Sustainability And Survival Four Case Studies From Indigenous Communities In Northern

Mindanaw

Augusto B. Gatmaytan, Gliceto O. Dagondon

ICRAF Southeast Asia Working Paper, No. 2004_5

© Copyright ICRAF Southeast Asia Further information please contact:: World Agroforestry Centre Transforming Lives and Landscapes ICRAF Southeast Asia Regional Office Jl. CIFOR, Situ Gede, Sindang Barang, Bogor 16680 PO Box 161, Bogor 16001, Indonesia Tel: 62 251 625415, fax: 62 251 625416 Email: icraf-indonesia@cgiar.org ICRAF Southeast Asia website: http://www.icraf.cgiar.org/sea or http://www.worldagroforestrycentre.org/sea Text layout: Retno Setyowati Cover design: Dwiati N Rini Illustration design: Wiyono Disclaimer This text is a ‘working paper’ reflecting research results obtained in the framework of ICRAF Southeast Asia project. Full responsibility for the contents remains with the authors.

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Contents

Contents i

Keyword ii

Introduction 1

Development and Environment 5 Case study 1: Manguicao 5 Case study 2: Minalwang 12 Case study 3: Mintapod 20 Case study 4: Balit 26

Summary 30

Communities and The State 37

Strengthening Process for Dialogues 41

Acknowledments 49

References 50

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Keywords

Agusan del Sur province; Ancestral Domains; Banwaon; Bukidnon province; Certificate of Ancestral Domain Claim (CADC); Certificate of Ancestral Domain Titles (CADT); Community Based Resource Management; Compensation for Environmental Services; Department of Environment and Natural Resources (DENR); Higa-onon; Indigenous Peoples; Manobo; Land Tenure; Misamis Oriental province; Philippines; Resource Tenure. ACRONYMS USED

AD Ancestral Domains ADMP Ancestral Domain Management Plan ADSDPP Ancestral Domain Sustainable Development and Protection Plan BDMP Barangay Development and Management Plan CADC Certificate of Ancestral Domain Claim CADT Certificate of Ancestral Domain Title CBFM Community Based Forestry Management CBFMA Community Based Forestry Management Agreement CO Community Organization CENRO Community Environment and Natural Resources Office DENR Department of Environment and Natural Resources FVCTLDC Fr. Vincent Cullen Tulugan Learning and Development Center GM Geographic Rediscovery of Endangered Environment and Nature

in Mindanao or Green Mindanao ICRAF World Agroforestry Centre IFMA Industrial Forest Management Agreement IP Indigenous Peoples IPRA Indigenous Peoples Rights Act (Rep. Act no. 8371, 1997) IWMP Integrated Watershed Management Plan JSF Josefa Segovia Foundation LRC-KsK Legal Rights Center-Kasama sa Kalikasan NCIP National Commission for Indigenous Peoples PAF Poverty Alleviation Fund PAFID Philippine Association for Intercultural Development RGS-TFM Religious of the Good Shepherd-Tribal Filipino Ministry RUPES Rewarding the Upland Poor in Asia for Environmental Services

they Provide SILDAP Silingang Dapit sa Sidlakang Mindanaw

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Introduction

Project Background In 2001, the International Centre for Research in Agro-Forestry (ICRAF), commissioned a study that explored the link between tenure and land and resource management in indigenous communities in northern Mindanaw. These communities included an Agusan Manobo community, and two Higa-onon communities, one in Misamis Oriental, and the other in Bukidnon. That study found that contrary to general expectations, landownership among the three indigenous communities studied tends to be individualized rather than strictly communal.1 Ownership of land was also understood to include ownership of the resources located therein. This differs with the government’s concept of indigenous tenure, which makes a distinction between ownership or control of land, and of natural resources.2 Since landownership in these communities is much more individualistic than previously considered, and since landownership is linked to resource ownership, it followed that resource ownership and management is also individualized. The role of the individual as land/resource manager is thus largely unappreciated. It then becomes necessary to consider the relationship between individual land/resource owners/managers and the community or organization. This in turn underscores the importance of the organizing process that established the organization. If land and resource ownership is individual, how is it that communities applied for DENR CADCs as communities, thus implying communal ownership and management of lands and resources? The communities, to acquire a CADC to protect their land and resource rights, applied as such to satisfy the legal requirement and expectation that a “community” is the proper claimant for a CADC. This emphasizes the essentially “constructed” nature of these CADC applicant-communities (Van den Top and Persoon 2000: 172-173; see also Von Benda-Beckmann 1993 and Cohen 1985), built over pre-existing, generally individualized land/resource ownerships

Success in resource management—in terms of consciously integrating ecological considerations in development planning and tenure practice—varies across space and over time. An important factor in the communities’ performance is how well the rights of individual land/resource owners under indigenous laws or praxis are reconciled with the claims of the community as the legal holder of tenure rights charged with the protection of the local environment.

These various points led to the conclusion that government tenure instruments are insufficient by themselves to guarantee sustainable resource management, especially when they operate on unexamined assumptions regarding tenure and community capability. The community’s actual

1 One reason for the relative inattention to the question of tenure is the widespread assumption that swidden-based IP

groups in the Philippines have communal ownership of land (see for example, TRICOM 1998; Royandoyan and Atillo 2000; Gaspar 2000). This, despite the fact that researchers themselves find empirical indications that tenure is not or no longer communal, or at least, that local tenure systems are more complex than the term "communal" indicates (Wiber 1993: 113,130). Even scholars like Sajor who have made a point of challenging such assumptions (cf. Resurreccion and Sajor 1998) appear to have trouble breaking away from this mind-set, as shown by his generalizing statement that indigenous tenure rules “are rather often simple”, which he sweepingly characterized by “rights of first occupants, common property, individual-use rights” (Sajor 2000: 67, emphasis supplied).

2 See Art. 1, sec. 3, pars. (b) and (c), in relation to Art. 7, secs. 1 and 2 of DENR Administrative Order no. 2, s. 1993; and secs. 3, pars. (a) and (b), 5, 7, 8 and 55 of the NIPAS.

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capacity for sustainable management must be assessed. Organizational solidarity invested in an appropriate management framework is also important.

External agencies such as local government units and non-government organizations have a critical role in assessing community capabilities, enhancing these, and ensuring that the organizing process addresses the relations between individual stakeholders and the needs and claims of the community/organization.

This is not to say that indigenous communities’ rights to land are contingent on their performance as land/resource managers. Whatever their capabilities, the Constitution and laws of the Philippines make it clear that they own their ancestral lands and domains.3 Indigenous communities thus have an “unavoidable” environmental role arising from the very fact of their ownership of environmentally critical lands and resources. Their ancestral lands and domains are their private properties, but these properties are vested with public interest. It was later decided that a follow-up study be conducted to explore some of the issues discussed by the first research project. This follow-up study was conducted from November 2002 to March 2003, although preparations began as early as July 2002. This paper presents the findings of this second community-level research project. Issues ICRAF drew up a set of questions that grew out of the findings of the first project, or sought to explore the findings’ links with other issues. These questions are as follows:

1. What does "sustainable management" mean to various IP communities in Northern Mindanao? 2. Under what circumstances and using what criteria does the government claim control over the

management of natural resources within ancestral domains? Worded another way; when does the management of ancestral domains become a "Public Concern", more than, for example, the management of a lowland rice field?

3. What are likely ranges of outcomes of NRM in ancestral domains and under what circumstances and how can impacts (negative or positive) on neighbors or other external stakeholders be demonstrated?

4. Once the range of impacts is better understood, when does the management of Ancestral Domains fall within the arena of the "Public Concern" and are IP communities being asked to sacrifice (loss of opportunity) on behalf of the "Public Good"?

5. When IP communities are being asked to sacrifice (both existing practices and future), are they interested in being compensated for their sacrifices and if so what are possible mechanisms for compensation or rewards for providing environmental service to the "Public"?

6. Under what circumstances (i.e. positive policy environment, effective level and quality of external support) do IP institutions perform best when addressing resource security questions and improved (economically and environmentally) natural resource management and what is role of outside governmental and non-governmental institutions in this process?

These questions raise three issues: (1) Sustainable management (question nos. 1, 3 and 6); (2)

government intervention (question nos. 2 and 4); and (3) compensation (question no. 5). The question of sustainable management clearly grows out of the previous research project.

Having examined the various study-communities approach to the question of tenure in relation to resource management, it is only logical to inquire into their performance in terms of sustainable management, and to examine what factors aided or hindered them in this regard. This paper thus presents case studies focused on first, whether or not the study-communities’ land and resource tenure praxis can be characterized as sustainable management, and second, what factors affect their ‘performance’.

Issues with respect to government intervention on the other hand grew out of awareness that the state or government had planning frameworks that overlapped those of local communities. This 3 See Art. 2, sec. 22 and Art. 12, sec. 5 of the Philippine Constitution, as well as secs. 7 and 11 of the IPRA.

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paper hopes to provide some recommendations that might help address situations where the state and indigenous peoples or communities in effect compete over lands and resources, their governance and management objectives (see Howitt, Connell and Hirsch 1996).

Finally, the matter of compensation rested on the assumption that in the course of sustainably managing their ancestral lands and resources, communities forego certain economic and other opportunities or options. The question of compensating these communities for such “environmental services” or “economic sacrifices” thus arose, dovetailing with ICRAF’s own efforts to develop workable mechanisms to allow communities to meet both livelihood needs and ecological concerns (Garrity 1999: 8, 12). This paper also presents the results of community-level discussions regarding the feasibility and implementation of such mechanisms for compensation. Theoretical Framework and Methodology This paper responds to Long’s (1992: 20) call for an “actor-oriented” methodology in sociological research. This means that the focus of the discussions will be on human “agency”; i.e., one’s capacity to strategize and assert one’s interests within the framework and limitations of a given social setting (Long 1992, Giddens 1982, Li 1996).

By doing so, we reduce the risk of making unwarranted assumptions about communities and organizations by focusing on actual practices and discourses. Misleading dichotomies that link organization membership with sustainable use of resources, and non-membership with destructive use are avoided; we see that such boundaries are negotiated and porous, rather than rigid and impermeable. It enables us to see that communities and organizations are not monolithic, homogenous entities, but are networks of strategizing individuals pursuing their own ends within the constraints of their cultural and political settings (Nuijten 1992: 204).

The attention to actors’ agency in this paper will be framed by the issue of land and resource tenure and practices. The focus on tenure will serve as a link to the first phase of this research project. More importantly, it emphasizes the “embeddedness of property” (Hann 1998: 9) in actors’ cultural praxis, as it relates to local discourses on IP rights, the environment, and community development. In pragmatic terms, this means data gathering focused on why actors—community or organization members—acted as they did in their land and resource praxis, and thus contributed to the local tenure trends. The study thus relied most heavily on interviews of key informants and a sampling of community residents.4 Key informants were selected with the guidance of local NGOs working in the study-sites. Formal and informal focus-group discussions—particularly with respect to the question of compensation for environmental services—were also utilized. Due attention was paid to protocol and inter-cultural ethics.

Other methods used were archival research, historical reconstruction, sketch mapping (one study-community had a three-dimensional map useful in discussions of land and resource management), field-visits and photographic recordings.

The data generated using each technique was crosschecked with data from others, as a mode of validation and ensuring the reliability of the findings. Finally, the field-data was subjected to community validation, except in one study-site. Since this was a follow-up study, it was originally hoped that the same study-communities would be involved. Unfortunately, only two of the three original communities were available for purposes of this second research project. These are the Manobo community of sitio Manguicao, Brgy. Lydia, La Paz, Agusan del Sur and the Higa-onon5 community of Brgy. Minalwang, Claveria, Misamis Oriental.

4 In each community, as many of the local residents as possible were interviewed, with due attention paid to variables

like age, sex, and access to power, land and resources. This is not a sampling in the statistical sense, but merely a way of ensuring that we integrate a consciousness of the heterogeneity of the community into the inquiry process, and at the same time help assure the reliability of empirical data by drawing on as many sources as possible.

5 In this paper, I will consider the terms “Bukidnon”, “Higa-onon” and “Tala-andig” as referring to a single ethno-linguistic group, among whom differences are due more to geo-cultural and historical variation rather than actual cultural differences (see Cole 1956: 5).

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Two other communities were added to the list; namely, the Banwaon community of Brgy. Balit, San Luis, Agusan del Sur, and the Higa-onon community of sitio Mintapod, Brgy. Hagpa, Impasug-ong, Bukidnon.6 These communities were selected because they provided material for the issues addressed by this paper. To this end, the history and current situation of each site was carefully noted. On a more pragmatic level, each one hosts an NGO that could facilitate fieldwork. These NGOs facilitated entry into the communities, and provided valuable support to this project. These organizations are GM for Minalwang; the RGS-TFM for both Balit and Manguicao; and FVCTLDC, JSF and NTFP for Mintapod. The main operational limitation was the short time-period allotted for fieldwork. Fortunately, three of the sites were familiar from previous work. Moreover, working with local NGOs reduced the time needed for fieldwork. The careful use of archival material was also maximized to help address this problem. Finally, arrangements were made for involving a well-qualified associate researcher in this project, making it possible to work on two communities at the same time. Still, the time-limitation did pose some trouble when community approval of research work in Mintapod was delayed for reasons beyond our control. By way of qualification, the data presented herein should be read with some reservation as to gender, although efforts were made to include women in the research process. Outline This paper will begin with a brief recapitulation of the findings and some conclusions of a previous ICRAF-supported research project. It goes on to explain that this paper presents the results of a second ICRAF-supported research project, designed as a follow-up to the previous one. As such it deals with issues that wholly or partially grow out of the results of the first research project. This is followed by a brief discussion of the research project’s theoretical framework, methodologies, and the operational conditions under which it was undertaken. Next will be the case studies of the four study-communities. Each will begin with a profile of the community, followed by a discussion of sustainability and resource management, and finally a presentation of local discussions regarding the concept of rewarding communities for environmental services. In discussing compensation for environmental services, we used the RUPES framework of ICRAF as the starting-point for discussions.7 Unfortunately, there was no discussion of RUPES in one of the study-communities, because local schedules did not allow this to be conducted within the project’s time frame. A discussion of the communities’ experiences in terms of government intervention is next, followed by recommendations for processes or mechanisms that local stakeholders can use in initiating dialogues over lands and resources management.

6 We focused on sitio-level communities for better comparability as well as more pragmatic purposes. While Balit

and Minalwang are both duly established Barangays, it was clear that we could treat the socio-political centers of Balit and Minalwang—the “sentro”—as sitios comparable to the other sitios nominally under their jurisdiction.

7 The discussions of RUPES will dispense with the usual questions regarding ICRAF, its leadership, character, history and objectives, and the source of its funds as well as that of the proposed rewards scheme.

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Development and Environment

Case Study 1: Mangicao

Profile Manguicao is a sitio of Brgy. Lydia, La Paz, Agusan del Sur; one of the many Agusan Manobo communities along the Adgawan river, a tributary of the Agusan. Manguicao’s territory covers 1,358 has., part of the 122,634.13 has. of classified forest lands in the municipality (Municipality of La Paz 1995: 2, 13). Much of the area is covered by secondary growths, resulting from decades of swidden farming and extensive logging from the 1960s until the early 1990s. Some old-growth stands can still be found in the area. One datu plausibly claimed that Manguicao is the only area that still retains significant old-growth stands in the whole of La Paz.

Manguicao’s territory is dominated by the Adgawan river and its tributary creeks. There are a few flat areas along these waters, but rolling to steep hills cover most of the area. Farm-clearings and fallows tend to concentrate along the rivers and creeks, and tend to scatter among the hills. In 1998, there were 223 individuals in the community. The population has since grown, but actual figures are difficult to secure given the relative mobility of local community populations. Ethno-linguistic affiliation based on mother tongue shows that 64.45 % of the population of La Paz is Manobo, with Cebuano-Visayans coming in second at a distant 23.48 % (NSO 1997: 73). The entry of migrants is linked to the operation of logging companies in the 1970s (Municipality of La Paz 1995: 4). All but three men in Manguicao are Manobo. While the profile does not mention indigenous beliefs (see 1995: 4), Manguicao is locally reputed as a center of indigenous spirituality.8 Knowledge of indigenous beliefs here is not restricted to elders, but is widespread and relevant to daily life. Dealings with spirits are frequent and unavoidable, ritual precautions are taken, omens and dreams are pondered, the actuations of spirits taken as explanations of events, and people try to meet their ritual obligations or tulumanon to the extent possible.

The Agusan Manobo are traditionally swidden farmers, and in Manguicao, farming remains an important activity (cf. Gatmaytan 1998). Principal crops are upland rice, corn and sweet potatoes and cassava.9 With the exception of the relatively new darohan cornfields, many of which have produced marketable surpluses since 1998, most farms show low productivity. The community does not rely on farming exclusively, nor is it even the main source of income.

Typically, each family or household works on two to four farm sites every year, although related households sometimes share farm sites, pooling labor and dividing harvests. As landholdings and farms may be far from each other, families may move away for one or more cropping seasons, hence the population fluctuations noted.

Logging began in the Agusan region as early as the 1950s; the Manobo did no resist its entry into the Adgawan river area (cf. Gatmaytan 2001A, 1999). From the 1960s to the early 1990s, work as cutters, transporters and security guards for the logging contractors or firms in the area was the main source of cash. In the 1970s, harvesting rattan (Calamus sp.) became increasingly important, just as local stocks of the valuable lawa-an trees (Shorea negrensis) began declining in the 1980s. 8 In Comota, downriver from Manguicao, an old Manobo was overheard joking to another that it is impossible to buy

chicken in Manguicao, as all their chickens are ipo or sinugbahan; i.e., consecrated for ritual sacrifice. 9 While rice is highly valued, harvested stocks rarely last a few months. Sweet potatoes are actually the most

important crop, as it sustains the local population for most of the year.

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Logging companies thus began pulling out in the 1980s, leaving the Manobo to continue felling, floating and selling timber to local buyers or plantation companies.

Today, small-scale logging continues, though on a much reduced scale. Rattan cutting is now the most important source of cash for Manguicao’s residents. Other sources of income are contractual farm- and other labor outside the community,10 sales of cash crops like corn and peanuts, and salaries. Planting falcatta for harvest and sale began in the 1990s. Hunting and trapping are declining along with the surrounding forest cover, but is still practiced by some men. Fishing in Manguicao has declined even more, especially when compared with data from Garvan’s account (cf. 1929: 81).

Land tenure in Manguicao is individualized,11 based principally on bilateral inheritance from pioneering or other ancestors. With growing awareness of conflicts caused by settlers and disputes among heirs, inheritance practices now emphasize roughly equal subdivision of lands among all heirs, irrespective of order of birth or sex. All but one landholder have subdivided their lands among their prospective heirs; in 2002 this last landholder was said to be preparing to subdivide his lands.

Landowners may gift, sell, exchange or lend12 their land to others, even outsiders, making it possible to own lands in other communities. They can transmit the land to their heirs. A number of men have two to four large land holdings, a much larger group have smaller lots, while a few have none at all. Most of the landless however are children, in-laws or relatives of landowners, and are thus assured of land in the future.

Individuals or households may make clearings in any of their landholdings, or borrow portions of other’s lands for farming. Landholdings are zealously guarded; prior permission of the owner must first be secured before settling or farming areas even though these may look unclaimed or abandoned. Failure to secure permission means risking confrontation or even violence.

The landowner is considered the owner of the natural resources within her/his landholding/s, and thus controls access to such resources.13 Major resources such as timber or rattan may not be cut without permission from—and paying a negotiated “access fee” to—the concerned landowner.

Game, fish and other aquatic resources on the other hand are open-access goods that may be appropriated even by non-Manobos. Wild fruit,14 edibles, bamboo, lesser varieties of rattan, building materials, firewood, medicinals, craft and ritual materials and betel-chew ingredients are also open-access resources that may be taken even by non-community members, provided the appropriation is for domestic use or consumption.15 A context of increasing incidents of land disputes with IFMA-holding companies, migrant settlers and even fellow-Manobo inspired assertiveness on land rights among the Manobo of the Adgawan river area. When they heard of DENR’s AD delineation program through SILDAP, the paramount datu of Manguicao sought its assistance in applying for a CADC. Originally, the plan covered only the datu’s sektor, but other landholders negotiated the inclusion of their respective

10 Reported rates in 2002 are: P 1,000.00 per hectare cleared for farming or tree-planting; P 1.00 per stick in staking

tree seedlings, and P 0.75 per tree seedling planted. 11 While members of the Manobo communities along the Adgawan river generally know that the entire area has long

been subdivided into individual landholdings—commonly referred to as “sektor”—only a few have legal recognition of their ownership or possession.

12 Borrowing land—pagpamæ-id or pagbuyus—is highly institutionalized, allowing the landless access to land for farming. The borrower owns the crops, but the land remains property of the lender. No lease or share in the harvest, or other form of actual or symbolic land rent is expected from the borrower. The borrower however may not plant trees, considered a sign of ownership, and may not him/herself lend or otherwise dispose of the land borrowed. Neither may her/his heirs inherit borrowed lands. To note, there are many cases of landowners borrowing land for cultivation from other landowners.

13 Though they are community leaders, datus therefore do not control lands and resources within their communities’ territory other than their own. Political leadership does not translate directly to ownership or control of lands or resources.

