Empowering Communities through Archaeology and Heritage: The Role of Local Governance in Economic Development 9781350036222, 9781350036253, 9781350036239

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Empowering Communities through Archaeology and Heritage

DEBATES IN ARCHAEOLOGY Series editor: Richard Hodges Against Cultural Property, John Carman The Anthropology of Hunter-Gatherers, Vicki Cummings Archaeologies of Conflict, John Carman Archaeology: The Conceptual Challenge, Timothy Insoll Archaeology and International Development in Africa, Colin Breen and Daniel Rhodes Archaeology and State Theory, Bruce Routledge Archaeology and Text, John Moreland Archaeology and the Pan-European Romanesque, Tadhg O’Keeffe Beyond Celts, Germans and Scythians, Peter S. Wells Bronze Age Textiles, Klavs Randsborg Building Colonialism, Daniel T. Rhodes The Byzantine Dark Ages, Michael J. Decker Changing Natures, Bill Finlayson & Graeme M. Warren Combat Archaeology, John Schofield Debating the Archaeological Heritage, Robin Skeates Early European Castles, Oliver H. Creighton Early Islamic Syria, Alan Walmsley Empowering Communities through Archaeology and Heritage, Peter G. Gould Ethics and Burial Archaeology, Duncan Sayer Evidential Reasoning in Archaeology, Robert Chapman and Alison Wylie Fishing and Shipwreck Heritage, Sean A. Kingsley Fluid Pasts, Matthew Edgeworth Gerasa and the Decapolis, David Kennedy Heritage, Communities and Archaeology, Laurajane Smith & Emma Waterton Houses and Society in the Later Roman Empire, Kim Bowes Image and Response in Early Europe, Peter S. Wells Indo-Roman Trade, Roberta Tomber Loot, Legitimacy and Ownership, Colin Renfrew Lost Civilization, James L. Boone Museums and the Construction of Disciplines, Christopher Whitehead The Origins of the Civilization of Angkor, Charles F. W. Higham The Origins of the English, Catherine Hills Pagan and Christian, David Petts The Remembered Land, Jim Leary Rethinking Wetland Archaeology, Robert Van de Noort and Aidan O’Sullivan The Roman Countryside, Stephen L. Dyson Roman Reflections, Klavs Randsborg Shaky Ground, Elizabeth Marlowe Shipwreck Archaeology of the Holy Land, Sean A. Kingsley Social Evolution, Mark Pluciennik State Formation in Early China, Li Liu and Xingcan Chen Towns and Trade in the Age of Charlemagne, Richard Hodges Tradition and Transformation in Anglo-Saxon England, Susan Oosthuizen Vessels of Influence, Nicole Coolidge Rousmaniere Villa to Village, Riccardo Francovich and Richard Hodges

Empowering Communities through Archaeology and Heritage The Role of Local Governance in Economic Development

Peter G. Gould

BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP, UK 1385 Broadway, New York, NY 10018, USA BLOOMSBURY, BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC and the Diana logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published 2018 Paperback edition first published 2019 Copyright © Peter G. Gould , 2018 Peter G. Gould has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this work. For legal purposes the Acknowledgements on p. xii constitute an extension of this copyright page. Cover design: Terry Woodley Cover image © Peter G. Gould All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. Bloomsbury Publishing Plc does not have any control over, or responsibility for, any third-party websites referred to or in this book. All internet addresses given in this book were correct at the time of going to press. The author and publisher regret any inconvenience caused if addresses have changed or sites have ceased to exist, but can accept no responsibility for any such changes. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. A catalogue record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. ISBN: HB: 978-1-3500-3622-2 PB: 978-1-3501-2230-7 ePDF: 978-1-3500-3623-9 ePub: 978-1-3500-3624-6 Typeset by Integra Software Services Pvt. Ltd. To find out more about our authors and books visit www.bloomsbury.com and sign up for our newsletters.

For Robin, my partner in life; For Alexandra and Louis, our future; And for the people of Raqchi, Maya Centre, Kilfenora, and the Val di Cornia, whose wisdom and courage to experiment provide lasting inspiration to communities everywhere.

Contents List of Illustrations Preface Acknowledgments Abbreviations and Acronyms Introduction 1 Archaeology and Community Economic Development 2 The Public Good Paradigm and Disempowered Communities 3 Governance Alternatives 4 Asociacíon Inkallaqta: An Artisans’ Cooperative in Peru 5 Maya Centre Women’s Group: A Community Business in Belize 6 The Burren Centre: A Heritage Interpretive Center in Ireland 7 I Parchi della Val di Cornia: A Cluster of Heritage Sites in Italy Conclusion Bibliography Index

viii x xii xv 1 19 35 49 69 85 103 121 137 157 179

Illustrations 3.1 A generalized framework for evaluating community organization design in the context of increasing complexity. 4.1 Map illustrating the location of the village of Raqchi in Peru. 4.2 The Viracocha temple complex adjacent to the village of Raqchi, Peru. 4.3 The Asociacíon Inkallaqta marketplace, Raqchi, Peru. 5.1 Map of Belize illustrating the location of Maya Centre. 5.2 The artisans’ shop, Maya Centre Women’s Group. 5.3 Maya Centre Women’s Group members in traditional dress. One is carving slate, the other reviewing the group’s sales books. 6.1 Map showing the location of Kilfenora, Republic of Ireland. 6.2 One of the Celtic crosses that earned Kilfenora’s moniker, “The City of Crosses,” displayed in the ruins of Kilfenora Cathedral. 6.3 Interior of the Burren Centre exhibit: Interactive map of the Burren region and historic dioramas. 7.1 Map of the region including the Val di Cornia, Tuscany, Italy. 7.2 The ruins of Rocca San Silvestro, the Medieval mining village component of I Parchi della Val di Cornia, Tuscany, Italy. 7.3 Exhibit of Medieval household pottery in the Val di Cornia park system’s Museo del Castello e delle Ceramiche Medievali, Piombino, Italy.

66 70 72 77 86 95

98 105

108 112 122

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Illustrations

C.1 Case studies in this book positioned within the generalized framework introduced in Chapter 3. C.2 The Vindolanda archaeological park, Bardon Mill, Hexham, UK, near Hadrian’s Wall. C.3 Conceptual approach to working with communities to design effective governance institutions. Note: All photographs by the author.

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Preface Heritage is disappearing at a disquieting rate, not only through destruction from wars, climate change, and public and private development projects, but also as migrations within and across national borders disrupt traditional communities and relationships. Yet, in a profound sense, heritage—both intangible and tangible— has not had such salience for many decades. Countries that once seemed stable are breaking apart along fault lines rooted in the heritage of ethnic or national groups. Emigres are struggling to recover and hold on to heritage and traditions left behind as they have fled devastation or sought better lives. The ideal of melting pots and tolerance is being displaced by more pernicious perspectives on differing heritages. All this is occurring at a time when governments, which are the primary funders of archaeological investigation and heritage management, face both financial constraints unprecedented in the post-Second World War era and skepticism about their top-down, expert-led heritage management practices. Moreover, the failure of heritage projects—from local site museums to World Heritage sites—to deliver promised benefits to communities has become an ethical quandary for archaeological professionals. Archaeologists are searching for approaches to community development that will be sustainable and deliver benefits to the communities they work in. It is past time to explore alternative paradigms that celebrate differences among communities and commonalities within them, support heritage preservation, and generate sustainable benefits. This book seeks to contribute to and stimulate research into ways that archaeologists and local communities can work together to achieve those goals. As will be seen, the solutions to these challenges are, in

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one sense, devilishly complex. But, from another perspective, the fundamental principle is quite simple: Sustainable outcomes that truly benefit communities are more likely if we trust, empower, and support local people to take responsibility for the heritage that matters to them. This book explores ways to accomplish that goal.

Acknowledgments

This book is the product of a lifetime of experiences in business, nonprofit management, and academia. It culminates two decades of exploration into the mechanisms that enable some community organizations to endure and prosper for years, even decades, while others fade from view as quickly as they are formed. This exploration began with a career into which I fell largely by accident, corporate turnarounds and restructurings, a business that puts center stage the fragility of human organizations. It proceeded through my leadership involvement with several substantial American nonprofit organizations, each of which had a storied history and faced daunting challenges. It culminated when I combined those “practical” experiences with my lifelong interest in history, heritage, and archaeology through studies at the University of Pennsylvania and University College London, resulting in my PhD in 2014. This book is intended to be a synthesis, one hopes not a palimpsest, of each of those elements in my personal provenience. Along the way, I have inevitably accumulated many to whom a debt of acknowledgment is owed. I must begin with thanks to Richard Hodges, who not only urged me to write this book, but who has been a colleague, mentor, and friend for a decade, first at the University of Pennsylvania Museum and now at the American University of Rome. His enthusiasm for my research and his tutoring on archaeology and heritage management have been fundamental to this enterprise, and his introduction years ago to the Val di Cornia park system was an inspiration to this entire project. The bulk of this work was done, of course, while I was obtaining my PhD at University College London. Tim Schadla-Hall, my adviser and good friend, believed from the start that this project was important and promoted my efforts at every turn.

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Research on the Burren Centre was Tim’s idea, and an excellent one. Tim also introduced me to my long-time colleague in the research in the Val di Cornia, Anna Paterlini, who has been indispensable in this project and so much else. Richard Leventhal, my adviser at the University of Pennsylvania and now my colleague in the Penn Cultural Heritage Center, was instrumental to my work in Belize, to my understanding of contemporary heritage management issues, and to translating my nonacademic experiences to my late-in-life pursuits in archaeology. My work in Peru was made possible by Bill Sillar, who escorted me to Raqchi, introduced me to my hosts there, and served throughout my time at UCL as a friend and valued critic. My work in Peru was made more valuable through the assistance of my colleagues at the Sustainable Preservation Initiative, Larry Coben and Luis Jaime Castillo. Many others have played vital supporting roles. Anne Pyburn, an early inspiration and most recently a close collaborator, has an ethical commitment to communities and a clear-eyed perspective on community dynamics that has been essential to forming my own views. Her comments on an early draft of this book were invaluable. My hosts abroad, Aurora and Antonio Fernandez in Cusco, Damiana Mamani and her family in Raqchi, and John Keane and Frances Connell in Kilfenora, all became good friends and invaluable guides to their communities. Alice Wright and Clara Herberg of Bloomsbury were ever-responsive and supportive, and husbanded the volume through production with awesome skill. Most importantly, though, it is to my wife, Robin, and my daughter, Alexandra, that I owe the greatest debt. Today, most obligations in this life can be managed via telephone and email, but the roles of husband and father do not convey well through electronic media. That they both encouraged this transformation in my career, tolerated (and continue to tolerate) the inevitable absences, and returned my longdistance outreach with loving affection made this all possible.

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Acknowledgments

To these people, and to the many, many more throughout my life who took risks to give me responsibilities for which I was questionably equipped but from which I learned so much, I acknowledge that this book is yours as much as mine. Nonetheless, as is both customary and appropriate, I take full responsibility for its contents and, especially, for its shortcomings. Peter G. Gould University of Pennsylvania Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology The American University of Rome June 2017

Abbreviations and Acronyms AGM

Annual General Meeting

BAS

Belize Audubon Society

BCE

Before the Current Era

CAS

Complex Adaptive System

CBWS

Coxcomb Basis Wildlife Sanctuary (Belize)

CE

Current Era

Comhar

Comhar Conradh na Boirne Teoranta (Ireland)

CPR

Common Pool Resource

GDP

Gross Domestic Product

ICOMOS

International Council on Monuments and Sites

ICOS

Irish Cooperative Organisation Society, Ltd.

LCDD

Local and Community-Drive Development

MCWG

Maya Centre Women’s Group

NGO

Nongovernmental Organization

PPP

Public Private Partnership

PVdC

Parchi Val di Cornia SpA

QUANGO

Quasi-Autonomous Nongovernmental Organization

RCT

Randomized Controlled Trial

SGM

Special General Meeting

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Abbreviations and Acronyms

SUNARP

Superintendencia Nacional de los Registros Públicos (Peru)

UK

United Kingdom

US/USA

United States/United States of America

UNESCO

United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization

WTTC

World Travel & Tourism Council

YMWCA

Young Men’s & Women’s Christian Association (Belize)

Introduction

This book is about organizational governance at the local level— the mechanisms through which communities of people manage their affairs, make decisions, protect their interests, and advance their priorities. It is also about archaeology and heritage, and their importance to communities, large and small, around the world. What unites these quite disparate topics is the problem of economic development, terrain into which professional archaeologists and heritage managers are beginning to tread out of a growing sense of ethical obligation to the communities with whom they work. The objective of this book is to offer archaeologists and heritage professionals new perspectives to employ as they work to balance their own professional priorities with the expectations and rights of local communities. The following pages will acquaint the reader with theoretical and practical considerations from archaeology, economics, and political science, and visit heritage-based community projects in Belize, Ireland, Peru, and Italy. In the end, the book will consider whether, and how, it may be possible to reconcile the objectives of archaeology and heritage management with community economic development through the thoughtful application of governance principles that have been tested in other spheres. This is an inherently interdisciplinary inquiry. As such, it will engage with numerous disciplinary discourses, each of which is the subject of an extensive literature. Inevitably, to a specialist, it will do so at times in elementary fashion, although every effort has been made to depict accurately the essential elements and important

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nuances of the discourse in other disciplines. The audience for this book is the archaeologist or heritage professional, for whom many, if not most, of these concepts may be novel. Archaeologists are encouraged to explore in greater depth the work by economists, political scientists, governance experts, and others who also are trying to make community-based development succeed. One also hopes that scholars and professionals in those other disciplines will welcome archaeologists and acknowledge the ethical and practical considerations, and cultural perspective, that bring us to this common quest. Because this book covers a broad range of typically unconnected themes and disciplines, this introductory chapter will serve to provide context for the rest of the book and to set out a road map for the journey ahead. It begins with a brief digest of the issues salient to the topic, and then moves on to explore some concepts that are central, if somewhat contentious, to the discussion of community, archaeology, and development. The chapter closes with an overview that positions each chapter within the broader scheme of the book.

Central issues Archaeology has become increasingly focused on matters of ethics over the past few decades. In part, this reflects a guilt-laden reaction to the antiquarian roots of the field and the manner in which archaeologists were co-opted to help rationalize racist understandings and support the European imperial projects of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Ethics issues emerged from the changing sensibilities of the post-Second World War generation of archaeologists, who came of age when empires were collapsing and the needs and wants of twothirds of the world’s population were becoming abundantly clear to all. Archaeologists also became entangled with the emergent demands

Introduction

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for economic and political rights from Indigenous peoples in the Americas and the antipodes, including demands for control over the use and interpretation of their heritage. Theoretical developments— multiculturalism and multivocality in archaeology, Marxist and Feminist interpretations of history, and the like—awakened the field to alternative perspectives with ethical implications. Ultimately, though, this ethical concern was a natural consequence of the fact that archaeologists and heritage practitioners often work closely with impoverished communities. Increasingly, archaeologists have recognized that communities have rights to their heritage and are owed something in return for scholarly, governmental, and corporate exploitation of their patrimony. Whatever the impetus, there has been a steady accretion of ethical standards and expectations for archaeologists when they engage with local communities. Requirements to acknowledge, indeed to privilege, the rights of Indigenous groups to participate in and even control archaeological investigations have reshaped practice in many parts of the world. Requirements for public engagement, reporting, and education have spawned Public Archaeology and Community Archaeology as fully fledged subfields of the discipline. Expectations for high levels of community engagement have stimulated calls for activism by archaeologists on behalf of local communities, and generated enthusiasm from individual archaeologists to promote development programs in the communities in which they work. The United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization’s (UNESCO) World Heritage lists and the consequent exploitation of World Heritage sites, often to their detriment, contributed to this interest, but archaeologists and heritage advocates for many years have pursued small-scale local projects themselves. International nongovernmental organizations (NGOs) have been formed to provide the financial, technical, and marketing resources necessary to build local development projects on the foundation of cultural heritage and archaeological resources.

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The problem is that the results of these projects, taken as a whole, have been disappointing. Urban renewal efforts intended to preserve districts with important heritage often have led to gentrification that forced original communities to relocate and undermined the fabric of the heritage itself. Archaeologists have littered the globe with failed site museums, handicrafts projects, and tourism ventures at every scale, leaving local populations disaffected by promises undelivered and local entrepreneurs carrying investments in heritage tourism that yield no returns. In the face of this record, some archaeologists counsel retrenchment from development efforts in favor of the ethically grounded pursuit of knowledge that can provide legal, political, or cultural benefit to communities (Pyburn 2017). But, for those who cannot or will not retreat, the challenge is to identify approaches to pursuing development projects through archaeology and heritage that have greater likelihood of producing the desired outcomes for the communities involved. This task should be straightforward. However, the past fifty years of economic development projects that do not involve heritage also have yielded far too few unambiguously successful communitybased projects. For decades, from electric dams to the exploitation of World Heritage sites, development has been driven by highly trained technicians, economists, development specialists, scientists, and engineers who believed themselves endowed with special knowledge and insights unavailable to the nonexpert. Often, this so-called “topdown” approach to development has imposed project goals and designs on targeted communities. Some experts have favored capitalist free markets to allocate resources efficiently and generate desirable outcomes, while others have centralized direction in the belief that experts are best qualified to make decisions in the interests of their citizenry. Whether market-based or centralized in their strategy, the experts who have been pursuing top-down development since the end of the Second World War have seen their core theories undermined,

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their models discredited, and even their successes condemned for collateral damage to local communities or the environment. As a result, the development industry—the global financial institutions, NGOs, consultancies, and government agencies who claim expertise in the process—itself is rife with self-reflection about how best to pursue development at the community level. This leaves archaeologists committed to community economic development without clear models or unambiguous guidance from the development world on how to proceed. Only recently has global development research begun to focus on ways to construct development programs by starting with the conditions, needs, and desires of local people. Where that has occurred, success has not been universal but the learnings from those efforts suggest the potential for more equitable and sustainable approaches to economic development. Increasingly, interest is turning toward “bottom-up” approaches to the problem of development. Devolution of authority and responsibility from national centers to lower-level governmental entities is widely experimented with and admired. Public–private partnerships have become new models for governments to deliver critical infrastructure and social service projects. Scholars of selforganized community efforts to manage collective resources, often called common pool resources, have identified innumerable cases in which local communities have, on their own, sustainably managed critical economic and environmental assets. Practitioners in the field of nonprofit management have examined the conditions under which charitable organizations are able to prosper outside of conventional markets. At the heart of each of these lines of research is the recognition by scholars and practitioners that the fountainhead of successful bottom-up development projects is found in their governance mechanisms—the rules under which participants manage and control their projects, distribute the benefits, exact discipline, and control finances.

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This book will argue that archaeologists and heritage managers need to recognize that appropriately governed local institutions are essential to their prospects for success in pursuing economic development based on cultural heritage. Furthermore, underlying the entire book is the premise that the wisdom necessary to create viable local governance resides not in experts from outside but in members of communities themselves. This book’s contribution is to explore, at least for certain types of projects and within certain community contexts, the nature of the governance challenges and opportunities. Community groups often require financial, technical, or political assistance, and governance complications come with such assistance. Yet the case studies will demonstrate that community-based projects can succeed when local people are empowered to manage projects that they desire, in ways that are compatible with local economic, political, and social realities, which they understand far better than any outside experts.

Essential concepts The subject matter of this book is the interaction between archaeology and cultural heritage management on the one hand, and economic development, communities, and the mechanics of institutional governance on the other. Each of these terms is interpreted differently across countries and disciplines, and several are burdened with social and political baggage. Before proceeding, a brief contemplation of these central terms, at least for the purposes of this book, seems in order. My training in archaeology was in the United Kingdom and the word archaeology, in this book, should be understood as it is meant within the discipline in the UK. Archaeology in the UK is a big tent. Under it sit the traditional activities of archaeologists: excavation,

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material analysis, analysis of artifacts, and the preservation and conservation of objects as well as entire buildings, sites, or landscapes. Equally, archaeology in the UK incorporates studies in the theory and practice of museology, public and community archaeology, and related fields, even topics as remote to traditional field archaeology as the subject of this book. Cultural heritage has evolved (Ahmed 2006; Vecco 2010) in official documents and in common usage to encompass cultural and historic materials and practices, whether those are tangible or intangible, and whether they are monumental and of global importance or pedestrian and local in nature. Cultural heritage, in this sense, also is embedded within the expansive UK notion of archaeology. In the United States and elsewhere, this often is not the case, so the reader is forewarned that, for the purposes of this book, terms such as archaeology, heritage, and cultural heritage may often be used interchangeably to embrace the full breadth of activities regarded as “archaeology” in the UK. Community is a more contentious term. There are geographically based definitions, such as “people who live in some spatial relationship to one another and who share interests and values” (Cary 1983: 2), and more expansive concepts such as Anderson’s (2006) “imagined communities.” Echoing Putnam’s (2000) notions of bridging and bonding social capital, Bennoune (2016: 5–7) has pointed out that the term “community” implies, inherently but in contradiction, the positive benefits of social cohesion and the negative consequences of exclusionary affiliation. In the archaeology and heritage literature, the term “community” is ubiquitous, although only occasionally is it accompanied by deep reflection on the complexities of the term (see, however, L. Smith & Waterton 2009; Pyburn 2011; Isherwood 2013). In their extended deconstruction of the term, Smith and Waterton (2009: Chapter 1) are particularly critical of the “conservative nostalgia” and condescension implied when the term is used by heritage experts to elevate themselves above the “communities” that they study.

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While relationships of power and expertise are central to the discussion of governance in this book, the problems considered here are somewhat different than those typically addressed in heritage discourses on “community.” Any physical location with a heritage asset available to exploit is a potential collision ground for competing “communities” in the broadest senses of the term. As will be seen in the case studies to follow, even small, ethnically homogeneous localities can be fractured by family rivalries, contention among political parties, or economic competition. The issue at the core of this book is how those conflicts can be managed in pursuit of successful community-based projects. Thus, the focus here is on the geography in which contending communities of interest must resolve their differences and work together to achieve a common development goal. Following Aas et al. (2005: 30–31), in this book, “community” will simply refer to all of the residents who live in the vicinity of a heritage resource, whether or not they are a culturally homogenous group, and whether or not individuals identify with competing traditional, economic, or political communities or make contending claims to the heritage itself. This focus on resolution of contending interests raises the matter of governance. Chapter 3 will explore this concept in detail. However, the essential premise of this book is that those development projects that survive for many years in complex communities do so because participants have created institutional frameworks to manage the collision points among individuals in a community of actual people in a specific place. Governance may be defined as the act of “controlling or regulating influence” (OED 2002: 1132) or, following Fukuyama (2013: 350), the ability “to make and enforce rules, and deliver services.” Governance concerns the capacity of an organization to accomplish its objectives in the face of disagreements or flaunting of its rules. Over the course of the book, we will consider governance at many levels—models concerning the devolution of national

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policy making and management to regional and local governments; models from the governance of corporations, public–private partnerships, and nonprofit institutions; and models drawn from the management of common pool environmental resources. What these models will have in common is their attention to establishing formal or informal institutional mechanisms that enable the complex realities of living communities to be resolved in favor of successful collaborative action. It is important to note in this regard that this discussion does not require that governance institutions build “social capital” in communities by creating harmonious, interlinked social contexts (Putnam, Leonardi & Nonetti 1993; Ostrom 2000; Putnam 2000). On the contrary, consistent with the pragmatic perspective on communities articulated earlier, governance institutions must be adapted to manage community conditions on the ground, social capital rich or not. Finally, there is the question of economic development. A topic that became a focus for economists only in the post-Second World War era (Arndt 1981), economic development has come to mean, in the words of one leading textbook, “the efficient allocation of existing scarce (or idle) productive resources and […] their sustained growth over time” (Todaro & Smith 2011: 8). Economic growth is seen to be highly correlated with a country’s capacity to deliver health, education, nutrition, and life-style benefits to its citizens. This definition suggests that the purpose of development programs is to achieve improvements in human living conditions through increases in the production of goods and services, which generally are measured by the growth of gross domestic product per person. Archaeologists frequently object to this narrow construction. Lafrenz Samuels (2009), for example, has argued that a preoccupation with economic growth as a route out of poverty belies the essential role played by development projects, especially those involving cultural tourism, in producing that poverty. Some economists promote

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development indicators that measure not only wealth creation but also access to resources; metrics for health, housing, education, or employment; standards for political rights; and measures to recognize cultural identity and the sustenance of the fabric of society (Telfer & Sharpley 2008: 6; Stiglitz, Sen & Fitoussi 2009). Economist Amartya Sen (1999) suggests that the traditional focus on income growth has the entire process backward. He argues that development should be defined as an expansion of personal capabilities and freedoms that will lead, in due course and to the extent people choose, to higher incomes. Nonetheless, all parties to this discourse recognize that a central reason to pursue development is to expand the opportunity for individuals and communities to share in the growing global economic pie and, if they wish, to take advantage of the benefits derived from modern technologies and corporate and governmental organization. The problem for archaeologists, as Lafrenz Samuels pointed out, has been that when development agendas are attached to heritage, a “fair” distribution of access or benefits has been elusive and, when obtained, hard to sustain. This book considers why this occurs and what may be done about it. The challenge for archaeologists who seek to match their ethical impulses to the reality of community-based development is to identify viable strategies and tactics that can achieve local benefits within the context of globalized manufacturing, service, and tourism industries. The case studies presented here focus, by design, on smaller communities in rural areas, the sorts of communities in which archaeologists’ failure to deliver economic benefits is most visible and most disappointing to archaeologists and community members alike. One must use caution when extrapolating from models that are successful in small communities, where social cohesion may be greater, communication easier, and processes for resolving conflicts more personal and expeditious. This does not mean, however, that the lessons drawn from studies of smaller communities have no relevance

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to larger settings, such as places that host World Heritage sites, which face parallel or even more severe problems (Labadi 2017). There is an urgent search for mechanisms to protect residents’ interests in urban heritage development, to ensure that meaningful benefits from largescale heritage projects reach local community members, and to engage local communities with archaeological heritage resources in ways that create incentives for them to preserve and protect heritage sites that are economically and culturally important to them. This book suggests some elements essential to addressing these problems in larger contexts, although a detailed interrogation of the potential and methods to scaleup the ideas identified in this book is a subject for another day.

