Shifting Cultivation and Environmental Change: Indigenous People, Agriculture and Forest Conservation 9780415746038, 9780415746052, 9781315796321, 2014023910

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SHIFTING CULTIVATION AND ENVIRONMENTAL CHANGE

Shifting cultivation is one of the oldest forms of subsistence agriculture and is still practised by millions of poor people in the tropics. Typically it involves clearing land (often forest) for the growing of crops for a few years, and then moving on to new sites, leaving the earlier ground fallow to regain its soil fertility. This book brings together the best of science and farmer experimentation, vividly illustrating the enormous diversity of shifting cultivation systems as well as the power of human ingenuity. Some critics have tended to disparage shifting cultivation (sometimes called ‘swidden cultivation’ or ‘slash-and-burn agriculture’) as unsustainable due to its supposed role in deforestation and land degradation. However, the book shows that such indigenous practices, as they have evolved over time, can be highly adaptive to land and ecology. In contrast, ‘scientific’ agricultural solutions imposed from outside can be far more damaging to the environment and local communities. The book focuses on successful agricultural strategies of upland farmers, particularly in south and south-east Asia, and presents over 100 contributions by scholars from around the world and from various disciplines, including agricultural economics, ecology and anthropology. It is a sequel to the much praised “Voices from the Forest: Integrating Indigenous Knowledge into Sustainable Upland Farming” (RFF Press, 2007), but all chapters are completely new and there is a greater emphasis on the contemporary challenges of climate change and biodiversity conservation. Malcolm Cairns is a consultant and researcher based in Chiang Mai, Thailand. He was recently a Research Fellow at the Center for Southeast Asian Studies (CSEAS) at Kyoto University, Japan and has extensive experience working across South and Southeast Asia. He is editor of Voices from the Forest (RFF Press, 2007).

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SHIFTING CULTIVATION AND ENVIRONMENTAL CHANGE Indigenous People, Agriculture and Forest Conservation

Edited by Malcolm F. Cairns

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First published 2015 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2015 Malcolm F. Cairns, selection and editorial material, individual chapters, the contributors. The right of the editor to be identified as the author of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Shifting cultivation and environmental change : indigenous people, agriculture and forest conservation / edited by Malcolm F. Cairns. pages cm Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-0-415-74603-8 (hardback) -- ISBN 978-0-415-74605-2 (pbk) -- ISBN 978-1-315-79632-1 (ebk) 1. Shifting cultivation. 2. Traditional farming. 3. Sustainable agriculture. 4. Forest conservation. 5. Indigenous peoples--Ecology. I. Cairns, Malcolm, editor of compilation. GN407.4.S55 2015 631.5’818--dc23 2014023910 ISBN: 978-0-415-74603-8 (hbk) ISBN: 978-0-415-74605-2 (pbk) ISBN: 978-1-315-79632-1 (ebk) Publisher’s Note This book has been prepared from camera-ready copy provided by the editor. Front cover sketch: A Hanunó’o Mangyan girl harvests swidden rice in Mindoro Province of the Philippines. This was the swiddening group made famous by Harold Conklin’s pioneering work in the early 1950s. Sketch based on a photo by Malcolm Cairns. Back cover sketch: A farmer of the Kiranti people from east Nepal returning from the field carrying her doko (basket) with a namlo (head strap). Ilam, Nepal. Sketch based on a photo by Malcolm Cairns.

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DEDICATION

This book is about farmers – so it’s probably appropriate that it be dedicated to a lifelong farmer – my own father, William Cairns. Born on 17 September 1928, Bill, as he was known to many, married on 23 November 1957, at the age of 29. After spending a lifetime farming his family’s ancestral land in Freetown, Prince Edward Island, his contributions to the agricultural community were formally recognized on 27 October 2011, when, at the age of 83, he was inducted into Canada’s Atlantic Agricultural Hall of Fame. As a youngster, it was thus my good fortune to grow up as both the son and grandson of very capable farmers, and develop an early love for agriculture and respect for farmers. In fact, after graduating from the Nova Scotia Agricultural College, my brother and I represented the sixth or seventh generation of our family to farm that same land, since our ancestors had emigrated from Scotland in 1832. So when ethnic minorities in my areas of research talk about their deep attachment to ancestral land, I always knew exactly how they felt. It was my father who taught me to turn over the sod in a field with a moldboard plough like a work of art, with the field as my canvas. It was he who taught me that the presence of sheep sorrel (Rumex acetosella) was an indication of acidic soil. Fields infested with couch grass (Elytrigia repens), he advised, should be harrowed, rather than disked, because disking would simply slice the rhizomes into many small pieces, and worsen the infestation. The call of the blue jay, he counselled, meant that rain was approaching. It was he who, through his story-telling, taught me the pride, integrity, and hard work of our ancestors. These were the values that he clearly wanted to pass on to the next generation.Whatever skills and perspectives that I bring to my work as an Agricultural Researcher, many of them were learned from him. Although he may have hoped that I would follow in his footsteps on the farm, I can only hope that he understands that I strayed to a different path – but one that still allows me to use many of the things that he taught me.

When I was a young toddler, my father used to like to sing to his three young sons, ‘♫ The bear went over the mountain, the bear went over the mountain, to see what he could see …♫’. Little did I realize that I would spend a substantial part of my life following that bear, investigating land-use systems on the other side of the mountain. Thanks, Dad; this one is dedicated to you! It was pioneering sons of the soil like you who built Canada and made it great.

CONTENTS

Foreword����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� xiii

Jefferson Fox Preface������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� xvii

Malcolm Cairns Quick geographic reference for the book’s chapters���������������������������������������� xxvi

1.  Introduction

.

A. Overview chapters: The context in which this book was prepared (i) A backwards glance, over our shoulders …

1. The view of swidden agriculture by the early naturalists Linnaeus and Wallace���������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 3

Michael R. Dove 2. Shifting cultivators and the landscape: An essay through time��������������������� 25

Harold Brookfield 3. Swiddens and fallows: Reflections on the global and local values of ‘slash and burn’���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 62

Carol J. Pierce Colfer, Janis B. Alcorn and Diane Russell 4. Agroforestry pathways revisited: Voices from the past�����������������������������������87

John Raintree and Katherine Warner 5. Shifting agriculture and its changes in Yunnan Province, China������������������122

Shaoting Yin 6. Swiddeners at the end of the frontier: Fifty years of globalization in Northern Thailand, 1963–2013����������������������������������������������������������������134

Peter Kunstadter (ii) Looking towards the future ...

7. The future of swidden cultivation���������������������������������������������������������������179

Joseph A. Weinstock

VIII  Contents

8. Shifting agriculture and fallow management options: Where do we stand?��������������������������������������������������������������������������������186

P. S. Ramakrishnan 9. Chena cultivation in Sri Lanka: Prospects for agroforestry interventions������199

Herath P. M. Gunasena and D. K. N. G. Pushpakumara 10. Learning from migratory agriculture around the world to improve both swidden and modern agriculture in Southeast Asia����������������������������������221

Roland Bunch 11. Learning to cope with rapid change: Evergreen agriculture transformations and insights between Africa and Asia������������������������������������������������������ 235

Dennis P. Garrity 2.  Is shifting cultivation really the ‘bogeyman’ of climate change and biodiversity loss? A. Shifting cultivation in an era of climate change

12. Swidden transitions in an era of climate-change debate������������������������������261

Meine van Noordwijk, Peter A. Minang and Kurniatun Hairiah 13. Climate change: Adaptation, mitigation and transformations of swidden landscapes: Are we throwing the baby out with the bathwater?����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������281

Kamal Aryal and Dhrupad Choudhury 14. Best REDD scenario: Reducing climate change in alliance with swidden communities and indigenous peoples in Southeast Asia������������������������� 289

Janis B. Alcorn and Antoinette G. Royo 15. Earning carbon credits through fallow management on lands affected by shifting cultivation in northeast India��������������������������������������������������307

Imtienla Ao 16. Formal and indigenous forest-management systems in Central Vietnam: Implications and challenges for REDD+������������������������319

Mucahid Mustafa Bayrak, Tran Nam Tu and Paul Burgers 17. Changing strategies of shifting cultivators to match a changing climate���� 335

Prasert Trakansuphakon 18. Fallows and flooding: A case study on the potential contribution of fallows to flood mitigation�����������������������������������������������������������������������357

Peter D. Suson, Rex Victor O. Cruz, Ruth P. Serquiña, Nathaniel C. Bantayan, Daisy Lou L. Polestico and Jerson N. Orejudos

Contents  IX

19. Dynamics of an island agroecosystem: Where to now?�������������������������������367

Marjorie V. Cushing Falanruw and Francis Ruegorong B. Is shifting cultivation friend or foe to biodiversity?

20. Second thoughts on secondary forests: Can swidden cultivation be compatible with conservation?��������������������������������������������������������������� 388

Dietrich Schmidt-Vogt 21. Biodiversity and swidden agroecosystems: An analysis and some implications���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������401

Percy E. Sajise 22. Shifting cultivators, curators of forests and conservators of biodiversity: The Dayak of East Kalimantan, Indonesia������������������������������������������������� 420

Herwasono Soedjito 23. Fallow-management practices among the Tangkhuls of Manipur: Safeguarding provisioning and regulatory services from shifting-cultivation fallows���������������������������������������������������������������������� 449

L. Jitendro Singh and Dhrupad Choudhury 24. Some lesser known facts about jhum in Nagaland, northeast India������������ 468

Temjen Toy and POU (Project Operations Unit) Members 25. Plant genetic diversity in farming systems and poverty alleviation in Vietnam’s northern mountain region���������������������������������������������������473

Tran Duc Vien,Vu Van Liet and Nguyen Thanh Lam 26. Experimenting with change: Shifting beliefs and rice varieties in swidden communities in northern Laos���������������������������������������������������491

Karen McAllister 27. Is the ‘bogeyman’ real? Shifting cultivation and the forests, Papua New Guinea���������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 517

Bryant Allen and Colin Filer 28. The end of swidden in Bhutan: Implications for forest cover and biodiversity�������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 546

Stephen F. Siebert, Jill M. Belsky, Sangay Wangchuk and James Riddering 29. Valuation and management of forest ecosystem services: A skill well exercised by the forest people of Upper Nam Theun, Lao PDR��������� 559

Laurent Chazée 30. Benuaron: The fruit gardens of the Orang Rimba����������������������������������������577

Bambang Hariyadi and Dedi Harmoko

X  Contents

31. Ancestral domain and national park potection: A logical union? A case study of the Mt Kitanglad Range Nature Park, Bukidnon, Philippines�������597

Malcolm Cairns 32. Shifting cultivation and wildlife sanctuaries in ancestral domains: Friend or Foe of biodiversity conservation?���������������������������������������������� 635

Gliceto ‘Butch’ O. Dagondon and Maria Easterluna Luz S. Canoy 33. The missing link of forest regeneration: Dwindling shifting cultivation in India’s Northwestern Ghats��������������������������������������������������������������������� 653

Archana Godbole, Jayant Sarnaik and Yogita Gokhale 34. Fallows and forest restoration�������������������������������������������������������������������� 662

Kuswata Kartawinata and Rochadi Abdulhadi 35. Characteristics and roles of fallow and riparian forests in a mountainous region of northern Laos��������������������������������������������������������������������������� 682

Isao Hirota 36. A plant-resources survey and festival: A community-based approach to biodiversity education and conservation��������������������������������������������� 694

Venancio A. Acebedo, Lorna F. Acebedo and David M. Bates 37. Developing information systems on indigenous plant resources in the Cordillera Administrative Region, Philippines��������������������������������� 708

Damasa B. Magcale-Macandog, Edwin R. Abucay, Lorenza G. Lirio, Lito O. Ayyokad, Joyce N. Paing, Jovita E. Saguibo, Enesto T. Miguel and Marlyn Tombali 3.  Specialization for markets or continued agrodiversity for subsistence? A. When swidden fallows become the domain of commodity crops

38. Oil palm as a productive fallow? Swidden change and new opportunities in smallholder land management�������������������������������731

Ole Mertz 39. Where are the swidden fallows now? An overview of oil-palm and Dayak agriculture across Kalimantan, with case studies from Sanggau, in West Kalimantan����������������������������������������������������������742

Lesley Potter 40. Busy people, idle land: The changing roles of swidden fallows in Sarawak������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������770

Rob Cramb

Contents  XI

41. Socially constructed rubber plantations in the swidden landscape of southwest China��������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 794

Jianchu Xu and Zhuangfang Yi 42. Rubber plantation, swidden agriculture and indigenous knowledge: A case study of a Bulang village in Xishuangbanna, China����������������������� 811

Lun Yin, Dayuan Xue and Jing Wang 43. Impacts of smallholder rubber on shifting cultivation and rural livelihoods in northern Laos�������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 826

Vongpaphane Manivong and Rob Cramb 44. From subsistence swidden fallows to market-oriented monoculture production: Drivers of land-use change in the Lao PDR, in the context of market globalization����������������������������������������������������������������������������841

Paulo Pasicolan and Thatheva Saphangthong 45. Transformation of a landscape: Shifting cultivation, biodiversity and Tea��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 850

Janet C. Sturgeon B. Shifting cultivation on an island frontier: An examination of the main swidden communities in Palawan, the Philippines – Sub-edited by James F. Eder

46. Tree crops, fallow management and agricultural settlement in the Cuyonon system of shifting cultivation����������������������������������������������������861

James F. Eder 47. Governmental pressures on swidden landscapes on Palawan Island, the Philippines�����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������877

Wolfram Dressler 48. Rice-related knowledge, farming strategies and the transformation of swiddens among the Batak of Palawan Island, the Philippines��������������891

Dario Novellino 4.  Concluding section: 49. Gender analysis: Shifting cultivation and indigenous people��������������������� 920

Carol J. Pierce Colfer, Rebakah Daro Minarchek, Malcolm Cairns, Anungla Aier, Amity Doolittle,Valerie Mashman, Helen Hambly Odame, Michelle Roberts, Kathryn Robinson and Penny Van Esterik 50. The Bidayuh of Sarawak: Gender, spirituality and swiddens����������������������� 958

Valerie Mashman and Patricia Nayoi

XII  Contents

FOREWORD Jefferson Fox*

This is the second volume of papers on swidden agriculture edited by Malcolm Cairns. Both books have been ambitious undertakings with each volume including the work of more than 100 scholars and running upwards of 800 to 1200 pages. The first volume, Voices from the Forest; Integrating Indigenous Knowledge into Sustainable Upland Farming (2007), described and analyzed numerous examples of improved fallow practices in South and Southeast Asia. Case studies on the retention of volunteer species with economic or ecological value, shrub-based accelerated fallows, herbaceous legume fallows, dispersed tree-based fallows, perennial–annual crop rotations and agroforests comprised the bulk of the book. These case studies provided a detailed overview of the great diversity of adaptive fallow systems and tree-cropping systems developed by local communities across the Asia-Pacific region. The book also documented the ability of these systems to adapt rapidly to changing land-use pressures and market economics, and refuted a commonly held belief that they are static. This second volume has more of these case studies, but the focus has shifted substantially. The papers in the 2007 volume were prepared for a workshop held in Bogor, Indonesia, in 1997. In the decade and a half since then the countries of South and Southeast Asia have experienced dramatic economic growth, and opportunities to earn cash incomes and/or grow commercial crops have trickled down to many swidden farmers. No longer dependent on their land for subsistence, many farmers have willingly, or in some cases under coercion, abandoned their swidden practices. This transition was well documented by van Vliet et al. (2012) who, based on a metaanalysis of land-cover transformations in tropical forest-agriculture frontiers over the past 10 to 15 years, concluded that swidden agriculture was decreasing in landscapes with access to local, national and international markets that encouraged cash crops. Many of the papers in this volume focus on the implications of rapid economic development and change for both farmers and swiddens, in terms of environment and livelihoods. Swidden has long been viewed as an environmentally destructive practice. Countless studies have documented the supposed destructiveness of swidden practices and almost as many have sought to refute these claims. In this volume, the

* 

Dr Jefferson Fox is a senior fellow at the East-West Center, Honolulu, Hawaii, and a member of the affiliate graduate faculty in geography and anthropology at the University of Hawaii. He conducts research on land-use and land-cover change in Asia and the impact of these changes on the region and the global environment.

XIV  Foreword

context has changed.These authors are no longer writing in opposition to claims that swidden causes degradation. Rather, they are writing of the environmental benefits of swidden. One benefit is that in an era of climate change, swidden fallows are seen as potential sequesters of carbon. Van Noordwijk et al. (this volume) suggest that some managed fallows (i.e., fallows older than 15 years) might qualify under the categories of ‘conservation of forest-carbon stocks’, ‘sustainable management of forests’, or ‘enhancement of carbon stocks’ in REDD+ discussions. This could mean that REDD+ funds might be invested in enhancing and promoting fallow management, as long as these actions contribute to the reduction of emissions and sustainable development as a whole. From a carbon perspective, intermediate- or long-fallow swidden systems could conceivably represent optimal land-use options in some situations. In addition, lengthening the fallow periods in existing swidden systems or managing the tree and bush phases of fallows could qualify for REDD+ funds. Janis Alcorn and Antoinette Royo (this volume) argue that REDD+ policies should support the development of complex agroforestry systems that reduce carbon emissions, provide secure livelihoods and protect biodiversity and other ecosystem services. Alcorn and Royo suggest that national agencies should provide smallholders with technical support, extension, credit, transport and marketing of agroforestry products in order to both increase productivity of their swidden systems and reduce carbon emissions. Successful REDD+ policies require the active involvement of local people; to be actively engaged, smallholders need secure tenure for both agricultural and forest lands before they can participate in meaningful discussions with planners and government agencies concerning the future of their land. Positive market incentives and supportive government policies are better than standardized, top-down directives, and it can be expected that these forces, along with increasing influence from global factors, will create opportunities and constraints for new land uses. Another potential benefit of swidden is biodiversity. Percy Sajise’s paper (this volume) summarizes the arguments on swidden and biodiversity and concludes that it does not always follow that swidden farming causes a decline in biodiversity; nor does increasing the number of species always result in enhanced productivity and ecosystem sustainability. There are tremendous variations in the biodiversity levels of various swidden systems compared with natural forests, and there is a lack of scientific study that relates these variations in biodiversity levels and characteristics to ecosystem services, and the ability to generate socio-economic benefits to society on a sustainable basis. Sajise notes, however, that the transformation of swidden to intensive agriculture is accompanied by a decline in forest cover, loss of wild or natural biodiversity, increases in weed pressures, decreases in soil fertility, accelerated soil erosion, declines in stream-water quality and potential reduction in sequestered carbon. Likewise, Siebert et al. (this volume) argue that the loss of swidden in Bhutan is having profound implications for biodiversity. They suggest there is an intimate relationship between swidden practices that have existed for centuries and

Foreword  XV

the abundance and distribution of flora and fauna, and basic ecological processes and functions. Transformations in swidden practices are leading to reductions in biodiversity in the eastern Himalayas. So while swidden may or may not cause a decline in biodiversity, it appears, for the sake of biodiversity, to be clearly preferable to the alternatives, which are not forests, but intensive commercial agriculture, often in the form of monoculture tree plantations. In their excellent review of the impacts of changes in swidden on rural livelihoods, Cramb et al. (2009) conclude that swidden farmers are proactively responding to the political and economic ‘drivers of change’ in the region. At the household level, responses have included both the intensification and ‘dis-intensification’ of swiddens, the insertion of cash crops, the redeployment of household labour and the taking on of broader (often non-rural) livelihood aspirations and strategies. At the community level, new institutional arrangements for managing land and forests have emerged. Changes in swiddening practices have led to the loss and also the reassertion, realignment and redefinition of cultures and identities, with important implications for access to resources. These themes are echoed in these papers. In this volume, Cramb notes that rapid economic change in Sarawak has drawn people out of the longhouse and away from their traditional resource base, giving rise to what he calls a ‘post-swidden landscape’. He suggests that the orientation towards urban employment means that collective decisions are being made about the conversion of the pooled swidden-fallow resource to commercial crops (oil palm, rubber and other uses) and that longhouse members may not be on an equal footing with outside investors in these decisions. More optimistically, Mertz (this volume) observes that when farmers in Niah district, Sarawak converted their fallow land to oil palm in the late 1990s, they did so in small patches over a long period. He suggests the replanting that will begin after 2020 may be equally slow, allowing a period for growing rice in between cycles of oil palm. Mertz argues that after 20 to 25 years, an oil-palm garden may be regarded as reasonable ‘fallow vegetation’ that can be cut and burned for new cultivation of upland rice and other crops. Less optimistically, Potter (this volume) writes that swidden fallows have largely disappeared in the oil-palm areas of West Kalimantan. Although some people still cling to their rubber forests and tembawang, she concludes that it is too late to reverse the march of oil palm: “it is certainly too late to bring back the swidden.” But swidden has not disappeared everywhere. The third volume in this trilogy contains numerous examples of improved fallow practices in the Asia-Pacific region. These practices include fallow systems based on Alnus nepalensis, Asteraceae and bamboo, different mounding technologies, and differing roles for livestock and fodder, as well as non-timber forest products. As in Voices from the Forest, these case studies provide a well-documented and descriptive synopsis of the diversity of adaptive fallow and tree-cropping systems developed by local communities in their efforts to modify upland farming to meet evolving rural conditions In the concluding chapter of Voices from the Forest, Terry Rambo asked the question: ‘Does improved fallow management have a future?’ He concluded, ‘yes,

XVI  Foreword

of course it does’, because there are no alternatives to this strategy for millions of resource-poor farmers living in upland areas of Asia and the Pacific. Yet, Brookfield (this volume) reminds us that James Scott (2009, pp. 4-5) described the last half-century in upland Southeast Asia as the period of the last ‘great enclosure movement’ affecting upland people. This, Scott claimed, was ‘to ensure that their economic activity was legible, taxable, accessible and confiscatable or, failing that, to replace it with forms of production that were’. This volume does an admirable job of capturing the tension between these two views of the future. Rambo is correct. Swidden farming and improved fallows will remain an important part of many remote landscapes in South and Southeast Asia. But Scott is also correct, and swidden will continue to disappear from vast portions of the region. It is important to capture both stories – on one hand, the loss of swidden and the implications of that loss for the environment, livelihoods and cultures; and on the other, the ways in which swidden continues to exist and prosper and the roles of improved fallow management in its continued existence. The papers in this volume tell these stories. References Alcorn, J. B. and Royo, A. G. (2014) ‘Best REDD scenario: Reducing climate change in alliance with swidden communities and indigenous peoples in Southeast Asia’, this volume Brookfield, H. (2014) ‘Shifting cultivators and the landscape: An essay through time’, this volume Cairns, M. F. (ed.) (2007)Voices from the Forest: Integrating Indigenous Knowledge into Sustainable Upland Farming, Resources for the Future Press, Washington, DC, USA Cramb, R. A. (2014) ‘Busy people, idle land: The changing roles of swidden fallows in Sarawak’, this volume Cramb, R. A., Colfer, C. J. P., Dressler, W., Laungaramsri, P., Trung, L. Q., Mulyoutami, E., Peluso, N. L. and Wadley, R. L. (2009)‘Swidden transformations and rural livelihoods in Southeast Asia’, Human Ecology 37, pp323-346 Mertz, O. (2014) ‘Oil palm as a productive fallow? Swidden change and new opportunities in smallholder land management’, this volume Potter, L. (2014) ‘Where are the swidden fallows now? An overview of oil-palm and Dayak agriculture across Kalimantan, with case studies from Sanggau, in West Kalimantan Rambo, A. T. (2007) ‘Observations on the role of improved fallow management in swidden agricultural systems’, in M. F. Cairns (ed.) Voices from the Forest: Integrating Indigenous Knowledge into Sustainable Upland Farming, Resources for the Future Press, Washington, DC, USA, pp780-801 Sajise, P. E. (2014) ‘Biodiversity and swidden agroecosystems: An analysis and some implications’, this volume Scott, J. C. (2009) The Art of Not Being Governed: An Anarchic History of Upland Southeast Asia,Yale University Press, New Haven and London Siebert, Stephen F., Belsky, Jill M., Wangchuk, S. and Riddering, J. (2014) ‘The end of swidden in Bhutan: Implications for forest cover and biodiversity’, this volume Van Noordwijk, M., Minang, P. A. and Hairiah, K. (2014) ‘Swidden transitions in an era of climatechange debate’, this volume van Vliet, N., Mertz, O., Heinimann, A., Langanke, T., Pascual, U., Schmook, B., Adams, C., Schmidt-Vogt, D., Meserli, P., Leisz, S., Castella, J-C., Jorgensen, L., Birch-Thomsen, T., Hett, C., Bech-Bruun, T., Ickowitz, A., Vu, K. C., Yasuyuki, K., Fox, J., Padoch, C., Dressler, W. and Zeigler, A.D. (2012) ‘Trends, drivers and impacts of changes in swidden cultivation in tropical forest-agricultural frontiers: A global assessment’, Global Environmental Change 22, doi:10.1016/j. gloenvcha.2011.10.009

PREFACE Malcolm Cairns*

A stroke of bad luck

A preface generally explains how a book came to be written. That is unavoidably a very personal story for this book. This story may perhaps logically begin with a police raid on a condo unit in Chiang Mai of northern Thailand in September of 2008. Upon gaining entry into the dark, single-room unit, they found a male Caucasian lying semi-conscious on the floor, next to a bed. Sheets had been pulled from the adjacent bed by the subject, in an attempt to gain some protection from the cold. Standing over the prostrate subject on the floor, the police then engaged in a conversation about how this was likely to be a drug arrest. A Thai woman who had accompanied the police interjected to assure them that whatever had happened, drugs would not be involved. I know this scene well because I was that male Caucasian on the floor, and could hear the conversation going on above me. The reality was that I’d suffered a massive stroke four days earlier, while trying to drift off to sleep sometime after midnight. It had been my father’s birthday that day, on 17 September 2008, and I’d skyped him before going to bed, so that I could sing happy birthday to him. That accomplished, I’d gone to bed and the stroke must have happened shortly after. Rolling over, I’d lost my balance and fallen off the side of the bed. The stroke had left me paralysed on my left side, and unable to regain my feet and get back into bed. That left me trapped on the floor. The analogy that occurred to my confused mind was that of a malfunctioning USB hub, and that no matter how much I ‘clicked’, my left limbs refused to work.With the thick curtains pulled tightly across the window, I was further handicapped in that the room was pitch black and I couldn’t see anything. Only the soft glow from my laptop’s screen, still turned on, on the desk above me, provided the slightest illumination in what had suddenly become my dark prison. Soon my laptop lapsed into sleep mode, and even that meagre light was gone. To make matters worse, I had been in the final stages of revising my PhD dissertation when this all happened, and piles of books covered my floor, arranged for easy access. I couldn’t move without knocking over a pile of books. Little could I have imagined that the old joke about PhD meaning ‘permanent head damage’ would turn out to be so true in my case!

* 

Dr Malcolm Cairns is a freelance researcher who was most recently Fellow, Centre for Southeast Asian Studies (CSEAS), Kyoto University, Kyoto, Japan.

XVIII  Preface

. I have a lot of memories of struggling to crawl back onto the bed – but how many are real and how many imagined, I don’t know. I was probably drifting in and out of consciousness. Time became a blur. It was hard to keep track of the passage of days, since the thick curtains didn’t allow any daylight to penetrate. I remember hearing my cell phone ringing – high above me on a bookshelf and well out of reach – and feeling comforted that somebody might have noticed my absence, and might be searching for me. But eventually the phone batteries died, and even that companionship was gone… leaving only silence and darkness. In fact, an anxious friend, living far in the deep south, had become alarmed that I couldn’t be contacted, either by telephone or online. She was concerned that I might have become a victim of the political violence that was sweeping Thailand during that time. Her first step was to phone the condo administration, and ask them to check on the occupant of Room 211 – but they refused, citing reasons of privacy. She then had to resign herself to spending the next two days on the train, making the long trip from Thailand’s far south up to Chiang Mai in the north, to look for herself. When she finally did arrive in Chiang Mai and asked the condo staff for access to my room, they again refused – and that’s when she had to involve the police and organize a raid on my room. Brain cells die by the millions after a bad stroke releases blood into the brain – but they say that if stroke victims can receive treatment within three hours, then the effects can be minimized. After four days, lying alone in a darkened room, as my brain haemorrhaged, I knew that I was lucky to still have a pulse when they finally lifted me onto a stretcher and carried me out to a waiting ambulance. What does this almost tragic tale have to do with this book? In normal circumstances, it is a near certainty that after finalizing my dissertation, I would have headed back up a mountain to continue my research. But suddenly finding myself a hemiplegic and physically unable to return to the field, my thoughts were forced to turn to how I could continue to make a contribution to my chosen field while faced with this handicap. TheVoices from the Forest (2007) volume had just recently been released, and there were already calls for a sequel. It was thus that the groundwork was laid for this sequel. Working on a book project was something that I could do with the one hand still available to me, albeit slowly. So, in short, it was my near death that resulted in the rise of this book. Is the sky falling?

The spectre of snow on the pyramids in Egypt in December of 2013 raised a lot of eyebrows and undoubtedly increased angst about global climate change. As mankind attempts to reduce the release of anthropogenic greenhouse gases into the atmosphere, it’s too easy for shifting cultivation to become a scapegoat for what are far more modern problems. The optics are admittedly bad. Entire hillsides of forest can be felled and set ablaze, releasing billowing clouds of smoke. For those without intimate knowledge of how shifting cultivation actually works, it seemed a ‘no-brainer’ to

Preface  XIX

condemn this system of agriculture and demand its replacement with other forms of land use. And yet, a growing cadre of researchers, some of whom have spent almost entire lifetimes researching shifting cultivation, find it an admirable land-use system, that has much to teach us. Regardless of our admiration for shifting cultivation, it probably doesn’t make sense to advocate its ‘preservation’ as a museum piece, as I’ve heard urged at some meetings. Shifting cultivators will continue to modify their land-use practices in response to changing pressures and opportunities, as they always have, as farmers continually experiment with better ways to manage their limited resources. One would hope, though, that Western agriculture, which depends so much on technology and chemical inputs to ‘over power’ nature, could learn something from shifting cultivators, who are much more adept at ‘hitching a ride’ with nature, as a surfer does with a large wave. As shown by the collection of photos in the coloured plates section of this book, farmers across the Asia-Pacific region have independently developed remarkably similar methods of shifting cultivation. It is unlikely that they were all wrong, and that the system has little to recommend it. We need to look more carefully. Whatever your opinion may be, what is clear is that myriad powerful forces are coalescing to dramatically reduce traditional forms of shifting cultivation. This was to the extent that international meetings held in Vietnam in 2008 spoke in terms of the impending ‘demise’ of shifting cultivation! An age-old system of agriculture, thought by some to represent mankind’s first tentative steps from hunting and gathering to agriculture, was believed to be heading towards extinction – and with it, a rich legacy of traditional knowledge and crop varieties. What is without doubt, however, is that shifting cultivation is under unprecedented pressures and is changing rapidly. It was this environment of rapid change that beckoned for a state-of-the-art review of shifting cultivation as it is practised in these turbulent times. While our original intention was to focus on indigenous innovations in fallow management, in furtherance of the work begun in the prequel, the papers proposed were much more wide-ranging and we tried to accommodate them and give the book its head to develop in ways that follow current scientific interest. There was an immense interest in policy as it affects shifting cultivation, probably out of the common perception that the decline of shifting cultivation is often aggravated by getting the policies wrong. Although biodiversity loss and climate change hardly received any mention at the 1997 Bogor conference that gave rise toVoices from the Forest, they are clearly a major research interest now. Many authors examined the relationship between shifting cultivation and these two major environmental threats. Another major research thrust looked at farmers’ best practices and innovations as they struggle to find ways to cope under increasing pressures. This has all resulted in a much widerranging set of papers than we had originally envisioned. When it became clear that we had received much more material than could possibly fit into a single volume, then these same themes became the basis by which we divided it into three volumes, emphasizing environment, policy and farmer innovations. That willingness to

XX  Preface

accommodate has also meant that the list of contributing authors for the three books has become a virtualWho’s Who in shifting cultivation research in the Asia-Pacific region. This trilogy will be a treasure trove for students of anthropology, human geography, international development, agronomy, forestry and resource management, who hold a special interest in shifting cultivation and want to learn from the region’s foremost experts. Acknowledgements

We are indeed fortunate to have had precisely the same dedicated team working on this sequel as had worked together in making the precedingVoices from the Forest volume such a resounding success. Their assistance was even more critical this time, since, with my left side paralysed, there was literally only half of me available to work on a book project that had grown so large that it would likely have intimidated even the healthiest editor! Beyond myself, the other two key members of the production team were Bob Hill, based in Mae Ma Lai, about 40km outside of Chiang Mai City, and Tossaporn Kurupunya, working from her rubber plantation in Trang province of southern Thailand. We relied on the Internet for communication and to pass files back and forth. In fact, we became the perfect example of how remotely based colleagues can work effectively on a project of this nature, given the modern-day availability of the Internet. We all worked from our own homes, and it became an impressive example of cost-effectiveness, as there were no costs for office overheads, plane tickets, or hotel accommodation that seem to take such large bites from development budgets. The uniform and easy readability of the papers in this book is chiefly owed to the careful copy-editing of Bob Hill. In the final dash for the line, we also called on the copyediting assistance of Janice Twaddle from Brockville, Ontario. After Bob finished with each paper, he passed it down south to Tossaporn for her to format according to Earthscan’s specifications. Coming in from tapping rubber, her hands still sticky with latex, Tossaporn would switch on her computer and begin her work. Both Bob and Tossaporn are immensely patient and skilled in their given tasks, and I couldn’t have asked for better colleagues to work with. Both are owed the most fulsome of thanks for their essential roles in this book’s success! Given that I was seriously ill while working on this multi-year project (2009–2014), it was necessary to have special help to keep body and soul together, and make sure that I was in condition to work.Throughout this time, an enormous debt of gratitude was owed to my physiotherapist, Khun Suthida Chantamanas (Ae), for her constant treatment and prayers for my recovery. Her warm smiles and constant good cheer were hugely important to bolstering my spirits and seeing this project through to its end. Warm thanks are also owed to my care-giver, Chanchira Rattanamanachai (Fa), especially for her task of ensuring that I had a coffee in hand before starting each day’s work. Papers were sometimes submitted without professionally drawn maps, and it then became our headache to make up for that deficit. We wanted readers to easily be able

Preface  XXI

to refer to an accompanying map to see where each author was writing about. Warm gratitude is thus owed to our team of cartographers: Joshua J. Ryan, Rebecca Bicksler, Manthita Duangchai and Jaisanee (Kittima) Kidarn, all of whom contributed excellent maps that will help our readers immensely in orientating themselves geographically to the study sites that they are reading about. Beyond the maps, we also sought out artwork that could help break up long blocks of unbroken text and make the book more readable. The impressive charcoal sketches that are used as section openers were rendered by Paradorn Threemake, a Thai artist of immense talent based out of Chiang Mai’s Night Bazaar. Paradorn also drew the charcoal sketches that appear on the book’s front and back covers, and all the line drawings found in the cartoon paper, located in the concluding section. Since this is essentially a book about plants and their management by indigenous peoples within swidden systems, we also wanted to include some botanical sketches that would help readers identify some of the key plants discussed. The idea was to insert these botanical sketches into the paper somewhere early, so that the reader could think,‘Oh, that’s the plant that he is talking about. I’ve seen that growing

in such and such a village – or possibly along the road – but hadn’t recognized its botanical name.’ And then, having personally identified the plant in his or her mind,

the reader continues to read about it with increased interest. For this task, we called on the help of a freelance artist in Indonesia, Wiyono, based out of Bogor. (Like many Indonesians, Wiyono goes by only one name.) The botanical sketches scattered throughout the book are his creations. Both Paradorn and Wiyono had also contributed their artistic talents to the precedingVoices from the Forest volume. This is another example of how this sequel has benefited from keeping the old team intact. After receiving botanical sketches from Wiyono, we then asked the help of Professor James F. Maxwell of Chiang Mai University’s Biology Department in evaluating them and searching for any botanical inaccuracies. The cartoon caricature at the end of this Preface was drawn by Ajarn Krich Buasuk (Ajarn Green), another local artist here in Chiang Mai. It is the only example of his work in the volume. The enthusiastic response of the research community to our announcement of this book and call for papers was immensely gratifying. Everyone seemed excited at the prospect of a sequel toVoices from the Forest, and wanted to be part of it. It was that groundswell of enthusiasm that led to this book reaching the dimensions that it has, and indeed, that there are two further volumes in the pipeline. From among the long list of contributing authors, there are a few whose contributions were particularly outstanding and deserve special recognition. The first of this elite group that comes to mind is none other than Dr Carol Colfer of CIFOR and Cornell University. While I know for a fact that Dr Colfer was already too preoccupied with other work to participate in a book like this, she is so kind – and committed to the subject – that she not only co-wrote one of the introductory papers, but then continued on to coordinate a panel of experts in undertaking a gender analysis for the entire book. And she did it all with such

XXII  Preface

grace and continual good humour! The commitment displayed by some authors was humbling. One of our most respected scientists, Dr Percy Sajise, wrote his paper from a hospital bed between surgeries, and while attending funerals for lost family members! One can only regard his commitment with awe! Beyond delivering a paper on his work in Bhutan and sharing his photographs, Dr Stephen Siebert deserves special thanks for his constant encouragement, friendship, and offers to help in any way that he could. At ICIMOD, Dr Dhrupad Choudhury showed himself to be an up-and-coming force in shifting cultivation research by contributing a total of three important papers! Drawing chiefly from their expertise in Indochina, our French colleagues made a large contribution to this shifting cultivation trilogy, and particularly for the two volumes to follow. Several scientists are particularly notable for the weight of their contributions. Despite a hectic schedule and a hand injury, Dr Olivier Ducourtieux delivered two thought-provoking papers on his work in Lao PDR, and one of the stunning photos in the coloured plates section of this volume was taken by him. Another familiar name in Laos, Dr Laurent Chazée, also contributed two valuable papers and several photos that would have been a credit to any professional photographer. Our French colleagues’ work is all the more impressive in that it wasn’t written in their mother tongue! Finally, Dr Ken MacDicken deserves to be singled out for special recognition. He undertook the enormous task of reading almost every paper that we received, and drawing from them in developing a policy synthesis chapter for inclusion in the following volume. Dr MacDicken is a CIFOR veteran, of course, and brings with him tremendous experience and expertise. We are indeed fortunate to have one of the concluding papers of book number two in the trilogy written by such a capable analyst! These are some of the key people whose efforts were so instrumental in the success of this trilogy, and who helped to make my job so pleasant. We salute them, and want to take advantage of this opportunity to acknowledge their contributions and thank them in a very public way! As with any thank-you exercise of this nature, the danger, of course, is that we will neglect to mention some names and cause hurt feelings. If I have blundered into that error, then I do apologize profusely! But length considerations alone are forcing me to limit my remarks. The method by which this book trilogy was assembled over the internet was a bit like a virtual symposium, with each participant given a turn at the microphone to present his or her research findings. Those findings have now been collated into this book, and the two volumes to follow. While reflecting on the community of researchers working on shifting cultivation, two clear voices of reason are sadly missing from this effort. Normally, Dr Sam Fujisaka, most recently at CIAT, and Dr Harold Olofson, formerly at the Anthropology Department of Cebu University in the Philippines, would have been two of the first colleagues that I would have approached to participate in this trilogy. Both were valued mentors and friends. But sadly, both have already published their last papers. Their absence reminds us all of

Preface  XXIII

our own mortality, the fleetingness of time, and the need to make a contribution while we still can. Time stands still for no man. This project has, I think, become a huge success even before this book hit print, in that it has gotten people talking and writing about shifting cultivation again. It has even stimulated new field research. I know, for example, that Drs Anungla Aier (Nagaland) and Rob Kelly (Laos) were among those researchers who returned to the field specifically for the purpose of gathering new data to be written up in their respective papers. As I once read Dr Carol Colfer observing in an online blog, shifting cultivation seems to inspire unusual passion and commitment amongst its researchers. For me, it was a natural fit. As a young man fresh out of high school, I had first studied agriculture at the Nova Scotia Agricultural College. I later added a Master’s degree in Environmental Studies from York University, that had a strong focus on shifting cultivation in its fieldwork. And I most recently completed a PhD in Anthropology from the Australian National University that provided me with the opportunity to undertake intensive fieldwork on the Angami Nagas and their management of Alnus nepalensis in their dryland fields. So … what subject better intersects the interests of agriculture, environment and indigenous peoples more perfectly than shifting cultivation? That, in a nutshell, very easily explains why I do this work. As cost-effective as we might try to be, nothing happens without some funding support! Warmest thanks are therefore extended to the following organizations, without whose generosity, this book would not have been possible: • • • • • •

the Australian Centre for International Agricultural Research (ACIAR), Australia the World Agroforestry Centre (ICRAF) Agriculture and Food Security Program, the International Development Research Centre (IDRC), Canada the International Centre for Integrated Mountain Development (ICIMOD), Nepal the Centre for Southeast Asian Studies (CSEAS), Kyoto, Japan Willscott Farm, Prince Edward Island, Canada

These are the main supporters of this volume, and as such, it is generally their logos that the book displays. Some explanation is required. ACIAR, ICRAF and IDRC were also among the main donors that made possible theVoices from the Forest prequel. Their grants to this sequel were thus a continuance of funding support for the good work that they had earlier supported. ICIMOD placed a substantial bulk pre-order for the book that both helped to build the publisher’s confidence in the potential sales volumes for the book, and will ensure distribution of the book to ICIMOD’s partners. CSEAS’s support was indirect, in that it provided a six-month fellowship to the Editor while he continued to work on the volume in Kyoto. CSEAS professor, Dr Kono Yasuyuki,

XXIV  Preface

was also instrumental in that he coordinated Japanese participation in the book. In a similar manner, beyond providing a direct grant to the publisher, the ICRAF Kunming office supported the Editor in spending two months with them as a visiting scientist, while continuing to work on the book. The last entity listed, Willscott Farm, is in fact, not a normal donor – but a family-owned dairy farm on Prince Edward Island, Canada. It is, in fact, the ancestral farm that I grew up on. Health care is free for Canadians who are resident in Canada. But the same is not true for Canadians living outside their home country, as I have been while working on this book. I was living in Chiang Mai when I suffered the previously described stroke and I’ve continued to base myself here since, for the purposes of working on this book and continuing therapy. Disabled and unemployed, I’ve been able to survive this rough period through the financial support of my father,William Cairns. His support was sufficiently generous that I could direct roughly half the amount transferred to the needs of this book project. This book was thus substantially supported through milk revenues, and primarily for that reason it has been dedicated to Mr Cairns, himself a well-known dairy farmer. It was his support through his sick son that, more than any other factor, allowed this book to reach publication. This is a noteworthy aspect of the book’s support, because it represents a farmer in a relatively wealthy country supporting work helpful to fellow-farmers who live a much more precarious existence elsewhere in the world. That’s something to be encouraged and admired! I applaud my father’s generosity in lending a helping hand to those in need! Imagine what a better world it would be if we behaved on a national level as he does on a personal level! As a young boy growing up, I often saw my father helping neighbouring farmers up and down the road, usually with labour or the use of his machinery, particularly during busy sowing and harvest times. Now, in his elder years, his reach has extended to the other side of the world. I had in effect become the overseas arm of Willscott Farm. They say that the apple never falls far from the tree – but in this case, the apple and the tree teamed up in a father-son effort to overcome obstacles and make this book happen!

Preface  XXV

Throughout much of this book project, the Editor worked with his left leg in a splint and his left arm in a sling – the outcomes of a devastating stroke. Only his right hand remained available for tapping at his laptop’s keyboard

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1. INTRODUCTORY SECTION A. Overview chapters: The context in which this book was prepared

An elder from an Akha Panghok swidden-farming community in mountainous northern Laos draws thoughtfully on her pipe as she regards a foreign visitor Sketch based on a photo by  Laurent Chazée

(i) A backwards glance, over our shoulders …

According to Lawa tradition, when clearing a swidden, the actual tree-cutting is done by women Sketch based on a photo by  Dietrich Schmidt-Vogt

1 THE VIEW OF SWIDDEN AGRICULTURE By the early naturalists Linnaeus and Wallace Michael R. Dove*

Introduction

The academic literature on swidden agriculture remains as robust as ever, re-stimulated, in part, by burgeoning interest in climate change-related REDD schemes (for Reduced Emissions from Degradation and Deforestation, e.g. Hett et al., 2012). REDD is not the only current, intellectual driving force. Other interests of contemporary swidden researchers include swidden fallow management, which has generated a considerable literature (Cairns, 2007), the related topic of biodiversity in swidden systems (Padoch and Pinedo-Vasquez, 2010), and continuing interest in the role of swidden systems and societies in wider economic (Dove, 2011) and political (Scott, 2009) circles. Interestingly, in spite of half of a century of focused study, and an additional prior century of observation by travellers and colonial officials, a number of prominent contemporary researchers still identify our lack of knowledge of swidden as a problem. For example, Mertz et al. (2009, p262) wrote of Southeast Asia: Despite a relatively large number of cases from the region, the knowledge of swidden cultivation is still very patchy and many essential elements such as exact areas affected and people involved are not well documented. The general drivers of swidden change are somewhat better understood, but data on their relative importance in many regions still elude us. In order to document changes in swidden systems, their extent must first be known, and Padoch et al. (2007) examine the reasons why even this baseline information is still hard to come by.

* 

Dr Michael R. Dove, Margaret K. Musser Professor of Social Ecology, School of Forestry and  Environmental Studies; Director, Tropical Resources Institute; Professor, Department of Anthropology; Curator, Peabody Museum of Natural History,Yale University, USA.

4  Dove

Some of these same questions have dogged studies of swidden agriculture throughout the modern history of such study, as exemplified by the mid-18th-century work of Carl Nilsson Linnaeus, specifically his 1751 Skånska Resa (Scanian Travels), and the mid-19th-century work of Alfred Russel Wallace, referring to his 1869 The Malay Archipelago. Linnaeus (1707-1778), known as Carl von Linné after he was knighted for his work, is known to us as the father of modern taxonomy and the system of binomial nomenclature. Wallace is known to us as one of the founders of the field of biogeography (with his ‘Wallace’s Line’) and especially as the man whose independent development of the theory of evolution based on natural selection prompted Darwin to publish his own views, to greater, and lasting, public acclaim. Neither Linnaeus nor Wallace are known for their scholarship on swidden agriculture and, indeed, few modern scientists are even aware of it. But both men did examine swidden agriculture, and both had prescient things to say about it. Revisiting what they said puts current practices of swidden agriculture into historic perspective and, of equal importance, it puts into perspective our study of swidden and the enduring problems of the politics of knowledge and the divide between nature and culture.The ability of Linnaeus and Wallace to comprehend the dynamics of swidden systems in the face of historic and enduring biases illuminates the epistemology of swidden agriculture; and their ability to appreciate the value of swidden landscapes illuminates the stark, modern dichotomy between society and environment and the blinkers it imposes on us. In the following analysis, I will review the swidden-related work of first Linnaeus and then Wallace. In each case, I will place their observations in historic, social, political and intellectual context. I will conclude with some suggestions as to what this study tells us about the global history of swidden agriculture, the historic construction of ignorance regarding it, and the implications of a less- versus well-developed Cartesian divide of nature and culture. Linnaeus

Whereas the popular contemporary image of swidden agriculture locates it firmly in a tropical, non-Western context, the work of Linnaeus joltingly reminds us of a temperate-zone, Western history (Figure 1.1). The 20th-century accounts of swidden systems, which typically note how different they are from Western systems of agriculture and how much of a mental contortion Westerners must go through in order to appreciate them, depend on a curious forgetting of Western history – and not remote history, either. Swidden cultivation remained economically preferable to working in industry in parts of France until around 1890; and pockets of swidden remained in Germany, Austria and northern Russia until the 1950s and 1960s (Sigaut, 1979). In North America, a swidden system based on some melding of European and Native American practices developed in the southern uplands, where it dominated through the 19th century and remnants of it persisted well into the 20th-century (Otto and Anderson, 1982).1 Swidden cultivation may have endured longest in some of the less-populated and less-industrialized parts of Scandinavia, the

Chapter 1. View of swidden agriculture   5

FIGURE 1.1 

Carl von Linné, aka Carl Nilsson Linnaeus, from an engraving by the artist Lizars, wearing Lapland dress and holding a plant, with instruments around his waist Source:  History of Medicine Division, US National Library of Medicine

swidden history of which has attracted a fair amount of recent scholarly attention (Lehtonen and Huttunen, 1997; Emanuelsson and Segerström, 2002; Myllyntaus et al., 2002). Certainly, swidden agriculture was still widely practised in Sweden, if often surreptitiously, in the mid-18th century, when Linnaeus studied it. Linnaeus’ ‘Scanian Travels’

In the course of his professional career, Linnaeus undertook a number of celebrated expeditions to lesser-known regions of Sweden, where he carried out natural history studies of both the environment and human society. The last of these, undertaken at the behest of the Swedish government in 1749, was to the province of Skåne, or Scania, in southern Sweden. This trip, like those he had previously carried out to Lapland, Dalecarlia, and the two Baltic islands of Öland and Gotland, was selfconsciously driven by a patriotic naturalist curiosity. As Linnaeus noted when he gave

6  Dove

his inaugural lecture at Uppsala University, ‘Good God! How many, ignorant of their own country, run eagerly into foreign regions, to search out and admire whatever curiosities are to be found; many of which are much inferior to those which offer themselves to our eyes at home’ (Stillingfleet, 1759). Scania had been part of the Kingdom of Denmark until 1658, and was politically unstable until 1720, when its classification as a conquered foreign land was finally relinquished and it was officially made part of Sweden proper, although a policy of forced cultural assimilation continued for another century. In addition, many of the upland swidden farmers of this and other parts of Sweden were an ethnic minority, the immigrant ‘forest Finns’, who had historically been encouraged to clear the country’s forests, but by Linnaeus’ time were seen as despoilers of natural resources. In the account of this trip, published in 1751 as Skånska Resa (Skåne Journey or Travels), Linnaeus offered detailed observations of flora and fauna and also land uses, in particular the then ubiquitous practice of swidden cultivation, obtained in part through interviewing the local people. As he wrote, ‘Burn-beaten areas, which are everywhere seen among the forests here in Småland, and which are looked upon by some as profitable, by others as rather deleterious, were closely examined and the benefit and the injury done to the countryside were weighed against one another’ (Linnaeus, 1751, p26, cited in Weimarck, 1968, p56).2 The term ‘burn-beating’ is a translation of the Swedish term svedjebruk, which refers to the practice of swidden agriculture (Weimarck, 1968).3 In districts unsuited for intensive agriculture, Linnaeus saw distinct advantages to burn-beating: [W]hen one looks upon the forests in stony Småland, where woodland is extensive, one sees the most unpromising surface, covered with small stones and overgrown with heather, which can hardly be changed for the better; when the farmer here cuts down the trees and burns the land by burn-beating, he obtains from his otherwise quite unprofitable forest and soil, a mostly fine grain, and for several years after that a good pasture of grass, which comes up between the stones, until the heather once more chokes the grass. Pine and spruce soon re-establish themselves, so that after 20 to 30 years they are ready for new burn-beating. In this way the farmer gets an abundance of grain from otherwise quite worthless land. (Linnaeus, 1751, p26, cited in Weimarck, 1968, p56) He concluded with a staunch endorsement of the economic importance of burn-beating to the rural populace of the province: If the inhabitants of Småland were not allowed to have burn-beating, they would want for bread and be left with an empty stomach looking at a sterile waste, with expectations after a couple of hundred years for their own, or for other’s descendants, who could, however, scarcely hope to reap any harvest from a thankless soil and stony Arabia infelix. (Linnaeus, 1751, p26, cited in Weimarck, 1968, p56)

Chapter 1. View of swidden agriculture   7

Linnaeus’ reference to non-burn-beaten land as ‘sterile waste’ and ‘stony Arabia infelix’ is notable, coming as it did from Sweden’s most famous naturalist. It reflects an absence of discrimination between ‘natural’ and ‘human-altered’ landscapes that seems odd from our contemporary standpoint. As Koerner (1999, p84) wrote, Linnaeus actually ‘preferred bucolic culturescapes to pristine nature’ and ‘could not imagine a fundamental conflict of interest between nature and humankind’. Linnaeus’ observations are valued today for the insight that they give into the conditions at the time. As Jackson (1923, pp208-209) wrote, ‘These statements are a gold mine for the present-day student in acquiring a knowledge of Sweden gleaned from the country folk in the middle of the eighteenth century’. Weimarck (1968, p11) similarly wrote: ‘In his Scanian Travels, Linnaeus (1751) gives an authentic description of the agriculture [in the region].’ Weimarck carried out extensive studies of environmental history in northeast Scania in the mid-20th century, in a district much like that described by Linnaeus, on the basis of which she utilized, clarified and expanded on his findings. She began with the remarkable statement: ‘[A]ll naturally well-drained mineral soils (viz., all areas suitable for agriculture) within these investigated areas have on some occasion been subject to burn-beating’ (Weimarck, 1968, p7). Based on her analysis of archival forestry records for one particular parish, Weimarck (1968, pp35, 37) found that in 1842, almost a century after Linnaeus’ observations, burn-beating was still the ‘principal livelihood’ of the rural inhabitants. She found that this condition persisted until the end of the 19th century: My research has shown that in South Sweden the country people living in the thinly populated hilly forest-clad land, covered with principally Archaean rock materials since ancient times and until nowadays, about 1900, have had their principal livelihood from burn-beating, carried out in the enclosed meadows, in the enclosed pasture lands and in the forest land. (Weimarck, 1968, p52) Burn-beating

Weimarck (1968, p13) described this historic agricultural system as follows: ‘[B]urn-beating means that each year a new area of woodland is taken into circulation and that each year a corresponding area is abandoned to revert to natural growth.’ The burn-beaten lands were subjected to a multi-year cycle or rotation, with the more demanding land uses (in terms of need for nutrients and weeding) staged earlier and the less demanding staged later, just as has been reported of swidden systems in other parts of the world. The cycle consisted of: (1) clearing and burning the forest (not necessarily in the same year); (2) cultivating turnips; (3) cultivating rye; (4) cultivating hay; (5) managing as pasture, and (6) relinquishing to natural afforestation (Weimarck, 1968, p52). Linnaeus, as noted earlier, reported that the fallow period averaged 20 to 30 years; his contemporary Krook (1765, cited in Weimarck, 1968, p43), put it at 30 years (see Figure 1.2).

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The productivity of this agricultural system was high, which is consistent with findings from studies of swidden systems around the world. For example, Öller (1800, cited in Weimarck, 1968, p46) reported that burn-beating yielded a return on sown seed of 16-24/1, which far surpassed contemporaneous yields of 2-5/1 in tilled fields (and is in the same order of magnitude as the return of 12-20/1 reported by Dove (1985) in West Kalimantan, Indonesia, or 48/1 reported by Conklin (1957) in Mindoro, the Philippines). Another way of characterizing the productivity of burnbeating is simply to say that it was not onerous (cf. Dove, 1983). As Krook (1765, cited in Weimarck, 1968, p43) put it, ‘[T]hey in this way got a greater yield with comparatively little work.’ As reported by Weimarck in the mid-20th century (1968, p49), ‘Old people say that burn-beating was a labour-saving cultivation method – during the summer season – because weeding was not necessary and the potatoes were put in heaps of soil from the beginning.’ According to Weimarck, the productivity of burn-beating in Sweden did not rest solely on the immediate return from the burn-beaten fields; rather it was the role that these fields played in the total farming system. The complete system consisted of both ‘infields’ (arable fields and meadows) and ‘outfields’ (surrounding woods), and

FIGURE 1.2  Under the Yoke (Burning the Brushwood); Wage Slaves/Burn-Beating (1893), by Finnish realist painter Eero Järnefelt (1863–1937). This work currently hangs in the Ateneum Art Museum in Helsinki.

Source: Wikimedia Commons

Chapter 1. View of swidden agriculture   9

the two were tied together (Weimarck, 1968, p13). The infields, Weimarck wrote, were cultivated according to the ‘one-field system’ (ensåde), referring to the fact that the field was not rotated with others but was kept under continuous cultivation. As described by Linnaeus (1751, p423, cited in Weimarck, 1968, p56): ‘The agriculture here in Småland was usually organized in such a way that the one-field system was used in the tilled fields, which were sown each year without rest, either with rye or barley.’ The challenge of such a system was, of course, to maintain the productivity of the field without the benefit of fallow, which was accomplished by annual applications of manure. But this just shifted the challenge to feeding the cattle that produced the manure, and here was where burn-beating came in. Burn-beating offers an important yield of grain and straw, turnips, potatoes and hay and after that, good grazing, making cattle-breeding possible in these districts. Burn-beating was carried out in connection with the one-field system and, consequently, manure from the cow house could be obtained for the tilled arable fields, making this yearly cultivation possible. (Weimarck, 1968, p13) Sufficient feed for sufficient cattle to manure the one field could only come from the burn-beaten areas in the forests. As Krook (1765, pp11-12, cited in Weimarck, 1968, p13) wrote, ‘[T]he tilled fields are nowadays not manured from the hay crop, but instead chiefly with straw from the harvested burn-beaten areas and grass from the abandoned burn-beaten land.’ In short, it was the burn-beaten outfields that sustained the cattle that, in turn, sustained the infields.The proportion of outfield to infield area necessary to provide this nutrient transfer and subsidy averaged about 4/1 from the end of the 17th century to the middle of the 19th century (Weimarck, 1968, pp21, 35-26).4 The controversy

Opinions at the time were divided about the merits of burn-beating.As a contemporary of Linnaeus, J. Faggot (1750, cited in Weimarck, 1968, p40) wrote, ‘The great problem at this time was whether burn-beating was beneficial or injurious to the country.’ In particular, there was a divide between the practitioners of burn-beating and their advocates, on one hand, and on the other hand the government, which had been prejudiced against the practice since the mid-17th century. Indeed, many forest regulations in Sweden at the time of Linnaeus’ study completely prohibited burnbeating, as a result of which the practice was often, perhaps most often, carried on surreptitiously (Weimarck, 1968, p16).5 The strong and divergent views of burn-beating at the time were reflected in a famous controversy that attended the publication of Linnaeus’ Scanian Travels. High Commissioner and Court Intendant Baron Carl Hårleman, who was involved in commissioning Linnaeus to undertake the Scanian expedition, and who actually joined Linnaeus in Skåne for part of his journey, saw the proofs of

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Scanian Travels and was critical of what Linnaeus had to say about burn-beating (Blunt, 2001, p213; Weimarck, 1968, p40). The Baron, who had condemned the practice in print himself (Blunt, 2001, p213), observed that Linnaeus ‘not only had not condemned burn-beating, so pernicious for the country, but even contrary to his better judgement justified and sanctioned the undertaking’ (Sernander, 1926, cited in Weimarck, 1968, p40). Linnaeus complained about the Baron’s criticism in a letter to the Secretary of Sweden’s Royal Academy of Sciences, saying that ‘troublemakers had been at work’. He disclaimed any vested interest in the matter, writing that he ‘cared as little whether or not a farmer burnt his land as whether or not he smoked a pipe’ (Blunt, 2001, pp213–214). In the end, Linnaeus was obliged to replace the page containing his most offensively positive remarks on burn-beating with so-called ‘harmless notes on manure’ (Sernander, 1926, pp82–83, cited in Weimarck, 1968, p40).6 Hårleman is said to have appreciated the gesture, and the two were reconciled (Blunt, 2001, pp213–214), although the impact on Linnaeus was long-lasting.The publication of Scanian Travels was a success and Linnaeus was urged to undertake further expeditions, but he demurred, telling the Secretary of the Royal Academy of Science, ‘Many a time have I set sail to bring back gold from Ophir, only to come home a broken man, my ship disabled and her sails in tatters. Another voyage might well be the end of me’ (Blunt, 2001, p214). The response from the Baron merits special attention, because it focused solely on burn-beating. No other part of Linnaeus’ account was criticized, and indeed this was perhaps the only time in his life when he was directly censored. Moreover, the Baron’s response was all the more marked because he was actually a ‘trusted friend and supposed ally’ (Blunt, 2001, p203); an ‘influential friend and patron’ (Lindroth, 1983, p61).The Baron designed the greenhouse that was built for Linnaeus at Uppsala University when he was appointed to a medical professorship there in 1741, and he was one of four donors to have a gold medal struck in Linnaeus’ honour in 1746 (Blunt, 2001, pp151, 169).7 Given the closeness of their relationship, most scholars have since concluded that this was a trifling disagreement over a trifling issue. For example, Jackson (1923, pp208–209) wrote: ‘[A] slight misunderstanding arose between him and his patron, Baron Hårleman, as to the account given of paring and burning the turf.’ And Blunt (2001, p213) wrote of the ‘exchange of bitter letters and ... good deal of unpleasantness’ that ensued because Linnaeus ‘gave his blessing to the old Swedish custom of cleaning the ground by setting fire to the stubble’. Blunt was referring to the common practice of post-harvest burning of stalks on agricultural fields and Jackson was referring to the historic Northern European practice of burning peatlands (Kunnas, 2005) – but neither was referring to burn-beating of forest lands. Since the post-harvest burning of stubble was not very contentious, and since Linnaeus actually took a stance against the burning of peatlands (Kunnas, 2005, p433), this left the basis for the controversy between the Baron and Linnaeus unexplored, which is why some scholars have attributed it to his supposedly sensitive nature. Blunt (2001, pp213–214) wrote of Linnaeus’ lament that ‘with him, industry always seemed to provoke hatred and jealousy’, and Lindroth

Chapter 1. View of swidden agriculture   11

(1983, p61) simply wrote: ‘That was the way he was, a clamouring, egocentric, and unpolished genius...’ In fact, the disagreement between Linnaeus and the Baron was a serious one over a serious issue. As Weimarck (1968, p40) correctly wrote, this was a ‘grave conflict ... concerning the question whether burn-beating was to be considered useful or injurious to the country’. This was in keeping with the broad and weighty import that Linnaeus himself gave to his field of study, which was, as Koerner (1999, p2) wrote, nothing less than ‘the relation between nature and the economy’. The political economy of burn-beating

The mid-18th-century assessment of burn-beating in Sweden was politically charged, as an analysis of Linnaeus’ post-critique editing makes clear. His edits were dismissed by his biographers for nearly a century as ‘harmless notes on manure’ (Blunt, 2001, p213, following Sernander’s (1926, pp82–83) characterization). But Weimarck (1968, p41), the foremost scholar of Linnaeus’ work on traditional Swedish land use, disagreed, arguing that Linnaeus’ decision to substitute notes on manure for discussion of burnbeating did not represent a retreat from the subject of contention at all. As Weimarck (1968, p41) wrote,‘It is significant that Linnaeus, advising the farmers how to increase the manure, recommends matter collected in the forests.’ It was also significant that he told them what type of forest provided the best manures: ‘[H]ence anyone who wishes to enrich manure with plants ought to take twigs of spruce, lichens, leaves and juicy plants of this kind; but not pine-needles, heather or moss’ (Linnaeus, 1751, p26, cited in Weimarck, 1968, p57). Linnaeus (1751, p410) said elsewhere that when burnbeating was carried out on humid slopes and low-lying land, the subsequent natural afforestation was dominated by Spruce and Juniper. In the afore-quoted passage, therefore, Linnaeus was in effect saying that the best material for manure came from burn-beaten lands. So, even though he dropped the passage explicitly supporting Picea abies (L.) H.Karst. [Pinaceae] the practice of burn-beating, he was still making the case for Spruce, which Linnaeus found enriched the land it, albeit indirectly. As Weimarck in the process of burn-beating (1968, pp140–141) wrote,

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‘Linnaeus has replaced his section on burn-beating with one on manure, fully aware of the biological balance and the strong connection between the two interdependent cultivation systems; the burn-beating and the one-field system.’ Linnaeus’ earnestly detailed notes on manure were perhaps intended as a form of ‘raillery’ against the Baron, but as Weimarck pointed out, the underlying issue was a serious one. In my opinion Linnaeus has chosen to write his article on manure as a matter of grave necessity, intending to draw attention to the importance of special activities in order to save the small, yearly cultivated fields becoming poor. Suffering from the want of fertilization, until this time procured principally by burn-beating, the fields gradually lose their potential productiveness, reducing their fertility and size of yield. In this article Linnaeus’ advice to the country people in my opinion may constitute a bitter answer in a grave conflict, an answer possibly given in desperation and in derision. (Weimarck, 1968, p41) Whence came the desperation and derision to which Weimarck referred? A contemporary of Linnaeus, J. Krook (1765), suggested that citizens who were otherwise well informed, but who lived far from the burn-beating districts, might be hostile toward the practice simply through ignorance, whereas those like Krook or Linnaeus who got to know the local people in these districts would naturally take a more sympathetic view (cited in Weimarck, 1968, pp43, 47). This did not account, however, for the systematic condemnation of the practice by the Swedish state, which was based on a straightforward difference in self-interest. As Weimarck (1968, pp46–47) wrote, ‘The negative attitude to burn-beating shown by several authorities might be due to several different reasons, but in my opinion the most material cause was the fact that this large production and this important activity was without profit for the political economy of Sweden, since it was not assessed for taxation.’ The historic Swedish kingdom had actually encouraged the practice, including by immigrant ‘forest Finns’, as a way of opening up the country’s vast, unpopulated tracts of forest, but by the time of Linnaeus, the state was less interested in colonizing the frontier than in obtaining revenue (Hamilton, 1997). The inherent resistance of swidden agricultural systems to centralized extraction by state authorities – due to the spatial scattering of fields, the mixture of crops, the staggering of harvests and the general ‘illegibility’ of the system – has been noted by other scholars of the subject, and along with the greater mobility and independence of its practitioners, this has been identified as the key determinant of nearly universal state antipathy toward this system of cultivation (Dove, 1983; Scott, 1998, 2009).This affected public policy and discourse toward burn-beating in Sweden, as Weimarck (1968, p47) noted: ‘For that reason it was politically expedient for the authorities to see to it that burn-beating was not especially encouraged and that any possible profits were not mentioned. On the other hand, the destructive effect on the forests and the soil was emphatically pointed out.’

Chapter 1. View of swidden agriculture   13

The self-interest of the Swedish state led not just to defamation and suppression of burn-beating but also, and perhaps more powerfully, to state erasure of the practice. As the work of Agamben (1998) and others has shown, one of the most powerful tools of governance available to the modern state involves re-classifying subjects and patterns of behaviour that displease it as being outside of the state and, hence, beyond state protection and vulnerable to the most severe state sanctions. According to Weimarck (1968, p24), her analysis of archival sources showed repeatedly that whereas quantitative data on the continuously tilled ‘infields’ was routinely gathered in the first half of the 18th century, the situation with regard to burn-beaten lands was very different. Sometimes burn-beating was simply not recorded; sometimes it was referred to, but without quantitative data being provided; and when data were provided, they were underestimated (Weimarck, 1968, pp24, 30, 44). But as Weimarck (1968, p30) noted, just because production on the burn-beaten lands was ‘not recorded’ did not mean that it did ‘not exist’. Wallace

Following his first international expedition to the Amazon, from 1848 to 1852, Alfred Russel Wallace spent eight years, from 1854 to 1862, in what was then the Dutch East Indies, and then spent the following six years writing about his adventures and observations in The Malay Archipelago.This work stands, along with Marsden’s (1783) The History of Sumatra, Raffles’ (1817) The History of Java, and Rumphius’ earlier Amboinsch kruid-boek (1750), as one of the region’s great works of natural history; an interdisciplinary field that did not survive past the colonial era. Wallace’s work is the most read of these, and it has been read in widely different ways. For example, Vetter (2006) referred to The Malay Archipelago as simply a ‘widely acclaimed travel narrative’, whereas Boon (1990, p14) referred to it in even more surprising terms: A crowning nineteenth-century first-person narrative is Wallace’s Malay Archipelago (1869) – odd hybrid of a book, part natural history, part ethnology. Strangely enough, although listed by such officials as Charles Hose with tomes by Walter Scott, among others, Wallace’s bizarre text has been conventionally construed as empirical. I seek instead to return it to an intertextual chain of reading. Perhaps a blinding light from Wallace’s dedication to Darwin has caused scholars to ‘conventionalize’ the work. Perhaps tales of the origins of the theory of natural selection have been substituted for actual experience of (really reading) the volume. ... I merely recommend reconsidering pat assumptions concerning The Malay Archipelago’s messages and suggest that to regard the work as a routine natural history is to ignore eerie undercurrents. Both views can be found wanting.

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The fieldworker

In Wallace’s time, there was a long-standing divide in the European scientific community between collectors and theoreticians; there was a two-tiered division of labour: factgatherers in the field, thinkers back home (Vetter, 2006, p94). The men of science needed, but scorned, collectors (Endersby, 2003, p387). There was a class basis to this: the armchair scholars tended to be wealthy, whereas the collectors had to work for their living.Wallace clearly belonged to the latter, economically challenged, class of collector (Figure 1.3). He referred to himself at one point as ‘a travelling naturalist of limited means’ (Wallace, 1869/2000, p123). He had no institutional sponsors for his expeditions, or private income, but supported himself by selling duplicate specimens (Durant, 1979, p33). Even Darwin implied that Wallace was a collector of facts, not a theorist, and he stated that ordinary entomologists ‘cannot FIGURE 1.3 Alfred Russel Wallace in be considered scientific men, but must be 1908, when he was 86, in a portrait for a ranked with collectors of postage stamps Darwin-Wallace celebration held by the and crockery’ (Endersby, 2003, p398). Linnean Society of London Wallace challenged this order of things. Source: Wikimedia Commons As Vetter (2006, p98) wrote, ‘Long before researchers gave field ethnography rather than armchair theorizing the highest prestige, Wallace was developing a greater role for regional survey work.’ To begin with, Wallace elevated fieldwork simply by describing it – in a way that Marsden, Raffles and Rumphius had not. He described in detail his search for and capture of specimens, his interactions with the local peoples, and his observations of the countryside. Nor did he neglect the dominant dimension and activity of his fieldwork – the arduous travel to remote places – which made the collecting possible in the first place. The Malay Archipelago was laid out, chapter-wise, to more or less follow Wallace’s travels through the region, the unfolding of which was narrated in the first person by Wallace. These travel details were important because they materially substantiated Wallace’s claims to scientific authority, which were based, most obviously, on simply having been there. He noted more than once that he was not looking at butchered bird skins at the end of some long commodity chain; rather, he was looking at whole animals, often living ones, often even observing them in their native habitats. For example, Wallace (1869/2000, pp339, 419) wrote: ‘[The king bird of paradise] ... had

Chapter 1. View of swidden agriculture   15

been described by Linnaeus from skins preserved in a mutilated state by the natives. I knew how few Europeans had ever beheld the perfect little organism I now gazed upon, and how imperfectly it was still known in Europe’; and he wrote of ‘being (as far as I am aware) the only Englishman who has seen these wonderful birds in their native forests.’ Wallace was probably referring to the fact that Linnaeus named the greater bird of paradise Paradisaea apoda, or ‘legless bird of paradise’, after the popular belief that the birds flew to earth from paradise and did not alight on the earth until they died. This belief arose because early trade-skins to reach Europe were prepared without feet by the native collectors. Trade and politics

Wallace ended The Malay Archipelago with a famous and unflattering comparison between the colonizers and the colonized, which completely undermined the rationale for colonial rule. He wrote, ‘Before bidding my readers farewell, I wish to make a few observations on a subject of yet higher interest and deeper importance, which the contemplation of savage life has suggested, and on which I believe that the civilized can learn something from the savage’ (Wallace, 1869/2000, p455). He referred to what he called the ‘perfect social state’ of the peoples he had lived with in the Malay Archipelago (and South America), and he continued, ‘Now, although we have progressed vastly beyond the savage state in intellectual achievements, we have not advanced equally in morals’ (Wallace, 1869/2000, p456). The object of Wallace’s ire was the disparity in wealth that the industrial revolution had created in England, on the basis of which ‘England’s labouring class is worse off than the savage in the midst of his tribe’ (Wallace, 1869/2000, p457). Until this injustice was rectified, Wallace wrote, ‘[W]e shall never, as regards the whole community, attain to any real or important superiority over the better class of savages.This is the lesson I have been taught by my observations of uncivilized man’ (Wallace, 1869/2000, p457). One of the things that impressed Wallace most about the native society of the Malay Archipelago was its trade, which well predated the colonial era.8 He was deeply impressed by the Moluccan trading port of Dobbo, for example, and marvelled at the lack of government presence there.9 He attributed this to ‘the genius of commerce’, and wrote: ‘Trade is the magic that keeps all at peace, and unites these discordant elements into a well-behaved community’ (Wallace, 1869/2000, p336). Wallace appreciated native trade because he, too, was essentially a trader – although he disingenuously denied it, referring to himself in native eyes as ‘the unheard-of phenomenon of a person who comes to stay at Dobbo who does not trade’ (Wallace, 1869/2000, p329). In fact, Wallace’s own trading efforts led to his obtaining unique insight into the dynamics of the native trade. He experienced what he called the most serious ‘difficulties’ of his eight years in the archipelago when he attempted to directly contact the interior tribesmen who trapped or shot the birds of paradise, and his analysis of the problem was astute:

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To understand this [‘difficulty’], it is necessary to consider that the birds of paradise are an article of commerce, and are the monopoly of the chiefs of the coast villages, who obtain them at a low rate from the mountaineers, and sell them to the Bugis traders. A portion is also paid every year as tribute to the Sultan of Tidore. The natives are therefore very jealous of a stranger, especially a European, interfering in their trade, and above all of going into the interior to deal with the mountaineers themselves. (Wallace, 1869/2000, pp437–438) Any direct contact with the interior collectors would have been prejudicial to the long-established authority of the coastal natives, which was based on ensuring that they were the only ones who had such access. This applied not only to Wallace, but also to the Sultan of Tidore, under whose protection, and with whose guards, he was travelling. In explaining his difficulties in obtaining skins of the rarer species of birds of paradise, Wallace noted that the Sultan always sought out these species himself (often on behalf of Dutch officials), and for this reason these skins were less easily traded on the open market and the species were, therefore, avoided by both the coastal chiefs and the collectors in the interior (Wallace, 1869/2000, pp439–440). As Wallace wrote, ‘The same causes frequently lead the inhabitants of uncivilised countries to conceal minerals or other natural products with which they may become acquainted, from the fear of being obliged to pay increased tribute, or of bringing upon themselves a new and oppressive labour’ (1869/2000, p44).10 This is a unique insight into one of the defining, historic dynamics of trade in the archipelago: the most sought-after natural resources become cursed from the viewpoint of the local peoples (Dove, 2011), at which point the best course of action is to refuse to deal with them. Refusal was an option because the native collectors did not depend for their livelihoods on this trade alone; rather, it was just one part of a composite native economy, the other significant part of which involved agriculture. Nature, culture, and agriculture

Wallace shared with colonial administrators a general abhorrence of low-intensity agriculture. He ranted at length about sago cultivation, based on his perception that sago cultivators did not have to work hard enough, because they could simply exploit naturally growing sago trees.11 He claimed that 10 days’ work sufficed for one’s food supply for an entire year. Whereas this met minimum subsistence needs, the consequent lack of need for greater industry led, Wallace claimed, to a ‘poorer’ and less-developed society (Wallace, 1869/2000, pp292, 363, 404). This was exemplified by what he termed the ‘savagery’ of the sago/fishing people of the Aru Islands, off the south-western coast of New Guinea (Wallace, 1869/2000, p344). He picturesquely expressed the Victorian sentiment on the matter as follows: ‘It seems clear that in this, as in other respects, man is not able to make a beast of himself with impunity, feeding like cattle on the herbs and fruits of the earth, and taking no thought of the morrow’ (Wallace, 1869/2000, p343).

Chapter 1. View of swidden agriculture   17

Wallace compared the sago districts of the archipelago unfavourably with its rice districts. Like colonial administrators and fellow travellers of the era, he was impressed by the intensive, terraced rice paddies that he saw in Java, Bali and Lombok, which he said ‘would be the pride of the best cultivated parts of Europe’, and ‘surpasses in the labour that has been bestowed upon it any tract of equal extent in the most Metroxylon sagu Rottb. [Arecaceae] civilised countries of Europe’ (Wallace, 1869/2000, pp85, 116, Effortless exploitation of sago was seen by 126). More surprising, from our Wallace as creating a ‘less-developed’ society vantage point, Wallace also took a positive view of the archipelago’s less-extensive systems of cultivating rice, namely swiddens. He described the swidden system of the Dayak of Borneo, for example, accurately enough: ‘The Dayaks get two crops off the ground in succession; one of rice and the other of sugar cane, maize and vegetables. The ground then lies fallow eight or ten years, and becomes covered with bamboos and shrubs.’ (Wallace, 1869/2000, p54). He saw the swiddens as not only meeting subsistence needs but also as driving a productive trade: ‘These Dayaks cultivate a great extent of ground, and supply a good deal of rice to Sarawak. They are rich in gongs, brass trays, wire, silver coins and other articles in which a Dayak’s wealth consists.’ (Wallace, 1869/2000, p54, cf. p69). Wallace said that because of this mode of livelihood, the Dayak were healthy: ‘[T]he hill-Dayaks of Borneo, who grow rice and live well, are clean skinned.’ (Wallace, 1869/2000, p343). For these reasons, he found the aesthetics of an upland swidden landscape – namely a patchwork of old forest, swiddens and swidden forest fallows – not unpleasing (Wallace, 1869/2000, pp52, 54). Wallace’s views of both appealing and unappealing agricultural landscapes were congruent with his views of which landscapes were richest versus poorest in biodiversity. What he did first and foremost in the field was to collect zoological specimens – a lot of them. Wallace (1869/2000, pxii) listed the impressive total in the Preface: ‘125,000 specimens of natural history.’ He carefully tracked his daily collection rates: for example, at one site in New Guinea he averaged 49 species a day, culminating in a day of 78 species – ‘a larger number than I had ever captured before’ (Wallace, 1869/2000, p389). He was attentive to everything that affected his capture rates, including the seasons (wet versus dry) and the daily weather; he compiled a table of how daily weather variation in Borneo affected his moth captures (Wallace,

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1869/2000, p66). He was also attentive to the way capture rates varied at different sites, and he was continually shifting camp when promising sites did not pan out. Wallace observed and related much about what differentiated good collecting sites from bad ones. He wouldn’t even bother with sites where permanent fields, plantations or fruit groves predominated, because he said these were ‘deserts’ for insects (his primary subject). On the other hand, while the proximity of some virgin forest was necessary, if there was nothing but virgin forest, there was an equal dearth of insects (Wallace, 1869/2000, p260).What was ideal,Wallace said (1869/2000, p28), was an area with undisturbed forest and some recently cleared spots – for it was on the felled trees that he found many of his insects: The quantity and the variety of beetles and of many other insets that can be collected at a given time in any tropical locality, will depend first upon the immediate vicinity of a great extent of virgin forest, and secondly upon the quantity of trees that for some months past have been, and which are still being cut down, and left to dry and decay upon the ground. At Batchian in the Moluccas he chanced upon ‘a place where a new clearing was being made in the virgin forest’, and in just four days he collected ‘about a hundred species [of beetles], of which forty were new to me’, and he called it ‘a glorious spot, and one which will always live in my memory as exhibiting the insect life of the tropics in unexampled luxuriance’ (Wallace, 1869/2000, p248). He explained it as follows: If the forest is all cleared away, almost all the insects disappear with it; but when small clearings and paths are made, the fallen trees in various stages of drying and decay, the rotting leaves, the loosening bark and the fungoid growths upon it, together with the flowers that appear in much greater abundance where the light is admitted, are so many attractions to the insects for miles around, and cause a wonderful accumulation of species and individuals. (Wallace, 1869/2000, pp260–261) The clearings from which Wallace was benefiting were typically swiddens, and the ideal collector’s landscape that he was describing was a swidden landscape. When he could not find such a ‘patchy’ landscape, he created one himself: on Bouru in the Moluccas, he found that ‘[T]here were no new clearings; and as without these it is almost impossible to find many of the best kinds of insects, I determined to make one myself, and with much difficulty engaged two men to clear a patch of forest, from which I hoped to obtain many fine beetles before I left’ (Wallace, 1869/2000, p296). This explains why Wallace looked with such equanimity upon the Dayak swidden landscapes; and why he looked with such disfavour upon the sago landscapes (Wallace, 1869/2000, pp52, 54). About one sago district in Batchian, he wrote: ‘the people here made no clearings, living entirely on sago, fruit, fish and game’, and so he realized

Chapter 1. View of swidden agriculture   19

after two days that ‘I should waste my time by staying here’; and of another district in Ceram that also depended on sago, he wrote, ‘Hence, as before explained, the scarcity of insects’, and so, after just three days in what he termed ‘this barren place’ he headed on (Wallace, 1869/2000, pp260, 275). To summarize Wallace’s agro-ecological views: the sago landscapes lacked both human industry and, therefore, insects; the terraced-rice landscapes had perhaps too much human industry (from this perspective) and, thus, no insects; the swidden landscapes had the right amount of human industry to produce a ‘patchy’ environment and, thus, an abundance of insect life. What is noteworthy from a contemporary perspective is that there was no anti-swidden, anti-deforestation discourse in The Malay Archipelago: too much forest frustrated his endeavours just as much as too little. The only consistent subject of his ire was sago-based subsistence, and this was actually based not on its impact, but its lack of impact, on the forests; the absence of forest-clearance. These views were driven by, and congruent with, his own material interests – economic as well as academic – in collecting. Wallace did not give us in The Malay Archipelago a discourse about pristine tropical nature, to which the presence of humans was anathema.12 Unlike generations of conservation-oriented scientists who followed him, he did not seek out a landscape with no human imprint. He recognized that there was something counter-intuitive in this, as he wrote of his collecting failures in Batchian: ‘This is one of those spots so hard for the European naturalist to conceive, where with all the riches of a tropical vegetation, and partly perhaps from the very luxuriance of that vegetation, insects are as scarce as in the most barren parts of Europe, and hardly more conspicuous’ (Wallace, 1869/2000, p260). There was, therefore, a pedagogical dimension to his correction of misconceptions about undisturbed environments. He was educating the reading public about the correlation between biodiversity and patchy, humandisturbed landscapes, based on his own empirical field observations. He saw nature and culture, thus, not always at odds, but in some places in comfortable symbiosis. His non-oppositional view is reflected in the fact that The Malay Archipelago is replete with observations of both nature and culture, a type of natural history that is now a lost genre. To return to Boon, with whose quotation this section began. He referred to ‘the puzzling theme’ in The Malay Archipelago, of ‘the hinted affinity between man and nature or more precisely between certain excesses in each’ (Boon, 1990, p15). Boon suggested that Wallace was propounding a sort of ‘totemism’, in which culture became a ‘simulacrum’ of nature (Boon, 1990, pp22-23; cf. Spyer, 2000, p51).This was an astute perception of something different in the treatment of nature and culture in The Malay Archipelago, but it missed the central fact of Wallace’s expedition, namely that he was finding and studying nature’s ‘excesses’ in cultural landscapes, and he knew it. This awareness was also reflected in the fact that Wallace did not demonize the local peoples. Not only did he collect specimens in their forest clearings, he saw them as fellow observers of nature. He took pains to point out that the supposed ‘savage instinct’ for traversing the forest was actually local, empirical knowledge of

20  Dove

the landscape; and he wrote that ‘native accounts of the habits of animals, however strange they may seem, almost invariably turn out to be true’ (Wallace, 1869/2000, pp206, 434). Summary and conclusions

In his Scanian Travels, Linnaeus gave us a historical account of swidden cultivation in the West. Like contemporary swidden systems, ‘burn-beating’ in Sweden in the 18th century became politically marginalized, misrepresented and bureaucratically erased. Linnaeus presented an accurate, insightful counter-representation of the system, which was politically contentious and led to its being censored. Wallace gave us a 19th-century account of swidden in what we now think of as its prototypical setting, in the rainforests of the East Indies. At that time and place, albeit two centuries after its being outlawed in Sweden, swidden was not yet a politicized activity. As a result, we got from Wallace an unselfconscious description of swidden cultivation and a straightforward assessment of the biodiversity of the patchy landscapes it produced and their appeal and value to him as a collector. The differences between the two accounts are not in their depictions of swidden cultivation, which are alike in their benign tone, but in the contexts in which they worked.These are instructive. They remind us that the global history of swidden cultivation is a staggered one, with different countries at different times diverging not just in the presence or absence of swidden but in the social, economic and political context of the practice. This reminder productively complicates popular contemporary views of swidden as characteristic of a particular time and place – namely the recent, lesser developed parts of the tropics. It also complicates our own perspectives on swidden, by drawing attention to the linkages between time, place, observer and observation. The studies by Linnaeus and Wallace have further implications for the epistemology of swidden agriculture. They show that swidden has long been amenable to understanding and has, indeed, long been understood; which means that the vast amount of historical misinformation on the topic, indeed ignorance on the topic, continuing up to the present day, has been historically constructed. Swidden agriculture has not been historically ‘unknowable’; therefore, it has been historically ‘incorrectly known’, or perhaps more accurately, purposefully ‘un-known’ – which is a very different thing. This difference, and the general subject of the sociology of knowledge of swidden agriculture, has been greatly under-studied, to the detriment of the field. This subject must encompass scholars as well, in particular the material conditions of the reproduction of their scholarship. These conditions predisposed Wallace to take a benign view of swidden cultivation, but they predisposed Linnaeus in quite the opposite direction, and he took a contrary stance at some personal cost. The studies by Linnaeus and Wallace tell us something not just about swidden agriculture, but also, more generally, about our views of nature and culture. Both accounts lack the pervasive if implicit nature/culture dichotomy of contemporary scholarship. By not dividing nature and culture as we do, from the outset, they are

Chapter 1. View of swidden agriculture   21

less concerned with trying to reconcile them. The driving purpose of a modern integrated conservation and development project (its ‘corrective tone’), for example, would be impossible to fit into the logic of either account. Working on landscapes managed less intensively by humans than is the case today, Linnaeus and Wallace perhaps felt less need to fetishize what seemed ‘natural’ or to mark off what seemed ‘anthropogenic’. The equanimity of these great naturalists towards patchy landscapes raises the question: does the concept of anthropogenic landscapes only develop when actual non-anthropogenic landscapes have disappeared? Does the nature/culture divide only become culturally marked when any actual divide has vanished? Our ongoing study of swidden agriculture has implications, thus, for questions great as well as small, and for our understanding of where we have been as well as where we are going.13 References Agamben, Giorgio. (1998) Homo Sacer: Sovereign Power and Bare Life (Daniel Heller-Roazen, trans), Stanford University Press, Stanford, CA Blunt, Wilfrid. (2001) Linnaeus: The Complete Naturalist, Frances Lincoln, London Boon, James A. (1990) Affinities and Extremes: Crisscrossing the Bittersweet Ethnology of East Indies History, Hindu-Balinese Culture, and Indo-European Allure, University of Chicago Press, Chicago Cairns, Malcolm (ed.) (2007) Voices from the Forest: Integrating Indigenous Knowledge into Sustainable Upland Farming, Resources for the Future, Washington, DC Carpenter, Carol. (1997) ‘Women and livestock, fodder and uncultivated land in Pakistan’, in Carolyn E. Sachs (ed.) Women Working in the Environment, Taylor & Francis, Washington, DC, pp157-171 Conklin, Harold C. (1957/1975) Hanunóo Agriculture: A Report on an Integral System of Shifting Cultivation in the Philippines, reprint (originally published by the Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations, Rome), Elliot’s Books, Northford, CT Dove, Michael R. (1983) ‘Theories of swidden agriculture and the political economy of ignorance’, Agroforestry Systems 1, pp85-99 Dove, Michael R. (1985) Swidden Agriculture in Indonesia:The Subsistence Strategies of the Kalimantan Kantu, Mouton, Berlin Dove, Michael R. (2007) ‘Perceptions of local knowledge and adaptation on Mt. Merapi, Central Java’, in R. F. Ellen (ed.) Modern Crises and Traditional Strategies: Local Ecological Knowledge in Island Southeast Asia, Berghahn Books, New York/Oxford, pp238-262 Dove, Michael R. (2011) The Banana Tree at the Gate: The History of Marginal Peoples and Global Markets in Borneo,Yale University Press, New Haven, CT Dove, Michael R. (in press) ‘Linnaeus’ study of Swedish swidden cultivation: Pioneering ethnographic work on the “economy of nature”’, Ambio Durant, John R. (1979) ‘Scientific naturalism and social reform in the thought of Alfred Russel Wallace’, British Journal for the History of Science 12 (40), pp31-58 Ellen, Roy F. (1988) ‘Foraging, starch extraction and the sedentary lifestyle in the lowland rainforest of Central Seram’, in J. Woodburn, T. Ingold and D. Riches (eds) History, Evolution and Social Change in Hunting and Gathering Societies, Berg, London, pp117-134 Emanuelsson, M. and Segerström, U. (2002) ‘Medieval slash-and-burn cultivation: Strategic or adapted land use in the Swedish mining district?’, Environment and History 8, pp173-196 Endersby, Jim. (2003) ‘Escaping Darwin’s shadow’, Journal of the History of Biology 36, pp385-403 Faggot, J. (1750) ‘Afhandling om swedjande samt utväg til hushällning med skogar’, Kongl. sv. vet. acad. handl 1750 Hamilton, Henning. (1997) Slash-and-Burn in the History of the Swedish Forests, Rural Development Forestry Network Paper 21f, Overseas Development Institute, London

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Hett, Cornelia, Castella, Jean-Christophe, Heinimann, Andreas, Messerli, Peter and Pfund, Jean-Laurent. (2012) ‘A landscape mosaics approach for characterizing swidden systems from a REDD+ perspective’, Applied Geography 32 (2), pp608–618 Jackson, Benjamin Daydon. (1923) Linnaeus: The Story of His Life, Adapted from the Swedish of

Theodor Magnus Fries, Emeritus Professor of Botany in the University of Uppsala, and Brought Down to the Present Time in the Light of Recent Research, H. F. & G. Witherby, London Koerner, Lisbet. (1999) Linnaeus: Nature and Nation, Harvard University Press, Cambridge, MA Krook, J. (1765) Tankar om Swedjande och huruwida det tål inskränkning uti norra delen af Tavastland,

Savolax och Carelen. Stockholm Kunnas, Jan. (2005) ‘A dense and sickly mist from thousands of bog fires: An attempt to compare the energy consumption in slash-and-burn cultivation and burning cultivation of peatlands in Finland in 1820–1920’, Environment and History 11, pp431-446 Lehtonen, H. and Huttunen, P. (1997) ‘History of forest fires in Eastern Finland from the fifteenth century AD: The possible effects of slash-and-burn cultivation, The Holocene 7 (2), pp223-228 Lindroth, Sven. (1983) ‘The two faces of Linnaeus’, in Tore Frängsmyr (ed.) Linnaeus: The Man and His Work, University of California Press, Berkeley, pp1-62 Linnaeus, Carl (aka Carl von Linné). (1751) Skånska Resa, På höga Överhetens Befallning förrättad år 1749. Med Rön och Anmärkningar uti Ekonomien, Naturalier, Antikviteter, Seder, Levnadssätt, Wahström and Widstrand, Stockholm Marsden, William. (1783) The History of Sumatra: Containing an Account of the Government, Laws,

Customs, and Manners of the Native Inhabitants, with a Description of the Natural Productions, and a Relation of the Ancient Political State of that Island, Thomas Payne and Son, London

Mertz, Ole, Padoch, Christine, Fox, Jefferson, Cramb, R. A., Leisz, Stephen J., Lam, Nguyen Thanh and Vien,Tran Duc. (2009) ‘Swidden change in Southeast Asia: Understanding causes and consequences’, Human Ecology 37 (3), pp259-264 Myllyntaus, T., Hares, M. and Kunnas, J. (2002) ‘Sustainability in danger? Slash-and-burn cultivation in nineteenth-century Finland and twentieth-century Southeast Asia’, Environmental History 7 (2), pp267-302 Öller, J. J. (1800) Beskrifning öfver Jems-högs Sochn, I Blekinge.Växjö, Sweden Otto, J. S. and Anderson, N. E. (1982) ‘Slash-and-burn cultivation in the highlands south: A problem in comparative agricultural history’, Comparative Study of Society and History 24, pp131-147 Oxford English Dictionary (1999) CD Rom version, Oxford University Press, New York Padoch, Christine and Pinedo-Vasquez, Miguel. (2010) ‘Saving slash-and-burn to save biodiversity, Biotropica 42 (5), pp550-552 Padoch, Christine, Coffey, Kevin, Mertz, Ole, Leisz, Stephen J., Fox, Jefferson and Wadley, Reed L. (2007) ‘The demise of swidden in Southeast Asia? Local realities and regional ambiguities’, Geografisk Tidsskrift, Danish Journal of Geography 107 (1), pp29-41 Raffles, Thomas Stafford. (1817/1978) The History of Java, 2 vols, Reprint, Oxford University Press, Kuala Lumpur Rumphius (Rumpf), Georg Eberhard. (1750) Het amboinsch kruid-boek: dat is, beschryving van de meest

bekende boomen, heesters, kruiden, land- en water-planten die men in Amboina en de omleggende eylanden vind: na haare gedaante, verscheide benamingen, aanqueking, en gebruik: mitsgaders van eenige insecten en gediertens, voor’t meeste deel met de figuren daar toe behoorende/allen met veel moeite en vleit in veele jaaren vergadert en beschreven in twaalf boeken door Georgius Everhardus Rumphius, Meinard Uytwerf, Amsterdam Scott, James C. (1998) Seeing Like a State,Yale University Press, New Haven, CT Scott, James C. (2009) The Art of Not Being Governed: An Anarchist History of Upland Southeast Asia, Yale University Press, New Haven, CT Sernander, R. (1926) ‘Härleman och Linnaei Herbationes Upsalienses’, Sv. Linné-sällsk. ärsskr IX, Uppsala Sigaut, F. (1979) ‘Swidden cultivation in Europe: A question for tropical anthropologists’, Social Science Information 18 (4/5), pp679-694

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Spyer, Patricia. (2000) The Memory of Trade: Modernity’s Entanglements on an Eastern Indonesian Island, Duke University Press, Durham, NC Stillingfleet, Benjamin. (1759) Miscellaneous Tracts Relating to Natural History, Husbandry, and Physick (trans. from the Latin, R. and J. Dodsley, S. Baker and M. Cooper), London Vetter, Jeremy. (2006) ‘Wallace’s other line: Human biogeography and field practice in the eastern colonial tropics’, Journal of the History of Biology 39, pp89-123 Wallace, Alfred Russel. (1869/2000) The Malay Archipelago. The land of the Orang-utan and the Bird of Paradise: A Narrative of Travel, with Studies of Man and Nature (original MacMillan, London), Periplus, North Clarendon,VT Weimarck, G. (1968) Ulfshult: Investigations Concerning the Use of Soil and Forest in Ulfshult, Parish of Örkened, During the Last 250 Years, C. W. K. Gleerup, Lund, Sweden

Notes 1 Whereas the US system persisted well into the 20th century, its heyday was in the 17th and 18th centuries, when a system – probably derived from historic Finnish and Swedish systems like the one described by Linnaeus – made possible the sweeping advance of the American frontier, as a first wave of farmers, cleared the forest for a second wave of farmers practising more intensive agriculture. By the 19th century, the frontier was closed, and this central, pivotal role of swidden cultivation was finished. 2 The passages by Linnaeus cited in Weimarck (1969) were all translated from the original Swedish by Weimarck. 3 The two terms svedjebruk and swidden are probably historically related, given that the latter is derived from the old English swithen and before that the old Norse word sviðna, meaning ‘to be singed’ (Oxford English Dictionary, 1999). 4 The subsidization of intensively cultivated lands through the exploitation of surrounding forests for fodder has been widely reported from around the world (Carpenter, 1997; Dove, 2007). 5 This, too, is not atypical of swidden systems worldwide, which Scott (1998) called ‘fugitive agriculture’. 6 A small number of copies of Scanian Travels with the unexpurgated original text survived, however (Blunt, 2001, pp213–214), and the complete edition of Scanian Travels was not altered. The 1884 edition by Martin Weibull (Gleerup, Lund, Sweden) and the 1940 facsimile edition (John Kroon, Malmo, Sweden) contain both the original and amended texts. 7 This was not the first contretemps between Linnaeus and his patron. In 1748 the Baron wrote to Linnaeus concerning the unconventional dress and behaviour of Linnaeus’ students during botanical excursions, his ‘army of botanists’ returning to the university at the end of the day ‘with flowers in their hats, and with kettle-drums and hunting horns’ (Linnaeus, quoted in Koerner, 1999, p42). Such ‘ostentation and such clamour’, the Baron wrote, was drawing the best students away from his peers at Uppsala and unnecessarily antagonizing them (Lindroth, 1983, p61; Blunt, 2001, p203; Koerner, 1999, pp41–43). Linnaeus is said to have felt this rebuke keenly. As Lindroth (1983, p61) wrote, ‘We know that it agitated him violently – it “almost killed” him; for two months he lay sleepless.’ 8 Wallace noted, for example, that trade in the skins of the Birds of Paradise predated the arrival of the first Europeans in the Moluccas seeking spices (1869/2000, pp419–420). 9 Wallace was moved to write that ‘if Dobbo has too little law, England has too much’ (1869/2000, p336). 10 These comments undermine Spyer’s (2000, p14) charge that Wallace saw only ‘harmonious’ trade. 11 Ellen (1988), among others, has shown that there is much more active management of sago palms than Wallace and his contemporaries imagined. 12 However, Wallace distinguishes in this regard between native society and Western, industrialized civilization:

24  Dove

[S]hould civilized man ever reach these distant lands, and bring moral, intellectual, and physical light into the recesses of these virgin forests, we may be sure that he will so disturb the nicely balanced relations of organic and inorganic nature as to cause the disappearance, and finally the extinction, of these very beings whose wonderful structure and beauty he alone is fitted to appreciate and enjoy. This consideration must surely tell us that all living things were not made for man. (Wallace, 1869/2000, p340) 13 For a more in-depth analysis of Linnaeus’ work on swidden agriculture, see Dove (in press).

2 SHIFTING CULTIVATORS AND THE LANDSCAPE An essay through time Harold Brookfield*

Introduction: three questions

Most chapters in this book present recent research on contemporary shifting cultivation. This chapter is among the few that do not. This is an essay through very long time, with a focus on the history of landscapes as cultivation evolved. Although it does finally come to questions of very modern change, it is mainly concerned with early periods in agricultural history. It draws heavily on two research tasks in the western Pacific, in one of which I had a supporting role. From this it goes on to show how systems became diversified while they passed from prehistoric into historical time. I begin with three questions drawn from the literature. Was ‘shifting cultivation’ the first and most primitive form of agriculture as Nye and Greenland (1960, p1) classically wrote, and as many have followed them in saying? Are ‘collapsing shiftingcultivation systems and attendant environmental damage . . . pan-regional problems across Asia-Pacific’, as our editor declared in introducing the first of these volumes on indigenous fallow management (IFM) (Cairns in Cairns, 2007, p16)?1 Were the staff of the Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations (FAO) correct when they editorially inserted into Watters’ monograph on shifting cultivation in Latin America (Watters, 1971, pp14–15) a statement that ‘continuation of this practice may lead to a very dangerous situation with regard to accelerated erosion and disruption of the water regime’?2 These are real questions and they have political implications. Over the whole of the last century, shifting cultivation has received a mainly bad press, only to a small degree relieved by the work of a minority of scholars who have found it to be an effective method of gaining production from parsimonious tropical

* 

Dr. Harold Brookfield is Emeritus Professor of Geography and Anthropology at the College of Asia and the Pacific, Australian National University, Canberra.

26  Brookfield

soils.The writers named above – with the notable exception of FAO staff – are in fact prominent among this minority. The first question is historical. The second and third concern the landscape, but have clear historical dimensions.They are all properly global questions each calling for book-length treatment, and I do not try to provide glib answers in this essay. Instead I draw on researched examples for their insights, mainly on two from the Pacific sector of Asia-Pacific. I also draw on a modern literature on agricultural origins in the tropical Americas that – because of a sustained emphasis on vegeculture – is more relevant to the Asia-Pacific tropics than are the more familiar stories from Southwest Asia and China. Another reason to draw on material from Latin America arises from the wider purpose of this book. The cultivation and fallow periods are there seen to flow into one another in important ways. What is involved is not indigenous fallow management as narrowly such, but rather management-into-the-fallow, which we might call MIF. Chapters in the first IFM volume (Cairns, 2007) indicated clearly that there is more of such MIF in the Asia-Pacific region than has been recognized. What sorts of system are we writing about?

Some clarification is needed about ‘shifting cultivation’. I have side-stepped defining it more than once in the past because such a wide range of systems is commonly described in this way (or as ‘swidden cultivation’ or as ‘slash-and-burn’). Introducing an important group of papers on the ‘demise’ of shifting or swidden cultivation in Southeast Asia, Mertz et al. (2009, p261) offered a precise definition for arable swidden cultivation in the forest environment of this region: A land use system that employs a natural or improved fallow phase, which is longer than the cultivation phase of annual crops, sufficiently long to be dominated by woody vegetation, and cleared by means of fire. This seems applicable in most forest environments and is without ambiguity; wherever it is appropriate I use it here. I use the popular term ‘swidden’ as a shorthand for this type of cultivation, usually meaning the system rather than the field or plot. Where systems differ only in some minor respect, for example, by using fire only to burn debris created by other means, I describe them as close relatives of swidden. This level of precision comes at a cost.The Mertz definition is not comprehensive, even within the forest environment. Importantly, the management of tree crops – the major significance of which is recently discussed at length by Kennedy (2012) – finds no place. Nor is it discussed in this chapter, which like Mertz et al. (2009), is concerned with arable cultivation. Beyond Mertz-defined swidden is a large and more broadly definable ‘shifting cultivation’ that is by no means confined to the forests. Systems employing a shifting of field sites, with long breaks between each use of the same land, range all the way from plots cultivated seemingly at random in grassland (or woodland, if not natural forest) to the well-defined field-rotational

Chapter 2. Shifting cultivators and the landscape  27

systems in continuously occupied land of medieval and modern times. I, and others, have found it very hard to define this wide collective of farming systems.3 In this chapter, I retain the term ‘shifting cultivation’ to describe land-rotational systems that clearly fall outside Mertz-defined swidden, but which retain a significant period of fallow intended to restore the fertility of the land. It is important to add that there is no way in which to be sure if such systems are descendants of an original swidden, even in once-forested regions. All that can be said for certain is that they are derived from the initial cultivation and plant-management efforts from which all farming sprang. Focus on arable land use does point to an important set of issues. In some systems the cultivation phase may be about the same length as the fallow period, or longer, as they evolve toward permanent use by crop rotation, use of livestock, selective use of resilient soils, or other methods. We encounter such systems later in this chapter, where they are described as ‘semi-permanent’. Ruthenberg (1968, 1980) made a potentially important, but little used, distinction between ‘shifting’ and ‘fallow’ systems based on the relative lengths of the cultivation and fallow periods. He sought to quantify it using his ‘R’ value.4 ‘R’ is obtained by dividing the cultivation period by the length of the whole cycle – cultivation and fallow together – in units of years or months.5 Mertz et al. (2009) remark that its determination is problematic. It is often difficult to delimit precisely the period during which land is under cultivation. Where MIF, as defined above and described below, is practised, precise delimitation becomes impossible. My use of landscape history

I find it convenient to approach these questions of agricultural evolution from the perspective of landscape history, for each land-use system produces its own landscape. I show how this history can be interpreted very differently in forest areas, by forest botanists on the one hand and by observers more conscious of human history on the other. Forest-dwelling people may have a third perception of the forest, seeing a palimpsest of former fields that were cultivated by themselves and their neighbours. Interpretations of landscape history are strongly influenced by notions of environmental processes and by scientific understanding of those processes. In the central section of this chapter this becomes a major theme, specifically around the question of soil erosion as a major consequence of swidden cultivation. Finally, the landscape is not only created and modified by people, but is also owned by them and valued differentially. This valuation is significantly related to the manner of its use, as I show in one specific case later in this chapter. A ‘collapsing system’, but in Madagascar

A preliminary comment on our editor’s ‘collapsing shifting-cultivation systems’ may be useful. ‘Collapse’ is a large word and I would prefer to employ it only in a

28  Brookfield

physical sense, meaning that soil and vegetation conditions will no longer permit cropping. Cairns was referring also to the ‘declining swidden systems’ he had seen in Mindanao (Philippines) in the 1990s (Cairns, 2012). It is only where pioneer systems (Conklin, 1957) have until lately been used that physical collapse has been identified; nowhere in Asia-Pacific has it yet been scientifically described. A possible exception is the thin-soiled grassland – undeniably green desert – now found on limestone at Cherrapunji in Meghalaya, northeast India, under very high rainfall. The site is described by Ramakrishnan (1992). While there is no unmistakeable evidence that swidden was the cause of this desertification, the area has certainly been used in the past (Ramakrishnan, 2009). On the other hand, one truly collapsing system has been very thoroughly and quantitatively described in Madagascar, by Styger et al. (2009). Fallow periods have been reduced to only two to five years. No woody fallow species, indigenous or introduced, is able to withstand cutting and fire striking with this frequency, and they are successively eliminated. Ultimately, even Imperata cyclindrica grass gives way to an inferior grass cover and all agricultural use has to be abandoned. The sequence from high forest to agriculturally useless grassland can, under present conditions, be completed in as few as 40 years.6 Although this case is not in Asia-Pacific, Madagascar was peopled from this region. In a Southeast Asia more narrowly defined than the region covered in this book, a recent group of papers on swidden, published in the journal Human Ecology, including Rerkasem et al. (2009), Ziegler et al. (2009) and Brunn et al. (2009), put less stress on the ‘inevitability’ of land degradation when fallow periods are shortened than did many writers in the recent past. They are rightly concerned by the ecological effects of the tree-crop monocultures that are replacing swidden.Yet fallow periods have in fact continued to become shorter in at least a majority of reported cases (SchmidtVogt et al., 2009). Many as yet still achieve Ramakrishnan’s (1992) minimum of 10 years’ fallow.7 He had argued that under unimproved fallow, 10 years are required for restoration of a full woody cover and for there to be sufficient littering to restore soil nutrients.8 Nevertheless, systems employing only a few years of fallow are increasingly common (Schmidt-Vogt et al., 2009; Lestrelin et al., 2012). Absence of any modern report of the predicted ‘collapse’, comparable to that provided for Madagascar, cannot be taken to mean absence of comparable trends. This ‘warning from Madagascar’ needs to be borne in mind. Some messages from prehistory

During the past 30 years, new methods and ideas have swept away old notions that agriculture began in a very small number of centres of origin and diffused from these places to occupy the greater part of the world. It is no longer possible to characterize (early) agriculture as ‘a demarcated “all or nothing” lifestyle that can be clearly mapped across space and tracked through time’ (Vrydaghs and Denham, 2007, p6). Nor, despite some well-argued resistance from Harris (2007), is the dominant use

Chapter 2. Shifting cultivators and the landscape  29

of domesticated crops and livestock, marked genetically and by clear morphological changes, still universally regarded as the essential indicator of there being any properly defined agriculture. Plant domestication is now better seen as a critically important epiphenomenon arising through a wider process of cultivation defined usefully by Piperno (2011, pS-464) as happening ‘when people began to repeatedly sow and harvest plants in plots prepared for this purpose’. To use a French term that has no real equivalent in English, the mise en valeur of plants and animals – their systematic use by people – has to be seen as a continuum within which the invasive management that cultivation represents is a choice to be adopted. Like the predisposing decisions to propagate individual plants, it would be done if and when ‘it were considered worthwhile’ (J. D. Sauer, 1993, p268). And not at any one moment either. So much is involved in the evolution of any farming system, above all the first systems, that an incremental process in which most new departures were only modifications of ongoing activities was likely the common pattern (Doolittle, 1984). By no means did such a process always lead on to a developed agriculture based on domesticated crops. There are well-known examples in which major environmental modification and plant management took place, supporting relatively dense populations and complex societies without going on to systematic crop cultivation. Prehistoric California is the outstanding example and it would seem that managed stands of wild foods also sustained elaborate social systems in other regions (Fritz, 2007). Australia is widely cited as having had no agriculture before European settlement in 1788 ad, but modern reasoning around strong botanical evidence proposes extensive ‘experimental’ cultivation of certain yams, taro and banana in the north of the continent either in the mid-Holocene or even at the end of the Pleistocene – cultivation later abandoned to leave behind the ‘wild’ crops that are still a source of food today (Jones and Meehan, 1989; Denham et al., 2009).9 Nor did all cultivation end then. Historian Bill Gammage (2011, pp281–304) recently brought together scattered evidence, mainly in writings by European explorers and early settlers, describing the land-management practices of the aboriginal people before they were overwhelmed by colonization. Universally, they used controlled fire to create pasture for the wildlife that they hunted, but many also conserved, planted and sowed food crops. In a telling paragraph Gammage wrote: So people burnt (sic), tilled, planted, transplanted, watered, irrigated, weeded, thinned, cropped, stored and traded. On present evidence not all groups did all these, and few Tasmanians may have, but many mainlanders did. (Gammage, 2011, p301). They did not become sedentary; they transited toward agriculture but found it possible to stop short. In South America, on the other hand, a developed agriculture did evolve in most parts of the continent, excepting only the far south. To this continent we now briefly turn.

30  Brookfield

A revised place for swidden in the Latin American record

New palaeobotanical methods, employing micro-fossils, have been of major importance in prompting revised ideas about the history of plant management. The techniques include phytolith recovery (collected mainly from the soil, but also on tools) and analysis of starch-grain residues (especially on stone tools). These lines of evidence are coupled with palaeoecological (or palynological) research (identifying pollens) to establish wider vegetational change. Together with new archaeological work, they have yielded huge bodies of new evidence. Much of the most thoughtprovoking of the new information and ideas comes from the Americas (Piperno and Pearsall, 1998; Iriarte, 2007; Fritz, 2007; Pearsall, 2007; Piperno, 2011; Arroyo-Kalin, 2010, 2012); some of it is very relevant to discussion of present-day shifting cultivators. A wide range of seed- and root-crop cultivation and tree-crop management began in the first half of the 10,000-year Holocene era at sites ranging all the way from the upper Mississippi valley to Uruguay and central Chile, at both low and high altitudes. A big proportion of the new evidence comes from seasonal tropical-forest lowlands, as long ago insightfully predicted by Carl Sauer (1952). These regions experienced transition from foraging to cultivation in the same broad period as Southwest Asia and China, after the unstable climatic conditions of the late Pleistocene gave way to the Holocene. Their climatic transition was mainly to wetter conditions, which led to replacement of relatively open landscapes by forest, an environment much more impoverished in both plant and animal resources for foragers. Reasoning through the ‘diet-breadth’ model of foraging theory, Piperno and Pearsall (1998) and Piperno (2011) argued that it would then have become more efficient for people to plant their food needs than to continue full dependence on increasingly scarce wild resources. This theory – which might also apply mutatis mutandis to Asia-Pacific and even Australia – is of a transition, not of a sudden jump. There is sound reason to believe that prehistoric foragers were as capable of learning from observation and of logical decision-making as are farmers today. Already, in the Pleistocene, they had tool kits adequate for their needs and were familiar with the use of fire to clear patches of land and encourage growth of plants, both useful to themselves and attractive to the wildlife that they hunted.The men or – more probably – women who saw interesting plants sprouting in dump-heaps, and put them into the ground, as Anderson (1952) long ago proposed, could have lived in late Pleistocene as well as in Holocene times. When the practice of cultivation became more general around 9,000 to 10,000 years ago, there was already a known stock of useful plants, both for food and other purposes, and a thorough understanding of their biological needs. All evidence suggests that initial cultivation was supplementary to foraging and occupied only small patches. In the Americas, it took 2,000 or 3,000 more years before the making of larger fields, using what most writers describe, without further detail, as ‘slash-and-burn’ methods, became a widespread practice.10 In a number of localities, this emergence of swidden is associated in time with the adoption of maize as a principal crop (Piperno and Pearsall, 1998); in others, the adoption of sweet or bitter manioc (cassava) (Arroyo-Kalin, 2012). This was not all that was happening:

Chapter 2. Shifting cultivators and the landscape  31

Pearsall (2007) discusses the range of physical sites, and Iriarte’s (2007) summary also notes growing evidence of wetland management and flood-recessional planting, at dates earlier than had previously been proposed. But the role of swidden in the formative stages of agriculture is here more securely established than by the long-lived supposition that it was everywhere the first step, as set out by Nye and Greenland. Swidden was probably not the first, nor more surely the only form practised by the early cultivators. With much less in the way of empirical base than is now available, I rehearsed this argument in discussing the origins of agricultural diversity in Brookfield (2001, pp59–77), especially at p69. New information for the Asia-Pacific region

Asia-Pacific is ill-defined as a region. It includes the Asean countries, sometimes all of East Asia, but often only southern China and even less often, northeast India. It includes the island of New Guinea and, usually, the archipelagos of ‘near-Oceania’ as far east as Fiji and Samoa. Sometimes it includes all of Oceania.The region of interest in this book, as in Cairns (2007), includes all tropical areas from India to Oceania. I follow that definition. Although the Asia-Pacific tropics, more so than the American tropics, were considered by Carl Sauer (1952 and elsewhere) as likely to be the origin region of all agriculture, this part of the world has not experienced an explosion of new knowledge about Holocene farming comparable with that of Central and South America. One of the earliest discussions of shifting cultivation at a regional level was about Asia-Pacific (Spencer, 1966). Work at the classic Niah cave site in Malaysian Borneo has provided perhaps the deepest insights available anywhere of subsistence in the Pleistocene (Barton and Paz, 2007). The problems of toxicity in some root crops, which later had to be overcome in South America before the bitter variety of manioc (cassava) could become a principal subsistence source, also occurred in the Southeast Asian region. Unprocessed, some potentially nutritious tubers range from being merely acrid to lethal. These problems were overcome by foragers in Borneo at least 20,000 years ago. The most revealing recent evidence in the region comes from the highlands of the large island of New Guinea, where late Pleistocene resources supported small foraging populations, even earlier in the human history of the island than 40,000 years ago (Summerhayes et al., 2010). Plant management had begun to evolve toward cultivation by the very beginning of the Holocene, around 7000 to 8000 bc.11 Researched since 1970, the margins of a now-drained swamp at Kuk, near the town of Mt Hagen in the eastern half of the island, have yielded archaeological evidence of this transformation. Together with newer palaeobotanical work, research at other sites and palaeoecological work in the wider highland region over 40 years, a very large volume of data has been generated. Interpretations have changed significantly over time, but it has been firmly established that complex farming systems evolved independently in this region by mid- to late Holocene times. In contrast to the

32  Brookfield

continental scale of the American evidence, the New Guinea evidence is drawn from only a small area, though its main site has been studied in extraordinary depth (Golson et al., 2014 forthcoming). Only a part of the story is relevant to this essay and only a few selected titles from a very large literature are cited. The location of Kuk is shown in Figure 2.1, and in more detail below in Figures 2.3 and 2.4. The earliest palaeosurface at Kuk, dated around 8000 bc, revealed dug holes and possible post or stake holes on what is now interpreted as the low levee of a natural channel across the wetland. These land-use marks are now thought to indicate a short-lived wetland extension of ongoing dryland practices, continued through a subsequent 3000 years, during which a clay fan was laid down across the early surface. The second palaeosurface, on this clay fan, shows much clearer evidence of soil management than did the first, principally the formation of metre-wide mounds separated by shallow channels. Only in a subsequent phase did the channels become integrated into designed drainage systems. The wetland record is discontinuous, but the interpreted dryland story around it suggests unbroken human manipulation from the early Holocene, with a trajectory broadly similar to that emergent from lowlatitude seasonal forests of the Americas (Denham et al., 2004; Haberle et al., 2012). Whether or not swidden, or a closely related system, was involved in the story remains unclear, as we will see below.12

FIGURE 2.1 

Kuk and Lakeba in the Asia-Pacific region

Chapter 2. Shifting cultivators and the landscape  33

Preliminary discussion of the Latin American and New Guinea evidence

Two aspects of immediate relevance for the present argument stand out. First is the continued inventiveness of people who were simple ‘hunter-gatherers’ or, with more regard for their evolving management skills, ‘foragers’. Responding to resource variations, especially through a period of major climatic change and by incremental steps, some became cultivators.A proportion of their incremental steps were successful and enduring. Thus some cultivators later became farmers. In the process they had to deal with many problems.We know about their coping with plant toxicity, but much less about their management of the land, except where this involved the management of wetlands, which leaves enduring traces. Fire was the first tool in clearing spaces for both foraging and cultivation, later supplemented or replaced by manually used tools which, unless they were made of stone, left few traces. The fairly general supposition is that early cultivators would have coped with the inevitable problems of weed infestation and falling yields by opening a new plot – the classic avoidance strategy of all shifting cultivation (Kellman, 1974; Kellman and Tackaberry, 1997, pp215–218). This does not necessarily mean that they used Mertz-defined swidden. The second aspect of immediate relevance concerns the movement of the managed crop plants, more easily discerned in the micro-fossil record once they had been modified by domestication. This is important for what it tells us about communication between people. In the early millennia, there is no basis for supposing that large-scale migrations were involved. Crop plants, on the other hand, moved over large distances. Maize reached Panama, Colombia and Ecuador by times close to the error range of the respective radiocarbon dates, collectively from hundreds to more than a thousand years after the domesticated crop first became available in southwestern Mexico (Piperno, 2011, table 1).This and other transfers, some of them in the opposite direction, most likely took place through chains of individual contacts (Piperno and Pearsall, 1998). In the New Guinea case, the earliest evidence, at an altitude of 1600m, signals use of taro, bananas and a yam. These are lowland plants. Together with sugar cane they are now identified as basic crops over a wide region from island Southeast Asia to Australia and into Oceania (Denham et al., 2009). They could not have thrived at this altitude in earlier millennia, perhaps even in earlier centuries. Although it is conceivable that they could have reached Kuk naturally as the climate warmed, it is far more likely that they travelled between individual contacts. Only where major unpopulated gaps have to be bridged does it become necessary to think in terms of long-distance traders or other travellers. A small part of my field experience prompts a suggestion. No one who has travelled with small farmers, visiting other small farmers away from home, can doubt the almost universally keen acquisitive interest taken in any strange potentially useful plant seen while visiting. I was privileged to have frequently been involved in such visits from 1992 to 2002, while leading the international PLEC project.13 Among many other occasions, I once observed a visiting woman farmer quietly taking a seedling from the ground with her pocket knife while the host was looking elsewhere. I also recall one programmed meeting involving all the men, at

34  Brookfield

which the tedious formal speeches were drowned out by women farmers loudly exchanging germplasm and information in the background. Intuitively,‘new’ foragercultivators were unlikely to have been any different. Information about methods would have travelled along with the crops, although more likely this involved the men. When they trusted the source of the information, people would pay attention, especially if they could see the evidence for themselves, Otherwise, the information would first have been evaluated, then received or rejected, much like the advice of modern agronomists. This was the most likely means by which successful innovative increments in cultivation methods came to be diffused beyond the initial site, as well as being a means by which plants were transplanted from original habitats to initially marginal environments, to which they were, over time, able to adapt. The role of MIF (management-into-the-fallow)

Innovations with effects extending into the fallow period were developed very fully in Latin America, where they have been described by modern observers and their long-term effects inferred from changed vegetation patterns (Denevan, 1992). In the 1980s one indigenous group in Amazonian Peru, to take a well-researched example, would always spare valuable species when they cut and burned. They depended mainly on manioc (cassava), but cultivated other annual crops and also planted tree seedlings among the crops. In the third year after the first crops had been harvested the former field still contained 20 cultigens and had multiple canopies of fruit trees. Management still included periodic weeding, replanting of manioc and coppicing to sustain unshaded space. Even by eight years the ground around some fruit trees was still weeded and not until 12 years did active management cease. The system is described in some detail by Denevan et al. (1984), who saw it as a transition from a short arable phase into a longer-lasting agroforestry stage. Denevan and Treacy (1987, p40) concluded a later presentation by writing that ‘the life of a field is one of sequential utilization rather than simply planting-harvest-abandonment-fallow’. Similar reports come from elsewhere in Latin America. One participant in such studies, commenting on the ecological aspects, laid stress on the widespread practice of protecting valuable plants (Unruh, 1990). As summarized in Brookfield (2001, p145), Unruh went on to note: A managed canopy continues to be more open, making possible a much more pronounced understory (sic) in which most of the valuable plants live. Constant slashing of vegetation inhibits transfer of phosphorus and nitrogen from the leaf to the woody tissue and instead enriches the ground with these limited nutrients. This is especially significant because the slashing takes place mainly around the useful successional fallow plants. Concentration of phosphorus is particularly important.When the forest is again cleared, valued species are again preserved and the process continues.Thus an altered forest evolves progressively through time.

Chapter 2. Shifting cultivators and the landscape  35

The altered composition of tropical American forests, as distinct from their replacement by grassland, or of grassland by forest, seems to have remained largely invisible to forest botanists (Richards, 1952; Kellman and Tackaberry, 1997). Yet the changes have been substantial, as Carl Sauer (1958) insisted in response to Richards at a 1957 meeting. The enormous losses of population during the colonial period, unparalleled in Asia or Africa, left behind a mosaic of altered vegetation created by past use (Balée, 1989, 1992; Denevan, 1992; Moran, 1995; Roosevelt, 1999). What now appears empty and natural was, in late prehistoric times (i.e. before the 16th century), populous, with large areas of purposive management. This interpretation is underscored by the wide distribution of patches of anthropogenic black soil – terra preta (Sombroek, 1966; Smith, 1980; Arroyo-Kalin, 2010, 2012) – up to several hectares in extent and from a few cm to almost two metres deep, marking sites where, in or close to settlements, wastes were buried or burned and broken pottery disposed of over periods up to 1000 years.14 Reconstructing landscape history: evidence and imagination

I come now to the core of my essay. All the prehistoric reconstructions involve landscapes. Authors and their readers both have mental constructs of past landscapes, and these can be very dissimilar.15 Since no pictorial record or written description can exist, they must be imagined, and the reference point for such imagining must be either present-day landscapes of experience, or recorded images of foreign or historic landscapes that we believe might be similar. We can gain considerable assistance from the increasingly scientific field of landscape history. I have elsewhere remarked (Brookfield, 1997, p49) that ‘a landscape cannot tell the observer its own history, though it may contain much evidence from which that history can be reconstructed’. This section of the chapter will test that assertion close to its limits. The mosaic patterns described in the Amazonian forests are an excellent example, illuminated by widespread ongoing practices that carry plant management into the fallow years with continuing consequences. Here we have an observation in the present landscape, and a set of well-described management processes that could lead to that observed result. There is also the linking evidence of the ‘fossil’ soils. The ongoing practices described by Denevan et al. (1984) are undertaken by people resettled from land on the Colombian border that was lost through war in 1934, and who are sufficiently numerous to sustain a full agricultural economy. This reconstruction seems fairly secure, but there are others that are less so. Numerous Amazonian societies have declined to numbers at which they rely more on foraging than on farming, and some anthropological reports of their management practices have been seriously questioned. One specific case concerns a disagreement over Kayapó practices in eastern Amazonia, between the late Darell Posey and one of his critics. It is briefly reviewed, with references, in Brookfield (200l, pp143–144 and 152–153). Posey was using the always-risky ‘ethnographic present’ to describe practices ‘some of which’, he stated, were no longer employed.

36  Brookfield

No such credulity problems ought to arise with the spatially more restricted evidence for the deliberate creation of concentrations of fruit- and nut-bearing trees in the forests of western Borneo, Asia-Pacific (Padoch and Peters, 1993; Peters, 1996). They represent the sites of old settlements around which the trees were planted, the generic name of which (tembawang) they bear. Even so, such clusters of valued trees merge easily into an old-growth forest, and can readily be misinterpreted as natural. This is especially so if the forest is assumed to be wholly natural, as it so often is in modern writing and on television, with the epithet ‘primary’ or ‘virgin’. An earlier generation, seeing the forest with eyes unclouded by modern conservationist prejudices, was sometimes more perceptive. Writing from Sintang in central Borneo in 1858, a Dutch officer responded to statements made by a botanist in rather the same manner as Carl Sauer reacted to P. W. Richards a century later. He remarked that ‘because of [swiddeners] continually moving through the landscape to open new ground, there is no primary (oorspronkelijke) forest left to be found in Borneo. The old forests (oude bosschen) that I have been in are, at most, 130-150 years old’ (von Gaffron, 1858, p224, my translation).16 Given Cramb’s (this volume) account of the respective content of truly old forest and of fallow secondary forest in the Saribas area of Borneo, von Gaffron may have overstated his case, but the point is well made. Writing of the myth of pristine forests in the pre-colonial Americas, Denevan (1992, p375) wrote: ‘there are no virgin tropical forests today, nor were there in 1492’. Proxy sources: introducing soil erosion

The nature of early cultivation systems is not easy to reconstruct, except where they involved wetland management, which leaves enduring traces, as in the huge areas of prehistoric raised-bed fields in northern South America. Dryland systems leave physical traces in the ground only if ditching, mounding, boundary-marking or terracing were employed. This was not usually so at the beginning in any region. Reliance therefore has to be placed, so far as possible, on proxy information.Vegetation change leaves an enduring record in nearby wet sites where fossil pollen is available to be read. Where land has been cultivated, forest becomes more patchy, indexed in the pollen record by a rising proportion of grasses. If fire has been used or has happened, it leaves charcoal, and repeated fire can create degradation of the vegetation. In Southeast Asia there are now some extensive grasslands where formerly there was forest, and if the grassland is Imperata cylindrica, it is resistant to fire. The presence of such grasslands, mostly in fact reclaimable, but regarded as ‘green desert’, is often taken to be a record of ‘inappropriate’ agricultural use, meaning swidden. The reality can be more complex – involving livestock, whether wild but managed or owned and herded. Potter shows this for the grasslands of Borneo, in Brookfield et al. (1995, pp179–203). Another source of information is provided by the record of anthropogenic soil erosion, especially where this can be linked to reliable evidence concerning timing. Soil erosion has been described as a product of swidden by no less an authority than the FAO, as we saw above. I develop this topic around specific cases, but with emphasis

Chapter 2. Shifting cultivators and the landscape  37

because it is an area in which misperceptions and misinterpretations have been of particular significance in regard to shifting cultivation, and where non-swidden forms of shifting cultivation begin to emerge as important. A high proportion of plant nutrients and organic matter in most soils is concentrated in the top few centimetres. Especially on steep slopes, heavy rain falling on newly cleared fields is likely to remove substantial quantities of topsoil – exceptional rates of more than half a tonne per hectare in one day have been reported. Most clearings are then quickly covered by crop plants, and most are small, so that much of the eroded soil is trapped in adjacent vegetation. Figures derived from experimental plots can sound alarming, but in truth much of the soil ‘lost’ has not travelled far. More meaningful information comes from whole catchments. Two researched examples, the first of them already introduced above, are presented here. I summarize the data before discussing its significance. The highlands of New Guinea: Kuk

The Kuk swamp in the highlands of New Guinea is fed by a stream with a 6.2sq km catchment, draining part of a now-truncated volcanic avalanche, which also underlies the recently drained swamp. Deep modern drains reveal sections of a sedimentary fan now 185ha in extent, with a slope of 1 in 300.The first palaeosurface excavated, dated around 8000 bc (10,000 bp=8050 bc, rounded to 8000), was on the late Pleistocene surface of that fan and it was soon afterwards buried under a new and much less organic layer that accumulated for 3000 years before what became the second palaeosurface was worked on it. A further clay accumulation then marks another 2500 years, during which there was no management of the swamp, before the third surface, which carries the first clear marks of designed and organized drainage. This surface was worked intermittently between about 2000 bc (4000 bp) and 500 bc. Everything found above that level is worked soil or modern peat. The history of the fan became a critical part of the history of the earliest-known agricultural site in Asia-Pacific. That part of the fan that was laid down between 8000 bc and 5000 bc contains microfossil evidence of dryland clearance and cultivation in its small catchment. As of now, it contains much of what is yet positively known about the early Holocene beginnings of dryland cultivation in this part of the world. Hughes et al. (1991) calculated the volume and weight of the material contained in the fan and, making generous allowance for material carried beyond the limits of the fan, suspended or in solution, derived catchment-erosion rates averaged over the main historical periods. Material accumulated between about 32,000 bc and 8000 bc had lowered the catchment at an average rate of only 15mm per thousand years. The on-site and nearby pollen record showed the area to have been under montane forest during this whole period, with only limited disturbance by fire (Denham et al., 2004). In the period between 8000 bc and 5000 bc, there was a sharp increase in the average erosion rate, but only to a very low 1.2cm per thousand years. This almost doubled in the final 6000 years before 1950. It is only in modern times, with more extensive

38  Brookfield

and intensive activity on the catchment than in any prehistoric period, that erosion, measured by sediment content of stream water passing a gauging station set up where it enters the swamp, jumped to a still modest rate equivalent to 34cm per thousand years (270 tonnes per sq km per year).17 Eastern Fiji: Lakeba

The second example is from the Fijian island of Lakeba (Figures 2.1 and 2.2),18 and the work reported was much more constrained by time and resources than that at Kuk. The research question was smaller, and directly in the field of landscape history. It concerned the origin of a widespread degraded soil-vegetation complex called talasiga (sun-baked), characterized by degraded soils and particularly by two highly flammable ferns and little woody vegetation. Lakeba island was cited as a ‘type location’ for talasiga formation by the soil surveyors Twyford and Wright (1965, p53). This seemingly barren pyrophytic landscape had replaced what was presumed to have been a sub-humid forest, probably dominated by the endemic tree Geissois ternata, of which only patches now remain.The soils of the talasiga themselves (ferralic cambisols on the eroded Miocene andesites and chromic luvisols on the valley colluvium) were argued also to be the product of human-induced degradation by fire and erosion (Twyford and Wright, 1965, pp104–106). This had to mean quite recent formation, since Fiji was uninhabited before the arrival of the seagoing and farming Austronesian Lapita people, around 1500 bc. When I led a UNESCO Man-and-the-Biosphere Project in Fiji in the 1970s, it seemed a good idea to investigate this question further, to establish whether or not the talasiga was the product of still ongoing human action, as was widely thought. I was able to recruit Marc Latham, a tropical pedologist with geomorphological interests, at ORSTOM in nearby French New Caledonia, to lead the natural-science aspect of the project’s work. He quickly became interested in the talasiga question.19 Subsequent study of soil and landform evolution revealed a far longer history than was formerly supposed. Latham, writing in Latham and Brookfield (1983, pp17–22 and 129–141), brought the results together. The landscape itself furnished most of the evidence, especially through its geomorphic history. The volcano which created Lakeba is late Miocene, and was eroded down during the Pliocene. Deeply weathered bauxitic soils, the product of truly humid-tropical conditions, survive on plateau remnants. Only fragments of the Pliocene surface remain, and the inland hills and valleys were shaped during the Pleistocene. Two major episodes of down-cutting, under alternating dry and more humid conditions, are revealed. The outstanding product of the first period is the great volumes of colluvium that choke the valleys. In one valley, where the colluvium is deeply trenched by a modern drain, dug to protect the airstrip from slope-wash, Latham estimated from the quantity that at least two metres of soil had been removed from that catchment. The andesite slopes above the colluvium carry shallow ferralic soils that are truncated by slope-wash erosion.

Chapter 2. Shifting cultivators and the landscape  39

More recent down-cutting, triggered by low sea levels in the late Pleistocene, cut down into the colluvium creating inner valleys now floored by alluvium. Often in low steps down this alluvium are swampy sections, which were reclaimed in late prehistoric times for the cultivation of taro (Colocasia esculenta), some of which was still active in the 1970s.20 At a late stage in the research, we decided to take core samples from two of these cultivated swamps,Waitabu and Nabuni (Figure 2.2). Results showed that deposition had taken place during the last 3000 years, and indicated the removal of 20 to 50cm of soil from their catchments during the time in which people had lived on Lakeba. This was only a fraction of the total mass of material earlier taken from the truncated profiles of the ferralic soils on the slopes. Interestingly, there was evidence indicating a sharp concentration of catchment denudation into a short period within the time span of human occupation.21 The Waitabu swamp was more than 6.5m deep, and core samples could not be taken from the bottom for lack of sufficient extension rods among the equipment taken to the island. However, samples taken revealed highly interesting changes through time (Hughes et al., 1979). Between levels dated about 50 ad and 200 ad, 340cm of sediment accumulated in this 3.4ha swamp derived from a catchment of 45.6ha. During this 150-year period, at least 26cm of soil – certainly most of the topsoil – was eroded from the catchment. This yields an erosion rate of 173cm per thousand years, or 2595 tonnes per sq km per year.22 Charcoal fragments and also fern spores

FIGURE 2.2 

Southeast Lakeba: the core-sampled swamps and their environment

40  Brookfield

were present throughout this phase and were also present at lower frequency in the sandier bottom metre of the core sample. Frustratingly to seekers of easy answers, this period falls one to five centuries after a first phase of (unfortified) hilltop settlement between about 500 bc and 150 bc (Best, 1993, p432). For the period to about 1050 ad, the average erosion rate dropped to 300 tonnes per sq km per year, and subsequently to 105 tonnes per sq km per year. Data show no abrupt changes in the erosion rate or the concentration of carbon particles, which might signal the second main period of hilltop settlement, beginning just before 1000 AD and accompanied this time by massive and well-designed defensive works. Inter-island and later inter-state wars within the Fiji-Tonga region peaked in the 18th and 19th centuries. On Lakeba, the main hilltop fortress was relinquished in the late 18th century, and a concentrated settlement defended by a moat was built in the island’s principal alluvial valley (at the western edge of Figure 2.2) and occupied until the present principal village (Tubou) was founded in 1869 ad at its modern coastal site. The sedimentation record continues through all of this, but the carbon-particle content drops very abruptly to almost zero in the uppermost, therefore most recent, top few centimetres of the Waitabu core sample. The landscape takes over the story. The head of the catchment, notwithstanding all the erosion it has suffered, is again mantled in forest, without talasiga.The shallower Nabuni swamp, by contrast, was and is surrounded by talasiga, and at no stage in its history did it suffer erosion at rates greater than 60 to 150 tonnes per sq km per year (Hughes et al., 1979, pp13–19). Evidence from the swamps shows, unsurprisingly, that incidence of fire intensified after human settlement on Lakeba, although not immediately. But talasiga, or something very like it, was there before people.23 A comparison of soil profiles under forest and talasiga, for fertility components, mineralization and crystallochemical composition, revealed that differences within the same soil type were confined to the A-horizon and did not extend in depth; soil type was to be explained by geomorphic history and not by surface vegetation. The Twyford and Wright (1965) hypothesis of wholly anthropogenic origin for the talasiga was not upheld. It followed, in Latham’s cautious words, that while ‘man appears to have sustained and at times encouraged the extension of talasiga formations, he does not appear to be responsible for the broad traits of morphogenesis and pedogenesis on the island’ (Latham and Brookfield, 1983, p141). Discussion and relevance of the evidence from Kuk and Lakeba

There are daunting problems in interpreting erosion rates (Stocking, 1987). Wholecatchment calculations over long periods should eliminate both the scale and magnitude or frequency problems of measurements derived from small experimental plots over short periods. But other problems remain in trying to draw general conclusions. Among them are differences in slope between catchments. Angle and length of slope substantially affect erosion performance. The Waitabu catchment is

Chapter 2. Shifting cultivators and the landscape  41

considerably steeper than the Nabuni catchment, and both are steeper than the Kuk catchment, in which slopes are very gentle. Losses downstream can only be estimated, and at Waitabu we lacked necessary information to do even that much. These things must be borne in mind not only in comparing the two sets of data, but also in evaluating them in relation to international standards, such as those of the FAO/ UNEP three-day expert consultation (FAO, 1978).This source, which is quite widely used, treats losses under 1000 tonnes per sq km per year as ‘light’; losses of 1000 to 5000 tonnes per sq km per year as ‘moderate’; 5000 to 20,000 tonnes per sq km per year as ‘high’; and more than 20,000 tonnes per sq km per year as ‘very high’. On that basis, which seems to privilege high-magnitude and low-frequency records in severity ranking, even the massive 150-year loss at Waitabu would become only ‘moderate’. We do not have to follow suit. The calculations offer what are best regarded as indicative figures, They allow us to say that during the period from 50 ad to 200 ad, the Waitabu catchment experienced erosion comparable with some of the most severe rates reported anywhere today (Kellman and Tackaberry, 1997, p266). The succeeding average rate, from the years 200 ad to 1050 ad, compares with rates obtained from a number of modern shifting-cultivation sites (Latham and Brookfield, 1983, pp114–116). At Kuk, the rate determined for the initial cultivation period was of a far lower order. Although the average rate for the succeeding period was higher, it was still light by FAO or any other standards. Cultivation necessarily involves some disturbance of the ground surface, minimal for taro and bananas, but much more for yams.24 Cultivation exposes earth to detachment of particles by raindrop impact. By about 5000 bc at Kuk, activity had already extended to mounding, and disturbance was further extended by around 2400 bc to systems of ditching on both wetland and dryland. This was a form of area tillage, in which soil from grid-iron pattern ditches was thrown onto square beds. This continued to be practised even while all but isolated fragments of the natural forest were pushed back from the wide valley in which Kuk lies and also from other highland valleys.The place of the forest was taken principally by grassland (Haberle at al., 2012). There are marks of this prehistoric ditching on all grasscovered dryland in the region, whether still cultivated or not.25 The same basic cultivation method has continued past the 17th-century introduction of the sweet potato in a wide region around Kuk. In valleys to the west and southwest, however, it has been replaced by the construction of large ‘composted mounds’, incorporating green manure before closure (Bourke et al., this volume). On Lakeba, the islanders, like other Austronesian migrants, were probably already using the pan-Oceanian staples, taro and yam, before the destructive 150-year period revealed by the core samples. Yams require dry land and although cassava (manioc) is now the principal crop, yams are still grown where the soil is good enough, even among the talasiga. Fire was, until very recently, normally used in land clearance and often escaped into the talasiga. Taro, on the other hand, needs a wetter soil and, in this seasonally dry climate, has come to be grown under irrigated conditions in the

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swamps. The reduction of forest and heavy erosion of the uplands led to a process of ‘landscape enhancement’ in the valleys, where the development of specialized irrigated cultivation possibly took place in conjunction with the rise of chiefly social systems in Lakeba, as in eastern Fiji as a whole (Bayliss-Smith et al., 1988, pp16–43). The taro swamps became, and so remained until their partial abandonment in recent decades, truly permanent elements in a ‘composite’ farming system, in parallel with others mentioned below. Assumptions in the literature about swidden and erosion

Belief that swidden is a ‘major cause’ of deforestation, and therefore also a major cause of soil erosion, runs deep in the large body of modern criticism of the system and its farmers. FAO Staff (1957) thundered their own wisdom. Later, the promoters of a still-ongoing programme seeking ‘alternatives to slash-and-burn’ (Bandy et al., 1993) added theirs. The concern is clearly stated in the insertion made by FAO staff in Watters’ (1971) text, reproduced at the beginning of this essay. Collectively, critics have also maintained that erosion and leaching together must inevitably and progressively deplete the nutrients of the soil with each successive swidden cycle.26 Yet consistent support for these eco-doom views is not to be found in the best relevant scientific literature (among others, Nye and Greenland, 1960; Kellman, 1974; Christanty, 1986; Kellman and Tackaberry, 1997).27 The belief is nonetheless widespread and it has consequences for interpretation. In the large literature around the Kuk case, discussed above, the fact that there had been increased erosion to create the clay fan that yielded so much archaeological evidence led researchers to conclude that swidden must have been involved.The fact that early cultivation had probably involved a measure of tillage was passed over. So was the fact that the rate was extremely slight, as Hughes et al. (1991) were at pains to emphasize. The reasoning could be caricatured in the following way: first, we have evidence of erosion; second, we ‘know’ that swidden is a primitive practice that produces erosion; third, therefore we had primitive swidden! The early Kuk evidence would seem better to be redolent of a very light and patchy cultivation impact, of a nature that cannot be specified, before the time of the phase-two palaeosurface (about 5000 bc to 4500 bc). Then it included the construction of metre-wide mounds, an arable practice that was probably simply extended onto the wetland margins.28 Such soil disturbance would probably have been sufficient alone to have generated erosion of the small quantity found. As disturbance increased in later millennia, so did the erosion, but it never amounted to much. At Lakeba, very much greater erosion was found. Fire, mostly escaping from inland dry-crop field preparation, has remained a continuing agent in reduction of high to low talasiga, and in checking the recolonization of talasiga by Geissois ternata from the forest patches. All these patches (still occupying 6% of the island area) have been partly cleared for cultivation several times, in something approximating a Mertzdefined system, and this continued even into the 1970s. Putting two and two together,

Chapter 2. Shifting cultivators and the landscape  43

perhaps making five, we concluded that the heavy and rapid erosion of 50 ad to 200 ad represented particularly intensive swiddening (Latham and Brookfield, 1983, p117). We did find it noteworthy that the forest was not destroyed in the manner of the Madagascar sequence outlined at the beginning of this chapter. However great was the devastation, it was not irreversible. And as Hughes et al. (1979, p109) stressed, it did not make more talasiga. One might write of our interpretation of findings in these two cases: ‘and the band played on.’ But to infer that I, my colleagues and friends were swallowing the arguments of swidden’s many critics would, I hope, be unfair to us all.There are many other sources of influence on our thinking. The mixed and mainly bad press that shifting cultivators have had right through the 20th century could hardly fail to have had an effect on the entire intellectual climate of discussion. The two IFM volumes, both Mark 1 (Cairns, 2007) and the present Mark 2, are reactions against that climate of opinion. In a different way, so is this essay. And where it is not a reaction it is an apology. Dynamism and differentiation of cultivation systems

I now move on to another topic. In the western Pacific, prehistory merged into historical observation and record at very recent dates – around 1850 ad in Lakeba and around 1935 ad in the highlands of New Guinea.We can therefore be sure about the late prehistoric farming systems and can make fairly positive statements about how they evolved. Both the New Guinea and Fiji examples, small though they are, illustrate well the manner in which cultivators changed their practices in response to changes in their working environments. In Lakeba, development of the taro swamps with two distinct methods of land preparation was the most striking among late prehistoric innovations (M. Brookfield, 1977). One method, common to most parts of the western Pacific region, involved simply thrusting a sharp digging-stick into the soil, then widening the hole to receive the corm by levering the stick from side to side.The other, much more rare, but well-developed in Lakeba, involved thorough tillage of the whole bed before planting. A third major method of growing irrigated taro, in running water on gently sloping terraces, was not used as such on Lakeba but was, and just about still is, found elsewhere in Fiji (Kuhlken, 2007).29 It was most highly developed in New Caledonia. New Guinea: Raiapu Enga and Central Chimbu

In the larger region around Kuk in New Guinea, two of the modern local systems exhibit how far evolution of the farming systems has travelled. Since the 17th century, both have depended on sweet potatoes. The Raiapu group of the Enga-speaking people, living about 60km west of the Kuk archaeological site, and the central tribes of the Chimbu people, about 70km to the east, both occupy valley-side locations

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with altitude ranges of 1500m to 2300m above sea level (Raiapu Enga) and 1400m to 2100m (Chimbu) (Figures 2.3 and 2.4). Raiapu Enga farmers build large mounds about 3.8m in diameter and 0.6m high. Considerable quantities of plant wastes are put into these mounds before closure.30 The Enga – all of whom use this system – maintain these mounds permanently, re-opening, filling and rebuilding them every 12 to 24 months, year after year, on the same land (Waddell, 1972; Bourke et al., this volume). This remarkable level of skillbased intensification is confined to use on the gently sloping land of old river-terrace patches more than 100m above the Lai river. By contrast, their secondary, mixed-crop

FIGURE 2.3 

Raiapu Enga: one group territory

Chapter 2. Shifting cultivators and the landscape  45

gardens are on the steep slopes. Here, the Enga use swidden-type methods, modified from the Mertz definition only in making secondary use of fire after manual clearing within fence-lines, to grow yams and a range of other crops in polyculture. In late prehistory – in this case before 1938 ad – the Raiapu Enga additionally segregated sweet potato and taro into separate fields on the terraces, but taro production declined rapidly and by the 1960s there were no taro fields left (Waddell, 1972). Even after modern changes in tools, from wood and stone to steel, the farmers of Central Chimbu have not diversified their agricultural technology in the way the Enga (and some others) have done. They have continued to use square-bed land preparation for all crops, just as in late Holocene times, and diversification has taken other forms. Sweet potatoes, together with limited areas of maize and peanuts, are segregated in large open fields.31 Although there is no systematic addition of green manure, the grass on the square beds is buried under the soil from the ditches. Other crops, including bananas and sugar cane, are grown in separate garden plots in polyculture, but the land is prepared by the same method as the sweet potato land.