14 An emerging exception is wild duryan (Durio zibethinus), which is finding strong market interest downriver. Whereas they were previously considered open-access resources, they are now being claimed as the property of the landowners in whose holdings they are located, even though they are wild, unplanted trees.

15 In 2000, landowners in the Comota area—downriver from Manguicao—threatened to ban firewood gathering in their lands when they learned that enterprising non-Manobo boys from Talacogon sold the firewood they collected in the local market without negotiating the owners’ share in the profit.

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sektor in the application. SILDAP helped set up MAHANONG (“peace”), an organization made up of most residents of Manguicao, which became the CADC applicant.

The application was filed in 1995, but remained pending until DENR ended implementation of the delineation program in 1997. The long delay, along with the downscaling of tree plantation activities in the area robbed the CADC application of its sense of urgency.

Even as the CADC application was pending approval, MAHANONG introduced changes in local resource management. Fishing with chemicals or explosives was banned, and people were encouraged to concentrate on farming instead of logging or rattan cutting.

In 1996, MAHANONG also tried to regulate logging and rattan cutting. Neither activity was to be allowed within the community’s territory unless the members first vote at the start of each year to allow it;16 permission from the concerned landowner is secured; and access fees are paid to both the owner and the organization. These rules discouraged outsiders from taking interest in Manguicao’s rattan stands.

However, some local residents—including at least one landholder—violated the regulations, and no action was taken against them. When criticized, the landowner responded that he was not a member of MAHANONG and so was not bound by its rules. He said, “Why are they angry (at me); the land is mine anyway”; in effect asserting that as landowner he had by indigenous tenure rules, full power over his lands and resources. Thus we have a case where an individual asserts his traditional rights as land/resource owner vis-à-vis the aims and interests of the community and/or community organization.

The El Nino and La Nina phenomena, in 1998 and 1999 respectively, forced the organization to lift its restrictions so community members could earn cash to offset losses from ruined crops. People then got so used to rattan-cutting and small-scale logging again that MAHANONG could not re-impose its restrictions after these crises. Resource use decisions in effect reverted to the landowners in whose lands rattan stocks were located. Reduction of the local forest cover is obvious in the area.

In August of 2000, MAHANONG helped form a coalition of Manobo community organizations called KATIBOAN,17 to build a united front against tree plantations, and address other local issues. Sustainability and Local Resource Management

In the 1990s, the Manobo of Manguicao relied heavily on cutting and marketing timber and rattan for cash. Interestingly, this did not mean the abandonment or neglect of local agriculture; the community continued its traditional farm practices in parallel with small-scale logging and rattan cutting. This reflects the local culture’s valorization of farm work in general, and rice-farming in particular (cf Gatmaytan 1998).

In 2002, the Mayor of La Paz declared a moratorium on logging operations in the municipality. This operated as a disincentive on continued small-scale logging, though this was not entirely abated. In any case, the people of Manguicao responded by intensifying their agricultural production. They expanded the size of their swidden rice fields, and more families adopted darohan technology in corn cultivation.18 Darohan seems to be favored because although it requires more equipment and labor, it has proven capable of producing marketable surpluses.

Unfortunately, 2002 was also the year that they first experienced the devastating “black bug” infestation. The rice harvest, which has historically been inadequate (cf Garvan 1929: 76), suffered considerably. One man sowed a sack-full of seeds, and harvested only three gantangs. The corn crop was less affected, but was still heavily damaged. Finally, root crop production—the economic mainstay—was also low (“menos ang unod”), although no one could posit any widely accepted

16 The organization’s members voted in 1997, when implementation of the rule began, and in 1998 to ban logging and

rattan cutting during those years. 17 KATIBOAN includes the Manobo communities of Comota, Asuncion, Balitos, Liyo, Manguicao and Libon, all

located along the Adgawan river. 18 Darohan or dry-field plowing was introduced by SILDAP into this part of the Adgawan river in 1997 or 1998,

allowing the pioneering farmers to market a large surplus in 1998. The trend has been encouraged by the RGS-TFM, which has provided carabaos for use of the community.

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explanation for this. Hence, farm production in 2002 generally failed to meet household needs or demands, let alone generate a marketable surplus. A number of female respondents commented on the wasted effort (“sayang ang kahago sa tawo”), and predicted that people would soon be seeking means of earning cash (“mangita g’yud ang tawo og mapangwartahan”). When asked what that would be, they readily answered “pagpanguway” (“rattan cutting”).

One of the women reflected that if it were not for rattan, her family would have starved in the past (“kung dili pa sa uway sa una, mangagutom g’yud ‘mi”). She agrees with my observation however that rattan cutting seems to have declined.19 Whereas one would easily find bundles or even piles of rattan awaiting transport along the riverbank in the past, in 2002 no such bundles were found. “Hinay na” (“weakened”) was how an elder described the state of rattan cutting in the area.

Most respondents traced this decline to the fact that the local rattan stands were now quite far from the community site (“naglayo na”), which for them must mean a considerable distance indeed.

This strongly suggests that rattan cutting within the community’s territory has been poorly regulated, if at all, since the suspension of MAHANONG’s rattan-cutting rules in 1998 and 1999. Since then, individual landowners have reclaimed the right to make resource-use decisions they had theoretically delegated to MAHANONG. Unfortunately, the frequently low agricultural output, and in any case, the need for cash for necessities, impelled land/resource owners to undertake or allow intensive rattan harvesting.

This reiterates the relevance of the individual and his/her values, needs and interests in community-level resource planning. Evidently, there is continuing weakness in terms of the commitment of the community as such to protecting the local ecology, in the face of individual economic needs or wants.

With the Municipal moratorium on tree-cutting, the other main source of cash—small scale logging—was largely closed off, or at least rendered more expensive by the additional bribes needed to facilitate transport and marketing.

Fortunately, the planting of falcatta for future harvest had begun in Manguicao in the late 1990s. Already, a few individuals have tried selling their falcatta timber. Almost every individual or household in Manguicao has now planted falcatta trees in their respective landholdings. Seedlings were purchased, given by friends or relatives, or were gathered from ‘wild’ (turok) growths. In every case, the impetus for tree planting was an interest in having another source of cash (“makakwarta man ‘ta diha”) with which to purchase what is not locally available (“para na’y pang-asin”; i.e., “for [cash for buying] salt”). This is linked to a deeper drive to ensure their families’ survival (“ang atong baruganan, maningkamot ta’g mabuhi ‘ta” or “our principles demand that we strive so that we may live”).

The interest in planting falcatta is so great that a few have even converted their families’ fallow areas (yubas or yati)—normally reserved for future use as a farm clearing—to falcatta stands. One young man justified this by saying that the detritus generated by the trees becomes a good fertilizer, so that when the area is eventually cleared for farming, the soil is better prepared for cultivation.

On the other hand, there is a growing consensus that falcatta should not be planted in the flat, relatively more fertile flatlands associated with river- and creek-sides (“dili angay tamnan og falcatta ang patag”). Such areas are better used as croplands, especially darohan; “sayang naman ang patag” (“the flatlands would be wasted“), as one woman said. Falcatta, a number of informants said, is properly planted in sloping areas (“sa bukid”), which cannot be plowed (“dili madaro”). Again, this underscores the primacy of agricultural production in terms of land-allocation, even as against a more potentially lucrative land-use like falcatta planting.

There is also emerging consensus that falcatta should not be planted in “mga virgin pa nga mga lasang” (“virgin forests”). This stance grows as much from knowledge of the commercial value of the timber from old-growth stands as from a desire to protect the remaining forests.20 As one

19 Another woman responded to my observation by saying, “sulayon lang ang pagpangita sa lasang; bisan pito ka

putol ra” (“[we”ll] try looking [for rattan] in the forest [anyway]; even just seven poles [will do]”). 20 Only one woman expressed concern over the possibility that the spread of falcatta through planting and natural

propagation of its seeds could lead to the loss of the variety of plants and trees in the area. She also mentioned that

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farmer said, “kung mawa’ ang lasang, mawa’ ang kinaiya sa lumad, mao nga importante ampingon ang lasang” (“if the forests vanish, so will the culture of the lumad, which is why it is important to take care of the forests”).

Falcatta planting is not without its critics in the community. The new paramount datu of Manguicao reflected that falcatta-planting is a new practice, linked to the desire for cash (“mahimo kung na-anad ka sa kwarta”), and by extension, to the mainstream culture. The implication was that falcatta-planting is alien and unacceptable.

On hearing this, one man responded that, “dili pare-parehas ang huna-huna sa lumad” (“[individual Manobos] do not think the same way”), adding that just as people used to convert harvested rice fields into sweet potato fields to make the most of the time and effort invested into making the clearing, people now plant falcatta in their farms or fallows. Instead of letting the land lie fallow, they plant trees that in three to five years can be harvested for cash (“mahimong bangko”; i.e., trees act as a bank from which you can later withdraw). In closing his argument, he said that it is better that the Manobo plant trees in their lands, rather than allow outsiders to do so; underscoring how tree planting is traditionally seen as an act of ownership.

The datu countered by pointing out how much the Manobo have suffered from adopting the ways of outsiders (“nagsundog sa langyaw”) including logging and rattan cutting, and that falcatta planting may similarly lead to cultural erosion (“basin malimtan ang kultura sa lumad”). He said that in the past, there were no companies and no logging, yet there was no hunger. He thus emphasized that the integrity of one’s culture is linked to the integrity of the land and its resources, and the integrity of one’s self and welfare.

This exchange suggests that the community is still processing its growing involvement with falcatta planting; seeking to reconcile the need for an alternative source of income to logging and rattan cutting with the need to protect the community’s cultural and symbolic boundaries from further intrusions.

In any case, some respondents commented that falcatta planting does not provide for immediate needs. It will provide cash—and food and other needs—only after about five years. Until then, one woman wryly noted, they will still need to farm to feed themselves.

In a context where individuals and households are reasserting their traditional right to make land- and resource-use decisions on their own, it is not surprising that MAHANONG’s role and influence has declined. Some community members could not even name its current officials. On the other hand, KATIBOAN—the alliance of Adgawan river Manobo communities—has grown in importance. MAHANONG has reportedly been absorbed by (“nasulod”) KATIBOAN.

Instead of addressing community-level land and resource management issues as MAHANONG had however, the KATIBOAN is focused on relations between the local Manobo communities as a group, and the Royal Match, Inc., an IFMA-holding company operating in the Comota area downriver. For the most part, relations between KATIBOAN and the company have revolved around ongoing negotiations arising from the company’s 2001 initiative of entering separate Memoranda of Agreement with the individual Manobo land or “sektoral” owners. KATIBOAN, with the help of the RGS-TFM, negotiated more favorable terms for inclusion as standard provisions of the individual landowners’ respective Memoranda of Agreement.

This initiative on the part of Royal Match, Inc. is interesting in that it is a clear affirmation of the rights of ownership and resource-control of individual Manobos.21 This contrasts with much of the experience with logging or IFMA-holing companies of many of the Manobo and neighboring Banwa-on.

In sum, land and resource use in Manguicao is characterized by three trends: First, there is the continuing reliance on agriculture, though with a emphasis on the expansion of darohan corn-production. This grows out of a cultural background that esteems agricultural work, especially as a solution to hunger. As the ba-e of the community said, “Ang akong hangad, molapad ang mga umahan, ug wa’y magutom” (“My dream is that crop fields will expand [so that] no one goes

in Damayon, in Loreto, Agusan del Sur, farmers have begun to treat falcatta as a weed, to be uprooted from croplands where they may have taken root. Still, she was confident that falcatta cannot colonize old-growth stands.

21 See Memorandum of Agreement by and between Royal Match, Inc. (RMI) and Benjamin Dogmocan, Jr., dated 20 October 2000.

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hungry”). So strong is this drive that it moves people to prioritize agricultural use over even falcatta planting, in terms of land use. Clearly, the Manobo of Manguicao are, before anything else, tillers of the land.

The second trend is the increasing importance of falcatta planting in the community as a source of cash, either to offset the frequent shortfalls in farm production or simply to purchase the needs and wants of a tribal farming household of 21st century highland Agusan. Adoption of tree planting is widespread, all the more remarkable for being undertaken at an individual or household level.

The third trend is the declining importance of rattan cutting as a source of cash, at least until sufficient stocks are regenerated in the area. The loss of local rattan stocks is most probably due to unregulated harvesting by the community members seeking means for generating cash. The lack of regulation reflects a tenure system where resource use decisions had devolved back to the individual land/resource owners in the wake of the weakening of the local CO, MAHANONG. Unfortunately, the resource-use decisions of the individual landowners of Manguicao seem to have favored exploitation of local rattan stands, in the light of recurrent crop shortages and the continuing need for cash.

This is not to say that people in the community are unaware of the need to protect the local environment. We have noted the efforts of MAHANONG in regulating land and resource use in the area, as well as statements indicating awareness of the importance of the forest and its connection with cultural survival. It is just that there are other forces and interests at play in decision-making in actual community settings, such that sometimes immediate or short-term interests prevail.

At the moment, it is difficult to assess if the current hiatus in small-scale logging constitutes a trend. A lot depends on the continued and effective implementation of the tree-cutting moratorium declared by the Mayor of La Paz. Hopefully, the increasing number of falcatta trees will be soon be able to reduce dependence on small-scale logging, although it is quite possible that the increase in falcatta production might also spell oversupply and the reduction of local purchase prices.

These trends are being played out in a context where it is individuals and households that are the relevant decision-making unit in terms of land and resource use. The trends noted here are the result of decisions made by individuals and households, acting independently but with awareness of others’ decisions. They are not the result of decisions made by the community as a collective unit, or by local organization acting in the interest of members of the community.

In closing, it would seem that although small-scale logging and rattan cutting in Manguicao were conducted in a largely unregulated, probably unsustainable manner, they have not exceeded the capacity of the area to regenerate itself yet. The growing interest in falcatta production and intensifying—as opposed to expanding—agriculture are positive developments that may wean the community from continued dependence on logging and rattan cutting. RUPES Contrary to expectations, the people of Manguicao were very wary of the RUPES concept and project. The main concern seemed to be that receiving rewards of any form from the RUPES project would impose upon Manobo landowners an obligation to meet whatever demands the project’s implementers may make on them (“murag sila na ang makabo-ot”; or “it would be as if the people [behind RUPES] will have the power to decide [things]”). This could mean loss of control over their lands, and the resources therein. To use the words of the newly installed paramount datu of Manguicao, “mahimo ka nga sulogo-on sa imong kaugalingon nga yuta” (“you will be as a servant on your own land”). So protective are the Manobo of their tenure rights that this risk is unacceptable. As one woman said, “basin mahadlok ang mga tawo; makaingon sila nga napalit na ang yuta” (“people might be afraid [of the project]; they might say their lands have been bought [from them]”). She cautioned therefore that before implementation, there should be a process of careful consultations and explanations.

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There were also concerns on the project’s effect on local enterprise. Again, this objection is rooted in the concern that because the land and its resources have been dedicated to ecological purposes per the terms of the RUPES, the landowners can no longer clear lands for farming, or sell logs and rattan whenever they wish, as they have hitherto done. The economic options of the landowner would therefore be limited by the project. A few opined that if ever the project will be implemented, it should be in partnership with the local CO. It will be recalled however that not all community residents are members of MAHANONG, and that the organization itself has declined in influence. It was conceded then that there would be problems with traditional, “individualistic” community members who have a recognized right to refuse to participate in the project. An expressly community-based concept like RUPES will only have limited success if a significant portion of the community refuses to participate. I believe the community can be made to fully understand RUPES, and be persuaded to so participate, but this required more time and resources than the project offered. No further details from further inquiries along this line are therefore unavailable. The community at least promised to be open in future discussions of the RUPES concept. Similarly, interviewed local government officials—all of whom were Manobo—also expressed suspicion of the entire scheme. Again, this may be partly due to the sheer novelty of the concept, but again mostly because of the risks on the tenure rights of the landowners. The concern that the traditional prerogatives of a landowner would be taken from him/her was also echoed. As a barangay kagawad said, “basin mawa’ ang katungod sa lumad sa pagpamutol sa kahoy o uway, kay naka-commit na sa suporta” (“the [Manobo] might lose the right to cut trees or rattan, because [his/her lands] have been committed [to the project] in exchange for [funding] support”). This underscores once more the deep sense of autonomy or independence in decision-making that Manobo landowners in the Adgawan river area value for themselves, and respect in others. Upon explanation however all these officials expressed interest in the RUPES concept. A barangay captain declared that much of the success of the project would hinge on the implementing mechanisms and procedures. Along this line, there was a discussion of the basis for distribution of rewards (individual performance or contribution of landowners, measured against the results of a resource inventory which provides baseline data); what types of services are required from the communities (watershed, and to a lesser extent, biodiversity protection); the types of rewards (almost unanimously, respondents wanted cash awards); 22 the size of the cash rewards (should not be so large as to serve as a disincentive to community productivity and enterprise); and the monitoring and evaluation processes (to be handled by COs in each participating community).

The barangay captain also emphasized the need for prior consultations with all stakeholders—particularly the sektoral owners—and for coordination with other local government units and offices. For the latter purpose, he suggested setting up an inter-LGU committee wherein representatives from the Municipalities of San Luis, La Paz and Talacogon are represented. Mention was also made of the current log-ban within La Paz. This last remark is interesting in that it reveals the geographical framework he was associating with implementation of the RUPES; i.e., the entire watershed of the Adgawan river, which flows from San Luis, through La Paz, and down to Talacogon, where its waters are fed into the mighty Agusan river. As confirmed over the course of the interviews, most people believed that sincere implementation of RUPES in the area will necessitate the involvement not just of Manguicao but of all the other Manobo, Banwa-on and bisaya-dominated communities in the Adgawan watershed area. This tied in with the observation that RUPES will mean an unprecedented degree of community organizing in the watershed area. Finally, the officials sought measures that guaranteed the landowners’ control of their lands and resources (“kinahanglan tagaan og power ang tag-iya sa yuta” or “landowners must be given power”), for fear is that outsiders will appropriate control of the area (“basin ang NGOs na ang modisisyon” or “maybe NGOs will now make the decisions”). When asked if CADTs under IPRA could serve as such guarantee, there was lukewarm response. One man explained that the CADTs

22 It was explained that cash is a liquid asset, easily convertible into goods and services landowners should need or

want. In a way, it reiterates the primacy of individual landowners in that it allows her/him to choose what s/he wants to do with his/her share of the reward, instead of limiting options to a specific product, service or other asset.

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were communal instruments, whereas Manobo tenure is individualized. It would seem that CADTs issued on an individual basis may have to be considered in this area.

Case Study 2: Minalwang Profile

Barangay Minalwang of the Municipality of Claveria, Misamis Oriental is a cluster of six Higa-onon sitios or communities; Minalwang proper, Impadiding, Lakbangan, Kalahaan, Mandalawat and Malunsagay. Together, these communities cover more or less 20,500 has. of classified timber land (Mun. of Claveria 2000a: 14-15); nearly one-third of the municipality’s land area (GM 1997: 2).

Claveria itself holds much of the remaining forests of the province (Mun. of Claveria 2000a: 1), and these are concentrated mostly in Minalwang, where a “large portion” of the area “is still covered by old-growth forests” (GM 1997: 3). A barangay official estimates that 80 % of the area remains covered by old-growth forests. A biodiversity assessment conducted by GM showed that a remarkably high number of floral and faunal species—including the Philippine eagle—is extant in the area (GM undated).

Much of the terrain ranges from rolling hills to steep slopes, growing more rugged towards the south-southeast, with a few level areas near rivers or creeks. Farms, fallows and secondary growths cover areas near the six community sites or rivers and creeks; more remote areas are still forested.

Local sources estimate the barangay’s population at 2,000, divided into about 400 households. It has the second lowest population density in the municipality, (Mun. of Claveria 2000a: 15-16, data cited is from 1998). The trend is clearly towards a net increase in the local populations. While 79 % of the residents in the municipality are Cebuano (Mun. of Claveria 2000b: 47), Minalwang is described as 74 % Higa-onon (GM 1997: 10).23

Catholicism and other sects have made inroads into Minalwang—there is a Catholic chapel at Minalwang proper—and while indigenous rituals continue to be practiced,24 many community members and observers have expressed concern over whether traditional beliefs and values are being transmitted to the next generation.

The Higa-onon of Minalwang proper are traditionally swidden-farmers. Today, agricultural systems and technologies are mixed, with different households using combinations of swidden farms, plowed cornfields (darohan), irrigated rice paddies, and tree farms. Almost all respondents said they worked two to four farm sites each year. Agricultural production is generally for consumption only. Marketing of root crops, lawe, livestock, coffee and falcatta (Albizia falcataria) among others,25 are the main sources of cash for residents of Minalwang proper. Coffee used to be a more important cash crop, but production has declined over time. Labor in local projects, leasing draft animals, employment by the Barangay and farm labor other sources of cash. The entry of logging firms—Anakan Logging Co. (ALCO) and Nasipit Logging Co. (NALCO)—into the area was initially resisted, but the elders leading the barricade were thwarted by the companies’ government-issued concession papers, and their use of fellow Higa-onons as negotiators. In the 1970s, some people were able to work as cutters or security guards for the two firms. Much of the logging in the area seems to have been done in sitios Malunsagay and Mandalawat. The comparatively limited impact of logging operations is probably because the companies were more interested in logging at Kalabugaw, south of Minalwang. Logging was thus largely restricted to areas near the logging road towards Kalabugaw, passing through Minalwang, Impadiding and Kalahaan. Logging operations were suspended in 1991, when a moratorium in the

23 Non-Higa-onon are referred to as “dumagat”; i.e., “from the sea”, alluding to their migrant origin from beyond

Mindanao. 24 One informant stated that rituals have been developed for non-indigenous products like timber, falcatta and rattan. 25 Other local products are inak-ak (wooden shingles), giyong, tikog, almaciga (Agathis philippinensis), abaca (Musa

textilis) and baliw.