Structure of the book The focus of this book is on the institutional structures, decisionmaking processes, and management systems that have been found in practice to produce sustainable community projects based on archaeology and cultural heritage. These topics generally are alien to the conventional discourse about community engagement that occurs in archaeology and heritage management. As a result, at the outset it is important to locate this matter within archaeology generally and to present the relevant economic, political, and cultural background. The book begins, therefore, by examining community engagement issues within archaeology and by presenting ideas from scholars of economics, politics, and governance that underpin the research. The book then presents four in-depth case studies. Three of these were drawn from the author’s PhD research conducted from 2009 to 2013 in Peru, Belize, and Ireland, and detailed information on those cases is available in the final thesis (Gould 2014a). The fourth case study is the result of separate research conducted in Italy from 2011 through 2017 in conjunction with Anna Paterlini. Together, these case studies

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describe organizations in varied cultural and geographic contexts that feature differing scales of operations, degrees of social and cultural complexity, legal and governmental contexts, economic potential and impact, and financial sophistication and complexity. Building on the background chapters and the case study data, the book concludes with an exploration of approaches that may be applied in smaller communities to supporting sustainable governance systems built on heritage resources. The exposition begins in Chapter 1, “Archaeology and Community Economic Development,” which positions the issues raised in this book within the field of archaeology and heritage management, and explores the interest in those disciplines to engage with local communities and to promote economic development. This interest will be traced to the evolution of ethical standards within the profession, the emergence of processes associated with the UNESCO World Heritage list, the launch of NGOs focused on heritage and economic development, and the promulgation by international financial institutions of legal requirements, codes of conduct, and policies that have simultaneously linked archaeological and heritage activities to community economic development and set the ground rules for much of that activity. The limited but highly relevant case study literature on the impact of heritage-based community economic development projects from around the world will be cataloged and examined critically. This discussion yields insights into the relevance of governance issues, primarily through a dissection of the generally lackluster track record for archaeologists’ projects and the unsatisfactory impact of heritage-based economic development on local communities. Through this discussion, both the importance of the issue and the problematic lack of models or theories on which to construct local institutions will become clear. Chapter 2, “The Public Good Paradigm and Disempowered Communities,” considers the rationale for the present regime of

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government-dominated heritage management. National governments regularly seek to manage the representation of certain aspects of heritage for reasons relating to nation-building and political control, and resist efforts to vest greater authority and responsibility over archaeological heritage in local communities. This top-down control of heritage is regularly rationalized by references to economic theories that identify archaeological resources as “public goods” subject to “a tragedy of the commons.” This chapter examines both theoretical arguments and practical experience to consider the validity of this perspective. The argument in this chapter is that community economic development programs frequently have failed because they are managed by archaeologists and other experts who have delivered “top-down” and “expert-led” projects that undermine the potential for members of local communities to conceive, design, and manage their own organizations in a sustainable manner. The chapter concludes that the case for treating archaeological and heritage resources as a public good is open to serious doubt, calling into question the presumption in favor of top-down heritage governance and all that flows from it. Instead, contemporary economic theories and realworld experience point to the potential of alternative approaches to heritage governance that give a leading role to communities. This can be the case even where the archaeological resource itself remains under government control. Chapter 3, “Governance Alternatives,” explores models for governance arising in fields other than archaeology that have the potential to improve archaeologists’ own efforts to promote community development. The chapter begins by explicating the concept of “governance.” It moves on to consider the trend in public governance toward devolution of power and authority from central to peripheral government units. This includes both direct delegation to lower-level government agencies and the growing interest in public– private partnerships for the delivery of infrastructure and services

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traditionally monopolized by government organizations. Nonprofit or social enterprise models, once the special province of the United States and the United Kingdom, are emerging in other countries as mechanisms to finance and to manage community-based resources. The chapter also explores theories relating to the management of common pool resources, a field of study that has demonstrated that individuals are able to self-organize and cooperate to achieve collective management of a shared economic resource—if they have the right governance structures, economic incentives, and political support. The chapter concludes by considering a major factor in this analysis, the impact of financial, operational, social, and political complexity on the formal structure of governance institutions. The presentation of alternative approaches in this chapter illuminates the potential for community-based organizations to adapt their governance to increasing levels of complexity in order to deliver sustained value to their community members. Chapter 4, “Asociacíon Inkallaqta: An Artisans’ Cooperative in Peru,” presents a case study of Asociacíon Inkallaqta, a now twentyyear-old cooperative of artisans established in the village of Raqchi, Peru. Raqchi, located at 4,000 meters elevation in the Peruvian Andes, is the site of the massive remains of a temple complex dedicated to the Inca deity Viracocha. Asociacíon Inkallaqta is a consortium of individual artisan/vendors that administers a community crafts retail space that operates daily in the village plaza. Asociacíon Inkallaqta is a major factor in the village’s retail economy, the primary source of employment and cash income for the women in the village, and a community meeting point. The chapter opens with an overview of the history and social and political context of the village of Raqchi, followed by a history of the artisans’ association and the context in which Asociacíon Inkallaqta operates. Asociacíon Inkallaqta’s rules have served to maintain cooperation among the vendors and maximize the economic benefit to the village since it was founded.

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The details of the governance institutions of the association and the governance system of the local Raqchi community illuminate how the group has endured to become integral to the community. Asociacíon Inkallaqta represents an example of the most basic form of community-development enterprise. Chapter 5, “Maya Centre Women’s Group: A Community Business in Belize,” presents the second case study, a thirty-year-old cooperative business formed by residents of the village of Maya Centre, a village carved by Maya families out of the jungle in Belize, Central America, in the 1970s. In 1987, Maya Centre found itself astride the access road to the newly formed Coxcomb Basin Wildlife Reserve (CBWR), a massive and unique habitat reserved for the preservation of jaguars and other large wild animals. When the CBWR was established by the Belizean government, officials in Maya Centre recognized an opportunity to create employment opportunities for local women by establishing a collective business to present traditional Maya crafts to tourists visiting the CBWR, and to offer other services to tourists and to village residents. The Maya Centre Women’s Group (MCWG) operates a single business located in its own building on the Southern Highway in Belize. Unlike the individual entrepreneurs who manage the Asociacíon Inkallaqta, the MCWG members own and operate the business collectively. They work rotating shifts in the shop and are responsible for handling sales to tourists. More importantly, unlike the individuals in Raqchi, who each handle their own business transactions, the MCWG handles relatively large amounts of money that ultimately are owed to members or must be used to cover common expenses or investments of the business. Maya Centre is burdened by interpersonal distrust and long-standing, family-based disputes that have metastasized into deep splits along the lines of religion and political factions. The MCWG is the only organization in the village to bridge those differences and carry on its mission for an extended period. It has done so by evolving governance mechanisms

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that are far more complex than those of Asociacíon Inkallaqta. Furthermore, unlike the group in Raqchi, the MCWG has received substantial financial and capacity-building assistance from Belizean and international governmental and nongovernmental groups, further complicating its governance requirements. The third case study is presented in Chapter 6, “The Burren Centre: A Heritage Interpretive Center in Ireland.” The Burren Centre was created in 1975 by residents of the village of Kilfenora, County Clare, in an effort to reverse the rapid economic decline of the village. The goal was to build a local tourist economy by taking advantage of the extraordinary natural and archaeological heritage that surrounds the village. Kilfenora is located at the heart of a region known as “The Burren,” an archaeologically rich and environmentally unique area that, at the time, was little known to tourists. The Burren Centre was conceived by a small group of local leaders and constructed with assistance from the nearby Shannon Airport Authority and the Irish government. It has grown to become the largest employer in the village and catalyzed a recovery in local businesses and region-wide growth for four decades. Unlike the community groups in Peru and Belize, however, the Burren Centre was spawned in a place with a long tradition of community ventures based on well-established cooperative models, and the organization is financially and operationally far more complex. Although nominally a for-profit corporation, the Burren Centre is in effect a local nonprofit organization that is governed by a board of directors. The governance of the Burren Centre most closely resembles that of smaller nonprofit organizations, such as museums, that are common today in the United States or the United Kingdom. The Burren Centre takes an intermediate position, in terms of its scale, economic requirements, organizational complexities, and economic impact, between the relatively small businesses in Maya Centre and Raqchi and the much larger, more complex enterprise in Italy discussed in Chapter 7.

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The final case study is presented in Chapter 7, “I Parchi della Val di Cornia: A Cluster of Heritage Sites in Italy.” The most complex example of a community governance structure explored in this book is a system of archaeological and natural parks located near Piombino on the coast of Tuscany. Parchi Val di Cornia SpA was created in 1993 in a region whose rich mineral wealth has made it economically important from the Etruscan era to the present day, producing a legacy of monumental archaeological sites embedded into a natural heritage of stunning beaches and large tracts of open forest lands. Originally incorporated as a then-unusual partnership of local community governments and private companies who together formed a for-profit corporation, the park system has evolved into a cluster of nine archaeological and natural heritage sites. Tourism in the region has grown markedly since the park was created, in part attributable to the existence of the park system, and until recent years, the park system was nearly self-sustaining. The chapter will explore both the project’s successes and the challenges that now confront it, challenges rooted in a change in Italian heritage laws reflective of the public goods mentality toward archaeological heritage. The result has been continuous disruption of the park system’s financial and operating situation since the most recent economic crisis consumed Italy in 2012. The story of I Parchi della Val di Cornia illuminates both the potential benefits and the difficulties of utilizing public–private partnerships to manage larger-scale archaeological and heritage tourism enterprises. The concluding chapter integrates the various theoretical and practical considerations discussed in Chapters 1 through 3 with the four subsequent case studies. The case studies present examples of increasing scale and varied contextual complexity, and different degrees of reliance on external funding, external expertise, and actual responsibility for the management of archaeological or heritage resources. The four organizations responded to these differential

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levels of complexity with widely diverging governance mechanisms to manage the financial, social, and political challenges within the communities. Building on the general model presented in Chapter 3, this chapter relates the financial and operational complexity of each organization and the social and political complexity of each village to the governance institutions in each organization. While not a “cookbook” for governance design, the chapter utilizes the theoretical insights, case study nuances, and complexity-based analytical framework to suggest ways in which heritage practitioners and community leaders together may analyze and develop feasible governance institutions.

1

Archaeology and Community Economic Development

Community engagement: Origins and consequences Archaeology has come neither naturally nor easily to its relationships with communities and economic development. The antiquarians who first began to dig up the past were romanced by ancient Greece and Rome, the buried majesty of Egypt’s pharaohs, or the crumbled empires of Central Asia. What began as a splendid pastime for the wealthy and eccentric was gradually co-opted into support for the Great Game, the Scramble for Africa, and other frontiers in Europe’s military conquest, political subjugation, and economic exploitation of Africa, Asia Minor, and the Far East. Archaeology was complicit in rationalizing the domination of Indigenous peoples by Spanish and Portuguese expatriates in Latin America, and in the expropriation of lands and denial of rights to Aboriginal peoples in Australia and New Zealand and the original inhabitants of North America. In all these places, excavations endorsed Western political, economic, and cultural institutions, thereby embedding antiquarian explorations and early archaeology into an intellectual rationale for colonialist, capitalist “development.” In the eyes of some archaeologists (Tilley 1989; Hamilakis & Duke 2007; Hutchings & Dent 2017), this collaboration with forces of political oppression continues well into the twenty-first century, perpetuating an ethical stain of which archaeology is still cleansing itself. Inexorably, if circuitously, this attitude has led to the primacy

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given today to direct engagement with local communities, including a desire to promote advancements in their economic well-being. At times, community engagement is presented as an ethical obligation of excavators, and at others as a gambit to discourage looting and preserve the archaeological record. Acceptance of the necessity for community engagement is incomplete in the discipline, and the resulting precepts and practices are far from universally embraced by archaeologists. Nonetheless, those heritage practitioners and archaeologists who have completed the journey from antiquarianism to “activist” archaeologist are now coming to grips with the practical and ethical issues that arise when archaeologists seek to create economic opportunities for the communities in which they work. This chapter will briefly survey the evolution of archaeology’s attitude toward communities in order to position the present volume, with its focus on community economic development, more clearly within contemporary archaeological discourse. Two forces, one internal to the discipline and the other embedded in post-Second World War international politics, have elevated the importance of community engagement, including economic development, for archaeology and heritage management. The first involves the progression of theoretical and ethical discourse within archaeology toward recognition of the rights of living communities. The second is a consequence of the widespread adoption of international compacts and conventions governing the global approach to heritage management that increasingly prioritize engagement with local communities. The years after the Second World War saw a flowering of archaeological theorizing and practice informed by the postwar enthusiasm for science and the global challenges relating to economic growth, nation-building, and human rights that emerged in the postcolonial period. Critiques of archaeology’s failure to focus on explaining cultural differences and cultural evolution (Binford 1962; Taylor 1968 [1948]) contributed to a

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turn away from the pursuit of artifacts and chronology toward the search for deeper understanding of the dynamics of societies and cultures. The new direction was manifested initially in a “new archaeology,” the application of scientific processes to analyze archaeological data and draw conclusions about cultural processes. However, the reaction to the “law and order” nature (Flannery 1973) of this “processual” approach was swift, with complaints about the impossibility of objectivity and the biases introduced into research by data assembled based on a priori theories (Shanks & Tilley 1987; Hodder & Hutson 2003). By the late twentieth century, other archaeologists (Gero & Conkey 1991; Bray 1999) questioned the dominant theoretical approach from a feminist perspective and called for a shift away from the focus on powerful, usually male, actors to direct attention toward a quotidian past that embraced women and the disenfranchised in archaeology. In the process, archaeology’s focus began to shift from scientific generalizations and large-scale trajectories of history to the agency of individuals (Dobres & Robb 2000) and the relationship of archaeological research to present-day political and social contingencies (Hodder 1998; Atalay 2010). Postmodern archaeologists, particularly those working with Indigenous and disenfranchised people in the Americas and Australia, began to advocate for “multivocality,” the explicit recognition that different intellectual traditions, informed by different cultural experiences, should be acknowledged and even incorporated into archaeological research (Moser 1995; McDavid 2002; Colwell-Chanthaphonh & Ferguson 2008). In other words, innovations in archaeological theory have led to changes in practice with profound impact on archaeologists’ views of their relationship to the communities in which they work. During this period of theoretical exploration, archaeology simultaneously underwent a structural transformation into a discipline funded primarily by commercial interests complying with

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an emerging body of heritage-protection laws. The process, which originated in Europe in the eighteenth century but gained global momentum in the twentieth century, has led to regimes of legislation and regulation that articulate the legal structure for preserving archaeological monuments, built heritage, and the unexcavated archaeological record. In the process, governments and commercial enterprises have become the primary employers of archaeologists (see, e.g., Aitchison & Rocks-Macqueen 2013). Archaeologists have played a leading role in the creation and interpretation of these laws (Jameson 2004), giving rise to the new profession of Cultural Resource or Cultural Heritage Management. Professionalization in due course brought forth a call for technical and ethical boundaries that defined which individuals were qualified to carry out a professional project and how that work should be conducted. The result was the formation of “professional” associations, with both commercial and academic roots. Most archaeologists today belong to one or more of these groups that now govern much of the practice of archaeology worldwide. In due course, many of these groups created what today is the sine qua non of professionalization, a code of ethics. For the most part, these ethics codes involve issues such as “stewardship” of the archaeological record, obligations to publish materials promptly, to undertake projects only with proper skills training, and similar intramural concerns. Increasingly, though, archaeologists’ ethics codes also incorporate obligations to conduct public outreach and provide feedback on researchers’ findings to the communities in which excavations have taken place. In a few cases, there are explicit ethical charges to work closely with, and even defer to, Indigenous groups whose traditional grounds are under archaeological study (SAA 1996; WAC 2016). As a result, a vast proportion of archaeological activity today is undertaken by archaeologists who have subscribed to one or more ethical codes that compel some degree of engagement with local communities and attention to their needs and desires.

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Archaeologists’ obligations toward communities have been further fueled by forces outside of the discipline itself, especially by the emerging body of international compacts relating to the preservation, management, and exploitation of cultural heritage for public benefit. UNESCO is the central source of these international agreements, and the fountainhead of this work is the 1972 Convention on World Heritage (UNESCO 1972). UNESCO’s attention to community escalated in the 1990s with an explosion of references to communityrelated matters in meetings, declarations, and committees. By the 2010s, UNESCO decisions on World Heritage that required giving consideration to communities were emerging at a rate of 30–40 per year (UNESCO 2017). In 2012, UNESCO focused the celebration of the fortieth anniversary of the 1972 convention on the theme “World Heritage and Sustainable Development: The Role of Communities.” Engagement with community groups is now a foregone conclusion in official UN protocols. Europe has been independently active in generating obligations at the nation-state level to involve communities directly in the heritage preservation process. The 1992 Valetta Convention (Council of Europe 1992) obligated archaeologists and national governments to promote public awareness of archaeology. The Faro Convention of 2005 (Council of Europe 2005: Art.12 a) further obliged parties to engage “everyone” in heritage research and preservation. In short order, the Faro convention’s requirements for broad public involvement with heritage became intertwined with international charters on human rights (Bonnici 2009), reflecting a growing linkage of cultural heritage to human rights (Silverman & Ruggles 2007). This linkage has grown only stronger in the wake of the human catastrophes and heritage destruction in Syria, Iraq, and elsewhere in the Middle East (Bennoune 2016; Rabbat 2016). Today, the intertwining of heritage and human rights is not limited to the agendas of elite international gatherings. Archaeologists have begun to connect their research and

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preservation concerns directly to the idea that the human rights of local community members must be paramount in the ethical practice of archaeology (Meskell 2010b; Pyburn 2017).

Activist archaeology The internal dialog about practice and ethics within archaeology has been compounded by an emerging perspective that communities have a right to close engagement with their own heritage. The result has been the emergence of an ethically rooted, “activist” strand among contemporary archaeologists and heritage managers that has both political and practical roots. One early response to archaeologists’ interest in communities was the birth of “Public Archaeology.” Conceived initially as a tactic to reinforce government support of archaeological research (McGimsey 1972), the domain of Public Archaeology gradually extended to encompass virtually any interaction between archaeologists and the public (Schadla-Hall 1999). For the most part, this engagement has taken the form of public or community archaeological programs that involve recreation, education, or participation in excavation projects by young people and archaeological enthusiasts. Today, the archaeologists recognize as a matter of course that archaeological engagement provides numerous, diverse, and tangible benefits for members of the public (B. Little 2002) and Public Archaeology has become a global preoccupation (Okamura & Matsuda 2012). In the same period, archaeologists skeptical of the discipline’s gradual assimilation into the world of capitalism questioned the veneer of objectivity that shielded archaeologists from the political implications of their work. Hamilakis and Duke (2007) and McGuire (2008) called the profession to account for failing to recognize their role in perpetuating power relationships that disadvantaged, among

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others, Indigenous groups and local community members. These critics argued that archaeology and the management of cultural heritage have an impact on living people, for good or ill, that cannot be ignored. Bringing concepts of agency forward to the present day, Shanks and Tilley decried the discipline’s isolation and preoccupation with objects and monuments and condemned practices that “have the effect of denying people their active participation in history, in the practice of making history and coming to an understanding of the present past” (1987: 25, italics in original). It is no longer deemed sufficient to follow earlier ethical standards that emphasized stewardship, abhorred commercialization, and encouraged public education and outreach (Lynott & Wylie 1995). Even calls for archaeologists to use “applied anthropology” (Pyburn & Wilk 1995) to ensure they behave responsibly toward local people are inadequate. More is expected today. A further transformation in archaeology is thus under way. Some archaeologists are embracing a more activist stance that aims to “refit archaeology to serve the pressing present needs of communities outside our discipline” (Atalay et al. 2014b: 8). This turn of events had roots in the recognition that archaeologists had an ethical obligation to focus research on advocacy for disempowered Indigenous groups in Australia (Ucko 1983). But the trend has gathered steam. As the first decade of the new century was coming to an end, Pyburn (2007) called for “archaeology as activism,” while Little and Shackel (2007) produced a volume of papers on “civic engagement” that outlined the nexus between Public Archaeology and excavation, on the one hand, and the rights of Indigenous and minority groups and other aspects of social justice on the other. Harrison (2010) explored the “unofficial processes” through which heritage operates as a form of social action, while Sabloff (2008), moving beyond excavation and purporting to describe an “action archaeology,” enumerated ways archaeological research could address social and political issues, such as social and

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environmental sustainability, warfare, urban development, or the preservation of heritage. Stottman’s (2010) edited volume contained calls to “rethink the heritage product” (McDavid 2010: 36) in order to pursue “thoughtful action with world-transforming consequences” (Gadsby & Barnes 2010: 59) through practices in which archaeologists “become civically engaged and are advocates for a community through the participation in their vision” (Pryblyski & Stottman 2010: 139). Archaeology’s capacity—and in the view of activists, its obligation— to facilitate the construction of community identity and validate claims for political agency is by now widely recognized in the profession. Increasingly often, archaeologists are taking action as a consequence. Some archaeologists even have argued to invert the driving force in archaeological engagement with communities. They would assign to local communities, especially Indigenous communities, primacy in structuring, controlling, and interpreting the work of archaeologists (Marshall 2002; L. Smith & Waterton 2009; Watson & Waterton 2010; Leventhal et al. 2014), even if paying deference to community desires comes at the expense of archaeologists’ preferences. Indeed, the literature linking communities and archaeologists in joint projects that advance communities’ agendas through heritage resources has become quite robust. For archaeologists and heritage managers, there has been, in the words of Patricia McAnany (2014: 160), “a loss of innocence and a realization that investigating the remains of the past does not exempt us from problems of the present.” Many of those present-day problems relate to the dire economic conditions in many emerging countries and among Indigenous people in economically advanced nations. Archaeology’s engagement with the forces of economic development, therefore, often has occurred because the communities to whom archaeologists increasingly feel committed are themselves in conflict with the proponents of commoditized heritage and economic forces beyond their influence, let alone their control.

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Archaeology and the commercialization of heritage The idea that the physical manifestations of the past—heritage and archaeological resources—have a value beyond what economists would call their “use value” is a product of relatively recent times (Chamberlin 1979; Lowenthal 1997; Trigger 2006; Stubbs 2009: 72 and Chapter 12). Everywhere in the world, buildings without a current use, whether secular or religious, were routinely destroyed or salvaged for materials to reuse in new construction. Rafael may have petitioned to protect the ruins of ancient Rome in the early sixteenth century, but he did so while he was scavenging ruin sites for the marble used to realize Pope Leo X’s dream for St. Peter’s Basilica (Stubbs 2009: 187–188). A century or so later, in Latin America, Cusco’s astonishing Inca structures were ravaged by Spanish Conquistadores for stone to erect the Catholic cathedrals on the Plaza des Armes. By the nineteenth century, however, an emerging discourse in Europe about the preservation of historic monuments led John Ruskin and William Morris in England and Eugène Violletle-Duc in France to argue, albeit from different standpoints, for standards of preservation. In 1830, France created an “Inspectorate General of Ancient Monuments” and much of the rest of Europe had followed suit by the century’s end (Chamberlin 1979). Important heritage sites—the monumental residue of past cultures—came to be valued symbols of national achievement, even if those symbols often were misappropriated by political leaders to promote narrow cultural, political, or imperial agendas (Trigger 2006: 49; Atalay et al. 2014a). In the post-Second World War era, heritage has undergone a profound transformation. Concern for the preservation, conservation and display of archaeology, historic buildings, and artifacts has been elevated from the province of the elite to a preoccupation of commercial and governmental interests at the national and global levels. In the process, concern for the intrinsic value of heritage as

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the embodiment of religious significance, aesthetic flowering, and national history and pride has been matched, if not overtaken, by interest in the instrumental value of heritage resources as vehicles for economic development at the local, regional and national levels through urban and tourist developments (Ashworth 2014). A prominent mile marker in this change occurred when the symposium for the 17th General Assembly of the International Council on Monuments and Sites (ICOMOS) was devoted to the topic “Heritage, a Driver of Development.” Nearly 200 papers were presented across several days (ICOMOS 2011), with theoretical presentations and case studies that spanned the globe and covered the full range of theoretical, practical, and ethical questions relating to the role of heritage in urban and tourist development. Like others before it, starting with the 1976 adoption of the first Charter on Cultural Tourism (ICOMOS 1976), this session was concerned with balancing economic benefits and preservation objectives, a source of concern since the signing of UNESCO’s convention on the protection of World Heritage. The growth of the global tourism industry has been a catalyst for this discourse. In 1950, the most common route across the Atlantic Ocean was by ship, with the fastest luxury liner still requiring over three days to complete the trip. Only individuals with money and time to spare could make the voyage. Fast-forward to 2017, and transatlantic travel by plane requires only a few hours and, when crammed into crowded coach cabins, costs only a few hundred dollars. Rising global wealth in the late twentieth century increased leisure time for the middle and working classes on every continent, inducing demand for novel experiences just at the time when technology put travel to exotic locales within reach. As a result, tourism boomed around the globe. In 1950, tourist entries into foreign countries numbered only 25 million people. In 2012, global tourist arrivals crossed the 1-billion-visitor mark for the first time: one-seventh of the world’s population was traveling for pleasure (UNWTO 2013). Suddenly, masses of people

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had access to sights once experienced only in books—the Eifel Tower in Paris, the Colosseum in Rome, the Imperial Palace in Beijing, Machu Picchu in Peru, the rivers of Asia, and the stunning landscapes of Australia or the United States. Moreover, for middle-class families newly endowed with both time and extra income, travel within their own countries became desirable and feasible. The economic consequences of the tourism boom have been huge. According to the World Travel & Tourism Council (WTTC), the tourism industry directly accounted for $2.23 trillion in global GDP in 2015, rising at 3–4 percent per year (WTTC 2016). When the indirect effects of economic activity induced by tourist spending are taken into account, the level rises to $7.2 trillion, accounting for 9.8 percent of global GDP and 9.5 percent of global employment. From a technical standpoint, the WTTC’s estimates deserve to be taken with considerably more than a grain of salt. Yet one cannot dispute that tourism is an immense business—arguably the largest service industry in the world—with vast implications for the well-being of countries. The WTTC’s annual country studies regularly identify numerous emerging economies, and even some advanced nations in Europe, that depend on tourism for large percentages of their national GDP, employment base, inward investment, and foreign exchange (WTTC 2015). As UNESCO recognized in 2011 and research has made clear, archaeological and heritage sites, museums, and exposure to unfamiliar cultures and practices are essential drivers of this growth, especially in emerging economies (GHF 2010; Oxford Economics 2016; USDOC 2016). Growth in tourism has elevated the perceived value of archaeological sites, urban heritage, and traditional music, art, dress, and other intangible cultural heritage. Without doubt, one reason older cities have invested in regulating and preserving their historic cores is the potential to attract tourists to rustic, quaint, exotic, or at least ancient locales. The fact that this has made urban living more attractive,

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promoted gentrification, and revitalized cities’ broader economies is often seen as an added benefit. But the economic value—the jobs and incomes—generated by investments in historic areas with tourism potential cannot be underestimated (Cernea 2001; Nijkamp & Riganti 2009; Licciardi & Amirtahmasebi 2012). This importance has been amplified by the international scramble for inscription on the World Heritage list promulgated by UNESCO. The list, which began as an effort to identify, protect, and sustainably manage the most important natural and man-made legacies of the past, has evolved into a vehicle for economic gain (Rodwell 2012) and ballooned to 1,052 locations by 2017, the vast majority of which are monumental archaeological sites or historic structures. Inevitably, archaeologists and other heritage management professionals have been at the center of these tourism efforts. Archaeologists and others have promoted local development projects in the hope that their interventions can bring an element of prosperity to local communities. They have solicited grant funding, developed and curated local site museums in order to draw tourists (Silverman 2006), brought in experts in hospitality management or marketing, and formed local crafts collectives to raise local capacity and underwrite community-based development (GHF 2009; Coben 2014). A recent census for the European Union (Pelillo 2009) identified 212 “archaeological open air museums” in 24 European countries. Davis (2011) has documented the expansion of community-based “eco-museums” dedicated to tangible, intangible, and ecological heritage throughout Europe, North and South America, Africa, the Middle East, and Asia. Nongovernmental organizations operating multi-nationally, such as the Global Heritage Fund, the Sustainable Preservation Initiative, and the World Monuments Fund, have emerged to integrate heritage conservation efforts with economic development, as have more local initiatives such as Heritage Watch in Cambodia and the Trust for African Rock Art in Tanzania. On

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occasion, archaeologists have instigated the creation of entire archaeological parks (Guideri & Gasperini 2011; Hodges 2017). At times, this work has been done in close alliance with local communities (Leventhal et al. 2014; Pyburn 2014). Often it has not.