FIGURE 2.4 

Central Chimbu: one clan territory

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The square-bed system retains a rotational element sufficiently significant to allow not only Spencer (1966), but also the Papua New Guinea Mapping Agricultural Systems Project to group it among systems using land rotation at the small map scale (1:500,000) of its work (Bourke and Harwood, 2009). The Raiapu Enga, and others in the western region who use the mounding system, create a sharply differentiated landscape in which the core areas of permanent cultivation stand out. Most people live in the core areas, and most pigs are housed on their edges. Like the Lakeba taro swamps, they became a physically distinct element in a composite system. Central Chimbu has in fact a similar order of differentiation, but only continuing data collection fully revealed its nature. Over 26 years (1958 to 1984), I periodically recorded land use and its users within some 10sq km of one tribal territory. Ultimately, this scrutiny shrunk to cover only 2sq km of a single clan territory within the original 10sq-km territory (Figure 2.4).32 I was able to identify three distinct rotational systems, two of which were semi-permanent.33 The three Chimbu systems: a digression with a purpose

Figure 2.5 is a new analysis of data earlier analysed in other ways (Brown et al., 1990). Taking land-use distributions at the time of three principal surveys in 1958, 1965 and 1984, it presents the frequency with which each piece of land in one clan territory was used. The most frequently used land, employed at all three dates and also in between, was in fact rarely under fallow for periods longer than 18 months. Twiceused land employed in 1965 and 1984, but not in 1958, mainly represents expansion of this semi-permanent system into marginal areas of Block 3 and most of Block 4. The greater part of this land is on Cretaceous marine shales which weather into very resilient soils, as pointed out by my late colleague Geoff Humphreys. The area of twice-used land in Block 2 is another matter. It was used in 1958 and 1984 but not in 1965, nor for several years after the latter date.Together with adjacent land-blocks of eight other clans, it mainly occupies the upper part of a limestonecharged debris flow from a major, probably Pleistocene, rotational landslide taking a wide bite into a limestone escarpment that dominates the landscape. Its form can be discerned on the ARC-INFO-generated block diagram in Figure 2.4. During our survey period, and probably for at least a generation before it, this land was cultivated for several years and then fallowed under casuarina trees for several years. In particular, it came into use every few years around the time of large-scale intertribal ceremonies. In this area, these ceremonies took place on a long-enduring site at nearby Mintima (Figure 2.4), some 8 to 20 years apart (Brookfield, 1973), until what was almost certainly the last one, in 1981. Between these times, the area lay unenclosed and under casuarinas. Although it was a less-frequent user of land, this was a distinct, second, semi-permanent system. Only a third system could accurately be termed a shifting type of cultivation. It is clearly represented by the patchy distribution, mainly in Block 1 of Figure 2.5, of land used at only one date. It was not swidden, nor anything like swidden. Land was

Chapter 2. Shifting cultivators and the landscape  47

FIGURE 2.5 

Central Chimbu: land-use frequency in one clan territory, 1958-1984

prepared by the same square-bed method as all Central Chimbu land and fenced, but was used only for up to three years. When a new plot was later prepared and planted in the same area, it was unusual for it to be on exactly the same piece of land, as is clear from Figure 2.5. On the other hand, on the two types of semi-permanently cultivated land – even on second-system land that had spent several years under

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fallow – boundaries of plots were sustained in place with a precision that sometimes surprised us. No Chimbu would have been surprised. Indeed, there would be angry dispute if the boundaries were not sustained exactly in place. Throughout our years of fieldwork, any attempt to dig a spade into valued ground that was regarded by a neighbour as his own generated immediate loud protest. We also pursued another set of data. Combining land-use and land-holding information, entered into a geographic information system (GIS) with data on genealogies and family histories, we obtained some striking information on the record of land transfers during this generation-long period. In blocks 3 and 2, mainly comprising land under the two semi-permanent systems, respectively 96% and 88% of land remained in the hands of members of the same clan, including co-resident affines. In block 1, which was almost all ‘shifting-cultivation’ land, only 11% remained in clan hands throughout; the balance changed hands with members of neighbouring groups. Most such exchange was entirely voluntary and often an affinal or matrilateral connection emerged on enquiry (Brown et al., 1990, p42). The value of shiftingcultivation land was political; it could be used to cement interpersonal and intergroup relations. In the last centuries of prehistory, much land transfer had taken place in a far less amicable manner. In both Chimbu and Raiapu Enga there were fights – even within the one tribe. Warfare was much more common and violent between whole tribal groups. The ethno-historical record, covering large populations, was built around these wars. Warfare and mainly forced migration were common until the 1930s, although some people held their land better than did others (Waddell, 1972; Brookfield, 1996, pp71–74). Nonetheless, the remembered record suggested that core areas of continuing use, juxtaposition of clan blocks and subsequently enduring tenure had grown up quite quickly in more peaceful times, in areas formerly characterized by greater impermanence.34 These complex systems had certainly been elaborated since the introduction of the sweet potato in the 17th century. The large-mounding system at Raiapu Enga was developed only within this period, for it suited only this crop (Bourke et al., this volume). Management-into-the-fallow also became more important. Planting of Casuarina oligodon in the fields became both more widespread and intensive in the 20th century (Bourke, 2007). With less detail, similar concentration of effort into limited areas has been suggested elsewhere in highland New Guinea (Allen and Crittenden, 1987). All of these developments are very small in scale when compared with the hundreds of thousands of hectares of late prehistoric raised-bed fields in the lowlands of northern South America, the terracing in the highlands and intensification in numerous lowland areas (e.g. Denevan, 1992; Piperno and Pearsall, 1998; Iriarte, 2007). But scale is not the only measure of significance: the detail revealed in Chimbu is representative of what lies below short-term observation in many regions.

Chapter 2. Shifting cultivators and the landscape  49

Agrodiversity: mixed and composite systems

In each of the cases discussed above more than one system of management is employed today and systemic changes have taken place in the quite recent past. In these respects, these examples are representative of many in the developing world as a whole. Such mixtures are the basis of agricultural diversity, or ‘agrodiversity’, as I termed it (Brookfield, 2001) and as it was studied in the PLEC Project, mentioned above.Viewed historically, they represent the selective adoption of new methods and selective retention of old methods, within single agricultural systems and on single farms. The wider historical context suggests that such agrodiversity has been present from quite early times in the history of agriculture. Modernists hate it for its untidiness and invisibility to themselves, but it works in gaining sustainable production from diverse agroecosystems and is a mark of the inventiveness, adaptability and judgment of the world’s farmers, swiddeners and others alike. Few have ever received the credit that they deserve. Sometimes the system mixtures are sharply defined, so that we have what Rambo (1996, 2007) termed ‘composite swiddening agroecosystems’, and which Cairns and Brookfield (2011) propose to broaden and simplify as ‘composite systems’. Their presence has been signalled above in the cases of Lakeba and Raiapu Enga. Although composite systems are many fewer than merely mixed systems, they have a long history and are not uncommon in Asia-Pacific. They deserve note. Yin Shaoting (2001), in his masterly survey of swidden and related systems in Yunnan, China, shows that a proportion are composite systems. In offering their practitioners clearly differentiated input and production options, they to some degree anticipate modern changes, both on-farm and off-farm. Like pluriactivity, they both require and reward the efficient allocation of time and resources that small farmers have historically handled very well. Also like pluriactivity, they generate tensions due to competition. To discuss composite and the less-visible mixed systems more adequately would require another chapter. Then and now: conclusions

It is inaccurate to write of ‘swidden cultivation’, or any other form of cultivation, as an unchanging system. This is one of the problems in attempting to apply classifications to systems, especially as viewed through time. Change can take a system out of one major category and move it into another, and this has happened in historic and prehistoric, as well as in modern times. There will always be systems ‘in between’; difficult to classify. It may even be thoroughly misleading to try to do so, because a transition may well be in progress.35 In the western Pacific region, which has been the main focus of this chapter, rapid change came at several times and it has never ceased since a succession of new crops of American origin began to arrive in the 16th and 17th centuries. This is equally true in other regions including, not least, most of sub-Saharan Africa. There is nothing more wrong, in writing about the developing countries, than the stated or implied belief that the pre-colonial period, or any period

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before the present, was one of ‘stasis’. This applies to cultivation systems as much as it does to social and political affairs. Most certainly there are continuities, some of them over thousands of years, but the systemic context has not remained unchanged. As the late Paula Brown remarked in providing concluding words for our penultimate joint paper (Brown et al., 1990, p46): ‘The more that becomes known about societies in the developing countries through time, the more probable it becomes that change is the most common condition.’ The evidence discussed in this chapter suggests that this has been so since early in the prehistory of cultivation. Some answers?

How far has this historical disquisition assisted in answering the questions put in its first paragraph? It has hopefully helped to move swidden from being regarded as the earliest and most ‘primitive’ system. Although mobility of field sites was probably more general, swidden was but one adaptation among several that were adopted by cultivators as they sought to manage larger areas. I may more usefully have helped by adding an historical dimension to an emerging literature seeking to dispose of the widespread allegation that swidden, simply by being practised in upland areas, leads to soil erosion of an order that conveys damage into the lowlands (Lestrelin et al., 2012).36 But it has left the question of ‘collapsing’ swidden systems, raised by our editor, still in the air. Historical evidence does demonstrate the facility with which farmers who have been able to hold onto their land have changed their systems of management, whether under stress or because they see a promising alternative. Yet the ‘warning from Madagascar’ remains, and so does the probability that ‘steeply declining yields’ are symptomatic of problems in the soil. It is likely that a number of both swidden systems and their broader ‘shifting cultivation’ relatives are at risk due to shortening spells of fallow. Lestrelin et al. (2012, p69) demonstrated from the Laotian uplands that such farmers are well aware that reduction of biomass, increasing weed prevalence and increased work to combat more stubborn weeds all accompany declining yields, so that continuing degradation will make cultivation of annual crops impossible within measurable time. Interpreting the present: unprecedented forces

In the Laotian case mentioned above, the problems have been exacerbated by both population increase due to enforced resettlement and by the government’s ‘Land Use Planning and Allocation Policy’, which has zoned 65% of the land of this community for forest use, prohibiting agriculture.This case is representative of region-wide trends in which pressures that are usually generalized as ‘globalization’ have gained much greater force in the last half-century. Farmers have not previously experienced such pressures. An important conditioning aspect is a tendency among decision-makers, and the thinkers who influence them, to reduce the world to a single global market and its inhabitants to human capital (Waddell and Connell, 2007, p10). In such a

Chapter 2. Shifting cultivators and the landscape  51

world, small farmers count for very little and swidden farmers count for even less. In most countries of the Asia-Pacific region the pressures on the latter have grown very strong, but so, too, have the incentives to adopt wholly different lifestyles. If we take our editor’s ‘collapsing [or ‘declining’] shifting-cultivation systems’ and we add ‘shrinking and vanishing shifting-cultivation systems’, I suggest we come closer to the real modern situation. The fact of a rapid decline in the use of swidden and its near relatives in this region, not widely noticed in the Mark 1 volume (Cairns, 2007), certainly achieves note in this Mark 2 successor, and not only in this chapter. Among chapters I have been privileged to see while my own was still incomplete, those of Cramb, Mertz and Potter (all this volume) are especially pertinent. In the surrounding literature, particular note should be taken of the important clarion call by Padoch et al. (2007) and of the book in which James Scott (2009, pp4–5) described the last half-century in upland Southeast Asia as the period of the last ‘great enclosure movement’ affecting upland people, ‘to ensure that their economic activity was legible, taxable, accessible and confiscatable or, failing that, to replace it with forms of production that were’. In the collection introduced by Mertz et al. (2009), a related interpretation was argued by Fox et al. (2009, p319), who wrote that the small farmers of the region experienced the ‘primitive accumulation’ of capitalism, which left the traditional agrarian question ‘alive and well in the uplands and other parts of Southeast Asia, where swidden agriculture was or still is being carried out’. The question is not whether or not these statements are true. They are, in that they fairly accurately describe policies applied to swidden cultivators, though with very different degrees of emphasis, in several Asia-Pacific countries. The question is whether or not the cultivators are simply powerless and unwilling victims of enforced change. There is no doubt that many have had extremely hard experiences, and continue to do so. In addition, there are other swiddeners, including Conklin’s (1957) classic Hanunóo (Mangyan) in the Philippines, who found their options increasingly curtailed by pressures from colonizing migrants into their region, so that by the end of last century the system that Conklin so famously described ‘no longer enjoy[ed] the conditions it needed to remain sustainable or even survive’ (Brookfield, 2001, p120). But some cultivators have managed to nuance the changes (Harris-White et al., 2009) and others have managed to negotiate more satisfactory outcomes for themselves, even in fiercely developmental Sarawak (Cramb and Sujang, 2011; Cramb, this volume).These and other examples provide evidence that many farmers have, in fact, quite eagerly grasped opportunities to put their ‘idle’ fallow land under cash-earning tree crops, and to change their whole farming systems in favour of these new crops. The wide adoption of rubber in Xishuangbanna, in southern China (Fu et al., 2009), tells the same story. The trend was already apparent two decades ago, if the evidence had been fully explored. In writing an analysis at the end of last century, of the practices of swiddeners in Borneo and the Philippines, I had already to conclude that

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‘it was not mere pedantry to write this chapter, even the parts of it using information from the 1980s, in the past tense’ (Brookfield, 2001, p121). Mertz (this volume) suggests that at least some Asian swiddeners will treat new tree crops as a long-term fallow, and will plant food crops again when the economic life of their tree crops comes to an end. Potter (this volume) is doubtful – and so am I – not so much because farmers may not wish to do this, but because it may not be possible. McCarthy (2010) shows in eastern Sumatra how the often ‘adverse’ incorporation of farmers into the aggressive oil-palm industry – the very nature of which requires substantial resources for success – has made a significant proportion of them landless. The successful minority is unlikely to re-embrace subsistence pursuits, even though governments may wish to restore such an emphasis for reasons of national food security. From this point of view, not the least striking case is the composite system practised in our editor’s own field-study site at Khonoma, in Nagaland, northeast India, which he has made famous for its skilful management of Alnus nepalensis to sustain production with short fallows (Cairns et al., 2007). In the alder-enriched fields that are no longer even remotely swiddens (if they ever were), a fairly labourintensive, but profitable commercial land use had already been adopted by the 1990s. Then, at the start of the new century, this use was unexpectedly being replaced by a low-input long-term plantation-type crop, large-cardamom (Amomum subulatum), being grown for the Indian market. Re-examining Cairns’ rich field data, Cairns and Brookfield (2011) suggested that this was because of the growth of opportunity for wage employment and other means of earning money. Pluriactivity was trumping the work involved in rotational use of the land. At least up until 2010, it was not yet trumping the more laborious maintenance of wet-rice production on the splendid terraces in the adjacent valley, on which the community had depended for livelihood not only for centuries but also through a recent period of stress. In this most striking of composite systems, the freedom to shift resource allocation had led to decisions that surprised us. They were, in this case, unforced decisions. Nevertheless, we would not like to say that the farmers were re-planning the long-term future of their system as a whole. A final word

The difficulty of understanding the changes now taking place in rural Asia-Pacific, or in rural anywhere-else, is uncomfortably underlined by uncertainties. Although swidden does still survive, most trends are strongly against it. It is for this reason that I have tried in this chapter to write not in support of the system as such, but rather of the farmers who practise swidden or did so in the past, or have never used the swidden option even while using other land-rotational methods. Many such farmers have long since adopted other forms of farming, or have turned to activities quite different from farming. In an increasingly dynamic rural situation, the adaptability of the present generation is entirely in keeping with the intelligent opportunism that

Chapter 2. Shifting cultivators and the landscape  53

the world’s rural people have shown in all the time since the first cultivators began systematically to put plants into the ground to grow. Acknowledgements

Grateful thanks are due to Lesley Potter, Michael Bourke and Muriel Brookfield for reading and making trenchant and invaluable criticisms of an earlier version of this chapter. Sharp-eyed Muriel Brookfield also gave me many pithy comments on more final drafts. Jenny Sheehan of the former Cartography Unit (now CartoGIS) in the College of Asia and the Pacific, Australian National University, has capably drawn all the maps. Jack Golson and Tim Denham have made valuable late suggestions for improvement. For permission to reproduce material from earlier publications I appreciate the ready licences granted by CartoGIS, the Copyright Clearance Center and Springer Verlag, and Eric Waddell. References Allen, B. J. and Crittenden, R. (1987) ‘Degradation and a pre-capitalist political economy: The case of the New Guinea highlands’, in P. Blaikie and H. Brookfield (eds) Land Degradation and Society, Methuen, London, pp145–156 Anderson, E. (1952) Plants, Man and Life, University of California Press, Berkeley and Los Angeles, CA Arroyo-Kalin, M. (2010) ‘The Amazonian Formative: Crop domestication and anthropogenic soils’, Diversity, 2, pp473–504 Arroyo-Kalin, M. (2012) ‘Slash-burn-and-churn: Landscape history and crop cultivation in preColumbian Amazonia’, Quaternary International 249, pp4–18 Balée, W. (1989) ‘The culture of Amazonian forests’, in D.W. Posey and W. Balée (eds) Resource Management in Amazonia, Advances in Economic Botany vol 7, New York Botanical Garden, Bronx, NY, pp1–21 Balée, W. (1992) ‘People of the fallow: A historical ecology of foraging in lowland South America‘, in K. H. Redford and C. Padoch (eds) Conservation of Tropical Forests: Working from Traditional Resource Use, Columbia University Press, New York, pp35–57 Bandy, D. E., Garrity, D. P. and Sanchez, P. A. (1993) ‘The world-wide problem of slash-and-burn agriculture’, Agroforestry Today, July-September, pp2–6 Barton, H. and Paz, V. (2007) ‘Subterranean diets in the tropical rain forests of Sarawak, Malaysia‘, in T. Denham, J. Iriate and L. Vrydaghs (eds) Rethinking Agriculture: Archaeological and Ethnoarchaeological Perspectives, Left Coast Press, Walnut Creek, CA, pp50–77 Bayliss-Smith, T., Bedford, R., Brookfield, H., Latham, M. and Brookfield, M. (1988) Islands, Islanders and the World: the Colonial and Post-colonial Experience of Eastern Fiji, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, UK Best, S. (1993) ‘At the halls of the mountain kings. Fijian and Samoan fortifications: Comparison and analysis’, Journal of the Polynesian Society 102, pp385–448 Bourke, R. M. (2007) ‘Managing the species composition of fallows in Papua New Guinea by planting trees’, in M. F. Cairns (ed.) Voices from the Forest: Integrating Indigenous Knowledge into Sustainable Upland Farming, Resources for the Future Press, Washington, DC, pp379–388 Bourke, R. M. and Harwood,T. (eds) (2009) Food and Agriculture in Papua New Guinea, ANU E Press, Canberra Bourke, R. M., Ballard, C. A, and Allen, B. J. (this volume) ‘Composting and sweet potato mounds in the highlands of Papua New Guinea’

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Brookfield, H. (1973) ‘Full circle in Chimbu: A study of trends and cycles’, in H. Brookfield (ed.) The Pacific in Transition: Geographical Perspectives on Adaptation and Change, Edward Arnold, London, pp127–160 Brookfield, H. (1996) ‘Untying the Chimbu circle: An essay in and on hindsight’, in H. Levine and A. Ploeg (eds) Work in Progress: Essays on New Guinea Highlands Ethnography in Honour of Paula Brown Glick, Peter Lang, Frankfurt-am-Main, pp63–84 Brookfield, H. (1997) ‘Landscape history: Land degradation in the Indonesian region’, in P. Boomgaard, F. Colombijn and D. Henley (eds) Paper Landscapes: Explorations in the Environmental History of Indonesia, KITLV Press, Leiden, pp27–59 Brookfield, H. (2001) Exploring Agrodiversity, Columbia University Press, New York Brookfield, H. and Brown, P. (1963) Struggle for Land: Agriculture and Group Territories among the Chimbu of the New Guinea Highlands, Oxford University Press, Melbourne Broookfield, H. with Hart, D. (1971) Melanesia: A Geographical Interpretation of an Island World, Methuen, London Brookfield, H., Potter, L. and Byron,Y. (1995) In Place of the Forest: Environmental and Socio-economic Transformation in Borneo and the Eastern Malay Peninsula, United Nations University Press,Tokyo Brookfield, M. (1977) ‘Resource use, economy and society: Island at the crossroads’, in UNESCO/ UNFPA Fiji Island Reports 5, Australian National University for UNESCO, Canberra, pp127–197 Brookfield, M. (2012) Personal communication with the author, 20 October Brown, P., Brookfield, H. and Grau, R. (1990) ‘Land tenure and transfer in Chimbu, Papua New Guinea,1958-1984: A study in continuity and change, accommodation and opportunism’, Human Ecology 18, pp21–49 Brunn, T. B., de Neergaard, A., Lawrence, D. and Ziegler, A. D. (2009) ‘Environmental consequences of the demise of swidden cultivation in southeast Asia: Carbon storage and soil quality’, Human Ecology 37, pp375–388 Cairns, M. F. (ed.) (2007) Voices from the Forest: Integrating Indigenous Knowledge into Sustainable Upland Farming, Resources for the Future Press, Washington, DC Cairns, M. F. (2012) Personal communication with the author, 20 May Cairns, M. F. and Brookfield, H. (2011), ‘Composite farming systems in an era of change: Nagaland, northeast India’, Asia Pacific Viewpoint 52, pp56–84 Cairns, M. F., Keitzar, S. and Yaden, T. A. (2007) ‘Shifting forests in northeast India: Management of Alnus nepalensis as an improved fallow in Nagaland’, in M. F. Cairns (ed.) Voices from the Forest: Integrating Indigenous Knowledge into Sustainable Upland Farming, Resources for the Future Press, Washington, DC, pp341–378 Christanty, L. (1986) ‘Shifting cultivation and tropical soils: Patterns, problems and possible solutions’, in G. G. Marten (ed.) Traditional Agriculture in Southeast Asia: A Human Ecology Perspective, Westview Press, Boulder, CO, pp226–240 Conklin, H. C. (1957) Hanunóo Agriculture in the Philippines, Forestry Development Paper no. 12, Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations, Rome Cramb, R. A. and Sujang, P. S. (2011) ‘Shifting ground: Renegotiating land rights and rural livelihoods in Sarawak, Malaysia’, Asia-Pacific Viewpoint 52, pp136–147 Cramb, R. A. (this volume) ‘Busy people, idle land: The changing roles of swidden fallows in Sarawak’ Denevan, W. M. (1992) ‘The pristine myth: The landscape of the Americas in 1492’, Annals of the Association of American Geographers 82, pp369–385 Denevan, W. M. and Treacy, J. M. (1987) ‘Young managed fallows at Brillo Nuevo’, in W. M. Denevan and C. Padoch (eds) Swidden-Fallow Agroforestry in the Peruvian Amazon, Advances in Economic Botany vol. 5, New York Botanical Garden, Bronx, NY, pp8–46 Denevan,W. M.,Treacy, J. M.,Alcorn, J. B., Padoch, C., Denslow, J. and Flores-Paitán, S. (1984) ‘Indigenous agroforestry in the Peruvian Amazon: Bora Indian management of swidden fallows’, Interciencia 9 (6), pp346–357 Denham,T. (2011) ‘Early agriculture and plant domestication in New Guinea and Island Southeast Asia’, Current Anthropology 52, S4, ppS379–S395

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Denham, T. (2013) ‘Early farming in Island Southeast Asia: An alternative hypothesis’, Antiquity 87, pp250–256 Denham, T. P., Haberle, S. J. and Lentfer, C. (2004) ‘New evidence and revised interpretations of early agriculture in highland New Guinea’, Antiquity 78, pp839–857 Denham, T., Donohue, M. and Booth, S. (2009) ‘Horticultural experimentation in northern Australia reconsidered’, Antiquity 83, pp634–648 Doolittle, W. E. (1984) ‘Agricultural change as an incremental process’, Annals of the Association of American Geographers 71, pp124–137 FAO (1978) Report of the FAO/UNEP Expert Consultation on Methodology for Assessing Soil Degradation, Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations, Rome FAO Staff (1957) ‘Shifting cultivation’, Unasylva 11, pp9–11 Fox, J., Fujita, Y., Ngidang, D., Peluso, N., Potter, L., Sakuntaladewi, N., Sturgeon, J. and Thomas, D. (2009) ‘Politics, political-economy and swidden in southeast Asia’, Human Ecology 37, pp305–322 Fritz, G. J. (2007) ‘Keepers of Louisiana’s levees: Early mound builders and forest managers’, in T. Denham, J. Iriate and L. Vrydaghs (eds) Rethinking Agriculture: Archaeological and Ethnoarchaeological Perspectives, Left Coast Press, Walnut Creek, CA, pp189–209 Fu, Y., Brookfield, H., Guo, H., Chen, J., Chen, A. and Cui, J. (2009) ‘Smallholder rubber plantation expansion and its impact on local livelihoods, land use and agrobiodiversity: A case study from Daka, Xishuangbanna, southwestern China’, International Journal of Sustainable Development and World Ecology 16, pp22–29 Gammage, B. (2011)The Biggest Estate on Earth: How Aborigines made Australia, Allen and Unwin, Sydney Golson, J., Denham, T., Hughes, P., Swadling, P. and Muke, J. (eds) (2014 forthcoming) Ten Thousand

Years of Cultivation: Kuk Swamp and the History of Agriculture in the New Guinea Highlands, Terra Australis 40, ANU e-Press, Canberra

Haberle, S. G., Lentfer, C., O’Donnell, S. and Denham, T. (2012) ‘The palaeoenvironments of Kuk swamp from the beginnings of agriculture in the highlands of Papua New Guinea’, Quaternary International 249, pp129–139 Harris, D. R. (2007) ‘Agriculture, cultivation and domestication: Exploring the conceptual framework of early food production’, in T. Denham, J. Iriate and L. Vrydaghs (eds) Rethinking Agriculture: Archaeological and Ethnoarchaeological Perspectives, Left Coast Press, Walnut Creek, CA, pp16–35 Harris-White, B., Mishra, D. K. and Upadhyay, V. (2009) ‘Institutional diversity and capitalist transition: The political economy of agrarian change in Arunachal Pradesh, India’, Journal of Agrarian Change 9, pp532–547 Hughes, P. J., Hope, G., Latham, M. and Brookfield, M. (1979) ‘Prehistoric man-induced degradation of the Lakeba landscape: Evidence from two inland swamps’, in UNESCO/UNFPA Fiji Island Reports 5, Australian National University for UNESCO, Canberra, pp93–110 Hughes, P. J., Sullivan, M. E. and Yok, D. (1991) ‘Human-induced erosion in a highlands catchment in Papua New Guinea: The prehistoric and contemporary records’, Zeitschrift für Geomorphologie, Supplementband 83, pp227–239 Iriarte, J. (2007) ‘New perspectives on plant domestication and the development of agriculture in the New World’, in T. Denham, J. Iriate and L. Vrydaghs (eds) Rethinking Agriculture: Archaeological and Ethnoarchaeological Perspectives, Left Coast Press, Walnut Creek, CA, pp167–188 Jones, R. and Meehan, B. (1989) ‘Plant foods of the Gidjingali: Ethnographic and archaeological perspectives from northern Australia on tuber and seed exploitation’, in D. R. Harris and G. C. Hillman (eds) Foraging and Farming: the Evolution of Plant Exploitation, Unwin Hyman, London, pp120–135 Kellman, M. (1974) ‘Some implications of biotic interactions for sustained tropical agriculture’, Proceedings of the Association of American Geographers 6, pp142–145 Kellman, M. and Tackaberry, R. (1997) Tropical Environments: The Functioning and Management of Tropical Ecosystems, Routledge, London and New York Kennedy, J. (2012) ‘Agricultural systems in the tropical forest: A critique framed by tree crops of Papua New Guinea’, Quaternary International 249, pp140–150

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Kuhlken, R. (2007) ‘Agricultural landscapes of Kadavu: Persistence and change on the Fijian periphery’, in J. Connell and E. Waddell (eds) Environment, Development and Change in Rural Asia-Pacific, Routledge, Abingdon, UK, pp56–75 Latham, M. and Brookfield, H. C. (1983) Iles Fidji Orientales: Ėtude du Milieu Naturel, de son Utilisation et de son Ėvolution sous L‘Influence Humaine (Eastern Fiji: Study of the natural environment, its use and its evolution under human influence), Travaux et Documents de l’ORSTOM no. 162 (in French and English), Paris Lestrelin, G., Vigiak, O., Pelletreau, A., Keohavong, B. and Valentin, C. (2012) ‘Challenging established narratives on soil erosion and shifting cultivation in Laos’, Natural Resources Forum 36, pp63–75 McCarthy, J. (2010) ‘Processes of inclusion and adverse incorporation: Oil palm and agrarian change in Sumatra’, Journal of Peasant Studies 37 (4), pp821–850 Mertz, O. (2002) ‘The relationship between length of fallow and crop yields in shifting cultivation: A rethinking’, Agroforestry Systems 49, pp149–159 Mertz, O. (this volume), ’Oil palm as a productive fallow? Swidden change and new opportunities in smallholder land management’ Mertz, O., Padoch, C., Fox, J., Cramb, R. A., Leisz, S. J., Lam, N.T. and Vien,T. D. (2009) ‘Swidden change in Southeast Asia: Understanding causes and consequences’, Human Ecology 37, pp259–264 Mertz, O., Wadley, R. L., Nielsen, U., Bruun, T. H., Colfer, C. J. P., de Neergaard, A., Jepsen, M. R., Martinussen, T., Zhao, Q., Noweg, G. T. and Magid, J. (2008) ‘A fresh look at shifting cultivation: Fallow length an uncertain indicator of productivity’, Agricultural Systems 96, pp75–84 Moran, E. F. (1995) ‘Rich and poor ecosystems of Amazonia: An approach to management’, in T. Nishizawa and J. I. Uitto (eds) The Fragile Tropics of Latin America: Sustainable Management of Changing Environments, United Nations University Press, Tokyo, pp45–67 Nye, P. H. and Greenland, D. J. (1960) The Soil under Shifting Cultivation, Technical Communication no. 51, Commonwealth Bureau of Soils, Farnham Royal, UK Padoch, C. and Peters, C. (1993) ‘Managed forest gardens in West Kalimantan, Indonesia’, in C. S. Potter, J. I. Cohen and D. Janczewski (eds) Perspectives on Biodiversity: Case Studies of Genetic Resource Conservation and Development, American Association for the Advancement of Science Press, Washington, DC, pp167–176 Padoch, C., Harwell, E. and Susanto, A. (1998) ‘Swidden, sawah and in between’, Human Ecology 26, pp3–20 Padoch, C., Coffey, K., Mertz, O., Leisz, S., Fox, J. and Wadley, R. L. (2007) ‘The demise of swidden in Southeast Asia? Local realities and regional ambiguities’, Geografisk Tidsskrift – Danish Journal of Geography 107, pp29–41 Pearsall, D. M. (2007) ‘Modeling prehistoric agriculture through the palaeoenvironmental record’, in T. Denham, J. Iriate and L. Vrydaghs (eds) Rethinking Agriculture: Archaeological and Ethnoarchaeological Perspectives, Left Coast Press, Walnut Creek, CA, pp210–230 Peters, C. (1996) ‘Illipe nuts (Shorea spp.) in West Kalimantan: Use, ecology and management potential of an important forest resource’, in C. Padoch and N. L. Peluso (eds) Borneo in Transition, Oxford University Press, Singapore, pp230–241 Piperno, D. R. (2011) ‘The origins of plant cultivation and domestication in the New World tropics’, Current Anthropology 52 (S4), ppS453–S470 Piperno, D. R. and Pearsall, D. M. (1998) The Origins of Agriculture in the Lowland Neotropics, Academic Press, San Diego, CA Potter, L. (this volume) ‘Where are the swidden fallows now? An overview of oil palm and Dayak agriculture across Kalimantan, with case studies from Sanggau, in West Kalimantan’ Ramakrishnan, P. S. (1992) Shifting Agriculture and Sustainable Development: An Interdisciplinary Study from North-Eastern India, UNESCO and Parthenon, Paris and Park Ridge, NJ Ramakrishnan, P. S. (2009) Personal communication with the author at Cherrapunji, 10 November Rambo, A. T. (1996) ‘The composite swiddening agroecosystem of the Tay ethnic minority of the northwestern mountains of Vietnam’, in B. Rerkasem (ed.) Montane Mainland Southeast Asia in Transition, Chiang Mai University, Chiang Mai, pp69–89

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Rambo, A. T. (2007) ‘Observations on the role of improved fallow management in swidden agricultural systems’, in M. F. Cairns (ed.) Voices from the Forest: Integrating Indigenous Knowledge into Sustainable Upland Farming, Resources for the Future Press, Washington, DC, pp780–801 Rerkasem, K., Lawrence, D., Padoch, C., Schmidt-Vogt, D., Ziegler, A. D. and Brunn, T. B. (2009) ‘Consequences of swidden transitions for crop and fallow biodiversity in southeast Asia’, Human Ecology 37, pp347–360 Richards, P. W. (1952) The Tropical Rain Forest, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, UK Roosevelt, A. C. (1999) ‘Twelve thousand years of human-environment interaction in the Amazon floodplain’, in C. Padoch, J. M. Ayres, M. Pinedo-Vasquez and A. Henderson (eds) Varzea: Diversity, Development and Conservation of Amazonia’s White-water Floodplains, New York Botanical Garden Press, Bronx, NY, pp371–392 Ruthenberg, H. (ed.) (1968) Smallholder Farming and Smallholder Development in Tanzania, Afrika Studien 34, Weltforum Verlag for IFO, Institut für Wirtschaftsforschung, München, Germany Ruthenberg, H. (1980) Farming Systems in the Tropics, Clarendon Press, Oxford, UK Sauer, Carl O. (1952) Agricultural Origins and Dispersals, American Geographical Society, New York Sauer, Carl O. (1958) ‘Man in the ecology of tropical America’, Proceedings of the Ninth Pacific Science Congress 1957, 20, pp104–110 Sauer, J. D. (1993) Historical Geography of Crop Plants: A Select Roster, CRC Press, Boca Raton, LA Schmidt-Vogt, D., Leisz, S. J., Mertz, O., Heinimann, A., Thiha, T., Messerli, P., Epprecht, M., Cu, P. V., Chi,V. K., Hardiono, M. and Dao, T. M. (2009) ‘An assessment of trends in the extent of swidden in Southeast Asia’, Human Ecology 37, pp269–280 Scott, J. C. (2009) The Art of Not Being Governed: An Anarchic History of Upland Southeast Asia,Yale University Press, New Haven and London Smith, N. J. H. (1980) ‘Anthrosols and human carrying capacity in Amazonia’, Annals of the Association of American Geographers 70 (4), pp553–566 Sombroek, W. (1966) Amazon Soils: A Reconnaissance of the Soils of the Brazilian Amazon Region, Centre for Agricultural Publications and Documentation, Wageningen, the Netherlands Spencer, J. E. (1966) Shifting Cultivation in Southeastern Asia, University of California Press, Berkeley and Los Angeles, CA Stocking, M. (1987) ‘Measuring land degradation’, in P. Blaikie and H. Brookfield (eds) Land Degradation and Society, Methuen, London, pp49–63 Styger, E. and Fernandes, E. C. M. (2006) ‘Contributions of managed fallows to soil fertility recovery’, in N. Uphoff, A. S. Ball, E. Fernandes, H. Herren, O. Husson, M. Laing, C. Palm, J. Pretty and P. Sanchez (eds) Biological Approaches to Sustainable Soil Systems, CRC Press, Boca Raton, LA, pp425–437 Styger, E., Fernandes, E. C. M., Rakotondramasy, H. and Rajaobelinirina, E. (2009) ‘Degraded uplands in the rainforest region of Madagascar: Fallow biomass, nutrient stocks and soil nutrient availability’, Agroforestry Systems 77, pp107–122 Summerhayes, G. R., Leavesley, M., Fairbairn, A., Mandui, H., Field, J., Ford, A. and Fullagar, R. (2010) ‘Human adaptation and plant use in highland New Guinea 49,000 to 44,000 years ago’, Science 330, pp78–81 Tondeur, M. G. and Bergeroo-Campagne, M. B. (1956) 1. L’Agriculture Nomade au Congo Belge;et, 2. l’Agriculture Nomade de la Tribu des N’Dranouas en Côte d’Ivoire (1. Nomadic Agriculture in the Belgian Congo; 2. The Agriculture of the nomadic N’Dranouas Tribe in Cote D’Ivoire), Forestry Development Paper no. 9, Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations, Rome Twyford, I. T. and Wright, A. C. S. (1965) The Soil Resources of the Fiji Islands, Government of Fiji, Eyre and Spottiswode, London Unruh, J. D. (1990) ‘Iterative increase in economic tree species in managed swidden fallows of the Amazon’, Agroforestry Systems 11, pp175–197 Von Gaffron, W. (1858) ‘Nota omtrent den getah-pertja boom’ (Natural Science Journal of the Netherlands East Indies), Natuurkundig Tijdschrift voor Nederlandsch Indië (Natural Science Journal of the Netherlands East Indies)16, pp224–228

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Vrydaghs, L. and Denham, T. (2007) ‘Rethinking agriculture: Introductory thoughts’, in T. Denham, J. Iriate and L. Vrydaghs (eds) Rethinking Agriculture: Archaeological and Ethnoarchaeological Perspectives, Left Coast Press, Walnut Creek, CA, pp1–15 Waddell, E. (1972) The Mound Builders: Agricultural Practices, Environment, and Society in the Central Highlands of New Guinea, University of Washington Press, Seattle and London Waddell, E. and Connell, J. (2007) ‘Between global and local:The contest for development’, in J. Connell and E. Waddell (eds) Environment, Development and Change in Rural Asia-Pacific, Routledge, Abingdon, UK, pp1–15 Watters, R. F. (1971) Shifting Cultivation in Latin America, Forestry Development Paper no. 17, Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations, Rome Watters, R. F. (2012) Personal communication with the author, 14 May Yin, Shaoting. (2001) People and Forests:Yunnan Swidden Agriculture in Ecological Perspective (trans. Magnus Fiskesjö),Yunnan Education Publishing House, Kunming Ziegler, A. D., Brunn, T. B., Guardiola-Claramonte, M., Giambelluca, T. W., Lawrence, D. and Lam, N.T. (2009) ‘Environmental consequences of the demise of swidden cultivation in montane mainland Southeast Asia: Hydrology and geomorphology’, Human Ecology 37, pp361–373

Notes 1 Malcolm Cairns (2012) stands by what he wrote. He adds that he was strongly influenced by fieldwork among farmers all complaining of steeply declining yields in the southern Philippines in the early 1990s. 2 Ray Watters (2012) confirms that the section within which this statement appears, together with other statements which he did not and would not have written, were unilaterally inserted into his text by FAO forestry staff. Watters’ (1971) monograph was the third on shifting cultivation supported by the FAO, as part of its sustained campaign against the system. The first, on Cote d’Ivoire and the then Belgian Congo, by Tondeur and Bergeroo-Campagne (1956), is rarely cited. The second, by Hal Conklin (1957) on the people he called the Hanunóo in the Philippines, has become world-famous and is probably the most-often cited of all publications on the topic. It must have been a serious disappointment to the anti-shifting cultivation writers of the FAO Staff (1957). 3 In Brookfield et al. (1995, p.114), for example, I wrote weakly of ‘shifting cultivation’ as covering a wide group of systems in which the only common feature was ‘reliance on natural regeneration of capability under fallow as a major element in management’. 4 Usually this ‘R’ value is referenced to Ruthenberg’s (1980) book, but a more primary reference is to Ruthenberg (1968, pp357–358). The idea is attributed to an unpublished 1962 manuscript by J. H. L. Joosten of Göttingen, Germany. 5 Thus a system in which fields are cultivated for two years and then fallowed for 10 years has an ‘R’ value of 0.17 (0.166r). To Ruthenberg, where ‘R’ is higher than about 0.3 (for example, two cultivation and four fallow years) we have a ‘fallow system’ rather than swidden, because land is used frequently and the field spaces most likely continue throughout. Anything higher than 0.7 is ‘permanent cultivation’; the soil is used nearly every year. 6 Styger et al. (2009) see possibilities of halting this progression by the use of leguminous fallow plants and, especially, by cutting out the use of fire. 7 Comprehensive survey data are rare. In Papua New Guinea in 1990-1995, 82% of farmers used fallows longer than five years, but 58% fallowed land for fewer than 15 years. No major degradation was reported (Bourke and Harwood, 2009, Appendix table A.3.8.1.). 8 There is an oft-stated belief that the length of time under woody fallow determines the crop yield. Recently, analysis of data from eight villages in Borneo, all using land fallowed for periods between 10 and 30 years, seemed to dispose of this (Mertz et al., 2008). In this comparison, no linear relationship was established, and nor was it in an earlier literature-based comparison (Mertz, 2002). Other factors, including pest incidence, soil moisture conditions, the success of the burn and soil quality in particular, seemed more important than fallow length.

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9 The Holocene denotes the present geological epoch, which began about 10,000 years ago. It followed the Pleistocene epoch, which spanned about 2.5 million years, during which there were repeated glaciations – the so-called Ice Ages. 10 Use of this pejorative term by so many academic writers is one rather clear indication of the power and reach of an anti-swidden discourse. 11 In the literature, dates are usually given in ‘years before present’ (bp) where ‘present’ is 1950. For radiocarbon and other measured dates, the breadth of potential error in years is also usually given. In this chapter, I use calendar dates without giving error terms, but using ‘about’ or ‘around’ where appropriate. Dates before about 1700 ad are rounded to the next succeeding full century. Thus, around 7000 bc means 9000 bp +/- the appropriate error range. The old-fashioned bc and ad are used, rather than the modern ‘common era’ style. 12 The absence of information on early agriculture in Island Southeast Asia west of New Guinea is surely an artefact of the political history of archaeological and related palaeoecological and palaeobotanic research in this region of the world. Such research has been heavily based in Australia and to a lesser degree New Zealand, and has focused on areas most readily accessible to researchers in those countries. It has long been thought that a developed agriculture of ultimately Asian origin entered Island Southeast Asia with Austronesian-speaking migrants around 2500-2000 bc. Modern recognition of the New Guinea region as a focus for domestication of a range of tree-crops and vegecultural crops opens the probability that this different form of agriculture either spread into Island Southeast Asia from the east, or also originated there during a time span parallel to the experimentation noted above in northern Australia. This alternative hypothesis, persuasively presented by Denham (2011, 2013), could carry the origins of lowland cultivation back through the Holocene into the late Pleistocene, before melting ice caused seas to rise and separate the modern archipelago. 13 PLEC was a United Nations University Project on People, Land Management and Environmental Change. This project, studying the biodiversity-management skills of small farmers, was supported by the Global Environmental Facility from 1998 to 2002. The author was Principal Scientific Coordinator. The project operated in Amazonian South America, West and East Africa, China and Thailand, Papua New Guinea, and Mexico and Jamaica. 14 Although there were earlier suggestions, going back even into the 1880s and referenced by Arroyo-Kalin (2010), Sombroek (1966) provided the first scientific description of these Amazonian soils, and of the less-enriched terra mulata marking the sites of cultivation associated with permanent settlement. He also provided an explanation that, with few modifications, has stood the test of time (Arroyo-Kalin, 2012). See also endnote 36. 15 It matters little how well the writing or reading have been done. I had a comprehensive mental picture of high-altitude Andean farming from quite extensive reading done long before visiting the central Andes near Huancayo, Peru in 2011. What I then saw produced a number of surprises. 16 I owe this reference to Lesley Potter, at a workshop on ‘Man and Environment in Indonesia 1500-1900’, at Leiden in June 1996. 17 At Kuk itself, the landowning people, who had been driven out of the region during 19th-century inter-tribal warfare, were able under colonial peace in the 1950s to reoccupy the catchment, then entirely vacant under grass. By the late 1970s they had almost half of the catchment under semicontinuous cultivation with short fallow periods, or under coffee. It was this cultivation, together with large herds of pigs, that produced the highest, though modest, soil loss from the catchment (Hughes et al., 1991). 18 Pronounced ‘Lakemba’, Lakeba is the principal island in the Lau group, lying between the main islands of Fiji and Tonga. The soil-vegetation complex called talasiga is pronounced ‘talasinga’. 19 ‘Harold,’ Marc said to me as we walked up into the talasiga on our first morning in Lakeba, ‘this is not a forest soil.’ He found Lakeba, with eight Great Soil Groups by the FAO Legend, a distinctive island, for its meagre 56sq km. 20 There are no rock barriers in these steps, and Latham suggests that the most likely cause of their formation was the consolidation of dams created by tree trunks and other debris washed down during heavy rain events associated with tropical cyclones, to which Fiji is prone (and probably has

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been at least since the end of the Pleistocene). Subsequently, these have been reinforced by trees planted (or conserved) on the dams to secure them, and to protect what became Lakeba’s most valuable agricultural soil, in the swamps. 21 It had been hoped to employ palynological analysis to establish the record of vegetation history, but unfortunately the pollen and spores in the cores were insufficiently well preserved for this purpose. A sedimentological analysis was undertaken instead. 22 No allowance was made for sediment washed downstream beyond the swamp.This would have been substantial. There is a subcoastal swamp supplied only by the same stream (Figure 2.2). Potentially offsetting this under-measurement of erosion, the Waitabu swamp may have been smaller before later accumulation filled more of the narrow valley. 23 Talasiga vegetation varies substantially in density, plant composition and the presence or absence of trees (mainly Casuarina spp). It is not improbable that the increase in fires during the period of human occupation led to an increase in the sparser forms of talasiga, which offer much less ground cover. As Latham points out in Latham and Brookfield (1983, pp143–151), a decade of fire prevention and Pinus caribbea planting on talasiga in western Lakeba had already led to notable enrichment of the ground flora. 24 Tillage for yams can be substantial, sometimes involving construction of raised beds and tillage up to one metre in depth (Brookfield with Hart, 1971, pp114–115). 25 Walking through dense grasslands, it is easy to stumble into the ditches! The grasslands, occupying the place of pre-mid-Holocene forest, are sometimes described as uncultivable by modern holders, but scientific observers have seen no chemical reasons why this should be so (Allen and Crittenden, 1987, pp151–152). In fact, there have been many successful reclamations by both traditional and modern technology during the period since 1950. Modern cultivation in the Kuk catchment is reclaimed from formerly permanent grassland. 26 The question of the cumulative effect of successive swidden cycles, of whatever length, remains open in the scientific literature, in particular the effect on crop yields. It is better established, and also in farmers’ understanding, that recovery of a woody secondary vegetation takes longer after successive cycles (e.g. Styger and Fernandes, 2006). 27 Commenting further on the FAO intervention in his monograph (Watters, 1971), Ray Watters (2012) remarked that the ferralsols (latosols), while poor in nutrients, ‘were free-draining and therefore not susceptible to erosion’ unless, after clearance and conversion to pasture grassland, they became compacted by heavy grazing. 28 On the wetlands the mounds were separated by shallow unintegrated channels, the purpose of which remains a topic for speculation (Denham et al., 2004). 29 In the 1970s there were individual variants involving controlled release of water, and one farmer supplied running water to his taro. M. Brookfield (2012) was shown these variants while mapping land use in the island, but was not told if they were ‘traditional’ or modern. 30 These large mounds are several times the volume of the metre-wide mounds made at Kuk 7000 years ago. Modern Enga also make smaller mounds, without inclusion of green manure, and use them to prepare land on which large mounds will later be constructed (Waddell, 1972). 31 Maize was introduced ahead of colonial contact, probably in the late 19th century. Peanuts are a more recent introduction. 32 Consistently with Brookfield and Brown (1963), I use the term ‘tribe’ to describe the largest order of Chimbu group which has, historically, acted in common. In other regions they are sometimes described as ‘phratries’, having at least a tradition of common descent, not always present in Chimbu. The internal divisions generally do have a tradition of common patrilineal descent and, although there are four orders, from whole exogamous clans down to sub-clan sections, I here call them all ‘clans’. 33 This area was mapped in 1958, 1959-1960, 1962-1963, 1965 and 1967 and then for one clan only in 1984. A region of about 30sq km was kept under intermittent observation. Mapping methods evolved, and are described in Brookfield (1973). From 1963 onward an accurate map at 1:3600, based on contracted aerial photography with good ground control, became available both for subsequent mapping and the transfer of old data. The data presented in Figure 2.5 were sketched

Chapter 2. Shifting cultivators and the landscape  61

onto this accurate base, and were not themselves surveyed. Data collection was most complete in 1958, 1959-1960 and 1965, and for the one clan only in 1984. 34 With hindsight, I can now take note of areas on a map of wider tribal areas that I worked on early in the Chimbu programme, in 1959-1960. These are areas where clan boundaries within tribal areas are shown to ‘interpenetrate’. I had mapped one of these, for comparison with the detail we obtained, in the tribal area within which we mainly worked (Brookfield and Brown, 1963, maps 8, 9, 12, 13). These were the areas in which semi-permanent cultivation was, at least in the last century, adopted whenever and wherever feasible. It would be satisfying to be able to say that the combination of intricate land-holding patterns and tenacious adherence to rights on land of high value were diagnostic of localized intensification. Unfortunately, while there are data on one or the other of these elements from many areas across the developing world, the data combination achieved in Chimbu remain insufficiently replicated to make a general statement. 35 Padoch et al. (1998) describe a revealing example in Borneo in which cultivation was being changed from a wet form of swidden (padi paya) to wet rice. An incremental approach was being used in which the immediate changes were small and the land did not cease to produce while the remains of woody plants were worked out of it to facilitate levelling and irrigation. 36 This chapter has not gone so far as to argue that, where food and plant wastes, charcoal and ash are added to the soil in an enduring manner, as in the anthropogenic black earths of Amazonia, swidden can be an environmentally-positive practice, with a long-term increase of soil capability. Such an argument is offered by Arroyo-Kalin (2012, pp9–11). The process involved was anthropogenic sedimentation plus churning by soil fauna (hence ‘slash-burn-and-churn’, as in the title of Arroyo-Kalin’s paper). Similar enduring effects, though much less marked, have been noted elsewhere, for example, in the citimene system of Zambia, where there has been burning of concentrated biomass.

3 SWIDDENS AND FALLOWS Reflections on the global and local values of ‘slash and burn’1 Carol J. Pierce Colfer, Janis B. Alcorn and Diane Russell*

Introduction

In this essay, we ruminate on our combined decades of experience and research among African, Asian and Latin American swiddeners. These were explorations launched in the 1970s on a foundation of classic, deep descriptions of swidden societies and agriculture (cf. Redfield and Villa Rojas, 1934; de Schlippe, 1956; Conklin, 1957; Geertz, 1963; Sorenson, 1976; Condominus, 1977; and others) and comparative studies of farming systems (cf. Turner and Brush, 1987), and enriched over the years by our continuing work in remote areas where swidden continues to be practised.2 Although this volume focuses on the fallows associated with swidden agriculture,3 in our experience, such fallows are indivisible from the swiddens themselves; both form part of a bigger system, typically with no single component sufficient unto itself (also noted by Cairns, 2007a). Indeed, the lack of attention to this unity is one of the issues we address in our essay. There are no reliable figures on either the change over time in the number of swiddeners or the area covered by such systems.4 This lack of data holds globally as well as for any single country, despite the ubiquity of shifting agriculture. The ability to map land uses by remote sensing has improved dramatically in recent years, but the difficulty of disaggregating swidden fields, swidden fallows and secondary

* 

Dr Carol J. Pierce Colfer is an anthropologist serving as a senior associate at the Center for International Forestry Research (CIFOR) in Bogor, Indonesia; and as a visiting scholar in Cornell University’s Southeast Asia Program in Ithaca, NY; Dr Janis B. Alcorn is an Adjunct Professor at the Natural Resources Institute, University of Manitoba, Canada; Director for Country and Regional Programs at the Rights and Resources Initiative (RRI),Washington, DC; and a Fellow at Fundación Urundei, Salta,Argentina; Dr Diane Russell is an anthropologist employed by the United States Agency for International Development (USAID) in Washington DC, and is currently focused on the human dimensions of REDD+. The views and opinions expressed in this chapter are those of the authors and are not necessarily the views and opinions of the United States Agency for International Development.

Chapter 3. Swiddens and fallows  63

forests has been noted repeatedly (cf., Dennis et al, 2001; Dennis and Colfer, 2006; Padoch et al., 2007; Messerli et al., 2009). Verifiable information is also limited because swidden tends to be ‘invisible’. Several authors have noted the advantages arising from this ‘invisibility’. Scott (2009), for instance, noted swidden’s historical role that enabled remote populations to maintain distance from ‘the centre’ and avoid forced labour corvées, taxes and military conscription. Peluso and Vandergeest (2011) emphasized the political and strategic advantages to military, political and forestry agencies and various other actors of clearly differentiating agricultural lands and forest lands – along with the associated disadvantages, such as criminalization of shifting cultivation, to forest dwellers of drawing such clear boundaries. The common concurrence of forests, shifting cultivation, lawless frontiers and conflict or war zones in Latin America, Africa and Asia continues to trigger conflicting policies regarding the legality and illegality of swidden. The implementation and enforcement of these policies varies according to political interests. There are negative ‘knock-on’ ecological and social impacts when fallows are classified as degraded forests and are declared off-limits for swidden use (cf. Karim and Mansour, 2011). We have identified several issues that should be considered in understanding and positioning the present-day extent and viability of shifting cultivation – particularly in the absence of reliable data on both the number of hectares that are currently under this system of agriculture and the number of people who are reliant upon its output. These include the varying definitions of shifting or ‘slash-and-burn’ cultivation, policy narratives, academic and applied attention, and cultural and institutional elements of swidden societies. In the following discussion, we place Southeast Asian shifting cultivation within a broader global context, and offer alternative perspectives for interpreting features others address in this volume. We conclude with a brief section on the renewed significance of shifting cultivation within global efforts to address climate change – both via mitigation (e.g. Reducing Emissions from Deforestation and forest Degradation, or REDD+) and adaptation. Shifting frameworks and confusion over definitions5

A productive way to approach research on swidden agriculture is to frame it as a type of agroforestry system, potentially bringing together expertise from the formal fields of agriculture and forestry. This approach also builds on many local interpretations (cf. Colfer et al., 1988; Colfer and Dudley, 1993; Colfer, 2009, for example). Foodcrop fields that are periodically (eventually cyclically) cut from forests are one central feature, but one inevitably complemented by dependence on and management of the surrounding forests.6 We have phrased such complementary habitats in terms of various ‘stages of forest regrowth’. Those more agriculturally inclined may refer to ‘fallows’, while those in forestry fields tend to view fallows as ‘degraded forests’. A minority have framed swidden as a form of forest management (cf. Alcorn, 1981; Clay, 1988; Colfer et al., 1997). Padoch and Pinedo-Vasquez (2010) see many

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swidden systems as win-wins for biodiversity conservation and food production (see also Mertz et al., 2012). Researchers from theWorld Agroforestry Center (ICRAF) in Indonesia, for instance, have focused on food-crop fields as the central component in ‘shifting cultivation’, and redefine such systems as ‘agroforestry systems’, giving them a new form, when commercial tree or tree-borne crops take on bigger roles (see Palm et al., 2005, for example). A similar perspective is indicated by Vien et al. (2009), who wrote of ‘composite swiddens’ in Vietnam.Yet, with this agroforestry focus, many of the areas that we consider to be evolving and variable forms of shifting cultivation, including regenerating fallows, are defined out of this category altogether. These variable definitions notwithstanding, we argue for regarding shifting cultivation as a form of agroforestry, based on the following advantages: (a) The term, ‘agroforestry’, seems to more accurately describe such combined systems and to reflect local people’s views of their own systems; (b) it acknowledges the dynamism of people’s micro-economic systems, as they adapt to changing economic and ecological conditions (cf. Richards, 1985; Henkemans et al., 2000; Cairns 2007a; Scott, 2009); (c) it addresses the food production that is valued by farmers who rely on swidden systems for food security; (d) it may offset some of the automatic and strong disapproval that the terms,‘shifting cultivation’ or ‘slash-and-burn agriculture’, can provoke; and (e) it offers greater potential for synthetic cross-disciplinary collaboration, which may generate new insights by implicitly acknowledging the arbitrary nature of our disciplinary silos – potentially leading to approaches to agricultural development, forest management and conservation more likely to benefit local people.7 Differing terminologies and analytical frameworks contribute to the challenges of conducting a comprehensive review of literature on swiddens and their fallows (cf. Persoon et al., 2004). For instance, swidden systems were dominant among the populations at all five sites for the Center for International Forestry Research (CIFOR)’s recent Landscape Mosaics project, yet none were cast as swidden studies.8 One resulting paper (Hall et al., 2011) focused on Tanzanian cardamom agroforests, and while it was valuable as a study of the varying biodiversity across the landscape, it could as easily and accurately have been portrayed in terms of swiddens and their forest fallows. Yet ‘swidden’, ‘shifting cultivation’ and ‘slash-and-burn agriculture’ were never mentioned in the document. In many countries, shifting cultivation is mistakenly regarded as a ‘primitive’ practice,9 so wherever possible, national scholars and government agencies avoid using such terms to identify local systems – effectively hiding the prevalence of swiddens. Within anthropology, swidden systems have often been classified as ‘horticultural systems’ with gardens rather than fields (cf. Smole, 1989; Van Helden, 2000; Belcher et al., 2005).10 The term ‘garden’ implies caring for a field over a longer time;

Chapter 3. Swiddens and fallows  65

perhaps this is designed to correct the impressions linked to the phrase ‘slash-and-burn agriculture’ – that fields are carelessly and briefly used, followed by abandonment, leaving destruction in the wake. Agricultural scientists most often write of plots, gardens or fields and fallows, while foresters refer typically to parcels, forest-management units, concessions, stages of forest regrowth and forests – degraded, secondary or mature. Ecologists speak of plots, transects and forests – degraded, secondary or pristine (Colfer and Soedjito, 2003). Certainly the ‘fallows’ in this book can fall into a variety of disciplinary categories; and material for understanding fallows and their uses is available from a wide range of fields, many of whose practitioners fail to communicate effectively with each other. Varying policy narratives

Emery Roe’s (1994) writings on the role of simplified policy narratives in the repertoires of policy-makers have been influential. Negative policy narratives, emphasizing the destructiveness, primitiveness and ignorance of swidden agriculturalists, have been and remain ubiquitous and powerful. Governmental policies have been antagonistic to shifting cultivation in Laos (Newby et al., 2011) andVietnam (Vien et al., 2009) as well as elsewhere around the world (cf. Persoon et al., 2004; Peluso and Vandergeest, 2011). Many governments have implemented policies that effectively – insofar as they are successfully implemented – remove the fallow components of local systems. They do this by classing fallows as forest lands unavailable for swidden use, by converting them for intensive agricultural use, or by clustering (and consequently increasing the density of) populations along roads. These actions – typically rationalized in terms of the aforementioned negative narratives – create a snowball effect that damages social and ecological systems; triggers soil erosion, and so on (cf. Baird and Shoemaker, 2005; Donovan et al., 2009; Ziegler et al., 2010; Karim and Mansour, 2011). In Latin America, Brazil has outlawed the burning of secondary forests by linking daily satellite monitoring with rapid-response by armed police in helicopters (cf. London and Kelley, 2007). However, Brazil´s extensive indigenous reserves protect rights to traditional systems, including swiddening. Mexican laws and policy have supported the survival of swidden systems by protecting the integrity of community lands and recognizing community rights over forests (cf. Alcorn and Toledo, 1998). Colombia’s recognition of autonomous resguardos is probably the fullest policy protection given to indigenous and Afro-Colombian swidden systems. It implements the resource rights recognized and supported by jurisprudence from the InterAmerican Court (OAS, 2009). Swidden is also legally accepted as a legitimate land use in the Central American countries of Guatemala, Honduras, Nicaragua and Panama. The rights of ‘uncontacted peoples’ to use traditional swidden are likewise protected in millions of hectares of forest reserved for them by Latin American governments. Chimère Diaw has provided valuable insights into both the workings and the ubiquity of swidden systems in West and Central Africa (Diaw, 1997, for example),

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including useful analyses of linked tenure systems (Diaw, 2005, 2010). A number of authors (Fairhead and Leach, 1996; Leach and Mearns, 1996; Leach and Fairhead, 2001) have looked at the land-use implications of agricultural and land-use policy narratives in Africa, many of which have adverse implications for swiddeners (also discussed in Colfer and Pfund (2011) for Cameroon, Madagascar and Tanzania). The related consequences for soil management were seen by Scoones (2001, p12) in these terms: These technical solutions [to problems identified in the dominant and over-generalized narrative about African soils] combine to make up the third element of the narrative, which sees them combined as part of an idealized, settled, mixed farming system, replacing ‘backward’ shifting cultivation or transhumant pastoral systems. Kull (2002, 2004) provides typical examples of the recurrent and particularly negative narratives in Madagascar, with a systematic rebuttal, based on his long-term fieldwork there (see Pfund, 2000). In Africa, recent attention to shifting cultivation comes from the forest-conservation sector, which deems it one of the biggest threats to biodiversity, through habitat loss and ‘degradation’.11 The biodiversity-conservation, forestry and agriculturaldevelopment sectors in the West and Central African forest zone rarely intersect productively, so there is little understanding of the system as a whole, especially the socio-political dimensions of land and natural-resource use that affect all sectors (Russell and Tchamou, 2011). Since Jurion and Henry’s (1969) classic Can Primitive Farming Be Modernized?, researchers have focused on the technological development of ‘sustainable intensification’ systems to boost productivity and reduce pressure on natural areas. While technologies such as conservation agriculture and ‘evergreen agriculture’ are advancing in semi-arid and savannah zones, few viable solutions have been found for forest zones, which tend to be demographically, economically and politically marginal. Cultivation of high-value tree crops is one pathway to intensification and improved rural economies in African forest zones, but there are significant downsides. Tree crops represent long-term investments that are at risk from disease, climate change, civil conflict and extreme market fluctuations (Ruf, 1995) – particularly if tree cropping is undertaken outside the insurance and resilience provided by swidden systems. Benefits tend to accrue to men and the better off in a community; those with rights to plant trees on the land (see Schroeder, 1999; various works by Diane Rocheleau, Louise Fortmann, Nontokozo Nemarundwe and others, for example). In many countries ‘indigenous’ trees, even in tree-crop plantations, are the property of the state, inhibiting farmers from retaining them in their plantations and swiddens (Asare, 2010). Numerous researchers of Indonesian systems have provided concrete and systematic evidence of the inaccuracies of broadly sweeping, damning characterizations; but

Chapter 3. Swiddens and fallows  67

this has had little apparent direct impact on policy. It seems probable that a brief and compelling counter-narrative would be more persuasive – perhaps focusing on how swiddeners’ fallow practices function to conserve both forests and carbon (Bruun et al., 2009; NDF/Huay Hin Lad community, 2011); on the value of their cultural systems; or their indigenous knowledge and management of forest products (e.g. Cairns 2007a). Michael Dove (2011) has produced a fascinating historical treatment of narratives about the role of rubber in smallholder agriculture in Borneo.12 He notes the general colonial and current governmental views of smallholders as ‘a minor, troubled part of the [estate plantation] industry’ and provides a thorough rebuttal. He emphasizes the proactive roles of smallholders in adoption and adaptation of the crop to their biophysical and cultural setting. Dove’s historical analysis contrasts governmental and industrial narratives with those of local swiddeners. He discusses the International Rubber Regulation Agreement, developed at a time of considerable colonial anxiety about the roles of smallholders in rubber production in Borneo; then he describes and analyzes a dream about rice-eating rubber that gained wide circulation around the same time, representing the narratives that local folks were producing in reflection of their own anxieties. One of Dove’s intriguing observations relates to the historical and ongoing dual purpose of swidden among Borneo’s swiddeners, balancing production for subsistence and production for the market – a balancing act that affects both swiddens and their fallows. Dove examines the Hikayat Banjar (a chronicle written between the mid-16th and mid-17th centuries), which provides a rare glimpse of a historical indigenous narrative – one that, in this case, provides the grist for his argument for the long-lasting sustainability of this particular balancing act. The analyses of Dove (2011) and Belcher et al. (2005) show that similar processes, occurring locally, historically and on larger scales, are consistent with a growing recognition among anthropologists of the importance and ubiquity of such links and parallels (cf. Tsing, 2005; Lowe, 2006). Russell observed a similar balancing act in Cameroon in the wake of the ‘cocoa crisis’ of the early 1990s. As cocoa prices declined drastically and the parastatal organization that controlled the marketing of cocoa was bankrupted by corruption, families turned to food-crop cultivation. This strategy had both biophysical and social impacts, such as increased clearing for banana and oil-palm crops and shifts in gender and inter-generational relations (Russell, 1993; Russell and Tchamou, 2001). Fieldwork showed that although responses to this changing market were highly diverse – even within one ‘farming system’ – there was little movement towards the type of technological intensification favoured by agricultural researchers. Alcorn has likewise observed this dual direction in swiddens in Mexico and elsewhere in Latin America, as farmers experiment with ways to integrate income, insurance and food security into their swidden systems by introducing cash crops. Sometimes farmers integrate cash crops into swidden-cycled fields and/or reduce

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the area for swiddens, so permanent-production fields are installed in part of the area once dedicated to swidden fields or fallows, often shortening the fallow cycle and changing fallow management (cf. Alcorn, 1989b). This practice appears to be centuries old throughout the world, often initially in response to conquerors’ demands for tribute products, such as cotton, sugar or spices, or the introduction of plantation crops, such as coffee and rubber. Academic and applied attention

Over the years, biologists – in ethnobotanical, ethnozoological and ecological research – have assessed swidden systems globally for their potential in conserving biodiversity; such researchers have particularly highlighted the value of fallows (cf. Alcorn, 1989b; Cairns, 2007b). Others have noted the long-term negative effects of swidden farming on forest biodiversity as compared to forests that have not been subjected to swidden management in recent memory (Finegan and Nasi, 2004; de Jong et al., 2007; Momberg, 1993; Shanley et al., 2011).13 Ecological-resilience studies have focused on swiddeners’ ability to maintain both ecosystem resilience and biodiversity (cf. Alcorn and Toledo, 1998; Alcorn and Royo, 2000). Academic anthropological-research fashions comprise one element that has contributed to our inability to determine whether shifting cultivation has declined significantly or how exactly it has changed. Research focused initially on detailed description and analyses of shifting cultivation (Conklin, 1957; Condominus, 1977; Kunstadter et al., 1978), gradually moving to a focus on discourse and political analyses in the 1990s. Significant works by Chin See Chung (1985), Michael Dove (1985, 1988, for example), Cynthia Mackie (1986), Christine Padoch (Padoch et al., 1994; Padoch and Peluso, 1996), Nancy Peluso (1994), Andrew P. Vayda (Vayda and Sahur, 1985), Reed Wadley (1997) and Colfer (Colfer and Dudley, 1993; Colfer et al., 1997; Colfer, 2009) thoroughly examined shifting cultivation writ large – in Borneo, for example. In South America, Christine Padoch and others coordinated or conducted a number of thorough studies of swidden systems (Denevan et al., 1985; Denevan and Padoch, 1987; Redford and Padoch, 1999; Padoch, 1999; De Jong et al., 2001) based at the New York Botanical Gardens (cf. Posey and Balée, 1989; Balée and Gély, 1989; Salick, 1989). Alcorn (1990a) reviewed and analysed the extensive literature on diverse shifting agricultural practices used by swidden farmers in a wide range of ecological and cultural conditions in mosaic landscapes that included forests, riverine wetlands, savannahs, pastures and agricultural fields in Latin America and the Caribbean. Much research in the colonial and early post-colonial period into the agricultural systems of Central Africa came out of the National Institute for Agronomy in the Belgian Congo (INAEAC) at the Yangambi Research Centre near Kisangani, DR Congo (Jurion and Henry, 1969). The Belgians discovered very quickly that mechanized, intensive agriculture was not viable in the forest zone and developed

Chapter 3. Swiddens and fallows  69

a system of managed fallows based on the indigenous fallow system. The problem was that the system operated mainly by coercing farmers to produce more than they needed, including a yearly quota of cotton or rice that was then sold at fixed prices in market situations in which there was only one buyer. In addition, fallow land was parcelled out by extension agents without any account taken of household size and variability in soil fertility. Remnants of this coercive system, which ironically was in decline in the late colonial period, persisted into the 1980s. The introduction of tree crops served a number of purposes for the colonizers: people were relocated along a trade route where it was easier to control them, revenue streams were created that could be taxed, cash crops were produced for export and the changes were seen as part of a strategy to modernize agriculture. Forestry was dominated by logging concessions controlled by European firms through Lebanese, Greek, Indian or other non-indigenous intermediaries (see Roda (2009) for details of this long-standing and current pattern). Tree crops and timber rose to dominate markets and erode trade or exchange networks related to other uses of trees, forests and foodstuffs, resulting in a loss of expertise and knowledge. Russell found in the early 1990s in Cameroon that where people did not use trees or know of their uses, they did not preserve them in fields and fallows. Influential post-colonial works have included Miracle’s (1967) tome, Agriculture in the Congo Basin and Vansina’s (1990) agrarian history, Paths in the Rainforests, which traces the introduction of New World crops and technologies along with the expansion of Bantu populations into the forest. Geographers from the French aid agency ORSTOM – now the Institute of Development Research (IRD) – adopted what they called ‘the terroir approach’, in a two-decade period beginning in the 1960s, to situate African swidden systems within socio-cultural landscapes (Bassett et al., 2007).While the aim of the research was agricultural modernization, the holistic and nuanced portrayal of local farming systems contrasted with agricultural surveys that focused solely on technologies. According to Bassett et al. (2007), the terroir approach, with its emphasis on mapping and spatial planning, was coopted by development planners, but the legacy is important for those seeking to understand the coupled sociological and biophysical dimensions of shifting cultivation at the landscape scale.14 Research methodology has also made a significant difference. Surveys by agricultural research institutions have typically focused on discrete elements of a system and on ‘problems’, while ethnographic approaches have been able to encompass diversity even while limiting the range of the inquiry. Russell found, during the initial stages of the International Institute of Tropical Agriculture’s Humid Forest Station in Cameroon, that researchers came into the area with assumptions about both problems and solutions related to intensification. None of them had read the French geographers’ studies (they did not read French) or even the French soil scientists’ studies (they used different taxonomic systems). These researchers in Cameroon, like many researchers and policy-makers in Southeast Asia, assumed that shifting cultivation was a problem to be fixed and that alley cropping (growing and pruning nitrogen-fixing trees) was

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the solution. It took only a few months of ethnographic fieldwork to see that alley cropping was unlikely to work in the humid forest zone for many reasons, yet it took years for that knowledge to penetrate into the agricultural research agenda. Narrow focus on technological dimensions like ‘soil fertility’ neglected wider constraints to intensification such as low returns to labour and land.15 Chimère Diaw (1997) offers an ethnographically grounded, sympathetic analysis of Cameroonian swidden agriculture, and later expands that analysis to Africa more generally (Diaw, 2005). But the works of Melissa Leach, Robin Mearns and James Fairhead (Leach, 1994; Leach and Mearns, 1996; Fairhead and Leach, 1996) make clear the general antagonism towards swidden agriculture. Analysts of swidden agriculture in Madagascar are among the most damning, with Pfund’s careful (2000) analysis standing out as a rare exception (see also Kull, 2000).16 A major research push entitled ‘Alternatives to Slash-and-Burn’ (ASB) has dominated a significant proportion of the work of the World Agroforestry Centre (ICRAF) for two decades.17 This programme began with a clear antagonism towards swidden agriculture, though its researchers gradually came to recognize the value of such systems, even with their narrow definition restricted to the main food-crop swidden alone. As academic anthropology moved from ethnographies to discourse analysis in the mid-1990s, academic interest in swiddens dwindled. The rise in postmodern analyses drew talented scholars away from the pragmatics of shifting cultivation and their fallows to more theoretical treatises (e.g.Tsing (2005) and Lowe (2006), who focused on the links between local systems and outside actors and realities in Indonesia, or Giles-Vernick’s (2002) analysis from the forests of the Central African Republic). Nonetheless, some maintained the older research path linked to applied goals (cf. Cramb, 2007; Scott, 2009; Dove, 2011). One of CIFOR’s biggest projects was a study of non-timber forest products, reflecting broader recognition of the value of such products and their importance for local subsistence (cf. Belcher et al., 2004, 2005; Styrax Benzoin Dryand. [Styracaceae] Kusters et al., 2006), although the value of their work was reduced somewhat by their comparative lack Benzoin resin is a non-timber forest product well known as a supplement or alternative of interest in subsistence elements to the subsistence livelihood of shifting of local systems. cultivation

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A resurgence of interest in shifting agriculture has been stimulated by national strategy preparations for the ‘Reducing Emissions from Deforestation and forest Degradation’ plans, or REDD+ (see Alcorn and Royo, this volume). In Vietnam, for instance, a thorough portrayal of a ‘composite swidden system’18 was recently published (Vien et al., 2009), and issues related to indigenous swidden systems were included in the national REDD+ Readiness Plan Idea Note (R-PIN), submitted to the Forest Carbon Partnership Facility (FCPF) (Biangale-Magati, 2010). REDD+ threatens to further demonize and criminalize shifting agriculture as ‘slash and burn’ – a menace causing global warming (see Hance (2010) on black carbon and the call to reduce agricultural burning). Researchers are beginning to monitor how REDD+ may change incentive structures to privilege closing of the swidden commons (to reduce ‘deforestation’ or to rehabilitate fallows seen as ‘degraded forest’) – a move that would adversely affect vulnerable groups, women and food security. The cultural and institutional order of shifting agriculture

Swidden agriculture is not something that is done willy-nilly, anyhow, anywhere or any time. On a global scale, we have observed a surprisingly wide variety of local institutions that provide essential order and support for swidden systems – particularly those institutions that assign tenurial rights and maintain traditional knowledge. Compared to the real-world diversity of locally adapted institutions, documentation in the literature is sporadic. But rather than call for further documentation, we submit that it is more productive to focus on understanding how swidden systems have been and continue to be adapted and thus able to maintain ecologically sustainable production in the face of stress (cf. Alcorn and Toledo, 1998; Alcorn et al., 2003b; Mertz, 2009; Trakansuphakon, 2010; Cairns and Brookfield, 2011). The complexity of swidden agriculture has often been misunderstood, and reduced to nothing more than ‘slash-and-burn’ and planting activities, or it has been assumed to be static.We hope readers of this volume will benefit from a greater appreciation of the sophisticated decision-making institutions, the ‘scripts’ that lay out the basic limits and elements, the space for experimentation, and the rules that shape the limits of such variations and experimentation, as farmers adapt to changing conditions. These changing conditions are some of the features highlighted in this volume. General models of swidden agriculture do exist.These include the milpa system of Mexico and Central America, organized around maize cultivation; the chacra system of South American tropical forests, organized around cassava and yam cultivation; the upland rice system of South and Southeast Asia and West Africa; the millet, sorghum and yam systems of Africa; and the taro and yam gardens of the Pacific. In all cases, these general models involve more than cultivation of the main crop; multiple crops are incorporated at different stages as the swidden moves from new field to fallow, and sometimes to mature forest. Crops include medicines and non-native species, such as cassava and groundnuts, and the bananas or plantains that are embraced in Africa. It is not uncommon for a swidden field to contain 50 or more cultivated

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species. Specific practices are adapted to local and micro-ecological conditions (cf. Oyama and Kondo, 2007). Firewood is often harvested as part of the swidden-field preparation stage, and swiddens that are cycled into fallow slowly migrate through old forest, and are managed for other products – a particularly important aspect in cases where rubber and many commercial fruits are cultivated as companion crops to swidden production. While the economics of swidden systems have rarely been studied, one such study demonstrated that the annual economic production of a Mexican indigenous land-use mosaic incorporating swidden was competitive with other land uses, while protecting soil and water resources, in an area with a relatively high population density of 100+ persons per km2 (Alcorn, 1989b).19 Pastoral, fishing and/or hunting activities may be supported within a swidden system as well as agricultural cropping; swidden fallows are often the best places to hunt and gather non-timber forest products (NTFPs) (cf. Silvius et al. (2004) and Lu Holt (2005) for perspectives on wildlife incorporation into swidden systems, and Powell et al. (2011) on the diverse uses and interpretations of the roles of animals and plants in swidden systems). Crops are typically integrated into fallows as well as the early cultivation stage, and many traditional swidden systems include rules to avoid contaminating water or destroying watersheds. The well-studied Karen and Hanunoo upland-rice swidden systems may best illustrate sustainable management of forests through sophisticated terraces and uplandrice swiddens combined with managed protection of forests (Conklin, 1980; NDF and Huay Hin Lad community, 2011). Similarly, studies in the Miombo woodlands of Eastern Africa demonstrate how bujimi swidden farmers use different patterns of soil mounding and mixed cropping to cope with soil infertility, drought, pests and disease (Oyama and Kondo, 2007). All of these visible land-use patterns have their roots in invisible rules laid down by inherited ‘scripts’ (decision-making trees and basic practices that are taught to young people) and local property-rights systems. Local rules govern who can use what and when (cf. Alcorn, 1989a). The Karen, for example, have 24 songs that lay out the rules for managing forests and making swidden, and the myths and bedtime stories told to children reinforce Shorea javanica Koord. & Valeton respect for these rules and the spaces [Dipterocarpaceae] for innovation. These songs, myths A good example of the tree component in and stories are probably widespread an agroforestry system for resin production in Southeast Asia, but are rarely documented (cf. Roseman, 1991).

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These practices are combined with rules regarding access of different families to different resources. Likewise, for Mayan and other Middle American farmers,‘to live is to make milpa’, as this agricultural system and core institution governs all aspects and rhythms of life, and the maize-deity stories reinforce respect for nature and the swidden system (Alcorn et al., 2006). Modifications within these models and scripts reflect the characteristics of swidden farmers’ strategies in any given place; incorporating native species and successional processes, fitting the terrain, using mixed cropping, diversifying across different fields and enabling community survival (Alcorn, 1990b). The infinite diversity of self-organized systems precludes full understanding, and the study of such details for detail’s sake is like counting beans, contributing little to a broader understanding of swidden. Elinor Ostrom’s Nobel Prize-winning work on self-organized systems governing common property resources provides a good orientation to jump-start a better understanding of the cultural and institutional logic of swiddeners’ self-organizing systems (Dietz et al., 2003; Fennel, 2011; Nagendra and Ostrom, 2012 in press). Self-organization knits together a locally resilient network of institutions, from decision-making rules to work organizations; for example, a ubiquitous institution in many areas is the women’s work group, organized for field labour, but also playing important roles in investment, politics and mutual aid. On the policy side, in some Latin American countries, these self-organized systems are now recognized and protected by legal autonomy for indigenous and campesino communities, so they govern themselves and their land use. The rules and swidden systems thereby continue to evolve. South Pacific nations likewise have embraced local autonomies. This route is a possibility in African, South Asian and Southeast Asian contexts as resistance to commercial ‘land grabs’ grows. However, powerful state forest agencies have been ambivalent about support for traditional land-use systems (Dahal et al., 2010). ‘Custom law and resource rights (adat) are recognized in the Indonesian and other constitutions,20 particularly in Pacific island nations. In Northeastern India, the 2006 Forest Rights Act directed the forest department to recognize local rights to manage forest, opening the possibility of reversing antiswidden policies against jhum.21 In West Africa there is promise of rights recognition in the context of ‘community forestry’ in and around swidden areas, in cases where communities have the right to use the forest as they feel best. However, in many cases community forestry involves implicit or explicit ‘covenants’ to give up agriculture in the forest. The social networks that bind communities to each other across landscapes are another valuable and under-appreciated aspect of swidden systems. These invisible networks provide the means for trading locally adapted varieties, sharing the results of local farmers’ experiments and broader discussions about how to meet new challenges. Rarely have global agricultural development programmes supported swidden farmers’ experimentation and adaptation, allowing them to build on the strengths of their institutions and knowledge. A valuable exception is the United Nations Environment Programme’s global People, Land Management and Environmental Change project led by Christine Padoch and Miguel Pinedo-Vasques (Alcorn et al., 2003a).

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All of these cultural and institutional elements of shifting cultivation comprise under-acknowledged resources for adapting to global climate change and other changing contexts, as explored by other chapters in this volume. Swiddeners, climate change, adaptation and REDD+ in the early 21st century22

The emergence of REDD and REDD+ on the world stage, although welcome as an initiative to address climate change, has reinvigorated interest in swiddens and their fallows – from the standpoint of both those seeing swidden as a global ‘slash-and-burn’ scourge and those of us with more sympathetic perspectives (cf. Tauli-Corpuz et al., 2010; Alcorn, 2011; AIDESEP, 2011; Somerville, 2011; Padoch and Pinedo-Vasquez, 2010; Mertz et al., 2012). As REDD discourse has evolved, one source of worry has been the widespread ignorance about the varied ways swidden systems work – most notably the integral nature of fields in fallow. A memorable example of this lack of awareness is an analysis by Bellassen and Gitz (2008), who seemed to suggest paying farmers US$440 per year23– the calculated value of their plantain and cassava production in their swiddens – in ‘compensated reduction’ of deforestation, to stop swidden-making in Cameroon. This ignored the complexity of cropping patterns in swiddens, their insurance value, the products obtained from fallows, cultural links to existing agricultural practices and so on.24 Swiddeners are, in fact, paid for maintaining their natural forests, and are allowed to continue swidden agriculture in designated areas, under Natural Forest Protection subsidies in the Central Selva, Peru; under the SocioBosque programme in Ecuador; and under the Payment for Ecological Services programme in Mexico. Programmes that incorporate payments from government agencies regularly raise fears about their potential exploitation. Governments or political parties are accused of using the funds to promote their own interests, or seeking excuses to justify the common practice of simply taking the land from comparatively powerless forest peoples, most of whom practise some form of swidden agriculture, for conversion to timber production, plantation establishment, protected areas, migrant settlements, and so on. Many fear that efforts to address climate change could be ‘shanghaied’ and used to justify such governmental behaviour (at an extraordinarily inequitable price, with the least wealthy paying the most). Such fears have prompted forceful responses: •

• •

A policy brief developed by Alcorn in 2009 (http://www.cifor.cgiar.org/ livesinforests/publications/pdf_files/Draft-REDDScenario.pdf) and a subsequent volley of statements and studies from indigenous organizations and their allies (cf. Stidsen, 2009; Espinoza Llanos and Feather, 2011; Lovera, 2011). Presentations by Colfer and others on such dangers (e.g. Colfer, 2010, 2011). A multidisciplinary and international workshop on Social Dimensions of REDD+, coordinated by Russell (October 2011).

Chapter 3. Swiddens and fallows  75

• •

Routine discussion among interested researchers and activists.25 Publication of professional papers raising the issue (cf., Rights and Resources, 2008; Sunderlin et al., 2008; Brown et al., 2011).

A variety of views on the potential for REDD+ have also been propounded by researchers at international research institutions. Among the more optimistic are Angelsen (2010) and Seymour (2008), although they also acknowledge the risks. Cronkleton et al. (2011) have analysed the community-forestry experience of swiddening communities in three Latin American countries, and have identified some necessary preconditions for successful implementation of REDD+. RECOFTC (2011), building on expert knowledge and local NGO experience, has promoted learning dialogues for Southeast Asia. See also Babon (2011) on REDD experience in Papua, or the NDF and Huay Hin Lad community (2011) in Thailand. The resurgence of interest in swiddens and their fallows through REDD+ is welcome, although the incentive structure in which it is currently packaged is worrying.26 Steps towards a REDD+ that incorporates knowledge-based approaches should include the following: • • • • •

Use of a landscape-scale focus, such as that used in the terroir school, to trace connections between forest management and crop production in a socio-political context.27 Encouragement of careful analysis of the causes of deforestation, to incorporate economic and socio-political dimensions, building on decades of research into forest management. Redefinition of deforestation and forest degradation to incorporate the values of shifting agricultural use, over space and time. Adoption of a gender and diversity perspective aimed at understanding the impacts of different incentive structures on land and food security. Discouragement of simplistic techno-solutions to ‘slash and burn’ within REDD+ projects that neglect the realities of rural economies.

REDD+ should be seen as part of an overall rural development strategy that increases options and flexibility to support the goals, interests and strengths of local communities, rather than one that circumscribes choices to a narrow range in one externally determined ‘sector’. Conclusions

Swidden agriculture is controversial. We have written our chapter in this context, with two purposes. The first has been to raise some of the issues that have come to our collective thoughts from studying swidden agriculture itself, and from listening to both swidden farmers and others intent on ending swidden farming, in different countries and regions. We have explored the differing definitions and conceptual

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frameworks with which researchers and policy-makers approach the topic. One conclusion is the importance of creatively mining existing literature and experience to ensure that policy, projects and research build on the richness of past research and findings, rather than trying to ‘reinvent the wheel’. We have looked at shifts in academic and applied interest over the years, noting the rise and fall, and most recently the rise again, of interest in shifting agriculture. And we’ve briefly reviewed the cultural and institutional frameworks within which swidden systems thrive. Our second purpose has been to provide a sound basis for assessing the implications of REDD+ and climate-change adaptation on swiddeners and swidden systems. Our work with farmers using swidden fields and fallows has given us insights into such systems that we fear are not available to many global decision-makers. We recognize a need to be particularly vigilant about possible adverse impacts on swiddeners of current plans and projects.We have cited illustrative examples that will open the door to the vast literature available to those interested in learning more about the varying systems of swidden. Swidden systems – fallows and all – if analysed and appropriately built upon, can provide insights and opportunities for collaborative adaptation to climate change that are more effective, resilient and equitable. Awareness of swidden values is particularly urgent as global concerns about food security have begun to promote a sharply bifurcated landscape (Searchinger, 2011) comprised of intensive commercial-cropping fields and commercial-production forests ‘balanced’ by a limited suite of biodiversity reserves as offset compensation for the loss of local biodiversity. Such a landscape vision, without room for innovative small farmers and local agrobiodiversity, is a dead-end landscape that could stir revolutionary reactions mirroring the Mexican Revolution, which returned land to the peasants (cf. Alcorn and Toledo, 1998). These are some of the factors to consider in evaluating the blanket criminalization of ‘slashand-burn’ swidden agriculture. References AIDESEP. (2011) Building an Indigenous REDD, Interethnic Association for the Development of the Peruvian Amazon (AIDESEP), Lima, Peru Alcorn, J. B. (1981) ‘Huastec non-crop resource management: Implications for prehistoric rainforest management’, Human Ecology 9, pp395-417 Alcorn, J. B. (1989a) ‘Process as resource: The agricultural ideology of Bora and Huastec resource management and its implications for research’, in D.A. Posey and W. Balée (eds) Natural Resource Management by Indigenous and Folk Societies in Amazonia, New York Botanical Garden Advances in Economic Botany Series, Bronx, NY Alcorn, J. B. (1989b) ‘An economic analysis of Huastec Mayan forest management’, in J. Browder (ed.) Fragile Lands of Latin America: Strategies for Sustainable Development, Westview Press, Boulder, CO, pp182-206 Alcorn, J. B. (1990a) ‘Indigenous agroforestry systems in the Latin American tropics’, in M. Altieri and S. Hecht (eds) Agroecology and Small Farm Development, CRC Press, Boca Raton, FL, pp203-218 Alcorn, J. B. (1990b) ‘Indigenous agroforestry strategies meeting farmers’ needs’, in A. Anderson (ed.) Alternatives to Deforestation, Columbia University Press, New York, pp141-151

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Alcorn, J. B. (2009) Reducing Climate Change in Alliance with Swidden Communities and Indigenous Peoples, www.cifor.cgiar.org/livesinforests/publications/pdf_files/Draft-REDDScenario.pdf, accessed 11 November 2011 Alcorn, J. B. (2011) Tenure and Indigenous Peoples, Property Rights and Resource Governance Briefing Paper No. 13, US Agency for International Development (USAID), Washington DC Alcorn, J. B. and Toledo,V.M. (1998) ‘Resilient resource management in Mexico’s forest ecosystems:The role of property rights’, in F. Berkes and C. Folke (eds) Linking Social and Ecological Systems for Resilience and Sustainability, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, UK, pp216-249 Alcorn, J. B. and Royo, A.G. (eds) (2000) Indigenous Social Movements and Ecological Resilience: Lessons from the Dayak of Indonesia, Biodiversity Support Programme (BSP), World Wildlife Fund (WWF), Washington, DC Alcorn, J. B., Edmonson, B. and Hernandez Vidales, C. (2006) ‘Thipaak and the origins of maize in Northern Mesoamerica’, in J. E. Staller, R. H. Tykot and B. Benz (eds) Histories of Maize:

Multidisciplinary Approaches to the Prehistory, Biogeography, Domestication and Evolution of Maize, Elsevier/Academic Press, New York, pp599-609 Alcorn, J. B., Rerkasem, B. and Fuentes, E., with Maukonen, T. (2003a) Final Evaluation of People, Land Management, and Environmental Change (PLEC), United Nations Environment Programme

(UNEP), Nairobi, www.archive.unu.edu/env/plec/books/FinalEvaluationReport-jan03.doc, accessed 5 June 2011 Alcorn, J. B., Bamba, J., Masiun, S., Natalia, I. and Royo, A. (2003b) ‘Keeping ecological resilience afloat in cross-scale turbulence: An Indigenous social movement navigates change in Indonesia’, in C. Folkes, F. Berkes and J. Colding (eds) Navigating Nature’s Dynamics, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, UK, pp299-327 Angelsen, A. (2010) ‘The 3 REDD “I”s’, Journal of Forest Economics 16, pp253–256 Asare, R. (2010) Implications of the Legal and Policy Framework for Tree and Forest Carbon in Ghana: REDD Opportunities Scoping Exercise, Forest Trends, Washington, DC Babon, A. (2011) Snapshot of REDD+ in Papua New Guinea InfoBrief No. 40, Center for International Forestry Research (CIFOR), Bogor, Indonesia Baird, I. G. and Shoemaker, B. (2005) Aiding or Abetting? Internal Resettlement and International Aid Agencies in the Lao PDR, Probe International, Toronto Balée, W. and Gély, A. (1989) ‘Managed forest succession in Amazonia: The Ka’apor case’, Advances in Economic Botany 7, pp129-158 Barfield, T. (ed.) (1997) The Dictionary of Anthropology, Blackwell Publishers, Oxford, UK Bassett, T., Blanc-Pamard, C. and Boutrais, J. (2007) ‘Constructing locality: The terroir approach in West Africa’, Africa 77 (1), pp104-129 Belcher, B., Rujehan, Imang, N. and Achdiawan, R. (2004) ‘Rattan, rubber or oil palm: Cultural and financial considerations for farmers in Kalimantan’, Journal of Economic Botany 58, (Supplement 1), ppS77-S87 Belcher, B., Michon, G., Angelsen, A., Perez, M. R. and Asbjornsen, H. (2005) ‘The socioeconomic conditions determining the development, persistence and decline of forest garden systems’, Economic Botany 59 (3), pp245–253 Bellassen, V. and Gitz, V. (2008) ‘Reducing emissions from deforestation and degradation in Cameroon: Assessing costs and benefits’, Ecological Economics 68, pp336-344 Biangalen-Magata, H. (2010) Resource Material on Indigenous Peoples, Forest and REDD, Vietnam, Tebtebba Foundation, Manila Bose, P. (2011) ‘Forest tenure reform: Exclusion of tribal women’s rights in semi-arid Rajasthan, India’, International Forestry Review 13, pp220-232 Brown, H. C. P., Smit, B., Sonwa, D. J., Somorin, O. A. and Nkem, J. (2011) ‘Institutional perceptions of opportunities and challenges of REDD+ in the Congo Basin’, Journal of Environment and Development 20 (4), pp381-404 Bruun,T.B., de Neergard, A., Lawrence, D. and Ziegler, A. D. (2009) ‘Environmental consequences of the demise of swidden cultivation in Southeast Asia’, Human Ecology 37, pp375-388

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Notes 1 Slash and burn is a simple action or practice that can be applied in different systems, ranging from clearing vast areas for pastures or commercial agriculture by ‘chaining’ with massive chains tied between bulldozers, to settler farmers using machetes and chainsaws to clear and claim land to title and sell it, to elaborate and ecologically sustainable ‘slash-and-burn’ systems (swidden systems). We focus on the latter. 2 We highlight key publications that illustrate the support for our perspectives, but we do not pretend to provide a review of the literature in this brief essay. 3 In this chapter, we use the terms shifting cultivation and swidden interchangeably to refer to what some call rotational integral swidden systems, or traditional shifting agriculture. 4 See Mertz et al. (2009) for a thorough examination of the problems involved in such a determination in Southeast Asia. Van Vleit et al. (2012) have extrapolated global trends by searching the ISI Web of Knowledge database to find 111 reports with key words of ‘swidden’, ‘shifting cultivation’, ‘slash and burn’ and ‘change/driver impact’, and then assessing the reports’ information to hypothesize a global picture that could be refined with regional studies. 5 The various definitions are discussed in detail in Mertz et al. (2009). 6 Clearly shifting cultivation also exists in other landscape types, such as grasslands. However, our experience has been primarily in forested areas, so we focus on those in this essay. 7 Peluso and Vandergeest (2011) would probably disagree with the claim that such divisions were arbitrary, having made convincing arguments about swiddens’ important political and ecological functions. 8 The Landscape Mosaics project was coordinated by Jean-Laurent Pfund of CIFOR, and funded by the Swiss Agency for Cooperation and Development (SDC). It operated in Cameroon, Madagascar, Tanzania, Indonesia and Laos from 2007 to 2010. In this context, one of Colfer’s recurring frustrations was the reluctance of research partners to acknowledge the ubiquity of such systems when they were clearly visible on the landscape (Colfer and Pfund, 2011). 9 Swidden agriculture for root-crop cultivation is ancient – perhaps 50,000 years old – predating cereal agriculture. Rather than ‘primitive’, the swiddens we discuss here are in fact complex and sophisticated, created by people using subsidies from nature to maintain locally adapted crop varieties, wild crop resources, biodiversity and ecosystem health, rather than depending on expensive chemical inputs to maintain fertility and hold off diseases and pests. 10 The first and primary meaning listed in Barfield’s (1997) Dictionary of Anthropology (p244) is ‘a mode of subsistence agriculture that involves small-scale farming or gardening practised with simple hand tools, such as the digging stick, and without the use of the plow or irrigation. …Horticulture…often employs shifting cultivation, including swidden (slash-and-burn) and other bush-fallow farming techniques commonly found in the humid and semi-humid tropics.’

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11 For example, http://www.worldwildlife.org/what/sherewework/congo/threats.html. 12 When rubber trees from South America were introduced to Borneo in plantations, farmers quickly planted them in swidden fallows. 13 Although there is little doubt that shifting cultivation alters the forest, it seems important to keep in mind that the practice has co-existed with tropical forests for millennia without wreaking the high levels of biodiversity loss or damage that we now see resulting from permanent food-crop or plantation agriculture, mining, timber concessions, and other, often externally initiated, large-scale resource-extraction systems. The biodiversity impacts of shifting cultivation vary with population density, forest accessibility, land-use changes in the larger landscape, infrastructure construction, farmers’ practices, policies and other factors. 14 See http://www.geog.illinois.edu/people/bassett/Terroir_Approach.pdf. 15 This particular message has now been recognized within the Alternatives to Slash and Burn programme (cf.Vosti et al., 2007). 16 We have selectively used English-language references for this essay, to be accessible to readers who do not speak French, Spanish, Portuguese, Hindi,Thai, Chinese or other languages in which relevant literature is found. 17 The title ‘Alternatives to Slash-and-burn’ was abandoned around 2009, in recognition of its inappropriate assumption that swidden systems needed to be replaced, although the ASB acronym was retained. 18 Composite swiddening is defined as ‘an agricultural system that integrates permanent wet rice fields and rotating swidden plots into a single household resource system’ (Vien et al., 2009, p5). For many researchers, ‘swidden agriculture’ alone, as a definition, covers these other components (e.g.Colfer at al. (1988), on a Minangkabau system in Sumatra; or Dove (1985), Colfer et al. (1993), on Kantu’ and Iban systems, respectively, in West Kalimantan; or Cairns (2007a), on an Angami system in NE India). 19 Vosti et al. (2007) concluded that other crops and products were competing and, in most cases, were more profitable systems, than swiddening. Their conclusions that shifting cultivation was among the least ‘profitable’ of a variety of systems in Brazil, Cameroon and Indonesia were founded on assessment of the costs and benefits of the food-crop swidden alone, without looking at swidden systems in the context of overall benefits, household economics, community values and other intangible values – as was done by Alcorn (1989b) and Cairns (2007a). 20 This has not meant any significant systematic recognition of rights for forest dwellers, but adat (custom) has sometimes been used as the basis for upholding forest rights (e.g. a Sumatran provincial court decision against a government agency’s assertion of rights, and ad hoc military-led decisions that fines be paid to Dayaks by illegal loggers as damages to Dayak adat forest holders in the 1990s). Indonesian adat is explored in depth in Alcorn and Royo (2000), and particularly in Masiun (2000). The general interpretation is that adat rights can only be recognized when the state does not claim a larger development benefit for the nation as a whole. See brief descriptions of two customarytenure systems, within Indonesia’s context of legal pluralism, along with parallel analyses for Ghana, Burkina Faso and Guatemala, in Marfo et al. (2010). In 2013, the Indonesian Constitutional Court ruled that adat forests were not state forests, thereby opening the way for rights to adat forests for an estimated 32,000 communities, and strengthening moves for legal reforms to incorporate the adat rights decision more broadly (Forest People’s Programme, 2013; World Agroforestry Centre, 2013) 21 The full name of the Act is The Scheduled Tribes and Other Traditional Forest Dwellers (Recognition of Forest Rights) Act 2006. See Bose (2011), for a critical view of the law’s implementation, with particular respect to women’s rights. See also Goswami et al. (2012), for evidence of the enduring antagonism towards swiddens in Northeast India. 22 At the Conference of the Parties to the UN Framework Convention for Climate Change in December 2008, a ‘plus’ was added to the acronym REDD, standing for the Reducing Emissions from Deforestation and forest Degradation programme. It thus became REDD-plus or REDD+, to indicate agreement on efforts to produce additional benefits beyond reducing deforestation and sequestering carbon – in particular, to include sustainable management of forests, conservation and enhancement of carbon stocks. In Copenhagen in 2009, REDD+ was further promoted as a

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partnership in which industrialized countries would share the costs of undertaking REDD+ actions in developing countries (cf. Tyrrell and Alcorn, 2011). The ‘plus benefits’ in REDD+ have been broadly interpreted as social, environmental and/or economic, but some (e.g. Pirard and Treyer, 2010) define the ‘+’ more narrowly as corresponding to ‘the inclusion of the increase in carbon stocks, for example through appropriate forestry practices or plantations’. 23 The assumption appeared to be that farmers were male, an assumption particularly unwarranted with regard to food crops in Cameroon (e.g. Tiani, 2001; Russell and Tchamou, 2001; numerous works by Jane Guyer). 24 See Robiglio and Sinclair (2011) for a thorough description of current swidden practices in Cameroon from a biophysical perspective, including serious fallow implications and biodiversity loss related to the ongoing intensification of agriculture.They argue that ‘incorporating a landscape-scale perspective where spatial location of interventions matters, is required beyond simply promoting practices that reduce the fraction of cultivated land at the forest margin. This requires a sound understanding of the cultural, institutional and legal framework of current land-use systems (local knowledge, farmers’ resources-management strategies and tenure) and of the drivers of change’ (p298). 25 These include those involved in groups such as IUCN’s Commission on Environmental Economic and Social Policy, Theme on Governance, Equity and Rights (TGER); the Center for International Forestry Research Domains 1 and 2 (Indonesia); the Centre for People and Forests (RECOFTC, Thailand); the Forest Governance Learning Group (UK, Indonesia, Zimbabwe and Nepal); the International Institute for Environment and Development (UK); World Resources Institute (USA); the US Agency for International Development’s Forest Carbon, Markets and Communities programme; the Coordinator of the Indigenous Organizations of the Amazon Basin (COICA); the Interethnic Association for the Development of the Peruvian Amazon (AIDESEP); other indigenous organizations, and universities all over the world. The Food and Agriculture Organization (FAO) also has a relevant programme. 26 REDD relationships to, and impacts on, swidden activities are explored in more detail by other authors in this volume. 27 Conservation planners use the landscape scale as well, but the socio-spatial dimensions are often weakly represented in conservation planning, thus limiting its usefulness in understanding the intersection of people and forests (cf. Colfer et al., (2011), on the internal contradictions that served to hamstring the participatory component of CIFOR’s Landscape Mosaics project).

4 AGROFORESTRY PATHWAYS REVISITED Voices from the past John Raintree and Katherine Warner*

Introduction

In 1986, we published an article called ‘Agroforestry pathways for the intensification of shifting cultivation’, in the journal Agroforestry Systems (Raintree and Warner, 1986). Some aspects of that paper were subsequently elaborated in relation to land-tenure issues in agroforestry (Raintree, 1987b) and some of these ideas were widely disseminated in a cover article for Unasylva (Raintree, 1986b). As a result, the concept of a pathway of intensification gained certain notoriety as a stimulus and framework for research in the emerging field of agroforestry. Now, in the time-honoured tradition of the anthropological re-study, we revisit the original pathways paper and use it as a baseline for gauging how the situation we were addressing then has changed, how our hypotheses regarding promising agroforestry technologies have fared, and how the institutional context and the scope of the subject have evolved over the past 26 years. This paper is presented in two parts.1 In part 1, Raintree writes a retrospective that begins with a brief overview of the context and content of the 1986 paper and then examines how the ‘pathways’ concept and the specific technological hypotheses put forth in that paper have fared. This provides a framework for a parallel narrative on the interplay between formal and indigenous science in the course of key developments in agroforestry. In part 2, with a focus on community forestry, Warner takes a contemporary look at what was left out of the original paper, mainly because it involved developments that had not yet occurred.

*  Dr John Raintree is retired and practising agroforestry in Starksboro,Vermont; Dr Katherine Warner is Regional Senior Expert, Environment and Climate Change, at the World Resources Institute (WRI), and is currently based in Kampala, Uganda, providing technical support to Netherlands development programmes in Sub-Saharan Africa.

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Two main methods have been used in gathering the material for this paper: a review of the literature (including grey literature) using contemporary Internet resources and methods, and a review of personal career experience as applied anthropologists working in prominent institutions in the fields of agroforestry, community forestry, natural resource management and international development. The former grounds the paper in an objective historical perspective, while the latter, more subjective, treatment uses participant observation to deepen the perspective and pursue the classic anthropological goal of an ‘inside view’ of the cultures in which the authors have worked.2

Part 1. Agroforestry: Formal and indigenous science Truth emerges more readily from error than from confusion. — Francis Bacon

Historical context

Given the limited and mostly anecdotal knowledge of agroforestry technologies available at the time, the 1986 paper was a decidedly theoretical exercise. However, since the role of theory in creating a hypothetical framework for an organized approach to experimental research was well established in science, and since agroforestry was then emerging from the definition stage and progressing rapidly into the experimental stage, we felt that a timely theoretical piece was appropriate. Context is everything, and the importance of the favourable institutional context in which this was unfolding cannot be overemphasized. The International Council (later Centre) for Research in Agroforestry (ICRAF) of the 1980s was genuinely dedicated to promoting culturally appropriate forms of land use. This orientation was actually mandated in ICRAF’s charter and strictly enforced by the donor group of the time. It was even almost a matter of definition. The (Canadian) International Development Research Centre report responsible for the creation of ICRAF contained the following definition of agroforestry: Agroforestry is a sustainable management system for land that increases overall production, combines agricultural crops, tree crops and forest plants and/or animals simultaneously or sequentially, and applies management practices that are compatible with the cultural patterns of the local population. . . . A new front can and should be opened in the war against hunger, inadequate shelter and environmental degradation. This war can be fought with weapons that have been in the arsenal of rural people since time immemorial, and no radical change in their lifestyle is required. This can be accomplished by the creation of an internationally financed council for research in agroforestry, to administer a comprehensive programme leading to better land use in the tropics. (Bene et al., 1977)

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How different this was from the initial swidden-unfriendly orientation and naming of the ‘Alternatives to Slash-and-burn’ programme that became the flagship of the ICRAF approach in the 1990s, after ICRAF joined the Consultative Group on International Agricultural Research (CGIAR).3 In the 1980s it was all about science in the service of people. However, that same charter also gave ICRAF a mandate to put agroforestry on a formal scientific footing. To address this part of the mandate, without diminishing the social values of the original vision, the newly appointed Director, Bjorn Lundgren, found it necessary to modify the original definition by removing any wording that suggested that all agroforestry systems were, by definition, sustainable and culturally appropriate. These became goals to be achieved by agroforestry innovations, rather than attributes simply accorded to them by definition. Lundgren offered a replacement definition that not only reinforced respect for indigenous technology but also highlighted the historical fragmentation of formal scientific disciplines that ICRAF was tasked to overcome: ‘Agroforestry’ is a new word representing a new focus of organized scientific activity, but the practice of agroforestry is an ancient tradition among farmers in many parts of the world. As a new scientific field the novelty of agroforestry lies in the realization that many different land-use systems and practices – some of which have traditionally fallen under the heading of horticulture, some under agriculture, some under forestry, and many others of which have not attracted any systematic attention whatsoever – all share a common denominator worth exploring in a more systematic and scientific manner: namely, the role and potential of woody components to increase, sustain and diversify the production from the land. (Lundgren, 1982) This definition moved agroforestry in the direction of a formal science by transforming its assumptions into hypotheses. Although sceptics would question ‘heroic assumptions’ in ICRAF’s early work, in point of fact these were hypotheses, not assumptions. As it happened, the concept of agroforestry awakened a great deal of interest around the world and for a while there were probably more definitions than there were agroforesters! In an attempt to put the definitional issue to rest, Lundgren offered a more compact synthesis that served the new science well through the first decade and half of formal research: Agroforestry is a collective name for land-use systems and technologies where woody perennials (trees, shrubs, palms, bamboos, etc.) are deliberately used on the same land-management units as agricultural crops and/or animals, in some form of spatial arrangement or temporal sequence. In agroforestry systems there are both ecological and economical interactions between the different components. (Lundgren and Raintree, 1983)4

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Early agroforestry work was based on the explicit recognition that formal agroforestry science was not starting in a vacuum, but in fact had a huge body of indigenous technology and ethnoscientific knowledge to draw upon (for simplicity we will refer to this as ‘indigenous science’). To inventory this existing knowledge base, ICRAF created the Agroforestry Systems Inventory project (Nair, 1987) and another project, the Diagnosis and Design Methodology project, to bridge the formal and indigenous sides of agroforestry science by developing a secondgeneration-farming-systems-type method for designing agroforestry research projects (Steppler, 1981; Steppler and Raintree, 1983). The history of this chapter in farming-systems research is a fascinating subject in its own right, but probably beyond the scope of the present paper. Suffice it to say that while both adhered to the principle that ‘the existing system is the basis on which improvements can be grafted’ (Collinson, 1981), and both required a team of at least one biological scientist and one social scientist, ICRAF’s diagnosis-and-design methodology had a logical structure that predisposed it towards a stronger-than-normal connection with the indigenous scientific tradition. This arose from the inability in the early days of agroforestry to apply a standard farming-systems technique for identifying intervention points. As Collinson explained, in farming-systems practice the first clue to the existence of a leverage point within the system for a problem-solving intervention was usually the agronomist’s identification of a ‘compromise’ in the existing farming practice, which he recognized as a disjunction between what he saw on the ground and the technical standards he carried around in his head. There were few, if any, established technical standards for agroforestry in the early 1980s. How then was an agroforester to identify an intervention point or even a problem within the system? To the anthropologist who happened to be leading the diagnosis-and-design project, the answer was obvious: ‘ask the farmer’.The diagnosisand-design method began by asking the farmers what problems they were having in meeting their own production objectives, and then it went on to troubleshoot the causes of those problems with the farmer. Once the productiveness of this approach had been demonstrated (Raintree, 1983; Raintree and Rocheleau, 1986), the uptake within ICRAF’s multidisciplinary team was rapid (Raintree andYoung, 1983; Steppler and Raintree, 1983; Lundgren and Raintree, 1983; Steppler and Nair, 1987). However, as Raintree had been taught much earlier by Tagbanwa swiddeners5 in the Philippines, there is only so much you can learn from talking with farmers. The real information about innovation in a farming system doesn’t come out until you are engaged in direct interaction with farmers on the ground in the trial of the new technology (Raintree, 1978). This applies equally to learning indigenous swidden technology through participant observation, as Warner learned when, midway through the first cropping season of her own swidden, her swidden mentor pointed out that certain components were missing from the field, even though she had followed this woman’s verbal instructions to a tee (Warner, 1979). There is knowledge for talking and knowledge for doing. Such lessons are not easily misunderstood or forgotten,

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so the element of direct, farmer-managed on-farm trials was hard-wired into the iterative diagnosis-and-design flowchart and guidelines (Raintree, 1986a, p7). Unfortunately, saying it’s so doesn’t make it so. It wasn’t until more specific guidelines for different types of on-farm trials were elaborated and demonstrated (Shepherd and Rogers, 1991; Scherr, 1991) that the indigenous technological creativity of farmer-experimenters could be more effectively engaged by ICRAF’s national research partners. Even then, because this usually involved a difficult learning curve for technocratic scientists, many of the early projects in ICRAF’s far-flung research networks languished in the doldrums until staff with the requisite catalytic skills could be recruited (see the Cameroon case below). Pathways: The view from 1986

To recall the main arguments of the 1986 paper, we can simply reprint the abstract: As a system of land use which entails the deliberate association of trees with herbaceous field crops in time, shifting cultivation is one of the most ancient, widespread, and until recently, ecologically stable forms of agroforestry. However, under pressure of population and competing uses for land and labour, traditional swidden systems have been observed historically to undergo more or less predictable processes of intensification. Since shifting cultivation is an indigenous form of agroforestry, scientific agroforestry is not, strictly speaking, an ‘alternative’ to shifting cultivation, but rather a systematic approach to the recombination of its basic elements into more intensive, sustainable and politically viable forms of land use, whenever pressures signal the need for change in traditional swidden systems. Different agroforestry options open up from different stages of intensification in swidden systems. A review of evolutionary typologies of shifting cultivation gives rise to a framework for the identification of agroforestry interventions and development pathways appropriate to specific systems. Technological proposals are limited to a short list of the most promising agroforestry interventions in ‘main sequence’ swidden systems.These include ‘integral taungya’, economically and biologically enriched fallows, variations on the ‘alley cropping’ theme, and various tree crop alternatives to annual cropping systems. Examples and quantitative data are cited to substantiate the main hypotheses behind the proposals. (Raintree and Warner, 1986) Although it is only one of several interconnected drivers, the focus of the 1986 paper was on population pressure as a driver of intensification. The framework for this approach came from the work of Boserup (1965, 1981) and Greenland (1974), which called attention to certain regular patterns of intensification in tropical land-use systems under conditions of population pressure.

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During the early days of agroforestry, it seemed important to introduce this perspective into the research-planning process, in order to avoid default to the pet technology biases of the day and open up thinking about agroforestry alternatives. The basic idea in regard to intensification was expressed in an earlier ICRAF working paper: What is called for is a phased approach to intensification based on a succession of technologies which keeps pace with population growth. This will only be possible if each stage in the succession of technologies meets two requirements: 1. It must be compatible in its labour demands with the prevailing level of acceptable labour intensity per unit of production at each stage in the development of the system. (This means that the labour requirements of the alternative technology should not grossly exceed that of the traditional technology at the time of its introduction.) 2.  It must leave sufficient flexibility and scope, in terms of committed land use, for the next stage in the succession. In other words, each stage in the progression of technologies should prepare the ground and leave scope for the succeeding stage. (Raintree, 1983b) In the 1986 paper we developed this thinking further and expressed it in a diagram (Figure 4.1) depicting a number of possible pathways for agroforestry intensification.6 The note beneath the diagram is also ours. The use of a Boserupian perspective in this diagram was never meant to suggest that population pressure was the only driver of intensification, or that this was the only kind of diagram useful in understanding the intensification process. Land tenure, market forces, political pressures, warfare, opportunities for migration and so on are other factors that interact with population pressure and modify its effect on decisions about land use and labour intensity, as we noted in the 1986 paper. Nor, as Brookfield (1972) long ago pointed out, is there any reason to assume that disintensification of land use will not occur when population pressure on land declines for any reason, including out-migration and alternative employment opportunities. Indeed, the backward-pointing arrows in the diagram are meant to suggest that a disintensification of labour might be achieved and therefore, in most cases, a higher adoption rate for agroforestry innovations, through substitution of labour by capital in the form of trees. Despite the visual dominance of the broad arrow representing the classical Boserupian intensification sequence in field-crop production, the main intention of the diagram was to hypothesize that there might be pathways for moving away from the classic intensification sequence, towards various agroforestry alternatives. From today’s perspective, the most labour-efficient and environmentally friendly pathway of intensification would seem to be from long fallow straight up into multispecies agroforests. But how feasible would that have been for long-fallow swiddeners in 1986? Realistically, it would only have been feasible if excellent roads and market infrastructures were already in place, if swiddeners were not interested

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FIGURE 4.1 

Agroforestry pathways for swidden intensification.

Note: Different agroforestry options open up for different stages in the main historical sequence of agricultural development. The R index (Joosten, 1962), shown on the left, gives an approximate indication of the land-use intensities corresponding to the stages shown on the right. R=(C/C + F) × 100, where C=cropping period and F=fallow period.The R index is also equivalent to the percentage of land in cultivation, as read from aerial photos. Boserup’s (1981) treatment of R as a ‘frequency of cropping’ index allows the interpretation to be extended to multiple cropping. For R > 100, R corresponds to the number of crops taken per year × 100.

Source:  Raintree and Warner (1986)

in growing their own rice and, indeed, if ‘integral swidden’ was not what Conklin (1957) called ‘a largely self-contained and ritually-sanctioned way of life’ with strong culture-conserving tendencies. For most shifting cultivators, the development pathways of the future would be more complicated than a straight highway into agroforests. What became of the pathways concept?

The original pathways diagram was offered as a conceptual tool for thinking about agroforestry alternatives. In many cases the best use of this tool was to simplify it and adapt it for location-specific purposes. One of our favourite examples of this is the diagram used by Linquist et al. (2004) of the Lao-IRRI Upland Rice Farming

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Systems programme, to place the results of the programme’s improved-fallows research in context (Figure 4.2). It is noteworthy that this research programme ended up focusing on economically valuable fallow species like pigeon pea, paper mulberry and rattan.7 Another useful simplification is to remove the labour dimension altogether and plot output against cropping intensity, as in the van Noordwijk diagram displayed by Cairns (2007) (Figure 4.3). In this case, ‘more productive fallows’ is the equivalent of what we called ‘economically enriched fallows’ and ‘more effective fallows’ the equivalent of our ‘biologically enriched fallows’. Although for practical purposes it carries almost the same meaning, this simplification makes the concept more flexible and applicable to a greater variety of situation-specific uses, and the associated terminological change has proven popular among researchers. Unfortunately, it is silent on an important determinant of adoption, i.e. the labour requirement of the technology. Once you start substituting dimensions and rotating the chart, many things become possible.The use of generalized graphs and curves is popular in the biological sciences, and it is not surprising to find other examples in papers produced by ICRAF ecologists. Figure 4.4 cleverly combines many aspects of farmer decisionmaking with the biodiversity dimension of ‘jungle rubber’ in Sumatra. Its original

FIGURE 4.2 

Adaptation of the diagram by the Lao-IRRI Upland Rice Farming Systems programme. Source:  Linquist et al. (2004)

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FIGURE 4.3 

Evolution of intensifying swidden systems Source: van Noordwijk, as reproduced in Cairns (2007)

caption explained: ‘Possible intensification pathways for jungle rubber agroforests depend upon various criteria and conditions which dictate farmers’ management decisions. Resulting land use systems are classified in terms of their biodiversity and profitability. JR – Jungle rubber; sisipan = gap rejuvenation; RAF = Rubber agroforest; Q = quality’ (van Noordwijk et al., 2006). The rubber diagram (Figure 4.4) comes from a multi-institutional collaboration involving ICRAF and the Center for International Forestry Research (CIFOR), among others, looking at Sumatra as a microcosm for studying the biodiversityproductivity trade-off. Another diagrammatic innovation from the same study (not shown here) displays ‘socially desirable pathways’ and ‘pathways to be avoided’ when designing systems for sustainable ecosystem services, indicating the increasing influence of the wider policy dialogue on the practice of international agroforestry science. Many additional examples could be cited but perhaps this is sufficient to illustrate the range of variations on the pathways concept and the fact that by some point in the first decade of the new millennium it had become something of a ‘meme’ in the agroforestry literature and, for ICRAF in particular, an anonymous part of the organizational culture. We will mention only one more example as a bridge into the next topic. One of the most complex and interesting examples of a ‘re-dimensioning’ of the pathways concept was the ‘continuum’ diagram used by Cairns (2007, p20) to

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FIGURE 4.4 

Possible intensification pathways for jungle rubber agroforests. Source:  van Noordwijk et al. (2006)

provide an overview of the range of indigenous fallow technologies documented in

Voices from the Forest: Integrating Indigenous Knowledge into Sustainable Upland Farming. By using an inclusive definition of ‘fallow’ and fitting everything into one highly nuanced transect, he was able to create a unified classification system for approximately 115 species-specific examples of indigenous ‘fallow’ systems in more than 20 categories of practice under six broad headings in Southeast Asia. We have reproduced that diagram here and superimposed a slightly rearranged version of the more generalized classification scheme we used in the 1986 pathways paper in order to examine the alignment between our technology hypotheses and this larger inventory of fallow-related practices in Asia (Figure 4.5). How did the technology hypotheses fare?

In this section we briefly summarize the main findings and then spend some time highlighting certain elements of the experience in country-specific research programmes in order to relate a few fragments of the fascinating parallel story about the sociology of science and, in particular, about how to forge a more productive relationship between formal science and indigenous science in the international development arena.

FIGURE 4.5 

Composition of technology categories in Raintree and Warner (1986), above, and Cairns (2007, p20), below

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The inventory of indigenous practices documented in Voices from the Forest and summarized in Figure 4.5 provides massive validation of most of the technology hypotheses we advanced in our original paper. However, let us do the math in terms of our original categories and let us use ‘adoption interest’ as a metric for the count. If we set aside scientific formality for a moment and think of our hypotheses as ‘best bets’ at the time we were writing, then it might be correct to say that we had one clear miss, one near miss, one moderate winner and two big winners (Table 4.1). Integral taungya

This one was always a long shot in terms of adoption interest, but it addressed an important element of the earliest agroforestry paradigm, so it could not be ignored. Taungya is a Burmese term that was used by foresters in the early 1800s to denote the practice of starting a new forest plantation by getting shifting cultivators to plant small forest seedlings among their agricultural crops, and then to continue intercropping among the young saplings for a few years until the trees took over. Taungya is important in the history of agroforestry because it was the take-off point from which K. F. S. King, who was to become the first Director of ICRAF, launched a more socially beneficial variant he called ‘agri-silviculture’ (King, 1968, 1987; King and Chandler, 1978), which can be considered the first agroforestry prototype, or exemplar. In an attempt to up the ante, we coined the somewhat hopeful term ‘integral taungya’ and defined it as follows: By analogy with integral shifting cultivation, the proposed concept of integral taungya is meant to invoke the idea of a taungya practice which offers a more complete and culturally integrated approach to rural development; not merely the temporary use of a piece of land and a poverty-level wage for labour, but a chance to participate equitably in a sustainable agroforestry economy. (Raintree and Warner, 1986) The only example we could find that seemed to be moving deliberately towards this ideal at that time was the ‘Forest Village’ system in Thailand, around the early 1980s (Boonkird et al., 1984). Little did we know that history would soon mock us when this socially oriented form of taungya was nipped in the bud. When the progressive approach of the Forest Villages started attracting international attention, the leading lights of the programme within Thailand’s Royal Forest Department were TABLE 4.1 

Improved fallows adoption interest

1.  Integral taungya 2.  Economically enriched fallows 3. Biologically enriched fallows 4. Variations on the ‘alley-cropping’ theme 5. Tree-crop alternatives

0 +++++ +++ + +++++

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abruptly reassigned and community forestry – in the very country that was chosen to host the Regional Community Forestry Training Center (RECOFTC) – took a severe downturn as policies hardened and genuine community forestry was, in effect, outlawed. Non-adoption by state foresters was what killed the Thai exemplar of integral taungya. Ironically, this and other technological innovations also turned out to be low priority for community forestry. For a time, as community forestry turned increasingly to a host of social and policy issues that no one else was addressing, the whole technical side of the subject was left to languish (Donovan, 2001).8 Alley cropping

No topic in agroforestry has raised more controversy than alley cropping. Much of this has been a tempest in a teapot resulting from confusion over many distinct practices under one label. Admittedly, however, as gauged by the criterion of adoption potential, we gave too much prominence to alley cropping in our conclusion to the 1986 paper. However, that said, we are unrepentant, because this is the way that science operates: focusing attention on the dominant paradigm of the day until all of its mysteries are solved, or until it is overturned by a new paradigm (Kuhn, 1962). In the new people-oriented approach to agroforestry ushered in by Bene et al. (1977), alley cropping replaced taungya as the pre-eminent exemplar of agroforestry and as such it was destined to receive the lion’s share of attention for the first decade after the creation of ICRAF. We refer here to ‘classical alley cropping’, meaning the form of hedgerow intercropping developed by researchers at the International Institute of Tropical Agriculture (IITA) (Kang et al., 1981, 1986; Kang and Wilson, 1987). George Wilson, a senior agronomist in IITA’s Farming Systems programme, regarded alley cropping as a form of ‘continuous fallow’ (Wilson, 1980). It’s easy to see how such a multifunctional system could capture the imagination of agroforesters, and the ‘classical’ alley-cropping system depicted in Figure 4.6 doesn’t even begin to tap the full potential of mixtures of economic tree crops and understorey crops embodied in such variants as Sloping Agricultural Land Technology (SALT) (Tacio, 1993), several of the systems classified under the ‘Dispersed Treebased Fallows’ category in Figure 4.5 (Cairns, 2007), and the many commercial agroforestry systems now being practised by farmers in temperate zones (National Agroforestry Center, 2002; Jose et al., 2007). In any case, with the resources of the international scientific community mobilized from the 1980s onwards to investigate an ever-widening range of alley-cropping applications, it didn’t take long to discover the biophysical Achilles Heel of classical alley cropping: It doesn’t do well in dry environments because some of the roots of the trees curve upward to compete for soil moisture with the roots of the agricultural crops.9 Competition is normal in intercropping and, in fact, the maximum economic benefit occurs well inside the zone of competition (Raintree, 1983d), but in dry lands the competition for moisture was simply too severe.

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FIGURE 4.6 

Schematic diagram of ‘classical alley cropping’ Note:   This illustrates how it achieves its nutrient-cycling and erosion-control objectives, even without the natural terrace-formation process that it facilitates on sloping land.

Source:  Kang and Wilson (1987)

Another way of looking at it is to say that ‘continuous fallow’ also implies continuous competition with the crops. At the end of the day, it was Pedro Sanchez who drew the general conclusion:‘Sequential improved tree fallow systems are more robust than simultaneous agroforestry systems, such as alley cropping’ (Sanchez, 1995). We find it ironic that the man who set out to replace shifting cultivation with agroforestry alternatives should end up reaffirming the indigenous wisdom on which it was based. Ah, but that’s the way science operates. As to its socio-economic limitations, we cautioned in the 1986 paper that even where the biophysical conditions for alley cropping were right, classical alley cropping could be too labour-intensive to attract much adoption interest unless the prevailing labour intensity of the existing farming system was high and farmers had a history of struggling to control erosion and maintain soil fertility. After all, this type of alley cropping was about growing an input to grow a crop, and most farmers would prefer to just grow the crop. However, alley cropping is an extremely flexible practice, as demonstrated by farmers in ICRAF’s project in Cameroon, where the belated engagement of indigenous experimentation through farmer-managed trials transformed an unsuccessful classical alley-cropping system into a rotational fallow system with much greater adoption potential (Degrande and Duguma, 2000; Kanmegne and Degrande, 2002; Degrande, n.d.). It is best to use the researchers’ original words:10

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Alley cropping was introduced in the humid forest zone of Cameroon to increase soil fertility in 1987, but until 1992 the adoption rate had remained low. To better understand the reasons behind this, three types of on farm trials were established from fully researcher controlled to fully farmer controlled. During the evaluation of the technology with farmers a number of modifications were registered: (1) Pruning height and frequency: Because of the difficulties to consistently cut back at 30cm, farmers decided to slash at ground level as they normally do while slashing the natural fallow vegetation. This equally allowed for more flexibility in time of pruning. (2) Cropping intensity and pattern: Initially, alleys were cropped each year. This however had several shortcomings. Having observed the positive impact of incidental fallow period in a farmer’s field, it was decided to introduce a fallow phase of at least one year. During the fallow period the plot can be used for fodder production, bee farming and production of stakes. (3) Residue management: Fire went incidentally in a farmer’s tree plot after slashing, and the trees were not affected.This gave farmers an alternative way to manage the residue, by controlling the fire, before bringing in other crops such as groundnut and cassava.11 (4) Agroforestry species: Because Leucaena leucocephala, in spite of its soil fertility restoration potential, rapidly became a noxious weed, farmers have asked for a less invasive species. Calliandra calothyrsus was introduced for this purpose and became a good bee forage. With these modifications, the original alley cropping system has evolved into a rotational tree fallow with higher adoption potential. From about 15 farmers who were testing the technology in 1992, the number increased to 52 in 1996, 120 in 1997 and 236 in 1998. (Kanmegne and Degrande, 2002, p115) This example shows how, even though it was late in coming, the eventual institution of the full double-sided diagnosis-and-design steering process, with active feedback from indigenous experimenters using methodological guidelines incorporating farmer-managed trials (Shepherd and Rogers, 1991; Scherr, 1991), was able to set the process back on course. However, the process did not stop with fallow improvements; it went on to address the full set of research topics identified in the original diagnosisand-design mission and take up the new methodological challenges of multistorey agroforests and indigenous fruit-tree domestication, after a priority resetting intervention by Leakey (1998), about 10 years after the start of the project: A Diagnosis and Design exercise was done by the International Centre for Research in Agroforestry (ICRAF) and the Institute of Agricultural Research for Development (IRAD) in the late 1980s in Cameroon (Djimdé and

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Raintree, 1988), which recommended that agroforestry research should focus on fallow-based food cropping systems, homegarden/small stock systems and cocoa-based cropping systems. To date, most work has been done on fallow systems and it is now time to look at the other more complex systems and perhaps to integrate these with the fallow systems. (Leakey, 1998)12 Did you note how alley cropping crept in as the priority focus, even though the diagnosis-and-design recommendation leaned toward planted fallows? In any case, the progression in the formal science research process was: alley cropping to rotational fallow (within an alley-cropping arrangement) to multistrata agroforests with indigenous fruit-tree domestication (more about this later). This history brings to light several pertinent observations about the relationship between formal and indigenous science: • • • •

It took a long time for the formal science research partners to get onto the same page as the farmers, mainly because the farmer-managed trials were not instituted until late in the process. The formal science process may get off on the wrong foot and can be slow in coming to the point, but it is, after all, a self-corrective process and it eventually finds its way. Whereas indigenous science can take intuitive shortcuts, formal science tends to be slow and ponderous, but in the end it may bring something valuable to the table. It’s not an either/or choice.There is no need to wait until the researcher-managed trials are finished before beginning the farmer-managed trials. The strengths of both can be combined in a cross-fertilizing way right from the beginning, as we shall see in the next section.

Biologically enriched fallows

Examples of this category, although fewer than the economic fallow species, are still very much in evidence in Cairn’s summary of findings from the inventory of indigenous practices. The main surprise contained in this data is the role of nonleguminous trees and shrubs as effective biological agents for fertility restoration. It’s surprising that they were non-leguminous, but it’s not surprising that the discovery of these species came from indigenous practice. If the truth be known, most technologies that find their way into formal scientific trials in the international centres have usually been inspired by an observation of an indigenous practice made by the innovating scientist.13 An assessment of the impact of ICRAF’s research network on ‘fertilizer trees’ showed impressive adoption numbers.14 According to the CGIAR’s Standing Panel on Impact Assessment,

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Since the early 1990s, the World Agroforestry Centre (ICRAF) has worked in partnership with national institutions in southern Africa to design and promote natural resource management (NRM) technologies that use on-farm resources to replenish soil fertility. One such technology is improved tree fallows, based on fast-growing ‘fertilizer’ trees. By 2003, a total of 66,479 farmers in Zambia had planted improved tree fallows. This number was reached through on-farm testing and dissemination efforts carried out by ICRAF and other development-oriented organizations. Before ICRAF’s intervention, farmers in southern Africa had not used the technology, which has now spread to neighbouring Malawi, Mozambique, Tanzania and Zimbabwe. Of the farmers who planted fertilizer tree fallows in 1996-1997, 71% continued to plant them over the following three years. Adoption studies revealed that wealthier farmers were more likely to test the technology than very poor farmers. However, the wealthy were also less likely to continue with improved fallows, unlike the poor, who valued the technology more because they could not afford mineral fertilizers. (Standing Panel on Impact Assessment, 2006, pp1–3) Among the quantifiable benefits from fertilizer trees in the biologically enriched fallows, the Panel listed: • • •

•

Better food security: a 0.20-hectare tree fallow added 57-114 extra person-days of maize consumption per year. Enhanced soil health: fertilizer trees improved soil fertility, soil aggregation, water infiltration and water-holding capacity. They also reduced water runoff and soil erosion. More fuel: on average, an additional 11% of fuelwood was available, potentially reducing tree felling in nearby forests. Increased carbon sequestration: the amount of carbon stored was estimated at 2.5-3.6t/ha. (Standing Panel on Impact Assessment, 2006, p2)

It is noteworthy that even though they fall into the ‘biological enrichment’ category these fallow trees

Sesbania sesban (L.) Merr. [Leguminosae] A fast-growing ‘fertilizer tree’, prominent in the widely successful improved-fallow programme in Africa

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also produced directly valued economic goods in the form of firewood. Few, if any, biological-enrichment trees are completely lacking in direct economic benefits and the indirect economic benefits may also be substantial. As regards the interaction between researchers and indigenous innovators, the methodological model demonstrated by this research network is very interesting: In the development of fertilizer tree fallows, several modifications and adaptations to the technology were made by farmers and these were actively encouraged by researchers. (Ajayi et al., 2006, p12) It’s what farmers do, not what they say, that counts. Obviously, the most effective window on the indigenous scientific process is found in Type 3 trials (Table 4.2), but Type 2 trials can also be very productive of collaborative insights. Type 1 trials may also ultimately benefit farmers by allowing researchers to address highly technical questions that can only be answered by statistically sophisticated experimental designs, but Type 1 trials can achieve much more when paired with Type 3 trials. The following are examples of the kinds of insights that were contributed by indigenous experimenters in the Type 3 trials, taken from a report entitled ‘Farmer Innovations and Adaptation of Fertilizer-Tree FallowTechnology’ (Ajayi et al., 2006, p4, after Kwesiga et al., 2004): • •

• •

The use of Sesbania regenerations as planting material for establishing new fallows. This innovation saves farmers labour to establish nurseries during the dry season. Testing the effect of fertilizer-tree fallows on crops other than maize, such as sunflower, cotton, paprika and groundnuts. In fact, no scientific research had been conducted on the effect of fertilizer-tree fallows on other crops besides maize and beans. Removing Sesbania tips to stimulate lateral branching and thus biomass production. Using rainfed nurseries as opposed to nurseries in hydromorphic (dimba) gardens during the dry season. These nurseries are preferred because they reduce the labour required for transporting the seedlings and reduce the labour needed for watering.

TABLE 4.2 

Typology of experimental trials of fertilizer-tree fallows

Type of trial

Location of trial Design of trial

Type 1 On-station Type 2 Both Type 3 Farmers’ fields Source:  Ajayi et al. (2006, p4)

Researchers Researchers Farmers

Management of trial

Level of farmer modification

Researchers Farmers Farmers

None Low High

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• • •

Planting fertilizer-tree fallow species seedlings directly into a bush fallow without preparing the land first.This aims at reducing the cost of land preparation. Gapping up Sesbania fields with seedlings planted one year after the first planting. Planting Sesbania at weeding time into parts of fields where maize was performing poorly.

Something else to come out of the improved-fallow work in Africa was the observation that our adoption expectations were a little on the conservative side for some situations. As Franzel et al. (2001) explain: A comparison of the adoption potential of improved fallows in Zambia, western Kenya, and Cameroon has helped refine boundary conditions for the technology (Franzel, 1999).Whereas improved fallows were not expected to have significant adoption potential in areas of high population density (Raintree and Warner, 1986), on-farm testing has demonstrated that they have considerable potential in the high-population density areas of western Kenya. The agronomic reason for the unexpected popularity of improved fallows in the highlands of Kenya is that these areas have a bi-modal rainfall pattern and, since the short rains are often unreliable, farmers may avoid the risk of crop failure by simply planning an improved fallow during that season. Thus, as Sanchez (1999) explains: Fallows grown for two years by skipping one rainy season crop in unimodal rainfall regimes, or for a full year by skipping the usually unreliable short rains in bimodal rainfall regimes near the equator, have proven successful (Rao et al., 1998).Total farm production can be greater with improved fallow-crop rotations than with continuous cropping, even though crop production is skipped for one or more seasons with improved fallows. (Sanchez et al., 1997) Economically enriched fallows

Drawing upon indigenous science, the variety of economically enriched fallow examples documented in Voices from the Forest has already been shown in Figure 4.5 and many other examples are found in this volume. These speak for themselves, and we needn’t say much about it here beyond noting our surprise at the sheer variety of economically valuable trees, other plants and animals that indigenous innovators have included in their fallows. It might seem like we are giving short shrift to one of the most widely adoptable of the practices mentioned in our 1986 paper, but space is limited and there is really no need to belabour the popularity of this technology, which has deep roots in swidden cultures.

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Tree crop alternatives

This was the ‘catch-all’ category in our 1986 catalogue of hypothetical agroforestry technologies. It includes home gardens, other agroforests, commercial plantations, interstitial plantings along farm boundaries, pathways and roadsides, and the ultimate catch-all category, ‘trees on farms’. It is not possible here to adequately comment on the many examples of these practices cited in this volume and its predecessor, nor is there a need to do so; so we will conclude this section with just two highlights: fodder trees and home gardens. We’ve already reviewed the impact assessment of ‘fertilizer trees’. This is what the CGIAR’s Standing Panel on Impact Assessment had to say about the results of the work on ‘fodder trees’ by ICRAF’s Agroforestry Research Network for Africa (AFRENA): • • •

By 2006, 224 organizations were counted across Kenya, Rwanda, northern Tanzania and Uganda promoting fodder shrubs, and some 205,000 farmers had successfully planted fodder shrubs on their farms. Trials demonstrated that a farmer with 500 fodder shrubs (enough to feed one dairy cow) could increase net income by US$62 to $115 per cow per year, beginning in the second year after planting. Net benefits accruing to adopters of fodder shrubs in Kenya alone between 1993 and 2008 were estimated at between US$19.7 million and $29.6 million. (Standing Panel on Impact Assessment, 2009, p1)

If you fly above the most densely settled rice lands of Asia – for example, Bangladesh and Central Java – what you see is a mosaic of rice paddies in the bottom lands and forest on the higher ground. If you look closer you will notice that the forests are actually multistorey home gardens, and that all of the people live inside these agroforests. This is a big evolutionary clue that home gardens are probably the most efficient form of traditional land use for the support of the population in Asia. Contrast that image with one from the other extreme of population Artocarpus heterophyllus [Moraceae] density, a home garden in Laos (Figure 4.7). A multipurpose tree, jackfruit is highly valued Obviously, the underby Asian farmers, not only for its fruit, but also developed potential of home for timber and fodder gardens in long-fallow areas of

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FIGURE 4.7 

A home garden in Phonxay District, Luang Prabang province, Lao PDR Source:  Raintree (2005)

Laos is great, as areas of localized population pressure emerge due to government resettlement programmes, voluntary migration to roadside villages for better access to markets, incursion of Chinese rubber plantation companies, restricted access to forests in the vicinity of nature reserves, and the slow but inexorable growth of the population. Development of this potential would be consistent with the ‘short path’ to environmental stability that is called for in the REDD+ literature (e.g. Meyfroidt et al., 2011). But what can formal agroforestry science contribute to a system that is the essence of what de Schlippe (1956) called the ‘hidden order in seeming chaos’ of tropical farming systems, and which is, thus, fairly impervious to ‘improvements’ in spatial arrangements. Home garden planters do not use blueprints, or plant everything at once, and any attempt to impose ‘order’ could disrupt the very activity on which home gardens depend. What can international agroforestry really contribute? The answer is: trees – improved agroforestry trees that meet the needs of farmers, rather than foresters; trees bred for specific landscape niches and the functional specifications of indigenous agroforesters. After taking many years to arrive at this point, ICRAF is finally positioned to build on innovations in indigenous fruit-tree domestication (Leakey et al., 2005; Akinnifesi et al., 2009) and community-based tree improvement methods (MacDicken and Bhumibhanon, 1992; Raintree, 1992; Franzel et al., 1996; Leakey et al., 2003) to deliver what indigenous agroforesters want most from formal science, through its new Global Research Priority 1: domestication, utilization and conservation of superior agroforestry germplasm (Garrity et al., 2006; World Agroforestry Centre, 2008).