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province was declared. No commercial logging of either large- or small-scale is conducted today in the Minalwang area. Until the 1970s, rattan cutting was largely for domestic use only. Elders recounted that in the past, they would not cut the stem completely but only cut a strip away from the woody stem to allow it to live on. During the 1980s and 1990s, as many as thirty contractors and five rattan permit-holders operated in the area (GM 1997: 30). By the mid-1990s, up to 90 % of the adult male population was engaged in rattan cutting (GM 1997: 20).

Rattan cutting remains the principal source of cash for the Higa-onon in the five sitios other than Minalwang proper, which has more economic options. At present, there are two rattan-cutting permit holders and a few buyers—almost all of whom are dumagat—operating within Minalwang’s territory. The local tenure system is centered on the ga-op; i.e., landholding. From discussions with local residents, it is clear that a ga-op is not community or communal property in the sense of every community member being part owner thereof. The ga-op is private property, though an individual, family or household, or a larger kin-group may own it. In general, landownership is rooted in inheritance. There seems to be considerable leeway in terms of how lands are transmitted through hereditary succession: Most informants said lands are subdivided among all heirs; at least one elder said that the eldest inherits all lands, though with the obligation to ensure that his/her co-heirs have access to those lands for cultivation.26 There is strong emphasis on the descendants’ obligation to comply with the decedent’s will; which may include prohibitions against selling land. One datu stated that even siblings may not sell the lands they inherited to each other. At present, all the lands in the barangay have been claimed as ga-op. Land-holdings range from less than a hectare in area, up to 500 has. in one case. We may thus picture the area as being subdivided into a mosaic of ga-op of various sizes. In theory, it is possible for individuals or families to claim two or more ga-op.

An individual or household may clear swidden farms in their respective ga-op. Alternatively, they may borrow land for cultivation from others, free of any form of land rent, usually for a single cropping. In such cases, the crops belong to the borrower, but the land remains property of the lender. There are also specific areas that, though located in another’s ga-op, have been set-aside as “communal farms” (unayan) by the owner. Typically, unayan are located along rivers or creeks or in second-growth areas (lati or lubas). Some individuals or families may, over time, develop rights of possession over specific portions of the unayan, but again while crops belong to the cultivator, free of any form of rent, the land remains the ga-op owner’s property.

The owner of the ga-op is also the owner of resources therein. This is the basis for claims of ownership over rattan stands.27 Anyone who wants to cut rattan must thus seek permission from whoever owns the land where the rattan is located. Even when of rattan cutting was most intense in the 1980s and early 1990s, cutters and contractors routinely sought the landholders’ permission. More recently, ga-op owners have begun demanding negotiable “access-fees” from prospective cutters. Hunting and trapping is still practiced.28 It is generally done only within one’s ga-op or in traditional hunting grounds (pangasoha); hunting or trapping elsewhere requires the owner’s permission. One Impadiding elder proposed to fence his ga-op to help conserve deer in the area, but his efforts met limited success.

Fishing and exploitation of other aquatic resources remains important, though output seems to have declined over time, perhaps as a result of the use of chemicals to kill fish or freshwater shrimps in the 1980s and 1990s.

26 Some elders said that preference was traditionally given to males (lablab), as opposed to the females (bala-og) in

allocating ga-op rights, apportioning inheritance, reckoning descent, etc. 27 Boundary-conflicts were very contentious in the 1980s and 1990s, when rattan cutting was intensively conducted

here, as they had direct consequences on rights or claims to local rattan stocks. 28 Originally, captured game was purely for consumption, but there are reports that wild pig meat was now being sold

in neighboring communities for P 60.00 a kilo.

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Around 1993, the elders and leaders of Minalwang encountered individuals involved in CADC applications under DENR’s AD delineation program. Encouraged, the leaders of sitio Impadiding decided to apply for a CADC to cover its approximately 12,000 has. of land. On hearing of the plan, leaders and ga-op owners from the five other communities of the barangay persuaded Impadiding’s leaders to include their areas in the application. For purposes of the application, the local people established the Minalwang Higa-onon Tribal Council, Inc. (MIHITRICO). All residents of the six communities are members of MIHITRICO.

With the help of GM, MIHITRICO was awarded R-10-CADC-114 in 1997, which covered 20,500 has. (DENR 1998: 3). Then, again with the assistance of GM, they complied with the legal requirement of submitting an ADMP.29

MIHITRCO’s ADMP is remarkable for its deceptively brief form; there are essentially only ten provisions.30 Behind these ten concise provisions however is the entire body of Higa-onon traditional law, the Bungkatol ha Bulawan nang Ka Tasa ha Lana (see MIHITRICO 1997).31 Thus paragraph no. 1 seems to simply enjoin us to “(o)bserve good values or rules”, but reading this in conjunction with the Bungkatol ha Bulawan brings to bear the entire complex of knowledges, values, beliefs, traditions and practices known and practiced by the Higa-onon.

Paragraph no. 4 is particularly interesting. It states that “(e)ach group of lumad is responsible for guarding their own land”. The provision in effect recognizes the ga-op owners’ rights to their lands/resources, and impliedly relies on them for protection of the CADC area and its resources.

Implementation of the ADMP was made the task of sitio-level tribal councils led by sitio-datus. Within each sitio, land utilization, care for timber and rattan stocks, access to local resources and agricultural development are at least partly in the hands of the ga-op owners. This forms a clear link between local tenure practices centered on traditionally autonomous ga-op owners, and implementation of the ADMP.

The ADMP is also notable for how carefully the Higa-onon matched existing governmental structures—the elective Barangay Captain and Kagawad, who are each assigned oversight of the welfare of particular sitios—by setting up an elective ‘Supreme Datu’, and sitio-councils and –datus (see GM 1997: 14). The result is that there are many venues where barangay and PO officials meet or work together, resulting in close coordination between them.

A few months after receiving their CADC, the people of Minalwang were surprised to learn that funds for livelihood projects were available to them through the government’s PAF-3, administered by the DENR. The PAF was originally intended as a response to the El Nino phenomenon, and targeted CADC-holders, among others. MIHITRICO used P 1.4 million in livelihood funds from the PAF-3 to initially finance the implementation of its ADMP. Since then, MIHITRICO has received funds from the UNDP, Canada Fund, OPAPE and other sources, which it used for infrastructure and livelihood projects.

At present, MIHITRICO is planning to convert its CADC into a CADT.

Sustainability and Local Resource Management

MIHITRICO’s implementation of its ADMP has had generally positive impact on the environment. Destructive fishing techniques have largely been eliminated; commercial felling and marketing of timber has been marginalized; sales of lands to dumagat have stopped; and there has been visible improvement over both the quality and quantity of local forest stands, as evidenced by

29 Art. 6, sec. 3 of DENR Administrative Order no. 2, s. 1993. See also DENR Administrative Order no. 34, s. 1996. 30 These are: (1) (Observe) good values or rules; (2) The sale of land is prohibited; (3) Newcomers with interest in

land, such as dumagat, may not enter the area; (4) Each group of lumad is responsible for guarding their own land; (5) Companies interested in logging or mining may not be allowed to return or enter; (6) Do not keep transferring residence; (7) Clearing or cutting young rattan growths is prohibited; (8) Do not poison waters; (9) Birds must be cared for; and (10) Punish violators (the original provisions are in Cebuano; translations are mine).

31 Although the ADMP itself uses the term Bungkatol ha Bulawan, one datu explained that there were eight original Higa-onon tologan or political districts, each of which had its own body of indigenous laws. In the tologan of which Minalwang is part, this body of laws is properly referred to as the Maingli ha Batasan.

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the discernable reduction in water turbidity of Minalwang creek even during lengthy rains. Moreover, MIHITRICO’s use of various funds has enabled it to improve local roads and other infrastructure, establish or develop livelihood projects, and even provide limited electrification of Minalwang proper. In that community, the increase and improvement of homes, the improvement of social services, as well as the expansion of irrigated rice fields is readily apparent.

To a large extent, these gains were made possible by a relatively well-developed consciousness of ecological responsibilities among MIHITRICO’s leaders and members, as can be seen from the ADMP’s provisions as well as the day-to-day discourses of community members.

One senior datu described the protection of the local environment as an obligation imposed by their ancestors, which they are bound to fulfill (“dili ‘ta makalapas sa daan nga tugon”). Failure in this regard means “mabalhin ang kinaiyahan.” Literally, this last statement would read “nature will be altered,” but it is actually an incisive formulation of an ideological viewpoint. The term “kinaiyahan” can be interpreted as referring to nature or the environment, and to the Higa-onons’ nature, character or identity. Failure to protect the environment thus means both the destruction of the environment, the first, surface meaning; as well as the erosion of Higa-onon identity, the second, deeper layer of meaning. In effect, the very identity of the Higa-onon is represented as linked with the protection of the environment; you cannot claim to be Higa-onon if you allow the destruction of the environment, which provides you with life.32

MIHITRICO is also continuously developing or refining its rules on land and resource management. For example, the felling of old growth stands for making farm clearings is now prohibited. Instead, residents can now only make clearings in second-growth or fallow areas (lati).33 There are also preparations for imposing a 10 % Barangay tax on rattan production, which would establish another means for controlling local rates of exploitation. There have also been local initiatives at the community level; some local leaders are planning a deer sanctuary, and individuals have taken the initiative in propagating particular tree species and using organic fertilizers. Finally, the elders and datus of the six communities have expressed serious concern for systematizing the transmission of cultural knowledge to the next generation, initially through a program of documentation (“pag-logbook”).

The Higa-onon of Minalwang still face other problems. Respondents were unanimous on the inability of current farm-production to meet local demands or needs, which include supporting economically dependent pupils or students.

A large majority of the respondents called for the improvement and expansion of the road, which at present effectively connects only Minalwang proper to the lowlands. This should provide an incentive to increase agricultural productivity. They pointed to Minalwang proper, whose accessibility provides residents more options for earning money, and has resulted in increases in crop production for sale outside the CADC area. Some people also cited individuals who, during the height of logging operations in the area, produced truckloads of crops for sale in the lowlands, marketed through the logging companies’ trucks and roads. Apparently, people can produce more crops than they currently are. Without access to the market however, any farm surplus will only be wasted, as households have neither the means to consume or preserve the harvest. Households thus do not make large clearings, with correspondingly small output.

Many people also expressed an interest in expanding the number of rice-paddies in the area. It was felt that increased reliance on wet-rice cultivation, which can theoretically produce up to three crops a year, would correspondingly reduce reliance on swidden farming and the need to make forest clearings. One man noted however that construction of rice paddies is expensive, and might force people to resort to usurious loan agreements to finance it.

Other inputs to increase farm production were also cited. These included education and training, technical guidance and assistance particularly in the relatively new technology of wet-rice

32 In this connection, the frequent references to the rituals addressed to the ibabasok or farm spirits, the tumanod or

forest spirits and animal masters, and the bulalakaw or water spirits made by the elders reflects an appreciation of human dependence on natural resources for their survival.

33 There is an emerging distinction between kaingin or sakom, which are now understood to refer to farm clearings made in old-growth forests (gulangan); and paglampas (lit., clearing), which refers to farm clearings made in fallow or second-growth areas (lati or lubas).

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agriculture, the improvement of local infrastructure, and additional funding for start-up capitalization of livelihood projects, rice-paddy construction and the purchase of work animals, farm machinery and tools.

In general, there is an emerging trend towards agricultural intensification. Intensification here refers to the production of more crops on less land, principally by investing into wet-rice cultivation, and to a somewhat lesser extent, dry-field plowing or darohan. Up to 100 has. of lands in Kalhaan can be converted to rice paddies. Intensification also refers to the practice of planting more kinds of crops in farm clearings; e.g., inter-planting of root crops with commercial vegetables, bananas, coffee, fruit trees and increasingly, falcatta trees.

The growing number of fruit trees and falcatta planted in Minalwang shows increasing adoption of agro-forestry approaches by the Higa-onon. In particular, falcatta trees are becoming more important as a source of cash especially in Minalwang proper. Its adoption in the other communities would depend at least partly on improvements in access to the market.

At present, most people—particularly in Impadiding, Lakbangan, Kalahaan, Mandalawat and Malunsagay—still rely to a great extent on rattan cutting as a source of cash to supplement farming production shortfalls (“Gawas sa Minalwang, uway ra ang gisaligan sa tawo” or “Outside of Minalwang, people rely only on rattan”; “wa’ nama’y laing padulngan ang tawo” or “people have nowhere else to turn to”). When asked what people would do for cash if rattan stocks were actually wiped out in the area, respondents could not offer any concrete response.

Rattan cutting is so economically important that in a meeting of the Tribal Council, there was some debate as to whether it was better to apply for a CADT from the NCIP, or for a CBFMA from the DENR. Proponents of the latter option argued that it would reduce transaction costs and facilitate access to the necessary permits for rattan cutting from the government. In the end, the strategic value of securing legal recognition of ownership of lands and resources persuaded people to favor the CADT. In any case, communities can still secure a CBFMA from the DENR later.

Unfortunately, there are serious problems in regulating rattan cutting within the CADC area. Local rates of extraction are seriously depleting rattan stocks, especially in the five outlying communities. One man described local rattan stocks as “hurot-hurot” (“nearly used up”). The situation is serious enough to warrant the declaration by community leaders of a “Temporary Cessation in Rattan Cutting” within the CADC area.

There have been violations of the cessation order however. The Barangay Captain of Minalwang complained of individuals who ignored MIHITRICO and its rules (“wa’ na’y respeto sa MIHITRICO”). Moreover, and rather more alarmingly, there were reports of rattan poaching; i.e., cutters harvesting rattan from other’s ga-op without the landowner’s knowledge and permission. Finally, there have also been cases of rattan of only two or three arms-spans’ length (dupa) being cut for sale, a violation of paragraph no. 7 of the ADMP itself.

MIHITRICO however is hesitant about penalizing those responsible. The lapse may stem from the confluence of a number of factors: Some of those responsible may be relatives, elders or community leaders, making punishment an awkward process. Moreover, the imposition of a fine (sala or manggad)—per paragraph no. 10 of the ADMP—as an enforcement mechanism is actually a revival of a punitive practice that has largely been abandoned in this area. There is thus some difficulty in terms of systematizing its procedure and standards for assessing liability and penalties.34 It is also possible that at the time MIHITRICO formulated its ADMP, it fully expected its members to comply with its provisions, and so it is now unprepared for actually punishing transgressors. Perhaps they thought that the traditional injunction to follow teachings (pigtugonan) and observe agreements (pigsabutan) was sufficient to compel compliance.35

A number of leaders were thus seeking backing from some law or regulation, or a government agency to support MIHITRICO’s exercise of its punitive powers, especially if these offenders had access themselves to political or other power; e.g., soldiers and municipal government officials.

34 One of the reasons that senior community leaders wished to pursue the documentation of indigenous practices was

to help disseminate knowledge of the regulations, and to systematize the procedures and penalties involved. 35 To the extent that the ADMP embodies the teachings and practices of Higa-onon ancestors, it is pigtugonan; to the

extent that members of MIHITRICO agreed on the ADMP’s provisions and to be bound by them, it is pigsabutan. The ADMP is thus both, and members can only comply with it.

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To note, hesitation in punishing transgressions is itself a violation of the ADMP’s paragraph no. 10. As one datu said, “kita pa mismo ang mobungkag sa atong balaod” (“we ourselves break our [own] laws”). His solution was also based on the ADMP—specifically paragraph no. 4—which he rendered as “ang tag-iya sa sektor ma-o ang mobantay” (“ga-op owners must guard [the land]”).36 In effect, he was calling on ga-op owners to obey the ADMP’s strictures, or to actively enforce it as against poachers and other offenders.

The barangay captain’s comment on the situation was, “sige’g seminar, pero na’a g’yud molapas” (“we continue to hold seminars [about the rules] but there will still be transgressors”). He traced these violations to the drive to make money (“ang kwarta, makadaut” or “[the drive for] money is destructive”), at whatever the cost. He went on to ask, “asa naman ang maayong pagdumala, kung sa sulod na’a na’y nada-ut?” (“Where is [our] good management, if within [our territory] something has already been damaged?”).

Clearly, enforcement of its rules is a crucial challenge to MIHITRICO. If it fails to punish violations of its rules, the organization’s credibility will be undermined and members will no longer feel obliged to comply with its rules. Why should they comply when those who do not are not punished?

The case of violations of MIHITRICO’s rules on rattan cutting highlights the tension between ga-op rights of individuals, households or clans vis-à-vis the needs and interests of the community, as represented in this case by MIHITRICO. Violations of the cessation in cutting order and the harvesting of young rattan by ga-op owners reflect their assertion of their traditional rights to do as they wished with resources like rattan within their ga-op. On the other hand, CO officials emphasized the obligation to fulfill agreements or “kasabutan”. In effect, they argue that when the ga-op holders formed and joined MIHITRICO, they surrendered some of their rights to the CO and agreed to be bound by its (new) rules on rattan and other resources.

The critical importance of reconciling individual with group rights is echoed in another case. This time, a ga-op owner was reported to have allowed the entry of seventy to a hundred dumagat workers and their families into his land, reportedly to help make farm clearings in the area. In the meantime, the migrants have been allowed to settle and farm in the ga-op. This is a clear violation of paragraph no. 3 of the ADMP, and a relinquishment of the ga-op owner’s duty under paragraph no. 4 thereof.

At the time we learned of this case, there was still some question regarding whether or not the allegations were true. If true, the ga-op owner’s actions can again be read as another assertion of his traditional right to do with the land as he pleased. And similarly, opposite this assertion is MIHITRICO and the agreements regarding the treatment of dumagat settlers that the ADMP represents.

The centrality of reconciling individual rights with community interests also emerged in the discussions of MIHITRICO’s Tribal Council regarding whether to apply for a CADT that will cover the entire CADC area, or to apply for CADTs on a per ga-op or sectoral or individual basis. There clearly were community members who preferred to have their own CADTs for their own ga-op, largely out of a desire for autonomy. As one man explained, “akô naman, akó ang mobo-ot” (“[the land] is mine, [so] I should decide [issues affecting it]”). And for some time, there was some uncertainty as to the outcome of the discussion. One elder felt compelled to offer a compromise: CADTs can be applied for on a per ga-op basis, but the ga-op owners should still come to an agreement regarding the management of the area,37 and the CO will still be needed to help coordinate

36 This formulation can be interpreted to mean that the traditional rights of ga-op owners over their lands/resources is

recognized; that guarding the land also means implementing or enforcing the ADMP’s rules, and that compliance is to be enforced upon both outsiders and members of MIHITRICO.

37 This suggests an awareness that certain development and environmental issues cannot be effectively dealt with on a ga-op or individual basis. For example, wildlife protection is best managed at a level higher than the individual ga-op, as game animals will naturally roam over large areas that may include any number of ga-op. Concerned owners should thus cooperate on any wildlife protection plan, if it is to succeed. Other issues best managed at a level that transcends the ga-op are control of logging and mining, which will have an impact beyond the ga-op where they actually operate; watershed and irrigation system protection and management; and monitoring of environmental quality and parameters. Another related development is the emergence of the possibility of coordinating action with neighboring CADC-holders/CADT-applicants, such as Mintapod/AGMIHICU to the south.

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the protection of the land. One man wondered however if ga-op holders would agree to be bound by any such agreements, suggesting an underlying interest in asserting or maintaining ga-op holders’ autonomy.

In the end, it was decided that they would apply for a single CADT for the entire CADC area. Two factors may have influenced the CO’s decision. First, there was position presented by a senior datu, who asserted that a failure to secure a CADT would mean a failure to fulfill their obligation to protect their AD, imposed by their ancestors. Second, funding agencies and government agencies and offices may have difficulty in dealing with each and every ga-op rather than a single organization like the MIHITRICO, thus hampering the community members’ strong interest in securing further assistance in developing livelihood projects.

In a sense, such tensions are expected at this point in MIHITRICO’s history. People will naturally test their relationships with each other and with the CO within the framework of the CADC, seeking to define and refine their respective rights and powers.

In sum, MIHITRICO has shown its general capability for sustainable management of the area. Much of its gains and successes are due to a well-developed consciousness of the necessity for protecting the local environment, which has even been linked ideologically with Higa-onon identity.

One clear trend in Minalwang is the intensification of agricultural production, in the face of frequent shortfalls in local agricultural production. This trend has three interrelated aspects.