Development disappointments The problem for archaeology is that projects to promote economic development through heritage and archaeology frequently have fallen well short of expectations. The problems with World Heritage sites are an example. Researchers have documented the limitations on UNESCO’s capacity to defend global patrimony (Meskell 2015), the inability of national governments to preserve sites (Meskell 2010a; Labadi & Gould 2015), the damage that unfettered tourism can inflict on World Heritage sites (Comer 2012), and conflicts between heritage preservation and local economic priorities (Ndlovu 2017; Labadi 2017). The World Heritage inscription process has been criticized for becoming highly politicized (Bertacchini et al. 2016), amid growing evidence that listings are heavily tilted to countries that are wealthy, have strong positions with the UNESCO bureaucracy, can field specialists able to navigate their home political systems, or depend heavily on tourism to justify pursuing the World Heritage brand (Bertacchini & Saccone 2012; Meskell 2013, 2015). Even the matter of whether acquiring World Heritage status actually stimulates economic value is a matter of debate (Rebanks Consulting & Trends Business Research 2010; Frey & Steiner 2011). And this does not even address outright failures, such as the Italian government’s disastrous management of the Pompeii World Heritage site. Although smaller-scale economic development projects by archaeologists and heritage managers are rarely documented, the record that does exist is not encouraging (Burtenshaw & Gould

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2015; Gould & Pyburn 2017). Those archaeologists who have been willing to report on community-based development projects document difficulties in using development schemes to protect sites (Morris 2014), to sustain community employment (Roca 2017), or to produce sustained economic results that are meaningful to community members themselves (T. Little & Borona 2014; O’Reilly 2014). With only occasional exceptions (e.g., McEwen, Silva & Hudson 2006), the capacity of site museums to deliver sustainable economic contributions to communities has rarely been documented and is widely doubted among archaeologists. Small-scale community projects generally yield modest economic benefits and can entrench local elites while disenfranchising other community stakeholders (Aas, Ladkin & Fletcher 2005; Hodges 2017: 132) or reinforce existing inequalities as economic benefits leak away from the local community and toward powerful elites in the national center (Adams 2010). Larger-scale tourist development at vulnerable sites generates similar serious doubts about their preservation and sustainability as tourist destinations (Timothy & Boyd 2003; Mowforth & Munt 2009; Comer 2012). As Meskell (2012) has documented in South Africa, the common practice of excluding locals from archaeological parks and important landscapes where they traditionally lived creates a sanitized, ahistorical context, often with dire consequences for former residents. Chapter 5 in this book illustrates smaller-scale but no less destructive consequences from the exclusion of residents from a new nature reserve in Belize, a problem common in environmental preservation (Dowee 2009). There can be no doubt that tourism is an economic engine that has motivated the identification, preparation, and promotion of rural historic sites, the repurposing of historic urban centers, and the creation of festivals, ecomuseums, and a host of other vehicles that promote heritage—both material heritage and intangible traditional and cultural activities. What can be questioned is whether these

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practices actually have the potential to benefit the local communities to whom archaeologists have come to believe they owe an ethical obligation. The search for an answer begins with the recognition that the problem of development involves the integration of numerous complex physical, financial, and social systems into a working, self-sustaining process. The development of historic places requires enormous capital and considerable technical expertise in conservation, marketing, planning, and operational management. Roads and other infrastructure must be built, permits acquired, buildings erected, staff hired, trained and supervised, and advertising and marketing creatively conceived and effectively deployed. The financial capacity and knowledge base for such activities rarely are present in local communities. Instead, outside actors tend to lead, and to benefit from, tourist development and urban redevelopment. Jobs may be created in construction or craft work, but the profits accrue elsewhere, and those local jobs that are created most often are temporary, require few skills, and offer low pay. Especially in developing countries, the voices of residents can be stifled by powerful local and national elites who possess the necessary contacts to obtain the licenses, construction permits, grants, and subsidies needed to move projects forward. The capacity of governments to enforce rules against business malfeasance set by UNESCO, international financial institutions, or national or local governments, or to redirect projects consistent with local government desires, often is severely limited. The opportunities for insider dealing and corruption at the expense of residents are immense. Not surprisingly, therefore, the economic benefits of tourism development too often leak away from localities toward national centers and to multinational corporations. Heritage tourism has disappointed communities time and again. Yet, without those experts and their financial and skill resources, development cannot happen at all.

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This is a fraught situation for archaeologists and heritage professionals, who have become central to the development process through the commercialization of heritage resources by nations and localities pursuing tourist-led development. Yet the competences required to navigate the complexities of community work and pursue economic development projects are unquestionably in short supply in the profession. Management and organizational skills are not incorporated into the academic training of archaeologists or conservators, and they tend to be learned on the job only through trial and errors that is costly to communities. As Pyburn recognized some years ago, There is a crisis emerging in archaeology … in effect, quite a few archaeologists are attempting to do economic development projects or cultural recovery projects with no applied training and no local knowledge, beyond seat-of-the-pants attempts to promote “preservation” and “entrepreneurship.” (Pyburn 2009: 168)

Does a route exist toward ethical but also effective community development strategies constructed on archaeology and heritage? As we shall see in succeeding chapters, the answer depends on the context for the project and the role that community members are allowed to play in its design and execution. Before exploring the case studies, however, detours are necessary into theories of economic organization, management, and development, and into insights concerning organizational governance gleaned from the experience of organizations in other fields that are grappling with parallel community-level challenges.

2

The Public Good Paradigm and Disempowered Communities

Governments in control With limited exceptions, in the United States and parts of Europe, a nearly universal responsibility of the nation-state government is to control, and frequently to manage and own, the nation’s archaeological heritage. Governments frequently rationalize this position with arguments about the need to preserve the country’s patrimony, while cosmopolitans draw on concepts of “outstanding universal value” to argue that important heritage is the property of all people, not just those who reside near it, and must be managed accordingly. Underlying either perspective are arguments, based on economic concepts, that this heritage is a public good requiring government intervention. A consequence of this perspective is that, beyond lip service in international compacts, local communities are viewed as largely irrelevant to the process of heritage management, as merely one stakeholder among many to be consulted but not empowered. For example, notwithstanding the increasing calls for community engagement in UNESCO documents cited in the previous chapter, communities still are defined as a threat to World Heritage sites on the official nomination form (Labadi 2017: 49–51). This chapter will explore, and ultimately criticize, this position. The focus on national governments as the keepers of national heritage has directly diminished and disempowered communities in the heritage management process, with severe consequences for their

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opportunity to benefit from heritage in economic terms. It would be politically and economically naïve to argue in the present day that archaeological monuments, in particular, can be wrenched away from government control and oversight. The political, cultural, and increasingly economic role played by heritage resources, especially archaeological sites, in contemporary nation-states is far too significant. Political unity and national economic welfare often are pegged to the managed exploitation of the past. However, the idea that the care and management of important sites, museums, and artifacts must be the domain solely of governments and expert-led organization is rarely rebutted within archaeology. The consequence is that archaeologists focus on artifacts and landscapes, monumental ruins, and traditional practices as windows to the past. The present-day needs and desires of the human communities that occupy those spaces is primarily a concern only for the activists within the profession. Yet, when communities do not see themselves as lineal descendants of those who created the archaeological resources at their feet, as is the case in much of the world today, individuals need meaningful reasons to preserve and protect a heritage to which they profess no personal affiliation. Impoverished communities, even if they do identify with local archaeology, have few reasons to invest in it when the exigencies of day-to-day income generation are imperative. Were there widespread approval for the performance of governments, experts, and their top-down management of heritage, perhaps trading sustainable heritage for community empowerment would be sensible. However, the widely acknowledged failure of topdown management schemes—the collapse of buildings in Pompeii, national and international incapacity to counter looting, the destruction of “protected” heritage sites in war zones, and the failures of archaeologists’ community development projects—suggests that a reconsideration of the role assigned to local communities in the heritage processes is in order.

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To do so, the economic model that dominates the prevailing governance approach, the public good model, also needs to be reconsidered, because it is this model that justifies the practice of archaeologists to default to the state as protector and manager of heritage resources. This chapter presents a critical analysis of the theoretical foundations for the convention of top-down governance, an exposition that will pave the way for the consideration of alternative governance models in the next chapter.

Public goods and disempowerment Heritage, “property that descends to an heir” (Merriam-Webster 2014: 582), is quintessentially a notion related to private property passed down from generation to generation. Yet, when the word “heritage” is combined with an adjective such as “cultural,” “world,” or “natural,” it acquires a patina of collective ownership, raising numerous questions. Who “owns” the shared resource? Who may use it? How may it be used? How will it be protected? Who will pay for it? How will benefits be shared? How will transgressions against the heritage be disciplined? In most cases, the answer to all these questions, since at least the late eighteenth century, has been to assign responsibility for heritage, particularly archaeological heritage, to the state. States have manifested their authority over heritage primarily through direct ownership of national park or antiquity services, or indirect control through subsidization and regulation. European powers transmitted the state-centric model to their colonies in preindependence legislation. As the UN system matured in the late twentieth century, with its uncompromising focus on nation-state members as the parties responsible for activities within national borders, this model became embedded in international conventions and law. The right to control heritage has been appropriated by official

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bodies, and the manner of its management dictated by experts, often foreign experts. The rights of local communities, who may claim some relationship to the heritage or the land it rests upon, often are dismissed in the interests of protection, conservation, and tourist development. Even in the United States, where private property rights and philanthropic funding prevail, archaeological or heritage sites deemed to be significant tend to be under the control of federal or state government agencies, and governments at all levels create both incentives and strict regulatory policies intended to protect and preserve important structures and neighborhoods. Plainly there are political rationales, relating to nation-building and control over the national narrative, that support this approach. However, the most compelling argument for top-down governance policies is that cultural heritage is, by its nature, a public good. Public goods, in the jargon of economists, are tangible or intangible resources that are nonrival and nonexcludable (Samuelson 1954, 1955; Brown and Jackson 1990, Chap. 2). Nonrivalry means that my use of a public good does not diminish your opportunity to use the good at the same time. Nonexcludability means that there is no effective way to prevent both of us from using the resource at the same time. In The Wealth of Nations, Adam Smith (1937 [1776]) offers the example of national defense. Air and water resources, until pollution overwhelmed them, were other examples. Public parks, except perhaps on sunny Sundays, are a third. In traditional economic thought, only governments are equipped to manage true public goods. Juxtaposed to public goods, in economic theory, are private goods, which markets allocate efficiently, and collective goods, which are shared by a group, may be subject to rivalrous consumption, and can be structured to exclude nonmembers of the group from using them. There are two reasons, in economic theory, that private markets will never provide the socially desired quantity of a true public good (Gramlich 1990: Chapter 2). One is that it may be financially

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infeasible, even for groups of individuals or corporations, to provide a public good effectively (modern armies are very expensive, after all). Without tax monies and government action, too little of the public good will be provided relative to the desires of the population. The second reason is that individuals’ preferences for consumption, perhaps because of income limitations, may lead them to devote insufficient personnel resources to pay for parks, for example, even though individually and collectively the community would prefer to enjoy more parks. This problem is known in the jargon as the tendency for markets to underprovide public goods. Furthermore, in economic theory, certain types of public goods— such as clean air or water—are likely to be overconsumed unless controls are imposed by governments. As economic development has proceeded throughout the world, the contamination of natural resource systems by industries that paid no price for doing so has given rise to regimes of regulation on pollution and other “negative externalities” in the public space. In some circumstances, overconsumption has been countered through the use of incentives and penalties that modify market outcomes in order to impose costs correctly on the source of the externality (Schultze 1977). In the management of archaeology, however, state ownership and control have become the vehicles used to manage the risks of overconsumption. When governments take responsibility to prevent the underprovision and overconsumption of public goods, community responsibility for such goods has been rendered nearly impossible. This attitude became entrenched in economics in the 1960s, when theoretical economists extrapolated from their model of human behavior and motivation to reach the conclusion that nongovernmental management of any collectively owned resource was doomed to disaster. In The Logic of Collective Action, Mancur Olson (1965) argued that an essential theoretical premise of economics—that individuals seek only to maximize their self-interest

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and corporations only to maximize their profits—implies that individuals will never compromise those self-interests to cooperate as a group. In such conditions, they will inexorably degrade and ultimate destroy goods held collectively. Olson saw only one, small possible exception: the destruction of shared resources might be avoided in small communities where social norms that are protective of the resource prevail. Within a few years, however, Olson’s exception was demolished by ecologist Garrett Hardin (1968). Hardin presented a thought experiment in the journal Science, which was rooted in the “prisoner’s dilemma” problem encountered in game theory. He made the case that even the smallest of commonly held resources, in his example a local grazing commons, will fall victim to overconsumption. Hardin argued that herders seeking to maximize their incomes would inevitably put many more animals on the pasture than it could sustain, degrading the common resource and producing a worse outcome than had the collective overuse been externally restrained. Individual self-interest meant communities could not be relied upon to care for a collective resource. Although he was not the first to articulate this idea (see McKay & Acheson 1987), Hardin entitled his paper “The Tragedy of the Commons,” giving rise to a trope that has been widely applied to environmental, archaeological, cultural, and innumerable other tangible and intangible resources ever since. Olson’s theoretical reasoning about collective action generally, compounded by Hardin’s specific if nonempirical argument, has made the case for top-down intervention to regulate the provision and use of heritage resources as public goods seem unarguable (see, for example, Cernea 2001: 42–44). Under this logic, any work with communities relating to heritage must be conducted by, with, or at least under the eye of governments. The economic argument has resonated with government ministries, the World Bank Group, and international organizations that seek to

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exploit archaeology and heritage to promote economic development through tourism and urban redevelopment (Oxford Economics 2016). Of course, the economists’ perspective is particularly appealing in a world of nation-states where one function of central governments is to mobilize an increasingly diverse citizenry to support nation-building projects. Selectively curated notions of the “national heritage” have been essential to nation-building throughout the world. Monuments are celebrated as exemplars of national achievement or treated as reified symbols of national pride or virtue. Traditional festivals, cultural practices, and even dress have been embraced either to stir patriotic passions or to promote tourism enterprises. For example, the artifacts that constitute the legacy of ancient Rome provide the physical symbols for a unified Italy constructed less than 200 years ago out of a jumble of competing regional kingdoms. Independence Hall, the Capitol, and the White House—symbols of the founding story of self-government and individual rights in the United States— are essential elements in the creation of the idea of “America,” which glosses over the abuses of Native Americans and slaves, and successive waves of European immigrants throughout the nation’s history. Despite the shortcomings of the resulting government policies, such “authorized heritage discourses” (L. Smith 2006) reinforce national stories, often illegitimately, at the expense of local communities. How convenient that economic theory says this all needs to be managed by governments.

Top-down policy failures The raison d’etre for this book, explored in Chapter 1, is the widely acknowledged failure of top-down heritage management processes to deliver promised economic benefits in an effective and efficient manner that deals fairly with communities who may claim

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the heritage as their own. The question is: In light of the theoretical economic arguments that collective goods such as heritage should be managed by governments and experts from the top down, why has the top-down model failed to deliver as promised? There are, by now, several well-recognized reasons that expert-led, top-down models fail with regularity. First, and arguably foremost, local conditions frustrate top-down projects. Knowledge, skills, and management capacity, as well as social, political, and economic relations vary widely from community to community. Diagnosing, tailoring, and funding those solutions in appropriate ways require in-depth understanding of these local conditions, something that experts from national or international centers rarely possess. Political scientist James Scott (1998) has argued that the incapacity of experts to fully grasp these intricacies is due to the fact that only individuals deeply enmeshed in a particular context are in a position to grasp the intricate and complex interrelationships among themselves and their social and political context. He labeled this essential knowledge mētis, after the Greek goddess identified with advice, wisdom, counsel, and craft. Without mētis, Scott argued, the grand schemes of experts are destined to crash upon the shores of local economic, cultural, and political realities. The literature on community-based economic development projects is replete with examples of this problem, drawn from cases throughout the developing world (Alsop & Kurey 2005; Cheema & Rondinelli 2007a). An example from heritage management may be found in O’Reilly’s (2014) candid discussion of the challenges the NGO Heritage Watch encountered when attempting to build a sustainable heritage-based economy for a community in Cambodia. Second, local projects typically are small in scale. Government agencies, large NGOs, or financial institutions such as the World Bank, engorged with enormous sums of money to deploy and burdened with complex monitoring protocols, cannot cost-effectively

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provide financial and operational support to small-scale projects. Moreover, scaling up successful local programs to a dimension that the international organizations can support is a substantial challenge (Binswanger-Mkhize & Aiyar 2003). However, without local mētis, large-scale programs the international organizations are suited to support are highly likely to fail. Economists have attempted to overcome this problem through careful testing of programs addressed at local-level problems, adopting the protocols from randomized controlled trials (RCTs) used in pharmaceuticals to evaluate villagelevel social and economic development projects, health care delivery schemes, and related challenges (Banerjee & Duflo 2011). Such tests help ensure that new program ideas are internally valid—they work well in the place they were tried. But the results of RCTs have not been convincingly extrapolated to different contexts. The reason that the external validity of RCTs is problematic is that projects must adapt to conditions in each new locale—and, in effect, project sponsors must acquire Scott’s mētis—in order to succeed. A third factor is bureaucratic inertia and political intrigue among the various local and external actors involved in a project. Underresourced government and international agencies, which are expert in heritage management rather than in conventional development programming, are especially vulnerable to such problems. For example, as discussed above, UNESCO’s World Heritage listing process has been criticized for practices driven by internal politics at the expense of external merit, and for dysfunctional internal procedures that inhibit their capacity to act effectively. Best-practice program design is an inevitable casualty of ineffective organizational structures. Self-inflicted wounds by governments and international organizations are a related, fourth factor. Effective policies can be undermined when agencies in individual countries have conflicting mandates (Cayron 2017; Gonzalez, Vázquez & Fernández 2017;

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Labadi 2017), when politicians’ personal objectives conflict with the interests of heritage projects (Gould & Paterlini 2017 and Chapter 7 of this book), or when erratic project funding undermines employment and skills training gains that are made in community-oriented heritage programs (Roca 2017). The best-laid plans, especially when laid at the top, are vulnerable to human foibles to an unsettling degree. A final factor relates to imbalances of political and economic power between local community stakeholders, on one side, and corporate or political elites on the other. Such power differentials can severely undermine even well-conceived programs (Dasgupta & Beard 2007; Zorn & Farthing 2007) or crowd out members of the local community and local businesses (Aas, Ladkin & Fletcher 2005). As a consequence, the benefits from local development efforts regularly leak away from small communities to elites in the center and abroad who have the political and economic resources required to exploit the development opportunity (Adams 2010). This can be the result of outright corruption, but also can be seen as an inevitable consequence of the concentration of authority at the national center where transparency into relations among actors is limited at best. Of course, these challenges are not isolated to cultural heritage management; they confront efforts to promote economic development generally. Disappointing results also are evident in large and small projects around the world intended to improve community well-being, whether sponsored by NGOs, UN agencies, national governments, or international development banks. Without question, great gains have been made across the world in improving economic well-being through large-scale development commitments. But failures also are conspicuous, especially among the smaller-scale projects important to cultural heritage practitioners. At the root of the situation lies what one former World Bank chief economist has labeled the “Tyranny

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of Experts” (Easterly 2013), the domination of development policy by individuals whose theories are incompatible with political, social, and economic realities on the ground. The fact that NGOs and international organizations are often obligated to deal with central governments, rather than drive locally appropriate solutions, shares a portion of the blame for failures around the globe (Blunt & Turner 2007; Hyden 2007). Misguided foreign aid strategies, interference with free markets where they should function, governmental corruption, and corporate exploitation (Calderisi 2006; Collier 2007; Moyo 2009; Deaton 2013) also lie behind failed top-down development efforts at the local level. The perspective has begun to reverse in recent years, however. Economists have begun to acknowledge that development objectives often may be better attained by focusing on local-level priorities and working upward (Rodrik 2007; Cohen & Easterly 2009), so-called bottom-up solutions. The World Bank has acknowledged the problems with past practice and begun to pursue local and communitydriven development (LCDD) projects throughout its program areas (Binswanger-Mkhize, de Regt & Spector 2010). This is not to say that projects initiated at the community level are immune from difficulties. Ambitious hopes for development programs centered at the community level regularly run aground over capture of the organization by local or national elites, inadequate financial resources, limited managerial capacity, insufficient grants of legal authority, corruption, or nepotism (Ascher 2007; Cabrero 2007; Cheema & Rondinelli 2007b). As the next chapter will discuss, however, there also is emerging an understanding among development practitioners about approaches that are most likely to lead to successful community-based ventures. These approaches introduce the potential for communities large and small to avert the tragedy of the commons, and open the door for archaeologists and heritage professionals to shift their focus

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away from government interventions and toward different models for community involvement in archaeology and heritage.

Reconsidering heritage as a public good In the 1980s, economists also began to question the underlying assumptions about human behavior that drove the neoclassical economic model and led to Olson’s and Hardin’s pessimistic conclusions about community collaboration. A new field, behavioral economics, was launched by psychologists who doubted the reality of the economists’ model of human motivations and behavior (Gintis 2000; Pressman 2006; Kahneman 2011). Decades of laboratory research followed, yielding up quite a different vision of the human being as economic actor. From the behavioral economist’s perspective, humans are risk averse, make decisions that are not always rational or fully informed, and take many shortcuts in decision making. In experiments, a far larger proportion of individuals than Olsen or Hardin imagined have been found willing to cooperate, and even to be generous, when presented with the opportunity to do so. While hardly a romantic ideal of human behavior, this new approach suggests that people are far more capable of averting a tragedy of the commons than economic theory in the 1960s had supposed. As the next chapter will illuminate, evidence is now substantial that collective enterprises can succeed under the right circumstances—and with the right governance. It is intriguing to observe that although monumental heritage and archaeological sites typically are subject to top-down management, as are museums in much of the world, the top-down model has never been in evidence to the same degree with regard to intangible heritage resources. The legacy of languages, traditions, knowledge, customs, and beliefs associated with specific social or cultural groups is rarely

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appropriated by the nation-state. Where Indigenous groups have achieved a degree of political agency, as in the United States, Canada, New Zealand, or Australia, group rights to control intangible heritage have even been incorporated into law. More typically, intangible heritage is not treated as the property of any entity. Cultural festivals, for example, may be managed by community associations, promoted by local governments, or appropriated for profit by private enterprises. Bottom-up is more prevalent in intangible heritage, where political forces are less entangled with community preferences, and largescale economic requirements do not skew projects in the direction of financial elites and international organizations. The question then arises: If intangible heritage is generally exempt from top-down management, and economic theories now suggest that collaboration at the local level is possible, can one identify alternative approaches to utilizing archaeology and tangible heritage for economic development that include larger roles for communities? There may be alternatives, if the economic logic for managing them from the top down, their public good status, is opened to question— which it should be, because the requirements necessary to consider archaeological heritage a public good regularly are not met. Recall that a public good, by definition, must be both nonexcludable and nonrival. Everyone must be able to use the resource at the same time without meaningful competition. Yet this is plainly not the case with most tangible heritage. Not everyone can visit the Taj Mahal or Independence Hall at the same time. Indeed, fences and gates make the exclusion of the public from archaeological sites or cultural events both feasible and affordable, and attendance may be controlled through quotas on daily attendance or through the imposition of admission fees that ration attendance based on personal income. Moreover, tourist visitation is clearly rivalrous. Too many visitors to sites or museums diminish the experience for all and can contribute to the destruction of archaeological sites, as Comer (2012) has

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illustrated starkly with respect to the damage done by tourism to the archaeological site of Petra in Jordan. If even sites on the World Heritage list are neither nonrival nor nonexcludable, this must certainly be true of less prominent archaeological sites. In other words, although the default position in archaeology is to consider sites of all sizes and significance as public goods that call forth public management, the case for doing so in economic theory increasingly is open to question. Removing heritage from the domain of pure public goods is more than merely a theoretical debate. Samuelson (1955: 356) recognized early on that the “publicness” of public goods could vary over a wide range, and Olson was careful to refer to “collective goods,” even though his argument suggested that collective management of shared resources was unlikely to succeed. As early as the 1980s, some economists began to recognize that, under certain circumstances, groups of people could in fact manage their collective resources (R. Hardin 1982; Runge 1986). By the 1990s, as the next chapter will discuss, Ostrom’s (1990) research into common pool resources provided clear evidence that successful management of collective resources in fact occurs frequently. Thus, if one can view heritage resources as private, collective, or common goods—rather than public goods—an array of alternative options emerges to enable communities to benefit more directly from their heritage. With the right rules, incentives and sanctions in place to make sure community members meet their obligations to the common resource for work or payment—they are not permitted to become “free riders” in the economist’s jargon—the case studies will show that collaboration can succeed. On occasion, as Chapter 7 will illustrate, they may even be permitted to manage archaeological heritage themselves with outside help and financing. It is time for archaeology to explore this perspective.

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Governance Alternatives

The idea of governance The previous chapter has argued that the public goods model from economic theory is not, in fact, inevitably the analytical perspective to be applied to cultural heritage. Rather, archaeological sites and cultural heritage may be framed as “collective” or “common” resources, reflecting the localized and culturally specific nature of tangible and intangible heritage and the reality that the “ownership” of heritage resources is shared among individuals and groups of stakeholders. Such a framing opens space for community-based activities in which central government’s roles may be sharply diminished, repositioned toward financial and operational support and regulatory oversight, or even in some circumstances substantially elided. From this standpoint, the problem of governance at lower levels of society and government is immediately foregrounded. Any collective or collaborative entity, whether corporate, governmental, or community based, requires practices and procedures that produce and preserve the legitimacy of the organization in the eyes of its members, defines the rules for participation, and establishes sanctions for infractions of those rules. Such collections of practices, rules, and sanctions constitute the institutions of organizational governance. Governance has come into vogue in recent years due to the increasing level of interaction among corporate, government, and civil society organizations; the complications introduced to such organizations by globalized commerce and a technologically

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interlinked world; and the consequent complexity of relations among these sectors. Faith in Weberian bureaucracies has faded (Peters 2001), examples of failures by both governments and market-based solutions to governance abound (Dollery & Wallis 2001), and among economic development experts, confidence in expert-led, government-managed programs for community development is at a low ebb (Cohen & Easterly 2009; Binswanger-Mkhize, de Regt & Spector 2010: Chapter 2). Nonetheless, participants in collective enterprises must decide when, and to what degree, to introduce hierarchies of authority, promote participation and collaboration, delegate responsibility and accountability, and formalize rules and sanctions. The search for approaches to manage these complex interactions has spawned research across diverse organizational structures, generating a spectrum of models, theories, and practical guidelines, and a seemingly confusing and contradictory literature (Jessop 2007). Economic theories play a central role in this discourse because neoliberal commitment to the free market as the ideal vehicle for allocating resources efficiently has guided domestic and international policies, especially international development policies, in the postSecond World War era. Faith in neoliberal reliance on markets is fading today, however, making the subsequent evolution of economic thought and research critically important to understanding the circumstances under which confidence in collective approaches to heritage resources may be warranted. For this purpose, the essential concept incorporated into economic theory since the 1970s is the “institution.” Institutions may be thought of as mechanisms for resolving disputes and conflicts, allocating risks and responsibility for gains and losses, and similar important functions. Institutions may be highly formal, constituted of laws and regulations, contracts, copyrights, or patent protections. But they also may be highly informal, ranging from traditional practices to taboos. Institutions, in this context, constitute what the economic historian Douglass North

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(1990: 4) famously called “the rules of the game” through which groups of people—communities in the sense that word is used here— manage their affairs. Neoclassical economic theory neither anticipated nor explained the existence of economic institutions such as corporations, contracts, or patents, which interfered with the unfettered functioning of competitive markets. Thus, their real-world presence posed a serious challenge to economic orthodoxy. Building on early attempts to reconcile theory with reality (Coase 1937), economists have come to appreciate the functions that institutions play in actual markets: They reduce the “transaction costs” associated with markets, such as the risks arising because information about the present or the future is imperfect, because collaborators on occasion will act with opportunism or dishonesty, and because specialized investments may have no payoff without assured customers (Williamson 1996). Whether in business, government, or community affairs, institutions have come to be recognized as the instruments of governance, the toolkit of rules, incentives, and sanctions that enable successful collaboration among actors in the economy. An early area of research among the institutionalists was the fact, perplexing to economists, that cooperative nonprofit entities exist within a market economy (Rose-Ackerman 1986; Anheier & Ben-Ner 2003). Why do markets fail to provide goods and services desired so strongly that noncommercial organizations spring up to do so? Weisbrod (1986 [1975]) conflated public goods and collective goods, and argued that markets tend to provide those public goods and services that are desired by the largest proportion of the population. From that perspective, where demand for public goods— hospitals, orchestras, or museums—is large but not politically dominant, voluntary nonprofit organizations tend to arise to fill the gap. Hansmann (1980) and Ben-Ner (1986) argued later that individuals coalesce to create nonprofits when doing so enables them

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to overcome “market failures,” such as information asymmetries between consumers and potentially dishonest suppliers, or obtain quality goods or services, whether collective or not, at lower costs or from more trusted sources. In more recent years, Ben-Ner and Gui (2003) argued that nonprofit organizations of all types not only act to correct these market “failures,” but also are better suited to control “misbehavior” by both the organization and its stakeholders than are for-profit entities, an argument for rules, incentives, and sanctions that resonates strongly with the features of successful collective enterprises that will emerge in the following pages. The communitybased institutions discussed in this book, in other words, exist because markets are incapable of meeting community needs, or because those who express the needs are insufficient in number or influence, either politically or economically. Especially when married to the theoretical upheaval introduced by behavioral economists’ critique of the neoclassical model of human behavior, discussed in Chapter 2, this “new institutional economics” has formed the intellectual foundation for innovative experiments in governance at all levels. National governments have devolved responsibility to local authorities. Governments at all levels have experimented with outsourcing to deliver infrastructure and public services through public–private partnerships, and with assigning functions traditionally performed by governments, ranging from social services to national museums, to quasi-autonomous nongovernmental organizations (QUANGOs). Private-sector entities formed and managed by local communities, frequently in the form of cooperatives or nonprofit corporations, have fulfilled similar roles. Where circumstances have been conducive, communities have been able to self-organize to manage collective resources on their own. The remainder of this chapter will describe recent governance innovations most relevant to the management of archaeology and heritage in pursuit of community empowerment and economic development.

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The case studies that follow will illuminate the workings of the models described here in greater detail.