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Part 2. Community forestry: For and by the people If communities managed the forests, foresters would have no jobs. -- Anonymous Forester

During the 1980s, as agroforestry was being established as a science and trees were being ‘scientifically’ integrated into agricultural fields, forestry was looking more closely at the potential role of rural communities in forest management. While ICRAF was exploring the ‘where, what and how’ of trees on-farm, community forestry was exploring and documenting new approaches, primarily in South Asia, for community-based forest management, as well as the importance of forests and trees for rural households. Both agroforestry and community forestry worked to bridge the separation that had developed between forestry and agriculture, with community forestry focusing on the capacity (and rights) of communities to effectively manage forests and the importance of trees within (gazetted) forests, and agroforestry focusing on tree species that could be integrated into agricultural fields. Agroforestry and community forestry share a similar history: both emerged during the 1970s, were labelled ‘new disciplines’ – as well as being criticized for in fact not being new at all – and gained traction during the 1980s. The Food and Agriculture Organization’s (1978) definition of community forestry as ‘any situation that intimately involves local people in forestry activities’ was one of the first and is still widely used.15 It is so broad a definition that it includes a range of forest-people relationships, from forest-dwelling communities such as long-fallow swiddeners, for whom the forest provides a significant portion of livelihood needs, to rural communities that cultivate permanent fields and depend on nearby forests for products for household use and cash (see Arnold, 1992). In 1978, the FAO’s Forestry for Local Community Development put forward the concept of community forestry as an approach to increasing rural development and decreasing deforestation (Arnold, 1992). A Community Forestry Unit (CFU) was formally established at the FAO and by the mid-1980s it was actively involved in the promotion of communitybased forest management. During the first five years of CFU publications, between 1988 and 1993,16 two focused on long-fallow shifting cultivation (Warner, 1991; Colfer and Dudley, 1993), and both underscored the depth of technical knowledge of the forest held by long-fallow swiddeners. When Pathways was published in 1986, it was common for the same land-use systems to be described as examples of community forestry, social forestry and/or agroforestry. In 1986, a Rural Development Network publication of the Overseas Development Institute featured bibliographical summaries of 100 articles on social forestry published between 1980 and 1986. It included articles from journals such as Agroforestry Systems, Ceres and Unasylva (Khan, 1986). Agroforestry and community forestry bumped and entwined in the recognition of the central importance of tenure – for planting trees on-farm for agroforestry, and for rights of access to forest resources for community forestry. It is not surprising that

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the next iteration of the Pathways article was ‘Agroforestry pathways: Land tenure, shifting cultivation and sustainable agriculture’, for the FAO publication Unasylva (Raintree, 1986b).The underlying assumption of the Unasylva article was that ‘tenure factors may pose constraints to the realization of the potential ecological and socioeconomic benefits of agroforestry in many land-use systems; and that agroforestry may offer ways of resolving or mitigating some existing tenure problems’. Similar assumptions were underpinning tenure discussions in community forestry. The initial interest of forestry departments in community forestry was its potential to counter deforestation in state forests. Governments own the great majority of forest lands under formal and legal (statutory) tenure, and state forest agencies are responsible for their care. In the 1980s, swidden agriculture was commonly described as a – if not the – primary cause of deforestation.17 As a result, there was – and some would argue there still is – long-standing hostility towards shifting cultivation in forestry departments, as well as in environmental organizations and agencies. Even though the myths of ‘marauding’ shifting cultivators are inaccurate, they still linger today under the rationale of saving forests and stopping deforestation.18 There has consequently been a strong drive to persuade (force) forest swiddeners to ‘mend their ways’ and settle down. Since the focus was on deforestation and degradation, the problem, questions and solutions were framed around forest protection; the approach was forest-centric: Would forest villages halt deforestation? Would domestic need for forest products, especially firewood, result in massive deforestation? And what about rural communities that weren’t practising shifting cultivation, but were dependent on nearby forests for products? This lead to a broader question: What were the incentives for sustainable management?19 An argument that came to centre stage was that it was a lack of recognized rights of access and use by rural communities that served as an incentive for local deforestation, and if rights to manage or protect a forest area were granted and communities could retain a portion (or all) of the forest products from its forest, deforestation and degradation would be curtailed. On the basis that these assumptions were correct, community forestry – framed by recognized rights and accompanied by a portion of forest products – was offering a solution to local deforestation as well as contributing to rural development; an incentive-based win-win approach. While elegant and appealing in concept, community forestry implementation was (and continues to be) a challenge. Turning forests over to communities to manage was perceived as a threat to science-based forestry; how could communities with little formal forestry training manage forests?20 The fact that communities had managed forests before the rise of state forestry agencies was not readily appreciated. However, degraded forests were of little value, and that made it another matter. Initial community forestry was – and too often continues to be – as Bannerjee (1996) noted, ‘little trees for the little people’.21 Poor rural people (‘little people’) enter an agreement in which they are granted access to a degraded forest area (‘little trees’), along with a management plan (science-based), approved by the forestry department,

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that stipulates what can and cannot be harvested and how the products/benefits will be shared. The result was that the state received a revitalized forest and a large share of the (potential) income from the timber and other resources. For the state it was a win-win approach: it outsourced the labour for forest management and received a share of the income. Early efforts focused on small community user groups obtaining recognized rights and accepting responsibility for managing a small area of degraded forest. In some regions, community forestry has now progressed to encompass the recognized rights of indigenous peoples to manage large areas of forest. Globally, these rights have commonly evolved from specific use rights to co-management agreements, recognition of indigenous people’s rights, and in some instances, ownership under statutory law or tenurial rights. In 2002 it was estimated that of the total global forest estate, comprising 3.9 billion hectares, 76% was administered by governments (White and Martin, 2002). By 2009, this had declined to 66% (Hatcher and Bailey, 2009), with the greatest gains being made by forest land owned by individuals and firms (from 12% to 18%), with some gain in forest areas designated for communities and indigenous groups (2% to 3%) and privately owned community and indigenous forest land (from 11% to 13%). Efforts to obtain community rights to forest resources have had considerable success: about 57% of the legal rights now owned or reserved for communities have been transferred since the mid-1980s (White and Martin, 2002; Pearce, 2012). This is a significant change in forest management over a relatively short period and it is a fundamental shift from community forestry’s initially modest ambitions. The objectives of community forestry have broadened, from improving the forest and strengthening rights of access to providing the potential opportunity for the interests and values of local communities to be reflected in a range of diverse approaches to forest use. The ‘tree’ focus in the early community forestry initiative has been overtaken in some regions to include a forest-ecosystem approach that includes wildlife and broader ecosystems services such as watersheds and soils. Has the increasing trend in transfer of rights and ownership enabled communities to make the transition from poverty to prosperity? Since community forestry is being implemented by forestry departments and agencies to stop deforestation and degradation, it can be expected that the measure of success will be forest-centric as well. Community-forestry management plans detail what can and cannot be harvested from an area, and these things are monitored.22 Less attention is given to the socio-economic impact of community forestry.The assumption is that if communities gain access to resources that have previously been (officially) denied, for gathering non-wood forest products, then there will be economic benefits. There is now mounting pressure to offer tangible economic benefits to communities. Even in its early days, the proponents of community forestry quickly expanded to include not only forestry agencies, but also those concerned about the welfare of people and the reduction of poverty.23 While community forestry began as a mechanism to halt deforestation and degradation, poverty alleviation has been

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receiving increasing attention as an important objective in forest management. The primary driver that made poverty alleviation an explicit objective of forest agencies was the adoption of the Millennium Development Goals, with a special emphasis on the International Development Target of halving global poverty by 2015. This pulled people-centred concerns into the mainstream, even in natural-resource management. National Poverty Reduction Strategy Papers (PRSPs) have become policy instruments of particular importance as a means of promoting policies, programmes and projects that help the poor. PRSPs have become the main mechanism for governments in developing countries to define their budget and policy priorities and engage in dialogue with the international community. The current global commitment to poverty reduction has added weight to the need for forest management to meet multiple and complex objectives, as well as focusing more attention on the dependency on forest resources of the poor – the ‘little people’. National forestry agencies are now being asked to identify and expand their contribution to national poverty-alleviation efforts and to include poverty reduction as a primary objective. This requires a new perspective on forests and their use, in which success is measured not only by the amount of forest products harvested, export figures, or revenue generated, but also by the contribution of forests to the alleviation of poverty. Unless forests and their potential contribution are incorporated into PRSPs, or national forest strategies, forest management is unlikely to get the attention it deserves in national efforts to reduce poverty and vulnerability. The challenge is to have poverty alleviation addressed in forestry, and the contribution of forests to poverty alleviation recognized as an important component in national poverty-alleviation strategies. However, forestry departments don’t have expertise in economic incomegeneration activities, nor nutrition, product processing or marketing. After all, they are foresters. Let us now look at what changed since 1986, other than community forestry and further recognition of indigenous peoples’ rights to forests. The global changes that we didn’t anticipate

What we didn’t anticipate was the dramatic economic growth that has occurred, especially in Asia; its transformation of societies and its impact on the world’s forests and forest communities. In Asia, strong economic growth and the rise of the middle class has helped to reduce poverty significantly. By 2008, the middle class had risen to 56% of the population – nearly 1.9 billion people – up from 21% in 1990. Projections now suggest that by 2030, much of developing Asia will have attained middle- and upper-class majorities (ADB, 2010). China and India are expected to provide the largest number of the new middle class, and smaller countries will see faster or slower emergence. The share of the South in world GDP rose from about 25% in 1980 to 45% in 2010, of which developing Asia alone contributed two-thirds.

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Prosperity has risen in spite of (or perhaps, in part, fuelled by) the increase in the global population from 5 billion in 1987 to 7 billion in 2011. While there is still deep-seated and persistent poverty, especially in Africa and South Asia, more people are healthy, living longer, eating better, going to school for longer and living in cities or coastal areas. They are increasingly part of a global society of mobile phones, TVs, refrigerators, motorcycles, cars and the Internet (ADB, 2010; United Nations, 2010). Who could have anticipated that half a billion people would log on to Facebook every day? Consider also how the availability of information through the Internet and satellite imagery (accessible through programmes such as Google Earth) has allowed us to see the earth and its forests as never before. This has made the myths concerning swiddeners and tropical deforestation difficult to maintain. Unlike the 1980s, when tropical deforestation was attributed to expanding populations of rural families cutting down (and with swiddeners burning) forests for subsistence agriculture and firewood, many recent scientific studies (assisted by satellite imagery) have shown that large commercial agriculture and timber enterprises are now the leading drivers of tropical deforestation, as it expands to provide meat, vegetable oils (oil palm) and wood products to meet the rising demand of the new prosperous middle class (Boucher et al., 2011). The response to deforestation has changed as well. Deforestation goes ‘global’

Mounting concern about climate change has now brought deforestation to the centre of the global stage. With current estimates that about 15% of global carbon emissions are from tropical deforestation (about 50% of the total weight of a tree is carbon), tropical forest conservation/reforestation/afforestation is once more of interest. Reducing Emissions from Deforestation and Forest Degradation-Plus (REDD+) has emerged from the UN Framework Convention on Climate Change negotiations as a potential (yet to be formally agreed-upon) mechanism with substantial funding allocated for providing ‘fast-start financing’ to help countries put forward ‘ambitious REDD+ plans’. REDD (forest carbon) has attracted not only research interest (especially since there is so much funding available),24 but also recognition that while it may present a threat to indigenous and other rural communities, it also presents new opportunities to develop sharing systems for any financial benefits that may accrue from forest-carbon mechanisms and to promote social equity, human rights, transparency, governance, and other social and related environmental benefits. Attention has turned from the intensification of fallow-based agricultural systems such as swiddening to maintaining and improving tree-based carbon stocks. REDD has subsumed and encouraged the reframing of initiatives such as the Alternatives to Slash-and-Burn (ASB) Programme. ASB was established in 1994 and is now focusing on reducing deforestation and emissions from land-use change, including forestry and

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agriculture, and enhancing social and environmental co-benefits. Is this and similar initiatives new, or is it simply relabelling? What is new is that there is now a recognized relationship between local land use, global emissions and (potential) payments, with tree-based carbon as the key. While the details are still being debated by the Framework Convention on Climate Change, tree-based carbon includes both forests and agroforestry systems. While the ‘plus’ in REDD+ includes biodiversity and the social dimensions, the ‘bottom line’ is carbon stocks, which need to be assessed and measured before being used to offset emissions and/or generate carbon payments. These are the new elements: carbon stock assessment and accounting and potential payments for maintaining or improving carbon stocks. However, measurement of carbon and establishing a payments mechanism is complex and the transaction costs are high. Clean Development Mechanism forestry projects, for example, are few (34 out of more than 1500 projects) because of the associated transaction costs and the difficulty in long-term tenurial arrangements. Yet there is a great deal of momentum for REDD that will probably continue as the Framework Convention for Climate Change thrashes out the details.25 But will the details be thrashed out? Even if REDD+ isn’t formally agreed upon and implemented, the current attention to people, forests and trees has opened the door to a reconsideration of the importance of trees on the landscape, the role of local people in forest management, and indigenous peoples’ and rural communities’ rights to access and co-benefits (Pearce, 2012). Conclusions

So that’s how it looks to us in the rear-view mirror.Will the future be a continuation of the progressive trends seen in the period covered by this study? Perhaps, but the picture is mixed. The optimistic view (Zbicz, 2009; ADB, 2010; Standard Bank Research, 2010) is that the following trends are likely to continue: • • •

Increasing connectivity and access to information. A rapid pace of innovation springing from the local private sector with supportive policies from governments. The rise of the global middle class with new consumption patterns for food and energy and expectations of more transparent governance, a cleaner, greener environment and a greater voice in decision-making, resulting in a healthier, better-educated population with more opportunities than previous generations.

However, there are countervailing trends that may undermine this rosy future, especially at the local level:

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• •

There are areas where deforestation and land conversion to commercial agriculture are likely to continue and local forest dwellers will continue to be easy scapegoats for the actions of others. Past actions and projected trends do not inspire confidence that climate change will be effectively addressed in a timely fashion. After years of negotiations and posturing, carbon dioxide emissions continue to rise, and this is unlikely to change (although the rate of increase may), as governments continue to be ineffective in promoting policy and building consensus on immediate changes needed in energy use to forestall destructive future scenarios (Pearce, 2012).

The end of low-cost carbon fuels is the other elephant in the room, and although countries differ significantly in their responses to the warnings we’ve had since the 1970s, the transition to the post-petroleum future is likely to be a bumpy ride for the biggest consumers.26 Diminishing returns from extraction of fossil fuels have already provided a significant spur to the commercial development of alternative energies and thus, in due course, to the reduction of carbon dioxide emissions. It seems unrealistic to imagine that long-distance supply chains developed during the age of cheap oil will survive through the transition period without significant innovation, and this calls into question the improvement in developing economies due to the globalization of markets. All things considered, the coming changes may bear a striking resemblance to earlier responses to similar challenges. When the age of the megafauna was over, humanity survived and progressed by adopting myriad information-intensive microadaptations to locally available resources. If this analogy is correct, resilience will come to the fore and the pathway towards a human future will be similarly localized and branching. References ADB. (2010) Key Indicators for Asia and the Pacific – 2010, Asian Development Bank, Manila Ajayi, O. C., Place, F., Kwesiga, F. and Mafongoya, P. (2006) Impact of Natural Resource Management Technologies: Fertilizer Tree Fallows in Zambia, Occasional Paper no. 5, World Agroforestry Centre (ICRAF), Nairobi Akinnifesi, F. K., Leakey, R.R.B.,Ajayi, O.C., Sileshi, G.,Tschbundjeu, Z., Matakala, P. and Kwesiga, F. (2009) Indigenous Fruit Trees in the Tropics: Domestication, Utilization and Commercialization, CABI, Wallingford, UK Alcorn, J. B. (1989) ‘Process as resource: The agricultural ideology of Bora and Huastec resource management and its implications for research’, in D.A. Posey and W. Balee (eds) Natural Resource Management by Indigenous and Folk Societies in Amazonia, New York Botanical Garden, New York Arnold, J. E. M. (1992) Community Forestry: Ten Years in Review, Community Forestry Note no. 7, Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations, Rome Arnold, J. E. M. (2001) Forests and People: 25 Years of Community Forestry, Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations, Rome Bannerjee, A. K. (1996) ‘Some observations on community forestry‘, in Regional Community Forestry Training Centre, Income Generation through Community Forestry, Proceedings of an International Seminar, 18-20 October 1995, RECOFTC, Bangkok

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Bene, J. G., Beall, H. W. and Cote, A. (1977) Trees, Food and People, International Development Research Centre (IDRC), Ottawa Boonkird, S. A., Fernandes, E. C. M. and Nair, P. K. R. (1984) ‘Forest villages: An agroforestry approach to rehabilitating forest land degraded by shifting cultivation in Thailand’, Agroforestry Systems 2 (2), pp87–102 Boserup, E. (1965) The Conditions of Agricultural Growth, Aldine, Chicago Boserup, E. (1981) Population and Technology, Blackwell, Oxford Brookfield, H. C. (1972) ‘Intensification and disintensification in Pacific agriculture: A theoretical approach’, Pacific Viewpoint 15, pp30–48 Boucher, D., Elias, P., Lininger, K., May-Tobin, C., Roquemore, S. and Saxon, E. (2011) What’s Driving Tropical Deforestation Today? The Root of the Problem, Tropical Forest Climate Initiative, Union of Concerned Scientists, www.ucsusa.org/whatdrivingdeforestation, accessed 7 May 2012 Cairns, M. (2007) ‘Conceptualizing approaches to indigenous fallow management: A road map to this volume’, in M. Cairns (ed.) Voices from the Forest: Integrating Indigenous Knowledge into Sustainable Upland Farming, Resources for the Future, Washington, DC Cannell, M. G. R., van Noordwijk, M. and Ong, C. K. (1996) ‘The central agroforestry hypothesis: The trees must acquire resources that the crop would not otherwise acquire’, Agroforestry Systems 34, pp27–31 CGIAR (2011) Forests, Trees and Agroforestry, Consultative Group on International Agricultural Research, www.consortium.cgiar.org/category/cgiar-research-programs/cgiar-research-programon-forests-trees-and-agroforestry-2/ accessed 7 May 2012 CGIAR Science Council (2006) Report of the External Review of the Systemwide Program on Alternatives to Slash and Burn (ASB), Science Council Secretariat, CGIAR Colfer, C. J. P. and Dudley, R. G. (1993) Shifting Cultivators of Indonesia: Marauders or Managers of the Forest?, Food and Agriculture Organization Community Forestry Case Study Series Vol. 6, FAO, Rome Collinson, M. (1981) ‘A low cost approach to understanding small farmers’, Agriculture Administration 8, pp433–450 Conklin, H.C. (1957) Hanunoo Agriculture, Forestry Development Paper no. 12, Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations, Rome Degrande, A. (n.d.) Adoption Potential of Two Agroforestry Interventions: Improved Fallows and Domestication of Indigenous Fruit Trees in the Humid Forest and Savannah Zone of Cameroon, www.tropicallab.ugent.be/ann.htm, accessed 7 May 2012 Degrande, A. and Duguma, B. (2000) Adoption Potential of Rotational Hedgerow Intercropping in the Humid Lowlands of Cameroon, Network Paper no. 103, Agricultural Research and Extension Network, Overseas Development Institute, London de Schlippe, P. (1956) Shifting Cultivation in Africa, Routledge and Kegan Paul, London Djimdé, M. and Raintree, J. B. (eds) (1988) Agroforestry Potential in the Humid Lowlands of Cameroon, AFRENA Report no. 12, ICRAF, Nairobi Donovan, D.G. (2001) ‘Where’s the forestry in community forestry?’, in M. Victor and A. Barash (eds) International Seminar on Cultivating Forests: Alternative Forest Management Practices and Techniques for Community Forestry, 23-25 September 1998, Report no. 17, Regional Community Forestry Training Centre (RECOFTC), Bangkok Eboutou, L.Y., Degrande, A., Folefack, A. J. and Kamajou, F. (2010) ‘More than chocolate: Diversifying cocoa agroforests for higher profitability in Cameroon’, in Agroforestry and Markets, Annual Report 2010, West and Central Africa, ICRAF, Nairobi Franzel, S. (1999) ‘Socioeconomic factors affecting the adoption potential of improved tree fallows in Africa’, Agroforestry Systems 47, pp49–66 Franzel, S., Jaenicke, H. and Janssen, W. (1996) Choosing the Right Trees: Setting Priorities for Multipurpose Tree Improvement, Research Report no. 8, International Service for National Agricultural Research (ISNAR), The Hague Franzel, S., Coe, R., Cooper, P., Place, F. and Scherr, S.J. (2001) ‘Assessing the adoption potential of agroforestry practices in sub-Saharan Africa’, Agricultural Systems 69 (1-2), pp37–62

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Methods for Improving Upland Livelihoods, National Agriculture and Forestry Research Institute, Vientiane Lundgren, B. (1982) ‘Introduction’, Agroforestry Systems 1(1), pp3–6 Lundgren, B. and Raintree, J. B. (1983) Sustained Agroforestry. Agricultural Research for Development: Potentials and Challenges in Asia, International Service for National Agricultural Research (ISNAR), The Hague MacDicken, K. and Bhumibhanon, S. (1992) ‘Barefoot tree breeders’, in J. B. Raintree and D. A. Taylor (eds) Research on Farmers Objectives for Tree Breeding, Winrock, Bangkok Meyfroidt, P., van Noordwijk, M., Minang, P. A., Dewi S. and Lambin, E. F. (2011) Drivers and Consequences of Tropical Forest Transitions: Options to Bypass Land Degradation, ASB Policy Brief 25, ASB Partnership for the Tropical Forest Margins, Nairobi Nair, P. K. R. (1987) ‘Agroforestry systems inventory’, Agroforestry Systems 5, pp301–317 National Agroforestry Center (2002) ‘Alley cropping: 20/20 vision for farming’s future’, in Inside Agroforestry (Fall 2001/Winter 2002), National Agroforestry Center, United States Department of Agriculture, www.unl.edu/nac/alleycropping.htm, accessed 7 May 2012 Ong, C. K. and Huxley, P. (eds) (1996) Tree-Crop Interactions: A Physiological Approach, CAB International, Wallingford, UK Pearce, F. (2012) Turning Point. What Future for Forest People and Resources in the Emerging World Order?, Rights and Resources Initiative, Washington, DC Place, F., Adato, M., Hebinck, P. and Omosa, M. (2005). The Impact of Agroforestry-based Soil Fertility Replenishment Practices on the Poor in Western Kenya, International Food Policy Research Institute (IFPRI), Washington, DC Place, F., Roothaert, R., Maina, L., Franzel, S., Sinja, J. and Wanjiku, J. (2009) The Impact of Fodder Trees

on Milk Production and Income among Smallholder Dairy Farmers in East Africa and the Role of Research, Occasional Paper no. 12, World Agroforestry Centre (ICRAF), Nairobi Raintree, J. B. (1978) Extension Research and Development in Malandi: Field Test of a Communitybased Paradigm for Appropriate Technology Innovation among the Tagbanwa of Palawan, University

Microfilms International, Ann Arbor, MI Raintree, J. B. (1982) A Methodology for Diagnosis and Design of Agroforestry Land Management Systems, ICRAF, Nairobi (mimeograph) Raintree, J. B. (1983a) Preliminary Diagnosis of Land Use Problems and Agroforestry Potentials in Northern Mbere Division, Embu District, Kenya, Case Studies in Agroforesty Diagnosis and Design no. 1, ICRAF, Nairobi Raintree, J. B. (1983b) ‘The concept of an optimal pathway of intensification’, in J. B. Raintree (ed.)

Resources for Agroforestry Diagnosis and Design: A Handbook of Useful Tools and Materials, Working Paper no. 7, International Council for Research in Agroforestry (ICRAF), Nairobi Raintree, J. B. (1983c) ‘Strategies for enhancing the adoptability of agroforestry innovations’, Agroforestry Systems 1, pp173–187 Raintree, J. B. (1983d) ‘Bioeconomic considerations in the design of agroforestry cropping systems’, in P. A. Huxley (ed.) Plant Research and Agroforestry, ICRAF, Nairobi Raintree, J. B. (ed.)(1986a) An Introduction to Agroforestry Diagnosis and Design, ICRAF, Nairobi Raintree, J. B. (1986b) ‘Agroforestry pathways: Land tenure, shifting cultivation and sustainable agriculture’, Unasylva 38 (154), Food and Agriculture Organisation of the United Nations, Rome Raintree, J. B. (1987a) ‘The state of the art of agroforestry diagnosis and design’, Agroforestry Systems 5, pp219–250 Raintree, J. B. (ed.) (1987b) Land, Trees and Tenure, proceedings of an International Workshop on Land Tenure and Agroforestry, ICRAF and the Land Tenure Center, Nairobi and Madison, WI Raintree, J. B. (1991) Socioeconomic Attributes of Trees, Community Forestry Note, Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations, Rome Raintree, J. B. (1992) ‘Community-based tree improvement: A new series of research activities beginning with the Artocarpus Network‘, in J. B. Raintree and D.A.Taylor (eds) Research on Farmers Objectives for Tree Breeding, Winrock, Bangkok

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Raintree, J. B. (2001) ‘Trees on farms and farmers in forests: A peek at the agroforestry agenda in community forestry’, in M. Victor and A. Barash (eds) Cultivating Forests: Alternative Forest Management Practices and Techniques for Community Forestry, Report no. 17, Regional Community Forestry Training Centre (RECOFTC), Bangkok Raintree, J. B. (2005) ‘How do we know an upland solution when we see one?’, in B. Bouahom, A. Glendinning, S. Nilsson and M. Victor (eds) Poverty Reduction and Shifting Cultivation

Stabilization in the Uplands of Lao PDR: Technologies, Approaches and Methods for Improving Upland Livelihoods, proceedings of a workshop held in Luang Prabang, Lao PDR, 27-30 January

2004, National Agriculture and Forestry Research Institute,Vientiane Raintree, J. B. and Rocheleau, D. E. (1986) ‘Case study example of the D&D learning process’, in J. B. Raintree (ed.) An Introduction to Agroforestry Diagnosis and Design, ICRAF, Nairobi Raintree, J. B. and Taylor, D. A. (eds) (1992) Research on Farmers Objectives for Tree Breeding, Winrock, Bangkok Raintree, J. B. and Warner, K. (1986) ‘Agroforestry pathways for the intensification of shifting cultivation’, Agroforestry Systems 4, pp39–54 Raintree, J. B. and Young, A. (1983) Guidelines for Agroforestry Diagnosis and Design, Working Paper no. 6, ICRAF, Nairobi Rao, M. R., Niang, A., Kwesiga, F., Duguma, B., Franzel, S., Jama, B. and Buresh, R. (1998) ‘Soil fertility replenishment in sub-Saharan Africa. New techniques and the spread of their use on farms’, Agroforestry Today 10(2), pp3–8 Sanchez, P. A. (1995) ‘Science in agroforestry’, Agroforestry Systems 30, pp5–55 Sanchez, P. A. (1999) ‘Improved fallows come of age in the tropics’, Agroforestry Systems 47, pp3–12 Sanchez P. A., Shepherd, K. D., Soule, M. J., Place, F. M., Buresh, R. J., Izac, A-M. N., Mokwunye, A. U., Kwesiga, F. R,, Ndiritu, C. G. and Woomer, P. L. (1997) ‘Soils fertility replenishment in Africa: An investment in natural resource capital’, in R. J. Buresh, P. A. Sanchez and F. Calhoun (eds) Replenishing Soil Fertility in Africa, Soil Science Society of America Special Publication 51, SSSA and ASA, Madison, WI, pp1–46 Scherr, S. J. (1991) ‘On-farm research:The challenges of agroforestry’, Agroforestry Systems 15, pp95–110 Shepherd, K. D. and Roger, J. H. (1991) Approaches to On-Farm Testing and Evaluation of Agroforestry Technology, Working Paper no. 67, ICRAF, Nairobi Singh, R. P., Ong, C. K. and Saharan, N. (1989) ‘Above and below ground interactions in alley-cropping in semi-arid India’, Agroforestry Systems 9, pp259–274 Standard Bank Research. (2010) The Super Cycle Report, Standard Bank, London Standing Panel on Impact Assessment. (2006) Natural Resources Management Research Impacts: Evidence from the GGIAR, CGIAR Science Council Secretariat Standing Panel on Impact Assessment (2009) More Trees, More Milk, More Money, Brief no. 35, Independent Science and Partnership Council, CGIAR Science Council Secretariat Steppler, H. A. (1981) A Strategy for the International Council for Research in Agroforestry, ICRAF, Nairobi Steppler, H. A. and Nair, P. K. R. (eds) (1987) Agroforestry: A Decade of Development, ICRAF, Nairobi Steppler, H. A. and Raintree, J. B. (1983) ‘The ICRAF research strategy in relation to plant science research in agroforestry’, in P. A. Huxley (ed.) Plant Science Research and Agroforestry, ICRAF, Nairobi Tacio, H. D. (1993) ‘Sloping agricultural land technology (SALT): A sustainable agroforestry scheme for the uplands’, Agroforestry Systems 22, pp145–152 United Nations. (2010) Millennium Development Goals Report 2010, United Nations, New York Van Noordwijk, M., Pfund, J-L., Bakarr, M., Jackson, L., Schroth, G., Hairiah, K. and Joshi, L. (2006)

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Warner, K. (1991) Shifting Cultivators: Local Technical Knowledge and Natural Resource Management in the Humid Tropics, Community Forestry Note 8, Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations, Rome Wiersum, K. F. (1999) ‘Social forestry: Changing perspectives in forestry science or practice?’, PhD dissertation, Agricultural University, Wageningen, the Netherlands White, A. and Martin, A. (2002) Who Owns the World’s Forests?, Forest Trends, Washington, DC Wilson, G. F. (1980) Personal communication with J. B. Raintree World Agroforestry Centre. (2008) Transforming Lives and Landscapes: Strategy 2008-2015, ICRAF, Nairobi Zbicz, D. C. (2009) Asia’s Future: Critical Thinking for a Changing Environment, The United States’ Agency for International Development (USAID) and Woodrow Wilson International Center for Scholars, Washington, DC

Notes 1 There is an old saying in anthropology that the only thing two anthropologists who have worked in the same village are likely to agree upon is the quality of the drinking water. We acknowledge this ancient wisdom by presenting this chapter in two complementary parts. 2 For purposes of methodological disclosure: Raintree served as the Agroforestry Systems Programme Coordinator at the International Center for Research in Agroforestry in Nairobi during the early paradigm-development phase of agroforestry in the 1980s. Warner was Programme Development Director at the Regional Community Forestry Training Center in Bangkok and Head of the Community Forestry Unit at the Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations in Rome in the 1990s. Both have held long-term positions with the International Union for Conservation of Nature and Winrock International and advisory positions in programmes funded by the Swedish International Development Cooperation Agency (SIDA), the Swiss Agency for Development and Cooperation (SDC), the United States’ Agency for International Development (USAID), and other international agencies in Africa and the Asia-Pacific region. Both have lived, worked and conducted participant observation among Mende shifting cultivators in Sierra Leone and the Tagbanwa in Palawan (see endnote 5), where they were accorded the status of fictive kin. For the authors, every phase of this history has been an ethnographic experience. 3 The name of the ‘Alternatives to Slash-and-Burn’ programme was changed following an external review in 2006 (CGIAR Science Council, 2006). Thereafter it was called simply the ‘ASB Programme’. It was not an ideal solution, but perhaps a necessary expedient, in order to preserve the continuity of the large multi-institutional consortium of research institutions that had actually done a lot of good research, in spite of its name. Looking at this in retrospect it is hard not to be struck by the self-corrective nature of the international scientific process in the CGIAR. 4 Note that the common element in all these definitions was the idea of interaction between the woody and other components of the system and, indeed, elucidating the nature of these interactions was the main preoccupation of the first decades of agroforestry research. Contrast the looser definition that by 2000 was beginning to replace the earlier definition in order to deal better with landscape and ecosystem-level processes and donor expectations: ‘Agroforestry is a dynamic, ecologically based, natural-resources management system that, through integration of trees on farms and in the agricultural landscape, diversifies and sustains production for increased social, economic and environmental benefits for land users at all levels (Thomas, 2000). 5 The indigenous people referred to here are named Tagbanwa, but various English spellings of the name are commonly used. Elsewhere in this volume the same people are named Tagbanua, and they may also be called Tagban’wa. 6 It should be noted straight away that the scale correspondence is very imprecise in this diagram and that ‘Integral Taungya’ is misplaced, giving the impression that it represents more of an increase in labour intensity than it does. It should have been shown as a movement at right angles to the diagram, towards the ‘Tree Crop Alternatives’ category along a third dimension – i.e. the tenure

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dimension – but this was simply beyond the graphic skills of Raintree using MacDraw on a Mac SE in 1986. 7 In this context it is also interesting to note that pigeon pea, which is not an important part of the diet in the mountain areas of Laos, did not attract much adoption interest until a local market emerged for this new cash crop with some catalytic help from the international development community. 8 In another paper for the same conference, Raintree (2001) argued that much of what was seen as community forestry in social perspective was, or ought to have been, agroforestry in technical perspective. But in an audience composed mostly of Asian foresters, this went down like a lead balloon. 9 Chin Ong was one of the first researchers to make detailed soil moisture measurements in the rooting zone of alley cropping trees at ICRAF’s Machakos field station. Raintree remembers well the day that Chin Ong came back from Machakos to announce, with a twinkle in his eye, ‘The trees are misbehaving!’ It wasn’t long before others were confirming that alley cropping was not the sharpest pencil in the case when it came to semi-arid environments (Singh et al., 1989). See also Huxley, 1981; Cannell et al., 1996; Ong and Huxley, 1996. 10 In an historical review like this, statements of this type represent data, rather than interpretation. 11 How interesting that the ancient swidden-management tool of fire ‘accidentally’ found its way back into the system. Was this truly fortuitous or another example of deliberate pursuit of efficiency through ‘process as resource’ (Alcorn, 1989)? Likewise in using the fallow process for fodder, bee forage and stake production. 12 For an example of where this has gone, see Eboutou et al. (2010) for a recent report on the cocoa agroforest diversification programme. 13 It is not difficult to spot the indigenous innovators when visiting an international centre’s research area. They are the ‘key farmers’, the ones with guest books. The most productive researchers seem to be the ones who actively acknowledge the contributions of their indigenous counterparts. (e.g. Kwesiga et al., 2004). See also Raintree (2005) for pictures of a prodigious Hmong innovator and his creations. 14 In view of efforts during ICRAF’s first decade to introduce ‘adoptability’ as a criterion for technological appropriateness in agroforestry (Raintree, 1983c), it must be said that the manner in which ICRAF staffed up and developed a body of sound methods for systematic assessment of farmer adoption and impact during its second and third decades was impressive (Franzel, 1999; Franzel et al., 2001; Place et al., 2005, 2009). 15 Beyond the scope of this chapter, for discussion of various interpretations of community forestry, social forestry and participatory forests during the 1980s and 1990s, see Arnold (1992, 2001), Wiersum (1999) and Gilmour and Fisher (1997). 16 The first publications of the CFU in 1988 were two case studies: farm forestry in Gujurat, India, and a forest village project in Thailand. 17 Firewood collection by rural communities was also described as another major driver of deforestation. 18 In the 21st century this has been a difficult position to maintain, as research and mounting evidence have pointed to the far greater role of urbanization, infrastructure, changing diets and commercial agriculture, particularly soy, beef and palm oil production, as the main drivers of deforestation. 19 Beyond the scope of this chapter, this fuelled interest in common property management. 20 This question was captured in a comment by a senior forester at FAO: ‘If communities managed the forests, foresters would have no jobs.’ 21 Community forestry is being used broadly in this context, to include joint forest management. 22 Community forestry initiatives commonly require a forest-management plan that must be approved by the forestry authority. The community forest-management plan requires a far greater level of detail than is usually required when forests are under the management of the forestry department or private sector forest concessions. 23 The publications of the FAO’S Community Forestry Unit included manuals and case studies on forest-based enterprises; The Overseas Development Institute’s Rural Development Network was originally the Social Forestry Network.

Chapter 4. Agroforestry pathways revisited  121

24 The CGIAR, for example, has announced a Forests, Trees and Agroforestry initiative (CGIAR, 2011) that aims to reinvigorate efforts to reduce deforestation and forest degradation and expand the use of trees on farms.The initiative is focused on the critical importance of forests as natural ‘carbon sinks’ that can help slow the pace of climate change and the need to conserve forest biodiversity.The 10-year global research programme aims to protect forest-carbon stocks and reduce risks for millions of farmers and forest communities. The initiative will have an initial three-year budget of US$233 million. 25 The high level of interest by developed countries in REDD is based on the understanding that it will result in cheap forest-carbon credits that can be bought to offset carbon emissions (far cheaper than lowering emissions). High emitters such as India and China are interested in being able to measure, verify and report carbon emissions at international standards and to use domestic forest-based carbon to mitigate their emissions. Developing countries perceive REDD or the voluntary forest-carbon market as providing funding for state forest/park and (perhaps) for agroforestry. The flow of funds to communities is being debated. 26 Germany seems to be leading the world in a rational response on the ground, and Sweden is following closely with its decision to end all dependence on fossil fuels by 2020. The US seems hopelessly mired in dysfunctional politics and bad karma, but there is at least one example of a country that has already faced and successfully coped with its own peak oil crash. That country is Cuba (see Brenneman, http://richardbrenneman.wordpress.com/2010/03/03/cuba-exemplar-forthe-post-petro-world/, accessed 7 May 2012). This story finds resonance with the ‘relocalization’ movement in developed countries. Interestingly enough, a leading element of this movement is the rediscovery of ‘victory gardens’ (i.e. ‘home gardens’, often community gardens in urban areas), which serve not only as a practical response to immediate food problems, but also as a nucleus for rediscovering a sense of community.

5 SHIFTING CULTIVATION AND ITS CHANGES In Yunnan province, China Shaoting Yin*

Introduction

In the 1980s shifting cultivation became a hot issue in China, and was the subject of debate among national and international scholars, along with questions such as what shifting cultivation really was, and whether or not it destroyed forests. This chapter redefines the meaning of shifting cultivation and attempts to reveal its essence, based on comprehensive fieldwork. In order to amend widespread misunderstandings of ethnic minorities and their livelihoods, I wish to make the following points: •

• • •

•

* 

The old way of thinking in China about ethnic minorities and their livelihoods has serious disadvantages, because it is based on the central-plains culture created by the Han-Chinese majority. We must call for cultural relativity and emphasize the significance of cultural diversity. People’s livelihood types have not developed in isolation, but have depended heavily upon the natural environment and the living environment, which reflects cultural evolution. Every livelihood type, even the simplest and most extensive, originated from long-term cultural adaptation. Indigenous knowledge, therefore, deserves not only to be discovered, but also inherited and advocated. Cultural adaptation is usually stable. However, when ecological and social environments change, along with population growth and resource shortage, the culture of a people will adjust and adapt to the changes. Shifting cultivation follows this same historical adaptation model. Shifting cultivation may take a shorter time to transform if it is guided by the state and the market. However, this transformation will occur at the expense of the disappearance of indigenous knowledge and the appearance of new environmental Professor Shaoting Yin, Institute of Ethnic Minorities,Yunnan University, Kunming, China.

Chapter 5. Shifting cultivation and its changes  123

problems. Accordingly, it will take a long time and a gruelling process to rebuild a culture thus transformed; to once again realize harmony between humanity and nature. Origins of shiftingcultivation research

During the 1970s and 1980s, there was a serious level of FIGURE 5.1  Dulong people slashing trees for swidden 1 rainforest destruction in Asia, farming in the 1950s Africa and South America because of the greed for timber shown by transnational enterprises based in developed countries.While forest destruction became a global environmental issue, the indigenous people who lived in these forests, and their shifting-cultivation systems, also became subjects of close attention by scholars around the world. Shifting cultivation has a very long history in China. Before the Song Dynasty (960-1279), it was known as she tian. However, along with the loss of forest over a period of almost a thousand years, the scale of shifting cultivation in China also diminished. During the 1970s it was still popular in the southwest of Yunnan province, Hainan province and the south of Guizhou province. Ecological degradation became obvious in the 1970s and 1980s.This was caused by destruction of forests over a 10-year period. After the end of the Cultural Revolution in the mid-1970s, international ideas became popular, and people began to pay more and more attention to environmental problems. Out of this background came the first accusations: ethnic minorities living in the southwest of Yunnan Province were unfortunately blamed for destroying forests. Their shifting-cultivation systems were pilloried as backward traditions requiring urgent improvement. What, then, is shifting cultivation? Why is it still practised, even though it has been forbidden? It surely needs more academic analysis. Theoretical background Marxist ethnic theory

This is a mainstream theory followed and practised well in China: the motive power with which social development is achieved can be found in the relationship between productive forces and society’s need for production, and the contradiction between economic foundations and economic superstructure. The history of social

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FIGURE 5.2 

Dulong people sowing rice into a recently burnt swidden in the 1950s

development reflects five kinds of social evolution; among them is that affecting shifting cultivators. According to theory, shifting cultivation refers to the productive forces of primitive society, so there is a compulsion for change; it must be transformed or replaced by a superior society. This gives rise to a number of questions: why do the productive forces of a primitive society continue to exist without change, even though we have completed a socialist transformation to meet society’s need for production? Why do ethnic minorities living in mountainous areas still choose shifting cultivation for their livelihood? Is it appropriate, in the light of this, that most natural scientists and anthropologists strive to prove that shifting cultivation is backward and primitive, but neglect the points of view of indigenous people? Agricultural evolution theory

There have been three distinct periods in the evolution of agriculture, beginning with primitive shifting cultivation FIGURE 5.3  A process little changed half a century later: and moving to hoe farming Bulang people sow rice and other crops (2000) and finally to cultivating the soil with ploughs. We can therefore find ‘living fossils’ in mountainous areas of southwestern Yunnan province, where indigenous people still practise shifting cultivation (Figure 5.4). In primitive society, people would have used knives and axes made of stone for shifting cultivation. Today, indigenous people not only use iron and steel knives for

Chapter 5. Shifting cultivation and its changes  125

FIGURE 5.4 

China’s Yunnan province and the prefecture of Xishuangbanna, where shifting cultivation is still practised

shifting cultivation, but they also use hoes and ploughs made from iron and steel for farming. Some ethnic minorities even cultivate their paddy fields. How, then, can we regard shifting cultivators as ’living fossils’? Economic-cultural theory

After the 1950s, this is the only hypothesis that co-exists with Marxist ethnic theory: economic-cultural typologies refer to the synthesis created by people who live in the same physical conditions and at a similar level of social development. It is difficult to fix the boundaries between different economic-cultural ‘types’; although people can live in a similar natural environment, their economic-cultural type can be different. The question then arises: is the type of shifting cultivation determined by environment or physical conditions? In efforts to reconstruct the history of the multi-ethnic formation of the Japanese nation, much has been made of a theory of the ‘culture of the Lucidophyllus forest’ (Nakao, 1966) to show that shifting cultivation is the underlying farming background in the origins of the Japanese culture.The fault that I see in this concept is that it does not mention shifting cultivation in the present age, nor does it attempt to explain why shifting cultivation still exists today. Cultural ecology (1940s) and ecological anthropology (1970s)

In traditional societies, the core culture that focuses upon the livelihood of the people is a product of the people’s adaptation to their living environment. The ability of

126  Yin

human beings to adapt is an effective means of defining the relationship between people living in a small-scale society and their natural environment. The disadvantage of this ‘ecological adaptation’ rule is that it cannot measure the characteristics of a society that is, or has been, strongly impacted by the decisions of the country’s government, or by the demands or fluctuations of the market. I therefore proposed the integration of theories related to cultural adaptation and cultural-ecological change, for historical and comprehensive research. Research framework and fieldwork

My research began in 1983 and continued through 1990. It included a vertical historical study of the shifting cultivation of ancient ethnic minorities, such as the Qiang, Pu, Miaoyao and Yue, as well as fixed fieldwork on Jinuo shifting cultivation in Xishuangbanna prefecture, Yunnan province. Additionally, it involved a horizontal comparative study of shifting cultivation practised by ethnic minorities in the southwest of Yunnan Province, including the Bulang, Hani, Lahu, Wa, Yi, Jinpo, Lisu, Nu, Dulong, Miao, Yao, Bai, Kucong and Kemu. The research, therefore, FIGURE 5.5  Ancient practices: the Wa people sacrifice a ranged from changes in shifting cow to their gods (1950s) cultivation systems practised by simple and isolated societies to that of complicated and opening societies. Research findings

In ancient times, shifting cultivation was very popular around the whole of Yunnan province. However, by the 1970s, it had dwindled to only the border area between northwest and southeast Yunnan and Burma, Thailand, Laos and Vietnam.

FIGURE 5.6 

A Bulang village in 2000

Chapter 5. Shifting cultivation and its changes  127

Classification

There were three methods by which shifting-cultivation systems could be classified, according to different types of rotation, lifestyles and crops planted in the swiddens. Rotation classification

There were two types: classical and mixed rotation. Classical rotation was the first choice for ethnic minorities if they had a wealth of forest and land FIGURE 5.7  A Jinuo woman spins cotton by resources. Usually, the villagers would hand in a village compound (1990) divide their collective forest land into more than 10 pieces, and then they would select one of these pieces of land to cultivate each year (Figure 5.8). The vegetation would be slashed and burned to plant crops, and the land would then be abandoned after one year of cropping.This was classical rotational shifting cultivation at its purest. Mixed rotation was a supplementary type, if villagers did not have a big enough resource of forest land. In this situation, villagers would slash and burn one piece of land and plant crops for two to five years, before leaving it fallow. Mixed rotation also included hoeing and ploughing.

FIGURE 5.8 

A freshly burnt plot for rotational shifting cultivation with a village in the background (2000)

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Classification by lifestyle

This could be divided into a migratory style, migrating within a fixed area, or settled living. Classification according to crop differentiation

This could be divided into upland-rice cultivation and the cropping of miscellaneous cereals (Figures 5.9 and 5.10). For centuries ethnic minorities in the southwest of Yunnan province had successfully domesticated and cultivated more than 100 varieties of upland rice and other crops for their subsistence livelihood. According to my studies, in 1980 there were 74 varieties of upland rice, and another 10 kinds of crops. At the same time, in northwest Yunnan, people also planted corn, wheat, buckwheat, millet, broomcorn, potatoes, taro, and so on. Crop biodiversity was very rich. Social organization and land tenure Social organization

FIGURE 5.9 

Upland-rice cultivation in a southern mountain area of Yunnan (2000)

Before 1950, traditional societies consisted of many clans (Figure 5.11). The village leader was the head of clans, and was not only the leader, but also the organizer and coordinator for production and religious activities. After 1950, the village leader became successively the head of the production team and head of the people’s commune. Today he or she is simply the village head. Land Tenure

FIGURE 5.10 

Fifty years earlier, corn was the main crop planted in northwest Yunnan (1950s)

In traditional societies, land was publicly owned by the clans. Clan members did not have ownership of the land they farmed – merely the right to use it. At the same time, in some villages, publicly owned land was privatized. After 1950, all land was declared stateowned and the right to use it passed to the production team

Chapter 5. Shifting cultivation and its changes  129

or the villagers’ group. In 1980, the government implemented a family-contract responsibility system, and for the first time, individual villagers gained usufruct rights to their farmland (Figure 5.12). Farming ceremonies

Most of the ethnic minorities living in mountainous areas are animists. They believe that there are ghosts everywhere, so they worship every imaginable natural god. In order to carry out village or swidden activities successfully, villagers organize religious ceremonies and rituals for everything from forging iron to cutting down trees, burning slashed vegetation, sowing, praying for rain, avoiding disasters, eating new rice, storing food and so on. Ecology of shifting cultivation

FIGURE 5.11 

A big family clan of Dulong people

(1950)

FIGURE 5.12 

Jinuo people pause in their swidden activities to eat a midday meal.The Jinuo collectively slash and burn new land for rotational farming after every household signs a contract to plant crops (2000)

Cutting down trees, burning the forest, cultivating the land, sowing and harvesting in fact represent the transformation of solar energy stored in the forest to food energy. Hunting, gathering and planting crops form the basic structure of shifting cultivation. These three factors are ecologically complementary. They can completely satisfy the needs of farming communities. However, the rotation regulation must be strictly followed if the farmers are to achieve sustainable use of their land. In order to realize forest recovery, classical rotation should be used wherever possible, to avoid the loss of land fertility and destruction of tree roots. If classical rotation is not possible, then mixed cropping can be employed, with longer cropping periods, as long as agroforestry is combined with rotational cropping as an effective means of avoiding disaster and saving the land. Indigenous knowledge of land classification, diverse crops and varieties and suitable farming techniques are well organized and used by villagers to maintain a virtuous

130  Yin

circle of food production. Social organization, land tenure, tradition and farming customs have not only been refined over centuries for optimum food production, but are also effective mechanisms to guarantee that the entire system of shifting cultivation will be sustainable. Systematic research method: Composite ecological analysis and integration of shifting cultivation

The ultimate scope of shifting cultivation, from mountainside swiddens to the modern system of global markets, forms a perfect ecological system, in a series of related parts. • • • • • •

Cutting and burning trees, sowing and harvesting release an energy flow and a transformation of materials. This forms the first stage of the ecological system. The rotational cycle, consisting of cropping land and fallow land, forms the second stage of the ecological system. Grain production, gathering of non-timber forest products and hunting form the third stage of the ecological system. Social organization, land tenure, tradition and custom, together with the first, second and third stages of the ecological system, form the fourth stage. The authority of the state, its policies and regulations, together with the first four stages of the ecosystem, form the fifth stage. Globalization and the market economy, together with the first five stages, finally integrate the entire composite ecosystem.

Based on the above analysis, we can see that shifting cultivation is a complex and composite ecosystem made up of many stages. Using a systematic method to analyse its structure and function can help us to understand the ecological essence and cultural meaning of shifting cultivation and the dynamic changes that are taking place within it. However, the orderly circulation and structural balance of the composite ecosystem depend heavily on coordination among all of the factors contributing to the ecosystem. Any change that affects any one of these factors directly causes an imbalance within the ecosystem. Main causes of change The ideology of the state

Shifting cultivation is regarded as the productive force of a primitive society. In China, we use advanced productive forces to replace primitive ones; there is only one direction: beyond the primitive society towards a socialist society.

Chapter 5. Shifting cultivation and its changes  131

Government policies

In order to achieve change and replace shifting cultivation, the central government has implemented a number of policies, laws and regulations to forbid shifting cultivation. Social reform

The state has implemented a socialist transformation by using its administrative system to replace traditional social organization and cultural systems. As a result, traditional production and living systems have lost their balance. Population growth

Over the past 60 years, the population of ethnic minorities living in mountainous areas of Yunnan province has tripled. The external population is also increasing every year. The relationship between the population and use of the land has become uneasy, so it is difficult for minority groups to continue practising shifting cultivation. Market economy

Along with reforms and liberalising policies, China’s central government is paying close attention to developing the market economy around the country. In order to pursue their economic interests, most ethnicminority groups have been

FIGURE 5.14  Tea

FIGURE 5.13 

Pursuit of the market economy involved planting sugar cane in the 1980s

became popular as an alternative crop (1990)

FIGURE 5.15  Mule trains delivered fruit from former swiddens to lowland markets (2000)

132  Yin

5.16 The same slash-and-burn FIGURE 5.17  The government’s resettlement process spread the landscape with rubber policy, aimed at alleviating poverty, saw (1990) villagers resettled in new townships, huddled beneath their former lofty territories (2000) FIGURE

eagerly planting rubber and other cash trees such as tea and various fruits. As a result, shifting cultivation is disappearing quickly. Conclusions

Some academic and social points of view on shifting cultivation, in both Yunnan province and other tropical mountain areas, are erroneous and biased.They unilaterally adopt the belief that shifting cultivation is primitive agriculture and a backward practice, and that villagers are forest destroyers. Following many years of field studies, I am of the view that every livelihood type reflects very well the adjustments made by indigenous communities to adapt to their ecological and living environments. There is no purely cultural type of shifting cultivation that has evolved separately from its outside environment. Every livelihood type created by human beings, even the simplest and most extensive of them, reflects long-term cultural adaptation. Accordingly, we should pay close attention to the rich eco-cultural factors that surround every livelihood type, which have helped to create indigenous knowledge. As a precious cultural heritage, the indigenous knowledge of ethnic minorities is at least worthy of further exploration, inheritance and development. On one hand, cultural adaptation is a stable element. On the other, it reflects a continuous process of adjustment. If there are external changes to an ecological and social environment as well as internal population growth and resource shortage, then cultural adaptation will forge definite and permanent changes. Led by both the state and the market, shifting cultivation in Yunnan province is transforming rapidly. These changes are occurring at the expense of lost indigenous knowledge and new environmental problems. As a result, it will be an endless and difficult time before we can rebuild the culture and harmony that once existed between human beings and nature.

Chapter 5. Shifting cultivation and its changes  133

In China, old cultural views have serious disadvantages, because they are based on the central-plains culture of the Han-Chinese majority. We must now seek cultural relativity and emphasize the significance of cultural diversity. Based on this case study, it can be seen that in the context of globalization, along with the break down of closed and semi-closed social screening, ecological anthropology focused on cultural adaptation can no longer encompass current situations. In future we should consider other factors, such as politics, rights and the market for ecological research, using anthropological methodology. Reference Nakao, S. (1966) Saibai Shokubutsu To Nōkō No Kigen, Iwanami Shoten, Tokyo (Japanese language)

Note 1 All photographs in this chapter were taken by the author, Shaoting Yin.

6 SWIDDENERS AT THE END OF THE FRONTIER Fifty years of globalization in northern Thailand, 19632013 Peter Kunstadter* Introduction

Fifty years ago, during the early months of the year, the sky in northern Thailand became increasingly hazy between late January and April or May, when early rains cleared the air. Smoke concentrated and hung in the north-south valleys and in smaller tributary valleys in the hills because of temperature inversions and lack of strong winds. ‘Hilltribes’ (members of ethnic minorities), from India to Vietnam, were blamed for fouling the air by cutting, clearing and burning the forest for their swidden fields, and for causing erosion and floods. To some extent this was true. Highland swidden farmers did cut and burn forest vegetation. But lowlanders also burned the vegetation in the hills to encourage new grass to grow and to reduce the risks from snakes where they grazed their livestock, and also burned their rice straw to scatter the ashes for fertilizer on their irrigated fields, and sometimes they cleared and burned forest to plant upland crops. Nonetheless, ‘It’s the poor (highlanders) wot gets the blame’. As decades passed, public health activities spread and death rates declined. Populations increased, first in the lowlands, and then the highlands and consumptionbased economies grew. Urban pollution from tens of thousands of motor vehicles and burning of rubbish (including increasing numbers of plastic bags, which replaced leaves as ubiquitous wrappers for all kinds of food), power generation and ceramic factories using low-quality fuels, added to the smog of the lowlands. Smoke plumes

* 

Dr Peter Kunstadter, who recently retired as Professor of Medical Anthropology at the University of California, San Francisco, is a pioneering figure in studies of shifting cultivators in Southeast Asia, especially northern Thailand. He has worked in northern Thailand since 1963 on a number of ethnographic, demographic and epidemiological studies, primarily among highland minorities, in collaboration with several Thai universities. He was lead editor and a major contributor to the 1978 classic Farmers in the Forest: Economic Development and Marginal Agriculture in Northern Thailand (East-West Center, University Press of Hawaii, Honolulu).

Chapter 6. Swiddeners at the end of the frontier  135

of dry-season Southeast Asia could be traced far across the Pacific. ‘Hilltribes’ are still blamed for air pollution, floods, erosion and ‘forest destruction’, regardless of how conservative their field-rotation systems might be, even after the total area under swidden (so-called ‘slash-and-burn’) farming by highlanders has been greatly reduced by government edicts and enforcement. Meanwhile, vast lowland and foothill areas in the northeast, southeast, west and south of Thailand, and in Lao PDR and Burma have been cleared by small-scale farmers and giant corporations to cultivate cash crops for sale on global markets. Smog is a metaphor for what has happened to highlanders in the last half century, sometimes obscured and polluted by lowlanders for their own purposes. Concepts and theories

His Majesty King Bhumibol Adulyadej of Thailand developed the ‘Philosophy of the Sufficiency Economy’ to lead his people to a balanced way of life and to be the country’s main theory of sustainable development. The philosophy is based on a ‘middle path’ between society at the local level and the global market. By highlighting a balanced approach, the philosophy allows the Kingdom to modernize without resisting globalization, and provides a means to counteract negative outcomes from rapid economic and cultural transitions (UNEP RRCAP/UN ESCAP, 2006). To what extent have swidden farmers ever approached this ideal, and to what extent do they do so now? How do the changes in Thailand relate to policies regarding development of economically and socially ‘marginal’ populations elsewhere in the world? There were no real swiddeners in the American West, but the idea of ‘economically developing’ a market economy to ‘civilize’ people (both European settlers and native Americans) was similar in many ways to the situation described by historian Frederick Jackson Turner, in his seminal essay ‘The Significance of the Frontier in American History’, in which ‘civilization’ overcomes ‘savagery’ as settled agriculture replaces more extractive economies such as hunting and mining (Turner, 1893). Tribes with settled agriculture, such as the Mandan of the Missouri and Mississippi flood plains, were not featured in Turner’s analysis. In another model, closer to Thailand, Edmund R. Leach told how highland animist Kachin swiddeners in northern Burma became lowland ‘civilized’, settled, irrigatedrice-farming Buddhist Shan in the 1930s (Leach, 1954). To what extent do any of these models contribute to an understanding of the changes among lowland, hill and highland swiddeners who were affected by globalization and ‘civilizing’ influences in Thailand in the second half of the 20th century? In what follows, I describe the situation of Lua’ (or Levüa’) swidden farmers of Pa Pae village in northern Thailand in 1963 and compare them with other highland and lowland swiddeners in the 1960s and over the following 50 years. Several external factors, as well as internal demographic and cultural factors, are of primary

136  Kunstadter

importance in ‘settling’, ‘civilizing’ and ‘globalizing’ swiddeners. These include international politics, population growth and migration, competing interests in both Thai and international societies, tailoring highland products to local environments, development of markets for highland products, farm-to-market roads and some general or local technological factors. Definition and scope

By ‘swiddeners’ I refer to people who derive their primary livelihood from cyclically or repeatedly cutting forest, bushy or grassy fallow vegetation and cyclically burning the accumulated, naturally regenerated biomass to plant and harvest crops for a relatively short time, compared with the time they leave the land fallow. Their multiyear fallow contrasts with the cold- or dry-season fallow or multi-cropping practised by farmers who plant crops annually or more frequently on permanent fields. Swiddening also differs from horticulture, in which bush or tree crops cover the land for many years, or forestry, in which the main crop is trees. Agroforestry, under several names such as taungya, combines horticulture or forestry with agriculture, allowing farmers to plant crops in the few years after trees have been planted, but only until tree cover shades out the farm crops. Using this definition of swiddening, it is clear that large numbers of lowlanders in northern and northeastern Thailand could be classified as swiddeners, whether their practices were designed to be continuing and self-sustaining, or were only a stage in eventually clearing land for repeated annual or multi-crop cultivation (Judd, 1977; Chapman, 1978). ‘Seen one, ya’ seen ‘em all’? Yes and No: ethnic and geographic differences

In what follows, I describe policies in the Thai highlands in general, and their application in the ethnic-Lua’ village of Pa Pae, in Mae Sariang district, Mae Hong Son province, in northwest Thailand in 1963, and I outline demographic, economic, land-use, environmental and cultural changes in response to governmental and other programmes and pressures in the intervening years (Figure 6.1). I make some comparative comments about Hmong and Lahu ethnic-minority highlanders in northern Thailand and some about the ethnic-majority Thai dry-land farmers in Thailand’s north and northeast. All of these people were, to some extent, swiddeners in the 1960s, but each group had different traditional kinship- and village-based settlement patterns, land-use systems, economies, social organizations, languages and religions, and different traditional relationships with the dominant social-politicaleconomic structure. Different groups have followed somewhat different paths of ‘development’ and ‘globalization’ over the past 50 years. They have ended up with many socio-economic similarities, while preserving some cultural differences. I should note that the numbers of ethnic-Thai lowlanders in the north, northeast, southeast and west of Thailand, and the area of forest-covered land that they have cleared and

Chapter 6. Swiddeners at the end of the frontier  137

FIGURE 6.1 

Location of Pa Pae village, with today’s modern highway passing through the town of Mae Sariang

use, are much greater than the numbers of hill and highland ethnic minorities, and the area of land used for swiddens by these minorities.1 Fifty years ago, we were taught the conventional, static and inaccurate ‘layer-cake’ description of highland populations in Thailand, which had also been applied to describe ethnic distributions in Laos. The majority Thai lived in permanent irrigated-rice settlements in the valleys on the bottom layer and practised irrigated rice farming. The Lua’ were the autochthonous population in the lowlands of northern Thailand, but fewer than 10,000 of them had survived in long-settled ‘traditional’ swiddening villages in the lower-hill elevations. In 1963 they shared this environment, somewhat uneasily, with Karen, the largest highland ethnic minority, who began migrating to Thailand from Burma (now known as Myanmar) 350 or so years ago (Renard, 1980). The expanding Karen population, defying the layer-cake model, also lived in permanently settled lowland villages growing irrigated rice, in permanent swiddening villages at lower-hill elevations, and at higher elevations where they grew opium in addition to subsistence crops. Other large ethnic-minority groups, including Hmong, Mien, Lahu, Lisu and Akha, began to arrive in northern Thailand from Burma, Laos and China in the late 1800s and formed the top layer at higher elevations. They were subsistence swiddeners, and some also grew opium as a cash crop and for home consumption. They generally moved into higher elevations, where the land was not yet occupied,

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and because they wanted land that was suited for growing opium because of soil, temperature and moisture conditions and remoteness from government authorities. These latter groups lived in communities that either moved or split generally southward, usually in response to land shortage as soil became exhausted or their local populations increased. Communities of Karen, who are usually thought of as lowland, or foothill farmers, were also sometimes found growing opium at these higher elevations (Crooker, 1988). By the 1960s, these groups already had long histories of changes and adaptations in use of land. For example, Hmong, Lahu and other relatively recently arrived highlanders depended heavily on maize, a New World crop, for subsistence and animal feed. Many Hmong (Lee, 2005) and Mien in China had to adapt to life as swiddeners in the highlands after being pushed southward out of their lowland settlements by southwestern expansion of the Han Chinese population. Leach (1954) showed that for Kachin in Burma these kinds of geographic-ethnic ‘layers’ were permeable: the populations were not necessarily permanently attached either to their ‘traditional’ environments and lifestyles or to their ethnic identities and cultures. In Thailand in the 1960s Lua’ and Karen had settlements in both the lowlands and in the hills. Similar transformations to those of the Kachin had taken place both in situ among Lua’ settlements in the lowlands and for some Lua’ who moved out of the hills, while Karen in the lowlands, at least those along the Burma border, tended to retain their ethnic identity even in close proximity to northern Thai communities. As discussed below, Leach’s model also does not hold for some other ethnic groups of highland minorities, either in 1963, or during a period of unprecedented changes and involvement of highlanders in the larger society of Thailand in the past half century. Some history: International and national politics and policy objectives with respect to highland minorities

For hundreds of years, the western highlands of what is now the north of Thailand and their non-ethnic-Thai (‘hilltribe’) occupants, served as more or less successful intermediaries and buffers between the ethnic-Thai lowland states and invaders of various ethnicities from what is now Myanmar (Burma). Lua’ villagers, for example, had to consolidate and fortify their villages as the first line of defence against ‘Red Karen’ (Karenni) invading from the west in the early 1800s, and they often served as porters in cross-border trade between Burma and northern Thailand (e.g. Hallett, 1890). Before the RoyalThai Government assumed control over the northern principalities in the 1890s, animist, non-literate highland Lua’ villagers had feudal relationships with literate, city-dwelling lowland Buddhist northern Thai princes. The rights of villagers were documented in writing on silver plates given to individual villages by the princes (Nimmanahaeminda, 1965). The princes recognized the rights of Lua’ villagers to self-government and to manage their traditionally used lands in exchange

Chapter 6. Swiddeners at the end of the frontier  139

for payment of an annual tribute, which included roofing straw, orchids and other forest products. The Royal Thai Government took control of what had been semi-independent northern Thai principalities in the late 1880s to prevent the area from being acquired by the British or French colonial powers expanding out of Burma and Laos. In doing so, the Thais gained partial control over the international teak trade, which had been dominated by British companies often using Shan workers from Burma or Khmu’ labourers from Laos. The Royal Forest Department (RFD) assumed ownership of all of the highlands, ignoring the previous feudal relationships between the princes and highland communities. The highlanders remained relatively unaffected by these changes until the latter part of the 20th century. The Japanese Army passed through the north of Thailand on its way to Burma during World War Two, and used Lua’ and other highlanders as corvée labour to build the first road from Chiang Mai across the highlands to Mae Hong Son. This invasion had little immediate or long-lasting effect on the way of life of the highlanders. ‘Everybody wants to get into the act’: Post-World War Two Thai Government, bilateral and international policies with respect to the highlands

Official Thai Government interest in highland minority communities began in 1951, following the take-over of the Chinese mainland by the communists, and their covert support of communists within Thailand. Highland minorities became recruiting grounds for both sides in the Cold War. For at least the first 40 years thereafter, national strategic objectives in the highlands were focused first on security and then on the closely related eradication of opium-poppy cultivation because highland minority populations and the mountain areas in which they lived were perceived by both Thai and anti-Communist bloc countries as potential or actual trouble spots. Overt foreign aid from the United States, Western Europe and Australia supported these objectives throughout the period of the Cold War, with more welfare-oriented objectives sometimes used to aid (or cloak) counter-insurgency programmes. In 1959 the government established the National Committee for the Hill Tribes as the first national-level organization in charge of formulating policies focusing on hill tribe development.To date, the government policy towards the hill tribes is based on the Cabinet resolution of 6 July 1976. The resolution states the government’s intention to integrate hill tribe people into the Thai state as selfreliant Thai citizens. In addition, the Master Plan on Community Development, Environment and Narcotic Crop Control in Highland Areas provides the basis for the government’s support of hill tribe people, with emphasis on natural resource conservation in highland development. (FAO, 2002) Armed conflicts in the highlands, primarily involving Hmong, escalated as Thailand became a member of the Southeast Asia Treaty Organization (SEATO) and allied

140  Kunstadter

itself with the United States during the war in Vietnam, and continued for a decade thereafter (CIA, 1968; Bartlett, 1973; Kislenko, 2004). In the 1960s and 1970s tourists were warned to stay out of the hills and all highlanders were often referred to (incorrectly) as ‘Red Communist Hmong’ (maeo daeng kommunit). By 2013 this conflict, which drew attention and funding for the ‘development’ of the previously remote highlands, was largely forgotten as thousands of tourists were encouraged to ply the northern hills. The most important Thai government and quasi-governmental activities in the highlands over the past 50 years began with national defence (with considerable involvement of United States agencies) and control of infectious diseases (with participation of the World Health Organization). These activities eventually led to exploitation (by national and international corporations), protection of natural resources and suppression of opium cultivation (with support from the United Nations, United States,Australian and other bilateral and non-governmental agencies) and socio-economic development (with considerable participation from United Nations, bilateral and non-governmental agencies). As of 2002, at least 11 Thai government ministries (Interior; Social Development and Human Security; Defence; Public Health; Education; University Affairs; Agriculture and Cooperatives; Science, Technology and Energy; Finance; Communication; and Industry, as well as the Office of the Prime Minister) were involved in the highlands. Under these ministries, 31 departments and 168 agencies had mandates or commitments to support highland minority communities under the National Economic and Social Development Plan and the Master Plan on Community Development, Environment and Narcotic Crop Control in Highland Areas. The major departments and agencies involved included the Border Patrol Police (BPP); Department of Local Administration; Ministry of Agriculture and Cooperatives; Ministry of Public Health; Office of National Security Council; Office of the Narcotics Control Board; Royal Forest Department (RFD); Welfare Department; Royal Projects; the Royal Thai Army; and many non-governmental organizations. The Lua’ villagers of Pa Pae were not involved in insurgency or in formal counter-insurgency programmes, but were affected by many welfare and development activities. Following World War Two, various interrelated security, economic, environmental and social policies had several objectives, while incorporating highland minorities in a modern nation to replace feudalism: • • •

Stopping a smallpox epidemic (1945-1946). Controlling malaria (beginning in the 1950s), and eventually providing other health services. Maintaining national security against outside threats, including suppression of communists from Laos and China in Thailand’s northern-highland border areas during the Vietnam War and for a period thereafter, and guarding western borders against intrusions by Burmese minority armies.

Chapter 6. Swiddeners at the end of the frontier  141

• •

• • • •

Settling communities of highlanders permanently, starting in about 1960, to improve access and control for administration and to provide government services or to isolate them from insurgents. Maintaining internal security from home-grown ‘communists’. These included students who fled to the highlands following a violent authoritarian coup in 1976. Some of these joined forces with highlanders fighting to protect their traditionally used lands (Morell and Samudavanija, 1979). Stopping shifting cultivation and encouraging permanent field cultivation in order to halt forest destruction, reduce erosion and ease danger from flooding. Stopping opium production through crop substitution (beginning in the late 1960s) as well as by opium-crop destruction (beginning officially in the late 1980s). Improving the economic and living conditions of the highlanders. Assisting highlanders to ‘become Thai’ by providing education in the Thai language and customs and official identification cards (while maintaining the outward appearance of cultural distinctiveness to aid tourism).

Controlling infectious diseases

Vaccination was introduced to Thailand in 1840 by American missionary Dan Beach Bradley, and became compulsory by law in 1913. However, a vaccination campaign to control a widespread and high-mortality smallpox epidemic in 1945 and 1946, at the end of World War Two, was the first government health activity directly affecting highlanders (author’s fieldnotes; WHO, 1978; Thongcharoen, 1988). Starting in the 1950s, teams from the malaria division of the Ministry of Public Health attempted to map every household in every village in the Kingdom, to spray the interior of each household with residual insecticides (mostly DDT), and to presumptively treat every ‘fever case’ with Chloroquine. By the early 1960s, spray teams had repeatedly visited and sprayed houses in Pa Pae. There were no active malaria cases and malaria was not being transmitted within the village. The only malaria cases in the village were among people who had gone to trade across the border in Burma, where malaria remained uncontrolled. National security

One major objective of Thai policies in the highlands, especially in the 1960s and 1970s, was to ‘secure’ the highland minorities against insurgency, and to defeat insurgency where it existed. Initially, armed force was used against active insurgents, but after the failure of these efforts the Thai authorities turned to ‘liberalization’ and ‘democratization’ (Bunbongkarn, 2004) to win the loyalty of insurgent highlanders (most frequently ethnic Hmong). This policy is usually attributed to General Saiyud Kerdphol, who was Supreme Commander of the Royal Thai Armed Forces from October 1981 to September 1983. Government authorities acted to ensure that the

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various non-Thai ethnic communities took on at least minimal Thai characteristics, including Thai names,Thai language ability, and loyalty to the King and the Kingdom. Compared with United States policies and the bloody military conflict with many groups of native Americans during the ‘settlement of the West’, Thai policies and practices in the highlands were relatively benign, but also had a dark and undemocratic side (Bowie, 1997). After 1945, and especially after the communist take-over of the Chinese mainland, northern Thailand became a focus for international attention as a relatively quiet Cold War battlefield. Remnants of the Kuomintang (Nationalist Chinese) army were encouraged to settle in the highlands along the borders of Tak, Mae Hong Son, Chiang Mai and Chiang Rai provinces, often in close relationships with groups traditionally considered as ethnic-minority highlanders (Mote, 1967). In the 1960s and 1970s these Kuomintang survivors were often alleged to be involved in the opium trade. Compared with traditional ethnic minorities, these mostly Yunnanese Chinese (often incorrectly labelled Chin Haw) built close political and economic ties with Thai politicians and often enjoyed special privileges in terms of rapid acquisition of citizenship, possibly to the commercial benefit of both sides. As of 2013, Chinese from Burma and China continued to move into these communities and from there into the urban lowlands. After the 1962 military take-over of the Burmese government and the expulsion of almost all foreigners from Burma, the western border areas of Thailand, including the northern highlands, began to receive large numbers of ethnic-minority refugees as a result of warfare between the ethnic groups and the Burmese government. Many of these people joined their ethnic relatives in Thailand. Many refugees and nonrefugee members of highland minorities were supported and given development assistance by foreign (often American) Christian missionaries who were expelled from Burma in 1962, or who had been forced to leave by the People’s Republic of China after 1948.2 Ever since 1962, the border between Thailand and Burma has been the site of occasional military incursions by the Burmese army, in pursuit of members of one or another ethnic-minority group against which they were making war. Lua’ in Pa Pae village were far from the Lao border, and unaffected by incursions from Burma, and thus were spared the direct effects of both insurgency and counterinsurgency. Permanent settlement of ‘nomadic hilltribes’ and ambiguities of land title

The policy of resettling to control, ‘civilize’ or pacify ethnic minorities has a long history in northern Thailand, going back at least to the turn of the 18th century, when the northern Thai leader, Chao Kawila, resettled Karen and other ethnic minorities in and around Chiang Mai to assist in repelling and resisting further incursions by Burmese invaders after the Burmese had sacked Chiang Mai (Renard, 1980).

Chapter 6. Swiddeners at the end of the frontier  143

As mentioned, the Thai government did not recognize feudal grants from northern Thai princes to Lua’ villages (including Pa Pae), which gave the villages the right to self-government and use of land in exchange for annual payment of tribute. Nor did the government recognize land rights for other highland groups, such as Hmong, which did not have permanent settlements. By comparison, when the US government took control of what is now the State of New Mexico, it did recognize 300-year-old titles that had been granted by the Spanish to the irrigated-farming, permanently settled, town-dwelling Pueblos. But it pursued aggressive warfare to ‘settle and civilize’ (and often relocate and economically transform) the ‘less civilized’ Apaches and Navahos, whose settlements were dispersed and whose economy was based on rain-fed farming, herding, hunting and gathering (and raiding) rather than on permanent-field, irrigated agriculture. In Thailand, many long-settled highland communities and populations were allowed to stay in place. The Thai government did not move long-settled Lua’ or Karen communities, but it has never recognized their claims to land they traditionally occupied and used. This non-recognition contrasts with several pathways to legal title by which lowland (mostly ethnic-Thai) farmers can claim ‘un-owned’ land (Ratanakon, 1978). Starting around 1960, several Thai government agencies, including the Army, the Ministry of the Interior’s Department of Public Welfare, the Border Patrol Police, the RFD and Royal Projects (Krongkan Luang) took responsibility for substantial numbers of ‘nomadic’ highlanders who were resettled to places where they could be more closely administered, where normal government services could be provided, where they had access to motorized transportation and where economic development could be more easily promoted. The Department of Public Welfare launched ‘Hill Tribe Land Settlement Projects’ called nikhom around 1960, and these were eventually recognized under the ‘LandFor-Living Act of BE 2511’ (1968), to ‘resettle’ or stabilize some highland communities in support of a general policy of ‘settling the shifting cultivators’. For example, Lahu people (known in Thai as Musser) were resettled in an area for highland agricultural development called Doi Musser Nikhom, and villages of several ethnic groups were settled in the Mae Chan nikhom, in Chiang Rai province, in about 1960. Some highland communities were moved specifically to prevent or resolve insurgency. The Thai government created very large resettlements at Lom Khao, in Phetchabun province, taking Hmong from higher elevations near the border with Laos and placing them further away from communist influence. There were not many incidents of armed conflict between highlanders and government forces, but there was active fighting between Hmong and Thai government forces along the route of highway construction between Tak and Mae Sot. Government programmes separated Hmong highlanders who ‘rallied’ to the government side from communist insurgents, and settled them in a foothill area south of Mae Sot close to the Burma border in the early 1980s. The government eventually subdivided this land and resettled ‘pacified Hmong communists’ and army veterans in the same area. By the late 1980s, after

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the Tak-Mae Sot road was completed and it was possible to transport farm products to the Bangkok market, this land became highly productive and profitable for the resettled populations. By then, Hmong farmers were contracting large tractors to prepare their annually used fields, making heavy use of pesticides and fertilizers on permanent hillside fields, and hiring migrants from Myanmar as farm labourers to grow cash crops of potatoes, cabbages, maize, cut flowers, citrus fruit, tomatoes and a large variety of vegetables. Many communities from higher elevations were resettled or encouraged to move to lower elevations, into areas where there was no insurgency (and often no good land), commonly under the sponsorship of the Royal Projects. Royal Projects were begun in a number of highland communities in 1969, mainly with activities to support permanent-field cash cropping, opium-crop substitution and marketing of highlander produce and crafts. Current government information says the Royal Projects, introduced by His Majesty the King, involved a comprehensive programme to assist the northern hilltribe people, who were employing unsustainable farming practices. By training the highland community members in the production of various handicrafts, these programmes raised their income and their prospects, as well as benefiting the environment (CAD, 2012). For example, Lahu villagers who were urged to move from the Mae Fa Luang-Doi Tung area in Chiang Rai province (a development area honouring the King’s mother) were moved to Chiang Dao district in Chiang Mai province along with Lisu and Akha from Thailand and Kachin and Lua’ migrants from Burma, starting in the late 1960s. After some Lahu farmers were jailed by the RFD for clearing swiddens, they gained the protection of a Royal Project in a foothill area on the Thai-Burma border in far northern Chiang Dao district, Chiang Mai province. At about the same time, part of the Mae Tho Hmong community (cf. Geddes, 1976) from Mae Chaem district in southwestern Chiang Mai province moved more than 200km to the north, to live in Huai Luek, adjacent to a Royal Project site 20km north of Chiang Dao town, at the urging of the director of the Royal Projects. In these resettled Lahu and Hmong communities, as in the Hmong communities resettled south of Mae Sot, Lahu and Hmong retained their ethnic identity and showed no sign of ‘becoming Thai’. The Royal Projects provided crop research and agricultural advice for permanentfield farming in upland areas. They did not allow rotational swiddening in these settlement areas, where farmers cultivated rain-fed or sprinkler-irrigated fields with heavy inputs of fertilizer and, at least in the past, pesticides. Farmers now use tractors for cultivation where the terrain is suitable, herbicides for weeding where allowed by the Royal Projects, chemical fertilizer to replace forest fallow to renew soil fertility and machinery to aid in harvesting. These technologies greatly reduce the time and need for labour required under traditional systems. Payment to local villagers or to trans-border migrants for their work has generally replaced traditional village-based exchange labour.

Chapter 6. Swiddeners at the end of the frontier  145

Tension continues between highland-development agencies such as the Royal Projects, the populations they serve and the RFD, which claims title to the land on which these activities occur. Whether they still live on traditional sites or have been relocated, highland villagers do not have clear title to the land they use.The land in the project areas belongs to the Royal Forest Department, and the RFD prevents farmers from expanding cultivated fields onto steeper slopes or land at higher elevations covered by forest that has not recently been cleared for swiddens. Control of opium production

Opium-crop suppression and crop substitution (in accord with the UN Office of Narcotics Control Board, the agency that eventually became the Thai Office of Narcotics Control Board, and bilateral assistance including especially the US Drug Enforcement Agency) became a major focus of Thai government policies in the highlands, and of the Royal Projects. Crop substitution, and finally, when road networks, aerial and satellite observation became available, crop destruction with use of military force, has reduced opium production to a small fraction of its traditional level.This occurred mostly between 1998 and 2005. Official figures estimate a decline from about 8777ha cultivated in 1984 to 288ha in 2008 (UNODC, 2008, pp95–96, figs 2, 3). Since that year there has been a slight increase in production, possibly due to the increasing use of modern technology including fertilizer, sprinkler irrigation and, since about 1999, multi-cropping (four to nine crops per year). According to the UNODC report, young people are now the major opium farmers in Thailand. Successful suppression of opium cultivation may have decreased one source of contention between the Thai government and highlander opium producers, but it did not end the health, social and law-enforcement problems associated with narcotics in highland populations, and as with suppression of insurgency and large-scale relocation of highland populations, may have been associated with additional human and environmental problems as well. Miles, for example, argues that use of military force on an opium-producing Mien village and elsewhere had the effect (and possibly the deliberate intent) of permanently destroying all of these villagers’ shifting-cultivation fields (Miles, 2009). Narcotics transportation routes from points of manufacture in Burma frequently pass through or near highland villages. Heroin injection (along with the associated risk of transmitting HIV) was substituted for smoking opium, and use and addiction to heroin and amphetamines spread widely beyond a few old men opium addicts to youth in the highlands as well as in the lowlands. During the Thaksin Shinawatra administration in the early 2000s highlanders were frequently the targets for ‘extra-judicial’ executions because of their alleged participation in the narcotics trade.

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Integration of highland minorities into lowland Thai society and administration

Major efforts to integrate highland minorities into Thai society focused on schools, teaching in the Thai language and extending standard patterns of local administration and government services to ethnic-minority communities. Pa Pae has been recognized as an official administrative village (muban) for many years. By 1963, government authorities knew the locations of Lua’ villages, and malaria teams had sprayed and mapped the location of every house. Village houses had house numbers. Farmers of small irrigated fields in Pa Pae officially registered their fields and received legal title, but traditional village-land boundaries and village or household use and ownership rights were not recognized or registered, despite a government regulation that, for a short period in the 1950s and 1960s, would have allowed villagers to register traditional communal-land boundaries. In the 1990s the area around Pa Pae, including several nearby villages, was designated as an administrative subdistrict (tambon), with the administrative office located in Pa Pae, and a Pa Pae villager was named as the subdistrict civil-service administrator (kamnan). Highlanders now participate actively and hold leadership positions in some subdistrict (tambon) administrative committees (known as aw baw taw), giving them some ability to control local budgets and development projects. Highlanders also take a more active role in protecting their own interests and preserving their identities in organizations such as the Inter Mountain People’s Education and Culture in Thailand Association (IMPECT) and the Hmong National Development Association. Some of these organizations have external support (e.g. the Forest People’s Programme, an international NGO supporting forest peoples’ rights), international links to other branches of their ethnic groups and members who participate in international nativepeoples’ activities. ‘Nomadic hilltribes’ were not counted in early national censuses, but highlanders were eventually counted, albeit incompletely, by the Welfare Department (e.g., Department of Social Development and Welfare, 2002). Pa Pae villagers were summoned to the district office, photographed and given Thai ID cards in the late 1960s. It is the responsibility of villagers themselves, and of village headmen, to see that the membership of each household, and changes in household membership by marriages, births, deaths and moves into and out of households are reported promptly to the district office and recorded on household registration forms (tabian ban). These documents, and their accuracy, have become especially relevant in recent years, when paths to citizenship are regulated, citizenship records are computerized, individual identification cards contain computer chips and agencies use the ID cards to determine eligibility for government services and employment. Some members of other highland ethnic-minority groups who live on or near the borders, as well as recent migrants from Burma and their children, receive ID cards of a different category. They are not considered citizens, even if born in Thailand, because of local interpretation of citizenship regulations (and possibly prejudice and discrimination), or because their citizenship was revoked as a result of ‘disloyalty’

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(Lee, 1987). Thai citizens are allowed to travel freely within the Kingdom, move their legal place of residence, vote in elections and own land, go to government schools and universities, hold government and other jobs without a work permit and avail themselves of free or low-cost services from government health facilities. These rights and privileges are not accorded to some categories of non-citizens and their children, creating a lingering problem of semi-stateless people, most of whom are members of highland ethnic minorities. The number of highland minority people without citizenship is increasing rapidly because of the migration of large numbers of highland minorities from Burma. Gaps and ambiguities remain in the population registration system to the detriment of highlanders. Some highlanders are denied citizenship and government services because they remain unaware of the necessity to register births, marriages and changes of place of residence, or because of local officials’ interpretation of regulations for registration.The customs of some highlanders do not accord with Thai administrative culture. For example, many Lahu marriages last only briefly and most Lahu marriages are never registered. Lahu individuals may neglect to register post-marital changes of a husband’s residence in their matri-local society at the district office, or to list them on household registration forms, and this may complicate matters for children born to these unions. In some communities, for example, those within national forests controlled by the Royal Forest Department, the RFD forbids villagers from registering new households when they split off from old households after marriage. The Border Patrol Police

The Border Patrol Police (BPP) is a force that was founded in the 1950s, with US Central Intelligence Agency support and Royal sponsorship, as a protection against communist influence, mainly from China at the beginning of the Cold War.The BPP, as a quasi-military organization, was designed to circumvent sections of peace treaties between Thailand, England and France at the end of World War Two. These forbade the stationing of troops along Thailand’s borders with what was then colonial Burma, Laos and Malaya.3 Support for the BPP from the US Central Intelligence Agency continued throughout the Cold War era, along with support from the US Drug Enforcement Agency for suppression of opium cultivation and narcotics trafficking. Initial Thai government ‘development’ projects in the highlands often began with BPP-staffed village schools. BPP development activities at Pa Pae eventually included the introduction of small technological improvements such as piped water supplies and fish ponds. Royal Forest Department: ‘Let them eat ...’

In the 1960s, under the supervision of the Royal Forest Department, teak and other valuable hardwoods were extracted from the lowlands and foothill areas of Mae Sariang district, in Mae Hong Son province, on the border with Burma. Logs were

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assembled and dried at the edge of Mae Sariang town and trucked over the dry season road to Chiang Mai for processing and further shipment. Pa Pae villagers were not employed in these activities. The RFD did not involve itself with the land use of Pa Pae village until the 1980s and 1990s, after the Royal Project built a dry-season road to Pa Pae. Consistent with national forestry policies, the RFD began attempting to restrict cutting and burning of the forest for swiddens to only that area that had been cultivated in the previous year, and threatened to arrest and jail anyone who cut or burned vegetation outside of these areas.4 This restricted total land available for cultivation to a small fraction of the total land farmers traditionally used in their swidden cycle, because their rotational system depended on lands lying fallow for lengthy periods to restore soil nutrients. The restriction clearly made it impossible for the traditional rotational subsistence-swidden economy to continue, and forced farmers to use chemical fertilizers and pesticides. Early in the 1960s the RFD experimented with fast-growing pine and eucalyptus, and within a few years cleared and planted large areas of fallow swiddens with pine and eucalyptus trees in Boh Luang, a large old Lua’ village through which the Hot to Mae Sariang highway passed. In the early 1970s, when the experiments expanded to thousands of hectares, I asked a well-informed person what would happen to the villagers whose fields were taken for this purpose. I was told that ‘they could buy rice with the wages they earned working for the RFD’. Workers on the plantations received 5 baht per day, equivalent to US$0.25 at that time, when the local price of rice was about 2 baht per litre. The normal local rate of rice consumption was about 1 litre per adult per day. I was also told that the pine and eucalyptus trees would be used to make paper. At that time the nearest paper mill was several hundred kilometres away, far outside the economic range for transport of the raw material. Commercial forestry for a low-value product like paper, even if it was economical (which this project was not), could support only a low-density population. It appeared that wage work in forestry was not an adequate basis for replacement of even low-yield shifting cultivation. This forestry-development model does not appear to have spread beyond its point of origin, although pine species are being planted in the highlands for lumber, and eucalyptus (sometimes known locally as ‘the green devil’ for its ability to soak up water and suppress all other vegetation) is planted as a commercial crop in many lowland locations as a source of pulp. Along the same highway in the mid- and late 1960s, we saw that ethnic northern Thai farmers, who had been displaced from their lowland irrigated fields near Hot by expansion of the Bhumibol Dam reservoir on the Ping river, had moved their activities to the highlands near Mae Haw’ and were planting cabbages as a cash crop in the swiddens of ethnic Karen highlanders. At such points in the early history of highland economic development, implementation of the land-use policies of the RFD (to protect forests by stopping shifting cultivation) and the Royal Irrigation Department (to develop large multipurpose dams in the major river valleys) were at least implicitly in conflict with the

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political objectives of the King and others, to promote the well-being and win the loyalty of the highlanders. Self-sufficient Lua’ swiddeners in 1963 History and ‘natural’ environment of Pa Pae Lua’ village

The antiquity of shifting and fixed-field agriculture in Thailand is a matter of academic dispute, but archaeological evidence (e.g. Gorman, 1971; Solheim, 1972) and our own surface collections in the Pa Pae village area show that northwestern Thailand’s highlands were occupied (or at least transited) by a sequence of Palaeolithic, Neolithic, Bronze- and Iron-Age peoples over thousands of years. Lua’ highland villagers are representatives of a number of ethnic groups descended from animist, non-Buddhist peoples that predate the Thais in Thailand. These MonKhmer-speaking people are now found in small groups such as the Korwa, Htin, Khmu’, Lamet and Bahnar, scattered from India through northern Burma, Thailand, the Lao PDR and highland Vietnam. Lua’ highlanders trace their descent from the dominant population of much of northern Thailand, including Chiang Mai city, before the arrival of ethnic Thais. Lowland Lua’ villagers, once very numerous in the Ping river valley, have ‘become Thai’ and have been assimilated in situ.5 They are now virtually indistinguishable, except for a few surviving Lua’ rituals, from lowland ethnic northern Thai (khon muang) who are the descendants of various Tai-dialect-speaking people (Tai Khoen, Tai Loe,Tai Yawng and so on) who moved south from southwestern China into what became northern Thailand over the past 700 years or more. In the 1960s, highland Lua’ lived in the rolling hills of Mae Chaem district, in western Chiang Mai province and in the Mae Sariang and Mae La Not districts of Mae Hong Son province, at elevations below 1000 metres (Figure 6.2). Their small, ethnically homogeneous villages depended primarily on swidden farming. The area they still occupy has a southwestern monsoon climate and lies at the eastern edge of the large Burmese rain-shadow dry zone. They lived and cut their swiddens in a mixed evergreen-deciduous forest that their ancestors had extensively modified from the original vegetation through centuries of cycles of swidden cultivation and fallow. By the 1960s, the Lua’ were no longer ‘pioneer’ swiddeners, cutting their fields in old-growth forest. They and their neighbouring highland Karen, when compared with many other groups of highlanders, such as the Hmong, were conservative swiddeners using a subsistence rice-based system with a short cultivation period of one year, followed by a long fallow, ideally of nine years’ duration. In the 1960s, Lua’ swiddeners used only hand tools. They had no machinery, no chemical fertilizers or pesticides and almost no fossil fuels. If the situation that we witnessed in Pa Pae was representative, there was not much soil erosion or gully cutting under traditional swidden systems with low population density. Vegetation appeared to grow back to roughly the same biomass at the end of the fallow as it had when it was cut in the previous cycle, and soil fertility was restored to about the same level

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FIGURE 6.2 

A woman pauses while planting to overlook an ash-covered hillside of swidden plots at Ban Pa Pae in northwestern Thailand, with small irrigated fields in a narrow valley below Photo: Peter Kunstadter (April 1964)

as it had been earlier (Zinke et al., 1978a). The swidden fallow maintained a highly varied species composition including many useful plants, the distribution of which was associated with different stages of fallow (Kunstadter, 1979; Kunstadter et al., 1978). Lua’ villagers kept a few relatively unmodified sacred ‘relic’ forest patches as homes for spirits. These patches were protected from cutting by religious sanctions and had not been cut and burned, or otherwise modified, for many generations. Vegetation and soil in these patches suggested that the original (pre-swidden) environment was moister and denser, with more biomass and greater species diversity than the mature fallows of the Lua’ swidden system, prior to cutting. The ‘natural’ animal species composition and forest biomass had been reduced by generations of human occupation, including elimination of most of the larger animals (e.g. tigers) and larger birds (hornbills) by hunting, especially after the introduction of modern firearms at the time of World War Two and environmental changes associated with human occupation. Lua’ had long raised domestic animals (pigs, chickens, water buffalo, cattle, dogs and cats), which were allowed to roam freely, and these had modified local flora and fauna in many ways. Lua’ agriculture also encouraged the proliferation of species that follow human settlement (e.g. rats). Lua’ villagers reduced river fauna by using traditional methods of fishing – temporarily diverting and draining streams and netting or catching fish hiding under rocks by hand. Many

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aquatic species remained to be harvested year after year with this pattern of use. Village elders reported that in the past they had been able to catch fish that were the size and diameter of their lower arms, but big fish had vanished by the early 1960s. According to the villagers this extinction was a result of visits by malaria teams who cleaned their DDT-spraying equipment in the streams, as well as by increased cultivation by Karen villagers upstream. Boundaries and use-ownership of land

Native Americans in what became the American West established boundaries between households and between groups by custom (sometimes realigned by warfare). Early Spanish settlers gave grants of land and water rights to some settled native Americans who lived in towns with permanent fields (Pueblos), as well as to early Spanish towns, starting in the 1500s.These grants were recognized by Mexico when it gained independence from Spain and by the United States when it took over the area after the Mexican-American War in the mid-1800s.The US reservation system established boundaries for hunting, grazing and farming by non-village-dwelling groups such as the Navahos and Apaches in the late 1800s, usually after defeating them militarily and often consolidating populations and moving them to areas considered marginal for European use. Lua’ customs for regulating use of the land maintained the stability of the swidden system, but allowed enough flexibility for minor changes in population size. Land boundaries established by the Lua’, between and within villages, were customarily very well recognized in pre-literate times, enforced by local leaders and backed by religious sanctions. These customary patterns continued for over half a century after the central Thai government took over the north. Boundary and land-use traditions that were followed in the 1960s included: • •

• •

Villagers carefully fenced the boundaries of their annual village and household swidden fields. Villagers recognized use-ownership by carefully marking the boundaries between swidden fields of different households with logs, the remains of which could be found when the fields were re-cleared and burned. The same boundaries were normally recognized between households’ fields in each cultivation phase of successive swidden cycles. Every adult in the village knew the location of the field boundaries of all other households in the village. Boundaries between households were maintained by religious sanctions.Violation (for example, by taking rice from a neighbouring field) was considered to be an offence against the spirits of the field. The offender was required to pay a fine to the owner of the violated field, as well as paying for a ceremony to mollify the spirits.

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• •

•

•

•

•

Village heads (spirit-worship leaders who were descendants of the village founders) re-allocated land between households in cases of major changes in household size. Uncut or fallow forest was maintained between the lands used by different Lua’ villages. Most boundary disputes involved Karen who encroached on the land between different Lua’ villages, or who cleared secondary forest that was traditionally used by Pa Pae villagers, but was temporarily lying fallow. Boundaries between villages were recognized and violations were settled by negotiations between the leaders of neighbouring villages. This tradition began to break down in the late 1960s as Karen populations and land use expanded in spaces between Lua’ villages. All households in Pa Pae village cleared their swiddens as contiguous fields in one or two coherent blocks. Lua’ villagers did not like to cultivate swiddens in places without adjacent fields cultivated by other Lua’ households from their own village. This sometimes meant that households retreated from, and abandoned their use-ownership of fields where Karen farmers were encroaching. Village elders annually selected the site for the current year’s swidden after tasting the soil (to ensure that it was not tasteless and infertile) and surveying the vegetation to determine that forest vegetation had re-grown sufficiently after the previous harvest on that site to restore its soil fertility. Individual households recognized their spiritual connections to the land in animal-sacrifice ceremonies when planting and harvesting their swiddens and in annual village-wide rituals associated with swidden burning and with unusual events (e.g. lightning strikes in the swiddens).

Customarily, villagers were not supposed to sell or rent their traditional swidden land-use rights or irrigated fields within traditional village boundaries to nonvillage members. However, by the mid-1960s, in violation of this tradition, land was sometimes ‘pawned’ to people in the same or other villages (used as security to borrow money to buy food or opium), and ownership or use rights were sometimes transferred as a result. Traditional, conscious and conservative Lua’ customs included protection of forest vegetation along watercourses and bans on cutting trees on upper slopes and ridge tops to prevent erosion and provide seed sources for re-vegetation of lower slopes. The carefully protected vegetation at the heads and along the banks of streams helped to preserve the sacred forest adjacent to the village. They had religious sanctions to maintain sacred and protected forests, in which cutting for any purpose was customarily prohibited.Violators were fined and also had to conduct a ceremony to appease the offended spirits.

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‘De-civilization’: Non-recognition of traditional boundaries by the Thai government

In contrast with traditional Lua’ concepts of land ownership and land use, the Thai government considered that all highland forested areas were part of the Royal Forest, which it acquired when it took control of the north in the late 1890s. The Thai government did not recognize earlier land grants made to highland villages by northern Thai princes,nor did it recognize or register highlanders’claims to individual or household plots of swidden land.6 The underlying government concept was that land titles were assigned only for continuing permanent land use, for irrigated fields (even if they were constructed out of forest land), gardens or house plots, but not for swiddens, despite a long history of use-ownership. Government officials considered traditional use of land for swidden farming to be a violation of forest regulations, but during the early 1960s, before there were roads and travel was difficult, maps were vague and satellite imagery was not available, the government did nothing to enforce the rules of land ownership in the highlands.7 The RFD was primarily concerned at that time with preventing illegal extraction of valuable trees. Large lumber companies were granted concessions at lower elevations to extract teak and other valuable timber species, but the government considered the felling of valuable species by villagers to be a violation of forest regulations, even for non-commercial construction of houses by villagers for their own use. The government also refused to intervene in land disputes between highland villages when traditional inter-village boundaries were violated in the Pa Pae area in the 1960s, even when both highland and lowland villagers recognized the damage being done to their lands (for instance, by flash floods) and reported the problem to district officials. Moreover, in those years, government authorities failed to act, even against many violations of Thai law in the highlands.8 Crops in the traditional swidden system

Pa Pae villagers had intimate knowledge of the characteristics of each of their crops, and knew the soil, moisture, exposure, slope, hillside elevation and other planting conditions necessary to maximize the growth and productivity of each. Their principal subsistence crop was non-glutinous rice, in many varieties, selected and maintained by individual households over many swidden cycles (Figure 6.3). They also grew several varieties of glutinous rice, but not as a staple. They planted a large variety of vegetables during the main cropping season (after cutting and burning the forest). They made small hand-irrigated vegetable gardens in the dry season.Villagers had seasonal surpluses (e.g. when everyone ate beans from the swiddens or mustard greens every day) and seasonal shortages in the dry season when there were few or no fresh vegetables.9 Villagers cultivated the main crops in their swiddens for only one year, but harvested some cotton and tobacco in the first year of fallow, after principal cultivation had been abandoned. They also collected a large variety of resources

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(medicines, firewood, food, roofing straw, roofing leaves) from various stages of fallow in their swiddens, and from nearby uncut forest (see Kunstadter et al. (1978) for a species list). Seed sources

Each village household selected, collected and conserved its own seeds for replanting, year-to-year. They bought a few seeds for decorative plants, but used their own seeds for all food and fibre crops and species used for ceremonial purposes. Controlling swidden fires encouraging reforestation

and

In the late dry season of every year, when it came time to burn the dried biomass FIGURE 6.3  A Ban Pae couple plant their on the current year’s freshly cleared swidden.The man holds a long-handled, steelswiddens, every village household either tipped dibble stick, with which he makes holes participated or contributed money to for rice seeds. The woman follows behind, hire labour to clear firebreaks around the throwing a few seeds into each hole. Both swiddens. Later, as fire roared through wear traditional home-spun clothing. Photo: Peter Kunstadter (1964) the dry vegetation, they watched for flames escaping into surrounding forest in order to protect both the forested ridge-tops and nearby fallow areas that were the swiddens of future years. They were also wary of damage to village structures from burning brands carried by the wind. As noted, Lua’ villagers deliberately preserved the uncut forest on and below the ridge-tops on the upper boundaries of swidden fields in order to maintain seed sources for reforestation during the fallow period, and to prevent erosion. Farmers aided reforestation of their swiddens by using a short-handled L-shaped knife when weeding their cultivated fields to scrape the stems and foliage of weeds off the soil surface. Deeper cultivation with hoes or other tools could remove the roots of these ‘weeds’ and prevent them from growing to become the first stage of forest succession, as soon as the weeding ceased.10 Domestic animals in the swidden system

Fifty years ago, every household in Pa Pae raised chickens and pigs for domestic consumption, and several households (those with irrigated fields) raised water buffalo

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as draft animals for ploughing.Water buffalo were sometimes killed for ceremonies or (rarely) slaughtered for meat, but were not customarily raised for sale. Pa Pae villagers did not raise cattle, but small numbers of cattle were raised in other villages and were occasionally sold. In those years, Pa Pae villagers thought of cattle as aggressive swidden-crop pests. They sometimes bought cattle for ceremonies requiring largeanimal sacrifices, but this happened only rarely. They knew that extensive grazing by cattle resulted in the loss of Imperata grass, the primary material used for traditional roofing.11 Most households had dogs, and there were a few cats in the village, but the cats died every time malaria teams sprayed the interiors of village houses with residual insecticides, so villagers had to replace their cat populations repeatedly. Pigs and chickens were penned at night, but ran free during the day; water buffaloes were tethered under their owners’ houses at night and taken out during the day to wallow and graze in swidden fallows and the forest. Pigs and dogs were important recyclers of human waste in the time before the village got its first latrines. Villagers knew well the habits of animal pests such as rats, wild pigs and birds, and they tried to exclude, catch or scare them from their fields with carefully constructed fences on swidden borders, a variety of home-made snares and traps, water-powered noise makers, and so on, as well as stationing at least one household member in each field house near harvest time to protect the crops from animal and human predators. Stability and self-sustainability of settlements

Lua’ village sites, including the area around Pa Pae, had been used for hundreds, possibly thousands of years, evidenced by elders’ knowledge of local history and confirmed by our surface collections of Ming-era pottery shards at sites villagers identified by name as previous locations of their village, as well as by Neolithic and Palaeolithic stone tools exposed on the surface of trails or fields. Self-sustainability was maintained by a system of locally produced food, fuel, clothing, shelter, tools and weapons, using local resources and local knowledge, and by animist ceremonies and religious sanctions at household and community levels. The human population was maintained by births from marriages that were usually village-endogamous.12 Village women (Figure 6.4) produced most of the clothing by ginning locally grown cotton, spinning it into yarn and weaving it on back-strap and frame looms. Men produced baskets out of locally collected bamboo and rattan, and made their own bellows to pump air for village blacksmiths to make and repair metal tools. Pa Pae villagers purchased pottery made at Chang Maw, a nearby Lua’ village, but did not make pottery themselves. Items that were not produced locally, and were often purchased from lowland markets in the early 1960s, included: • •

Thread, and occasionally, cotton yarn. Dyes.

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FIGURE 6.4 

Young women of Lua’ (left) and Skaw Karen ethnic minorities in 1964. The Lua’ woman wears a triple-layer sun and rain hat made of leaves, a white cotton head wrap and plastic-pipe plugs in her ear lobes to enlarge the holes for silver ear-rings. She smokes a traditional Lua’-style silver-wrapped pipe. The Skaw Karen woman (right) is married and wears traditional dress, silver ear-rings and commercial glass beads. Photos: Peter Kunstadter

• • • •

• • • • •

Ceramic dishes and a few aluminium cooking pots. Small amounts of kerosene and kerosene-fuelled lamps made of condensed-milk tins (starting in about 1960). Nails (for house construction). Metal plough shares (mounted on wooden ploughs drawn by buffalo for cultivation of irrigated fields), blacksmiths’ anvils and metal-working tools, spring steel from motor vehicles for village-made knives, weeding tools and dibble-stick points. Rubber thong sandals. Non-prescription medicines. Opium (purchased in the highlands by a few addicts and also used as a medicine for diarrhoea and aches and pains). Fermented tea-leaves (miang). Salt (iodized salt was made available by government health authorities in the early 1960s to counter the widespread prevalence of goitre in the highlands).

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Apart from the metal tools, villagers could have survived, if necessary, without most of these external products. After about 1960, Pa Pae village parents also faced the costs of sending their children to the local Border Patrol Police school. This required parents to purchase school uniforms and school supplies, and became one of the main reasons villagers required cash income. Sources, uses and forms of money in the 1960s Successes and failures in the local economy

In the 1960s there were no crops in the village for generating cash income. Rarely, villagers sold surplus pigs or foot-pounded rice in order to get cash required for market purchases. They used cash within the village to buy locally produced rice liquor, to pay the household’s share of the cost of an animal for a village-wide ceremony, to buy meat when someone slaughtered a large pig, or to pay one day’s wages (10 baht) as the household’s contribution of one day’s labour for village-wide tasks such as clearing firebreaks around swiddens, in lieu of actually taking part, for bride price, and rarely for making merit in Buddhist ceremonies in the lowlands. Occasionally, villagers used money when someone came through the community selling something, such as miang or wild pig meat. There was no market for locally produced crafts, and there was no income from trekking or tourism, which only became hugely popular in the 1990s (a Google search now retrieves about 11,500,000 results under ‘Thailand trekking’). In 2013 Pa Pae households hosted foreign tourists as well as regular seasonal visitors from Bangkok who made merit (thod kathin) by contributing to the construction and maintenance of a large Buddhist temple. There was also no wage labour in Pa Pae in the 1960s. Mobilization of labour at times of intensive agricultural work for planting and harvesting was based on reciprocal exchanges of labour between village households.13 Self-sustainability at the level I saw in the early 1960s also depended, for a small number of young men, on the availability of cash income from wage work in mines at Baw Kaeo (Chiang Mai province) or Mae Ramat (Tak province). Bachelors (and their families) needed cash to pay the bride price traditionally required for marriage. Part of the bride price had to be paid in silver coinage: British-Indian colonial silver rupees (ngoen thaep) or ancient Thai coins (ngoen hi ma). By the 1960s, most Pa Pae villagers were too poor to own or buy silver coinage, so the few coins held by different village families were customarily borrowed by the groom for temporary display at weddings, and then returned to their owners. This tradition and a few locally woven cloth money belts (used in the past for transporting Indian rupees), together with circulation of Thai paper money, suggested that, along with most of the rest of the world, Pa Pae had moved away from the national and international metal-coinage standard that prevailed into the 1930s. It may also have implied a decline in living standards relative to the lowlands.

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Variations in self-sustainability within the village and response to economic failure

Individual households that were unable to keep up with the normal expenses of village life, or were unable to survive at a subsistence level, usually because they did not have enough able-bodied adult members to carry out the essential tasks of highland-village life, could survive by moving temporarily to the lowlands around Mae Sariang and working as farm labourers. The same safety net was used in cases of widespread economic need, such as resulted from destruction by fire of many of the village households’ rice crop soon after harvest, when numbers of families headed for the lowlands. Some of these individuals or households remained settled in Ban Phae’, a predominantly Lua’ community on the northeastern edge of Mae Sariang town. Long-term Lua’ residents in the lowlands took on many characteristics of lowland ethnic Thais, including daily use of Thai language and more direct involvement in Buddhist activities. Some of them converted to Christianity and received support for education and health care from local missionaries. When this lowland ‘economic refugee’ Lua’ community became larger, the residents were more likely to be able to retain their language and ethnic identity rather than ‘become Thai’.14 In the early 1960s, there were no villagers from Pa Pae working in Chiang Mai, Bangkok or other urban centres and sending cash remittances to the family ‘at home’; there was no migration to international destinations, and no one was doing any skilled work outside the village.Villagers had neither bank accounts, nor use of commercial credit.15 Sustainable balance of land to population (‘carrying capacity’)

Pa Pae villagers were able to maintain a rough balance between population, standard of living and resources within their traditional land base only as long as population growth and size were constrained by low fertility and high death rates, occasional fires, warfare or other disasters, and demands for market goods were maintained at a low level.16 The village population declined as a result of the post-World War Two smallpox epidemic and out-migration following a disastrous fire, but began to grow again in the 1960s. Population growth could only be accommodated with an increase of production within a land base that was declining as a result of encroachment by Karen from neighbouring villages. Wet-rice fields were more productive than swiddens per unit area and unit of work, but unless they were inherited they required investment of labour and money to build or acquire the land and for draft animals and plough shares. Pa Pae villagers had learned the techniques of irrigation and paddyfield cultivation, including the appropriate household-level rituals and concepts of permanent land ownership, responsibilities for maintaining the irrigation system and sharing of water from ethnic northern Thais in the 1920s and 1930s, and they began making terraced rice fields at that time. By the 1960s all of the easily levelled areas had been terraced, but some Pa Pae households, if they had enough labour, continued to carve out small terraces through the late 1960s, by converting hill slopes into

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irrigated or rain-fed rice terraces, which were more productive per unit of land than swiddens, or survived by swiddening and, if necessary, by lowering their already low subsistence standard of living. In a village such as Pa Pae, with a non-cash economy based on subsistence swidden cultivation, there was no convenient means of accumulating or storing wealth, and there was no safety net for temporary fluctuations in productivity other than temporary or permanent out-migration. Fluctuations in the size of the village population could be seen in the history of the village over the 30 or so years prior to 1963. For Pa Pae and similar Lua’ villages, access to land was constrained by environmental limitations to their production system, such as distance to the fields, slope and soil quality, the presence of neighbours claiming land and (later) government controls on land use. Changes in population size are determined numerically by the total current population, plus births and in-migration, minus deaths and out-migration. When I began research in Pa Pae in 1963, the village population was at a low point of 50 households and 198 individuals, but there were large numbers of children growing to reproductive age who had been born after the smallpox epidemic. In subsequent years, the village population grew rapidly due to a surplus of births over deaths associated with control of malaria and a few other infectious diseases. Traditional mechanisms for control of population growth included restricting access to village land holdings by non-village members and entry into the village population only by marriage. In the Lua’ patrilocal post-marital residence pattern, in-migration of a few women was roughly balanced by out-migration of a few women for marriage in other villages, and the village population grew by natural increase. Customary controls on human fertility included a delay in marriage age, related to poverty, an inability to accumulate the required bride price, and, rarely, induced abortion.17 There was no use of modern family planning methods in the village in 1963. Animist ceremonies involving animal sacrifices accompanied every stage of the agricultural cycle, as well as treatment for illness.At the household level, some villagers who were unable to pay for household ceremonies or pay their share for community religious ceremonies, or for animist treatments of illness, converted to Christianity (Kunstadter, 1983b). Christian rituals did not require these contributions and thus lowered their cost of living. Religious differences within the village weakened the authority of traditional leaders, including their ability to coordinate swidden activities. Christians continued to make their households’ contributions to the purchase of large animals, such as water buffaloes, cattle or large pigs, for communitywide animal-sacrifice ceremonies and continued to consume their share of the meat of the sacrificed animals until their missionaries told them not to do so towards the end of the 1960s. The reluctance of Christian households to contribute to the cost of animals for these ceremonies made it impossible for the remaining animists to buy the large animals required for sacrifices, so the ceremonies were not held until the 1990s, when a road allowed villagers to transport crops to market and villagers were more prosperous. They resumed large-animal sacrifices after deciding that failure to perform ceremonies to honour local spirits had led to a series of disasters.

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Education and communication with other ethnic groups

Pa Pae villagers speak their own dialect, which is mutually intelligible but not exactly the same as that of nearby Lua’ villages. Lua’ pride themselves in the difficulty of their language and on their ability to speak the languages of their neighbours. In 1963, none of the adults had any formal education, but most of the younger adults and many older adults, including women, were able to speak northern Thai (the local market language) as well as Lua’. Many of them also spoke Skaw Karen.Villagers used northern Thai to speak to Thai officials and merchants in towns. The Lua’ language was not spoken by anyone other than the Lua’ themselves and a few American evangelist missionaries. Starting around 1960, these missionaries developed a phonetic script using European letters.They translated religious materials using this script, and taught the script to converts. The missionaries had selected the dialect of La’up, a nearby Lua’ village, to be the ‘Lua’ standard’ upon which the writing system was based. Adolescents, whether converts or not, quickly learned the Lua’ script to write love letters to their friends in other Lua’ villages.Thai government authorities eventually objected to the use of the phonetic script using European characters. At that time, all publications in the languages of non-Thai ethnic groups, except newspapers, were supposed to use a script based on Thai characters, just as all instruction in government schools used the standard central-Thai dialect and not the native language of non-Thai-speaking students. Written Thai characters indicate tones, so the Thai writing system is not exactly suited to the non-tonal Lua’ language. Many of those who learned the European-letter phonetic script continued to use it for several decades, even after Protestant missionaries transcribed religious material in a script based on Thai characters. Catholic (Basque) missionaries, who did not speak Lua’, used Karen or Thai to communicate with their converts. American Baptist medical missionaries in the Mae Sariang Christian Hospital did not speak Lua’, and communicated with patients in Karen or Thai. The existence of different Bible translations and scripts taught to Karen by Catholics on one hand, and Protestants on the other, has had problematical effects on the unity of that ethnic group. The extent to which Christian conversion of highland minorities represents another degree of separation between them and the ethnic-Thai majority is uncertain. Thailand is clearly a predominantly Buddhist country, but the King has said he is King of all the people of Thailand, regardless of religion. A Border Patrol Police school teaching primary grades one through four opened in Pa Pae in about 1960.18 In the early years, when there was only one teacher, it opened and closed sporadically because the teacher was regularly summoned for meetings in town (Figure 6.5). Instruction at the Border Patrol Police schools followed national policy and taught the standard central-Thai language, rather than teaching in Lua’ or northern Thai.19 The Border Patrol Police teacher had the only radio receiver (battery-powered) in the village, and it was rarely turned on, but village children soon became sophisticated in that level of electronics, asking me about my small receiver: ‘How many [frequency] bands does it have?’ There was no telephone at Pa Pae in the 1960s, and there was no radio communication from the village.20

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Transportation

In 1963, only foot trails connected highland villages in the area to each other and to Mae Sariang, the local market and administrative town in the lowlands. It was a six- to eight-hour walk away from Pa Pae. There were no roads and no motor vehicles in the village. Mae Sariang was connected to Hot district in the Chiang Mai valley only by trails and by a seasonal, mostly unpaved, lumber road. A highway, which was open for traffic only sporadically, was under construction. It was first travelled by a passenger car in November 1963. Mae Sariang had an airport and occasional air services.21 Tools, fuels and chemicals

As mentioned earlier, tools used in farming and other aspects of life were FIGURE 6.5  A Border Patrol Police school opened in Pa Pae about 1960, to cater for made or repaired locally, with local these shy Lua’ youngsters photographed on materials, apart from scrap spring steel the path to weed their parents’ swidden early that was brought in as a basic material in the rainy season for steel knives, weeding tools and Photo: Peter Kunstadter (1964) dibble-stick tips. A few villagers had ancient flint lock or matchlock rifles which they used for hunting, and which could be locally repaired. There was no use of chemical fertilizers, herbicides or pesticides, other than the residual insecticides sprayed by malaria-control teams. Other than kerosene, there was no use of fossil fuel. Villagers cut, dried and split firewood for cooking and heating their homes; they used pitch pine for fire starters and made their own charcoal for the blacksmith’s shop. Involvement in the political process and economic development: the bridge to nowhere

In 1963, Pa Pae had a village headman (pu yai ban) and an assistant headman, both recognized by the government, but neither of whom had any formal education. Both were selected because they could speak northern Thai, and because of their traditional religious-leadership roles. The assistant headman was self-taught in Thai literacy, and no other adult in the village was literate in Thai at that time. The headman and assistant headman walked to the Mae Sariang district office to attend

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monthly meetings. Their role was primarily to communicate government policies to the villagers.22 Villagers participated in elections for provincial parliamentary representatives during the 1960s, but had a sceptical view of politicians: ‘Candidates only come up here and distribute blankets when they want our votes.We never see them again until the next election. We take the blankets, but we vote for whoever we want to.’23 In the 1960s, the Border Patrol Police school was the only government presence in the village.There were no development projects. However, late in that decade, Pa Pae received money for a motor-vehicle bridge to be built across a stream that divided the village. The bridge soon supplemented the one log that spanned the stream and hitherto provided the only means of crossing from one side of the village to the other. When it was built, there were no roads connected to either side of the bridge, and there were no motor vehicles of any kind in the village. When I asked the headman why they built the bridge, he said that the money was available and the project, which was designed by the district administration, gave employment to the villagers, who badly needed the money. A Royal Project (Krongkan Luang) was established in Pa Pae following a Royal visit in 1970 (see below). The Royal couple’s helicopter landed in a dry-rice terrace adjacent to the village.24 Environmental consequences of the traditional resource-use system

Despite the amount of carbon released into the atmosphere as gas and smoke when swiddens were burned (much of which was eventually re-deposited on the soil surface or reabsorbed by vegetation), rotational swidden farming had an essentially neutral carbon balance. By the end of a fallow that was long enough to allow its full recovery, the forest had produced about the same amount of biomass it had before it was cut and burned at the beginning of the previous cycle (Zinke et al., 1978b). Rice was threshed in the fields and rice straw and unused plant parts were left in the fields after harvest. Rice was milled in foot-powered mortars-and-pestles in the village and the by-products fed to pigs, so much of the carbon held in this material was returned (as faeces) to the soil surface. Pa Pae population, society and economy in 2013

Over the past 50 years there have been major changes in the land-use system and the balance of population-to-land in Pa Pae. In many respects, parallel changes were experienced by swiddeners elsewhere in Thailand. These included especially changes in population size, technology and relationships with the market. Many of these changes were foreshadowed by events in the 1960s.

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Fifty years of demographic change: mortality

Highland populations were not epidemiologically isolated from the lowlands, as clearly demonstrated by chickenpox in the mid-1960s (which greatly reduced the Pa Pae harvest because almost all young adults were ill during the weeding season) and the disastrous smallpox epidemic which spread all over Southeast Asia at the end of World War Two. Elders in Pa Pae remembered with distress when everyone in the village was either ill or taking care of the ill and the dying during the smallpox epidemics. The pock-marked skin of many of the adults and deficits in the age distribution at Pa Pae and in the rest of Thailand give clear indications of the past epidemic. Villagers were vaccinated in a national programme following the epidemic and smallpox never returned. In the 1960s, highland populations had begun to benefit from public health measures, especially as malaria control and childhood immunization programmes spread from the lowlands. By the mid-1960s, malaria, which had been a major killer, especially of children, was very well controlled in the Thai highlands, in contrast to the Lao PDR and Burma, where the disease remains a leading cause of death, even in the 21st century. Houses in Pa Pae had all been sprayed repeatedly by Ministry of Public Health malaria teams, and fever cases were routinely treated with antimalarial drugs. There was no malaria transmission in the village. ‘Everyone knew’ that if someone in the village had malaria, he (it was never ‘she’) had been visiting or trading in Burma, where malaria remained largely uncontrolled. In the 1960s, modern health treatments and services were limited to those who could walk or be carried to the government doctor, or to the better-equipped and staffed Mae Sariang Christian Hospital, or in one case, taken to Chiang Mai by a Catholic father for care that could not be provided in Mae Sariang. Deaths of villagers from treatable conditions, such as severe diarrhoea or haemorrhage at childbirth, continued through the 1960s and remained a problem until road access became available and the Ministry of Public Health built and staffed a health station (anamai) in Pa Pae in the 1980s. The health station provided routine public health services, treatment of minor ailments and family-planning services, and by the 1980s the village children had been included in the national Expanded Program of Immunization (EPI) protecting them against most epidemics of ‘childhood’ diseases. A visit to Pa Pae by a medical practitioner in 1968 revealed several cases of tuberculosis and other chronic infectious diseases, but no diabetes or hypertension, and no one had ever been injured in a motor-vehicle accident. A multi-bed district hospital has been built in Mae Sariang, with referral services to provincial hospitals in Chiang Mai. Overall, these services lowered the death and birth rates in Pa Pae to about the same levels as those of the general Thai population. Demographic changes among populations in the Pa Pae area

The demography of highland minority populations has changed rapidly in the past 50 years as a result of technological controls on fertility and mortality, changes in

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risks of morbidity and mortality associated with a more modern lifestyle, and greatly increased migration (Kunstadter, 1971, 1972, 1983a, 2002a, 2002b; Kunstadter et al., 1993). In nominally patrilocal, subsistence-swiddening Pa Pae, fertility was traditionally controlled by delays in age at marriage and poverty, because of the limited ability of young men to accumulate the required bride price. Modern contraceptive family planning was generally considered a good idea by Pa Pae residents when it became available through the Mae Sariang Christian Hospital and the government health station in Mae Sariang in the 1970s. By the late 1980s contraceptive use had reached about 65% of married women of reproductive age, roughly the same level as in the lowland-Thai population 10 or more years earlier. Nearby Karen villages, with matrilocal residence after marriage and no requirement for bride price, maintained a slightly higher level of fertility. Their populations grew faster than Pa Pae’s during the 1960s, and, as mentioned earlier, Karen villagers were encroaching on traditional Pa Pae swidden land. In the 1960s, Hmong villagers had begun to clear swiddens in forest at the top of the watershed feeding the stream that ran through Pa Pae.25 Hmong, while they were still planting opium and had free access to land, maintained very high levels of population growth.With income from opium, Hmong villagers could turn household labour into cash, had a very young average age at marriage and maintained very rapid population growth and territorial expansion through the 1980s and beyond.26 High fertility and differences in age at marriage, with younger women marrying older men, allowed Hmong communities to include a significant number of polygamous marriages. Despite widespread use of modern family planning by the 1970s, Pa Pae’s population continued to grow rapidly as a result of improved child survival (associated with control of infectious diseases) and the large number of children reaching reproductive age. The village’s population more than doubled in less than 20 years, far beyond the ability of traditional swidden technology and land holdings to support. Although many infectious diseases were controlled in highland populations by public health measures, new risks were added for highlanders in association with ‘modernization’ (as already noted with regard to HIV). Diabetes and hypertension began to affect the Pa Pae population in the 1980s. Although our health survey in the mid-1960s revealed no diabetes in Pa Pae, nor in Hmong communities we surveyed, by 2013 several of the Pa Pae children I knew in the 1960s were affected, some of them severely, by these ‘diseases of civilization’. By 2013 several Pa Pae villagers and other highland and lowland Lua’ had also been killed in motor-vehicle accidents. Pa Pae residents and highland farmers and consumers in general were rightly concerned about the health effects of exposure to chemical pesticides and fertilizers (Kunstadter et al., 2001, 2007, and data from current research on perceived health problems in Hmong, Lahu, Yunnanese Chinese and northern Thai communities), although some of them felt they had no choice but to use them.

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Migration (‘How ya gonna keep ‘em down on the farm ...’)

The major response to population growth coupled with a declining land base in Pa Pae was out-migration. In the 1960s, the major destination of migrants was Mae Sariang, but within a few years Pa Pae residents began to move in large numbers to Chiang Mai. By the 1990s, villagers described Pa Pae as a place inhabited only by old people and children. As noted earlier, some Pa Pae residents, as well as residents of other highland Lua’ communities, were forced to move temporarily to lowland Mae Sariang to seek employment because of livelihood disruption arising from the smallpox epidemic in the 1940s. Most of them returned to the highlands, but some claimed ‘free’ land for house plots and gardens, and settled permanently in the Mae Sariang ‘suburb’ of Ban Phae’. Beginning in the 1970s and accelerating in the 1980s, many young Pa Pae adults, unable to make a living even at a subsistence level and increasingly aware of better opportunities in the lowlands, began to move out of the highlands to Ban Phae’, where relatives and former village friends already lived. Many of them moved out of subsistence agriculture and into wage work. Although the number of households in Pa Pae almost doubled (from 50 to 90) between 1963 and 2013, out-migration meant that the number of Pa Pae villagers and their descendants living in Chiang Mai in 2013 was roughly equal to the number still living in the highland village. Some whole families had moved to Chiang Mai; some young adults had moved as individuals and married and settled there. Although some of these Pa Pae people had changed their household registration to reflect their changed place of residence, many had retained their official household registration in Pa Pae, even after years of living in town.27 The first Pa Pae resident to move to Chiang Mai told us while she was still a fourth-grade student in Pa Pae in 1963 to 1964 that, despite her love for her family, she did not want to live in the highlands when she grew up. By the end of the 1960s she had moved in with the Border Patrol Police teacher’s family in Mae Sariang, and a few years later she moved to Chiang Mai to attend a Catholic school where the nuns taught her to use a sewing machine. By the early 1980s, she had a job in a clothing store in Chiang Mai belonging to a northern Thai woman from Mae Sariang, and before the end of the 1980s she had borrowed some money to open her own store. Thereafter, she began to serve as the Chiang Mai ‘anchor’ for chain migration from Pa Pae, offering a place to live and employment for Pa Pae youngsters who came to Chiang Mai for education. She is now a successful merchant, retailing cloth products in Chiang Mai to Thai and foreign tourists, importing from China, Lao PDR and Vietnam, and exporting to Japan, Europe and the United States. Controls on the ability of highlanders to claim new farm land and the use of laboursaving chemicals and machinery are now widespread ‘push factors’ in the highlands, leading to large-scale migration to urban lowlands, especially of young adults. The numbers, distribution and fate of these migrants remains poorly documented.

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Education as an enabler in moving away from swidden cultivation

Few of those in the first cohort to attend Pa Pae’s Border Patrol Police school in the 1960s received any more than four primary grades of education, but by the 1970s and 1980s many children were going to the lowlands to attend regular Thai secondary schools, and at least 20 had gone on to college or university. By 2013, many members of that and subsequent generations had permanent jobs as civil servants, teachers, nurses and district office workers in Mae Sariang and Chiang Mai. Several had college degrees (one with a Master’s degree in ethno-botany). Many others with less education had wage work in department stores as guards, or as restaurant employees.28 A few of the first- and second-generation migrants to the lowlands were very successful economically, including the woman described above, and one man with a large construction company in Mae Sariang. Although a few Pa Pae villagers worked overseas in the past (one as a cook in Germany), there were none working overseas in 2013. All of these population changes followed transformations that occurred throughout Thai society as a result of rapid urbanization, improved transport and communication, and conversion from subsistence agriculture to a market economy. Only about 20 out of 90 households in Pa Pae still cultivated swiddens in 2013; some planted both swiddens and irrigated fields, others only irrigated fields. Use of fertilizer had greatly increased crop yields, so that some swiddens previously used by a single household had been split in two.29 The total area used for shifting cultivation in Pa Pae was much smaller than in the past, when every household tended its swidden. However, the village’s rice production in 2013 was roughly equivalent to the subsistence needs of the remaining households. The technology used in the swiddens was the same as in former times, with the addition of fertilizer if soil and yields were not good. Swidden farmers still weeded by hand in the traditional manner; they still did not use machines, herbicides or pesticides. The farmers had a major problem with a weed they called ‘rice with onion flowers’ (khao dok hawm). This problem had existed for about 20 years and no effective solution had been found. Since the weed greatly decreased rice yields, most farmers had given up planting rice in irrigated fields, and these were used instead for cash crops produced under the Royal Project (see below). Farmers still raised a few buffaloes, and some raised cattle on a share basis with lowland owners, grazing the animals in the forest. Despite self-sufficiency in rice, the Pa Pae lifestyle in 2013 was no longer even close to self-sufficiency. There were about 10 trucks or cars in the village; almost every household had a motorcycle, every household had at least one cellphone. Households still used firewood they collected from the forest for cooking and heating, but some had purchased gas stoves, and some were cooking with electricity.

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Models of economic development in lowland dry-land farming areas

The past half century has been a time of rapid and extensive change for most of Thailand’s ethnic-minority groups. One of the most remarkable aspects in the eyes of a scientific observer has been the extent of change that these former subsistence farmers have faced and surmounted in that time.Advocates of economic development seeking a model for ‘modernizing’ swidden-farming communities should perhaps look back, for a guide to the evolutionary process on the land. Beginning at least 800 years ago, Tai-speaking populations expanded out of southwestern China and into the lowlands of northern mainland Southeast Asia, bringing with them their rain-fed or irrigated-rice economies. These were the ancestors of ethnic lowland northern Thais. Where they could do so, these Tai-dialect speakers absorbed and assimilated the previous Mon-Khmer-speaking inhabitants, such as the Lua’, Khmu’ and Htin in northern Thailand and the Chao Bon in the northeast. Where assimilation failed, they pushed them into the foothills or higher elevations where they could retain a separate identity. As lowland populations expanded in the narrow northern valleys and the not-so-well-watered northeast, Tai-dialect speakers also expanded into areas where they could claim land to swidden. They used swiddening where irrigation was not possible, or where they had not yet converted the land they claimed into rain-fed paddies. This expansion of subsistence-level farming went on, even through the 1970s and 1980s, in the north, northeast and west of Thailand. Eventually, local markets for dry-land cash crops (maize, cassava, peanuts and sugar cane) were developed, first for import substitution and later for export. The land claims of the descendants of these Tai-speakers were recognized, farm-to-market roads were built, and as these farmers began to participate in the world economy, the value of accessible land greatly increased and dry-land cropping became big business. This transformation is still in process, with as yet undetermined effects for smallscale swidden farmers. Along the way, some notable innovations have influenced the transformation. Success and non-success of the Thai-Australian Land Development model

In the late 1960s, in collaboration with a group of Australian geographers and agriculturalists, the Land Development Department of the Ministry of Agriculture and Cooperatives worked in Sa district of Nan province on a small, local project.The project worked with ethnic northern Thai, attempting to resolve several interrelated local problems that often had more general implications.These were swidden farmers on upper-terrace land, above the reach of normal irrigation systems. The soil was poor and lacked irrigation, and the farmers did not have the ability to clear large tree stumps, which limited their ability to use tractor-drawn ploughs.The farmers had no title to the land they farmed, so they could not use their land titles to obtain credit to improve their farming systems by renting or buying land-clearing equipment or buying improved seed or fertilizer. The Thai-Australian Land Development team resolved these issues by developing a relatively inexpensive method of clearing stumps

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(thus allowing future cultivation by tractors), spreading soil nutrients from termite mounds and finding a bureaucratic fix for land title through the Department of Land Development (this lowland area was not controlled by the RFD). The combination of these solutions allowed these farmers to borrow money to buy equipment and supplies and to produce commercial crops in an area where farm-to-market roads already existed (Chapman, 1978; Charley and McGarity, 1978). Subsequently, the project was expanded to the highlands, where conditions were quite different. In the highlands the expanded project had to adapt to sloping land, not old river terraces. There were relatively few termite mounds, no farm-to-market roads, and land title was retained by the RFD, so the farmers could not get their cash crops to markets and could not use land titles to get credit. Ex-Rhodesians: an integrated model for tobacco

In 1965 the white minority government in what was then colonial Rhodesia made a Unilateral Declaration of Independence, contrary to the wishes of the native majority. This brought international condemnation and a boycott of Rhodesia’s export products, including tobacco. In the early 1970s, a number of former managers and employees of Rhodesian tobacco companies arrived in Thailand intent on resuming production for international sale. They developed a system of production that soon became widespread in the north and northeast, where large areas of paddy fields were customarily left fallow in the dry season because of a lack of irrigation water and where, consequently, there was much seasonal unemployment. Tobacco is a dry-season crop and it fitted well with the soil and dry-season climate of Thailand’s north and northeast. Growing tobacco could reduce seasonal unemployment and increase income among farmers. Farmers who contracted with the ex-Rhodesian tobacco companies were given advances of seed, fertilizer and pesticides, and were limited to a production quota that guaranteed the purchase of a prescribed amount of produce at a price set at the time of contract. The companies provided agriculturalextension workers who visited every field at least twice per month to assure quality and assist in solving technical problems.The system was widely successful for farmers and for the companies in the 1970s and 1980s (prior to Thailand’s successful antitobacco campaign for public health reasons) because it provided income and credit, and greatly reduced farmers’ risks. Although this model was economically successful for farmers it was also credited with widespread destruction of forest for the firewood required for curing the crop. Evolution of the Royal Projects

The major development agency in Pa Pae, as in many highland communities, has been a Royal Project (Krongkan Luang). It began work in Pa Pae following a Royal visit in 1970. The initial activities of Royal Projects tended to be limited to the introduction of new crops, such as red kidney beans, potatoes and strawberries, whether or not

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there was a market for the new products, whether the species was suited for the natural and cultural environment, and whether or not there was transportation for bulky or perishable produce. In the first years the Royal Project advocated new technologies, including pesticides and fertilizers, with little or no environmental or public health considerations. There was no funding for farmers to finance modern farming activities. These activities generally failed to keep pace with the growing population in highland villages and with increasing demands for consumer goods, which required cash income. In some instances (notably in Chom Thong, south of Chiang Mai) the projects brought serious environmental problems for downstream fish-ponds and distress for their owners. There was an early attempt to improve the local breed of pigs. The Royal Project brought a large ‘foreign’ boar to Pa Pae. This boar was kept in a pen and fed daily by the villagers until it died, without having fathered any offspring. One of the other early activities was building a dry-season road from the village to the highway leading to Mae Sariang. Instead of hiring local labour, the Royal Project used a bulldozer to cut the road, but had insufficient funds to buy fuel to finish the job quickly. Despite the advice of villagers, the road passed over unstable ground and this frequently washed out after it was completed. The road was also constructed through what had been Pa Pae’s sacred forest. At the urging of the Royal Project, the villagers cleared the remains of the forest and planted coffee. They were unfamiliar with coffee in its unprocessed form, but eventually learned to remove the outer flesh of the berries and dry the coffee ‘beans’. There was no marketing system, and villagers had to carry the coffee to Mae Sariang and take small quantities by bus to Chiang Mai where they sold it for an amount that barely paid the cost of transportation. After this shaky start, by 2013 the Royal Project had evolved into a multidisciplinary operation that developed and tested new crops or new varieties locally, provided finance for farm supplies and equipment, required farmers to register and offered them contracts with a quota system similar to that used by the ex-Rhodesian tobacco companies, and marketed ‘organic’ products. One major remaining issue was that highland farmers still did not have clear title to their land. In many highland communities, or those relocated to lower elevations, land title is retained by the RFD, but it is leased to the Royal Project, and the farmers are allowed to register land claims with the Royal Project. Rights thus granted can be transferred only by inheritance (or by informal, undocumented sale with undetermined heritability). Under the Mae Chaem Watershed Development Project, which was begun in the 1970s, many Karen and Lua’ farmers were issued with ‘Land-Use Certificates’ that had similar restrictions, but this was only for land terraced in the project. Although the target for Land-Use Certificates was reached, the basic policy of denying title to upland farms, especially for highlanders, remained unchanged and the system was not repeated in other projects (Roth et al., 1983, p7, 1987; USAID, 1989, p2). In Pa Pae, the Royal Project has emphasized pesticide-free production of market vegetables, mostly mustard greens (phak kat) grown in screened structures, passion fruit and a few other crops. Farmers who receive seed and fertilizer from the Royal

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Project agree to produce and sell their quota back to the project at a price fixed in advance, regardless of the market price at the time of harvest. Farmers must deliver produce that meets quality standards set by the Royal Project, with financial advances for supplies deducted at the time of sale. Farmers may later sell substandard or surplus produce to the general market. If they fail to produce their quota amount or fail to meet the prescribed quality, the amount still owing will be deducted from the following year’s crop. If they sell produce on the market before they meet their Royal Project quota, they are not allowed to sign up for credit the following year.30 The Royal Project also buys unpolished brown swidden rice, grown by villagers without pesticides, and hulled by traditional foot-powered mortar and pestle, i.e. traditional highland rice. This rice is marketed as Khao Klong Doi, with advertising claims of a high vitamin content, and is sold at prices higher than those for normal polished ‘white’ rice.31 A dry-season road was built linking Pa Pae with Mae Sariang in the 1970s, but was not paved for all-weather use until the 2000s. The all-season road allows villagers to transport their goods to market in Mae Sariang and elsewhere. By 2013, several Pa Pae households owned small trucks. The Royal Project has also encouraged the production of local handicrafts, and has acted as a distributor of these products. By 2013, competition to buy and sell handicrafts on local and international markets and inflation had grown to the point where prices had increased 10-fold from their 1963 levels, and retailers were unable to meet demand. However, the share of proceeds received by village-based producers had declined. For example, for a Lua’ shoulder-bag, woven of homespun cotton on a traditional back-strap loom, the 1963 price was 20 baht, or roughly two days’ local wages. In 2013, it was about 200 baht, less than one day’s wage. In part, the gap between supply and demand in both the local and tourist markets was being filled by handicrafts imported from China, especially those made by, or in the style of, Hmong. Conclusions: who ate whom in the forest? Sufficiency economies, highland political systems in Myanmar and frontiers of civilization

In the early 1960s, the Lua’ villagers of Pa Pae and many other highlanders were marginally self-sufficient, with a picturesque but low level of consumption and standard of living. They existed on the edges of the market economy with little outside interference. They used very few non-renewable resources and manufactured by themselves most of what they used. They could have survived at about the same level in the absence of the market economy, as long as they had a population-toland ratio that allowed forest regrowth to restore soil fertility to about the same level they found at the start of the previous swidden cycle. However, populations in the highlands grew rapidly as child-death rates declined. Without an expanding land base to allow for population growth, and without the means to increase production or the ability to accumulate food and other essentials as a cushion against short-

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term disasters, the Lua’ system required a ‘parachute’ – moving to the lowlands in order to survive one temporary disaster after another and as a destination for surplus population. To me, the Lua’ example of a relatively conservative swidden system raises the question of the ecological-demographic implications of Leach’s description of Kachin ‘becoming Shan’ in a pre-globalized world (Leach, 1954). Were any subsistence swiddening systems truly self-contained and self-sustaining, even in the absence of outside disruptions? Or were all of them, to some degree, dependant either on a lowland ‘parachute’, the existence of Malthusian controls on population growth (famine, disease or, for example, among Kachin, ‘Wild’ Wa, and for the Nagas, continuing warfare and head-hunting), or the ability to expand their land base in the absence of technology allowing them to expand productivity per unit of land? Did some Kachin in Burma have to move to the lowlands in order for Kachin society to survive in the highlands? Geometric growth in population size in high-fertility swiddening groups such as the Hmong could be supported between the 1890s, when their presence was first noted in far northern Thailand, until the 1990s (when opium cultivation was effectively ended) because they had a storable, transportable, fungible source of wealth in opium. There was always a ready demand for the product, and it could be easily converted to silver or cash and used to buy life essentials through widespread trade networks, even in a pre- or partial monetary economy. The economies of these southward-moving Hmong were not even hypothetically self-sufficient or selfsustaining in situ. Their agricultural system (deep cultivation and repeated cropping on the same site until soil exhaustion or weeds made further use impractical) resulted in very slow forest regrowth or replacement of forest by grass or ferns which could not be cleared for further cultivation using traditional technology. The Hmong population in Thailand was able to grow and survive despite soil exhaustion and without technological change only by expanding their land base and redistributing their population by splitting and moving communities. Between the 1890s and the 1990s they had expanded in the highlands from the Lao border on the east to highlands along the Myanmar border on the west (a breadth of 800km), and an equally long spread from the extreme northern border to and along the western border to the latitude of Bangkok (for details of the moves and splits of some of these communities see Juntakanbandit, 2001, ch. 4, parts 4.2 and 4.4). Where they have access to land, markets and modern technology their population continues to grow exponentially as a result of high fertility and low mortality. Self-contained, self-sufficient societies of swiddeners are rare, if they still exist independent of higher-level lowland societies anywhere in mainland Southeast Asia. Interventions from outside created both problems for swiddeners and solutions that failed to support self-sufficiency and were possibly unsustainable. At least in Thailand, the Malthusian control of high death rates due to infectious disease has been alleviated by public health measures, with consequent quantum growth in population size for several generations, even in populations such as that at Pa Pae, where there was

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relatively old age at marriage. The population of Pa Pae and its descendants from the 1963 era has almost quadrupled in the past 50 years despite widespread adoption of family planning. Population growth in high-fertility, non-conservative (‘predatory’) swidden populations, such as the Hmong, has been much more explosive. Contrary to the model described by Turner (1893), ‘civilization’, in the form of settled agriculture, has come to the highlands of Thailand in the past half century with very little in-migration of a new ethnic population and without total displacement of the old (as was largely the case on the American frontier). Large portions of the previously ‘uncivilized’ societies and populations remain in place, and many of them now have at least minimal involvement with literacy and a world religion (whether it be Buddhism or Christianity) as discussed by Leach (1954).The lives of swiddeners are now hedged in by numerous conditions imposed from the outside, including especially control of access to, and use of, land, and by the closing of a frontier of unpopulated, unclaimed land on to which to expand. Essential conditions for agricultural survival of former swiddening populations and societies include continued access to land, participation in a monetary economy, access to credit for agricultural activities, use of technology to restore or maintain soil fertility, use of labour-saving technology, transportation of produce to markets, delivery of technologically and economically appropriate products, meeting local or world market demand, rapid communication with market partners, and limits to local population growth, both through lower fertility and by migration of surplus population, primarily to urban lowlands. References Bartlett, M. L. (1973) ‘The communist insurgency in Thailand’, The Marine Gazette, www.nca-marine. org/gazette/communist-insurgency-thailand, accessed 17 August 2013 Bowie, K. (1997) Rituals of National Loyalty: An Anthropology of the State and the Village Scout Movement in Thailand, Columbia University Press, New York Bunbongkarn, S. (2004) ‘The military and democracy in Thailand’, in R. J. May and V. Selochan (eds) The Military and Democracy in Asia and the Pacific, Australian National University E-press, Canberra, http:/epress.anu.edu.au/mdap/mobile_devices/ch02s02.html, accessed 20 August 2013 CAD (2012) Royal Projects, Under the Royal Patronage of His Majesty the King, Cooperative Auditing Department, Ministry of Agriculture and Cooperatives, Government of Thailand, www.cad.go.th/ cadweb_eng/ewt_dl_link.php?nid=74 [PDF], accessed 15 July 2013 Chapman, E. C. (1978) ‘Shifting cultivation and economic development in the lowlands of Northern Thailand’, in P. Kunstadter, E. C. Chapman and S. Sabhasri (eds) Farmers in the Forest: Economic Development and Marginal Agriculture in Northern Thailand, an East-West Center book, University Press of Hawaii, Honolulu, pp222–235 Charley, J. L. and MacGarity, J. W. (1978) ‘Soil fertility problems in development of annual cropping on swiddened lowland terrain in northern Thailand’, in P. Kunstadter, E. C. Chapman and S. Sabhasri (eds) Farmers in the Forest: Economic Development and Marginal Agriculture in Northern Thailand, an East-West Center book, University Press of Hawaii, Honolulu, pp236–254 Thailand, United States CIA (1968) Insurgent Activities Spreading in Northern Central Intelligence Agency, http://www.foia.cia.gov/sites/default/files/document_ conversions/89801/DOC_000198112.pdf, accessed 20 August 2013 Crooker, R. A. (1988) ‘Forces of change in the Thailand opium zone’, The Geographical Review 78 (3), pp241–256

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Department of Social Development and Welfare (2002) Highland Communities within 20 Provinces of Thailand, 2002, Department of Social Development and Welfare, Ministry of Social Development and Human Security and the United Nations Children’s Fund (UNICEF), Bangkok FAO (2002) Case Study on Education Opportunities for Hill Tribes in Northern Thailand: Implications for Sustainable Rural Development, Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations, Regional Office for Asia and the Pacific, RAP publication 2002/05, Bangkok Geddes, W. R. (1976) Migrants of the Mountains: The Cultural Ecology of the Blue Miao (Hmong Njua) of Thailand, Clarendon Press, Oxford, UK Gorman, C. (1971) ‘The Hoabhinian and after: Subsistence patterns in Southeast Asia during the Late Pleistocene and Early Recent periods’, World Archaeology 2, pp300–320 Hallett, H. (1890) A Thousand Miles on an Elephant in the Shan States, W. Blackwood, Edinburgh Judd, L. C. (1977 [1961]) Chao Rai Thai: Dry Rice Farming in Northern Thailand, Suriyaban Publishers, Bangkok Juntakanbandit, C. (2001) ‘Effects of Acculturation on Illness and Healing among Thai Hmong’, PhD dissertation to the Faculty of Social Science and Humanities, Mahidol University, Salaya, Nakhon Pathom, ch. 4, parts 4.2 and 4.4 Kislenko, A. (2004) ‘A not so silent partner: Thailand’s role in covert operations, counterinsurgency and the war in Indochina’, The Journal of Conflict Studies 24(1), http://journals.hil.unb.ca/index.php/ jcs/article/view/292/465, accessed 19 August 2013 Kunstadter, P. (1971) ‘Natality, mortality and migration of upland and lowland populations in northwestern Thailand’, in S. Polgar (ed.) Culture and Population, Carolina Population Center and Shenkman Publishing, Cambridge, MA, pp46–60 Kunstadter, P. (1972) ‘Demography, ecology, social structure and settlement patterns’, in A. Boyce and G. Harrison (eds) The Structure of Human Populations, Clarendon Press, Oxford, UK Kunstadter, P. (1979) ‘Ecological modification and adaptation: An ethnobotanical view of Lua’ swiddeners in northwestern Thailand’, in R.I. Ford (ed.) The Nature and Status of Ethnobotany, Anthropological Papers of the Museum of Anthropology, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor, MI Kunstadter, P. (1983a) ‘Highland populations in northern Thailand’, in J. McKinnon and W. Bhruksasri (eds) Highlanders of North Thailand, Oxford University Press, Kuala Lumpur, pp15–45 Kunstadter, P. (1983b) ‘Animism, Buddhism and Christianity: Religion in the life of Lua’ people of Pa Pae, northwestern Thailand’, in J. McKinnon and W. Bhruksasri (eds) Highlanders of North Thailand, Oxford university Press, Kuala Lumpur, pp135–154 Kunstadter, P. (1985) ‘Health of Hmong in Thailand: Risk factors, morbidity and mortality in comparison with other ethnic groups’, Culture, Medicine and Psychiatry 9(4), pp329–352 Kunstadter, P. (2002a) ‘Fertility, mortality and migration transitions in association with socioeconomic modernisation among highland minority populations in Southeast Asia’, in H. Macbeth and P. Collinson (eds) Human Population Dynamics, Cambridge University Press Cambridge, UK, pp162–185 Kunstadter, P. (2002b) ‘Hmong marriage patterns in relation to social change’, in G. Lee, J. Michaud, C. Culas and N. Tapp (eds) The Hmong in Southeast Asia: Current Issues, Silkworm Books, Chiang Mai Kunstadter, P., Sabhasri, S. and Smitinand, T. (1978) ‘Flora of a forest fallow farming environment in northwestern Thailand’, Journal of the National Research Council of Thailand 10 (1), pp1–45 Kunstadter, P., Kunstadter, S. L., Podhisita, C. and Leepreecha, P. (1993) ‘Demographic variables in fetal and child mortality: Hmong in Thailand’, Social Science and Medicine 36 (9), pp1109–1120 Kunstadter, P., Prapamontol, T., Mevatee, U., Thawsirichuchai, R. and Yangyernkun, Y. (2007) ‘Seasonal and annual changes in pesticide exposure: Hmong highlanders in northern Thailand’, in P. Kunstadter (ed.) Pesticides in Southeast Asia: Environmental, Biomedical and Economic Uses and Effects, Silkworm Books, Chiang Mai, pp109–130 Kunstadter, P., Prapamontol, T., Sirirojn, B., Sontirat, A., Tansuhaj, A. and Khamboonruang, C. (2001) ‘Pesticide exposures among Hmong farmers in Thailand’, International Journal of Occupational and Environmental Health 7 (4), pp313–325 Leach, E. R. (1954) Political Systems of Highland Burma, Harvard University Press, Cambridge, MA

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Lee, G. Y. (1987) ‘Minority politics in Thailand’, paper presented at an International Conference on Thai Studies, July, Canberra, http://uniyatra.com/hmongnet.thaihmng/hmong-au.thaihmng.htm, accessed 25 August 2012 Lee, G. Y. (2005) ‘The shaping of traditions: Agriculture and Hmong society’, Hmong Studies Journal 6, pp1–33 Miles, D. (2009) ‘The violent suppression of opium cultivation’, New Mandala, http://asiapacific.anu. edu.au/newmandala/2009/05/05/doug-miles-on-the-violent-supression-of-opium-cultivation/, accessed 19 August 2013 Mote, F. W. (1967) ‘The rural “Haw” [Yunnanese Chinese] of northern Thailand’, in P. Kunstadter (ed.) Southeast Asian Tribes, Minorities and Nations, Princeton University Press, Princeton, NJ, pp487–524 Morell, D. and Samudavanija, C. (1979) ‘Thailand’s revolutionary insurgency: Changes in leadership potential’, Asian Survey 19 (4), pp315–332 Nimmanahaeminda, K. (1965) ‘An inscribed silver-plate grant to the Lawa of Boh Luang’, in Felicitation

Volumes in Southeast Asia Studies, presented to His Highness Prince Dhanivat Kromamum Bidyalabh Bridyakorn, vol 2, The Siam Society, Bangkok, pp233–238 Ratanakon, S. (1978) ‘Legal aspects of land occupation and development’, in P. Kunstadter (ed.) Southeast Asian Tribes, Minorities and Nations, Princeton University Press, Princeton, NJ, pp44–53

Renard, R. D. (1980) ‘History of Karen–Tai relations: Red Karen’, PhD dissertation, University of Hawaii, Honolulu, extract available at http://www.Karennihomeland.com/ArticleArticle. php?contentID=61, accessed 23 August 2013 Roth, A. D., Hewitt, C., Carroll, M. and Chunkao, K. (1983) Evaluation of Mae Chaem Watershed Development Project, Development Alternatives Inc, Washington, DC, pp1–193, http://pdf.usaid. gov/pdf.docs/PDAAP020-Mae Chaem Project, accessed 25 August 2013 Roth, A. D., Lou, P., Roonruangsee, C., Sheng, T. S., Shinawatra, B. and Tongchai, A. (1987) Second Evaluation of the Mae Chaem Watershed Development Project,Thailand, Development Alternatives Inc, Washington, DC, http://pdf.usaid/gov/pdf.docs/PDAAX124.pdf (incomplete copy – pp294+), accessed 25 August 2013 Solheim, W. G. (1972) ‘An early agricultural revolution’, Scientific American 226, pp34–41 Thongcharoen, P. (1978) ‘Viral diseases in Thailand’, Journal of Infectious Diseases and Antimicrobial Agents 5 (4), pp196–204 Turner, F. J. (1893) ‘The significance of the frontier in American history’, in Report of the American Historical Association, pp199–227 UNODC (2008) Opium Poppy Cultivation in South East Asia: Lao PDR, Myanmar, Thailand, http:// www.unodc.org/unodc/en/crop-monitoring/index.html, accessed 17 August 2013 UNEP RRCAP/UN ESCAP (2006) Green Growth at a Glance:The Way Forward for Asia and Pacific, United Nations Environment Programme, Regional Resource Centre for Asia and the Pacific, United Nations Economic and Social Commission for Asia and the Pacific, http://thailand.prd. go.th/the_royalty_view.php?id=496, accessed 15 August 2013 USAID (1989) Project Completion Report. Mae Chaem Watershed Development Project, AID Project no. 493-0294, USAID Thailand, Bangkok, pp1–63 WHO (1978) Smallpox Eradication in Thailand,World Health Organization, Geneva,WHO/SE/78.113 Global commission WP/7830, http://www.who.int/iris/handle/10665/68243, accessed 20 August 2013 Zinke, P., Sabhasri, S. and Kunstadter, P. (1978a) ‘Soil fertility aspects of the Lua’ forest fallow system of shifting cultivation’, in P. Kunstadter, S. Sabhasri and E. C. Chapman (eds) Farmers in the Forest: Economic Development and Marginal Agriculture in Northern Thailand, an East-West Center book, The University Press of Hawaii, Honolulu, pp134–159 Zinke, P. J., Sabhasri, S. and Kunstadter, P. (1978b) ‘Effects of forest-fallow cultivation on forest production and soil’, in P. Kunstadter, S. Sabhasri and E. C. Chapman (eds) Farmers in the Forest: Economic Development and Marginal Agriculture in Northern Thailand, an East-West Center book, The University Press of Hawaii, Honolulu, pp160–184

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Notes 1 Subsistence swidden farming has been used by lowlanders, especially in the northeast, east and west of Thailand, to clear unfarmed land and convert it, over time, to permanent-field cultivation for subsistence and then, when roads and markets became available, to cash crops with extensive use of chemicals and machinery. Sometimes this process has been done at the behest and for the benefit of huge agro-businesses that eventually claim title to the land. 2 The activities of American missionaries in Thailand greatly increased after World War Two. Children of American missionaries in Burma, who spoke several of the highland minority languages, were recruited into the CIA and played important roles in the highlands of Thailand and Laos during the Cold War. The history of Christian missionaries’ direct and indirect influences on US government policies with respect to Thai highlanders, and in turn the US government’s interactions with the Thai government in relation to highlanders, is incompletely documented in the published literature. 3 Great Britain and France declared war against Thailand, which they considered to be a member of the Axis alliance after Thailand’s acquiescence to the Japanese invasion in 1941 to 1942. The United States never declared war on Thailand and never had colonial ambitions in Thailand, and as a result it enjoyed a favourable and influential official and popular relationship with Thailand throughout the Cold War and especially through to the end of the Vietnam War in 1975. 4 A Karen farmer whose land was adjacent to Pa Pae land remarked: ‘If that’s all the land I can use I will starve to death. I would rather have them arrest me and put me in jail, where they will have to feed me.’ 5 In 1963, I visited Ban Huai Rim, in Tambon Ban Kat, San Pa Tong district, Chiang Mai province, on the edge of the hills southwest of Chiang Mai city, where a few of the villagers still spoke Lua’, and the headman told me, ‘We know we used to be Lua’, but now we are northern Thai.’ 6 Lowlanders, large companies and government officials sometimes did acquire use rights and titles to land in Royal Forests for houses, resorts and farms (occasionally with subsequent scandals). 7 By 2013 the Royal Forest Department was using aerial and satellite imagery and GPS equipment to map the small hillside areas they allowed highlanders to use, such as those in the Hmong village of Khun Chang Khian, in Tambon Chang Phuak, Muang district, Chiang Mai. 8 District authorities refused to intervene in local boundary disputes between Lua’ and Karen villages, and disputes with Hmong villagers who were cutting (illegal) opium swiddens on ridges at the top of watersheds where Lua’ and Karen villagers were farming. 9 In 2013, Pa Pae villagers can buy vegetables from markets or from itinerant merchants who visit the village. 10 Pa Pae villagers still used these same tools for weeding their swiddens in 2013. 11 Villagers sometimes made roofing panels out of Dipterocarp leaves. By the late 1970s, Pa Pae villagers had begun allowing lowlanders to graze cattle in substantial numbers in their swiddens, with the consequent loss of Imperata as a source of roofing material. This, along with road access and some cash income, led some villagers to buy zinc-coated corrugated iron for roofing. Although corrugated iron has the advantages of being non-inflammable and lasting longer than ‘organic’ roofing materials, it is not locally recyclable, is much hotter than roofs made of grass or leaves, and does not allow smoke from cooking and heating fires to percolate out of the living (and breathing) space. 12 In the 1960s, there was some intermarriage with other Lua’ villages (in-marriage and out-marriage of women), in-marriage of one Karen wife, and (prior to the 1960s) two Khmu’ husbands. By 2013, there was in-marriage of northern Thai and Hmong husbands, semi-conversion to matrilocal postmarital residence and matrilineal inheritance of houses and access to land, as well as marriage or long-term co-residence of two Pa Pae women with Americans in Bangkok. 13 During this period, Hmong farmers sometimes used opium to pay Karen addicts to work in their fields. 14 This is not quite the same process as Leach described for Kachin ‘becoming Shan’ in Burma (Leach, 1954). Although some of the people we knew from Pa Pae who moved denied their Lua’ ethnicity when they were in the lowlands, many of these Lua’ migrants from the hills retained their ethnic

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identity, especially after their lowland community grew in size. Likewise, it should be noted that all of our censuses in Lua’ and Karen highland and lowland communities showed highlanders moving to the lowlands, and never (in the early 1960s) moving from the lowlands to the highlands. 15 In 2013, the villagers were not only familiar with the use of commercial credit, but had also become increasingly involved in the consumption economy, indebtedness and sometimes foreclosure for unpaid debts. They were buying and becoming subject to time payments for motorcycles, TV sets, cellphones, and so on. By 2013, Lahu, Lisu and Kachin farmers in Chiang Dao district of Chiang Mai province were selling maize crops to large corporations based in Chiang Mai or Bangkok and were receiving payments in the form of transfers to their ATM accounts. 16 Pa Pae and several other Lua’ villagers in the same area were consolidated into palisaded villages during the early 1800s for protection against ‘Red Karen’ invaders from Burma. Descendant households (in the male line) still reckoned their access to village swidden land in terms of the agreements made at the time of that consolidation by leaders of the villages involved. 17 In previous years, a few individuals had been expelled from the village to settle in the lowlands near Chiang Mai because of violations of local incest taboos on marriage with relatives who were reckoned to be too closely related. 18 In later years, the school expanded to a full six primary grades. Most highland children went to Border Patrol Police primary schools in the 1960s and 1970s. Eventually, some Pa Pae students began to attend secondary schools in Mae Sariang, living in Buddhist temples or in Christian dormitories, thus requiring their families to provide for their food and school expenses while depriving their households of their labour. By the early 1970s the Public Welfare Department had established secondary-level schools in the lowlands which attracted students from some highland minority groups. Friendships formed at these schools crossed ethnic lines and assisted in pan-minority political movements in later decades. No Pa Pae residents attended the Public Welfare Department schools. 19 Fifty years later there were classes for Pa Pae students to learn the Lua’ language. 20 As of 2013 there were at least 95 cellphones for the 90 households in Pa Pae, 24-hour electricity, and a number of television sets. 21 An all-season road connecting Mae Sariang with the Chiang Mai valley was completed later in the 1960s. Air services to and from Mae Sariang were suspended until about 2011, when a small local carrier resumed scheduled flights between Chiang Mai and Mae Sariang. The road from the main highway to Pa Pae can now be travelled in about one hour. 22 Highland ethnic-minority communities now participate much more directly in political processes and in meaningful self-government. Ban Pa Pae became the location of a sub-district (tambon) office in the 1980s, and a Pa Pae villager was designated as the head of the sub-district (kamnan), and thus the highest-ranking government official in the village and sub-district. He was replaced in 2013 by another villager. Two Pa Pae residents are now elected members of the sub-district administrative committee (aw baw thaw), two Hmong residents of Khun Chang Khian are members of their sub-district committees. In February 2013 a Lahu woman was elected as chairman of the Na Wai aw baw thaw in Chiang Dao district. As a result of government ‘decentralization’ policies, sub-district committees now have substantial budgets with which they can select and implement their own local development projects. 23 In 2013, a Lahu woman was elected with a large majority as chair (nayok) of her sub-district administrative committee (Na Wai) in Chiang Dao district. She was the first of her minority ethnic group and the first woman to be elected as chair in the sub-district, and had run on a platform of the rights of minority villagers to their land (still held by the RFD, leased to the local Royal Project, and then allocated to individual households who claim the right to use it). 24 The Border Patrol Police built a helicopter pad on a point above the village a decade earlier, but it was never used. 25 Destruction of forest at the top of the watershed, exacerbated by the clearing of forest alongside this stream for construction of high-elevation terraces, apparently contributed to a flash flood that hit Pa Pae in the mid-1980s, wiping out some of the villagers’ dry-season gardens and fruit trees. 26 Demographic surveys in Hmong communities in 2012 showed continued high fertility, supported in part by their success in non-narcotic cash cropping.