The first is their interest in improving access to markets—principally by improving the local road system—which can absorb the surpluses they are confident they can produce. The second is the intensification of agriculture in the sense of investing into technologies such as wet-rice cultivation and dry-field plowing that allow households to produce more crops per year on a limited amount of land. This has the linked benefit of reducing the necessity for having to clear fallows or forest areas each year for farming. Third is the movement towards the adoption of agro-forestry technologies or approaches. This takes the form of increasing employment of inter-planting of crops and trees, and the increasing interest in falcatta planting and harvesting as a source of cash or income.

These developments offer the possibility of stabilizing economic production and limiting the necessity for forest conversion.

In the meantime many of the Higa-onon, especially in Impadiding, Kalahaan, Lakbangan, Malunsagay and Mandalawat continue to rely on rattan marketing to offset low farm productivity. This is a second trend apparent in the area. Unfortunately, local rates of exploitation are probably nearing critical levels, hence the imposition of a moratorium on rattan cutting. However, so dependent are many people on rattan cutting and marketing that compliance with the moratorium, as well as other CO rules on rattan, is irregular.

The heavy dependence on rattan cutting underscores the need to find alternative or supplementary sources of income for the community.

It also emphasizes the critical need for MIHITRICO to enforce compliance with its ADMP and other rules. Sadly, MIHITRICO is hesitating in its self-imposed obligation to punish any and all offenders. The issue of enforcement of the ADMP through punitive mechanisms like the traditional sala is a crucial test for the CO; failure here risks the continued credibility and effectiveness of both MIHITRICO and the ADMP.

This tension over enforcement of the CO’s rules on rattan and similar problems constitute a third trend in local land and resource use. MIHITRICO is now at the stage when its members are beginning to define and refine their relationship vis-à-vis the CO. This process is articulated through what are in effect competing discourses on traditional individual or ga-op rights.

The situation underscores the essentially ‘constructed’ character of MIHITRICO. It is a management level set over hitherto autonomous ga-op owners who traditionally control lands and resources. The challenge is thus to find a balance between the traditional autonomy of ga-op owners and the claims and interests of the community, as represented by MIHITRICO.

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RUPES

The idea of RUPES found ready acceptance among the Higa-onon of Minalwang. On the one hand, it seemed to affirm the contention of some elders or leaders that the Higa-onon are protectors of the environment (“permanente sa pag-amping” or “always [engaged] in [environmental] protection”). Environmental protection was thus not represented as a sacrifice that communities have to make, but their obligation; whether they receive a reward for such services is beside the point.

On the other hand, people were equally interested in the idea of RUPES because its promise of benefits provided a possible window by which to secure capital, infrastructure or services needed by the communities. Although some participants preferred cash awards, the elders or leaders persuaded them to accept instead social services or infrastructure. This way, everyone benefits from the project, and there is assurance that benefits would not be ‘misallocated’ (“mahurot lang sa inom”; i.e., “used up in drinking”). In particular, the participants were interested in improving the local road system, as to provide more communities better access to the market.

Obviously, this means that the rewards will be awarded on a community/organizational rather than individual basis. This is not problematic in MIHITRICO’s case because unlike MAHANONG, all local residents of the six communities are members of the CO. The notion of allocating rewards on a community or organizational basis raised the question of ‘free riders’; i.e., local residents who did not participate in environmental protection efforts, but shared in the benefits. There was some discussion about how such people must be punished, including the radical notion of exiling them from the area, stripping them of their ga-op and giving the lands to their relatives. Most people thought this idea had no backing in indigenous law or practice however. Instead, it was agreed that ‘free riders’ should be penalized with sala or fines determined by the elders or leaders.

To this end, it was considered necessary that the agreed upon land and resource rules of MIHITRICO should be clarified, to facilitate monitoring and enforcement (“klarohon ang mga kasabutan”). MIHITRICO was thus seen as having an active role in the implementation of RUPES. The CO would be needed to help enforce the ADMP’s provisions, which were considered as supportive of the same objectives as RUPES. It would also monitor compliance with these provisions. To assist monitoring, a detailed resource-inventory would first have to be conducted, to provide baseline data for evaluations. This implies periodic ocular inspections to determine if local environmental conditions have improved, remained unchanged, or degenerated from previous, observed levels. An unarticulated premise for the participants’ discussion was that RUPES would be implemented at the level of MIHITRICO’s CADC/CADT. No alternative geographical framework was proposed. Finally, most people were confident that MIHITRICO and its six constituent communities were capable of protecting the environment. “Kana naman ang na-andan” (“that’s what were used to doing”), as one man said. A representative from Impadiding asserted that they and Kalha-an can keep land and resource use within sustainable levels “basta wa’y makasulod” (“provided there are no [migrants]”), to which one man countered, “kay na’y inyong mga basakan” (“[only] because you have rice-paddies,” which obviate the need to make forest clearings).

This suggests awareness of the link between environmental protection on one hand, and livelihood and development on the other. Too much emphasis on the former would mean limiting the survival and development options available to the people of the community. Too much emphasis on the latter would endanger the local environment. It was suggested therefore that along with the resource inventory, a zoning process would identify areas which would be closed off for protection, and which could be developed for agricultural or other purposes.38 38 In as much as MIHITRICO has banned the making of farm clearings in old growth forest areas, this means that all

old growth forest areas in the CADC area will simply be set aside as protection vis-à-vis production areas.

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Case Study 3: Mintapod Profile Mintapod is a sitio of Brgy. Hagpa, Impasug-ong, Bukidnon province. It is part of the talugan39 of Mintapod, which includes the Higa-onon communities of Amusig, Kabagtukan, Pulahon and Mintapod proper. This talugan is adjacent to that of Agtulawon, which includes the Higa-onon communities of Kiudto, Tug-unganon and Buntongon. Together, these seven sitios cover approximately 9,760.20 has. (AGMIHICU 2003) of classified timber land (Mun. of Impasug-ong undatedB: 3). The combined territories of these sitios adjoin the CADC area of MIHITRICO, to the immediate north. The terrain shifts from combinations of plains and rolling to steep hills in the lower to middle-reaches, becoming steeper and rougher as the land climbs towards the Mt. Kimangkil range to the northwest. Much of the lower reaches of the area is covered by farms, grassland, brush and secondary growths, the middle- to upper reaches by reforestation stands, secondary growths and thick forests. One estimate puts the forested area at 80 % of the land area (following Yambot and Umali 1999: 1). An initial study of local biodiversity showed the presence of significant numbers of species of flora and fauna (see Cumatang et al. 2000). The seven communities have a combined population of 2,004 in 337 households (AGMIHICU 2002A). 56 % of this population is Higa-onon; 39 % is dumagat, who outnumber the Higa-onon in the more accessible sitios of Kabagtukan and Kiudto (AGMIHICU 2002A). Even as only 20 people out of the entire population (i.e., less than 1 %) of seven communities described their religion as pangapog (AGMIHICU 2002A)—in reference to the indigenous religion—indigenous rituals and practices are observed often and with marked devotion (see FVCTLDC: 3). Mintapod proper, in particular, seems to have a reputation as a center for traditional Higa-onon beliefs and practices. This is not to say the area is free of outside influences; there is concern over cultural transmission to succeeding generations. Traditionally, the Higa-onon of Mintapod were swidden-farmers, supplementing their crops with game, fish and wild edibles. About 49 % of the population named farming as their primary source of income (AGMIHICU 2002A). Most individuals or households work on two to three farm sites each year. In Mintapod proper, these farm sites tend to be from one-half to one hectare in area (FVCTLDC undated: 2), located along Mintapod and Patuga creeks. These are mostly sakom or swidden farms, a lesser number of plowed dry fields or darohan, and even fewer rice-paddies. Crops include root crops, corn, rice, sugarcane and various vegetables (Rovillas and Morales 2002: 38, FVCTLDC undated: 2). Intercropping different crops or fruit trees is practiced (FVCTLDC undated: 2, 3). Most of the agricultural output is for household consumption. Logging operations passed through the area from the north in the 1970s or 1980s, on the way to Kalabugaw further south. Most of the logging was restricted to areas adjacent to the logging road. Few local residents were involved in actual felling, though a number worked as planters in the firms’ reforestation work, or as security guards. On the other hand, a number of residents made use of the logging roads and trucks to market their produce and rattan in the lowlands during this period. The main sources of cash in Mintapod proper today are farm labor (the current rate is P 50.00 to 60.00 a day, with lunch supplied), selling abaca fiber or woven products, and farming or sale of agricultural products (AGMIHICU 2002A). Unlike their neighbors in Minalwang, only 2.6 % of the population reported reliance on rattan cutting as a source of income (AGMIHICU 2002A). Like the Minalwang Higa-onon, land and resource tenure is based on the ga-op, acquired by individuals (Hilario undated) or kin-groups through hereditary succession from pioneering and other

39 The term “ga-op” in the Mintapod-Agtulawon area may refer to landholdings, and to areas under the traditional

jurisdiction of a hereditary datuship; e.g., the four communities of the Mintapod ga-op, and three of the Agtulawon ga-op. To avoid confusion in this paper, we will reserve the term “ga-op” for landholdings, and refer to traditional political territories here by the borrowed term “talugan”.

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ancestors. A secondary basis for a right to a ga-op seems to be “allocation”.40 For all practical purposes, a ga-op holder who bases her/his rights on “allocation” does not differ much from one who bases her/his rights on inheritance. At present all the lands within and around the territories of the seven communities have been subdivided into around 100 ga-op.41 One man asserted that no Higa-onon here was landless. Ga-op holdings vary in size from 8 has. to as much as a few hundred hectares. One landholding reportedly covered about two-thirds of one sitio’s area. It is possible for one individual to have holdings in two or more sitios, or even in distant areas. The insa-an or paramount datu of Mintapod for example has lands in Mintapod proper, and in his community of origin outside the province. At present, land use management is generally described as “individual” (“matag sabuwa”). A ga-op owner seems to have full control over his/her landholding. S/he has the right to possess and use the land, and dispose of it in accordance with local inheritance rules and other practices.

A landholder can theoretically farm anywhere within his/her ga-op, subject to communal claims42 and pagbala.43 Some informants noted that the practice, particularly in the past, was to ask the datu or insa-an for “permission” to farm, though the land to be cleared was within their own ga-op. It was explained that the datu traditionally performed the pagbala, so his participation was necessary to ensure access and productivity; seeking his permission did not mean the datu owned the land but was an acknowledgement of his ritual role.

The ga-op owner’s permission is needed before someone who is not a member of his/her household/clan/settlement can settle or farm within his/her landholding. From discussions with residents, it appears that land borrowing (sumbay) by both migrant and Higa-onon farmers is not unknown in the area. In any case, the borrower is not expected to pay any form of rent to the ga-op owner for use of the land; and while the crops belong to the borrower, the land remains the property of the ga-op owner/s.

Here, it is as yet unclear if ownership of land translates to ownership of resources such as timber and rattan located therein. On the other hand, anyone who wishes to hunt or trap wild pigs or deer within another’s ga-op must seek the owner’s permission. Informants were careful to point out that this practice did not imply that the ga-op owner owned the game animals within his/her ga-op; it merely reflects respect for the landowner’s status as such. There are some resources that may be gathered in others’ ga-op without the necessity of first seeking permission of the owner. These include wild fruits, betel-chew ingredients, herbal medicines, forest food (mushrooms, wild tubers), firewood, etc. An exception is ubod from rattan, which ordinarily would be forest food, but is now quite rare because of over-cutting. Rattan stands in many areas are now planted rather than wild, making it more of a cultigen rather than a wild growth. In 1993 the JSF introduced the idea of filing an application for a CADC under the DENR’s AD delineation program. It took more than a year to convince key leaders to join the project, but such issues as sales of land to dumagat by some Higa-onons, cases of timber and rattan poaching, and the intrusion of an Iglesia ni Kristo group into the area without permission from the datus had the cumulative effect of persuading them to participate (Labadan, Cumatang and Bongcales 2001). With the help of the JSF and FVCTLDC, an application for a CADC was filed in May 1995, covering the communities of Mintapod, Kiudto, Tug-unganon and Pulahon. In February 1998, the applicants were awarded R10-CADC-112, covering an area of 9,000 has. (DENR 1998: 3). The 40 The main examples encountered were parcels of land given by a landholder to his son-in-law. Strictly speaking, the

son-in-law has no right of inheritance since he is not in the direct line of succession, but the landholder “delegates” (gi-delegahan), “sets aside” (gigahinan) or “entrusts” (gipiyalan) land to him, to help support his daughter.

41 The main exception seems to be the upper reaches of Mt. Kimangkil, which as a landmark and tulungdanon or sacred site, may not be claimed as property. The paramount datu of Mintapod described those living or farming in this area as mere guardians (“tig-bantay”).

42 Like the unayan of the Minalwang Higa-onon, portions of particular ga-op have traditionally been set aside as farming areas theoretically open to everyone. Again, no rents are due and the crops belong to the cultivator; the land remains the property of the ga-op owner. Another form of communal claims are portions of some ga-op that have been set aside as hunting grounds, forest reserves (bahaw-bahaw ha kalasan) or wildlife sanctuaries.

43 These are ritual methods—also called pamagto or pangapog—of securing the permission of local spirits before clearing forests or fallows for farming.

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Agtulawon-Mintapod Higa-onon Cumadun (AGMIHICU) was formed to take the lead in the administration of the CADC area. Almost all residents of the seven communities are members of the organization, but there were incidents of ga-op holding individuals or clans refusing to affiliate (“di’ mo-apil”) their lands and selves with AGMIHICU. Problems were later encountered in the formulation of the ADMP for the CADC area (Labadan, Cumatang and Bongcales 2001). At the same time, other ga-op owners in Bontongon, Kabagtukan and Amusig signified their interest in having their holdings covered by the CADC project. In July 2001, a meeting focused on the IPRA was arranged between the communities’ leaders, and representatives of NGOs such as FVCTLDC, PAFID, NTFP, AnthroWatch and LRC-KsK (Labadan and Solia 2001). There was general agreement that the CADC would be converted into a CADT per the provisions of the IPRA,44 except that additional areas will be included. During the discussions, PAFID urged the people to build a three-dimensional map of the area as a planning tool. They agreed, and in October 2001, the remarkable three-dimensional map was finished and installed in a special house beside the tulugan or council house at Mintapod proper (Labadan and Solia 2001). In 2001 and 2002, PAFID conducted GPS-mapping in the area, incorporating the areas of Bontongon, Kabagtukan and Amusig. In support of this, NTFP and AnthroWatch conducted workshops that same year, to help in the formulation of the projected CADT area’s ADSDPP.

Even as PAFID was finalizing the map for the CADT application, more ga-op owners continued asking AGMIHICU and FVCTLDC to include their lands in the application. Sustainability and Local Resource Management From 1997 when their CADC was issued until 2002, the people of Mintapod were largely concerned with livelihood and related development issues. During the height of logging operations in the area, people had the option of producing agricultural surplus (mostly root crops) for sale, or growing and marketing abaca and cash crops like coffee, and engaging in rattan cutting. In each case, the products were transported to Gingoog City to the north on the logging companies’ trucks and roads. Rattan cutting in particular was intensively conducted,45 such that local stocks were exhausted (“hurot na g’yud”) sometime in the 1990s. Today, it still continues, though on a vastly reduced scale. The insa-an or paramount datu of Mintapod, and perhaps other leaders have declared a ban on further rattan cutting in their lands, in order to allow local stocks to regenerate. This could take many years, given the slow rate of growth of rattan.

The collapse of local stocks of rattan indicates how harvesting went largely unregulated in the past. This may be because resource-use decisions like whether to cut rattan or not rested primarily on the individual ga-op owners in whose lands the rattan grew. At that time, there was no indigenous or other mechanism or institution that transcended the ga-op owners, and monitored and regulated their exercise of their rights over their lands and resources.46 Apparently, most landowners allowed rattan cutting to be conducted at unsustainable levels, resulting in the serious decline of local stands reported by almost all respondents. This should serve as a warning against assuming that IP communities and their members are ‘natural’ environmentalists; rather they are ordinary people subject to needs and temptations.

44 Sec. 52 (a) of the IPRA. See also NCIP Administrative Order no. 2, s. 2002. 45 Rattan cutters were mostly locals, who gathered rattan from their own lands, or from others’ after first securing

permission of the concerned ga-op owners. Unlike in much of Agusan del Sur, where landowners expect to be paid a fee in exchange for access to rattan, here in the Mintapod area, owners sometimes seek only token payments, or forego any such fees entirely. Where payment of such a fee is asked, the amount is negotiated between the landowner and the cutter.

46 In contrast with Hardin’s “Tragedy of the Commons” thesis, resource destruction in this case is directly linked to rattan’s character as private property of ga-op holders. As private property, there was—until the establishment and operation of AGMIHICU—no control over rattan cutting other than the ga-op owners themselves, most of whom sought to maximize their income from their resources.

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More importantly, the decline of rattan stocks in Mintapod signals the need to explore alternative or supplementary sources of income for the Higa-onon of Mintapod, particularly in the light of low agricultural production in the area. Many respondents reported periods of seasonal hunger (see also Rovillas and Morales 2002: 40). The shortfall is attributed to a number of factors, including the cold climate, lack of capital and equipment for improving agricultural production, and access to the market.

Not surprisingly, the draft ADSDPP—as a response to local conditions—devotes considerable attention to livelihood issues. Its vision for the communities specifically includes “Insakto sa panginabuhi” (sufficient livelihood) (AGMIHICU 2003: 9), and there is mention of capitalization, farm tools and equipment, the establishment of cooperatives, livestock raising and fishponds, and planting of fruit-trees (AGMIHICU 2003: 11, 16). Similarly, the technical planning for the seven communities mentioned the expansion of rice paddies, corn and abaca farms, tree planting and the development of fishponds (AGMIHICU 2002B).47 Most people hoped to be able to develop rice-paddies or basakan, which could provide for both consumption needs and a surplus for access to cash and market goods. A few men however pointed out that basakan expansion was limited by such factors as terrain, soil and access to water. One man also said that the expansion of darohan and even of the traditional sakum was limited by the fact that much of the remaining forest area is steep, stony (“batohon”) and has only a thin layer of topsoil.

Falcatta tree planting and harvesting might be another, perhaps more viable alternative but it has yet to be explored in the area.48 The ADSDPP and the community-generated technical plans do mention tree planting, but it appears to refer to fruit trees rather than softwood tree species like falcatta. In any case, tree-planting or even the expansion of abaca stands requires initial capitalization, and will be able to provide a return only after four or five years. As one man commented, “di’ ‘man nato p’wede pahulaton og upat ka tu-ig ang atong tiyan” (“we cannot tell our stomachs to wait for four years [for its next meal]”). If these avenues are to be pursued, they will have to be supplemented with other, short-term livelihood or agricultural projects.

But even as there is a clear need to secure their livelihood, many individuals expressed concern that this should not come at the cost of the local environment. The insa-an of Mintapod, for example, felt compelled to remind participants in a workshop on livelihood that they also have an obligation to protect the forests.

This incident highlights the deep sense of responsibility of AGMIHICU’s leadership towards the environment. There is, indeed, a corresponding emphasis in the draft ADSDPP on environmental protection, including measures for regulating the practice of swidden agriculture in the CADC area (see AGMIHICU 2003: 9, 14-15).49 In this same spirit, there is currently a temporary suspension of rattan cutting in the CADC/T area, to allow local stands to regenerate.

AGMIHICU’s leadership sees the protection of the environment as being linked to the revitalization of indigenous culture and practices. Hence, the earnest ADSDPP discussions on the revival of the institution of the alimaong or traditional warrior were linked to forest and territorial protection (AGMIHICU 2003: 20). Similarly, the datus of the different communities are undertaking a program of teaching sessions (pugna-ö) to relay knowledge of indigenous culture to the younger

47 In an ADSDPP workshop on livelihood, participants suggested, among other things, combining traditional or

indigenous and modern technologies and methods, staggering the cultivation of crops throughout the year to ensure a relatively continuous supply of crops, intensification of agricultural work in terms of inter-cropping, construction of more rice paddies, and the expansion of farm areas.

48 Falcatta trees were introduced in the area by the logging companies, who inter-planted it with pines in their reforestation sites along their logging road; a few locals gained experience in tree planting when they worked in these reforestation projects.

49 Among the local rules are: Kaingin farming is prohibited in old growth forests (gulangan); it is now allowed only in fallow or second growth areas. Farmers are be encouraged to adopt a specific sequence of farm lots to be followed in clearing their swidden farms, to avoid the necessity of making new clearings in old forest stands. Fallow periods will be respected; one may reuse a fallow area only after the area is sufficiently restocked with forest growth. To facilitate re-growth of a newly harvested fallow area, the next farm clearing must not be adjacent to this new fallow area, to ensure that it is completely surrounded by forest growths whose seeds, etc. will begin the process of reforestation. Tree planting or inter-planting is encouraged in kaingin clearings.

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generations, and is planning the documentation of some aspects of the Bungkatol ha Bulawan or Higa-onon indigenous laws.

Unfortunately, a few members or even leaders of AGMIHICU have been alleged to have violated some ADMP or ADSDPP rules. For example, there are reports of sales of land to dumagat in Kiudto, in the Agtulawon talugan. A female ga-op owner allowed a group of dumagat treasure-hunters into her land, defending her action by invoking her rights as landowner (“na’a pa di-ay makabo-ot sa ‘ko, na ako ang tag-iya?”; i.e., “can there be anyone else to decide for me, when I am the [land]owner?”. These acts clearly violate most peoples’ expectations that the CADC area will be protected from further dumagat encroachments.