New public service delivery models Recent decades have seen experimentation on a global scale with the transfer to local governments or nongovernmental entities of responsibility to deliver public services once the responsibility of central governments. The most fundamental change has been the devolution of central authority to regional and local governments in a range of wealthy and developing countries. The experience, inevitably, has been highly diverse, with both successes and failures (Giguère 2005; Bardhan & Mookherjee 2006a; Cheema & Rondinelli 2007a). The capacity of localities to overcome political conflicts or external shocks is highly dependent on factors such as the degree to which the delegation of responsibilities is clear, comprehensive, and uniform within the country; the creation of institutions that encourage fruitful interactions among participants and diminish the capacity for elites to usurp benefits; the use of formula-driven, fully transparent mechanisms for distributing fiscal resources; effective use of partnerships; and regulatory practices that ensure proper project execution at each level of government (Greffe 2005; Bardhan & Mookherjee 2006b: 44–49). In economic development projects, devolution of project management to the local level has been encouraged by the World Bank, which has funded numerous experiments to circumvent central government control and empower local communities (Alsop & Kurey 2005; Binswanger-Mkhize, de Regt & Spector 2010). As a condition of bank lending, local governments have been required to establish democratic institutions, and national treasuries have been compelled to give those institutions direct access to financial resources. The World Bank has urged central governments to shift responsibility for

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service delivery to local communities and to confine themselves to setting policy and supporting localities. Communities have received assistance building their political, social, and technical capacities to perform development functions, and accountability mechanisms have been created to ensure transparency of activities in order to combat corruption, elite capture of institutions, or other commonly encountered challenges. The track record for such experiments in devolved governance of development projects is uneven, and efforts to scale successful projects up from the community level have met considerable challenges. Certainly, the inevitable contention over power and financial resources associated with multilevel government implies political wrangling from which there is no escape and for which unequivocally positive outcomes are hardly guaranteed (Pierre & Peters 2005). However, the World Bank has scrupulously evaluated their LCDD programs, providing highly valuable insights relevant to the effort to enlarge communities’ roles in archaeological and heritage management. In particular, the bank’s self-evaluation of LCDD programs has emphasized the need to tailor community institutions, program rules, and individuals’ incentives to be compatible with local political, economic, and social conditions. The bank has also emphasized empowering communities financially to enable them to make mistakes and “learn by doing,” and it has underscored the importance to effective institutions of clear rules for stakeholders that they are empowered to amend with experience (Binswanger-Mkhize, de Regt & Spector 2010: 16–20). This approach to development program governance pushes responsibility, resources, and accountability down to the lowest possible level in order to take advantage of local knowledge, ensure benefits reach local communities, and rely on transparent local administration to minimize both local and topdown abuses. Such an approach has become known as polycentric governance (McGinnis 1999).

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In more developed countries, experiments in devolving government functions have taken an additional turn, giving rise to what has come to be known as a “third sector” that operates between private for-profit companies and government agencies. In virtually every developed country, functions once deemed essential government tasks have been outsourced to private companies, nonprofit organizations, or hybrid “social enterprises.” These organizations carry out those functions, often with government financing and subject to formal accountability schemes, but they do so under their own rules of governance and stakeholder engagement. In some cases, the drive for privatization, or the use of QUANGOs or public–private partnerships, has been spurred by advocates who argue that market-based delivery of services will be more efficient and less prone to special interest or bureaucratic selfdealing (van Thiel 2001; Hodge & Greve 2005: Chapter 1). In others, these institutional innovations reflect enthusiasm for the capacity of local organizations to better serve their communities (Gunn 2004). In either case, the emergence of third-sector organizations has spawned organizational structures that can be adapted to managing local heritage. In some cases, third-sector entities take the form of private corporations that are exclusively for-profit corporations performing work once done by government bureaucracies. The governance of profit-seeking companies primarily involves the relationship of boards of directors and management to the business’s governmental, shareholder, financial, employee, and societal stakeholders. Corporate boards typically focus on business strategy, compliance with laws, corporate social responsibilities, and the management of risks (Tricker 2015). Nonetheless, best practice standards for corporate governance (Aluchna 2010; NCVO 2010) reflect concerns that will recur throughout this book for transparent reporting, accountability, engagement with stakeholders, and performance. Both social enterprises, which seek to combine profit seeking with social

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missions, and conventional nonprofits also take corporate form, are subject to many of the same legal requirements, and are led by boards of directors for whom corporate governance standards are highly relevant (Tricker 2015: 227–231). Indeed, two of the case studies presented here, those in Ireland and Italy, are of entities that technically are for-profit companies functioning in the mode of social enterprises or nonprofits. In the United States, the typical form for an organization that is pursuing social benefit is a public charity. Technically, these are corporations that eschew profits in their charters, dedicate themselves to a social purpose, and as a result receive exemption from taxation for themselves and for philanthropic gifts made to them. In the United Kingdom and parts of Europe, trusts, social enterprises, QUANGOs, cooperatives, and NGOs play the same role, with differing legal obligations and tax treatment. Trusts, nonprofits, and NGOs tend to be strictly dependent upon philanthropy for income, while QUANGOs and social enterprise corporations exploit a combination of market-based, philanthropic, and government funding to deliver services. In all cases, governments may provide operating or capital funding, or in-kind services, but they generally leave day-to-day operations, often including delivery of critical services, to these third-sector organizations. Often, third-sector entities are organized by a small group of individuals to pursue social or economic objectives—delivery of health care services, housing, food for the poor, and so forth. But they also can be unambiguously related to archaeology and heritage. For example, most major museums in the United States and many in the United Kingdom are managed at the local level by nonprofit organizations. In the United States, even museums whose collections are owned by municipal governments—the Philadelphia Museum of Art is an example— receive some government support but are funded largely through philanthropic gifts.

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Because of the cultural and economic importance of the nonprofit sector in the United States and the United Kingdom, and because they and their supporters enjoy significant tax reduction benefits, nonprofits of all types are heavily regulated, usually by state or national agencies. Their scale and importance also have led to extensive studies of the ideal governance institutions for nonprofits (Ingram 2003; Chait, Ryan & Taylor 2005; Ostrower 2007; Holland & Ritvo 2008; Kurre 2013; Rudge 2013). One key feature of successful nonprofits is a board of trustees that is drawn from the community, works through active and engaged committees, and is made up of a diverse array of individuals who are knowledgeable about the organization but are refreshed regularly through mandatory retirement after several years of service. Those boards operate under rules that require robust, transparent disclosure of financial, audit, governance and other information to board members, the public, and regulators, including an expectation that nonprofits will provide data regarding the organization’s performance against its goals. In many cultural heritage projects, however, the community involved may be small, with limited government resources or expertise and equally unsophisticated or well-resourced community members. Often, such projects also are situated in communities in which interpersonal and political relationships can be challenging. These conditions frequently lead to disappointing results for archaeologists and cultural heritage specialists who are promoting local development. Yet even in such difficult situations, some governance approaches may open the way to effective projects.

Collective action and collaborative governance Alternative governance models for collectively managed enterprises in small, complicated communities have emerged most revealingly

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in research over the last thirty years on the sustainable management of common pool resources (CPRs). CPRs generally are classic “commons,” such as grazing pastures, irrigation systems, fishing grounds, and similar natural resource systems that are important to local economies. The rights to ownership and use of a common resource are held collectively by a specific group, not by an individual or the general public. Because commons are shared but finite resources, self-interested behavior among users is to be expected, yielding the underprovision and overconsumption social dilemmas of public goods, precisely the sort of uncontrolled exploitation that Hardin predicted would produce a tragedy of the commons. CPRs, however, are not public goods. Ostrom (1990: 30) has defined a CPR as a man-made system of resources from which it is difficult, but not impossible, for users to constrain access to or exploitation of the resource. In use, they are rivalrous and, with effort, excludable. CPRs are collective goods, the property of local people that can be governed by local people. Starting in the 1980s, drawing upon the insights of institutional economists discussed above, Ostrom began a project to understand the governance of long-surviving CPRs. The project was motivated by scholarly studies that, contrary to expectations, identified large numbers of CPRs that had flourished for many years, sometimes centuries. Four decades later, literally thousands of field studies have contributed to understanding the governance mechanics of long-surviving CPRs around the world (DLC 2015). Ostrom and her collaborators married those field-study findings with laboratory experiments designed to test the insights of behavioral economists, discussed in Chapter 2, regarding the potential for individuals to collaborate and cooperate (Ostrom 1990; Ostrom, Gardner & Walker 1994; Gibson, McKean & Ostrom 2000; Ostrom & Walker 2003). Those studies have led to the conclusion that, where the legal and community contexts are supportive and the resource system

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is economically valuable for local residents, communities are capable, on their own, of organizing governance systems to manage their CPRs. In her best-known exposition of the topic, Ostrom (1990: 90) articulated eight “design principles” for the self-organization of governance institutions for CPRs. Those principles remain, despite much subsequent research, the iconic road map for CPR governance and the one most rooted in long-term scholarship that is global in scope (Poteete, Janssen & Ostrom 2010). In Ostrom’s formulation, communities will have the opportunity to organize themselves (and not be organized by outsiders) to manage a collective resource if the following conditions are in place: 1. Clearly defined boundaries: The terrain covered by the resource should be clearly demarcated, and those eligible to use it clearly defined. 2. Congruence between appropriation and provision rules and local conditions: The community should create rules for using the CPR that are appropriate to the social, political, economic, and technical context of the community. 3. Collective choice arrangements: Procedures for managing the CPR empower those who use the resource to participate in making decisions about it. 4. Monitoring: Those authorized to use the CPR also monitor compliance with the rules for its use, either directly or through agents reporting to them. 5. Graduated sanctions: Penalties for infractions of the CPR’s rules are met with an array of sanctions that escalate with the severity of the infraction. 6. Conflict resolution mechanisms: Formal or informal mechanisms exist to enable users of the resource system to resolve conflicts that arise among the users.

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7. Minimal recognition of rights to organize: Relevant governmental authorities acknowledge the authority of the users to organize to manage the CPRs themselves. 8. Nested enterprises: Where the CPR is part of a larger system, such as a large-scale irrigation network, the system is structured so that governing units are organized in layers, with decisions made at the lowest possible level. Governance through nested enterprises is closely related to the concept of polycentric governance discussed above (Andersson & Ostrom 2008).

Other researchers have identified numerous additional features of successful CPR management (Wade 1988; Baland & Platteau 1996; Agrawal 2001; Ostrom 2009), including transparency in financial matters and clear economic value for the communities involved in the projects. Ascher (2007), in a survey of best practices for the local control of natural resources, extended Ostrom’s model to take into account the need for institutional mechanisms that address the use of the resources over time, relationships with responsible government agencies, and the rights of individuals who may move away from the community—all matters relevant to communities seeking to manage their cultural heritage resources. A few studies in the fields of sustainable tourism also describe community organizations in many parts of the world with many parallels to CPRs, including governance features that are very similar to Ostrom’s design principles (P. E. Murphy 1985; Nicanor 2001; Halstead 2003; C. Murphy & Halstead 2003; Newsham 2004; Long 2008; Ngo, Wong & Heng 2008; Reeves 2008; Jordan & Duval 2009). Ostrom’s research program demonstrated the validity of the counterargument to the view that collective goods, including heritage resources, inevitably must be managed and controlled by governments. Collective management of common resources by local communities can and does occur, frequently and with great success,

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where communities can clearly define their collective resource, where that resource is of economic value to the community, and where the community has the authority to create its own rules to govern the use of that resource, monitor compliance with and sanction infractions of those rules, and resolve conflicts relating to the collective resource largely within the community. Although caution must be applied when applying the commons model to archaeological sites or heritage resources (Gould 2017), as the case studies that follow will illustrate, there is an emergent recognition in the cultural heritage literature that, under the right circumstances, Ostrom’s model may offer useful insights for organizing projects in the field (see Carman 2005: Chapter 5; Bertacchini et al. 2012; González 2015; Gould 2016; Gonzalez, Vázquez & Fernández 2017; Pyburn 2017).

Common themes In a detailed evaluation of the performance of numerous decentralized economic development projects in India, Alsop and Kurey (2005) found that the performance of the community projects they studied—in terms of each project’s effectiveness and the equitable distribution and sustainability of the benefits—seemed most related to factors internal to the communities: participation in the process of decision making, knowledge of project rules, attendance at meetings, transparency of operations and decision making, and the capabilities of residents. External support had little value as an explanation for success or failure of the projects, except when communities had inadequate access to financial resources, which often is an issue in developing countries where access to credit can be limited and interest rates steep. One effort to synthesize the governance literature with regard to tourism research (Ruhanen et al. 2010) identified forty distinct dimensions of successful governance in a meta-analysis

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of fifty-three separate studies. Six of those dimensions—organizational accountability to the community, transparency of decision making and management, community involvement in the organization, appropriate organizational structure, organizational effectiveness, and the power to execute its mission—emerged as the most regularly identified features of effectively governed community organizations. In each case, the parallels to Ostrom’s research are striking. This necessarily brief survey of the literature on the governance of community institutions suggests the breadth and depth of work by scholars and development practitioners seeking to understand and promote community-based projects. Possible vehicles range across devolved local government agencies, public–private partnerships, nonprofit organizations, and community-based entities constructed on the CPR model. These institutional models and the development challenges they address cannot be reduced to a checklist of success factors. Nonetheless, all do have at least seven characteristics in common. First, these approaches rest heavily on community engagement and incorporating local knowledge into the design of the organization and its governance rules. Scott’s call for mētis is echoed widely. Second, democratic institutions for local decision making emerge as a consistent requirement for legitimizing decision making across the various approaches to community-led project management. Third, polycentric solutions—in which authority is pushed as far as possible toward local communities—enable governments, NGOs, and experts to build local capacity without usurping control from communities. Fourth, devolution must involve clear alignment of the geographic location with the local community’s authority and responsibilities for the project. The responsibility of higher-level entities is to provide the skilled help, financing, and other resources necessary to execute the project.

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Fifth, all models anticipate that local communities will monitor and enforce their own rules, and that the role of higher-level organizations in nested structures is limited to oversight and to coordinating activities and resolving disputes among subordinate units. Sixth, transparency in financial and operational decisions is an essential element in building trust among project participants and with outside stakeholders in the project, such as government agencies, NGOs, and financial supporters. Finally, where day-to-day management of organizations must be delegated to a small group, such as a board of directors or executive committee, successful organizations tend to adopt institutional features that preclude the accumulation of power, rely on democratic procedures to name leaders, and rotate those leaders regularly.

Complexity and institutional design Throughout this book, as the case studies unfold, the features enumerated above will reappear frequently. However, there is one last issue to consider—that is the matter of designing new communitybased projects. The quest is for governance institutions that enable community heritage projects both to survive for many years and to deliver tangible benefits directly to local residents. Yet experience with community-based projects of all kinds illuminates the intricate and changing nature of political, social, and economic contention in communities and their frequently encountered lack of capacity to execute projects. At the heart of this discussion is the unavoidable reality that local governance is inherently and problematically complex. In recent decades, complexity has become a topic in virtually every social science discipline among analysts who have come to acknowledge Forrester’s (1971) long-ago insight that social systems

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behave in nonlinear and counterintuitive ways. In the present context, some scholars have proposed that multilevel, or polycentric, governance systems be viewed as highly interactive complex adaptive systems (CAS). Such systems are governed by general rules that enable them to adapt to change and uncertainty because the levels are linked in ways that enable lower-tier entities to experiment, yet also facilitate communication across the levels permitting more general adaptation to changing circumstances (Duit & Galaz 2008). Ostrom (1999) has pointed out that when governance is decentralized in polycentric governance structures, the resulting system may have elements that become captured by local elites, fail due to lack of knowledge or support, or fail due to local conflicts. However, she argued that organizing a decentralized system as a CAS can realize the benefits from utilizing diverse sources of information, local knowledge, rules that are better adapted to local circumstances, lower enforcement costs, and a protective degree of redundancy. A key concept in the complexity literature is institutional robustness. As used in this context, the term “robust” carries the meaning usually associated with it in engineering; that is, “capable of performing without failure under a wide range of conditions” (Merriam-Webster 2014: 1078). Governance institutions need to be robust in the face of internal contention for power or resources, and be able to adapt to external pressures, if organizations are to prosper for an extended period. Scott, in his analysis of the failures of a range of modernist development experiments, offers a prescription for improved development programs that reads very much like a definition of robustness in institutions that are part of a CAS: institutional flexibility, progress through small steps, actions that permit reversibility in light of new realities, institutions designed with the expectation of surprises, and reliance on human inventiveness to solve problems as they emerge (Scott 1998: 345). As the case studies will illuminate, robustness—or in the case of the Italian example the

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lack of it—is central to the long survival of institutions in rapidly changing conditions that call for institutional adaptation. There is, however, no mechanical approach to designing governance institutions. On the contrary, as was argued in Chapters 1 and 2, each local community situation is unique and complex, and examples of effective polycentric systems are both few and intrinsically unique. The challenge facing the archaeologist working with a local community is to work with community members and other stakeholders in the heritage to identify governance institutions that are robustly responsive to local conditions, helping to manage the complex interactions inherent in community life while taking the demands of governments, diasporas, corporations, and others into account. The case studies presented in this book will suggest that the governance approaches to these issues are a function of two interrelated dimensions of complexity that have distinct governance consequences. Figure 3.1 illustrates the implications of contextual complexity explored in this book. The first dimension is financial and operational complexity. Some projects can be implemented with minimal financial resources or demand little financial sophistication from community members. The case study in Raqchi, Peru, is an example. However, more formalized governance institutions tend to be required as the amount of money involved in a project increases in value, in transactional complexity (such as the use of government grants or bank loans), or in potential for corruption. There will be a greater need for financial record keeping, disclosures to participants, and possibly formal audits and even public disclosure, depending on national regulations and the requirements of business partners. The case studies in Belize, Ireland, and Italy will illustrate this increasing requirement for formalization as financial complexity increases. Those case studies also illustrate the fact that increasingly complex operational requirements of projects tend to drive organizational formality. As projects progress from simple

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Figure 3.1 A generalized framework for evaluating community organizational design in the context of increasing complexity.

collaborations to active management of museums or archaeological sites, organizations both become more financially complex and require more conventional and formalized legal, operational, and managerial expertise. Increasing financial and operational complexity implies a more formalized governance structure. The second dimension is social and political complexity. Even where financial and operational complexity may be straightforward, problematic local social interactions—such as low levels of trust and cooperation in the community—complicate governance. The case studies in Belize and in Italy illuminate this problem, while the cases in Ireland and Peru underline the governance benefits of a socially collaborative environment. If the local or the national political context is fraught or structurally incompatible with local community governance, governance institutions need to be more robust and able

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to absorb internal or external challenges that otherwise may threaten the viability of the organization. The premise of this book is that government policies that are derived from conventional understanding of public goods unnecessarily discourage community-based development projects anchored in archaeology and heritage. Archaeology and heritage are not public goods in the strictest sense, but are positioned as such for political reasons, or due to economic arguments that are open to challenge. In circumstances that will become clearer through the case studies, some aspects of the heritage economy may well qualify as a type of commons, an ownership form compatible with local control as long as governance structures are properly designed. Other heritage projects, rising higher on the complexity scales, may resemble the various forms of devolved governance reviewed in this chapter. Yet they, too, are potentially governable at the community level. Each of the next four chapters will present a community-based project with a life span of almost twenty years and up to more than forty years. Each chapter will describe the geophysical, cultural, and political context for the project, and the history of the organization within that context, and then will review in detail the governance institutions adopted by the communities that created those organizations. Each chapter will conclude with an evaluation of the project against the various forms of community-based governance outlined in this chapter. The concluding chapter will bring together the four case studies and the theoretical discussions of Chapter 2 and this chapter to explore the lessons arising from this study for archaeologists seeking to create projects that present, manage, or produce economic benefit for local communities from archaeological and heritage resources.

4

Asociacíon Inkallaqta: An Artisans’ Cooperative in Peru

Raqchi, Peru The village of Raqchi sits in the verdant valley of the Vilcanota River, which flows quietly 3,500 meters above the coast in the high Andes of Peru. The village fronts on the highway that connects the regional capital of Cusco, 117 kilometers to the north, with the bustling cities of Puno and Juliaca on Lake Titicaca and the Bolivian border to the south (Figure 4.1). Looming over the village is the volcano Kinsach’ata, source of the lava stones that make up the pasture walls and building foundations in the village and which, in centuries past, made Raqchi a religious center for the peoples who originally populated this valley. The lands in the vicinity of present-day Raqchi were conquered and absorbed into the Incan empire during the fifteenth century (Hullica 2012; Sillar 2013). Under the Incas, Raqchi became a major administrative and ceremonial center located astride the Qhapaq Ñan, the extensive Inca highway system named a World Heritage site in 2014. The Qhapaq Ñan connected the northern-most to the southern-most reaches of the empire. Portions of the Inca road remain in Raqchi and are still used as footpaths in the village, as are the Inca-built terraces and irrigation system incorporated into the village’s communally owned pasture lands. Early in the period A more detailed discussion of Asociacíon Inkallaqta, including interview notes, is contained in the author’s PhD thesis (Gould 2014a). Additional aspects of the Asociacíon Inkallaqta story also have been separately published in Spanish (Gould 2016).

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following the Spanish conquest of the Incas, the temple site and much of the region around it was abandoned. Raqchi was not repopulated until the nineteenth century, at the start of Peru’s republican era (Hullica 2012: 51). The population in Raqchi today stems from that effort. The village, which acquired electricity and running water only in the past two decades and still awaits other modern conveniences, is home to 130 or so families. Men of the village typically make their

Machu Picchu

Ollantaytambo Pisac Cusco

Raqchi Sicuani

Juliaca a ac tic Ti ke La

Puno

Figure 4.1 Map illustrating the location of the village of Raqchi in Peru.

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livings in agriculture or services, working in towns a bus ride or even further away. Women typically stay at home, tending gardens in the community-owned fields by the highway, managing the half-dozen bodegas that serve the residents, and tending to school-age children until they leave the village for higher education. Bordering the maze of red clay and stone paths that mark out the village stand tile-roofed, adobe-walled compounds that are the setting for home and business life, creating a picturesque setting for tourists who come daily to visit the village’s centerpiece attraction. That is the monumental ruin of the great temple complex dedicated to the principal Inca deity, Viracocha, among the largest Inca structures still standing in the region of the former empire. In the latter decades of the twentieth century, Raqchi had been known as a center for high-quality ceramics production, but by the turn of the twenty-first century, the village’s artisans worked exclusively for resale to vendors and ceramics decorators in tourist cities to the north such as Cusco and Pisac. Retail prices for finished pots were substantially higher in those cities than were the prices Raqchi’s ceramicists could obtain as wholesale producers of unfinished goods. With the Sindero Luminoso rebellion winding down in the region in the late 1990s and Peru’s image for rural violence fading, the Peruvian government turned for a potential driver of economic growth in the Andes to exploitation of the sites in the “Sacred Valley,” a tourism zone that extends from the World Heritage city of Cusco northwest to numerous sites en route to Machu Picchu, another World Heritage site, and southeast past Raqchi toward Lake Titicaca. Prospects for increased visitation to Raqchi as a result of this national strategy appeared promising to everyone in the valley. Asociacíon Inkallaqta was conceived in late 1998 when a small group of crafts people in Raqchi were convened by a village resident, Enrique Leon Cusi Mamani, to discuss creating a local retail activity to capture a larger portion of the profit by selling finished ceramics

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to tourists, whom the villagers hoped would be visiting Raqchi’s Viracocha temple on excursions from Cusco. Tourism at that time was sparse—there were fewer than 1000 visitors to Raqchi in all of 1999—but adherents to Cusi Mamani’s group gradually increased until a total of twenty artisans had joined a founding group that commenced selling crafts in the plaza at the center of the village at a festival on May 2, 1999. Cusi Mamani, the first Secretary General of Asociacíon Inkallaqta, served for two years and then stepped down, setting a pattern for leadership transitions that continues. Today, tourist traffic through Raqchi (Figure 4.2), which now routinely exceeds 100,000 visitors per year, has made the village a top ten destination in Peru. Daily visits are dominated by groups travelling by bus from Cusco toward Puno and Lake Titicaca, or returning to Cusco. Southbound buses arrive in the village between 10 am and noon; northbound buses begin to arrive after lunch around 1 pm and generally finish arriving by 3 pm. In a canny move to attract tour buses, the village built and operates public lavatory facilities in a

Figure 4.2 The Viracocha temple complex adjacent to the village of Raqchi, Peru.

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building on one side of the village marketplace. Typically, tourists are given a few minutes to visit the lavatories, for which they pay a fee of one Peruvian Sole to the village, then they are hustled off to a tour of the temple site. Tours tend to last about 45 minutes, and tourists exit the temple site directly into the marketplace. Although stays vary, few buses permit tourists to remain in the Asociacíon Inkallaqta market for more than 15 minutes or so, after which the tourists reboard the buses to complete their journeys. Although the time is short, business often is brisk. Asociacíon Inkallaqta is a striking example of a community-established and community-managed economic development project, built on heritage tourism, that has survived for many years through governance institutions that to a remarkable degree resemble Ostrom’s principles for conventional long-surviving common pool resources (CPR) described in Chapter 3.

Asociacíon Inkallaqta The Comunidad Campesina de Raqchi is a subdivision of the district headquartered in nearby San Pedro in the province of Canchis, Department of Cusco. As is common in Andean Peru, the village is governed by a Community Assembly that consists of one member from each family in the village. The Community Assembly is led by a committee of six officers, headed by a president, who are elected to two-year terms (Comunidad de Raqchi 2009). The village is technically a subdivision of the nearby community of San Pedro, where the Alcalde is responsible for several small villages like Raqchi. However, matters within the financial capacity and borders of Raqchi are largely left to the residents themselves, working through the Community Assembly and the various specialized associations in the village. The governmental structure in Raqchi is typical of the communities that surround it in all respects, but Raqchi is the only

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community in San Pedro with community groups such as Asociacíon Inkallaqta (Hullica 2012: 41–43). Community organizations in Peru such as Asociacíon Inkallaqta are required to register with the Superintendencia Nacional de los Registros Públicos (SUNARP). Under the rules of the community of Raqchi, community organizations of any substance must be legally recognized by SUNARP, and must then be approved by the Community Assembly. Asociacíon Inkallaqta acquired both approvals in March 1999. The association is required to renew its registration with SUNARP every two years by paying a fee of 150 Soles. Governance of the village is through meetings of the Community Assembly, which occur with considerable frequency based upon issues facing the community. The village’s governing statute is routinely reviewed, documented, and reapproved every four years (Comunidad de Raqchi 2009). Attendance at meetings of the Community Assembly is mandatory for families, and meetings can be long and vibrant affairs. Nonetheless, questions, no matter how contentious, are settled by a vote, typically by raised hand. The majority carries the day and the voting process generally puts the issue to rest. The legacy of this mandatory participation in democratic procedures is clearly visible in the operation of other organizations in Raqchi, particularly Asociacíon Inkallaqta. In Peru, each adult is registered through the census as a resident of a specific community. This is the locale in which adults ages eighteen and older vote, a mandatory obligation in Peruvian elections. To participate in community affairs, including membership in Asociacíon Inkallaqta, an individual must be identified in the census as a resident of Raqchi. Although membership is at the household level, any registered adult in Raqchi is eligible to join Asociacíon Inkallaqta and sell in the plaza marketplace. To join, the family must pay an initiation fee of 30 Soles to the Community Assembly and 30 Soles to Asociacíon Inkallaqta.