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27 All people in Thailand are required to register with the government. Government identification (ID) cards, first issued in the 1960s and 1970s, indicate place of residence and several other social factors. These cards are now required for a variety of services for which Thai citizens are eligible, including education in government schools, free or low-cost health services under the universal healthinsurance scheme, voting in local and national elections and issuance of passports for international travel. Failure of individuals to register current, more-or-less permanent places of residence is very common, and is associated with massive temporary movements from cities back to communities of origin in order to vote (there is no absentee ballot system), or for some major holidays. These movements are widely reported in newspapers, but Thai population figures, based on legal (de jure) rather than actual (de facto) places of residence, result in vast under-estimates of rural to urban migration, and make it impossible to use official figures as a basis to calculate rates of migration out of highland villages. Although there are national policies regarding eligibility and requirement for registration and issuance of ID cards, the regulations are ‘interpreted’ by local government officials. Thus, in border areas, especially where there has been extensive cross-border migration of minority ethnic groups (e.g. Mae Sot, Chiang Dao), some highlanders who were born in Thailand have been refused ID cards on the grounds that they are not really Thai citizens and are therefore not entitled to government services; some of those who do register are given cards that restrict their ability to travel across district or provincial borders. Besides distorting population statistics, this ambiguity remains a sore point in relationships between the government and minority groups. 28 By 2013, the end of the ‘education frontier’ may be approaching. As the number of colleges and universities and their graduates in Thailand has increased, the demand for graduates may have peaked and the numbers of unemployed graduates among highlanders has increased. Many highlanders still see higher education as a way for their children to succeed, but as long ago as 1987 one very successful Hmong farmer in the area south of Mae Sot remarked, ‘Why send my son to college? He can make more money as a farmer here without a college degree.’ 29 ‘In the past we used to get only two or three times as much rice as the seed we planted, but with fertilizer we get 10 times the amount we plant.’ 30 This system is followed in many other highland areas, such as Nawng Khiaw, a Lahu community, and nearby Kachin and Lisu communities in northern Chiang Dao district, Chiang Mai province, and Khun S’tan, a Hmong community in southern Nan province. 31 Most of the villagers now have their rice milled, rather than foot-pounding it.

(ii) Looking towards the future …

A Konyak Naga farmer in Nagaland’s Mon District sprays a salt solution on his upland rice to combat broadleaf weeds Sketch based on a photo by  Malcolm Cairns

7 THE FUTURE OF SWIDDEN CULTIVATION Joseph A. Weinstock*

Introduction

Shifting cultivation, slash-and-burn and swidden are terms for the oldest and most primitive form of agricultural production. Land is cleared of trees, scrub and other vegetation, which is then burned and the land is planted with agricultural crops. After a year or two, the land is abandoned and a new piece of land is cleared, the vegetation burned, and the newly opened land planted with crops. This cycle continues until dense vegetation has regrown on the original parcel of land, typically after 10 or 15 years or more, when this parcel of land is once again cleared by slashing and burning for agricultural use. The ‘fallow’ period – that time of rejuvenation when the soil and the forest recover – does not mean that the land is empty and has no productive value. At the very least, the land regenerates during the fallow period into a secondary forest, supporting a variety of wildlife and sustaining greater biodiversity than intensive monoculture agro-ecosystems. In addition, fallow land continues to produce food and economically valuable products. In the simplest swidden agro-ecosystems, villagers harvest fruit from fruit trees growing spontaneously on the fallow land, as well as collecting edible wild vegetation, building materials and firewood. Fallow land in more complex swidden agro-ecosystems may contain economically valuable crops, such as fruit trees, rubber, rattan and other perennials that were planted before the fallow period began.

* 

Dr Joseph A. Weinstock conducted field research among swidden cultivators in Kalimantan between 1979 and 1981 for his doctorate at Cornell University (1983). He became a Post-Doctoral Fellow of the Environment and Policy Institute of the East-West Centre, after which he spent about 12 years as a development consultant in Asia before joining the Asian Development Bank, where he was a Senior Sustainable Specialist, Senior Environment Specialist and Focal Point for Disaster Rehabilitation. In recent years, Dr Weinstock has been an Environmental Advisor in the Caucasus and in Pakistan, and a Climate-Change Specialist in Pakistan and in Indonesia.

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As the world’s population has grown from 2.5 billion in 1950 to 7 billion today, swidden agriculture has been viewed as an inefficient use of increasingly scarce land and natural resources. Requiring considerably more land per person than intensive agricultural systems such as irrigated rice farming, shifting cultivation entails the use of a parcel of land for only a year or two for growing food crops, followed by a ‘fallow’ of 10 or more years before the land is again used for the production of annual crops. Hence, swidden agriculture requires five or more land parcels per farmer. To feed, clothe and house a burgeoning global population there is a need to increase productivity of all types of agro-ecosystems. The question is: does swidden agriculture have a place in the 21st century? Swidden cultivation typically takes place on forest lands, so the question further involves protection of forests, and the best use of their resources. Intensified swidden cultivation can have a place among future agro-ecosystems provided it is economically viable and environmentally stable; in other words, as long as it is a sustainable form of agricultural production. When attempting to rationalize or intensify agricultural production in forest ecosystems, danger arises from a frequent and basic misunderstanding: government planners, development agencies, agribusinesses and others often see forests, be they in temperate zones or in the tropics, and naively assume that such thick vegetation must be supported by rich soils. Pursuing this line of thought, they assume that if cleared of trees these lands will be able to support intensive agricultural grain production, be it rice, corn or wheat. Historical evidence of this fallacy can be seen in the European settlement of the northeast woodlands of North America, which resulted in numerous failed rocky hill farms from Maine to Pennsylvania. A recent example in the tropics is the failure of Indonesia’s massive ‘megarice’ project, in which a million hectares of tropical swamp forest in Central Kalimantan (Borneo) were cleared and the land drained in an attempt to begin intensive rice cropping. Sadly, most of this now-abandoned land supports neither agriculture nor healthy forest. Damage done to the natural hydrology of the swamp lands has also released large amounts of carbon from the peat, which is now dry, contributing to global greenhouse gases and climate change. What has not been understood is that while forest and grassland ecosystems may contain similar total amounts of nutrients, in forest ecosystems the nutrients are locked in the standing vegetation on relatively thin soils, while in grasslands most of the ecosystem nutrients lie in thick soils built up under thin grass vegetation. Hence, cutting down and removing forest trees results in the removal of most of the ecosystem nutrients. Slashing and burning trees and perennial vegetation in traditional swidden agriculture is a crude and inefficient way of releasing these nutrients for use in growing grain and other food crops, but it is only sufficient for one or two planting cycles. If the land is then allowed to regenerate into a forest ecosystem over 10 to 20 years (in the tropics), the regrown vegetation will build up sufficient nutrients for the cycle to be repeated. When available forest land was extensive and populations were small, swidden cultivation was environmentally sustainable over indefinite periods. Even the carbon-smoke pollution released by the burning vegetation was small enough to

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be ecologically tolerable. Sadly, there are too many human beings to feed, house and clothe in today’s world to allow swidden cultivators the luxury of inefficiently using large tracts of land. Additionally, some forest land needs to be left in its native state to support the other animals and plants with which we share the planet. We have seen evidence that swidden cultivation, in most cases, cannot be replaced by permanent cultivation of grains or other annual food crops. Replacing swidden cultivation with tree-crop plantations such as rubber, oil palm or fruit trees may, in some situations, be economically viable and even environmentally sustainable – assuming that maintaining biodiversity levels and conserving natural ecosystems are not to be considered. However, replacing subsistence agriculture with monoculture plantation agriculture turns people into wage labourers subject to the whims of nature and international markets, at a great risk to their food security. One solution is to retain the food self-sufficiency of swidden cultivation while making swidden systems more efficient and sustainable within increasing land-resource constraints. This might be achieved through rationalization of swidden land use and increasing productivity per land area. While there is greater urgency to rationalize swidden cultivation today, this is not a totally new concept. Corridor system of the Congo

During European colonization of Africa, the Belgians devised the ‘corridor system’ in the colonial Congo to rationalize shifting cultivation. Also known as the paysannat system, corridor methods of improving swidden cultivation were developed to supply food to growing urban centres and to produce cash crops. The system was designed by demarcation of parallel 100-metre-wide corridors running east-west to maximize sunlight. Each corridor was farmed for one year, with the farmers moving through odd-numbered strips before beginning again with even-numbered strips. A set of 20 corridors meant 20 years of regeneration, or fallow, for each strip. Maintaining 100-metre corridors was considered optimal for natural regeneration from adjacent forest strips. The problem with the corridor system was that it assumed land to be flat, or that the topography was suitable for east-west alternating corridors of annuals and perennials that would allow sunlight to reach low annual crops planted between strips of taller perennial vegetation.The system also failed because it required collectivization of farms and close coordination of farmers cultivating a large contiguous block of land, both of which were anathema to the typically independent nature of swidden cultivators settled sparsely across large areas of forest. Agroforestry systems

Another option to increase the productivity of swidden is the development of agroforestry systems, although most agroforestry systems require greater discipline in planning and execution than traditional swidden. A better approach to increasing the

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efficiency of traditional swidden systems is their conversion into either an integral agroforestry system or alternate cycle agroforestry (Weinstock, 1985). There are two types of integral agroforestry: the taungya system and the simultaneous cropping system. Integral agroforestry: taungya

The term taungya comes from Burma (Myanmar). In a taungya system there is a partial overlap of annuals and tree perennials, with food crops and forest plantations initially sharing the same parcel of land. By the third or fourth year of a taungya system, the tree canopy has closed and production of annual food crops is no longer possible.To continue food-crop production, the taungya system must be started anew on another parcel of land every few years.While this is more efficient than traditional swidden cultivation, the taungya system requires an extensive land area to maintain food security. Although not as strict as the corridor system, taungya also imposes organization and a regimented lifestyle not commonly followed in swidden society. In both the taungya and corridor systems, the technical adaptations under trial were not the issue, but rather the interface between technology and society. Experiences with the taungya system suggest that there may be ways to successfully integrate agriculture and forestry. The corridor experience suggests that swidden cultivation need not be either destructive or non-productive, and may be amenable to improvement. Integral agroforestry: simultaneous cropping

In a simultaneous-cropping system there is continuous intercropping of annuals and perennials on the same parcel of land. Perennials and annual food crops are planted in alternating rows or strips, as in the corridor system, or perennials are planted randomly amid annual food crops. Like the taungya system, a simultaneous-cropping system provides increased ecological stability over monoculture cropping by achieving better slope stability and decreased soil erosion, since the land is never bare. Having mixed species, both of these agroforestry-swidden systems provide greater biodiversity than does monoculture agriculture. Similarly, both taungya and simultaneous-cropping systems provide fodder, firewood, building materials and other forest products for home use or sale. The difference is that a taungya system requires further opening of new parcels of land to maintain food production, whereas a simultaneous-cropping system, once established, does not. Spacing of perennial and annual crops is such that the perennial crops never shade out the interspersed annual food crops. While taungya and simultaneous cropping require more farmer discipline than traditional swidden farming, they are not as regimented as the corridor system and hence more socially acceptable.

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Alternate-cycle agroforestry

Forest-based swidden agriculture is the most basic form of cyclical agroforestry: a parcel of land is used in alternating periods for annual food crops and then fallow periods in which woody perennials grow. Alternate-cycle agroforestry refers here to modification of swidden cultivation to increase its productivity. Increased productivity can either focus on that portion of the cyclical sequence in which food-crop annuals are grown, or later, when perennials are grown. Increased food-crop production can be achieved by sowing improved, higher-yielding cultivars and using better water control, fertilization and pest control, although these require increased capital inputs, access to agro-inputs and enhanced knowledge through better extension services. Unfortunately, improvements to food production during the annual-crop period of the swidden cycle are a challenge because swidden cultivators are typically cash poor and live in isolated areas, making improved agricultural services and inputs difficult to provide. Improving the perennial-crop portion of the swidden cycle offers an easier option for more efficient land use and improved swidden productivity, since perennial crops are normally less demanding of special inputs and labour than are annual food crops. Their sale also generates cash income to purchase food and other items not produced locally. In addition, many perennial crops are more durable than annual crops. They can be stored and are less prone to damage or spoilage in transit to markets than are grains, vegetables and other annual crops. This is particularly important because swidden cultivation is typically practised in remote areas. Swidden fallows often contain fruit trees, which provide an additional food source during the fallow period.These fruit trees are either planted or spring up as volunteers from refuse left behind by farmers. Enrichment of fallows by purposefully planting specific perennial species is the easiest way to increase swidden-system productivity. Examples of fallow-enrichment planting include fast-growing leguminous perennials, such as Leucaena leucocephala, Acioa barteri, Anthonotha macrophylla and Gliricidia sepium.These are all nitrogen-fixing species, so planting them speeds up regeneration of soil fertility, leading to a shorter fallow period, over which the land becomes sufficiently fertile to once again support the cultivation of food crops. These species can also be coppiced, so the prunings provide animal fodder, firewood and poles for light construction.Alternate-cycle swidden agroforestry systems using nitrogen-fixing perennials achieve efficiency gains by reducing the fallow phase of the cultivationfallow cycle, while maintaining community food security from a smaller land area. Other examples of swidden-fallow enrichment include the planting of economically valuable perennials such as rubber (Hevea brasiliensis), cacao (Theobroma cacao) and rattan (Calamus caesius and Calamus trachycoleus are the varieties typically planted). These enrichment strategies do not reduce the required swidden land area, but instead provide cash income during the ‘fallow’ period.These crops do not contribute directly to food security, but provide cash to purchase goods that may include food that is not produced locally, or additional food staples in times of shortage. Furthermore, the planting of fallow-enrichment perennials, whether fast-growing leguminous species or cash crops, maintains the ecological and biodiversity functions of the swidden-cycle

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fallow, since the enrichment perennials are interspersed with naturally regenerating forest and are not growing as a monoculture. Rattan planted as an enrichment species in Kalimantan swiddens has been an ideal example of a successful alternate-cycle agroforestry system developed by indigenous people more than a century ago.The rattan harvest period of 10 to 15 years coincides with the fallow period needed to preserve a stable annual crop and perennial fallow alternate-cycle agro-ecosystem. Once planted, rattan seedlings do not require any upkeep, so the farmer is free to forget about them until he wants to harvest them. Although rattan can be harvested in 10 to 15 years, the longer it is left, the longer and more valuable are the rattan canes. This offers the swidden farmer an opportunity to follow the rattan market and harvest his cane when prices are high. It also provides a flexible savings account to accumulate money for special occasions such as a future wedding or religious event. Rubber and cacao can pose a problem because these trees have a long productive life, so farmers may not wish to cut them down after 15 years to use the land again to cultivate annual food crops. Unlike rattan, rubber and cacao trees require regular maintenance and once they reach maturity, the latex in the case of rubber, and fruit pods in the case of cacao, need to be regularly harvested. Provided there are not too many rubber or cacao trees planted in a fallow, they can be left every 10 to 15 years while the surrounding perennial vegetation is slashed and burned so that annual crops can be planted among the rubber or cacao trees. There are instances of other economically valuable species being used as fallowenrichment trees. Naturally occurring forest trees that are favoured by swidden farmers are often retained when land is cleared for annual crop cultivation and then remain in the regenerating fallow.These include durian (Durio zibethinus) and other jungle fruit trees, and ‘bee trees’ (Koompassia excels, Alstonia spp and Ficus spp), which are favoured for nesting of wild honey bees. No doubt there are more examples of indigenous swidden-fallow enrichment which need to be explored and understood. Ensuring the continuity and evolution of swidden cultivation requires the discovery of successful indigenous strategies and exploration of how each might best be developed into efficient and ecologically stable agro-ecosystems. Conclusion

Swidden agriculture is an extensive land-use system that is only suitable where and when population densities are very low. It can accommodate increasing populations only when there is enough land available to allow the fallow period to remain long enough for the nutrients in the land and vegetation to regenerate and rebuild, in order to support grain and vegetable crops for a year or two during the annual-crop phase of the swidden cycle. Fallow-enrichment planting of leguminous perennials can shorten the fallow cycle and reduce the land area needed to maintain food security. Likewise, fallow-enrichment planting of cash crops can provide ‘top-up income’ to allow farmers to purchase food they cannot produce. As the global population continues

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to grow, the spotlight is increasingly turning to less fertile lands and forests, such as those on which swidden cultivation is practised. Swidden agriculture can maintain viability into the 21st century, but only where population densities are low or soil fertility is maintained by sustainable intensification. All too often, when population pressure increases, fallow periods of traditional swiddens are shortened in a bid to produce more food from the same area of land. This leads to a downward spiral of environmental degradation and increasing poverty. The Green Revolution focused on raising the productivity of the most fertile lands through intensive agricultural systems. Now is the time to pay attention to sustainable management of less fertile lands, through improved low-intensity agricultural systems. This is true not only for swidden cultivation, but also for other farming systems on less fertile lands, where farmers do not have access to, or cannot afford, fertilizers, agro-chemicals and other costly inputs. Reference Weinstock, J. A. (1985) ‘Alternate cycle agroforestry’, Agroforestry Systems 3, pp387–397

8 SHIFTING AGRICULTURE AND FALLOW MANAGEMENT OPTIONS Where do we stand? P. S. Ramakrishnan*

Introduction

Shifting agriculture, which involves a ‘slash-and-burn’ procedure on a piece of forested land, often followed by mixed cropping and then a lengthy period of fallow, is a system maintained by traditional societies living close to nature and natural resources in a forested landscape. It is an age-old farming practice that is still prevalent in forested parts of the Asian, African and South American tropics. Myers (1993) suggested that these small-scale farming communities were not only responsible for deforestation, but were also implicated in as much as 50% of land degradation in Asia, 70% in Africa and 30% in South America. This myth has been set aside, not only through our studies in the northeast Indian context (Ramakrishnan, 1992; Ramakrishnan et al., 2006), but also through an international initiative involving India, China and the United States (Indian National Science Academy et al., 2001). Indeed, it is now well recognized that governmental policies and market pressures, both national and international, are the primary drivers of deforestation and the contribution made by shifting-agriculture farmers is felt, at worst, only on a local level. It has been shown that shifting-agriculture farmers make every effort to conserve soil nutrients against erosive losses and make optimal use of available soil fertility on hill slopes in a variety of different ways: (1) by retaining socially valued species in the plot during the slash-and-burn operation, rather than resorting to complete clear-felling; (2) by appropriately managing a mixed-cropping system wherein crop biodiversity at the species or sub-specific level is organized along the hill slope; and (3) by resorting to selective weeding rather than complete weeding as in modern agricultural practices (this is the ‘non-weed’ concept in traditional agriculture, in which a farmer knows exactly the density at which weeds play a positive role in conserving moisture

* 

Professor P. S. Ramakrishnan, INSA Honorary Senior Scientist, School of Environmental Sciences, Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi, India.

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and nutrients, rather than competing for resources with the crops). In short, by ensuring a high level of crop and associated weed diversity, the farmers are able to conserve moisture and nutrients within the system, thus ensuring the sustainability of traditional agricultural practices, at least until such a time as external pressures on forest resources lead to large-scale deforestation and a rapid shortening of the shifting-agricultural cycle of slash-and-burn, cropping and fallow, all ending up with rapid land degradation. Fallow management: The basis for a redeveloped shifting agriculture

There is no doubt that shifting agriculture is based upon the principles of fallow management. That is, after a cropping phase of one or two years, natural forces are allowed to determine fallow-regeneration processes over a period of years. If, as in olden times, population pressures can be kept to a reasonable minimum and the amount of available forested land is not a limiting factor, the shifting-agricultural cycle will be long enough to allow the land a reasonable period of time for fallow regeneration, leading to a fairly well-developed tree cover. However, extensive and drastic deforestation pressures, largely for timber to meet distant processes of industrialization and urbanization, have acted as key drivers of irreversible and extensive land-use conversions. Marginalized shifting-agricultural farmers are now faced with rapidly declining soil fertility, which under their traditional land-use cycle would have been restored through natural forest successional processes. This is the context in which very many models of fallow management, based on agroforestry systems, have been created by the scientific community in the hope that some of these models may gain the acceptance of local communities. However, the level of acceptance is often poor because these models frequently fail to connect with value systems that traditional societies understand and appreciate, so they are unable to relate to their outcome. It is appropriate, in these circumstances, to discuss traditional fallow-management practices and the efforts emerging from these to find an ‘alternative pathway’ for shifting agriculture, based on fallow-management principles. Traditional fallow-management practices

Traditional fallow-management practices are community driven and are invariably the products of an evolutionary process under which the length of the shiftingagricultural cycle has become very short, often less than five years. In such situations, under natural processes of succession, the fallow phase is largely limited to a herbaceous vegetation cover. It is not uncommon, under short fallows forced by continued pressure on the land, to find that one ends up with an arrested succession of native and/or exotic weeds (Ramakrishnan, 1992). When a large number of traditional societies end up with shifting-agricultural systems operating under such short fallows there are adverse implications for their food security, and this often leads to the

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evolution of traditional fallow-management pathways to improved performance, based on the wisdom accumulated by local farmers. In the northeastern hill regions of India, the cycle length has come down to five years or even less, due to increasing population pressure and declining forest cover as a result of external demand for timber. Under these circumstances, shiftingagriculture (jhum) farmers exercise two evolved options for sustainable land use. These are organically evolved fallow-management pathways that have developed out of long experience and observation: Often, a nitrogen-fixing crop and/or a tree-fallow species is adopted as a tool for sustainable soil-fertility management. If it is a crop species, fallow management may be based on a rotational-cropping regime evolved by the farmer in which the keystone crop species is a nitrogen-fixer, for example, a traditional crop species such as Flemingia vestita, as part of a pure or mixed cropping system (Gangwar and Ramakrishnan, 1987, 1989). On the other hand, the farmer may go for a tree-fallow selection strategy as an approach to fallow management, by conserving a nitrogenfixing species such as Nepalese Alder (Alnus nepalensis), or preferring a fallow site already having some socially valued bamboo species, such as Bambusa tulda, B. khasiana or Neohozua dulloa, as the dominant species. Our studies suggest that the latter are concentrators of nitrogen, phosphorus and potassium – the three mineral nutrients that are key determinants of soil fertility (Rao and Ramakrishnan, 1989). Under both situations, the technology is community-centred, either evolved by a particular community – as in the case of the former pathway – or determined by the scientific community and development agencies, but involving the shiftingagricultural farmers from the very start in a community-participatory mode. Two of my earlier articles on fallow management, one based on a lesser-known food crop, Flemingia vestita (Ramakrishnan, 2007), and another based on Alnus nepalensis (Ramakrishnan, 2015 forthcoming), have emphasized the role of communityparticipatory strategies in stabilizing and sustainably managing shifting agriculture in the north-east Indian context. This is necessitated by the fact that drastic changes in land-use practices are not feasible because government policies and actions on the ground are based on a commitment to dynamically conserve the eco-cultural heritage of the people without drastically departing from their cherished value systems. Indeed, with a rich socio-cultural calendar that is linked to shifting agriculture and other traditional land-use practices, conserving the cultural heritage of the people is dependent upon preserving that cultural calendar along with its associated land uses. This is the context in which the failure of a variety of fallow-management pathways (the ‘alternatives’), which were imposed from outside, must be viewed. They were unable to gain large-scale societal acceptance. Are ‘alternatives’ a viable option?

In an extensive and extremely valuable review of the search for alternatives to shifting agriculture, a whole range of issues linked with this problem were discussed by

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Palm et al. (2005). However, site-specific alternatives to this vexed problem of food security for marginalized forest dwellers were very limited, because this global review covered just a handful of case studies. Studies from the Brazilian Amazon dealt, in one case, with small-scale forest-management opportunities (d’Oliveira et al., 2005), and in another with possibly unsustainable small-scale coffee cultivation which could eventually end up as conversion of land into pastures, raising related consequences of possible unsustainable land use (Carpentier et al., 2005). Two others from Indonesia dealt on one hand with a smallholder rubber-based agroforestry option (Wibawa et al., 2005), and on the other with so-called ‘agroforestation’ of Imperata cylindrica-impacted grasslands, as a possible community-forestry activity for incomegeneration opportunities (Purnomosidhi et al., 2005). Many of these attempts to find meaningful solutions to the problem of shifting agriculture have remained isolated efforts which have not been able to take roots as effective replacements for traditional shifting-agriculture systems, so shifting agriculture remains a major land use in the global context. Many such attempts have been largely focused around a drastic shift towards one type of plantation economy or another, which for obvious reasons are not accessible to poor farmers. As a result, these efforts became more of an industrial activity based on large-scale plantation economies, and it was in this context that a more comprehensive Sloping Agricultural Land Technology (SALT) arose, so this merits some consideration. Sloping Agricultural Land Technology (SALT)

One of the much-touted agricultural-technology alternatives is the Sloping Agricultural Land Technology (SALT) model, a technology that originated as a result of problems faced by upland farmers on the island of Mindanao, in the Philippines. Pratap and Watson (1994) have given a detailed account of this technology, which is recommended as a regenerative option for mountain farming, as an alternative to shifting agriculture. Its basic philosophy is that an agroforestry system providing alternating tree plantations with cropping systems on a hill slope not only offers food from agricultural crops, but also a source of fodder for cattle and timber with multipurpose value. It is based on low-cost agroforestry technology involving minimal tillage and the use of organic fertilizers, while organizing crop and tree components in alternating contour rows along the hill slope. The original model developed in the Philippines was based on Leucaena leucocephala as a hedgerow species laid out in contour lines across the hill slope, with intercropping between the hedgerows. Subsequently, four alternatives have been suggested: (1) focuses mainly on food crops; (2) incorporates livestock with crop farming; (3) incorporates a separate forest plantation along with models 1 and 2, above; and (4) emphasizes orchard trees and plantation crops. SALT is geared towards the conservation and enhancement of soil moisture and soil fertility along the hill slope, while taking the farmer from shifting agriculture towards sustainable settled farming practices. At the same time, it contributes

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positively towards keeping farming systems in harmony with the surrounding forested landscape. In spite of all these positive qualities, SALT remains a technology model with very limited acceptance. Major reasons for resistance among hill communities towards externally imposed agroecosystem models such as SALT – and others, such as a plantation systems-based economy ­– are socio-ecological in nature. No matter how well organized and productive they may be, such models have received little or no acceptance from hill farmers. Important factors are linked with: (1) the fragmented nature of small hill-farmer land holdings, and (2) the highly heterogeneous socio-ecological environment in the mountains, which changes over short distances, so that farmers’ concerns for choices of technology are highly location-specific and a single-window solution is unable to be implemented. These things may help to explain why there is now a renewed interest in a better understanding of traditional agricultural systems and the traditional ecological knowledge-based technologies embedded within them. Traditional agroecosystems in the contemporary context

There currently exists a whole range of agroecosystems, starting from casually managed shifting agriculture on one extreme and with high-energy subsidized, intensely managed and industrialized modern agriculture at the other extreme. In examining the role of biodiversity in determining the structural and linked functional attributes of agroecosystems, an attempt has been made to organize major agroecosystem typologies along an agrobiodiversity gradient linked with productivity considerations. All the traditional systems, except for modern industrialized agriculture, were based on agroforestry principles, with tree and crop components organized in space and/or time. While a variety of possibilities have been hypothesized (Figure 8.1), a widely accepted connection between the intensity of agroecosystem management vs. agrobiodiversity is represented in this figure by Curve IV. The author proponents of the figure (Swift et al., 1996) believe that Curve IV is the most probable and interesting indicator of the relationship between agrobiodiversity and management intensity. It can be seen that with increasing intensity of management, biodiversity gradually declines to start with, followed by a very sharp decline somewhere in the middle level of management intensity, then it levels off at a very low point and remains largely unaffected by higher intensity levels. Arising from this theoretical framework, it was concluded that if one were to address concerns about agricultural-system sustainability, one would have to work somewhere in the middle levels of management intensity on this curve. Swift et al. (1996) concluded that Curve IV indicated where efforts should be placed to manage agroecosystem complexity for stability with resilience, because biodiversity was little affected by the initial stages of management intensity. A similar observation also emerged from case studies in northeast India that were linked with a shifting-agricultural landscape complex with a variety of typologies coexisting in the same region (Ramakrishnan, 1992). Arising from this hypothetical framework, Swift et al. (1996) concluded that planning for research activities aimed at developing

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FIGURE 8.1 

Relationship between the intensity of agroecosystem management and agrobiodiversity Source:  Swift et al. (1996)

agroecosystem models with concerns for systems resilience and increasing agricultural productivity should be focused somewhere closer to the low- to middle-intensity area of management as indicated in Curve IV. This is an area in which can be found traditional settled farming systems, including a range of traditional agroforestry systems. This forms the basis for the following discussion on fallow-management pathways falling under middle-intensity management (Figure 8.1), as a means of addressing sustainability issues linked with shifting agriculture. What must be recognized at the very outset is that farmers’ interests have always focused on sustainable management of their traditional agricultural systems, for the sake of their own food security. This is quite unlike the myth propagated in the literature, that shifting-agriculture farmers are responsible for deforestation and land degradation in the tropics.There is now realization at the global level that population pressure and poverty are not the real culprits of deforestation-linked land degradation, but this is largely due to governmental policies and market pressures (Indian National Science Academy et al., 2001). Large-scale deforestation by timber extractors from outside has had adverse and often irreversible impacts on the land-use practices of traditional farmers. While coping with such pressures, they have gradually moved

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towards fallow-management strategies of one sort or another, based on their field experiences spread over time and space. The move towards sustainable agriculture

In the more recent past, efforts have been made to give energy-subsidized agriculture to jhum farmers in northeast India, but this has time and again been rejected, for reasons both socio-ecological and cultural. In the Haryana-Punjab region of the northwestern plains of India, so-called ‘green-revolution’ modern agriculture, because of the high-energy subsidies in the form of fertilizers and pesticides needed for its maintenance, has become unsustainable. This has been shown by our studies as part of a tri-academy initiative (Indian National Science Academy et al., 2001). Agricultural scientists themselves, in India, are now looking for a variety of fallowmanagement strategies that will lead towards sustainable agriculture. This urgency has been triggered by the ecological phenomenon of ‘global change’, including climate change, land-use and land-cover changes and biodiversity depletion leading to biological invasion and/or land desertification (Walker et al., 1999). Add to this the ‘globalization’ of economies, with its adverse impacts on biodiversitylinked food security (Dragun and Tisdell, 1999). All this has led to renewed interest in better evolved and managed agricultural-system models, wherein tree species are well integrated, both in space (agroforestry systems) and time (fallowmanagement systems), with implications for sustainable food security, particularly in the developing tropics where soil systems are very fragile (Singh et al., 1994; Chadha and Swaminathan, 2006). Indeed, there is renewed interest in examining and understanding traditional agroforestry systems as models on which to base sustainable agriculture for marginalized sections of society in the developing tropics. Fallow management is one of the important options, and therefore there is now a renewed interest in understanding traditional fallow-management practices so that they can be used to the extent feasible to build up fallow-management-based agroforestry systems, particularly in the developing tropics of India.The problems that have led to this quest for sustainable agriculture have been further aggravated by rapid soil degradation, which has set in on a national scale, with implications for the food security of the vast majority of marginalized people in the developing tropics in India (Singh et al., 1994; Chadha and Swaminathan, 2006). This problem is exacerbated by the fact that a substantial section of human society remains dependent upon shifting agriculture; it is still a major land use among the substantial section of society living in the forested areas of the developing tropics. The scientific community and developmental agencies are struggling to arrive at a sustainable land-use management action plan that is community-participatory and is capable of involving many of these very traditional, marginalized societies that live close to nature and depend upon the natural resources around them for their food security. In this context, the following discussion on traditional agriculture-forestry connections and the variety of agroforestry practices arising from them should assume added significance. There

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exist in nature a whole variety of agroforestry systems, starting from very traditional shifting agriculture on one extreme and extending into a range of settled agroforestry typologies, organized both in space and time (Figure 8.1). These are all sustained by agrobiodiversity, and high-energy, subsidized monoculture-based modern agriculture stands out as an exception.This is the context in which agriculture that is linked with forestry (tree species coexisting with agricultural crops, both in space and/or time) assumes significance as part of a fallow-management strategy. In the area of fallow-management strategies based on agroforestry principles, there are two options: (1) a fallow-management-based agroforestry model developed exclusively by scientists in experimental plots, taking into consideration improved crop yield, but not necessarily based on a value system that farmers may understand or appreciate; or (2) moving towards agroforestry models that are closely connected with or derived from traditional agricultural systems such as shifting agriculture, and are therefore based on traditional ecological knowledge, and building stepby-step, in an incremental fashion, on the traditional system. In order to ensure community participation, an approach based on a value system that is understood and appreciated by local communities is critical. Fallow-management strategies based on ex situ experimental models have been rejected time and again, particularly by traditional societies like shifting-agriculture farmers living in forested areas. Using an approach based on the farmers’ own traditional ecological knowledge is an obvious choice, and offers a strong basis for ensuring community-participatory agroecosystem redevelopment without necessarily departing drastically from traditional land-use management practices. However, for obvious reasons, the use of fire as a tool – such as it is in many shifting-agriculture systems – has to be strictly avoided. In this context, the following discussion on two possible approaches to fallow management – the ‘incremental’ and ‘contour’ pathways, as suggested by Swift et al. (1996) – becomes significant. Obviously, this renewed interest in traditional agricultural systems makes them a learning ground for a more sustainable agriculture. Traditional agroecosystems as learning grounds for sustainability issues

The pathway that shifting-agricultural farmers have always followed is that leading to sustainable land-use practices, within the bounds of socio-ecological limitations over which they have no control.These are the circumstances in which shifting agriculture has gradually evolved towards one fallow-management strategy or another, based on the farmers’ field experiences, spread over time and space. Arising from these considerations and recent disenchantment with industrializedagricultural practices that demand high external energy subsidies, there is now renewed interest in agroforestry-system models as pathways down which traditional agricultural systems such as shifting agriculture can achieve sustainable management. India’s need to find such solutions is both clear and urgent.We have vast tracts of hilly terrain inhabited by very traditional forest dwellers whose primary land-use practice is still shifting agriculture, along with other traditional agricultural practices that are

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rapidly breaking down because of a massive loss of tree cover. There is no viable alternative in place for them to reclaim food security. Increasing population pressures are forcing jhum farmers to become more and more economically marginalized, and once again there is no viable land-use alternative in place that has been accepted by these traditional farmers. The renewed interest in understanding traditional fallowmanagement practices and the hope of using them to the extent feasible to build up fallow-management-based agroforestry-system models is aimed at ensuring community participation in efforts to achieve a more sustainable land use. In this context, discussions elsewhere on traditional crop-rotational practices, such as that using Flemingia vestita (Ramakrishnan, 2007) assume greater significance. However, in recent times there has also been renewed interest in encouraging more and more agroforestry-system models on a national scale in India, in order to cope with rapid degradation occurring in the country’s larger rural plains (Singh et al., 1994; Chadha and Swaminathan, 2006). The huge adversely impacted jhum-cultivation area is largely confined to the northeastern hill region and the central Indian uplands. Here, we are still struggling to arrive at a sustainable land-use management action plan based on a value system that local communities understand and appreciate, so that they will be encouraged to participate in the process of land-use development. This is the context in which this volume’s discussions on land-use development, based on traditional forest-fallow management practices, becomes significant. The fundamental ecological-economic principles embedded in the fallowmanagement strategies of the traditional societies mentioned above formed the basis for a redeveloped shifting-agricultural system envisaged by the Nagaland Environmental Protection and Economic Development project, or NEPED. The system was a sustainable land-use development pathway introduced in the State of Nagaland. Funded by the India-Canada Environmental Facility, NEPED has now been in operation for 10 years. The land-use developmental initiative was aimed at building upon principles linked to both fallow management and shifting agriculture that were already embedded in the traditional societal values of the people. It followed a bottom-up approach that was community-participatory, rather than trying to impose something from outside. The NEPED project has explored a range of cropping-pattern possibilities during the mixed cropping phase of jhum (swidden) cultivation, with traditional rice varieties as an important component, while making provision for a fairly long fallow-management cycle. The jhum cycle commonly lasts for nine years (NEPED and IRRR, 1999). In order to make this effective, by and large, fast-growing native-tree species were chosen for introduction into the fallow phase. One of the important steps taken was towards intensification of jhum cultivation under the nine-year cycle, with emphasis on rice during the first two years of the mixed cropping system, and on traditional rice varieties, following customary agricultural practices. From time to time during the cropping phase, a pure legume cover crop was grown to contribute to improved soil fertility. Fallow-managementbased tree cover was introduced into the plots during the latter part of the nine-year

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cycle, contributing to faster fallow re-growth, as part of a natural and sustainable soil-nutrient management strategy. Such an ‘incremental pathway’, building step-bystep on traditional land-use practices, ensured community participation to accelerate soil-nutrient recovery processes. This occurred within a national context in which shifting-agricultural cycles are rapidly shortening to less than five years. In reflection, we must redevelop many traditional agricultural systems through incremental advances, rather than quantum changes, building step-by-step upon traditional ecological knowledge and keeping text book-based ‘formal knowledge’ inputs to a minimum (Box 8.1). BOX 8.1:  Agroforests and winning football teams To improve the system of land use and resource management in northeastern India, the following strategies, suggested by the author and his co-workers, were based on a multidisciplinary analysis. Many of these proposals have already been put into practice. •

•

•

•

•

• • •

With wide variations in cropping and yield patterns under jhum practised by more than 100 ethnic groups under diverse ecological situations, transferring technology from one group or area to another can improve the jhum, valley land and home-garden ecosystems. Thus, for example, emphasis on potatoes at higher elevations compared to rice at lower elevations has led to a manifold increase in economic yield despite the low fertility of more acid soils at higher elevations. Maintain a jhum cycle lasting a minimum of 10 years. This cycle length was found to be critical for sustainability, when jhum was evaluated using money, energy, soil-fertility biomass, productivity, biodiversity and water quality as currencies. The jhum cycle can be maintained by placing greater emphasis on other land-use systems, such as traditional valley cultivation or home gardens. Where jhum-cycle length cannot be increased beyond the five-year period that prevails, redesign and strengthen this agroforestry system by incorporating ecological insights on tree architecture. For example, the canopy form of tree should be compatible with crop species at ground level so as to permit sufficient light penetration and provide fast recycling of nutrients through fast leaf turnover rates. Local perceptions are extremely important in selecting trees for introduction into the cropping and fallow phases of jhum, as is being done in the major Nagaland initiative mentioned earlier. Improve the nitrogen economy of jhum in both the cropping and fallow phases by introducing nitrogen-fixing legumes and non-legumes. A species such as Nepalese alder (Alnus nepalensis) is readily accepted because this is an adaptation of traditional knowledge to meet modern needs. Another example is the lesser-known food-crop legume Flemingia vestita, traditionally used by some ethnic groups as an important species when jhum cycles decline below five years in length. Some of the important bamboo species, highly valued by ethnic communities, can concentrate and conserve important nutrient elements such as nitrogen, potassium and phosphorus. They can also be used as windbreaks to check wind-blown loss of ash and nutrient losses in runoff. Speed up fallow regeneration after jhum by introducing fast-growing native shrubs and trees. Condense the time taken by forest succession and accelerate the restoration of degraded lands through an understanding of tree-growth strategies and architecture, and by adjusting the species mix in time and space. Improve animal husbandry through improved breeds of pigs and poultry.

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•

•

•

Redevelop village ecosystems by introducing appropriate technology to relieve drudgery and improve energy efficiency (cooking stoves, agricultural implements, biogas generation, small hydroelectric projects and so on). Promote crafts such as blacksmithing and making of products based on leather, bamboo and other woods. Strengthen conservation measures based on traditional knowledge and value systems, with which ethnic communities can identify (e.g. the revival of the ‘sacred grove’ concept, based on a cultural tradition that, once upon a time, enabled every village to have a protected forest. Few of these now remain). In the ultimate analysis, adopt an integrated approach to land-use development in any given ecological or cultural landscape. Build upon traditional knowledge and technology as a basis for short-term sustainable livelihood strategies. Long-term sustainable development plans should be based on larger ecological and economic considerations, but these should be built up gradually to avoid social disruption.

Source:  Ramakrishnan (1992, p424)

Finally, I will describe what I regard as a profound transformation of the development paradigm in northeastern India. As part of an integrated soil- and watermanagement strategy, about a dozen tree species are being tested in more than 200 test plots. This project is relying on participatory testing, rather than the trees being transplanted into field sites by extension agents. It is estimated that this agroforestry technology is being tested in about 5500ha of replicated test plots, and farmers have adopted it for local testing in a further 870 villages, covering a total area of 33,000ha (38ha per village).What is significant about this effort is the promotion of a ‘bottom-up’ approach to development, rather than the more conventional ‘top-down’ pathway for land-use development. It emphasizes an adaptive-management strategy where communities are involved not only in the initial planning process, but also in arriving at mid-term corrections during project implementation. Conclusions

An important socio-ecological principle that needs to be taken into consideration while dealing with traditional societies is that they are culturally closely connected to nature and the natural resources around them, in the form of human-managed land-use systems.They view these as an integrated whole; a natural-cultural landscape to which they are firmly attached. Therefore, any suggested fallow-management pathway not only has to be sustainable from an economic (food security) viewpoint, but also from ecological and cultural perspectives. In other words, suggested development pathways or models should harmonize with traditional societies’ beliefs about ‘nature’, and fit into value systems that they understand and appreciate, so that they are able to participate in the developmental process. Land-use development models that involve drastic departures from ‘tradition’ are likely to be viewed with suspicion.Although this aspect has often been ignored by agricultural scientists striving to promote modern agricultural technologies in the name of land development, it

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is gaining ground. The scientific community at large is now seeing the need for a community-linked and value-system-based approach to land-use development, with concerns for biodiversity conservation. This shift in development paradigm is now obviously gaining ground, and it has significant implications, not only from a sustainable food-security viewpoint, but also in terms of avoiding human conflicts between the better-endowed, on one hand, and the marginalized rural poor on the other – especially very traditional forest dwellers (Ramakrishnan, 2009).This conflict is a recurring phenomenon in many parts of the developing tropics. I believe a valuesystem-based approach to ensuring food security will be a major first step towards promoting the peaceful coexistence of all sections of society, both locally and globally. References Carpentier, C. L., Vosti, S. A. and Witcover, J. (2005) ‘Coffee, pastures and deforestation in the western Brazilian Amazon’, in C. A. Palm, S. A. Vosti, P. A. Sanchez and P. J. Ericksen (eds), Slash-and-Burn Agriculture: The Search for Alternatives, Columbia University Press, New York, pp233–247 Chadha, K. L. and Swaminathan, M. S. (eds) (2006), Environment and Agriculture, Malhotra Publishing House, New Delhi, p900 d’Oliveira, M. V. N., Swaine, M. D., Burslem, D. F., Braz, E. M. and Araujo, H. A. B. (2005), ‘Sustainable forest management for smallholder farmers in the Brazilian Amazon’, in C. A. Palm, S. A.Vosti, P. A. Sanchez and P. J. Ericksen (eds) Slash-and-Burn Agriculture: The Search for Alternatives, Columbia University Press, New York, pp199–221 Dragun, A. K. and Tisdell, C. (1999) Sustainable Agriculture and Environment: Globalisation and the Impact of Trade Liberalisation, Edward Elgar, Cheltenham, UK, p308 Gangwar, A. K. and Ramakrishnan, P. S. (1987) ‘Cropping and yield patterns under different land use systems of the Khasis at higher elevations of Meghalaya in north‑eastern India’, International Journal Ecology and Environmental Sciences 13, pp73‑86 Gangwar, A. K. and Ramakrishnan, P. S. (1989) ‘Cultivation and use of lesser‑known plants of food value by tribals in north‑east India’, Agriculture, Ecosystems and Environment 25, pp253‑267 Indian National Science Academy, Chinese Academy of Sciences, and US National Academy of Sciences (2001) M. G. Wolman, P. S. Ramakrishnan, P. S. George, S. Kulkarni, P. S. Vashishtha, Z. Shidong, Z. Qiguo, Z.Yi, J. F. Long, C. Rosenzweig and W. D. Solecki (eds) Growing Populations, Changing Landscapes: Studies from India, China and The United States, National Academy Press, Washington, DC, p299 Myers, N. (1993), ‘Tropical forests: The main deforestation fronts’, Environmental Conservation 20, pp9–16. NEPED and IRRR (1999) Building Upon Traditional Agriculture in Nagaland, Nagaland Environmental Protection and Economic Development, Nagaland, India, and International Institute of Rural Reconstruction, Philippines, p235 Palm, C. A.,Vosti, S. A., Sanchez, P. A. and Ericksen, P. J. (2005) Slash-and-Burn Agriculture: The Search for Alternatives, Columbia University Press, New York, p463 Pratap, T. and Watson, H. R. (1994) Sloping Agricultural Land Technology (SALT): A Regenerative Option for Sustainable Mountain Farming, ICIMOD Occasional Paper no. 23, International Centre for Integrated Mountain Development, Kathmandu, Nepal Purnomosidhi, P., Hairiah, K., Rahayu, S. and van Noordwijk, M. (2005) ‘Smallholder options for reclaiming and using Imperata cylindrica L. (Alang-Alang) grasslands in Indonesia’, in C. A. Palm, S. A.Vosti, P. A. Sanchez and P. J. Ericksen (eds) Slash-and-Burn Agriculture: The Search for Alternatives, Columbia University Press, New York, pp248–262 Ramakrishnan, P. S. (1992) Shifting Agriculture and Sustainable Development: An Interdisciplinary Study from North-Eastern India, Man and Biosphere Book Series 10, UNESCO, Paris and

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Parthenon Publishing, Caernforth, Lancashire, UK. p424 (Republished by Oxford University Press, New Delhi, 1993) Ramakrishnan, P. S. (2007) ‘Indigenous fallow management based on Flemingia vestita in northeast India’, in M. F. Cairns (ed.) Voices from the Forest: Integrating Indigenous Knowledge into Sustainable Upland Farming, Resources for the Future Press, Washington, DC, pp237–247 Ramakrishnan, P. S. (2009) ‘Linking knowledge systems for socio-ecologi­ cal security’, in H. G. Brauch, J. Grin, C. Mesjasz, H. Krummenacher, N. C. Behera, B. Chourou, U. O. Spring and P. Kameri-Mbote (eds) Facing Global Environmental Change: Environmental, Human, Energy, Food, Health and Water Security Concepts, Peace Research and European Security Studies Vol. 2, AFES Press, Germany Ramakrishnan, P. S. (2015 forthcoming) ‘Fallow Management following Shifting Agriculture: Role of Alnus nepalensis as a soil nitrogen fixer’, in M. F. Cairns (ed.) Continuing to Listen to the Subaltern Voices of Shifting Cultivators (working title), Earthscan, London Ramakrishnan, P. S., Saxena, K. G. and Rao, K. S. (2006) Shifting Agriculture and Sustainable Development of North-East India: Tradition in Transition, UNESCO and Oxford & IBH, New Delhi, p495 Rao, K. S. and Ramakrishnan, P. S. (1989) ‘Role of bamboos in nutrient conservation during secondary succession following slash and burn agriculture (jhum) in north‑eastern India’, Journal of Applied Ecology 26, pp625–633 Singh, P., Pathak, P. S. and Roy, M. M. (eds) (1994) Agroforestry Systems for Degraded Lands, Vols 1 and 2, Range Management Society of India Swift, M. J., Vandermeer, J., Ramakrishnan, P. S., Anderson, J. M., Ong, C. K. and Hawkins, B. (1996) ‘Biodiversity and agroecosystem function’, in H. A. Mooney, J. H. Cushman, E. Medina, O. E. Sala and E. D. Schulze (eds) Functional Roles of Biodiversity: A Global Perspective, SCOPE Series, John Wiley, Chichester, UK. pp261–298 Walker, B. H., Steffen, W. L. and Langridge, J. (1999) ‘Interactive and integrated effects of global change on terrestrial ecosystems’, in B. Walker, W. Steffen, J. Canadell and J. Ingram (eds) The Terrestrial Biosphere and Global Change: Implications for Natural and Managed Ecosystems, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, UK, pp329–375 Wibawa, G., Hendratno, S. and van Noordwijk, M. (2005) ‘Permanent smallholder rubber agroforestry systems in Sumatra’, in C. A. Palm, S. A. Vosti, P. A Sanchez and P. J. Ericksen (eds) Slash-and-Burn Agriculture: The Search for Alternatives, Columbia University Press, New York, pp222–232

9 CHENA CULTIVATION IN SRI LANKA Prospects for agroforestry interventions Herath P. M. Gunasena and D. K. N. G. Pushpakumara*

Introduction

Chena – also known as shifting, or slash-and-burn cultivation – is one of the oldest land-use systems in the tropics. In Sri Lanka, chena cultivation has been an integral part of the landscape and culture of indigenous groups for centuries (De Silva, 1981; Mahawamsa, undated; MFE, 1999). Chena cultivation remains today as an unnoticed but important form of land use that has evolved to suit the socio-economic, cultural and ecological needs of the island’s diverse communities and landscapes. The past popularity of the land-use system in Sri Lanka is illustrated by the use of the word chena in place-names: 549 in the Sinhala language (for example, Ginigathhena, Gonahena, Henegama, Kotahena, Henemulla and Welihena) and 83 in Tamil (for example, Chenkatpaday, Chenakudirippu and Chenaiputimalay) (Gelbert, 1988). The term ‘chena cultivation’ is loosely defined in Sri Lankan literature. Gelbert (1988) defined it as unirrigated, rainfed upland farming based on slash-and-burn, preferably of forest but also of scrub or grassland. In its traditional form, it involved shifting from plot to plot and fallowing the abandoned plots, with food-crop production mainly for subsistence or partly for local markets. Another traditional form involved semi-permanent cropping with occasional, short periods of fallow and/or the cultivation of perennial crops, sometimes fully commercialized. In the past, chena cultivation was a sustainable farming system as long as the rotation period (from clearing the land through cropping and fallow) was long enough (15 to 20 years) for regeneration of native vegetation and recovery of soil fertility. However, increasing population pressure and limitations on the availability of land have led to the rotation period being drastically shortened (Stockdale, 1926; Jochim and

* 

Professor Herath P. M. Gunasena is Chairman of the Coconut Research Board, Lunuwila, Sri Lanka; Professor D. K. N. G. Pushpakumara is Professor of Crop Science and Country Liaison Scientist for the World Agroforestry Centre, Faculty of Agriculture, University of Peradeniya, Sri Lanka.

200  Gunasena and Pushpakumara

Kandiah, 1948; Gelbert, 1988). The shortened rotation period has left the system unable to recover soil fertility, regenerate vegetation, or control weeds. It has thus become unsustainable, resulting in deforestation and land degradation (Stockdale, 1926; Jochim and Kandiah, 1948; Gelbert, 1988). As well, much chena land that was earlier established in Sri Lanka’s dry zone was an integral part of the ‘village tank system’ (Dharmasena, 1984)(see below). Many of these systems have deteriorated due to lack of maintenance, and chena alone is unable to sustain the increased population (Dharmasena, 1994). Many agricultural initiatives have been launched in an attempt to replace shifting cultivation, including a taungya system, improved fallows, conservation farming, alley cropping, mulching, tillage and no-till farming (Siriweera, 1993). Despite all of these, shifting cultivation is still practised without adoption of such measures and faces an escalating population, pressures on land availability, soil degradation and global climate change. It is also reported that the attitude of chena cultivators has changed over the past two decades, due to recent socio-economic developments, population pressures on land and the introduction of commercial farming. Even though it is an illegal practice, chena cultivation is increasingly found in the country’s network of protected areas, from where it still contributes to the living standards of rural communities and assures their food security (Nanayakkara, 1993; UNEP, 2001;Yatawara, 2012). However, land-use systems in Sri Lanka are challenged as never before, with mounting concerns about the environment and ethical behaviour on one hand and pressures of economic development on the other. Given these circumstances, this chapter examines the current status of chena cultivation in Sri Lanka with particular reference to the development of agroforestry systems, which are seen as having significant importance to the country. It will outline research needs with a view to focusing on the future development of agroforestry systems in chena lands. History and importance of chena cultivation

Sri Lanka has been populated and cultivated for a long time. Historical land-use systems included village settlements with a tank, or water reservoir, paddy fields, home gardens and chena fields, which together formed a unit (Figure 9.1; De Silva, 1981; Dharmasena, 1994, 2010). This indicates that chena cultivation is an age-old practice where crops and forest of one kind or another alternate sequentially with the main objective of growing agricultural crops. Chena cultivation continued throughout Sri Lanka’s hydraulic civilization (200 bc–1200 ad), and when European naval powers arrived, chena cultivation was practised everywhere (NSF, 1991; UNEP, 2001). Before the colonial period, the king was the traditional proprietor of land.The British followed this tradition with laws relating to Crown lands and waste lands, so chena cultivation became a land-settlement controversy during the British colonial period. On the basis of the Crown Land Encroachment Ordinance of 1840, 85% of the total area of the country (including chena lands) became Crown property (Ceylon Administrative Reports, 1840; De Silva, 1981; NSF, 1991; UNEP, 2001).

Chapter 9. Chena cultivation in Sri Lanka  201

FIGURE 9.1 

Schematic diagram of a traditional village-tank system, showing the various components and their relative positions. Source: Adapted from Dharmasena (2010)

The main purpose of the ordinance was to obtain land for plantations. It is reported that the expansion of tea, rubber and coconut plantations in Sri Lanka’s central hill country occurred mainly at the expense of chena lands in the island’s wet zone. In dry-zone areas, chena cultivation continued to be an important land-use system to meet local food requirements when low rainfall caused reservoirs to dwindle and paddy crops to fail. However, during the British period, food production took a secondary place to other endeavours and the importance of fallowing land for its rehabilitation was not appreciated (Pushpakumara, in press). In some instances, the colonial government also disturbed the ability of chena lands to produce food for local people when patriotic movements arose (Ceylon Administrative Reports, 1897; De Silva, 1981). Even after independence in 1948, chena cultivation was marginalized for a variety of other reasons. Chena cultivators did not receive subsidies, agricultural credits or extension services such as those available to paddy farmers or plantation owners. From the time of colonial rule, administrators down the years have viewed chena cultivation as a wasteful practice. Chena cultivation, which was perhaps undertaken by individual farmers in earlier times, was transformed into a communal activity in the latter part of the 19th century (Berugoda, 1981). Either the entire chena was communally cultivated, or some selected activities, such as clearing the forests, fencing, or keeping the night watch

202  Gunasena and Pushpakumara

to protect against animals, were carried out on a communal basis. However, that system is no longer practised. In recent years, cultivation has either been the sole responsibility of individual families or hired labour has been brought in to do the job. Sri Lanka’s dry zone occupies nearly two-thirds of the island and land uses are limited by the harsh climate, with high temperatures and low and erratic rainfall (Figure 9.2). The main dry-zone crop is lowland wet rice, grown seasonally under rainfed and irrigated conditions. The uplands are used for chena cultivation under rainfed conditions, growing coarse grains such as maize, sorghum, millets, pulses and spices. In the 1980s, chena cultivation in the dry zone reportedly supported nearly 610,000 farming families. In association with lowland wet-rice and home gardens, it helped to provide a wider nutritional base for rural households and prevented hunger and malnutrition. Even though chena is a low-intensity land-use system, about two decades ago it produced as much as 80% of Sri Lanka’s coarse grains, legumes and vegetables (NSF, 1991). Chena cultivation has also played a crucial role in the conservation of germplasm of traditional crops. Even today, the millet varieties Panicum miliaceum, P. sumatrense, Paspalum scrobiculatum and Setaria italica are mainly cultivated in the country’s chena systems.The crops grown in chena have a wide genetic base in the form of local cultivars grown in different parts of the dry, intermediate and wet zones. However, pride in this achievement has lately fallen. The genetic diversity of Sri Lanka’s chena systems has long been ignored, and has not been reported. The chena farmers themselves developed a divergent culture.Their closeness and respect for one another

FIGURE 9.2 

Distribution of chena land in Sri Lanka, 1981 Source: Adapted from Johnson and Scrivenor (1981)

Chapter 9. Chena cultivation in Sri Lanka  203

grew out of the difficulties of their lives and their respect for their environment; ritual beliefs and cultivation practices developed around chena cultivation, and a separate vocabulary arose, for referring to chena practices. But the advent of modern farming practices, agrochemicals, fertilizers and improved varieties saw the nascent chena culture dwindle and disappear.The present chena system of cultivation has lost all of its traditional characteristics, both physical and social. Extent of chena lands and their distribution

Chena cultivation reportedly covered about one million hectares in the years from 1956 to 1986 (Pushparajah, 1985; Gelbert, 1988). Early estimates, such as these, were based on agricultural censuses, but more recently aerial photographs have been used. The Natural Resources, Energy and Science Authority reported that 1.2 million hectares were under chena cultivation in 1991 (NSF, 1991). The FAO (1999) agreed with this estimate, saying that nearly 18% of Sri Lanka’s land area was under chena cultivation in 1991 and about 250,000 farming families were dependent upon it for their livelihood. According to Johnson and Scrivenor (1981), most of the chena cultivation could be found in the country’s dry zone. In the wet zone, where the rainfall was high and well distributed throughout the year, all the land previously used for chena cultivation had been converted to permanent agriculture, including tree crops such as tea, rubber and coconut, and home gardens (Perera, 2001). Moreover, the remaining areas of near-primary forest in the wet zone covered a little less that 5% of the total land area, and were found in small isolated patches within a sea of human development (NSF, 1991; MFE, 1999). Thus, chena cultivation was highly restricted in the wet zone, even as early as 1981 (Figure 9.2). From the beginning of the 20th century, and particularly since independence in 1948, Sri Lanka’s dry zone has been recognized for its ability to augment the country’s food production.Ancient irrigation systems from the time of the hydraulic civilization were restored and new ones, such as the Mahaweli Development Programme, were established. For the first 70 years of the 20th century, chena cultivation was widespread and regularized by the issue of cultivation permits by district government agents. However, settled agriculture began to take its place, hydropower and irrigation projects were initiated, settlement projects sprang up, and a network of protected areas was established. Chena cultivation was besieged on all fronts, and its area diminished. In 1981, the issue of cultivation permits by district governments was discontinued. Despite all of this, local people still continue to practise chena cultivation in protected areas because the organizations responsible for protecting these areas lack the resources to stop them making their swiddens (Perera, 2001). Today, the chenas that remain are sporadic, illegal and hidden in the more remote areas of the dry zone (Mellink et al., 1991; Nanayakkara, 1993;Yatawara, 2012). Over the past 65 years, Sri Lanka’s population has leapt from two million to nearly 20 million (Central Bank of Sri Lanka, 2011). The wet zone and the Jaffna peninsula are the country’s most densely populated areas, with more than 600 people per sq km

204  Gunasena and Pushpakumara

(IUCN and MENR, 2007). The country’s land-per-capita ratio is 0.36ha per person, although the amount of land readily available is only 0.15ha per person (Central Bank of Sri Lanka, 2011). Since the end of the 19th century, natural forests have dwindled to less than 25% of the total land area, due to a variety of encroachments, including agricultural expansion, logging, urbanization and chena cultivation (UNEP, 2001). No more than 10% of these forests can now be classified as undisturbed. However, much of the country’s natural forest is now under some form of legal protection, including declaration as part of a network of protected areas under the management of the Department of Wildlife Conservation or the Department of Forests (MFE, 1999). Additionally, the government banned all logging of natural forests in 1990 (Forest Department, 1995). It is clear that chena lands have been reduced substantially over the past few decades due to the development of large-scale irrigation schemes facilitating wetrice cultivation and other commercial highland crops. However, the exact present extent of chena lands cannot be determined due to a lack of accurate information. Opting for approximation, we suggest that most secondary forests originate from chena cultivation, and are located in the dry zone. The Forest Department combines secondary forests and other open-canopy forest types and describes all of these areas as ‘sparse forests’ (Perera, 2001). In 1992, sparse forests accounted for 7% of Sri Lanka’s total land area, with almost 95% of such forests located in the dry and intermediate zones. These sparse forests consist of active chena lands and chena that is lying fallow; the distinction between these categories is indicated in forest-cover maps of the country. It is therefore noticeable that chena cultivation is continuing, and there should be further studies on how these lands can be converted into sustainable land-use systems, in view of the country’s increasing population and the need to achieve food and environmental security.The area under chena needs to be measured accurately: this is vital for national planning and development. In this regard, updating Sri Lanka’s forest-cover map of 2012, to include the extent of chena lands and their distribution, is urgently required. Type of chena land

Chena is defined and classified according to several criteria: season of cultivation, availability of water, quality of vegetation cover, type of vegetation, and fallow and dominant plant species (Figure 9.3) (Gelbert, 1988). However, the type of vegetation plays the most important role in selection of land for chena cultivation and its productivity.The best chena lands are mukalan hena and nawa deli hena. The former is cleared from undisturbed primary forest and the latter from dense 10- to 20-yearold secondary forest called attanduwa hena, in which the soils are fully regenerated due to the long fallow period. In both cases, soil fertility is high due to long-term accumulation of biomass in the vegetative cover, leaf litter, formation of humus and so on.

Chapter 9. Chena cultivation in Sri Lanka  205

Classification of chena lands based on various criteria Note: *These specifications can be used in addition, for every type of chena. FIGURE 9.3 

Source: Adapted from Gelbert (1988)

Other types of chena include alut hena (new chena), in which swiddens are established in secondary vegetation without trees, where such plots were cultivated a few years earlier. If they are located in scrub areas they are named landu hena, and in grasslands, illuk hena – referring to the presence of the perennial grass Imperata cylindrica. The fertility of the soil is dependent upon the amount of tree cover and biomass available, so in the past, mature forests were chosen to establish chenas. But land has become scarce, so nowadays secondary forests are used. The choice of areas in which to establish chenas also depends upon the type of vegetation, because of the labour needed to clear it; clearing primary forest requires more labour, so secondary vegetation is usually preferred. The situation is made more complex by the lack of available forest land and low soil fertility due to continuous cultivation of secondaryforest land that has not been allowed a reasonable period of fallow. The pressure on available land is also more intense because of the rising population, migration into less-populated areas, government policies on chena cultivation and introduction of large-scale commercial agriculture.

Chena cultivation practices Land clearing and demarcation

The cycle of chena cultivation begins with the selection of land, which is based on topography and vegetation. Flat terrain is preferred because hilly areas contain more rocks and stones, and there is a greater possibility of soil erosion and land degradation (Gelbert, 1988). The farmer selects an area of forest in a convenient location, preferably close to his home so he can tend his crops regularly and protect them from wild animals.The tall trees are cut to fall in one direction for easy removal of fallen trunks. Some of the older and more valuable trees are left standing, to provide shade and a place to build a watch hut (Table 9.1, Figure 9.4). Chena boundaries are

206  Gunasena and Pushpakumara TABLE 9.1 

Trees commonly retained on chena land in Sri Lanka’s dry zone

Common name

Local name

Calamander Kalumediriya Palu Ceylon ironwood Kaluwara Ebony Kon Ceylon oak Milla Milla Neem Neem Burutha Satinwood Siyambala Tamarind Tekka Teak Weera Weera Sources: FAO, 1999; Gelbert, 1988.

Botanical name Diospyros quaesita Thwaites Manilkara hexandra (Roxb.) Dubard Diospyros ebenum J. König ex Retz. Schleichera oleosa (Lour.) Merr. Vitex pinnata L. Azadirachta indica A. Juss. Chloroxylon swietenia DC Tamarindus indica L. Tectona grandis L.f. Drypetes sepiaria (Wight & Arn.) Pax & K. Hoffm.

marked and divided into blocks, which are cultivated separately. Watch huts – a characteristic feature of traditional Sri Lankan chena cultivation – are erected in the centre and around the edges of each block. If the land is laid out like a wheel centred on a watch hut, it is called mulketha hena; if it is laid out in rectangular blocks, the blocks are called yaya hena (Gelbert, 1988; Goonasekere and Gamage, 1999). The first step in preparing a chena is slashing the undergrowth and grasses.Woody vegetation is slashed or felled in different stages to ensure that it dries, to enable an even burn. Several methods are used with trees, ranging from leaving a standing stem to allow regeneration to damaging trees by burning or girdling (Figure 9.5) (Gelbert,

FIGURE 9.4  An elevated watch hut, one of the features of traditional chenas in Sri Lanka (left), and abandoned chena land after several cropping seasons (right)

Chapter 9. Chena cultivation in Sri Lanka  207

FIGURE 9.5 

Land cleared and burned for chena cultivation

1988). Commonly, trees that are as thick as a man’s arm are chopped off at a height of about 3m, and the standing stem is used to support creepers. The branches of larger and taller trees are lopped off to provide sufficient sunlight. Trunks that can later be used as firewood are stacked between the forks of standing trees, while the rest of the debris is piled up to dry so it can be burned and the ashes spread around the chena. Fencing

Some of the felled timber and thorny wood is staked along the boundary to form a fence called danduweta (Figure 9.6), which is another characteristic feature of a traditional chena. The main objective is demarcation of the boundary and protection of the crops from wild animals.These fences are effective against large animals such as cattle, deer and even wild elephants. Other, more modern, protection techniques are also used, such as fire crackers, loud radio programmes and electric fences. Cultivation of crops, tools and rituals

Mixed cropping is the most common system of planting in traditional chena cultivation. Usually, grain crops are cultivated in the central area and crops such as mustard and sesame (gingelly) are grown near the forest boundaries to avoid damage from wild elephants. Among the mixture of crops to be found in chena are grain crops such as sesame, finger millet, paddy, sorghum, maize, little millet and mustard; subsidiary food crops such as cowpeas, chillies, black gram, green gram and peanuts; roots, tuber crops and yams such as manioc (cassava), sweet potatoes and king yams; climbing vines such as gourds, pumpkins and winged beans that are trained on

208  Gunasena and Pushpakumara

FIGURE 9.6 

Traditional fence (danduweta) constructed around chena land Source: Gelbert (1988)

the left-over tree trunks and along fences; and semi-perennial utility crops such as bananas and sugar cane. A list of species grown in chenas in different parts of Sri Lanka is shown in Table 2. Despite the large number of crops, the dominant ones are maize, finger millet, sesame, green gram and black gram, chillies, cowpeas and peanuts. Often, the crops are rotated from season to season and different crops may be chosen depending on how much rain has fallen. Because of the mixture of crops planted, the ground is well covered once the crops are established, reducing soil erosion and the need for weeding. The diverse mixture of crops also has a stabilizing effect on chena output by reducing uncertainties due to the weather. Crops that take different times to grow mean that harvests occur at different times and some yield is always ensured. Planting dates are also shifted according to growing times and rainfall patterns. Long-duration varieties are planted early and short-duration varieties are planted after the first spell of heavy rain that usually occurs in late October or early November. Harvesting is often a continuous process, moving from one crop to another, because different species are intercropped and they require different periods to grow to maturity. Family labour is thus kept busy at harvest time and household food security is assured. The distribution of a chena cultivator’s various activities throughout a year is best illustrated by a crop calendar such as that in Figure 9.7, which follows chena activities in Sri Lanka’s southern dry zone. After three to four years of cropping, the soil becomes infertile, crop yields dwindle and competition from weeds intensifies. The chena is then abandoned and a new plot is selected for the same procedure of clearing, burning and cultivation. In today’s context, none of Sri Lanka’s chena cultivators observes a fallow period that is sufficient to allow rejuvenation of the soil. Long fallow periods are no longer

Chapter 9. Chena cultivation in Sri Lanka  209

possible, and in many cases, sesame (gingelly) is cultivated as a cash crop during the fallow. The present-day chena system has changed from the earlier concept of natural soil regeneration to depend upon heavy use of fertilizers to replenish soil fertility and agrochemicals to control pest and diseases. Thus, the fundamental concept of shifting cultivation, to allow natural recovery, has changed and people use the same land continuously and use ‘normal’ cropping practices. Moreover, traditional mixedcropping systems have been set aside in favour of monoculture maize cultivation in the dry zone of Sri Lanka because of its ability to earn income. This has led to a drastic reduction in the genetic and species diversity of FIGURE 9.7  Crop calendar of Sri Lankan chena crops and the associated cultural cultivators traditions and food habits of Note: Maha is the rainy season,Yala is the dry season. chena cultivators. Source: Gelbert (1988) Normally, farmers begin work in their chenas before commencing work in their paddy fields. During the dry months of July and August, slashing and burning of brush is carried out to plant seeds with the onset of rain in late September. They are usually busy in their chena until the middle of October. Irrespective of the amount of rain that might fall, the farmers do not begin work in their paddy fields until they complete planting in the chena, because these harvests will play an important role in the livelihood of their families. The chena will provide a variety of grain that can be sold or exchanged. Crops such as upland rice, cereals, millets, pulses and spices, some of which can survive under the most adverse weather conditions, are planted in the chena. Often, if some crops fail, there is a chance that others will survive. Thus, chena cultivation offers a diversified cropping system that has built-in insurance against total crop failure. It has been observed that chena cultivation is successful in three out of every four years, but cultivation of paddy is possible in only one year out of six. Chena cultivation is therefore an integral part of

210  Gunasena and Pushpakumara TABLE 9.2  Crops

commonly grown in chena cultivation in the dry zone of Sri Lanka

Crop category

Common name Local name

Cereals

Upland paddy and other traditional rice varieties Finger millet Pearl millet Maize Proso or Indian millet Little millet

Coarse grains

Various

Botanical name Oryza sativa L.)

Kurakkan Kambu Badairingu Wal Meneri

Eleusine coracana (L.) Gaertn Pennisetum glaucum (L.) R. Br. Zea mays L. Panicum miliaceum L.

Heen Meneri

P. sumatrense Roth ex Roem. and Schult.

Foxtail millet Koda millet Sorghum Horse gram

Thana hal Amu Idaliringu Kollu

Setaria italica (L.) P. Beauv Paspalum scrobiculatum L. Sorhgum bicolor (L.) Moench Macrotyloma uniflorum (Lam.)

Castor Sesame Peanuts Mustard Black gram Cowpea Green gram/ mung beans Pigeon pea Soybean Horse gram

Endaru Gingelly Ratakaju Aba Undu Cowpea Mung

Fruit

Papaw Watermelon

Papol Komadu

Vegetables

Ash pumpkin Bitter gourd Eggplant/ aubergine Pumpkin Cabbage Cucumber/ melon Cucumber Chillies

Alu puhul Karawila Brinjal

Benincasa hispida (Thunb.) Cogn Momordika charantia L. Solanum melongena L.

Wattakka Gowa Kekeri

Cucurbita maxima Lam. Brassica oleracea L. Cucumis melo L.

Pipingna Miris

Drumstick

Murunga

Cucurbita sativus L. Capsicum annuum L., and C. frutescens L. Moringa oleifera Lam

Verdc. Oil crops

Grain legumes

Ricinus communis L. Sesamum indicum L. Arachis hypogaea L. Brassica juncea (L.) Czern Vigna mungo (L. Hepper.) Vigna unguiculata (L.) Walp. Vigna radiata (L.) Wilczek.

Thora-parippu Cajanus cajan L. Soya Glycine max (L.) Merr. Kollu Macrotyloma uniflorum (Lam.) Verdc.

Carica papaya L. Citrulus lanatus (Thunb.) Matsum and Nakai

Chapter 9. Chena cultivation in Sri Lanka  211 TABLE 9.2 (cont.)  Crops

commonly grown in chena cultivation in the dry zone of

Sri Lanka

Crop category

Common name Local name Okra Bangakka

Botanical name Abelmoschus esculentus (L.) Moench

Small brinjal Snake gourd Sponge gourd Spine gourd Small bitter gourd Amamanth Winged bean

Tibbatu Pathola Niyan Vetakolu Vetakolu Thumbakaravila

Solanum violaceum Ortega Trischosanthus anguina L. Luffa cylindrica (L.) M. Roemer Luffa acutangula (L.) Roxb. Momordika dioica Roxb. Ex Willd.

Thampala Dambala

Amaranthus spp. Psorphocarpus tetragonolobus (L.)

Tomato Turnip Bottle gourd

Thakkali Rabu Diyalabu

Sweet potato

Bathala

Ipomoea batatas (L.) Lam.

Cassava King yam Elephant foot yam Coco yam Coco yam

Man(g)nokka Raja ala Kidaran

Manihot esculenta Crantz. Dioscoria alata Amorphophallus paeoniifolius

Gahala Kiriala

Colocasia esculenta (L.) Schott. Xanthosoma sagittifolium (L.)

Banana

Kesel

Schott. Musa spp. L.

Cotton Tobacco

Kapu Dumkola

Gossypium arboretum L. Nicotiana tabacum L.

DC.

Lycopersicon esculentum Miller Brassica rapa L. Lagenaria siceraria (Molina) Standley

Root and tuber crops

Small plantation crops

(Dennst) Nicolson

Sources: FAO (1999); Gelbert (1988).

village-tank systems, which have evolved as an essential means of survival for village communities (Gelbert, 1988; Goonasekere and Gamage, 1999). Chena cultivation also demonstrates the high level of collective responsibility and commitment of the farmers as a communal group. To protect the chena crops from wild animals, guarding is done collectively, and mainly from the central watch hut. The farmers are organized into groups for these duties. During the day, the wives of the farmers and their older children work in the chenas, weeding and performing other tasks.They collect firewood and heap it near the watch hut. During the nights, the men make a fire near the watch hut to discourage intruding animals and to help trap and kill insects. Thus, the day watching is usually done by women and night watching by men (Gelbert, 1988; Goonasekere and Gamage, 1999).

212  Gunasena and Pushpakumara

Implements used for clearing the chenas include different types of knives called kethi. Two types of kethi are used: wal kettha, with a narrower blade and a hook at the end, is used to slash and pull away thorny undergrowth and creepers. The broad-bladed and heavier kele keththa and pol keththa, with a curved blade, are used for Drypetes sepiaria (Wight and Arn.) Pax and chopping branches and felling K. Hoffm. [Putranjivaceae] smaller trees. Large trees are felled with a porowa (an axe), A tree species commonly retained when clearing and a shorter-handled axe chena plots. Its fruits are edible and it produces called keteriya. A smaller axe good firewood. with a shorter handle called ath porowa is used for cutting the branches of taller trees. A small garden fork called mullu is used for weeding or digging out tubers. A tool called alawangu is used for digging holes and lifting stones. Sandals made from layers of deer or sambar skin, called wahanpathuru, are worn to protect the feet of chena workers from thorns and stakes. A rake made from the forked branch of a tree is used to collect the debris and spread the ashes evenly over the ground. These implements are usually produced by village blacksmiths and are freely available during the chena-cultivation season. However, many of these traditional implements have faded from use because modern implements can achieve the same tasks in a shorter time. Recently, chena cultivators have even been observed using small modern machines, such as hand tractors, chain saws, sprayers and weeders. In other words, the old traditions of chena cultivation are gradually disappearing, and the time is coming when chena practices will give way to modern farming and the old system will evolve into a commercial agricultural enterprise (Gelbert, 1988; Goonasekere and Gamage, 1999). When tradition still ruled chena cultivation, the practitioners observed several rituals aimed at protecting their crops from pests, diseases and wild animals. Before they began to slash the vegetation for the chena, the farmers would make vows, mostly to local gods, requesting their protection. Even those farmers who were Buddhists and Hindus made the same vows.When the field was being cleared the farmer would deliberately save one large tree. At its trunk, the farmer would then offer alms and flowers, light lamps and seek the forgiveness of local deities for the harm he or she might do to wild animals in the course of cultivating the chena. After the chena was burnt, the large tree would then be felled and burned before sowing began. At harvest time, offerings were always made to local deities. In some cases, green twigs were attached to the trunk of a big tree just in front of the entrance to the chena.This tree

Chapter 9. Chena cultivation in Sri Lanka  213

was not to be damaged or burned. In all of the rituals, a significant feature was the farmer’s awareness of the impact his actions might have on the environment. Hence, he had to ask for the forgiveness of the gods and for their protection as he sought to meet his family’s subsistence needs. Traditionally, chena cultivation was unique in that each and every practice, from land preparation to harvesting, was associated with cultural diversity. The reduction of crop diversity over recent years, the change from mixed cropping to monoculture, the increase in land size and the heavy use of machinery have transformed the atmosphere of cooperation and sharing among chena cultivators. Some of the cultural and religious norms associated with the bio-dynamics of the system have also been interrupted. Lately, some of the specific folk tales, folk lore and poems associated with traditional chena cultivation have begun to fade from memory and have fallen out of use. Changing land use from chena cultivation to more sustainable agriculture

Traditional chena cultivation in Sri Lanka is a product of the relationship between people, the land, crops and the environment. It is a subsistence form of agriculture used to maximize the use of limited resources in rural settings aimed at meeting the needs of the people for daily food, herbal medicine and other necessities. Traditional chena cultivation was recognized as a sustainable farming system when fallow periods were long and there was an abundance of land on which to shift from plot to plot. It was a land rotation, rather than the kind of crop rotation one might find in modern agriculture. Due to population pressures on the land, the influence of settled agriculture and government legislation, and the views of administrators, chena cultivation has been identified as primitive, backward, wasteful, unproductive, exploitative and causing widespread environmental degradation. Moreover, chena cultivators are blamed for the destruction of natural forests and associated natural habitats, for causing serious land degradation due to soil erosion and for atmospheric pollution and contributing to global climatic change. Supporting these viewpoints, Dharmasena revealed in a 1994 comparative study that, compared to ploughed cultivation, terraced and hedgerow farming, chena cultivation in a tank-village system had the highest runoff yield with the highest amount of soil loss (14.99 tonnes per hecatre), indicating that the level of soil protection during chena cultivation was minimal. Compounding the negative image, demand for land in Sri Lanka has increased tremendously over the past decade as a result of increasing population and rapid economic development. Chena cultivation with inadequate fallow periods and neglected soil-conservation measures is accused of damaging about 1 million hectares of land (UNEP, 2001). The cost of environmental damage in Sri Lanka due to chena cultivation has been estimated at US$16.12 million (UNEP, 2001). Therefore, it is essential to find alternatives and to improve the system while maintaining respect for the agricultural rights of indigenous people. There is an important need to convert chena cultivation into more sustainable farming systems that integrate traditional

214  Gunasena and Pushpakumara

farming practices with community aspirations and economic considerations. A ‘new phase of chena cultivation’ will require new policies and a framework for converting the land-use pattern to one with high economic returns while protecting natural forests, the associated environment and wildlife. This can be achieved by developing suitable agroforestry systems to meet demands for food and environmental security. Ecologically sound planning could create areas of wilderness under the collective management of the farming families. Integrating agroforestry into chena farming

Agroforestry is a summary term for practices that involve the integration of trees and other large, woody perennials into farming systems through the conservation of existing trees, their active planting and tending, or the tolerance of spontaneous tree re-growth. It was seen by the World Agroforestry Centre (2000) as a dynamic, ecologically based natural-resource management practice that diversified production for increased social, economic and environmental benefits. The agroforestry concept combines productive and protective roles, and is a type of land use particularly suited for marginal areas and low-input systems. In the Sri Lankan context, most agroforestry systems aim to optimize the interaction of woody components with crops and/or animal components to improve the quantity, diversity and sustainability of production that is usually obtained from chena cultivation (Nair and Fernandes, 1984). These systems combine agriculture and forestry technologies to use the land in a more diverse, productive, profitable, healthy and sustainable manner. Thus, most agroforestry practices are focused on meeting the economic, environmental and social needs of people. At the farm level, agroforestry offers a set of practices that provide strong economic and conservation incentives for adoption. There are several similarities between chena farming and agroforestry. In both systems the ultimate objective is sustainable farming that conserves both the soil and the environment. In many respects, agroforestry is similar to chena cultivation except that land plots are not rotated. Hence, chena cultivation may be regarded as an indigenous agroforestry system in which soil conservation is the primary feature. In an agroforestry-based farming system, the contributions made by the various components towards sustaining both the ecosystem and the socio-cultural system are well balanced. For example, an agroforestry system with deep-rooted perennial trees and shrubs protects and enhances soil aggregation and increases resistance to erosion. Litter fall and livestock grazing beneath the trees upgrades soil fertility by building up soil organic matter and thereby reducing soil erosion. Nourishment of the soil provides a better environment for growing crops or grasses beneath the canopy. Mulch that gathers in the soil reduces the degradation effect. Thus, agroforestry is a viable option for combatting land degradation in the tropics, since it resolves many dry-area production problems (Young, 1998;World Agroforestry Centre, 2000) while supporting rural livelihoods and conserving natural resources (World Agroforestry Centre, 2000; De Soyza, 2001; Pushpakumara, 2001a, 2001b). It has also been viewed

Chapter 9. Chena cultivation in Sri Lanka  215

as a strategy for recovering vegetation on Sri Lanka’s degraded lands (De Soyza, 2001; Pushpakumra, 2001a).Therefore, agroforestry is emerging as an important alternative to conventional cropping systems such as chena cultivation, which under present conditions tend to cause land and environmental degradation. In Sri Lanka, the importance of coconut-based agroforestry (Pushpakumara et al., 2011) and homegarden agroforestry systems have already been well recognized (Pushpakumara et al., 2010, 2012). Present status of agroforestry in Sri Lanka

Sri Lanka has a long history of integration of trees into land-use systems (Ranasinghe, 1984; Weerakoon, 1984; Nanayakkara, 1993). The details and components of about 29 local agroforestry systems (Table 9.3) have been reported and described by Nanayakkara (1993) and Weerakoon (1984). The diverse nature of these systems is mainly due to high variation in cultural, climatic and topographic conditions. Indigenous knowledge helped to make them sustainable in fulfilling the needs of traditional communities. However, due to intensification of agriculture and subsequent land degradation, only a few of these agroforestry systems, such as home gardens in Sri Lanka’s wet zone, have become well adapted, with a high level of success. Several government and non-governmental organizations have conducted programmes to introduce agroforestry into existing farming practices, and several research programmes have aimed at establishing agroforestry systems. A cooperative reforestation scheme based on taungya has been introduced initially into established teak plantations. The main concern over the past two decades has been researching avenue cropping and sloping agricultural land technology. Studies on patterns of nutrient recycling, biomass yields, improvement of crop yields, soil physical and chemical properties, tree-crop interactions, economics of agroforestry, soil-fertility management, spacing experiments involving trees and crops and selection of tree TABLE 9.3  Agroforestry

systems in Sri Lanka and their agro-climatic distribution.

Type of agroforestry system

Distribution

Chena (shifting) cultivation Cooperative reforestation scheme based on

Mainly dry zone Dry zone

taungya Intercropping under coconut Tea under shade trees Coffee under shade trees Cocoa under shade trees Fruit-bearing plants under rubber Palmyra-palm agro-silviculture Avenue/alley cropping Avenue farming and protein banks with livestock

Coconut triangle, low-country wet zone Upper-, mid- and low-country wet zone Mid-country Mid-country intermediate zone Wet and intermediate zones, low country Dry and arid zone Dry zone Dry zone

216  Gunasena and Pushpakumara TABLE 9.3 (cont.)  Agroforestry

systems in Sri Lanka and their agro-climatic distribution.

Type of agroforestry system

Distribution

Sloping Agricultural Land Technology (SALT) Kandyan home-garden system

Upper- and mid-country wet zone

Mid- and low-country wet and intermediate zones Other home gardens All climatic zones State-sponsored integrated rural nutritional Isolated pockets home gardens State-sponsored farmers’ woodlots Isolated pockets Tourist spice gardens Mid- and up-country wet and intermediate zones Crops with wind belts and shelter belts Arid zone Strip plantings All climatic zones School agroforestry All climatic zones Silvi-pastorals Upper-, mid-country and coconut triangle Silvi-fishery-aquaculture Isolated pockets Agro-silvi-pastoral-fishery Up-country Silvi-pastoral-apiculture Up-country Medicinal-tree pastorals Up-country and dry zone Silvi-wildlife-fishery Dry zone Aranya or hermitage agroforestry Wet zone Janasaviya agroforestry All climatic zones Irrigation systems Dry zone Aranya hermitage agroforestry-cum wildlife Isolated pockets of national parks Source: Nanayakkara (1993)

and crop components have been conducted in the dry zone (Weerakoon and Senaviratne, 1984). However, very few farmers have adopted avenue cropping or sloping agricultural land technology. Special crop-based agri-silvicultural practices, such as palmyra-palm agri-silviculture, have been introduced in the dry zone where an institutional set-up was present (i.e. the Palmyra Development Board). In 1982, the Forest Department introduced tree-planting programmes in a community-

Tectona grandis L.f. [Lamiaceae] Teak is regularly retained when clearing chena plots, and has become the focus of a taungyabased reforestation scheme.

Chapter 9. Chena cultivation in Sri Lanka  217

forestry project, and a participatory-forestry programme in 1993, with assistance from the Asian Development Bank, saw the establishment of community woodlots with varying levels of success. Several home-garden improvement projects have also been conducted, and conservation farming has been regarded as an alternative to chena cultivation. However, research by Agalawtte and Abeygunawardena (1994) revealed that while a conservation-farming system was profitable and sustainable in the long run, it was not as profitable as chena cultivation in the short term. Hence, there were efforts to motivate farmers into adopting conservation farming as an alternative to chena cultivation, including innovations in conservation-farming technology. Home gardens (Pushpakumara et al., 2012), coconut-based agroforestry systems (Pushpakumara et al., 2011) and analogue forestry (Senanayake, 1987) have all been viewed as alternatives to chena cultivation. A lack of quality planting materials and availability of species for various purposes have been major concerns in developing dry-zone agroforestry systems. Moreover, most agroforestry projects and programmes have been implemented without considering the needs of local people and the expectations they have of new or alternative farming systems. Thus, a significant problem in all such programmes has been a lack of local-community participation and consequently poor acceptance by farmers. This must be avoided in all future programmes. The integration of livestock injects a desirable blend into existing agroforestry systems. The livestock types are typically indigenous animals that thrive within the system on a basis of low input and low productivity. This feature in livestock farming shows an inherent tendency for profit maximization through cost minimization. The benefits of keeping livestock are therefore three-fold: economic benefits from added income; environmental benefits from the blending of eco-friendly nature into the farming system; and social benefits because it enhances the status and wealth of the farmer. However, the presence of livestock and their integration into existing agroforestry systems is very weak in Sri Lanka, and this is another problem that needs to be addressed. At present, almost all chena cultivation occurs on state land, so an issue that continues to create controversy is the lack of formal recognition of property rights. The biggest handicap to the establishment of a stabilized farming system is the fact that chena cultivators do not own the land. Although their land tenure is very insecure or non-existent, chena cultivators assume that they can return to the same tracts of land at regular intervals to maintain the traditional rotation (Nanayakkara, 1993). They are not bothered about conserving the soil or maintaining its fertility. Thus, any solution must consider tenurial rights to land as well as other incentives. Recently, it was proposed that chena cultivation be permitted as a controlled practice involving only one cultivation period, then abandonment of the land, in areas selected as managed elephant ranges.This was because the abandoned food crops remaining on fallowed chena lands would grow rapidly and become an important source of food for elephants. Abandoned chena lands have been known to support very high densities of elephants, so promoting it as an important means of maintaining

218  Gunasena and Pushpakumara

large numbers of elephants represents an attractive gesture of human-elephant coexistence. Under such a system, the chena farmers could make as much as US$765 per season, linked to elephant conservation, with compensation and protection from any damage caused by the elephants. This proposal does not promote the conversion of forest to chena land: it focuses on preserving chena practices where they currently occur and preventing chena areas from becoming permanent settlements based on a permanent system of shifting cultivation (Yatawara, 2012). Conclusions

It is clear from the discussion that, for a variety of reasons, chena cultivation is no longer profitable or sustainable. Solutions for chena cultivators require an integrated approach that will increase productivity and enhance the livelihoods of rural people, while conserving natural resources. In this regard, agroforestry technologies can be used to combat increasing land degradation problems by combining agriculture with trees to create more productive, healthy and sustainable land-use systems. When introducing agroforestry practices, the following critical aspects need to be addressed: (1) increased production, productivity and off-farm income; (2) integration of agroforestry with existing land-use systems, within the context of tank villages, and with community participation; and (3) development of agroforestry packages, including livestock components, to consolidate the long-term sustainability of chena cultivation. Acknowledgement

The authors wish to thank Ms Sulochana Rathnayake, secretary to the chairman, Coconut Research Board, Lunuwila, Sri Lanka for meticulously typesetting the manuscript. References Agalawtte, M. B. and Abeygunawardena, P. (1994) ‘Conservation farming as an alternative to shifting cultivation in Sri Lanka: An economic evaluation’, Journal of Sustainable Agriculture 4 (2), pp65–79 Berugoda, S. (1981) Land Ownership Problems and their Effects on Cadastral Surveys and Registration of Title in Sri Lanka, Survey Department, Colombo, Sri Lanka Ceylon Administrative Reports (1840) Government Printer, Colombo, Ceylon Ceylon Administrative Reports (1897) Government Printer, Colombo, Ceylon Central Bank of Sri Lanka (2011) Annual Report, Central Bank of Sri Lanka, Colombo De Silva, K. M. (1981) A History of Sri Lanka, C. Hurst & Company, London and University of California Press, Berkeley and Los Angeles De Soyza, M. (2001) ‘Vegetation recovery in degraded lands in Sri Lanka: Forestry and agricultural policy perspective’, in Proceedings of a Workshop on Vegetation Recovery in Degraded Land Areas, 27 October to 3 November, Kalgoorlie, Western Australia, pp227–238 Dharmasena, P. B. (1984) ‘Agroforestry in watershed management’, in P. A. Huxley and D. M. S. H. K. Ranasinghe (eds) Agroforestry for Sustainable Development in Sri Lanka: Contributions to a Three-Day Participatory Training Course, University of Wales, Bangor, UK, and University of Sri Jayawardenapura, Sri Lanka, pp147–170

Chapter 9. Chena cultivation in Sri Lanka  219

Dharmasena, P. B. (1994) ‘Tank village system as a resource base for multipurpose trees’, in H. P. M. Gunasena (ed.) Proceedings of the Fifth Regional Workshop on Multipurpose Trees: MPTS for Natural Resource Management, University of Peradeniya, Kandy, Sri Lanka, pp8–19 Dharmasena, P. B. (2010) ‘Essential components of traditional village tank systems’, in Proceedings of a National Conference on Cascade Irrigation Systems for Rural Sustainability, 9 December, Central Environmental Authority, Sri Lanka FAO (1999) Sri Lankan Men and Women as Bio-resource Managers, RAP Publication 1999/45, Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations, Rome Forest Department (1995) Forestry Sector Master Plan, Forest Department, Colombo Gelbert, M. (1988) Chena (Shifting) Cultivation and Land Transformation in the Dry Zone in Sri Lanka, Department of Geography, University of Zurich, Switzerland Goonasekere, K. G. A. and Gamage, H. (1999) Some Indigenous Technology Knowledge and Practices for Watershed Management in Sri Lanka, Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations, Rome IUCN and MENR (2007) The 2007 Red List of Threatened Fauna and Flora of Sri Lanka, International Union for the Conservation of Nature and the Ministry of Environment and Natural Resources, Colombo, Sri Lanka Jochim, A. W. R. and Kandiah, S. (1948) ‘The effect of shifting (chena) cultivation and subsequent regeneration of vegetation on soil compaction and structure’, Tropical Agriculturist 104 (1), pp3–11 Johnson, B. L. C. and Scrivenor, M. LeM. (1981) Sri Lanka: Land, People and Economy, Heinemann, London Mahawamsa (undated) The Great Chronicle of the History of Sri Lanka, www.mahawamsa.org, accessed 6 September 2012 Mellink,W., Rao,Y. S. and MacDicken, K. G. (eds) (1991) Agroforestry in Asia and the Pacific, Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations Regional Office for Asia and the Pacific (FAO/ RAPA) Publication no. 1991/5, Bangkok MFE (1999) Biodiversity Conservation in Sri Lanka: A Framework for Action, Ministry of Forestry and Environment, Sampathpaya, Battaramulla, Sri Lanka Nair, P. K. R. and Fernandes, E. (1984) ‘Agroforestry as an alternative to shifting cultivation’, in Improved Production Systems as an Alternative to Shifting Cultivation, FAO Soils Bulletin 53, Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations, Rome Nanayakkara,V. R. (1993) ‘Agroforestry systems and their practice in Sri Lanka’, in H. P. M. Gunasena (ed.) Proceedings of the Fourth Regional Workshop on Multipurpose Trees: Research and Development, University of Peradeniya, Kandy, Sri Lanka, pp1–34 NSF (1991) Natural Resources of Sri Lanka: Conditions and Trends, The Natural Resources, Energy and Science Authority of Sri Lanka, Colombo Perera, G. A. D. (2001) ‘The secondary forest situation in Sri Lanka: A review’, Journal of Tropical Forest Science 13 (4), pp768–785 Pushpakumara, D. K. N. G. (2001a) ‘Vegetation recovery in degraded lands in Sri Lanka: Attempts, problems and research needs from a silvicultural and agronomic perspective’, in Proceedings of a Workshop on Vegetation Recovery in Degraded Land Areas, 27 October to 3 November, Kalgoorlie, Western Australia, pp177–185 Pushpakumara, D. K. N. G. (2001b) ‘Environmental benefits of perennial-crop based farming systems’, paper presented at an International Conference on the Future of Perennial Crops: Investment and Sustainability in the Humid Tropics, 5-9 November,Yamoussoukro, Cote d’Ivoire Pushpakumara, D. K. N. G. (in press) ‘Why did colonial rulers establish the Department of Agriculture in Sri Lanka?’, in Century Publication of the Department of Agriculture, Peradeniya, Sri Lanka, pp13–19 Pushpakumara, D. K. N. G.,Wijesekara, A. and Hunter, D. G. (2010) ‘Kandyan home gardens: A promising land management system in Sri Lanka’, in C. Belair, K. Ichikawa, B.Y. L. Wong and K. J. Mulongoy (eds) Sustainable Use of Biological Diversity in Socio-ecological Production Landscapes, Background to the Satoyama Initiative for the Benefit of Biodiversity and Human Well-being,Technical Series no. 52, Secretariat of the Convention on Biological Diversity, Montreal, pp102–108

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Pushpakumara, D. K. N. G., Gunasena, H. P. M. and Gunathilake, H. A. J. (2011) ‘Review of coconutbased agroforestry systems in Sri Lanka’, in D. K. N. G. Pushpakumara, H. P. M. Gunasena, H. A. J. Gunathilake and V. P. Singh (eds) Increasing Coconut Land Productivity through Agroforestry Interventions, Proceedings of a Symposium, 15 March, Coconut Research Institute, Lunuwila, Sri Lanka, and World Agroforestry Centre (South Asia), New Delhi, pp1–28 Pushpakumara, D. K. N. G., Marambe, B., Silva, G. L. L. P., Weerahewa, J. and Punyawardena, B. V. R. (2012) ‘A review of research on home gardens in Sri Lanka: The status, importance and future perspective’, Tropical Agriculturists 160, pp55–118 Pushparajah, M. (1985) Sector Paper on Forestry, prepared for the Central Environmental Authority of Sri Lanka for the formulation of a national conservation strategy, Ministry of Lands and Land Development, Colombo Ranasinghe, D. M. S. H. K. (1984) ‘Agroforestry in Sri Lanka: An overview’, in P. A. Huxley and D. M. S. H. K. Ranasinghe (eds) Agroforestry for Sustainable Development in Sri Lanka: Contributions to a Three-day Participatory Training Course, University of Wales, Bangor, UK, and University of Sri Jayawardenapura, Sri Lanka, pp29–60 Senanayake, F. R. (1987) ‘Analog forestry as a conservation tool’, Tiger Paper 15, pp25–28 Siriweera, W. I. (1993) Agricultural History of Sri Lanka, S. Godage Brothers, Colombo (in Sinhala) Stockdale, F. A. (1926) ‘The chena problem and some suggestions for its solution’, Tropical Agriculturist 66 (4 & 5), pp199-208 UNEP (2001) State of Environment, Sri Lanka, 2001, United Nations Environment Programme, Regional Resource Centre for Asia and the Pacific, Bangkok Weerakoon, W. L. (1984) ‘Issues in agroforestry development in Sri Lanka’, in P. A. Huxley and D. M. S. H. K Ranasinghe (eds) Agroforestry for Sustainable Development in Sri Lanka: Contributions to a Three-day Participatory Training Course, University of Wales, Bangor, UK, and University of Sri Jayawardenapura, Sri Lanka, pp29–60 Weerakoon,W. L. and Senaviratne, A. M. (1984), ‘Managing a sustainable farming system in the dry zone of Sri Lanka’, Tropical Agriculturist 140, pp41–50 World Agroforestry Centre (2000) Paths to Prosperity through Agroforestry: ICRAF Cooperative Strategy 2001-2010, International Centre for Research in Agroforestry (ICRAF), Nairobi, Kenya Yatawara, D. (2012) ‘Chena cultivation to be regulated’, Sunday Observer, 29 April, www.sundayobserver. lk/2012/04/29/pol06.asp, accessed 10 December 2012 Young, A. (1989) Agroforestry for Soil Conservation, CAB International, Wallingford, UK

10 LEARNING FROM MIGRATORY AGRICULTURE AROUND THE WORLD To improve both swidden and modern agriculture in Southeast Asia Roland Bunch* Introduction

Swidden agriculture achieved extremely efficient and sustainable agricultural systems in past centuries when land was the cheap resource, labour was the expensive resource and modern markets were largely inaccessible or non-existent. Gradually, however, as land has become a more expensive resource (due largely to population pressures) and modern markets have penetrated further and further into rural areas, swidden agriculture has become less advantageous economically and less sustainable ecologically. Thus there is an increasing need to make swidden systems more intensive. At the same time, dramatic rises in the cost of chemical fertilizers and their transport have brought an increasing need to make modern systems less expensive. Luckily, a better understanding of how tropical environments work has provided us with many opportunities to achieve both. Thus, in both cases – the intensification of swidden systems and the move towards less expensive modern systems – a better understanding of the dynamics of traditional agricultural systems, including swidden systems in particular, is absolutely crucial. The agricultural systems that result from making swidden agriculture and modern agriculture more efficient and more ecologically sustainable can be very similar. As swidden agriculture undergoes increasing modification to make it more profitable in conditions of limited land resources and modern markets, and as modern conventional agriculture is increasingly modified to make it more ecologically benign and cost-effective, the two forms of agriculture often become more and more similar, to the point where, in some cases, they become virtually indistinguishable. Nevertheless, I will discuss each of these processes independently.

* 

Roland Bunch is an international consultant and author on agricultural issues.

222  Bunch

This chapter will assume that readers already know a good deal about the swidden and green manure/cover crop techniques being used in Southeast Asia today. It will concentrate on those systems that are presently being used by farmers elsewhere in the world that could potentially be of use within Southeast Asia. Except where indicated otherwise, these systems from outside Southeast Asia will all be systems that have been in use by a minimum of 100 resource-poor farmers for more than five years, without any subsidies or programmes promoting their adoption in the area. Suffice it to say here that the potential for such systems in Southeast Asia is much greater than most agronomists have thought. For example, I was told several times that there was no hope of using green/manure cover crops in Indonesia because Indonesians did not eat beans.Yet on the very first day I spent in the field on Sumatra, I found farmers using three such crops (soybeans, mungbeans and cowpeas). Of course, they weren’t being consumed as beans; they were being sold or consumed as tofu, sweetcakes, sprouts and sprouts and bean pods. Since then, I have observed dozens of different green manure/cover crop systems in Vietnam, Cambodia and Indonesia. The principles of migratory agriculture

The processes that, for two or three thousand years, have kept the soil fertile in swidden agricultural systems are the same processes that have kept the soil fertile in natural tropical forests for hundreds of thousands of years. This similitude is due, in large part, to the fact that traditional swidden systems incorporate pioneer forests as part of their strategy for at least 10 years out of every 15 years of use. The principles of swidden agriculture that are most important for improving both swidden and modern agriculture include the following: 1.

2. 3.

Maximize production of organic matter. A tropical forest naturally produces very close to the maximum amount of biomass per hectare that is possible under the ecological conditions in which it exists. It also recycles the nutrients rather quickly, thereby using the same nutrients over and over again, reducing the total amount of nutrients necessary to produce a given amount of biomass. The large amounts of organic matter also buffer the pH of acid soils near the soil surface (Triomphe, 1994). Keep the soil covered. By keeping the soil covered, especially in the lowland tropics, the sun never ‘burns out’ much nitrogen, virtually no erosion ever occurs and the biological health of the soil is maintained. Never plough the soil. Forests use what we would call ‘zero tillage’ systems. Ploughing has been shown not only to reduce the levels of organic matter and nitrogen in a tropical soil, but also to kill beneficial organisms such as earthworms. Ploughing only increases crop growth in soils that have become compacted because they are deficient in organic matter. That is, ploughing is only beneficial when humans (or some fairly rare natural agents) have damaged

Chapter 10. Learning from migratory agriculture  223

4.

5.

the natural condition of a forest or grassland soil (Fukuoka, 1978; Monegat, 1991). Maximize biodiversity. A tropical forest can maximize production of organic matter and keep the soil covered in part because it maintains a tremendous number of different plant species, which exploit every possible niche in the ecosystem. Feed the plants through the litter layer.The soils of the humid tropics are usually very acid. In these cases they are often very low in available phosphorus while, at the same time, they contain nearly toxic levels of aluminium. They are, in effect, a rather hostile environment for plant roots. Furthermore, around 99% of the phosphorus that is incorporated into such soils is largely lost to plant life fairly quickly, much of it within minutes. Given this situation, tropical forests maximize the benefits of the few nutrients available to them by rarely allowing phosphorus and other nutrients to ever touch the soil itself. The forest’s leaves fall on the litter layer and a mat of tree roots in and immediately under it. The trees’ roots absorb the vast majority of the leaves’ nutrients before the nutrients ever touch the soil (Lal, 1989; Vitousek and Sanford, 1986). In this way, the forest’s nutrients are recycled over and over again without ever being tied up in acidic soils and lost to the ecosystem.

These principles have a number of synergies that make the tropical forest not only a highly sustainable ecosystem, but a very productive one, even where the soils are quite poor in total nutrients. The forest must get virtually all of its nutrients from the litter layer. That litter layer, therefore, must be constantly replenished by new leaves (i.e. new nutrients). This rapid, year-long replenishing of the litter layer’s nutrients is accomplished precisely because of the forest’s great biodiversity and its high levels of biomass production, as well as the rapid recycling of the nutrients held in that biomass. Making swidden agriculture more efficient

Today’s scientists tend to entertain a lot of doubts about the sustainability of swidden and other systems that minimize the use of chemicals, as opposed to conventional agricultural systems. Nevertheless, swidden systems were used for thousands of years with no noticeable damage to the fertility or productivity of the soil – until the 20th century, during which population pressure on the land reduced fallow periods. The sustainability of swidden systems with adequate fallow periods has therefore been proven beyond any reasonable doubt. However, traditional swidden systems have, in many places, become less efficient than many competing agricultural systems. As land has become relatively more expensive than labour, swidden systems have become relatively less efficient. Furthermore, when modern markets pay good prices for non-traditional crops or

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irrigated fruits and vegetables, traditional swidden agriculture once again is often ill prepared to compete with other agricultural systems. Therefore, swidden agriculture is in need of becoming more efficient (i.e. increasing its productivity, or even more important, its economic yield per unit of land). This can be done in a number of ways, which I will describe below. Among them are techniques such as adding profitable species to the swidden forest as it grows, using ‘improved fallows’, or even growing fallow-tree species among crops as agroforestry systems, such as the ‘dispersed tree’ or ‘dispersed shade’ systems. These techniques are already being used by resource-poor farmers in many areas of Southeast Asia, but many other techniques used in other parts of the world can also be instructive (Cairns, 2007). Adding profitable species to swidden forests

The possibilities here are endless. I have known of traditional fallows in Mexico that had as many as 150 useful species in a single fallow forest.Valuable timber trees, cash crops, medicinal plants and native-food plants can all be grown in a fallow forest, along its edges, in waterlogged areas, or along the trails or streams that run through the forest. Improved fallows

Often an ‘improved fallow’ can have the same impact on the soil in one to two years that a natural fallow might take four to 15 years to achieve. Some fast-growing tree species, such as mother of cacao (Gliricidia sepium) or leucaena (Leucaena leucocephala or L. diversifolia) can restore soil fertility in three to four years (Amadalo et al., 2003), but much more popular among resource-poor farmers are species that can restore soil fertility in one or two years, such as the annual or perennial spp.) mucunas (Mucuna used in Mexico, Guatemala, Honduras, Brazil and Vietnam, or tephrosia (Tephrosia vogelii or T. candida), as it is used in Cameroon. The tephrosia system used near Bamenda, in Cameroon, is of special interest. Once the soil has become unproductive, Mucuna pruriens (L.) DC. [Leguminosae] the farmers broadcast tephrosia seed across the field at the A fallow species used widely in Central and beginning of the growing South America, capable of restoring soil fertility season at a rate of about one or in one or two years

Chapter 10. Learning from migratory agriculture  225

two seeds per square metre. Just before the following growing season begins, the tephrosia is cut down and a crop of rice (the most demanding of the local staples in terms of soil fertility) is planted. Dispersed trees

Virtually any field in the tropics below 1000m in elevation that does not include trees and is not covered by rice paddies can profit from the use of a system of dispersed trees.The purpose is to produce about 15 to 25% shade over the entire field. Inasmuch as all crops in the lowland tropics stop growing under the intense midday sun because the heat is just too much for continued growth, 15 to 25% shade will usually in and of itself raise crop production by 25 to 40%. The organic matter and, if the trees are leguminous, the fixed nitrogen produced by the trees will improve crop productivity even more. To produce the proper amount of shade, the trees are usually planted in a square pattern about 8m to 12m apart. They are then pruned each year before the growing season, to produce the desired amount of shade over the entire field. If the trees are more than about 10m in height, they can be pruned in a funnel shape, so that even if they produce a heavy shade, the shadow will move across the field, never shading any one area for too long. This pruning system is particularly useful if the trees have volunteered, rather than being planted, and are therefore not uniformly spaced across the field. Mother of cacao is probably the easiest tree to manage in such a system, because it can be cut off at about 2m in height, and all subsequent branches will originate from that height, making the annual pruning very simple. Furthermore, it is fast-growing and provides plenty of good firewood, fodder (which will continue to grow through the dry season if the flowers are pruned), human food (the flowers), fertilizer sprays (made from the leaves) and a natural rat poison (from the bark). Many native trees may also be used to produce dispersed shade, even with several species in the same field. In West Africa, for instance, Faidherbia albida is very popular as a native dispersed-tree species because, unlike most tree species, it drops its leaves during the growing season and therefore seldom requires any pruning. In Central America’s coffee fields, Tephrosia vogelii has become a very popular temporary shade for the first four years after the coffee seedlings have been planted. For vegetable gardening, lower-stature annual or two- to four-year plants can be used to produce dispersed shade, allowing for maximum flexibility in the spacing of crops in future plantings. Papaya trees often work well. In the Sudan, pigeon peas (Cajanus cajan) are used to grow tomatoes, chillies and other heat-sensitive vegetables during the hot Saharan summer. Paddy rice systems are one of the most difficult systems in the world to intensify. Sesbania rostrata is sometimes used in a traditional form of green manuring (i.e. growing the green manure as a monocrop before the main crop is planted), but this system is rightly unpopular because its use of the land during part of the growing

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season has a higher and higher opportunity cost as agricultural systems intensify. Nevertheless, the introduction of the System of Rice Intensification (SRI) in most of Southeast Asia presents a new opportunity to introduce additional biodiversity into the system. One alternative that has only been tried on a limited scale is to make a few of the bunds wider or higher than usual, and plant mother of cacao along these bunds, in a dispersed-shade system. The fact that weeds are growing inside the paddies (because of the alternate wetting and drying of the fields) is an indication that some green manure/cover crops might be grown in the paddies themselves, but no one, to my knowledge, has seriously experimented with this possibility. At elevations above 1000m, alder trees (Alnus nepalensis or A. acuminata) can usually play the same role in dispersed-shade systems that mother of cacao trees play at lower elevations (Cairns, 2007). Making modern agriculture more efficient

The price of energy has climbed precipitously over the last decade, from about US$20 a barrel of crude oil to about US$100. This price will probably continue to climb, unless the world dips into another recession. Therefore, since the manufacture of nitrogenous chemical fertilizers requires a good deal of energy, these fertilizers have more than doubled in price over the past 10 years, and their price will probably continue to climb.The rising price of chemical fertilizers will be particularly high for resource-poor farmers, since the farm-gate cost of their fertilizer must cover major transportation costs in addition to the cost of producing the fertilizer.These increases mean that a major share of a resource-poor farmer’s total agricultural income is often spent on the purchase of chemical fertilizer. By using the principles of swidden agriculture – especially those of maintaining biodiversity, maximizing production of organic matter and feeding crops through the resulting mulch – farmers can maintain high levels of productivity with very little or no use of expensive fertilizers. Furthermore, the added biomass can often control weeds while it is growing and allow farmers to adopt zero tillage once it is decomposed in the soil. Contrary to many people’s ideas about ecological or organic agriculture, both the control of weeds through the use of cover crops and the use of zero tillage result in major reductions in labour costs for most farming systems. The ways of intensifying modern agriculture with added species of plants include the use of contour hedgerows, intercropping, relay cropping, rotating crops, planting understories beneath tree crops and recuperating wastelands. Contour hedgerows

On gently sloping fields (less than 20%), keeping the soil covered is by far the most effective way of preventing soil erosion, and the least appreciated. In northern Honduras and southern Mexico, for instance, mucuna is intercropped with maize on slopes of up to 35%, with more than 2000mm of rain a year, and with no erosion

Chapter 10. Learning from migratory agriculture  227

control whatsoever other than the soil cover provided by the mucuna.Yet the soil is getting more and more fertile each year (Flores and Estrada, 1992). In other words, the positive impact of the mucuna is more than counteracting the impact of any erosion that might occur (in one sense, we could call this ‘negative erosion’). In fact, even after maize and mucuna have been planted on a field every year for 40 years, the soil is so soft and absorbent that it looks more like compost than soil; walking through the fields feels like walking on a thick mattress. But where hedgerows are needed to reduce erosion, the hedgerows should not be planted all in the same species. In the 1960s and 1970s, we development workers invariably planted monocropped hedgerows – of napier grass (Pennisetum purpureum), vetiver grass (Vetivaria zizanioides), leucaena or mother of cacao, depending on the country or programme involved. In Guatemala, projects I was involved in planted napier grass hedgerows everywhere. But gradually, farmers let us know that they wanted a little lemon grass (Cymbopogon citratus) in their hedgerows to make tea, along with some fruit trees. Others wanted most of their hedgerows to consist of sugar cane (which is not advisable on slopes of more than about 25%, because the sugar cane lodges when more than 30cm of soil builds up behind it). Sugar cane hedgerows are widely used in Colombia, because sugar cane has the highest energy content of any grass during the dry season, making it ideal for feeding cattle. In the end, we realized that every farmer should be offered three to five potential species for his or her hedgerows. Still, on slopes of more than about 20%, at least one grass should be present in the hedgerow, because non-grass species do not catch eroding soil well enough. I have never seen a tree-based hedgerow with more than 50cm of soil built up behind it, whereas hedgerows of napier grass or vetiver grass can hold up a wall of soil more than 1m high, if necessary. All sorts of species can be grown in hedgerows. In addition to the species mentioned above, tephrosia can be used to add nitrogen and tithonia (Tithonia diversifolia) to add phosphorus to the soil. Grass and tree combinations are especially attractive when the trees can produce either locally eaten fruit or a cash crop. Properly pruned, fruit trees can also provide a dispersed shade. More experienced farmers tend to prune the trees in their hedgerows according to current market prices: in years when the trees’ produce has a high price, but the crops between the hedgerows have a low price, they will prune the trees very sparingly. If fruit prices are low and crop prices high, they will prune the fruit trees much more heavily. Intercropping and relay cropping

Intercropping and relay cropping are by far the most popular and widespread ways of adding useful species to a farming system. Many farming systems in Southeast Asia already use intercropping or relay cropping, so it is very difficult to add a third species to the mix. But often, even farmers who use intercropping leave part of their land in a monocrop, where other intercrops can be planted.

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Choosing which species would be best as an intercrop in a farmer’s fields depends on a number of factors. First of all, for farmers who plant a lot of tall grains (i.e. maize, sorghum or millet), the most important issue will be whether or not they also like to eat certain grain legumes. If so, the following examples will probably offer an appropriate intercropping species. (Vigna unguiculata) Cowpeas are intercropped with tall grains in Honduras, El Salvador, Nicaragua, Panama, Mozambique, Burkina Faso Lablab purpureus (L.) Sweet. and Mali, and are relayed into maize [Leguminosae] in parts of Thailand and southern Cambodia. Rice beans (V. umbellata) Lablab beans are widely intercropped are intercropped with tall grains in with maize to provide food for humans Mexico, Guatemala, El Salvador and and cattle Vietnam, and are relayed into maize in Thailand. Mungbeans (V. radiata) are intercropped with maize in Nicaragua and Vietnam. Pigeon peas are intercropped with maize in Panama, Brazil and Kenya, and lablab beans (Dolichos lablab or Lablab purpureus) are intercropped with maize in Honduras (mainly to provide cattle feed during the six-month dry season), Peru (to be eaten green, like sweet peas) and Kenya, Uganda and Malawi (to be eaten as dry beans). In Thailand, lablab beans are relayed into maize in order to grow during the dry season, much like the rice beans and cowpeas mentioned above. The Vigna spp and lablab beans are usually planted on the same day as the main crop, at a rate of two or three seeds per square metre. Pigeon peas are usually planted at a rate of only one seed every square metre, although in Kenya they are normally planted much more sparsely (Binder, 1997; CIDICCO, 1997). In upland rice systems, creeping varieties of cowpeas are intercropped with rice in parts of Laos, as are pigeon peas (with spacing of about 2m between seeds). Where maize is grown, and there is no preference for a grain legume as a food crop, the maize may be intercropped or relay cropped with mucuna, jack beans (Canavalia ensiformis – preferably the bushy types), sword beans (Canavalia gladiata), several crotalarias (Crotalaria spp., especially C. ochroleuca) or any of the food legumes mentioned above. Various mucuna systems are used in Mexico, Guatemala, Belize, Honduras, Costa Rica, Brazil, Ghana and Benin. Jack beans and sword beans are used widely in Mexico, Brazil and Paraguay. Rice beans are used in Mexico, Guatemala and El Salvador, while the crotalarias are used mostly in Brazil and Tanzania. All the species mentioned here are planted at a rate of two to three seeds per square metre at the same time as the maize. However, if the primary purpose of a jack bean intercrop

Chapter 10. Learning from migratory agriculture  229

is to control the weeds in a maize field, the number of seeds will usually be increased to four seeds per square metre. Once again, bushy-type jack beans are preferable. (Calegari et al., 1993; CIDICCO, 1997; Monegat, 1991) Often jack beans are used when the soil is extremely infertile, as they are the most resistant to poor soils of all the above leguminous plants. After two or three years, the soil will have improved to the point where some other, more beneficial intercrop can be used, such as one of the grain legumes. Where sorghum or millet are grown, the intercrops must be non-climbers, or the sorghum and millet will lodge. Therefore, with these species, farmers are limited to non-climbing intercrops such as pigeon peas, crotalarias and the bushy varieties of jack beans. An example of this practice is the sorghum and pigeon pea intercrop used commonly in Southeast Asia. For irrigated vegetables or root crops, the high value of the land usually makes further intensification very difficult. For non-irrigated vegetables and root crops of medium to tall stature, some very useful possibilities exist. In Mexico, bushy-type jack beans are planted at the same time and in rows between tomatoes and chillies, and then cut off completely at a height of about 30cm when they begin to compete with the vegetables. In Paraguay, bushy-type jack beans are planted in rows between rows of cassava, at a rate of about three seeds per metre.This practice eliminates all but the first weeding of the cassava and provides up to 150kg/ha of nitrogen to the soil. Cassava yields often decrease by about 20% in the first year under this practice, but will usually increase by 50% or more in the second and subsequent years. At elevations above 1500m, most of the species already mentioned no longer have the vigour needed to improve soils or grow well as intercrops. Tephrosia and tithonia will do fairly well at 1500m, but they also fail to grow well above 2000m. As intercrops with maize above 1500m, the two best options are fava beans (Vicia faba), which are used this way in Mexico, Guatemala and Vietnam, and scarlet runner beans (Phaseolus coccineus), which are used widely as an intercrop in Mexico, Guatemala, Honduras, Colombia, Ecuador, Peru and Bolivia. Both species produce edible beans that are usually highly appreciated. Fava beans Phaseolus coccineus L. [Leguminosae] can be planted at a rate of two or three seeds per square metre. Scarlet runner beans are a popular intercrop The runner beans, however, with maize throughout Latin America, produce so much biomass that particularly above 1500masl

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they often need more support than the maize can provide, so they may have to be planted at a rate of only one seed for each five to 10 square metres. If planted more densely (e.g. one seed per square metre), they will need the support of an occasional stronger plant such as tephrosia. The runner beans produce tubers that will sprout each year for three to four years, so replanting every year is unnecessary (CIDICCO, 1997). Rotations

Vigna radiata (L.) R. Wilczek [Leguminosae] Mungbeans are planted in rice paddies in Vietnam and some parts of Indonesia, when there is too little water for irrigation

Cropping systems in Southeast Asia that no longer use fallows normally occupy the land during all of each growing season. The only time that the land is not used is during each dry season. Most of the relay systems mentioned above use all or part of a dry season to finish their growth cycle. But in other systems, rotation crops can be grown entirely during the driest season of the year. In Honduras, tithonia seed is sometimes broadcast on fields where maize has already been harvested. It will grow throughout the dry season, providing weed control and available phosphorus. Jack beans are sometimes planted during the dry season after rainy season crops are harvested. Rice beans, cowpeas and mungbeans are sometimes planted after paddy rice in Vietnam, while mungbeans and cowpeas are used the same way in parts of Indonesia (i.e. during the season when there is too little water to irrigate the paddies). In southern Cambodia, jack beans or cowpeas will sometimes be planted after paddy rice or vegetable crops have been harvested. Understories

Orchards, oil-palm fields and coffee fields can provide good opportunities for intensification that can greatly reduce labour requirements and increase soil fertility. In Costa Rica’s coffee fields, jack beans or perennial peanuts (Arachis pintoi) are used as an understory to control weeds and fertilize the soil. Jack beans, being an annual, require more work each year to replant. Perennial peanuts, on the other hand, are fairly difficult to establish, but once established require virtually no additional work. From there on, they will control the weeds totally, unless disturbed in some

Chapter 10. Learning from migratory agriculture  231

major way, such as being grazed by animals. Perennial peanuts are used in a similar fashion in oil-palm fields in both Honduras and Costa Rica (CIDICCO, 1997). A useful understory for fruit trees can be provided by perennial peanuts or jack beans. The latter is used in both Paraguay and Honduras. Soil recuperation

One quarter of all of the world’s agricultural land is now heavily degraded (Cribb, 2010, p11). Two major forms of degradation most affect productivity: infertility and weed infestation. Infertility is often caused by erosion and soil depletion. Both of these cause a reduction in soil organic matter, which in turn causes a lack of both soil nitrogen and available phosphorus. Weed infestation also tends to be a symptom of infertility, especially in the case of imperata grass (Imperata cylindrica, known as ‘cogon grass’ in the Philippines) infestation. The possibility of the recuperation of degraded land has long been widely underestimated. While weed-infested land often presents much more difficulty in recuperation than does infertile land, both can nevertheless recuperate from degradation fairly easily and cheaply. Wastelands caused by soil infertility usually recuperate best when jack beans are grown on them. Jack beans are ideal for this because they are extremely resistant to both poor soil and drought. To begin the recuperation process, the soil must usually be ploughed and the jack beans planted at the beginning of the growing season. If animal traction is available, the jack bean biomass can be incorporated into the soil sometime after initial flowering. Usually, after one such crop, the soil is ready for planting food crops. This system is seldom used every year, because it is no longer necessary after the first or second year. But it is used when needed in a dozen or so countries. Common or perennial mucuna can also be used in roughly the same way, but on somewhat less degraded soils. This practice is fairly common in Honduras and Vietnam. Canavalia ensiformis (L.) DC. [Leguminosae] Land that is heavily infested by imperata grass can recuperate Extreme tolerance of poor soils and drought if fast-growing trees, such as make jack beans ideal for recovering degraded mother of cacao, are planted wasteland quite densely (about one tree

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for every four square metres) and allowed to grow until their shade kills the imperata grass. A much faster, but more laborious, method is to cut and burn the imperata grass and plant mucuna immediately afterwards. A second cutting of the imperata grass may be necessary to allow the mucuna to cover it completely. After eight to nine months, the mucuna will have killed about 90% of the imperata grass. The rest will have to be killed by hand. This system is used by tens of thousands of farmers in Benin and some in Togo. Nutgrass (Cyperus rotundus) can also be eliminated completely by allowing mucuna to cover it for a full six months. This practice is used in parts of both Honduras and Vietnam. Achieving the adoption of these practices

The above practices will be most readily adopted in a sustainable and beneficial manner if the following guidelines are employed: 1. 2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

A species added to farmers’ present farming systems must either have no opportunity cost, or be much more valuable than the species it replaces. Most of the above-mentioned systems conform to this rule. The added species should not lead to any cash expense, unless it is a cash crop or is edible.This means that farmers must be able to produce and collect their own seed year after year, and the species in question must not have any insect pests or disease problems that substantially reduce its growth or require the purchase of inputs to control them. The added species should not substantially increase the labour costs of the farming system. This means, among other things, that the added species, once dead, will normally be applied to the soil surface rather than being incorporated into the soil. The added species must adapt to the existing farming system, not the farming system to the added species. Farmers will generally see the added species as being less important than the cash crops, food crops or other crops they are already growing. Therefore, the added species will have to fit into the present farming system, rather than the other way around. The added species should provide at least one major benefit other than soil improvement. An analysis of known farming systems around the world found that those that adopted the above practices for more than five years all produced major benefits beyond the improvement in soil fertility. These benefits usually included the provision of an additional highly appreciated food, producing additional fodder for animals (particularly during the dry season), controlling major weed problems or allowing for the adoption or continuation of a system of zero tillage. Farmers should always be encouraged to experiment with other leguminous plants and modify existing technologies used for intensification, in order

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7.

8.

9.

to gradually develop new and better systems (Bunch, 1982, pp138-146). Resource-poor farmers around the world are already using more than 125 species of green manure/cover crops in an estimated 500 different systems. Most of the agricultural systems known today were unknown just 30 years ago. Furthermore, roughly 80% of what we know about the technologies described in this chapter has come from the innovations and wisdom of resource-poor farmers. The process of participatory technology development (PTD) will probably continue to grow and will dominate the field, unless the world’s scientists take a much greater interest in the possibilities of ecological agriculture in the near future. The PTD process and the discovery of new technologies by resource-poor farmers will certainly gather strength as fertilizers continue to be prohibitively expensive. And farmers who experiment with these systems will probably develop new systems and improve old ones. It is highly probable that hundreds of species and systems are being discovered and used around the world without anyone knowing about them except for the small pockets of farmers who have adopted them. Programmes must also make sure they do not introduce species that might become pests. The most dangerous species in this respect are creeping perennials, including common kudzu (Pueraria montana), tropical kudzu (Pueraria phaseoloides) and the perennial soybean (Glycine wightii). Any vigorously growing plant that is difficult to kill should be tested in small, well-enclosed plots to see if it can be easily and permanently eliminated, before it is spread among farmers. If there is any doubt at all, it should not be used. More than one species usually can and should be introduced into any given farming system. As a rule of thumb, about 20t/ha of green manure/cover crop biomass (green weight) must be added to a soil each year in order to fully maintain its fertility (25t/ha or more will usually increase the soil’s productivity). This means that the addition of one new species to a cropping system will usually not produce sufficient biomass to sustain the system over time. Tree species used as dispersed shade will almost never produce enough biomass to achieve sustainability. Therefore, after one species has been successfully added to a system, the search should begin for a second or even a third, in order to produce sufficient biomass to maintain or improve the soil.