These incidents are relatively minor, at least as of the present. They are indicative however of two important aspects of local land and resource management.

Firstly, they emphasize the continuing relevance of individual ga-op owners in decision-making regarding land and resource use. Indeed, the draft ADSDPP itself declares, “Tumanon su naandan ha duluna” (“respect customary boundaries”; i.e., the ga-op and the rights linked thereto). This reflects how AGMIHICU was ‘constructed’ over a social and political setting made up of autonomous ga-op owners, located in seven autonomous sitios or communities, organized under the two autonomous talugan of Agtulawon and Mintapod. The cases of land-sales and in-migration thus represent tensions between the traditional rights of ga-op owners on one hand, and the interests of the community, as represented by AGMIHICU. As is the case in Minalwang, it is perhaps inevitable that the communities and their members will test the scope of their respective rights within the framework of AGMIHICU, which must now negotiate a balance between the two axes.

Secondly, AGMIHICU must eventually generate the capacity and will to penalize violations of its ADMP/ADSDPP rules. As of now, there is some hesitation in so punishing transgressions. In part, it may be because offenders may be relatives, elders or local leaders, making the imposition of penalties socially problematic. The situation is made more complex by the added dimension of the traditional autonomy of each talugan. Can the insa-an of the Mintapod talugan—as ‘head-claimant’ of the CADC area and lead-implementer of the ADSDPP—punish transgressors from Agtulawon, which is traditionally independent from it? The process of imposing penalties is thus vulnerable to misinterpretation as an intrusion by Mintapod into the affairs of Agtulawon.50 In any case, the capacity to punish violations of ADSDPP rules is important to the continued credibility and effectiveness of AGMIHICU in terms of monitoring and regulating local land and resource use.

In general however the CADC area is remarkable for its extensive forest cover, much of which have never been disturbed, except perhaps by rattan cutters. Most informants ascribed this to AGMIHICU’s pursuit of environmental protection.

On the other hand, one man ascribed the continued survival of this forest cover to the character of the area. The forests are made up mostly of almaciga, taglomboy, ulayan, kabiti-biti, sajapow and other indigenous but non-dipterocarp trees; dipterocarps, he said, do not find the area’s altitude, climate and soil favorable. This explains why the logging companies did not concentrate in the Mintapod area, but went on south to Kalabugaw, where there were rich stands of dipterocarp trees to log. Even today, there is little outside commercial interest in the trees in the area, given the existence of alternative sources of wood, so that in contrast with much of the Agusan and Surigao region, there is no incentive for small-scale logging. At the same time, the land is stony and relatively infertile, so the Higa-onon of the seven communities are also discouraged from converting these forests to darohan or sakom.

Whether forest protection in Mintapod is a result of conscious efforts of AGMIHICU, a fortunate confluence of disincentives to logging or agricultural conversion, or both, the fact remains that AGMIHICU’s leadership is conscious of the need for forest protection and is intent on practicing this. Thus, when they learned in 2002 that the Municipality of Impasug-ong was going to implement

50 Some observers have noted an emerging difference in degrees of compliance with ADSDPP rules between the

talugan of Mintapod and of Agtulawon. Perhaps because of the higher number of dumagat settlers capable of employing social, political and economic leverage points against the Higa-onon in the latter community, compliance with ADSDPP rules there is less consistent than in the Mintapod talugan.

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an IWMP51 that overlapped its CADC area—important tributary rivers and creeks of the Pulangi and Tagolo-an rivers have their sources in the CADC area—its reaction was not to reject the idea of establishing a watershed project, but to broach the need to reconcile this plan with that of the livelihood needs and plans of the seven communities.52

In particular, AGMIHICU was concerned that implementation of the IWMP would result in the outright prohibition of sakom or swidden farming, and measures to regulate occupation and use of riverside areas would nullify ADSDPP plans to expand local rice paddies and fishponds.53 With the assistance of FVCTLDC, JSF, PAFID, NTFP and AnthroWatch, a dialogue to discuss among others the potential conflicts between the IWMP and the ADSDPP was set last 11-12 February 2003, at Mintapod and Brgy. Hagpa. In the discussions, community leaders and representatives pointed out the potential negative impacts of the IWMP, and worked with local government officials in establishing a procedure for reconciling the management frameworks and plans of the local government and the communities.

Very recently, the people of Mintapod expressed concern over news that the governor of Bukidnon had declared that AGMIHICU has only 1,000 has. and not 9,000 as stated in their CADC. The fear in this instance was that this alleged divestment of territory is a prelude to the establishment of a national integrated protected area, probably centered on Mt. Kimangkil range to the northwest of the CADC area. There was also a report from Minalwang that the two logging companies in the area—ALCO and NALCO—were going to be purchased by foreigners (“amerikano”). In this case, the concern was that the foreigners would either revive logging, in violation of the ADSDPP; or introduce large-scale commercial mining in the area. AGMIHICU is investigating these reports, with the help of FVCTLDC, GM and other NGOs.

Evidently, local land and resource management in Mintapod is encountering the growing need to define its relations with policies, projects and interests emanating from outside the CADC area.

In sum, AGMIHICU has done relatively well in terms of forest management, given that it controls a sizeable area of dense, relatively untouched forests. Still, local stocks of rattan have been overexploited, implicating many local ga-op owners, who controlled access to local rattan stands. More recently, there have been reports of land sales and in-migration, made possible with the collusion of individual Higa-onon within the CADC area.

The first trend found in local land and resource practice relates to the continuing relevance of individual ga-op holders in local decision-making regarding land and resource use. AGMIHICU is now in the process of seeking a balance between respect for traditional ga-op rights—which it bound itself to recognize—and the interests of the larger community, as represented by the CO.

This in turn links up with second trend, that of the growing need to enforce the ADSDPP rules and agreements, through punitive measures if necessary. Unless AGMIHICU is able to enforce the will of its constituents against violators of its rules, its credibility and effectiveness in monitoring and regulating land and resource use will be severely impaired in the future.

Clearly, there is a link between livelihood concerns—meeting consumption needs and access to market goods and wants—and environmental protection. Ultimately, the reported violations of ADSDPP rules against land sales and migrants are rooted either in the economic vulnerability of many Higa-onon in the area, and the greed of a few.

For the most part, AGMIHICU has been struggling with the livelihood side of the equation. It has seen the danger of over-reliance on a single resource base such as rattan, and is now planning to intensify and expand agricultural production, as can be seen in its ADSDPP. Most respondents are hoping to adopt wet-rice agriculture to provide for both subsistence needs and access to cash and commercial goods. This movement towards agricultural intensification and expansion is a third trend.

Even then, the pursuit of livelihood improvement is tempered by a consciousness of the need to protect the environment. Thus the revival or development of traditional practices or institutions

51 This was in accordance with the requirements of the Bukidnon Environment Code (Provincial Ordinance no. 2001-

03). 52 The municipal watershed management plan and the communities’ reaction thereto will be discussed further in the

next chapter. 53 Compare the thrust of the community plans in AGMIHICU 2002B with Mun. of Impasug-ong, undatedA, pp. 16,

30.

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like the pugna-ö and the alima-ong is linked to the forest protection objectives of the ADSDPP. And when the municipality was planning to establish a watershed protection plan that would include the entirety of the CADC area, AGMIHICU’s leaders did not object to the plan itself, but only raised the necessity of reconciling the watershed plan with the ADSDPP.

A fourth trend is AGMIHICU’s growing role in negotiating the relations between the seven Higa-onon communities on one hand, and outside interests, such as local government units and commercial interests, on the other. At present, these negotiations revolve around competing claims over the communities’ AD, and the resources therein. RUPES There is insufficient data for a discussion of community perspectives on compensating communities for environmental services or sacrifices.

Case Study 4: Balit Profile

Barangay Balit is a Banwa-on community in San Luis, Agusan del Sur province.54 It is one of the indigenous communities located along the Maasam river, or within its watershed area. This river area, along with the upper Adgawan river, is historically associated with the Banwa-on and constitutes their territory (see Garvan 1929: 5). The barangay occupies 6,477.14 has. of the municipality’s 83,127.74 has. (Mun. of San Luis 1998: 30).

There are a few flat areas, generally near the Maasam and other rivers and creeks in the area, but most of the terrain consists of low hills and ridges. In contrast with most Banwaon communities, about half of Balit’s area is classified as agricultural or alienable and disposable.

Most of this area is logged over, shorn of its original dipterocarp cover during the 1970s up to the early 1990s. Farm sites tend to cluster around water bodies, though a few swidden farms are also scattered among the hills. The rest of the area consists of brush, fallows or second growth stands, and scattered stands of open-canopy forests.

Statistically, Balit is the largest Banwa-on community (SILDAP 1996: 16, Anon. 1998: 25), with a population of 448 persons distributed among 95 households (Mun. of San Luis 1998: 36). As of last year, barangay officials estimated the population at around 700, about 70 % of which are Banwa-on. The influx of migrants—referred to as bisaya by the Banwa-on—is historically linked to the intensification of logging operations in the 1970s (Mun. of San Luis 1998: 28).55

At first glance, the community appears indistinguishable from non-indigenous rural communities. Indeed, there is a Catholic chapel along the main road. Careful observation however will reveal the presence of carvings and furniture used in indigenous rituals. Despite its relative accessibility—it is located on a broad ridge along the local logging road linking upriver San Luis with the poblacion further downriver—Balit is known for its advocacy of indigenous peoples’ rights and

54 The Banwa-on are poorly reflected in the existing literature. The only published reference to them is in Garvan’s

1929 study of the Manobos of the Agusan region, which devotes a paragraph to them (1929: 5). Most of the available materials are scattered in documents of limited circulation (cf. Gatmaytan 2000; Anonymous 1998; SILDAP-SIDLAKAN 1996; Diaz 1993).

55 Interestingly, when the logging companies operating in San Luis shut or scaled down their operations in the 1980s, most of their workers did not settle in the municipality but left the area, probably because of the worsening peace-and-order situation (Mun. of San Luis 1998: 28).

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cullture. Some elders thus consider it as the dagpon or sentry, guarding Banwa-on talugan’s56 uneasy eastern border against further encroachments by migrants or bisaya.

This concern over the community’s economic and symbolic boundaries has translated as well into wariness about outsiders in general, and the government in particular. Community leaders from Balit are well known among municipal and other government officials and agencies for its assertive pro-IP stance. Unfortunately, this has earned for them constant suspicion and surveillance by the Philippine military and its intelligence operatives.

Still, mainstream culture has made inroads into Banwa-on culture. Rather than a remote ‘primitives’ ‘untouched by civilization’, these are people who straddle the space between chants and chainsaws, spirits and satellite technology. Still, some elders despair over what they perceive as encroachments into their culture and territory. Economically, the Banwa-on historically relied on a combination of agriculture, hunting, trapping and fishing, and trade for their needs and wants.

Agriculture is still conducted using swidden methods, with dry or upland rice, sweet potatoes, cassava and yams, corn and sugar cane, and a few vegetables as the principal crops. Slowly, dry-field plowing or daro farming is supplementing swidden farming (SILDAP 1996: 28). In general, each family works on at least one farm site each year, more if they can manage it. The RGS-TFM built some rice-paddies as a demonstration project in Balit in the mid-1990s, but so far there has been no expansion of areas devoted to wet-rice culture.

Hunting and trapping of wild pigs, monkeys, birds and deer is gradually decreasing in importance, but is still practiced. Fishing and fish trapping appeared to have been much more important in the past, given the techniques described even now, but has been adversely affected by logging. By the 1960s, the Maasam river area was penetrated by small-scale and corporate loggers, who left behind them logging and pilot roads still used today, and a landscape stripped of its marketable hardwoods. There did not seem to be any resistance to logging as such, though tensions did arise from operators’ occasional failure to pay access fees or resource rents to Banwa-on landowners when logging in their area.

During the logging boom of the 1970s and 1980s, many Banwa-on worked for loggers—and later, tree-plantation companies57—as laborers, security guards and negotiators. Most of the Banwa-on in Balit now earn money for their needs or wants through small-scale logging (pagpanoroso, kahoy-kahoy or “logging-logging”) and tree farming (mostly falcatta and some mangium), farm and tree-plantation labor, and less often these days, rattan cutting (principal varieties are palasan, kalapi and tomalin).

While the existing literature suggests that land tenure among the Banwaon is communal (SILDAP 1996: 57-58; Diaz 1993: 19-20), long and direct experience indicates that it is highly individualized in actual practice (cf. Gatmaytan 2000: 87-89). The landowners are locally referred to as “tag-iya sa sektor” (owner of a sector [of land]) or simply “(mga) sektoral” (sectoral/s). In fact when DENR conducted in 1996 a cadastral survey of the alienable and disposable areas of the barangay, the people objected not to the idea of dividing the land into parcels among the residents, but to the way DENR subdivided the land (Gatmaytan 2000: 76).

Individual landowners can subdivide, sell, donate or transmit through inheritance their landholdings, or—increasingly—use it as collateral for loans. Again, the practice of lending or borrowing land for a single cropping free of rent or charge is widespread here.58

Ownership of land extends to the natural resources found within its bounds. The practice here and in most neighboring Banwa-on and Manobo communities is that one may cut timber or rattan 56 Talugan refers to a district or territory comprising a number of communities, usually associated with a major river

system and its watershed area, like the Maasam or Adgawan rivers. Each talugan has its own batasan or body of indigenous laws, beliefs and practices (cf. Gatmaytan 2001B).

57 The four or five large logging companies in San Luis began to phase out by the middle- to late-1980s as local stocks of hardwoods diminished. Tree plantation companies who between them now control most of Banwaon territory gradually replaced the logging firms (see Gatmaytan 1995).

58 Land use—as opposed to ownership—is sometimes described as tinibo or komunal; i.e., accessible to anyone, but this does not in itself negate the prior fact of individual landownership.

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(and according to one respondent, bamboo) only after securing the permission of the concerned landowner (SILDAP: 33, 35). Usually—though there are cases to the contrary—the landowner will demand some form of “access fee” of negotiable amount, in exchange for right to use the local resources. Failure to follow these rules could lead to conflict.

In contrast, game, fish and aquatic resources are open-access goods. Similarly non-commercial forest products are open-access goods, provided used only for domestic and not commercial purposes.

There is very little in terms of community-wide management of lands and resources; decisions regarding access are in the hands of the concerned sektor or land owners rather than the datus or ba-es, or any other political institutions. Thus when an IFMA-holding company restarted operations in Banwa-on territory in 2002, there was little anyone could do to oppose it once it was learned that the firm was working in the sektor of landowners who permitted its operations in their holdings.

As has already been mentioned, the DENR conducted a cadastral survey in the area in 1996. BAROG BALIT, the local community organization, originally wanted a single, communal or unified title for the entire area, but it was felt that the majority of the residents, who were not members of the organization, would not accept this proposal (Gatmaytan 2000: 73).

The survey resulted in the subdivision of most of Balit’s territory into 331 legally titled lots under the names of individuals (Gatmaytan 2000: 74-75). Unfortunately, the DENR ignored locally defined property boundaries, such that there is at present an overlapping between largely hypothetical but legally binding titled lots on one hand, and actual individual sektors based on indigenous cultural ideas and practices on the other. Usually, residents of Balit subsume the legal subdivision of the land into titled lots under their local or actual practices, though reconciling the two systems is sometimes problematic.

When it can, BAROG BALIT tries to purchase any titled lots that local residents wish to sell for whatever reason, in an attempt to consolidate and protect the area from fragmentation and in-migration. Sustainability and Local Resource Management Many observers have described Balit as politically but not economically empowered. Its leaders are known to be articulate, incisive, methodical and very assertive when discussing and advocating IP rights. Many community members are as firm about their rights and interests; they once accused military officers to their faces of human rights violations. When DENR bungled the cadastral survey of Balit, they were brutally frank in their criticism. Inquiries into local resource management on a house-to-house basis encountered virtually unanimous assertions of economic hardship, crisis and hunger. In some households, there was palpable anxiety about where their next meal was going to come from. To a large extent, this anxiety over economic security reflects the low agricultural productivity of most farms in Balit. In 2002, the Banwa-on intensified farming activities—the datu resents criticisms that people in Balit were lazy—but still the output was disappointing. Access to land does not seem to be the limiting factor. Most people in Balit have their own lands. If for any reason they cannot work in their own lands, they can arrange to work on relatives’ or in-laws’ lands, or perhaps RGS-TFM’s project areas. People without lands or relatives can still borrow land for farming from others, free of any form of rent or harvest sharing. Most people blamed low farm output on the poor soils in Balit, which is mostly reddish clay. As one man said, the soil here is good for only one cropping (“usa ka biyahe lang”), after which it is all but useless. A group of Banwa-on farmers who evacuated to Balit from their upriver forest village in 2002 because of military operations commented “mamatay g’yud ‘ta diri” (“we’ll die [of hunger] here”) when they surveyed the area for their temporary farms. The most productive swidden and darohan areas are along the rivers or creeks, where soil is more fertile, such as at the Maasam and Laminga rivers and Tiugaw, Taglimaw and Uwan-uwan creek areas.

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Another limiting factor cited was lack of financing (“suporta” or “pinansiya”). This covered a range of subsidies needed either to feed the family while working the farms, or to maximize agricultural use of available lands. The latter includes funds for hiring people to help clear fallow or forest growths,59 as well as for renting a chainsaw for the same purpose.60

Clearly, many respondents wanted to expand their farm clearings and/or intensify cultivation. This drive to farm derives in part from a cultural background that valorizes farming and values farmland much more than the secondary growths (lati or lubas) that cover much of Balit. A few people even valued farms more than forest stands, saying that if they only had enough resources, they could turn those forests into farmlands. A farm clearing, after all, represents invested time and labor, and potential gains that are comparatively more concrete and attainable than anything a forest-stand can offer in the short-term. Most however are constrained by their lack of financial or other resources or assets. As a result, farm sites are fewer or smaller than they could be, with correspondingly smaller output.

On the other hand, a few people contested the importance of this factor, wryly commenting that “Kulafu mapalit gani” (“[and yet] they can buy Kulafu [wine]”). Another constraint on farm production cited is damage inflicted on crops by wild animals. The rice crop for 2001 was badly ravaged by ricebirds or maya, such that very few people had seeds left over for planting the last year. One man jokingly said that it seems all they were doing was feed the maya (“kita man ang gisaligan sa maya”). Other pests in the area reported during the course of the fieldwork were bands of monkeys, wild pigs and even deer (which reportedly enjoy eating falcatta seedlings). The presence and activities of these animals suggests that there are sufficient forests in the area to provide them shelter, but that these forests are of sufficiently poor quality that the animals rely on farm crops at least in part for their survival. For these and perhaps other reasons, it is clear to everyone that farm productivity in Balit generally cannot meet local consumption needs. Almost all informants said that their farms do not produce a surplus beyond consumption demands; “ka-onon ra man ‘na” (“it’ll all be eaten up”) said one man dismissively of their output. For many families, there is an annual “season of hunger” (ting-gutom) during the long weeks leading up to the next, usually inadequate harvest.

Clearly then, very few people in Balit are in a position to market agricultural produce to earn money, as many hope to.61

To offset production shortfalls or outright failures, most people in Balit rely on small-scale logging, variously referred to as “kahoy-kahoy”, “pagpanoroso” and “logging-logging”. Reliance on woodcutting is so widespread and habitual that one woman asked, “Asa pa man modagan ang tawo?” (“Where else would people run to [for cash]?”). A man said, “Ma-o na’ng na-andan diri” (“That is what we’ve gotten used to doing here”).

Because the DENR is strict (“mainit”) about the cutting, transport and sale of lawa-an, narra and other hardwoods, people in Balit instead market what are described as “miscellaneous” woods. These include agusip, kulipapa, uwayan, sajapow and anangilan. The timber is sold downriver by the enterprising Banwa-on or group of Banwa-ons, at the junction of the Maasam and Agusan rivers, at Sta. Fe in neighboring Esperanza municipality, or in Butuan City, all of which may be reached by floating the logs downriver. There are trucks from the outside that can be contracted to haul the timber, but transport costs are high and would cut into profits. Almost all cutters therefore prefer to float their logs, and reduce costs.

The river trip to Butuan City from Balit takes three to four days. “Grabeng sakripisyo” (“a great sacrifice”) is how one man describes floating along for days in makeshift shelters atop the logs.

59 One farmer commented: “kung kwartahan, matikad man ‘na tanan” (“if you have the funds, all [that land] could be

cultivated”). 60 One informant wanted to clear a forested section of his land for farming. The local rate for leasing a chainsaw is P

700.00 a day, plus fuel. 61 There is a traditional Banwaon belief—still held by many—that it is pamalihi or taboo to sell the crops from one’s

farms. As one woman said of her root crops, “Grasya kana, nganong ibaligya ‘mo?” (“They are a gift, why would you sell it?”). When pressed, she said it would be proper to sell only corn, which is not a traditional crop hedged in by rituals and injunctions among the Banwa-on.

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On the way, they pass through ten DENR,62 military or police checkpoints, paying bribes at each of from P 500.00 to P 2000.00.63 Most of the timber ends up with band-saw operators, who accept all kinds of wood (“wa’y pili”).