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Although vendors working in the plaza marketplace predominantly are women, husbands and children also may work in their place if necessary, and one man maintains a full-time presence as a vendor. In 2013, 55 families were active members of Asociacíon Inkallaqta out of 130 total households in the village, and an additional 10 were “passive,” or emeritus members. Asociacíon Inkallaqta has a roster of eleven officer positions which together comprise the leadership of the organization. The executive group consists of a Secretario General/President and Secretarios des Actes (recording secretary), de Economia (treasurer), de Organización (organization), de Prense Propoganda (marketing), de Arte Folklorico (traditional crafts), de Producíon (a procurement related office), de Relaciones Exteriores (public relations), de Disciplina (discipline, something of a Sergeant-at-Arms), and two Coordinadores del Mercado who work alternate days managing the affairs of the marketplace. All of the leaders are elected by the general assembly of Asociacíon Inkallaqta for terms of two years, except for the Coordinadores de Mercado whose terms are for 3 months only. Candidates for office are nominated from the floor by other members of the group. Typically, there are two candidates for each office and a majority vote, by raised hand, determines the election. Coordinadore positions are rotated among the members and are not elected. The Junta, or officer group of Asociacíon Inkallaqta, plays an operational role but not a decision-making role in the organization. Decisions on all matters are brought before a general assembly of Asociacíon Inkallaqta, and no special rights or responsibilities are delegated to the Junta. Rather, individual officers have obligations associated with their offices. Specified officers are responsible for managing day-to-day operations in the marketplace, for routine disciplinary actions, and for interfacing with various publics including the Community Assembly. Many of the officers’ positions

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seem to have no clear responsibilities or relate to tasks rarely if ever performed. No interviewee in Raqchi described the Junta as a body with any autonomous capacity to act for Asociacíon Inkallaqta. Instead, all executive functions are vested in the members through the general assembly. The Junta does not meet formally in meetings outside of the general assembly of Asociacíon Inkallaqta. Meetings of the general assembly of Asociacíon Inkallaqta are called by the secretary general each quarter, in January, April, July, and October, and otherwise as necessary. All issues, ranging from matters of policy to disputes among members or disciplinary matters, are brought before the general assembly for discussion and, if necessary, a public vote, which generally is conducted by raised hands. Each family that works actively in the plaza, whether as a handicraft vendor, artisan, or food vendor, is eligible for one vote in meetings of Asociacíon Inkallaqta, regardless of how many family members sell actively in the plaza marketplace. Attendance at the meetings is mandatory for at least one member of each family. Verbal reports on the association’s finances are made at meetings and full minutes of the meeting are maintained by the Secretario des Actes. At the conclusion of each meeting, each member signs the minute book, a practice also followed at meetings of the Community Assembly. Minute books are available for review by members at or between meetings. In interviews, members uniformly reported that “participation at the meetings is active” and that “the organization is open to broad debate, including opposing opinions.” This author was able to attend one Asociacíon Inkallaqta general assembly meeting during field work. It was held in the central plaza at night, was well attended, and involved considerable give-and-take among the participants. Asociacíon Inkallaqta has established a broad range of rules to govern the organization’s activities. These are recorded in its official minute books and apply to all members (Asociacíon Inkallaqta 2013). The governance rules include the following:

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Each member is entitled to work in the marketplace (Figure 4.3) from a single table of standard dimensions on which any member of the family may display for sale crafts items made by the family or purchased from sources within or beyond Raqchi. Some, but not all, crafts must be locally produced. Today, ironically, the locally produced items often are ceramics that are manufactured elsewhere but painted locally.

Figure 4.3 The Asociacíon Inkallaqta marketplace, Raqchi, Peru.

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Members are obliged to clean the plaza, working on a rotating schedule among all Asociacíon Inkallaqta members and the shopkeepers with tourist shops on the plaza. Thus, approximately once in every two months each member has the obligation to ensure that the plaza is swept and clear of debris before and during the day. There is an accord among vendors on the pricing of craft items offered in the marketplace. It is an infraction of the rules to sell below the agreed price. Members must agree to participate in the scheme for rotating tables daily among the fifty-one potential locations in the plaza. Each day, each member’s table moves one spot around the circuit of locations in the plaza, a mechanism designed to give each member periodic access to the choice locations close to the exit door from the temple ruins or close to the public lavatory at the opposite side of the plaza. Members must be in the marketplace by 10 am in order to hold their assigned spots for the day. After 10 am, the Coordinadores rearrange tables to eliminate unused spaces and present a uniform market to tourists. The one exception is that the prime spot by the exit from the park is left open in case that day’s assigned table owner arrives late. Members are obliged to respect and follow the directions of members of the Junta and to respect other members of the association. Members may not bring children to the general assembly meetings. The coordinator of the market is obliged to manage affairs in the marketplace on assigned days. Members of the Junta are expressly charged with not abusing their authority. Asociacíon Inkallaqta regulations require all members to attend meetings of the Community Assembly. The integration of

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Asociacíon Inkallaqta into the rules of the Community Assembly is discussed below. Violations of the Asociacíon Inkallaqta rules are subject to an array of escalating sanctions, with discrete penalties associated breaches of each rule (Asociacíon Inkallaqta 2013). Specifically: ●

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Members who fail to fulfill their obligation to clean the plaza may be barred from selling in the plaza for three days. Such failure also may subject the Asociacíon Inkallaqta to a 10 Sole fine from the Community Assembly. Members who fail to attend meetings of the Asociacíon Inkallaqta are subject to a two-day suspension from selling. Members who bring children to the Asociacíon Inkallaqta general assembly may be suspended for 1 day. Members who sell products below agreed prices are subject to a two-day suspension. Members who fail to respect or follow directions of Junta members or who fail to respect other members may be suspended for one day. Coordinadores who fail to perform their duties may be suspended for one day. Junta members who abuse their authority may be suspended for two days.

Interestingly, no sanction is identified in the association’s minute books should a member of Asociacíon Inkallaqta fail to wear traditional attire when working in the plaza. Nonetheless, in the several weeks this author spent in the plaza conducting field work, on no occasion did any individual work at a table in the marketplace for more than a few minutes without traditional clothing, and those exceptions tended to be husbands filling in momentarily for their

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wives. Even school-age children selling for their mothers appeared in the proper attire. The sanctions regimes of the Community Assembly and of Asociacíon Inkallaqta are integrated in certain circumstances, perhaps the best testimony to the importance of Asociacíon Inkallaqta and the value that community members place on the ability to sell goods in the plaza marketplace. The official regulations of the community of Raqchi (Comunidad de Raqchi 2009) provide for both cash fines and exclusion for varying lengths of time from selling in the plaza marketplace for a variety of infractions, including failure to attend community meetings and work days, or failure to participate on community football teams. Furthermore, the community uses the threat of exclusion from the marketplace to enforce other town regulations. Community members who fail to properly dispose of trash or participate in the neighborhood watch, or who use the name of the community without authority of the Community Assembly, are subject to suspension from the plaza marketplace for one week, among other penalties, and any person who usurps the functions of the Community Assembly is suspended from sales in the plaza for 3 days in addition to a cash sanction. Sanctions may be increased or reduced, either by the general assembly of Asociacíon Inkallaqta or the Community Assembly, if warranted by the severity of the infraction or extenuating circumstances. The sanctions applied to members of Asociacíon Inkallaqta for violations of the rules of the community or the association are numerous and specific. Based on structured interviews conducted for this study, it is clear that the rules and sanctions are universally understood in the village, and widely believed to be important to the continuing effectiveness of many activities and organizations in Raqchi. Asociacíon Inkallaqta collects no data on the amounts invested by individual members in the products they sell, nor does it collect data on the earnings of its members, either individually or collectively.

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Individual members are reluctant to discuss their incomes, perhaps because small-scale entrepreneurial businesses in Peru are subject to no or reduced taxation (SII 2013) creating an incentive for individuals to maintain a veil of secrecy over their actual earnings from vending in Raqchi. It is clear, however, that the association has become the primary source of employment for women in the village and is a sufficiently valuable source of cash income for many families to devote several full days per week to selling in the plaza marketplace. The treasurer of the Asociacíon Inkallaqta maintains a small cash reserve, at most a few hundred Soles at any one time. The funds are accumulated through a levy on the members of Asociacíon Inkallaqta, which is established at an assembly meeting each year and paid quarterly. Typically, payments amount to no more than 20 Soles per member, or roughly 1,100 Soles annually for the group. This cash is used to fund the group’s biennial reregistration with SUNARP, to pay a required annual contribution of 200 Soles to the Community Assembly, and to contribute to fiestas or cash needs of the community. The group also funds an annual celebration of Asociacíon Inkallaqta’s founding, held each March 2, an evening party of games, dances, and drinking in the plaza to which the entire community is invited.

Asociacíon Inkallaqta and governance The concluding chapter of this book will consider the extent to which the case studies in this book are reflections of the various models for the governance of community-based institutions explored in Chapter 3. At this juncture, however, it is instructive to consider the nearly complete alignment of Asociacíon Inkallaqta’s rules and practices with those Ostrom identified in her principles for long-surviving, selforganized community groups. In the village of Raqchi, the tourists who visit the Viracocha temple ruins and are channeled through

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the village marketplace are, in a literal sense, the CPR to be managed sustainably by the community. Asociacíon Inkallaqta is a practical mechanism for Raqchi residents to manage the access by individual entrepreneurs to the swarms of tourists who visit the village every day. To a remarkable degree, the governance rules created for that purpose by Asociacíon Inkallaqta resemble the sort of institutional devices created to manage conventional natural resource CPRs. For example, Berkes (1986) describes the governance rules developed by a coastal Turkish community to manage its shared offshore fishery, rules that included a scheme for rotating access to prime fishing spots that is very similar to the table rotation scheme imposed by Asociacíon Inkallaqta on its members in Raqchi. Consider an itemized comparison of Asociacíon Inkallaqta’s governance principles to Ostrom’s. Asociacíon Inkallaqta has clearly defined boundaries, with membership and therefore access to the tourist CPR limited to registered residents of Raqchi. There is close congruence between the association’s rules and local conditions, as Ostrom anticipated: The governance rules of Asociacíon Inkallaqta are derived directly from those of the Community Assembly in Raqchi, which engages all families in the village in active participation in democratic decision making; and the village’s reliance on mandatory obligations of citizenship and defined sanctions for those who defect from their obligations is reflected in the rules of Asociacíon Inkallaqta. Decisions are made democratically and in sessions open to all members, reflecting Ostrom’s requirement for collective choice arrangements. Indeed, the legitimacy of majoritarian decision making is critical to every institution in Raqchi, and particularly to the operation of Asociacíon Inkallaqta. Asociacíon Inkallaqta has created mechanisms within the group to resolve disputes among members. Compliance with its rules is subject to active monitoring by members of Asociacíon Inkallaqta, and the group imposes graduated sanctions for noncompliance with the rules. Finally, the national legal

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structure in Peru and the rules of the Community Assembly facilitate the creation of organizations such as Asociacíon Inkallaqta, of which there are several in Raqchi, according fully with Ostrom’s principle that there be at least minimal recognition by legal authorities of the right of the community to organize. The concordance with Ostrom is essentially complete. Interestingly, many of the rules of Asociacíon Inkallaqta mirror ayllu systems (see Bawden 2003) that have governed communities in the region for hundreds of years. Such traditional roots may well have prepared the way for the collaborative structures developed in Raqchi. However, Ostrom’s model is derived from the study of CPRs throughout the world, in countries where other traditional systems may have prefigured collaborative solutions. Governance structures may be derived from traditional practices or rooted in contemporary community politics. What is important is that organizations built on community institutions reflecting Ostrom’s principles can and do operate in the sphere of archaeology and heritage. Beyond Ostrom’s specific list of governance features, other aspects of the experience of Asociacíon Inkallaqta will reappear in other case studies throughout this book. Consistent with Ostrom’s perspective and Scott’s concern for mētis in political organization, local leaders who had a deep understanding of the local context played central roles in the founding of Asociacíon Inkallaqta. The existence of rules that prevent the accumulation of power in an individual or a small group, through the one-family, one-vote rule, is an important element of the governance of Asociacíon Inkallaqta. Asociacíon Inkallaqta also rotates its leadership on a regular cycle. Such rules prevent the emergence of factional disputes and avoid the problems that arise when leaders become entrenched in their positions. Furthermore, the delegation of power to manage day-to-day affairs to an executive committee that has regularly changing membership—the Junta in the case of Asociacíon Inkallaqta—distributes both the work load

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associated with running such an organization and the power to control outcomes. Furthermore, it is important to recognize the linkage between the economic value of a community venture to its members and their willingness to invest time in making the project a success. CPRs, the subject of Ostrom’s lifetime work, only exist because the resources themselves are economically valuable to communities: Grazing lands, irrigation system, fisheries, or communal forests are sources of livelihood to the communities managing them. Without a personal economic incentive to do so, community members struggling to survive are unlikely to devote scarce time or financial resources, or endanger important social relationships, to manage a community project associated with archaeology or heritage. Aligning those interests in poor communities depends critically on showing residents a way to make the archaeology and heritage valuable in their daily lives. Asociacíon Inkallaqta has done so in Raqchi. Finally, financial management of Asociacíon Inkallaqta was simple yet transparent to the members. Subsequent case studies will present more elaborate and formal financial management mechanisms, but even in Raqchi the transparency with which the group’s small amount of money was managed helped to ensure confidence that the group was being managed honestly, preserving the economic value of the organization to its members.

5

Maya Centre Women’s Group: A Community Business in Belize

Maya Centre, Belize Belize is nestled on the Caribbean coast of the Central American isthmus between Mexico to the north and Guatemala to the west and south (Figure 5.1). Formerly the colony of British Honduras, Belize is among the smallest independent countries in the world in both land area and population. The region that is now Belize was a peripheral though not insignificant territory within the lands controlled by the great Maya urban centers that flourished during the first millennium of the current era. By the late classic Maya period (c. 600–800 CE) important ceremonial and administrative centers and numerous smaller cities were distributed throughout the watersheds of Belize’s major river systems, on small Caribbean islands, and along the coast (McKillop 2004: 44). The nation’s history is distinctive in Central America (Shoman 1987; Wilk & Chapin 1990; Shoman 1994; Krohn & Salam 2004; Foster 2007). With the depopulation that followed the Maya shift north and east to the Yucatan in the post-classic period, Belize languished as a largely underpopulated region with a coastline at once treacherous and enticing. Spain claimed the lands but never effectively controlled

A more detailed discussion of the Maya Centre Women’s Group, including interview notes, is contained in the author’s PhD thesis (Gould 2014a). Early findings from the MCWG study were published previously in Gould (2014b).

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Mexico Belize

Belize City

Caribbean Sea

Belmopan Dangriga

Guatemala

Maya Centre

Figure 5.1 Map of Belize illustrating the location of Maya Centre.

them, and eventually the British, first as privateers and later as loggers, dominated the colony and usurped control (Shoman 1994: 15–34; Bulmer-Thomas & Bulmer-Thomas 2012: 34). In 1862 the UK formally annexed the region as a colony (Shoman 1994: 90). Belize’s road to independence was largely nonviolent and came late, during the 1960s and 1970s when Britain’s empire was rapidly waning.

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Democratic government and party politics emerged in the 1950s, and Britain permitted Belize to elect its first legislature in 1961. By 1964, Belize was substantially self-governing (Shoman 1994: Chapter 9), and the country had a well-established two-party system by the time independence was granted in 1981. Belize thus avoided the military dictatorships and civil wars that bedeviled its neighbors in Central America late into the twentieth century. It has a well-entrenched tradition of democratic decision making. Heritage tourism—both archaeological and environmental— is at the center of Belize’s economy. With a small and globally uncompetitive manufacturing sector, the demand for manufactured goods of all kinds, as well as energy products and many food items, must be met through imports (Balboni & Palacio 2007: 61). GDP per capita was about 9,395 Belize dollars in 2015 (Central Bank of Belize 2016), but it is highly skewed toward the wealthy. One-quarter or more of the population in every region of the country lives in poverty (Balboni & Palacio 2007: 34). One detailed study found that 31 percent of all households and 41.3 percent of the country’s population were living in poverty, with another roughly 13 percent vulnerable to poverty (Halcrow Group Limited, Decision Economics & Ross 2010: 53). The country’s most essential asset is the massive network of environmental preserves and archaeological parks that constitute a vast 36.4 percent of Belize’s land and 13.6 percent of its coastal waters (Ministry of Natural Resources and Environment 2005: 16). This collection of environmental riches, the country’s enticing beaches, and Belize’s Maya archaeological legacy underpin the tourism that in 2016 delivered a total of $1.3 billion Belize dollars, or 38.1 percent, of the county’s GDP (WTTC 2017a). The village of Maya Centre was founded in 1976 by refugees from Guatemala who settled on government-owned land bordering Cockscomb Mountain in the Maya Mountain range. The village today is home to about 400 people alongside Belize’s Southern Highway. At

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the time of its founding, Maya Centre straddled the access road to a moribund logging operation six miles inland at Quam Bank, to which a small contingent of eleven families moved to build an encampment in the jungle adjacent to the sawmill. The Coxcomb Basin had been devastated in 1961 by Hurricane Hattie, destroying forested areas and leading to the final closure of the logging business in 1981, shortly after Maya Centre was founded (Emmons & Horwitch 1996). Like Raqchi in Peru, Maya Centre has no significant local industry to provide jobs. Some men work in orange processing plants a few miles south, while others migrate further away during the week in search of employment. There are few employment opportunities for women, who remain in the village to care for their homes and children. Much of the housing is roofed with thatch and walled with wooden planks, and indoor plumbing is not universal. Like Raqchi, Maya Centre is not a wealthy place. In 1980, shortly after Maya Centre was formed, American biologist Alan Rabinowitz began research into the habits of the jaguars that traversed the area. He identified the Coxcomb Mountain region as home to a substantial number of jaguars that functioned as a critical transit point in the migration of the big cats throughout Central and South America. After lobbying by Rabinowitz and his employer, the Wildlife Conservation Society of New York, a small portion of the area known as the Cockscomb Basin was declared a National Forest Reserve/Jaguar Preserve in 1984 (Rabinowitz 1986). The reserve was gradually extended until, in 1995, the area by then known as the Cockscomb Basin Wildlife Sanctuary (CBWS) encompassed 122,000 acres, a vast range of rivers and valleys bounded by the Maya Mountains in the Stann Creek Department of Belize (Rabinowitz 1986; Emmons & Horwitch 1996). Within the park is Belize’s highest peak, Victoria Mountain, and the distinctive tri-peaked Cockscomb Mountain that lends the region and the sanctuary its name. Well inside the park lands are three small Maya archaeological sites.

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Many of the social and political challenges within Maya Centre are rooted in the formation of the Coxcomb sanctuary. In a pattern characteristic of archaeological and environmental reserves in Belize and elsewhere, the park was created as an exclusionary zone, with predictable consequences (see Dowee 2009; Meskell 2012). The eleven Maya families living in Quam Bank, who suddenly found their homes were on CBWS lands, were ordered to leave immediately after the park was formed in 1984 (Rabinowitz 1986: 350). Residents of Maya Centre also were ordered to abandon their milpa farms on the park’s perimeter and were banned from hunting on CBWS territory. Four of the evicted Quam Bank families elected to settle in Maya Centre. However, by then all available residential and farm land in the community had been allocated to other residents and these four families were left to find a living in the area without access to legal hunting or farmland. The Quam Bank logging facilities were taken over as the headquarters for the new park, and the old logging road, which bisects Maya Centre, was made the entrance road to the sanctuary. Virtually from its inception, the CBWS has been subject to a comanagement arrangement with the Belize Audubon Society (BAS) (Emmons & Horwitch 1996). Given the loss of farm and hunting land and the disruptions to families caused when the CBWS was created, building community support to restrain incursions into the park and support conservation became essential to the conservation goals of the fledgling park. To garner local support for the park, the BAS retained Ernesto Saqui, the village’s school teacher and only college graduate, as park superintendent, and hired several park wardens drawn from Maya Centre’s small population (Rabinowitz 1986). Coincidentally but importantly, Saqui also was Chairman of the Maya Centre Village Council. The dislocations resulting from the formation of the park were severe and had persistent consequences. The divisions created in

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1984 between the Quam Bank families and those that remained in the village bordering the Southern Highway linger to the present day. Although small, ethnically homogeneous, and with many interlocking family relationships, Maya Centre is a deeply divided village. In response to an interview question during research by this author, for example, 63 percent of the MCWG members characterized relationships in the village as “disagreeable,” while only 27 percent felt they were “harmonious.” Disputes between the original settlers of Maya Centre and the Quam Bank residents have translated into acrimonious divisions between political parties and churches, and generated protracted disputes between leading families. Measures of trust investigated in interviews are very low, even among members of the MCWG themselves. Despite these many frictions, the village of Maya Centre operates on strict democratic principles rooted in Belize’s long-standing democratic political system and village tradition. An elected, seven-member village council has day-to-day responsibility for the affairs of the village, although all decisions involving significant village policies or expenditures are brought before a town meeting. Virtually all respondents said that decisions at these meetings are made by majority vote of the villagers in attendance.

The Maya Centre Women’s Group As tourists began to visit the CBWS in hopes of seeing jaguars or other animals (the park harbors several other species of cats, tapirs, many rare birds, and other important fauna), villagers perceived an economic opportunity in the tourist traffic. Several men in the village, drawn largely from the Quam Bank residents who knew the jungle well, were trained and received government certification to serve as guides for visitors. The village also produced textile embroidery or

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slate and wood carvings that were presented to tourists as traditional crafts. As tourists started to arrive, villagers describe their children bolting from their chairs in school to rush to flag down passing cars in hope of selling home-made items. Led by their chairman, Saqui, the villagers concluded that a solution was needed to exploit the tourist trade without sacrificing their children’s education. Despite initial resistance from the men in the village, in 1987 Saqui obtained agreement from the villagers to create the Maya Centre Women’s Group to sell crafts for all of the traditional artisans in the village. Women were given the lead because most men were leaving the village every day to find work. For five years, Saqui coached the group in accounting, business management and problem solving, which produced the unusual operating procedures of the women’s group, before he stepped back to leave the women to run the group on their own. A small, thatch roofed oval building constructed in the Maya style was erected in 1984 to house the group’s craft offerings. It was located at the intersection of the CBWS access road and the Southern Highway. When an entrance charge to access Cockscomb was established in 1987, the BAS authorized the MCWG to sell tickets and offered the group 10 percent of the proceeds from tickets they sold. Although not the only place tickets are available, in 2013, 60 percent of the tickets to enter the sanctuary were sold at the women’s group shop. Although a village dispute led to an arson fire at the thatched building within the first year, it was quickly rebuilt and within a few years twenty women were involved in the cooperative. In 2002, the original building was replaced with a larger cement structure financed by a grant of 40,000 Belize dollars from the European Union that was matched by 15,000 Belize dollars from the women’s group’s funds. In 2009, the facility was expanded again, with 30,000 Belize dollar grant from the women’s group’s funds, to house a roadside restaurant that was outfitted through a grant from the European Commission.

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Forty women are members of the women’s group, representing the majority of the village’s fifty or so households. Open from 8 am to 5 pm every day, the MCWG shop caters to a traffic to CBWS of around 10,000 visitors per year. The MCWG has several sources of income, including their 10 percent share of CBWS ticket sales, a 10 percent share of the proceeds from members’ craft sales that is retained by the MCWG, and other income, primarily from the sale of soft drinks to tourists and corn milling services to Maya Centre residents. For the 12 months ending June 2013, the sales record books of the group reported total annual income for MCWG members of 118,310 Belize dollars from sales of their crafts, for an average of 2,958 Belize dollars per member. Net income to the group, from its share of sales proceeds and ancillary activities, is about 29,325 Belize dollars. These are substantial cash income sources in a country with modest GDP per capita, nearly 13 percent unemployment in 2014, and 41 percent of the population living below the poverty line (CIA 2017). The income is particularly meaningful to Maya Centre because village families are large and school fees are high in Belize. Preschool costs 50 Belize dollars per year plus 10 Belize dollars per month; the village primary school costs 20 Belize dollars per year but substantial donations for supplies are also expected from parents; high school costs 875 Belize dollars per year plus 6 Belize dollars per day for the 30-minute bus trip from Maya Centre to Dangriga plus additional donations. Sixth Form, or college-level, education costs 1,350 Belize dollars per year in tuition plus expenses. The group’s riskiest venture, the opening of a restaurant in 2010, was also its greatest financial failure. Although the group received training and other support from the Belize YMWCA and the Belize Citrus Growers Association, members of the MCWG generally attributed the failure to their own lack of skill managing the procurement of food, especially during the tourism low season. Losses from wastage combined with member discontent over long hours working in a hot

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kitchen for no profit resulted in serious financial losses and some member defections from the MCWG. Bonuses for all members, a traditional use of the MCWG’s own income, were eliminated between 2010 and 2012. The restaurant was closed for the 2012–2013 season after a meeting and vote by the full membership. The restaurant’s troubles, together with the loss of members who moved away, deaths and a pair of expulsions for competitive behavior, explain the decline in membership of the MCWG from roughly fifty members in 2010 to about forty members in 2013. An examination of the institutional structure of the Women’s Group contributes to understanding its endurance for almost thirty years in an otherwise fractious community. The MCWG is registered with the Belizean government as a nongovernmental organization. Only legal residents of Maya Centre are eligible to join the MCWG, but membership is not an automatic right. Applicants must be residents of Maya Centre at the time they apply and must be at least eighteen years old. Member applications are reviewed by the group as a whole, which passes on each candidate’s desirability by majority vote. Successful applicants must pay a 200-Belize-dollar initiation fee to the group. The fee may be paid in cash but typically is withheld over time from the member’s sales proceeds at the MCWG shop. Generally, members assemble quarterly in a general meeting, attendance at which is mandatory, during which craft sale proceeds are distributed to members, membership applications are reviewed, and other business of the group is conducted. Special general meetings are called by the group’s executive committee, known as the Executive Body, if an issue requires the attention of the full membership. At all meetings discussions are open and all matters are resolved by majority vote. As a consequence of the group’s substantial income and the contested social dynamics in the village, however, the rules of the MCWG are substantially more elaborate than those of Asociacíon Inkallaqta.

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Elections for the seven members who serve on the Executive Body of the MCWG are held every two years. Ten candidates for office are nominated by other members at the election meeting. Members are free to decline at the time of nomination, but should they accept nomination they are bound to serve, if elected, in any position to which they are elected. Voting is by secret ballot in an election supervised by a representative from the Belizean Women’s Department. Members vote for seven individuals and the seven top vote recipients serve on the Executive Body. The individual who receives the most votes is named Chairlady, followed in order of total votes received by a Vice Chair, Secretary, Assistant Secretary, Treasurer, Assistant Treasurer, and Counsellor. Thus, no individual runs for a particular office; she only agrees to serve in any capacity to which the group elects her. The Chairlady is seen as one of the four leading figures of the village, along with the head of the elementary school Parent-Teacher Association, the head of the Water Board, and the Village Chairman. The Executive Body oversees grant applications or construction decisions, serves as the point of interface for the MCWG with outside officials, and its members interact regularly with the BAS and other NGOs, and meet with women’s groups from elsewhere in the country that are seeking advice on setting up their own organizations. The Executive Body’s most important role, however, is to administer the group’s complex financial management arrangements, described next. The group has neither a written constitution nor bylaws, yet members are generally able to explain the rules of the group clearly and in depth. When a new member is admitted to membership in the MCWG, she is asked to sign a “contract” with the group agreeing to adhere to the following rules of the organization: ●

The family of each member of the MCWG is allotted a stack of three shelves (Figure 5.2) to display merchandise that the family offers for sale. The name of the crafts person is indicated on a

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tag affixed to each item, but not to the shelves themselves. Thus, the shop presents a consistent if unordered face to the visitor, offering an assortment of slate carvings, beadwork, wood carving, textiles, pottery, baskets, and other materials on each adjacent set of shelves. The tags on the individual items are used to record the owner and the price of the object in the record book for craft shop sales. There are no specific rules about the source of crafts sold in the shop, but the majority of products are made by MCWG members or their families. Each member is required to work without pay at the MCWG shop, in groups of three, for two consecutive day-long shifts and, on the two subsequent days, for 1 hour lunch relief shifts. On average, members work in the shop about three full days and three lunch shifts per month. If a member is unable to perform her shift duties, she is obligated to secure a replacement.

Figure 5.2 The artisans’ shop, Maya Centre Women’s Group.

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Ordinarily this is done through an exchange of shifts, but on occasion members with employment outside the village pay other members to work their shifts. Each member working a full-day shift at the shop is required to wear a traditionally embroidered Maya-style blouse and a skirt of traditional pattern. Members who work relief lunch shifts are not required to wear traditional garb. The shop and surrounding grounds are cleaned twice per month by a crew of MCWG members. Each member is required to participate with her assigned crew. No member may engage in any activity that competes with the group, such as selling craft items out of the home or offering corn milling services. Each member agrees that the MCWG is entitled to 10 percent of the sale proceeds from any craft item owned by that member. In addition, each member donates one craft item per quarter to each of two dedicated charitable sales shelves. Sales of items on one shelf benefit the Parent Teacher Association in the village school, while sales on the other shelf are retained by the MCWG for operating purposes. An express rule of the group is that members must be honest and willing to work together in a cooperative fashion, a critical injunction in light of the villages contentious social context.