Conclusions

Even though fallow systems in Southeast Asia are gradually being modified, associated with other more intensive farming systems, or reduced in the area they cover, the principles upon which swidden systems have been based will continue for generations to be extremely important.They will increasingly allow emerging farming systems to be both highly productive and ecologically sustainable. The systems described in this chapter for achieving these objectives are numerous and already widely employed,

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but are probably just the visible tip of a very large iceberg. As both farmers and researchers continue to experiment, emerging agricultural systems will inevitably proliferate far beyond their present number. References

For further information, see my book Restoring the Soil, A Guide for Using Green Manure/Cover Crops to Improve the Food Security of Smallholder Farmers (2012) Canadian Foodgrains Bank, Winnipeg. Built around a four-page decision tree, the book will provide a lot more information about species that are best to use, and how, in all the diverse farming situations of Southeast Asia. Amadalo, B., Jama. B., Niang, A., Noordin, Q., Nyasimi, M., Place, F., Franzel, S. and Beniest, J. (2003) Improved Fallows for Western Kenya: An Extension Guideline, World Agroforestry Centre (ICRAF), Nairobi, Kenya Binder, U. (1997) Manual de Leguminosas de Nicaragua, 1st Tome, Programme for Sustainable Agriculture on the Hillsides of Central America (PASOLAC) and Escuela de Agricultura y Ganaderia de Esteli, Esteli, Nicaragua Bunch, R. (1982) Two Ears of Corn: A Guide to People-centered Agricultural Improvement, World Neighbours, Oklahoma City, OK Cairns, M. F. (ed.) (2007) Voices from the Forest: Integrating Indigenous Knowledge into Sustainable Upland Farming, Resources for the Future, Washington, DC Calegari, A., Mondardo, A., Bulisani, E. A., Wildner, L., Costa, M. B. B., Alcantara, P. B., Miyasaka, S. and Amado, T. J. C. (1993) Adubacao Verde no Sul do Brasil, 2nd edition, Family Farming and Agroecology (AS-PTA), Rio de Janeiro, Brazil CIDICCO, (1997) Experiencias Sobre Cultivos de Cobertura y Abonos Verdes, Centro Internacional de Informacion sobre Cultivos de Cobertura (CIDICCO), Tegucigalpa, Honduras Cribb, J. (2010) The Coming Famine: The Global Food Crisis and What We Can Do to Avoid It, University of California Press, Berkeley, CA Flores, M. and Estrada, N. (1992) ‘Estudio de Caso: La Utilizacion de Frijol Abono (Mucuna spp.) Como Alternativa Viable para el Sostenimiento Productivo de los Sistemas Agricolas del Litoral Atlantico’, paper presented to the Centre for Development Studies at the Free University of Amsterdam Fukuoka, M. (1978) The One-straw Revolution, Rodale Press, Emmaus, Pennsylvania, PA Lal, R. (1989) ‘Conservation tillage for sustainable agriculture, tropics vs temperate environments’, in N. C. Brady (ed.) Advances in Agronomy, vol 42, Academic Press, San Diego, CA Monegat, C. (1991) Plantas de Cobertura del Suelo, Caracteristicas y Manejo en Pequenas Propiedades, Centro Internacional de Informacion sobre Cultivos de Cobertura (CIDICCO), Tegucigalpa, Honduras Triomphe, B. (1994) Personal communication with the author on the results of his doctoral dissertation research on the long-term effects of a Honduran green-manure cover-crop/maize system on tropical soils Vitousek, P. M. and Sanford, R. L. Jr. (1986) ‘Nutrient cycling in moist tropical forests’, Annual Review of Ecological Systems 17, pp137–167

11 LEARNING TO COPE WITH RAPID CHANGE Evergreen agriculture transformations and insights between Africa and Asia Dennis P. Garrity*

The decline of shifting-cultivation and fallow-rotation systems in Asia and Africa

Although shifting cultivation is estimated to support several hundred million people around the world (Brady, 1996), it appears that the numbers have been steadily declining over recent decades in both Asia and Africa. Rapid population growth and the reduction in land available per capita have been dominant drivers of this process on both continents. There have also been other strong influences, including the penetration of roads and market infrastructure into ever more remote areas, and the expansion of tree-crop systems. In Asia, the tree-crops path has been exemplified by massive expansion of rubber and oil-palm cultivation (Tomich et al., 1994) – a process that continues to accelerate in response to strong regional and global demand for these products. One example is the rubber transformation in Sumatra. In 1981, shifting cultivation was still the mechanism by which Sumatran farmers overwhelmingly practised foodcrop cultivation. The area planted to upland rice – their dominant food crop – was then estimated at 1.2 million hectares. By 2000, the area of upland rice had declined to less than 100,000 hectares. Rubber trees had been established in the swiddens and latex production for export gradually became the dominant livelihood, with food purchased from income generated by rubber sales. However, in many parts of the Asian uplands a human and environmental tragedy is unfolding. Rapidly expanding populations, and their lost access to large tracts of land, are forcing shifting cultivators to shorten their fallows and lengthen their

* 

Dr Dennis P. Garrity is a former Director-General and now senior fellow at the World Agroforestry Centre, Nairobi, Kenya; he is a Drylands Ambassador on behalf of the United Nations Convention to Combat Desertification (UNCCD) and is chair of both the EverGreen Agriculture Partnership and Landcare International.

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cropping periods (Cairns, 2007b), or to adopt a slide into continuous cultivation on fragile land.The dramatic increase in upland rural populations was prompted by both endogenous growth and in-migration of large numbers of lowlanders. For example, Garrity and Agustin (1995) documented the transformation from shifting cultivation to small-scale continuous food-crop farming at Claveria, in Mindanao, Philippines, by examining temporal changes in land use over a number of decades. In the African context, the large-scale transformation to perennial crops has been most widely observed in the highland areas, such as in East Africa where the uplands are now dominated by farming systems based on coffee, tea and cooking bananas, and in the humid lowlands of West Africa by smallholder cacao production systems (Garrity et al., 2012). But across Africa, the transformation of shifting cultivation into small-scale, continuous food-crop farming is a much more widespread phenomenon, and it has been accelerating over recent decades. The population pressure in many African countries has now reached human densities on the land that are similar to or even exceed those that are common in the most densely populated agricultural areas of Asia (Garrity et al., 2012). For millions of households on both continents, learning to cope with the imperative to rapidly intensify shifting-cultivation systems and to accelerate their evolution into continuous cultivation on poor soils has been a stark challenge. This chapter begins with a look at the nexus of population growth and land in Africa. It then reviews some of the prominent adaptations in farming practice that have been developed to address the ubiquitous challenge of declining soil fertility and land degradation. It takes note of important innovations that have evolved independently in Africa and Asia, and their implications for cross-learning between the continents. It examines the spread of these innovations in recent decades and draws implications for their future deployment on a much larger scale. And it concludes with some propositions on how new boundary-spanning partnerships are evolving that are making the innovationsharing and scaling-up processes more effective. The population explosion: food security, poverty and land

Historically, population growth in Africa was extremely slow or negligible. But over the past century, and particularly during the past 50 years, the rate of population growth in Africa has accelerated tremendously. It is now the highest in the world. Africa’s population is projected to grow from about 800 million in 2005 to 1.8 billion by 2050 (United Nations, 2004). Many factors have contributed to this remarkable transformation, including greater peace and security, improved health care and the better management of food crises in times of famine. However, these successes have helped to create difficulty in ensuring adequate employment, food and income for a rapidly growing, youthful population. A big change that has recently disrupted rural society in farming systems across the continent has been the abrupt closure of the land frontier. Suddenly, within a generation or two, abundant land has disappeared. Families (and communities) that

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generally had access to uncultivated land and were able to practise long-fallow rotations have found that land for agricultural expansion is no longer available or accessible. The consequence has been widespread land degradation and deteriorating living standards for rural populations that were already desperately poor. Annual hunger periods are now a common occurrence in the villages of many African countries. Families that have successfully raised six or more children can no longer expect that more than one or two of them will be able to live off the family landholding. Most sons and daughters now have to find off-farm employment to sustain themselves and their own families. Thus, urban populations have swelled very rapidly due to rural displacement. The highland perennial-farming systems of eastern Africa are a classic case of the build-up of extreme pressure on the land, even under comparatively favourable agro-ecological conditions. But such pressures are also prevalent in the highland mixed-farming systems of Ethiopia, the vast maize-based mixed-farming systems of eastern and southern Africa, and even the agropastoral systems of the severely climate-constrained drylands, particularly in the Sahelian zone, between the Sahara in the north and the Sudanian Savannah, further south (Garrity et al., 2012). In large swathes of African agriculture, the average family farm has declined to a truly marginal size. The densest populations of undernourished people are associated with farming systems where farm sizes are smallest (Interacademy Council, 2004). Disappeared fallows and soil-fertility replenishment

Reversing the depletion of soil fertility in all African farming systems has become a major policy issue across the continent. Hitherto, resting or fallowing exhausted cropland for several years has always been the means by which African farmers have restored the fertility of their soils (Allen, 1965). But the new reality is that fallowing has been phased out in most farming systems due to pressures on the land and the vast majority of farmers are now forced to crop their fields continuously. Farmyard-manure supplies are also declining in many areas because the disappearance of communitygrazing lands has meant that livestock numbers cannot be sustained. Thus, recent surveys have highlighted the issue of declining yields due to soil impoverishment, and how this has become a primary concern for smallholder farmers across a wide range of countries (Bunch, 2010). Farmers are well aware of the need to improve soil fertility: available nutrients from various sources are carefully allocated among their crops and areas of soil, according to their needs and expected returns. As land became scarcer, they found it worthwhile to invest more labour in sustaining and improving their soils, and to purchase fertilizers. Unfortunately, the farm-gate cost of fertilizers relative to crop prices is high in Africa, particularly for food crops. There is also the capital risk of applying fertilizers in the face of frequent droughts. As a result, more than three out of four farmers do not use them. In many farming systems, crop-livestock interactions are important for maintaining soil nutrients, and growing fertilizer trees in crop

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fields is becoming increasingly popular as a component of integrated soil-fertility management (Garrity et al., 2010). Trees and forests in Africa

Currently, forests cover about 660 million hectares in Africa, or nearly 27% of the land area.The current annual deforestation rate is 0.16% and the decline in forest area is expected to continue. As forests disappear, a countervailing development factor is the maintenance or regeneration of trees on agricultural lands. This is particularly significant in Africa, where farmers historically sustained medium to high densities of trees in their cropping systems (Zomer et al., 2009). Trees are being retained or established on farms in what have lately become known as evergreen agriculture systems, to serve many purposes. Importantly, they are sources of livestock fodder in the face of dwindling community grazing lands; firewood and timber for home consumption and sale; biofertilizers to sustain soil fertility (particularly leguminous trees such as Faidherbia albida); and a source of fruit, leafy vegetables, medicines and other products, as well as providing local environmental services (Garrity et al., 2010). Recognition of these multiple benefits has stimulated increasing interest in the upscaling of evergreen agriculture systems (ICRAF, 2012), particularly in the agropastoral systems of the Sahel, where young agroforestry parklands have recently been mapped on millions of hectares (Reij et al., 2009). Transition to farmer-managed natural regeneration of trees on farmlands

In the not-too-distant past, it was a common traditional practice in Africa for farmers to retain trees from the fallow vegetation when they were opening land for cropping. However, until recently, this had never been promoted as a practice that could address the needs of smallholder farmers facing the challenges of continuous cultivation on exhausted soil. That situation has now changed. This section describes the development of the practice of retaining fallow trees and the more recent Faidherbia albida (Delile) A. Chev. and widespread procedure of [Leguminosae] naturally regenerating useful With the rare habit of shedding its leaves in the trees whose roots or coppices wet season, this species is the biggest success remain in crop fields. The most story in the vast growth of tree-supported agriculture in Africa

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dramatic example is the cultivation of trees regenerated by farmers on croplands in the Sahelian zone. The Sahel stretches across Africa on the southern edge of the Sahara desert. It is one of the poorest regions in the world, and has long been plagued by droughts. Farmers traditionally maintain a land-use system known as agroforestry parkland (Boffa, 1999). It is characterized by the deliberate retention of scattered trees on cultivated land. The trees are an integral part of the agricultural system, providing food, fuel, fodder, medicines, wood for construction and cash commodities, as well as contributing to soil fertility, water conservation and other environmental services. Demographic, economic, environmental and social developments over the past 40 years have brought pressure to bear on these traditional land-use systems. Modern Sahelian forest laws, and the ways in which they are locally enforced, have tended to discourage farmers from optimum parkland management and have led to the degradation of the parklands to a varying extent across the region (Boffa,1999). Until recently, this was particularly marked in the case of Niger. For centuries, the farmers of Niger managed their agricultural parklands and village woodlands in order to produce a continuous harvest of trees and tree products (Boffa, 1999). However, during the 1970s and 1980s, they faced massive tree losses from drought and human population pressures, resulting in widespread desertification of the agricultural landscape. Considerable efforts were made to reestablish the vanishing tree cover through conventional reforestation projects, but these overwhelmingly failed due to the harsh environment and a lack of attention given to the farmers’ preferences for the multipurpose tree species that they had nurtured on their farms (Tougiani et al., 2009). Traditionally, farmers maintained populations of 10 to 50 trees per ha on their farms – not by planting them, but by retaining them from the fallow vegetation or by protecting seedlings of useful species and allowing them to regenerate naturally in their fields (Rinaudo, 2007). This practice is known as farmer-managed natural regeneration (FMNR). Its success lies in the observation that seeds of useful trees are constantly being distributed by cattle, goats, birds and wildlife throughout the agricultural environment. Likewise, in the soil beneath farmers’ cleared fields there are extensive systems of living tree roots and stumps that are continually throwing up new above-ground growth. These are an invaluable source of new tree stock. During the mid-1980s, development projects began to emphasize FMNR as a way to re-establish useful trees in the desertified agro-ecosystems of southern Niger (Tougiani et al., 2009). Farmers would prune selected stems to promote growth and the production of food, fuel or fodder, while removing new, competing stems as needed. Periodically, they would harvest one of the original stems and leave a newly sprouting stem as a replacement, while growing their food crops between the trees. The techniques were flexible, and farmers adapted them to their own situations and objectives. They generated a range of benefits. The trees produced a supply of dryseason fodder for livestock, and they provided firewood, fruit and medicinal products that households could consume or sell. Moreover, one of the most ubiquitous species,

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FIGURE 11.1 

A high-density farming system at Zinder, Niger, in the semi-arid Sahel, featuring millet and Faidherbia albida

Faidherbia albida, enhanced fertility by adding nitrogen to the soil (Barnes and Fagg, 2003). The re-greening process in central Niger began when a non-governmental organization in the Maradi region began providing food aid to farmers willing to protect natural regeneration (Tougiani et al., 2009). The tree-regeneration practice spread by attracting wider support. An understanding of the land-use processes, and wider awareness, was further enhanced by research collaboration between the University of Niamey in Niger and the World Agroforestry Centre. An evolving coalition of local, national and international actors is now enabling the large-scale diffusion and adoption of these improved practices (Figure 11.1). Interest in Faidherbia and FMNR was further stimulated in the 1990s when success stories from several pilot projects were shared with government policy-makers. This encouraged the government to relax its restrictive forestry regulations that had severely limited farmers’ management of their own trees. Farmers were no longer prohibited from cutting down trees on their own farms or fined for pruning their trees. They gained an incentive to farm more intensively with Faidherbia and other trees, which they could also cut for timber and firewood sales (Dramé and Berti, 2008). As a result, there was a dramatic increase in efforts by communities to regenerate and expand tree populations on their farms. Moreover, farmer-managed natural regeneration of Faidherbia and other tree species began to spread rapidly. In 2004, the Government of Niger revised national forestry laws to eliminate restrictions on the freedom of farmers to manage trees that grew on their own land. This further accelerated the popularity of FMNR and extended the cultivation of trees on farmland.

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FIGURE 11.2 

Five million hectares of croplands are now dominated by fertilizer-fodderfirewood trees in Niger

Tree densities and tree cover in Niger have increased over time. Analysis of highresolution images acquired between 2003 and 2008 shows that in the Maradi and Zinder regions of Niger there are now about 4.8 million hectares of Faidherbiadominated farmlands that were generated by FMNR (Reij et al., 2009). These landscapes have up to 160 trees per hectare of Faidherbia and a number of other indigenous species (Figure 11.2). Many villages now have 10 to 20 times more trees than they did 20 years ago. In 2005 and 2006, a team of researchers from Niger examined the impacts of investments in natural-resource management and long-term trends in agriculture and the environment (Adam et al., 2006). They found that the highest tree densities were in areas of high rural-population density. Moreover, many of the trees were young and, thus, still increasing in size and ground cover. Today, the agricultural landscapes of southern Niger have considerably more tree cover than they did 30 years ago (Reij et al., 2009).Vast expanses of savannah, devoid of vegetation in the early 1980s, are now densely studded by trees, shrubs and crops (WRI, 2008). Reij et al. (2009) estimated that this transformation had resulted in an average of at least 500,000 additional tonnes of food produced every year, covering the needs of 2.5 million people out of a total population of about 15 million in 2009. Despite a near doubling of the population since 1980, Niger has been able to maintain its per capita production of millet and sorghum, which make up more than 90% of the typical villager’s diet. Per capita production was maintained at about 285kg between 1980 and 2006.

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FMNR has also had an indirect impact on food security through the tree products that farmers harvest and sell in local markets, particularly firewood and timber (Dramé and Berti, 2008), much of which is now exported south to Nigeria. The changed landscape has also been critical in managing food crises. Between 2004 and 2006, when much of Niger was facing a famine brought about by drought and other factors, including the export of cereals to the urban markets of northern Nigeria, villages that had protected and managed the natural regeneration of trees were much less affected by the food shortages than villages that had not (Reij et al., 2009). The farmers of Niger claim that the trees improve their crop yields. The foliage and pods also provide much-needed fodder for their cattle and goats during the long Sahelian dry season (Pye-Smith, 2013). Larwanou et al. (2006) interviewed about 400 farmers in the Zinder region, both individually and in groups, about their FMNR practices. The farmers said the trees reduced wind speed and evaporation. In the 1980s, crops had to be replanted three or four times because they were destroyed by wind-blown sand, but today farmers typically need to plant only once. They also pointed out that nitrogen-fixing species like Faidherbia albida enhanced soil fertility. The most common species regenerating naturally and protected by farmers in Niger include Faidherbia albida (known as gao in Niger), Combretum glutinosum, Guiera senegalensis, Bauhina reticulata and Bauhinia rufescens. Depending on the location of the village, other species can also be important, such as Adansonia digitata (baobab) and Prosopis africana. Sahelian women have benefited in that FMNR has greatly improved the supply of firewood, allowing them to reallocate the time once spent collecting firewood to other activities, including producing and preparing food and caring for children. Larwanou and Adam (2008) calculated that if the number of trees of all ages had increased by 40 trees per ha across 5 million ha, then FMNR had added about 200 million new trees to Niger’s tree stock (Reij et al., 2009). Larwanou and Adam (2008) assumed that every tree produced an average value of US$1.40 per year in the form of improved soil fertility, fodder, fruit, firewood and other produce. This meant an additional value of at least $56/ha/year, for a total annual production value of $280 million. Farmer-managed natural regeneration has been spreading to other countries in the Sahel. Prosopis cineraria (L.) Druce [Leguminosae] The US Geological Survey recently mapped 450,000 Use of this species by farmers in Rajasthan, India has prompted studies of a relative, Prosopis hectares of young, contiguous africana, for its increased use in Africa’s dry FMNR on the Seno Plains of Sahelian zone eastern Mali (Reij, 2011). This

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evolved following cross-border visits by farmers from that area to Niger in the late 1990s, and was bolstered by the efforts of a local NGO called Sahel ECO. FMNR is now locally prominent in northern Burkina Faso, as well. Observations there have noted that farmers may retain regenerating trees only when they are growing in approximately straight lines. They may even move self-sown seedlings so that they grow within these lines (Bunch, 2011). They do this because they do not want the trees to interfere with their ploughing operations. In Senegal, the Serere people maintained a tree cover of mature Faidherbia albida on about 150,000 hectares of farmlands (Hirai, 2005), while large areas of the country were cleared of trees in government-sponsored efforts to expand ‘modern’ agricultural practices. The farmed areas where trees were cleared are now severely degraded, and the government has decided to reverse its efforts and to promote FMNR for land regeneration. This has led to more than a dozen FMNR pilot projects that are providing the technical and institutional experience to enable a widespread ‘regreening’. Recently, there has been a resurgence of interest by Heads of State from the Sahelian countries in the creation of a ‘Great Green Wall’ across the continent. This was originally conceived as a continent-spanning strip of planted trees in the northern Sahel to stop the southward expansion of the Sahara desert. At the First African Drylands Conference (Dakar, Senegal, June 2011), scientists presented evidence underpinning the value of an alternative approach based on a grassroots, participatory engagement of local rural populations to expand farmer-to-farmer dissemination of FMNR across the region. This was supported by the World Bank and the Global Environment Facility, which are now collaborating with the Sahelian countries to invest US$1.8 billion to implement land-regeneration projects based on these community-based natural-resource management systems (see TheGEF.org). Further evidence on the widespread use of FMNR by farmers in Africa comes from Ethiopia, Malawi and parts of Tanzania and Kenya. Studies have also been undertaken to examine the natural regeneration of Prosopis cineraria by farmers in Rajasthan, India – an Asian environment analogous to the Sahel. FMNR with Prosopis has been estimated to cover an area of about 5 million hectares (Singh, 2013). There is considerable evidence that farming households in Malawi highly value trees within their farming systems. Farmers have encouraged the regeneration of trees in fields and around their households by protecting naturally regenerating indigenous seedlings, by planting trees and by leaving favoured trees in fields when woodlands are cleared prior to cultivation (Dewees, 1995). Recent surveys show that the default option for farmers is to protect a wide variety of trees regenerating on their land. Field observations in many other parts of the country indicate that FMNR is becoming widespread in Malawi. In Zimbabwe, assisted natural regeneration (ANR) of woodlands has been practised since the mid-1980s as an alternative to (or alongside) state- or NGOsponsored planting of exotic tree species in woodlots (Clarke et al., 1996). ANR initiatives are undertaken both communally and by individual farmers, with some

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farmers managing up to 2.5ha. The objective is to restore woodlands and their associated biodiversity and to improve pastures and the availability of tree products. Attention has also been directed recently to a unique form of FMNR in the Sudanian zone of Africa, which stretches across the continent Vitellaria paradoxa C. F. Gaertn. [Sapotaceae] just south of the Sahel. The Shea trees are widely intercropped with farmlands and fallow lands of sorghum and millets in Africa’s Sudanian zone. this zone, which extends from The nuts produce Shea oil and Shea butter, southern Senegal to northern a dominant source of income for millions of Uganda, are dominated by farmers. medium densities of the shea tree (Vitellaria paradoxa). The trees are interspersed with food-crop cultivation (sorghum and millets). The nuts are harvested for the production of shea oil and shea butter, products whose global demand has multiplied by an order of magnitude over the past decade. Shea is the dominant source of cash income for millions of women in the shea belt. Assisted natural regeneration of trees on community forest lands and Imperata grasslands has been widely recommended in Asia for at least two decades (Friday et al., 1999). Government forest departments have nevertheless been slow to adopt ANR. Such departments have historically been enamoured with planting fast-growing timber trees in plantations, a solution that has its roots in silvicultural engineering paradigms and fits more comfortably into forest departments’ attraction to highbudget projects. These developments have prompted the hypotheses that: •

•

FMNR on croplands may be seen as a fundamental practice for application across a vast area of drylands around the world. It is compatible with and can be promoted in combination with a range of other sustainable intensification practices, including new crop varieties, integrated soil-fertility management, rainwater harvesting and other soil- and water-conservation technologies. FMNR on croplands may best be scaled up in conjunction with communitybased assisted natural regeneration (ANR) of trees on community- and state-forest lands, and in pastoral areas.

The value of FMNR is reinforced by the fact that it requires no cash investment by farmers, and thus has enormous advantages compared to the costs and establishment risks of planting trees in semi-arid and sub-humid environments.

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The adoption of this practice for farmlands in more humid tropical agroecosystems has so far received little attention. In these climatic zones the portfolio of tree species suitable and available for transplanting is much greater. Nevertheless, the application of FMNR in these circumstances deserves much closer attention. This may be the outcome of accelerating interest in the practice and widening knowledge of its success in the drylands (ICRAF, 2012). Pilot projects in humid tropical environments (for example, in Indonesia and Timor Leste) are now being pursued by NGOs such as World Vision, and more emphasis on research in this area has been stimulated by ICRAF and organizations supporting the Global Partnership on Forest and Landscape Restoration. Planting trees to regenerate and sustain soil fertility in croplands

Another major stream of development for the integration of trees into croplands has been their deliberate planting among annual crops. Two basic approaches have been widely investigated as a means of using planted trees as a source of biofertilizers in agricultural systems: these have been designated ‘improved fallows’ and ‘simultaneous fallows’. Improved fallows

The principle of an improved fallow is the establishment in crop fields of perennials deemed to be superior in their ability to regenerate soil fertility during the period in which the fields are left fallow. One way of establishing such species is to manipulate the succession of fallow vegetation. Cairns et al. (1998) explained how Tithonia diversifolia was managed in such a way in Mindanao, Philippines, and how Austroeupatorium inulaefolium was managed similarly in Sumatra, Indonesia (Cairns, 2007a). Another alternative is to deliberately introduce soil-building tree species into the field during the cultivation cycle, before the field is fallowed, so that they will grow throughout the fallow period (Cairns and Garrity, 1999).The trees are then cut down and the leafy biomass incorporated into the soil as preparations are being made to resume cultivation. Woody material is used as firewood or construction materials. A variant of this is to maintain a dispersed population of trees in the fields during the cultivation cycle to accelerate fallow functions, as well as to provide useful products. Cairns and Garrity (1999) examined a large number of such intensification examples in the Asia-Pacific region, involving both leguminous and non-leguminous soil-improving species. These included Leucaena leucocephala, as used in a number of fallow-rotation systems in Indonesia and the Philippines, Sesbania grandiflora and other Sesbania species, and Alnus nepalensis in northeast India, southwest China and northern Myanmar. A prominent and very similar example from central America is the Quesungual farming system (Ordóñez-Barragán, 2004; Castro et al., 2009).

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BOX 11.1 LONG-TERM SOIL-FERTILITY MANAGEMENT WITH DISPERSED TREE SYSTEMS: THE NAGALAND EXPERIENCE Cairns et al. (2007) observed the long-term use of nitrogen-fixing, heavy-littering Nepalese alders (Alnus nepalensis) as a sole fallow species in the shifting-cultivation system of a village in Nagaland, India. It was the maintenance of these soil-improving trees that prompted the study of the village. A. nepalensis is a pioneer colonist of open spaces, and Khonoma farmers actively propagated it so that it became an almost pure stand in their fallows. When the land was to be cultivated, the alders were not burned or cut down, but were skilfully pollarded. Only the trash was burned. Pollarding, a woodsmanship practice encountered with several tree species in scattered localities all the way from Western Europe to China, makes use of the self-renewing power of trees. The tree is cut two metres or so above the ground, leaving a permanent trunk from which shoots grow up to become poles that are cut for firewood or other use at intervals of years. Under conditions of severe land shortage in the recent past, a fallow period under managed alder of only two years’ duration was sufficient to restore soil fertility for a further two years of cropping and to go on doing so, cycle after cycle. Khonoma and some other Nagaland villages seem to have been almost unique in this respect within India. Indeed to our knowledge, in all of South and East Asia, these pollarding methods find close observed parallels only in the treatment of Cassia siamea and Quercus for firewood production in southwestern China. The success of the alder system was seen as a model that others might copy or – using other soil improving trees – adapt in the transition from swiddening to more continuous farming.

Cairns (2007b) noted that the concepts underlying these innovations had wide applicability, and deserved not only more scientific attention, but also needed to be shared more effectively among the wider community of shifting cultivators searching for ways to cope with rising land-use pressures and market economies. In Africa, ICRAF carried out extensive research on improved-fallow systems in the 1990s (Akinnifesi et al., 2008, 2009, 2010). Sesbania sesban was a favoured species in this work because of its rapid growth and ability to produce large quantities of nitrogen-rich biomass. In many situations, these systems proved to be agronomically attractive and capable of producing major increases in crop yields compared to normal fallows. They were also shown to have favourable economic returns (Ajayi et al., 2005, 2007). Extension programmes were implemented in western Kenya and eastern Zambia, where these systems had received considerable research attention. Studies later showed that there was considerable adoption by Zambian farmers, where land availability was favourable and fallowing was practised (Ajayi et al., 2007). However, in western Kenya there was only limited adoption (Kiptot et al., 2007). This was attributed to a number of factors, prominent among which was that fallowing was rapidly disappearing in the farming systems of that area because of population pressures and decreasing farm size. Unfortunately, the breadth of evidence on improved-fallow practices suggests that there have been too few notable examples of widespread adoption or sharing among communities of knowledge about manipulating favoured species that are already

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present, or of establishing new species for fallow improvement. There may be many reasons for this. Prominent among them is the near-universal underinvestment in both support for the exchange of knowledge and experiences within and among communities and in sustained formal extension (Cairns and Garrity, 1999). We now turn to the options for sustainable land regeneration where shifting cultivation has been replaced by continuous cropping and where declining soil fertility is a serious threat to smallholder livelihoods. Simultaneous fallows Alley cropping

The development of practices to integrate soil-regenerating trees into continuously cropped land began in earnest in the 1980s, spearheaded by work done by the International Institute for Tropical Agriculture (IITA) and ICRAF. The classic model of these systems was alley cropping, which involved densely planted rows (or double rows) of nitrogen-fixing trees spaced at intervals in crop fields. Annual crops were then cultivated in the alleyways (Kang et al., 1984). The concept was inspired by the considerable use of such systems on the island of Flores in Indonesia, which continues today (van Noordwijk, 2010), and by observations of variants of the principle applied in limited areas elsewhere (e.g. in southeastern Nigeria). The trees are pruned frequently and the biomass spread in the cropped area and either incorporated into the soil during land preparation, or used as a surface mulch. These systems often succeeded in raising and sustaining crop yields, particularly on infertile or degraded soils. Early results from IITA’s experimental trials stimulated the development of a continent-wide network in Africa that tested the alley-cropping principle quite widely. This included various permutations of fast-growing nitrogenfixing trees and pruning regimes, and investigation of their effects on crop yields and systems sustainability. Considerable work was also done on alley cropping in Asia and Latin America. However, when serious extension programmes were implemented to scale up the practice it became apparent that the labour required to maintain the tree hedgerows was considered too onerous by the vast majority of smallholder farmers. To date, adoption of the practice has been limited, other than at the locations mentioned above, where it was practised traditionally. One important spinoff of the extensive work on hedgerow intercropping, however, was the development of the practice of deploying natural vegetative strips as an effective soil- and water-conservation system for sloping croplands (Garrity, 2002). This simple and effective technology was developed from observations of indigenous practices. It involves laying out contour lines and allowing natural vegetation (often native grasses) to regenerate and form a protective barrier against soil erosion. The practice has now been integrated into smallholder extension programmes in a number of Asian and African countries.

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Coppiced fallows

A second cycle of research based on the simultaneous-fallow concept was initiated in the mid-1990s by ICRAF in Malawi. The alley-cropping model was modified to reduce the labour burden while still taking advantage of the biofertilizer and soilregenerating benefits of fast-growing fertilizer trees (Akinnifesi et al., 2010). The most successful model involved planting fertilizer trees such as Gliricidia sepium at a spacing of 1m x 2m throughout maize fields and pruning the plants two or three times per year, leaving a short coppiced stump about 25 to 30cm tall. These coppiced fertilizer-tree systems demonstrated the ability to produce substantially higher maize yields (Gudeta et al., 2009). Their success led to the development of Malawi’s National Agroforestry Food Security Programme, which was launched in 2006 (see Box 11.2). That programme also promoted the practice of relay-planting fast-growing woody perennials in maize crops which would be incorporated into the soil at the end of the following dry season, having produced a store of nitrogen-rich biomass as biofertilizer. One constraint identified in such systems is that a high density of 5000 trees per hectare is recommended. Thus, the labour requirements in managing the abundant woody biomass produced during the dry season may be too high for many farmers. The Malawi experience has suggested that the practice may be best suited to small farms of less than 1 hectare that have surplus family labour during the dry season. Full-canopy trees grown in croplands

Another cycle of fertilizer-tree development was the promotion of full-canopy fertilizer trees in crop fields. In Zambia, maize production is the foundation of agriculture and the basis for the country’s food supply. However, the average maize yield is only 1.1t/ha. Since 1996, a coalition of stakeholders from the private sector, government and donor communities has promoted a package of agronomic practices based on the principles of conservation farming (Haggblade and Tembo, 2003). The effort is spearheaded by the Zambian Conservation Farming Unit (CFU), and to date, conservation agriculture has been introduced over large areas of the country. As the Zambian CFU worked to make conservation farming feasible, they encountered a problem that defied conventional solutions: nearly seven out of every 10 Zambian smallholders farmed without the use of mineral fertilizers and had little or no access to livestock manure or other nutrient sources.This fundamentally limited smallholder maize yields and further depleted soil fertility each year. To address the problem, the Zambian CFU investigated the incorporation of Faidherbia albida trees into maize-production systems (Garrity et al., 2010). Faidherbia is a genus widespread throughout Africa. What makes it unique is its growth habit, known as ‘reverse leaf phenology’ (Barnes and Fagg, 2003). Faidherbia enters a dormant phase and sheds its foliage in the early rainy season, when field crops are being established. Its leaves only regrow at the end of the wet season.This unusual

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BOX 11.2 MALAWI’S JOURNEY FROM FERTILIZER SUBSIDIES TO SUSTAINABILITY During the 2004 to 2005 maize-growing season, drought had a devastating effect on maize yields in Malawi. The national average yield dropped by 40%. By November 2005, five million Malawians, or 38% of the population, needed food aid (Famine Early Warning Systems Network, 2007). In the face of this crisis, the government launched an inputsubsidy programme that generated large surpluses and improved rural welfare. This success caused a surge of interest among African governments in fertilizer subsidies as a means of enhancing food security. However, in Malawi itself, the recurrent costs of the programme contributed to the country’s recent near-bankruptcy, which brought massive economic difficulties. The fertilizer-subsidy programme is now being gradually scaled back, while an alternative strategy for the long term is taking root. The Malawi Agroforestry Food Security Programme has been assisting farmers to deploy biofertilizer trees on about 200,000 farms across the country. These practices have doubled farm yields without inorganic-fertilizer inputs, although modest additional fertilizer applications may further increase yields. A pilot programme is currently being implemented to link the fertilizer subsidies with these ‘evergreen agriculture’ investments to provide long-term sustainability in nutrient supply and to build up soil health. This ‘subsidy to sustainability’ pathway for integrated soil-fertility management has provided a medium-term solution to the fertilizer-subsidy conundrum (Garrity et al., 2010).

phenology makes it highly compatible with food crops, since it does not compete with them significantly for light, nutrients or water during the growing season. On the contrary, annual crops in the vicinity of Faidherbia trees tend to exhibit improved performance and yield (Barnes and Fagg, 2003). Numerous published reports have recorded increases in maize yields when grown in association with Faidherbia. These reported increases range from 6% to more than 200% (Barnes and Fagg, 2003), depending on the age and density of trees, agronomic practices used and weather conditions. Faidherbia’s effects tend to be most remarkable in conditions of low soil fertility. The Zambian CFU recommends that Faidherbia seedlings be planted in a grid pattern at a density of 100 trees per ha (Figure 11.3). Fields with Faidherbia-maize systems managed with such a planting pattern (10m x 10m) can accommodate full mechanization. The result is a maize-farming system under an agroforest of Faidherbia trees. The trees may live for 70 to 100 years, providing continuous and inter-generational benefits for a farm family, with a very modest initial investment. As the trees mature and develop a spreading canopy, they are gradually thinned down to about 25 to 30 trees per hectare. There is increasing recognition of Faidherbia’s abilities, and in recent years more concerted efforts have been made in many parts of Africa to improve and enhance this indigenous agroforestry system (Garrity et al., 2010). Currently, departments of agriculture in Zambia and Malawi are encouraging farmers to establish Faidherbia trees in their maize fields. About 68,000 Zambian farmers are estimated to have Faidherbia trees on their farms (Nkatiko, 2014).

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‘Evergreen agriculture’ with Faidherbia albida in Zambia. Agricultural extension services here, and in Malawi, recommend the use of Faidherbia fertilizer trees at a density of 100 trees per ha in maize-farming systems FIGURE 11.3 

Faidherbia albida was introduced to India about 30 years ago. Multi-locational trials to assess its performance under Indian farming conditions have been highly promising. It has also been introduced into the Philippines. Variants with cash-generating trees

This chapter has focused primarily on the role of fertilizer trees in cropping systems. However, it bears mentioning that there are many other types of trees that farmers may integrate into crop fields for other objectives, including the production of fruit, fodder, fuel, fibre and other cash-generating products. The presence of such trees is common on farmlands across Africa and Asia. The ubiquitous presence of Shea trees on millions of hectares stretching across the Sahelian and Sudanian savannas of West and Central Africa is one notable example of a species that is husbanded for a valued product (shea oil or butter). There are many other such examples. Grevillea robusta is a timber species that Kenyan farmers have been planting in their maize fields on a large scale (Russell and Franzel, 2004). When intercropped with maize, the trees are generally pruned heavily to the top in order to minimize shade on the maize crop, while helping to ensure a suitable straightness of bole to improve marketability. Alnus acuminata is managed in a similar fashion by Rwandan farmers (Mukuralinda and Ndayambaje, forthcoming). Comparable examples occur in Asia, such as large-scale production of teak with annual crops in Java, Indonesia (Roshetko et al., 2013).

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Fruit-bearing trees are perhaps the most widespread type of trees grown in crop fields on both continents. Mangoes are very frequently found in crop fields in many countries, and there are many others (Garrity, 2004). It would also be useful to mention that home gardens are an agroforestry variant in which the perennial components Grevillea robusta A. Cunn. ex R. Br. often dominate the system [Proteaceae] (Kumar et al., 2004). In the case of agroforests, the tree density A timber species intercropped with maize in may exclude the possibility Kenya. The trees are heavily pruned to minimize of annual cropping entirely shading and produce straight boles. (Michon et al., 1983). These permanent systems are typically established by planting the trees among annual crops. Pollarding systems of fertilizer-fodder-firewood trees in crop fields

The constraints of the coppiced-fallows system drew more attention to other models that reduced the labour required while providing biofertiizer value and other benefits. In shifting-cultivation systems, farmers often identify and retain useful tree species when they open and clear their fallows. Such trees are often pollarded (i.e. cut back to 1.5 to 2 metres in height) and maintained in that condition to minimize competition with the food crops during the cropping phase. Products are harvested from the trees, particularly leaves for biofertilizer and fodder and branches for firewood. The trees are later able to re-grow and continue to be useful during the fallow period. When the fallow is reopened for cropping the trees are pollarded again and the cycle is repeated. This may be continued for decades, as exemplified by the Alnus system described by Cairns et al. (2007) and Cairns and Brookfield (2011). When the practice of establishing fast-growing leguminous trees in continuously cropped fields is united with the pollarding practice, we find a system that combines the best of science and indigenous practice. Such a system involves the planting of selected tree species at regular spacing throughout cropping fields (e.g. at 3m x 3m) and recurrently pollarding them to a height of 1.5 to 2m. Such a system, when designed and adapted to varying farm conditions, offers farmers the benefits of a regular pattern of working trees, planted in their fields at medium to high density. The spacing of the trees needs to be adjusted according to the availability of farm labour, but should enable sufficient density to deliver full

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multi-purpose benefits. The system would also need to accommodate the tillage system of the farm, whether hand hoe, animal power or mechanical tillage in the case of commercial farming. Farmers’ objectives, even within the same community, also vary considerably (Ordóñez-Barragán, 2004). Thus, variants would need to be developed to suit the local conditions. Pollarding systems with fast-growing nitrogen-fixing trees can also be the basis for integrated food-energy systems with rural electrical-power generation. In Sri Lanka, several power plants now use wood feedstock from Gliricidia trees, produced by smallholder farmers. This provides farmers with cash income from the wood, while the foliage is used as livestock feed and biofertilizer (Gunathilake, 2014). In Mali, a project has been launched that will to test this type of pollarding system by using Gliricidia sepium trees – an exotic species well-adapted to the area. The practice is being disseminated through women’s savings groups in 100 villages. Initial results have been encouraging (Bunch, 2011). There is increasing evidence in the context of climate change that temperatures are increasing and that droughts will become more frequent and intense. Climate modelling suggests that smallholder crop yields will be seriously affected by these trends.Thus, the dispersed shade effects of pollarded tree systems could be instrumental in modifying the microclimate of the crop canopy, in addition to enhancing soilmoisture infiltration and conservation, thus buffering the food-crop system from these stresses. The practice of farmer-managed natural regeneration (FMNR) in Niger offers evidence that it helps to sustain much better crop productivity in drought years than situations without FMNR (Reij et al., 2009). Farmers who are nurturing dispersed-tree systems in central America also commonly observe that a small amount of dispersed shade is favourable to their maize yields (Ordóñez-Barragán, 2004).Thus, the effects of climate change bring added weight to the need to develop well-designed and novel systems of crop cultivation with trees. These effects deserve much more research attention as part of global efforts to help shelter agricultural production from the effects of climate change. New hybrid models of tree technology

International interest and support has been increasing for the widespread incorporation of trees into annual cropping systems. As the search intensifies for models to suit a diverse range of farming systems, more attention should be given to the ways in which the practices reviewed above may be further adapted, scaled up and combined to create new variants that might better suit farmer objectives. There are many such possibilities, for example: •

Dispersed trees retained after fallow fields are opened may be supplemented by fertilizer trees planted at higher densities and pollarded.

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FIGURE 11.4 

An example of an ‘evergreen agriculture’ system that combines fast-growing nitrogen-fixing trees (Gliricidia) with slower-growing full-canopy fertilizer trees (Faidherbia), which are naturally defoliated in the wet season.The Gliricidia is pollarded before and during the cropping season. Such systems can provide multiple benefits of biofertilizer, fodder, firewood and timber, as well as enhance resilience to drought and higher temperatures due to climate change.

• • •

FMNR systems on continuously cultivated lands may be combined with pollarded systems of fast-growing nitrogen-fixing trees to further optimize tree densities and diversify benefits. Widely spaced cash-generating trees (e.g. timber, shea, mangoes) can be interplanted with more closely spaced, pollarded nitrogen-fixing trees in interstitial areas where crops are produced. Full-canopy fertilizer trees such as Faidherbia may be planted along with fast-growing nitrogen-fixing trees such as Gliricidia, in densities that will enhance the production of benefits more rapidly (Figure 11.4).

Thus, what emerges is a diverse range of such combinations. They could be characterized in popular advertising as ‘a suite of TreeSilient 5F Technologies’ (5F signifying the multiple benefits of fertilizer, fodder, fuel, fibre and fruit). Experience suggests that such branding, together with determined promotion as a collection of discrete solutions, could produce a breakthrough in greater recognition and policy support and open up wider possibilities for both public and private investment to assist smallholder farmers to access and adopt these systems. Conclusion: The evergreen agriculture vision

The evolution of a diverse portfolio of practices by which trees are integrated into croplands has given rise to the vision of an ‘evergreen agriculture’, in which much of the world’s annual crop production may one day be managed with trees. It is conceived as a form of more intensive crop and livestock production systems at field, farm and landscape levels, sustaining a green cover on the land throughout the year.

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Evidence reviewed in this chapter indicates that such systems are suitable (and indeed already practised) across many millions of hectares in Africa and Asia – particularly the variant of farmer-managed natural regeneration. They are seen as an emerging solution with an increasingly clear scientific base to regenerate the land on small-scale farms, increase family food production and cash income, and enhance resilience in a changing climate. They emphasize the application of sound, tree-based management practices and the knowledge to adapt these to local conditions. These farming systems feature both perennial and annual species (trees and food crops).They encompass the role of fertilizer trees and other cash-crop trees to provide essential biological and income diversity in the farming system. In this respect, the types of intercropped trees may include species whose primary purpose is to provide products or benefits other than soil-fertility replenishment alone, such as fodder, fruit, timber and firewood. In such cases, the trees may provide a value greater than that of the annual crops that would have been planted on the land, had it not been occupied by the trees. The integration of appropriate fertilizer trees into agriculture remains a highly under-appreciated practice. This is due to its novelty in the context of conventional agricultural science and extension. The world of innovation is replete with examples of compelling concepts that failed to gain acceptance because the technology that embodied them was not mature enough to attract mass attention, but they eventually resulted in overwhelming success after many cycles of failure and continued innovation. The mobile phone is one example of such a technology. When it was first developed for commercial application in the 1980s it was a very bulky unit that was extremely expensive. It was then hardly conceivable that it would become a technology purchased and used by billions of people. Just a few decades later, it has become a universal and ubiquitous technology, essential even in the daily lives of hundreds of millions of the poorest people in the world. It is hypothesized that a tipping point is now close at hand for agricultural systems supported by trees, and that they will soon be accepted and deployed on a mass scale by smallholder farming families throughout the tropics. The likelihood of such a successful deployment is supported by a steady reduction in the size of farms in Africa and Asia, the decline of fallow rotation as a land-regenerating practice, and the challenges of sustaining soil fertility under continuous cultivation when the adequate application of inorganic fertilizers is not feasible. It has also been supported by decades of innovative farmer experimentation with alternative trees and practices. Moreover, it has gained from a number of cycles of research based on a deeper understanding of farmer experience, constraints and needs. The tree technologies that can be most compatible with farmer needs have been steadily refined. A range of different forms of ‘evergreen agriculture’ have been gaining ground, particularly in Africa, where complexity is a common feature of the agricultural landscape. The experiences of Niger, Zambia, Malawi and many other countries indicate that the principles of tree-supported cropping practices are now applicable to a broad range of food-crop and livestock systems in Africa.

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Tanzania and Kenya have recently developed national strategies and work plans to support the expansion of ‘evergreen agriculture’. National scaling-up programmes are being launched in Ethiopia, Rwanda, Senegal and a number of other countries. Seventeen African countries are now either implementing or developing national scaling-up initiatives, along with India and Sri Lanka in South Asia (ICRAF, 2012). Many international and regional organizations have endorsed these efforts and are lending their support. Many NGOs are now engaged in implementing this work on the ground. Accelerating interest in tree-supported agriculture solutions has prompted the creation of a platform that seeks to bolster efforts for more intensified scaling up. The Partnership to Create an EverGreen Agriculture (evergreenagriculture.org) is supporting the information needs, capacity building and generation of knowledge (ICRAF, 2012). A broad alliance of governments, international donors, research institutions and international and local development partners is emerging to expand its deployment throughout the tropics. It seeks to bring a dynamic, innovation-systems approach to intensifying the sharing and cross-fertilization of farmer experience and research-generated knowledge to encourage the expansion of tree-supported agriculture technologies. An encouraging momentum has been generated. But further efforts are needed to accelerate the transformation of the livelihoods of tens of millions of the poorest smallscale farmers. The partnership is eager to strengthen intercontinental connections between the farmers of Africa, Asia and Latin America. In particular, it seeks to build a better link to Asian shifting-cultivation communities that are struggling with the many challenges involved in the often desperate transition to continuous cultivation. References Adam, T., Abdoulaye, T., Larwanou, M., Yamba, B., Reij, C. and Tappan, G. (2006) Plus de gens, plus

d’arbres: La transformation des systèmes de production au Niger et les impacts des investissements dans la gestion des resources naturelles (More people, More trees: The Transformation of Production

Systems in Niger and Impacts of Investments in Natural Resource Management), Rapport de Synthèse Etude Sahel Niger (Synthesis report on study of Sahel Niger), Comité Permanent InterEtats de Lutte contre la Sécheresse dans le Sahel and Université de Niamey, Niamey, Niger Ajayi, O. C., Place, F., Kwesiga, P. and Mafongoya, F. S. (2005) Impact of Fertilizer Tree Fallows in Eastern Zambia, World Agroforestry Centre, Nairobi Ajayi, O. C., Place, F., Kwesiga, F. and Mafongoya, P. (2007) ‘Impacts of improved tree fallow technology in Zambia’, in H. Waibel and D. Zilberman (eds) International Research on Natural Resource Management: Advances in Impact Assessment, CABI Wallingford, UK, and Science Council, CGIAR, Rome, pp 147–168 Akinnifesi, F. K., Chirwa, P. W., Ajayi, O. C., Sileshi, G., Matakala, P., Kwesiga, F. R., Harawa, H. and Makumba, W. (2008) ‘Contributions of agroforestry research to livelihood of smallholder farmers in Southern Africa: 1. Taking stock of the adaptation, adoption and impact of fertilizer tree options’, Agricultural Journal 3, pp58–75 Akinnifesi, F. K., Sileshi, G., Franzel, S., Ajayi, O. C., Harawa, R., Makumba, W., Chakeredza, S., Mng’omba, S. A., de Wolf, J. and Chianu, J. (2009) ‘On-farm assessment of legume fallows and other fertility management options used by smallholder farmers in southern Malawi’, Agricultural Journal 4, pp260–271

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Akinnifesi, F. K., Ajayi, O. C., Sileshi, G., Chirwa, P. W. and Chianu, J. (2010) ‘Fertilizer tree systems for sustainable food security in the maize-based production systems of East and Southern Africa Region: A review’, Journal of Sustainable Development, doi:10.1051/agron/2009058 Allen, W. (1965) The African Husbandman, Oliver and Boyd, London, reprinted by International African Institute, Munster, Germany Barnes, R. D. and Fagg, C. W. (2003) ‘Faidherbia albida: Monograph and annotated bibliography’, Tropical Forestry Papers no. 41, Oxford Forestry Institute, Oxford, UK Boffa, J. M. (1999) Agroforestry Parklands in Sub-Saharan Africa, FAO Conservation Guide 34, Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations, Rome Brady, N. C. (1996) ‘Alternatives to slash-and-burn: A global imperative’, Agricultural Ecosystems and Environment 58 Bunch, R. (2011) ‘Africa’s soil fertility crisis and coming famine, in State of the World Report’, WorldWatch, Washington, DC, USA Cairns, M. F. (2007a) ‘Management of fallows based on Austroeupatorium inulaefolium by Minangkabau farmers in Sumatra, Indonesia’, in M. F. Cairns (ed.) Voices from the Forest: Integrating Indigenous Knowledge into Sustainable Upland Farming, Resources for the Future Press,Washington, DC, USA Cairns, M. F. (2007b) ‘The Alder Managers: The cultural ecology of a village in Nagaland, N.E. India’, PhD dissertation to the Australian National University, Canberra Cairns, M. F. and Brookfield, H. (2011) ‘Composite farming systems in an era of change: Nagaland, Northeast India’, Asia Pacific Viewpoint 52, pp56–84 Cairns, M. F. and Garrity, D. P. (1999) ‘Improving shifting cultivation in Southeast Asia by building on indigenous fallow management strategies’, Agroforestry Systems 47, pp37–48 Cairns, M. F., Keitzar, S. and Yaden, A. (2007) ‘Shifting forests in Northeast India: Management of Alnus nepalensis as an improved fallow in Nagaland’, in M. F. Cairns (ed.) Voices from the Forest: Integrating Indigenous Knowledge into Sustainable Upland Farming, Resources for the Future Press, Washington, DC, USA, pp341–370 Cairns, M. F., van Noordwijk, M., Mercado, J., Parwi, Handayanto, S., Priyono, S., Hairiah, K. and Garrity, D. P. (1998) ‘Tithonia and other daisy fallow research in Southeast Asia’, paper presented at DFID-FR Tithonia Research Planning Meeting, 2-4 September, Centro Internacional de Agricultura Tropical, Cali, Colombia Castro, A., Rivera, M., Ferreira, O., Pavón, J., García, E., Amézquita, E., Ayarza, M., Barrios, E., Rondon, M., Pauli, N., Baltodano, M. E., Mendoza, B., Wélchez, L. A., Johnson, N., Rubiano, J., Cook, S. and Rao, I. M. (2009) Improving the Efficiency of Rainwater use on Hillsides in the Sub-humid Tropics: Agricultural and Environmental Benefits of the Quesungual System, poster paper presented at World Water Week, 16-22 August, Stockholm International Water Institute (SIWI). Stockholm, Sweden Clarke, J. M. (1995) Building on Indigenous Natural Resource Management: Forestry Practices in Zimbabwe’s Communal Lands, Zimbabwe Forestry Commission, Harare Clarke, J. M., Makuku, S. J., Mukwenhu, P. and Ncube, J. (1996) Supporting Local Initiatives in Woodland Regeneration: A Case Study from Ntabazinduna Communal Land, Zimbabwe, Forestry and Land Use Programme, International Institute for Environment and Development, London Dewees, P. A. (1995) ‘Trees on farms in Malawi: Private investment, public policy and farmer choice’, World Development 23 (7), pp1085–1102 Dramé,Y. A. and Berti, F. (2008) ‘Les enjeux socio-économiques autour de l’agroforesterie villageoise à Aguié (Niger) (Socio-economic issues around village agroforestry, Aguie, Niger)’, Tropicultura 26, pp141–149 Famine Early Warning Systems Network (2007) Monthly reports (2005–2007). Available at http:// www.fews.net/Pages/country, accessed 17 December 2008 Friday, K. S., Drilling, E. M. and Garrity, D. P. (1999) Imperata Grassland Rehabilitation using Agroforestry and Assisted Natural Regeneration, International Centre for Research in Agroforestry, Southeast Asia Regional Research Programme, Bogor, Indonesia Garrity, D. P. (2002) ‘Increasing the scope for food crop production on sloping lands in Asia: Contour farming with natural vegetative strips in the Philippines’, in N. Uphoff (ed.) Agroecological

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Innovations: Increasing Food Production with Participatory Development, Earthscan, London, pp221–232 Garrity, D. P. (2004) ‘Agroforestry and the achievement of the Millennium Development Goals’, Agroforestry Systems 61, pp5–17 Garrity, D. P. and Agustin, P. C. (1995) ‘Historical land use evolution in a tropical acid upland agroecosystem’, Agriculture, Ecosystems and Environment 53, pp83–95 Garrity, D. P., Dixon, J. and Boffa, J-M. (2012) Understanding African Farming Systems: Science and Policy Implications, Australian Centre for International Agricultural Research, Canberra Garrity, D. P., Akinnifesi, F. K., Ajayi, O. C., Weldesemayat, S. G., Mowo, J. G., Kalinganire, A., Larwanou, M. and Bayala, J. (2010) ‘Evergreen agriculture: A robust approach to sustainable food security in Africa’, Food Security 2, pp197–214 Gudeta, S., Akinnifesi, F., Ajayi, O. and Place, F. (2009) Evidence for Impact of Green Fertilizers on Maize Production in Sub-Saharan Africa: A Meta-analysis, ICRAF Working Paper, World Agroforestry Centre, Nairobi, Kenya Gunathilake, J. (2014) Personal communication between the author and the Director of the Coconut Research Institute, Sri Lanka Haggblade, S. and Tembo, G. (2003) Early Evidence on Conservation Farming in Zambia, EPTD Discussion Paper 108, Environment and Production Technology Division, International Food Policy Research Institute, Washington, DC, USA Hirai, M. (2005) ‘A vegetation-maintaining system as a livelihood strategy among the Sereer, westcentral Senegal’, African Study Monographs suppl. 30, pp183–193 ICRAF (2012) Creating an EverGreen Agriculture in Africa,World Agroforestry Centre, Nairobi, Kenya InterAcademy Council (2004) Realizing the Promise and Potential of African Agriculture, Interacademy Council, Amsterdam, the Netherlands Kang, B. T., Wilson, G. F. and Lawson, T. L. (1984) ‘Alley cropping: A stable alternative to shifting cultivation’, International Institute of Tropical Agriculture, Ibadan, Nigeria Kiptot, E., Hebinck, P., Franzel, S. and Richards, P. (2007) ‘Adopters, testers and pseudo-adopters? Dynamics of the use of improved tree fallows by farmers in western Kenya’, Agricultural Systems 94, pp 509–519 Kumar, B., Mohan and Nair, P. K. R. (2004) ’The enigma of tropical homegardens’, in New Vistas in Agroforestry, Springer, Netherlands, pp135–152 Larwanou, M. and Adam, T. (2008) Impacts de la regeneration naturelle assistée au Niger: Etude de quelquescasdans les Régions de Maradiet Zinder (Impacts of assisted natural regeneration in Niger: Studies in some regions of Maradi and Zinder), Synthèse de 11 mémoires d’étudiants de 3ème cycle de l’Université Abdou Moumouni de Niamey, Niger (Synthesis of 11 third-cycle student theses, Abdou Moumouni University at Niamey, Niger) (photocopy) Larwanou, M., Abdoulaye, M. and Reij, C. (2006) Etude de la regeneration naturelle assistée dans la Région de Zinder (Niger): Une première exploration d’un phenomena spectaculaire (Study of assisted natural regeneration in the Zinder region (Niger): An initial exploration of spectacular phenomena), International Resources Group for the US Agency for International Development, Washington, DC Michon, G., Bompart, J., Hecketsweiler, P. and Ducatillion, C. (1983) ‘Tropical forest architectural analysis as applied to agroforests in the humid Tropics: The example of traditional village-agroforests in West Java‘, Agroforestry Systems 1, pp117–129 Mukuralinda, A. and Ndayambaje, J. D. (forthcoming) ‘Alnus acuminata: A promising tree species introduced from Asia to agroforestry systems in East Africa’, in M. F. Cairns (ed.) Continuing to Listen to the Subaltern Voices of Shifting Cultivators, Routledge, London Nkatiko, C. (2014) Personal communication between the author and Collins Nkatiko, Director of the Conservation Farming Unit, Zambia, September 2013 Ordóñez-Barragán, J. (2004) ‘Main factors influencing maize production in the Quesungual agroforestry system in Southern Honduras: An exploratory study’, MSc Thesis, Wageningen University, Wageningen, Netherlands Pye-Smith, C. (2013) The Quiet Revolution, World Agroforestry Centre, Nairobi, Kenya

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Reij, C. (2011) African Regreening Initiatives, Update no. 4, May, available at http://africa-regreening. blogspot.com/2011_05_01_archive.html, accessed 26 January 2014 Reij, C., Tappan, G. and Smale, M. (2009) Agroenvironmental Transformation in the Sahel: Another Kind of ‘Green Revolution’, IFPRI discussion paper 00914, International Food Policy Research Institute, Washington, DC, USA Rinaudo, T. (2007) ‘The development of farmer managed natural regeneration‘, LEISA (Low External Input and Sustainable Agriculture) Magazine 23, Bangalore, India Roshetko, J. M., Rohadi, D., Perdana, A., Sabastian, G., Nuryartono, N., Pramono, A. A., Widyani, N., Manalu, P., Fauzi, M. A., Sumardamto, P. and Kusumowardhani, N. (2013) ‘Teak agroforestry systems for livelihood enhancement, industrial timber production, and environmental rehabilitation’, Forests, Trees, and Livelihoods 22 (4), available at http://www.tandfonline.com/eprint/ Gdb52RCm7ejzU7yqSxYz/full, accessed 26 January 2014 Russell, D. and Franzel, S. (2004) ‘Trees of prosperity: Agroforestry, markets and the African smallholder’, New Vistas in Agroforestry, Springer, the Netherlands, pp345–355 Singh, V. P. (2013) Personal communication Between the author and Dr Virendra Pal Singh, Regional coordinator for South Asia, World Agroforestry Centre, New Delhi, India. Tomich,T., Roemer, M. and Vincent, J. (1994) ‘Development from a primary export base’, in D. Lindauer and M. Roemer (eds) Asia and Africa: Legacies and Opportunities in Development, Institute for Contemporary Studies Press, San Francisco, pp151–190 Tougiani, A., Guero, C. and Rinaudo, T. (2009) ‘Community mobilisation for improved livelihoods through tree crop management in Niger’, GeoJournal 74, pp377–389 United Nations (2004) World Population to 2300, Population Division, Department of Economic and Social Affairs, United Nations Secretariat, New York van Noordwijk, M. (2010) Personal communication between the author and Dr Meine van Noordwijk, Chief Scientist, World Agroforestry Centre, Bogor, Indonesia WRI (2008) ‘Turning back the desert: How farmers have transformed Niger’s landscapes and livelihoods’, in World Resources Institute (ed.) Roots of Resilience: Growing the Wealth of the Poor, World Resources Institute, Washington, DC, USA Zomer, R. J., Trabucco, A., Coe, R. and Place, F. (2009) Trees on Farm: Analysis of Global Extent and Geographical Patterns of Agroforestry, ICRAF Working Paper no. 89, World Agroforestry Centre, Nairobi, Kenya

2. IS SHIFTING CULTIVATION REALLY THE ‘BOGEYMAN’ OF CLIMATE CHANGE AND BIODIVERSITY LOSS?

Treetop bamboo huts are used by Garo farmers in Northeast India to watch over their crops and guard against hungry wildlife Sketch based on a photo by  Sanat Chakraborty

A. Shifting cultivation in an era of climate change

Burning slashed undergrowth in a Tagbanua swidden in Palawan, the Philippines, after a four- to five-year fallow Sketch based on a photo by Will Smith

12 SWIDDEN TRANSITIONS In an era of climate-change debate Meine van Noordwijk, Peter A. Minang and Kurniatun Hairiah*

Introduction

Swiddens were the starting point of agriculture and are, in modified form, still an important part of the ever-changing landscape (Cramb et al., 2009). Changes in land use reflect needs (dissatisfaction with the status quo), external rules that are actually enforced, and perceived opportunities based on knowledge, experience and eagerness to try innovations (Joshi et al., 2003; van Noordwijk et al., 2012a). Landscape-level environmental issues and global climate change have added to the already complex discourse on when, where, how and why external rules and incentives can or should modify the local dynamic of swidden transitions (Mertz, 2009; van Noordwijk et al., 2012b). The rise of agriculture 10,000 years ago coincided with the remarkable climatic stability of the Holocene epoch (Constanza et al., 2005), compared to the preceding Pleistocene, with its seesaw of global temperatures in the various ice ages and interglacials, and earlier periods in the geological history of our planet. Agriculture probably started with opportunistic use of gaps in forests and areas with low tree cover, but became successful in a swidden-fallow alternation where restorative processes of natural re-growth allowed periodic use of land for short-lived food crops. As clearing of old-growth forest was a major time investment, systems of managed fallows with easier processes of clearing evolved, in a rich diversity of farming systems documented by Cairns (2007). Local forest clearing modified local microclimate, but with growth of human populations the climatic effects of land use shifted in scale.Trees and humans have co-evolved since the start of both agriculture and active human influence and

* 

Dr Meine van Noordwijk, Chief Science Advisor, World Agroforestry Centre (ICRAF), Bogor, Indonesia; Dr Peter A. Minang, Global Coordinator, Alternatives to Slash and Burn Partnership for the Tropical Forest Margins, ICRAF, Nairobi, Kenya; and Dr Kurniatun Hairiah, Professor of Soil Biology, Brawijaya University, Malang, Indonesia.

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selection of tree survival (van Noordwijk et al., 2011). The current era of global warming, which for the first time in geological history is due to a single species, has been labelled the Anthropocene (Steffen et al., 2011). It reflects the cumulative effect of global land-cover change, mostly due to conversion to intensified agriculture, and the industrial, transport and domestic dependency on fossil carbon as an energy source to allow an economic ‘out of agriculture’ transformation to urban lifestyles in a globalized world (Tomich et al., 1995; Canadell et al., 2007; Peters et al., 2011). International efforts to contain the rate of global warming are targeting both fossilfuel use and ongoing land-cover change, but neither of them in an effective way as yet; the two countries with by far the largest emissions have refused to join agreements on fossil-fuel-based emissions, and land-cover emissions have been brought to the international negotiation table in a piecemeal manner within a ‘forest’ institutional framework of Reducing Emissions from Deforestation and (forest) Degradation (REDD+). Interactions of REDD+ with the spread and intensification of agriculture as well as agrarian transformation remain poorly recognized (Minang et al., 2012). Swidden-fallow farming systems that straddle the ecological forest and agriculture concepts have a strenuous relationship with institutional perceptions of forest and supporters of these perceptions in policy debates. In all such issues there are ecological, biophysical and economic realities, open to quantification by process-based models, and a socio-political construct of paradigms and discourses that reflects the social gap between centre and periphery; between an urban-environmentalist framing and local articulation of development visions, and between centralized forest agendas and local power. In most cases, agricultural-production systems have induced a reduction of terrestrial-carbon stocks relative to natural vegetation – but there may be exceptions. There is evidence that Neolithic agriculture in northwestern Europe that involved burning of vegetation played a role in triggering the formation of blanket bogs, offsetting the loss of above-ground vegetation that it caused. Evidence from studies of pollen grains and other spores at Connemara in western Ireland suggests that soot derived from anthropogenic burning clogged soil macropores and induced peat formation (O’Connell and Molloy, 2001; Huang, 2002), but this evidence is contested by claims that climate variability played a greater role in the start of peat formation (Stolze et al., 2012). Is the current climate-change discourse helpful in supporting the emergence of more sustainable upland farming practices that integrate indigenous knowledge and the best of what quantitative science-based analysis can bring? Or are ‘standard’ external opinions about local farming practices (still) dominating and are policy frameworks for Reducing Emissions from Deforestation and (forest) Degradation (REDD+) effectively ‘reducing efforts in decentralized development’? We will seek answers to these questions in four sections:

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• • • •

Swidden transformations: spontaneous or mandated? Separation of forest from agriculture in concepts, laws and definitions. Climate-change adaptation and spontaneous swidden transformations. REDD+ incentives and policies for swidden exit strategies.

Our analysis is mainly based on the findings of the Alternatives to Slash and Burn (ASB) programme in benchmark landscapes in Indonesia,Thailand,Cameroon and Peru (van Noordwijk et al., 1995;Tomich et al., 1998, 2005a, 2005b; Suraswadi et al., 2005; Agus and van Noordwijk, 2005; Palm et al., 2005; Minang et al., 2012). Spontaneous versus mandated swidden transformations

In a review of swidden systems and their transformations in Indonesia, van Noordwijk et al. (2008a) recognized three policy domains (Figure 12.1): (1) a set of conditions where swidden systems are still appropriate and recognized as such; (2) a set of conditions where swiddening has evolved into other land-use systems under internal pressures; and (3) attempts to stop swiddening by decree or strong policy involvement. Clearly, domain 3 is the most controversial from a local-livelihoods perspective and domain 1 from an environmental-policy point of view. 1. Where swiddening is still a logical choice

Most of the agronomic research on swidden-fallow systems has focused on the annual food-crop component, with secondary attention to those systems where the fallow effectively becomes grazing land, providing manure to the restricted areas of foodcrop production. The economic opportunities arising across the humid tropics from influencing fallow and secondary forest regrowth, meanwhile, have been regarded as a form of ‘domesticating forests’ (Michon et al., 2007). Often, local forest species

FIGURE 12.1 

Three policy domains for swidden systems and their transformation in Indonesia

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FIGURE 12.2 

A swidden-rubber-rattan system in Katingan, Kalimantan: (a and b) Jungle rubber enriched with rattan provides daily income from rubber tapping – (c) using local bamboo as containers – and periodic income from rattan (d) harvests. The swiddens (e) are mostly cropped with multiple varieties of upland rice, but they also include some cocoyam (Colocasia esculenta) (f and g) and maize in patches that benefit most from decaying wood nutrient transfers. Transport from the permanent village on the main river is by small craft with outboard motors (h); temporary houses (i) are built next to the swidden.Young rattan shoots (j) are a major vegetable and side dish. Source: van Noordwijk et al. (2008a)

have become the basis of such ‘agroforest’ fallows, but invasive exotics such as ‘para rubber’ (Hevea brasiliensis) have been readily incorporated into such schemes, where they have proven to be robust growers, able to stand their ground in competition with natural forest regrowth (van Noordwijk et al., 2012a). Most of the management of these agroforests enabled a simple focus on the harvesting of products, providing competitive returns to labour even when yields per unit of land were lower than what could be achieved by intensification. Combinations of rubber and locally domesticated rattan evolved in parts of Kalimantan (Figure 12.2). The rattan is not only grown for sale to the domestic furniture industry (protected by an export ban on rattan cane as a raw material), but also because its young shoots provide a popular local vegetable dish.

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2. Where the fallow transformed into agroforest

One step beyond the rotational agroforest of jungle rubber and rattan-enriched fallows, the agroforest can be rejuvenated in ways similar to a natural forest, through a gap-level process that involves slashing the vegetation, but not burning it. Farmers say that wild pig damage is a major reason for failure of new plantations, so young rubber and crops must be constantly guarded. Planting large-sized saplings into a tangle of dead trees is also a low-labour option with reasonable chances of success (Figure 12.3). The local name for such ‘interplanting’ is sisipan, and it is perceived as different from ‘open field planting’ or tanam (Wibawa et al., 2005). Other examples of ‘permanent’ agroforests with gap-level rejuvenations are the Shorea javanica damar agroforests of Krui, West Lampung, Indonesia. However, high prices for sawn timber and low prices for the labour-intensive collection and sorting of resin appear to have prompted a shift to what are, in ecological terms, younger agroforests (Kusters et al., 2007). Further examples are discussed by Michon et al. (2007) and De Jong et al. (2001).

FIGURE 12.3 

As a next step in the evolution of rubber agroforests, gap-level internal rejuvenation emerged in Jambi (Indonesia), with large-sized saplings (d and e) as pigproof planting materials, avoiding the risks of failure in field-level swidden and rubber rejuvenation. Saplings are uprooted and maintained in flowing water until secondary roots are about to emerge. Source: van Noordwijk et al. (2008a)

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3. Where the fallow became shorter and grasses took over

Not all attempts to intensify swidden systems have been sustainable (Hairiah et al., 2005). In reducing fallow length, a critical threshold is passed when woody perennials (trees and shrubs) no longer dominate the early fallow, but are replaced by winddispersed grasses, among which the perennial and rhizomatous Imperata cylindrica is the most ecologically successful species.This type of overcropping has been common in government-sponsored transmigration landscapes across Indonesia, because it took time for the migrants to learn from local farmers that tree crops were a more profitable and easier livelihood alternative. Annual fires that spread across the landscape have reinforced Imperata grasslands and made them into an iconic flagship of unsustainability in the second half of the 20th century (Garrity et al., 1997). However, the increased availability of affordable herbicides made the return transition to tree-based land-use types feasible (Purnomosidhi et al., 2005; van Noordwijk et al., 2008a). Imperata grasslands around transmigration areas in West Kalimantan have now been effectively reconverted to rubber gardens (Budi et al., 2008). 4. Mandated swidden transitions

When the ‘soft hand’ of creating economic incentives for the transition out of swiddens to more intensive cropping systems was not sufficiently effective, governments throughout Southeast Asia attempted, at different points in time, to stop or eradicate ‘slash-and-burn’ land-use practices by introducing stronger measures. Vietnam and Laos initiated strong government policies to achieve such a transition, with mixed success. Since slashing the vegetation and burning it was – and still is – the easiest and cheapest way of clearing land for large plantation concessionaires, rules against the use of fire were not enforced, until the major fire, smoke and haze ‘disaster’ of the 1997 to 1998 El Niño episode brought international shame to Indonesia – first by complaints from neighbouring countries about the health effects of haze, and then because the calculated carbon dioxide emissions of that period skyrocketed Indonesia into third position on global carbon accounts. Denial, followed by a gradual awareness that emissions had indeed been very high, plus the need to maintain a good name in these matters to support an export-based economy, made Indonesia a global leader in NAMA (Nationally Appropriate Mitigation Actions) and REDD+ (Reducing Emissions from Deforestation and Degradation). Both policy arenas now require enforcement of regulations that ban fire-based land clearing and mandate transitions out of swiddening. The question is, how? 5. Overview

Examples of all types of swidden transitions emerged in the Alternative to Slash and Burn results from the benchmark sites in Sumatra and northern Thailand (van Noordwijk et al., 1995; Tomich et al., 1998; Suraswadi et al., 2005). Based on

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a review of local perceptions and ecological knowledge (LEK), public and policy perceptions and knowledge (PEK) and science-based analysis (MEK) of swidden transitions in Indonesia, a general scheme emerged for a transition from swiddenfallow systems in the uplands (Figure 12.4). These upland swidden transitions, however, are part of a broader landscape-level intensification in which intensified rice in the wetter positions of the landscape has been formational across Southeast Asia, with commercial logging and associated road access and demographic effects shaping forest-frontier expansion (Figure 12.5). Cross-sections of such landscapes may conform to von Thunen’s economic geography. Separation of forest from agriculture in concepts, laws and definitions

Deforestation history has been closely linked with the spread of ‘civilization’ and ‘development’ (Williams, 2006). Landscape-level intensification as portrayed in Figure 12.5 implies a shift from a very gradual forest-agriculture gradient, to an organized zonation and sharp contrast between protected areas and surrounding agricultural mosaic (Dewi et al., 2013). This shift depends on and interacts with the emergence of forest institutions and their powerful association with the state and its leadership, rather than the rural communities in the landscape.

FIGURE 12.4 

Schematic relationship between the degree of market integration and landscape-scale biodiversity of swiddens and derivative land-use systems Source: van Noordwijk et al.(2008a)

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FIGURE 12.5 

Intensification as a landscape-level process of expanding and transforming von Thunen circles, interacting with opportunities provided by the terrain and infrastructure Notes: HYV = high-yielding varieties; palawija = all non-rice food crops Source: Modified from van Noordwijk et al. (2012a)

In ecological terms, the swidden-farming rotation is a form of forest management (van Noordwijk et al., 2008b) – with the re-growth of woody vegetation ensured from roots and stumps that survive the clearing process. Forest and agriculture cannot be separated in swidden-fallow systems without serious loss of functionality for both (stage I in Figure 12.7). Socially and politically, however, swiddening came to be seen as conflicting with forest management – as there was a social divide between swidden farmers and foresters, who were employed by those in power (stage II in Figure 12.7). In other parts of the world, however, the agriculture-forestry gradient evolved through an intermediate zone of agrosocioforestry (stage III in Figure 12.7; variously called ‘agroforestry’ or ‘social forestry’, depending on the A or F perspective of the naming system). Taungya, in its various interpretations from southern China to northern Thailand and Myanmar, symbolizes this perspective and its internal contradictions (van Noordwijk et al., 2012a). Stages II and III can both merge into the ‘punctuated gradient’ perspective of stage IV, where an agriculture-agrosocioforestry gradient provides the primary provisioning services that human societies require, but benefits from a surrounding protected forest domain in ecologically vulnerable landscape positions.

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FIGURE 12.6 

Main transition points in land-use change from forest to intensive food and tree-crop systems: A1. Forest > Swidden, as pioneer and gap vegetation generates more harvestable products per unit of space and time than mature forest. A2. Fallow > Agroforest. Domestication of valuable forest species that become part of the fallow after they are threatened with over-harvesting and when demand and supply ratios induce higher prices. The ‘swidden + agroforest’ phase of landscape evolution dominated for thousands of years. Within this phase, most current food-crop and useful-plant diversity evolved. There was an active exchange within ecological zones in the Indian Ocean and Pacific; there is ongoing discussion on how and when first cross-continental exchanges occurred. B1. Agroforest > Intensive tree cops. Coffee, cacao, rubber, oil palm and quinine (Cinchona sp.) have origins outside Asia; trees native to Asia such as coconuts, sago, sugar palm, tea (and tea oil) and fruit trees such as mangoes, durian, rambutan and longan also made it to monoculture plantations, but are smaller parts of national economies. B2. Forest > Intensive tree crops as a bypass option, often following on from logging and intensive extraction of forest resources. C1. Intensification of food cropping with transformation of wetland swiddens to become (semi-) permanent wet-rice systems with selected companion crops as trailblazers and intensification of upland crops dependent on the availability of external inputs such as fertilizers, herbicides and pesticides, to replace the fallow functions of soil fertility restoration, weed and pest control. C2. Forest > Intensive food crops as a bypass option, often linked to organized resettlement programmes that try to jump-start a rural economy based on ‘modern’ farming systems.

The relationship between swiddening and state forest laws has been problematic, as the concept of ‘order’ (Scott, 1998) and associated values combine with the interests of elites and governments to claim extractable forest resources. The term ‘forests’ originated in boundaries drawn between the realm of peasantry and areas controlled

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FIGURE 12.7 

Evolving perceptions of the relationship between forest (F) and agriculture (A): I. A and F are inseparable aspects of a land-use system that provides nutritious food, health, income and environmental resilience, e.g. through swidden/fallow systems; II. A and F are segregated parts of the landscape, independently providing provisioning, regulatory and supporting functions, e.g. green-revolution agriculture plus protected areas in a landsparing perspective; III. A and F are connected through agrosocioforestry (asf) as an intermediary land use, jointly providing the ecosystem services that benefit humans; IV. F facilitates and supports intensive asf+A landscapes to provide the required functions, e.g. ecological intensification in a landscape context.

by landlords or kings. In 10th-century France (or what later became known as France) social differentiation based on power led to demarcations in the landscape. It was no coincidence, then, that those same decades which witnessed the sudden spread of castles over France should also have been distinguished by the systematic degradation of the peasantry’s right to roam. Woods and rivers, those primordial sources of sustenance, began to be ringed around with tolls, or else placed off-limits altogether. (Holland, 2009, p153) Etymologically, the word forest derived from ‘sylva forestis’, or woody vegetation ‘beyond the boundary’ (from the Latin foris, outside). As part of the Magna Carta, which is seen as a foundation for British political history in balancing power between the king, rural nobility, urban centres and rural populations, King John had to promise in 1215 to return control over lands recently acquired by the throne as hunting grounds (Magna Carta clause 47: ‘All forests which have been afforested in our life time shall be disafforested at once’). An early expression of environmental concerns about swidden farming came from Marsden (1811), who commented on the burning of a large amount of biomass for a short-term gain in ash and arable land:

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I could never behold this devastation without a strong sentiment of regret. … [I]t is not difficult to account for such feelings on the sight of a venerable wood, old, to the appearance, as the soil it stood on, and beautiful beyond what pencil can describe, annihilated for the temporary use of the space it occupied. It seemed a violation of nature, in the too arbitrary exercise of power. Marsden’s quote, reflecting the romantic tradition that emerged in Europe in the 18th century, was a precursor of an environmental debate on ‘the shifting cultivation problem’ in the 1920s and 1930s in the Dutch colonial state that was later to become Indonesia. A combination of genuine concern over landscape hydrology, emerging economic interests in logging and incomplete understanding of tree-soil-water relations led to a fierce debate (Galudra and Sirait, 2009).The discourse that reducing fallow lengths under intensification crossed a critical threshold provided a basis for tolerating shifting cultivation in low-density areas, but there were attempts to gazette permanent forest lands elsewhere that excluded these practices. A legal basis for stateforestry claims had not been agreed at the time of independence, and the Constitution of the Republic of Indonesia secured resource access to its citizens, free from colonial constraints – at least, that was the interpretation in the first, rather chaotic decades after independence. Large-scale forest exploitation not only became feasible, but also a government priority, after 1965, with the New Order and forestry laws that denied and ignored local rights, backed by military enforcement. In the meantime, a more enlightened science-based understanding of shifting cultivation emerged in the Dutch literature, from a new proponent, De Schlippe, working in the Belgian Congo. De Schlippe (1956) declared his initial confusion on observing swiddens: When one enters an Azande homestead for the first time, the impression is that of complete chaos.The courtyard is shapeless; the huts in it are scattered. Crops, food and household belongings may lie about the courtyard in what seems to be a most disorderly fashion. Worst of all, no fields can be seen. The thickets of plants surrounding the homestead seem as patchy and purposeless as any wild vegetation. It is impossible to distinguish a crop from a weed. It seems almost incredible that a human intelligence could be responsible for this tangle. De Schlippe (1955) tried to bring order to this chaos by ‘hedge strip farming’ systems that rotated fallows and crop fields along contours on slopes. However, he accepted the positive soil-fertility effects of a swidden-fallow cycle. This work and the outcome of earlier studies were made accessible by the influential review The Soil Under Shifting Cultivation (Nye and Greenland, 1960). This review of data and its conceptual understanding provided a breakthrough towards evidencebased discourse that led to appreciation of local practices and associated knowledge in its proper context.

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However, this conceptual breakthrough came too late to influence the strongly segregated pathways of forestry and agricultural institutions. The complexity of this artificial segregation was revealed by attempts to have operationally clean and clear definitions of ‘forest’ for international statistics. Clear-felling followed by replanting was a regular forest-management practice, so the continuous presence of tree cover could not be included as a distinguishing element in a forest definition, and the ‘temporary’ absence of trees was accepted – without specification of a time limit for ‘temporary’ (van Noordwijk and Minang, 2009). That this implied that shifting cultivation was a forest-management practice was probably realized, but the issue was circumvented by declaring that ‘agriculture’ (not defined as such), regardless of tree cover, disqualified any land from being considered a ‘forest’. An ‘apartheid’ system had thus been created, supported by implementation rules as ingenious and perverse as those that supported racial segregation within Homo sapiens. The guidelines of the Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations indicated that Hevea brasiliensis, if planted with the primary intention of timber harvesting, was to be included in forest statistics, but if planted with the intention of latex tapping, would be considered an agricultural tree and therefore not to be accounted for in forest data.The intention of the planter, however, may not be reflected in current management or biophysical reality. These definitional issues, of marginal interest to public discourse, became important when the global climate-change debate settled on ‘forests’ as a separate entity for regulation and incentives in its mitigation efforts. Suddenly the ‘forests de facto’ institutional regime came to be seen as an ecological reality, with distinct properties in terms of preservation and restoration of carbon stocks.This choice orphaned the ‘trees outside forest’ and allowed an artificial coalition of conservation- and production-minded foresters to get along for a while, only to be split over issues of whether plantation forestry is part of the ‘forest’ that climate-change rules want to protect, and whether Elaeis guineensis (oil palm) and other palms are genuine trees (with the implication that oil-palm plantations, like industrial-timber plantations, are ‘forest’, and conversion of natural forest to either of these two should not be regarded as ‘deforestation’). International engagement with forest issues became highly controversial even before climate change shaped the agenda (Chomitz, 2007), but attempts to include reforestation and afforestation into the Clean Development Mechanism, which have largely failed, and ongoing efforts to single out forests in C-stock preservation through REDD+, have fuelled the debate. A key issue is the contest between local governments that are keen to bring economic development to the people who elect them, and national forest authorities, who expect that REDD+ can partially replace extractive use of forests as source of national revenue that they control. In a case initiated in 2012 by local governments in Central Kalimantan province, the Indonesian Constitutional Court clarified the ambiguity created by article 1(3) of the 1999 Forestry Law (Law No. 41 of 1999), in allowing either ‘designation’ or ‘gazettement’ to be the basis for inclusion of land areas in the permanent forest estate. The court ruled that only ‘gazettement’ applied (Wells et al., 2012).To date, only 14.2 Mha (10.9%) of the total 130.7 Mha of Kawasan Hutan (forest area), representing

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68.4% of Indonesia’s landmass, has been gazetted in compliance with the law, creating a legal vacuum around all government rules and permits for the rest of the area. Regardless of the political identity of the nation state, the relationship between forest authorities and farming communities has been strained. In North Korea, however, tenure reform and increased access to forest lands for agroforestry has helped to reduce food shortages (Xu et al., 2012). Climate-change adaptation and spontaneous swidden transformation

Research into climate-change adaptation is still largely in an exploratory phase, with uncertainty about what the key issues are and how they can best be addressed. An empirical starting point has to be the way current agricultural systems respond to extremes of high and low rainfall in the current climate, as well as specific effects of high temperature episodes on specific crops (Nguyen et al., 2012). A key concept is that of ‘buffering’, a term that applies in ecological, social and economic domains (van Noordwijk et al., 2011). Buffers reduce the variability experienced internally, relative to external variability. An important aspect is the portfolio effect of reducing variance if components have a partially independent response to the external source of variation (van Noordwijk et al., 1994). Most of the agricultural alternatives to rotational swidden-fallow systems have an increased sensitivity to climate variability (Table 12.1) and swidden transitions may well become more risky under climate change. Recently opened swiddens are sensitive to soil erosion, and increases in rainfall intensity may increase the transport of fertile topsoil and ash (Joshi et al., 2004). However, as long as field edges are rough and maintain filter functions (van Noordwijk et al., 1998), the actual sediment transfer to streams and rivers may be limited (Rodenburg et al., 2003). REDD+ incentives and policies for swidden exit strategies

Early expectations that differential carbon storage in the various land-use alternatives involved in swidden transitions could be linked to a ‘carbon market’ (Tomich et al., 2002) have not materialized, largely because demand, based on commitments to make deep cuts in industry-based emissions, has not materialized. However, since then the carbon-policy landscape has seen some major changes, with a shift from the cleandevelopment mechanism to discussions about a mechanism for Reducing Emissions from Deforestation and Forest Degradation (REDD+). Current discussions on REDD+ suggest the emergence of a mechanism through which countries that elect to reduce their national level of deforestation and loss of forest carbon stocks to a level below an agreed baseline will receive post facto compensation or rewards. Such reductions may be achieved through one or more of the following courses of action: 1.‘reducing emissions from deforestation’, 2.‘reducing emissions from degradation’, 3. ‘conservation of forest carbon stocks’, 4. ‘sustainable

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Tentative characteristics of land-use systems with respect to sensitivity to climate variability and climate change

Land-use system

Sensitivity to climate Sensitivity to climate Targets for climatevariability change change adaptation

Swidden with natural Low, mixed fallow cropping implies portfolio buffering effect; fallow forests provide safety net when crops fail

More prolonged dry seasons can affect thresholds for fires escaping control and associated spread of grasslands Swidden with value- Low, mixed cropping Low added fallow (e.g. and mixed fallow resources imply rattan, rubber) portfolio buffering effect Low, mixed Low Agroforest with occasional swidden agroforest maintains regeneration phase portfolio buffering Permanent agroforest Low, mixed Low with internal agroforest maintains rejuvenation portfolio buffering Intensified food crops High, soil water Medium with managed fallow storage declines with decreasing soil organic matter content Permanent food High, as buffer High cropping with functions are external-input-based stretched to their fertility management limit and permanently protected forest Permanent food crops Medium, Low with managed tree microclimate buffer canopy effects

--

--

--

--

--

Appears to be primary focus of agricultural adaptation studies

Starting to get some attention under climatesmart agriculture programmes

management of forests’, and 5. ‘enhancement of carbon stocks’. In addition, ‘reducing emissions from land-use change’ can be a part of Nationally Appropriate Mitigation Actions (NAMA), either with or without international financial support. Although little or no mention of swiddens has been made within the documents and literature of the United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change, available references suggest that reducing emissions from degradation and

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deforestation are among the leading categories into which swiddens might fall because swiddens are seen in some cases as a cause of deforestation and in some instances as a cause of degradation (Gibbs and Herold, 2007; van Vliet et al., 2012; Mertz et al., 2012). However, this depends on the definition of forests chosen by the country within the UNFCCC, i.e. is the definition based on canopy cover, tree height or Calamus caesius Blume [Arecaceae] minimum area (van Noordwijk and Minang, 2009)? A popular rattan species in ‘agroforest fallows’, In instances where some yielding canes and edible shoots managed fallows (i.e. fallows older than 15 years) fall under ‘forests’ in the national-level definition and classification, these might qualify under the categories of ‘conservation of forest-carbon stocks’, ‘sustainable management of forests’, or ‘enhancement of carbon stocks’ in the REDD+ discussions. This could mean that REDD+ funds might be invested in enhancing and promoting fallow management, as long as those actions contribute to reduction of emissions and sustainable development as a whole. Managed fallows have been shown to be useful buffers in forest conservation and biodiversity management, so they are a potentially welcome strategy for REDD+ (de Jong, 1996; Dewi et al., 2013). In the case of reducing emissions from deforestation, REDD+ policies could help to enhance intensification and diversification pathways within swidden systems, especially in areas where forests have been converted to rice cultivation or other food crops in Asia. The performance track record and hence the basis for economic incentives requires a larger area than a plot or a farm. At community or (local) government scale, both land-sparing and land-sharing strategies for addressing drivers of deforestation have been well documented (van Noordwijk et al., 2012b; Minang and van Noordwijk, 2013). Many of the site-based REDD+ implementation efforts have been built on locations and approaches previously marketed as ‘integrated conservation and development’ (ICDP) projects (Minang and van Noordwijk, 2013). These generally include aspects of local land-use planning that try to create local economic-development attractions that draw people away from the core forest, as well as offering incentives for intensifying land use in locations without sensitive environmental services. A variety of carrots, sticks and sermons is used in achieving these goals (van Noordwijk et al., 2012b). However, restrictions without economically attractive alternatives can expect to be opposed under the free and prior informed

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consent principle that has emerged as a social safeguard in the process. While there is evidence that a ‘forest transition’ can occur at societal level without specific policies to support it (Meyfroidt and Lambin, 2009, 2011), uneven distribution of benefits and costs of land-use transformations suggest that a type of ‘boundary work’ is needed to address the objectives of multiple stakeholders, as well as their knowledge and rationales (Clark et al., 2011). Institutions and rights: key mediating factors

The extent to which emerging climate-change dynamics and policies shape swidden transformations in Asia will depend largely on the institutional and rights environments, including factors such as rights, equity in benefit sharing and participation in the selection of appropriate instruments. Free and prior informed consent has emerged as a key issue in the REDD discussions and could potentially affect access to land and tree products in swidden systems and adjacent forests, as well as poor farmers’ adaptation to climate change in these systems. Costenbader (2009) documents how provisions for participation in decision-making on the policies and instruments and carbon rights are critical for REDD+ success. Santos-Martin et al. (2011) show the importance of rights in tree and tree-product management in the context of relevance to fallow management and REDD+ in the Philippines. Functional, fair and efficient benefit-sharing mechanisms that enable swidden farmers to both participate in and benefit from climate-change adaptation and mitigation investments are extremely important (Lindhjem et al., 2011; Hoang et al., 2013). If sustainable benefits from swidden transformations in the context of climate change are to be achieved, then governance challenges, including corruption, need to be tackled – given that climate-change finance is largely done through national governments, especially in the case of REDD+. Such governance challenges have often alienated smallholder swidden farmers from such mechanisms in the past. Closing remarks

Swidden systems in Asia are already undergoing tremendous change, largely driven by population dynamics and forward-looking economic policies. Climate change may have the potential to impact upon these transformations in two ways: (1) through intrinsic processes, because increased climate variability impacts differentially on land-use options, including swiddens and their main alternatives; and (2) the translation of climate change into government policy – mostly related to REDD+ – will strengthen the government position in inducing exit strategies from swidden farming. Exactly how this will play out across Asia is difficult to predict. But we know that it will depend largely on a set of policies surrounding agriculture, forests, planning, tenure (tree, forest and carbon), incentives and investment schemes and the effectiveness and efficiency with which these incentives are managed, among other

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things. Understanding, predicting and explaining how specific countries or swidden landscape trajectories might be influenced by climate-change-related policies in the region remains an interesting and important subject for further research. Attention to climate change may shift from a dominant focus on carbon dioxide to other gases with direct negative effects on human health (Unger, 2012). Fine particulate matter (smoke) and methane produced in smouldering fires may gather additional relevance and urgency. References Agus, F. and van Noordwijk, M. (eds) (2005) Alternatives to Slash and Burn in Indonesia: Facilitating the Development of Agroforestry Systems, phase three synthesis and summary report,World Agroforestry Centre (ICRAF), SEA Regional Office, Bogor, Indonesia Budi, Wibawa, G., Ilahang, Akiefnawati, R., Joshi, L., Penot, E. and Janudianto (2008) Panduan Pembangunan Kebun Wanatani Berbasis Karet Klonal (A Manual for Rubber Agroforestry Systems RAS), World Agroforestry Centre (ICRAF), SEA Regional Office, Bogor, Indonesia Cairns, M. F. (ed.) (2007) Voices from the Forest: Integrating Indigenous Knowledge into Sustainable Upland Farming, Resources for the Future Press, Washington, DC Canadell, J. G., Le Quéré, C., Raupach, M. R., Field, C. B., Buitenhuis, E. T., Ciais, P., Conway, T. J., Gillett, N. P., Houghton, R. A. and Marland, G. (2007) ‘Contributions to accelerating atmospheric CO2 growth from economic activity, carbon intensity, and efficiency of natural sinks’, Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences (USA) 104 (47), pp18866–18870 Chomitz, K. (2007) At Loggerheads: Agricultural Expansion, Poverty Reduction and Environment in the Tropical Forests, World Bank, Washington, DC Clark, W. C., Tomich, T. P., van Noordwijk, M., Guston, D., Catacutan, D., Dickson, N. M. and McNie, E. (2011) ‘Boundary work for sustainable development: Natural resource management at the Consultative Group on International Agricultural Research (CGIAR)’, Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, doi:10.1073/pnas.0900231108 Costanza, R., Graulich, L. J. and Steffen, W. (2005) Sustainability or Collapse: An Integrated History and Future of People on Earth, Dahel Workshop Reports, the MIT Press, Cambridge, MA Costenbader, J. (ed.) (2009) Legal Frameworks for REDD. Design and Implementation at the National Level, International Union for Conservation of Nature (IUCN), Gland, Switzerland Cramb, R. A., Colfer, C. J. P., Dressler, W., Laungaramsri, P., Trung, L. Q., Mulyoutami, E., Peluso, N. L. and Wadley, R. L. (2009) ‘Swidden transformations and rural livelihoods in Southeast Asia’, Human Ecology 37, pp323–346 de Jong, W. (1996) ‘Swidden-fallow agroforestry in Amazonia: Diversity at close distance’, Agroforestry Systems 34, pp277–290 de Jong, W., van Noordwijk, M., Sirait, M., Liswanti, N. and Suyanto. (2001) ‘Farming secondary forests in Indonesia’, Journal of Tropical Forest Science 13, pp705–726 De Schlippe, P. (1955) ‘Hedge strip farming: A plan for Zandeland’, Sudan Notes and Records 36, pp6–36 De Schlippe, P. (1956) Shifting Cultivation in Africa: The Zande System of Agriculture, Routledge and Kegan, London Dewi, S., van Noordwijk, M., Ekadinata, A. and Pfund, J. L. (2013) ‘Protected areas in relation to landscape multifunctionality: Squeezing out intermediate land use intensities in the Tropics?’, Land Use Policy 30, pp38–56 Galudra, G. and Sirait, M. (2009) ‘A discourse on Dutch colonial forest policy and science in Indonesia at the beginning of the 20th century’, International Forestry Review 11 (4), pp524–533 Garrity, D. P., Soekardi, M.,Van Noordwijk, M., de la Cruz, R., Pathak, P. S., Gunasena, H. P. M., van So, N., Huijun, G. and Majid, N. M, (1997) ‘The Imperata grasslands of tropical asia: Area, distribution and typology’, Agroforestry Systems 36, pp3–29

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Gibbs, H. K. and Herold, M. (2007) ‘Tropical deforestation and greenhouse gas emissions’, Environmental Research Letters 2, 045021 Hairiah, K., van Noordwijk, M. and Weise, S. (2005) ‘Sustainability of tropical land-use systems following forest conversion’, in C. A. Palm, S. A.Vosti, P. A. Sanchez, P. J. Ericksen and A. S. R. Juo (eds) Slash and Burn: The Search for Alternatives, Columbia University Press, New York, pp143–169 Hoang, M. H., Do, T. H., Pham, M. T., van Noordwijk, M. and Minang, P. A. (2013) ‘Benefit distribution across scales to reduce emissions from deforestation and forest degradation (REDD+) in Vietnam’, Land Use Policy 31, pp48–60 Holland, T. (2009) Millenium: A Blaze of Colour Lights Up the Dark Ages, Abacus, London Huang, C. C. (2002) ‘Holocene landscape development and human impact in the Connemara Uplands, Western Ireland’, Journal of Biogeography 29, pp153–165 Joshi, L.,Wibawa, G., Beukema, H. J.,Williams, S. E. and van Noordwijk, M. (2003) ‘Technological change and biodiversity in the rubber agroecosystem’, in J. H. Vandermeer (ed.) Tropical Agroecosystems: New Directions for Research, CRC Press, Boca Raton, FL, USA, pp133–157 Joshi, L., Schalenbourg, W., Johansson, L., Khasanah, N., Stefanus, E., Fagerström, M. H. and van Noordwijk, M. (2004) ‘Soil and water movement: Combining local ecological knowledge with that of modellers when scaling up from plot to landscape level’, in M. van Noordwijk, G. Cadisch and C. K. Ong (eds) Belowground Interactions in Tropical Agroecosystems, CAB International, Wallingford, UK, pp349–364 Kusters, K., de Foresta, H., Ekadinata, A. and van Noordwijk, M. (2007) ‘Towards solutions for state vs. local community conflicts over forestland: The impact of formal recognition of user rights in Krui, Sumatra, Indonesia’, Human Ecology 35, pp427–438 Lindhjem, H., Aronsen, I., Bråten, K. G. and Gleinsvik, A. (2011) Experiences with Benefit Sharing: Issues and Options for REDD-plus, Pöyry Management Consulting, Oslo Marsden, W. H. (1811) The History of Sumatra, reprinted from 3rd edition, Oxford University Press, Oxford, UK Mertz, O. (2009) ‘Trends in shifting cultivation and the REDD mechanism’, Current Opinion in Environmental Sustainability 1, pp156–160 Mertz, O., Mueller, D., Sikor, T., Hett, C., Heinimann, A., Castella, J-C., Lestrelin, G., Ryan, C. M., Reay, D. S., Schmidt-Vogt, D., Danielsen, F., Theilade, I., van Noordwijk, M., Verchot, L. V., Burgess, N. D., Berry, N. J., Pham, T. T., Messerli, P., Xu, J., Fensholt, R., Hostert, P., Pflugmacher, D., Bruun, T. B., de Neergaard, A., Dons, K., Dewi, S., Rutishauser, E. and Sun, Z. (2012), ‘The forgotten D: Challenges of addressing forest degradation in complex mosaic landscapes under REDD’, Geografisk tidsskrift-Danish Journal of Geography, 112 (1), pp63–76 Meyfroidt, P. and Lambin, E. F. (2009) ‘Forest transition in Vietnam and displacement of deforestation abroad’, Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences 106, pp16139–16144 Meyfroidt, P. and Lambin, E. F. (2011) ‘Global forest transition: Prospects for an end to deforestation’, Annual Review of Environment and Resources 36, pp343–371 Michon, G., De Foresta, H., Levang, P. and Verdeaux, F. (2007) ‘Domestic forests: A new paradigm for integrating local communities’ forestry into tropical forest science’, Ecology and Society 12 (2), www.ecologyandsociety.org/vol12/iss2/art1/, accessed 31 March 2013 Minang, P. A. and van Noordwijk, M. (2013) ‘Design challenges for achieving reduced emissions from deforestation and forest degradation through conservation: Leveraging multiple paradigms at the tropical forest margins’, Land Use Policy 31, pp61–70 Minang, P. A., van Noordwijk, M. and Swallow, B. (2012) ‘High-carbon-stock rural development pathways in Asia and Africa: How improved land management can contribute to economic development and climate change mitigation’, in P. K. R. Nair and D. P. Garrity (eds) Agroforestry: The Future of Global Landuse, Springer, the Netherlands Nguyen, Q., Hoang, M. H., Öborn, I. and van Noordwijk, M. (2012) ‘Multipurpose agroforestry as a climate change adaptation option for farmers: An example of local adaptation in Vietnam’, Climatic Change, doi: 10.1007/s10584-012-0550-1 Nye, P. and Greenland, D. (1960) The Soil Under Shifting Cultivation,Technical Communication no. 51, Commonwealth Agricultural Bureau, Harpenden, UK

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O’Connell, M. and Molloy, K. (2001) ‘Farming and woodland dynamics in Ireland during the Neolithic’, Proceedings of the Royal Irish Academy 101B, pp99–128 Palm, C. A., van Noordwijk, M., Woomer, P. L., Alegre, J., Arevalo, L., Castilla, C., Cordeiro, D. G., Hairiah, K., Kotto-Same, J., Moukam, A., Parton, W. J., Ricse, A., Rodrigues, V. and Sitompul, S. M. (2005) ‘Carbon losses and sequestration following land use change in the humid tropics’, in C. A. Palm, S. A. Vosti, P. A. Sanchez, P. J. Ericksen and A. S. R. Juo (eds) Slash and Burn: The Search for Alternatives, Columbia University Press, New York, pp41–63 Peters, G. P., Marland, G., Le Quéré, C., Boden, T., Canadell, J. G. and Raupach, M. R. (2011) ‘Rapid growth in CO2 emissions after the 2008-2009 global financial crisis’, Nature Climate Change, doi: 10.1038/nclimate1332 Purnomosidhi, P., Hairiah, K., Rahayu, S. and van Noordwijk, M. (2005) ‘Smallholder options for reclaiming and using Imperata cylindrica L. (alang-alang) grasslands in Indonesia’, in C. A. Palm, S. A. Vosti, P. A. Sanchez, P. J. Ericksen and A. S. R. Juo (eds) Slash and Burn:: The Search for Alternatives, Columbia University Press, New York, pp248–262 Rodenburg, J., Stein, A., van Noordwijk, M. and Ketterings, Q. M. (2003) ‘Spatial variability of soil pH and phosphorus in relation to soil run-off following slash and-burn land clearing in Sumatra, Indonesia’, Soil Tillage and Research 71, pp1–14 Santos-Martın, F., Bertomeu, M., van Noordwijk, M. and Navarro, R. (2011) ‘Understanding forest transition in the Philippines: Main farm-level factors influencing smallholder’s capacity and intention to plant native timber trees’, Small-Scale Forestry, doi: 10.1007/s11842-011-9166-y Scott, J-C. (1998) Seeing Like a State: How Certain Schemes to Improve the Human Condition have Failed, Yale University Press, New Haven and London Steffen, W., Persson, A., Deutsch, L., Zalasiewicz, J., Williams, M., Richardson, K., Crumley, C., Crutzen, P., Folke, C., Gordon, L., Molina, M., Ramanathan,V., Rockström, J., Scheffer, M., Schellnhuber, H. J. and Svedin, U. (2011) ‘The Anthropocene: From global change to planetary stewardship’, AMBIO 40, pp739–761 Stolze, S., Dörfler, W., Monecke, T. and Nelle, O. (2012) ‘Evidence for climatic variability and its impact on human development during the Neolithic from Loughmeenaghan, County Sligo, Ireland’, Journal of Quaternary Science 27, pp393–403 Suraswadi, P., Thomas, D. E., Pragtong, K., Preechapanya, P. and Weyerhaeuser, H. (2005) ‘Northern Thailand: Changing smallholder land-use patterns’, in C. A. Palm, S. A. Vosti, P. A. Sanchez, P. J. Ericksen and A. S. R. Juo (eds) Slash and Burn:The Search for Alternatives, Columbia University Press, New York, pp355–384 Tomich, T. P., Kilby, P. and Johnston, B. F. (1995) Transforming Agrarian Economies: Opportunities Seized, Opportunities Missed, Cornell University Press, Ithaca, New York Tomich,T. P., van Noordwijk, M., Budidarseno, S., Gillison, A., Kusumanto,T., Murdiyarso, D. M., Stolle, F. and Fagi, A. M. (1998) Alternatives to Slash-and-Burn in Indonesia, Summary report and synthesis of Phase II, ICRAF Southeast Asia, Bogor, Indonesia Tomich, T. P., de Foresta, H., Dennis, R., Ketterings, Q. M., Murdiyarso, D. M., Palm, C. A., Stolle, F., Suyanto, S. and van Noordwijk, M. (2002) ‘Carbon offsets for conservation and development in Indonesia?’, American Journal of Alternative Agriculture 17, pp125–137 Tomich, T. P., Palm, C. A., Velarde, S. J., Geist, H., Gillison, A. N., Lebel, L., Locatelli, N., Mala, W., van Noordwijk, M., Sebastian, K., Timmer, D. and White, D. (2005a) Forest and Agroecosystem Tradeoffs

in the Humid Tropics: An Assessment of Ecosystem Health and Human Well-being in Tropical Forest Margins, A cross-cutting assessment by the Alternatives to Slash and Burn consortium conducted as

a sub-global component of the Millennium Ecosystem Assessment, Alternatives-to-Slash-and-Burn Programme, Nairobi Tomich, T. P., Cattaneo, A., Chater, S., Geist, H. J., Gockowski, J., Kaimowitz, D., Lambin, E. F., Lewis, J., Ndoye, O., Palm, C. A., Stolle, F., Sunderlin, W. D., Valentim, J. F., van Noordwijk, M. and Vosti, S. A. (2005b) ‘Balancing agricultural development and environmental objectives: Assessing tradeoffs in the humid tropics’, in C. A. Palm, S. A. Vosti, P. A. Sanchez, P. J. Ericksen and A. S. R. Juo (eds) Slash and Burn: The Search for Alternatives, Columbia University Press, New York, pp415–440

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Unger, N. (2012) ‘Global climate forcing by criteria air pollutants’, Annual Review of Environment and Resources 37, pp1–24 van Noordwijk, M. and Minang, P. A. (2009) ‘If we cannot define it, we cannot save it’, ETFRN News 50, European Tropical Forest Research Network, pp5–10 van Noordwijk, M., Dijksterhuis, G. and van Keulen, H. (1994) ‘Risk management in crop production and fertilizer use with uncertain rainfall: How many eggs in which baskets?’ Netherlands Journal of Agricultural Science 42, pp249–269 van Noordwijk, M., Tomich, T. P., Winahyu, R., Murdiyarso, D., Partoharjono, S. and Fagi, A. M. (eds) (1995) Alternatives to Slash-and-Burn in Indonesia, Summary Report of Phase 1, ASB-Indonesia Report no. 4, ICRAF Southeast Asia, Bogor, Indonesia van Noordwijk, M., van Roode, M., McCallie, E. L. and Lusiana, B. (1998) ‘Erosion and sedimentation as multiscale, fractal processes: Implications for models, experiments and the real world’, in F. Penning de Vries, F. Agus and J. Kerr (eds) Soil Erosion at Multiple Scales: Principles and Methods for Assessing Causes and Impacts, CAB International, Wallingford, UK, pp223–253 van Noordwijk, M., Mulyoutami, E., Sakuntaladewi, N. and Agus, F. (2008a) Swiddens in Transition: Shifted Perceptions on Shifting Cultivators in Indonesia, World Agroforestry Centre (ICRAF) Southeast Asia Regional Office, Bogor, Indonesia van Noordwijk, M., Roshetko, J. M., Murniati, Angeles, M. D., Suyanto, Fay, C. and Tomich,T. P. (2008b) ‘Farmer tree planting barriers to sustainable forest management’, in D. J. Snelder and R. D. Lasco (eds) Smallholder Tree Growing for Rural Development and Environmental Services: Lessons from Asia, Advances in Agroforestry Vol. 5, Springer, Berlin, pp427–449 van Noordwijk, M., Hoang, M. H., Neufeldt, H., Öborn, I. and Yatich, T. (eds) (2011) How Trees

and People can Co-adapt to Climate Change: Reducing Vulnerability through Multifunctional Agroforestry Landscapes, World Agroforestry Centre (ICRAF), Nairobi

van Noordwijk, M., Tata, H. L., Xu, J., Dewi, S. and Minang, P. (2012a) ‘Segregate or integrate for multifunctionality and sustained change through landscape agroforestry involving rubber in Indonesia and China’, in P. K. R. Nair and D. P. Garrity (eds) Agroforestry: The Future of Global Landuse, Springer, the Netherlands, pp69–104 van Noordwijk, M., Leimona, B., Jindal, R., Villamor, G., Vardhan, M., Namirembe, S., Catacutan, D., Kerr, J. and Tomich, T. P. (2012b) ‘Payments for environmental services: Evolution towards efficient and fair incentives for multifunctional landscapes’, Annual Review of Environment and Resources 37, pp389–420 van Vliet, N., Mertz, O., Heinimann, A., Langanke,T., Pascual, U., Schmook, B., Adams, C., Schmidt-Vogt, D., Messerli, P., Leisz, S., Castella, J-C., Jørgensen, Lars, Birch-Thomsen, T., Hett, C., Bech-Bruun, T., Ickowitz, A.,Vu, K. C.,Yasuyuki, K., Fox, J., Padoch, C., Dressler, W. and Ziegler, A. D. (2012) ‘Trends, drivers and impacts of changes in swidden cultivation in tropical forest-agriculture frontiers: A global assessment’, Global Environmental Change, doi: 10.1016/j.gloenvcha.2011.10.009 Wells, P., Franklin, N., Gunarso, P., Paoli, G., Mafira,T., Kusumo, D. R. and Clanchy, B. (2012) Indonesian

Constitutional Court Ruling number 45/PUU-­IX/2011 in Relation to Forest Lands: Implications for Forests, Development and REDD+, Daemeter consulting and Tropenbos International,

Indonesia, http://www.daemeter.org/wp-content/files/Policy_Brief_Constitutional_Court_ Decision_No_45_PUUIX_2011.pdf, accessed 31 March 2013 Wibawa, G., Hendratno, S. and van Noordwijk, M. (2005) ‘Permanent smallholder rubber agroforestry systems in Sumatra, Indonesia’, in C. A. Palm, S. A. Vosti, P. A. Sanchez, P. J. Ericksen and A. S. R. Juo (eds) Slash and Burn:The Search for Alternatives, Columbia University Press, New York, pp222–232 Williams, M. (2006) Deforesting the Earth, from Prehistory to Global Crisis:An Abridgement, University of Chicago Press, Chicago, IL Xu, J., van Noordwijk, M., He, J., Kim, K. J., Jo, R. S., Pak, K. G., Kye, U. H., Kim, J. S., Kim, K. M., Sim, Y. S., Pak, J. U., Song, K. I., Jong, Y. S., Kim, K. C., Pang, C. J. and Ho, M. H. (2012) ‘Participatory agroforestry development for restoring degraded sloping land in DPR Korea’, Agroforestry Systems, doi: 10.1007/s10457-012-9501-0

13 CLIMATE CHANGE: ADAPTATION, MITIGATION AND TRANSFORMATION OF SWIDDEN LANDSCAPES Are we throwing the baby out with the bathwater? Kamal Aryal and Dhrupad Choudhury* Introduction

Shifting-cultivation landscapes are rapidly transforming, and are being replaced by plantations and other permanent land-use practices around the world. These transformations are driven mainly by policy and market forces – often in conjunction – and policy is shaped largely by adverse perceptions of the economics of shifting cultivation, its claimed impacts on forest depletion and erosion of ecosystem services and its contribution to climate change (Padoch et al., 2007; Fox et al., 2009). As these swidden landscapes undergo change, the resulting effects on the livelihoods of the cultivators and on biodiversity, as well as on the ecosystem services and climatic balance they are accused of desecrating, remain poorly documented. Little evidence is thus provided upon which to judge the veracity of the assumptions on which policies for ‘managing’ shifting cultivation are based. Literature that does exist, at least in the context of Southeast Asia, seems to support a contrary view to that driving policy actions, and raises serious questions about the outcomes that replacing shifting cultivation are expected to achieve: forest conservation, restoration of ecosystem services and reduced impacts on climate change as a result of regenerating forests and a consequent increase in carbon sequestration (Bruun et al., 2009; Cramb et al., 2009; Mertz et al., 2009; Rerkasem et al., 2009). This chapter does not intend to provide empirical data to either contradict or support policy actions that prevail across different shifting-cultivation landscapes; instead, the authors would like to highlight some of the management principles

* 

Kamal Aryal, Natural Resources Management Analyst, International Centre for Integrated Mountain Development (ICIMOD), Kathmandu; Dr Dhrupad Choudhury, Regional Programme Manager for Adaptation to Change and Senior Adaptation and Livelihood Specialist, International Centre for Integrated Mountain Development (ICIMOD), Kathmandu. (Correspondence: dhrupad. [email protected]).

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inherent in shifting cultivation that have important lessons for enhancing adaptation to, and mitigation of, climate change.We hope at least to stimulate a serious reappraisal and rethinking of these issues. Hopefully, this will lead to research that will provide empirical evidence that can then contribute to the formulation of adaptation and mitigation approaches to climate change, arising from the principles of resource management inherent in shifting cultivation. Maintaining crop diversity: a local risk-aversion strategy

A fundamental attribute of shifting cultivation is the diversity of the agro-resources it nurtures at both farm and landscape levels. The pioneering work of Conklin (1957) on the Hanunó’o of the Philippines revealed the richness of the crop diversity nurtured by that particular system: more than 250 types of food crops and 92 varieties of rice. Spencer (1966) provided similar evidence in his classic treatise on shifting cultivation, listing more than 250 species of crop plants grown in shifting-cultivation fields across South and Southeast Asia. Recent studies in Southeast Asia and parts of northeast India suggest that this trend has been maintained, although the number of crops in swidden landscapes seems to have diminished. Nevertheless, crop diversity remains high, with researchers commonly reporting that farmers plant between 30 and 60 crop species (Rerkasem et al., 2009). Studies in northeast India have reported a diversity of more than 50 different crops in swidden systems (Ramakrishnan, 1992). Singh (2009), in a study of Tangkhul swidden systems in Manipur state, northeast India, reported a diversity of up to 45 different crops. In the context of adaptation to climate change, what lessons can be learned from the maintenance of such intra- and inter-specific crop diversity? Despite the subsistence character of their farming systems, the maintenance of a wide diversity of crops allows shifting cultivators to harvest a multitude of crops throughout the year, giving them the confidence that comes from averting risks to their families’ food security (Choudhury, 2012) (Figure 13.1).Thus, the diversity of crops within shifting cultivation is a strategy evolved over many generations, to spread risks and serve as a risk-insurance mechanism. The variety of crops (and the various landraces within each crop) ensure that even if adverse weather occurs, such as unusually heavy rainfall, hailstorms or drought, or there are outbreaks of pests or plant diseases (which are extremely rare in swidden systems) some of the landraces of each crop type (cereals, legumes, tubers, spices) will have the resilience to survive and perform and the farmer will not be faced with total crop failure. In recent years, the crop-diversity strategy has also helped by providing a buffer against market fluctuations. This is in stark contrast to modern agricultural-production systems, where adverse weather or pest outbreaks can wipe out standing crops and leave farmers highly vulnerable and often deeply in debt, leading in extreme cases to the farmer suicides seen recently in many parts of India. Ensuring crop diversity, therefore, allows shifting cultivators to avoid the risk of complete crop losses (or income losses due to market vagaries). In addition,

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FIGURE 13.1 

An example of seasonal crop diversity and resource availability from the shifting-cultivation fields of the Tangkhuls of Manipur, India Note: The Y-axis represents the number of crops; note the diversity of crops within each crop type. Source: Choudhury (2012)

regenerating fallows – swiddens previously used for cropping, where secondary forest is recovering and rejuvenating – provide diverse edibles, meat and medicines as well as a variety of utility products, the most important of which is firewood, as well as products that generate cash income. Overall, the system gives shifting cultivators a significant amount of endogenous control over their livelihoods and a high degree of self-reliance. Maintaining high diversity also allows sequential harvesting of crops, thus ensuring the availability of a wide variety of food crops throughout the year (Figure 13.1). Indeed, sequential harvesting is a management practice that allows shifting cultivators to harness the growth characteristics of different crop types and use them to their benefit. It underlies their ability to manage a combination of early- and latematuring crops. Harvesting early-maturing crops within two months of sowing provides farmers with much-needed food. It is followed by sequential harvesting as crops mature over the season, reducing competition between crops as harvesting progresses and allowing remaining crops to grow optimally (Ramakrishnan, 1992). Such management practices ensure not only a steady harvest of different crops, but the regular availability of food that contributes to a farming family’s nutritional security through different seasons – an attribute that is paradoxically lacking in

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modern agricultural production. Importantly, these are vital lessons for adaptation to climate change. Climate variability, particularly extreme events and prolonged dry periods, increases the risk of crop damage, poor crop performance and food insecurity, and such events increase the vulnerability of agrarian communities, particularly the poorer ones. Maintaining high crop diversity, as practised by shifting cultivators, can help to avert these risks, as some crops (or varieties within crops) will invariably have the ability to withstand weather stresses (or weather-induced stress like outbreaks of pests and diseases) and hence, reduce the risks of crop failure. Strategies for adaptation to climate change should take note of the risk-aversion and food-availability attributes inherent in shifting cultivation practices. These are intrinsically dependent on the sequential harvesting opportunities that arise out of the maintenance of a resource base with a high level of agro-biodiversity. Implications of crop diversity for adaptation at global levels

Although numerous accounts have attested to the rich crop diversity found in shifting-cultivation systems in many parts of the world, a dimension that often fails to attract sufficient attention is the fact that shifting cultivators consciously nurture both intra- and inter-specific diversity. They have been known to raise different landraces of various crops for their ability to adapt to a range of microclimatic conditions and micro-habitats (Choudhury, 1998; Rerkasem et al., 2009). These arise as an attribute of aspect in mountain environments – northern aspects are in rain shadow, while south-facing slopes get more rain, so they have more soil moisture; eastern-facing aspects get the morning sun and hence are subjected to ‘softer’ sunlight that causes less desiccation; western-facing slopes get the strong, hot afternoon sun, with attendant loss of moisture. It follows, perhaps, that varieties suited to northern or western aspects are potential candidates for development of drought-tolerant crops. These levels of intra-specific diversity may vary considerably, but shifting cultivators are known to maintain a wide variety of landraces within their fields (Brookfield et al., 2003; Rerkasem et al., 2009). For instance, the Aos of Nagaland in northeast India are known to maintain different landraces of rice for their nutritional value; for their suitability to nutrient-rich soils or conversely to poor, pebbly soils; and for their suitability to different micro-climatic conditions of sunlight, humidity and soil moisture in mountain ecosystems, or for their effective defensive mechanisms against seed predation by birds (Choudhury, 1998). Similarly, Jinuo communities in Yunnan, China are reported to cultivate 71 varieties of rice in their swiddens (Yin, 2001, quoted in Rerkasem et al., 2009), while farmers in a Kantu’ Dayak village in West Kalimantan are reported to have planted 44 distinct rice varieties in a single season (Dove, 1985). As Rerkasem et al. observed, ‘high levels of intra-varietal diversity are typical of rice landraces as well as other swidden crops; this level of diversity often goes unrecognized and unappreciated when comparisons are

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made of crop diversity in “traditional” (including swidden) systems and in modern cropping’ (Rerkasem et al., 2009). With transformations rapidly overtaking shifting-cultivation landscapes across South and Southeast Asia, Rerkesam et al. reviewed what is known about plant biodiversity in Southeast Asian shifting-cultivation landscapes and explored how recent shifts in land use away from shifting cultivation have affected plant diversity ‘on several levels’ (Rerkasem et al., 2009). The authors observed: ‘we cannot offer an assessment of how many crop species, if any, are being lost as the current swidden transition continues, but change – and loss – at the varietal level is apparently occurring much more rapidly than before’ (Rerkasem et al., 2009). This apparent loss of crop species should raise widespread concern, and should be accorded special significance in the context of adaptation to climate change. Climate change is expected to result in an increased frequency of extreme weather events and, at a less spectacular level, sheer uncertainty of what the weather will bring. These conditions are expected to have an adverse effect on crop performance and, consequently, on food security. What has become increasingly clear is the growing vulnerability of modern high-yielding crop varieties to these risks, and the urgency with which stress-tolerant varieties of important crops must be developed; varieties that are sufficiently resilient to the risks arising out of an uncertain climate. In this context, the continued maintenance and conservation of intra-specific diversity of crops assumes critical importance, and the rapid loss of agro-biodiversity raises serious concerns. In order to develop new crop varieties, especially those that are stress-tolerant, there is a fundamental need for a gene pool of the widest possible diversity. Plant breeders need to draw the desired traits for new varieties from a fairly wide pool of landraces of a particular crop. It is well acknowledged that modern agriculture, with its strong dependence on high-yielding varieties and promotion of large-scale monocultures, has resulted in drastic depletion of agro-biodiversity and, more importantly, of varietal diversity (Rerkasem et al., 2009). This alarming depletion of the gene pool may severely constrain the ability of plant breeders to develop the stress-tolerant crop varieties needed to adapt to climate change. Ironically, the only repositories of the germplasm that are essential to this search for new varieties – in particular the intra-specific diversity that is critical in the context of climate-change adaptation – are to be found in subsistence agricultural systems such as shifting cultivation. Varietal diversity, conserved and managed by shifting cultivators, can provide the ‘building blocks’ of crop germplasm that we need, provided that intra- and inter-specific agro-biodiversity has not dwindled to unhelpful levels in the transformation of swidden landscapes. Detractors may argue that the germplasm we need has been, or can be, conserved through cryo-preservation techniques – deep-frozen in seed banks. Such arguments overlook the fact that cryo-preserved germplasm is frozen in time, and hence is not subjected to the natural-selection pressures of a rapidly changing environment. Thus, when cryo-preserved germplasm is awakened and planted in changed conditions, its ability to resist newly evolved selection pressures may already have been compromised,

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or may prove to be inadequate or ineffective in the new situation. In contrast, the agro-biodiversity maintained in swidden fields is constantly subjected to evolving selection pressures and hence is much better equipped to provide the desired traits required for a new generation of stress-tolerant crops. Therefore, before they relentlessly pursue policies of replacing shifting cultivation with settled agriculture, driven by conventional approaches to agricultural development, there is an urgent need for policy-makers to review and take stock of what stands to be lost if they continue on the current path. Mitigating climate change: lessons from fallow management

Fallow regeneration is a critical aspect of shifting cultivation that is often overlooked. Without regeneration of fallow vegetation, the soil will not recuperate from the nutrient demands of cropping, and without this, the entire production system will collapse. Shifting cultivators are well aware of these facts; they are strict in their allowance of sufficient time for soil recovery before returning to a plot for cultivation and acknowledge their dependence on the health of their fallow forests. Fundamental ecological principles tell us that during the early successional stages of forest regeneration, the gains of photosynthesis in the fallow vegetation far outweigh losses due to respiration for maintenance, resulting in biomass accumulation and, therefore, an increase in carbon stocks. The process is reversed during senescence, when vegetation deteriorates with age and respiration losses far outstrip accumulation (Figure 13.2). This suggests that during the early successional stages, regenerating

FIGURE 13.2 

Ecological principles underlying the dynamics of carbon sinks and sources

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fallows could effectively be acting as carbon sinks, whereas during senescence, forests could become potential sources of carbon, thus contributing to global warming. Shifting cultivators clear forests for new swiddens as the early-growth phase reaches its peak, or the forest has just entered a maturation stage. Swidden landscapes are therefore a mosaic of patches of forest that are predominantly young, regenerating fallows (Fox, 2000). Such landscapes, thus, could be effective carbon-sequestrating systems, acting as carbon sinks in a much more effective manner than mature and senescent pioneer forests. Contrary to common perceptions, shifting cultivators, through their practice of fallow management at the landscape level, may thus be unwittingly contributing to carbon sequestration and hence, to mitigation of climate change. Although estimates of carbon sequestration in fallows of different ages are hard to find, Bruun et al. (2009) provide estimates of the losses in carbon stocks and soil organic carbon as a result of transformations of shifting-cultivation landscapes.The authors estimated that about 90% of above-ground carbon stocks were lost when shifting cultivation with long fallows was transformed into short-fallow swiddening, and this figure jumped to 95 to 99% on transformation to annual cropping. Although these estimates did not provide any indication of the annual rate of carbon accumulation during the process of fallow regeneration, the study suggested the potential for carbon sequestration during the regeneration process, and by extension, mitigation of climate change.Thus, contrary to commonly held perceptions, management practices inherent in shifting cultivation could provide important insights to help our need to adapt to, and to mitigate, the effects of climate change. History suggests that detractors will be quick to ridicule these propositions, but we suggest they are worth some retrospection and some much-needed research, particularly on aspects of carbon sequestration during the early years of fallow regeneration. As policy-driven transformations of shifting-cultivation landscapes sweep across South and Southeast Asia, abetted by market forces, the aspirations of shifting cultivators themselves are changing, especially among the younger generation, and the gradual demise of the traditional agricultural practice seems inevitable. The disappearance of shifting cultivation will mean the simultaneous loss of the management approaches inherent in the practice. In our determination to replace shifting cultivation, we are inadvertently ‘throwing the baby out with the bath water’.We need to ensure that the strengths of shifting cultivation – maintaining inter- and intra-specific crop diversity and the principles of fallow management – are incorporated and assimilated into ‘modern’ agricultural development and into forestry- and landscape-management policies and practices. Ignoring lessons from the management practices of shifting cultivation – practices that evolved across the entire time in which humans have cultivated the Earth – could prove to be too high a cost in the context of our future, and the threats of climate change. The world, and especially its many marginalized communities, can ill afford such a cost.

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Acknowledgements

The authors are grateful to the upland communities of shifting cultivators who provided insights and knowledge about the value of shifting-cultivation practices to their livelihoods, and to various partners for logistics during field visits.We would also like to acknowledge the support provided by the International Centre for Integrated Mountain Development (ICIMOD). References Brookfield, H., Padoch, C., Parson, H. and Stocking, M. (2003) Cultivating Biodiversity: Understanding, Analysing and Using Agricultural Diversity, Intermediate Technology Development Group, London Bruun, T. B., Neergaard, A., Lawrence, D. and Ziegler, A. D. (2009) ‘Environmental consequences of the demise of shifting cultivation in Southeast Asia: Carbon storage and soil quality’, Human Ecology 37, pp375–388 Choudhury, D. (1998) ‘Conserving genetic heterogeneity in northeast India: Indigenous knowledge systems and opportunities for sustainable development’, in M. K. Raha and A. K. Ghosh (eds) Northeast India: Human Dimensions, Gyan Publishers, New Delhi, pp147–161 Choudhury, D. (2012) ‘Why do jhumiyas jhum? Managing change in shifting cultivation areas in the uplands of northeastern India’, in Sumi Krishnan (ed.) Agriculture in a Changing Environment: Perspectives on Northeastern India, Routledge, New Delhi, pp78–100 Conklin, H. C. (1957) Hanunó’o Agriculture: A Report on an Integral System of Shifting Cultivation in the Phillipines, Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations, Rome Cramb, R. A., Pierce Colfer, C. J., Dressler, W., Laungaramsri, P., Trang, Q., Muloutami, E., Peluso, N. L. and Wadley, R. L. (2009) ‘Swidden transformations and rural livelihoods in Southeast Asia’, Human Ecology 37, pp323–346 Dove, M. C. (1985) Swidden Agriculture in Indonesia, Mouton, Berlin Fox, J. (2000) How Blaming ‘Slash and Burn’ Farmers is Deforesting Mainland Southeast Asia, AsiaPacific Issues Paper no. 47, East-West Centre, Honolulu Fox, J., Fujita,Y., Ngidang, D., Peluso, N., Potter, L., Sakuntaladevi, N., Sturgeon, J. and Thomas, D. (2009) ‘Policies, political-economy and swidden in Southeast Asia’, Human Ecology 37, pp305–322 Mertz, O., Padoch, C., Fox, J., Cramb, R. A., Leisz, S. J.,Thanh, N. and Tran, D.V. (2009) ‘Swidden change in Southeast Asia: Understanding causes and consequences’, Human Ecology 37, pp259–264 Padoch, C., Coffey, K., Mertz, O., Leisz, S., Fox, J. and Wadley, R. L. (2007) ‘The demise of swidden in Southeast Asia? Local realities and regional ambiguities’, Geografisk Tidsskrift, the Danish Journal of Geography 107, pp29–41 Ramakrishnan, P. S. (1992) Shifting Agriculture and Sustainable Development: An Interdisciplinary Study from Northeast India, United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO), Man and the Biosphere Series, Parthenon Publishers, Paris, and Carnforth, Lancs, UK (republished by Oxford University Press, New Delhi in 1993) Rerkasem, K., Lawrence, D., Padoch, C., Schmidt-Vogt, D., Ziegler, A. D. and Bruun, T. B. (2009) ‘Consequences of swidden transformations for crop and biodiversity in Southeast Asia’, Human Ecology 37, pp347–360 Singh, L. J. (2009) ‘A case study of shifting cultivation practices among the Tangkhuls of Ukhrul district, Manipur’, PhD dissertation to the Department of Ecology and Environmental Sciences, Assam University, Silchar, Assam, India Spencer, J. E. (1966) Shifting Cultivation in Southeastern Asia, University of California Publications in Geography, Berkeley, CA (reprinted by Bishen Singh Mahendra Pal Singh, Dehradun, India) Yin, S. (2001) People and Forests: Yunnan Swidden Agriculture in Human-Ecological Perspective, Yunnan Education, Kunming, China

14 BEST REDD SCENARIO Reducing climate change in alliance with swidden communities and indigenous peoples in Southeast Asia Janis B. Alcorn and Antoinette G. Royo* Background and Introduction

The collaboration of swidden communities with governments and investors offers a significant opportunity for controlling carbon emissions and reducing global climate change – if the collaboration is designed and implemented in ways that support the ability of shifting cultivators to manage forests that are integral to their swidden systems.1 Tropical deforestation and forest degradation contribute about 10% of carbon released into the atmosphere every year (Harris et al, 2012). Modern agriculture produces one-third of global greenhouse gases, including emissions from deforestation for agriculture (von Witzke, 2008). Standing tropical forests are believed to absorb 20% of the carbon dioxide released by human activities. The vast forests of Indonesia and Brazil hold 35% of the total carbon stored globally in tropical forests. These countries also produce the highest emissions from deforestation (Baccini et al, 2012). These large swathes of forest and the aggregated smaller tropical forests around the world are the front lines where swidden communities manage and protect forests that mitigate climate change. In Asia, multiple-use forest reserves (where many indigenous and other swidden communities live) are twice as effective at fire prevention than strictly protected areas; and, in Latin America, indigenous reserves are more effective at protection than all types of protected areas (Nelson and Chomitz, 2011). Globally, community-managed forests suffer less deforestation than forest reserves (Porter-Bolland et al, 2011).

* 

Dr Janis B. Alcorn is adjunct professor, Natural Resources Institute, University of Manitoba, Canada; Director for Country and Regional Programs at the Rights and Resources Initiative (RRI),Washington, DC; and a Fellow at Fundación Urundei, Salta, Argentina, Antoinette G. Royo is executive director of the Samdhana Institute, Bogor, Indonesia; and a practising lawyer in the firm of Gatmaytan, Leonen, LaViña, Royo and Associates..

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At the time of writing, the heat was being turned up in the search for more investment in carbon sequestration, in a bid to mitigate the impacts of climate change while humans adapt to irreversible changes that will radically alter life on earth. The goal of the Kyoto Protocol and the United Nations’ Framework Convention on Climate Change, to reduce emissions sufficiently by 2020 to halt projected climate change and hold the rise in global temperature to 2 degrees C, is now viewed as unfeasible due to the failure of governments and industries to make the hard choices needed to reduce emissions (Rowlands et al, 2012). A highly distinguished panel has now predicted a 50-50 chance of limiting warming to 3 degrees C by 2050 (Ingham, 2012).2 Nothing short of a revolution is now essential, to transform failed forest management into accountable forest maintenance in landscapes under integrated management, if we are to keep global temperatures within a liveable range. Enlightened forest management aims to play a two-pronged role: to maintain and expand forests to absorb CO2 emitted from other sources, and to minimize permanent deforestation in order to reduce the carbon released when forests are converted to agricultural uses. This two-pronged approach to forest management directly affects swidden communities, and to be successful it needs to find a path for recognizing and respecting the positive values of swidden and swidden communities for both lowemission land use and carbon-credit sales. However, if swidden cultivators´ rights and knowledge of forest management are ignored by global and national programmes and investors, this strategic approach to forest management is threatened with failure, and this failure will threaten the livelihoods, food security and survival of millions of forest-dependent peoples and communities. REDD (Reducing Emissions from Deforestation and Degradation) is one of the major global initiatives to reduce the emission of greenhouse gases from deforestation and forest degradation through financial incentives and policy reforms. It was not an original part of the Land Use, Land-Use Change and Forestry section of the Clean Develop Mechanism, as defined in the Kyoto Protocol, for supervision by the UN Framework Convention on Climate Change. REDD was added during the 2009 Conference of the Parties to the UNFCCC. It provides for private investment and donor support from developed countries aimed at reducing deforestation in tropical countries in coordination with governments. Donors are increasingly incorporating REDD and Global Climate Change concerns into their overall development strategies (cf, USAID, 2012). The original REDD set out to contribute to conservation, sustainable forest management and enhancement of carbon stocks by reducing deforestation and sequestering carbon (Pistorius et al, 2011). In December 2008, a ‘plus’ was added (REDD+), providing for additional benefits that have been broadly interpreted as environmental, social and/or economic. REDD+ will probably be incorporated into any successor to the Kyoto Protocol. REDD activities include preparation of projects for ‘carbon offset’ markets, as well as creation of ‘REDD readiness’ through capacity building and policy reforms that support the carbon market – including reforms in national tenure policy and

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financial-market policies that are needed to reduce the risks to investors, prevent the emergence of ‘carbon cowboys’, and strengthen the guarantee that carbon will be sequestered by the investments (Chokkalingam and Anurradha Vanniarachchy, 2011). While donors are supporting the creation of national and international policy and legal architecture to support REDD, the private voluntary market for carbon credits or carbon offsets (started in the 1990s) has thousands of local contracts in place around the world and is effectively creating practices that will shape emerging national and international policy and practice.4 Economic analyses have illustrated the theoretical economic and financial gains for tropical forest countries that participate in REDD. Analyses by Busch et al (2012) argue that a voluntary REDD programme in Indonesia could reduce emissions from deforestation by 17% to 26% over five years, by avoiding deforestation emissions amounting to between 136 and 207 million metric tons of carbon dioxide per year. This could yield a net surplus of US$331 million per year for Indonesia, if carbon was priced at $10/ton.They argue that a ‘cap and trade’, or other formal government programme, could further increase the benefits and bring in three times as much income to the Indonesian government, and that these national policy options could produce significantly more revenue than the current voluntary market based on individual projects. The size of this theoretical benefit illustrates the level of financial incentives for national governments to adopt the broad REDD policies that are proposed under international agreements. Swidden is the traditional form of agriculture in Asia’s tropical and montane forests that is now targeted by REDD programmes. Swidden is commonly used in combination with more intensive systems of irrigated and/or tree culture, and offers an ideal solution for linking agricultural production with dynamic forests to reduce carbon emissions. Swidden produces agricultural and non-timber products from an area of temporarily cleared forest. After a brief cropping period, the area is allowed to reforest by natural regeneration, until the swidden farmer returns to clear the same area for cultivation again after a fallow period that can last from 3 to 50 years. Swidden clearing mimics the natural forest dynamics of treefall gaps, and takes advantage of successional regeneration that renews the forest cover and maintains ecosystem services. Individual swiddens are rarely larger than one hectare, but are often clustered within a forest area in accordance with topographical and other factors. Large areas of forest are left intact, and are often protected from clearing under local customary rules. The overall landscape is a mosaic that includes swidden fields, fallows, recovering forests, and high forest, as well as other areas dedicated to permanent cropping. Management of the overall spatial mosaic of the fallows, fields and forests creates a healthy, resilient forest ecosystem over very large areas. While under most circumstances swidden begins with ‘slash and burn’, the overall carbon sequestration values at a larger landscape level outweigh the emissions from that first step (cf, NDF and Huay Hin Lad Community, 2011). However, when swiddencycled lands are converted into permanent production use, carbon stocks drop by up to 90% and soil fertility declines (Bruun et al, 2009).5

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Swidden fallows are often managed so that regrowing forest closes from the perimeter towards a more intensively cultivated agroforestry core area, which produces a variety of food and other forest products before the forest canopy closes completely. Across Southeast Asia, hundreds of forest species are managed in community forests associated with swidden systems, and swidden communities depend on their forests for wild game as well as for collecting wild foods, medicines, craft items, marketable products and construction materials (cf, De Beer and McDermott, 1996). Nutritional studies in Thailand have not only demonstrated that impoverished long-term residents in public-forest reserves depend on wild foods gathered from local forests and fallows for their nutrition, medicines and fuel, but have also measured the negative effects on their livelihoods of restrictions being placed on forest access (Brinkman, 1989). Other chapters in this volume help to substantiate the livelihood benefits that swidden communities derive from their integrated forest management; these could become REDD+ benefits if swidden systems were accepted within REDD programmes. The performance of different types of forest management, and the values of swiddeners’ management systems are being acknowledged (cf, NDF and Huay Hin Lad Community, 2011). However, official policy in the region largely continues to treat swidden as a cause of deforestation and degradation (the two Ds in REDD). Definitions of ‘degradation’ place swidden fallows in a category of ‘degraded lands’ (Mertz et al, 2012) making them likely targets for reforestation or afforestation projects. The conversion of forest fallows to reforestation projects to counter ‘degradation’ blocks local access to plants and animals that live in ‘degraded’ fallows (Tyrrell and Alcorn, 2011) and removes the area from the local swidden system. Unfortunately, scientific understandings of the positive ecological and social benefits of swidden systems have not yet been incorporated into policy reforms, as governments maintain colonial and neo-colonial policies aimed at eradicating swidden and swiddeners and consolidating central control over forested hinterlands (CCMIN, 2009; Peluso and Vandergeest, 2011). After a decade of progress in decentralizing forest control in Asia, the promise of carbon payments and other REDD deals for governments controlling forests now threatens to recentralize forest control (Phelps et al, 2010), particularly over areas that are formally designated as national forest reserves, despite the fact that these forest reserves are inhabited and used for agriculture and urban settlements by millions of people in Southeast Asia, including swidden farmers (Lynch and Talbott, 1995). In Indonesia, for example, 33,000 villages are located inside the borders of areas that are officially state forests (RRI, 2012). Who, then, are the swiddeners who may be either hurt or helped by REDD? Swiddeners are people whose cultural identities depend upon the forest and their uses of it. Credible estimates of the global number of swiddening families are well over 100 million, but there is no solid population census.6 Hundreds of millions of swidden families live in the large tracts of forest visible in aerial and satellite imagery in all tropical regions of the world.7 There are estimated to be 350 to 400 million indigenous people in the world and more than 100 million indigenous people in the

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ten REDD+ countries in Asia (AIPP, 2011).8 The number of non-indigenous people who use swidden is unknown, but it is common for long-term settlers to adapt swidden agriculture to their circumstances, as fallows are necessary to regenerate soil fertility in low-input systems. Tropical forests are the area where REDD policies affect swidden communities. In Latin America, most national policies recognize swiddeners’ rights and support collaboration with swiddeners in protected areas, as well as setting aside reserves for uncontacted peoples and their forests (UNHR, 2012). For example, in Brazil, an international legal opinion has supported swiddeners’ rights to carbon (Takacs, 2009; IDESAM and Metareilá Association of the Suruí Indigenous People, 2011), and FUNAI, the Brazilian agency for indigenous issues, has acted to protect indigenous territories from unscrupulous ‘carbon cowboys’ by nullifying contracts in early 2012 (FUNAI, 2012) . In contrast, in Southeast Asia, where the number of swiddeners is orders of magnitude greater, tenure and other policy support for swiddeners is significantly weaker than in Latin America. Swidden is banned, restricted or targeted for ‘phasing out’ in Laos, Thailand, Vietnam, Bangladesh, Indonesia, India, Malaysia, Burma, Bhutan and Nepal, all of which are countries participating in REDD+ (AIPP, 2011). In the face of this situation, indigenous women in an international conference summarized the situation of risks and opportunities, as follows: ‘Most of the world’s remaining tropical forests, which are those targeted for REDD Plus, are our traditional territories.We are therefore keen to see that the UN Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (UNDRIP) be integrally included as the main instrument to protect us against the potential risks from REDD Plus.These risks include, among others, our possible displacement from our forests, elite capture of benefits, gross commodification of our forests and all resources found therein. At the same time, we can see some opportunities for us to occupy decision making spaces, reform forest and land laws to recognize indigenous peoples’ rights, abatement of deforestation, and possible real and sustained efforts to address land tenure issues and the drivers of deforestation’ (Mandaluyong Declaration of the Global Conference on Indigenous Women, Climate Change and REDD+, 2010, Philippines – as cited in Alangui et al, 2011). With REDD programmes and voluntary carbon-market deals currently being implemented, we will use this chapter to discuss the opportunities and the risks that REDD brings to swidden communities and their forests. The three scenarios discussed below are those in which human populations will be most affected by REDD+ agreements with national governments to reduce deforestation and degradation. Estimates for each scenario´s contribution to annual global carbon release and the impact on swidden communities are based on expert opinions from publications, unpublished field notes and reviews of remote imagery.