Many respondents confidently asserted that there is always a ready market for such timber, making tree cutting even more attractive as a cash-generating option. Sadly, purchase prices are quite low. According to the buyers, this was because the market for such timber is glutted by oversupply; which is a chilling thought. One woman complained that her husband was forced to sell the 30 logs he’d floated downriver for only P 1,200.00. Others described the pricing as “halos pangayo-on lang” (“[the buyers practically] asked for the logs for free”), but they had no choice but to accept it (“mapugos, kay wa’ na’y ato” or “we are forced [to accept the low prices], we have nothing else [to rely on]”).

Still, the people of Balit continue to depend considerably on small-scale logging. One man said that if anyone set up a band saw nearer Balit, he’d be very surprised if the trees there weren’t soon wiped out. Moreover, a surprising number of respondents reported cases of thefts of both timber and rattan in their own, or in other’s lands. The culprits in most cases were easily identified, but people tolerated the poaching out of pity or generosity towards their neighbors or relatives.

In the past, people used to rely as well on rattan cutting for cash to supplement their farm output. Unfortunately, very few stands of rattan remain within or near Balit’s territory. As a number of informants said, “naglayo naman ang uway” (“rattan [stands] are now [found] far [from Balit]”). Evidently, the harvesting of rattan went unregulated, resulting in the all but total loss of local stocks of rattan. The fear now is that this mistake will be repeated in the case of the community’s stocks of timber.

When asked what would happen if Balit is completely deforested, one woman conjectured that people will be forced to rely completely on farming (“diha mapugos ang tao sa pagpananom”), and expressed concern about sourcing forest edibles and weaving materials (bayoy) which many now take for granted. One man laughed, imagining that even if Balit loses all its forests, it will still have falcatta and coconut trees. Two women flatly refused to acknowledge the possibility that the forest will ever be completely destroyed, though they could not articulate why; perhaps the scenario was literally unthinkable for them.

Another source of cash is contractual farm or plantation labor (inadlawan), in Balit or neighboring communities. The rates quoted vary from P 80.00 to P 150.00 for a day’s labor, in addition to meals. One man said, “daghang magpasuhol dinhi tungod sa kalisud” (“many [people] here hire themselves out because of [economic] hardship”).

Planting and harvesting of falcatta trees is another source of income that is quickly growing in importance in Balit. Most residents said they have planted falcatta seedlings in their lands; a few have tried marketing the wood. Seedlings were either purchased from commercial sources, asked for from friends or relatives, or grew from naturally dispersed falcatta seeds.64

In some cases, the seedlings were inter-planted with crops in their farm sites. Many approved of this approach as it made the most of the labor invested in clearing the farm site, allowing the farmer to continue to benefit from it even after the one or two crops planted there have been harvested. In a few cases, clearings were made in brush or lati areas specifically for falcatta.

The near-universal motivation for planting or inter-planting falcatta was access to cash. Some informants also said that the falcatta supplemented the output of their farms, in that it provided a means for purchasing items they themselves cannot produce. Hence, some people described falcatta-planting as their “pang-asin”, “panabon”, “pamiste” and even ”pangape” (lit., for salt, soap, clothes and coffee).

This trend is interesting from a cultural standpoint. When I first worked with Banwa-on communities in the early 1990s, many people asserted that it was pamalihi or taboo to plant trees.

62 Not surprisingly, DENR does not enjoy high esteem among the Banwa-on. An old joke was to ask someone to spell

“crocodile”, to which the correct answer was “D. E. N. R.” 63 Tree-cutters thus set aside a budget of P 5,000.00 for such trips, and try to secure the assistance of persons good at

negotiating, who get from P 1,000.00 to 1,500.00 for such services. 64 Many observed that falcatta would spread in Balit even without human intervention, as existing trees dispersed

seeds to colonize brush and lati areas and out-grow indigenous species there.

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Evidently, economic pressure has been strong enough to cause people to abandon this traditional belief.

Still, there are a few who are not interested in planting falcatta. One man said he feels that land would be wasted if planted to falcatta (“sayangan ako sa yuta”) because it forecloses its use as farmland. He went on to say that making money is not important for him, as he relies only on farming for his welfare (“dili ‘na importante sa ako, kay ang uma lang g’yud ang akong gisaligan”). Again, this perspective reflects a higher valuation of farmlands vis-à-vis other land uses, including falcatta tree stands. It is in this context that BAROG BALIT has issued certain rules to help regulate land and resource use. These rules include the following: Lands in Balit may not be sold to outsiders. If one has to leave Balit, lands should be entrusted to BAROG BALIT, which will care for it until her/his return. Each individual or household is enjoined to set aside at least one hectare of their lands as their own private “forest reserve”. BAROG BALIT has also declared a logging ban and a rattan-cutting ban within the community. These rules, particularly with respect to resources, clearly indicate that BAROG BALIT has a grasp of the necessity for controlling the utilization of resources, and preserving forests.

Unfortunately, around half the population of Balit are not members of the CO. To a large extent, the decision not to join BAROG BALIT stems from a strong tradition of individual or household autonomy (“maayo pa kung magkaugalingon ako”; i.e., “it’s better to be on my own”) in relation to the relative novelty of working in an organization, and to a lesser extent, the unfortunate political connotations of joining the organization.65 In any case, the organization’s rules are not binding on non-members. True enough, a number of individuals who received titles through the 1996 DENR cadastral survey did sell their lots later. This underscores how each individual or household makes land- and resource-use decisions without significant institutional or other oversight. Unless that is, they agree to be bound by the rules of an organization like BAROG BALIT and actually comply with such rules.

Compliance with BAROG BALIT’s rules is haphazard. Doubtless, there are those who obey the rules, but even some of the CO’s leaders are criticized for noncompliance. One leader in particular was either engaged actively in logging, or helped others engage in logging, and is rumored to be negotiating sales of land. This earned some criticism from CO and community members; one man would parody a local song about protecting AD, singing “ang yutang kabilin, atong ibaligya” (“our AD, let us sell it”) within earshot of that particular leader. Similarly, questions about compliance with the call for a log- or rattan-cutting ban are sometimes met by awkward silence or laughter, especially in the face of the widespread and overt tree felling, and the near-extinction of rattan in Balit.

There is thus a contradiction in that BAROG BALIT and its leaders can grasp and articulate the need for environmental management, but have difficulty in translating this consciousness into practice, mainly because of economic pressures or interests. It was awkward asking people how they reconciled the logging ban, for example, with the widespread, small-scale logging in the community. The Barangay Captain, a member of the CO, even challenged the organization to accept the reality of excessive local dependence on forest resources as a first step to addressing the problem, instead of taking an outwardly progressive stance like banning logging when so many people were actually involved in it that enforcement was impracticable.

On the other hand, many people complied with the injunction to set aside “forest reserves.” When asked why, many cited the need to provide for their children’s future (“aron na-a gihapon mahi-agong sa sumusunod” and again, “isip handumanan sa atong mga anak”). One man spoke of seed banking as added motivation (“kuhaan og semilya sa karaan nga kahoy”). Almost everyone said that the reserve was an area that was not to be touched (“di’ g’yud pahilabtan”), where the existing trees and flora were to be allowed to grow.

There were more varied responses however to the question of whether the trees in the reserved areas can be felled and sold by the family in the future. A few respondents said “no”, which I think is the original intention of this policy; one elderly man said “yes”, but only if everyone in the community agrees; and most said “yes”. One woman asserted that the timber was to be sold in the

65 BAROG BALIT is so assertive about IP AD rights vis-à-vis government-backed IFMA-holding firms that it has been

accused by the military of being a front-organization for the outlawed CPP-NPA.

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future, for where else would they get money for school supplies for their children? (“asa pa man ‘ta manguha og panap-el sa mga bata?”). Again, the primary motivation behind compliance with the “reservation rule” is still the need to generate cash for needs.

For its part, the RGS-TFM set up an agro-forestry program that encouraged people in Balit to interplant fruit trees in their farm sites, or establish tree farms or orchards. Generally, the response has been favorable, and though the program was limited to BAROG BALIT members, a number of non-members saw the benefits of the program and adopted the practice of tree planting in their own lands. Respondents reasoned that the project would provide additional food sources in the future and/or a possible source of cash, and thus help them to meet family responsibilities to provide for their children.

In sum, it is difficult to avoid the conclusion that resource use in Balit is not sustainable. By all indications, the remaining forest and secondary growth areas will go the way of local rattan stocks; deforestation is clearly a trend in this community.

To some extent, forest-reduction is due to a culture-based drive to expand or intensify agriculture, which values farming and farmlands more than second growth or even forest areas. The biodiversity that these areas represent seems to be either comparatively un-valued vis-à-vis farm sites, or under-valued in that benefits it provides are not factored into decision-making, but are taken for granted by the community.

For the most part however continuing deforestation in Balit is caused by the residents’ need to generate cash, to offset or supplement low agricultural production. The most convenient cash-source at present is the sale of timber from those same less-valued second-growth or forest stands to local and regional buyers. These various timbers are being exploited so intensively that local stocks are in serious decline, hence the increasing incidents of timber poaching in the community. Ironically, people are getting low returns for resources that are growing scarce in Balit.

On the other hand, more and more people are planting falcatta and fruit trees, even though there originally was a pamalihi or taboo against this. The same interest that compels them to cut trees is inducing investments into tree planting, and in some cases, conversion of forests or second-growth areas into plantations or orchards. This second trend probably means a reduction of local biodiversity, but at least it provides a viable substitute for the vanishing forest- and secondary-growth areas, while at the same time offering a means of earning cash for the Banwa-on.

BAROG BALIT’s injunction to set aside “reserves” seems to be the best hope of preserving some of the local flora and fauna, though only in isolated settings scattered across the landscape. However, the continued existence of each of these islands of biodiversity depends on the families or individuals who own them. If they duly value the “old” species, then there is some chance of their continued survival. If however they value these species only as a future source of cash, or continue to be vulnerable economically, then there is less chance of that.

BAROG BALIT’s efforts to control tree cutting in the community are futile in the face of the reliance of most community members—including the CO’s members and some leaders—on timber cutting. As the paramount datu of Balit reflected, invoking “kinaiyahan” (nature) will not suffice in the face of hunger (“di’ mo-igo kining mo-ingon ka’g ‘kinaiyahan!’; di’ man mo-ila and tawo sa kinaiyahan kung gutom”); force the issue and people will resist.

Moreover, the CO’s rules do not apply to non-members, who can do what they want with their lands and resources, including felling the trees for cash.

Finally, BAROG BALIT’s rules are difficult to enforce among its members because again the local tenure system recognizes individual landowners’ rights to their resources vis-à-vis the community or community organization. Also, no clear enforcement mechanisms are in place, and even if there were, enforcement would mean penalizing most of the membership.

Thus even as BAROG BALIT understands the need for protecting the local environment, it has serious limitations in translating this consciousness into action. The continuing effort to regulate land and resource use in the community—in the face of the continuing relevance of individual landowners in land and resource management, as well as the vulnerability of the local population to economic and other pressures—represents a third trend.

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RUPES As expected, most community residents expressed interest in the concept of receiving a reward for environmental services. Given that resource use in Balit is largely unsustainable however, RUPES might function not so much as a mechanism for recognizing community contributions to environmental protection, as an incentive to persuade the community to adopt a sustainable approach to resource use. Generally, environmental services in Balit’s case would initially be restricted to improving or preserving the watershed function of this, their section of the Maasam river. This means reforestation, in the form of planting falcatta and other trees in the area. Improvement of the local biodiversity can be worked into the tree planting, but given the extent of forest destruction, any impact will not be felt until after some time. For the most part, maintenance of individual “reserves” should be encouraged. Most people imagined that implementation of RUPES would first entail the conduct of a detailed inventory of local resources, to serve as a benchmark against which the assessment of performance or contribution to environmental services can be made. Improvements made upon this initial inventory, or the maintenance of already appropriate conditions, will entitle the participant to rewards. There was some discussion as to whether the rewards were to be given on an individual, organizational or community basis. The distinctions are relevant for a number of reasons: In Balit, individual landowners manage their respective lands and resources. On the other hand, there are some residents who are landless, and thus cannot make a substantial contribution towards improving local land and resource use.

Secondly, the community organization does not count all local residents as members. The fear was that linking implementation of the RUPES to the organization would risk the marginalizing the participation of non-members. Moreover, since not all resident-landowners are members, linking RUPES to the organization will not allow it access to lands other than the members’ own, limiting the effectiveness and impact of the scheme.

Thirdly, in a context where even organization leaders’ and members’ compliance with resource rules is inconsistent, there was a perceived need for a mechanism that would monitor and assess each participant’s performance or contribution to sustainable resource management. In the end, a compromise solution was suggested: The organization will be the lead-implementer of the RUPES scheme, in terms of monitoring and assessment. Participation, on the other hand, will not be limited to its members, but will include all landowners in the community. While there were some who preferred that the awards be given on an individual basis, allocated on the basis of actual contributions, in the end it was decided that it would be best done on a community—not organizational—basis. It was also decided that the reward should take the form of a cash award to the community. There was very little interest in discussing any other form of rewards.

Less clear however is how any cash awards will be disposed of. Will it be pooled for agreed upon projects or programs, or divided up among individuals? If the former, how will decisions be made? If the latter, will there be a fixed award for meeting given standards, or an incentive-system where each landowner receives more as his contribution improves?

One man expressed concern that the RUPES scheme would deaden local initiative and enterprise, and encourage dependency on what might turn out to be a dole-out mechanism. Indeed, the program may also end up being used by the military as part of its anti-insurgency programs. Many agreed with him, saying the awards should therefore be large enough to interest individual participation, but not so large as to discourage self-sufficiency and enterprise. Perhaps because of a consciousness of how Balit is the dagpon for the Banwa-on talugan, many people argued that the sincere implementation of RUPES should involve not just Balit but all other Banwaon communities in the Maasam watershed. They pointed out that improvements in resource management in Balit will mean little if offset by unsustainable practices in one or more of the upriver communities. Naturally, this means that the scale and complexity of the project grows proportionately. Instead of dealing with just the dynamics within Balit, RUPES must contend with the seven or eight other communities in the Maasam watershed.

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This again raises the question of who will be in charge of program implementation at the watershed level, since there is no traditional political or other institution that functions at this inter-community level. There is an existing inter-community organization in the Maasam and upper Adgawan river areas called TAGDUMAHAN, but again not all Banwa-on are members of this coalition of COs.

One man pointed out the further necessity of linking up implementation of RUPES in the Maasam area with other talugan/watersheds. This means a further escalation of the scale and complexity of the project. It suggests the need for duly oriented local community organization in major tributaries of the Agusan river, or in the entire Agusan river valley.

There was an insistence as well that RUPES will not succeed if its implementation is not accompanied by appropriate policies. This point arose from the premise that forest destruction and related environmental issues in the Agusan region are rooted in systemic political and economic problems. In other words, encouraging IP communities to protect the environment will have limited if any impact if large commercial enterprises such as IFMA-holding companies—whom many Banwa-on blame for the destruction of the original forest cover in the area—are allowed to operate in AD areas of these communities. The government should therefore enforce a strict policy of phasing out such commercial operations in areas where RUPES will be implemented, and of rejecting any applications for such contracts or operations.

Finally, some individuals expressed concern that the scheme will erode landowners’ control over their lands and resources. They wanted assurances that their ownership and other rights would not be affected before any RUPES-type project would be undertaken.

Summary: Patterns Indigenous communities’ capacity to manage local resources sustainably is evident from the

case studies from Mintapod and Minalwang, which both control vast forest areas. In Manguicao, resource management is comparatively less effective, but the shift to falcatta planting signals a possible shift from small scale logging before local timber stocks are completely exhausted. On the other hand, local use of resources is not sustainable in Balit, where residents are collaborating in the destruction of what forests they have left.

In contrast to the generalizing representation of the IP as “keepers of the forest” (cf. Poffenberger, ed. undated) community capability in resource management clearly varies. It cannot be assumed that all IP communities can and do manage their lands and resources sustainably.

On the other hand, in all four communities there was widespread awareness of the need for environmental protection. Whether this awareness is an intrinsic aspect of indigenous culture, or was ‘learned’ from contact with non-government organizations and other actors, or a combination of both is academic; what matters now is the reality of this consciousness. In each case, the communities or local organizations issued regulations designed to protect local resources, principally by regulating access thereto. In Minalwang and Mintapod, this consciousness leads to the issuance of regulations to protect the local environment; e.g., prohibitions even against making traditional kaingin or sakom in old growth areas.

The problem therefore is not a lack of ecological awareness—most people seem to undertand the consequences of their actions—but how to translate this awareness into action, in the face of poverty in general, and low agricultural productivity in particular. To repeat the statement of the paramount datu of Balit, invoking “kinaiyahan” (nature) will not suffice in the face of hunger. Livelihood concerns are therefore of prime concern in each community; they cannot be divorced from issues of environmental protection (Duhaylungsod 2001: 17-18; Utting 2000: 181).

Most people asserted that unsustainable resource uses are basically responses to the drive to survive in the face of limited agricultural productivity and poverty, or to secure market goods such as salt, work knives, clothes and footwear, matches, nails, soap, school supplies, cooking oil and fuels, tools, and medicines, among other things. By this logic, securing an alternative source of subsistence and cash will result in the reduction of local reliance on local resources. In pragmatic terms, financial and market incentives play a part in making land and resource use decisions (Ganapin 2001: 23-24);

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in a sense, means have to be found to make forest protection attractive, rather than a sacrifice or obligation. This is clearest in Minalwang, where people linked reduced pressure on forests, to improved livelihood conditions, and to the improvement of market access. Until this alternative source is secured, there will be violations of local resource regulations by people who are impelled by hunger or want. Indeed, the interest in developing local agricultural production partly explains the general interest in RUPES and the possibility of securing financing or other assistance it offers. On the other hand, not all violations are rooted entirely in a lack of economic options. In Manguicao, Minalwang and to a lesser extent in Mintapod, there were violations of local resource rules by people who felt they were not bound by these rules. In effect, they are asserting that as individual ga-op-, sektor- or land-owners, they have the power to do with their lands and the resources therein as they will. This is particularly significant in Manguicao and Balit, where not all community members or residents are members of the local organization. Such tensions emphasize the continuing relevance of the individual actor in community land and resource decision-making, as institutionalized in indigenous tenure systems. The challenge therefore is to reconcile indigenous, largely individual-oriented tenure systems with the needs of the community as such, or as represented by the community organization.

Manguicao failed this challenge. Despite early successes in controlling logging and rattan cutting, El Nino and La Nina gave hungry and/or cash-hungry sektor owners a pretext for abandoning the local organizations’ regulations on logging and rattan harvesting. No community level management or even monitoring now operates in Manguicao; each landowner makes her/his own decisions. Mintapod and Minalwang are more successful in meeting the challenge. Their approach has been to unite traditionally autonomous ga-op owners under an organization that is built on a consensus to follow agreed upon rules regarding environmental and development concerns. In other words, even as the organizations recognize ga-op ownerships in the communities, these owners, by joining the organization, in effect delegated some aspects of their rights to the organization. More specifically, they delegated their control of resources to the organization, which will now make resource use decisions in the interest of the group. Hence for one datu of Impadiding, the organization’s rules are pigsabutan, to be respected as such.

Still, Minalwang and Mintapod are facing problems with independent minded ga-op owners. Perhaps such tensions are inevitable at this point in their institutional development. These tensions however can be interpreted as indicators of local efforts to define and refine relationships within the framework of the organization (following Quizon 2001: 298). The traditional autonomy of landowners—growing out of a cultural background that valorized initiative, industry and enterprise, particularly in agriculture—also has an effect on compliance with regulations. At the risk of simplification, some people are not used to working within a non-traditional organizational framework like MAHANONG, MIHITRICO and AGMIHICU (see Bennagen 2001: 42-43). In Balit, some people simply did not like the idea of having to work on organizational projects, in addition to working for their own livelihood.

Parenthetically, this raises an important point regarding representation. Not all local stakeholders may be community residents or members (e.g., some lands in Manguicao and Mintapod are owned by residents of other communities, and vice-versa). Not all community residents may be members of the local organization (e.g., BAROG BALIT and MAHANONG). Some people may be community residents, but operate independently of the community as such in making land and resource decisions (e.g., in Balit). Consultative processes must give due consideration to such nuances, and structure conferences, negotiations and consultations accordingly.

This underscores the complexities involved in the critical task of building up organizational solidarity behind the community/organization and its objectives. Without such commitment, the tendency is merely to pay lip service to the rules, if that. Thus in Balit, the local organization had a standing log- and rattan-ban, but many members—and at least one leader—virtually ignore it.

This is simply to say that poverty does not explain the entire phenomenon of non-compliance with resource regulations. Non-compliance also involves tensions between traditionally individualistic tenure systems and the interests of the community, as represented by an organization; and the sheer novelty of organized action in a non-traditional management structure.

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Along with low farm productivity and its impact on the environment, another problem is heavy dependence on some form of resource extraction activity to either supplement low agricultural productivity, or to provide cash for market goods unavailable in the community.

This is true in all four communities. In Mintapod and Minalwang, the resource relied on is rattan. Unfortunately, in both these communities, exploitation has been so extensive that local stocks of rattan are in serious decline. In Manguicao and Balit, it was both rattan and small-scale logging. In Manguicao, logging is being replaced by falcatta marketing, even as they continue to depend on diminishing stocks of rattan. In Balit, local stocks of rattan have virtually been wiped out, so that residents now rely mainly on small-scale logging. Evidently, communities may be successful in some aspects of resource management, but less so in others.