Members are subject to specific sanctions for failure to adhere to the rules of the organization. The sanctions are graduated depending upon the nature and severity of the infraction. Specifically: ●

A fine of 20 Belize dollars is subtracted from the member’s sales proceeds if she fails to attend any meeting of the MCWG, fails to attend her scheduled cleaning shift, or fails to attend a work shift at the MCWG shop or to obtain a replacement.

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Members will be expelled from the group if they open competitive businesses. In recent years two members have been expelled for entering competing business activities. One opened a crafts shop in her home, while the other opened a competitive corn milling operation. Members whose attitudes are deemed uncooperative are first counselled by officers of the group. However, a member who fails to remediate the situation can be subject to expulsion. For infractions that are frequent, members of the MCWG report that sanctions are regularly invoked. Interestingly, no express sanction was articulated for infraction of the rule requiring traditional dress on full-day shifts, but during the author’s various visits to the MCWG over a three-year period, no member was ever observed wearing unapproved clothing while working on a day shift.

With total income in 2013 of over 118,000 Belize dollars, both the individual members and the group are highly dependent on a reliable and transparent system for managing the cash proceeds at the store. Not only are the craft sales proceeds important to members, but the group has used its own funds to finance capital projects, pay annual bonuses to members based on seniority, contribute money to support the materials needed by the elementary school in the village, and make other charitable contributions to villagers. In light of the fractious social context in Maya Centre, maintaining confidence in the group’s financial management has required creation of an ornate structure of cross-checks to reassure members that money is being handled honestly. The matter is complicated by the fact that there is no bank convenient to Maya Centre, requiring group members to hold and protect funds generated from sales at the MCWG shop. The group’s solution is that each member of a two-day shift is responsible to hold the proceeds from either the crafts, corn mill, or

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soda sales received during those days. Receipts from ticket sales to the BAS are delivered to a member of the Executive Body to hold. Sales in each category are recorded in separate account books that are permanently available for members to review at the craft shop (Figure 5.3). Thus, at any given time, most members are holding and personally accountable for a small portion of the group’s cash intake. They retain the cash at their homes, and are permitted to use or loan the cash to the extent that their crafts sales during the month will cover those amounts. Financial reconciliations are conducted at monthly meetings of the Executive Body. The group’s rules require that each member of the Executive Body must be present and that each must independently confirm the reconciliation of the sales reports and the attribution of craft sales revenues to each member. Amounts held by members for sales from the corn mill or beverage service similarly must be confirmed independently by each Executive Body member, each of

Figure 5.3 Maya Centre Women’s Group members in traditional dress. One is carving slate, the other reviewing the group’s sales books.

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whom also must reconcile sales of tickets to the CBWS and amounts owed to the BAS. Two days prior to the day set for members to deliver the funds they are holding, members receive text messages on their mobile phones informing them of the net amount they are to deliver to the Executive Body at the MCWG building. Members who fail to deliver funds remain liable to repay them and are subject to expulsion, although no such default has been reported. Although some members do complain that crafts sales occasionally are not properly recorded, a problem for which the group has not devised a solution, the fact that all transactions in the shop occur under the eyes of three members clearly helps to mitigate even this problem. Annual bonuses to members are determined by the Executive Body and allocated primarily based on tenure with the group. All payments to members are by check. The Chairman and Treasurer are jointly responsible for the check book, and two signatures are required on checks and bank deposit slips. Proceeds from sales of CBWS tickets are conveyed by two members of the committee to the bank in Dangriga, 30 minutes away by bus. As many as four members may participate when the group’s own income is deposited. In interviews, members offered various explanations for this procedure, though most emphasize a combination of poor security in Dangriga and distrust of that MCWG members will correctly deposit funds. All members are entitled to review and question the sales ledger books at every reconciliation meeting before distributions are made, and the books are available for review by members every day at the MCWG building. Members have been observed by the author to compute their own craft sales earnings while working in the shop as a routine activity. The group’s check book is available to Executive Body members and some other members report regular access to review the check book.

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MCWG and governance The MCWG, as was the case with Asociacíon Inkallaqta, exists to manage the exploitation of a common pool resource (CPR)—the flow of tourists through the village—in a manner that is both equitable and, by resolving disputes, sustainable. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the governance institutions of the MCWG, as in the previous case study of Asociacíon Inkallaqta, reflect most of the features identified by Ostrom for community management of CPRs. For example, the boundaries for participation are clearly defined: Membership in the MCWG is restricted to women over the age of 18 who have resided in the village of Maya Centre for at least one year. The elaborate rules through which the organization governs its membership are highly tuned to the complex and conflicted political and social conditions that exist in the village. In particular, the complex procedures the MCWG follows to manage its finances, its requirement that members cooperate harmoniously, and its election processes that discourage any form of factional or party politics, reflect the essential lack of trust among community members and a conscious effort by members to keep the inflamed politics of the village out of the operations of the MCWG. Collective choice arrangements are at the heart of the MCWG’s voting procedures, and Belizean law encourages villages to organize groups such as the MCWG. Monitoring of compliance with the rules of the organization is conducted by members themselves, primarily through the complete transparency to members of financial transactions, but also, in this very small village, through direct observation of forbidden competitive business activities. Sanctions for infractions of the rules are clear and graduated in accordance with severity of the infraction. Conflicts among the members are resolved within the organization through democratic procedures. Once again, the concordance with Ostrom’s principles is virtually complete.

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As in the case of Asociacíon Inkallaqta, however, the features of the MCWG also reflect the importance of governance features other than those on Ostrom’s list. The MCWG is integral to the economy of Maya Centre. Participation is the primary source of cash income to the members, enabling them to pay school tuitions and other family costs that otherwise would be beyond their reach. The governance institutions of the organization, as in Raqchi, are designed to prevent the accumulation of power in a few hands. Indeed, in the overheated political context of Maya Centre, the unusual electoral processes are structured to prevent factional infighting that would undermine the stability of the group. The MCWG, like Asociacíon Inkallaqta, relies upon an executive committee to manage the organization day to day, although the officers in Maya Centre are burdened with substantially more obligations. As with Asociacíon Inkallaqta, the leadership of the MCWG is rotated routinely through biannual elections. Finally, the financial activities of the group are subject to extreme transparency. A continuously available sales book enables each member to ascertain independently the amount she is owed, and the collective system for reconciling the books provides highly redundant verification by all officers that reporting is correct. What is distinctive about the MCWG, when compared to the Asociacíon Inkallaqta, is the influence of two characteristics of the Maya Centre situation. First, the enterprise is far more complex on the social and political dimension, requiring institutions that are creatively crafted to make collective management of the tourist trade possible in such an overtly uncongenial environment. Second, the greater financial complexity of the organization—not only in the fact that it handles relatively large sums of money outside of the banking system, but also in the fact that it has received external financial aid for which it must be accountable—introduced the need for the group to adopt mutually agreed financial controls to a degree unnecessary for the members of Asociacíon Inkallaqta. The differences among

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the four case studies along these two dimensions will, as this story progresses, become increasingly salient as indicators of the types of institutional features that may be necessary to sustain communitybased organizations.

6

The Burren Centre: A Heritage Interpretive Center in Ireland

Kilfenora, Ireland The Irish historian Thomas Bartlett (2010: 1–3) observed that the first “authentic” date in Irish history is the year 431, the year when Pope Celestine dispatched Palladius to the island to be its first Bishop and pave the way, a year later, for the far more renowned Patrick. However, Ireland’s history predates this first official arrival of Christianity by millennia. The first settlers probably arrived around 6000 BCE or earlier and migrated until they populated the entire island. Before Palladius’ arrival, Ireland had already been subjected to successive invasions from Iberia, c. 3000 BCE, from the Celts of northern Europe, c. 500 BCE, and from elsewhere as human migration reached the edges of the Atlantic Ocean (Hollis III 2001: 12–18). Ireland’s history subsequent to the arrival of Christianity was no less tumultuous (see Hollis III 2001; Bartlett 2010). The Christianized Ireland that is Patrick’s legacy erected important monasteries and church sites that blanketed the country by the end of the ninth century. However, the resulting structure of independent monasteries and autonomous chiefdoms made Ireland vulnerable in ensuing centuries to continuous invasion. Vikings arrived in 795 to sack the north of the country and moved on to dominate the island for 300 years. A more detailed discussion of The Burren Centre, including interview notes, is contained in the author’s PhD thesis (Gould 2014a). An early report on the Centre is included in Gould (2014b).

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As their power waned, concern about Ireland’s backward and anarchical state reached Rome, leading Pope Adrian IV in 1155 to authorize the Norman King Henry II of England to invade and subdue the island for the church, which he did with considerable success between 1169 and 1171. The English conquest began a period of British domination and Irish resistance, made more contentious when Henry VIII in the mid-1530s imposed the doctrines of the Protestant Church on traditionally Catholic Ireland. Varying degrees of colonial oppression and intense resistance continued in the north even after the southern counties of Ireland gained their independence in 1921. All of this history has left its imprint on the Burren, a patch of County Clare on the island’s western edge that is literally littered with Neolithic tomb sites, ancient ring forts, cathedral and monastery ruins, Medieval castles, and manor homes of every description. Each was built and in turn destroyed by monastics, invaders, colonizers, and local chiefs and elites, of pagan, Catholic, and Protestant persuasions. Moreover, this abundance of archaeological heritage is situated within a limestone karst environment that is host to a unique ecosystem of alpine and Mediterranean plants growing side by side in deep niches that fracture the barren limestone floor of the Burren. This chapter is about how one community in the Burren managed to build on this archaeological and natural heritage an institution that regenerated a struggling village and catalyzed prosperity based on heritage tourism for an entire region. The village of Kilfenora is located at the center of the Burren, close to the airport city of Shannon to the southeast, Galway Bay and the Aran Islands to the north, and the Cliffs of Moher, a World Heritage site, to the west (Figure 6.1). The small village center and numerous surrounding farms are home to about 460 people (Central Statistics Office 2011) and two grocery and farm supply stores, three pubs, a clothing store, a crafts and souvenir shop, a post office and a few rental accommodations, including a hostel and several apartments

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Galway

North Atlantic Ocean

Cliffs of Moher

Kilfenora Ennistimon

Shannon Limerick

Figure 6.1 Map showing the location of Kilfenora, Republic of Ireland.

or small houses that are rented to tourists. Historically a farming and cattle-rearing center, Kilfenora was for generations a primary market town as well as a commercial and religious center in western Ireland. Kilfenora lost its status as a diocese in 1750, but remained a market town until the latter decades of the nineteenth century. Then, when the West Clare Railway bypassed Kilfenora in favor of nearby Ennistymon, a period of steady decline ensued as markets shifted to the railhead. By the late 1960s, when the saga of the Burren Centre

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begins, Kilfenora had touched the bottom. Kilfenorans with memories of the time regularly describe the village in the 1960s as “derelict.” Kilfenora itself has no local government officials or services, which instead are provided by County Clare and the national government. Projects that benefit a single village in western Ireland often are initiated by village residents themselves. Despite its small population, Kilfenora boasts an impressive number of ambitious social projects created and substantially funded by locals. During field research, interviewees were asked to identify the three most important groups in the village. Collectively, Kilfenorans identified more than 20 separate voluntary organizations in this village of 460 persons. They range from a nationally recognized Céili band and music festival to athletic associations, youth and old-folks’ clubs, parade and holiday committees, and school and church parish councils. Some organizations, such as the Burren Centre and the cattle auction market, are structured as cooperatives run by management committees. One project, the “Deanery” community athletic facility, is a limited liability corporation, owned by shareholders from Kilfenora, that has been creatively funded through a lottery played principally by Kilfenora residents. Indeed, collective action to address community needs seems endemic in Kilfenora. Residents describe a culture in which one or a few local people identify a need, call a meeting to discuss it, organize a committee to administer the project, and then organize volunteers to raise money or execute the plans. This pattern has been replicated for such diverse projects as the town’s traditional music festival, the St. Patrick’s Day Parade, the Deanery athletic grounds, and many others, including the Burren Centre. Instigators of the projects are often drawn from a smaller cadre of community leaders who play roles in several organizations, but broad community participation is the norm. In all cases, the principal stakeholders in Kilfenora’s cooperative ventures, including the Burren Centre, are residents, an approach intended to

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ensure that control remains in the hands of Kilfenorans. Virtually all volunteer activities in the village subsist on local donations, which in Kilfenora’s more prosperous present are readily forthcoming for its diverse projects. Even those that receive outside grant aid (such as the Burren Centre and the Deanery) have been supported with local philanthropy. For example, a substantial portion of the total cost of constructing the original Burren Centre facility was funded from the sale of shares in its parent cooperative company. Kilfenora is archaeologically rich, with resources ranging from a collection of megalithic dolmen and tombs to an assortment of wedge tombs and ring forts within walking distance of the village. Although Kilfenora’s cathedral is in ruins today, the village hosts the largest collection of Celtic crosses in the country, which has earned it the tourist moniker “City of Crosses” (Figure 6.2). Archaeological resources in Ireland and preservation the county’s intangible heritage, especially the preservation of the Gaelic language, are supervised by the Department of Arts, Heritage and the Gaeltacht (DAHG 2013). More than 136,000 archaeological sites and monuments are recorded in the Archaeological Survey of Ireland (National Monuments Service 2017), yet only about 1,000 of those are under government guardianship. In the Burren region, the vast majority of sites are located on private land, and protection of privately owned archaeological resources in Ireland is left to the owners themselves, creating a vast local and publicly accessible heritage resource for the tourist trade. The economy of the Kilfenora area has been dependent in recent decades on the rearing of cattle and sheep and on cereal farming (often for cattle feed), but tourism has played a substantial role. Tourism into Ireland as a whole is a smaller proportion of Ireland’s €163 billion GDP than it is in Peru or Belize. Taking all impacts into account, the World Travel & Tourism Council (WTTC) estimates that tourism’s contribution to GDP and employment is almost 6 percent

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Figure 6.2 One of the Celtic crosses that earned Kilfenora’s moniker, “The City of Crosses,” displayed in the ruins of Kilfenora Cathedral.

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and accounted for €10.5 billion in visitor exports and 119,000 jobs in 2017 (WTTC 2017b). However, tourism is far more important in County Clare, the home of the Burren Centre. Officials have estimated that as much as 13 percent of total employment in the county may be ascribed to tourism-related businesses (C. Gleason, interview, April 2012). Aside from the Cliffs of Moher, a World Heritage site, the key archaeological and natural heritage resources of the county are embedded in the Burren, and Kilfenora has established itself as the gateway to the Burren through the tourist traffic attracted to the exhibits at the Burren Centre. As a result, the Centre is the largest single employer in the village.

The Burren Centre and the Comhar The Burren Centre was created in 1975 (Connole 2006: 5) by residents in three Burren villages: Kilfenora, Carron—located in the center of what is now the Burren National Park—and New Quay to the north on Galway Bay. Legally known as the Burren Display Centre, Ltd., the center is the primary activity of the Comhar Conradh na Boirne Teoranta (the “Comhar”), a cooperative company organized to pursue economic development in the Burren region. The founders’ original idea was to build an interpretive center, on the site of a derelict school building on the main square in Kilfenora, that would make Kilfenora the first stop for tourists seeking to explore the region’s natural and archaeological heritage. They intended to expand from that foundation to create a variety of other businesses. In fact, several other ventures were started, but all failed over the years, and only the Burren Centre has persisted. Thus, although technically the Burren Display Centre, Ltd. is a subsidiary company of the Comhar, the two are for all practical purposes one and the same. In the remainder of this book, reference will be made to the Comhar in all matters relating

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to legal structures and governance, and to the Burren Centre with regard to the facility and the actual activities of the organization. The decade of the 1960s, when Kilfenora was at its nadir, was also a period when the west of Ireland was at the early stages of a revival led by the growing importance to international air travel of Shannon Airport, some 50 kilometers to the southeast near Limerick. Shannon had become a refueling stop and freight hub for the emerging transatlantic airline industry, and had opened a dutyfree zone to encourage local development. The chief executive of the Shannon Development Corporation, Brendan O’Reagan, saw the opportunity to develop tourism in the counties surrounding Limerick as a potential means to offset the decline of rural communities in the region, as had occurred in Kilfenora. As participants tell the story, in 1969 O’Reagan was invited by a committee of citizens concerned about Kilfenora’s decline to attend a play about the future of the region, “The West’s Awake.” Impressed, he offered to assist the village. He turned to Brian Mooney, a young employee of the Limerick Adult Education Institute whom O’Reagan had hired, to settle for a year in a local community and identify opportunities for rural development. Mooney was dispatched to Kilfenora to find and implement a project (Connole 2006: 8). Mooney began his work with a series of educational lectures in the town. At the same time, he met with local figures and slowly assembled a committee to organize a tourism project. Mooney and the local leaders saw a tourism opportunity in the fact that “nobody knew about the Burren at that time” (B. Mooney, interview, July 2012). The strategy he proposed for tourism development was to create an “interpretive center,” a place for tourists to learn about the ecology and archaeological heritage of the Burren before journeying on to discover it for themselves. Mooney engaged in an extended dialog about possible ventures with the local sponsors from Kilfenora and other community leaders from villages throughout the area,

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pivotally including Kilfenora’s parish priest and a widely respected “village elder” Kilfenora farmer. The group he assembled decided to support the construction of an interpretive center about the Burren in Kilfenora. The Burren Centre has benefitted throughout its history from government aid, especially for capital projects. A portion of the £26,000 required in 1975 to refurbish the school building and construct the exhibit was raised from about 300 individuals who subscribed £5 per share to become shareholders in the Comhar, and labor was provided by local volunteers. However, the majority of the funds came from a grant from Bord Failte, an Irish tourism development authority. About 80 percent of the Comhar’s original shareholders lived in Kilfenora, while 10 percent lived in each of Carron and New Quay. The Burren Centre’s building, which opened in 1975, housed a model of the Burren and other exhibits through which visitors were guided by local students. The Comhar acquired two adjacent buildings in 1981, using profits from the Burren Centre’s operations and bank loans. They were converted into tearooms and a retail craft shop to serve Burren Centre visitors and the local community. In 2001, following the resolution of the Mullaghmore crisis that is discussed next, the Comhar received a £1 million grant from the Irish government to expand the Burren Centre building and reset the interpretive exhibition in its present form (Figure 6.3). Several temporary employees are subsidized through government grants each year. County Clare receives about 430,000 visitors annually, making it among the most-visited tourism regions of Ireland (Arkins 2010: 4). The Burren Centre was the first prominent project in the growth of tourism in Ireland’s midwest, and it is commonly credited with sparking the Burren’s tourism industry. Within a year, two of the founders of the Burren Centre project had launched a new venture in the northern Burren close to Galway, the Aillwee Cave. Mooney himself relocated permanently to the Burren region and acquired

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Figure 6.3 Interior of the Burren Centre exhibit: Interactive map of the Burren region and historic dioramas.

a site in the heart of the Burren, where he founded the Burren Perfumery, which created fragrances using the Burren’s unique collection of flora and offered visitors a tearoom restaurant set in the middle of the Burren landscape. Later, owners of the Aillwee Cave began to produce cheese for sale using milk from a local farmer, also a Comhar shareholder, who himself became inspired in the mid-1990s to open a private archaeological park, restaurant, and archaeological field school on his property, which includes the Caherconnell ring fort archaeological site (Comber 2012). Today, the Burren Centre’s display, tearooms, and craft shop are open to visitors from 10 am to 5 pm everyday. Although deeply affected by the 2007–2008 global financial crisis, which devastated Ireland’s economy, the center bounced back and achieved financial breakeven by 2009. In the recent years, paid visitors to the Burren Centre’s exhibit space have hovered around 30,000 visitors, totals that do not include crafts shoppers or tearoom customers. In a typical

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recent year, the Burren Centre reported gross turnover of about €240,000 (Comhar 2010), of which somewhat more than one-third is derived from government grants that support the salaries of some summer employees at the Burren Centre. The remaining income is earned primarily from admission fees to the exhibit, and from sales in the retail shop and tearooms. This income stream supports a permanent staff of five that escalates to around eighteen seasonally, making it the largest single employer in Kilfenora by a wide margin. Seasonal workers typically are school students from Kilfenora and neighboring villages who rotate responsibilities across the shop, tearooms and visitor galleries. Employment was flat, both full-time and seasonally, for the five years to 2012. Today, the Burren Centre may be characterized as self-sufficient on an operating basis but reliant on external support for major capital improvements. Because some of the summer youth positions are subsidized by the county government, it is also dependent on government aid for some portion of the employment it provides to local youths. Unlike Asociacíon Inkallaqta, discussed in Chapter 4, or the Maya Centre Women’s Group (MCWG), discussed in Chapter 5, the Comhar’s structure, rules, sanctions and decision-making systems were not derived from distinctive local practices or conditions. Rather, the Comhar’s governance rules were adopted wholesale from legal documents developed by the Irish Cooperative Organisation Society, Ltd. (ICOS), which offers a model “constitution” for the use of newly formed Irish cooperatives. The Comhar owns all of the assets of The Burren Display Centre, Ltd. and operates the center through its management structure (Connole 2006: 5). Technically, the Comhar is a for-profit entity, though it has never declared a dividend. Cooperative structures are deeply rooted in the traditional way of conducting collaborative projects in rural Ireland and gain legitimacy from that tradition as well as from Kilfenora’s traditional approach to conducting its community-based projects.

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The Comhar adopted the model ICOS constitution in 1975 and updated it most recently in 1983 (Comhar 1983). Both officers and shareholders of the Comhar typically point to the constitution as the source of all governance procedures. Voting rights are held by shareholders in the Comhar, and there are no restrictions on eligibility to purchase shares other than a minimum age requirement. Shares were available for purchase in 2012 for €10 each by any person over the age of 16, regardless of residence. However, the Comhar has not solicited new shareholders for many years and rarely adds to its shareholder list. Indeed, many of the original shareholders are now deceased and numerous discrepancies exist in the official shareholder list, including several names of deceased individuals whose families had asked that they not be removed as shareholders. The result is a very ambiguous shareholder roster, a fact that seems not to trouble Comhar shareholders or residents of Kilfenora. The rules of the Comhar are spelled out in the constitution: ●

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The organization must hold an annual general meeting (AGM) once each year, on no less than 8 days’ notice to all members, in order to elect officers, review financial statements and conduct other business. A quorum of members that is sufficient for the general meetings to conduct business is defined as no fewer than ten persons. Each shareholder has only one vote in shareholder meetings, regardless of the number of shares held. Votes at all meetings are to be held by hand unless five members request a secret ballot. The organization’s day-to-day management is overseen by a Committee of Management (the “Committee”) consisting of thirteen members elected by the shareholders at the AGM. Upon the written petition of 20 percent of the shareholders, the secretary must call a special general meeting (SGM) within 14 days to address only the issues specifically stipulated in the shareholders’ petition. The constitution itself can be amended

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only by a vote of two-thirds of the members present at a SGM called for that purpose. The Comhar must conduct an annual audit of its financial performance and present the audit results at the AGM for approval by the members. Policy decisions authorized by the constitution and the interpretation of the constitution itself are reserved to the Committee. In a dispute over interpretations, differences may be arbitrated by ICOS.

In principle, there are to be nine members of the Committee from Kilfenora, and two each from Cairn and New Quay, although in practice few members living outside of Kilfenora have been willing to serve in recent years. Candidates for the Committee must be nominated by another shareholder five days in advance of the AGM. Committee members’ terms are staggered over a three-year cycle, resulting in annual elections for one-third of the members. Committee members are limited to serving two consecutive threeyear terms, after which members must step down for one year. All shareholders over the age of 21 are eligible to serve on the Committee except under two conditions. First, Article 5 requires that a person who is engaged in a business that competes with the activities of the Comhar may not serve. In practice, this provision has excluded from membership the owner of the other crafts shop in the village and the owners of Kilfenora’s public houses. Second, the constitution specifically precludes members who are bankrupt, of unsound mind, in arrears in payment to the Comhar, or have been disqualified for attendance reasons from serving on the Committee. Each year, the members of the Committee elect the officers of the Comhar, which include a chairman, treasurer, secretary, and occasional assistant officers. Although the constitution provides for members of the Committee to be paid, in fact are all volunteers.

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The general manager of the Burren Centre, a paid position, reports to the Committee. Decisions relating to the operation of the Burren Centre, crafts shop and tearooms are made by the general manager in consultation with the Committee. The Committee is the body responsible for executing the policies and directing the operations and managing the financial condition of the Comhar and its business. The Committee is required to approve all businesses carried on by the Comhar, all employees hired or dismissed, and all rates of compensation, although it has the right to delegate tasks to the general manager. All cash and banking transactions are managed by the general manager, although checks must be signed by two Committee members. Banking is with a branch bank located in Kilfenora. The constitution requires that the Committee meet at least monthly, with additional special meetings callable on 48 hours’ notice to the members. The Committee has the right to replace members who leave the Committee during their term of office, but only until the subsequent AGM. Shareholders of the Comhar report that decision making is quite formal at both Committee and shareholder meetings. The Committee has resisted changes to or variances from the rules of the constitution. For example, during the 2001 reconstruction of the exhibit, the six-year term limit for the sitting chairman expired. Committee members debated altering the constitution to enable him to supervise completion of the project, as was requested by some shareholders at the AGM in 2000. Ultimately, the Committee chose to abide by the constitution and replace the chairman. The limited array of rules in the constitution of the Comhar has resulted in a very short list of infractions and sanctions: ●

Shareholders may be expelled for “conduct detrimental to the Society” by two-thirds of the shareholders present at a special meeting for the purpose. No member has ever been expelled for this reason.

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Article 5, which prevents competitors from serving on the Committee, has led a few members to withdraw from active involvement with the Comhar. However, those withdrawals were not mandated by the organizations’ rules. Two founders left the Committee after forming a competitive business, yet one remains a shareholder of the Comhar. Members of the Committee may be removed from office due to personal physical or financial challenges; however, no member of the Committee has ever been disqualified for these reasons.

The Comhar has faced two crises in its existence. The first arose in 1991 when the European Community made funding available for four tourist centers in Ireland. National government officials sought to situate one of them adjacent to Mullaghmore Mountain in the heart of undeveloped Burren land, less than 15 kilometers from Kilfenora. The battle against Mullaghmore was won by the Burren Action Group, an independent group from a nearby town that premised its successful legal challenge on preserving undeveloped Burren lands (Irish Times 2002). In Kilfenora, the Mullaghmore facility was seen as a mortal threat to the Burren Centre. The Comhar’s shareholders were activated, but they were deeply divided over the correct response. Fearful of alienating powerful government funders in a situation with an uncertain outcome, the Comhar’s governing Committee trod carefully and opposed the Mullaghmore project while seeking to negotiate a contingency funding arrangement at the same time. Others in the community believed that more aggressive opposition was essential. Ultimately, nearly 50 percent of the shareholders turned out for a 1991 SGM on the topic. Most supported the Committee’s position while others in the community argued for a more combative stance. Debate at that meeting was vigorous, but the Committee’s position prevailed in an open vote (Comhar 1975–2012). When the legal fight ended and the Mullaghmore project finally died in 2000, a

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new Irish government provided £1 million in funding to the Comhar to acquire additional land and construct a new interpretive center, which opened in 2001 (Connole 2006: 8). The Comhar’s second crisis occurred in 1993 and was a consequence of the Mullaghmore dispute. Local business owners, who were fearful that the Burren Centre might fail, sought to eliminate Article 5, the provision in the Comhar’s governing constitution that averts conflicts of interest by preventing shareholders who also are owners of competing local businesses from sitting on the Comhar’s governing Committee. Although protagonists interviewed from each side differ regarding the others’ motivations, they are unanimous that their mutual concern was to ensure continued life for the Burren Centre itself. This dispute led to shareholder calls in 1993 for another SGM. That meeting also featured a large shareholder turnout and robust debate. After the only secret ballot vote recorded on the Comhar’s minute books, Article 5 was retained in the constitution, and competitors remain barred from the Committee to the present day (Comhar 1975–2012). With the end to these crises, contention among the Comhar’s shareholders moderated and today attendance at the Comhar’s AGMs is sparse. To many in Kilfenora, this fact reflects a high level of comfort with the Comhar’s current operations and must be viewed in a community context where most people seem to take an active role only when they feel that crucial interests are at stake.