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Three REDD scenarios

‘Scenario One’ addresses conversion from forest to other ‘permanent’ land uses. More than 8% of the carbon released annually at a global level (i.e., more than 75% of carbon released from forests) is estimated to come from logging, slashing and/ or chaining and burning of tropical forests for conversion to cattle, soy, palm oil, infrastructure, and other ‘permanent’ commercial uses. These land-use conversion activities, encouraged by national-development strategies, are the major threat to the remaining great forests of the world, including those in Southeast Asia.9 The forests being converted to commercial use are home to many communities, especially those using extensive swidden agriculture, as well as smaller community-forest reserves in areas where large tracts have already been deforested or severely degraded. In this Scenario One, the challenge for governments and REDD is to achieve new and accountable mechanisms for stopping deforestation that results directly or indirectly from government incentives and investments in industrial plantations for food and biofuels, and from new regional infrastructure that opens remote areas to deforestation and conversion. Governments would be able to counter the agro-industrial conversion threat in Scenario One by working in alliance with swidden communities in Scenarios Two and Three (described below) to protect forests from permanent conversion, thereby contributing to the reduction of a major source of carbon emissions. ‘Scenario Two’ addresses short-fallow swidden systems. Less than 1% of carbon released globally (i.e., 10% of the carbon released by forest degradation and conversion) is roughly estimated to come from the periodical burning of small, shortfallow (three to five years) swidden fields that cycle between natural regeneration of forest and cropped land. This land use often emerges on the margins of converted forest areas, arising as a result of human displacement and forest loss created by largescale conversion to permanent agriculture. Short-fallow swidden systems may also arise when farmers adapt to alternative income or subsistence sources within the forest environment (e.g., fishing, marketable non-timber forest products and labour opportunities). Short-fallow swiddens may be an integral part of larger land-use patterns that include stable community-managed forest areas.These cover millions of hectares when aggregated at a global level.They may also be a transitional element in a larger landscape where forests are being converted into agro-industrial zones that also cover millions of hectares when aggregated. In and of themselves, short fallows do not necessarily denote a loss of carbon stocks at a landscape level. REDD support for reforestation in these fallows risks impoverishing rural families by eliminating their access to cropland and the many products that are produced in fallows, such as firewood, food and medicines. Paradoxically, reforestation also risks shifting harvest pressures towards destroying community forest reserves and protection forests, which sequester more carbon and provide other essential ecosystem services. ‘Scenario Three’ addresses long-fallow swidden systems. Less than 0.5% of carbon in greenhouse gasses is probably released from indigenous swiddens typical of the extensive tracts of natural forest where swidden communities have thrived and

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managed their tropical-forest environment for millennia. At a global level, about 5% of these extensive tracts of forest are incorporated into what can be termed a ‘long-fallow swidden cycle’, covering 10 to 50 years. Long-fallow secondary forests capture significant carbon, as well as maintaining the livelihood security of swidden communities (cf, Fox et al 2011). These forests, and their swidden communities, are threatened by conversion to other land uses, as described in Scenario One, yet they offer great opportunities for REDD collaboration to maintain biodiverse forests and prevent permanent deforestation. In summary, both long- and short-fallow swiddens are very minor contributors to climate change, when compared to agro-industrial land uses and land-use conversion. These swidden systems can also be considered among the major protectors of forests that absorb carbon - via regrowth in their fallows and in the forest reserves that swiddeners protect within their mosaic landscapes. Therefore swidden lands should be the basis for carbon alliances to reduce climate change under REDD. However, paradoxically, they are being threatened by the very same mechanism. In Southeast Asia, despite the reported downward trend in aggregated areas dedicated to swidden, there remain many pockets of opportunity where swidden systems have not been displaced by transmigration programmes, large-scale logging concessions, plantations or armed conflicts.10 Local collective action has also played a key historical role in resolving conflicts over forest resources in Southeast Asia, offering a vital strength for REDD implementation (Yasmi et al, 2010). In some areas, conflicts and policies have pushed migrants into forests to create mixed situations where appropriate REDD agreements with swiddeners could have created good chances for reducing conflicts while conserving forests.11 Southeast Asian countries have a long and well-documented history of community-based forestry on which REDD could be built, instead of creating new opportunities for rent-seeking by outside investors responding to new income from carbon-related payment systems. Opportunities for collaboration with swiddeners to help climate stabilization will soon disappear if they are not taken up quickly in places where swiddeners are interested in this option. REDD agreements can be integrated into ongoing efforts in community-based forest management, land-use planning, and the other alternatives available to the millions of families who depend on forests in regions where community and indigenous rights are less well-recognized and forests are smaller. Challenges to incorporating swidden and swiddeners into REDD

REDD depends on secure property rights. ‘Securing fair land tenure must be the foundation of REDD. Not just for ethical reasons, but because it is crucial to attracting private-sector investment. No matter how much finance we raise and deliver, it will not be effective unless it

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addresses the underlying drivers of deforestation.’ (Gregory Barker, UK Climate Change Minister, quoted in RRI, 2012, p15) Unless swiddeners’ tenure rights to their land are strengthened within REDD programmes, REDD may actively work against the interests of vulnerable rural people who live in and are dependent on forests. These include communities with customary rights and indigenous peoples whose identities, food security and wellbeing are inextricably linked with their forests. REDD, if improperly implemented, will impoverish millions. There are at least four substantive challenges to be overcome when taking up REDD mitigation opportunities with swiddeners: (1) the dearth of locallyaccountable institutions representing swiddeners; (2) demands from nongovernmental organizations (NGOs) eager to manage the funds as intermediaries; (3) a lack of recognition and communication between private-sector organizations and swiddeners, despite this key linkage being essential for successful outcomes; and (4) government reluctance to change course, to support swiddeners and natural forest protection. The latter is arguably the biggest challenge. Governments have long supported incentives to convert forests into large-scale agricultural production. They have been slow to recognize the customary or formal tenurial rights of swiddeners, and have not demonstrated a credible commitment to protect forests, despite repeated policy and legal reforms, as evidenced by the rate of deforestation over recent decades (cf, Smith et al, 2006). REDD has the potential to create conflicts with ongoing communityforest programmes – much as forest-concession systems overlaid on to communities did when natural forests were more extensive and logged for significant income to concessionaires. These systems damaged both the resource base of local communities and swidden systems. Governments have a crucial role to play. Protection is linked to ownership, whether governments opt to create direct partnerships with local forest owners or managers to protect forests, or opt to support a carbon market where private-sector investors can engage directly with local forest owners or managers. Private-sector investors require clear ownership of the land or forest that is sequestering carbon, and this is something that can only be provided by government agencies. The Anchorage Declaration from the Global Summit of Indigenous Peoples on Climate Change, delivered in 2009, recommended: ‘All initiatives under Reducing Emissions from Deforestation and Degradation (REDD) must secure the recognition and implementation of the human rights of Indigenous Peoples, including security of land tenure, ownership, recognition of land title according to traditional ways, uses and customary laws, and the multiple benefits of forests for climate, ecosystems, and peoples before taking any action.’

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The first three challenges are played out in relationships with ‘carbon cowboys’ and intermediary NGOs. There is an additional financial challenge that can be offset by working with swiddeners. Research suggests that there must be a payment of between US$3 and $30 per ton of carbon to match the opportunity costs of not converting the forest to other uses. In addition, governments and local organizations will need funding to monitor and defend the forests. The amounts being contemplated are $5 (current in 2011) to $10 (proposed in 2012) per ton, so that with a rough average of 100 tons per hectare, this creates a gross income of $500 to $1000 per hectare. This could be a substantial cash income for swiddeners who complement their subsistence with products harvested directly from the forest – as long as the ‘take’ of intermediaries is minimal. Yet this level of income would still fail to match the short-term net-income gain expected by urban-based investors from converting a forest to industrial soy ($1000+ per hectare) or to oil palm production ($8000+ per hectare) (REDD-Net, 2011; Butler et al, 2009). The opportunity costs for those with the power to convert land to other uses do not favour opting for the carbon market, unless it is linked with high-value products. Demand for palm oil and rubber will continue to threaten swiddeners in Southeast Asia (Colchester, 2010; Fox et al, 2011). If the above-mentioned challenges and threats to effective REDD investment are ignored, REDD investors risk wasting a critical opportunity to ensure that tropical forests will continue to stabilize both the global climate and the global economy. In 2012, the global carbon market is faltering (RRI, 2012), and REDD is largely a donor-funded programme focusing on REDD ‘readiness’ preparations and pilot projects. If it is implemented badly, REDD will put at risk some of the world´s most vulnerable people, along with forests and, ultimately, economies all over the world. If these issues are not resolved and REDD alliances are not made with swidden communities by 2020, deforestation and degradation, at their present rates of increase, will see Southeast Asia’s remaining tropical forests converted or seriously degraded, and their capacity to absorb carbon emissions diminished. The ways of life of the indigenous peoples whose cultures are intimately connected with swiddens in tropical forests will be destroyed: a tragic collateral casualty. Investments could reduce carbon emissions if they are used where land-use assessments indicate stable community forest management, or where this can be fostered through effective programmes and support. These efforts could aggregate smaller community forests (in the order of 2500 to 5000 hectares each) that occur in patches across a landscape or watershed. These patches are often the places where community-based forest management is already carried out by agricultural communities and individuals who depend on forests for a significant part of their livelihoods. As most swiddeners self-identify as indigenous, the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples offers an international consensus on basic guidance. Under this declaration, the free, prior and informed consent of communities with

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customary rights or dependence on forests should be required as a minimum precondition for funding REDD agreements made with national governments. The bottom line is that many issues can be raised about the complexities and costs of developing contracts that fit local cultures and communities in different countries. However, given the realities of people living in and dependent on forests, conflicting claims to forests, and the remote likelihood that policy reforms from the top-down will be effective, if outside investors want accountability and confidence that forests will be maintained, then they must face these challenges in concrete situations. Some examples of efforts to tackle the challenges follow. REDD Standards and Safeguards

Standards, safeguards and ‘best practices’ for REDD (cf,Alcorn, 2010;Tyrell and Alcorn, 2011) are being developed, in part to create protocols that prevent the swindling of local communities (by the so-called ‘carbon cowboys’), as well as to assist responsible investors, donors and governments to develop robust projects with reduced risks, including securing property rights, attending to social and environmental soundness and achieving equitable distribution of benefits. The leading standards in use include VCS (Verified Carbon Standard) and CCBS (Climate, Community and Biodiversity Standards), but other standards are also in use (cf, Anurradha Vanniarachchy and Chokkalingam, 2012). REDD experiences with communities in Southeast Asia through 201212 Cambodia

The first Cambodian REDD carbon credits are being marketed by TerraGlobalCapital and the Royal Government of Cambodia. This voluntary market REDD project was developed by TerraGlobalCapital, Pact Cambodia, The Forestry Administration of the Royal Government of Cambodia, the Children’s Development Association, Monks’ Community Forestry and the Community Forestry Federation of Oddar Meanchey Province. It covers 13 community-forestry groups from 58 villages and 64,318 hectares of forest. Under this project, the community groups have received 15-year forest-management rights and will receive 50% of the income to fund forest management and village development, and will receive assistance in defending the forests from illegal logging. Laos

Laos is focusing on policy reforms in preparation for REDD. The Lao government’s Land Natural Resources Information Centre has identified perverse incentives encouraging land-use conversion from natural forests to plantation agriculture and industrial tree plantations, and has highlighted issues arising from ignoring the presence of resident communities in areas granted to large concessions, recommending that

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land and resource surveys be expedited (Vientiane Times, 2012).The first communal forest-land titles were issued in 2011 (LIWG, 2011). A national workshop on forest tenure and policies in Lao PDR was held in November 2011, to reflect on lessons from China and other countries. Indonesia

Indonesia has the largest number of REDD projects in Asia (AIPP, 2011). In 2011, Indonesia signed a US$1-billion REDD bilateral agreement with Norway, and is currently developing a national REDD strategy. The momentum of policy change is slow but consistent, with an official one-year moratorium imposed on forest licensing. REDD regulations have been introduced and presidential decrees issued for national and provincial emission reduction. The Indonesian provinces of Papua, Aceh, and Central, East and West Kalimantan have signed agreements with the Governors’ Climate and Forests Task Force (GCF). The GCF is a collaborative venture among subnational jurisdictions (including 17 states, provinces and regional governments from Brazil, Indonesia, Mexico, Nigeria, Peru and the USA), working to develop subnational REDD+ frameworks that include ‘nested’ private projects to generate emission-reduction credits for sale on carbon markets, exploring opportunities for REDD+ finance and bringing REDD into existing and emerging greenhouse-gas compliance systems and markets.13 In local communities, preparedness for REDD continues at the level of awareness, advice on evidence-building for customary-land claims (mapping and negotiating rights locally), and demonstrations of good practices that deserve REDD credits. At least 44 REDD projects are under design or implementation in Indonesia (Lang, 2012), including a least 20 private-sector REDD activities that have been registered in the voluntary market (AIPP, 2011). However, swiddeners’ forest rights are weak and their lands continue to be classified under forestry law as hutan adat, or customary-rights forest. The recognition of these rights is not only conditional upon titling, but it also conflicts with various forestry projects – including REDD – due to unclear legal status, conflicting incentives and overlapping concessions. A prominent association of 430 Indonesian NGOs called WALHI has issued a statement opposing REDD and carbon trading (Lang, 2012), and has urged the world not to throw aside the proven approach of community-based forestry (cf, Royo and Wells, 2012). It also urged the prevention of REDD-driven land grabbing and subsequent forest loss by resolving the tenure rights of forest communities. Studies in Indonesia have demonstrated that swidden is a rational land-use system (Mertz et al, 2008), and have also shown that local perspectives are not represented at the REDD negotiation tables (van Noordwijk, 2011).

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The Philippines

The Philippines has developed a 10-year REDD+ Strategy (2010 to 2020), has engaged in REDD Readiness with UN-REDD assistance, and is working with other donors to develop national REDD activities.  In 2011, President Benigno Aquino III signed a National Climate Change Action Plan that highlighted REDD-plus as a mitigation measure and pushed for the implementation of a national strategy. In creating the Philippine National REDD-Plus Strategy, there was a significant focus on safeguarding rights. The strategy now incorporates the benefit sharing and free, prior and informed consent provisions of the country’s Indigenous People’s Rights Act, and attempts to balance conservation and economic needs. Rights have been awarded under the Indigenous People’s Rights Act to ancestral domains covering more than three million hectares, and many ancestral title holders are thinking of, or have initiated, REDD engagement. In this, swidden communities may find either protection or exposure. Hence, a governance mechanism – the National Multistakeholder REDD+ Council – has been proposed to implement the REDD+ strategy, and several monitoring mechanisms have been set up in demonstration sites. Challenges in Indonesia and the Philippines

Serious challenges have been identified in both Indonesia and the Philippines that threaten the effectiveness of REDD+ as a mechanism that will help to eradicate poverty or generate sustainable livelihoods for rural poor and indigenous peoples. First, the intended payments for ecological services are not immediate, while communities are currently facing serious threats to their tenurial security from extractive, biofuel and energy projects and are vulnerable to a new and proliferating brand of fly-by-night traders known as ‘carbon cowboys’. Fears of displacement; the lure of immediate, albeit limited, income; and promises of windfall profits made by ‘carbon cowboys’ may tempt communities, especially swiddeners, to consent to the entry of other development projects even before policies are in place that would safeguard their rights. Second, scaling up of REDD+ areas and engagement in carbon trading may lead to forest resources being once more concentrated in the hands of governments, and away from communities. It may also lead to the marginalisation of weaker communities. In order to be considered ‘REDD-able’, the size of an area would need to encompass several government administrative units or several indigenous people’s customary or ancestral-domain areas. Remaining forested areas, especially in the Philippines, are spread out and not contiguous. One REDD project could therefore comprise several local government units or the domains of several tribes. On the other hand, places like the Indonesian province of Papua, with its vast contiguous areas of forest and remote indigenous communities, are also vulnerable. In both cases, weak communities or weaker local-government units might face discrimination in the process of negotiating entitlements. Finally, in both countries, the increasing number of ‘carbon cowboys’ is confusing community understanding of REDD and REDD+, because the strong points of

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these projects at local level – especially in swidden systems – are disregarded or barely taken into account in ‘carbon stock’ valuations, while the supposed monetary benefits arising from carbon trading are highlighted. The full details and benefits of REDD+, including carbon-stock enhancement, trade-offs in swiddens vs. permanent agriculture, and maintenance of traditional, sustainable forest or land uses, are not discussed when carbon projects are proposed to communities. Thailand

Thailand has taken the route of emphasizing national protected areas and biodiversity concerns in its national REDD preparations, and continues to claim forests as a national resource.As in many other countries, a few small, voluntary market agreements have been established with a limited number of communities (Thai Climate Justice and TERRA, 2011), but swidden communities lack the tenurial rights to sustain such agreements. The ecological and social values of swidden in Thailand have been documented for decades (cf, Trakansuphakon, 2010). Vietnam

Vietnam is an active member of the UN-REDD programme and has focused on developing an equitable REDD-benefits distribution system (UN-REDD, 2009). Of Vietnam´s 13 million hectares of forest, 2.6 million are under community management. A new REDD pilot project allows communities inside, and within the buffer zones of, the Xuan Thuy and Bach Ma National Parks to plant trees and raise animals if they also participate in protecting the parks from deforestation (Vietnam News, 2012).At the provincial level, the government of Thua Thien-Hue is expanding community management to 30,000 hectares of forest after positive outcomes from a pilot. Communities will be able to harvest forest products in return for managing and protecting the forests (VietnamNet Bridge, 2011). A UN-REDD project has been operating in Lam Dong province since 2009 and UN-REDD is currently conducting an evaluation of lessons learned regarding free, prior and informed consent, benefits distribution and integration of national and sub-national approaches (a.k.a. ‘nested’ REDD). An in-depth analysis of benefits distribution following the implementation of past forest policies has contributed information for developing the REDD+ National Strategy (Pham et al, 2012). In the Mekong Basin countries of Myanmar, Cambodia, Laos and Vietnam, the Asian Indigenous Peoples Pact is undertaking a project called ‘Promoting Rightsbased and Equitable REDD+ Strategies in the Mekong Sub-region’. It aims to promote national REDD+ strategies that take into account long-term forestconservation goals and the rights and concerns of indigenous peoples and ethnic minorities, with an expected outcome of greater participation by indigenous women in shaping REDD design and implementation.

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Swidden was a key element of traditional, integrated land-use systems in Montane Mainland Southeast Asia, a region that includes half of the land areas of Cambodia, Laos, Myanmar,Thailand,Vietnam and China’s Yunnan Province. A well-substantiated analysis in this region has recommended that REDD and swidden be incorporated into a broader regional approach of integrated land-use planning, to capture carbon while maintaining ecological and livelihood benefits (Fox et al, 2011). Conclusions: What guidance and policy reforms could improve REDD?

First, REDD donors and investors must recognize that grand, regional development plans are the key drivers of deforestation and increased carbon emissions in Southeast Asia. Regional development and land-use planning processes should therefore be framed around low-emission standards, using existing local sustainable practices – including traditional customary forestry systems, and including swidden agriculture. If this is not done, governments’ virtuous efforts to slow climate change through REDD will fail. Second, national reforms are needed to reverse existing policies and regulations that unduly restrict forest-dependent communities’ customary cultural and tenurial rights, and to support their human rights and their role as forest stewards (Alcorn, 2011; RRI ,2012). Incentives for national tenure reforms could orchestrate a successful return to global carbon equilibrium (Sommerville, 2011). Third, in addition to considering REDD and ecological-services payments to swiddeners, national governments need to raise wide awareness of the value of local practices, including swidden agriculture, and implement serious national campaigns to defend and protect swiddeners’ forest areas that are currently under threat from logging, infrastructure developments and financial incentives promoting agricultural expansion into forests. Finally, a worldwide programme is needed for sharing lessons learned from customary communities and swiddeners participating in REDD+, who are recognized as forest stewards working to avert global climate-change disasters. This will both gain time and build momentum towards the proliferation of further successful partnerships with swiddeners. Monitoring for lessons from community stewards will provide data to verify and adjust the outcomes claimed by global and national programmes. UN-REDD is making a sustained effort in this direction, but has not yet successfully highlighted swidden and swiddeners’ tenurial issues, despite the importance that these issues hold. References AIPP (Asian Indigenous People’s Pact). (2011) REDD+ Implementation in Asia and the Concerns of Indigenous Peoples, International Work Group for Indigenous Affairs and the Asian Indigenous Peoples Pact, Chiang Mai, Thailand Alangui, W. V., Subido, G. and Tinda-an, R. (eds) (2011) Indigenous Women, Climate Change and Forests, Tebtebba Foundation, Baguio City, Philippines

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Alcorn, J. B. (2010) Best Practices Note for REDD projects with Indigenous Peoples, Inter-American Development Bank, Washington DC Alcorn, J. B. (2011) Tenure and Indigenous Peoples, Property Rights and Resource Governance Brief No.13, United States Agency for International Development (USAID), Washington DC, http:// usaidlandtenure.net/issue-brief/tenure-and-indigenous-peoples, accessed 15 July 2012 Anurradha Vanniarachchy, S. and Chokkalingam, U. (2012) Forest Carbon Standards Grow, Mature and Link Up, Forest Carbon Asia Brief No. 5, Methods and Standards Update, April 2011-January 2012, Forest Carbon Asia, Chiang Mai, Thailand Baccini, A., Goetz, S. G., Walker, W. S., Laporte, N. T., Sun, M., Sulla-Menashe, D., Hackler, J., Beck, P. S. A., Dubayah, R., Friedl, M. A., Samanta, S. and Houghton, R. A. (2012) ‘Estimated carbon dioxide emissions from tropical deforestation improved by carbon-density maps’, Nature Climate Change, published online 29 January 2012, doi:10.1038/nclimate1354 Brinkman, W. (ed) (1989) Why Natural Forests Are Linked with Nutrition, Health and Self-Reliance of Villagers in Northeast Thailand, Royal Forest Department, United Nations Development Programme, the Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations, Swedish International Development Cooperation Agency, Phu Wiang, Thailand Bruun, T. B., de Neergaard, A., Lawrence, D. and Ziegler, A. D. (2009) ‘Environmental consequences of the demise of swidden cultivation in Southeast Asia: Carbon storage and soil quality’, Human Ecology 37, pp375-388 Busch, J., Lubowski, R. N., Godoy, F., Steininger, M.,Yusuf, A. A., Austin, K., Hewson, J., Juhn, D., Farid, M. and Boltz, F. (2012) ‘Structuring economic incentives to reduce emissions from deforestation within Indonesia’, Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences vol 109, January 24, 2012, pp1062-1067 Butler, R., Koh, L. P. and Ghazoul, J. (2009) ‘REDD in the red: Palm oil could undermine carbon payment schemes’, Conservation Letters 2009, pp1-7 CCMIN (Asian Indigenous Peoples’ Climate Change, Monitoring and Information Network). (2009) Shifting Cultivation and Climate Change, CCMIN, Bangkok Chokkalingam, U. and Anurradha Vanniarachchy, S. (2011) Beyond Carbon Cowboys: Private Sector Engagement in REDD+ in Asia, Forest Carbon Asia, Chiang Mai, Thailand, www.forestcarbonasia. org/articles/beyond-carbon-cowboys-private-sector-engagement-experience-in-redd-in-asia/, accessed on 15 July 2012 Colchester, M. (2010) Palm Oil and Indigenous People in Southeast Asia, International Land Coalition and Forest People’s Programme, Moreton-in-Marsh, UK CWEARC (Cordillera Women’s Education Action Research Center). (2012) Study on Climate Change and Indigenous Women in Traditional Agricultural Communities, CWEARC, Baguio City, Philippines De Beer, J. H. and McDermott, M. J. (1996) The Economic Value of Non-Timber Forest Products in Southeast Asia, Netherlands Committee for IUCN, Amsterdam Fox, J., Castella, J-C. and Ziegler, A. D. (2011) Swidden, Rubber and Carbon: Can REDD+ Work for People and the Environment in Montane Mainland Southeast Asia? CCAFS Working Paper no. 9, CGIAR Research Program on Climate Change, Agriculture and Food Security (CCAFS), Copenhagen FUNAI. (2012) Esclarecimentos da Funai sobre atuação do mercado voluntário de REDD em Terras Indígenas (Funai´s Clarifications about Voluntary Market REDD Activities on Indigenous Lands), issued 27 March 2012, National Indian Foundation of Brazil (FUNAI), http://earthpeoples.org/ blog/?p=1420, accessed 15 July 2012 Harris, N. L., Brown, S., Hagen, S. C., Saatchi S. S., Petrova, S., Salas,W., Hansen, M. C., Potapov, P.V. and Lotsch, A. (2012) ‘Baseline map of carbon emissions from deforestation in tropical regions’, Science vol 336, pp1573-1576 IDESAM and Metareilá Association of the Suruí Indigenous People. (2011) Surui Forest Carbon Project, Project Description, Institute for Sustainable Conservation and Development of Amazonas (IDESAM), Manaus, Brazil.

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Ingham, R. (2012) 2 C Warming Target Out of Reach, Agence France-Presse News Agency, 27 March 2012. LIWG (Land Issues Working Group). (2011) Minutes, Workshop on Communal Land Titling: The case of Sangthong District, Laos, 6 Oct 2011, SNV Netherlands Development Organization, the Gender and Development Group (GDG) and the Land Issues Working Group, Lao PDR Lang, C. (2012) Interview with Teguh Surya, WALHI: We are Against REDD. We are Against Carbon Trading, www.redd-monitor.org/2012/03/09/interview-with-teguh-surya-walhi-we-are-againstredd-we-are-against-carbon-trading/, accessed June 29, 2012 Lynch, O. J. and Talbott, K. (1995) Balancing Acts: Community-Based Forest Management and National Law in Asia and the Pacific, World Resources Institute, Washington DC Mertz, O., Wadley, R. L., Nielsen, U., Bruun, T. B., Colfer, C. J. P., de Neergaard, A., Jepsen, M. R., Martinussen, T., Zhao, Q., Noweg, G. T. and Magid, J. (2008) ‘A fresh look at shifting agriculture’, Agricultural Systems vol 96, pp75–84 Mertz, O., Muller, D., Sikor, T., Hett, C., Heinimann, A., Castella, J-C., Lestrelin, G., Ryan, C. M., Reay, D. S., Schmidt‐Vogt, D., Danielsen, F., Theilade, I., van Noordwijk, M.,Verchot, L.V., Burgess, N. D., Berry, N. J., Pham,T.T., Messerli, P., Xu, Jianchu., Fensholt, R., Hostert, P., Pflugmacher, D., Bruun,T. B., de Neergaard, A., Dons, K. and Dewi, S. (2012) ‘The forgotten D: Challenges of addressing forest degradation in complex mosaic landscapes under REDD+’, Geografisk Tidsskrift (Danish Journal of Geography), vol 112 (1), pp63-76 Nelson, A. and Chomitz, K. M. (2011) ‘Effectiveness of strict vs multiple use protected areas in reducing tropical forest fires: A global analysis using matching methods’, PLoS ONE, vol. 6:e22722, doi:10.1371/journal.pone.0022722 NDF and Huay Hin Lad Community (2011) Climate Change,Trees and Livelihood: A case study on the carbon footprint of a Karen community in Northern Thailand, Northern Development Foundation (NDF), Asian Indigenous People’s Pact (AIPP) and International Work Group for Indigenous Affairs (IWGIA), Bangkok Peluso, N. L. and Vandergeest, P. (2011) ‘Political ecologies of war and forests: Counterinsurgencies and the making of natural resources’, Annals of the Association of American Geographers, Vol 102, No 3, pp587-608 Pham, P. T., Moeliono, M., Nguyen, T. H., Nguyen, H. T. and Vu, T. H. (2012) The Context of REDD+ in Vietnam: Drivers, Agents and Institutions, Occasional Paper 75, CIFOR, Bogor, Indonesia Phelps, J.,Webb, E. L. and Agrawal, A. (2010) ‘Does REDD+ threaten to recentralize forest governance?’ Science vol 328, pp312-313 Pistorius, T., Schmidt, C. B., Benick, D., Entenmenn, S. and Reinecke, S. (2011) Greening REDD+challenges and opportunities for integrating biodiversity safeguards at and across policy levels, Allgemeine Forst- und Jagdzeitung (AFJZ)(Euro Forest Portal), AFJZ 82-97 Porter-Bolland, L., Ellis, E. A., Guariguata, M. R., Ruiz-Mallen, I., Negrete-Yankelevich, S. and ReyesGarcia, V. (2011) ‘Community managed forests and forest protected areas: An assessment of their conservation effectiveness across the tropics’, Forest Ecology and Management (2011) doi:10.1016/j. foreco.2011.05.034 REDD-Net. (2011) Drivers of Deforestation and REDD+: Can REDD+ Compete?, REDD-Net Bulletin Asia and the Pacific, Issue 5, November 2011. Rowlands, D. J., Frame, D. J., Ackerley, D., Aina, T., Booth, B. B. B., Christensen, C., Collins, M., Faull, N., Forest, C. E., Grandey, B. S., Gryspeerdt, E., Highwood, E. J., Ingram, W. J., Knight, S., Lopez, A., Massey, N., McNamara, F., Piani, C., Rosier, S. M., Sanderson, B. M., Smith, L. A., Stone, D. A., Thurston, M. and Yamazaki, K. (2012) ‘Broad range of 2050 warming from an observationally constrained large climate model ensemble’, Nature Geoscience (2012) doi:10.1038/ngeo1430, published online 25 March 2012 RRI (Rights and Resources Initiative). (2012) Turning Point: What Future for Forest Peoples and Resources in the Emerging World Order? RRI, Washington, DC Royo, A. G. and Wells, A. (2012), Community Based Forest Management in Indonesia: A Review of Current Practice and Regulatory Frameworks, background paper for the Forest Dialogue on Investing in Locally Controlled Forestry (ILCF), 6-9 February 2012,Yogyakarta, Indonesia

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Smith, J., Colan, V., Sabogal, C. and Snook, L. K. (2006) ‘Why policy reforms fail to improve logging practices’, Forest Policy and Economics Vol 8, pp458-469 Sommerville, M. (2011) Land Tenure and REDD+: Risks to Property Rights and Opportunities for Economic Growth, Property Rights and Resource Governance Brief No. 11, United States Agency for International Development (USAID), Washington, DC Takacs, D. (2009) Forest Carbon: Law and Property Rights, Conservation International, Arlington, Virginia Thai Climate Justice and TERRA. (2011) REDD in Southeast Asia Workshop, April 2011,Thai Climate Justice, Towards Ecological Recovery and Regional Alliance (TERRA), Philippines Movement for Climate Justice, and Focus on Global South, Bangkok Trakansuphakon, P. (ed)  (2010) The Manual of Indigenous Knowledge and Practice on the Knowledge Transmission on Rotational Farming of Pgaz K´Nyau (Karen) in Hin Lad Nai, Northern Thailand, Indigenous Knowledge and Peoples Network (IKAP), Chiang Mai, Thailand Tyrrell, T. D. and Alcorn, J. B. (2011) Analysis of Possible Indicators to Measure Impacts of REDD+ on Biodiversity and on Indigenous and Local Communities, CBD SBSTTA 16 Information Document UNEP/CBD/SBSTTA/16/INF/21, Secretariat of the Convention on Biological Diversity (CBD), Montreal, Canada, www.cbd.int/doc/meetings/sbstta/sbstta-16/information/sbstta-16-inf-21-en. pdf, accessed 15 July 2012 UNHR (UN Office of the High Commissioner for Human Rights). (2012) Guidelines for the

Protection of Indigenous Peoples in Voluntary Isolation and Initial Contact of the Amazon Basin, Gran Chaco and Eastern Paraguay, United Nations, Geneva

UN-REDD (The United Nations Collaborative Programme on Reducing Emissions from Deforestation and Forest Degradation in Developing Countries). (2009) Consideration for Designing of a REDDcompliant Benefit Distribution System for Vietnam, UN-REDD,Vietnam USAID (United States Agency for International Development) (2012). USAID Climate Change and Development Strategy 2012-2016, USAID, Washington, DC Vientiane Times (2012) ‘Land use policies under scrutiny’, Vientiane Times, 2 February 2012 Vietnam News (2012) ‘Local communities to manage forests’, Vietnam News, 6 February 2011 VietnamNet Bridge (2011) ‘Locals to manage Hue’s forests in Vietnam’, VietnamNet Bridge, 19 January 2011 van Aelstyn, N. W. and Maguire, A. K. (2010) ‘California becoming the locus of carbon markets”, Executive Counsel October/November 2010, pp46-48 van Noordwijk, M., Galudra, G., Akiefnawati, R., Villamor, G. B., Purnomo, H. and Suyanto (2011)

Local Perspectives on REDD in Comparison with Those at the International Negotiation Tables and Their Representation in Quantitative Scenario Models, project report, World Agroforestry Center (ICRAF), Southeast Asia Regional Office, Bogor, Indonesia van Vliet, N.,  Mertz, O., Heinimann,A., Langanke,T., Pascual, U., Schmook, B.,Adams, C., Schmidt-Vogt, D., Meserli, P., Leisz, S., Castella, J-C., Jorgensen, L., Birch-Thomsen, T., Hett, C., Bech-Bruun, T., Ickowitz, A.,Vu, K.C.,Yasuyuki, K., Fox, J., Padoch, C., Dressler, W. and Zeigler, A. D. (2012)  ‘Trends, drivers and impacts of changes in swidden cultivation in tropical forest-agricultural frontiers: A global assessment’, Global Environmental Change, vol 22 (2012), doi:10.1016/j.gloenvcha.2011.10.009 von Witzke, H. (2008) ‘Agriculture, world food security, bio-energy and climate change: Some inconvenient facts’, Quarterly Journal of International Agriculture, vol 47, pp1-4 Yasmi, Y., Kelley, L. and Enters, T. (2010) Forest Conflict in Asia and the Role of Collective Action in its Management, CAPRi Working Paper no. 102, International Food Policy Research Institute, Washington, DC

Notes 1 The term ‘swidden’ refers to the practice of clearing land for cultivation by slashing the vegetation and usually burning it. It also means an area of land cleared in this way. In the context of this chapter, ‘swidden’ stands for rotational agriculture, also called shifting agriculture, shifting cultivation, slash-

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and-burn agriculture, and many local names that vary regionally. See Colfer et al in this volume for further discussion of swidden´s value in ‘low emission’ landscapes under integrated management. 2 The predicted impacts of a 3-degree-C rise in temperature include the ‘die back’ of tropical and boreal forests, reductions in food production and associated civil unrest. 3 Forest conservation and management has failed to meet its objectives in tropical countries over the past two decades. This failure is attributed to corruption and ‘policy failures’ from lack of implementation of laws related to granting concessions, control of illegal logging, conflicts with agriculture incentives, and so on. 4 As of 2011, there were 36 registered private sector REDD projects in Asia, not counting those in development (Chokkalingam and Anurradha Vnniarachchy, 2011). There are hundreds of unregistered agreements for carbon sales; contracts with fly-by-night entrepreneurs who convince people to sign agreements with the promise of big incomes but without communities understanding either their rights or the carbon market. 5 See Fox et al (2011) for a detailed comparison of carbon sequestration and other benefits achieved by rubber plantations vs various swidden land-use combinations in montane mainland Southeast Asia. 6 In part, this lack of solid information is a result of the blurry line between ‘forest-dependent people’ and people who practice, or historically practiced, swidden, as well as the result of swiddeners’ ‘invisibility’ in government registers, despite their long-term presence (often pre-colonial). 7 Swiddeners live in the large green spots representing tropical forest on global maps. At a finer scale, swiddeners live in forests and on the deforested margins, where they have been pushed by invading landless farmers, industrial agriculture, palm plantations and/or forest plantations.Trends in swidden at the forest-agriculture frontier vary by region and country (van Vliet et al, 2012). 8 There is no census counting the number of swiddeners in the world, nor of the number of indigenous people using swidden. In tropical forests, swidden agriculture is used by indigenous peoples and non-indigenous people who have learned the methods from their indigenous neighbours and have adapted them to their own cultural and economic contexts. 9 As pointed out by the Cordillera Women’s Education and Research Centre in the Philippines in 2012: “it is of no sense for government to be talking about climate-change mitigation and action plans on climate change if extractive and pollutive industries remain to be the national economic development strategy of the Philippines’ (CWEARC, 2012, as reported by Northern Dispatch Weekly, 25 March 2012). 10 Primarily on the basis of reports from montane mainland Southeast Asia covering the period from 1995 to 2010, van Vleit et al (2012), conclude that the swidden area in the region has diminished due to policies related to forest and biodiversity conservation, resettlement and market integration. Fox et al (2011) also present a map of rubber expansion into swidden areas in montane mainland Southeast Asia. 11 Pham et al (2012) thoroughly assess the strengths and weaknesses ofVietnam´s dynamic forest policies (as implemented), along with existing conflicts in forest zones, and recommend adjustments that could improve REDD benefits for the 54 ‘ethnic minorities’ (indigenous peoples) who traditionally rely on forests, use swidden, and live in the main area targeted for REDD. Their analysis does not specifically address swidden policies, although they do describe the implementation issues of current policy that offers benefits to those who replant forests in swiddens. Their recommendations also rely on improving the participation of marginalized indigenous peoples and women as a means of addressing land-use and tenure issues more equitably, through processes supported by REDD. 12 Updates can be found on the websites of RECOFTC (The Center for People and Forests), Forest Carbon Asia, and the Asian Indigenous Peoples’ Climate Change, Monitoring and Information Network (CCMIN). 13 The American states of California, Illinois and Wisconsin initiated the GCF collaboration when cap-and-trade regulatory initiatives were shifted to the states in the USA (van Aelstyn and Maguire, 2010). GCF activities receive financial support from the Gordon and Betty Moore Foundation, the ClimateWorks Foundation, and the David and Lucile Packard Foundation.

15 EARNING CARBON CREDITS THROUGH FALLOW MANAGEMENT On lands affected by shifting cultivation in northeast India Imtienla Ao* Introduction

The seven states of northeast India, which occupy only 7.7% of the country’s total geographical area, include about 4.5% of India’s population. This region shares 98% of its boundary with China, Bhutan, Myanmar and Bangladesh and is connected to mainland India by just 2% of its land mass, referred to as the ‘chicken’s neck’. The distinct geographical unit of northeast India, popularly known as the ‘Seven Sisters States’, was formed in several stages.The former principalities of Manipur and Tripura merged with the Union of India in 1949 and the four states of Arunachal Pradesh, Meghalaya, Mizoram and Nagaland were later carved out of the original Assam. The predominantly mountainous region is interspersed with valleys and river plains and varies altitudinally from the flood plains of Brahmaputra to high Himalayan peaks. In general, the region may be characterized by heavy rainfall, a rich forest cover and biodiversity, fragile mountain ecosystems and high seismicity. It is drained through valleys dissected by three major rivers: the Brahmaputra, Teesta and Barak, and their tributaries (Figure 15.1). Being home to hundreds of indigenous communities with a rich natural and cultural heritage, the region has high ethnic diversity and is a reservoir of indigenous-knowledge systems. Northeast India has been a mute witness to a diverse set of external factors that have hindered sustainable resource planning and development and have posed a serious threat to the security of the local ecology and livelihood of its people. The location and topographical disadvantages of the region, intra- and inter-state border disputes, continuing protests and insurgency movements seeking self-determination and independent state structures – leading to militarization of many parts of the region – demographic changes due to illegal immigration and the lack of infrastructure

* 

Imtienla Ao is Conservator of Forests, Rain Forest Research Institute (Indian Council of Forestry Research and Education), Jorhat, Assam, India.

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FIGURE 15.1 

The ‘Seven Sister’ states of northeastern India

and employment opportunities have disrupted the region’s progress. Ambiguous land-tenure and property-rights regimes, illegal trade in flora and fauna, excessive demands for timber from outside the region, along with the phenomenal rise of a ‘timber mafia’, have brought further pressures to bear upon the region’s resources and made natural resource-based planning and development a challenging and complex issue. However, the region has inherent strengths which could play a decisive role in sustainable resource management and development. Its major advantage is that the land is owned and controlled by communities and well-established traditional institutions govern the communities through customary laws that have stood the test of time. Guided in the right direction, these institutions have the potential to become key actors in the development of the region.The existence of cohesive tribal societies with minimal divisions along class and caste lines, age-old customs and

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traditions on the use and regulation of natural resources, a high literacy rate, a low population density, statutory constitutional safeguards and a good capacity for natural forest regeneration are the region’s other strong points. These positive factors could be judiciously brought into play to expedite the process of developing sustainable resource management. Shifting cultivation in the region

Shifting cultivation, popularly known in the region as jhumming or jhum cultivation, is a purely subsistence level of production. It is characterized by cutting and burning plots to be cultivated, rotation of fields rather than crops, use of primitive tools and implements, an absence of draught animals and machinery, minimum tillage, a low level of chemical inputs and cultivation of local varieties for a short period of occupancy. Cultivation alternates with a longer fallow period that allows the rejuvenation of the land and recycling of nutrients. Following these general principles, shifting cultivation is a predominant practice in northeast India, so forest and agricultural lands cannot be categorically differentiated. Forests consist of both primary forest and secondary jhum re-growth in various stages, depending on the jhum cycle, and current agricultural land will develop into forests again in subsequent years when cultivation ends. Hence, the land-use pattern in the region exhibits an alternation between agriculture and forestry, with a longer forestry phase interrupted by a shorter agricultural phase, usually of one to three years. A survey carried out during March to June in 2009, covering 40 villages, 20 of them in the Karbi Anglong district of Assam and another 20 in Mokokchung district of Nagaland, showed that the length of fallow averaged 7.8 years (ranging from two to 10 years), in Karbi Anglong and 10.7 years (with a range from six to 15 years) in Mokokchung. The mean cropping periods in both areas was about two years (2.05 years in Karbi Anglong; 1.95 years in Mokokchung). The average lengths of the jhum cycle were thus 9.95 years (ranging from five to 13 years) in Karbi Anglong and 12.7 years (ranging from eight to 17 years) in Mokokchung (Figure 15.2). Importantly, the 2009 survey found that, on average, jhum cultivation provided sufficient food for 5.6 months in Karbi Anglong and 9.5 months in FIGURE 15.2  Comparative lengths of fallow Mokokchung. 1 and jhum in Assam and Nagaland

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While there do not appear to be any clearly demarcated jhum blocks, or a fixed jhumming cycle, in Karbi Anglong district of Assam, all the villages surveyed in Mokokchung district had a stabilized jhum cycle wherein jhum blocks were permanently demarcated and jhumming was carried out in one particular block in a given year by the entire community. Hence the jhum cycle followed a definite pattern with a fallow period corresponding to the number of blocks. Therefore, contrary to popular belief, the jhum cycle had remained unchanged for many centuries in these Mokokchung communities. Several villages surveyed were, in fact, in the process of carving out new blocks that would lead to a further increase in the jhum cycle. While some view shifting cultivation as an inefficient form of agriculture, an impediment to the progress of forestry and an agent of destruction to biodiversity, others consider it a diversified system well adapted to local conditions and less destructive than forest exploitation for timber. Amidst such contrasting views it is important to recognize that for the ethnic communities of the region, jhum cultivation plays an important cultural role in local customs, traditions and practices, as well as offering economic security to farmers. However, there is no single clearcut approach in sight to manage the complex issues arising from calls to end shifting cultivation, on one hand, or to support and extend it as environmentally benign and culturally vital, on the other.What is needed is a multi-pronged strategy that supports decentralized, participatory, multi-stakeholder, interdisciplinary and adaptivemanagement approaches that respect human and cultural diversity, gender equity, security of livelihood and environmental stability where both traditional knowledge and scientific information are valued and built upon. The shifting-cultivation areas of the northeast exhibit one of the best examples of community-controlled and managed common-property resources in the country. These areas ensure equitable tenurial access to production resources for all community members irrespective of the ownership of land. Farming and forestry as practised in jhum cultivation are strongly based on customary common-property regimes, a wealth of indigenous and ecological-knowledge systems and existing customary institutions. Changes to any one of these components would affect the others as well. The main areas of concern are changes in the tenure regime, from the present common property to private property, with access restrictions leading to disparity in asset-creation and wealth-generation opportunities, rapid erosion of self-sufficiency for the poor, leading to their marginalization, and the erosion of the powers and control of traditional institutions. Provisions of the Indian Constitution, such as Articles 371(a), 371(g) and the Sixth Schedule, as well as legislation in the states, have recognized these traditional bodies in the form of village councils, autonomous councils and others that can plan, formulate and execute their own developmental plans, especially with regard to the management of land and its resources.

Chapter 15. Earning carbon credits through fallow management  311

Climate change and the northeast

Climate change has emerged as one of the most serious environmental and socioeconomic concerns of our times. It is a global phenomenon with diverse local impacts likely to alter the distribution and quality of our natural resources and adversely affect the livelihood of people, especially in poor and marginalized communities. As a latecomer to the nation’s development processes, and with per-capita greenhouse-gas emissions barely a fraction of the national average, and an order of magnitude below that of the industrialized states of the country, the northeast’s economy is closely linked to its natural-resource base and climate-sensitive sectors. The risk of negative impacts from climate change is therefore increased in the case of agriculture and forestry in the northeast. The region needs to adopt a climate-friendly, equity-based, sustainable-development path that takes into account the ‘common but differentiated responsibilities and respective capabilities’ of its people and its development priorities, objectives and circumstances. As well as adopting measures for mitigation of, and adaptation to, climate change, the region should actively pursue the creation of carbon sinks and bring them into the carbon market domain as Afforestation/Reforestation Clean Development Mechanism (A/R CDM) projects under the Kyoto Protocol. This would enhance the carbon-sequestration capacity of existing forests and enable carbon trading in the voluntary carbon market through verified emission reductions (VERs) and through conservation and management measures aimed at taking advantage of REDD+, as and when it becomes operational. The jhumming communities in northeast India are both aware of, and affected by, climate change. This was clearly evident during the survey of 40 villages in Assam and Nagaland, when more than 90% of respondents at both sites said they had noticed changes in the climate (Figure 15.3). Most respondents – 48.5% in Karbi Anglong and more than 72% in Mokokchung – felt that the climate was warmer, and around 40% at both sites said they had noticed that there was less rainfall and

FIGURE 15.3 

Changes in the climate as observed by communities in Assam and Nagaland

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that this had become associated with a reduction in water resources.The other major change (noted by nearly 20% of respondents at both sites) was that the seasons were different; some even said that they could not cultivate their crops at the right time and reported a lack of water for cultivating crops. People at Mokokchung reported more unpredictability, and more storms. Just over 21% reported reduced yields in Assam, while this figure was much higher (78.8%) at Mokokchung, in Nagaland. At both sites, around 20% felt that the changed climate was unhealthy and likely to adversely affect their environment and means of livelihood. Jhumland and the Clean Development Mechanism (CDM)

The Kyoto Protocol provides three mechanisms by which developed countries with quantified emission limitations and reduction commitments can acquire greenhousegas reduction credits. These are Joint Implementation (JI) for the creation of Emission Reduction Units (ERUs), International Emissions Trading (IET) and the Clean Development Mechanism (CDM) for the creation of Certified Emission Reductions (CERs). While the first two mechanisms are relevant only for developed countries, under CDM, a project proponent from a developing country can take up a greenhouse-gas reduction project and trade the CERs with developed countries. This serves the dual objectives of enabling developed countries to comply with their emission-reduction commitments while developing countries can move towards their sustainable-development goals. While CDM projects can be designed for a host of activities ranging from the energy and transport sector to solid-waste management projects, emissions reduction and sink enhancement through afforestation and reforestation are ideal choices for designing a CDM project in that part of northeast India that is affected by shifting cultivation. The exact quantity of jhumland available for designing CDM projects is not known because the area under jhum is inconsistent. However, based on an assessment made between 1987 and 1997, the Forest Survey of India puts the cumulative area under shifting cultivation in India’s northeast at 1.73 million hectares. Other estimates include 7.4 milllion ha (by the Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations in 1975), 2.8 million ha (by the North Eastern Council in the same year) and 3.8 million ha (by the Task Force on Shifting Cultivation in 1983) (MoEF, 2003; Darlong et al., 2008). The highest jhum intensity is in Nagaland, where as much as 33.2% of land is affected by this practice, while in Arunachal Pradesh the figure is only 2.5% (Darlong, 2004). However, the area of land in the northeast region that is under shifting cultivation and eligible for CDM projects has been estimated at 0.6 million ha (Kant and Katwal, 2003). The survey of 40 villages in Assam and Nagaland found that the proportion of village areas sown with crops was greater in Nagaland (2.4% in Karbi Anglong and 5.6% in Mokokchung), as was the proportion of settled land (2.9% and 4.1%, respectively). Forests covered 80% of the Mokokchung villages and 84% of those in Karbi Anglong. The proportion of land in fallow was similar in both districts, i.e. 2.94% in Karbi Anglong and 2.77% in Mokokchung. However, the point worth

Chapter 15. Earning carbon credits through fallow management  313

noting is that the term ‘fallow land’ has been used only for the current fallow, i.e. jhumland in its first year of fallow, having recently been abandoned after one or two years of cropping. Hence, the area shown as forest in Figure 15.4 would mean not only primary forest but also secondary jhum fallows in various stages of re-growth, depending on the existing jhum cycle. Given a jhum cycle of 12 years, the percentage of actual fallow land would be 29.4% and 27.7% in Assam and Nagaland respectively, and land affected by jhumming would be 31.77% in Assam and 33.3% in Nagaland, almost the same as the overall state percentage of 33.2%. Since fallow lands are abandoned and left unmanaged for the entire period of fallowing, any interventions in the form of afforestation and/or reforestation would undoubtedly be in addition to the ‘business-as-usual’ scenario in a shifting-cultivation landscape, thereby fulfilling the ‘additionality’ criterion of approved methodologies for CDM projects. ‘Leakage’ in a CDM project indicates that greenhouse-gas (GHG) effects outside of the project boundaries can be directly attributed to the CDM activities. For example, lands reforested under a CDM project would no longer be available for grazing and if, because of this, the grazing of livestock was shifted to another forest area, this negative GHG effect would have to be accounted for as ‘leakage’ from the CDM project. Due to the absence of ploughing and use of draught animals in jhumming, leakage due to grazing would be almost non-existent and leakage due to food production insignificant. In any case, after cropping for two years, food-production activities would shift to another jhum block, whether a CDM project began at that point or not. There would also be no significant ‘leakage’ as a consequence of collecting firewood, because normal practice involves collecting firewood from shifting-cultivation plots in the first year, during forest clearance and before the fields are burnt for cultivating crops.Therefore, the traditional practice of shifting cultivation seems to inadvertently fit perfectly into the CDM scheme of things, as far as ‘additionality’ and prevention of leakage are concerned.

FIGURE 15.4 

Land-use patterns in Assam and Nagaland

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Eligibility of jhumland for implementation of an A/R CDM project would also need to be clearly demonstrated. It would be simple to show the land as a nonforested area at the beginning of the project. Shifting-cultivation plots are first cleared and burned for agriculture and the very few remaining trees are well spread out, to avoid shading the crops. Hence, vegetation on any current jhum field would be below the forest threshold of 15%. Shifting cultivation has been practised since time immemorial by most of the traditional communities of the region. It would be quite obvious that current jhum lands had not been temporarily ‘unstocked’ because the forest had been harvested, or because of natural causes, but had been cleared in order to grow a shifting-cultivation crop, and this would form the baseline activity in the area. However, because of a lack of government land records for jhumlands, coupled with the complexities involved in procuring high-quality satellite images of an area, evidence showing the lands as unforested on a particular date is extremely limited. Nevertheless, under a stabilized shifting-cultivation system with fixed jhum blocks and a strong land-use regulatory mechanism controlled by traditional village institutions, reliable information on the land-use pattern, going back to more than

FIGURE 15.5 

jhum blocks

Jhum-cultivation cycle for 120 years showing 11 fixed

Source: Mongsenyimti Village Council, Mokokchung district, Nagaland

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100 years, can be obtained through participatory rural appraisal (PRA) or existing village records (Figure 15.5). Emerging trends in shifting cultivation

There is a widespread assumption that jhum with a long fallow period was a sustainable practice in the past, and that because of population pressure, the jhum cycle has drastically decreased and has become inefficient and unsustainable. The evidence in support of this belief is weak and there does not seem to be a direct relationship between population increase and a decrease in the jhum cycle. In fact, among many communities practising jhum in a stabilized jhumming regime, the situation seems to be just the reverse. Rapid modernization with better education and employment opportunities outside the village has led to a steady decline in the number of families practising jhum. Since shifting cultivation is almost solely dependent on a family’s own labour force, the migration of the younger generation to urban areas leads to an acute shortage of labour for jhumming. As a result, demand for land for shifting cultivation and with it, food production, has fallen – so much so that jhumming communities cannot sustain themselves on the food they produce for more than nine to ten months in a year. The present practice of shifting cultivation has been stressed by both external and internal forces, and it is imperative that an enabling environment be created in order to address the urgent livelihood and ecological concerns arising out of rapid transformations driven by development and other externalities, including market forces. Until a couple of decades ago, eradication of jhum through various schemes aimed at ‘weaning jhumias away’ from a ‘primitive and destructive system of agriculture’ and leading them towards more sustainable and productive sedentary farming systems was a general policy trend in India. However, since numerous government programmes and packages seeking to eradicate jhumming have met with little success, recent trends have shifted towards fallow management and enhancement of FIGURE 15.6  A roadside sign in Nagaland’s productivity, rather than eradication of Kohima district encourages jhum farmers the practice. The government-sponsored to plant trees in their swiddens. Carbon Joint Forest Management programme for credits would make this good practice much better. afforestation and reforestation activities Photo: Malcolm Cairns (1996) is now being integrated into the jhum

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fallow-management effort (Figure 15.6). Good results are now coming from many governmental and non-governmental initiatives. If forestry activities on fallow lands are given the right technical support and adequate financial assistance, there is ample scope for bringing them into the carbon-market domain and earning tradable CERs for the economic benefit of jhumming communities. Jhumming communities are now, more than ever, willing to explore alternative livelihood options, such as plantations (both forest and horticulture), biofuels, nontimber forest products and others. Although these communities own and control vast tracts of land (more than 90% in Meghalaya and more than 80% in Nagaland), it is safe to say that they are ‘resource rich, but cash poor’.With the advent of globalization and a market-driven economy, jhumming communities are likely to become increasingly marginalized unless innovative and lucrative options for their livelihood are made available. It is essential that these options are socially and economically acceptable to the communities, are implementable in the field and are strongly based on the concept of sustainable development. The ecological significance and fragility of these areas of high biodiversity, coupled with the poor economic status of the people, necessitate an integrated approach. The survey in Assam and Nagaland clearly indicated that jhumming communities feel the need to diversify their livelihood activities, and their top three choices for diversification are land- and forestry-based (Figure 15.7). These plantation-based activities are their own options, and if they dovetailed with an A/R CDM project, this would be a natural extension of the same activity with tangible benefits flowing to the communities.

FIGURE 15.7 

Possible alternative livehood choices chosen by survey respondents in Assam and Nagaland

Chapter 15. Earning carbon credits through fallow management  317

Conclusion

With thousands of hectares of good, productive land going into fallow every year, and with hundreds of underprivileged jhumming communities in transition and ready to seek livelihood opportunities outside of the age-old practice of shifting cultivation, it seems appropriate to be moving towards an arrangement that recognizes the conservation, social and economic needs of tradition-bound communities while simultaneously addressing the larger issue of climate change. This can be achieved by adopting a more integrated form of management that focuses on the interface between concerned government agencies, communities and other stakeholders, and the role that external agencies like non-governmental organizations can play in brokering appropriate institutional arrangements. The process of designing, verifying and registering a CDM project based on afforestation and reforestation is long and drawn-out and requires considerable finance and technical expertise. Since these are way beyond the means of jhumming communities, such a path would necessitate the conscious and decisive support of concerned external agencies. Alternatively, forest and wood-based industries could invest in afforestation and reforestation programmes on fallow lands through plantations of fast-growing species with an appropriate rotation period corresponding to a fixed jhum cycle. This would result in the additional harvesting of a tree crop without disturbing the agricultural pattern of the jhumias, since a community with a 10-year jhum cycle could harvest the tree crop in the 10th year, supply the timber and bole crops to industries and retain sufficient biomass to support two years of cropping. Afforestation activities could begin again within the agricultural crops, to be tended by farmers with no extra effort during the two-year cropping period. The introduction of this ‘shifting forestry’ concept to the existing system of shifting cultivation would not only ensure a sustained supply of raw materials to woodbased industries without pressure on natural forests, but would also put hard cash, a commodity in extremely short supply, in the hands of jhumias and serve the dual purpose of conservation and climate-change mitigation as well. Given the region’s exceptionally good regeneration status, well-managed fallow land growing suitable tree crops would likely give a substantial yield of wood and sequester a considerable amount of carbon, which, up to the present, has never been taken into account. This is where an appropriate investment and benefit-sharing mechanism would have to be brokered between the concerned parties, be they government, communities, industries or other institutions. As elaborated above, the system of shifting cultivation as traditionally practised has, by default, created an enabling environment conducive to the implementation of small-scale CDM projects based on afforestation and reforestation. With meticulous planning and proper implementation, this model could prove to be a win-win situation that addresses the pressing issues of alleviating poverty, sustainable development and climate change.

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References Darlong, V. (2004) To Jhum or Not To Jhum: Policy Perspectives on Shifting Cultivation, The Missing Link, Guwahati, Assam, India Darlong,V.T., Amba, J., Ningshen, J., Keishing, S. and Vashum,T. (2008) ‘Transforming shifting cultivation for sustainable land use and livelihoods: A study from Ukhrul district of Manipur’, in K. Moses Chalai, V. Darlong and A. Marbaniang (eds)Towards a Just and Lasting Change, North Eastern Region Community Resource Management Project (NERCORMP), Shillong, Meghalaya, pp145–165 Forest Survey of India (1999) State of Forest Report 1999, Forest Survey of India (FSI), Ministry of Environment and Forests, Dehradun, India Kant, P. and Katwal, R. P. S. (2003) ‘Exploring possibilities of reforestation of forest lands exposed to encroachment and shifting cultivation in North Eastern India through the Clean Development Mechanism’, in Proceedings of the National Workshop on Technological Innovations and Research Advancements for Application in Joint Forest Management, Indian Council of Forestry Research and Education (ICFRE), Dehradun, India, pp153–159 North Eastern Council (1975) Report on Shifting Cultivation, North Eastern Council, Shillong, Meghalaya, www.fsi.nic.in/fsi_projects/Report%20on%20Shifting%20cultivation.pdf, accessed 15 May 2014 Task Force on Shifting Cultivation (1983) ‘Report to the Department of Agriculture and Cooperation’, Government of India, in L. Pulamte (1994) Shifting Cultivation in Tribal Farming Systems of Manipur: A Diagnostic Study, PhD dissertation to the Division of Agricultural Extension, Indian Agricultural Research Institute, New Delhi

Note 1 Figures 15.2 through 15.6 are sourced from an interim analysis report being drafted by Dr P. Hollington, Dr P. Kant and Ms I. Ao, and may not be used in any form until publication of the final report.

16 FORMAL AND INDIGENOUS FORESTMANAGEMENT SYSTEMS IN CENTRAL VIETNAM Implications and challenges for REDD+ Mucahid Mustafa Bayrak, Tran Nam Tu and Paul Burgers* Introduction

Various studies have pointed out that forests are valuable resources for the global fight against climate change. Deforestation alone contributes roughly 20% of global anthropogenic carbon-dioxide emissions – eight gigatonnes, or eight billion tonnes, of carbon dioxide per year (Singh, 2008). The international community recognized the importance of forests in reversing and mitigating global climate change in 2007, by introducing the Reducing Emissions from Deforestation and Forest Degradation programme (REDD), during the 13th Conference of the Parties – the governing body of the United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change – in Bali. In 2010, the REDD+ programme was introduced in Cancun, Mexico during the 16th Conference of the Parties. REDD+ is a programme that provides for developed, or ‘Annex-1’ countries, to pay-developing, or ‘Non-Annex’ countries, to conserve their forests through a system of carbon credits, since forests, and especially tropical forests, are huge carbon sinks. While previous global climate negotiations had focused only on avoided deforestation (RED) and forest degradation (REDD), REDD+ also recognizes sustainable forest management, enhancements of carbon stocks and improved forest protection (Phelps et al., 2010; Blom et al., 2010; UN-REDD, 2010; Agrawal et al., 2011). By including forest-management options, REDD+ may reach the ultimate managers of forests – the local communities who live in and around them and depend in one way or another on forests for their livelihood. In this respect, many authors (Anderson, 2009; Blom et al., 2010; Ghazoul et al., 2010; Cronkleton et al.,

* 

Mucahid Mustafa Bayrak, PhD candidate, Department of Geography and Resource Management, Faculty of Social Science, The Chinese University of Hong Kong; Tran Nam Tu, Institute of Development Studies, Hue University of Agriculture and Forestry, Hue City, Vietnam; Dr Paul Burgers, Plant Production Systems, Wageningen University, the Netherlands.

320  Bayrak et al.

2011; Mustalahti et al., 2012; Bolin and Tassa, 2012) have pointed out that REDD+ can only succeed if forest-dependent communities are successfully involved and are receiving the benefits of REDD+ in an equal and transparent manner. Vietnam is viewed as a potentially suitable REDD+ country, in which rural communities and indigenous peoples could benefit from financial compensation for conserving carbon. Therefore, Vietnam has become one of the pilot countries of the UN-REDD+ programme. Over recent decades, it has been actively involved in linking decentralized forest management with forest conservation and reforestation, through community involvement, poverty alleviation, payment for environmental services and benefit-sharing mechanisms (Hoang et al., 2011). Vietnam has a forest cover of 38% and a rural population estimated in 2010 to represent 70% of the total population (Binh, 2009; CIA, 2012). The rural population consists of more than 50 ethnic minority groups, living in and around the forests. It has been commonly assumed that these indigenous communities in particular will benefit from REDD+ interventions, as they traditionally depend on the forest for their livelihoods.To begin with, they have, over many generations, developed forest-derived agricultural systems, mostly consisting of shifting cultivation of rice and other food crops. In addition, they have developed indigenous forest-management systems ensuring a sustainable supply of non-timber forest products, ranging from medicinal plants to firewood and wild vegetables, while ‘ghost forests’ are very well-protected forest areas that are believed to be inhabited by spirits. These forests usually coincide with areas that have important ecological functions. Although these forest-management systems have enabled the communities to use and manage their forest areas sustainably, this all changed when the Vietnamese government introduced its country-wide Forest-Land Allocation Programme in 1991. The programme, broadly aimed at protecting the forest and reducing poverty, became law in 1993. Farmers and households can receive forest land for long-term use, and are encouraged to protect and restore forest cover. But despite this form of ‘ownership’, it is still the government that decides how the land can be used. So the following questions arise: To what extent has the Forest-Land Allocation Programme incorporated and built upon the successful and sustainable forest-management practices of indigenous communities in order to achieve its goals of forest protection and poverty reduction? Has the government’s programme forced a deterioration of these often sustainable forms of land use and forest management? The research area

In order to determine whether the Forest-Land Allocation Programme is suited to specific management conditions in indigenous communities, and therefore represents a good opportunity for REDD+ interventions, we will look at the ways in which forest-land allocation arrangements offer opportunities or challenges for naturalresource management by two indigenous groups in Central Vietnam: the Co Tu and the Bru-Van Kieu. The Co Tu community we selected lives in the Thuong Lo commune of Nam Dong District, in the South of Thua Thien Hue province, in

Chapter 16. Formal and indigenous forest management  321

FIGURE 16.1 

Research areas in Central Vietnam

Vietnam’s Central region. The Bru-Van Kieu community lives in the Huong Hiep commune of Dakrong district, in nearby Quang Tri province (Figure 16.1). For generations, both groups have practised shifting cultivation with long forest fallows to restore soil fertility, and have developed specific forest-management systems enabling them to make use of the forest in a sustainable way. The similarities between the two groups enable a comparison of the impact of forest-land allocation on the livelihoods of the Co Tu and Bru-Van Kieu. The main difference between the two groups lies in the fact that forest-land allocation has been completed in the Co Tu community, but only partly implemented in the Bru-Van Kieu community. Local forestry agencies suggested that the forest-land allocation process would be completed in the Bru-Van Kieu community sometime in 2013. These different stages of policy implementation allowed us to examine the impact and success of forest-land allocation in integrating traditional natural-resource management systems with the government’s ecological objectives, and to assess possible improvements to REDD+ policies so that they fit with local knowledge of sustainable forest management. Co Tu and Bru-Van Kieu society

In traditional Co Tu society, the village is the grassroots unit under commune government, with boundaries that are well defined by traditional institutions. Co Tu society is based on clan and kinship with social ties between other villages. A typical Co Tu village consists of 30 houses, with a communal longhouse that is its social, cultural and religious centre (Tuan, 2004). Traditionally, Co Tu villages consist of

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different clans and families, and the exchange, inheritance and transfer of land and forests usually takes place within the clans (Tuan, 2006; Arhem, 2009). Each village has a patriarch who is in charge of the social, cultural and spiritual affairs of the community and its forest management. Bru-Van Kieu society is similar in many ways to that of the Co Tu. Besides having the same administrative units, they also have a village patriarch with similar responsibilities. In both groups, the village patriarch is elected by the village elderly and plays an essential role in the life of his community. He is deeply experienced in crop cultivation, religious worship and the social aspects of his village, and is also in charge of natural-resource management and of solving problems of a social and resource-management nature. He also decides on the annual distribution of land to village households, to be used for shifting cultivation. The original shifting-cultivation system

Our research among the Bru-Van Kieu and Co Tu revealed great similarities in shifting-cultivation practices. Traditionally, households own or inherit at least five plots of forest land for swiddens, where rice and cassava is cultivated in a rotational system. Although these are the main food crops, the villagers also plant corn and other crops, such as bananas. After cropping, a fallow period of three to five years is allowed for forest re-growth and recovery of soil nutrients. The village patriarch maintains control of forest use and allocation through a system of rituals, laws and fines for offences. Both the Co Tu and the Bru-Van Kieu have religious beliefs that not only encompass utilitarian issues, but also uphold socio-cultural and spiritual values (Arhem, 2009). Both groups are also experienced and knowledgeable hunters and fishermen, and since, according to their cosmology, animals can also be possessed of spirits, some particular animals (such as tigers) are regarded as best left alone, in order to keep the spirits at peace. In order to cultivate food crops as part of their shifting-cultivation systems, both groups carefully choose a plot of land that has been used before. According to the extensive ethnographic research of Arhem (2009), the Co Tu, for instance, consider areas that have not previously been cultivated as dangerous, because they could be occupied by spirits or ghosts. If a household decides to clear a piece of unknown forest land, the village patriarch and elderly villagers have to first conduct several rituals and observations before deciding whether the plot is suitable for shifting cultivation or should be left alone. Among other considerations, they will never exploit forests on the top of a mountain, because this could disrupt water sources; and they will not agree to clearing primary forest for shifting cultivation, because it is not only very hard work, but such forests also produce an abundance of nontimber forest products. The village patriarch divides available forest land among the clans, and the clan leaders then divide it among their individual households. These traditional institutions divide the land by looking at the characteristics of the main trees, including their shape, and on this basis the villagers tell what type of forest

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land it is: old forest, recycled forest and so on (Bayrak et al., 2013). The patriarch and elderly villagers also ascertain whether a particular plot is occupied by mean-willed spirits, and this kind of assessment can only be made after the necessary rituals are performed. Forest classifications and forest tenure

As mentioned earlier, the Co Tu, Bru-Van Kieu and other highland minority groups base their forest-management systems on coexistence with a broad pantheon of spirits, believed to exist in all things within their environment. They believe that the forests and the hills, as well as their houses and villages, are occupied by both good and bad spirits and ghosts, and that these entities not only influence the environment, but also people’s health and well-being (Arhem, 2009). The forests that surrounded them are thus intertwined with their livelihoods and forest-use practices, and make up a vital part of their cultural, social and spiritual lives (Salemink, 2003; Dang and Schuyt, 2005; Arhem, 2009; Bayrak et al, 2013). The traditional cultural institutions of the Co Tu and Bru-Van Kieu govern land use, land ownership, tree tenure, water-resource management and forest management (Tuan, 2006; Arhem, 2009). Our research revealed that the Co Tu divide forests into four types, in line with the classifications revealed by Tuan (2006) and Arhem (2009). Again, these traditional forest classifications are common in most respects to both the Co Tu and the Bru-Van Kieu. Ghost and spirit forest

The Co Tu are animists who believe that every stream, river and hill, as well as particular stones, animals or trees, are possessed by spirits. Some are benevolent, while others are considered dangerous, not only to individuals, but also to the whole village. As well, the Co Tu believe in ghosts, particularly those of dead clan or family members. If they have not received a proper funeral, or they die unexpectedly, they are believed to roam around in the forest. According to the Bru-Van Kieu patriarch of Phu An village in Huong Hiep commune, his village’s ghost forests are called Khe Meo and Bo Ho, and they are located three kilometres from the village. These are old natural forests that are believed to be possessed by unknown or evil spirits and ghosts. The Bru-Van Kieu bury their dead in these places, and anyone caught violating these forests by exploiting them faces a fine imposed by the village patriarch and the village elders. The violator will have to sacrifice a pig or a buffalo to escape the wrath of the spirits. According to Bru-Van Kieu cosmology, like that of the Co Tu, the entire village could be collectively punished by a spirit if the ghost and spirit forest is exploited, so it is of the utmost importance that the traditional rules and customs are observed. One Co Tu villager who acknowledged his reputation as a poacher explained that he did not dare to enter the ghost and spirit forest because he was afraid of being possessed. He said the ghost forest of his village was marked

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by a big stone and was called Khe P’rao (Bayrak et al., 2013). The poacher told the tale of four people who entered a ghost and spirit forest to hunt for a tiger. Soon after entering the forest, two of them were possessed by spirits and turned into tigers. The other two men reacted by killing these ‘tigers’. According to Arhem (2009), the Co Tu and Bru-Van Kieu believe that their entire landscapes are inhabited by as many spirits as there are humans, animals and plants. They do not make a distinction between ‘nature’ and ‘culture’, which is a mindset seemingly shared by many forestdependent communities (Pálsson, 1996; Trakansuphakon, 1997; Aisher, 2007). Headwater or water-protection forest

These forests are used to protect water sources. Cutting timber in these forests is allowed only when it is in the interests of the entire community. Forest for exploitation

These forests are used for shifting cultivation, cutting wood for the communal longhouse or coffins, and collecting non-timber forest products.There is no individual ownership of non-timber forest products. They may be harvested by anyone who finds them, or may be marked by someone who finds them to indicate his or her possession, if he or she is unable to carry them home straight away. According to Arhem (2009), forests for exploitation are rarely older than 30 years. Traditionally, the Co Tu identify two regimes of land and forest tenure: common property and private property. There are three levels of common property: that belonging to the community, to a clan or family, or to a household. Ghost, spirit and headwater forests, as well as grasslands, are owned by the village, so they are common property. Land for swidden cultivation, gardens and residential land are considered private property, managed by individual households (Tuan, 2006). While non-timber forest products can be collected by anyone who finds them, swidden plots are owned by, and are part of the overall rotational systems of, individual households – so land is still privately owned when it is fallow. Conflicts over forest use within villages or between villages are resolved by village patriarchs through negotiations and punishments meted out to wrongdoers. Every villager is expected to abide by the rules, norms and laws of the village, and the village patriarch always has the final word. In this way, the village patriarch plays a crucial role in the sustainable management of natural resources, including land and forest areas. All of this changed dramatically when the government’s forest-land allocation policies were implemented in the research areas. Processes of change: The forest-land allocation policies

For several decades, Vietnam has been struggling with the enormous challenge of reforming forest governance through decentralization and devolution. This began at the time of the ‘doi moi’ economic reforms, which directed the country towards

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a ‘socialist-oriented market economy’ in the mid-1980s, and which have since dominated government policy-making. The move towards more decentralized forest management was a response to the state of devastation that was typical of the country’s forests at that time. The Vietnamese government recognized that topdown, state-controlled forest management had not been effective. A major reason for the country’s forest losses was over-exploitation by the large-scale logging activities of State Forest Enterprises. ‘Agent Orange’, the defoliating chemical sprayed by American forces during the Vietnam War, also caused dramatic damage to Vietnam’s forests. Finally, the swidden-farming practices of small households, including whole communities of shifting cultivators, were seen as a major cause of ongoing degradation and loss of forests. During the postwar period after 1975, infrastructure expansion, the establishment of timber plantations, government resettlement programmes and internal colonization and migration further added to deforestation. Tu and Burgers (2012) identified at least five important changes in Vietnam’s policies that reflected the new approach of decentralized forest management: • • • • •

Land classification and rules for forest protection based on the Laws on Forest Protection and Development in 1991 and 2004. Allocation of land-use rights to private organizations and households, based on the 1993 and 2003 land laws. Recognition of communities as legal recipients of forest- and land-use rights in 2004. Afforestation programmes. Innovative reforms of State Forest Enterprises, requiring them to become selffinanced, which should lead to more efficient and more sustainable forms of logging.

These changes enabled the government to allocate 30% of total forest land in Vietnam to non-state actors, mainly individual households, groups of households, local organizations and communities. They became the recipients of legal rights to use, manage, protect and develop forest land (de Jong et al., 2006; Floriane and Jaime, 2009; Thi, 2009). This so-called ‘socialization process’ of forest management was intended to strengthen forest protection and management and integrate forest development (including the rehabilitation of degraded forest lands) with economic development and poverty alleviation (Castella et al., 2006; Hoang and Son, 2008). Under the Forest-Land Allocation Programme, forests are divided according to ecological criteria into three categories: production, protection and special use. Special-use forests are off limits for people wishing to use them. They hold high levels of biodiversity and remain under state forest control.They are usually designated as national parks. In protection forests, local people are allowed to collect non-timber forest products and timber for their own use (not for sale). When forest-land allocation began, these forests were assigned to state forest organizations. However, in 2004 and 2005 they

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became available for allocation to local communities; to become community forests. Now, village communities or groups of households within a community can receive protection-forest areas and manage them communally. In many cases, ghost and spirit forests and headwater forests, mentioned earlier, have been designated by the formal agencies as special-use or protection forests. Production forests are reserved for exploitation, in compliance with management and development plans approved by the forestry agency. These are mostly established on former swidden plots and barren or degraded lands, and are usually allocated to individual households. Local people can receive a land-use certificate – a so-called ‘Red Book’ – for these lands. The new forest classifications have also brought new types of management and control. Previously, land use had always been organized through the village patriarch. Now, local people must apply for rights to long-term use of forest land at commune level, through government agencies like Commune People’s Committees and Forest Management Boards. At village level, the position of village leader has been introduced, and this person, representing the local government at village level, is elected by the villagers.The responsibilities of village leaders include communication between villagers and local authorities for obtaining rights to use certain types of forest land at village level. The village leader works in parallel to the village patriarch. These newly introduced forest classifications have had effects on existing indigenous forest-management systems in the Co Tu and Bru-Van Kieu communities. On one hand, it could be argued that these policies allow indigenous communities the opportunity to obtain official recognition of their indigenous forest lands. On the other hand, it is questionable whether the new delineation of forest areas according to ecological criteria is in line with forest-management systems that have been in place for generations. Case study 1: The effects of forest-land allocation on shifting-cultivation communities in Thuong Lo commune, Thua Thien-Hue Province Shifting cultivation and land tenure

In the eyes of the Vietnamese government, the shifting-cultivation practices of the Co Tu people in Thuong Lo commune were destructive of forests. In order to minimize deforestation caused by slash-and-burn practices and to stabilize the lives of the forest-dependent Co Tu, a sedentary-farming and resettlement programme was initiated in 1975. Under this programme, the Co Tu were given agricultural land for resettlement, including flat land for irrigated rice cultivation. However, many Co Tu continued to practise shifting cultivation, until the implementation of the Forestry Law in 1991 and the Land Law in 1993, when all forests and forest lands were placed under state management. Shifting cultivation became illegal, and use of the forest for gathering all kinds of forest products was highly restricted. Food had to come from irrigated rice fields and gardening, although not every household was able to secure land for these purposes.

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Acacia auriculiformis Benth [Leguminosae] Farmers are encouraged to plant Acacia species in former swiddens

The Forest Land Allocation Programme reached the Thuong Lo commune in the early 2000s. It was set up to allocate natural forests and land classified as forest land (but not necessarily covered with forest). Part of the natural forest in Thuong Lo commune was classified as protection forest. Government guidelines decreed that the forest would no longer be managed by the entire village, but so-called household groups could apply for rights to

long-term use of this protection forest. The status of other forest areas in the village, including the total area used for shifting cultivation, was also changed. Under the Forest-Land Allocation Programme, shifting-cultivation land, including fallow areas, is viewed as highly degraded forest. This land is targeted for forest restoration and reclassified as either production forest or protection forest. Land-use certificates (the so-called ‘Red Books’) are issued to individuals, giving them rights to use land classified as production forest for 50 years. These plots are usually former shifting-cultivation areas. The Red Books provide rights to long-term use of specific land plots, so these plots can no longer be used as part of the village’s shifting-cultivation territory. In the case of areas classified as protection forest, even more land is taken out of the shifting-cultivation cycle, and out of food-crop production. Of the total number of Co Tu households we surveyed after the implementation of forest-land allocation, 27% were still relying on shifting cultivation, even though it was considered an illegal activity. They had not been able to obtain land-use rights under the new policy. Because all forest areas had been reclassified, either as production forest or protection forest, forest-land allocation had shortened the average period for which shifting-cultivation plots were allowed to remain fallow. Previously, each household had, on average, three to five plots of shifting-cultivation land – even eight plots in the case of some large households. Nowadays, each household is left with only one or two plots. The inability to fallow the land for long enough to recover its fertility, along with fiercer competition from weeds, has caused a tremendous reduction in food production. For instance, uplandrice productivity is only 200 to 400kg/ha, compared to about 600kg/ha before the use of land for shifting cultivation was restricted. The Co Tu now suffer long periods of food shortage, with one group amounting to about 40% of the village population facing food shortages for one to six months every year. This situation is aggravated by the fact that because of the shortages, the need for a cash income increases. Hence, the little land that is left for cultivation is now often

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used to plant cassava as a food and cash crop for processing factories, which are within easy reach of the villages. Competing forest-management claims

Forest-land allocation has not only restricted the amount of land available for food production, but new village boundaries, set by the state, regularly conflict with former traditional village-land boundaries. The new boundaries have been set according to ecological criteria, and follow catchment areas. They regularly cut through indigenous boundaries that formerly demarcated different traditional village territories (Tu and Burgers, 2012). This causes confusion and increases the challenges of forest management among people from different villages, who may not be aware of the changed boundaries. For example, many residents of a village neighbouring Thuong Lo commune were unaware of new boundaries established by the ForestLand Allocation Programme. This meant that the neighbouring villagers did not recognize the allocation of a community forest to a group of Co Tu people. They continued to enter and use the forest area; they claimed that parts of the forest and their non-timber forest products still belonged to their village – as they had for centuries. The result was a kind of vacuum in responsibility for managing the forest, with the whole situation regarded in the short, rather than long term.Various survey respondents explained that if they could not immediately harvest non-timber forest products and other useful products from their community forest, outsiders would take them and they would be left with nothing. The village patriarch could not help; he had lost his power to make decisions, and his role was increasingly marginalized. Case Study 2: The dynamics and challenges of a commune in transition, in Quang Tri province Changes in forest-management systems

In Huong Hiep commune, shifting cultivation is still practised by members of the Bru-Van Kieu community, even though every interviewed household in the commune also owns wet-rice fields, ranging in size from 300sq m to 4000sq m. The government has invested heavily in a water-supply system to the wet-rice fields and villagers are being encouraged to plant Acacia trees on former swidden plots. Similar to the Co Tu villagers of Thuong Lo commune, most of the households who practise shifting cultivation in Huong Hiep commune have been able to secure rights to only two or three plots of land. After clearing the forest and vegetation on one plot at a time, they plant rice or corn. However, all of Huong Hiep’s shifting cultivators say they used to have more swidden plots in the past and it has become much more difficult to practise traditional swiddening, because of government policies and deteriorating soil quality. Those villagers who have opted out of shifting cultivation now plant cassava on the land available to them, intercropped with Acacia trees. Depending on their level of poverty (a status fixed by government guidelines), poor households are given

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15kg of rice per month – a handout that will continue for seven years as a form of compensation for their loss of swidden rice farming. After seven years, it is assumed that they will harvest the Acacia trees, and sale of the wood will then enable them to buy their own rice. All Bru-Van Kieu households interviewed for this study believed steadfastly in the existence of their ghost and spirit forests. All villages in Huong Hiep commune still had between two and six ghost and spirit forests, managed under the leadership and supervision of the village patriarch. The forest-protection unit of Huong Hiep commune even mapped the ghost and spirit forests in its formal forest-classification map, as may be seen in Figure 16.2, and therefore explicitly acknowledged their existence. However, it remains to be seen whether these ghost forests will be acknowledged by the formal institutions when the commune’s forest-land allocation is finalized. A possible explanation for the more prominent place held by ghost and spirit forests in the mindsets of selected Bru-Van Kieu interviewees could be the absence in Huong Hiep commune of educational programmes offered by the government and non-governmental organizations on forest conservation and forest-land allocation. In the Co Tu communities, by comparison, such programmes have been in existence for almost a decade, and the general thinking of Co Tu people is one of support for the ecological functions of forests. Forest conservation and forest-land allocation has not yet appeared on the agenda in Huong Hiep commune for a number of reasons.

FIGURE 16.2 

Land-use classifications in Huong Hiep Source: Huong Hiep Commune (2012)

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First, there is no national park in Quang Tri province, whereas Bach Ma national park borders on Thuong Lo commune in Thua Thien Hue province. Second, Quang Tri province, as the former demilitarized zone, has other, more urgent priorities, such as the removal of unexploded ordinance from the Vietnam War, to attract the attention of NGOs. Changed role of the village patriarch

In both the Co Tu and Bru-Van Kieu communities, the village patriarch now has to share his powers with the village leader, under the Forest-Land Allocation Programme. While all patriarchs still serve many traditional functions, such as giving advice and making rulings related to local culture, customs and beliefs, their role in forest-management systems varies considerably. In all villages, it seems that the tighter the grip of the formal institutions on village life, customs and organization, the greater the loss of power and authority suffered by the village patriarch. In Thuong Lo, the community’s forest-management board is led by the village leader, who is working closely with the district office, the agricultural and forestry office, commune rangers and the World Wide Fund for Nature. Basically, the village patriarch has been left out of the whole formal forest-management process. While he still holds considerably more respect, probably because of his age, it seems that in his village, the village leader is able to play a more pro-active role, especially in relation to forest-land allocation and formal regulations.Villagers appear more eager to consult the village leader about forest-conservation policies and land allocation, rather than the village patriarch, whose role has narrowed, mostly to advice on sociocultural matters. In the Bru-Van Kieu communities, some households are nominated by the village leader as being eligible for membership of the village forest-management board, where they are paid for their involvement in forest protection. However, since the district has not yet begun to allocate forest land to communities or households, the majority of non-contracted households has relatively little to do with formal forest-management arrangements. Huong Hiep’s commune forest officer said the village patriarch was still the most important institution in the villages, and this was supported by many household interviewees. Therefore, Huong Hiep commune may be seen as a typical pre-forest-land allocation site, where traditional institutions still seem to be in force. However, it seems logical to predict that the further the ForestLand Allocation Programme progresses, the more of his authority the patriarch will have to concede to the village leader. Since shifting cultivation has been formally banned and formal institutions and outside agents are now able to stipulate how local people can make use of the forest, we wonder what duties and responsibilities the village patriarch will have left when it comes to forest management. As may be expected, this will vary among different communities. In the Co Tu community, where forest-land allocation has covered the entire village territory, the patriarch’s role has become a mainly advisory one,

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consulting villagers about customs, such as how to celebrate a wedding or a burial ceremony. He also leads the villagers in the community’s festivals. However, the kind of patriarch who once decided which forest land could be exploited and which should be left alone, and who divided the swidden plots among the villagers based on utilitarian and spiritual beliefs, has disappeared. If local villagers violate the sacredness of ghost and spirit forests, they no longer need to fear punishment by the patriarch and the spirits: they have to answer to the commune Acacia mangium Willd. [Leguminosae] rangers of the forest-protection unit. Poor families are given monthly rice handouts for seven years to plant this and While Huong Hiep commune other Acacia species, to be harvested for remains in the transitional phase, the timber majority of villagers are expected to adhere to traditional management systems. However, a dual fining system has arisen with regard to the prohibited exploitation of ghost and spirit forests. If villagers violate the customary rules, the village patriarch will fine them and they will be expected to offer a pig or a buffalo to settle the ire of the spirits. However, if commune rangers – who are not members of the village management board – catch a villager practising shifting cultivation in a ghost and spirit forest, or illegally logging in such an area, then he or she can also impose a fine. According to the commune forest officer, it will be 2013 at the earliest before Huong Hiep commune, and Dakrong district, have the capacity to allocate forest land to the communities. Discussion

Vietnam has taken up the enormous challenge of reforming forest governance through decentralization and devolution, and has recognized the central position of local communities in managing forests. Forest-land allocation policies are meant to facilitate the devolution process. Although communities and individual households are recognized as legal recipients of forest land, they cannot decide for themselves how they will use and manage the forest land or forest; government bodies make these decisions.This system does not seem to be working well for indigenous communities accustomed to their own natural-resource management systems that have been operating for countless generations. In shifting-cultivation communities, the changes

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have slashed the production of home-grown food crops, because shifting-cultivation land is now under state control and is no longer available. As well, considerable areas of forest are going without any form of protection or management because of disputes over boundaries; whether traditional ones still apply, or new boundaries set by state officials on ecological grounds must be recognized. In these cases, short-term exploitation of forest resources seems to prevail, as everyone feels that the resources are theirs to take – before they are grabbed by someone else. This is aggravated by the fact that in many cases, protection forests are already highly degraded and it will be another 10 to 15 years before natural regeneration allows them to offer any useful or beneficial products. In such circumstances, further deterioration of forests can be expected, rather than a strengthening of forest protection. Under the rules of a tradition that is now almost lost, the village patriarch would have been the person to resolve these kinds of conflicts. Our analysis has shown that once forest-land allocation is fully implemented, the village leader and government organizations take control and the role of the village patriarch becomes more and more marginalized. The village patriarch has always been a crucial figure in sustainable forest management and benefit-sharing mechanisms based on the need to use available land. Nowadays, benefit-sharing mechanisms are geared more and more towards financial opportunities. Forest land is allocated to certain groups of households or individual households that have the financial resources to manage or establish forests according to government rules. We found that social differentiation within villages is increasing. In the Co Tu village, for instance, poor households that succeeded in obtaining land-use rights under the forest-land allocation policies found that they were unable to invest in the land. In production forest areas, in particular, official policies stipulate that either rubber or Acacia trees must be planted. The large investments needed to establish such plantations, and the long wait of at least seven years before any benefits can be expected from the trees, has forced many poorer households to sell their land. In many cases, they became labourers on their former production-forest land. Conclusion

This chapter points to the fact thatVietnam’s newly introduced structures do not seem to represent a workable solution for either forest regeneration or poverty reduction. Long waiting periods, increased food shortages with the loss of shifting cultivation, and the bypassing of existing methods of sustainably managing forests by denying active participation from local communities, hold both challenges and opportunities for improved pro-poor forest management in Vietnam. REDD+ programmes might be a useful tool to improve this situation. Communities involved in a REDD+ project need to be involved in every step of its implementation – from free prior and informed consent to community-based carbon monitoring and equal benefit sharing among all community members. It is often the case that only richer households are aware of beneficial projects in their area, while poor households, which often depend completely on forests, are left uninformed and are excluded from the benefits of

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community-based forest-conservation projects, such as REDD+. Vietnam’s forestland allocation policies seem to have unintentionally resulted in richer villagers benefiting more than their poorer counterparts. Furthermore, communities need formal and secure forest-tenure rights in order to successfully implement REDD+, and in the case of Vietnam, it would be vastly preferable if forest-land allocation to communities reflected, as closely as possible, their traditional tenure arrangements. Much can be learned from the indigenous resource-management systems that have been in place for centuries among the Co Tu and Bru-Van Kieu. Building upon the traditional forest-management arrangements of local people would ensure social and cultural sustainability, an important factor in forest protection. Our research clearly indicates that ghost and spirit forests are a good example of how indigenous forest management has been able to protect high-value forests. Changing the status of these forests by adopting unknown categories such as ‘protection’ and ‘special use’, while dismissing their spiritual background, may present obstacles for communities to continue protecting these high-value forests. Village patriarchs could play an important role in REDD+ projects, giving them back their former function as indigenous experts on forest matters. Carbon payments, either in cash or through food support, could remove the dread of long periods of waiting for forests to become productive and profitable, and open the way for Vietnam’s protection forests to be truly protected by committed and contented communities. References Agrawal, A., Nepstad, D. and Chhatre, A. (2011) ‘Reducing emissions from deforestation and forest degradation’, The Annual Review of Environment and Resources 36, pp373–396 Aisher, A. (2007) ‘Voices of uncertainty: Spirits, humans and forests in upland Arunachal Pradesh, India, South Asia’, Journal of South Asian Studies 30 (3), pp479–498 Anderson, N. (2009).‘REDDy or not? The effects on indigenous peoples in Brazil of a global mechanism for reducing emissions from deforestation and degradation’, Journal of Sustainable Development 2 (3), pp18–28 Arhem, N. (2009) In the Sacred Forest: Landscape, Livelihood and Spirit Beliefs among the Katu of Vietnam, SANS Papers in Social Anthropology, Göteborg University, Göteborg, Sweden Bayrak, M. M., Tu, T. N. and Burgers, P. (2013) ‘Restructuring space in the name of development: The socio-cultural impact of the Forest Land Allocation Program on the indigenous Co Tu people in Central Vietnam’, Journal of Political Ecology 20, pp37–52 Binh, B. M. (2009) ‘Rattans of Vietnam: Ecology, demography and harvesting’, PhD dissertation, University of Utrecht, the Netherlands Blom, B., Sunderland, T. and Murdiyarso, D. (2010) ‘Getting REDD to work locally: Lessons learned from integrated conservation and development projects’, Environmental Science and Policy 13, pp164–172 Bolin, A. and Tassa, D.T. (2012) ‘Exploring climate justice for forest communities engaging in REDD+: Experiences from Tanzania’, Forum for Development Studies 39 (1), pp5–29 Castella, J. C., Nguyen, H. T. and Novosad, P. (2006) Impact of forestland allocation on land use in a mountainous province in Vietnam’, Land Use Policy 23, pp147–160 CIA. (2012) The World Fact Book,Vietnam, United States Central Intelligence Agency, available online at: https://www.cia.gov/library/publications/the-world-factbook/geos/vm.html, accessed 29 July 2013

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Cronkleton, P., Bray, D. B. and Medina, G. (2011) ‘Community forest management and the emergence of multi-scale governance institutions: Lessons for REDD+ development from Mexico, Brazil and Bolivia’, Forests 2, pp451–473 Dang, T. N. and Schuyt, K. (2005) Economic Benefits of the A’Vuong Watershed in Vietnam to Indigenous Ka Tu People, report prepared for the Indochina Program Office of the World Wide Fund for Nature, Hanoi/Gland, Switzerland de Jong, W., Do, D. S. and Trieu, V. H. (2006) Forest Rehabilitation in Vietnam: Histories, Realities and Future, Center for International Forestry Research (CIFOR), Bogor, Indonesia Floriane, C. and Jaime, M. A. (2009) ‘Afforestation and forestry land allocation in northern Vietnam: Analysing the gap between policy intentions and outcomes’, Land Use Policy 26, pp458–470 Ghazoul, J., Butler, R. A., Mateo-Vega, J. and Koh, L. P. (2010) ‘REDD: A reckoning of environment and development implications’, Trends in Ecology and Evolution 25, pp396–402 Hoang, D. H. and Son, D. K. (2008) Forest and Land Allocation in Vietnam: Policy and Practice, available at www.gtz-mnr.org/vn, accessed 29 July 2013 Hoang, M. H., Do,T. H., Pham, M.T., van Noordwijk, M. and Minang, P. A. (2011) ‘Benefit distribution across scales to reduce emissions from deforestation and forest degradation (REDD+) in Vietnam’, Land Use Policy 31, pp48–60 Mustalahti, I., Bolin, A., Boyd, E. and Paavola, J. (2012) ‘Can REDD+ reconcile local priorities and needs with global mitigation benefits? Lessons from Angai Forest, Tanzania’, Ecology and Society 17 (1) Pálsson, G. (1996) ‘Human-environmental relations: Orientalism, paternalism and communalism’, in P. Descola and G. Pálsson (eds) Nature and Society, Routledge, London, pp63–82 Phelps, J.,Webb, E. L. and Agrawal, A. (2010) ‘Does REDD+ threaten to recentralize forest governance?’, Science 328, pp312–313 Salemink, O. (2003) The Ethnography of Vietnam’s Central Highlanders: A Historical Contextualization, 1850-1900, Routledge, New York, London Singh, P. P. (2008) ‘Exploring biodiversity and climate change benefits of community-based forest management’, Global Environmental Change 18, pp468–478 Thi, S. H. (2009) Gains and Losses: Devolution of Forestry Land and Natural Forest – A Study of Forest Allocation in North Central Coast,Vietnam, SLU Service/Repro, Uppsala Trakansuphakon, P. (1997) ‘The wisdom of the Karen in natural resource conservation’, in D. McCaskill and K. Kampe (eds) Development or Domestication? Indigenous Peoples of Southeast Asia, Silkworm Books, Chiang Mai, pp205–218 Tu, T. N. and Burgers, P. (2012) ‘Decentralized forest governance in central Vietnam’, ETFRN News 53, pp240–249 Tuan, H. H. (2006) ‘Decentralization and local politics of forest management in Vietnam: A case study of a Co Tu ethnic community’, Journal of Legal Pluralism 52, pp169–206 Tuan, L. A. (2004) ‘An investigation into the changes in meaning of the Padil Yaya symbol in the Katu culture’, Vietnam Social Sciences 104 (6), pp45–60 UN-REDD (2010) About the UN-REDD Programme, United Nations Collaborative Programme on Reducing Emissions from Deforestation and Forest Degradation in Developing Countries, available online at http://www.un-redd.org/AboutUNREDDProgramme/tabid/583/Default.aspx, accessed 29 July 2013

17 CHANGING STRATEGIES OF SHIFTING CULTIVATORS To match a changing climate Prasert Trakansuphakon*

Introduction

Thailand comprises 77 provinces. It covers 513,115 square kilometres and had an estimated population of 63,525,000 in 2012, making it very similar in both size and population to France (Worldatlas.com, 2012). Indigenous peoples in Thailand are usually referred to as ‘hilltribes’, but are sometimes known as ‘highland people’ or ‘highland communities’. The total population of these communities is nearly 926,000, spread across 21 provinces in the north and west of the country. The 10 officially recognized ethnic groups are Akha, Hmong, H’tin, Karen, Khmu, Lahu, Lisu, Lua, Mien and Mlabri. The Karen are the biggest group, with a population of about 411,670, most of whom still rely heavily on rotational farming, or shifting cultivation. In the first part of this chapter, I will focus on the realities of rotational farming in ‘normal’ climatic conditions; describing its benefits in terms of food security and biodiversity conservation, the management strategies of swidden farmers as they strive to cope with increasing constraints, and the carbon-sequestration characteristics of fallow forests that counter some official claims that shifting cultivation releases greenhouse gases and, therefore, exacerbates climate change. In the course of this examination, I will propose that the rotational-farming systems of certain Karen communities are, in fact, truly sustainable forms of agriculture. The second part will focus on increasing anomalies in weather and atmospheric systems, the impact of these upon rotational farming, and how farmers are adapting to cope with changes in both the climate and their environment.

* 

Dr Prasert Trakansuphakon – himself a Karen – is Regional Director of the Indigenous Knowledge and People’s Network – a regional network of indigenous community-based organizations covering Myanmar, Cambodia, the Lao PDR, Southwestern China, Thailand and Vietnam.

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The rotational-farming systems studied and described in this chapter are those of the Karen people, who call themselves the Pgaz K’Nyau – a name first chosen by a subgroup known as the Sgaw Karen. It means ‘human beings’. They have perfected a system of rotational agriculture that is governed by their overall philosophy on management of land and forests. This philosophy is expressed in an ancestral poem called Auf hti k’ tauz hti auf kauj k’ tauz kauj, meaning ‘Live with the water, care for the river; live with the land, care for the forest’. In the Karen language, rotational agriculture is called hsgif–quv, which means ‘fallow farming’ or ‘farming based on, or following, the cycle of fallow’. The key issues and the challenge

In all countries of South and Southeast Asia, government policies on shifting cultivation have been driven by the rhetoric of developmentalists on one hand, and environmentalists on the other. Governments seek to protect forests from what is seen as an ecologically harmful practice, modernize what is considered a backward form of agriculture, and control and integrate into the wider population groups of people who are viewed with suspicion because of their ‘nomadic’ way of life. In one way or another, all of these policies seek to restrict or eradicate shifting cultivation. A particularly harmful aspect of these policies is denial of indigenous people’s rights of access to natural resources, since forest land – perhaps the most important natural resource – is vital to traditional rotational farming.This has become a chronic problem because government forest departments manage natural resources in a linear or monolithic way; only government officers have the right to manage the forest and control the part the forest plays in rotational agriculture. Local people are not allowed to manage or even co-manage the forest resources nurtured over generations by their ancestors. Alongside this, some highland projects working with cash crops enjoy full rights of access to the forest, with government support. In this atmosphere of discrimination, local or indigenous people, armed only with their cultural rights and long tradition, are losing their access to natural resources to outsiders with legal rights who are backed by government policy. The recent climate-change discourse has taken the debate on shifting cultivation to a new and global level. Detractors now claim that shifting cultivation is a source of carbon emissions, and this contributes to climate change. Existing prejudices, laws and programmes have thus been reinforced with little concern for the people affected by them. In northern Thailand, state officials have been arresting people for burning slashed swiddens. They are accused of ‘causing deforestation and a rise in temperature’. The latter charge appears to be a specific reference to climate change, adding a new dimension to the so-called ‘crimes’ of practising shifting cultivation. Later in this chapter, these claims and accusations will be examined more closely. Despite the official persecution, shifting cultivation continues, and indigenous farmers are learning to cope with abnormal weather conditions that many now see as the early consequences of climate change. In 2010, northern Thailand experienced

Chapter 17. Changing strategies of shifting cultivators  337

a very long dry season, with high temperatures. The rainy season began later than normal, and then the rainfall was less than usual. This had a severe impact on many upland farmers, who were relying on terraced paddy fields, rotational farming and others types of rain-fed cultivation. In the following year, the tables turned. The rain came too early in 2011 and the final six months of the year saw the country’s worst recorded flooding disaster, with 65 of the 77 provinces declared disaster zones and more than 20,000 square kilometres of farmland damaged.1 Although the rain was good for paddy fields, shifting cultivators found that they were unable to burn successfully because of the wet weather. The abnormal weather pattern of 2011 is just one of the events that will be discussed later in this chapter, when I focus on how farmers have adapted their traditional rotational agriculture practices in order to maintain their livelihoods. Traditional rotational farming and livelihood of Karen people

Rotational farming, as it is practised by the Karen people, is a cultural and physical integration of forest and agriculture; it is a type of agroforestry that stresses the connection between the agricultural system and the ecosystem. After a brief period of cultivation, the fields are allowed to lie fallow, allowing for forest re-growth and regeneration of the soil, promoting rich plant nutrients and balancing the land, water and forest to provide for a continuing system of agriculture. The cycle aids the regeneration of fauna and flora and consequently upholds biodiversity, conserving both animals and plants. Thus, in villages such as Seif Dof Saf in Mae Chaem district, Chiang Mai province and Mae Umphai in Mae La Noi district, Mae Hong Son province, more than 200 plant species have been recorded, due to farmers maintaining five to seven years of fallow (Ganjanapan et al., 2004). Moreover, rotational farming is not a standalone system, but is usually integrated with other livelihood systems such as terraced paddy fields, kitchen gardens, animal husbandry, and hunting and gathering. Nowadays, the length of the fallow period differs from area to area. Different practices have been incorporated into traditional farming, which is regularly affected by pressures from external forces and government policy. These changes are reflected in the words of a Karen hta (poem), as follows:2

Doo yauv ploj geiz hkoov geiz hpaiv, t’ hkwa n’ cauv hsgif baf lai?’ (There are good fallow areas to prepare for the next farming cycle, so why do you continue to farm in the same area as last year?) This shows the current instability of rotational farming, because it has been forced to transform into other types of cultivation by the many conditions imposed upon it from outside. In Thailand, for example, research in 11 upland villages (Figure 17.1) has found that over the past three decades of state enclosure, upland rotationalfarming communities have altered their agricultural systems in three directions. The first direction, called ‘transformation with sustainability’, seen in Seif Dof Saf and

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FIGURE 17.1 

Locations of the study villages in northern Thailand

Mae Umphai villages, is based on a rotational cycle of six or seven years. The second, ‘transformation with a combination of livelihood alternatives’, is practised in Hin Lad Nai village, Chiang Rai province and Mae Lan Kham village, Chiang Mai province. It maintains a cycle of five to seven years, but with some of the fallow area devoted to agroforestry. The third direction, ‘transformation with dependence on the market’, such as in Khun Pae, Chiang Mai province, and Pang E Ka, Chiang Rai province, has a fallow cycle of less than three years (Ganjanapan et al., 2004). It can, thus, be seen that rotational farming is not static, but always dynamic; changing or transforming into diverse alternative solutions (Ganjanapan et al., 2004). Importantly, the need for the system to change or transform is normally based on the requirements of the farmers themselves, and not on external demands. If changes are forced by external pressures, this creates definite risks to the long-term sustainability of traditional rotational farming. It is believed that the future of rotational farming lies with the second system, ‘transformation with a combination of livelihood alternatives’. This may produce solutions to many of the challenges the system currently faces, including those of increasing population and climate change. However, the future may well be dictated by external conditions – those beyond the control of the farming communities. As well as every other externally imposed constraint, there is that created by lack of understanding. Rotational farmers believe that the fallow is the ‘backbone’ of their rotational-farming system, and without an adequate fallow period, the system will fail. On the other hand, it is a common belief among policy-makers that fallow land is idle and unproductive; therefore it may be allocated to some other land use. In other

Chapter 17. Changing strategies of shifting cultivators  339

words, fallow land is ripe for land grabbing.To help to achieve a closer understanding of the importance of their fallow land to swiddening communities, the following is a Karen view of how a fallow field ‘develops’. In the first year of fallow, the field is called Hsgif auf mei, meaning ‘eating rice fallow’. Rice stems can still be easily seen, even though it may be one year since the harvest. Several kinds of vegetables and tubers can be gathered from this field. The young grasses also attract small animals. The second year of fallow is called Hsgif wa, which means ‘white fallow land’. Small bushes are developing at this stage, and their white flowers cover the field. Based on a study at Mae Lan Kham village in Samoeng district, Chiang Mai, villagers can find 16 kinds of wild food plants, seven wildlife species and seven kinds of herbs in first- and second-year fallows (Ittipon-olan, 1998). The third year of fallow is called Hsgif bauf, meaning ‘young fallow’. Tree trunks left when the field was cleared are sprouting and growing taller. Soon, young trees will overcome other bushes. At this stage, bigger wild animals may be found in the fallow. The fourth year of fallow is called Hsgif loov htauf, or ‘adolescent fallow’. Trees and bamboo thickets are fully grown.Various kinds of birds are attracted to the area. Ten plant species with various uses, four kinds of bamboo, 13 kinds of wildlife and 12 bird species can be found in third- and fourth-year fallows. The fifth year of fallow is called Hsgif yauv ploj, meaning ‘young mature fallow’. Some trees, such as Indian gooseberry, wild chestnut and Syzygium cumini, start bearing fruit and this attracts wild animals. Studies have shown that fifth- and sixthyear fallows have 75 species of plants that can be used as food, or provide wood or herbal medicine. They may also have as many as 12 animal and 30 bird species. Fields that have been fallow for seven to 10 years are called Doo lax, meaning ‘old fallow – land for cultivation’. At this stage, the area looks like a natural primary forest and the soil has regenerated to its full nutrient capacity. Such a field is ready to be opened again for new cultivation. Fallows in their seventh to 10th years may offer 35 kinds of food plants, trees for various uses, herbal medicines and 19 species of bird life (Ittipon-olan, 1998). The name Karen people use for land that has been fallow for up to six years is Hsgif. This means fallow land that is in the process of regeneration. When the fallow period extends over seven years or more, the name changes to Doo lax, meaning ‘land for cultivation’. This reflects the belief that fallow land needs to undergo a full process of regeneration before it is ready once more for cultivation. If the fallow period is shortened, it is not an essential cycle of rotational farming. Karen people call rich fallow land that has undergone more than seven years of fallow Doo baf hsgif cauv, meaning ‘rich black soil – land wet [with] honey water’. This is land in perfect condition for rotational agriculture. Studies have also thrown up some convincing arguments against the common claims that the needs of an increasing population force rotational farming to become unsustainable, and that rotational farming is a cause of soil erosion. In all 11 villages studied by Ganjanapan et al. (2004), the area of land used for rotational farming had decreased over the preceding 10 years, despite population increases. Rain-driven soil

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erosion in fallow land was shown to decrease as the fallow became older. Average soil erosion was less than 0.1 ton per hectare per year and did not affect the quality of water in the ecosystem (Ganjanapan et al., 2004). The bounty found by upland villagers in their fallowed swiddens, and studies that have, time and again, refuted the claims and accusations levelled against swiddening, all point to an agricultural system that feeds millions of upland dwellers while protecting forests and conserving biodiversity. But what of climate change? Have policy-makers drawn a plausible corollary from the fact that burning releases carbon into the atmosphere, and are they therefore correct in accusing shifting cultivators of releasing unacceptable quantities of greenhouse gases into the atmosphere? Research is already calling this claim into serious question. Several studies in Thailand, for example, have centred on the small forest communities of Hin Lad Nai, in Chiang Rai province, and Mae Lan Kham, in Chiang Mai province. As mentioned earlier, these villages are examples of the ‘transformation with a combination of livelihood alternatives’ pathway of change in rotational agriculture. They were chosen for study because of their self-sufficiency, clearly defined forest territories and their profound belief in resource conservation, which has led to a sustainable form of forest-based agriculture. The case of Mae Lan Kham

The study at Mae Lan Kham, in Samoeng district of Chiang Mai province, set out to investigate the structure and succession rate of vegetation at all fallow ages in rotational shifting-cultivation fields and, from this, to determine the carbon stocks of rotational fields at all ages of fallow (Mae Lan Kham community-IKAP-RECOFTC, 2014).3 Methodologies

A stock-based approach was applied in analysing above-ground carbon. This was considered an appropriate community-level method for examining the change of above-ground biomass in fields ranging from recently slashed to eight-year-old fallow. It was noted that underground root systems could sprout and re-grow within a year of a field being left fallow at the end of cultivation. Sample plots measuring 20 x 40 metres were established in fallow rotational fields aged from one to eight years and trees with a diameter of more than 4.5 centimetres were numbered. Plot angles were recorded using Global-PositioningSystem equipment. The local and common names of all trees were recorded, along with the diameter at breast height of each. The uses made by the villagers of all trees and other plants, including herbs, were noted. Data on diameter and height were then used to calculate the dry weight of whole trees, or biomass per tree, in the dry evergreen forest. The formulae used were developed by Tsutsumi et al. (1983), as follows:

Chapter 17. Changing strategies of shifting cultivators  341

WS WB WL h

= = = =

0.0509 (dbh2h) 0.919 0.00893 (dbh2h) 0.977 0.014 (dbh2h) 0.669 (85.6 dbh0.916) / (46.8 + 1.83 dbh0.916)

When WS, WB, and WL are dry weight (in kilograms) of stems, branches and leaves respectively; dbh is diameter at breast height (1.30m above the ground) in centimetres; and h is the height of trees in metres. The calculation of carbon stock per tree then involved multiplying the biomass per tree by the fixed value of 0.47 stipulated by the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC), and the individual tree values were then added up to calculate the carbon stocks in each of the 800sq-m sample plots. This produced figures for carbon stored in each age class of fallowed fields, from which could be calculated the carbonstorage capacity of rotational shifting-cultivation fields aged between one and seven years, and further, the volume of carbon emissions resulting from slashing and burning an eight-year-old fallow (Mae Lan Kham community-IKAP-RECOFTC, 2014). Structure and succession rate of plant society in rotational fields

It was found that after abandonment of cultivation, the rate of natural succession in the fallows was rather rapid. Regeneration of saplings and young plants was high over the first three years. In year one, none of the trees had a diameter larger than 4.5 centimetres. However, more than 2300 saplings per rai (0.16 hectare) regenerated from existing stems and 1981 young trees were counted. Inferior plant cover was widespread in the first and second years after cropping, and this helped to reduce topsoil erosion in young fallows. In the third year of fallow, the tree cover was visible, with larger trees succeeding the earlier ones. By the age of seven and eight years, the crown and topsoil covers were virtually complete (Table 17.1). As can be seen in Figure 17.2, trees in the second size-class range (15-25cm dbh) were abundant in rotational fields of all ages, as a result of succession of saplings. By the time they reached seven or eight years of age, there were trees in the sample plots big enough to use for construction purposes.This created a potential ability to collect carbon stocks in the form of wood products, to avoid burning larger timber trees. Emissions of carbon from rotational agriculture could thus be reduced by effective planning and tree management. The data were used to calculate and assess the amount of carbon stored in the vegetation of rotational fields of each age class from year three onwards, when the trees became large enough for carbon calculation (Table 17.2). The study found that the various age classes of fallow swiddens had a diverse capacity for carbon storage. This capacity was divided into three periods: in years three and four carbon storage amounted to between 1.3 and 1.6 tons per rai (8.125 to 10 tons per hectare); in years four and five the carbon-storage capacity was between 3 and 3.3 tons per rai (18.75 to 20.625t/ha), and in years seven and eight it was

342  Trakansuphakon TABLE 17.1 

Structure and succession rate of plant community in swidden fallows at Mae Lan

Kham

Age

Crown cover (%)

Soil cover (%)

Density of trees (per rai)

Succession rate Succession rate of of saplings seedlings (per rai) (per rai)

Year 1 0 50-60 0 1,981 2,300 Year 2 na na na na na Year 3 50-60 90-95 206 867 3,400 Year 4 70-95 90-100 100 1,531 6,800 Year 5 50-80 50-70 155 962 7,100 Year 6 na na 460 793 11,000 Year 7 60-70 70-80 460 560 3,900 Year 8 70-95 95-100 982 982 3,800 Notes: 1 rai = 0.16 hectares; na = not available (no trees with dbh >4.5cm found in a year-one fallow).

Source: Mae Lan Kham community-IKAP-RECOFTC (2014).

more than double this figure – between 7.3 and 7.8 tons per rai (45.625 to 48.75t/ ha) – because of the high growth rate at this fallow stage. Overall, the re-growing secondary forest in the fallow swiddens of Mae Lan Kham showed an increase in annual carbon-storage capacity of 1.02 tons per rai per year (6.375t/ha/yr). On the other side of the carbon equation, carbon emissions from burning 87 rai of eight-year-old fallows to begin the cultivation phase coinciding with the study amounted to 640 tons. (In cases of complete burning, the wood in the mature fallow is not processed into usable products, so as to minimize emissions.) Balancing this, fallowed fields between the ages of three and seven years had an aggregated carbon-

FIGURE 17.2 

Tree density, according to size class, in swidden fallows at Mae Lan Kham. Note: 1 rai = 0.16 hectares, GBH = girth at breast height. Source: Mae Lan Kham community-IKAP-RECOFTC (2014).

Chapter 17. Changing strategies of shifting cultivators  343 TABLE 17.2 

Age class

Carbon stocks in rotational cultivation fields, Mae Lan Kham

Area (rai)

Amount of carbon Carbon increment (tons/rai) (tons/rai/year)

Total carbon stock (tons)

1 year 145 0 0 0 2 year 203 na na na 3 year 150 1.65 0.55 247.50 4 year 162 1.38 0.35 223.56 5 year 211 3.07 0.61 647.77 6 year 119 3.32 0.55 395.08 7 year 114 7.83 1.12 892.62 8 year 87 7.36 0.92 640.32 Notes: 1 rai = 0.16 hectares; na = not available (in rotational fields of age classes 1 and 2 years, carbon calculations were not possible because the diameter of trees was less than 4.5cm). Source: Mae Lan Kham community-IKAP-RECOFTC (2014).

storage capacity of 572.69 tons, excluding the carbon in small trees with a diameter of less than 4.5cm. Therefore, it was found that the carbon emission and storage cycle in the shifting-cultivation fields of Mae Lan Kham must extend over eight years to maintain this virtual internal balance. The case of Hin Lad Nai

FIGURE 17.3 

Amount of carbon stored in trees, Mae Lan Kham

Note: 1 rai = 0.16 hectares. Source: Mae Lan Kham community-IKAP-

Hin Lad Nai is a Pgaz K’Nyau RECOFTC (2014). (Karen) community located in Wiang Pa Pao district, Chiang Rai province. It has 17 households and a population of 93 people. The community’s livelihood comes from rotational farming, terraced paddy fields, tea gardening and collecting food from the forest. The community’s forest, which covers 1524 hectares, provides basic needs for their lives. It is not only a source of food, shelter, herbal medicines and household energy, but is also the community’s main source of cash income. Since they are heavily reliant on natural resources, the villagers give priority to protecting their forest and using it with care. Their core belief is that living in harmony with nature lies at the heart of a sustainable community (Northern Development Foundation and Huay Hin Lad community, 2010). Hin Lad Nai’s most important cash crop is tea that is grown naturally in the forest. The village produces green, white and Chinese tea. They were once asked to grow Oolong tea, but they rejected the idea because this kind of tea required a lot of fertilizer.

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The community’s care of its forest resources is illustrated by a number of regular practices, such as the collection of bamboo caterpillars, a popular food from the forest. The caterpillars grow in bamboo stems, and are collected by cutting the stems. The villagers of Hin Lad Nai know which bamboo stems contain caterpillars, and they cut only those stems, whereas the common practice outside the village is to cut all the bamboo stems on a clump to collect the caterpillars.When it comes to collecting honey during the months from March to May, the villagers avoid destroying the hives or killing the bees. Moreover, 20 baht (US$0.67) per bottle is deducted from money earned from selling honey for the Forest Management Fund. During the fire season in March and April, fire breaks are cleared and the community appoints a fire-break team to survey and look after the forest. They have also formed a network with other communities up to watershed level, to protect the forest against fires. Areas around watershed forests and underground water sources are regarded as sacred. The community protects these areas and nobody is allowed to use this land, as the villagers believe it belongs to the spirits of the forest. One senior villager stated:‘We use agroforestry gardens at Hin Lad Nai as collective sources. For example, tea gardens: we collect the produce together, and this [harvest] is led by the owner of the tea garden. Each tea garden has an owner, which is a family, but the products are collected together as the common produce of the community. Thus, it is our responsibility to protect and nurture our resources and territory together’ (village leader Chaiprasert Pho Kha, quoted by Northern Development Foundation and Huay Hin Lad community, 2010). Food security from rotational farming with integrated agroforestry

Due to their farming system and lifestyle, the people of Hin Lad Nai have had secure food supplies for generations. More than 90% of the food consumed by village households is grown or occurs naturally in the village, which means that less than 10% comes from outside. The average cost of food per household is 1162 baht (US$39) per month, or about 38 baht ($1.27) per day, while the average household income is 4330 baht ($145) per month. Studies of food diversity in the village found that there were more than 90 types of food plants and 28 types of animal meat available to the community. As illustrated in Figure 17.4, about 54% of the food plants were gathered from rotational-farming fields, 33% from terraced paddy fields, and the rest from the community forest and tea gardens (Northern Development Foundation and Huay Hin Lad community, 2010). Household income in Hin Lad Nai comes mainly from tea, sales of non-timber forest products and domestic animals and wage labour. Income averages about 52,000 baht ($1745) per household per year, while expenditure is about 37,860 baht ($1270) per year. Average household debt amounts to about 3235 baht ($108) per year. While the tea gardens and the community forest are the major sources of income, rotational farming and terraced paddy fields are important for giving the community its food security.

Chapter 17. Changing strategies of shifting cultivators  345

Of the various non-timber forest products that provide the Hin Lad Nai villagers with income, one is a ‘jungle spice’ called ma khwaen (Zanthoxylum limonella). This is a tree that grows to about eight metres in height and bears FIGURE 17.4  Sources of food plants in Hin Lad Nai clusters of flowers. The dried community seed pods, for which there is considerable market demand, Source: Northern Development Foundation and are used as a spice by northern Huay Hin Lad community (2010). Thai people in soups and meat dishes. The Hin Lad Nai people create ma khwaen gardens in fallowed rotationalfarming fields, but, far from growing ma khwaen alone, the gardens include tea, rattan and natural forest species. Products are collected from many of them. The community’s energy consumption is very low when compared with that of city residents. The village’s main energy sources are the forest and the tea gardens, while some have to buy fuel outside the community. Firewood is the source of energy for cooking. It is collected as dry branches from dead trees. The villagers’ wood consumption is about two cubic metres of firewood per person per year, plus an additional one cubic metre per person per year for house construction. Consumption of petrol and diesel is about 32 and 29 litres, respectively, per person per year (Northern Development Foundation and Huay Hin Lad community, 2010). Rotational agriculture with integrated agroforestry reduces greenhousegas emissions

Measurements of carbon emissions and sequestration were conducted within the clearly delineated territory of Hin Lad Nai in 2010. It was found that forest in the process of recovering naturally from a period of clearing and cultivation had a high capacity for absorbing carbon, since this was necessary for growth. This confirmed earlier reports that rotational-farming fields, when left to recover for up to seven years, had a potential to absorb carbon (Blaser (2010), cited in Trakansuphakon and Kamphonkun, 2006). More precisely, it was found that rotational-farming fields had the capacity to absorb about six tons of carbon per hectare per year (Northern Development Foundation and Huay Hin Lad community, 2010). The study found that carbon storage in the community forests at Hin Lad Nai and two nearby communities, Hin Lad Nok and Pha Yeoung, covering 3119 hectares, was about 661,372 tons. Carbon storage in the farming areas of the three villages, which covered about 567 hectares and included swiddens, paddy fields and tea gardens, was about 59,459 tons.Total carbon storage in the three communities was therefore about 720,627 tons (Table 17.3).

346  Trakansuphakon TABLE 17.3 

Land and forest types

Capacity for carbon storage, Hin Lad Nai, Hin Lad Nok and Pha Yeoung villages

Hectares Percentage Carbon-storage of total capacity (tons/ha)

Carbon storage (tons)

Rotational 18.24 0.49 25 456 farming Terraced area 36.16 0.98 25 904 Fallow areas 236.16 6.38 17,167 (1-10 years) Tea gardens 157.12 4.24 179 28,124.48 Fruit trees 21.12 0.57 158 3336.96 Corn fields 93.60 2.53 99 9266.40 Grassland for 5.28 0.14 grazing Total land567.52 15.33 59,458.84 use area Total forest 3119.68 84.25 212 661,372.16 area Settlements 15.68 0.42 Total land 3703 100 720,627 Source: Northern Development Foundation and Huay Hin Lad community (2010).

Percentage of total carbon storage 0.06 0.13 2.41 3.90 0.46 1.29 8.22 91.78 100

Whereas the later study at Mae Lan Kham limited its findings to carbon stocks and emissions within the village’s rotational-farming system, the calculations arising from the Hin Lad Nai study covered entire village territories, including community forests.The results, detailed in Table 17.4, show that the villages, despite the emissions arising from their shifting-cultivation fields, can boast an overwhelmingly positive carbon balance. Recommendations for rotational-field management in the context of climate change

The two studies in northern Thailand demonstrated that shifting cultivation with a rotational cycle of seven or eight years was likely to maintain a balance between carbon storage in recovering fallows and emissions from slashing and burning. Effective carbon management, such as putting wood from swidden fallows to good use, rather than burning it, must be promoted as a means to help reduce emissions, leading to more carbon-balanced communities and enhancement of carbons stocks. However, while a carbon balance is likely when the swidden cycle covers seven or eight years or more, the big challenge is the widespread trend towards shorter periods of fallow, and how this affects the carbon balance. The shift to monoculture cropping has not only led to the loss of carbon balance, but also to other environmental

Chapter 17. Changing strategies of shifting cultivators  347 TABLE 17.4 

Carbon storage compared with carbon emissions over one agricultural year, rotational-cultivation areas of Hin Lad Nai, Hin Lad Nok and Pha Yeoung villages

Rotationalfarming stage

Hectares

Carbon storage Capacity (tons/ Tons hectare)

Carbon emissions (80%) Burning area (hectares) Tons/hectare

Cultivation 18.24 25 456 2.3 1st-yr fallow 31.84 12 478 2nd-yr fallow 29.92 27 898 3rd-yr fallow 27.52 43 1238 0 4th-yr fallow 24.48 59 1469 6 5th-yr fallow 21.60 74 1620 11 6th-yr fallow 32.32 90 2909 0.80 17 7th-yr fallow 14.88 106 1577 11.04 22 8th-yr fallow 20 121 2420 1.76 28 9th-yr fallow 16.16 137 2214 2.24 34 10th-yr 17.44 152 2651 2.40 39 fallow Total carbon storage: 17,643 Total carbon emissions: Source: Northern Development Foundation and Huay Hin Lad community (2010).

Tons

14 243 49 76 94 476

problems such as soil erosion, chemical pollution in upstream ecosystems and the loss of biodiversity and local food-plant species. Therefore, official policies should prioritize and promote the management of rotational-cropping systems together with sustainable forms of agroforestry that integrate local cultural dimensions. In order to mitigate climate change, a shifting-cultivation cycle of more than seven years should be maintained, as this can store large quantities of carbon and provide usable wood for construction and other purposes. Greenhouse-gas emissions from burning can be reduced by diverting carbon stocks into long-term storage within wood products made from swidden-fallow trees. Shifting-cultivation communities should be urged to conserve local plant species and stock food seeds such as rice, vegetables, taro and potatoes so that they can maintain their food security during periods of climate variability. Forms of agroforestry involving staple foods and usable timber are recommended to supplement products normally gathered from natural forests. The annual smoke-haze problem in northern Thailand

The burning of slashed swiddens every dry season, and the part played by this rotational activity in the annual smoke-haze problems of northern Thailand, has been a controversial issue for several decades. The ‘misdeeds’ of shifting cultivators

348  Trakansuphakon

in contributing to the annual haze have now been extended from producing smoke to include greenhouse-gas emissions, since climate change is now an issue of public concern.4 In 2012, from early February to early April, ambient biomass smoke, on top of the normal level of urban and industrial pollution, plunged most of northern Thailand into a dense, choking cloud that cut visibility to a few hundred metres and brought with it serious health issues.The pollution cloud lingered for two months, due to the low velocity of transport winds. It resulted in radiation levels for March that were the lowest recorded pan-evaporation readings for many years,5 with implications for health, irrigated-crop production, tourism and climate change. These were the effects of what has been called ‘global dimming’, or the ‘Asian brown cloud’. Britannica Online describes it as a large atmospheric brown cloud that occurs annually from about November through May over eastern China and southern Asia. It is caused by large amounts of aerosols, such as soot and dust, produced in the combustion of fossil fuels and biomass across the region. It has been linked to decreases in summer monsoon rainfall, declines in agricultural production and increases in respiratory and cardiovascular problems (Britannica Online, 2013). Sources of the biomass smoke

Shifting cultivators and their annual burning of biomass are often accused of being one of the main causes of the ‘Asian brown cloud’. However, the findings of the two village studies (above) suggest a different reality. In the case of Hin Lad Nai, the villages involved had a carbon storage capacity of about 720,627 tons, while the annual burning of slashed swiddens produced only 0.08% of that quantity in carbon emissions. This suggests a responsibly controlled release of carbon into the atmosphere, even though this was not a measure of released particulate matter, such as is responsible for the ‘Asian brown cloud’.6 Moreover, the burning of upland fields is usually tightly controlled. In any Karen village, the fires burn for only two or three days per year at the most, and even then for only one or two hours per day. Most importantly – in the case of Karen farmers – the burning occurs in March, and not earlier in the year when the ‘Asian brown cloud’ develops. Thus, shifting cultivators argue that their contribution to atmospheric smoke haze is miniscule, as is their role in producing climate change (Northern Development Foundation and Huay Hin Lad community, 2010). Where, then, does the smoke from biomass burning come from in northern Thailand? One starting point is a ‘smoke calendar’ showing the sources of fire, the months in which the smoke is produced and the agency or persons responsible (Table 17.5). PM-10 air-pollution levels in northern Thailand need to be carefully monitored every February and March so that steps can be taken to ameliorate the problem, by identifying the sources of ambient biomass smoke that contribute significantly to the atmospheric pollution.

Chapter 17. Changing strategies of shifting cultivators  349 TABLE 17.5 

The smoke calendar

Sources

Time of year

Responsible persons

Urban burning, leaves, charcoal fires Roadside fringes

All year

Urban and rural population

December to March (a Highway authorities serious source of smoke in February and March) Lowland crop residues December to March Farmers burn rice straw for second cropping Upland crops and forests February to April Farmers burn feed-corn stubble and other cash-crop residues; fallen forest leaves burned to encourage mushroom growth Hilltribe crops February to April Swiddens burned for subsistence rice Foreign countries December to May Fires in Myanmar, Lao PDR Notes: The concentration of particulate matter in the air is strongly influenced by local meteorological conditions associated with the northwest monsoon. These will often determine whether PM-10 levels in northern Thailand are dangerous. In 2012, the weather contributed to high PM-10 levels from early February to April (Hoare, 2013).

Does Karen burning of swiddens contribute to air pollution and climate change?

For many decades, the Karen rotational-farming system has been recognized for its conservation of forest biomass by keeping the area burnt within the size of the current year’s planned hill-rice crop, and for delaying burning until mid-March and then getting it all done in a short period. Thus, the smoke from Karen swiddens is in the air for a shorter period and does not represent a major public-health issue. However, other shifting cultivators start burning in February or earlier, producing large amounts of smoke in the second half of March, particularly in Mae Hong Son province, where about half the hilltribe population is Karen and there is little lowland area. To minimize the effects of burning on human health and climate change, it should first be accepted that fire is essential to rotational farming systems, given the present level of agricultural technology on steeply sloping lands with marginal productivity. The question then is how to ameliorate the use of fire. In this regard, the agricultural and agroforestry systems of Hin Lad Nai provide an example to be followed by other shifting cultivators. Reducing dependence on swiddens by introducing and integrating agroforestry systems, such as the tea and ma khwaen gardens of Hin Lad Nai, will release some swidden land so it can return to permanent forest. Importantly, an increase in off-farm income could reduce the need for upland communities to grow subsistence rice in swiddens. Increased income would include remittances from

350  Trakansuphakon

younger-generation villagers who have gained an education and are working in towns. A year-round educational and training programme is also proposed, following by the success of the Upper Nan Watershed Management Project in northern Thailand. Over a period of four years between 1998 and 2002, the Karen model was used to push swidden burning back to mid-March in a cooperative educational effort involving Royal Forest Department watershed-management staff and communities including northern Thai, Khmu, Hmong and Yao people. Before the project, the fires began in early February. Shifting cultivators adapt to abnormal weather

Two years earlier than the smoke-haze event described above, weather conditions in northern Thailand were very warm in 2010, with an abnormally long dry season. The rain came very late, and then there was very little of it.This had a serious impact on many people, particularly upland farmers whose subsistence systems relied on terraced paddy fields and rotational farming. The shortage of water meant that only small areas of terraced paddy fields could be planted, and even then, yields were very low. For example, one Karen leader, Phaw Luang Jorni Odochao, from Nong Tao community in Mae Wang district, Chiang Mai province, said he normally harvested more than 300 buckets of rice from his paddy fields.7 In 2010, the yield was only 20 buckets. Some paddy fields were abandoned because of the lack of water, and people whose livelihoods were based on wet-rice farming, rather than rotational farming, had to suddenly sell their labour by taking jobs in lowland communities to earn cash. They used this money to buy rice from outside markets instead of producing it for themselves. Surprisingly, during the long dry period between May and July or August in 2010, swiddens still produced almost normally, suggesting that rotational farming was better able to cope with abnormally dry weather than paddy fields. Nevertheless, yields from swiddens were still lower than normal, and a serious consequence was a decrease in plant and seed varieties because not all species were capable of growing and maturing in the high temperatures. Some failed to germinate or were taken by birds or insects during the long wait in the ground for vital moisture. As well as damage at swidden level, the upland ecosystem suffered badly in late 2010 because of uncontrolled fires sweeping through the tinder-dry forests. Even farmers who normally controlled their swidden fires rigidly found they were unable to contain the flames before they swept into adjoining forests, creating widespread damage. In the following year the weather moved to the opposite extreme, with too much rain, particularly during March, April and May, when upland farmers were trying to burn and clear swiddens for rotational farming. Rainwater tumbling from the northern highlands of Thailand began a torrent that swept south to create the country’s worst floods in living memory. The year 2011 was nevertheless a good

Chapter 17. Changing strategies of shifting cultivators  351

one for upland paddy-field production, because of the surfeit of water and generally cooler weather. Yields from terraced paddy fields were about 100 buckets of grain from one bucket of seed, about double that of 2010. In a reversal of conditions in the general upland environment, the abnormally wet conditions brought forth the greatest diversity of plants and seeds that many people claimed ever to have seen.This included plants the likes of which farmers declared they had never seen before. But the bounty in nature was not reflected in the sodden swiddens. The farmers’ biggest problem was burning their fields in the damp and dismal conditions. A return visit to the Karen community of Mae Lan Kham found that the farmers were attempting by a variety of means to spark fires to clear and fertilize their slashed fields. A common solution was gathering the slash, including felled trees, into large piles and burning it as thoroughly as possible. However, at best, this covered patches of the swidden; some farmers managed to clear only small spaces, others did better. Their success in what became a labour-intensive effort to tend and feed the reluctant fires depended on the labour each could attract to his or her swidden. Eventually, most households ended up planting smaller fields than they would in normal weather. Another solution adopted by a few households was to simply abandon their swiddens and turn to alternatives, such as accepting small spaces in terraced paddy fields, where they could attempt to replace the lost crop. A third solution involved farmers physically removing the slash, including whole trees, from their fields following unsuccessful attempts to burn it. They then sprayed the fields with herbicides to control the growth of grass and other weeds – as a substitute for the weed-suppression functions of the usual fires. However, these families found it impossible to cover entire swiddens with herbicide. Ten or 12 families at Mae Lan Kham were perhaps most successful in overcoming the abnormal weather with a fourth solution.With their swiddens slashed, they waited patiently for warmer days. They paid attention to weather forecasts and observed the signs of nature around them, such as the behaviour of animals, and then sprang into action when they expected some short dry days ahead.They were able to successfully burn about 80% of their fields. A final and rather desperate solution adopted by four or five families in the community was to gather the felled trees and slash into a big pile and then force the fire with kerosene and car tyres. The fires were successful, but covered only patches rather than whole swiddens. Most of these solutions were symptomatic of a community caught up in a sudden crisis without the opportunity to think carefully about answers to their problems or brainstorm different ideas. Most waited too long for the rain to stop, until an immediate solution was needed if they were to grow any crops at all in the deluge of 2011. Those families who waited, watched and struck quickly in short periods of dry weather were the ones who most successfully adapted to the abnormal weather, and if the conditions of 2011 return, it is probable that others in the community will take their example as the model for all to follow.

352  Trakansuphakon

The survey in Mae Lan Kham village resumed, far enough beyond the trouble with burning, to measure the impact of the various adaptation solutions. Those families who were able to burn most of their swiddens were able to harvest a normal rice yield of about 50 buckets of grain for every bucket of seed planted. For those who attempted more unorthodox means of burning, yields were smaller. Their crops either died in the flowering stage or yielded small harvests of poorly developed grain. Surprisingly, those who used herbicides to control weeds were able to reap good harvests, while the soil in their swiddens appeared to be in good condition. However, the farmers concerned remained cautious, for they were concerned about the longterm consequences of using herbicides. There were also other, more immediate, consequences from the long wet season of 2011 that bode ill for the future. Problems with seeds and weeds

The inability to burn the swiddens in early 2011 not only meant that the fields could not be adequately cleared, but more importantly, it also meant that they were left without a substantial covering of fertilizing ash. Many varieties of seeds could not be planted, simply for lack of space or soil fertility. And by the middle of the swidden year, farmers had become anxious about the ability of those plants that were growing in their swiddens to produce seeds of good quality for the following year. This revealed the acute vulnerability of systems that depend, year after year, on the production of high-quality seeds, as much as on the production of high-quality food. Should a popular food-plant variety fail to produce ‘fat’, strong seeds in conditions of impoverished soil, or fail to produce any seeds at all, then there is a substantial risk that such varieties may simply disappear, and the staggering variety of plant species typically found in upland swiddens will diminish. In those Mae Lan Kham swiddens where neither the sterilizing effect of hot fires nor herbicides had been applied, grass species rapidly took control. The vigorous growth of the grasses abruptly escalated the need for extra labour to weed the fields. Overall, it was clear by the middle of the rotational-farming year that crop yields would be well below normal. In these circumstances, a community long accustomed to a tenuous grasp on food security began to think of lifestyle changes and farming alternatives that would create a more secure future. Their faith in rotational farming had been sorely tested. A glimpse into the future

Another consequence of more than two years of abnormal weather was an anxiety about what the biosphere may produce next. In early 2013, the villagers of Mae Lan Kham were convinced that they faced another abnormal season. They cited a range of signs related to natural phenomena: forest and even domestic trees were blooming and bearing fruit too early; trees such as mangoes, tamarind and ma dua, which

Chapter 17. Changing strategies of shifting cultivators  353

normally bore fruit from stems, were producing fruit from branches; cicadas were singing very late in the season, making it difficult to make seasonal predictions based on their song; and bananas, which didn’t normally produce seeds in their fruit, had begun producing many such seeds. All of these signals were making it difficult for the village elders to predict the weather in order to manage rotational cultivation. However, they believed that farmers should start their cultivation a little earlier in 2013 because the rain would come earlier than normal. Despite this, the elders acknowledged that their predictions had been shaken over the past few years and they were basically unsure of what might happen. Despite the pains of the wet 2011, most of the elders of Mae Lan Kham were quick to assure that the abnormal rain of that year was part of a normal cyclical weather phenomenon. If fact, they said, 2011 was a good-weather year in which the extra rain helped the ecosystem to become rich and green, increasing both food security and wildlife. The latter point prompted recall that in some areas of Thailand where the national ban on rotational farming has led to the local disappearance of shifting cultivation, the number of wildlife species in the same area has also decreased – for example, in the areas surrounding the Doi Inthanon National Park, in Chom Thong district, Chiang Mai province. Alternative farming systems and a return to tradition

Since the major crisis was caused by rain, it was perhaps understandable that, in searching for alternatives to rotational farming, many farmers thought first of terraced paddy fields. Those with existing paddy fields began planning immediate extensions, sufficient to produce enough rice for their household needs. Others selected suitable spots within their swiddens where they could develop new paddy fields to boost their rice production. Earlier, the community had begun to manage opportunistic growth of the ‘jungle spice’ ma khwaen (Zanthoxylum limonella) in fallowed swiddens. Such was the abundance of Z. limonella secondary growth in some areas that swiddens were taken out of the rotational cycle and transformed into tree orchards.This was a strategy first adopted in the long dry period of 2010, but embraced with renewed enthusiasm after the deluge of 2011. The third strategy that arose from the abnormal weather involved some social change and a return to cherished community traditions. A young Karen housewife from Mae Lan Kham, Chanida Chok Song Serm, explained that the first change arose from the expanded task of weeding fields that had not been subjected to fire: Normally women alone do all the weeding, but this year, because there were too many weeds in the fields, men had to become involved in the weeding process to help the women. So some good signs came up.

354  Trakansuphakon

Moreover, in order to cope with both the crisis and the abnormal weather, the stricken farmers fell back into traditional Karen community ‘togetherness’.The young farmer continued: Both men and women came back to the traditional practice of Karen by exchanging their labour. This practice is now increasing, because when we have hard work we need to work together, in big numbers. Weeding became hard work this year, so we needed the men to be more involved in the weeding process. It was not only for weeding, but also for communication between us; dialogue and discussion, exchanging experiences, sharing knowledge, and developing close relationships with each other. All of these aspects have developed since we began working together. Gender relationships and the sharing of labour between men and women have thus been changed by the harsh realities of a year with too much rain. The village atmosphere in Mae Lan Kham has returned to something closer to that told by Karen ancestral stories and poems: there is now a strong labour-exchange system involving both men and women. Perhaps the most significant adaptation strategy arising from the year of abnormal weather has therefore been the reinforced spirit of self-sufficiency and renewal of community feeling among the farmers of Mae Lan Kham. Discussion

The studies outlined in this chapter challenge the belief that the burning of swiddens by upland communities is a contributor to climate change. Instead, rotationalfarming systems integrated with terraced paddy fields, fallow-based agroforestry, home gardens and healthy community forests for collection of NTFPs not only help to maintain the balance of the ecosystem, but are also capable of reducing greenhouse gases by capturing atmospheric carbon. The lifestyle of the people in these mountain communities is based on self-sufficiency and sustainable resource management, driven by a belief system and indigenous knowledge developed over centuries. The people value and prefer the food they produce rather than that from outside sources. It is naturally grown, without the use of chemicals, and is therefore safe, and its basis in self-sufficiency means it costs nothing to the consumers and can be harvested over the long term (Trakansuphakon et al., 2010). Sustainable agriculture, such as that practised by the villagers of Mae Lan Kham and Hin Lad Nai, could become a key measure in coping with climate change. Adaptation strategies that combine the principles of rotational farming with other farming systems, including terraced paddy fields, home gardens and community forests, as well as enriching fallows with agroforestry, have the ability to overcome many of the challenges facing upland communities. These sustainable agricultural systems lead to greater food security by diversifying farmers’ risks, integrating natural

Chapter 17. Changing strategies of shifting cultivators  355

resources and providing better water management. The concept of risk management for climate uncertainties remains a poorly addressed concept in Thailand’s farming communities. Therefore, the benefits of sustainable agriculture as a coping strategy in the face of climate change are generally underestimated. As well, studies are now suggesting that sustainable agriculture may also work as a mitigation strategy, by reducing greenhouse-gas emissions and sequestering carbon in more fertile soils and healthy, species-rich forests. Ultimately, the keyword may be diversity. Of all the threats delivered to upland farming systems by climate change, the most significant may be those affecting traditional rotational farming. When faced with the challenges of 2011, most shifting cultivators willingly tried something new, and they were able to maintain a meagre subsistence. Harsh challenges are nothing new to upland communities, and the mountain farmers of northern Thailand will be a more wary and better prepared group next time, when real innovation may be unavoidable. But while the farmers may successfully adapt to an individual year of abnormally wet weather and prepare themselves to survive another one like it, the true face of climate change is unlikely to be this benevolent; it may deliver a far more mixed bag of weather events. The question may be: what might happen to traditional rotational farming – as an agricultural system upon which millions of people depend – if it loses one of its firmest pillars: the sheer predictability of the tropical upland climate? References Blaser, J. (2010) Interview cited in Trakansuphakon and Kamphonkun, Pgaz K’Nyau Knowledge and Practice on Rotational Farming in northern Thailand, Indigenous Knowledge and Peoples Foundation (IKAP), Chiang Mai (Thai language) Britannica Online. (2013) ‘Asian brown cloud’, in Encyclopaedia Britannica, http://global.britannica. com/EBchecked/topic/1393963/Asian-brown-cloud, accessed 8 March 2013 Ganjanapan, A., Luangaramsri, P., Jatuvaraphruk, T., Hengsuwan, P., Rakjutitham, A., Anprasert, W., Natpunwat, S., Jamrernphruk, M., Sunthornhao, P. and Onprom, S. (2004) Rotational Agriculture: Status and Changes, vol. 1, main report and recommended policies, Faculty of Social Science, Chiang Mai University, Chiang Mai Hoare, P. (2013) Personal communication between the author and Dr Peter Hoare, and advisor to the Faculty of Agriculture at Chiang Mai University, Thailand Ittipon-olan,W. (1998) Rotational Farming:The Mother of Plants, Northern River Basin Development by People Organization, Chiang Mai (Thai language) Mae Lan Kham community-IKAP-RECOFTC, (2014) Structure, Succession Rate and Carbon Stocks

in the Rotational Farming System of Ban Mae Lan Kham, Samoeng Tai Subdistrict, Samoeng District, Chiang Mai Province, unpublished report, Indigenous Knowledge and People’s Foundation

(IKAP), The Center for People and Forests (RECOFTC), Bangkok Northern Development Foundation and Huay Hin Lad community. (2010) Climate Change, Trees and Livelihood: A Case Study on the Carbon Footprint of a Karen Community in Northern Thailand, Asia Indigenous People’s Pact, International Work Group for Indigenous Affairs and Northern Development Foundation Trakansuphakon, P. and Kamphonkun, T. (2006) Pgaz K’Nyau Knowledge and Practice on Rotational Farming in Northern Thailand, Indigenous Knowledge and Peoples Foundation (IKAP), Chiang Mai (Thai language)

356  Trakansuphakon

Trakansuphakon, P., Kamphonkum, T., Rattanawilailak, S. and Trakansuphakon, J. (2010) Rotational

Farming System: Indigenous Knowledge and Practices of a Paka-kayaw Hill Tribe Group in Northern Thailand, Indigenous Knowledge and People’s Network (IKAP), Chiang Mai (Thai language)

Tsutsumi, T.,Yoda, K., Sahunalu, P., Dhammanonda, P. and Prachaiyo, B. (1983) ‘Forest: Felling, burning and regeneration’, in K. Kyuma and C. Pairintra (eds) Shifting Cultivation, Kyoto University, Japan, pp13–62 USEPA. (1995) Particulate Matter (PM-10), United States Environmental Protection Agency, Washington, DC, www.epa.gov/airtrends/aqtrnd95/pm10.html, accessed 7 March 2013 Wikipedia. (2013) Pan evaporation, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pan_evaporation, accessed 8 March 2013 Worldatlas.com. (2012) Countries of the World, http://www.worldatlas.com/aatlas/populations/ ctypopls.htm, accessed 3 March 2013

Notes 1 Figures from ‘Flood, Storm and Landslide Situation report’, 17 January 2012, Emergency Operation Centre for Flood, Storm and Landslide, Department of Disaster Prevention and Mitigation, Government of Thailand, cited by Wikipedia, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2011_Thailand_floods, accessed 4 March 2013. 2 Hta are traditional Pgaz K’Nyau poems that are spoken, chanted or sung. In their most basic form they consist of a couplet of seven syllables in each line. The last syllable of the first line nearly always rhymes with the last syllable of the second line. 3 The Mae Lan Kham study was entitled Learning Innovation on Community Carbon Accounting

and Forestland Management in Two Karen Villages in the Northern Highlands: Baan Khun Saab and Baan Mae Lan Kham, Samoeng District, Chiang Mai Province. It was undertaken by the

4 5

6

7

village communities and the Indigenous Knowledge and Peoples Foundation (IKAP), with personal involvement by the author Prasert Trakansuphakon, technical support from The Center for People and Forests (RECOFTC) and the Asian Social Forestry Network (ASFN), and funding from the Swiss Agency for Development and Cooperation (SDC). This chapter quotes extensively from the unpublished 2014 report Structure, Succession Rate and Carbon Stocks in the Rotational Farming System of Ban Mae Lan Kham, Samoeng Tai Subdistrict, Samoeng District, Chiang Mai Province, arising from this study. This section of the chapter was prepared in close personal communication with Dr Peter Hoare, an advisor to the Faculty of Agriculture at Chiang Mai University, Thailand. Pan evaporation is a measurement that combines or integrates the effects of temperature, humidity, rainfall, drought dispersion, solar radiation and wind. Evaporation is greatly reduced when clouds block the sun and when air is cool, calm and humid. Pan evaporation measurements are commonly used by farmers to understand how much water their crops will need (Wikipedia, 2013) Particulate matter (PM) is a term for solid or liquid particles found in the air. The PM-10 standard covers particles with a diameter of 10 micrometres or less (about one-seventh the width of a human hair). These small particles are thought to be responsible for adverse health effects because of their ability to reach the lower regions of the respiratory tract.The US Environmental Protection Agency’s health-based national air-quality standard for PM-10 is 50 micrograms per cubic metre when measured as an annual mean, and 150 micrograms per cubic metre when measured as a daily concentration. Major concerns for human health from exposure to PM-10 include effects on breathing and respiratory systems, damage to lung tissue, cancer and premature death (USEPA, 1995). One ‘bucket’ is about 12 kilograms, making Phaw Luang Jorni Odochao’s ‘normal’ harvest about 3600kg.