The people in the communities are painfully aware of the consequences of such dependence. Their responses have followed three interlinked directions: First is the intensification and/or expansion of agricultural production, which links back to the need to develop local livelihoods. This response is appropriate in communities with cultural backgrounds that traditionally valued industry and productivity in agriculture, at times to the point of under-rating the importance of forest areas, as was the case with some people in Manguicao and Balit.

In Manguicao, intensification took the form of increasing adoption of darohan technology, and in the adoption of inter-planting of falcatta in farm-clearings. In Minalwang and Mintapod, the thrust is towards the expansion of rice-paddies, and to a lesser extent, darohan in their respective CADC areas, as well as the development of fishponds in the latter community. Adoption of agro-forestry approaches and tree planting can be seen in Minalwang and in Balit.

The second is to find alternative or supplementary sources of cash. In Manguicao, Balit and more recently in Minalwang, this takes the form of falcatta planting. In Mintapod and again in Minalwang, it is hoped that increases in the production of traditional (root crops and abaca) and cash crops (vegetables) will reduce reliance on rattan harvesting.

Third is the control or regulation of local resource use. Balit, Minalwang and Mintapod all have imposed temporary prohibitions against logging and rattan cutting. However, only in the last is it generally successful; in the other two communities, there were reports of violations of the prohibition and even of timber or rattan poaching. In Manguicao, the community itself is no longer trying to regulate logging or rattan cutting, but the municipal local government has imposed its own logging ban; most people seem to have complied with the ban.

It is important for communities or community organizations to enforce its rules regulating resource use. The failure to enforce the rules and, if necessary, punish transgressors will mean that local resources effectively have no protection. Institutionally, failure in this regard will erode the credibility and ultimately the effectiveness of the organization.

In all four communities however there was a surprising hesitation or inability to enforce penalties against transgressors. The worst situation was in Balit, where even a leader of the local organization was widely considered a violator of the organization’s rules. In Manguicao, the failure in enforcement was rooted in the organization’s inability to transcend the traditional, individual landownership system. How can a community organization punish a member of the community who is not a member of the organization? In Minalwang and Mintapod, the hesitancy was rooted in a confluence of factors, including the social awkwardness of penalizing elders, relatives or community leaders; the ‘novelty’ of imposing a sala, given that this mechanism has hitherto been abandoned; among other possible factors.66 Elders and leaders in Minalwang were thus seeking legal support for the projected revival of the sala system. Clearly, culture—in terms of values, priorities, preferences and definitions of needs and wants—is an important factor in environmental management, particularly in the way they interplay with the organizational framework for management, and the formulation and enforcement of rules within that framework. More attention has to be paid to the local meanings of the individual and his/her rights to lands and resources vis-à-vis the local organization and its representations, vis-à-vis

66 In Mintapod, so awkward was the discussion of penalizing their fellow community/organization members, that

when I kept inquiring into means of ensuring that punitive measures are imposed where necessary, a number of respondents fell back to simply declaring that selling land, for example, was “makagaba” (causes the seller to be cursed).

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the community itself. It cannot be assumed that any one of these three speaks for the two others; there are dynamics here that may operate to divide or unite them at one or more levels.

When, as in the case of Mintapod, communities are compelled to reconcile their plans and aspirations with those of higher levels of management or governance outside or beyond the community, cultural values again become relevant. In the course of addressing the impact of the IWMP on AGMIHICU’s ADSDPP, a consultation between the concerned parties was planned. For the municipal officials, this was a straightforward process; if no one objected then everyone accepted the project. Some community leaders however held the attitude that they have no right to question their ‘betters’ or ‘superiors’, such as the Mayor, municipal kagawads, and DENR officials, and so they could not raise any objections even if they wanted to. The venue of such a consultation also had cultural implications. If the venue were outside the community, in a place hosted by the government, sensitivity to power-relations and cultural norms that required visitors to respect their hosts and their ways would also tend to silence community representatives.

Such inter-cultural dynamics must be considered when, as is the trend in Mintapod, negotiations over land and resource management rights between communities and outside agencies become increasingly necessary in a globalizing world.

Communities And The State

State Intervention Experiences of Intervention

All four communities participating in this study accessed government programs intended to extend legal recognition of their tenure rights. Minalwang, Mintapod and Manguicao all applied for CADCs under the defunct DENR Administrative Order no. 2 (1993), although the last never received its CADC. At present, Minalwang and Mintapod are planning to convert their CADCs into CADTs, hopefully in coordination with each other.

Balit—which differed from these other communities in having a most of its territory classified as “alienable and disposable” or “agricultural”—cooperated in a Municipal government-DENR cadastral survey. Although there were complaints about the DENR’s survey, most residents received documents of title. The three communities that applied for CADCs were all subsequently approached by DENR as potential recipients of PAF-3 financing for livelihood assistance. Only the two Higa-onon communities, Mintapod and Minalwang, actually received the financing. The PAF-3 funds were used in Minalwang for livelihood projects. While there were some complaints about the processes involved, for the most part the funds were actually used for the communities’ benefit. On the other hand, the communities in Mintapod did not have direct access to its PAF-3 allocation, perhaps because AGMIHICU was not registered as a non-stock corporation, foundation or cooperative with the government. Hence, the Municipal government and the Barangay Captain controlled the funds. There were many complaints at the community level that the funds, which were supposed to be used for livelihood projects of the communities, were actually expended on projects outside the CADC area.

Manguicao had tried to pressure DENR to facilitate the long-delayed issuance of its CADC by saying it will not accept the PAF-3 funds—from which DENR personnel were said to take a cut—unless the CADC was first issued. Unfortunately, the gambit did not play out. Balit has tended to avoid working with the local government livelihood projects. This is as much from a wariness rooted in many residents’ strong anti-establishment political stance, as from a traditional tendency towards political autonomy from the state (see Gatmaytan 2001B).

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Two of the four communities encountered government intervention in local land and resource management in the form of policies, programs or projects intended for environmental and related purposes.

In Manguicao’s case, the municipal government imposed a logging moratorium within La Paz. As of 2002, most people respected the ban, and concentrated instead on intensifying local agriculture.

In Mintapod’s case, the municipal government was preparing an IWMP whose provisions on prohibiting kaingin and controlling access and use of lands along rivers and creeks clashed with AGMIHICU’s plans of intensifying and expanding the communities’ agricultural base in response to livelihood problems.

In sum, therefore, state interventions in IP communities and their land and resource management are of three types: (1) Tenure, as in the case of the CADC, CADT and cadastral survey; (2) livelihood development, particularly the PAF-3 funds for local livelihood projects; and (3) environmental management, in the form of a logging moratorium and a municipal watershed plan.

In the particular case of Mintapod, Minalwang and Manguicao, government intervention in terms of tenure was ‘passive’ in the sense that the communities first took the initiative in applying for tenure instruments, rather than the communities being approached by government officials or representatives. In other words, if the communities had not applied, it is very possible that no intervention in terms of tenure would have occurred. In any case, tenure instruments were the focus of the first phase of this research project, the findings of which were summarized in this paper’s introduction.

It should also be noted that these communities’ involvement with PAF-3 livelihood development funds was linked as well to their application for CADCs. The PAF was originally conceived of as funding assistance for communities affected by the 1998 El Nino phenomenon. As one of the line agencies tasked with allocating these funds, DENR targeted CADC applicant or beneficiary communities. Hence, Mintapod, Minalwang and Manguicao were all approached by the DENR as potential beneficiaries.

Of the three types of government intervention encountered here, only those linked with environmental objectives were clearly initiated by state agencies or offices, or local government units. In the case of both Manguicao and Mintapod, the municipal government initiated these environmental interventions. Competing Claims of Control The view of the state as an actor with interests in lands and resources that compete with the land and resource rights of local communities has been articulated elsewhere (see Howitt et al., 1996: 15; Contreras 2000: 149; Vitug 1993). The tendency in much of this literature however is to focus on the exploitative aspect of this government interest, expressed in its participation and support of mining, logging, tree plantation and other such operations, and represented as being in the “national interest”.

Less apparent is the fact that the protective interests of the state may also result in conflicts with local communities over the use of lands and resources. The obvious examples of these are the establishment of protected areas that impose restrictions on local communities’ land and resource uses of their own AD.67 In much the same way, restrictions on logging or rattan cutting, or the establishment of watershed reservations or game sanctuaries may result in tensions with the local communities.

The municipal logging moratorium in La Paz that blunted small scale logging in Manguicao and the neighboring Manobo communities is an example of a restriction on local community resource use. On the one hand are members of Manobo communities conducting virtually unregulated small- 67 The National Integrated Protected Areas System (Rep. Act no. 7586, 1992) does provide safeguards designed to

minimize conflicts with affected IP and migrant communities, but the experience in some sites suggests that the DENR continues to insist on its primacy in decision-making despite the explicit provisions of the law and its implementing regulations (see sec. 13 of the NIPAS; secs. 10 and 13, and chapter 7 of DENR Administrative Order no. 25, series of 1992), as well as the IPRA.

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scale logging, as is their right under their indigenous tenure system. On the other, the municipality is exercising its powers to protect the general welfare of the people of La Paz, by trying to protect the remaining forest stands.

Some community situations may be even more complex. A case in point involves the IWMP of the Municipality of Impasug-ong, which was developed in compliance with the provisions of the Bukidnon Environment Code68 to protect the sources and principal tributaries of the Tagolo-an and Pulangi rivers. To this end, the entire municipality was subdivided into either production areas that may be occupied and used, or protection forests, where no economic activities are allowed. The sources and tributaries of the two rivers were of course located within classified protection forest areas.

At the same time, the local barangay had formulated its own community development plan, embodied in a BDMP. This BDMP was to apply to the same area where the sources and principal tributaries of the Pulangi river were located, within the jurisdiction of Barangay Hagpa.

AGMIHICU’s CADC area includes the watersheds of the headwaters and tributaries of the Pulangi river. Indeed, only two of the sitios of Barangay Hagpa are outside the CADC area. AGMIHICU thus feared that the livelihood plans of its constituent communities and members, set down in its ADSDPP, would be negatively affected by these two plans. Thus while the objectives of the watershed management plan and the BDMP are unobjectionable by themselves, the manner by which these are pursued might adversely affect local communities.

Here the right of the Municipality of Impasug-ong to protect critical watersheds, the right of Barangay Hagpa and its officials to chart their own development plan, and the right of AGMIHICU, as a CADC-beneficiary, to set its own course of development for its constituents appear set against each other. The conflict clearly arises from different parties’ competing claims to the same land or resource base. Each of these competing claims is an expression of different management frameworks, rooted in its own ideological and cultural framework.

The exercise of power involves the production of effective instruments for the formation and accumulation of knowledge, such as methods of observation, techniques of registration, procedures of investigation and research, and apparatuses of control (Foucault 1980: 102). The watershed plan thus adopts a scientific pose, a text rich with jargon framed by a technical analytical framework, and a mode of discourse dominated by maps and tables (see Mun. of Impasug-ong, undatedA). The watershed plan thus emphasizes its own credibility and authoritativeness—and by extension, that of its proponents—by emphasizing its technical character.

In the same way, the BDMP uses some of these same strategies, with the addition of invocations of consensus building and consultations (see Government of Brgy. Hagpa, undated). The plan’s credibility is thus based on its claim to represent the result of consultative processes, again framed by a technical analytical framework.69

On the other hand, the ADSDPP reflects the fusion of indigenous knowledges and perspectives of the Higa-onon, and the assisting non-government organizations’ technical framework. The thrust in this case is to stress the ADSDPP’s character as a translation of relevant aspects of indigenous culture into the language of development planners. It anchors its claim to authoritativeness on its link to a valorized indigenous culture, with the subtext that this culture developed in the context of the local environment and is thus attuned to it.

These competing claims of authoritativeness, and therefore of right to control a given area and its resources, lead to a situation with three basically incompatible plans. Even as all three plans included measures for environmental protection, the apparent similarities were superficial in comparison with the fundamentally incompatible premises of the plans, particularly the ADSDPP and the IWMP. The latter considers the area as public lands, or more precisely forestlands, under the jurisdiction of the government. On the other hand, the ADSDPP operates on the premise that the 68 See sec. 3.1 and 9.2 (d) of the Bukidnon Environment Code. 69 Unfortunately, this claim to authority based on consensus and consultation was undermined by

significant discrepancies between basic data from the actual communities, and those presented in the plan as having been derived from the communities. More tellingly, the communities’ complete ignorance of the BDMP and its contents—even the barangay captain who was supposed to have been involved in making the plan could not adequately discuss it—belied the claims to consultative processes and consensus.

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CADC area is the Higa-onons’ private property, inherited from their ancestors or predecessors-in-interest. This case underscores the interlocking bases for government claims of control over lands and resources in IP communities’ AD: Ownership of so-called public lands; a political mandate to develop the national interest, which includes the protection of the environment; and possession of the appropriate knowledge base or technology for environmental management. For decades, the Philippine government has claimed ownership of what it classified as public lands, and as owner, it had the right to manage the land and its resources as it saw fit, or to delegate this task to whomever it considered competent. With the 1987 Constitution, and more so with the promulgation of the IPRA, the state’s claim to major portions of public lands has theoretically been weakened, in that any AD areas within public lands are now legally considered the private property of IPs.70 However, there are numerous indications of the pervasiveness and tenaciousness of the idea that the state or its agencies owns or controls lands within the public domain. In a number of cases, for example, the DENR continues to insist that it should have primacy in the management of protected areas despite the clear provisions of the IPRA and even of the NIPAS itself.

This underscores the need to institutionalize the IPRA and its provisions within the bureaucracy, in the sense that it will be routinely referred to as the dominant legal paradigm at least with regard to AD areas in what had hitherto been classified forest or public lands. As of now, there is considerable ignorance of, apathy or even hostility towards the IPRA, particularly within the DENR.

Along with this claim of ownership is the government’s political mandate to protect the national interest. Like its claim of ownership, the government has historically monopolized the power to determine the public interest, and to pursue it. It is this power that in the past allowed it to determine that delegating management and protection of forestlands to logging concessions and criminalizing kaingin was in the national interest. This indeed represents considerable political capital, invested in the government by the very structure of the Philippine political and legal system.

Fortunately, the increasing importance of participatory or “people-oriented” strategies in resource management has signaled a shift towards forms of co-management of the environment.71 Still, the government retains considerable political leverage to support its actions vis-à-vis other actors.

Finally, the government also monopolizes much of the decision-making powers relating to the environment. It employs and acts through managers, scientists, technicians, specialists and other experts who together lend authoritativeness to the state’s actions. The authority of these experts is reinforced by access to government and non-government resources, facilities and institutions. Often there are also attempts to regulate who has the authority to make pronouncements relating to the environment, for example, through government control of licensing geodetic engineers and foresters.

The result is that the state can justify or support its decisions and actions by invoking this access to ‘scientific’ or ‘specialist’ knowledge. It comes as no surprise then, that rival claims to land and resources—such as that posed by the IPs’ AD rights—contest each of the government’s bases of power. The assertion of one of MIHITRICO’s senior datu, linking nature and Higa-onon identity, is recalled here. The strategic value of such constructions or representations of identity for the IPs lies in the way it enables them to challenge state or government claims of ownership, link their welfare with that of the environment itself, and to use their culture as an alternative knowledge base for environmental management.

When does the state deploy these powers to claim control over resources in AD? From the available data, it would seem that the state might claim control over resources in an AD area when it believes that some action on its part is necessary to protect or pursue its interpretation of the national interest.

It is not so much a matter of applying set criteria then as of interpretation of given sets of circumstances. This introduces a degree of unpredictability in government decisions of whether or not the management of ADs are a matter of public interest or concern. The situation of Mintapod and Minalwang are in many ways the same—two relatively conservative Higa-onon communities abutting 70 Sec. 11, taken in relation to sec. 5 of the IPRA. 71 See DENR Administrative Order no. 29, series of 1996.

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each other, both with CADCs, important watersheds, under-productive farms, over-exploited rattan stocks, and vast tracts of forests—but the government intervened to protect the environment only in one community.

Where it does take control of such resources, it is in effect passing judgment on local communities’ capability in resource management. Its action implies that IP community members were abusing their resources, or had to be introduced to what is considered modern forest management, or were simply not doing enough to protect the environment. While there are cases of unsustainable management by IP communities—the Banwa-on of Balit come to mind—the government’s claim to be the authority and final arbiter of resource use in forestlands could lead to a failure to appreciate how IP communities like Minalwang may in fact be providing ecological services.

IP communities and their members can and do resist the government’s exercise of its powers. There are many instances of communities contesting the DENR decisions regarding the treatment of resources within their ADs. In Mintapod, a dialogue was scheduled last 11-12 February 2003 to discuss the conflicts between the ADSDPP, the IWMP and the BDMP.

Fortunately, AGMIHICU was as assertive as the municipal government was open and flexible. To its credit, the latter did not insist on its own criteria for ownership and capability, but recognized AGMIHICU’s tenure rights, based on its CADC, and its right to manage the land and resources within its territory. A Memorandum of Agreement was subsequently drafted and signed, affirming the government’s recognition of the Higa-onons’ rights to self-determination, development and access to lands and resources; and outlining a process whereby the IWMP, the ADSDPP and the BDMP can be reconciled with each other. This Memorandum of Agreement is unique in the degree to which it formalizes recognition of IP rights at the expense of the government’s own claims of control; it is quite possibly the first of its kind in the Philippines.

Unfortunately, not all local government units or state agencies are as open-minded, willing to engage in participatory processes and negotiations, and ready to recognize the rights of IP communities. Thus while Mintapod presents a model for addressing situations where there are conflicting management frameworks and ideological perspectives, it may not be easily replicable in other sites.

At the very least however, this model shows the value of dialogue and consultation in addressing land and resource conflicts. At the minimum, the process gave participants a venue for articulating their respective positions, and helped them to understand each other’s positions. This resulted in some municipal officials supporting the position of AGMIHICU. At the most, the process could and did result in respect for community rights to livelihood, in exchange for a commitment to mutual respect and assistance in environmental protection.

Strengthening Processes for Dialogue

Given the inherent value of dialogue, it may be useful to end with a few recommendations for strengthening processes for dialogue between communities and the state are offered.

These recommendations are arrayed in three clusters. The first discusses perspectives in approaching communities for consultation purposes. In general, these include ‘sensitizing’ notions that address widely held assumptions regarding IP communities, particularly in northern Mindanaw, in order to secure the participation of as many stakeholders as possible. The second briefly discusses existing legal mechanisms for consultations or dialogue. This focuses on the provisions of the IPRA, the Local Government Code and the Environmental Impact Assessment procedures of the DENR, resort to which must be institutionalized. Some points for helping maximize these mechanisms’ effectiveness are also noted. Finally, some approaches for validating information are outlined.

The idea is simply to provide as many parallel and mutually supporting means of securing information regarding the views of IP communities, organizations and their members. This enhances the scope, relevance and reliability of the information generated.

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Address Assumptions In general, it is important to free one’s self as much as possible from received or preconceived notions regarding IP communities, their political and social structure and leadership, and their relations with their lands and resources. This is particularly important in dealing with IP communities because most people hold such assumptions, sometimes unconsciously, and sometimes tenaciously.

The following warnings are particularly relevant to IP communities: 1. Do not assume that IP communities are homogenous. All communities are heterogeneous, split

along any number of social divides: gender, wealth and power, access to land and resources, ethnicity, age, kinship ties, among others. The relevant divides may vary from place to place. The pragmatic consequence for those interested in improving consultative processes is the need to secure as broad a range of participants from the community as possible.

In the same way, community organizations should not be assumed to be homogenous. It is quite

possible that there are tensions within it, over land, resource and other issues. 2. Do not assume that IP community members are uniformly motivated by the desire to protect the

environment. This is an “essentialization’’; i.e., an imputation of a supposedly ‘natural’ or ‘inherent’ character to IP or other groups or communities, and as such a mere stereotype. It is better than the stereotype of the IP as forest-destroyers, but it is still a stereotype nonetheless. It is better to treat each community member as an individual, with her/his own needs, wants and aspirations, struggling with and against others in the community over access to power and resources, than as basically interchangeable with all the rest.

3. Do not assume that community leaders can and do speak for everyone else in the community.

While it is tempting to take this ‘shortcut’ to consultations, there is no guarantee that local leaders, whether traditional or elective, can transcend their own interests or assumptions, or have a sense of the range of community members’ views or positions. This may entail supplementing the results of discussions with datus, elders and other community leaders with those of non-leaders, particularly women, who have fewer opportunities of assuming leadership or representative roles in IP communities.

In line with the recommendation above regarding securing as broad a range of participants as

possible, it is necessary to consider both traditional leaders like the insa-an, datu or ba-e, as well as government officials, like Barangay Captains and kagawads.72 Note that it is possible that a community may have a datu, but with only ceremonial functions, if any; or it may have both traditional and elective officials actively working alongside (against) each other; or it may have barangay officials, but they are largely irrelevant to day-to-day life. Again, the best way to deal with such a range of variations is to take each community on its own terms, on a case-to-case basis.