The Comhar and governance The governance institutions of the Comhar clearly are quite different from those of Asociacíon Inkallaqta or the MCWG, particularly in relation to Ostrom’s governance principles for common pool resources (CPRs). For example, there are no boundaries delimiting who may or

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may not become a shareholder in the Comhar. Furthermore, while the rules for the organization are rooted in Ireland’s history of cooperative ventures, and the voluntary and local roots of the organization are deeply resonant with practices in the Kilfenora community, the essential structure of the organization—a standard-form cooperative constitution—is quite generic and built on corporate management traditions in the United Kingdom and its former colonies. The Comhar is governed democratically through the AGMs, at which the Committee is elected and major issues decided, but the shareholders assign to the Committee nearly total authority for operations, and today participation in the AGMs is often sparse. The democratic structure is available and has been used as the means to resolve internal disputes among members, but ordinarily shareholders are content to leave management to the Committee. The authority for the organization to exist and operate is plainly embedded in Irish laws, as Ostrom’s principles require. However, the minimal number of rules and sanctions for infractions, including a lack of graduated sanctions, differs markedly from the prior case studies. There are important parallels with the Asociacíon Inkallaqta and MCWG projects, however. The Comhar, like the others, manages its affairs through an executive group that rotates its membership on a regular schedule. Voting rules preclude the accumulation of power in an individual or faction by limiting each shareholder to one vote regardless of the number of shares held. Financial management, through the published audits required of all Irish companies and through the regular financial reports provided to the Committee, ensure a degree of transparency that is deemed satisfactory by the shareholders in the community. Most importantly, the flow of tourists through the Burren Centre has been as essential to the economic prosperity of Kilfenora as was the case in the previous two case studies. However, the Comhar’s purpose is quite different. Rather than seeking to regulate community members’ access to the flow of tourists and the

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associated revenue stream, as in MCWG and Asociacíon Inkallaqta, the Comhar’s objective is simply to entice tourists to visit Kilfenora and encourage their spending at the center’s facilities and those of competitors in Kilfenora and beyond. This distinction is crucial. Tourists are the CPR that the MCWG and Asociacíon Inkallaqta exist to manage. There is no CPR in Kilfenora. Rather, the Comhar, in mission and in structure, more resembles a nonprofit corporation or social enterprise in the United States or the United Kingdom. When viewed through the lens of nonprofit best practices, the governance institutions of the Comhar are entirely sensible in the context of this community. Kilfenora residents view the social environment of the village as harmonious and a high degree of trust prevails among community members. Many smaller voluntary organizations in Kilfenora operate quite informally. It is the scale of the Burren Centre’s financial and operational complexity that may tip the balance toward a more corporatized institutional structure for the Comhar. Unlike the organizations described in the two previous chapters, which in practical terms are cooperatives of entrepreneurs, the Burren Centre is a substantial local business with permanent employees, significant cash income and expenses, and occasional resort either to government or NGO grants, or to private loans. Government agencies and commercial banks typically require a more formalized institutional structure in organizations receiving such funding. The financial operations of the Comhar, which are materially more complex than those at Asociacíon Inkallaqta or the MCWG, make a more legally formal, corporatized form for the organization a practical necessity. The social and political situation in Kilfenora, however, enables those formal institutions to operate with considerable laxity.

7

I Parchi della Val di Cornia: A Cluster of Heritage Sites in Italy

The Val di Cornia Central Italy is renowned for its stark beauty, outdoor recreation, hospitality, and food, always to be found embedded in the country’s rich trove of historical treasures. Nowhere is this more true than in the Val di Cornia, a wedge-shaped region in the province of Livorno, to the southwest of the Tuscan centers of Florence and Siena. The area is fringed with sandy beaches on the Atlantic coastline that rise steeply into hill towns with roots in the Etruscan, Roman, and Medieval eras (Figure 7.1). Off shore from the leading city in the region, Piombino, lies Elba, to which Napoleon Bonaparte was exiled in 1814, and from which he emerged one year later to meet his Waterloo. The towns surrounding Piombino found their roots in the rich mineral wealth of the region, a source of iron, copper, silver, and lead, that were first exploited by the Etruscans and the Romans, and later served as the wealth engine for Medieval Florence and Siena. The scenery is rugged, rich with forest lands and brilliant views of sea and countryside. Village centers are well preserved from Medieval and earlier times, replete with the narrow, twisting streets harboring hostels and restaurants that have come to characterize Tuscany and central Italy in the popular imagination. This chapter was written with the collaboration of Anna Paterlini, my research partner in the Val di Cornia. Aspects of the Val di Cornia research have been presented previously in Gould and Paterlini (2017) and in Labadi and Gould (2015).

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Florence Pisa Livorno

Ligurian Sea Siena

Val di Cornia Region Piombino

Elba

Figure 7.1 Map of the region including the Val di Cornia, Tuscany, Italy.

For much of the period following the Second World War, the Val di Cornia’s mineral resources once again became the vehicle for economic development in the region. Mines that have been worked

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since the Etruscan period, 400–100 BCE, were revived to meet growing demand, in particular for iron, to support the post-Second World War industrial recovery of Italy. Steel processing became the leading industry in the region. All this came to an end, however, late in the twentieth century, when steel production became globally more competitive and Italy’s older mines and processing operations lost their local advantage. The ensuing consolidation of the steel industry in the last decades of the twentieth century dealt a final blow to the economic foundations of the Val di Cornia region. Within twenty years, over 7,000 jobs in plants and mines were eliminated (Guideri & Gasperini 2011), causing unemployment in the region to approach 14 percent by 1991 (Burgalassi, Freschi & Bourou 2009). The economic health of the entire region required a new approach. That was to be found in the area’s rich natural and archaeological heritage. The results are evident throughout the Val di Cornia today. Piombino, still the administrative and political center of the region, hosts millions of visitors in transit to Elba, at least a few of whom stop to tour the city’s ancient ramparts and the museums opened in recent years. To the east of Piombino lies Sterpaia, a developed set of beaches enjoyed by domestic and foreign visitors. To its north, St. Vincenzo is a seaside resort favored by Italians, Germans, and others for sandy beaches, seafront hotels, restaurants in every price range, shopping, and the other distractions prized in a seaside holiday. Further up the coast, on the headland of a protected inlet, stand the Etruscan and Roman ruins of Baratti and Populonia, the two most ancient sites in a region now well developed as a destination for Italians and foreign tourists. Inland, the Medieval hilltop town of Campiglia Marittima is the gateway to the archaeological site of Rocca San Silvestro (Figure 7.2), the best-preserved Medieval mining site in Italy. In more remote areas, close to the towns of Suvereto and Sassetta, are large forest parks ideal for hiking and picnicking. In other words, the Val di Cornia has become a tourist destination with

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Figure 7.2 The ruins of Rocca San Silvestro, the Medieval mining village component of I Parchi della Val di Cornia, Tuscany, Italy.

an extraordinary breadth of attractions. The economic resurrection experienced by these communities is due, in large measure, to the creation of a regional cluster of archaeological sites, museums, and natural parks known as I Parchi della Val di Cornia.

Parchi Val di Cornia SpA The genesis of the Val di Cornia park system lies in a response to the 1990s crisis by Italian archaeologist Riccardo Francovich of the University of Siena. For many years, Francovich had led excavations at the mining site of Rocca San Silvestro, documenting its historic role across the centuries and the complex economic life of a town critical to the prosperity of Central Italy (Francovich 1991). As the

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region around Rocca San Silvestro began to decline, Francovich recognized the potential for tourism to provide the foundation for a new economy—if the natural and archaeological resources of the region could be harnessed into a compelling, unified offering. Through negotiations with the political and commercial leadership in the region and beyond, Francovich eventually consolidated support to create the entity he envisioned: a park system encompassing all of the natural and archaeological resources of the region. Francovich was building on the fact that, beginning in the 1970s, the coastal and archaeological sites in the Val di Cornia had been designated as protected areas, parchi territoriali, by the Italian government (Guideri & Gasperini 2011). In the subsequent decade, new planning requirements imposed by the Italian government established protective guidelines that further insulated these untouched natural areas from development (Zucconi 2003). Thus, when Francovich began taking steps to organize the park system, many of the resources he envisioned as part of it were already under the protective care of government regulations. What was needed was a vehicle to spark the economic renewal. The vehicle for creating this cluster of archaeological sites, natural parks, and museums was a new, region-wide public–private partnership, Parchi Val di Cornia SpA (PVdC) (Casini & Zucconi 2003). As originally conceived, Francovich’s park system was to be unique in Italy in at least three respects. First, it would incorporate both archaeological and natural resources under a single management and promotional organization. Second, rather than leave management of archaeological resources in government hands, the park system itself would administer the archaeological sites under the supervision of the Soprintendenza, Italy’s government agency that manages most of its cultural heritage. Third, the new enterprise would be a joint venture of public entities and private businesses that would be organized as a for-profit private company, not a direct arm of any national or local

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government. It was an early, and in Italy rare, experiment in public– private partnership (PPP). By 1993, Francovich had persuaded the five principal villages in the Val di Cornia, Piombino, San Vincenzo, Campiglia Marittima, Suvereto, and Sassetta, to participate in the new venture. Together with the provincial government of Livorno, they became the founding government partners in the new venture, PVdC. Fifteen private enterprises from around the region—businesses in the hospitality, construction, information technology, and consulting industries— joined the Livorno chamber of commerce and the municipal government bodies as investors in PVdC. The company’s objectives were to acquire control over the archaeological sites, beach parks, and forest parks for the system, administer those parks, conserve the archaeological and natural resources, and conduct research on the archaeological sites. Although the form of the new venture was novel, with investors from public and private entities managed by a board of directors drawn from both groups, such structures were legal in Italy at the time and provided the necessary framework to build a tourist industry in the valley (Grassi 2003; Insolera 2003; Petri 2003). Initially, the park system managed only the archaeological site at the Medieval mining town of Rocca San Silvestro, opened in 1996, and the state-owned Etruscan and Roman archaeological parks of Baratti and Populonia, which opened in 1998. Since then, the park system has grown dramatically. In 2001, the park opened an archaeological museum in Piombino, featuring artifacts from Populonia. Shortly after, two beach parks were added, one at Sterpaia near Piombino in 2002 and a second, Rimigliano near San Vincenzo, in 2003. The first forest park, Montioni near Suvereto, opened in 2002 and the second, Poggio Neri near Sassetta, opened in 2008. In 2005, the park renovated the Villa Lanzi, a Medieval structure originally built by Cosimo de Medici, and converted it into an archaeological documentation center. An ore car train ride through the underground mines at Rocca San

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Silvestro opened in 2006, followed by a museum and archaeological site in Campiglia Marittima in 2008 and a final museum, featuring locally discovered ceramic artifacts, that opened in Piombino in 2013 (Figure 7.3). To finance this expansion, more than €25 million has

Figure 7.3 Exhibit of Medieval household pottery in the Val di Cornia park system’s Museo del Castello e delle Ceramiche Medievali, Piombino, Italy.

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been invested in the park system, of which one-half came from the European Community, 44 percent from internally generated or local resources, and smaller amounts from Italian foundations, typically bank foundations (PVdC 2017b). As Francovich anticipated, this investment in a diverse array of tourist amenities contributed significantly to the emergence of the Val di Cornia as a prime tourist destination in Central Italy. Visitors to the region have increased steadily from 190,000 in 2000 to 310,000 in 2014 (ONT 2014). Research by Paterlini (2012) demonstrated the widespread geographic appeal of the park system, which draws tourists from as far away as Germany as well as Italian locals. The clustering of a network of sites into a single geographic offering (Gould & Paterlini 2017) has led to longer stays in the region as tourists can enjoy beach vacations, archaeological tourism, nature walks, and museum visits from a single convenient location. The opportunity for tourists to visit museums and archaeological sites when beach conditions were unfavorable was reported by local business owners to cushion the impact on the region from unfavorable weather in 2014. From an economic development standpoint, the Val di Cornia park system has been an unequivocal success, a result acknowledged with numerous national awards for innovation in heritage management (PVdC 2017c) and dozens of appearances around the country to explain the park concept to other Italian municipalities (PVdC 2017d). Despite its operational and economic development successes, however, the governance history of the parks is chequered. The original public–private partnership structure enabled full engagement by the various community governments and private-sector organizations that were investors in the venture, and facilitated the expansion of the enterprise under the management of the PVdC’s board of directors and professional staff. That promising start to the business was interrupted in 2007 (Guideri & Gasperini 2011). In 2004, the Italian government revised its laws regarding the management of archaeological heritage

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and expressly disallowed the involvement of private parties in the management of archaeological sites (Parliament of Italy 2004: Article 115). Since the park system had assumed responsibility for both the Medieval site at Rocca San Silvestro and, more importantly to the Soprintendenza, the Etruscan and Roman sites at Baratti and Populonia, park officials faced the choice either to give up their control of the parks or to remove the private-sector partners in the park corporation. After a period of review, the municipalities chose the latter course in 2007 and acquired the shares of all private shareholders (except one extremely small shareholder who refused to sell). Piombino, the largest and wealthiest of the five municipalities, provided most of the funds and so became the controlling shareholder in the restructured PVdC (Guideri & Gasperini 2011). By 2017, the formal capital structure of the system was dominated by Piombino and all shareholders except the five municipalities had been removed from the company. The consequences of this restructuring were modest at first. The park system’s expansion and success at supporting tourist growth in the region required only modest financial subsidies from the shareholding communities. Admission fees to the parks, fees from concessionaires at the beaches, the train ride at Rocca San Silvestro, and amenities such as restaurants and gift shops, all contributed to the financial sustainability of the system. By 2011, the park’s internal revenues covered 95 percent of its operating costs (Gould & Paterlini 2017), requiring only modest annual contributions from the shareholder communities to balance the system’s books. However, that result depended on the 44 percent of the park system’s revenue generated from parking fees paid by tourists who visited the beach park at Sterpaia (Gould & Paterlini 2017). These fees were collected by the city of Piombino but passed back to the park system for its purposes—until 2012. By that year, the Italian government’s financial condition had deteriorated markedly following the global financial crisis and

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ensuing recession that began in 2007, compelling it to seek assistance from the European Union and the International Monetary Fund. As a condition of that aid, international bankers imposed severe austerity measures on Italy, as they did on Greece in the same period. Among other actions, the Italian government eliminated an entire level of subnational government agencies and sharply reduced contributions to local governments. Piombino was particularly adversely affected by these reductions. Faced with demands from constituents to continue services threatened by the loss of national funding, Piombino’s municipal government recognized a potential windfall opportunity in the car parking fees collected at the Sterpaia beach park, and announced plans to withhold the fee for 2012 and subsequent years’ income from the park system while leaving the expenses of managing the beach and car parks with the park system. This was a devastating financial blow to the PVdC. In principle, following the restructuring in 2007, deficits in the park system’s finances were to be covered through contributions from the five municipalities that were partners in the venture. Contribution amounts were set in proportion to the population in each town. In 2012, however, none of the other municipalities agreed to additional contributions to replace funds withheld by Piombino, leading to a drastic shortfall in revenues for the year. Park management was compelled to undertake a substantial restructuring. Spending and employee headcount, including management positions, were reduced, and seasonal operating hours were curtailed at some of the parks and museums. Ensuing years produced continuing deficits accompanied by continuing reductions in costs and services. By 2015, the operating agreement among the partner communities had effectively broken down, and the park system’s finances were approaching insolvency (L. Sbrilli and M. Gasparini, interviews, July 2015). The organization generated sufficient income to fund two-thirds of its reduced budget in 2016, with the balance covered by the five municipalities. This

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was accomplished despite Piombino’s unilateral decision in the final months of the year to withhold about 7 percent of the park’s budget, requiring unanticipated adjustments by the park staff close to the end of the fiscal year (F. Ghizzani Marcía, interview, March 2017). The financial problems facing the system unmasked a serious, unrecognized consequence of the 2007 decision to remove private parties from the park system’s governance structure. That was the loss of a deep connection between the park system and the businesses and residents of the five shareholding municipalities. An essential feature of an effectively managed cluster of tourist sites is the construction of a network of relationships among site managers, local businesses, and local residents. Such networks provide a means to balance contending political forces within the community, ensure support for the venture among voters and businesses, and coordinate the activities and investments that create a successful tourist experience (Dredge 2006; Wray 2011; Gould & Paterlini 2017). In the case of the Val di Cornia park system, the removal of private shareholders in 2007 converted the public–private partnership into a government-run organization with limited connection to local communities. Although the park system’s literature and promotional activities have stressed the broad base of tourism attractions across the Val di Cornia, and these efforts share credit for the resulting growth of tourism in the valley, managers of the park system conceded in 2015 that they had little or no direct engagement with local business partners. As a result, as the national financial crisis found its way to the park system’s doorstep, park administrators found that they had inadequate community political support to counterbalance the pressure from a dominant shareholder seeking to withhold revenues at the expense of the Parchi della Val di Cornia system. In the wake of this crisis, the park system has reoriented its marketing approach, collaborating with local businesses to take a more active role in tourist promotion for the Val di Cornia region

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(Gould & Paterlini 2017). Previously, this work had been performed, but was abandoned, by the regional government of Livorno. In 2014, the park’s management established connections with local restauranteurs, hotel owners, and other tourism leaders, inviting them to visit the parks and to collaborate in a newly aggressive promotional program. Shortly after, tourist businesses in the region organized a new, privately funded tourist promotion agency, the objective of which is to increase visitation to the Val di Cornia as a whole. Business owners felt a private-sector promotional effort would be more effective at promoting the region than relying on the park system itself. However, the park system is a full member of this group, and the new president of PVdC, who was installed in 2016, is its president. Meanwhile, the park system’s properties—the archaeological sites, beaches, forest parks, and museums—continue to be the heart of the Val di Cornia’s success as a tourist destination. Thus, it is not the concept of the system, nor even its execution, that threatens the sustainability of I Parchi della Val di Cornia. It is its governance structure. PVdC is a for-profit corporation organized under Italian law and governed through a board of directors comprised of three persons including the president of the park system, who is the only paid director. Because of its for-profit status, the park corporation is not eligible to receive tax-exempt charitable funding to support its operations, and it is required to pay 22 percent value-added taxes on income from concessions and other services, although not on the sales of tickets to the park’s own sites and museums. The official governance rules of the organization are spelled out in its Statuto (PVdC 2007), which prescribes formal procedures for electing directors and making decisions for the corporation. The Statuto was revised most recently in 2007 following the restructuring of the organization in the wake of the national government’s 2004 policy change, which required the removal of the private shareholders from the park system.

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In recent years, the governance of the park system has departed markedly from the formalities prescribed in the Statuto. The governance system that emerged in the wake of the 2012 crisis has become highly informal (F. Ghizzani Marcía, interview, March 2017). For example, the park system’s ownership was officially restructured in 2016 to exclude three minority shareholders, leaving only the five founding municipalities, yet no mechanism for repurchasing those shares had been defined by early 2017. Members of the board, including the president, are appointed through informal agreement by the mayors of the five municipalities without either a shareholder vote or other formal mechanism. Each board member may serve up to three terms of three years each, for a total of nine years. However, the board is largely inactive, leaving direction on budgets and administrative actions to be delivered informally by the mayors of the municipalities to the president. Annual budgets are prepared by the park’s administrative staff and presented to a meeting of the mayors, who negotiate among themselves concerning the level of funding to be provided to the park system by each town. There is today no agreed-upon formula for sharing funding obligations among the municipalities, and one, San Vincenzo, has stopped making any payments. In short, the park system is directed by the political leadership of the five municipalities with little regard to the formalities of corporate governance.

Parchi Val di Cornia SpA and governance Quite clearly, the governance structure of PVdC is far different from small-scale community economic development projects built on Ostrom’s CPR model. It also stretches beyond the conventional nonprofit corporation model in evidence in the governance of the Burren Centre in Kilfenora. The Val di Cornia project instead

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illuminates both the potential for, and the practical pitfalls of, public– private partnerships. Archaeological and heritage development projects that involve multiple sites, multiple constituencies, and substantial financial and operational complexity create governance challenges that are different from those in smaller communities, but no less critical. This is not to suggest that there are no parallels between the Val di Cornia and the other projects presented in this book. First and foremost, inspired local leadership is a common denominator among the four sites. The Val di Cornia park system was an initiative of a local leader, in this case the archaeologist from Siena, Riccardo Francovich, who devoted his career to the archaeology of the region that includes the Val di Cornia. As in the three other cases, individuals with a strong vision for community economic development martialed local leaders, with outside assistance in Ireland, to create viable enterprises. These are not projects instigated from the top down by government officials or other experts. They are local initiatives led by local individuals who have a firm understanding of local conditions. Furthermore, reflecting Italian legal requirements, including anticorruption measures, the activities and finances of the park system are highly visible to the public. The website of the park system presents a trove of financial, legal, operational, and organizational information, including full financial statements for several years (PVdC 2017a). This transparency, of course, has not prevented the emergence of an informal governance system largely outside of public view and away from direct voter engagement, but reports on the economic and operational features of the park system are easily available to the public. However, most of the factors important to the success of the prior three cases presented in this book, such as welldefined rules and sanctions, were not found in the Val di Cornia. As originally conceived, the park system’s ownership by both municipal government and private shareholders served two distinct

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purposes. First, inside the governing system it created a means to balance the concerns of public and private interests. While share ownership might have favored one group of parties over another, depending on whether the preponderance of shares was held in public or private hands, laws governing board-level corporate decisions, internal corporate policies, and legal protections for minority shareholders would at least have compelled discussion around matters such as Piombino’s appropriation of parking fees for its own use. Conceivably, such safeguards might have provided an effective counterweight inside the organization for the unilateral action of a shareholder, however important. Second, the continuing presence of private-sector owners and directors could have ensured that the park system did not become isolated from local tourism businesses, providing greater political support in the moment of crisis. It also might have caused park administrators to recognize earlier the more vital role that the park system could play in the promotion of the region’s economy through vigorous collaboration with local tourist businesses. However, due to the 2007 restructuring, none of this occurred. The 2004 Italian government ruling that precluded privatesector involvement in the management of archaeological sites illuminates a critical issue for heritage management. That decree undermined an innovative public–private partnership and exposed it to the financial distress that began in 2012. This action, which clearly reflects the common perspective that archaeological resources should be viewed as public goods and managed by public agencies, has diminished, rather than enhanced, the sustainability of those resources. As argued in Chapter 2, the case for the public good model of archaeological management is not persuasive. In an era of constrained government resources and increasing calls for governmental support of social services, governments may not have the funds to manage heritage sustainably. The argument, from the Val di

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Cornia case, would be that transparent, locally rooted public–private partnerships may be entirely capable of managing archaeological and heritage resources directly in a manner that sustains them both physically and financially. The story of I Parchi della Val di Cornia thus is paradoxical. From one perspective, it is a sterling success. The park system was an initiative to integrate archaeological and natural heritage resources into a single enterprise, and empower that enterprise to manage them to promote regional development through tourism. Its overall success testifies to the power of clusters of sites and networks of supporters to achieve sustainable value through heritage, and it demonstrates the potential of the PPP model. From another standpoint, however, the corporate entity managing the park system, PVdC, offers a cautionary tale about the central importance of good governance mechanisms to achieving the goal of sustainability. As originally conceived, the park system’s structure might have avoided the problems it has faced, and those problems may be laid directly at the door of the failure of its governance institutions. Limited private-sector engagement in the enterprise and the unbalanced share ownership among the municipalities prevented processes that might have led to better outcomes even amid a politically charged financial crisis. At the root of the issue may lay the unwillingness of governments in most of the world to cede control over their archaeological resources to community groups or to public–private consortiums, even though through devolution they may be better able to gain local support for heritage preservation and so advance local economic conditions by building on local heritage resources.

Conclusion

This book has ranged across three continents to explore examples of community-based projects rooted in archaeology and heritage. Each project has managed to sustain its activities for a span of decades and bring economic value to its community, notwithstanding internal conflicts and external shocks that affected most of them. Underlying this tour is the premise that the long survival of these organizations is linked inextricably to the solutions that they implemented to manage their affairs, resolve differences among the stakeholders, and cope with unanticipated disruptions. These we have labeled their governance institutions. Chapter 1 argued that community-based programs aimed at promoting economic development increasingly are central to the ethical and practical forces that shape the work of archaeologists and heritage professionals. Chapter 2 made the case that the lens through which to view this problem is rooted in economics, but not in the conventional model that sees archaeological sites, in particular, as public goods to be managed by public bodies. Instead, Chapter 3 argued, useful insights into alternatives emerge from institutional and behavioral economists who have identified the governance institutions that promote collaborative behavior; from governance ideas drawn from experiments with devolved public management; and from corporate, nonprofit, and public–private partnership models. Having subsequently explored four highly varied case studies, this chapter considers whether, and if so how, the governance approach

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can inform the efforts of archaeologists who seek to promote economic development at the local level.

Similarities One may begin with the straightforward observation that each of these ventures has outlasted most archaeologists’ community projects that have been reported in the academic literature. The oldest, the Burren Centre in Ireland’s County Clare, has been in operation for over forty years. The others were developed from the late-1980’s to the 1990’s, and each is approaching or has exceeded twenty years of service to their communities. In each case, the projects are credited by members of the community and by independent sources with making significant contributions to the economic well-being of the villages and towns in which they are based. Thus, the primary metric of success for this sort of project—sustained contribution to their community’s economic development—has been satisfied in each case. However, that very success raises two questions: First, which features of these four projects have been important to securing sustained contributions despite internal and external challenges that might have felled less robustly structured organizations? Second, do these projects produce any useful guidelines for archaeologists and heritage professionals seeking to pursue community economic development? Let us turn to the first question. No simple recitation of bullet points can encompass the variety of geographic, market, social, and political challenges, financial constraints, and legal contexts in which these four cases studies have arisen. Facile claims of causation— institution X explains success—will clearly fall under the weight of the differences among these four case studies. Nonetheless, three parallels are evident that can inform the manner in which archaeologists

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approach communities when they seek to promote development based on local heritage. First, each of these projects is deeply rooted in their local communities and each was founded by individuals who lived and worked in them. In Raqchi, it was an entrepreneurial local craftsman who saw the opportunity to capture greater value from the emerging tourist traffic in Peru. In Maya Centre, one man with the dual roles of Mayor and Park Director was in a position to bridge the internal politics of the village and external relations with the national government and nongovernmental organizations to create and empower the Women’s Group. In Kilfenora, leading local businessmen and farmers, and the local priest, all distressed by the prospects for the town, took the initiative to invite assistance from nearby Shannon and took the lead in managing their new business, the Comhar and the Burren Centre. In Italy, despite an academic perch in Siena, Riccardo Francovich spent his career in the Maremma region that includes the Val di Cornia, and was able as a regional insider to initiate discussions among the diverse and widely distributed parties who had to coalesce to establish the park system. In no case were these projects that archaeologists living at a distance delivered to communities. Rather, these are all projects inspired by particular community needs that were recognized by individuals deeply embedded in those communities. In each case, members of those communities devised the governance institutions required to manage their ventures. Except in Raqchi, where Asociacíon Inkallaqta has operated with no outside assistance, the groups’ founders had the capacity both to organize the necessary local constituencies and to reach out to those outside the community who could provide financial or other assistance. Chapter 2 identified deep knowledge of local situations—mētis in James Scott’s terms—as essential to effective organizational design. The mētis of the founders is clearly on display in each of these cases.

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Second, each organization placed a considerable priority on transparent financial management and, in at least three cases, in transparent decision making. Institutional transparency is the ability of stakeholders in an organization to gain access to financial information and management decisions, to participate in those decisions, and to be included in the decision-making process on a basis that may be perceived to be fair. In two cases, in Raqchi and Maya Centre, the institutional structures of each organization provide for intense scrutiny of financial information and direct engagement in decision making. In Kilfenora, financial records and meeting minutes are available to all shareholders even though most decisions are taken within the managing Committee. Only in the Val di Cornia park system, which until recently operated through its board of directors, is the decisionmaking process opaque to the public. But even there, financial reports and official decisions are provided to the public online. Third, three of the four organizations also created institutional mechanisms that enabled the internal resolution of disputes, even major disagreements among stakeholders, through democratic processes. Asociacíon Inkallaqta, the Maya Centre Women’s Group (MCWG), and the Comhar each have voting mechanics that precluded the accumulation of power in one or a few hands, and each had rules that provided for disputes to be aired in public, debated openly, and ultimately decided by majority vote of the members. Open debate and democratic decision making were perceived as legitimate by all parties, which enabled them to overcome problems even as serious as the MCWG’s losing investment in its restaurant or the Burren Centre’s existential threat from the proposed visitor center near Mullaghmore mountain. Only in the Val di Cornia was no equivalent mechanism in place, and the consequences are clear. The exclusion of private shareholders after 2007 detached the organization from the involvement of representatives of tourism businesses, with their deeper connections to their local communities, and the accumulation

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by Piombino of a controlling stake in the enterprise eventually exposed the other municipalities to unilateral decision-making that led directly to the financial crisis that began in 2012. Collectively, these parallels among the cases bring into focus the importance of the common features of effective governance institutions for community organizations that were identified in Chapter 3: ●

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Reliance on community engagement and incorporation of local knowledge. Democratic institutions for local decision making. Polycentric solutions to build local capacity without usurping community control. Devolution that involves clear alignment of the geographic location with the local community’s authority and responsibilities. Community institutions that monitor and enforce their own rules, confining higher-level organizations to oversight, coordination, and dispute resolution. Transparency in financial and operational activities. Where day-to-day management is delegated to a small group, governance rules that preclude the accumulation of power, elect leaders democratically, and rotate those leaders regularly.