18 FALLOWS AND FLOODING A case study on the potential contribution of fallows to flood mitigation Peter D. Suson, Rex Victor O. Cruz, Ruth P. Serquiña, Nathaniel C. Bantayan, Daisy Lou L. Polestico and Jerson N. Orejudos*

Introduction

The findings of this chapter, which shed light on how swidden fallows may contribute to flood mitigation, came not from a direct study, but rather as a by-product of another study conducted by Suson in 2012. The 2012 study began with a baseline of Landsat images taken in 2008 and set out to evaluate the impact on flooding of land uses projected to evolve 10 years into the future, in 2018. The projected land uses were compared to desired land uses prescribed by the Comprehensive Land-Use Plan for Iligan City, in Mindanao.This plan had been based on slope, and its land uses were prescribed in the light of the area’s highest rainfall event recorded in the years from 2003 to 2010 – a downpour of 248.68mm. However, to validate the results of the study, a further assessment followed tropical storm Washi (the local name for which was Typhoon Sendong), which struck the Iligan area on 17 December 2011, with rainfall totalling 180.10mm. The two land-use situations were compared in terms of runoff volume, flood volume, net flood volume, flood extent, flood depth and the number of villages affected in low-lying areas of the Iligan river basin, which is the lowland sub-watershed (Figure 18.1). The results showed that there was very little or no difference between the two land uses among the parameters used for comparison (see Table 18.1). This was because parameters two through six were functions of parameter one, which was the surface-

* 

Dr Peter D. Suson, Free Lance Service Provider, Iligan City, Philippines; Dr Rex Victor O. Cruz, Professor, College of Forestry and Natural Resources, University of the Philippines at Los Baños, Laguna, Philippines; Dr Ruth P. Serquiña, Associate Professor, College of Science and Mathematics, Mindanao State University-Iligan Institute of Technology, Iligan City, Philippines; Dr Nathaniel C. Bantayan, Associate Professor, College of Forestry and Natural Resources, University of the Philippines at Los Baños; Dr Daisy Lou L. Polestico, Professor, College of Science and Mathematics, Mindanao State University-Iligan Institute of Technology; Dr Jerson N. Orejudos, Professor, College of Engineering, Mindanao State University-Iligan Institute of Technology.

358  Suson et al.

FIGURE 18.1 

The sub-watersheds of the Iligan river basins

runoff volume, and the difference in this volume between the two land uses was negligible. To understand why the surface runoff volume was virtually the same for both land uses, it is necessary to look at the method used in estimating surface runoff in this case study. The Runoff Curve Number, or Soil Conservation Service (SCS) method, was used because it is the most popular method and the method of choice by practising engineers and hydrologists around the world.This method is even featured in most of the hydrologic computer models in current use. Even though it was first developed in 1954, its popularity is rooted in its convenience, simplicity, authoritative origins and its ability to account for factors that influence runoff, such as soil type, land use, hydrologic conditions, infiltration, canopy interception, evaporation, evapotranspiration and antecedent moisture condition (Ponce and Hawkins, 1996; Mishra and Singh, 2003). According to Ponce and Hawkins (1996), replacement of the SCS

Chapter 18. Fallows and flooding  359 TABLE 18.1 

Parameters

Comparison between the 2018 projected land use and desired land use

2018 projected Desired land use % Difference land use

1. Surface-runoff volume (m3) 13,487,344.66 13,238,365.01 1.85 2. Flood volume (m3) 13,355,935.00 13,106,956.00 1.86 3. Net flood volume1 (m3) 9,679,046.00 9,498,611.00 1.86 4. Flood extent (ha) 323 323 5. Average flood depth (m) 4.29 4.22 1.63 6. No. of barangays (villages) affected 12 12 1 Note: This was the amount of flood water that was estimated to inundate the lowland sub-watershed of the Iligan river basin in view of river embankments that partially surround the main river.

method would first need another method to prove its superiority by overcoming the limitations of other models, where they assume an infinite amount of soilmoisture storage and also factor in the biological aspects of infiltration. In fact, recent contributions have significantly enhanced understanding of the curve-number method, which has resulted in the expansion of its application potential (Mishra and Singh, 2003). Walker et al. (1999) gave an equation with which to estimate surface runoff with metric constant values: Q = [(P-Ia)2]/[(P-Ia)+S] where: Q = runoff (mm); P = rainfall; S = potential maximum retention after runoff begins (mm). (This is related to the soil and land-cover or land-use conditions of the watershed through the curve number) = (25400/CN) – 254; Ia = initial abstraction (mm) = 0.2 S; CN (Curve Number) = a table is provided in which the CN value lies at an intersection between the hydrologic soil group and land uses. In the above equation, it is clear that the values of the variables S and Ia will determine the magnitude of runoff. The larger the variables S and Ia are, the lower the surface runoff is, and vice versa. Furthermore, the curve number determines the values of the variables S and Ia, since Ia is a function of S while S is influenced by the curve number.This is understandable because the curve number, which is an interplay between land cover or land use and soil conditions, very much influences surface runoff. As Hernandez et al. (2000) wrote, vegetation cover represents one of the most powerful factors influencing runoff, since it modifies and moderates many other factors. Generally, removing tree and vegetation cover reduces canopy interception, which then reduces abstraction of rainfall via evaporation (Endreny, 2005 as cited by Wang et al., 2008). Simulation studies have shown that when a tree’s leaf-area index is increased from 3 to 6, the interception rate increases by 2.7% and annual runoff decreases by 4.3mm. An increase in leaf-area index or biomass in general means that a greater surface area is in contact with water, creating a surface tension that retains rainwater in the canopy (Hernandez et al., 2000).

360  Suson et al.

It is in this light that there is a negligible difference between the 2018 projected land use and desired land use, in terms of surface-runoff volume. The value of the curve number of both land uses is almost identical. On the basis of the weighted area average of curve-number values, the value of the desired land use is 77 and that of the 2018 projected land use is 78 (see Table 18.2). The almost identical curvenumber value of the two land uses is due to the fact that the individual types within desired land use and the 2018 projected land use are identical except that desired land use does not have the land-use-type ‘open space’. However, open space covers only 7.14% of the area in the 2018 projected land use and therefore does not contribute substantially to the difference in curve-number values. Table 18.2 also shows that the dominant curve-number value for land-use types found within desired land use were agroforestry at 31.32% and protection forest at 30.35%. For the 2018 projected land use, the dominant curve-number values for the land-use types were coconuts at 37.58% and shrubs at 29.37%. This is consistent with the area and the percentage-of-area distribution of desired land use and 2018 projected land use (Table 18.3). Figure 18.2 shows maps of the desired land use and the 2018 projected land use. The curve-number values of both land uses were almost identical except for the open space that occurs in the 2018 projected land use. In all other respects, the different land-use types in both cases were equally matched, based on the ‘description’ and ‘title’ sub-columns of the curve-number table (see Table 18.4). Note that the category ‘coconuts’ falls under the land-use title ‘woods (thin cover)’ on the curve-number table.That is because ‘coconuts’ in the study area contain a mixed understorey of fruit TABLE 18.2 

Average curve-number values and their percentage distribution

Desired land use

Land-use type Agriculture Built-up area Agroforestry Production Forest Protection Forest

2018 projected land use

Curve number Average % values

Curve number Average Land-use type % values

82 91 74 74

19.54 8.42 31.32 10.37

Agriculture Built-up area Coconuts Open forest

67

30.35 Shrubs Open space

Identical CN values

82 91 74 74

8.50 5.19 37.58 12.22

Yes Yes Yes Yes

67 72

29.37 7.14

Yes No

Weighted area 77 100.00 Weighted area 78 100.00 average CN average CN value value Note: These are average curve-number values of a particular land-use type, combined with several hydrologic soil groups. For example, the agriculture land-use type, when combined with three hydrologic soil groups, has three curve-number values. An average number is computed from these three values.

Chapter 18. Fallows and flooding  361 TABLE 18.3  Area and percentage distribution of land-use types found within desired land uses and 2018 projected land uses

Desired land use

Area inside Iligan river basin

2018 projected land use

Area inside Iligan river basin

(hectares)

%

Agriculture

3,035.24

20.00

Agriculture

1,320.93

8.50

Agroforestry

4,864.93

32.03

Coconuts

5,838.20

37.58

Built-up area

1,306.91

8.39

Built-up area

806.78

5.19

Production forest

1,612.55

9.48

Open forest

1,897.99

12.22

Protection forest

4,714.86

30.10

Open space Shrubs

1,108.30 4,562.28

7.13 29.37

Total

15,534.48

100.00

Total

15,534.48

100.00

TABLE 18.4 

(hectares)

%

Land-use nomenclature equivalence

Land use from curve-number (CN) table Title

Description

Desired land use 2018 projected land use Land-use types

Commercial and residential (high density)

Strip commercial, shopping centres, convenience stores, multi-family, apartments, condos, trailer parks

Built-up area

Built-up area

Agricultural

Cultivated land, row crops, broadcast legumes

Agriculture

Agriculture

Open land

Parks, golf courses, greenways, Open space grazed pasture land

Woods (thin cover)

Light woods, woods-grass combination, tree farms

Woods and forests Forest litter and brush; (thick cover) adequately covered soil

Coconut

Agroforestry and production forest

Brush/shrubland

Protection forest

trees and other vegetation that could be categorized as a permanent fallow (Figure 18.3). Similarly, agroforestry fitted the land-use type ‘open forests‘, and ‘brush or shrubs’ and ‘protection forest’ matched the land-use title ‘woods and forests (thick cover)’ on the curve-number table. Note further that the dominant shrub species in the Iligan area is what is locally known as Hagonoy (Chromolaena odorata). Figure 18.4 shows a fallow dominated by Hagonoy. The land-use type ‘shrubs’ can thus be categorized as a shrub-based fallow. And considering that ‘coconuts’ can be categorized as a ‘permanent fallow’, it may be said that the land-use type that dominates the 2018 projected land use is fallow.

362  Suson et al.

FIGURE 18.2 

Map of the 2018 projected land use and desired land use in the Iligan river basin

The ability of fallow vegetation to abstract rainfall and thereby reduce surface runoff is directly related to its soil- and water-conservation qualities. Pabuayon et al. (2008) noted that coconut palms intercropped with other trees, shrubs and crops suffered less soil erosion than other areas that were planted with coconuts in monoculture. The reason, they explained, was that raindrop impact was greatly reduced if it passed through several layers of canopy before reaching the ground. Also, it could be expected that as the rain passed through several layers, part of the water would be intercepted by the canopy and this would eventually evaporate or flow down as stem flow. Moreover, greater above- and below-ground biomass could be expected from coconut in the relatively higher density of vegetation created by mixed cropping because of improved infiltration conditions. On the other hand, the aggressive pioneer shrub Chromolaena odorata provids protective soil cover in the early stages of fallow re-growth FIGURE 18.3  Canopy of mixed coconut and because it expands so rapidly. It vegetation

Chapter 18. Fallows and flooding  363

also produces a large quantity of biomass, which decomposes quickly (Roder et al., 2007). This rapid soil cover intercepts rainfall, reducing its impact and lessening throughflow and stemflow. The intercepted water eventually evaporates and groundflow is sufficiently reduced to maintain the physical integrity of the soil for infiltration. The massive biomass generation and decomposition in a C. odorata fallow also creates conditions that improve the infiltration capacity of the soil. FIGURE 18.4 A Chromolaena-based fallow However, in this study, neither the desired land use nor the 2018 projected land use were able to prevent flooding. The rainfall event that took place during tropical storm Washi resulted in a greater runoff volume than the amount of water that was able to be abstracted by vegetation (see Figure 18.5) and the river was unable to accommodate the surface-runoff volume (Figure 18.6). In a 2011 study, Bathurst et al. revealed the limits of even forest cover in mitigating flooding, when faced with an increasing incidence of rainfall. In the case of the Iligan river basin, this is exacerbated by the fact that the coastal plains and valleys are narrow compared to the wide, steep terrain of the hinterland (Figure 18.7). This topography is characteristic of the whole coastal plain of Iligan city (Figure 18.8). To validate estimations of runoff and floods, the flooding event during tropical storm Washi (Typhoon Sendong) on 17 December 2011 and the flood scenario simulated in this study were compared. Figure 18.9 shows the extent of flooding during Typhoon Sendong, overlaid on a map of the lowland subwatershed of the Iligan river basin and the extent of flooding simulated in the study. While 14 barangays were affected by the Typhoon Sendong flood, only 12 were involved in the study. The area inundated by the Typhoon Sendong flood was 353 hectares, while that theoretically flooded in the study was 323 hectares (Table 18.5). The divergence between the Typhoon FIGURE 18.5  Proportion of runoff and abstraction from rainfall Sendong flood and the study

364  Suson et al.

simulation was not very wide. The lesser flooding shown in the stimulated study might have been attributable to a projected increase in the area of fallowvegetation cover. On the basis of the flood behaviour of the 2018 projected land use, which is dominated by fallow vegetation, when compared with the simulated performance of the desired land use, it can be postulated that fallows can help to mitigate flooding. What this means, as a matter of policy and practice, FIGURE 18.6  The presence and magnitude of is that shifting cultivation and/ flood waters in the case of the desired land use or fallow management may be and the 2018 projected land use programmed at a landscape level as one type of land use that can mitigate flooding. Programming should include the determination of a ratio between cultivated and fallow plots and the quality of the fallow plots. Importantly, this should be done in the context of participatory technology development. Confidence in the ability of fallow vegetation to mitigate flooding can be enhanced by validating curvenumber values in the field via infiltration readings. It is also relevant to determine the existence and degree of relationship between fallow vegetation and local communities, and policies and markets should be explored to encourage the maintenance and/or enrichment of coconut-based permanent fallows.

FIGURE 18.7 

basin

Topography of the Iligan river

FIGURE 18.8 

Iligan city

The coastal topography of

Chapter 18. Fallows and flooding  365 TABLE 18.5  Comparison between barangays affected by Typhoon Sendong flood and those ‘flooded’ in study simulation

Number Barangays flooded by Typhoon Sendong 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 Total

Bagong Silang Del Carmen Hinaplanon Luinab Mahayahay Pala-o Poblacion San Miguel Saray Tambacan Tibanga Tubod Ubaldo Laya Villaverde 14

Area (ha) 17.82 17.71 30.14 5.88 31.25 20.33 24.35 41.48 4.73 17.28 12.52 85.03 32.77 11.96 353.27

Barangays ‘flooded’ in study simulation

Area (ha)

Bagong Silang

6.04

Hinaplanon

0.01

Mahayahay Pala-o Poblacion San Miguel Saray Tambacan Tibanga Tubod Ubaldo Laya Villaverde 12

21.72 2.28 30.72 34.63 25.58 14.51 12.71 133.00 22.15 19.66 323.00

FIGURE 18.9 

Extent of flooding due to Typhoon Sendong and the flood simulated in this study

366  Suson et al.

However, promoting shifting cultivation and/or fallow management should not be misconstrued, and interpreted as meaning that the dominant land-use type within the desired land use plan, which is called ‘protection forest’, and resembles closedcanopy forest, has no value or is irrelevant. Closed-canopy forest has added benefits such as providing timber and non-timber resources and supporting biodiversity. Most importantly, its high carbon-sequestration capability gives it the ability to mitigate climate change, which is a major factor that contributes to extreme rainfall conditions that produce devastating floods. In fact, the natural succession of shrub-based fallows to climax vegetation, which in this area is tropical rainforest, should be encouraged. Despite all we have said about land-use approaches to the mitigation of flooding, there is a limit to their effectiveness when rainfall becomes an overwhelming deluge and topographic conditions predispose the landscape to flooding. Hence, strategies aimed at flood mitigation must adopt a multiple and integrated approach. References Bathurst, J. C., Birkinshaw, S. J., Cisneros, F., Fallas, J., Iroumé, A. I., Rodolfo, N., Marcelo, G., Urciuolo, A., Alvarado, A., Coello, C., Huber, A., Miranda, M., Ramirez, M. and Ramiro S. (2011) ‘Forest impact on floods due to extreme rainfall and snowmelt in four Latin American environments. 2: Model analysis’, Journal of Hydrology 400 (3-4), pp292–304, www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/ S0022169410005640, accessed 18 November 2013 Hernandez, M., Miller, S. N., Goodrich, D. C., Goff, B. F., Kepner, W. G., Edmonds, C. M. and Jones, K. B. (2000) ‘Rainfall spatial variability in semi-arid watersheds’, Environmental Monitoring and Assessment 64, pp285-298, Kluwer Academic Publishers, Dordrecht, Netherlands, www.epa.gov/ esd/land-sci/pdf/modellingrunoff.pdf, accessed 16 November 2013 Mishra, S. K. and Singh,V. P. (2003) ‘Soil Conservation Service Curve Number (SCS-CN) methodology’, Water Science and Technology Library 42, Kluwer Academic Publishers, Dordrecht, Netherlands Pabuayon, I. M., Medina, S. M., Medina, C. M., Manohar, E. C. and Villegas, J. I. P. (2008) Economic

and Environmental Concerns in Philippine Upland Coconut Farms: An Analysis of Policy, Farming Systems and Socio-economic Issues, Economy and Environment Program For Southeast Asia

(EEPSEA), Penang, Malaysia Ponce, V. M. and Hawkins, R. H. (1996) ‘Runoff curve number: Has it reached maturity?’, Journal of Hydrologic Engineering 1 (1), American Society of Civil Engineers, pp11–19 Roder, W., Maniphone, S., Keoboualapha, B. and Fahrney, K. (2007) ‘Fallow improvement with Chromolaena odorata in upland rice systems of Northern Laos’, in M. F. Cairns (ed.) Voices from the Forest: Integrating Indigenous Knowledge into Sustainable Upland Farming, Resources for the Future (RFF) Press, Washington, DC Suson, P. D. (2012) ‘The impact of extreme rainfall and land use to flooding inside the Iligan river basin’, PhD dissertation to Mindanao State University-Iligan Institute of Technology, Philippines Walker, S. E., Banasik, K., Northcott,W. J., Jiang, N.,Yuan,Y. and Mitchell, J. K. (1999) ‘Application of the SCS Curve Number method to mildly-sloped watershed’, available at www.bae.ncsu.edu/www3/ acad/Regional.../paper98-draft1.html Wang, J., Endreny,T. A. and Nowak, D. J. (2008) ‘Mechanistic simulation of tree effects in an urban water balance model’, Journal of the American Water Resources Association 44 (1)

19 DYNAMICS OF AN ISLAND AGROECOSYSTEM Where to now? Marjorie V. C. Falanruw and Francis Ruegorong*

Introduction

Yap is a member of the Federated States of Micronesia, located in the northwest Pacific. The state consists of a cluster of four high islands, a raised limestone island and about 133 low-lying coralline islets in atolls scattered over about 260,000 square kilometres of ocean. Many of the low-lying islands are being affected by sea-level rise and concomitant saltwater intrusion. The islands have been administered by Spain (1886 to 1899), Germany (1899 to 1914), Japan (1914 to 1946) and, since then, by the United States; initially as a Trust Territory and currently under a Compact of Free Association. Under this Compact, the United States is providing development assistance until 2023. Small islands like Yap represent ecosystems at a human scale, with definite limits. Swidden agriculturists make use of the ecosystem services of natural systems to develop soil fertility and other conditions conducive to crop growth.The sustainability of swidden systems requires that the ecosystem remains basically intact and is not stressed beyond its limits. As human populations increase, larger areas are needed in order to produce sufficient food, while allowing ample time for soil fertility and tilth to be restored under natural fallows. When it is not possible to expand into larger agricultural areas, it is necessary to intensify efforts in order to compensate for impacts on natural systems. The islands of Yap have ecosystems with fixed terrestrial boundaries and a history of dense human population. Being unable to expand their area, the people intensified their agricultural systems and integrated them with the islands’ ecosystems. This resulted in a wide variety of agricultural systems making use of the full range of

* 

Dr Marjorie V. C. Falanruw, Yap Institute of Natural Science and US Forest Service, Pacific Southwest Station, Institute of Pacific Islands Forestry; Francis Ruegorong, of Yap State Forestry, is a Master’s graduate in science.

368  Falanruw and Ruegorong

natural habitats, with specialized methods for managing water and nutrients. This chapter explores the place of swiddens and fallow management in these natureintegrated agricultural systems. Integrating agriculture with natural ecosystems has increasingly important implications for the modern world; however, the spectre of climate change looms, and the fate of these systems and their practitioners, who live at ‘ground zero’ of sea-level rise, remains to be seen. Satellite altimetry shows that sea levels in the area of the Federated States of Micronesia have been rising by an average of 5mm to 10mm per year since 1993 – above the global mean of about 3mm per year for this period (Fletcher and Richmond, 2010). Figure 19.1 shows the location of Yap in the northwest Pacific, with an inset showing the high islands of mainland Yap and the lower-lying outer islands and atolls of Yap State. The average height above sea level for all Yap islands except mainland Yap and Fais is about 1.8m above high-tide level. With predictions of sea-level rise ranging from a conservative 0.2 to 0.6m or more (IPCC, 2007) to 0.6 to 2m during the 21st century (US National Research Council, 2010), with greater and more abrupt rise possible (Meehl et al., 2007; Ananthaswamy, 2012), it is likely that most or all of the low-lying islands shown in Figure 19.1 will eventually become uninhabitable as fresh-water resources and the ability to produce food are

FIGURE 19.1 

The location of Yap in the northwestern Pacific, with an inset showing mainland Yap and the Outer Islands of Yap State. Given predictions of sea-level rise, it is likely that all but the islands of mainland Yap and the outer island of Fais will eventually become uninhabitable.

Chapter 19. Dynamics of an island agroecosystem  369

compromised by encroachment of saltwater. The most likely place for the displaced population to relocate is mainland Yap, but this island is also being impacted by climate change and sea-level rise. This chapter describes past interaction of human populations with habitats on mainland Yap and the dynamics of the agroecosystem that developed. Recent changes in this system on mainland Yap are described, followed by a description of the nature and threats to agriculture in the Outer Islands. The chapter concludes by asking “Where to now?” and considers a past agricultural intensification relevant to meeting future challenges. Human activities and vegetation dynamics in the past

The vegetation ofYap reflects the impacts of climate and human activities. Palynological studies indicate that Yap was mostly forested prior to human occupation. A major period of forest decline took place about 3300 years ago, as indicated by a decrease in pollen from forest trees and an increase in charcoal and spores and pollen of savannah species. The proportion of savannah species peaked about 300 years ago, when the island’s population was highest (Dodson and Intoh, 1999). Today, the island’s major vegetation types include mangroves, a mosaic of remnant native forest, secondary vegetation and secondary forest with savannah lands mostly devoid of a tree canopy, and anthropocentric tree garden/taro patch agroforest. Historical descriptions of Yap’s vegetation and more recent vegetation maps show that this basic pattern is of long standing, with fluctuations in the relative proportions of these vegetation types. Tetens, who visited Yap several times between 1862 and 1868, first described the island as ‘a most picturesque site. Fresh green fruit-bearing fields cover the tops of gently rising hills; below, thick forests of coco palms stretch almost to the beach’ (Tetens, 1958, p63). On his last visit, however, he reported war, and said, ‘the beautiful countryside was laid waste, its forest destroyed for years to come’ (Tetens, 1958, p97). Twenty-five years later, the Spanish governor of Yap mentioned deforested mountains, extensive forests of coconut trees, tall, thick mangroves and only about 17% forest. He described agricultural production around houses, taro patches in low swampy areas and ditched beds in the hills (de Oca, 1893, p257). Volkens (1901), who was on Yap for seven months in early 1900, reported drought and wildfires, and wrote that about 75% of Yap was covered with savannah. It appears that in the 38 years since Teten’s 1858 report, the cultivation of Yap’s interior hills had been largely discontinued. Particularly dry conditions may have contributed to this change. More severe droughts are associated with El Niño – Southern Oscillation (ENSO) events. Major ENSO events were reported in 1877 to 1878 and 1891. While no such events were reported in 1899 or 1900, Volkens reported a period of drought when only 156mm of rain fell between mid-January and the beginning of June. Socially, the period was one of turmoil. It was marked by the establishment of the first trading stations and colonies of outsiders bringing new diseases, a declining population and

370  Falanruw and Ruegorong

serious alcohol problems among Yap’s leaders (Hezel, 1995). These were not optimal conditions for intensive land management. Between 1900 and 1976, the major trend was a reduction in the area of savannah, from 75% of the island as reported by Volkens (1901) to 32%, demarcated in a vegetation map by Johnson et al. (1960), based on aerial photos taken in 1946, to 22%, based on aerial photos taken in 1976 (Falanruw et al., 1987).The decrease in the area of savannah between 1900 and 1946 coincided with a decrease in Yap’s population. Dynamics of Yap’s agroecosystem

Yap’s agricultural system consists of intermittent mixed gardens (swidden systems), open-canopy gardens on ditched beds in savannah areas, and taro patches – in marshes or integrated with tree gardens in agroforests. Detailed descriptions of these systems, based on participant observation and data on 104 gardens and agroforest sites, is provided in Falanruw (1995), and Falanruw and Ruegorong (2007). These systems might be described in an intensification sequence beginning from a base of swidden systems in which wild forest or secondary forest was killed, generally by burn-girdling tree trunks, to open a skylight in the forest, with crops planted in the rich forest soil. Within the basic pattern of swidden, a number of intensifications – such as special techniques for growing yams – could be used. At the end of the gardening cycle, the site may be left to revert to a wild secondary fallow, or the fallow may be managed to varying degrees. Secondary species believed to contribute to soil fertility, such as the tree hibiscus (Hibiscus tiliaceus), may be planted or allowed to grow. When old garden sites are revived, cultivars left from the previous garden are often still present and need only improved conditions to begin producing. It is especially exciting for gardeners to find bits of heritage yam varieties left in the soil by previous generations. A survey of species present on seven sites prior to, and two to five years after, an indigenous swidden-gardening cycle showed that most species that had been present prior to clearing for the gardens reappeared during the fallow (Falanruw, 1995). However, some species characteristic of betterdeveloped forest did not grow within this period, and a number of introduced species invaded sites that were burned a second time. These included the invasive weed Chromolaena odorata, which smothered tree seedlings and made the sites more vulnerable to Hibiscus tiliaceus L. [Malvaceae] wildfires. Gardens made by young women as the population increased Grown in fallows as a contributor to soil in the years following World War fertility

Chapter 19. Dynamics of an island agroecosystem  371

Two tended to be larger than those made by previous generations; they included numerous ditched beds in individual gardens. Government agricultural projects opened even larger areas. This allowed the spread of new weedy and invasive species, making gardening and fallow management more difficult. Such sites were also more vulnerable to wildfires, which impeded natural regeneration of soil-restoring forest. To compare species dynamics in the aftermath of traditional swidden practices with those of modern agriculture, the species succession in the fallow of a traditional swidden garden was compared with that of a government demonstration garden established by a consultant with the aid of a bulldozer.Two years after the demonstration garden was abandoned and the traditional garden allowed to lie fallow, the species composition of both sites was compared. Seventy-three per cent of the species growing in the traditional garden were native species, compared with only 48% in the demonstration garden. Most of the remaining species in the abandoned demonstration garden were introduced weeds, some of them invasive. Sixty-six per cent of all species present in the indigenous swidden garden were useful. They included feral crops that would produce small harvests as well as provide planting material for a subsequent garden. In contrast, only 20% of the species in the abandoned demonstration garden were useful (Falanruw and Ruegorong, 2007). It seems likely that garden sites that were reused or burned repeatedly during periods of peak population density were unable to produce sufficient biomass to escape transition to secondary vegetation or savannah-like conditions devoid of a canopy. A comparison of the number of garden plots and house platforms surveyed in one municipality on Yap (Mahoney, 1958) provided evidence that fallow periods would have had to be less than two years – far short of the time needed for a forest canopy to redevelop (Falanruw, 1995). With a pre-Western-contact population density on Yap estimated to be as high as 241 to 386 people per square kilometre (Hunter-Anderson, 1983; Underwood, 1969), fallow periods could not have been long enough to permit the regeneration of the forest canopy. Without the ecological services of forests, more intensive methods were needed to improve soil fertility and structure. This was addressed by ditched-bed technology, in which garden beds were formed by cutting or pressing grass and other herbaceous vegetation and covering it with sections of sod dug from the perimeter of the garden and turned root-side up. This formed a layer of mulch covered with soil, and the removal of the sod created a ditch around the bed (Figure 19.2). The ditches then served to drain the garden bed. Shallow ditches closed at either end were sometimes added within the bed to maintain the soil moisture.The fertility of the beds was later enhanced by the transfer of rich soil and silt from the ditches onto the garden beds. Further downslope, where more water accumulated, ditches were widened into depressions that collected nutrient-rich silt.These were used to grow taro (Figure 19.3). If people settled in the area, fallows would be managed by planting a variety of trees useful for food and other purposes in drained areas. In these more shaded areas, the giant swamp taro Cyrtosperma merkusii (syn. C. chamissonis), which is more shade tolerant, was grown. Soil from ditches and taro-patch depressions was also used to

372  Falanruw and Ruegorong

FIGURE 19.2 

Reworked ditched garden beds on savannah hillside with Colocasia taro planted in shallow ditches formed within the garden bed

A series of Cyrtosperma taro patches, illustrating the landscape architecture and water management, which forms a basis for Figure 19.4

FIGURE 19.3 

develop paved pathways and house platforms.The result was a taro-patch/tree garden agroforest that was integrated with the watershed. While it looked like a forest and provided the ecological services of a forest, it also served as a supermarket, hardware store and pharmacy. Agroforests were also a convenient and pleasant place to live (Figure 19.4). At this point, the vegetation was almost all anthropocentric: made up of species that people found useful or pleasing, and had planted or allowed to remain. Such systems were relatively site-stable and ‘nature-integrated’, with relatively lowenergy but frequent maintenance by the gardeners. Figure 19.5 relates Yap’s agroecological system to canopy cover and the degree to which the environment has been modified for anthropocentric production.Above the dashed horizontal line demarcating upland systems from wetland systems, vegetation types are arranged in order of decreasing standing biomass. Native vegetation lies to the left of the diagram and more anthropogenic vegetation lies to the right. Swidden cultivation is here called ‘intermittent mixed garden’. Arrows represent major directions of change. Under wetland conditions (at the bottom of Figure 19.5), drainage ditches are enlarged and elaborated into taro-patch systems. While species characteristic of swamp forests occur on Yap, it appears that most swamp forest on the island has been converted to taro patches. Some areas of mangroves, especially in bays, were converted

Chapter 19. Dynamics of an island agroecosystem  373

FIGURE 19.4 

A Yapese tree garden/taro-patch agroforest

into marshes by construction of dikes across the bay. This prevents drainage, and a rise in water level on the landward side of the dike drowns the mangrove trees. The area then becomes filled with tall Phragmites karka reeds. These marshes can then be converted to shifting or permanent taro patches for Colocasia esculenta and/or Cyrtosperma merkusii (Cycle D). The overall system portrayed in Figure 19.5 provides complementary crop production throughout the year, in spite of variable rainfall and tropical cyclones, and can be adapted to meet the needs of different levels of population – up to a point. Some shifts in vegetation occur less readily than others. A shift from an intermittent mixed garden back to secondary vegetation with a low canopy provided by a characteristic set of secondary tree species can occur in about four to seven years. Development back to secondary forest takes longer, and a return to mature forest longer still. The only two study sites observed with a well-developed native forest over ditched beds – indicating previous gardens – had been fallow for 25 to 70 years. Site recovery depends on the degree to which the site has been deforested in the gardening phase, the soil type and the incidence of wildfires. Most of the vegetation types shown in Figure 19.5 were mapped in Falanruw et al. (1987). The diagram can thus be used as a model for improving the sustainability of land use for food production, as well as for the conservation of biodiversity, by influencing the direction of the cycles shown in the diagram.

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FIGURE 19.5 

Hypothetical sequences of long-term vegetation dynamics involving traditional agricultural systems on Yap Notes: Much of the native upland forest has been used for swidden agriculture and little mature forest remains. Swiddens (‘intermittent mixed garden’), can progress in three directions: 1. If left to natural succession, these sites are likely to revert back to secondary vegetation and secondary forest (Cycle A); 2. In savannahs or sites that have been cropped or burned too frequently, biomass is exhausted and the soil impoverished. People must resort to more intensive ditched-bed gardening under full sun with only a grass fallow (Cycle B). Ditched-bed gardening sites can revert to forest, as old ditched beds can be found below forest today; 3. If people settle in an area used for swidden gardening, the fallow may be managed to select and plant useful trees and the site developed into an agroforest (Cycle C). Should agroforests become weedy or threaten to shade out taro patches, the system may be reconditioned by killing less useful trees, severely pollarding useful ones, and converting the area into an intermittent garden for a time. Under German and Japanese direction, some coastal areas were converted into coconut groves. Most of these have since become mixed agroforests or secondary vegetation.

Rise and fall of swidden agriculture on Mainland Yap

Swidden agriculture provides resiliency. It can be carried out with a minimum of tools and, with soils enriched by forests, the ratio of human energy inputs is low compared to calories harvested. It can be carried out extensively, minimizing human inputs but requiring more land, or more intensively, by those familiar with special techniques such as a system used to grow fine yams on pyramidal trellises. This method was probably developed at a time when garden plots and trees were limited, so that intensified methods were needed to produce as much as possible from a small plot. The method can be used even on soils that are only moderately fertile, as

Chapter 19. Dynamics of an island agroecosystem  375

mulching contributes to soil fertility. In some cases, yams are grown in the mulch left from deeply mulched banana gardens made in ditched beds in poor savannah soils. Banana mulch is rich in potassium, which contributes to the growth of yam tubers. In the traditional trellis method, rather than burn-girdling trees to use as yam trellises, the trellises are built in a pyramid shape. Yam bits are planted at the base of the trellis in specially prepared mounds. The yam vine is allowed to grow up a bamboo pole for a number of days, and then it is gently unwound from the pole and wrapped around the perimeter of the pyramidal trellis, gently tied, and left to grow up another pole. After a number of days the vine is again unwound and wrapped about the trellis (Figure 19.6). This process is repeated until the trellis is covered with a spiral of vines. Since the trellis is pyramid-shaped, there is minimal shading of lower leaves. The repeated unwrapping and repositioning of the vines seems to induce thigmomorphogenesis – an effect induced by mechanical stimuli on plant growth and development – that results in a thickening of the vine, shorter internodes and greater leaf area.1 All of this contributes to a bigger harvest of yam tubers. A trial was carried out to compare this method of cultivating yams with the less intense method of using burn-girdled trees as trellises. At harvest, the weight of yams produced per mound from vines that had been wrapped around a pyramidal trellis was an average of 2.5 times greater than the harvest from yam vines allowed to grow up sacrificed trees. While more intensive, the method produced larger yields and required less in terms of forest resources. Yap’s long period of depopulation ended in the early years of the American administration, which began in 1946. At this time there was a high ratio of fallowed gardens to gardeners. With little more than a knife, digging bar and matches, Yap’s main gardeners – its women – turned to swidden agriculture as the most humanenergy-efficient means of producing food for growing families. A climatic period with more frequent droughts made it easier to burn-girdle trees and contributed to more extensive swidden gardening, with high yields from the forest-enriched gardens. Most crops were used to feed the gardeners’ families, and harvests greatly exceeded market sales. The ability of Yapese gardeners to respond to increased market demand was shown by six- and 13-fold increases in sales of bananas and pumpkins, respectively, when they gained access to an off-island market FIGURE 19.6  Dioscorea alata yams in 1991. The importance of production growing on a pyramidal trellis. The vines for traditional social events was shown by here are ready to be unwound from the the quantity of fine yams presented for poles and repositioned around the trellis.

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a memorial observance for a deceased chief in the same year. About 711 baskets of yams were contributed by 69 households, with a total weight between 9663 and 10,876kg – six to seven times greater than the average quantity of yams sold at the public market in an entire year. More recently, there have been increased opportunities for younger women to gain a formal Western education and find employment. At the same time, experienced traditional gardeners – older women – have been removed from the gardening workforce to baby-sit the increasing proportion of young children. This has resulted in an overall decline in the quality and quantity of indigenous agricultural production, while government and international-development efforts have failed to raise agricultural output by other means. Even today, most local agricultural production comes from traditional gardens and agroforests, using little more than a knife, a digging bar and traditional knowledge. On 9 April 2004, Yap was struck by Typhoon Sudal, with powerful winds that battered the islands at a time of peak spring tides. The storm surge inundated coastal areas and the island was declared a disaster area.Typhoon-recovery assistance provided emergency water, food supplies and assisted with reconstruction. For the first time, assistance was also provided to gardeners to renovate food-production systems, especially taro patches, in order to avoid long-term dependence on food aid. In addition to the storm surge of salt water, the typhoon deposited piles of debris into taro patches and, with normal water circulation impeded, eutrophication set in. Many taro patches were filled with dark, putrid water. The programme provided a stipend for experienced gardeners and taro-patch experts to supervise a group of workers, mostly young women, who received a smaller stipend, to renovate food-production systems in their respective villages.The programme was well received, and there were cases of older women almost crawling to sites to supervise ‘the younger gardeners at work’ – a certain sign of concern for food security. A major part of the work involved the renovation of water-flow ditches associated with taro patches as well as the resurrection of some older ways of raising taro in low-lying coastal areas. One such method was taro ‘basket culture’, in which baskets of woven coconut fronds were filled with soil to provide elevated planting spots for Colocasia esculenta taro. Levees (retaining walls) were also renovated or constructed to prevent sea water from entering taro patches. A group from one village located on a narrow coast with limited habitat for taro patches installed such a levee between an area that was intermittently flooded with fresh water during periods of heavy rainfall and by sea water at high tide. A pipe with a 45-degree angle was installed through the levee. The top portion of the pipe could be lowered to drain excess rainwater at low tide and raised to prevent flooding by sea water at high tide, thus making it possible to grow taro. Due to the number of taro patches that had been inundated by salt water, aid workers anticipated a long period of food aid. However, as soon as heavy rains rinsed the salt water out of renovated taro patches, most of them flourished – just as the older women said they would.The programme proved to be a good investment, as typhoon-

Chapter 19. Dynamics of an island agroecosystem  377

relief food aid was discontinued much sooner than in the aftermath of other typhoons on other islands. After the series of storms and typhoons that culminated in Typhoon Sudal, La Niña conditions set in, and have continued ever since, accompanied by increased sea levels. Coastal lowlands have experienced salt-water FIGURE 19.7  Long-term surpluses and deficits in rainfall intrusion. Basket-cultured taro, between 1950 and 2009 kang kong (Ipomoea aquatica) Source: Landers (2010) growing in taro patches, and Hibiscus tiliaceus trees growing in swampy areas, have died. The rainfall pattern has also changed (Figure 19.7), with more rain and shorter periods of dry weather. This has made it difficult for women to develop intermittent mixed gardens (swiddens), as conditions are too wet to complete the burning needed to initiate such gardens. The production of yams, the most prestigious crop of shifting gardens, has suffered as a result and Yap’s rich genetic pool of yam varieties is threatened, as perishable bits of yams harvested in one year are needed to produce crops in following years. Nowadays, when people are being encouraged to eat more local food in order to combat an epidemic of lifestyle diseases such as diabetes and hypertension, the cost of most local produce has risen beyond that of its imported counterpart, principally rice. The availability of local produce is sparse and the type of produce sold at the few small local markets has also changed. Bananas have become more prominent and a variety of items that were not previously offered for sale are now being brought to market, including the tips of bird’s-nest ferns (Asplenium nidus), new varieties of dry-land kang kong (Ipomea aquatica), pumpkin-vine tips and abiich fruit, or ‘garlic pear’ (Crataeva speciosa). Such foods have long been part of the Yapese diet, but were not previously considered as something appropriate for marketing as they were growing around most people’s homes. The generation of Yapese whose parents juggled a subsistence lifestyle augmented with some salaried work are now moving more completely into a monetized society, at a time when development aid under the Compact of Free Association with the United States is declining and sea levels are rising. Yap’s Outer Islands

Yap’s Outer Islands include a raised limestone island (Fais), the low island of Satawal and 13 atolls, nine of which include currently inhabited islets. Altogether, there are about 133 coralline islets collectively referred to as the Yap ‘Outer’ or ‘Neighbouring’

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Islands, whose people are known as Remathau – people of the deep sea. By the 2010 census, Outer Islanders made up about 45.5% of the state’s population, while the total land area of the Outer Islands was only about 15% of the total land area of the state. In the winters of 2007 and 2008 especially, these islets experienced very high ‘king tides’ that eroded beaches, brought salt-water intrusion into taro patches and soils, and in some cases, inundated parts of villages. Soils were damaged and crops destroyed on an estimated 60% of inhabited Outer Islands in the Federated States of Micronesia (Fletcher and Richmond, 2010). High sea levels continue, and Yap’s Division of Land Resources has recently acquired equipment to begin collecting data on island elevations with respect to sea level. Using a Topcon Total Station and Trimble GPS units, staff go aboard a ship on irregularly scheduled field trips, storing their precious instruments in limited cabin space and sleeping on deck. They have established permanent reference points with respect to sea level at high tide. From these points they measure highest and lowest areas of land on inhabited islets and the elevation of public places such as schools, dispensaries and residential areas. Plans are to repeat measurements in the same month of each year. Preliminary results for 17 inhabited islets indicate an average maximum elevation of 1.8 metres above high tide. Two islets had the highest elevations of 5.5m and 4.7m.The highest points on the rest of the islands were 3m or less above high tide level, with four islets below 2m, and seven islets rising less than 1m above high tide. The surveys have also shown that six islets have areas including schools, a residence and a dispensary that are 0.1m to 0.3m below high tide level, but are protected from inundation by higher land around the islets’ perimeter (Waayan, 2011).2 The limestone foundation of atoll islets is generally porous, with interstitial spaces filled with water. Rainfall, being less dense than sea water, tends to collect in pools that float on the denser sea water within these still spaces. A fresh-water ‘lens’ (so named because the layer of fresh water is thicker at its centre) forms towards the interior of islets, generally along their long axis. Towards its centre, the fresh-water lens may rise slightly above sea level as it is buoyed up by the salt water below. Fresh water within the lens tends to fluctuate with tidal action, and this mixes fresh and salt water at the edges of the lens. Many factors influence the size, shape and existence of fresh-water lenses on atoll islets, but the location and characteristics of the fresh-water lenses not only strongly influence atoll vegetation, but they also determine whether islets are inhabitable. Atoll agriculture is severely constrained by the availability of fresh water, nutrientlimited soils, limited area, salt spray and potential for inundation and salt-water intrusion. Taro patches are confined to areas within reach of the fresh-water lens, and other gardening is confined to areas with better soil, or where soil has been improved by mulching. Given these restrictions, there is limited prospect for shifting agriculture on inhabited islands. However, uninhabited islets are visited from time to time to harvest semi-wild foods such as Syzygium spp. (apples) and Crataeva speciosa fruit, as well as coconut crabs and sea turtles. Prior to the advent of large field-trip ships with relief supplies, people relocated to other islands or obtained food from neighbouring

Chapter 19. Dynamics of an island agroecosystem  379

islands for a time following damaging typhoons. The need to tap resources of other islands has been a big factor in keeping traditional canoe voyaging and navigation alive in the Outer Islands, where some of the last practitioners of this traditional skill are found. With saline impacts on taro patches, there have been shifts on the Outer Islands to more hardy types of taro.3 Colocasia esculenta is the most esteemed taro, but also requires the most care. Cyrtosperma merkusii taro is more hardy, but requires a longer period before it can be harvested. Both of these types are generally grown in taro patches, and are thus vulnerable to salinization. Xanthosoma sagittifolium, a taro introduced during the Spanish period that can be grown on ‘dry’ land, has been promoted with mixed results. Alocasia macrorrhiza taro, which has long been used in the Outer Islands, is planted in individual pits dug through rocky substrate and is hardy enough to persist for some time, even without care. Like C. merkusii, it requires at least two to three years before the corm is large enough to be harvested. A. macrorrhiza requires special preparation as a human food because of its particularly high concentration of irritating calcium oxalate crystals, a factor that has led Outer Islanders to select less ‘itchy’ varieties. Breadfruit is the quintessential agroforest species. However, it is seasonal and production is influenced by both rainfall and storms. Bananas are an important crop that is vulnerable to saline soils and there have been shifts to types that are somewhat more salt tolerant. Challenges to food production and the availability of field-trip ships has led to increasing reliance on rice and other imported foods. This trend is now exacerbated by salt-water intrusion and inundation of taro patches and gardening areas as a result of ‘king tides’ and storm surges. On low-lying atoll islets where there is no watershed, salinized taro patches and garden soils are not readily rinsed out. Taro patches on most inhabited Outer Islands have thus become unproductive, although there are a few exceptions, such as on the tiny islet of Euarpik, where a recently dug and deeply mulched taro patch remained productive. Efforts to combat the effects of salinization on the islet of Woleai included the construction of windbreaks to shield crops from salt spray and the development of raised beds for growing taro. Initially the raised beds were successful. However, on 8 December 2008, the islet experienced a ‘king tide’ in which the ocean kept rising until it flowed into the village, inundating even the raised taro beds. The intrusion of the ocean on garden patches that are almost sacred in their social value has a profound effect, particularly on the women.The anguish brought by such an event on Ulithi atoll was recorded in a church newsletter by Father J. Hagileiram, SJ (2011): On Falalop Ulithi, the women, the custodians of the taro patches, reported that over 90 per cent of all the taro patches on the island had been rendered useless wasteland. For some reason it seems that their traditional taro patches, the ones they inherited from their great ancestors, are the ones mostly affected. They held these taro patches in esteem, for they represented something of their past

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as well as their future. Louisa, who led me to her patch, cast a despairing look on the desolate patch in front of us as she related her despair: ‘This was the patch that grandma used to work in. My mother and I used to spend many hours in here. It is the only thing I used to think I could count on as a lasting gift I could leave behind for my children. Look at what has happened to it.’ Culturally, the taro patches mean a lot to the women.They are reserved for very special occasions like the Raaliire Mwaale, Men’s Day, when they like to show off their biggest and best taros. It is in these traditional taro patches where taros for very special people, like their children, their brothers and uncles, are kept. A taro can be harvested and re planted so that one taro plant can feed many generations of dear ones. Mothers take pride in that very special taro that is kept in the traditional taro patch. They nurse it with that special mother pride, as they often collect the wilted leis from their children and dear ones and use them as compost around that very special taro.The son who returns home after a long absence is welcomed with that very special taro. Losing these taro patches is like losing a very significant part of your identity as a woman. It is the worst thing that can happen to you as a mother. (Hagileiram, 2011) Salt-water intrusion into taro patches and soil is insidious. Unlike a storm surge or inundation by a ‘king tide’, it seeps unseen into a taro patch or soil from below. In some cases, salt water seems to bubble up from below. Salt-water intrusion is exacerbated by the withdrawal of too much fresh water from the fresh-water lens, decreasing the weight of fresh water keeping salt water at bay. One response to saltwater intrusion has been the construction of concrete taro patches. The cemented bottoms of these shallow enclosures prevent salt-water intrusion. They are rain fed, with drainage ports for water management. Organic matter is added to develop a loamy soil and plantings are deeply mulched. After several years, these artificial taro patches are generally productive, but they are quite limited in size and have no family history. Where to from here?

A recent report of the Pacific Climate Change Science Programme (PCCSP, 2011) gave projections of average changes expected within the territory of the Federated States of Micronesia, with associated confidence levels based on climate models. For the western part of this territory, which includes Yap State, the programme predicted with very high confidence that temperatures would continue to increase over the course of the 21st century, with moderate confidence that average temperatures would increase by 10C by 2030 and by more than 2.50C by 2090.There was high confidence that rainfall would increase, with moderate confidence of little change by 2030, but moderate confidence, also, of an increase of 0.5 to 15% by 2090. There was also high confidence of increased intensity and frequency of days with extreme rainfall, but moderate confidence that the number of tropical cyclones and the proportion

Chapter 19. Dynamics of an island agroecosystem  381

of severe storms would decrease. There was also very high confidence that mean sea level would continue to rise, with moderate confidence of a rise of 5 to 15cm by 2030 and 20 to 60cm by 2090. However, some researchers posit a significant uncertainty of ice-sheet contributions to sea-level rise, and say higher levels cannot be excluded (Meehl et al., 2007). Some reports suggest that sea levels could be higher and their rise could be rather abrupt (Ananthaswamy, 2012). With the Outer Islands already lying barely above high tides, rising sea levels can be expected to push fresh-water lenses out of existence. At some point, more than 40% of Yap’s population, from the Outer Islands, will probably seek to relocate. Migration to mainland Yap is already underway. Food security is a growing issue and the conservation of biodiversity necessary to provide the ecosystem services needed to maintain food security is an even greater challenge. Locally produced GIS maps indicate that most large taro patches and more fertile soils are located towards the coast and are vulnerable to sea-level rise and storm surge. It will become necessary to move agricultural production upland. However, higher areas have less fertile soils and support little more than savannah, or in a few cases, precious remnants of native forest. All of Yap’s mangroves, which are important to inshore fisheries, lie within about a metre of sea level. As the interface between fresh and sea water moves inland, we can expect mangroves to follow, as they need some fresh water. If mangroves are to continue to support inshore fisheries and protect the coastline, they will have to be allowed to move inland. However, this is contrary to the general practice of keeping mangroves at bay or crushing them under landfill. Mangroves have recently been found to be among the most carbon-rich forests in the tropics (Donato et al., 2011). Research on Yap shows that while mangroves comprise about 12% of the island’s vegetation, they sequester about 34% of the carbon held by all of the island’s vegetation (Donato et al., 2012). This has implications for future carbon markets. The Yapese use mangroves in many ways, one being the enhancement of mangrove habitat by various methods to increase production of the mangrove clam Anodontia edentula, without killing the mangroves. This is another nature-integrated foodproduction system. In many areas, marshes and taro patches – or potential taro patches – lie inland of the mangroves. Some of Yap’s best taro, both Colocasia esculenta and Cyrtosperma merkusii, is grown in shifting plots within these marshes. Rising sea levels threaten the marshes and their taro patches, and there is a tendency to build levees and roads between coastal mangroves and taro patches to protect against salt-water inundation. This needs to be done with care in order to manage the interface between fresh and salt water, so that mangroves can still get the fresh water they need and continue to protect the coast. Levees alone won’t protect the taro patches from salt-water intrusion from below; it is also important to maintain a reservoir of fresh-water pressure at the interface of fresh and salt water. Historically,Yapese gardeners apparently understood the need to manage this interface of fresh and salt water, as they lined the bottom of taro patches lying near the sea with rocks, in order to raise the bottom of the taro

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patch and maintain a reservoir of fresh water below the taro patch to prevent saltwater intrusion. On top of rising sea levels, storm surges can be expected to push salinization further inland, so it will eventually be necessary to move agricultural activities upland. Ideally this would be done without destroying the limited remnants of native forest. Increased emphasis on the importance of protecting biodiversity has led Micronesian governments to declare a ‘Micronesia Challenge’, which pledges to effectively conserve 20% of land biodiversity and 30% of near-shore marine biodiversity. In the case of Yap, where there is little well-developed wild forest left, this will mean that new agricultural activities will need to take place in areas of secondary vegetation and savannah. Lacking a tree canopy other than scattered Pandanus tectorius trees, most savannahs have impoverished, heavy, waterlogged soils and strategies to enable their use for food production are needed. Among these strategies should be the restoration of forests on savannah lands as advanced preparation for swidden cultivation. It would also seem wise to examine traditional practices and evidence that remains etched on the landscape. Old ditched-bed systems can clearly be seen from the air in areas of savannah. They are present throughout Yap, from savannah uplands to lowlands, beneath forest canopies, within agroforests and even in marshes. Water management via ditches further extends into mangroves and even into inshore marine areas. Ditched-bed technology involves a lot of work and, for its remnants to be so pervasively stamped on the landscape, it must have been effective. Ditched beds revisited

The ‘fresh green fruit-bearing fields to the tops of hills’ observed by Tetens prior to 1888 are likely to have included bananas. While cultivation of ditched beds on hills in savannahs is largely abandoned today, elders remember their use for growing bananas in the savannah hills. Bananas seem to have been more important in the past. Old texts (Mueller, 1917) contain chants that mention the burying of bananas to be used as food at traditional gatherings. Even today,Yap has a particularly rich diversity of banana cultivars, suggesting that it once had a well-developed system of banana culture. A method for growing bananas on ditched beds with deep mulching in poor savannah soils is sometimes used to grow heritage bananas for special occasions. In this system, bananas are deeply mulched, with soil alternately added from a ditch around the perimeter of the bed. Following the banana harvest, prestigious yams can be grown in the potassium-rich mulch on pyramidal trellises. as described earlier.The ditched-bed system is also said to have been used to grow chab chab, or Polynesian arrowroot (Tacca leontopetaloides), for its starchy tubers; and Cyrtosperma taro. Turmeric (Curcuma longa) was grown as a spice, and especially for the culturally important golden powder that can be made from its tubers and used cosmetically, medicinally and for prestigious exchange. Ditched beds continue to be used to grow bananas and yams for special occasions, for mixed crops and especially for sweet potatoes.

Chapter 19. Dynamics of an island agroecosystem  383

Most swidden gardens developed in secondary vegetation and secondary forest make use of ditched-bed architecture left by previous generations. The ditches help to drain waterlogged soils, and shallow ditches – closed at both ends – on top of ditched beds can be used to maintain moisture in the upper layers of soil. Brookfield (1984) pointed out that the practice Dioscorea esculenta (Lour.) Burkill (left) and of constructing ditched beds Dioscorea alata L. (right) [Dioscoreaceae] reduced the total area of a garden.This may be true for the Some of the many varieties of yams that thrive drained phase of ditched-bed on the island of Yap systems. However, the ditches on Yap are thereafter not lost to agriculture, as they may be widened and used to grow taro. The process of ditching and transferring soil from ditches to garden beds may also link human efforts to biological and chemical processes. In examining the contrasts between swidden agriculture and wet-rice cultivation, Geertz (1971) pointed out that intensification in swidden systems led to regression of forests to grasslands and reduced soil fertility and yields, while wet-rice culture responded positively to intensification. He proposed a reason for the puzzling difference: [It] almost certainly lies in the paramount role played by water in the dynamics of the rice terrace. Here, the characteristic thinness of tropical soils is circumvented through the bringing of nutrients onto the terrace by the irrigation water to replace those drawn from the soil; through the fixation of nitrogen by the bluegreen algae which proliferate in the warm water; through the chemical and bacterial decomposition of organic material, including the remains of harvested crops in that water; through the aeration of the soil by the gentle movement of the water in the terrace; and, no doubt, through other ecological functions performed by irrigation which are as yet unknown. (Geertz, 1971, pp29-30) The dichotomy between swidden agriculture and wet rice in some areas of Southeast Asia might be compared with the Yapese intermittent mixed gardens (swidden) and taro-patch dichotomy, with ditched beds being intermediate between shifting and ponded-field systems. In a paper entitled ‘The role of standing water and waterlogged soils in raised-field, drained-field and island-bed agriculture’, Vasey et al.

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(1984) pointed out that ‘a strategy of partial drainage was once applied throughout vast areas of the tropics’ prior to the colonial era. The authors then reviewed the conditions under which the management of waterlogged soils could result in in situ generation of nitrogen (N) and the mobilization of phosphorus (P), the two nutrients that most often limit crop growth, and concluded: ‘Short term algal N-fixation rates under favourable conditions compare favourably with the rates associated with fodder legume species’ (Vasey et al., 1984, p69). In shallow-water systems, total nitrogen is tied up in micro-organisms and free organic compounds and is especially concentrated in bottom sediments. The transfer of organic matter from the aquatic system to the crop system is an important means of making use of this process. The N-fixing process is self-limiting, with high levels of nitrogen suppressing N-fixation. The frequent removal of nitrogen-rich organic matter from ditches helps to maintain high algal N-fixation. Many soils contain higher levels of available phosphorus (P) when anaerobic than when aerated, especially soils that are high in hydrous iron oxide clays (Chac´on et al., 2006), such as some soils of Yap.The mobilization of P under anaerobic conditions in ditches and the subsequent transfer of these soils onto garden beds may thus contribute to crop growth. Pending experimental data on Yap’s systems, we are left with the hypothesis that Yapese gardeners of old developed a series of technologies for producing food utilizing nutrients from biomass, and where biomass was exhausted or not present, by making use of microbial and biochemical processes in ditches and anaerobic soils. There has been limited research and extension on ways to grow food in the degraded savannah areas on Yap. Nevertheless, a number of Yapese families have moved to such areas and, on their own, have developed gardens and the beginnings of agroforests around their homes. When asked how this was achieved, the Yapese simply reply that the presence of people makes things grow well. In the name of modern development, most consultants and commercial growers today resort to heavy machinery and inorganic fertilizers that tend to suppress natural processes and make farmers dependent on imported inputs and fossil-fuelled technologies.This is closely related to another threat, which, along with climate change, jeopardizes long-term food security: development programmes and big commercial investments. These tend to transform indigenous people, who have experience and adaptive instincts that enable them to work with their ecosystem to produce food, into yet another group dependent on money, fossil-fuelled technologies and strong chemicals. This in turn contributes to the problem of climate change and sea-level rise that now places the Yap islands, and indeed much of the world, under such dire threat. Acknowledgements

Figure 19.1 was composed by Lonnie Fread. Figures 19.2,19.3,19.4 and 19.6 and the sketch of the Dioscorea species were drawn by Martin Faimau of the Yap Institute of Natural Science. Figure 19.5 was digitized by Francis Ruegorong on the basis of

Chapter 19. Dynamics of an island agroecosystem  385

a previous version in Falanruw (1995). Dr Reed Perkins of Queen’s University of Charlotte greatly assisted us with GIS technology. In addition to our colleagues in the scientific world, we thank our elders and associates in the gardens, taro patches and agroforests of Yap. References Ananthaswamy, A. (2012) ‘Projections of sea level rise are vast underestimates’, New Scientist 29 November Brookfield, H. (1984) ‘Intensification revisited’, Pacific Viewpoint 25 (1), pp15-44 Chac´on, N., Silver, W. L., Dubinsky, E. A. and Cusack, D. F. (2006) ‘Iron reduction and soil phosphorus solubilisation in humid tropical forest soils: The roles of labile carbon pools and an electron shuttle compound’, Biogeochemistry 78, pp67–84 de Oca, J. (1893) ‘La Isla de Yap’, Boletin de la Sociedad Geographica de Madrid XXXIV, 4, 5 and 6, pp251–279 Dodson, J. R. and Intoh, M. (1999) ‘Prehistory and paleoecology of Yap, Federated States of Micronesia’, Quaternary International 59 (1), pp17–26 Donato, D. C., Kauffman, J. B., Kurnianto, S., Stidham, M. and Murdiyarso, D. (2011) ‘Mangroves among the most carbon-rich forests in the tropics’, Nature Geoscience 4, pp293–297 Donato, D. C., Kauffman, J. B., Mackenzie, R. A., Ainsworth, A. and Pfleeger, A. Z. (2012) ‘Whole-island carbon stocks in the tropical Pacific: Implications for mangrove conservation and upland restoration’, Journal of Environmental Management 97, pp89–96 Falanruw, M. V. C. (1995) ‘The Yapese Agricultural System’, PhD dissertation, University of the South Pacific, Suva, Fiji Falanruw, M. V. C. and Ruegorong, F. (2007) ‘Indigenous fallow management on Yap Island’, in M. F. Cairns (ed.) Voices from the Forest: Integrating Indigenous Knowledge into Sustainable Upland Farming, RFF Press, Washington, DC, pp521–527 Falanruw, M. C., Whitesell, C. D., Cole, T. G., MacLean, C. D. and Ambacher, A. H. (1987) ‘Vegetation survey of Yap, Federated States of Micronesia’, Resource Bulletin, PSW-21, Pacific Southwest Forest and Range Experiment Station, Forest Service, US Department of Agriculture, Berkeley, CA Fletcher, C. H. and Richmond, B. M. (2010) Climate Change in the Federated States of Micronesia: Food and Water Security, Climate Risk Management, and Adaptive Strategies, Sea Grant, University of Hawaii, Honolulu Geertz, C. (1971) Agricultural Involution: The Processes of Ecological Change in Indonesia, University of California Press, Berkeley, CA Hagileiram, J. (SJ) (2011) ‘To be tsunami-prepared or to cope in the wake of sea-level rise: Which is the question?’, Yap Catholic Church Newsletter, November Hezel, F. X. (1995) Strangers in their Own Land: A Century of Colonial Rule in the Caroline and Marshall Islands, University of Hawaii Press, Honolulu Hunter-Anderson, R. (1983) Yapese Settlement Patterns:An Ethnoarchaeological Approach, Monograph 3, Pacific Studies Institute, Agana, Guam IPCC (2007) 21st Century Global Changes, Topic 3, Section 3.2.1, Fourth Assessment Report, Climate Change Synthesis Report, International Panel on Climate Change Johnson, C. G., Alvis, R. J. and Hetzler, R. L. (1960) Military Geology of Yap Islands, Caroline Islands, US Army and US Geological Survey report, Washington, DC Landers, M. (2010) Personal communication between the authors and Dr Mark Landers, meteorologist and Professor of Water Resources and Engineering, Water and Environmental Research Institute of the Western Pacific, University of Guam. Graph prepared for climate workshop on Yap Mahoney, F. (1958) ‘Land tenure patterns on Yap Island’, in J. de Young (ed.) Land Tenure Patterns, Trust Territory of the Pacific Islands, Office of the Staff Anthropologist, Trust Territory of the Pacific Islands, Agana, Guam, pp251–287

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Meehl, G. A., Washington, W. M., Collins, W. D., Arblaster, J. M., Hu, A., Buja, L. E., Strand, W. G. and Teng, H. (2007) ‘How much more global warming and sea level rise?’, Science 307, pp1766–1769 Mueller, W. (1917) ‘Yap’, in G. Thilenius (ed.) Ergegnisse der Sudsee Expedition II. Ethnographie: Band 2, L. Friederichsen and Co, Hamburg PCCSP (2011) Climate Change in the Pacific: Scientific Assessment and New Research, Pacific Climate Change Science Programme, Commonwealth Scientific and Industrial Research Organization, Victoria, Australia Tetens, A. (1958) Among the Savages of the South Seas: Memoirs of Micronesia 1862-1868, translated by F. M. Spoehr, Stanford University Press, Stanford, CA Underwood, H. J. (1969) ‘Preliminary investigations of demographic features and ecological variables of a Micronesian Island population’, Micronesica 5 (1), pp1–24 US National Research Council (2010) ‘Sea level rise and the coastal environment’, in Advancing the Science of Climate Change, National Research Council of the National Academies, The National Academics Press, Washington, DC Vasey, D. E., Harris, D. R., Olson, G. W., Spriggs, M. J. T. and Turner, B. L. (1984) ‘The role of standing water and water-logged soils in raised-field, drained-field and island-bed agriculture’, Singapore Journal of Tropical Geography 5 (1), pp64–72 Volkens, G. (1901) Ubor die Karolinen-Insel Yap, Vorhandlungen der Gosoll-schaft fur Erdkundo XXXVI, pp62–76 Waayan, J. (2011) Personal communication between the authors and John Waayan of the Yap State Division of Land Resources

Notes 1 Scientists named this phenomenon ‘thigmomorphogenesis’ in the 1970s. Yapese had been making use of it long before it was named by science. 2 These measurements above high tide level may be compared with the effect of seasonal typhoons in the Western Pacific. Typhoon Sudal produced a storm surge of around 4m. Typhoon Bopha was forecast to generate a storm surge of 6m to 10m at peak intensity. It passed just out of range of Yap in early December 2012. 3 The term ‘taro’ is used loosely in this chapter for all of the edible aroids mentioned. Technically, however, it refers just to Colocasia esculenta.

B. Is shifting cultivation friend or foe to biodiversity?

Swidden fallows are favourite foraging areas for the Asian elephant Sketch based on a photo by Varun Goswami

20 SECOND THOUGHTS ON SECONDARY FORESTS Can swidden cultivation be compatible with conservation? Dietrich Schmidt-Vogt* Introduction

To follow the assessment of swidden cultivation through the literature is an exercise in what the German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche has called the ‘transvaluation of values’. Into the 1960s, there was an almost unanimous consensus to condemn shifting cultivation: in the words of the German geographer Albert Kolb (1962, cited in Brauns and Scholz, 1997) it was the ‘cancer of the tropics’; in other words, the major agent of environmental destruction in this part of the world. However, dissenting voices were raised at about the same time, for instance, by the American anthropologist Clifford Geertz (1963), who drew attention to the ability of shifting cultivation to mimic the processes of tropical ecosystems, as well as maintain their structure. He rated this as a positive characteristic, peculiar to this form of tropical land use. While the negative assessment of swidden cultivation still persists, especially in the domain of policy-making, support for a more positive, or at least more discriminate, perception has been gaining ground. The reassessment of swiddening was initiated in Asia by the work of anthropologists such as Harold Conklin on the Hanunó’o in the Philippines (Conklin, 1957) and Peter Kunstadter on the Lawa in northern Thailand (Kunstadter, 1978a), and has been carried on by many others. More recently, there has been an upsurge of interest in swidden cultivation, to which a proliferation of papers and the publication of this book and its predecessor (Cairns, 2007) bear testimony.This upsurge has been caused in part by the anticipated demise of swidden cultivation and its replacement by, for instance, monocultures of annual or perennial crops such as maize and rubber, especially in tropical and

* 

Professor Dr Dietrich Schmidt-Vogt, Centre for Mountain Ecosystem Studies, Kunming Institute of Botany, Chinese Academy of Sciences, and World Agroforestry Centre (ICRAF), East Asia node, Kunming, China.

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subtropical Asia (Padoch et al., 2007; Mertz et al., 2009; van Vliet et al., 2012). The prospect of an expansion of homogeneous land use, on a vast scale and at a rapid pace, may have stimulated a reassessment of swidden landscapes in view of their greater diversity when compared to monoculture systems that were replacing them, although a distinction between ‘good’ and ‘bad’ practices is still being made (Forsyth and Walker, 2008).The prospect of large-scale land-use changes has also to some extent motivated research on the capacity of swidden systems to provide ecosystem services such as carbon sequestration and biodiversity. Reassessments, or so-called ‘paradigm changes’, within one particular field of study are often embedded in larger changes of thought (Schmidt-Vogt, 2005a). The ecosystem concept, for instance, which is a central element of the ecosystem approach to conservation (to be discussed later), was introduced to ecology at a time when systems thinking was ‘in the air’, and it was adopted by other sciences as well. Likewise, the reassessment of shifting cultivation has been made possible by changes in thinking that have affected scientific domains such as conservation. While it is still too early for a systematic and conclusive analysis of changes in scientists’ perceptions of shifting cultivation, I would like to move in that direction; that is, to write an essay on some changes in the intellectual climate that may have been conducive to such a reassessment. The focus of this essay is on secondary forests, especially secondary forests in the swidden fallows that have been the prime subject of my own research into swidden. Its context is conservation, and the changes brought about in conservation by the emergence of the biodiversity concept and the landscape approach. As the writer of an essay has more liberties than the writer of a scientific paper, I will occasionally introduce personal experiences and observations that have been important in defining my perspective on the subject of swidden. Secondary is not always second-rate

When I was young, the essence of nature for me was wilderness, and the epitome of wilderness was tropical jungle as I visualized it from reading books on tropical nature such as Alfred Russell Wallace’s The Malay Archipelago (2010). I remember how particularly intrigued I was by his description of the tropical rainforest – what I then thought of as jungle – on the island of Borneo. It came as a huge disappointment, therefore, when I later learned that the term ‘jungle’ did not actually denote a virgin or primary forest of the tropics, but a secondary forest or bush; that is, degraded, low-stature, scrubby-looking woody vegetation that has developed from the residue of a natural tropical forest earlier destroyed by a disturbance such as fire, often caused by people. My disappointment arose from the commonly held view of secondary vegetation as being second-rate when compared to primary vegetation, in terms of biodiversity, structural complexity, habitat value and benefits for the overall environment (Schmidt-Vogt, 2005a). When I was finally able to visit the island of Borneo in 2000, as a participant in a workshop on secondary forests in Asia, I learned that secondary vegetation did not

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need to be visibly inferior to primary vegetation. When the workshop concluded, I set out with an ecologist from the Dayak indigenous people of Borneo in a boat to travel up a tributary of the Mahakam river. I hoped to be able to see at least a remnant stand of the primary tropical rainforest that once covered the island. My expectations diminished as we travelled through a landscape that had been converted entirely into an assemblage of fields, plantations and secondary scrub. On the first evening of our journey, after landing at a village where we planned to spend the night, my companion offered to show me what he referred to as a ‘forest garden’. We crossed the village perimeter, walked through pineapple fields, then across a stretch of alangalang grass, and finally entered a forest. As we moved deeper, the trees increased in size and the shadow of the canopy deepened. At last, this was what I was looking for, or what I believed was quite a credible sample of tropical rainforest. Then I asked my guide when we would reach the forest garden, and I was told we were already inside it. A forest garden, or tembawang as it is known in much of Borneo, is created by planting fruit trees and other useful tree species on abandoned fields or into natural or semi-natural forest, and managing natural vegetation. Over the course of time, these human-made forests can grow to resemble a natural tropical forest in terms of species diversity and complex structure (de Jong, 2002). To a certain extent, I had been prepared for this experience by my own research in the early 1990s on secondary forests generated by swidden cultivation in the mountains of northern Thailand (Schmidt-Vogt, 1998, 1999, 2001). Here, I studied the shifting-cultivation practices of three ethnic groups, among them the Lawa, a small group speaking a language related to Khmer. At the time, the Lawa population was only about 10,000. The village of Ban Tun, in Mae La Noi district of Mae Hong Son province, where I carried out my research, was near the border with Myanmar, and had been there, in the same spot, for about 800 years. Shifting cultivation as practised by the Lawa was of a rotational type, with cycles involving one year of cultivation and up to 15 years of fallow. Regeneration of vegetation on fallow swiddens took place in two distinct phases. Immediately after harvesting the first phase was dominated by fast-growing herbaceous plants, which in a very short time provided a dense cover with a large amount of biomass. In the case of the Lawa fields, Blumea balsamifera (L.) DC. [Compositae] this phase was dominated by the invasive exotic Chromolaena Among the first to occupy fallowed Lawa odorata and the native Blumea swiddens in northern Thailand, this species balsamifera. After three to four produces large quantities of biomass for early years, woody plants, sprouting soil recovery

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from the stumps and roots left in the fields when the farmers cleared the land, began to outgrow the herbaceous cover and gradually suppressed these ‘weeds’ by depriving them of sunlight. In the second phase and for the rest of the fallow, the woody regrowth developed through a fallow bush stage, in which Callicarpa arborea, a Callicarpa arborea Roxb. [Lamiaceae] deciduous or semi-evergreen shrub of the Lamiaceae family, A shrub that plays a large role in helping was prominent, into a fallow fallowed Lawa swiddens to recover the forest or swidden-fallow characteristics of secondary forest secondary forest, to use the terminology of Chokkalingam et al. (2001). After analysing the structure and composition of these forests, I was surprised to find them more species-rich than I had expected, at least with respect to plant species. In sample plots of 500sq m, I found 25 to 30 species in the tree layer alone. Dominant species were Schima wallichii, Castanopsis armata, Lithocarpus

elegans, Shorea obtusa,Aporosa wallichii, Glochidion sphaerogynum, Eurya acuminata, Styrax benzoides and others. Animal species were not so well represented, on account of hunting pressure around the village (Schmidt-Vogt, 1998, 1999, 2001). These forests were also complex in terms of stand structure. The tree layer was arranged into three different strata: a top layer of scattered relict emergents of 12 to 14m in height; an upper storey of trees, 6 to 10m high, which developed from coppice shoots and root suckers; and a lower storey of saplings that had grown from seeds following suppression of the weeds.The top layer of relict emergents – trees that were left standing when the swidden was cleared – was peculiar to Lawa and Karen swiddens. These trees were often referred to in the literature as ‘seed trees’, based on the assumption that farmers left them deliberately to assist in the regeneration of forest on fallowed swiddens. At first, I also believed that this was the case, but I did not find any evidence to support this during my research in Ban Tun. I therefore prefer the term ‘relict emergents’ used by Nyerges (1989) in his study of swidden fallows in Sierra Leone. The main reasons for not cutting some trees in the process of clearing swiddens are that their wood is either too hard or their stem too large to be cut with a bush knife. According to Lawa practice, women cut down trees with relatively small stems of 8 to 12cm in diameter, while the men climb into larger trees that are left standing and lop the branches to prevent shading of the future crop (Schmidt-Vogt, 1997, 2007). Almost 20 years later, a colleague from Chiang Mai University and I carried out a comparative survey of regeneration on fallow plots of Lawa and Karen farmers in

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Mae Chaem district of northern Thailand to explore the potential of swidden-fallow vegetation as a starting point for forest restoration (Wangpakapattanawong et al., 2010). In this study, we compared species diversity of one-year, three-year and sixyear fallows with natural forest, which, in the absence of completely undisturbed forest, we defined as forest that had never been subjected to swiddening, but had been used for other purposes. We found that tree diversity in the six-year fallow plot was higher than that in the natural forest plot, probably on account of a higher species accumulation on fallows due to the combination of sprouting trees and trees growing from seeds. Our study showed that older fallows could have a considerable potential for natural forest recovery, provided that they were protected from fire and cattle browsing, that they were close to seed sources and that seed-dispersal mechanisms across the landscape remained operative. More research on vegetation in swidden fallows in Southeast Asia has been carried out recently, for example, in Laos (Sovu et al., 2009; Phongpoudome et al., 2012). Secondary-vegetation formations on fallow swiddens also provided a larger number of plants that could be put to a variety of uses, such as construction, tool-making, food, medicine, textile-making, ritual use and fuel. Kunstadter (1978b) counted a total of 204 uncultivated species of useful plants that were collected on swiddens. He also argued that the diversity of the fallow environment as a whole, consisting of a number of different micro-environments, provided a greater variety of plants than would be available to the Lawa from an unaltered environment. This point will be taken up later when discussing the value of swidden landscapes for biodiversity. Secondary forests in the tropical landscapes of Asia that have been generated by swiddening are now viewed differently and, on the whole, more positively as a result of research since the 1950s. Their decline relative to other types of land cover – for example, that in the lower Mekong basin – is therefore considered to be a matter of concern (Heinimann et al., 2007; Thanichanon et al., 2013). Conservation and swidden

The perception of secondary forests is also changing from the perspective of conservation. To put this in another way, and perhaps better: changes in how conservation is understood and practised have paved the way for a reassessment of secondary communities and practices leading to the development of secondary communities, such as swidden cultivation (Schmidt-Vogt, 2005a). The aims and practices of conservation, as a concept of largely occidental origin, have been determined by Western concepts of nature. The perception of nature in the Western tradition of thought is complex (Glacken, 1967), and has gone through various transformations. In the late 19th century, when conservation was associated with the establishment of the first national parks, the term ‘nature’ was synonymous with undisturbed, pristine and non-humanized nature, or, in other words, nature as wilderness as opposed to managed nature within the realm of culture. That this is not a universal understanding of the term ‘nature’ can be shown by referring to

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only one example from Asia. In Thailand, the term thammachat, which is the most commonly used term in translation of the English word ‘nature’, carries the notion of a well-ordered domain of natural environment that is pleasant to look at, close to human settlements and well integrated with the human world (Stott, 1991; Ivarsson, 2001). In occidental terms, this would make it a locus amoenus, or a pleasant place. Even in Western thought, the equation of nature with wilderness and the high value placed on wilderness as a desirable state of nature is of a relatively recent origin, dating back to the Romantic movement of the late 18th and early 19th centuries, which discovered the ‘sublime and uplifting’ quality of wild landscapes such as high mountains and deserts. Before this transvaluation by the Romantics, wilderness had been considered in the Western perspective as disorderly, depressing and unfit for human use; lacking the superior qualities of cultivated land (Schmidt-Vogt, 2005a). The concept of wilderness, which informed the early national park movement, originated, like the national park movement itself, in North America. Its foundation was a view, expressed by the American Transcendentalists of the 19th century, foremost among them Ralph Waldo Emerson (1983) and Henry David Thoreau (2008), of nature as an emanation or embodiment of transcendental forces.Wilderness, according to Thoreau, is nature as it was meant to be by God, the creator: original, unaltered and therefore unsullied. Wilderness is also a place where people can come close to their own origins as unblemished natural beings, and exposure to wilderness can serve as an inspirational experience for maintaining or regaining physical and mental integrity (Nash, 2001). Culture, on the other hand, is our second nature, according to the German philosopher-writer Ruediger Safranski (Safranski, 2003). It provides us with a habitat of our own making within the larger context of what he describes as first nature and its original or primary manifestations: virgin forests and other wilderness areas. Through culture we are continuously creating and re-creating a secondary nature of artificially designed or more or less strongly modified ecosystems. Whether such secondary nature is second-rate when compared to first nature was not a question for the pioneers of the conservation movement, but it is an increasingly important question when conservation transcends protected-area boundaries and expands into human-managed landscapes (Schmidt-Vogt, 2005a). Two concepts have been influential in changing perspectives within conservation that may also change the perception of conservationists on swiddening: biodiversity conservation and the landscape approach. From wilderness protection to biodiversity conservation

The original mission of nature conservation, as formulated for the National Parks of North America, was preservation of wilderness through the exclusion of ‘unnatural’ influences, especially people. Nowadays, the term ‘wilderness’ seems to be fading from the language of conservationists. The new catchword and leitmotif for conservation is biodiversity.

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The term ‘biodiversity’, as a more compact form of ‘biological diversity’, was first introduced by Walter Rosen for the 1986 National Forum on BioDiversity (Wilson, 1992). Biodiversity, which has been characterized as being a property of natural systems and not an entity in itself (Solbrig, 2000), is an expression of variability in nature that can be applied on the level of genetic endowment, species composition and community structure. Biodiversity can be measured, quantified and monitored, and largely because of this quality, it has replaced less tangible and measurable objectives in the field of conservation, such as ‘naturalness’ or ‘wilderness value’. Nevertheless, the use of biodiversity as an indicator or measure of the quality of environments is not uncontested, leaving open the question of identifying reasons why diversity should be maintained or enhanced in environments (Schmidt-Vogt, 2005b). Although there is a broad understanding that biodiversity provides the foundation for ecosystem services, it is still difficult to establish precisely the ecological value of diversity, or outline the role of diversity in maintaining ecosystem functions (Armsworth et al., 2004; Swift et al., 2004). As an objective for conservation, biodiversity has been helpful as a scientifically more credible concept than the vague notion of ‘nature’; the concept, however, in its more simplified versions, has implications for the practice of conservation that may change (its) nature.The measurement of biodiversity, at its crudest, consists of counting species. However, there are other and more complex methods for biodiversity studies that are quite difficult to handle with respect to data gathering and processing: for instance, those used in research on genetic diversity. So quantitatively assessing species is still a widely practised way of assessing the biodiversity value of an area. Some ecosystems belonging to the realm of secondary nature are more species-rich than the original systems they have replaced, precisely because of the interventions that have created or shaped them. If they are considered worthy of being preserved on account of the species count, then conservation must, paradoxically, involve the suppression of natural processes that are likely to bring back the less species-rich original state. Perhaps this may include the retention of sometimes obsolete forms of land use in order to perpetuate the landscape’s desired species count. Examples of this are the heath landscapes of Europe, such as the Lunenburg Heath in northern Germany, which was created by the combined impact of cutting the original forests in order to supply wood to nearby salt-manufacturing industries, followed by pasturing of sheep. When the area was put under protection and sheep grazing discontinued, the original forest cover began to regenerate, prompting the protectedarea management to reintroduce – and subsidize – sheep grazing in order to prevent the re-establishment of the original vegetation and maintain the more species-rich secondary heath communities (Schmidt-Vogt, 2005a). Research on biodiversity in swidden landscapes, some of it mentioned above and summarized in Rerkasem et al. (2009), has shown that swidden in its traditional form is capable of maintaining biodiversity in terms of plant-species diversity that can be compared to natural or semi-natural vegetation. The full dimension of swidden

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cultivation’s impact on biodiversity, however, can only be understood when scaled up from the plot level to landscape level and the landscape approach then applied. From parks to landscapes

The landscape approach grew out of, or followed upon, the ecosystem approach to conservation. Both are attempts to carry conservation beyond the protected-area perimeter and beyond a narrow focus on species protection. While the ecosystem approach concentrates on conserving systems rather than species, and on the interactions that constitute a ‘system’, the landscape approach has a more pronounced geographical and spatial perspective, and is applied within a clearly defined and bounded geographical entity. While this is a crude simplification of two complex and, in many ways, overlapping terms, it may be sufficient to serve the purpose of this essay. The landscape approach is applied to specific areas that can be defined by boundaries. In the case of conservation, the rationale for applying the landscape approach is that effective conservation requires an area that is often larger than a protected area. Since large areas are usually characterized by greater internal complexity of sub-units and their interlinkages, the landscape approach is also an integrated approach. I argue that adopting the landscape approach has provided for the inclusion of secondary communities and even cultivated land within the scope of conservation, as well as for a more adequate assessment of swidden cultivation and its role in shaping entire landscapes. In its traditional form, swidden cultivation can create heterogeneity in landscapes over time and in space. It consists of a chronological series of activities beginning with cutting and burning the forest to cultivating fields and then letting vegetation grow back either spontaneously or with some management interventions. Land cover created by these activities consists of patches of cut and burned area, cultivated area and area under re-growth that are distributed over the landscape in the form of a mosaic. Swidden landscapes are diverse landscapes that can be understood only in their entirety and connectedness. Due to its diversity and dynamics, and because the swidden complex appears on land-use maps under categories such as ‘waste’ or ‘barren land’, the full spatial extent of swidden cultivation has hitherto been ‘invisible’ (Schmidt-Vogt et al., 2009). In the words of James C. Scott (2009), swidden cultivation is an ‘illegible’ land use. In the eyes of its hostile beholders, swidden cultivation was reduced to a series of stark images glimpsed through fleeting windows in its revolving chronology. Slashing and burning was perceived as the most characterisitic practice of this type of land use, and burnt-over swiddens the most characteristic component of its landscape mosaic. I wonder how many policy-makers have been flown in helicopters over swidden landscapes in the late dry season, to be shocked by the sight of burning patches all over the land, and to be ignorant of the fact that the forest matrix in which these

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patches were embedded had been maintained by swiddening, often over hundreds of years. An answer to the ‘invisibility’ or ‘illegibility’ of swiddening was to develop a method of mapping not single land uses, such as farms, forests and so on, but to map landscape mosaics made up of several land uses that were interlinked with each other, as in the case of swidden. Such a methodology, the so-called landscape mosaics approach, was developed at the Center of Development and Environment at Bern University in Switzerland, and has provided the basis for the first realistic assessment of the spatial extent of swiddening in Lao PDR, as well as a starting point for monitoring swidden landscapes (Messerli et al., 2009; Hett et al., 2011; Hurni et al., 2013). An answer to assessing the impact of swidden cultivation on biodiversity may, likewise, be obtained by focusing not on just one patch of the swiddening landscape mosaic, but on diversity created and maintained over time and over the entire swidden complex, ranging from the diversity of crops on the cultivated fields to the various stages of re-growth on fallow fields, with their variable percentages of herbaceous plants, grasses and tree species, and on the residual patches of natural forest. A swidden landscape maintained through rotational swiddening and/or modified by fallow management is, at its best, an intricate mosaic of different environments that can be more diverse in terms of species composition and structure than the original natural landscape. However, it may be lacking primary-forest species that depend on a continuous and undisturbed forest environment (Finegan and Nasi, 2004). The extent to which such species are present in a swidden environment depends on whether remaining patches of mature and uncultivated forest are sufficiently large and connected. Landscape diversity maintained by swiddening is in stark contrast to the trajectory of recent land-use changes in Southeast Asia (Padoch et al., 2007; Mertz et al., 2009; van Vliet et al., 2012). Emergence of markets, government incentives and improved connectivity across international boundaries have boosted the cultivation of cash crops that are often planted in monocultures. A notable example is the expansion of rubber monocultures across the uplands of the Mekong region. Rubber plantations have been expanding rapidly throughout Southeast Asia since the early 20th century (Ziegler et al., 2009). Prior to the 1990s, rubber planting was mainly confined to southern Thailand, Malaysia and Indonesia, but the focus of plantation growth has more recently shifted further north. Since the 1990s, another veritable rubber boom, mainly driven by the emerging auto industry in China, has led to rapid land-use conversion to monoculture rubber in the upper Mekong region. Over the last two decades, more than one million hectares in southern China, Laos, Thailand, Vietnam, Cambodia and Myanmar have been converted to rubber plantations (Li and Fox, 2012). Plantations in Indochina are growing at a rate of about 80,000ha per year (Ziegler et al., 2009). In China, Yunnan province ranks second in terms of natural-rubber production among the three producing provinces in southern China (Hainan, Yunnan and Guangdong). Within Yunnan, Xishuangbanna prefecture in the tropical south is the

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province’s main plantation area. Since the 1980s, China’s national rubber production has risen steeply, due mainly to the rapid expansion of plantations in Yunnan, and especially in Xishuangbanna. In 2011, rubber plantations made up close to 30% of the total land cover of Xishuangbanna, suggesting that the prefecture’s area under rubber has tripled since 2003 (Senf et al., 2013). In Xishuangbanna, rubber growing has replaced previous land uses on sloping land, such as swidden cultivation practised by the Hani, Dai and other ethnic minorities (Sturgeon, 2011). As rubber is grown in monocultures, the process of replacing swidden with rubber constitutes a process of rapid, large-scale simplification and homogenization of formerly heterogeneous landscapes. The implications of this process for ecosystem services such as biodiversity are not yet fully understood.While bringing back swidden cultivation is, of course, not an alternative to this development, a solution could be found in growing rubber in more diverse and sustainable systems, such as the ‘jungle-rubber’ systems of Sumatra, which themselves were developed from swidden systems (Penot, 2007). Beyond good and evil

Rethinking swidden cultivation in the light of recent research, and in view of recent developments in areas where swidden was formerly widespread, makes the evils of swiddening, as emphasized by policy-makers, appear somewhat less menacing when compared with the potential effects of succeeding land uses. The transvaluation of swiddening that is currently reaching new heights should, however, not induce a similarly simplistic view of swiddening as a ‘good’ land-use system. There are many reasons why swiddening is likely to fade away or to transform into other land uses, not least the aspiration of farmers to take advantage of emerging opportunities. The main purpose of this chapter was to show that the perception of swiddening has been changing due to conceptual changes taking place in science domains – and I used conservation as an example of the latter. However, swidden cultivation is itself a changeable phenomenon (Vonvisouk et al., 2014).The allure of swiddening in an age of environmental change lies in its capacity to change shape according to changing circumstances and according to the changing aspirations of its practitioners. This book contains a host of examples of the protean character of swidden cultivation. At its most basic, swiddening is an opportunistic approach – James C. Scott might have called it an anarchist approach – to land use that makes optimum use of synergies in nature by maintaining environmental diversity with a low level of manipulation, input, or creation of fixtures such as terraces or irrigation systems. In undisturbed forms of swiddening, manipulated components of the landscape, such as secondary forests, still bear a resemblance to the original. Biodiversity maintained over large scales and over long time periods has therefore emerged as being an inherent quality of original swidden cultivation and many of its derivatives.

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References Armsworth, P. R., Kendall, B.E. and Davis, F. W. (2004) ‘An introduction to biodiversity concepts for environmental economists’, Resource and Energy Economics 26, pp115–136 Brauns,T. and Scholz, U. (1997) ‘Shifting cultivation – KrebsschadenallerTropenlaender?’, Geographische Rundschau 49 (1), pp4–10 Cairns, M. (ed.) (2007) Voices from the Forest: Integrating Indigenous Knowledge into Sustainable Upland Farming, Resources for the Future Press, Washington, DC Chokkalingam, U., Smith, J. and de Jong, W. (2001) ‘A conceptual framework for the assessment of tropical secondary forest dynamics and sustainable development potential in Asia’, Journal of Tropical Forest Science 13 (4), pp577–600 Conklin, H. C. (1957) Hanunó’o Agriculture: A Report on an Integral System of Shifting Cultivation in the Philippines, FAO Forestry Development Paper no. 12, Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations, Rome de Jong, W. (2002) Forest Products and Local Forest Management in West Kalimantan: Implications for Conservation and Development, Tropenbos-Kalimantan Series 6, Tropenbos International, Wageningen, the Netherlands Emerson, R. W. (1983) ‘Nature’, in R.W. Emerson, Essays and Lectures, The Library of America, New York, pp5–49 Finegan, B. and Nasi, R. (2004) ‘The biodiversity and conservation potential of shifting cultivation landscapes’, in G. Schroth, G. A. B. da Fonseca, C. A. Harvey, C. Gascon, H. L.Vascancelos and A-M. N. Izac (eds) Agroforestry and Biodiversity Conservation in Tropical Landscapes, Island Press, Washington, DC, Covelo, CA, and London, pp153–197 Forsyth, T. and Walker, A. (2008) Forest Guardians, Forest Destroyers: The Politics of Environmental Knowledge in Northern Thailand, Silkworm Books, Chiang Mai, Thailand Geertz, C. (1963) Agricultural Involution – The Process of Ecological Change in Indonesia, University of California Press, Berkeley, CA Glacken, C. J. (1967) Traces on the Rhodian Shore: Nature and Culture in Western Thought from Ancient Times to the End of the Eighteenth Century, University of California Press, Berkeley, CA Heinimann, A., Messerli, P., Schmidt-Vogt, D. and Wiesmann, U. (2007) ‘The dynamics of secondary forest landscapes in the Lower Mekong Basin: A regional scale analysis’, Mountain Research and Development 27 (3), pp232–241 Hett, C., Castella, J-C., Heinimann, A., Messerli, P. and Pfund, J-L. (2011) ‘A landscape mosaics approach for characterizing swidden systems from a REDD+ perspective’, Applied Geography 32, pp608–618 Hurni, K., Hett, C., Heinimann,A., Messerli, P. and Wiesmann, U. (2013) ‘Dynamics of shifting cultivation landscapes in Northern Lao PDR between 2000 and 2009, based on an analysis of MODIS Time Series and Landsat images‘, Human Ecology 41, pp21–36 Ivarsson, S. (2001) ‘Man, nature and environmentalism in Thailand:The role of Buddhism’, in E. Poulsen, S. Flemming, S. Lakanavichian, S. Thanisawanyangkura, H. Borgtoft and O. Hoiris (eds) Forest in Culture – Culture in Forest: Perspectives from Northern Thailand, Research Centre on Forest and People in Thailand, Tjele, Denmark, pp33–53 Kunstadter, P. (1978a) ‘Subsistence agricultural economies of Lua’ and Karen hill farmers, Mae Sariang District, Northwestern Thailand‘, in P. Kunstadter, E. C. Chapman and S. Sabhasri (eds) Farmers in the Forest: Economic Development and Marginal Agriculture in Northern Thailand, East-West Center, Honolulu, pp74–133 Kunstadter, P. (1978b) ‘Ecological modification and adaptation: An ethnobotanical view of Lua’ swiddeners in northern Thailand’, in R. Ford (ed.) The Nature and Status of Ethnobotany, Museum of Anthropology, Ann Arbor, MI, pp168–200 Li, Z. and Fox, J. M. (2012) ‘Mapping rubber tree growth in mainland Southeast Asia using time-series MODIS 250 m NDVI and statistical data’, Applied Geography 32 (2), pp420–432 Mertz, O., Padoch, C., Fox, J., Cramb, R. A., Leisz, S. J., Lam, N.T. and Vien,T. D. (2009) ‘Swidden change in Southeast Asia: Understanding causes and consequences’, Human Ecology 37(3), pp259–264

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Messerli, P., Heinimann, A. and Epprecht, M. (2009) ‘Finding homogeneity in heterogeneity – A new approach to quantifying landscape mosaics developed for the Lao PDR’, Human Ecology 37, pp291–304 Nash, R. (2001) Wilderness and the American Mind,Yale Nota Bene Books,Yale University Press, New Haven, CT Nyerges, A. E. (1989) ‘Coppice swidden fallows in tropical deciduous forest: Biological, technological and sociocultural determinants of secondary forest succession’, Human Ecology 17(4), pp379–400 Padoch, C., Coffey, K., Mertz, O., Leisz, S., Fox, J. and Wadley, R. L. (2007) ‘The demise of swidden in Southeast Asia? Local realities and regional ambiguities’, GeografiskTidskrift-Danish Journal of Geography 107, pp29–41 Penot, E. (2007) ‘From shifting cultivation to sustainable rubber: A history of innovations in Indonesia’, in M. F. Cairns (ed.) Voices from the Forest: Integrating Indigenous Knowledge into Sustainable Upland Farming, Resources for the Future Press, Washington, DC, pp577–599 Phongpoudome, C., Lee, D. K., Sawathvong, S. and Combalicer, M. S. (2012) ‘Natural regeneration and tree species composition of mixed deciduous forest after logging and shifting cultivation in Lao PDR’, Science Journal of Agricultural Research and Management. Doi: 10:7237/sjarm/298. Rerkasem, K., Lawrence, D., Padoch, C., Schmidt-Vogt, D., Ziegler, A.D. and Brun, T. B. (2009) ‘Consequences of swidden transitions for crop and fallow biodiversity in Southeast Asia’, Human Ecology 37(3), pp281–289 Safranski, R. (2003) Wieviel Globalisierung vertraegt der Mensch (How Much Globalisation can Man Withstand?), Hanser, Munich,Vienna Schmidt-Vogt, D. (1997) ‘Forests and trees in the cultural landscape of Lawa swidden farmers in northern Thailand’, in K. Seeland (ed.) Nature is Culture: Indigenous Knowledge and Socio-cultural Aspects of Trees and Forests in non-European Cultures, Intermediate Technology Publications. London, pp44–50 Schmidt-Vogt, D. (1998) ‘Defining degradation:The impacts of swidden on forests in northern Thailand’, Mountain Research and Development 18, pp135–149 Schmidt-Vogt, D. (1999) ‘Swidden farming and fallow vegetation in northern Thailand’, Geoecological Research 8, Franz Steiner Verlag, Stuttgart Schmidt-Vogt, D. (2001) ‘Secondary forests in swidden agriculture in the highlands of Thailand’, in U. Chokkalingam, W. de Jong and C. Sabogal (eds) Secondary Forests in Asia: Their Diversity, Importance, and Role in Future Environmental Management, Special Issue, Journal of Tropical Forest Science 13, pp748–767 Schmidt-Vogt, D. (2005a) ‘Our second nature: A reflection on conservation paradigms’, Historic Environment 19 (1), pp14–17 Schmidt-Vogt, D. (2005b) ‘Natural science based approaches to and models for environmental management’, in Proceedings of Second Regional USEPAM Workshop, Asian Institute of Technology, Pathum Thani, Thailand, pp31–38 Schmidt-Vogt, D. (2007) ‘Relict emergents in swidden fallows of the Lawa in North Thailand’, in M. F. Cairns (ed.) Voices from the Forest: Integrating Indigenous Knowledge into Sustainable Upland Farming, Resources for the Future Press, Washington, DC, pp38–54 Schmidt-Vogt, D., Leisz, S., Mertz, O., Heinimann, A., Thiha, Messerli, P., Epprecht, M., Cu, P. V., Chi, V. K., Hardiono, M. and Truong, D. M. (2009) ‘An assessment of trends in the extent of swidden in Southeast Asia’, Human Ecology 37(3), pp269–280 Scott, J. C. (2009) The Art of Not Being Governed: An Anarchist History of Upland Southeast Asia,Yale University Press, New Haven, CT, and London Senf, C., Pflugmacher, D., van der Linden, S. and Hostert, P. (2013) ‘Mapping rubber plantations and natural forests in Xishuangbanna (Southwest China) using multi-spectral phonological metrics from MODIS time series’, Remote Sensing 5, pp2795–2812 Solbrig, O. (2000) ‘The theory and practice of the science of biodiversity: A personal assessment’, in M. Kato (ed.) The Biology of Biodiversity, Springer, Tokyo, Berlin Sovu, Tigabu M., Savadogu, P., Oden, P. C. and Xayvongsa, L. (2009) ‘Recovery of secondary forest on swidden cultivation fallows in Laos’, Forest Ecology and Management 258, pp2666–2675

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Stott, P. (1991) ‘Muang and Pa. Elite view of nature in a changing Thailand’, in M. Chitakasem and A. Turton (eds) Thai Constructions of Knowledge, School of Oriental and African Studies, London, pp142–154 Sturgeon, J. (2011) ‘Rubber transformations: Post-socialist livelihoods and identities for Akha and Tai Lue farmers in Xishuangbanna, China’, in J. Michaud and T. Forsyth (eds) Moving Mountains: Ethnicity and Livelihoods in Highland China,Vietnam and Laos, UBC Press,Vancouver, Toronto, pp193–214 Swift, M. J., Izac, A. M. N. and van Noordwijk, M. (2004) ‘Biodiversity and ecosystem services in agricultural landscapes: Are we asking the right questions?’, Agriculture, Ecosystems and Environment 104, pp113–134 Thanichanon, P., Schmidt-Vogt, D., Messerli, P., Heinimann, A. and Epprecht, M. (2013) ‘Secondary forests and local livelihood along a gradient of accessibility: A case study in Luang Prabang, Lao PDR, Society and Natural Resources 26 (11), pp1283–1299, http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/0894192 0.2013.788429 Thoreau, H. D. (2008) Walden: Civil Disobedience and Other Writings, Nortons Critical Editions, New York van Vliet, N., Mertz, O., Heinimann, A., Langake,T., Pascual, U., Schmook, B., Adams, C., Schmidt-Vogt, D., Messerli, P., Leisz, S., Castella, J.-C., Joergensen, L., Birch-Thomsen, T., Hett, C., Bech-Bruun, T., Ickowitz, A., Vu., K. C., Yasuyuki, K., Fox, J., Padoch, C., Dressler, W. and Ziegler, A. D. (2012) ‘Trends,drivers and impacts of changes in swidden cultivation in tropical forest-agriculture frontiers: A global assessment’, Global Environmental Change 22, pp418–429 Vongvisouk,T., Mertz, O.,Tongmanivong, S., Heinimann, A. and Phanvilay, K. (2014) ‘Shifting cultivation stability and change: Contrasting pathways of land use and livelihood change in Laos’, Applied Geography 46, http://dx.doi.org/10.1016/j.apgeog.2013.10.006 Wallace, A. R. (2010) The Malay Archipelago: The Land of the Orang Utan and the Bird of Paradise. A Narrative of Travel, with Studies of Man and Nature, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, UK Wangpakapattanawong, P., Kavinchan, N., Vaidhayakarn, C., Schmidt-Vogt, D. and Elliott, S. (2010) ‘Fallow to forest: Applying indigenous and scientific knowledge to tropical forest restoration’, Forest Ecology and Management 260, pp1399–1406 Wilson, E. O. (1992) The Diversity of Life,The Belknapp Press of Harvard University Press, Cambridge, MA Ziegler, A. D., Fox, J. M. and Xu, J. C. (2009) ‘The rubber juggernaut’, Science 324 (5930), pp1024–1025

21 BIODIVERSITY AND SWIDDEN AGROECOSYSTEMS An analysis and some implications Percy E. Sajise*

Introduction

‘Biodiversity’ started off as a seemingly esoteric piece of ecological jargon. It has since been transformed, and has become a modern-day element of international treaties and conventions, most notably the Convention on Biological Diversity (CBD). This transformation was one of the consequences of a burgeoning human population, with increasing basic needs, in an environment stricken with natural-habitat destruction and dwindling natural resources. This transformation also came with the realization that biodiversity – with its myriad living organisms in a variety of ecosystems – provided tremendous benefits to human society. At the same time, there was the realization that biodiversity supported life and was, in fact, life itself! Based on the CBD definition, biodiversity refers to the variability among living organisms from all sources, including terrestrial, marine and other aquatic ecosystems and the ecological complexes of which they are part. This includes diversity within species, and of ecosystems. The moment this natural biodiversity is modified, as a result of human activities and interventions related to agricultural production, one begins to deal with agrobiodiversity, or biodiversity of agroecosystems (Conway, 1984). This process of modification has become pervasive, and one of these revisions of natural biodiversity we know as swidden agriculture. In this context, the technical definition of biodiversity becomes complicated by the fact that various stakeholders choose to interpret biodiversity in many different ways, and at various hierarchical levels. To fisherfolk, farmers and other local-resource users, biodiversity means food,

* 

Dr Percy E. Sajise, Honorary Research Fellow, Bioversity International, Asia, Pacific and Oceania Region, Selangor Darul Ehsan, Malaysia; Senior Fellow, Southeast Asian Ministers of Education Organization (SEAMEO) Regional Center for Graduate Study and Research in Agriculture (SEARCA), College, Laguna, Philippines; Adjunct Professor, School of Environmental Science and Management, University of the Philippines at Los Baños, Philippines.

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clothing and shelter as well as the provision of other basic needs, along with human welfare.To some conservationists and policy-makers, biodiversity means conservation of rare and endangered species and habitats. To others, biodiversity is conservation of our natural heritage and the beauty of nature. Given this reality, all decisions related to biodiversity, including those based on science, are obviously value-laden. The legitimacy of a stakeholder’s claim will always be debatable, with political and economic-power dynamics providing a major influence in decisions on access to, use of and sharing the benefits of biodiversity (Vermuelen, 2004). This is the major reason why it took so long, going through arduous debates in the process of international screening, before an access and benefit-sharing accord on biodiversity was finalized and agreed upon under the CBD. Access to and benefit-sharing from biodiversity are a major concern when considering specific species or groups of living organisms that are of primary importance to human welfare, especially those with high potential and actual economic value. Another major concern arises when biodiversity has implications for other benefits, such as ecosystem services, regulation and cultural functions. This is referred to as ‘multi-functionality of agricultural ecosystems’, which directly relates to biodiversity (Batie, 2003; Sajise and Sajise, 2006). This chapter will attempt to elucidate what kinds of biodiversity, arising from various swidden and other agroecosystems, would be productive, enhance ecosystem services and promote sustainability. This relates to the often-asked questions: Is swidden agriculture detrimental to biodiversity conservation? If it is not always harmful, what kind of biodiversity from swidden farming promotes multifunctionality and should therefore be regarded as useful? These questions are relevant to the current global search for intensive but sustainable agroecosystems to support a rapidly growing human population and to ensure food security, while at the same time protecting the environment by maintaining ecosystem services. To move forward, one must go back to natural ecosystems, such as a primary forest, to gain insights into what types of ‘biodiversity designs’ are capable of promoting a productive yet sustainable agroecosystem that is resilient in the face of increasing risks and vulnerabilities, especially those due to climate change. Functional biodiversity of natural systems is purely a response to biophysical forces of natural selection. In contrast, agroecosystem biodiversity (agrobiodiversity) is a product of human interventions and a result of interactions between social and natural systems. Hence, functional agrobiodiversity can be interpreted as that kind of biodiversity that provides more options for both livelihoods in a social system and ecological restoration of the natural resource base to enhance sustainability. This chapter will try to identify this functional agrobiodiversity as it exists in some types of swidden agroecosystems that mimic the functional-biodiversity characteristics of natural-forest ecosystems, while at the same time responding to the needs of human society. It is this type of biodiversity, which has, over time and space, been crafted by an appropriate knowledge system – most often by traditional knowledge – that confers productivity, sustainability and resilience to agroecosystems

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in a landscape. This chapter will also describe certain types of swidden agriculture, along with some of their transformations, that have demonstrated this functional biodiversity. The implications of the biodiversity element of swidden farming – and some of its other agroecosystem variations – will then be related, in general, to sustainable development, as one of humanity’s major quests. Finally, it will pursue an improved understanding of the contribution that the functional biodiversity of certain types of swidden farming can make to the need for sustainable agricultural intensification. Biodiversity of swidden and natural-forest ecosystems

The biodiversity of primary tropical forests and other natural ecosystems, which are a product of millions of years of evolution, can be considered models of functional biodiversity.This type of ‘biodiversity design’ is known to confer stability, productivity and resilience to various natural ecosystems. Suarez and Sajise (2010) concluded that a primary tropical rainforest offered many ecological niches to which various species had become adapted over evolutionary time. Habitat complexity and the specialized niches available to animals have created the functional biodiversity that characterizes this ecosystem. Loss of canopy cover and loss of epiphytes that provide microhabitats for some species result in lower relative humidity and elevated substrate temperature. These have been identified as proximate contributors to biodiversity loss, along with forest fragmentation and edge effects. This is one of the main reasons why recent forest-biodiversity assessments have used four surrogate parameters to delineate the extent of useful biodiversity: the area of primary forest; the forest area designated primarily for conservation of biodiversity; the area of forest designated as protected areas; and the tree-species composition (FAO, 2010). Biodiversity in forest and other natural ecosystems is linked, and underpins the resilience of these ecosystems. A capacity for resilience and ecosystem stability is required if essential ecosystem goods and services are to be maintained over time and space (Thompson et al., 2009). Resilience needs to be viewed as the capacity of natural systems to repair themselves, based on their biodiversity. Hence, a loss of biodiversity can mean a reduction of that capacity, leading to a lack of sustainability. In order to prevent this from happening, the general principles that need to be followed, for example, in forest ecosystems, are: (1) maintain stand and landscape structural complexity; (2) maintain connectivity across forest landscapes by reducing fragmentation; (3) maintain functional diversity and redundancy; (4) maintain biodiversity at all scales by protecting isolated or unrelated populations of organisms, populations at margins, habitat sources and networks for places of refuge; and (5) ensure national and regional networks of scientifically designed, comprehensive, adequate and representative protected areas. On the other hand, some forest ecosystems with naturally low species diversity nevertheless have a high degree of resilience and are highly adapted to severe disturbances, with dominant tree species having broad genetic variability.

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This should make it clear that the type of biodiversity of various natural ecosystems, especially of primary forests, is one that provides the most desirable characteristics for enhancing productivity, resilience, stability and ecosystem functions. It is not necessarily just the degree or level of biodiversity in terms of the kinds and numbers of living organisms and the ecosystems they occupy, but how they are organized and relate to each other over time and space or structure, depending on environmental conditions prevailing in the area. Once this biodiversity of natural systems is altered as a result of human interventions, usually in response to the needs of human society for food, fuel, shelter and other products, these sustainable characteristics can be reduced or even lost, especially with intensification exemplified by monocultures. Questions that might be asked are: what kind of functional biodiversity is needed, and how should functional biodiversity be designed, to enable the maintenance of these desirable characteristics in a transformation of natural forest ecosystems to swidden and other forms of agroecosystems? Swidden farming, agricultural intensification and biodiversity

Van Viet et al. (2012) recently conducted a global analysis of the transformation of swidden agriculture to monoculture and other forms of land use on the tropical agriculture-forest frontier over the past 10 to 15 years. This meta-analysis showed that swidden agriculture had decreased where there was access to international markets for cash crops, cattle production and biofuels. This trend was enhanced by government policies providing incentives such as land-tenure security and capital. However, swidden agriculture had either increased or been maintained in frontier areas where such conditions did not exist, population densities were low, and where a strategy existed to enhance adaptation to current ecological, economic and political circumstances. In general, however, where swidden agriculture still existed, there was a common trend of decreasing fallow periods. The transformation of swidden to intensive agriculture has been accompanied by increased household income, but with negative social impacts such as increasing income inequities and social conflicts over land (Fu et al., 2009; Dressler and Puhlin, 2010). The environmental impacts of intensification also include a decline in forest cover, losses of wild or natural biodiversity, increases in weed pressures, decreases in soil fertility, accelerated soil erosion, declines in stream water quality and potential reduction in sequestered carbon (Vu, 2007; Xu et al., 2009). At a global level, agrobiodiversity has also shrunk significantly. Today, fewer than 20 species of plants and only 14 domesticated species of animals contribute to more than 90% of our food supply. The focus on these ‘better-known’ species of plants and animals has relegated others in an agoecosystem to a position of lesser importance, so that they are often regarded as weeds. Some of these ‘lesser important or unwanted species’ are part of the biodiversity of agroecosystems. For example, some of them may function as important pollinators or nitrogen fixers; or they may be agents of biological control or soil conservation. Annual monetary values have been estimated

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for the roles these species play in United States agriculture: the role of pollinators is valued at US$40 billion; natural enemies (biological control) at $100 to $200 billion; and nitrogen fixers at $50 billion (Constanza et al., 1997). When agricultural intensification takes place and the emphasis on monoculture becomes dominant, the natural functions of biodiversity must be replaced with chemicals, in order to maintain soil fertility, control pests and diseases, and guard against losses of yield due to increasing vulnerability to adverse environmental conditions. Agriculture is replete with examples of increasing vulnerability as a consequence of losing functional biodiversity and greater reliance on monocultures for food production.This is well documented for crops such as potatoes, taro and rice; blight for potatoes and taro, blast for rice, and other devastating pests and diseases for many other crops (Iosefa et al., 2011). Monoculture crops, even if they have resistance for a while, will break down after continuous cultivation and new or more aggressive pests and diseases will develop (Vaughan, 2012). Improving the biodiversity in agroecosystems – when it is understood simply as increasing the number and kinds of species of living organisms – does not always lead to the ability of the natural-resource base to sustain the production of goods and services.This principle is commonly illustrated by species introduction or invasion of alien species as replacements for wild or indigenous biodiversity. In the Philippines, the golden snail was introduced in the early 1970s as an additional or supplemental source of protein for poor families living in rural areas. The intention was to increase biodiversity in agroecosystems and provide for the nutritional needs of the poor. However, not only did the golden snail have no natural enemies, but it was also unsuited to the tastes of local rural communities, so it multiplied rapidly and is now a devastating pest in wet-rice fields in many parts of the Philippines and Southeast Asia generally. The introduction of Stylosanthes spp and other forage species in native pastures of the tropics dominated by grasses such as Imperata cylindrica has increased stockcarrying capacity but has also brought a new problem of root nematodes. Another example is the spread of giant mimosa (Mimosa invisa) through contaminated seeds of pasture species. This has hindered pasture development in many parts of Southeast Asia. The introgression of wild-rice genes into cultivated rice varieties has produced ‘padi angin’ or weedy rice. This has created a big problem because it is difficult to eradicate, spreads easily and reduces rice yields. These examples point to the need for more work focused on functional biodiversity in various agroecosystems that are suited to various agroclimatic zones and socio-cultural landscapes. The social system and agrobiodiversity

As emphasized earlier, agrobiodiversity in various agricultural systems – including swidden farming – has been maintained through the interactions of natural and social systems; it is a human-ecological system. In the process of planting, managing, selecting,

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harvesting and processing, farmers make decisions on what kinds of agrobiodiversity should be developed and for what reasons. Earlier, I identified markets, cultures, traditions, institutions and government policies as having roles in the transformation or maintenance of swidden farming at micro and global levels (Thomas et al., 2008; Xu et al., 2009; van Vliet et al., 2012). An insight into this process was also provided by the International Plant Genetic Resources Institute (IPGRI – now Bioversity International) in its in situ global project in 1996, involving 10 countries (IPGRI, 2000). This global study tried to establish a scientific basis for understanding the following: (1) what is the extent and distribution of the genetic diversity maintained by farmers over space and time; (2) what are the processes used to maintain genetic diversity on the farm; (3) who maintains genetic diversity within farming communities; and (4) what factors influence farmer decisions on maintaining traditional varieties. Bajracharya et al. reported in 2002 that specific types of agrobiodiversity existed in a spectrum of farming communities from the highlands to the midlands and low hills of Nepal as a result of variations in biophysical conditions (especially topography and elevation) and socio-cultural factors. As a parameter, total agrobiodiversity has less meaning than when it is contextualized in terms of types of agrobiodiversity associated with specific biophysical environments and socio-cultural management practices. Traditional ethno-botanical knowledge is the main means of understanding the diverse uses for, and management practices to maintain, agrobiodiversity. On the other hand, formal and informal seed systems provide a continuing process that determines levels of agrobiodiversity. In remote areas, informal seed supplies have been observed to have the greatest influence on agrobiodiversity (Baniya et al., 2002). The findings of Subedi et al. (2002) indicated that there were certain individual farmers (nodal farmers) who maintained relatively higher levels of agrobiodiversity than other members of the community. These were farmers who constantly looked for new cultivars for their various farm environments and played an important role in the flow of genetic materials within and outside their communities. They were also perceived as being the more knowledgeable farmers in matters related to seed and production, and most of them belonged to groups who were better endowed with resources, having larger landholdings and higher livestock numbers. Resourceendowed farmers have higher education levels and participate more regularly in local markets (Gauchan et al., 2001). Some of these ‘nodal farmers’ are women. Rana et al. (2002) reported that the major factors influencing farmer decisions on the management of agrobiodiversity were biophysical ones. These provided the basic constraints for growing the best-adapted species, and economic value for preferential selection based on market demand and prices, wealth category, education status, landholding, land parcels and livestock numbers. A report by Sajise et al. (2005), arising from studies at Mount Makiling, a forest reserve on Luzon Island in the Philippines, showed that the relationship between household income and crop diversity was inverse, as the level of biodiversity was more associated with market

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demand. Similarly, there was an inverse relationship between crop diversity and education, because better-educated farmers tended to specialize in favour of fewer, but more lucrative, commercial crops. Higher education also allowed farmers to take bigger risks with fewer crops, because there were likely to be off-farm sources of income. Gender is another important element or dimension of social systems that relates to agrobiodiversity, but it is often given lower importance or is simply neglected. There are some cases that illustrate the significance of gender in the management and maintenance of agrobiodiversity. For example, one of the strategies that Bioversity International has adopted to promote agrobiodiversity is the conduct of ‘agrobiodiversity fairs’, where farmers display the diversity of crops grown on their farms to promote material exchanges within their communities. At one such agrobiodiversity fair, in a remote village high in the mountains of Jumla, Nepal, the farmers were asked how they selected and conserved the seeds and planting materials of the crop varieties they had on display. The male family heads began the explanation, but on further questioning they were unable to provide logical responses, so their womenfolk had to take over! It was explained that the women selected and conserved the planting materials grown on their farms. Lopez-Alzina (2007) reported the case of a Mayan community in Yucatan, Mexico, where most of the people still practised subsistence agriculture. In this community, women had the decision-making power for the maintenance of biodiversity in home gardens, while the men managed distant fields. The reason was that the home garden was the place where special foods preferred by the family were grown, including plants used for ceremonial purposes, and this was the responsibility of women. The segregation of women’s gardens and men’s gardens has also been reported in some cultural-community groups in the Philippines (Conklin, 1957). Pionetti (2005) wrote that old women living in communities on the Deccan plateau of Andra Pradesh, in India, were usually the most skilful in saving seed as well as in the selection of planting materials, and became the natural guardians and keepers of agrobiodiversity. In Eastern Bahia, Brazil, women hold all of the knowledge of medicinal plants because they are responsible for providing primary health care (Voeks, 2007). Biodiversity in swidden systems

It is commonly believed that swidden farming brings about a decline in biodiversity. For example, Huijun et al. (2002) reported a decline in floral biodiversity over a span of 50 years when a tropical rainforest was transformed into swidden agriculture, with a reduction in the Shannon-Weiner index from 5.23 to 3.97 and the loss of more than 50% of the original plant species. However, there are also findings that indicate that floral biodiversity does not necessarily decline in swidden systems or their various other agroforestry transformations, and it may even increase (Sajise et al., 2005;Ticsay, 2005; Rerkasem et al., 2009).

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A comparative study of plant diversity in different zones of Mount Makiling forest reserve, Laguna, Philippines, is shown in Table 21.1. It indicates that plant diversity in grassland is lower than that in the mossy forest, but agricultural ecosystems in the forest reserve, including swidden farms, have species diversity just as high as that of the mid-montane dipterocarp forest. The latter has greater stratification, while the agroecosystems have colonizers from the forest as well as species introduced by the farmers, resulting in a diversity coming from both natural dispersal and human intervention. Faunal diversity, however, is more significant for the mid-montane dipterocarp forest, as it is a habitat for many endemic species, while lower faunal diversity is reported in the agroecosystems. Zhijun and Young (2003) compared avifauna biodiversity in a six-year-old swidden fallow, a swidden field being transformed into sedentary agriculture, and a monsoon evergreen broadleaf montane rainforest in Xishuangbanna,Yunnan, China.The results indicated that the avifauna biodiversity of the traditional swidden was comparable to that of the natural forest, while that of the swidden field being transformed to sedentary agriculture was lowest. Table 21.2 shows the result of a similar study conducted by Ticsay (2005) among Ifugao people in the communities of Ayangan and Haliap-Panubtuban in Central Cordillera, Luzon, Philippines. The study compared the floral biodiversity of a woodlot, a coffee plantation, a swidden, a rice terrace, a bean garden and a home garden.The five non-swidden ecosystems had earlier been transformed from swiddens over various periods, mainly in response to prevailing biophysical conditions, markets and the changing needs of the family. Highest biodiversity was found in the home garden and the woodlot. The swidden ranked only fourth in biodiversity level, using the Shannon-Weiner index. Woodlots are high in floral biodiversity because of the presence of wild perennials from the original forest vegetation, further enhanced by the planting of other tree species according to household needs and preferences. This is similar to the high level of biodiversity found in a bamboo-tree garden resulting from a swidden fallow, described by Gunawan et al. (2005) in the Upper Citarum watershed of West Java, Indonesia. The multi-storeyed bamboo-tree garden had retained some of the original forest vegetation. In the same study, a home garden exhibited the highest biodiversity, primarily because it had become a ‘dumping TABLE 21.1 

Inter-ecosystem zone comparison of species diversity in the Mt Makiling Forest

Reserve

Ecosystem zone Mossy forest Grassland Dipterocarp mid-montane Agroforestry (including swidden)

N

S

Rank

H value

Rank

731 5242 17965 17574

95 44 374 368

3 4 1 2

3.56972 1.66438 3.89713 4.2869

3 4 2 1

Notes:  N = total number of individuals for all species; S = total number of species; H = biodiversity index.

Source:  Sajise et al. (2005).

Chapter 21. Biodiversity and swidden agroecosystems  409 TABLE 21.2 

Biodiversity indices for swidden fields and other agroecosystem types in HaliapPanubtuban, Ifugao Province, Luzon, Philippines

Resource base

Woodlot Coffee Swidden Rice or ponded field Bean garden Home garden

Number of species

Total number of Species individuals richness

ShannonWeiner index

Eveness index

(S)

(N)

(R)

(H’)

(E)

22 21 32 9 18 57

234 566 1741 832 1318 523

1.44 0.88 0.77 0.31 0.50 2.49

3.33 2.02 2.49 2.03 2.97 4.64

2.48 1.53 1.63 2.14 2.37 2.64

Source:  Ticsay (2005).

ground’ for everything that the household acquired, including old collections of plant species to meet their needs and new acquisitions from neighbours and outside sources. This was the same conclusion that Rerkasem et al. (2009) arrived at in a review and analysis of swidden-agriculture transformations in northern Thailand and West Kalimantan. Suarez and Sajise (2010) conducted a review of studies in the Philippines relating to biodiversity and swidden agroecosystems. It found that biodiversity was high in those swidden systems that were less intensive, under low population pressure and with long fallow periods. However, biodiversity declined significantly when intensification increased and fallow periods become shorter. This decline is particularly significant if it involves the loss of the original forest biodiversity. Conklin (1957) described sustainable swidden agriculture among the Hanunóo Mangyan on Mindoro, in the Philippines, where the cultivation of a diverse array of crops lasted only two to four years, followed by a fallow period of eight to ten years. Swidden agriculture with long fallow periods and occurring as a mosaic landscape of forest patches, representing cropping and various stages of regeneration, does not seem to affect ecosystem functions such as hydrology and soil organic-carbon stocks (Ziegler et al., 2009). It is the transformation of these traditional swidden systems into more intensified monoculture agriculture that brings about a loss of biodiversity and ecosystem services (Bech-Bruun et al., 2009). Longer periods of crop cultivation mean the intensification of inputs in the form of fertilizers and other chemicals, substituting for the recovery functions of a long fallow. Xu et al. (2009) described such a situation involving a Hani community (Akha in Thailand) in Mengsong, Southwest China. The swiddens had high levels of biodiversity related to the ecological and social needs of the Hani livelihood system, which was made sustainable by the indigenous knowledge and institutions of the people. Recently, however, the Hani swidden agroecosystem at Mengsong was transformed towards agricultural intensification and converted to tea and rubber cultivation. This took place as a result of government policy, including incentives, and market forces that favoured intensification. This has resulted in loss of biodiversity and ecosystem functions, including reduced soil

410  Sajise

protection. Thomas et al. (2008) have concluded that such a transformation usually takes place when government policies override otherwise functional local systems of property rights to land, water and forest products. In the early 1990s, home gardens in Java, Indonesia were described as ‘mimics’ of the tropical rainforest ecosystem, with high biodiversity, a multi-storey structure, sustainability and the ability to provide ecosystem services such as soil-erosion control, nutrient recycling and maintenance of soil fertility (Soemarwoto and Conway, 1992). The home gardens also provided economic and cultural services for households and the community. Beukema et al. (2007) described a sustainable jungle-rubber agroforestry system in the lowlands of Sumatra, Indonesia, where the biodiversity structure resembled that of a secondary forest. Its species richness was comparable to a primary forest in both its flora and fauna because the farmers – whose only concern was for their jungle rubber - tolerated the intrusion of wild species that might have destroyed any other crop. A similarly complex agroforestry system based primarily on damar (Shorea javanica), a dipterocarp species and a component of natural forest in Indonesia, has been described by Retonawati (2005). There are numerous studies of biodiversity in swidden systems and other forms of agroforestry into which swidden systems may transform. They indicate that these systems are sustainable in character. However, what is lacking is a link between this biodiversity and its functional role in supporting and protecting the productivity, sustainability and resilience of the agroecosystem under a variety of conditions (Suarez and Sajise, 2010). One common observation is that high species diversity is needed to maintain ecosystem services such as biomass production, nutrient accumulation and others, with various time periods and environments taken into consideration (Isbell et al., 2011). However, this is not enough. Functional biodiversity designs must be specifically linked to the agroecosystem properties of productivity, sustainability, resilience and equitability. Functional agrobiodiversity design should be expressed in terms of the kinds and number of floral and faunal species, their distribution over time and space and their guild relationships; and consequently how the biodiversity design relates to Saurauia bontocensis Merr. [Actinidiaceae] socio-economic benefits and ecosystem functions under A highland species highly regarded for its various environmental and economic value and provision of ecosystem social conditions. This is more services important than general and

Chapter 21. Biodiversity and swidden agroecosystems  411

contextual statements that indicate either that swidden farming increases biodiversity, or diminishes it. Some implications

The examples given in this chapter strongly indicate that biodiversity, measured primarily in terms of its absolute values, has less meaning than the characteristics of functional biodiversity. These characteristics can be partly derived from well-adapted natural ecosystems that have evolved under various environmental conditions. These natural ecosystems can be very diverse, such as primary tropical rainforest, or less diverse, in the case of those ecosystems that evolved under more adverse conditions. Some forms of swidden and agroforestry systems crafted from natural forest ecosystems still retain these functional-biodiversity features. These include the swidden system of the Hani in Southwestern China and the jungle rubber-based or damar-based agroecosystems in Indonesia. The Hani swidden system existed in a landscape mosaic as a result of fallow patches, mainly of bamboo and rattan, as well as tree and vegetable crops mixed with upland rice of different varieties. In all cases, a certain degree or level of natural biodiversity was retained, especially of the dominant canopy or secondary-growth forest species. Biodiversity and sustainable development

Sustainable development is the call of our times, as a result of a deteriorating environment and unsustainable natural-resource base. Sustainable development is a complex, multi-dimensional and highly contextual state or condition. In general, it involves sticking to the basic principle of utilizing natural resources in a manner that does not impair the ability of the natural-resource base to provide current and future goods and services useful to human society. It is the kind of development that is economically viable, environmentally appropriate and socially acceptable. Conceptually, sustainable development can be represented by Figure 21.1. It is made up of three major and interacting elements: the natural-resource base, socio-economic factors and technology (Sajise, 2002). To attain sustainable development, these three major elements must work in a complementary manner so that goods and services needed by human society are produced on a sustained basis. Many traditional agroecosystems, including swidden farming, are known to be productive, stable and socially acceptable. These are agroecosystems in which indigenous-knowledge systems and practices of traditional communities have maintained and enhanced biodiversity. There were examples earlier in this chapter in which agrobiodiversity had been crafted and adapted to biophysical environments, social organizations, cultural practices and the needs of social systems, such as that among the Hani and Jinuo of Southwest China and the Mangyan of Mindoro, Philippines (Conklin, 1957; Long et al., 1995; Xu et al., 1995). These agroecosystems were sustainable in given biophysical, socio-cultural and technological contexts. On

412  Sajise

FIGURE 21.1 

Conceptual framework linking biodiversity of the natural-resource base with technology and socio-cultural factors, which will interact to determine pathways of sustainable development Notes: TK = traditional knowledge; FK = formal knowledge. Source:  Sajise (2002).

the other hand, the biodiversity of agroecosystems that have been enhanced by the introduction of alien species does not, in many instances, bring about sustainable development. In these cases, there are no symbiotic relationships resulting from interactions between the prevailing natural resource base, technology, the knowledge system and the socio-cultural environment. Agricultural intensification and ‘mimics’ of sustainable swidden biodiversity

How can we benefit from mimicking the biodiversity of sustainable swidden agroecosystems in our quest for appropriate agricultural intensification? This is a key challenge for researchers and development workers in the face of a burgeoning human population and the need for greater food and nutrition security in our future. A major proposition being pushed forward is that there are elements of the biodiversity design of sustainable swidden systems that can be used to generate an intensive form of agriculture that is more sustainable than present ‘modern’ agriculture. Figure 21.2 is a conceptual diagram of a sustainable swidden agroecosystem, with its functional biodiversity carefully honed and interacting with a socio-cultural system, that is generating outputs of productivity and ecosystem services. This entire system

Chapter 21. Biodiversity and swidden agroecosystems  413

FIGURE 21.2 

Framework in which the functional biodiversity of a sustainable swidden agroecosystem interacts with external factors to generate productivity and ecosystem functions

is also interacting with a bigger external environment – both biophysical and social – with affects and influences passing back and forth between the wider environment and the swidden agroecosystem. Good examples of the kinds of influences coming from this external environment are government policies, markets and climate change. Given this framework, there are several cases that can be analysed. Functional biodiversity Type A

Productivity is low, but ecosystem services are high. If the ecosystem services delivered by the functional agrobiodiversity of this type of swidden farm are very important, there could be an incentive provided to maintain this functional biodiversity across the landscape. It may serve, for instance, as a reservoir of diverse genetic materials needed to cope with changes in the biophysical and social systems (which are also continuously evolving). It may nurture ‘friendly organisms’ needed for control of pests and diseases, or provide important watershed functions for soil, nutrient and water conservation, for carbon sequestration and other current and future needs of human society. The incentive could be based on something similar to the principle of payment for environmental services. However, more precisely, this compensation should be aimed at enhancing the maintenance of specific types of functional biodiversity and should be designated as Payments for Functional Biodiversity Services. Just like payments for environmental services, these payments should come from those who are provided with, and who are benefiting from, the ecosystem services attributed to this functional biodiversity. Functional biodiversity Type B

Productivity is low and ecosystem services are high. Intensification can take place by providing Payments for Functional Biodiversity Services, while at the same time enhancing and diversifying the value of products. Such intensification is possible with many types of swidden agriculture. Value can be added by product processing and targeting high market values and diverse products, for instance, medicinal plants,

414  Sajise

pharmaceuticals, dyes, root crops, nutriceuticals and others. An example of this type of product intensification is the value being added by processing wild fruit products from the swiddens of Ikalahan people in Nueva Vizcaya province, Luzon, Philippines. The wild-fruit processing technology provides cash income for the community as well as providing an incentive for conserving the functional diversity of swidden farms by retaining some dominant natural tree components. The processed fruit products are now sold in big city supermarkets with the distinctive ‘Mountain Fresh’ brand. What must be avoided is agricultural intensification that results in high productivity, but in the process, loses functional biodiversity. This impairs ecosystem services, resulting in overall long-term negative impacts and loss of sustainability. Some questions to be answered

The relevance and importance of the biodiversity provided by swidden farming to our current quest for sustainable agricultural intensification may be realized if the following questions can be answered: 1.

What kind of functional-biodiversity architecture (arrangements in time and space) can we learn from some forms of swidden farming that we can use to design intensive but sustainable agricultural systems at field and landscape levels? Following this line of inquiry, what combination of trees and shrubs are needed, and how many canopy layers are involved? What combination of legumes and non-legume species, mycorrhiza and non-mycorrhiza species? What kinds of products and intensity of harvests are appropriate? It is known that certain tree species are preferred as over-storey canopies in some swidden and sustainable-agroforestry farms for the benefits they provide in terms of appropriate shade, soil conservation and nutrient enrichment, along with other direct benefits. Some of these trees are Alnus, Albizzia, Leucaena, Mallotus, Macaranga and Dipterocarpus species, bamboo, and many others.This type of forest-agriculture system is practised by the Dayak in West Kalimantan, and is described by de Jong (1997). Wangpakattanawong et al. (2010) have pointed out that indigenous and scientific knowledge about plant diversity in swidden systems can be useful for forest restoration. A similar suggestion was made by Sovu et al. (2009). In the Philippines, forest restoration is implemented by using the Assisted Natural Regeneration strategy, formally adopted by the Bureau of Forest Development of the Department of Environment and Natural Resources. Assisted Natural Regeneration makes use of advanced stages of succession, which are assisted by enrichment planting with natural succession species. It is both cost effective and promotes and restores biodiversity. The importance of biodiversity-led ecosystem services has been pointed out in many scientific studies. Maestre et al. (2012) reported that in their global study of semi-arid, arid and dry-sub-humid ecosystems, the richness of perennial vascular plants

Chapter 21. Biodiversity and swidden agroecosystems  415

2.

3.

4.

5.

or keystone species was strongly correlated with ecosystem services. The importance of the biodiversity-ecosystem function was also pointed out by Midgley (2012). How do we begin to identify key components of this functional biodiversity and associate them with specific productive, protective, regenerative and resilience functions of some sustainable swidden systems? What unit of analysis should we use and what are the tradeoffs involved as one analyses this functional biodiversity of sustainable swidden systems at Paraserianthes falcataria various hierarchical levels (plot, (L.) I. C. Nielsen landscape, watershed)? Syn. of Falcataria moluccana (Miq.) What kind of economic, Barneby & J. W. Grimes [Leguminosae] cultural, institutional and policy A tall, fast-growing tree known for structure will promote functional fixing nitrogen, controlling erosion and biodiversity in agroecosystems shading crops. It also provides livestock and where can we learn how fodder, timber and firewood. to achieve this? How do we integrate indigenous-knowledge and formal-knowledge systems to promote functional biodiversity? How do we scale up these models at the local, landscape, national, regional and global levels? What pattern should there be to the distribution of functional biodiversity in a landscape? What is the role of Payments for Functional Biodiversity Services, and how can this incentive system be implemented?

These are research questions that must be answered, because time is running out as traditional and sustainable swidden systems are rapidly being transformed into intensive, but less sustainable, agroecosystems. Answers to these questions must be found before the source of the answers is completely lost. Conclusions

Levels of biodiversity that are measured solely by the use of conventional indices, and take into account mainly the numbers and kinds of living organisms, are not very useful when applied to agroecosystems – including swidden ecosystems. It does

416  Sajise

not always follow that swidden farming causes a decline in biodiversity; nor does increasing biodiversity by increasing the number of species always result in enhanced productivity and ecosystem sustainability. There are tremendous variations in the biodiversity levels of various swidden systems compared with natural forests, yet there is a lack of scientific studies that relate these variations in biodiversity levels and characteristics to Arenga pinnata (Wurmb) Merr. [Arecaceae] ecosystem services, and the ability to generate socioThe sugar palm has many economic uses; its economic benefits to society sap makes sugar and an alcoholic drink, its fruit are eaten and its fibres harvested for rope, on a sustainable basis. This has cordage and roofing material been referred to in this chapter as functional biodiversity. It is proposed that biodiversity in sustainable swidden systems be studied and analysed with these purposes in mind, and with a view to ways in which these models can be scaled up to apply to other agroecosystems, with the aim of enhancing system multifunctionality.This is essential if the demands of a burgeoning human population are to be met, in the face of increasing risks to the agricultural production base and uncertainties arising from social and natural disturbances, especially climate change. There is also a need to re-examine our concept of productivity, and to re-define strategies for intensification of sustainable agroecosystems other than simply relating them to commercial grain crops and animal production, relative to other types of intensive agroecosystems. Productivity should not always be interpreted as relating to just one product, but should be considered in terms of multiple products, such as those derived from swiddens or other ‘forest mimic’ systems. Emphasis should be placed on adding value to this variety of products, perhaps in the form of pharmaceuticals, nutriceuticals and other high-value materials. Food products can also be derived from shade-tolerant root crops and tree vegetables, snails, wild game and other products harvested from the wild that make use of these ‘forest mimics’ to generate protein sources for human nutrition. These are the products of functional biodiversity, and this is related to ecosystem sustainability. Unless consumer tastes and cultural preferences change to include this variety of products, the goal of food and environmental security for human society will not be easily achieved.

Chapter 21. Biodiversity and swidden agroecosystems  417

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Diversity, Montreal Ticsay, M.V. (2005) ‘Fragmentation of the Ifugao Agroecological Landscape’, in M. R. Dove, P. E. Sajise and A. A. Doolittle (eds) Conserving Nature in Culture: Case Studies from Southeast Asia, Monograph 54,Yale Southeast Asia Studies, New Haven, CT, pp 109–214 van Vliet, N., Mertz, O., Heinimann, A., Laganke, T., Pascual, U, Schmook, B., Adams, C., Schmidt-Vogt, D., Messerli, P., Leisz, S., Castella, J., Jergensen, L., Birch-Thomsen, T., Hett, C., Bech-Bruun,T., Ichowitz,A., ChiVu, K.,Yasuyuki, K., Fox, J., Padoch, C., Dressler,W. and Ziegler, A. D. (2012) ‘Trends, drivers and impacts of changes in swidden cultivation in tropical forest-agriculture frontiers: A global assessment’, Global Environmental Change, doi:10.1016/j.gloenvcha.2011.10.009 Vaughan, D. (2012) ‘The impacts of conservation of rice genetic resources’, in Plant Genetic

Resources for Food and Agriculture in Asia and the Pacific: Impacts and Future Directions,

Proceedings of a symposium held in Tsukuba, Japan, RAP Publication 2012/1, National Institute of Agrobiological Sciences, Japan and FAO Regional Office for Asia and the Pacific, Bangkok, Thailand, pp41–63 Vermeulen, S. (2004) Biodiversity Planning: Why and How should Local Opinions Matter? Gatekeeper Series No. 115, International Institute for Environment and Development (IIED), London Voeks, R. A. (2007) ‘Medicinal plant erosion in Eastern Brazil: Are women reservoirs of traditional knowledge?’, Singapore Journal of Tropical Geography 28, pp7–20 Vu, K. C. (2007) Land-use Changes in the Suoi Muoi Catchment,Vietnam: Disentangling the Role of Natural and Cultural Factors, Katholieke Universitiet, Leuven, Belgium Wangpakapattanawong, P., Kavinchai, N.,Vaidyakarn, C., Schmidt-Vogt, D. and Elliot, S. (2010) ‘Fallow to forest: Applying indigenous and scientific knowledge of swidden to tropical forest restoration’, Forest Ecology and Management 260, pp1399–1406 Xu, Jianchu, Pei Shengji and Chen Sanyang. (1995) ‘From subsistence to market-oriented systems and the impacts of agroecosystem biodiversity: The case of Hani (Akha) swidden cultivation in Mengsong, Southwest China’, in Pei Shenji and P. E. Sajise (eds) Regional Study on Biodiversity: Concepts, Frameworks and Methods, Yunnan Science and Technology Press,Yunnan, China, pp73–88 Xu, J., Lebel, L. and Sturgeon, J. (2009) ‘Functional links between biodiversity, livelihoods and culture in a Hani swidden landscape in Southwest China’, Ecology and Society 14(2) Zhijun,W. andYoung, S. (2003) ‘Differences in bird diversity between two swidden agricultural sites in mountain terrain, Xishuangbanna, Yunnan, China’, Biological Conservation 110, pp231–243 Ziegler, A. D., Bech-Bruun,T., Guardiola-Claramonte, M., Giambelluca,T. and Thanh Lam, N. (2009) ‘Environmental consequences of the demise in swidden agriculture in Southeast Asia: Hydrology and geomorphology’, Human Ecology 37, pp361–373

22 SHIFTING CULTIVATORS, CURATORS OF FORESTS AND CONSERVATORS OF BIODIVERSITY The Dayak of East Kalimantan, Indonesia Herwasono Soedjito* Introduction

After decades of accusation and blame, there is nowadays increasing understanding that shifting cultivators are not destroying forests or depleting forest biodiversity. It was previously claimed that most deforestation in Indonesia was caused by either stable or semi-stable shifting cultivators (Hardjosoediro, 1978) or landless migrant farmers (Eckholm, 1979). However, these farmers have contributed relatively little to deforestation when compared to the impact of logging activities by timber companies (BIOTROP, 1978; Abdulhadi et al., 1981; Plumwood and Routley, 1982; Kartawinata and Vayda, 1984). In East Kalimantan alone, since the beginning of the timber boom in the late 1960s, timber companies have logged about 2.5 million hectares of tropical forest (Kartawinata and Vayda, 1984). More recent data indicate that deforestation is continuing as an effect of various activities including shifting cultivation, spontaneous and regular transmigration, establishment of plantation and tree crops and the operations of the timber industry.The underlying causes are said to be government (or political) policies and economic development (Colfer and Dudley, 1993; Sunderlin and Resosudarmo, 1997). The impact on forests of shifting cultivation is similar to some natural disturbances. For instance, shifting-cultivation fields are similar in size to large landslides. However, unlike natural disturbances, shifting cultivation is undertaken with concern for maintenance of the forest (Greenland, 1975; Clarke, 1976; Grandstaff, 1978; Kunstadter et al., 1978; Beckerman, 1983; Kartawinata and Vayda, 1984;Vayda, 1985). Disturbances, whether natural or man-made, seem to occur in all ecosystems and play a major role in generation and maintenance of species diversity (Bazzaz, 1983). The impact of these disturbances depends upon their magnitude and scope, both

* 

Dr Herwasono Soedjito, Research Centre for Biology, Indonesian Institute of Sciences, Bogor, Indonesia.