4. Do not assume that tenure is ‘communal’. This is a particularly persistent assumption, held even

by social scientists.73 Automatically presuming that land and resource tenure in IP communities is

72 Studying indigenous political systems is strongly recommended. Unfortunately, there is no one source that appears

authoritative; many of the more detailed ethnographies are outdated, and may even be erroneous, and the more recent writings together reflect a confusingly wide range of variations among the communities described.

73 The usual response to assertions that land and resource tenure in some communities is in fact individual or at least individual-oriented is to categorize those communities as ‘assimilated’ or ‘influenced’ by migrants, the government or other ‘outside’ forces (see also Paredes 2000: 80-81). But Impadiding in Minalwang and Mintapod proper are widely considered as Higa-onon cultural centers, and yet their tenure is individually oriented. And where is there a ‘pure’ or ‘untouched’ community these days (following Wolf 1982)? In any case, the question of whether indigenous tenure was originally communal or had always been individual is largely academic: What is important is to determine whether the specific communities we must deal with have communal or individual tenure now, and base plans and programs on that assessment.

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‘communal’ predisposes us to focusing simply on the community as a group, or the community organization, blinding us to other, significant realities such as internal tensions and the role of individuals (following Li 1996). This is not to say that tenure in all IP communities is not ‘communal’, but that it is important not to assume that it is so. It is thus methodologically sounder to first inquire into the actual land and tenure practices of individual actors before concluding if these are ‘communal’ or otherwise. This would provide a better database from which to draw explanations of local trends and developments.

Related to this are warnings against assuming that all stakeholders or landowners are residents of the community; that all stakeholders are members of the local community organization; that conversely, the organization can speak for all the community; and that datus, ba-es, elders or barangay and sitio officials can decide or even speak authoritatively about land and resource issues in the community.

5. Do not assume that the community can and will manage their lands and resources sustainably. IP

communities are often among the poorest, and survival or the drive to improve their lot may impel them to use local resources at an unsustainable rate, at times despite their better judgment. This is not to say that IP communities are incapable of sustainable use of lands and resources. Rather it is a pragmatic acknowledgement that knowledge of sustainable management is not the only factor in making land and resource decisions by communities and their members. In some cases, a community might be very successful at certain aspects of resource management, but less so at others; in Minalwang, MIHITRICO’s achievements are impressive, and yet people there are harvesting their rattan at unsustainable rates.

Failing to transcend this assumption risks failing to provide communities with the needed or appropriate infrastructure, incentives, financing, information, materials, etc. they need to improve their conditions economically and environmentally.

The idea behind addressing these various assumptions is to ensure that as many of the relevant stakeholders at the community level are identified and contacted for purposes of consultations or dialogues, and providing a better sense of the actual interests at stake. Addressing the assumptions noted here can only improve the effectiveness of the consultative mechanisms employed. Institutionalize Consultative Processes Rather than recommending new, additional procedures, it is more practical to build on existing and available consultative mechanisms, and institutionalize their use.

Careful and thorough consultations will of course cost time, effort and money, but it should properly be considered a part of the start-up costs of any program or project, and a necessary investment that can help avoid even more costly and embarrassing social tensions, litigation or even violence. It is unfortunate that the government is currently trying to weaken these mechanisms, particularly as they relate to mining operations, in order to encourage foreign and other investments in the country.

The following guidelines are based on existing laws and regulations, and are particularly relevant to IP communities: 1. Before actual consultation processes can begin, there is the threshold question of who to invite or

approach for consultations. In pragmatic terms, this means that there should be a prior or preparatory phase wherein these stakeholders are identified—keeping the warnings listed in the immediately preceding section firmly in mind—at the community level, and duly approached.

Again, it is best if as many stakeholders as possible are involved. Offhand, this means

recognizing and approaching an IP community’s elective and traditional community leaders, community organizations as such, assisting non-government organizations, church-based

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formations, and as many individual community members as possible. There should be no distinction made in terms of the perceived political orientation of COs or non-government organizations.

2. In dealing with IP communities, careful attention must be paid to the provisions of the IPRA.

Secs. 7 (b),74 16,75 17,76 51,77 5778 and 5879 of the IPRA are particularly relevant. In sum, any programs and projects that involve outsiders’ utilization of lands or resources within a community’s AD; or involve environmental protection in AD areas; or involve the delineation or identification of a community’s territories; or that may affect the rights, interests and territories of IP communities must undergo prior consultations.

In short, virtually all programs and projects that may affect IP communities must undergo prior consultations; and in the cases of resource use and environmental protection, the IP community’s consent must also be in writing. In the latter case, the NCIP regulations regarding free, prior and informed consent must be followed.80

It should be noted that IP communities could exercise these rights even though they have not applied for a CADT or CALT.81 There is nothing in the IPRA that indicates that issuance of a CADT or CALT is a prerequisite to the rights laid down in the statute.

Note that these are existing legal provisions; these are available mechanisms for consultations. What is necessary at this point is the institutionalization of these mechanisms in the sense that state agencies and offices, and local government units will routinely resort to these mechanisms in the course of formulating, endorsing or implementing any development program or project affecting IP communities. For example, much of the confusion and tension in Mintapod over the Impasug-ong IWMP, could have been avoided if consultations in the affected communities had been conducted before the formulation of the plan, as is provided in the IPRA.

3. Coordination with local government units in the consultative process is also provided for in secs.

2 (c), 26 and 27 of the Local Government Code of 1991. Sec. 27 in particular states that “no project or program shall be implemented by government authorities unless the consultations mentioned in Sections 2 (c) and 26 … are complied with, and prior approval of the sanggunian concerned is obtained …”. Sec. 26 in turn states that it is the “duty of every national agency or government-owned or –controlled corporation authorizing or involved in the planning and

74 IP communities have the right to “negotiate the terms and conditions for the exploration of natural resources in the

areas …” and “an informed and intelligent participation in the formulation and implementation of any project, government or private, that will affect or impact upon the ancestral domains”.

75 IP communities have the right “to participate fully … at all levels of decision-making in matters which may affect their rights, lives and destinies through procedures determined by them as well as to maintain and develop their own political structures”.

76 IP communities have the right “to determine and decide their own priorities for development affecting their lives, beliefs, institutions, spiritual well-being and the lands they own, occupy or use” and “participate in the formulation, implementation and evaluation of policies, plans, and programs for national, regional and local development …”.

77 The principle of “self-delineation” gives IP communities the power to determine the size and extent of their ancestral domains, lands or claims.

78 A non-member of an IP community may gain access to its natural resources if the community allows the same, which agreement is embodied in a ”formal and written agreement” or was reached in accordance with its own decision making process.

79 Areas necessary for environmental reasons (e.g., watersheds, protected areas, etc.) shall be managed by the concerned IP communities. They may however transfer this responsibility, and if so “said decision must be made in writing.” Further, the “consent of the ICC/IPs should be arrived at in accordance with its customary laws, without prejudice to the basic requirements of existing laws on free and prior informed consent”. See also Republic Act no. 7586 (the 1992 National Integrated Protected Area Act) and its implementing regulations, DENR Administrative Order no. 25 (1992).

80 Sec. 6 of NCIP Administrative Order no. 3, s. 2002. 81 See sec. 11 of the IPRA.

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implementation of any project or program that may cause … loss of cropland, rangeland or forest cover … to consult with the local government units … and other sectors concerned …”.

Depending upon the scale of a project, therefore, barangay, municipal and provincial local government units must be consulted, to discuss what is referred to as the “public-” or “social-acceptability” of the project. In practice, this means scheduling relevant sanggunian sessions to discuss the issues, or better yet, holding public hearings regarding the same. The preference, of course, is for public hearings participated in by as many stakeholders as possible, to be held in the affected communities themselves, or at least in areas easily accessible for their members. The ‘shortcut’ of consulting only government officials like barangay captains—probably on the theory that they can speak for their constituents—is not contemplated by the Local Government Code. The ineffectiveness of this approach is again illustrated by the experience of Mintapod: Municipal officials consulted only barangay captains in the formulation of the IWMP, with the result that local community concerns were not adequately reflected, and were in fact threatened by the plan.

In theory, the members of the concerned sanggunian will base their vote on approving or rejecting a program or project on the discussions or results in the sessions or public hearings. Their decision takes the form of a sanggunian resolution endorsing or rejecting the program or project.

4. A consultative mechanism is also provided by the Environmental Impact Assessment (EIA)

procedures of the DENR.82 Generally, all proposed projects and programs that may affect the environment or the rights and interests of IP communities must first undergo environmental impact assessment. This means that the proponents must convince the Protected Areas and Wildlife Bureau of the DENR that their program or project will have minimal or acceptable impact, in which case they are issued an Environmental Compliance Certificate (ECC) as a precondition for operation.

It is important to stress two points here: First, all programs and projects, without distinction, must

secure an ECC first before they can begin operations. This means government programs and projects are included, and this in turn includes the establishment of seemingly unobjectionable projects such as protected areas, or tree-plantation operations.

Second, the EIA procedures cover not just the biophysical impact of a proposed activity, but also its socio-cultural impact on the concerned communities. The discussion should not therefore be limited to proponents’ and opponents’ respective panel of scientists and experts, but should include the members of the affected communities themselves, their representatives and organizations.

While the DENR has some discretion on whether or not to arrange public hearings in the course

of the impact assessment of a given project or program, it is recommended that such hearings be formally requested by stakeholders for programs or projects that could significantly affect the local environment or IP communities. Again, it is better to have these hearings in the affected communities themselves, or at least in locations easily accessible to community members.

5. It is possible to arrange combined public hearings; e.g., a public hearing to discuss public or

social acceptability of a project, and its biophysical and socio-cultural impact, perhaps to be co-sponsored by the local government and the DENR.

This may help reduce costs and work, but in any case, securing the free, prior and informed

consent of the communities should be undertaken separately from the two other venues. The

82 See Pres. Decree no. 1586, and DENR Administrative Order no. 37, series of 1996. See also Pres. Decree no. 1151

(Philippine Environmental Policy) and Pres. Decree no. 1152 (Philippine Environmental Code).

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relevant regulation states that the communities’ decision must be decided in the communities affected, and in accordance with local decision-making processes.83

6. Some communities may find these overlapping consultative mechanisms difficult or confusing,

despite their awareness of their importance and interest in participating. Ways of providing them access to legal counsel and support should thus be explored, not so much to litigate on their behalf, as to advice the community and if necessary speak for them in these various fora.

7. In arranging consultations regarding programs or projects that may affect IP communities with

government agencies, the NCIP (formerly the Office for Southern Cultural Communities) should be fully involved, after all, oversight of the welfare of Philippine IPs is its mandate.

Having said that, participation in consultations should be based on the results of the prior

stakeholder-identification phase discussed above, and not simply on the existing OSCC/NCIP list of officially recognized datus or community leaders.

To illustrate, the NCIP has a list of state-certified datus in the Municipality of San Luis, Agusan

del Sur province, where Banwa-on and Manobo communities are located. The tendency then is to approach these datus for consultations and dialogues regarding projects in San Luis that may affect IPs. A review of this list however reveals that the NCIP’s official “Municipal Tribal Chieftain” is a relatively young man with little knowledge of indigenous laws, culture and practices. More importantly, he and the six other datus listed are not known or recognized in most of the many IP communities in San Luis, and by the terms of Banwa-on and Manobo political culture have no right to speak for them.

To restrict consultations to the official NCIP datus therefore poses the danger of disenfranchising other, community-based leaders who can speak for their respective communities.

8. In the same way, it is not advisable to restrict consultations regarding projects that may affect

communities’ land and resource rights to individuals or groups who have government-issued tenure instruments, such as CADCs issued by the DENR.

To illustrate, Mayor Deo S. Manpatilan of Esperanza, Agusan del Sur controls R-13 CADC no. 154, issued in 1998 and covering 74,827 has. To base our selves on the CADC papers, consultations regarding projects affecting this vast area should be consulted with him. Apparently this is what Shannalyne, Inc. and Tecland, Inc.—two new foreign-controlled IFMA-holding corporations—did, resulting in Manpatilan’s acceptance of the two companies (Delanto, undated: 7-8). Subsequently however some 54 indigenous sektor- or land-owners filed a protest with the DENR, saying that their lands in Nuevo Trabajo, Manlahing, Balit, Policarpo, Sta. Rita and Mahagsay had been wrongfully included by Manpatilan in his CADC area, who therefore has no right to commit their lands to the two IFMA-holding companies.84

While holders of duly issued tenure instruments like CADCs cannot legally be ignored, stakeholder identification should not be limited to those with such instruments. In many cases, the actual, culture-based tenure practices differ from the legal tenurial terrain. Again, it would have been better to first have identified actual landowners at the community-level, rather than limit consultations to those who have tenure instruments like CADCs and risk excluding actual owners or stakeholders.

9. As a step towards institutionalizing use of the provisions of the IPRA, measures to disseminate

knowledge and understanding of the IPRA, its provisions and implementing rules and regulations

83 Secs. 4 (c ) and (e), and 14 (d) of NCIP Administrative Order no. 3, series of 2002. 84 See Letter to the Secretary of the DENR from Petitioners Against Inclusion of their Lands in an Approved IFMA

Project, dated 18 March 1999.

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among state agencies and offices, and local government units may be necessary, depending on actual conditions. This should help reduce ignorance, misunderstanding or resistance to the IPRA, which has been remarked even among NCIP personnel.

At another level, it may also be useful to set up a process wherein the principal government

agencies involved in these consultative processes—the NCIP, the Department of Interior and Local Government and the DENR—discuss and issue a joint administrative regulation that will reconcile potential areas of confusion or conflict between the various laws, rules and regulations involved. This process cannot result in the reduction of the legal requirements already necessary under existing laws and regulations; i.e., free, prior and informed consent in writing, local government endorsement based on a finding of social acceptability, and an ECC. It can, however, clarify which of these laws and regulations prevails over the others should there be a question of interpretation.

Clearly, it is the IPRA that should prevail over the others; these can support or supplement the IPRA, but cannot supplant it. As a statute, it cannot be contravened by administrative regulations; in relation to other statutes, it is the latest to be issued among them all, and therefore represents the latest expression of the legislative—and by extension, the citizens’—will. Moreover, it is the specific law that that directly addresses IP rights and interests, as compared with the other laws, which have more general application. The IPRA therefore should prevail over the NIPAS should there be a question regarding, for example, whether it is the communities or the DENR/ Protected Areas Management Board which has primary control of resources in an AD that is also a protected area.

10. These hearings are generally formal venues, hosted and presided upon by government officials,

with a good chance that they will be held outside at least some of the IP communities that may be affected by a proposed program or project.

Especially where more traditional communities are involved, these factors may weaken the effectiveness of consultative processes outlined here. Since the community representatives are going outside the community for the consultation, they are the visitors of the government, which usually ends up hosting the event. These circumstances interplay with cultural norms that require visitors to respect their hosts’ ways and views. Moreover, community representatives may be uncomfortable in formal meetings, specially those held in unfamiliar settings, among the dumagat or bisaya,85 following a formal structure or flow, and perhaps conducted in English or some other language other than their own. Further, there have been many instances where representatives will feel that as “mere” uneducated highland farmers, they have no right to question a project being endorsed by their “superiors”, like mayors, governors or DENR officials. Finally, IP representatives are often sensitive to their own location within the web of power-relations between the municipal center and their communities at the periphery, and may choose not to make statements that could be interpreted as a challenge to the existing ‘balance of power’.

These cultural factors may result in the community participants remaining silent or non-committal. This would reduce the effectiveness of formal consultations, which is why it is recommended further that (1) the consultations under the IPRA, at least, must be conducted in the affected communities as much as possible, following local processes; and (2) some validating mechanism be used to supplement the data generated in the consultations. This will be discussed in the immediately following section.

85 While there may be no actual tensions between members of IP communities associated with the highland periphery

and the dumagat or bisaya associated with the lowland center, there will always be the dynamics of power-relations between these two groups, such that IP representatives may tend to be less assertive or confident outside their own home-ground. Note that even when IPs and non-IPs seem able to live together, this does not necessarily mean there is no tension or violence between them, anymore than the fact that two people live together means there is no violence or differential in power between them.

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This is not to detract from the value of consultative processes in determining the views of affected communities and their members. Many community leaders, organizations and members do have the resources to make use of formal consultative processes. And in any case, the law requires these consultative processes. However, not all communities or organizations can make optimal use of such processes. Some other means of gathering pertinent information may thus be necessary, at the very least to validate the results of a public hearing.

To reiterate, there are sufficient legal mechanisms that can be used to ensure that, as many stakeholders as possible are involved in deciding if a proposed project or program should be allowed to operate in AD areas. What is needed is for government officials, among others, to institutionalize the use of these mechanisms. Beyond that, measures can be taken to maximize the effectiveness of these consultative mechanisms. Validate Data

To supplement consultations, and to validate its results, some means of cross-confirmation of information must be set up in parallel with the formal consultations.

Following are some options in this regard: 1. The ideal way of securing validation is by developing a network of contacts in the communities

concerned, providing an independent source of community-level information regarding local perceptions of proposed projects or programs, and related issues. There are many cases where participants in public consultations remain non-committal or silent, or even express support during the public hearing, but say something else in private. For example, people from Mintapod may publicly state that they are satisfied with the handling of the PAF-3 funds, such that municipal officials believed them, but in private they might complain that some of the funds were actually spent outside the intended beneficiary communities.

This option requires considerable lead-time to develop, and investment in terms of effort and social

capital. In the alternative, one may seek the assistance of an already existing local network, e.g., those of local churches or non-government organizations in the area. Of course, the terms of the relationship with these groups or networks must be carefully defined.

2. Less complicated is the option of commissioning an individual or institutional consultant to

conduct validating studies or inquiries in the area. Of course, it is preferable that the consultant is familiar with the area, its people and their culture, and

has previous experience in the area. Especially if the time available is limited, the consultant can concentrate on devoting existing connections to validating the data instead of having to first establish such connections. Consultants unfamiliar with the area or the culture might also operate under assumptions developed in the course of previous work in other areas, but which do not hold true here.

Particular attention must be paid to discussing and defining the methodologies to be employed in

gathering information with such consultants beforehand. In any case, their reports must be read with a critical eye, particularly in terms of its biases and limitations.

3. Validation sessions may be purposely arranged for securing data at the community level. These

may employ such methodologies as interviews of key informants, selected with an eye towards their relative location in relation to relevant social divides; carefully structured and facilitated focus-group discussions; or perhaps some other of the methods in the the participatory rural

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appraisal inventory. A lot depends on the cooperation and availability of the communities and their members in this approach.

4. It may also be possible to tap indigenous institutions such as the dumalongdong86 as a venue for

discovering local leaders’ views. If this option is explored, care must be taken in securing due permission from the leaders in charge, and in ensuring their control of the proceedings. In no way must outsiders be allowed to be perceived as ‘controlling’ or ‘appropriating’ the dumalongdong or other institution.

5. Finally, commitments or agreements arrived at during still-ongoing processes of negotiations or

consultations may be consolidated and set in writing. This provides documentation of the respective parties’ positions even as discussions are ongoing.

Parties in extended negotiations may consider signing a Memorandum of Understanding (MOU) that consolidates agreements and commitments so far achieved, identifies the direction of further discussions, and clarifies the intended output of the entire processes. This was the approach taken in the Mintapod case, where a MOU laid down commitments to dialogue, a process for conducting further discussions, and providing for ratification prior to the signing of a Memorandum of Agreement.

What happens after consultations and validation would depend upon the purposes for which consultations were conducted in the first place. Again, having respect, open-mindedness, flexibility and creativity on the part of the parties offer more chances of achieving equitable or at least mutually acceptable arrangements.

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank the International Center for Research in Agro-Forestry, particularly Mr. Paul C. Fay, Mr. Eduardo Queblatin, Mr. Alex Tabbada and Ms. Glo Acaylar, who made this paper and the fieldwork on which it is based possible.

Thanks are also due to the following: (1) Butch Dagondon and Gal Mortel of GREEN Mindanao; (2) the officers, staff and scholars of the FVCTLDC and JSF; (3) Aileen May Paguntalan of AnthroWatch; (4) Crissy Guerero of NTFP; (5) the Religious of the Good Shepherd-Tribal Filipino Ministry of San Luis, Agusan del Sur and its organizing and literacy staff; and (6) the officers and staff of the Legal Rights and Natural Resources Center.

Special appreciation must also be expressed for the datus and leaders of Brgy. Minalwang, Claveria, Misamis Oriental; the Barangay officials of Brgy. Minalwang, Claveria; the insaan, datus and people of Sio. Mintapod, Brgy. Hagpa, Impasug-ong, Bukidnon province; the local government officials of the Municipality of Impasug-ong and of Brgy. Hagpa, Impasug-ong; the datus, ba-e and leaders and people of Sio. Manguicao, Brgy. Lydia, La Paz, Agusan del Sur province; the Barangay officials of Comota, La Paz, Agusan del Sur; officials and staff of the Royal Match, Inc.; the datu, ba-e, leaders and members of Brgy. Balit, San Luis, Agusan del Sur; the Barangay officials of Balit, San Luis; and the Office of the Park Superintendent of the MKRNP.

86 A council of insa-an or datus from different communities, convened to discuss matters of mutual interest and

importance.

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