Differences rooted in complexity As Ostrom anticipated, the institutional features of each of these projects are deeply embedded within the context of laws, customs, and social and political realities of the communities involved. As a result, no formulaic approach to governance institutions unifies these four case studies. In Raqchi, where trust is high and the organization

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runs as a consortium of entrepreneurs, the governance institutions of Asociacíon Inkallaqta emulate those of the community assembly and other groups in the village. In Maya Centre, where trust is low and the organization is a cooperative of artisans with high potential for financial disagreements in a charged social and political environment, the vastly more elaborate institutional features of the MCWG are tuned to the members’ need to insulate the group from the general discontent in the village. In Kilfenora, a village with numerous collaborations based on traditional cooperative models, the organization and operation of the Comhar is entirely consistent with locally common legal structures and practices. Finally, the structure of Parchi Val di Cornia SpA was an innovative form for such an enterprise in Italy in the 1990s, when public–private partnerships were unknown, nonprofit enterprises and foundations nascent, and private corporations the only legal alternative institutional form to government enterprises. In order for these case studies to be instructive beyond their unique local conditions, their manifold differences need to be positioned within some context. The argument made in Chapter 3 is that the differing degrees of legal and procedural formality of governance institutions in the four organizations can best be understood through the lens of their relative complexity on two dimensions: the level of complexity introduced by their financial and operational requirements, and the complexity of the social and political context of the community. Put simply, the greater the likelihood that an organization’s finances or operations will be complex, either due to the scale of its business activities (as in Kilfenora or in the Val di Cornia), or due to the intrinsic nature of the business (as in Maya Centre), the greater will be the need for formality in the governance institutions of the organization. That is, the need for careful accounting, financial reports, audits, legal incorporation, internal financial controls, and other formalities of governance increases as

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financial and operational complexity increases. Similarly, the greater the complexity of the social and political context within which the group must operate—as evidenced in the Val di Cornia and in Maya Centre, but not in the more trusting environments of Kilfenora and Raqchi—the more likely it is that disputes will arise among members or with outside stakeholders that will call for formal and more elaborate decision-making procedures, monitoring techniques, dispute resolution mechanisms, sanctions for infractions of rules, and similar institutions. Figure C.1 illustrates this proposition. Positioned at the lower left portion of the graph is the case study in this book that presents the least formalized governance environment, the Asociacíon Inkallaqta in Raqchi, Peru. It is a consortium of independent entrepreneurs that has minimal requirements for the group to hold cash itself,

Figure C.1 Case studies in this book positioned within the generalized framework introduced in Chapter 3.

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has no responsibility to manage significant amounts of money for the members, and has never relied on outside sources of financing. The very limited financial role of the group explains the informal institutional mechanisms created for financial governance. The primary governance requirement of the Asociacíon Inkallaqta is to resolve differences among the vendor families over access to tourists or infractions of rules. In a small village where meeting attendance is mandatory, these have been sorted without major difficulty through open meetings and democratic action, just as in the many communities managing CPRs that were studied by Ostrom and her colleagues. MCWG in Belize presents a contrast. The MCWG does not have full-time employees, does not prepare an audit and, although registered with the Belizean government, operates without many of the legal formalities of larger nonprofits and corporations. Yet, members of the group do handle large amounts of money on behalf of one another and the group, and the MCWG has relied from its earliest days on grants from government-affiliated or nongovernmental organizations. It also collects ticket revenue for the Belize Audubon Society for which it is accountable, and those funds must be delivered to the BAS in Belize City on a regular basis. Properly managing those funds has called for record keeping and reporting requirements far more elaborate than those in Asociacíon Inkallaqta. Considering the high levels of distrust reported by group members and the very challenging political context in the village, elaborate financial management mechanisms designed to prevent misappropriation of funds also suited the social and political complexity of the village. Nonetheless, the MCWG has been able to navigate this situation while avoiding legal requirements such as audits and conventional financial reports, relying instead on detailed if manually maintained bookkeeping, nearly continuous monitoring of funds by members, and the labor-intensive cash monitoring system it has created to satisfy its internal and external

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stakeholders. The system is a structured approach to financial and operational and social and political complexity of a place small enough for all of the participants to have close, if contentious, relationships. Thus, the MCWG rests at a midpoint on both axes of Figure C.1. Its governance procedures are far more formal than those in Raqchi, less so than in Italy. Compared to Kilfenora, the MCWG is less formalized in financial and operational management terms, but, reflecting the more complex social-political context, it is more formalized in terms of actual decision-making institutions. The two enterprises that operate commercial-scale businesses, the Comhar in Kilfenora and Parchi Val di Cornia SpA, are obliged to follow highly formal rules as a matter of law. They rely on more conventional corporate organizational structures, albeit with sharply different degrees of formality. In order to open bank accounts and accept government grants or bank loans, all of which each of these organizations has done, an organization must be incorporated and provide financial audits by outside accountants to its lenders, donors, shareholders, and others. Each of these organizations has full-time paid staff members to manage the day-to-day purchasing, employment, maintenance, and operation of the organization. The Val di Cornia park system even has a full-time chief financial and administrative officer. Compliance with tax and employment laws requires still more formal financial structures to enable reporting to government entities and employees. As a result, each of these organizations has highly formal financial reporting and governance rules, including audits, and takes a corporate legal form. The important differences between these two organizations arise as a result of the very different social and political contexts in which they exist. The Comhar built its legal structure on the standard ICOS constitution for Irish cooperatives and follows its rules diligently, but there has been little shareholder interest in the formalities of the organization’s governance in recent years. The Comhar’s shareholder

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lists are obsolete, and a small number of members circulate through its governing Committee with regularity. Residents of Kilfenora are generally content to leave management of this crucial resource to the managing Committee unless a crisis arises, in which event the existing governance mechanism of an SGM to air disputes and achieve resolution thus far has been fully satisfactory. Harmony reigns in the Kilfenora community and governance mechanisms are consequently far more informal than might be anticipated by a straightforward reading of the Comhar’s constitution. The Italian case study, Parchi Val di Cornia SpA, presents both the greatest financial and operational complexity, and the greatest social and political complexity of the four cases. This is due to the competing interests of the shareholding municipalities and the business stakeholders in the valley, and the inevitable financial and operational challenges for an organization managing archaeological parks, museums, and nature reserves. For these reasons, the park system presents its activities to the public with more formality than any of the other three cases under study. This is achieved largely through public postings to its website that offer an extraordinary range of reports on financial, operational, and managerial decisions within the organization. This has been true even in recent years, when the political upheavals in Italy and the unbalanced shareholder structure of the park system undermined the effectiveness of its formal governance institutions. In the context of Figure C.1, the governance institutions of I Parchi della Val di Cornia (PVdC) are by far the most formalized. However, due to the lack of constraints on the accumulation of power in the company by Piombino, and to the PVdC’s failure to maintain connections and popular support among the members of the public in the five municipalities, those institutions proved insufficiently robust to prevent the governance failures in recent years. Thus, the park system structurally is positioned in the upper-right corner, the region of greatest organizational formality, in

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Figure C.1, even though the lack of robustness amid that formality has undermined the PVdC’s sustainability.

Implications for future practice What is to be learned from this brief overview of the history, operations, and governance mechanics of four long-surviving if highly different community-based development projects? The obvious fact is that archaeological, cultural, and natural heritage are the cornerstone resources of each project, suggesting similar potential for other communities around the world that are endowed with heritage resources. The enormous differences in the governance structures of the four projects, however, also underscore the impossibility of directly transplanting successful institutions from one context to a new project in another. On the contrary, there clearly is no mechanical approach to creating local organizations. This study does, however, suggest three important considerations for archaeologists and heritage professionals to bear in mind if they have ambitions to create such projects. The first is that the unique nature of local economic, political, and social conditions places the onus for defining appropriate governance structures on the people who participate in and lead the new organization. Each of these four organizations was initiated and ultimately managed by individuals with deep roots in their communities. Traditional ayllu community governance, most familiar to the local community, may have played a role in the intricate, if informal, rules that govern Asociacíon Inkallaqta in Peru. Certainly, no governance expert could have contrived the complex, yet clearly effective set of rules created by the residents of Maya Centre to enable the MCWG to prosper in an otherwise uncongenial environment. The residents of Kilfenora adopted the form of organizational

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governance already familiar to them, the cooperative business. Only in the Val di Cornia was a somewhat novel institutional structure, the public–private partnership, selected as the governance model. Ostrom’s studies of self-organized schemes for managing common pool resources across the world only illuminate the situationally specific and sui generis character of such arrangements. Her dictum that the rules for governing a CPR must be based in local conditions can be generalized to any community organization. Similarly, where economic stakes are high or business operations extensive, where outside stakeholders will have great influence, or where local social or political conditions make conflicts within the organization likely, the governance mechanics of the organization will need to reflect the complex environment with more formal and robust governance structures. There is a hard-to-resist tendency for those with advanced educational credentials and other hallmarks of expertise to seek to bring solutions to the table. However, the lesson of expert-led projects around the world, when juxtaposed with the successes (and in the case of the Val di Cornia, the initial success and subsequent disappointments) of these particular organizations confirms Scott’s observation that “what is perhaps most striking about high-modernist schemes, despite their quite genuine egalitarian and often socialist impulses, is how little confidence they repose in the skills, intelligence, and experience of ordinary people” (Scott 1998: 346). The cautionary lesson for any archaeologist or heritage professional who presumes to create a community-based project is that such projects will work best if community members are able to participate on a generally equal basis, and if they are empowered to create and adapt their governance institutions as experience dictates. The second lesson from these projects relates less to governance per se than to the context within which economic development projects are executed. None of these projects could have prospered

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in the absence of complementary government and private sector initiatives. Peru’s government made expanding tourism a key pillar of the country’s economic development programs and focused much of its international promotional effort on the Sacred Valley and the Andean plateau. As a result, companies in hospitality, transportation, and other tourism industry specialties were encouraged to invest in the business ecosystem (Greffe 2004) that delivered tourists to Peru and ultimately to Raqchi. Similarly, the Belizean government’s decision to create the Coxcomb Basin Wildlife Sanctuary created the tourist destination that caused tourists to pass through Maya Centre. Belize’s extensive tourism promotion programs delivered those tourists, and the country’s network of governmental and nongovernmental organizations dedicated to training and supporting community organizations backstopped the nascent team in Maya Centre. The Shannon Airport Authority’s plan to revive the economy of County Clare through tourism provided an adviser to help Kilfenorans develop their project, and Irish government and European Union development authorities provided the financing it required. Italy’s national commitment to promote tourism as an economic driver created opportunities for the municipalities in the Val di Cornia to exploit their heritage and develop the valley as a destination using financial support from Italian and European government agencies. In other words, outside support—direct financing, tourism promotion, legal structures, and conducive government legislation— was crucial to building the tourism ecosystem in each case. No project stands alone, nor is that possible. Archaeologists contemplating tourism-based development need to evaluate carefully whether broader governmental legal regimes and tourism and economic policies will abet or frustrate their plans. Well-designed government programs can facilitate institutional design and capacity building, while endemic corruption or government self-dealing at the expense

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of community projects can be debilitating. Community organizers also need to recognize that each project’s governance institutions need to take into account the likelihood of involvement with governments, financial institutions and corporate stakeholders, and the concomitant governance complexities that those stakeholders introduce. Finally, there is the question of how far to extrapolate the findings in this study. This book has presented community development projects in locations that vary from tiny collaborations of village artisans to larger clusters of actual archaeological and heritage sites, in every case in rural settings. However, there exists much skepticism among archaeologists about the failure of heritage tourism to deliver benefits to local communities in more substantial places, such as World Heritage sites and urban cores. Does the present study suggest lessons for those larger and vastly more complex situations? At best, the response must be ambiguous. The approach suggested in this study is clearly most appropriate to smaller scale locations, which could include urban neighborhoods with heritage resources. However, the challenges of the Val di Cornia park system illustrate the difficulties to be encountered as heritage projects scale up in size and engage a wider range of public and private interests. There is little existing precedent for management of very large-scale archaeological sites through private nonprofit or for-profit entities. Large cultural organizations managed outside of government agencies are most often to be found in the United States, and to a lesser degree in the United Kingdom, where philanthropic funding of such organizations is well established and the governance procedures for supervising and managing such entities are well established in law. Those institutions, and particularly the associated philanthropic funding tradition, have not been exported with great success to other countries. Nevertheless, greater reliance on communities to self-organize and manage complex situations merits experimentation. Establishing legal structures built on local customs that could be used by nonprofit

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organizations or public–private joint ventures to manage actual sites would facilitate experimentation. Government programs that seek to promote community economic benefit from heritage can learn from Belize, where the government encourages local development and provides an extensive array of programs to provide training and financial support to community members seeking to create community enterprises. More directly, it is intriguing to speculate whether a relaxation of the government monopoly on the management of archaeological sites in Italy (and elsewhere) might have enabled Parchi Val di Cornia SpA to maintain its public–private character, achieve more balance among the stakeholders, and so have avoided the problems it has faced in recent years. Chapter 3 called into question the argument that archaeology inevitably must be treated as a public good to be managed by governments. To be sure, there are sites—the Colosseum in Rome, Independence Hall in Philadelphia, Angkor Wat in Cambodia, to name but three—that inevitably will fall under government controls due to their economic, cultural, and political significance. But what of the hundreds of other World Heritage sites and the thousands of other archaeological sites around the world that do not achieve iconic status? Why not authorize local organizations, subject to oversight, and with the help of financial institutions and expert advisors, to protect their sites and devise approaches to their exploitation for tourism that would be more advantageous to their own communities? Recent steps in Italy, though limited, to introduce new governance models to major museums and archaeological sites, constitute a potentially interesting experiment in this direction. While it may be a heretical suggestion in most archaeological circles, the combination of diminishing government resources to support heritage and the track record of inadequate conservation and promotion of sites by national archaeological services certainly suggests that unconventional arrangements for the management, preservation, and exploitation of

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heritage resources for community benefit should receive greater attention in the years ahead.

Acting on alternatives This book has proffered a few examples. Asociacíon Inkallaqta in Peru and the MCWG in Belize illuminate ways that communities can take action on their own, even if the archaeological resource itself is outside of the community’s control, to create and manage economically beneficial organizations. Moreover, those organizations were not alone in those two villages. Community members in Raqchi also organized a tourist home-stay program that operates very much on the model of Asociacíon Inkallaqta, while villagers in Maya Centre also operate tour guiding and taxi services for tourists. The Comhar in Kilfenora is a cooperative community venture intended to support the recovery of the local community by constructing, curating, and managing a heritage interpretive center and museum. The collection of archaeological sites, natural parks, and museums assembled by Parchi Val di Cornia SpA was originally a public–private partnership conceived with much the same objective. Both the Burren Centre and PVdC have played the essential role in spurring the economic growth of entire regions. Other examples exist. In Great Britain, Vindolanda is an archaeological park, owned by a nonprofit trust, that is close by the World Heritage site of Hadrian’s Wall (Figure C.2). A former Roman garrison site, Vindolanda is renowned for well-regarded research that has unearthed important artifacts that provide intimate insights into life on the Roman frontier. Caherconnell ring fort is a privately owned working farm in County Clare, Ireland, whose owner, obliged by Irish law to protect the site, has for many years sponsored archaeological field schools and professional excavation research while also offering

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Figure C.2 The Vindolanda archaeological park, Bardon Mill, Hexham, UK, near Hadrian’s Wall.

visitors exhibits, site tours, a restaurant, and a gift shop. Colonial Williamsburg in Virginia, which provides a unique glimpse into colonial-era United States, is supervised by a nonprofit foundation and administered through a complex of for-profit and nonprofit enterprises that delivers a comprehensive tourist experience yet also supports archaeological research and conservation of Williamsburg’s built heritage. The city of St. Augustine, Florida, home to Castillo de San Marcos, a national monument administered by the National Park Service, has preserved a cluster of other historic buildings, most of which are privately owned and presented to the public as an arguably kitschy but nonetheless locally valuable heritage destination. There are, in other words, numerous approaches to empowering local communities through archaeology and heritage by relying on institutions that are meaningful alternatives to conventional topdown structures controlled and managed by national government agencies. However, the archaeologist or heritage practitioner

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considering community-based work is challenged to sort through the myriad options available to identify approaches appropriate to the community with which he or she is working. Figure C.3 offers at least a preliminary and conceptual approach to that problem, which is to view the task of creating locally rooted organizations through three overlapping but distinct lenses and asking essential questions in each dimension. The first of these is the community context, a point emphasized throughout this book. Which members of the local community must be stakeholders in the venture? What are the social and political relations among them? What are their personal and collective relationships to the heritage resource—is it through deep communal

Figure C.3 Conceptual approach to working with communities to design effective governance institutions.

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linkages to the past or more ephemeral and contemporary affiliation? Who are the community leaders—political, social, spiritual, familial—whose insights into the community situation, their mētis, are essential to constructing a viable institutional structure? In each of the cases studied here, local leadership with clear comprehension of the needs of the community and its deepest strengths and points of contention was essential. But the external context matters also. Which stakeholders external to the community—businesses, bureaucracies, competitors, and potential collaborators—will be important? How can they be engaged in the project? Second, the capacity of community members and of external stakeholders must be considered. To what degree are financial, operational, or other assistance available through governments, nongovernmental organizations, or individuals with expertise? Do skilled individuals reside in the community—as was the case in Maya Centre, Kilfenora, and the Val di Cornia, but not in Raqchi? Do community members possess the skills, whether artisanal, managerial, or financial, to support the organization? Can the venture access local financial resources or must it rely on outside financing due either to scarcity of funds or the scale of the project? Do outside resources exist, as is the case in Belize, such as government agencies and nongovernmental organizations that are chartered to help local organizations acquire skills and secure financing? Or, is the situation more like that in Raqchi, where both internal and external resources offering any form of support were sparse? What complications will arise if outside resources are critical to the organization’s success? Finally, there is the matter of the governance options available. Some options will be foreclosed by national legal requirements, as was the case in the Val di Cornia, or will be shaped in fundamental ways by traditional local practice, as in Raqchi. Legal formalities to create cooperatives or corporations, whether for-profit or nonprofit, differ dramatically across nations and constrain the options. PPPs

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may be encouraged or discouraged. Not only do organizational forms differ across countries, so do governance traditions. As but a minor example, members of nonprofit boards in the United States are generally volunteers and are expected to contribute materially in time and money to their organizations, while board members in the UK often are compensated and frequently take the view that it is a conflict of interest to be both a donor and a trustee. There exists a full spectrum of governance institutions to manage new community ventures aiming to promote economic development. The case studies in this book have illustrated critical features of governance practice that are common across most of them; democratic decision-making with obstacles to the accumulation of power, leaders who take responsibility for strategic plans and day-to-day activity and then rotate out of leadership roles after a few years, clarity on membership and mission that keeps the organization focused on its community, and rules that members must follow and sanctions for infractions. This is not the only study to identify these sorts of institutions with long-surviving community organizations, and their importance to community-based enterprises based on archaeology and heritage cannot be overstated. The archaeologist or heritage practitioner working with a community organization is thus seeking that zone of convergence, illustrated at the center of Figure C.3, where governance institutions can be defined that accord with local context and are best suited to leverage internal and external capability, all without sacrificing community control over the organization or the benefits of participation. This book, if it has been successful, has illustrated the complexities of this challenge, but also the fact that it is feasible, if the community is engaged, to empower long-surviving, economically beneficial organizations constructed on a foundation of archaeology and cultural heritage.

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Index accountability 50, 54, 55, 62, 98, 101, 144 admission fees 47, 113, 129, 135 agency 21, 25, 26, 47, 125 archaeology activist 3, 24–26 and community engagement 19–24 and heritage commercialization 27–31 UK notion of 6–7 Asociacíon Inkallaqta, Raqchi, Peru 14–16, 69–84 (case study), 93, 100–1, 113, 118–19, 120 139, 140–44, 147, 152 attendance 47, 61, 74, 76, 90, 93, 115, 118, 144 Baratti and Populonia archaeological parks 123, 126, 129 behavioral economics 46, 52, 58, 137 Belize Audubon Society (BAS) 89, 91, 94, 98, 99, 144 Belize Citrus Growers Association 92 Belize, historical and cultural background 85–87 Belize YMWCA 92 Bord Failte 111 Burren Centre, Kilfenora, Ireland 116, 103–20 (case study), 133, 138–40, 143 Caherconnell ring fort 112, 152 Cambodia 30, 42, 151 charitable organizations 5, 56 Charter on Cultural Tourism (ICOMOS, 1976) 28 Cockscomb Basin Wildlife Sanctuary (CBWS), Belize 88–92, 99 code of ethics 12, 22 collective goods 38, 42, 48, 51, 58, 60

collective management 14, 48, 57–61, 101 Comhar Conradh na Boirne Teoranta (Comhar) 109–20, 139, 140, 142, 145, 146, 152 common pool resources (CPRs) 5, 9, 14, 48, 58–62, 73, 82–84, 100, 118, 120, 133, 144, 148 Ostrom’s design principles 59–60, 73, 83–84, 118–19 community, defined 7–8 Community Archaeology 3, 7, 24 complex adaptive systems (CAS) 64 complexity 63–67, 120, 134, 142–43, 145, 146 corruption 33, 44, 45, 54, 65, 134, 149–50 cultural heritage, concept of 7 Cultural Heritage or Resource Management (profession) 22 Cusco 27, 69, 70, 71, 72, 73 Cusi Mamani, Enrique Leon 71–72 economic development 19–34 definition 9–10 disappointments 31–34 economic theory 13, 38–39, 41, 46, 47, 48, 49, 50–51 ethics 2–3, 22, 24 European Commission 91 European Community 117, 128 European Union 30, 91, 130, 149 Faro Convention, 2005 23 Feminist archaeology 3, 21 festivals 32, 41, 47, 72, 106 financial institutions 5, 12, 33, 42, 150, 151 for-profit corporations 16, 17, 55, 132 Francovich, Riccardo 124–26, 128, 134, 139

180

Index

gentrification 4, 30 global financial crisis 112, 129–30 Global Heritage Fund 30 governance collective action and collaboration 57–61 common themes 61–63, 141 complexity and institutional design 63–67, 141–47 conceptual approach to design 154–55 corporate 55–56 definition 8–9, 49–53 devolved 5, 8, 13, 52–54, 62, 67, 136, 137, 141 differences rooted in complexity 141–47 formality 65–67, 142–47 nonprofit 5, 14, 51–52, 56–57, 62 polycentric 54, 60, 62, 64, 65, 141 public service models 53–57 government agencies 5, 13, 38, 42, 55, 60, 62, 63, 120, 125, 130, 149, 150, 153, 155 government-controlled heritage management 35–48 top-down failures 41–46 grant funding 30, 33, 45, 65, 91, 94, 107, 111, 113, 120, 144–45 gross domestic product (GDP) 9, 29, 87, 92, 107–8 Hardin, Garrett 40, 46, 48, 58 heritage destruction 23, 27, 32, 47–48 exploitation of 3, 4, 8, 23, 36, 41, 56, 71, 91, 121, 151–52 Heritage Watch 30, 42 human rights 20, 23–24 Indigenous peoples 3, 19, 21–22, 25, 26, 47 Inspectorate General of Ancient Monuments, France 27

institution, in economic theory 50–51 International Council on Monuments and Sites (ICOMOS) 28 international financial institutions 12, 33, 44, 130 Ireland, historical and geophysical background 103–4 Irish Cooperative Organisation Society, Ltd. (ICOS) 113–15, 145 Kilfenora, Ireland 104–9, 142, 147–48 laws and regulations, heritage protection 17, 22, 37, 94, 119, 125, 128–29, 135, 141 loans 65, 98, 111, 120, 145 Logic of Collective Action, The (Olson) 39–40 looting 20, 36 Machu Picchu 29, 70–71 market failure 51–52 Marxist archaeology 3 Maya Centre Women’s Group, Belize 15–16, 85–102 (case study), 113, 118–20, 139, 140, 142–45, 147, 149, 152, 155 mētis 42–43, 62, 83, 139, 155 Mooney, Brian 110–12 Morris, William 27 Mullaghmore crisis, Ireland 111, 117–18, 140 multiculturalism in archaeology 3 multivocality in archaeology 3, 21 national parks 37, 109, 153 nation-building 13, 20, 38, 41 nation-state governance 23, 35–48 neoclassical economic theory 46, 51–52 nested enterprises 60 nongovernmental organizations (NGOs) 5, 12, 30, 42, 44–45,

Index 56, 62, 63, 93–94, 120, 139, 144, 149, 155 nonprofit organizations 5, 9, 14, 16, 51–52, 55–57, 62, 120, 133, 137, 142, 144, 150–51, 153, 155–56 nonrivalry 38, 47–48 North, Douglass 50–51 Olson, Mancur 39–40, 46, 48 O’Reagan, Brendan 110 Ostrom, Elinor 48, 58–62, 64, 73, 81–84, 100–1, 118–19, 133, 141, 144, 148 outsourcing 52, 55 outstanding universal value 35 Parchi Val di Cornia SpA, Italy 17, 124–36 (case study), 139, 145–46, 148, 150–52 Petra World Heritage site 48 Piombino, Italy 17, 121–23, 126–31, 135, 141, 146 Pompeii World Heritage site 31, 36 private goods 38 privatization 55 professionalization 22 Public Archaeology 3, 7, 24–25 public goods 13, 17, 35–48, 49, 51, 58, 67, 135, 137, 151 definition and theoretical implications 38–41, 46–48 and local-community disempowerment 37–41 public parks 38 public–private partnerships 5, 9, 13, 17, 52, 55, 62, 125–26, 128, 131, 134–37, 142, 148, 151–52 Pyburn, K. Anne 25, 34 Quam Bank, Belize 88–90 QUANGOs (quasi-autonomous nongovernmental organizations) 52, 55–56

181

Rabinowitz, Alan 88–99 Raqchi, Peru, background 69–73 robustness, institutional 64–67, 118, 138, 146–48 Ruskin, John 27 Sacred Valley, Peru 71, 149 Samuelson, P. A. 38, 48 Saqui, Ernesto 89, 91 Scott, James 42–43, 62, 64, 83, 139, 148 Shannon Airport Authority 16, 110, 149 social capital 7, 9 social enterprises 14, 55–56, 120 St. Augustine, Florida 153 Sterpaia beach park 123, 126, 129, 130 stewardship 22, 25 subsidization 33, 37, 109, 111, 113, 129 SUNARP 74, 81 Sustainable Preservation Initiative 30 symbolism of heritage 27, 41 tax/taxation 39, 56–57, 81, 132, 145, 152 third-sector organizations 55–56 top-down governance 4, 13, 36–48 tourism 4, 9–10, 17, 28–34, 41, 48, 60–61, 84, 87, 97, 104, 107, 109–11, 125, 128, 131–32, 135–36, 140, 149–51 tragedy of the commons 13, 40, 45, 46, 58 transparency 44, 53–55, 57, 60–63, 84, 97, 100–1, 104, 119, 134, 136, 140–41 trust 15, 63, 66, 90, 99, 100, 120, 141–44 Trust for African Rock Art, Tanzania 30 UNESCOWorld Heritage 3, 4, 11–12, 23, 28, 30–31, 35, 43, 48, 69, 71, 104, 109, 150–52

182

Index

United Kingdom museums managed by nonprofit trusts 56–57 preservation of historic monuments 27 United States federal/state heritage management 38 heritage management by nonprofits 56–57, 153 national symbols 41 use value 27 Val di Cornia region, Italy 17, 121–36 Valetta Convention, 1992 23

Vindolanda archaeological park 152–53 Viollet-le-Duc, Eugène 27 Viracocha temple, Raqchi, Peru 14, 71–72, 81–82 World Bank 40–45, 53–54 local and community driven development(LCDD) programs 45, 54 World Monuments Fund 30 World Travel & Tourism Council (WTTC) 29, 107–9