a - terralingua...turning to “dispatches” from communities around the...

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