Chapter 22. Cultivators, curators and conservators  421

individually and serially, such as the size of the disturbance event and its intensity, frequency and duration. For instance, Armesto and Pickett (1985) found that smallscale disturbances were very important in maintaining species diversity in herbaceous systems. In fact, even periodic disturbances such as hurricanes are an integral part of stand development in tropical rainforests (Crow, 1980). Thus, secondary succession, which occurs after an ecosystem has been disturbed and plant species succeed one another in a process that eventually restores its previous condition, is seen as being a very important part of the whole strategy for preserving genetic resources. Secondary succession and forest dynamics vary from place to place within tropical forests (for review see Bazzaz and Pickett, 1980). This variation is generated by differences in species composition, floristic diversity, soil types and the nature and extent of disturbances. For instance, Ewel (1971) found that within a few years a successional stand in Panama resembled mature forest. Uhl and Jordan (1984), working in Amazonia, found that more than half of the species that occurred in a plot within five years of cutting and burning were primary-forest species. In Ghana, Swaine and Hall (1983) found that a field was still dominated by pioneer species seven years after it was cleared, but in Nigeria, a field was found to be floristically similar to mature forest 10 years after forest clearing (Aweto, 1981a). In Puerto Rico, it took about 25 years for a forest to recover at an elevation of 500m above sea level (Crow, 1980). However, there is a tendency for high-elevation forest dynamics to be slower than those of the lowlands (Ewel, 1980). Recent studies estimate a tropical forest turnover rate of 75 to 150 years, indicating that tropical forests are much more dynamic than previously thought (Hartshorn, 1980), and present a striking contrast to the traditional temperate-biased view of tropical forest dynamics as being predictable, linear processes (Bazzaz and Pickett, 1980). There are three mechanisms of species replacement during succession: facilitation, tolerance and inhibition (Connell and Slatyer, 1977). A version of the tolerance model, in which successional species grow together with primary species (often established from sprouts), occurs frequently in the tropics (e.g. Uhl and Jordan, 1984). The ability of tropical forest species to sprout following disturbance plays an important role in the forest turnover rate (Bazzaz and Pickett, 1980; Kartawinata et al., 1980; Stocker, 1981; Adedeji, 1984; Uhl and Jordan, 1984). For instance, Stocker (1981), working in tropical Australia, found that of the 82 tree species present on a 1ha plot, 74 had the ability to sprout after forest clearing and burning. Kartawinata et al. (1980) reported that sprouting played an important role in floristic change after disturbance in a lowland dipterocarp forest in East Kalimantan, Indonesia. In Nigeria, sprouting and seedlings were equally important in vegetation recovery in burned and unburned clear-cut forest sites after shifting cultivation (Adedeji, 1984). Significantly, Uhl and Jordan (1984) pointed out that the role of sprouting species in forest recovery at San Carlos,Venezuela depended on the severity of the disturbance. Disturbances influence succession by changing the level of resources available and the efficiency of species recruitment (Bazzaz and Pickett, 1980). Furthermore,

422  Soedjito

the size, mode of formation and intensity of disturbances affects species diversity within a disturbed site (Bazzaz, 1983). Bazzaz found that the level of plant diversity on a disturbed site was a dynamic, and it created different patches that influenced the pattern of later invasion. In turn, this invasion affected the species-recruitment rate. In small clearings, the recruitment of successional species is rapid (Bazzaz and Pickett, 1980), because seeds are readily dispersed on to the site from surrounding forest (Uhl and Jordan, 1984). However, more severe disturbances (such as large-scale clearing of forest by bulldozers) can prevent recovery by eliminating nutrient stocks and mechanisms for regeneration, as well as otherwise producing modifications of the soil (Bazzaz and Pickett, 1980; Uhl et al., 1982; Bazzaz, 1983). Soil is an important component for plant growth and the vegetation growing on any substrate corresponds to its condition. For example, Ashton (1977) claimed that total soil phosphorus and exchangeable potassium were correlated with the distribution of tree species in primary dipterocarp forests. Baillie and Ashton (1983) investigated tree-soil associations using 291 plots of variable size on red-yellow podzolic and scheleta soils (again in primary dipterocarp forests) and found that factors with highly exchangeable and reserve magnesium loading were the most important in defining the distribution of species, as it might be affected by the condition of the soil. In alluvial and heath forests, there was evidence that within a 1ha plot, floristic diversity was associated with soil variables. Vegetation classes in an alluvial forest were significantly associated with changes in pH and the calcium component, while floristic classes in a heath forest were significantly associated with changes in organic carbon and cation exchange capacity. Even in early successional stages, there is evidence that spatial diversity of vegetation is caused by the relative availability of soil nutrients (Tilman, 1984). Nutrient dynamics following shifting cultivation are an important component in forest turnover. It has long been known that soil fertility and vegetation components are interrelated (e.g. Langdale-Brown, 1968; Sanchez, 1976). Unfortunately, however, most studies have focused solely on either successional development of vegetation or soil fertility restoration (Aweto, 1981a), and when vegetation is considered along with soils, the vegetation data consist only of species lists and general descriptions of successional stages (Uhl et al., 1982). This chapter reports the findings of original research aimed at understanding the successional development of vegetation and soils jointly (see Soedjito, 1985). Changes in both vegetation and soil conditions were investigated on five different plots of various ages, and on seven other plots with different histories of human impact, at Long Sungai Barang, East Kalimantan, Indonesia (Figure 22.1). Shifting cultivation and forest dynamics in tropical forests

Shifting cultivation is the major crop-production system in many tropical countries (FAO, 1981; Aweto, 1981a), as well as being a component of the disturbance regime in tropical forest ecosystems (e.g. Hardjosoediro, 1978; Eckholm, 1979; Myers, 1983;

Chapter 22. Cultivators, curators and conservators  423

FIGURE 22.1 

The study sites in East Kalimantan, Borneo

Uhl and Jordan, 1984). It is often cited as a cause of deforestation and may contribute to the disappearance of countless tropical plant and animal species that constitute a valuable genetic resource (Jacobs, 1980; Myers, 1980b; Sastrapradja et al., 1980; Kartawinata et al., 1981; Uhl and Jordan, 1984). However, shifting cultivation is also recognized as a well-adapted system of ‘farming the forest’ (Kunstadter et al., 1978) and can play an important role in the development of environmentally sound agroforestry practices and the multiple-use management of natural forests (Greenland, 1975; Clarke, 1976; Grandstaff, 1978; Shukla and Ramakrishnan, 1984;Werner, 1984). Furthermore, shifting cultivation may actually increase the habitat diversity and number of species in some landscapes (Kunstadter et al., 1978), because these species require the various habitats provided by secondary succession in swidden fallows (Pickett and Thompson, 1978; Gilbert, 1980; Hartshorn, 1980). Shifting cultivation may, thus, be similar to natural patch dynamics in that it is an important component in maintaining the mosaic pattern of vegetation in tropical forests.

424  Soedjito

Shifting cultivation is basically an agricultural system characterized by short periods of cropping alternating with longer periods of fallow. Rappaport (1971) described the general strategy: ‘It is to establish temporary associations of plants directly useful to man on sites from which forest is removed and encourage the return of forest to those sites after the useful plants have been harvested. The return of the forest makes it possible, or at least much easier, to establish again an association of cultivated plants sometime in the future.’ Fields are usually maintained in production for one to three years before being fallowed (Figure 22.2). The studies of Dayak shifting cultivation in East Kalimantan involved analysis of FIGURE 22.2  Dayak farmers of Long vegetation in an active swidden (three Sungai Barang, East Kalimantan, months old), a young secondary forest winnowing rice (eight years old), an old secondary forest (80 years old), a hilltop primary forest (so-called ‘heath’ forest), and a mixed dipterocarp primary forest.Vegetation was sampled using the ‘point centre quarter’ method and the quadrate method (Mueller-Dombois and Ellenberg, 1974). Vegetation assessment in each plot included measuring the breastheight diameters of trees (at 1.4m), recording the height and number of individuals of each species, and for seedlings or herbs species, an estimation of coverage and height as well as a count of individuals.Voucher specimens were collected for identification at the Herbarium Bogoriense, Bogor, Indonesia.Vegetation nomenclature is based on Flora of Java (Backer and Van Den Brink, 1963, 1965, 1968) and Flora Malesiana (e.g. Soepadmo and van Steenis (1974) for Fagaceae, Ashton (1982) for Dipterocarpaceae). The data were analysed for species diversity using Wilson and Shmida’s formula (Wilson and Shmida, 1984) and index of similarity is calculated by using Sorensen’s formula (Mueller-Dombois and Ellenberg, 1974). The results showed a gradual increase in the proportion of species diversity and a corresponding increase in the vertical development of fallow vegetation with time (Table 22.1). The exception was the ‘heath’ primary forest, which had less species diversity than the old secondary forest and about the same as the young secondary forest. The species composition of the early successional community was heterogeneous, as indicated by more than 50% of the species (24 out of 36) having a frequency of less than 20% and the proportion of species diversity was 5.57. Prevalent species in this community were Scleria sp. (Importance Value [IV]=79.88); Cyperus cyperoides

Chapter 22. Cultivators, curators and conservators  425 TABLE 22.1  Species, genera, families and species diversity recorded in an early successional community, young and old secondary forests and primary forest at Long Sungai Barang, East Kalimantan

Plot

Locality

Species

SESC

Early successional community at Ubut Tapun

36

TYSF

Young secondary forest at Lulou Lie

SOSF

Geners

Families

SDV

Notes

32

22

5.57

S&H

68

40

30

18.43

T

Old secondary forest at Lepo’un Bem

56

48

35

7.97

S&H

TOSF

Old secondary forest at Lepo’un Bem

78

44

35

19.85

T

THPF

Primary forest at Ubut Mu’un

69

52

34

18.44

T

TMDF

Primary forest at Lulou Lie

90

57

34

22.25

T

Notes: *SDV = proportion of species diversity using Wilson and Shmida (1984). S = seedlings of woody species with diameter 10cm.

(IV=38.91); Smilax zeylanica (IV=24.15); Merremia umbellata var. orientalis (IV=15.34); Panicum trichoides (IV=14.57); Cyperus kyllingia (IV=13.61); and Stenochlaena pallustris (IV=10.41).This plot had seven woody species, seven climbers and 21 herbs; the woody species were Beilschmiedia sp., Breynia racemosa, Croton caudatus, Ficus aurata, Melastoma polyanthum, Symplocos fasciculata and Vernonia arborea. The floristic composition of the eight-year-old secondary forest was more heterogeneous than that of the early successional community. This was indicated by a very high percentage (98%) of the species having a frequency of less than 20% and the proportion of species diversity being 18.43. The prevalent species were Prunus arborea var. arborea (IV=27.14); Lithocarpus elegans (IV=16.53); Eugenia polyantha (IV=l3.28); Elaeocarpus brevipes (IV=11.46); Ardisia copelandii (IV=10.92); and Vernonia arborea (IV=10.51). This young secondary forest had a density of 719 trees/ha and a basal area of 18.74 square metres/ha. The tree diameter ranged from 10.5cm to 43.5cm with an average of 17.09cm, and the average height was 14.5m with a range of 6m to 34m. There were 11 large trees in this young secondary forest, in a 1ha plot. They were Elaeocarpus brevipes and Lithocarpus spp. Elaeocarpus had been retained by shifting cultivators because of its edible fruit and Lithocarpus was

426  Soedjito

left in order to facilitate tree regeneration. The shortest distance between these trees was 50m and the furthest, 120m. The plot had only one tree stratum. The seedlings and herbs in the old secondary forest were less heterogeneous than those in the young secondary forest, as was evident from the percentage (68%) of species having a frequency of less than 20%. The proportion of species diversity was 7.97. The prevalent species were Zingiber sp. (IV=68.46); Selaginella sp. (IV=30.89); Pyrrosia christii (IV=28.68); Spatholobus verrugineus (IV=13.89); Prunus arborea var. arborea (IV=11.15); Piper arborescens var. hirtellum (IV=10.71); and Ziziphus horsfieldii (IV=10.29). Primary-forest species were also common, such as Baccaurea sumatrana (IV=6.13); Dysoxylum hexandrum (IV=1.55); and Vatica cupularis (IV=2.31). The composition of tree species in the old secondary forest was quite heterogeneous; the number of species with a frequency of less than 20% was 49 (63%) and the proportion of species diversity was 19.85. The prevalent species were Elaeocarpus glaber (IV=30.41); Prunus arborea var. arborea (IV=30.28); Schima noronhae (IV=17.62); Lithocarpus lucidus (IV=15.74); Breynia racemosa (IV=l2.97); and Castanopsis tungurut (lV=10.44). The average tree density was 557 and the average basal area was 17.7 square metres/ha. The average diameter was 20.2cm with a range of 10.5cm to 65cm; the average height was 19.7m with a range of 5m to 50m. The forest in this plot consisted of only two layers; the first composed of Elaeocarpus glaber and Lithocarpus lucidus (as well as other species), with a height of 40m to 50m. Species with little significance in this layer were Schima noronhae, Lithocarpus elegans, Artocarpus odoratissima and Ficus retusa var. borneensis. The second layer (20m to 30m high) was jointly dominated by Prunus arborea var. arborea, Breynia racemosa, Eugenia and Ardisia copelandii. The hilltop forest plot was included in the primary-forest category despite having been occasionally exploited for its timber by villagers. Its species composition was also heterogeneous. Species with a frequency of less than 20% numbered 65 (94%) and the proportion of species diversity was 18.44. In this forest the prevalent species included Lithocarpus elegans (IV=25.34); Eugenia sp. (#261) (IV=25.08); Prunus arborea var. arborea (IV=14.25); Eugenia sp. (#266) (IV=10.51); and Eugenia sp. (#296) (IV=10.15). It had an average density of 1054 trees/ha and a basal area of 52.7 square metres/ha. Tree diameters ranged from 10.5cm to 65cm with an average of 22.38cm, and the height ranged from 6m to 50m with an average of 21.4m. The forest had three layers. The first consisted of emergent trees and included Eugenia sp. (#266), Lithocarpus elegans, Campnosperma auriculatum, Nephelium maingayi, Ochanostachys amentacea and Durio acutifolius. The second layer was primarily occupied by Eugenia spp., together with Elaeocarpus glaber, Ochrosia sp., Palaquium sp., Calophyllum sp. and Tristania whitheana. The third layer consisted of Prunus arborea var. arborea, Mastixia rostrata, Xanthophyllum palembanicum and Coccoceras sumatrana, among others. The mixed dipterocarp primary forest plot also had high species heterogeneity. The number of species with a frequency of less than 20% was 89 (99%) and the

Chapter 22. Cultivators, curators and conservators  427

proportion of species diversity was 22.25. This was relatively undisturbed forest. The prevalent species included Quercus argentata (IV=18.91); Shorea parvifolia (IV= 16.71); Tristania whitheana (IV=11.47); and Castanopsis tungurut (IV=10.51). The density was 554 trees/ha and the basal area was 58.3 square metres/ha. The tree diameter ranged from 10.5cm to 110.5cm with an average of 31.23cm. The height range was from 10m to 60m, with an average of 32.6m. The forest had a three-layer vertical structure. The first had a height of 50m to 60m and consisted of Shorea parvifolia, Tristania whitheana, Lophopetalum javanicum, Ficus sp. (#928), Palaguium subfianum, Santiria rubiginosa var. rubiginosa and Durio zibethinus. The second layer, with a height of 30m to 50m, consisted mainly of Eugenia spp., Lithocarpus spp., Adinandra sp. (#916), Dipiospora singularis, Elateriospermum tapos, Polyalthia sumatrana and Baccaurea deflexa. The height of the third layer ranged from 10m to 30m.This stratum was composed mainly of Litsea angu1ata, Ixonanthes petiolaris, Scaphium macrodum, Ardisia copelandii, Litsea diversifolia, Prunus arborea var. arborea and Cryptocarya densiflora. Two tree species stood out as probably being very important in the process of accelerating community development in Long Sungai Barang: Lithocarpus elegans and Prunus arborea var. arborea. Whitmore (1972) classified these two species as very strong invaders; they can grow easily in a wide range of soils, including degraded sites. Lithocarpus elegans (Whitmore uses the old name, Lithocarpus spicatus), which flowers throughout the year, can produce a large number of seeds. Its fruit are eaten and dispersed by pigs, monkeys, squirrels and rats. Those agents of seed dispersal were abundant at Long Sungai Barang, thus increasing the degree of dispersal for Lithocarpus elegans. The most important aspect, however, was that Lithocarpus elegans could also regenerate vegetatively by sprouting. Sprouting is very important for treecommunity development in Long Sungai Barang. Lithocarpus spp., Eugenia spp., Prunus arborea var. arborea and Helicia serrata are the most important tree species with a strong ability to sprout after cutting and burning (Figure 22.3). The fire does not kill stumps completely because shifting cultivators leave stumps standing up to one metre above the ground. This result supports previous findings that the ability of tropical tree species to sprout plays an important role in forest turnover rates (e.g. Stark, 1978; Hartshorn, 1980; Kartawinata et al., 1980; Chapin and FIGURE 22.3 Sprouting ability of Van Cleve, 1981; Stocker, 1981; Adedeji, 1984; tropical forest species

428  Soedjito

Hobbs et al., 1984; Uhl and Jordan, 1984, Soedjito and Purwaningsih, 1994; Soedjito, 1995). The development of vegetation is also related to the distribution of trees. Trees were distributed in clumps based on diameter and height in the young secondary forest, but were much more widely distributed in old secondary forest and primary forests. In comparison within primary forests, the ‘heath’ forest was more clumped than the mixed dipterocarp forest. This can probably be attributed to the fact that there had been some disturbances that had created gaps in the ‘heath’ forest, along with the nature of the soils (which were similar to the podzol soils under true heath forests). The gaps had been caused by tree-felling for timber and gathering of other forest products to meet local needs. These gaps were similar to natural treefall gaps in both size and the density of regenerating seedlings (Vayda, 1985). The size and species composition was more homogeneous in the ‘heath’ forest than in any other dipterocarp forests. Tree density changes according to successional stages. The relationship between tree density and height and diameter classes also represents the development of vegetation. The number of trees within young secondary forest was the highest in the height class between 15m and 20m – very much higher than in the larger classes between 20m and 30m. Similar trends are also observed in old secondary forests which, in terms of height, are quite comparable to primary forest. The ‘heath’ and mixed dipterocarp primary forests were quite similar, since the highest tree density occured in the height class between 25m and 35m, even though in the ‘heath’forest the tree density decreased when the diameter class increased.The diameter curves for young and old secondary forests, as well as ‘heath’ forests, represented the general trend of diameter curves for secondary forest, in which the slope of the curves is steeper as the succession advances. The diameter curve for mixed dipterocarp primary forest exhibited the typical trend for undisturbed primary forests – a curve with a shape opposite to that of the letter J. The recovery rate of vegetation at Long Sungai Barang was slower than that in lowland areas elsewhere in East Kalimantan (Table 22.2). The basal area value per hectare for the 80-year-old secondary forest at Long Sungal Barang was also smaller than that for a 30-year-old secondary forest at Lempake, another location. A possible explanation was that Long Sungai Barang was located at a high elevation (about 800m) and Lempake at a low elevation of about 10m and the development of vegetation is known to proceed more slowly in highlands at around 2900m asl, than in the lowlands at around 45m asl (Ewel, 1980). This is not to imply that there were no other differences significantly affecting growth rates and the development of vegetation. In contrast, primary forests at Long Sungai Barang had a larger basal area than those in the lowlands (Table 22.2). This might be related to the fact that Long Sungai Barang had a high rainfall, greater than 4000mm/year. Herrera et al. (1981) suggested that primary forest might be more dependent on rainfall than on soil nutrients. Another possibility was that previous secondary vegetation made more nutrients available from subsoils for growing primary forest species (Werner, 1984). It

Chapter 22. Cultivators, curators and conservators  429 TABLE 22.2 Comparison of diameter, height, density and basal area of forest plots in Long Sungai Barang, Lempake and Wanariset, East Kalimantan

Parameter

Long Sungai Barang

Wanariset **

Lempake *

8-year

80-year

‘heath’

MDF

30-year

primary

primary

Diameter (cm)

10.5-34.5

10.5-65

10.5-65

10-110

10-84

10-223

10-160

Mean diameter (cm)

17.09

21.21

22.38

31.21

Height (m)

6-34

5-50

6-50

10-60

5-30

5-65

9-48

Mean height (m)

14.68

19.84

21.38

32.6

Density (trees/ha)

719

557

1054

554

578

445

541

Basal area (sq m/ha)

18.74

17.77

52.7

58.28

21.94

33.74

29.7

Notes: * After Riswan and Hadrijanto (1979); ** After Kartawinata et al. (1980); MDF = mixed dipterocarp forest.

was believed that there were close interrelationships between primary and secondary species at Long Sungai Barang. However, the floristic change seemed to be faster at Long Sungai Barang than in the lowland areas.The similarity index between secondary communities and primary forest was high (Table 22.3). This rapid floristic recovery was possible because disturbance sizes were not large (the largest field was about 15ha), the tree-sprouting ability was high, recruitment occurred from stored seed and the distance to seed sources (the primary forests or old secondary forests) was not great. Many researchers have reported that these conditions can accelerate both floristic change and the recovery rate (e.g. Cheke et al., 1979; Bazzaz and Pickett, 1980; Hall and Swaine, 1980; Hartshorn, 1980; Bazzaz, 1983; Uhl and Jordan, 1984).

Plot

SESC

TYSF

SOSF

TOSF

THPF

TMDF

SESC TYSF SOSF TOSF THPF

94.96 94.33 99.53 99.03

5.04

5.67 8.18

0.47 26.10 22.99

0.97 15.91 12.14 25.35

0 9.72 7.31 20.73 9.26

91.82 73.90 84.09

77.01 87.86

74.65

TMDF

100.00

90.28

92.69

79.27

Similarity index

TABLE 22.3 Indexes of similarity and dissimilarity between seedlings and herbs in the early successional community, trees in young secondary forest, seedlings, herbs and trees in old secondary forest and trees in primary forests

90.74

Dissimilarity index Notes: SESC = seedlings and herbs in early successional community; TYSF = trees in young secondary forest; SOSF = seedlings and herbs in old secondary forest; TOSF = trees in old secondary forests; THPF = trees in ‘heath’ primary forest; and TMDF = trees in mixed dipterocarp primary forest.

430  Soedjito

Shifting cultivators maintain a diversity of species in their fields. One of the pioneer researchers of shifting cultivation in Indonesia, Clifford Geertz (1963), wrote: ‘The swidden plot is not a “field” at all in the proper sense, but a miniaturised tropical forest.’ One of his reasons for this statement was that swidden plots have a high level of species diversity. The swidden-forest simile, particularly in regard to the high species diversity of an intercropped swidden, has been used to describe shifting cultivation in many areas of the tropics, including Africa (Miracle, 1967; Okigbo, 1981; Zeuner, 1981; Neumann, 1983), Asia (Geertz, 1963; Rappaport, 1971; Kunstadter et al., 1978; Bompard et al, 1980; Dobra, 1983; Freeman and Fricke, 1984), and Latin America (Harris, 1971; Wilken, 1977; Ewell and Poleman, 1979; Nations and Nigh, 1980; Nations and Komer, 1983). However, there is a reported tendency among shifting cultivators in South America to avoid intercropping. It is interesting that traditional swidden monocropping, whether this is monocropping of an entire field or creation of monocrop zones within a field, involves primarily staple crops that are not annuals (Beckerman, 1983).A pattern of either avoiding annual monocropping or maintaining species diversity is very important to accelerating forest turnover after swiddens are left fallow. It is most likely that shifting cultivators know their environments intimately and are able to both manipulate and protect them for their continuous benefit (Weinstock, 1984). The Dayak have a term for a local forest area that is being conserved. Tanah Ulen is a piece of forest land covering hundreds to thousands of hectares that is being conserved in a traditional way, as a reserve for timber, medicinal plants, animals and wild vegetable food, as well as a source of water. Customary laws and specific regulations are developed to control the harvesting of resources from Tanah Ulen. For example, a Tanah Ulen of Setulang village in Malinau District of East Kalimantan helps to conserve 5300ha of important lowland dipterocarp forest as a habitat for a valuable commercial tree. It is a type of forest ecosystem that has almost disappeared in Kalimantan. A study in 2009 found 279 species of plants in this Tanah Ulen, including at least 19 species of dipterocarpaceae (Soedjito, 2009). One tree, a magnificent example of Shorea johorensis, had a girth measuring 927cm, or a diameter of 296cm, and a height of 50m. It was believed to be the biggest tree in the whole of Borneo. Such relicts of former gregarious dipterocarp forest ecosystems must be conserved and protected. Nutrient dynamics after shifting cultivation

Most shifting cultivators prefer to clear and burn secondary, rather than primary forests. The reasons are: (1) secondary forests are easier to clear (Rappaport, 1971; Peterson, 1981), and (2) nutrient retention in the soi1 is rapidly restored to capacity by successional vegetation (Ewel, 1976; Raich, 1980). Raich (1980) found that oneyear-old regrowth already had 50% of the root biomass of mature forest and Ewel (1976) showed that the original rate of leaf-litter production was re-established after only six years. Even after cutting and burning, by the fifth year the concentrations of

Chapter 22. Cultivators, curators and conservators  431

K, Mg and N03 were not significantly different from those in the undisturbed forest and the soil-nutrient levels were also similar to those of the pre-burn forest (Uhl and Jordan, 1984). Recently, Shukla and Ramakrishnan (1984) reported that the shoot productivity of early successional species was significantly higher than that of late successional species. Indeed, the intermediate-succession phase, in which a plot experienced rapid stocking with pioneer and primary tree species, had the highest biomass accumulation when compared to the two other stages: the early phase and the prolonged thinning stage (Boerboom, 1974; Kartawinata et al., 1980; Uhl and Jordan, 1984). In addition, secondary species – particularly fast-growing trees with deep roots – made mineral reserves in the soils’ parent material available and retrieved leached nutrients to the surface (Neumann, 1983; Werner, 1984). It is generally accepted that soil under tropical rainforests is poor (Richards, 1952; Nye and Greenland, 1960; Went and Stark, 1968; Odum, 1971; Stark, 1971; Golley et al., 1975; Johnson et al., 1975; Myers, 1980a; Herrera et al., 1981; Adedeji, 1984), and that most of the nutrients present are tied up in forest biomass (Odum, 1971; Adedeji, 1984; but see Whitmore, 1984). Tropical rainforests have an efficient mechanism for nutrient cycling: nutrients are rapidly taken up by plants when litter decays and so pass directly from dead organic matter to plant roots through mycorrhiza (Went and Stark, 1968; Stark, 1971; Herrera et al., 1978; Stark and Jordan, 1978; Adedeji, 1984; Vitousek, 1984). Therefore, any destruction of this forest will disturb the nutrient cycling and cause massive losses of nutrients (Biswas, 1979), and shifting cultivation has been suspected of being a major agent in soil degradation in tropical rainforest regions (e.g. Hardjosoediro, 1978; Eckholm, 1979). However, Bazzaz (1983) noted that man-made disturbances were similar to natural disturbances, and that recent studies had found that shifting cultivation was not terribly damaging to the primary forest (Kartawinata and Vayda, 1984; Uhl and Jordan, 1984; Werner, 1984). A major reason that shifting cultivation has been considered a cause of soil degradation is decreasing yields in the second and following years of swidden cropping (Nye and Greenland, 1960; Clarke, 1976; Sanchez, 1976). However, soil degradation resulting from shifting cultivation is not easily measured (Street, 1969). Street gives four reasons: first, deterioration of the land is a cumulative process; second, short-term changes may be so slight as to be exceeded by errors in measurement; third, there is no generally valid method of estimating the availability of important soil nutrients; and fourth, no one knows the extent of leaching losses during the cropping period. The definitive reason for the decrease in yields is not yet completely understood (Jordan and Kline, 1972) and very little correlation has been found between yield declines and measured soil changes before and after cropping (Sanchez, 1976) The style of shifting cultivation that involves clear-cutting and burning actually accelerates mineralization through increased aeration, raised temperatures, more severe wetting and drying cycles, and more severe leaching (Witkamp, 1971; Gorham et al., 1979;Vitousek et al., 1979; Chapin, 1983). Stark (1978) showed that burning at lower temperatures on a young soil caused no significant nutrient losses, and Ewel et al. (1981) found that burning could reduce initial weed competition by killing on-site

432  Soedjito

FIGURE 22.4 

Rice planting after burning secondary vegetation

seeds (Figure 22.4). In areas where fire does not kill all the perennial vegetation, plants recover rapidly from the unburned below-ground parts and are quite effective in absorbing fire-released nutrients and preventing leaching (Stark, 1978; Chapin and Van Cleve, 1981). In addition, after abandonment, the biota can also affect chemical weathering (Gorham et al., 1979). Roots can have a physical action on parent material by fracturing rocks and enlarging fractures through wedging. In their 1979 study, Gorham et al. observed that the most important effect of the biota probably resulted from its generation of acidity. Cronan et al. (1978) and Smith (1976) pointed out that organic acids resulting from decomposition or root exudation played an important role in soil and rock weathering. Furthermore, Werner (1984) noted that successional vegetation played an essential role in making nutrients available from the total soil reserves, and Miller (1983) added that deep, rapidly growing root systems were advantageous in avoiding problems of surface drying, high surface temperatures and chemical toxicities. Morphologically, secondary species have broader and deeper root systems than mature primary forest species (Soedjito and Pickett, 1995). Indeed, human impacts such as agriculture and fire cause an increase in the resources available for plant growth (Chapin, 1983). Although shifting cultivation practices are frequently associated with the use of fire, the rate at which the forest later recovers does not appear to be significantly affected by this factor. Many researchers have made the generalization that repeated burning permanently changes the environment and that the site becomes dominated by grasses and fire-resistant trees (e.g. Budowski, 1966). However, recent studies demonstrate that this is not absolutely true. For example, Stark (1978) stated: ‘It is

Chapter 22. Cultivators, curators and conservators  433

critical to note that fire behaves differently on different soils and vegetation types, and generalizations on the influence of fire cannot be safely made.’ A detailed study on the impact of slash-and-burn cultivation in Costa Rica reported that within three months the site was covered by a dense, vigorous regrowth containing more than 100 species, and that burning could reduce initial weed competition by killing on-site seeds (Ewel et al., 1981). Furthermore, that study concluded that burning did not significantly retard succession. Adedeji (1984) claimed that secondary re-growth in a burned plot appeared better than that in an unburned plot, although sprouting played a more significant role in the unburned plot. In addition to these findings, Uhl and Jordan (1984) found that more than half of the species that occurred in a plot in the fifth year after cutting and burning were primary forest species. The reasons for this rapid recovery related to small nutrient losses from the site, the ability of tropical tree species to re-grow vegetatively and a great many storage seeds in the soil (Stocker, 1981; Hobbs et al., 1984; Uhl and Jordan, 1984). The effect of shifting cultivation on soil properties is dependent on the soil types involved and will vary from place to place. For instance, Adedeji (1984) worked in moist semi-deciduous forest on a sandy ferralitic soil in Nigeria, and found that six years after the cessation of cultivation, the soil-nutrient level of the successional re-growth was still far from being restored to the level of the primary forest soils. However, in Amazonia, soil-nutrient levels on a plot five years after the forest was cut and burned on oxisol soil were similar to the levels of the pre-burn primary forest (Uhl and Jordan, 1984). Uhl and Jordan also mentioned that nutrient losses apparently were not great enough to destroy the site’s ability to return to a pre-disturbance state. On acid clay soil in Puerto Rico, it was found that there was no decrease in nutrient levels in the soil either immediately following ionizing irradiation (without burning) or three years later (Edmisten, 1970). Indeed, fire does not affect soil nutrients, but broad generalizations cannot be made because fire behaves differently on different soils and vegetation types (Stark, 1978), and tropical soils are more diverse than is commonly believed (Harcombe, 1980). The ratio and degree of fertility restoration appears to depend on the development of vegetation. For example, Aweto (1981c) found that vegetation cover and tree size, as well as tree density, were the most important aspects of vegetation that influenced soil organic matter concentrations, cation exchange capacity and water-holding capacity. Detailed studies in Puerto Rico (Jordan and Kline, 1972) found that not only did each species have a unique complement of nutrient-element concentrations, but also within each species, different components such as roots, stems, and clean and epiphyte-covered leaves often had a unique complement. Leaves covered by epiphyll contained significantly higher concentrations of most elements than clean leaves (Witkamp, 1970). In order to understand the complexity of soil-nutrient dynamics in tropical regions, various soil properties were studied in vegetation at 12 different stages of succession and with different histories at Long Sungai Barang, East Kalimantan. Soils from an active field, young secondary forests, an old secondary forest and primary

434  Soedjito

forests were sampled. Twelve plots were selected for their differences in successional status, as well as for their different cultivation histories. Site A was a three-month-old active swidden being cultivated for the first time. Site B was a young secondary forest that had been fallow for eight years after its first and only cultivation. Site C was an old secondary forest (80 years old) and had been cultivated once. Site E was a hilltop primary forest (so-called ‘heath’ forest) and site D was a mixed dipterocarp primary forest. Site F was a young secondary forest that had been fallow for 13 years after its first and only cultivation and site G was also a young secondary forest that had been fallow for 13 years, but it had been cultivated twice. Site H was similar to site G in both age and history. Site I was also a 13-year-old secondary forest, but it had been cultivated three times. Site J was a secondary forest that had been fallow for 21 years following its first and only cultivation, while site K was also a 21-year-old secondary forest, but it had been cultivated twice. Site L was a primary forest on sloping land. Each plot was sampled systematically and the number of soil samples taken from each ranged from 20 to 45. Samples were taken from depths of 0 to 20cm (measured from the litter surface) and were grouped topographically (bottom, slope and hill) for each plot. Samples belonging to the same group were then mixed and a new sample was taken from the mixture for laboratory analysis. The soil characteristics were determined as follows: organic matter by the method of Walkley and Black (1934); concentration of nitrogen by the semi-micro Kjeldahl method (Bremner, 1960); concentration of exchangeable calcium, potassium and sodium by flame photometry and of magnesium by atomic absorption spectrophotometry; cation exchange capacity by the summation method (Chapman, 1965); available phosphorus by the method of Bray and Kurtz (1945), and pH in 0.01m calcium chloride was determined potentiometrically using a soil-to-solution ratio of 1:2 (Peech, 1965). The data were analysed by using principal components analysis to derive a small number of linear combinations (principal components) from all variables. These principal components were then used for clustering. Canonical discriminant analysis was also applied to identify the differences among groups. These methods had earlier been used by many researchers (e.g. Gittins, 1969; Dueser and Shugart, 1979; Aweto, 1981a, 1981c; Laven, 1982) and seem to be an appropriate tool for interpreting the ecological data (Pielou, 1984) A factor analysis was performed on the soil-nutrient properties of the study sites, standardized (mean=0, standard deviation=1) to remove the effects of units of measurement.The factor score coefficient of each site was given for factors 1, 2, 3 and 4, which together explain 77% of the variance (Table 22.4). Principal components 1, 2, 3 and 4 reflected variation in organic matter (org), nitrogen (N), sodium (Na) and calcium (Ca) as the most important element in the factor respectively. Long Sungai Barang proved to have a high variation in soil properties, even in a small area. By using cluster analysis, two major types of soil were identified, namely soil under ‘heath’ forest and soil under mixed dipterocarp forest. However, within each type there were several variations that were closely related to the type of vegetation, the slope of the landscape and human influences.

Chapter 22. Cultivators, curators and conservators  435

TABLE 22.4 Factor analysis based on soil-nutrient properties: Eigenvalues, percent variance and scores for factors 1, 2, 3 and 4

Elements/values

Factor 1

Factor 2

Factor 3

Factor 4

Eigenvalue Variance/proportion (%) Soil nutrients Organic matter C N P (total) K Na Ca Mg C/N CEC pH

3.48 31.61

2.20 20.00

1.70 15.48

1.12 10.19

0.27 0.27 0.07 0.16 0.10 -0.07 0.12 0.09 0.14 0.22 0.09

-0.12 -0.11 -0.40 0.08 0.27 0.06 0.13 0.20 0.27 -0.15 0.17

0.06 0.07 -0.11 -0.13 0.24 0.45 -0.02 -0.25 0.15 0.19 -0.41

-0.04 -0.04 0.26 -0.05 0.36 0.15 0.66 -0.05 -0.44 -0.14 0.08

The first soil type – the ‘heath’ forest soil – generally came from those areas with heath-like vegetation (sites E and L); that were in early secondary forest stage (site A); had young secondary forest (site B); or secondary forest that had been cultivated twice (sites H and K). This type of soil had two subgroups. The second soil type – the mixed dipterocarp forest group – was more heterogeneous than the first soil type. It had four soil subgroups and the differences among subgroups were influenced by number of times the plots had been cultivated, the age or successional stage of the vegetation, and the slope of the land. For example, soil from the bottom of a slope in dipterocarp primary forest was in the same subgroup as soil from the bottom of a slope in 13-year-old secondary forest that had been cultivated twice. In another example, soil from the slope in 13-year-old secondary forest that had been cultivated twice clustered with soil from both the bottom of a slope and the slope in 80-year-old secondary forest. This finding supported previous studies that indicated that soils under tropical forest were heterogeneous. For example, Harcombe (1980) reported that tropical soils were much more diverse than was commonly believed. Soils typical of tropical regions that were previously often lumped together as ‘latosols’ are now recognized as belonging to three distinct soil groups: Oxisols, Ultisols and Altisols. The findings confirmed earlier analyses that, broadly speaking, identified the soils of Long Sungai Barang as ranging from Podzols (Spodosols), Red-Yellow Podzolics (Ultisols) and Latosols (Oxisols) to Andosols (Inceptisols), and more complex mountain soils (see Kartawinata and Vayda, 1984). In the Long Sungai Barang area, types of vegetation and topography influence soil properties. By using canonical discriminant function analysis, significant differences were found in soil properties under different types of vegetation. These findings

436  Soedjito

were similar to those of Ewel (1980), that vegetation reflected the differences in soil. Furthermore, Newberry and Proctor (1984) found in Sarawak that vegetation classes in an alluvial forest were significantly associated with changes in pH and the calcium component, while classes in the heath forest were associated with changes in organic carbon and the cation exchange capacity component. Ewel (1980) also mentioned that mature vegetation reflected soil differences better than did successional vegetation. However, at Long Sungai Barang, there were soil differences on slopes even within the same stages of vegetation development (e.g. the primary forest (site D) and the secondary forest (site B)) (see also Soedjito and Pickett, 1995). At our study sites, the concentration of organic matter changed with vegetation development. Organic matter in the topsoil increased towards the samples from 80-year-old vegetation and then decreased in the mixed dipterocarp primary forest. However, there was an exception for ‘heath’ primary forest (site E). It had the highest concentration of organic matter due to a great mass of fresh, fine roots on top of the mineral soil (called atub by the local people). The finding that mixed dipterocarp primary forest had the lowest amount of organic matter was quite interesting. Indeed, the highest concentrations of organic matter tend to occur under successional stages, but the concentration under primary forest is seldom the lowest. For example, in Costa Rica, Werner (1984) reported that the highest concentration of organic matter was under eight-year old secondary forest and the lowest under 16-year-old secondary forest. Despite the glorious trees growing in the mixed dipterocarp primary forest, the soil nutrients were very low. Except for potassium (K) and sodium (Na), the nutrient concentration was lower than that found at other successional stages. This result contrasts with Aweto’s (1981b) finding that nutrient levels under primary forest were not the lowest to be found. Aweto found that concentrations of organic matter, calcium (Ca) and magnesium (Mg), were higher under mature forest, and potassium and sodium levels were also higher in primary forest. Uhl and Jordan (1984) found that the concentration of the essential elements nitrogen (N) and phosphorus (P) were higher in primary forest than in old successional vegetation, but the opposite was the case for organic matter, calcium and magnesium. The low concentration of nutrients under primary forest at Long Sungai Barang could be explained if the forest there was very efficient, either because a larger fraction of nutrients was being reabsorbed from senescing plant parts or because most nutrients released from the trees were being rapidly taken up by roots, mycorrhizae and decomposers (Went and Stark, 1968; Odum, 1971; Stark, 1971; Herrera et al., 1978; Stark and Jordan, 1978; Adedeji, 1984; Vitousek, 1984). In addition, primary forest may, like forest growing on nutrient-poor soil, be more dependent on rainfall (Herrera et al., 1981). Thus, the high level of soil nutrients under secondary forest at Long Sungai Barang was due to the presence of secondary vegetation. Jordan (1968) studied re-vegetation after forest cutting in Puerto Rico and found that secondary successional vegetation, in fact, had higher concentrations of certain nutrient elements than primary forest. Therefore, soil under secondary forest will have more

Chapter 22. Cultivators, curators and conservators  437

nutrients than soil under primary when secondary forest litterfall decomposes. Sanchez (1976) reported that maximum levels of nutrient uptake were achieved under secondary forest aged between eight and ten years. Furthermore, Werner (1984) also reported that successional vegetation played an essential role in making nutrients available from the soil’s total reserves. The finding that soil nutrients are higher in secondary forest than in primary forest is consistent with the fact that villagers prefer to cut secondary forests for their swiddens. This preference has also been reported from other areas, such as Guatemala (Ewel, 1976) and the Macaranga hypoleuca (Rchb.f. & Zoll.) Müll.Arg. [Euphorbiaceae] Philippines (Peterson, 1981). It is important to notice that in Long For the Dayaks, this species indicates Sungai Barang, an active swidden infertile soil (Table 22.5) had higher amounts of organic matter, nitrogen, calcium, potassium and phosphorus than soils under an eight-year-old secondary forest. The possible explanation is that nutrients released from previous vegetation (after cutting and burning) had not been greatly absorbed by the rice crop, which was then three months old, and there was probably no soil erosion. For instance, Sanchez (1976) found that there was no erosion under traditional shifting cultivation in Venezuela. From Sarawak, it had also been reported that traditional shifting cultivation did not cause significant soil erosion (Hatch, 1983). Another explanation was that soil nutrients under the previous secondary forest were already high before the vegetation was cut and burned. Shifting cultivators have long demonstrated the adequacy of their knowledge about soil fertility. They choose sites for their fields where the soil nutrients are high by recognizing species indicators. These indicators for both fertile and infertile soil are listed in Table 22.5. After studying Dayak shifting cultivators in South Kalimantan, Weinstock (1984) reported that the farmers’ knowledge led them to select the right soil for their swiddens.The findings from Long Sungai Barang supported Weinstock’s statement that ‘a traditional farmer is not an empty vessel waiting to be filled with modern Western knowledge; any new knowledge added displaces prior knowledge, which often is more ecologically and sociologically attuned to the physical and social realms in which the farmer operates’.

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TABLE 22.5 Factor analysis based on soil-nutrient properties: Eigenvalues, per cent variance and scores for factors 1, 2, 3 and 4

Indicator species of fertile soil 1.  Ardisia zoflingeri 2.  Bisctiofia javanica 3. Callophyllum spp. 4.  Dysoxylum hexandrum 5. Elaeocarpus spp. 6. Garcinia sp. 7.  Hydrocotyle javanica 8. Lithocarpus spp. 9.  Mischocarpus sundaicus 10.  Prunus arborea var. arborea 11.  Pterospermum diversifolium 12.  Pyrrosia christii 13. Saurauia spp. 14.  Schima wallichii 15. Selaginella sp. 16. Tetracera sp. 17. Timonius schumanii 18.  Unidentified (tembalut) 19.  Unidentified (uduh luweng) 20.  Unidentified (bikan)

Indicator species of infertile soil 1. Erechtites spp. 2.  Glychinia truncata 3.  Gynura crepidloides 4.  Lygodium cernuun 5.  Macaranga hypoleuca 6. Medinella sp. 7.  Progananthera pulverulenta 8.  Urophyllum glabrum 9. Vaccinium bancanum

The Dayak of Apau Ping, in the Upper Bahau River basin, recognize 16 different soil types that offer different properties for certain varieties of rice. These soil types and their characteristics, which are an important part of Dayak knowledge about food plants and rice varieties, are listed in Table 22.6. Shifting cultivation and food plants

As well as practising shifting cultivation, the Dayaks traditionally conserve many plant resources in their fields and home gardens as a strategy to secure their food supplies. Traditional Dayak farming creates a mosaic of different successional stages that not only provide food, but also medicinal plants and those that supply poisons. In one village of Long Sungai Barang, for example, farmers used at least 150 species of food plants, including 67 wild species. In their home gardens alone, there were 91 species belonging to 70 genera and 38 plant families (Soedjito, 1991, 1996). The Dayak environment has wild food species that may become important crops in the future. For example, shoots of the fern Diplazium esculentum (of the family Polypodiaceae) are now harvested from the wild, but in future this plant may produce a vegetable as valuable as asparagus. Diplazium shoots are currently sold in local markets in several cities in Kalimantan. Setaria palmifolia, a species of grass (Poaceae), yields a bigger edible shoot when grown in formerly cultivated fields than in its wild habitat, so its evolution might be unintentionally affected by human agriculture. As

Chapter 22. Cultivators, curators and conservators  439 TABLE 22.6 Soil classification of the Dayak Kenyah Leppo’ Ke in Apau Ping, Upper Bahau River, East Kalimantan

Dayak name of soil type

Characteristics

1. Tana’ Saleng 2. Tana’ Daha’ Payau

Black colour (saleng); humus and thick litterfall. Reddish-yellow colour like deer’s blood (daha’ Payau) and usually containing a lot of sand. Yellow colour, mixed with clumps of solid soil. Reddish-yellow colour, with the entire surface covered by fern roots about 10cm thick. Soil with a high clay content so that pieces are not easily broken by hand. Soil with a high clay content that is compact and not easily broken. Soil on flat lowlands that may be inundated by water, like a swamp (bawang) where the soil has a fluid quality, mostly near rivers. Muddy soil, but not inundated; watery on the surface. The surface of this soil cracks when it is dry. Soil with a high clay content. When it is drained, granules form on the surface. Granular and spongy soil that has been affected by the decomposition of a dead animal. Soil where life and growth (u’dip) seems to develop as a result of the activity surrounding a nest of termites. Soil that has become infertile as a consequence of too much cultivation. This critical condition needs a long period of fallow to restore forest and soil fertility. Watery soil as an impact of human activity, such as an abandoned irrigated rice field or fish pond. Soil from landslides (tuan) that commonly occur on steep, hilly slopes. Soil in abandoned villages or settlements.

3. Tana’ La’e 4. Tana’ Nyala 5. Tana’ Sepit 6. Tana’ Ngelaa 7. Tana’ Bawang

8. Tana’ Lanut 9. Tana’ Betak betak 10. Tana’ Ngebute 11. Tana’ Ngelu’bo 12. Tana’ U’dip 13. Tana’ Mettan

14. Tana’ Mbeng 15. Tana’ Tuan 16. Tana’ Atang Source:  Syahirsyah (1993)

Jackson (1980) noted, the ancestors of our current crops may well have been ‘camp followers’ – colonizers of the disturbed ground around human habitation. Varieties of habitat and successive forest stages – not just jungles or primary forests – yield valuable species for agriculture as well as for medicine and crafts. This illustrates the importance of the cultural practices of Dayaks and other forest dwellers to the evolution and maintenance of biological diversity. Studies among the Dayak Kenyah Leppo’ Ma’ut of Long Alango village in the Upper Bahau River basin, East Kalimantan (Setyowati and Soedjito, 1994), revealed a high diversity of food plants. At least 160 different plants from a wide taxonomical range were used by these people as food. The highest number – 146 species – were angiosperms,followed by seven species of fern,and seven species of fungi,or mushrooms. The important plant families for this Dayak group were Zingeberaceae, Solanaceae,

440  Soedjito

Musaceae, Fabaceae, Euphorbiaceae, Poaceae, Cucurbitaceae, Moraceae and Arecaceae. In fact, the Dayak farming system is helping to conserve rice varieties. For example, the Kenyah Dayak of Long Sungai Barang in Apo Kayan conserve 25 varieties of rice (Widjaja and Jessup, 1986); the Dayak community in the Upper Bahau River basin has Prunus arborea (Blume) Kalkman var. arborea [Rosaceae] 58 rice varieties and the Dayak of Krayan in Long Bawan Dayak swidden farmers say this species indicates conserve 37 local varieties fertile soil of rice (Damus, 1992, 1995). When studying the importance of local knowledge of rice varieties for the Dayaks’ livelihood, Setyawati (2003) reported that she found 38 varieties of rice at Apau Ping, a village within the Upper Bahau River basin. Farmers classify rice varieties into two categories: non-glutinous (padai nyain) and glutinous (padai pulut). They consume more padai nyain as a staple food, so they keep a higher number of varieties (25), compared to padai pulut (10

FIGURE 22.5 

Dayak farmers plant many varieties of rice in their fields

Chapter 22. Cultivators, curators and conservators  441

varieties). The Dayaks plant these rice varieties according to certain soil conditions, such as wet soil, flat-land soil, dry soil on slopes, black soil, and so on (Table 22.6 and Figure 22.5). Most varieties (23) are for upland farming and can be planted in various topographical conditions, six can be planted only in wetland or swampy areas, and six more can thrive in either wetland or upland areas (Setyawati, 2003). The gathering of agricultural knowledge by Dayak farmers has been driven by the need to secure food supplies in an uncertain farming environment. Their knowledge covers not only rice varieties that can be planted under varying landscapes and soil conditions, but also an understanding of climatic conditions and appropriate timing for crop development. The strategy of planting several varieties helps to reduce the risk of total harvest failure. However, Setyawati (2003) said that in selecting varieties, most farmers considered subjective factors such as their personal favourites for taste and aroma, as well as more objective reasons, like easy milling. There is no doubt that genetic diversity is very important for future agricultural development. Many breeders stress the need for wider gene pools because continuous cropping of rice of similar genetic background can lead to serious problems like pest epidemics. As Hargrove (1988) remarked: ‘This problem in food supply may come soon, because a large number of improved rice varieties have similar cytoplasm. If we are not careful to preserve the germplasm resources that are still in the hands of traditional farmers, we may not be able to rebuild high yield crops, should disease or other forms of pestilence strike.’ Biosphere Reserves

In conclusion, it is obvious that Dayak shifting cultivators maintain many food plants and rice varieties as well as the biological diversity of forest species surrounding their villages. This mosaic landscape of different ecosystems embraces a great many species useful for food, medicines, crafts, building construction and aesthetic pursuits (Soedjito, 1991, 2005). There is also no doubt that Dayak shifting cultivators use care in exploiting their forest environments; the Dayak culture teaches them to live harmoniously with nature.Therefore, it is both wise and essential that their landscape should be saved from destructive development. This does not mean that the Dayaks and other local farmers should be prevented from improving the quality of their lives. A new approach has been proposed, with which to combine the welfare of indigenous peoples, their role in the environment, and natural conservation. It is part of UNESCO’s Man and the Biosphere programme, and is known as the ‘World Network of Biosphere Reserves’. Areas accepted as Biosphere Reserves are supposed to exchange knowledge and experiences on sustainable-development innovations across national and continental borders. Benefits for the local people include access to a shared base of knowledge and incentives to integrate conservation, development and scientific research on sustainably managed ecosystems.The concept is a realistic one because its conservation approach includes local populations as key contributors to, and beneficiaries from,

442  Soedjito

the environmental process (Tangley, 1988). With regard to conserving food plants and rice varieties, the most efficient storage of genetic variations is in the living plants. Storage in laboratories or seed banks, on the other hand, is expensive and difficult (Jackson, 1980). As Hill (1983) stated, many more species sanctuaries must be established throughout the world – a belief supported by Altieri et al. (1987), who said it was time to recognize the active role of traditional farmers in genetic-resource conservation. All recognized the vital point that the modes of production used by traditional farmers generally preserve, rather than destroy, natural resources. The most appropriate way to help traditional Dayak cultivators to develop their livelihood could be through the establishment of a Biosphere Reserve. Such reserves not only conserve examples of the world’s characteristic ecosystems – ‘landscapes for learning’ about both natural and locally managed ecosystems – but they also conserve cultural diversity. The Seville Strategy, which arose from the the second World Congress of Biosphere Reserves in 1995, aims to implement the Biosphere Reserve concept, then (1) use Biosphere Reserves to conserve natural and cultural diversity; (2) use Biosphere Reserves as models of land management and approaches to sustainable development; and (3) make use of Biosphere Reserves for research, monitoring, education and training (UNESCO, 1996). Originally, the site proposed for the Dayak Biosphere Reserve combined the Apo Kayan area and the Kayan Mentarang National Park in East Kalimantan (Soedjito et al., 1992). However, considering the latest conditions and the effectiveness of management, a more appropriate area may be the entire Malinau District of East Kalimantan (see Soedjito, 2005). Conservation on a landscape scale would require a management unit appropriate for the elimination of biodiversity loss, which could also tackle the problems of climate change. References Abdulhadi, R., Kartawinata, K. and Sukardjo, S. (1981) ‘Effects of mechanized logging in the lowland dipterocarp forest at Lempake, East Kalimantan’, Malaysian Forester 44 (2-3), pp407–418 Adedeji, P. O. (1984) ‘Nutrient cycles and successional changes following shifting cultivation in moist semi-deciduous forest in Nigeria’, Forest Ecology and Management 9, pp87–99 Altieri, M. A., Anderson, M. K. and Merrick, I. C. (1987) ‘Peasant agriculture and the conservation of crop and wild plant resources’, Conservation Biology II(1), pp49–58 Armesto, J. J. and Pickett, S. T. A. (1985) ‘Experiments on disturbance in old-field plant communities: Impact on species richness and abundance’, Ecology 66 (l), pp230–240 Ashton, P. S. (1977) ‘A contribution of rain forest research to evolutionary theory’, Annals of the Missouri Botanical Garden 64, pp694–705 Ashton, P. S. (1982) ‘Dipterocarpaceae’, in Flora Malesiana 9, pp237–552 Aweto, A. O. (1981a) ‘Secondary succession and soil fertility restoration in south-western Nigeria: I. Succession’, Journal of Ecology 69, pp601–607 Aweto, A. O. (l981b) ‘Secondary succession and soil fertility restoration in south-western Nigeria: II. Soil fertility restoration’, Journal of Ecology 69, pp609–614 Aweto, A. O. (1981c) ‘Secondary succession and soil fertility restoration in south-western Nigeria: III. Soil and vegetation interrelationships’, Journal of Ecology 69, pp957–963 Backer, C. A. and Van Den Brink, L. C. B. Jr. (1963, 1965 and 1968) Flora of Java, vols I, II and III, Noordhoff, Groningen, The Netherlands

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23 FALLOW-MANAGEMENT PRACTICES AMONG THE TANGKHULS OF MANIPUR Safeguarding provisioning and regulatory services from shifting-cultivation fallows L. Jitendro Singh and Dhrupad Choudhury* Introduction

Fuelled by a plethora of driving forces, the shifting-cultivation landscapes of South and Southeast Asia have been witnessing rapid change over the past two decades (Rerkasem and Rerkasem, 1995; Schmidt-Vogt, 2000; Padoch et al., 2007; Schmidt-Vogt et al., 2009; Cramb et al., 2009; Fox et al., 2009; Mertz et al., 2009; Rerkasem et al., 2009; Xu et al., 2009). Despite the growing wave of transformations sweeping these landscapes, fundamental questions still linger to haunt both policymakers and those in transition alike, albeit for different reasons. Notwithstanding consistent policies and generous supportive programmes for replacement of the practice, the persistence of shifting cultivation poses an unrelenting challenge for policy-makers – a challenge that seemingly refuses to be resolved in spite of all their efforts. However, for the transiting farmers, replacement of shifting cultivation with settled agriculture has meant an immediate depletion of their support systems, with an accompanying loss of provisioning services upon which they were hitherto dependent. It has also meant an increased dependency on external players for inputs, technology and market linkages, and hence, income from their products. Thus, it irreversibly changes the ‘home-grown’ nature of their livelihood-support system (Choudhury, 1998). Cumulatively, these changes have compromised the characteristic risk-aversion of shifting cultivators, giving rise to feelings of vulnerability while fuelling doubts about their decision to transform and their ability to assimilate into the mainstream monetized economy, thus creating a simmering anxiety and feelings

* 

Dr L. Jitendro Singh, G B Pant Institute of Himalayan Environment and Development, Northeast Unit, Vivek Vihar, Itanagar, Arunachal Pradesh, India; Dr Dhrupad Choudhury (corresponding author) Regional Programme Manager, International Centre for Integrated Mountain Development (ICIMOD), Kathmandu, Nepal.

450  Singh and Choudhury

of uncertainty about their future. For those shifting cultivators who fail to embark upon transformation, the marginalization of their farming practices and consequently, of their livelihoods, coupled with their inability to take part in the transition, fortify their feelings of vulnerability and leave them in abject despair, with an extremely bleak future (Choudhury and Sundriyal, 2003).These situations pose serious challenges for shifting-cultivation communities as well as for policy-makers, as both struggle to identify appropriate means of managing change that will address the simultaneous needs for livelihood security, resource management and maintenance of long-term ecosystem services. Over the years, communities across these landscapes have responded in innovative ways to these challenges – initiatives have ranged from ‘commodification’ of shifting cultivation systems, adoption of commercially important crops and incorporation of economically important species into ‘improved fallows’ to innovative adaptations of traditional land-allocation management and access regimes in order to maintain sufficiently long fallow cycles (Choudhury et al., 2003; Burgers, 2007; Cairns, 2007; Nathan et al., 2007; Schmidt-Vogt, 2007). Despite these approaches, transition from the subsistence of shifting cultivation to more monetized systems has fallen far short of expectations for both farmers and policy-makers, and transformations in the desired directions remain stubbornly elusive. The reasons for the recalcitrance are many, but they primarily centre around poor access to opportunities and the rapid erosion of self-reliance that is consequential upon transformation (Leduc and Choudhury, 2012). A fundamental reason believed to underlie the hesitancy of shifting cultivators to embrace change is uncertainty associated with food security (Rambo, 2007). Of equal importance, however – although not as obvious – is the trade-off of provisioning services that transformations entail, from both the agricultural phase of shifting cultivation and the regenerating fallows. Together, these seemingly unimportant factors critically influence farmers’ decisions to embark on the change process. The same factors also determine the ability of a shifting cultivator to sustain the change process through subsequent years. These provisioning services that are available from the shifting-cultivation system constitute the very basis of a household’s risk-aversion mechanism and are fundamental to its strategy for reducing its vulnerability (see Xu et al., 2009; Choudhury, in press). A complete trade-off of these services, therefore, is perceived as too high a price to pay for transformations. Hence, it is not difficult to understand why shifting cultivators are reluctant to totally sever their dependence on shifting cultivation despite the potential attractions offered by different options for transformation. External support agencies, whether they are government organizations or development-assistance projects, fail to appreciate the significance of the trade-offs that transformations entail for shifting-cultivation communities. Given the singular focus of government agencies on economic transformations, it is not surprising that they overlook the critical importance of these issues for transiting farmers.The design of their interventions regularly falls short of community expectations, so they fail to instil sufficient confidence for wholehearted embracing of change (Garrity, 2007;

Chapter 23. Tangkhul fallow-management practices  451

Mertz et al., 2009). It is obvious, therefore, that if shifting cultivators are to willingly embark upon a process of change, they must be able to develop strategies of their own to complement transformation options offered by the government. These strategies must draw substantially from their age-old practices of resource management and adapt them to the changed conditions in order to at least partially ensure the continuity of provisioning services, thus equipping them to better manage the vulnerability and risks that invariably accompany transformations, and tide them through the transitory period. Shifting-cultivation communities recognize that food security is a complex issue, and given the influence of external factors, it is one they cannot handle without help (see Rambo, 2007) Ensuring provisioning services, on the other hand, still remains largely within their domain and can be managed to a large extent without external assistance. A broadening of their knowledge, with similar examples from other areas, is required to boost their confidence in themselves and their initiatives. More importantly, examples from other areas will also contribute to a gradual change in their perception of external agencies and their ability to influence the transformation process. This may help to shape more acceptable approaches. Cairns (2007) provided an exhaustive collection of initiatives adopted by shifting cultivators to adapt to change, particularly through the incorporation of commercially important species in improved fallow management. While most of these examples outlined how communities across the region had innovated improved fallow-management practices, the only example of community-led management of provisioning services was Schmidt-Vogt’s description of fallow management by the Lawa in northern Thailand (Schmidt-Vogt, 2007). This indicated an urgent need to increase the documentation of similar initiatives, if effective strategies for transformations are to be formulated that are sufficiently sensitive to address community concerns. It is in this context that the shifting-cultivation practices of the Tangkhuls, an ethnic community inhabiting the uplands of Ukhrul district in India’s northeastern state of Manipur, becomes relevant. An assessment of the shifting-cultivation practices of the Tangkhuls was initiated in 2001 by the North Eastern Region Community Resource Management Project for Upland Areas – a joint project of the Government of India and the International Fund for Agricultural Development. This assessment was conducted in the course of a search for indigenous resource-management practices that could shape the project’s strategic approach to managing change in shifting-cultivation areas. In addition to its significance in shaping the project’s strategic approach, the study also formed the subject of a doctoral thesis submitted to the Assam University, Silchar, by the first author (Singh, 2009). This chapter draws from this research, focusing on the fallow-management practices of the Tangkhuls and highlights the provisioning and regulatory services (the latter, arguably for only one utility category) that accrue because of these practices.1

452  Singh and Choudhury

The study location

Eight study villages were selected for the research, located within the district of Ukhrul in India’s northeastern state of Manipur (Figure 23.1).The district of Ukhrul (lying at about 94010’ to 94040’E and 24029’ to 24040’N) is bounded in the west and south by the districts of Senapati and Chandel of Manipur and by Phek district of

FIGURE 23.1 

Location of the study villages

Chapter 23. Tangkhul fallow-management practices  453

Nagaland in the north. The entire eastern flank of Ukhrul is bordered by Myanmar. The physiography of the district is mountainous with deep, narrow riverine valleys. The mountains belong to the Arakan Yomas range, running in a north–south alignment. The climate is temperate, with temperatures ranging between 5oC and 27oC and an average annual rainfall of 1224mm, spread over the year, with the heaviest downpours in June and July. The study villages are located at distances ranging from 17km to 65km from the district headquarters – the town of Ukhrul – and are within an altitude range of 1920m to 1980m.The ethnic community inhabiting the villages, and the rest of the district, is Tangkhul, although the occasional settler from other ethnic groups can also be found. Methodology

The research study adopted both ecological methods for quantitative assessments and participatory approaches such as focus-group discussions and interactions with key informants (including elders) for qualitative aspects. The latter were especially important in understanding the rationale underlying traditional practices, customary frameworks of access and control of resources and tenurial arrangements (Singh, 2009). Visits were made to 76 shifting-cultivation plots spread over all eight study villages, particularly during clearing operations. Individual plot sizes were measured using a pedometer and GPS. The local name of each species retained by the farmers during clearing was carefully noted and the numbers of plants of each species counted. Identification was done on site for most of the species, and for those which could not be identified immediately, samples were taken for later identification. Participatory rural appraisal exercises and interviews were held with 386 farmers in order to document preferred species and subsequently to quantify the perceived utility values of those retained. Interaction with the owners of the plot (during cutting/clearing) and others were held in the field as well as at their respective residences during early morning and evenings hours. Small group discussions with key informants and elders were also held to triangulate the information gathered from individual farmers. Agricultural land use in the study villages

Agriculture is the main occupation of the inhabitants of the study villages. While shifting cultivation, or jhum, is the predominant form of agriculture, terrace cultivation is also practised by about 24% of the households. An additional land use is home gardens, which are kept by 82% of the households in the study villages (Table 23.1). Variations exist in the practice of shifting cultivation, and within the study villages at least three forms of shifting cultivation seem to co-exist. The first is conventional shifting cultivation, as practised by most of the upland communities in the region and elsewhere, with one or two years of cropping before the farmers move to a new plot and the land is laid fallow for a period presently varying from three to 12 years. This type of practice was reported by 29.23% of the households surveyed.

454  Singh and Choudhury

The second type varies from the first in terms of the duration of the cropping phase. The cropping period is more than two years, and so we called it the ‘two-years-plus’ practice. Cropping ranges from three to five years, and in exceptional cases can go beyond this, with a fallow phase ranging from nine to 15 years. New plots are cleared only at the end of the cropping phase of five (or more) years and farmers cultivate only a single plot. The ‘two-years-plus’ practice was reported by 43.57% of the total households surveyed, but by more than 60% of the households in three of the surveyed villages. The third variation, although reported by only 8.37% of the total households surveyed and a common practice in only five of the eight study villages, is a novel variation of shifting cultivation that does not use fire. This practice, which we called ‘fireless shifting cultivation’, is locally referred to as yamkui. Although the overall percentage of households practising this variation does not seem significant, within one of the villages – Kalhang – 73.55% of the households practised ‘fireless shifting cultivation’ (Table 23.1). Ensuring ecosystem services for the future: fallow management among the Tangkhuls Provisioning and regulatory services from fallows

Safeguarding the provisioning and regulatory services of fallows is initiated when vegetation is first cleared from plots in preparation for shifting cultivation. As the farmers clear plots for the coming year’s cultivation, various plant species are consciously retained in various forms in order to ensure the provisioning services that they provide during re-growth and maturation into fully grown trees during fallow regeneration. Farmers and village elders said during focus-group discussions and interviews with key informants and households that the retained species provided a wide variety of services, ranging from household consumption and commercial purposes to providing perceived ecological functions. This advice, supported by field measurements, suggested that a total of 71 species belonging to 34 plant families were retained in different forms for their utility value (Table 23.2). The value seen in these species ranged from direct use as wild edibles, medicines or firewood to their significance as sources of timber and construction materials and simple support for climbing crops. In addition, several species were retained as emergent relicts in jhum fields for their perceived ecological functions (and arguably, by extension, for the regulatory services that they provided). These functions ranged from nutrient enrichment and providing green cover (and the wide range of services associated with that), to their perceived ability to enhance the retention of soil moisture and prevent soil erosion. These species, therefore, could arguably be categorized as providers of ecosystem regulatory services. In quantitative terms, 20 species belonging to 16 families (or 28% of the total species retained) were left as relict vegetation for their value as wild edibles. Similarly, 24 species belonging to 16 families (or 34%) were retained for their medicinal value. Fifteen species from 12 families (or 21%) were retained as sources of household

Chapter 23. Tangkhul fallow-management practices  455 TABLE 23.1 

Agricultural land use in the study villages

Luirishimphung

65

38

Kalhang

45

121

Nungbi Khullen

40

237

Nungbi Kajui

39

267

Paoyi

46

282

Paorei

40

216

Phungcham

36

207

Halang

19

305

Total

1673

7 (18.4) 24 (19.83) 74 (31.22) 71 (26.59) 52 (18.44) 55 (25.46) 69 (33.33) 41 (13.44) 393 (23.49)

28 (66.67) 121 (97.58) 221 (90.95) 187 (68.00) 176 (60.90) 204 (91.89) 177 (83.10) 294 (95.15) 1408 (82.00)

8 (21.05) 43 (18.14) 109 (40.82) 31 (10.99) 33 (15.28) 106 (51.21) 159 (52.13) 489 (29.33)

23 (60.53) 101 (83.47) 62 (26.16) 87 (32.58) 209 (74.11) 141 (65.28) 30 (14.49) 76 (24.92) 729 (43.57)

2 (5.26) 89 (73.55) 3 (1.27) 38 (14.23) -

With paddy in jhum

jhum

Fireless

jhum

2-yrs-plus

1-2-yr

jhum

Home gardens

Households with terraces

Village

Distance from HQ (km) Total households

Households practising

30 -

8 (3.70) -

23

-

-

140 (8.37)

105 (6.28)

52

Note: Figures in brackets signify the percentage of households within each category. Source: Singh (2009).

energy, especially as firewood. However, the largest number of species was retained as sources of materials for household construction and fencing – 32 species belonging to 20 families (45%). This was closely followed by the number of species retained to provide support for climbing crops (hence, to create conditions conducive to robust growth and satisfactory fruiting) – 30 species belonging to 19 families (or 42%). Finally, 22 species belonging to 16 families (or 31%) were retained for their utility in the construction of carts, agricultural tools and kitchen utensils. In addition, 17 species belonging to 14 families (or 24%) were retained during clearing for their economic value as timber, either as logs or sawn planks. Many of the species retained in freshly cleared swiddens fell into two or more categories, but overall, all of the utility purposes for which they were retained could be broadly categorized as consumptive and economic in nature and, hence, safely qualifying as provisioning services. Tangkhul farmers also selectively retained several species for their perceived ecological functions. Thus, 27 species belonging to 18 families (or 38%) were conserved during clearing because they could be used as contour barriers to help prevent soil run-off from sloping fields. Logs of these species were laid across the slopes in order to reduce or prevent soil loss. In a similar manner, 31% of the species (22 species belonging to 13 families) were retained in the fields because of their perceived value in soil-nutrient enrichment. One such species was Alnus

456  Singh and Choudhury

nepalensis, whose role in soil-nutrient enhancement has been reported extensively (Ramakrishnan, 1992; Cairns et al., 2007; Sharma, 2007). To the upland farmer, the presence of Alnus in regenerating fallows was indicative of good soils, so good yields could be expected from fields where this species predominated. Interestingly, Tangkhul farmers also attributed qualities of soil-moisture enhancement and weed suppression to A. nepalensis – the only species that was retained for these additional qualities. In addition, 58 species belonging to 27 families (or 82%) were perceived to have the ecological utility of providing ‘green cover’. Tangkhuls believed that a green cover had associated benefits, and hence the majority of species were retained because of this invaluable utility and the long-term ecological benefits they brought to regenerating fallows (Table 23.2). Despite the absence of scientific validation of these perceptions at the level of ecosystems dynamics, the empirical experience of the farmers indicated that the retained species contributed to ecosystem regulatory functions and, hence, could arguably qualify for categorization as regulatory service providers. Therefore, the fallow-management practices of Tangkhuls (and, for that matter, those of other shiftingcultivator communities with similar management practices) could be contributing significantly to safeguarding and ensuring ecosystem services for themselves and for the future. This aspect urgently requires more scientific research, so that the contribution of fallow management to ecosystem services may be validated and the derogatory perceptions of shifting cultivation countered with scientific evidence, thereby putting a long-debated issue in the right perspective. TABLE 23.2 

Number of species retained during clearing for different utility purposes

Utility categories Utility purposes

Consumption

Commercial/ economic Ecological functions

Total number Families Species

As % of total no of species

Wild edibles Poles, fencing, construction Agricultural tools, carts Trellises, support Medicinal Firewood Timber

16 20

20 32

28 45

16 19 16 12 14

22 30 24 15 17

31 42 34 21 24

Erosion bunding Weed control, moisture retention Green cover Nutrient enrichment

18 1

27 1

38 0.01

27 13 34

58 22 71

82 31

Total Note: % rounded off to the nearest figure. Source: Calculations based on data from Singh (2009).

Chapter 23. Tangkhul fallow-management practices  457

Utility value of plant families in provision of ecosystem services

A computation of the utility value of each plant family, based on information provided by the key informants and focus-group discussions, was conducted in order to determine their aggregate importance in provision of ecosystem services. The utility values of individual families for each ecosystem service (consumption, economic and ecological) were calculated by taking the average number of species per family per utility purpose within each service. The consolidated utility value of a specific family was calculated by taking the mean of the total number of species across all utility purposes served by members of that family for all three service categories collated together. Table 23.3 provides the results of that computation. It is quite clear from the results that while a specific family may have the highest consolidated utility value, this does not necessarily imply that it occupies the same position in all service categories. Further, the highest species representation does not necessarily translate into the highest consolidated utility value. Thus, although the family Euphorbiaceae had the largest species representation, at eight species, its consolidated utility value at 2.55 occupies second position after the family Fagaceae, which, while represented by only six species, has a consolidated utility value of 2.82 – the highest value. An examination of the total number of utility purposes served by members of the two families quickly dispels this apparent disparity. Species of the Fagaceae family served 10 purposes, compared to eight served by Euphorbiaceae members, with the former providing services in all three ecosystem categories in contrast to two by the latter. In other words, the higher the number of species in a family serving each utility purpose, the higher the family’s consolidated utility value (Table 23.3). Thus, the consolidated utility value is indicative of the range of ecosystem services provided by a plant family, and this is a useful measure for comparative valuation of ecosystem services by different plant taxa within a system. For consumptive provisioning services, Fagaceae has the highest utility value (3.5), followed by Euphorbiaceae at 2.33. In contrast, for ecological regulatory services, Euphorbiaceae has the highest utility value (3.5), followed by Mimosaceae with a utility value of 3.25, while Fagaceae has the third-highest value, at 2.25. The utility values quite clearly indicate the differential importance of specific families (and their representatives) in provisioning of different ecosystem services. Thus, it is clear that while from an ecosystem-management point of view, larger representation from the Euphorbiaceae family may probably be preferred, from the purely utilitarian point of view of communities, a higher representation from families such as Fagaceae may probably be preferable. Such preferential selection of species can significantly affect ecosystem community structures (and hence, functioning). This computation, however, tends to mask the importance of individual species in the provision of ecosystem service in this discussion. Suffice it to say that while some species provide a single service, several others have multipurpose values and are nurtured by the farmers for their ability to serve several of the 11 utility purposes listed earlier. Elaboration on the utility value of individual species is not included here for reasons of brevity, but it forms the subject for a publication elsewhere. Suffice it to say

TABLE 23.3 

Utility values of individual plant families for ecosystem services

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17

Family

Fagaceae Euphorbiaceae Mimosaceae Moraceae Anacardiaceae Lauraceae Betulaceae Malvaceae Bigniniaceae Theaceae Rubiaceae Buddlejaceae Rosaceae Caesalpiniaceae Meliaceae Ulmaceae Ericaceae

Sl no.

8

5

4

3

4

1

2

4

2

3

2

1

2

3

2

1

Ed

2

1

1

3

2

0

1

0

0

0

1

0

1

1

0

0

0

Po

5

4

4

0

1

2

1

1

1

2

0

0

1

1

1

1

1

Ag

4

2

1

2

0

0

1

2

0

1

1

1

1

1

0

0

1

T

3

5

2

1

2

1

1

1

0

2

2

2

0

1

0

0

1

Me

3

2

3

2

1

1

1

1

2

1

1

1

0

0

1

2

0

Fi

4

0

0

0

1

1

1

1

1

0

0

0

1

1

0

0

1

Utility value Consolidated utility value

0

0

0

1

2

1

0

2

1

0

0

0

0

2

0

0

1

0

0

0

1

2

1

0

2

1

0

0

0

0

2

0

0

3

4

4

1

2

1

1

1

1

0

1

1

1

0

0

1

1

0

0

0

0

0

0

1

0

0

0

0

0

0

0

0

0

0

5

7

5

4

2

4

1

2

3

2

3

2

1

2

1

2

0

1

3

4

3

2

0

1

2

0

0

0

1

1

0

1

0

1

2.25 3.5 3.25 2 1.5 1.25 1 1.25 1 0.5 1 1 0.75 0.5 0.5 0.75 0.5

Erosion bunding Weed control/ moisture Green cover Nutrient enrichment

1

2.82 2.55 2.18 1.45 1.27 1.09 1.00 1.00 0.91 0.82 0.82 0.73 0.64 0.64 0.55 0.55 0.55

Commercial timber Utility value

Ecological values

Utility purposes

Utility value (consumption)

3.50 2.33 1.83 1.33 1.17 0.83 1.00 1.00 0.67 1.00 0.83 0.67 0.67 0.83 0.33 0.50 0.67

6

Consumption needs

No. of sp.

Sl no.

18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 Fagaceae Euphorbiaceae Mimosaceae Moraceae Anacardiaceae Lauraceae Betulaceae Malvaceae Bigniniaceae Theaceae Rubiaceae Buddlejaceae Rosaceae Caesalpiniaceae Meliaceae Ulmaceae Ericaceae Total

Utility values of individual plant families for ecosystem services

Family

TABLE 23.3 (cont.) 

1

1

1

1

1

2

1

1

1

1

1

1

1

1

1

1 71

Ed

1

0

1

1

1

0

1

0

1

0

0

0

0

1

0

0

0 20

Po

1

1

1

0

1

1

0

0

0

0

0

0

0

0

1

0

0 32

Ag

1

0

0

0

0

0

0

1

0

1

1

0

0

0

0

0

0 22

T

0

1

1

0

0

1

1

0

0

0

0

1

0

0

0

0

1 30

Me

0

0

0

0

0

0

0

0

0

1

0

0

0

0

0

0

0 24

Fi

1

0

0

1

0

0

0

0

0

0

0

0

1

0

0

0

0 15

Utility value Consolidated utility value

0

0

1

1

0

0

1

0

0

1

1

1

0

0

1

0 17

0

0

0

1

1

0

0

1

0

0

1

1

1

0

0

1

0 17

0

1

1

0

1

1

0

0

0

0

0

0

0

0

0

0

0 27

0

0

0

0

0

0

0

0

0

0

0

0

0

0

0

0

0

1

1

1

1

0

1

2

1

1

1

0

0

0 1

1

0

0 58

1

1

0

0

0

0

0

0

0

0

0

0

0

0

0

0 22

0

1

0.5 0.75 0.5 0.25 0.25 0.5 0.5 0.25 0.25 0.25 0 0 0 0.25 0.25 0 0 27

Erosion bunding Weed control/ moisture Green cover Nutrient enrichment

0

0.55 0.45 0.45 0.36 0.36 0.36 0.36 0.27 0.27 0.27 0.18 0.18 0.18 0.18 0.18 0.09 0.09 24.36

Commercial timber Utility value

Ecological values

Utility purposes

Utility value (consumption)

0.67 0.33 0.50 0.33 0.33 0.33 0.33 0.17 0.33 0.33 0.17 0.17 0.17 0.17 0.17 0.00 0.17 23.83

1

Consumption needs

No. of sp.

Note: Under ‘Consumption needs’, Ed = edible; Po = poles, fencing and construction; Ag = agricultural tools and carts; T = trellis support; Me = medicinal; and Fi = firewood

460  Singh and Choudhury

that an example of a multipurpose and multi-utility species that is highly preferred by the Tangkhuls is the ubiquitous Alnus nepalensis, a species highly valued in neighbouring Nagaland, and the importance of which has been extensively elaborated by Cairns et al. (2007), Huijun et al. (2007) and Sharma (2007), among others. Retention of selected species: specific management practices

As mentioned earlier, Tangkhul farmers begin their fallow-management practices at the commencement of vegetation clearing as they prepare their swiddens for the coming year’s cultivation. When slashing the vegetation, several plant species are retained. Of these, many are thinned, while others have their branches lopped off, allowing for re-growth as the swidden cycle progresses. The majority of the tree species are felled at waist height and are retained as trunks, while others are left as stubs. In both cases, the individual trees later sprout and coppice and re-establish themselves in the plot. Farmers may also retain root stock and root stubs of several species to allow regeneration from decomposing stumps. All of these species are retained to serve the various purposes outlined in the previous section, and also to allow the fallow vegetation to regenerate and subsequently mature into secondary forest. In addition, farmers introduce certain species with ecological or economic value into their fields during the course of the cultivation phase, thus enriching the future fallow. The survey of 76 shifting-cultivation plots across the eight study villages found that a total of 71 species were retained in the plots in different forms: as trunks, as root stock or stubs, or retained in their entirety with some thinning or lopping of branches. Of this number, around 34 species or 46% were thinned or lopped, although this percentage varied across villages, with Paoyi showing the lowest percentage of thinning or lopping. Farmers retained most of the species as tree trunks or root stubs – 61 species or 83.56% were retained in this form (although this is not reflected in Table 23.4, which shows that the number of species retained solely as root stubs or stock numbered around nine, or about 12% of the total). Species introduced to plots numbered only five, or a little over 6%; new species introductions were recorded in only three of eight villages studied. An interesting trend observed during the study was that while a large majority of the species may be retained in different forms – thinned, lopped or as trunks – the number of species that are subjected to only lopping or thinning, or are retained solely in the form of root stubs or root stock, is very low. In contrast, the number of species retained solely as tree trunks seems to be the largest – 35 of the total of 71 species, or 47.95%. In other words, the most common form of species retention is as trunks left at waist height. This trend is repeated even when a tabulation is done against different utility purposes under the three ecosystem services described in this chapter (Table 23.5). It is interesting to note that for all practical purposes, the preferred form of retention is as trunks, and in specific cases, such as those for construction, complemented by lopping. Retention practices among the Tangkhuls,

Chapter 23. Tangkhul fallow-management practices  461 TABLE 23.4 

Number of species retained and different forms of retention after swidden

clearing

12 (48.00) 19 (76.00) 2 (8.00) 25

7 (30.43) 20 (86.96) -

11 (45.83) 21 (87.50) -

4 (11.76) 34 (100) -

23

24

34

Phungcham

21

Paoyi

8 (38.10) 18 (85.71) -

Paorei

8 (28.57) 24 Trunks/root stubs (85.71) 4 Introduced (14.29) 28 Total no. of species

L. Shimphung

Thinned/lopped

N. Kajui

Kalhang

Forms of retention

N. Khullen

Villages

All villages

13 (56.53) 18 (78.26) 2 (8.69) 23

34 (46.58) 61 (83.56) 5 (6.85) 71

Note: Numbers in brackets are percentages of total number of species for each village and overall. Source: Singh (2009). TABLE 23.5 

Form of retention for specific utility purposes

No. of sp.

Lopped only

Edible Pole, fencing, construction Agricultural Tools, utensils Trellis/support Medicinal, dye, other uses Firewood

20 32

2 1

12 10

0 0

1 12

1 3

2 5

1 0

1 0

22

1

13

0

3

2

2

1

0

32 24

6 0

9 12

0 0

9 5

3 2

4 3

1 2

0 0

15

0

7

0

4

1

1

3

1

Timber

17

2

4

0

4

0

1

3

3

Contour bunding (Erosion control) Weed control/ moisture retention Green cover

27

1

7

0

10

3

5

1

0

1

0

0

0

0

0

0

1

0

58

4

31

0

13

Nutrient enrichment 22

0

7

0

6

4 4

5 3

1 2

0 0

Economic

Consumption

Utility categories

Ecological

As trunk only As root stubs only Lopped and as trunk stubs Trunk and root stubs Lopped/ trunk/root stubs Lopped/ trunk/ introduced Lopped/ introduced

Management practice (no of species)

Source: Calculated from Singh (2009).

462  Singh and Choudhury

thus, reflect the general practices reported elsewhere and do not show any departure from practices recorded by earlier workers (Schmidt-Vogt, 2007). Managing transformations and adapting to change: What lessons can be derived from the Tangkhuls?

The swidden-clearing operations of the Tangkhuls (and, for that matter, those of other shifting cultivators with similar practices) may seem unobtrusive and unpretentious to the uninitiated. However, a more serious appraisal reveals a subconscious application of sound management principles that are pragmatic, yet highly evolved through generations of empirical experience.The simple clearing procedures and the patterns of vegetation retention practised by the Tangkhuls suggest an understanding of the regenerative capacity of the different species (hence, perhaps, the different forms of retention), as well as a clear recognition of their different utility values. The Tangkhul farmer, while clearing his new plot, selectively retains different species keeping in mind the end use that each of the species will serve.Thus, while clearing the vegetation, the farmer ensures that he conserves a stock of resources sufficient to meet his household’s needs for wild edibles, medicine and firewood. At the same time, he also nurtures tree stocks for house-building materials, construction of carts for transportation and for timber, all of which can also be used to generate cash if he requires it, but strictly within the norms prescribed by customary institutions. In the process, the farmer ensures that he maintains a satisfactory resource base, thereby attaining a certain degree of self reliance, while simultaneously reducing his dependency on external agents – and therefore, his need to generate cash – to the degree that his conditions allow. This, then, offers a number of lessons: first, conserving the household support base to the extent possible in order to reduce the need for cash generation and dependency on external agencies. In other words, retaining as much of the household’s self-reliance as is practically possible. At the same time, the fallow-management practices provide for the sustainable Quercus pachyphilla Kurz. [Fagaceae] harvesting of a variety of resources Syn. of Lithocarpus Pachyphillus (Kurz.) while safeguarding the continuity Rehder of those resources in the long term A Fagaceae species retained in Tangkhul – a model from shifting-cultivation swiddens: the seeds are edible and fallows that may form the basis for medicinal and the tree provides firewood, sustainable forestry practices and the timber, soil enrichment and green cover regeneration of secondary forests.

Chapter 23. Tangkhul fallow-management practices  463

The fallow-management practices of the Tangkhuls, through the retention of selective species, also have long-term implications for the regeneration of fallow forests and the services that accrue from them. Spencer (1966), in his classic treatise on shifting cultivation in southeast Asia (which also included northeastern India, Myanmar and China) observed: ‘shifting cultivators strongly influence the patterns of vegetative growth, by planting selected types of trees when returning the land to regeneration’. He further remarked: ‘culture groups at higher levels of shifting cultivation deliberately stretch out the [fallow] period, when this is possible, until, in their considered judgements, a plot has rested long enough, has sufficient cover to provide an ash volume and has sufficient woody material to provide the requisite number of poles, logs, limbs and other useful items’ (Spencer, 1966). The intention of drawing on these two observations is to reiterate the point that shifting cultivators, through management of the vegetation during clearing operations, can significantly influence the vegetation of their immediate landscape. The results outlined in the previous sections, in particular that on the utility values of different plant taxa, suggest that the Tangkhuls, through their fallow-management practices, can strongly influence the vegetative composition of regenerating fallows. The Tangkhul shifting cultivator, therefore, can play a significant role in shaping the quality of the fallow that regenerates from his shifting-cultivation field. Viewed at a macro level, the shifting-cultivation landscape is a mosaic of regenerating fallows of different ages and stages of re-growth (Fox, 2000), each shaped by the fallowmanagement practices of the farmer during the plot-clearing stage. Seen from this perspective, the implications of the ‘unpretentious and unobtrusive’ clearing practices attain remarkable significance. For an ecologist, this has tremendous ramifications, as community composition and the resultant forest stratification strongly regulate ecosystem structure and dynamics, and hence, the quality of ecosystem services that flow from the system.Viewed from the ecological perspective, the ‘primitive’ shifting cultivator thus plays a significant role in shaping the composition, structure, ecosystem functioning and dynamics of secondary forests that regenerate from his fallows, and hence, the ecosystem services that accrue from such landscapes. Therefore, without deserved acclamation, these farmers function as stewards of much of the forest seen across the shifting-cultivation landscapes of South and Southeast Asia and elsewhere. The second lesson that emerges from this discourse concerns approaches to resource management. Detractors of shifting cultivation have often decried the negative impact that shifting cultivation has on forest conservation, and have strongly opposed the involvement of communities in forest management. They prefer to take a rigid prescriptive approach, imposing ‘scientific’ management regimes based on outdated colonial Occidental thinking. Contrary to this view, the fallow-management practices of shifting cultivators, in particular the Tangkhuls and others, seem to suggest the need for a complete review of an exclusionary management approach; indeed, the little evidence produced in this chapter (see Singh (2009) for detailed quantitative ecological measurements) suggests that such communities offer prime opportunities for the encouragement of co-management practices, particularly in the light of the

464  Singh and Choudhury

compelling menace of climate change and new approaches outlined in the Ecosystem Services Framework adopted by the Millennium Ecosystem Assessment (2003). The final lesson to be derived from this study is in the broader context of managing transformations. Rambo, while working with the Da Bac Tay ethnic farmers in Vietnam, became aware of their multiple support systems, which led him to propose ‘composite swiddening agrosystem’ as a specific label for swidden systems complemented by wet-rice fields (Rambo, 1996). Although dependency on support systems additional to shifting cultivation seemed novel to Rambo, prompting his suggestion of the label, indigenous mountain communities have traditionally depended on a variety of complementary livelihood-support systems. Shifting cultivators in northeastern India have always complemented shifting cultivation with wet-rice cultivation, animal husbandry and a strong dependency on forests (Cairns et al., 2007; Ramakrishnan, 1992). As external forces - particularly those of markets and government policies - compel shifting cultivators to adapt to change, a gradual diversification of livelihood-support systems becomes evident. The first change is a gradual ‘commodification’ of their shifting-cultivation crops (Choudhury et al., 2003). Commonly, they progress through the adoption of wetrice cultivation to diversified home gardens and finally to the gradual adoption of commercial crops at the expense of shifting-cultivation fallows (Ramakrishnan, 1992; Leduc and Choudhury, 2012). While shifting cultivators desperately try to balance their ‘subsistence’ needs (see Spencer, 1966) with the need for cash generation, they adopt a strategy that hedges risk from vulnerabilities while balancing this with the availability of labour. To that extent, traditional shifting cultivators always maintain a diverse, but complementary livelihood-support system, much in the manner described by Rambo as a ‘composite swiddening agrosystem’. In the case of the Tangkhuls, this seems to have evolved to a more refined level, reflected in their different shifting-cultivation practices. The Tangkhuls seem to have adapted to changing conditions by evolving a system of shifting cultivation that allows a certain degree of ‘settlement’, or sourcing of products from one plot, and through that, an increment in the fallow cycle.This would suggest that even in conditions of increased land pressure, a sufficiently long fallow cycle can be maintained for fallow regeneration and systems recovery. Moreover, the crop diversity available from the system spreads the degree of risk more broadly, helping to reduce vulnerability. These are important lessons that are worthy of introduction to new approaches to farming transformations. Maintenance of ‘composite agrosystems’ serves two purposes: first, to ensure the spreading of risks and hedging against vulnerability; second, to maximize opportunities for cash generation and assimilation into the monetized economy. During a transitory period, a farmer can assesses the costs and benefits of each system and gradually choose the combination of systems best suited to his household’s condition and location. The lesson here, therefore, is that no single approach can provide the ‘silver bullet’ for farming transformation away from shifting cultivation, just as no single species can provide the ‘silver bullet’ for improved fallow management (Rambo, 2007).

Chapter 23. Tangkhul fallow-management practices  465

Government programmes and schemes aimed at transformation must, therefore, be designed as a basket of options, complementing and building upon local livelihoodsupport systems and options, and should not be focused solely on the promotion of ‘silver bullet’ commercial crops. Acknowledgements

The authors are grateful to the numerous shifting-cultivator families in the study villages for their patience, eagerness to share and long hours spent both in the field and in the village, teaching us about their practices.We gratefully acknowledge financial support for the research from the International Fund for Agricultural Development and the Government of India, through the North Eastern Council and the North Eastern Region Community Resource Management Project (NERCORMP). Subsequent financial support and use of excellent analytical facilities at the northeastern unit of the Govind Ballabh Pant Institute of Himalayan Environment and Development, Itanagar, is gratefully acknowledged. Finally, this research was made possible by support in the field gratefully received from partner non-governmental organizations and the Ukhrul district team of NERCORMP.To Tousang, our constant companion in the field, our teacher and guide, our warm appreciation for help rendered and unfailing companionship, extended over long periods of fieldwork. References Burgers, P. (2007) ‘Commercialisation of fallow species by Bidayuh shifting cultivators in Sarawak, Malaysia’, in M. F. Cairns (ed.) Voices from the Forest: Integrating Indigenous Knowledge into Sustainable Upland Farming, Resources for the Future, Washington, DC, pp87-95 Cairns, M. F. (ed.) (2007) Voices from the Forest: Integrating Indigenous Knowledge into Sustainable Upland Farming, Resources for the Future, Washington, DC Cairns, M. F., Keitzar, S. and Yaden, A. (2007) ‘Shifting forests in northeast India: Management of Alnus nepalensis as an improved fallow in Nagaland’, in M. F. Cairns (ed.) Voices from the Forest: Integrating Indigenous Knowledge into Sustainable Upland Farming, Resources for the Future, Washington, DC, pp341-378 Choudhury, D. (1998) ‘Conserving genetic heterogeneity in northeast India: Indigenous knowledge systems and opportunities for sustainable development’, in M. K. Raha and A. K. Ghosh (eds) Northeast India: Human Dimensions, Gyan Publishers, New Delhi, pp147-161 Choudhury, D. (in press) ‘Why do jhumiyas jhum? Managing change in shifting cultivation areas in the uplands of northeastern India’, in Sumi Krishnan (ed.) Agriculture in a Changing Environment: Perspectives on Northeastern India, Routledge, New Delhi, pp78-100 Choudhury, D. and Sundriyal, R. C. (2003) ‘Issues and options for improving livelihoods of marginal farmers in shifting cultivation areas of northeast India’, Outlook in Agriculture 32, pp17-28 Choudhury, D., Ingty, D. and Jamir, S. (2003) ‘Managing marginalisation in shifting cultivation areas of northeast India: Examples of community innovations and initiatives’, in T.Ya and M. T. Pradeep (eds) Mountain Agriculture in the Hindu Kush Himalayan Region, International Centre for Integrated Mountain Development (ICIMOD), Kathmandu, pp207-212 Cramb, R. A,, Pierce Colfer, C. J., Dressler, W., Laungaramsri, P., Trang, Q., Muloutami, E., Peluso, N. L. and Wadley, R. L. (2009) ‘Swidden transformations and rural livelihoods in Southeast Asia’, Human Ecology 37, pp323-346, DOI: 10.1007/s10745-009-9241-6

466  Singh and Choudhury

Fox, J. (2000) ‘How blaming “slash and burn” farmers is deforesting mainland Southeast Asia’, Asia Pacific Issues 47, pp1-8 Fox, J., Fujita,Y., Ngidang, D., Peluso, N., Potter, L., Sakuntaladevi, N., Sturgeon, J. and Thomas, D. (2009) ‘Policies, political-economy and swidden in Southeast Asia’, Human Ecology 37, pp305-322, DOI: 10.1007/s10745-009-9240-7 Garrity, D. P. (2007) ‘Challenges for research and development on improving shifting cultivation systems’, in M. F. Cairns (ed.) Voices from the Forest: Integrating Indigenous Knowledge into Sustainable Upland Farming, Resources for the Future, Washington, DC, pp3-7 Huijun, G.,Yongmei, X. and Padoch, C. (2007) ‘Alnus nepalensis based agroforestry systems in Yunnan, Southwest China’, In M. F. Cairns (ed.) Voices from the Forest: Integrating Indigenous Knowledge into Sustainable Upland Farming, Resources for the Future, Washington, DC, pp326-340 Leduc, B. and Choudhury, D. (2012) ‘Agricultural transformations in shifting cultivation areas of Northeast India: Implications for land management, gender and institutions’, in D. Nathan and V. Xaxa (eds) Social Exclusion and Adverse Inclusion: Development and Deprivation of Adivasis in India, Oxford University Press, New Delhi, pp237-258 Mertz, O., Padoch, C., Fox, J., Cramb, R. A., Leisz, S. J.,Thanh, N. and Tran, D.V. (2009) ‘Swidden change in Southeast Asia: Understanding causes and consequences’, Human Ecology 37, pp259-264, DOI: 10.1007/s10745-009-9245-2 Millennium Ecosystem Assessment (2003) Ecosystems and Human Well-Being: A Framework for Assessment, Island Press, Washington, DC Nathan, D., Ramesh, P.V. and Roy, P. (2007) ‘Strategies of Asian shifting cultivators in the intensification process’, in M. F. Cairns (ed.) Voices from the Forest: Integrating Indigenous Knowledge into Sustainable Upland Farming, Resources for the Future, Washington, DC, pp640-651 Padoch, C., Coffey, K., Mertz, O., Leisz, S., Fox, J. and Wadley, R. L. (2007) ‘The demise of swidden in Southeast Asia? Local realities and regional ambiguities’, Geografisk Tidsskrift – Danish Journal of Geography 107, pp29-41 Ramakrishnan, P. S. (1992) Shifting Agriculture and Sustainable Development: An Interdisciplinary Study from Northeast India, United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO), Man and the Biosphere Series, Parthenon Publishers, Paris and Carnforth, Lancs, UK (republished by Oxford University Press, New Delhi in 1993) Rambo, A. T. (1996) ‘The composite swiddening agrosystem of the Tay ethnic minority of the northwestern mountains of Vietnam’, in B. Rerkasem (ed.) Montane Mainland Southeast Asia in Transition, Chiang Mai University, Chaing Mai, pp69-89 Rambo, A. T. (2007) ‘Observations on the role of improved fallow management in swidden agricultural systems’, in M. F. Cairns (ed.) Voices from the Forest: Integrating Indigenous Knowledge into Sustainable Upland Farming, Resources for the Future, Washington, DC, pp780-801 Rerkasem, K. and Rerkasem, B. (1995) ‘Montane mainland South-East Asia: Agroecosystems in transition’, Global Environmental Change 5, pp313-322, DOI: 10.1016/0959-3780(95)00065-V Rerkasem, K., Lawrence, D., Padoch, C., Schmidt-Vogt, D., Zeigler, A. D. and Bruun, T. B. (2009) ‘Consequences of swidden transitions for crop and fallow biodiversity in Southeast Asia’, Human Ecology 37, pp347-360, DOI: 10.1007/s10745-009-9250-5 Schmidt-Vogt, D. (2000) ‘Landuse and land cover change in montane regions of mainland Southeast Asia’, Journal of Geography Education 43, pp52-60 Schmidt-Vogt, D. (2007) ‘Relict emergents in swidden fallows of the Lawa in northern Thailand: Ecology and economic potential’, in M. F. Cairns (ed.) Voices from the Forest: Integrating Indigenous Knowledge into Sustainable Upland Farming, Resources for the Future, Washington, DC, pp37-53 Schmidt-Vogt, D., Leisz, S. J., Mertz, O., Heinimann, A., Thiha, T., Messerli, P., Epprecht, M., Cu, P. V., Vu, K. C., Hardiono, M. and Dao, T. M. (2009) ‘An assessment of trends in the extent of swidden in Southeast Asia’, Human Ecology 37, pp269-280, DOI: 10.1007/s10745-009-9239-0 Sharma, R. (2007) ‘Alnus-cardamom agroforestry: Its potential for stabilizing shifting cultivation in the eastern Himalayas’, in M. F. Cairns (ed.) Voices from the Forest: Integrating Indigenous Knowledge into Sustainable Upland Farming, Resources for the Future, Washington, DC, pp620-626

Chapter 23. Tangkhul fallow-management practices  467

Singh, L. J. (2009) ‘A case study of shifting cultivation practices among the Tangkhuls of Ukhrul district, Manipur’, PhD dissertation submitted to the Department of Ecology and Environmental Sciences, Assam University, Silchar, Assam, India Spencer, J. E. (1966) Shifting Cultivation in Southeastern Asia, University of California Publications in Geography, Berkeley, CA (reprinted by Bishen Singh Mahendra Pal Singh, Dehradun, India) Xu. J., Lebel. L. and Sturgeon, J. (2009) ‘Functional links between biodiversity, livelihoods and culture in a Hani swidden landscape in southwest China‘, Ecology and Society 14(2), available at http://www. ecologyandsociety.org/vol14/iss2/art20/, accessed 9 September 2013

Note 1 This work was conducted when both the authors were with the North Eastern Region Community Resource Management Project for Upland Areas, Shillong, Meghalaya, and later at the G B Pant Institute of Himalayan Environment and Development, Itanagar, Arunachal Pradesh. Dr Dhrupad Choudhury, as the Chief Natural Resource Management Advisor of the project, was responsible for designing and developing the strategic approach for managing change in shifting cultivation and later, its implementation. Dr L. Jitendro Singh served as Research Fellow to the project and was based in Ukhrul as an active member of the district team.

24 SOME LESSER KNOWN FACTS About jhum in Nagaland, northeast India Temjen Toy*

Introduction

One of the issues that is raised periodically in discussions concerning care for the environment is the role of traditional agricultural systems, and in particular, shifting cultivation (known locally as jhum) and the threat it poses to sustainability, particularly of forests. In the light of recent concerns about climate change and the role of forests as ‘carbon sinks’, these discussions are becoming extremely relevant. As a result, the traditional agricultural system of jhum often comes under attack. It is a fact that the major problem created by jhum is erosion of topsoil. Without any conservation measures, the loss of topsoil in a jhum-cultivation area is about 30.62 metric tonnes/ha/year in the first year of cropping and 30mt/ha in the second year (SARS–NEPED, 1998). When measures are employed to conserve the soil, the loss is reduced to 11.37 and 13.38mt/ha/yr in the first and second years, respectively. Another major problem is rainwater runoff from the surface of the cultivated area. If one considers that the average annual rainfall is about 2000mm, one can imagine what proportion of rainwater percolates into the soil in a jhum area and how much runs off. This chapter presents case studies of existing jhum systems in Nagaland, in northeast India (Figure 24.1), and how they could be improved to adapt to climate change. Conversion of primary forest to agricultural uses

One of the misconceptions about jhum is that because it converts primary forest to agricultural land, it cumulatively reduces the forest cover and its environmental

* 

Temjen Toy, former team leader of the Nagaland Empowerment of People through Economic Development (NEPED) project and a member of a NEPED Project Operations Unit (the operating arm of the project).

Chapter 24. Some lesser known facts  469

FIGURE 24.1 

The State of Nagaland, northeast India

threats extend as far as loss of biodiversity. In reality, jhum farmers use and reuse the same areas of land; when a cropping period ends, that particular plot is abandoned and the farmers move to another plot that has been used before, but has been fallowed for long enough to have rejuvenated the soil nutrients under secondary forest. Clearing new areas of primary forest is rare. A recent study, conducted in the years from 2002 to 2007, set out to determine how jhumming was affecting Nagaland’s forest cover. The results, presented in Table 24.1, show when primary forest was last converted to agricultural use in 153 Nagaland villages. Of the total, 25% of villages, or 38 in number, last converted primary forests to agricultural uses around 100 years ago or even longer. Since then, their primary forest has remained intact. In the case of another 30 villages, the last clearing of primary forest occurred between 41 and 50 years ago. The most recent conversion of primary forest for jhum cropping occurred in 21 villages as recently as 11 to 20 years ago. However, in all of the 153 villages, the last recorded conversion of primary forest occurred only as an extension of land already within the existing jhum rotational cycle. While there were recent cases of primary forest conversion to agricultural uses in some villages, the survey also showed that in many villages, the area under jhum had been decreasing. Another survey conducted by the Nagaland Empowerment of

470  Toy TABLE 24.1 

Number of years since primary forest was last converted to agricultural use in 153 Nagaland villages

Number of years

Number of villages

91->100 81-90 71-80 61-70 51-60 41-50 31-40 21-30 11-20 Total

38 7 4 8 17 30 15 13 21 153

% of villages 25 5 3 5 11 20 10 8 14 100

People through Economic Development (NEPED) project covered 119 villages in 10 of Nagaland’s 11 districts (Dimapur was excluded). In 75 out of 119 villages (67%), the total jhum area was decreasing; in 12 villages (12%) it showed an increase, and in 32 villages (27%) it remained static. The decrease of jhum is largely a result of available options for alternative sources of livelihood, such as off-farm activities (e.g. pig rearing, masonry, wage labour, and so on), salaried jobs (private and public), private enterprises (shopkeeping, trading, contract work) and rural-urban migration. It was observed that an increase in jhum area was more prevalent in the northern districts of Mon, Longleng, Tuensang and Kiphire. This could be linked to a lower literacy rate in these districts. There were villages where there was no perceptible change in total jhum area, despite a growing population. This was attributed to stringent regulations enforced by the village authorities under customary law, improvements in the jhum system itself and fragmentation of family land holdings. Therefore, it may be safely assumed that any decrease in forest area in Nagaland is being compensated by an increase in area under fallow re-growth, FIGURE 24.3  Soil-conservation measures using split which leads eventually to bamboo poles laid along the contours of a jhum field permanent secondary forest. Perhaps the area of land

in Longkong village, Mokokchung district, Nagaland

Photo: I. Lipokonen Jamir (May 2012)

Chapter 24. Some lesser known facts  471

reverting from agricultural use back to forest is greater than that being converted from primary forest to agriculture. Good forest cover in upstream catchments protects downstream areas that may be threatened by water erosion of soil, landslides and siltation. Such forests also reduce runoff, promote recharging through percolation and infiltration, and increase the water-retaining properties of the soil, among other benefits. Therefore, the productivity of jhum fields may be improved by interventions that provide a better quality of forest cover. There is also a need for systematic studies of land conversion taking place in the state. Prevailing jhum cycle

The length of a jhum cycle says a lot about a village and its resources.The cycle covers both the cultivation phase and the fallow phase, from slashing the vegetation through cropping and forest/soil recovery to cropping once again. In general, a long jhum cycle indicates that a village has a large land resource compared to its population. However, it has also been observed that in some villages a long cycle of 24 years is a result of extending the cropping period to more than four years in the same location. In such cases, a longer jhum cycle with a long cultivation period does not necessarily mean that the fallow-forest cover that follows it will be better because most dormant tree seeds are lost in the course of longer cropping. Data on jhum cycles was collected from 256 Nagaland villages, and is presented in Table 24.2. This study identified nine villages where the cycle was longer than 20 years. However, there were also 31 villages (12%) with a jhum cycle of just five to seven years. These villages were a matter of concern because their jhumming systems were no longer sustainable and required intervention to improve the land use. The people in villages with very short jhum cycles believed the cycle was a result of increasing population and, in many cases, insufficient land. Although they agreed that a longer jhum cycle was better, they felt compelled to maintain a shorter one in order to grow sufficient food. Villages with a very short jhum cycle are extremely vulnerable to the effects of climate change and require intensive interventions, such as afforestation, broad TABLE 24.2 

The average length of jhum cycles in Nagaland.

Length of jhum cycle (years) 20< 15 to 19 11 to 14 8 to 10 5 to 7 Total

Number of villages 0 23 68 125 31 256

% of villages 3.5 9 26.6 48.8 12.1 100

472  Toy

and narrow bench terracing and other options to preserve their livelihood. Such interventions are costly and require external technical and financial support. According to many farmers, most of the villages adopted a preferred jhum-cycle length of 8 to 10 years. At this length, when a jhum was reopened, the trees were conveniently small enough to slash with relative ease, but were old enough to be harvested as poles and firewood. Agro-biodiversity in jhum

Coix lacryma-jobi L. [Poaceae] Traditionally one of the staple crops grown in Nagaland’s jhum fields, in recent years, Job’s tears have lost a lot of popularity to other crops with superior market value.

A further study conducted in 70 villages found that a minimum of 15 crops and as many as 60 were cultivated in a single jhum plot. The average number of crops was 41. This showed clearly why farmers still opt for jhum cultivation. Many farmers who have wet-rice terraces still continue to cultivate jhum plots as well, for the vegetables and other crops that cannot be grown in wet terraces. In the present scenario of frequent extreme weather events and erratic seasons, the rich agro-biodiversity of jhum cultivation ensures food security for farming families. Even if one or more of the crops fails, the rest will survive to provide food. Unlike monocropping, which is extremely vulnerable to climate change, jhum cultivation gives farmers food sovereignty. Each household is able to independently harvest vegetables, cereals and fruit from jhum fields and avoid dependence on markets. It is often assumed that jhum cultivation is uneconomical compared to other forms of agriculture, such as terraced rice cultivation. Before making such sweeping statements, it must be kept in mind that empirical studies have yet to assess the economic value of each of these 41 crops, much less an aggregate value. This chapter did not set out to eulogize or romanticize jhum cultivation as an ideal and resilient agricultural system to meet the challenges of climate change. It aimed simply to point out that the system has some merits, and to draw the attention of researchers, development professionals and decision-makers to the need for appropriate measures for its improvement. Reference SARS-NEPED (1998) Unpublished report prepared in Yisemyong, Nagaland for the International Development Research Centre (IDRC), Canada

25 PLANT GENETIC DIVERSITY IN FARMING SYSTEMS AND POVERTY ALLEVIATION In Vietnam’s northern mountain region Tran Duc Vien, Vu Van Liet and Nguyen Thanh Lam*

Introduction

Vietnam is considered to have one of the highest levels of agro-biodiversity in the world (Arraudeau and Xuan, 1995; Buu et al., 1992). However, the so-called ‘Green Revolution’ has changed the type of farming in much of the country because most policies and techniques are now focused on major crops such as rice and maize (Vien, 2002b). The consequences of this include environmental problems arising from the overuse of fertilizers and pesticides, monoculture cropping and biodiversity degradation, genetic erosion, high risks of yield loss and global climate change (Vien, 2000, 2002a; Dzung et al., 2008;Vien et al., 2009). In agricultural production, the replacement of local varieties with ‘improved’ cultivars without carefully considering the consequences may lead to the loss of valuable local genetic resources and reduce the diversity of farming systems (Pandey and Nguyen, 2002). This will weaken the stability of agricultural systems, making them, for example, more vulnerable to pest and disease outbreaks, and will raise livelihood risks for poor people, perhaps drastically affecting the level of poverty (Sthapit et al., 2008). For this reason, we are especially concerned about conserving genetic resources and biodiversity in Vietnam’s northern mountain region, as well as selectively improving traditional crop varieties. We believe this to be an effective way of increasing food productivity, raising incomes and reducing risks for poor upland people.

* 

Dr Tran Duc Vien is Professor and Director of the Center for Agricultural Research and Ecological Studies at Hanoi University of Agriculture; Dr Vu Van Liet is an Associate Professor and Vice Rector of Hanoi University of Agriculture; Dr Nguyen Thanh Lam is Head of the Department of Environmental Management, Hanoi University of Agriculture. Dr Vien ([email protected]) is corresponding author.

474  Vien et al.

Materials and methods

This chapter reviews the results of research on plant genetic diversity in Vietnam’s northern mountain region conducted by the Center for Agricultural Research and Ecological Studies (CARES) at Hanoi University of Agriculture since 1992.The data is based on the following: • • • •

long-term research on the composite swiddening systems of the Tay Da Bac people in Hoa Binh province (see Vien et al., 2009); a survey of plant varieties in the paddy fields and swiddens of 130 households in five communes in five different climatic subregions of Dien Bien district (as it was then), in Lai Chau province, in 2002; a survey of farming changes in Yen Chau district, Son La province under CARES’ Upland Programme in the period from 2000 to 2012; a survey of neglected and underutilized plant species in northern Vietnam in 2007 and 2008 (see Schmidt et al., 2008, 2010).

Dr Tran Duc Vien was the principal investigator in all of this research and this chapter is based on his account of the studies. Plant diversity in farming systems

Most of the farming systems in Vietnam’s northern mountain region show great diversity in species, varieties and genes. In search of ways to improve the productivity of these rainfed systems in order to ensure food security for the local people, a number of research projects were undertaken in Dien Bien, Son La and Hoa Binh provinces – all of them in the northern mountain region. Among these projects was a 2002 survey of plant varieties in the paddy fields and swiddens of 130 households in five communes in five different climatic subregions in Dien Bien district (as it was then), in Lai Chau province. It found 94 different species of crops. Of these, eight were staple-food crops, 35 were fruit trees and 22 were vegetables. Many of them could have been used effectively in the selection or improvement of varieties, as well as in the creation of new varieties by cross-breeding. In this chapter, we discuss the genetic diversity of only rice and maize, which are the two major food crops, and plant diversity found in the gardens of ethnic groups in the northern mountain region. Rice genetic sources, a case study in Dien Bien province

Traditional rice varieties were very diverse and abundant. There were 60 different rice varieties, of which 47 were swidden rice and 13 wet rice. These varieties were very diverse in morphology, yield and quality. For instance, the height of the different rice varieties varied from 90cm to 1.6 metres; their stems had different colours (pale green, brown, violet or dark green); and yields taken from the survey plots varied

Chapter 25. Plant genetic diversity in farming systems  475

from 100kg/1000sq m to 400kg/1000sq m. The results of the collection of rice varieties are shown in Tables 25.1 and 25.2. As shown, plant varieties differed not only according to different ecological conditions, but also according to customs and farming practices. The more remote the location of the group, the greater the number of traditional rice varieties they planted.This demonstrated the ability of indigenous farmers to select and create plant varieties that were very well adapted to difficult natural conditions. These varieties represented a priceless genetic resource for plant breeding, as they could be applied to many other locations having similar conditions. The rice varieties were classified according to subspecies, based on criteria given by the International Rice Research Institute, combined with the classification method of the OECD (2003). The result is presented in Table 25.3. Genetic analysis of the rice varieties gathered in 2002 indicated that the collected samples were very diverse in all natural and morphological characteristics. Non-glutinous rice

Of 60 rice samples collected, only 23 were non-glutinous. The higher number of glutinous varieties reflected the food preferences of the northern-mountain-region people. Data on yields and factors influencing yields showed that yield potential and net yield of the non-glutinous rice varieties were extremely high. For example, varieties such as Khau cham tan and Khau pan lon yielded more than 5 tons/ha, and Ple lu and Ple mong had prospective yields above 3 tons/ha. The question this TABLE 25.1 

Distribution of rice varieties by locations

Location (commune) Muong Pon Muong Pang Na Tau Thanh Nua Muong Noi Total Source: Liet and Gioi (2006). TABLE 25.2 

Number of varieties

Percentage of total collection

17 12 13 6 12 60

28.3 20.0 21.7 10.0 20.0 100.0

Distribution of rice varieties by ethnic groups

Ethnic group Hmong Kho mu Thai Lao Total Source: Liet and Gioi (2006).

Number of varieties

Percentage (%) of total collection

21 14 13 12 60

35.0 25.3 21.7 20.0 100.0

476  Vien et al. TABLE 25.3 

Classification of rice varieties by subspecies

Group of varieties Indica Japonica Total Source: Liet and Gioi (2006).

Number of varieties Glutinous rice Non-glutinous rice 33 04 37

Percentage (%)

21 02 23

90 10 100

presented was how we could bring the yield potential of these varieties into play in the difficult conditions of mountainous regions, where advanced and hybrid varieties had either not yet been applied or efforts to apply them broadly to strengthen the food security of the local people were encountering great difficulties. Glutinous rice

Samples of glutinous varieties had growth periods ranging from 123 to 147 days, and most of them were not photoperiod sensitive, so they could be planted in two crops. All were relatively tall plants (83.2cm to141cm), and they showed little potential for intensification, as is characteristic of most local rice varieties. Most of the samples in this group showed little or no susceptibility to pests or diseases, except for a few varieties that suffered serious stem-borer damage. However, most varieties were highly disease-resistant. Actual yields from some varieties in this group ranged from 1.22 to 5.34 tons/ha. Eight varieties yielded more than 3.5 tons/ha, the highest being Khau Lam, at 5.34 tons/ha. Collection and classification of maize varieties

More than 20 local maize varieties were collected from five different ethnic-minority groups in four provinces: Lai Chau, Son La, Hoa Binh and Cao Bang. The results are shown in Table 25.4. The collected maize varieties were classified according to botanical characteristics, based on the classification systems of OECD (2003). Table 25.5 shows the results of TABLE 25.4 

Distribution of maize varieties by ethnic groups

Ethnic group Thai Hmong Kho mu Tay Muong Total Source: Liet and Gioi (2006).

Number of varieties 6 6 5 1 2 20

Percentage (%) 30 30 25.0 5 10 100

Chapter 25. Plant genetic diversity in farming systems  477 TABLE 25.5 

Classification of local maize varieties

Variety

Colour Freg. % Name Grain Maizecob

Name

Variety Freg.

%

Ngo da Zea mays subsp. indurata

4

Ngo ban rang ngua Zea mays subsp. 3 semidentata

White Reddish 20 brown Violet Red

White White

Var. alba Var. latericica

1 1

5.0 5.0

White White

Var. violacea Var. rubra

1 1

5.0 5.0

White 15 White

White Red

Var. leucodon Var. albrubra

2 1

10.0 5.0

Var. alboceratina Var. luteoceratiana

6 2

30 10

Var. multicolor

5

25

20

100

Ngo nep (Glutinous maize)

Zea mays subsp. Ceratina

White White Yellow White Combined 13 65 different White colours 20 100

Total Source: Liet and Gioi (2006).

this classification of local maize varieties, and Figure 25.1 shows how some of the varieties differ.. The maize varieties collected varied in terms of growth period, agronomic characteristics, colours of stems and leaves, grain colour and quality. The 20 variety samples were divided into three subspecies: ngo da (Zea mays subsp. indurata), with

FIGURE 25.1 

Colours of local maize varieties Source: Liet and Gioi (2006).

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four varieties; three varieties of ngo ban rang ngua (Z. mays subsp. semidentata); and 13 varieties of a white glutinous subspecies (Z. mays subsp. ceratina). All of the local maize varieties grew well in the Spring of 2002 in experimental plots at Gia Lam, in Hanoi. Growth periods ranged from 105 to 118 days. In this group, two varieties had short growth durations, 14 had medium growth durations, and the remaining four had longer growth durations. Plant and ear heights differed greatly. Plant heights ranged from 137.7cm to 250.5cm, and ear heights were from 47cm to 140cm. All varieties were relatively disease-resistant cultivars. There was great variation in yields from the traditional maize varieties – from 34.4g to 105.4g per plant. In other words, crop yields could range from 1.2 tons/ha up to more than 6 tons/ha, depending on planting density, soil fertility, water sources and level of investment. In summary, indigenous varieties of staple food crops (rice and maize) were very diverse and abundant in different provinces of the northern mountain region. As well as their advantages of high quality, high resistance to pests and diseases and superior adaptation to difficult natural conditions, many of the local varieties gave yields as high as those of the new ‘improved’ varieties. Therefore, there must be high priority given to further research into food-crop varieties, and the conservation, classification, assessment and reinvigoration of local varieties to help in-situ cultivation instead of replacing them with new varieties. This would make a valuable contribution to conserving biodiversity and maintaining genetic resources for variety selection and breeding, especially to suit those areas of the northern mountain region that rely only upon rainfall. Such a research effort could also make an important contribution to alleviating poverty and minimizing risks for poor ethnic-minority groups, particularly those that are heavily dependent on subsistence agricultural production. Species diversity in home and tree gardens

Donovan et al. (2009) found that the home gardens and tree gardens in Tat hamlet, Da Bac district, Hoa Binh province, had quite high species diversity. Many of the tree gardens were adjacent to fallow lands and natural forests, so many volunteer forest species were observed in the gardens. In a 1998 survey of 15 gardens, 82 species were identified, while in a 2004 survey of 30 gardens, only 65 species were observed. The 2004 survey revealed 19 species not recorded in 1998, but 37 species listed in 1998 were not found in 2004. The home gardens have multi-functions, serving as both mixed gardens and plots for subsistence agriculture (Donovan et al., 2009). Some 77% of species found in home gardens were food plants (vegetables, fruit, herbs and spices); 29% were medicinal plants; 27% were used as stimulants (e.g. tea, betel, tobacco) and 13% were ornamentals. Ranked by frequency, the most common species encountered was tea (Camelia sinensis), followed by bananas (Musa paradisiaca) and plums (Prunus salicina). We returned to the home gardens in Tat hamlet in early 2012 and found

Chapter 25. Plant genetic diversity in farming systems  479

that a number of new plant species, such as longans, sugar cane, hybrid maize and persimmons, had been introduced by extension programmes. The reduction of biodiversity in farming systems

In mountain agroecosystems, anyone you ask can give many examples of declining biodiversity, and people give many different reasons to explain it. The Ministry of Natural Resources and Environment, however, says the most important causes are habitat loss, intensive farming, overexploitation and environmental pollution. A surprise for Tay ethnic-minority villagers in Da Bac district, Hoa Binh province

In 1992, when researchers from the Center for Agricultural Research and Ecological Studies at Hanoi Agricultural University, the Center for Natural Resource and Environmental Studies at the National University of Hanoi and the East-West Center in Honolulu, Hawaii, first visited a Tay ethnic minority hamlet in Da Bac district, Hoa Binh province, the hamlet had just 42 households. At that time, the people used torches whenever they wanted to go out at night, and they only saw a truck driven through the hamlet once every two or three days. The farmers planted about 22 varieties of rice in their swiddens, almost all of it glutinous rice, and about 10 varieties of wet rice in their paddies, including glutinous and non-glutinous rice. Ten years later, there were 104 households in the hamlet. There was a bus stop in the hamlet, many households had motorcycles and TV, and they were connected to the national electricity-supply system. A decade after the first visit the farmers cultivated only about five or six varieties of rice in their swiddens and four or five varieties of wet rice. They had also stopped planting glutinous rice in their paddies because of its low yield. In its place, there were non-glutinous varieties that had originated from China or from the International Rice Research Institute, in the Philippines. When we asked what had happened to the indigenous traditional varieties of rice, not one of the local people could answer. And they were just as surprised as we were when we all realized that none of the old varieties were stored on their kitchen trellises to serve as seed for future crops. The effect of government policy on plant diversity in the uplands

The most important government policy affecting agriculture in Vietnam has been the change from collective production to a system of individual responsibility, following Directive 100 and Resolution 10-NQ/TW, which returned management of agricultural production to the hands of individual households, with land allocated to them for long-term use. This allowed households to make their own management decisions and provided strong incentives for them to make changes to improve production. Government policy on forest protection had significant implications for swiddening in Tat hamlet, in Hoa Binh’s Da Bac district. In implementing this policy, plots of

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forestland were allocated to individual households and clearing them for swiddens was strictly prohibited (Fox, 2000; Castella et al., 2006; Jakobsen et al., 2007). Jakobsen et al. (2007) made the point that the objective of protecting forests under the land-allocation programme was imposing restrictions on the area of land available for swidden cultivation and soil fertility was being seriously degraded as a consequence. Swiddening was permitted Saccharum spontaneum L. [Poaceae] only in some relatively small A perennial grass that grows up to 3m high in areas designated by local third-year fallows with spreading rhizomatous authorities, and this was roots insufficient to allow for lengthy fallow periods (Jakobsen et al., 2007). Fallow periods tumbled from between seven and 10 years to between four and five years, and this was not long enough to allow full recovery of soil fertility and fallow flora (Lam et al., 2005). Hence, yields of swidden rice fell. Their inability to find sufficiently fertile land on which to grow swidden rice left farmers reluctant to undertake the labour-intensive task. The improved productivity of paddy rice and availability of other income sources provided alternatives to some households in their quest for rice sufficiency. Consequently, the planting of swidden rice has declined substantially. Programme to eliminate hunger and reduce poverty

There is a prevalent belief among agricultural scientists and extension specialists that all indigenous traditional varieties of important food crops such as rice and maize are low yielding. This is one cause of the decline in the biodiversity of crop varieties, because most agricultural development programmes and agricultural extension projects have focused on introducing and diffusing new high-yielding varieties. In many places, local people have been given seed from new varieties free of charge. Once, in Ha Giang province, we saw Hmong people animatedly flocking to a People’s-Committee House to get seed for a new maize breed. Along with each kilogram of maize seed they were also given 5kg of N-P-K fertilizer free of charge by a government support programme. No one can deny the great achievements of the Programme to Eliminate Hunger and Reduce Poverty in promoting and diffusing

Chapter 25. Plant genetic diversity in farming systems  481

new crop varieties in Vietnam’s mountain regions. But everyone also recognizes that advocacy of biodiversity conservation is either very weak or entirely absent from this programme. New crop varieties have been gradually replacing the traditional ones. Hence, the level of biodiversity in mountain agro-ecosystems has been progressively degraded and these systems have steadily grown more and more similar to one another over time. This monotony can bring risks that farmers cannot control. For example, beginning around 1600, the people of Ireland became totally dependent upon the cultivation of just a few, or even upon just one, potato cultivar as a source of staple food. In the mid-19th century, Ireland’s potato crops, which by that time were very homogeneous, were devastated by diseases and nearly one million people died of starvation. In Vietnam, government development programmes and services have also contributed significantly to the improvement and diversification of householdfarming systems (Castella et al., 2006). The use of high-yielding and hybrid varieties, chemical fertilizers and improved cultural practices for crops and the use of new breeds and improved management for animals have partly been the result of technologytransfer training and provision of agricultural services. Loans provided to farmers under the livestock-promotion programme resulted in a substantial increase in the number of cattle in Tat hamlet. An agroforestry system was also implemented under extension-service support.These programmes and services provided households with more alternatives to improve production and diversify their income sources. Population growth and changes in farming systems

Changes in farming systems have been the consequence of several factors acting both individually and in combination. Important among these have been an increasing population, government policies on management of agriculture and forest land, changes in the macro-economic environment, improved infrastructure and communication, improved access to markets, government development programmes and services, changes in family structure and ages of family members that have influenced the adaptive strategies of individual households, and environmental degradation (Lam et al., 2004). Population growth has affected food security and this has become a primary concern of all households in the uplands (Castella et al., 2006; Jakobsen et al., 2007). Local farmers have increased the productivity of paddy rice by planting high-yielding varieties and using chemical fertilizers. However, even with increased productivity, paddy fields have not yielded enough to maintain food security for most farmers due to the small area of paddy per capita (169sq m). Therefore, many households still have to plant rice in swiddens in order to harvest enough to meet their needs. As paddy fields are a productive and reliable source of rice for consumption, suitable areas are sought and, where possible, made into new paddy fields. However, because of the hilly topography, there has not been much land able to be converted and the total area of paddy fields has increased only slightly. With an increasing population

482  Vien et al.

and new households being formed, the paddy area per household has fallen in recent years. Consequently, households have had to find alternative sources of income in order to purchase rice and other commodities. The largest maize-cultivation area in Vietnam has recently been in Son La province in the country’s northwest. The change from swidden farming to monoculture and permanent farming in Son La has had a negative effect on both soil fertility and native vegetation. Wezel (2000) found that weeds had became a serious problem in the upland fields of Son La as swidden fields were converted to permanent cropping. Land degradation has occurred under intensive-farming conditions and upland soilconservation measures are urgently needed. Plant diversity in the province has changed, with indigenous species being replaced by exotic legume species (Wezel et al., 2002a, 2002b). The effect of economic development on plant diversity

Progress in the overall development of Vietnam has resulted in a great change in the country’s macro-economic environment, and this has impacted upon Tat hamlet in several ways. Infrastructure and communications have greatly improved, access to markets has become easier, marketing opportunities have broadened and income sources have diversified. Modernization has also created greater demand on the part of the villagers for consumer goods and material comforts. As a consequence, the livelihood of the villagers has become more and more dependent on cash. To earn more cash, farmers have turned towards commercial production, which is subject to the price fluctuations of agricultural commodities. This was evident, for instance, in a drastic drop in prices for ginger. Changes in areas planted to different crops occur in response to market demand, and consequently, prices. Improved transportation has also created greater market opportunities for sales of non-timber forest products, and these have become a major source of cash income for several households in Tat hamlet (Vien et al., 2009). Neglected and underutilized species: recommendation for their sustainable use

Based on statistical data from the Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations, Schmidt et al. (2008) found that four major crops – rice, wheat, maize and soybeans – feed the world, because they occupy 50% of the world’s cultivated land. However, another 150 crop varieties are traded on a significant scale around the world, and there are more than 7000 plant species that are either cultivated or harvested from the wild for food (Menini, 1998). Neglected and underutilized species are those grown primarily in their centres of origin or centres of diversity by traditional farmers, where they are still important for the subsistence of local communities. Some species may be distributed around the world, but they tend to occupy special niches in the local ecology and in production and consumption systems. While these crops continue to be maintained because of cultural preferences and traditional practices at

Chapter 25. Plant genetic diversity in farming systems  483

their points of origin, they remain inadequately characterized and are neglected by researchers and conservationists (Schmidt et al., 2008). Vietnamese government policies have little concern for minor crops such as neglected and underutilized species, despite the fact that they have made significant contributions to food security and local livelihoods, especially for disadvantaged groups and ethnic minorities Livistona saribus (Lour.) Merr. ex A. Chev. [Arecaceae] (Schmidt et al., 2008). In Vietnam, most of the documents relating A palm species native to Southeast Asia to underutilized plant species that often grows in numerous clumps on can be accessed in the libraries of old swidden fallows The fronds are used as the Ministry of Agriculture and roofing material. Rural Development, the Vietnam Academy for Agricultural Sciences, the Institute of Ecology and Biological Resources and the National Institute of Medicinal Materials. In this study, 120 policy-related documents were collected and reviewed, and 76 of them were found to be concerned with promoting or inhibiting the advancement of neglected and underutilized species at different levels. In order to understand the status of neglected and underutilized species diversity, the Agrofolio Project was carried out in Vietnam, Cambodia, Thailand and China. A pre-selected list of 77 species included four medicinal plants; 22 tuber and food-crop species; 22 fruit trees; 14 vegetables; three industry crops; four forest trees; three oil plants; and three dye plants. The pre-selected list was further assessed by a workshop and e-conference. The results were summarized in the following points: (1) All neglected and underutilized species have limited market output (low prices and poor marketing networks). (2) There is insufficient policy support for production of neglected and underutilized species. Most support is based on external considerations without a needs assessment involving local farmers. Cultural factors and site-specific conditions have not been highly considered. (3) Post-harvest techniques and information remains insufficient from the viewpoint of farmers. (4) The importance of neglected and underutilized species varies from place to place. Both scientists and local farmers in northern Vietnam give the following species a high ranking: Colocasia antiquorum, Diospyros kaki, Mangifera indica, Cucurbita pepo, Panax vietnamensis and Sesamum indicum. The main recommendations for sustainable use were: (1) Provision of policy support for development of a genebank. (2) Increasing communication networks and

484  Vien et al.

discussions in the public media (papers, advertising,TV). (3) Community participation for development of neglected and underutilized species. (4) Development of marketing channels. (5) Planning areas for development of neglected and underutilized species. (6) Seeking government subsidies for training, fertilizer and techniques. Finally, the results of the project were disseminated to different audiences via Neglected and Underutilized Species Folders and a brief scientific paper was published in the Agricultural Technology and Science Journal in Vietnam (Schmidt et al., 2008). The value of plant genetic diversity

The value of genetic diversity to farmers is seldom understood by markets or addressed by the international research agenda. According to Sthapit et al. (2008), it is difficult to value many other aspects of agricultural biodiversity as these have both direct and indirect values in terms of qualitative traits such as food, nutrition and environmental uses, and include adaptation to low-input conditions, co-adaptive complexes, yield stability and the consequent reduction of risk, specific-niche adaptation and meeting socio-cultural needs. Lam et al. (2004) and Dzung et al. (2010) found that the carrying capacity of a composite-swidden system was considerably higher for a given area than that of pure swiddens in Tat hamlet. This was because the paddy fields produced about half of the grain needed to meet local requirements, so that the per-capita area needed to grow rice in swiddens was only half of that needed for grain production in a pureswidden system. Additionally, the high diversity of components in the composite system reduced vulnerability to risks of crop losses due to weather or pests and provided some buffering against fluctuations in market prices of different crops. Ziegler et al. (2009) warned of negative environmental consequences arising from the demise of swidden cultivation in montane mainland Southeast Asia as both soil erosion and biodiversity loss would increase. In fact, as we mentioned earlier, it is not always the case that local varieties have low yields. Some local varieties are of a higher quality than the new breeds, so they return a higher economic benefit. Tu Le glutinous rice, Yen Minh non-glutinous rice, Van Yen cinnamon, Lang Son anise, Quan Ba persimmon and Muong Pon oranges are very well known and undeniable examples of high-quality local varieties (Vien, 2002a). Recently, indigenous knowledge combined with swidden agriculture have become alternative solutions for natural-resources management and poverty alleviation in Vietnam (Vien et al., 2006;Vien, 2007). Different shades of colour in the same picture

Who really cares about biodiversity? Who actually benefits from protection of biodiversity? In attempting to answer these questions we tell three stories below, taken from the many field visits of Dr Tran Duc Vien throughout Vietnam. Each story tells a similar tale of how local people think about agro-biodiversity in their own

Chapter 25. Plant genetic diversity in farming systems  485

fields. It follows that scientists may need to think about biodiversity from the same point of view. Indigenous value

Many years ago, in the Muong Thanh valley of northwestern Vietnam’s Dien Bien province, there was a very famous and delicious variety of orange, called Muong Pon. This orange became even better known following the famous Vietnamese victory over French forces at Dien Bien Phu in 1954, because of a song. Called Be Van Dan Forever, the song came from a poem by Trinh Duong, set to the music of Huy Du. No one can explain why, but sometime in the early 1990s many people began cutting down Muong Pon orange trees and replacing them with longan and litchi trees. The area of orange trees was greatly reduced. Before the people were able to enjoy their first harvests of longan and litchi, both of which had value in cities and areas of high population, they suddenly realized that nine out of 10 visitors wanted to buy Muong Pon oranges. In fact, economic returns from Muong Pon oranges were much higher than those from longan and litchi. Over recent years, both local people and the authorities have been investing heavily to recover and multiply the valuable Muong Pon variety of orange in its place of origin. Meanwhile, in Dien Bien district of Dien Bien province there was also a very delicious variety of nonglutinous rice that had been developed by the Hmong people, called Ngo Meo. But it had long been forgotten; new high-yielding varieties had been planted everywhere in the district, accompanied by increased use of fertilizer and pesticides. Without these inputs, the yield of the new varieties was less than that of the older ones. Pest problems were interminable. One day, people recognized that while the new varieties had high productivity, the net economic returns from them were less than those from local varieties, because the old ones needed little investment, but could be sold for very high prices. For instance, in the capital Dien Bien Phu, the price for 1kg of local Ngo Meo non-glutinous rice in 2001 was 8000 dong, while the price of IR64, one of the high-yielding ‘pillars’ of the Green Revolution, which was well liked by Hanoi people and strongly recommended for development, was only 4000 dong and other varieties were down to 2000 dong. One villager was happy to tell us that, fortunately, a few houses still kept Muong Pon oranges and grew the Hmong rice variety, Ngo Meo. He said he considered the local varieties to be especially valuable for poor people because they required little investment but commanded high prices. Insect predators

Vietnam has become the world’s second-largest rice exporter, even though it still has people who suffer from food shortages, especially those who live in remote areas where both natural and socio-economic conditions are difficult. Many of these people live on steep and degraded land, they are dependent on rainfed agriculture and have little capacity to invest in intensive farming. But when they receive subsidies

486  Vien et al.

from the government they are usually advised to replace their local varieties with new high-yielding ones, which of course require higher investments. In reality, local people are often quite reluctant to adopt new varieties. There are many reasons for this, but one of them is that these new improved and hybrid varieties are not adapted to the natural and socio-economic conditions in many parts of Vietnam’s northern mountain region. During a field trip to Ban Pa Sang, in Thanh Nua commune, Dien Bien district, we shared the happiness of local people and agricultural extension officers with their abundant harvest of the new maize variety HQ2000. This variety has a high protein content that was intended to improve the quality of daily meals for poor people. The new maize variety had a much higher yield than the old varieties and the storage bins of every household were filled with maize grain. Six months later, we returned to the hamlet on another field trip. The local people told us sadly that the new maize variety had given them high yields in the fields, but with this variety, the harvest had been lost in their houses. After several months, the stored grain was severely damaged by Indian Meal Moth (Plodia interpunctella) and Grain Weevils (Sitophilus zeamais). No one would buy it, and it could not be used to make men men.1 The local maize, however, was not so vulnerable to the insects. A Hmong woman said: ‘The new varieties are only for rich people. They need the high yield to sell their maize immediately after harvest and buy a Minsk motorcycle, while the poor households only need maize for men men, so we should keep using our own local Hmong varieties!’ Show us the benefits, we’ll show you conservation

Plant-resource diversity in farming systems obviously brings many benefits to the local people. However, it seems that poor village people in many parts of Vietnam’s northern mountain region do not pay much attention to biodiversity conservation. In their way of thinking, the loss of local maize and rice varieties by replacing them with new varieties is a natural process. When we tried to convince them to protect biodiversity for their own benefit and that of their children, they looked at us with scepticism. In fact, they were in urgent need of food and clothing, and paid little attention to preserving indigenous varieties. In one small hamlet in a narrow valley in Da Bac district, Hoa Binh province, the villagers told us that the loss of traditional varieties had no effect on them whatsoever. Their standard of living had started to improve when they began using new food-plant varieties and applying new technologies learned from lowlanders.Their wet-rice fields now produced twothirds of their rice needs, and many households in the hamlet now ate rice three times a day and they no longer had to eat a mixture of rice and cassava. Ten years earlier, cassava had been a food crop; it was now a cash crop used for livestock fodder. We told these people a story about a big pharmaceutical company that spent millions of US dollars for research and biodiversity conservation at various places in the World. The company had successfully developed many kinds of medicine from

Chapter 25. Plant genetic diversity in farming systems  487

natural resources and still sought medicinal substances from grass, insects and microorganisms. The farmers promptly said they would like the opportunity to meet the company’s representatives in order to negotiate prices for medicinal plants, which they said were still readily available in the forests surrounding their hamlet. If biodiversity conservation could bring them benefits in the same way as did their rice paddies and swidden fields, they would protect the forests as well as they did their home gardens. We keep thinking of the things that village people tell us.These may be great issues that should be discussed in scientific conferences, or perhaps other forums. Conclusions

The plant genetic resources of Vietnam’s northern mountain region are still rich and diverse. These local varieties are marvellously adapted to the ecological and cultural complexity of the locality. This biodiversity enhances agro-ecosystem sustainability under marginal upland conditions. However, this plant genetic diversity is under heavy pressure from genetic erosion caused by an increasing population, changes in farming practices, policy measures aimed at limiting swidden farming, development programmes for poverty alleviation and markets. We have discussed the negative effects of plant-diversity loss on food security, poverty, soil erosion and yield reduction, diseases and risks.We believe conservation and improvement of local varieties can help to ensure food security for local people and also play an important role in environmental protection and conservation of biodiversity generally. Local food-plant varieties need to be collected, conserved, classified and evaluated for their usefulness in breeding new varieties and reinvigorating old ones in order to support livelihoods in marginal areas. We, the scientists, have to work together with local people to classify indigenous varieties into different yield groups in the subsistence-agriculture activities of various ethnic minorities in the northern mountain region. Then, while some high-yielding local varieties can be recommended for use in other places, low-yielding varieties with valuable genetic traits should be maintained for long-term scientific research. This is the responsibility of the government. Degradation of biodiversity is not a hopeless problem, as some people mistakenly think. Many things can be done to conserve biodiversity. It is important that every individual and all research organizations, local authorities and international agencies cooperate and take immediate action. The most important step may be to make local people aware that they, too, have an important stake in biodiversity conservation and find ways to reward them for their efforts. Questions for further discussion

The purpose of the Green Revolution and its accompanying shift to intensive farming was to eliminate hunger and reduce poverty. In intensive farming, low-

488  Vien et al.

yielding varieties are discarded. Is a reduction of genetic resources in farming systems a necessary part of poverty alleviation? Does a high level of genetic diversity indicate a low level of agricultural development in a particular region? Do farmers retain many low-yielding varieties only when their agriculture systems are undeveloped? Does greater diversity in plant genetic resources have a positive correlation with higher levels of poverty? High-yielding varieties of food plants usually have a low ability to cope with marginal conditions and resist diseases.Why do several of the indigenous varieties we collected have both of these abilities? Why do farmers still use both high- and low-yielding indigenous varieties? Or, to put the same question another way, why do farmers not use only high-yielding varieties? In addition to maintaining plant diversity in order to reduce risk, are there any other reasons? How can we promote biodiversity conservation among farmers? Is there any form of benefit sharing that might help in this regard? In the bid to alleviate poverty and conserve biodiversity, is the most appropriate strategy one based on selectively maintaining genetic biodiversity combined with the selective importation of new genes for cross-breeding, to create high-yielding varieties that have high quality and are adapted to local conditions? Acknowledgements

This chapter is based on information collected while conducting research in the northern mountain region under funding from the Ford Foundation, the Toyota Foundation, the US Department of Agriculture, the World Resources Institute and the Danish International Development Agency (Danida), all of which have provided grants to the Center for Agricultural Research and Ecological Studies (CARES) at Hanoi University of Agriculture. We would especially like to thank our CARES colleagues who both contributed to this research and provided help in the preparation of this chapter. Our special thanks go to the local farmers and officials in the northern mountain region for their help and support while we carried out our studies in their fields. References Arraudeau, M. A. and Xuan,V. T. (1995) ‘Opportunities for upland rice research in Vietnam partnership’, in Rice Research, Ministry of Agriculture and Food Industry, Hanoi, pp1991–1998 Buu, B. C., Loan, L. C., Bao, N. D. and Tao, N.V. (1992) ‘Collection and evaluation of rice genetic source in the Mekong river Delta’, Agricultural and Food Processing 3, pp90–92 (Vietnamese language) Castella, J. C., Boissau, S., Thanh, N. H. and Novosad, P. (2006) ‘Impact of forestland allocation on land use in mountainous province of Vietnam’, Land Use Policy 23, pp147–160 Donovan, D., Hung, D. T. and Lam, N. T. (2009) ‘Homegardens and tree gardens’, in T. D. Vien, A.T. Rambo and N.T. Lam (eds) Farming with Fire and Water:The Human Ecology of a Composite Swiddening Community in Vietnam’s Northern Mountains, Kyoto University Press and Trans Pacific Press, Kyoto, pp112–118

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Dzung, N. V., Vien, T. D., Lam, N. T., Tuong, T. M. and Cadisch, G. (2008) ‘Analysis of the sustainability within the composite swidden agroecosystem in northern Vietnam. 1. Partial nutrient balances and recovery times of upland fields’, Journal of Agriculture, Ecosystems and Environment 128, pp37–51 Fox, J. M. (2000) ‘How blaming “slash and burn” farmers is deforesting mainland southeast Asia’, Asia Pacific Issues, East-West Center, Honolulu Jakobsen, J., Rasmussen, K., Leisz, S., Folving, R. and Quang, N. V. (2007) ‘The effects of land tenure policy on rural livelihoods and food sufficiency in the upland village of Que, North Central Vietnam’, Agricultural Systems 94, pp309–319 Lam, N. T., Patanothai, A. and Rambo, A. T. (2004) ‘Recent changes in the composite swiddening farming system of a Da Bac ethnic minority community in Vietnam’s Northern Mountain Region’, Southeast Asian Studies 42 (3), pp273–293 Lam, N.T., Patanothai, A., Limpinumtana,V. and Vityakon, P. (2005) ‘Land-use sustainability of composite swiddening in the uplands of Northern Vietnam: Nutrient balances of swiddening fields during the cropping period and changes of major soil nutrients over the swidden cycle’, International Journal of Agricultural Sustainability 3 (1), pp57–68 Liet, V. V. and Gioi, D. H. (2006) ‘Collection and evaluation of local maize germplasm for developing drought-resistant maize cultivars in the northern uplands’, Journal of Agricultural Science and Technology 1 (2), pp1–5 Menini, U. G. (1998) ‘Policy issues for the conservation and utilisation of horticultural genetic resources for food and agriculture’, paper delivered to World conference on Agricultural Research, 17-18 June, Rome, http://www.agrsci.unibo.it/wchr/wc2/menini.html accessed 15 October 2013 OECD (2003) Consensus Document on the Biology of Zea mays subsp. mays (Maize), Organisation for Economic Cooperation and Development, Paris Pandey, S. and Nguyen,T. K. (2002) ‘The effects of population pressure and market access on food security and poverty in the uplands of southeast Asia: Some insights from Northern Vietnam’, in International

Symposium on Sustaining Food Security and Managing Natural Resources in Southeast Asia – Challenges for the 21st Century, Chiang Mai,Thailand, https://www.uni-hohenheim.de/fileadmin/

einrichtungen/sfb564/events/uplands2002/Full-Pap-S3A-2_Pandey.pdf, accessed 30 May 2013 Schmidt, M., Lam, N. T., Hoanh, M. T. and Padulosi, S. (2010) ‘Promoting neglected and underutilized tuberous plant species in Vietnam’, in R. Haas, M. Canavari, B. Slee, C. Tong and B. Anurugsa (eds) Looking East Looking West: Organic and Quality Food Marketing in Asia and Europe, Academic Publishers, Wageningen, Netherlands, pp183–193 Schmidt, M., Wei, W., Polthanee, A., Lam, N. T., Chuong, S., Qiu, L., Banterng, P., Dung, P. T., Glaser, S., Gretzmacher, R., Hager,V., De Korte, E., Li,Y., Phuong, N.T., Ro, S., Zhang, Z. and Zhou, H. (2008) ‘Ambiguity in a trans-disciplinary stakeholder assessment of neglected and underutilized species in China, Cambodia, Thailand and Vietnam’, Biodiversity and Conservation 17 (7), pp1645–1666 Sthapit, B., Rana, R., Eyzaguirre, P. and Jarvis, D. (2008) ‘The value of plant genetic diversity to resourcepoor farmers in Nepal and Vietnam’, International Journal of Agricultural Sustainability 6 (2), pp148–166 Vien, T. D. (2000). ‘Sustainable development – the way for future’, lecture notes for graduate course in agricultural science, Hanoi Agricultural University, Hanoi Vien, T. D. (2002a) ‘Ethnic culture and major farming systems in the uplands of Vietnam’s northern mountain region’, in Basic Theories and Practices for Rural Sustainable Development, VietnamNetherlands Programme, Agricultural Publishing House, Hanoi, pp263–279 Vien, T. D. (2002b) ‘Mot so bien doi kinh te-xa hoi nhung nam cuoi the ky 20 va nghe trong lua o mien nui Vietnam’ (Changes in socio-economical sectors at the end of the 20th century and rice cultivation in Vietnam’s uplands), in N. V. Luat (ed.) Rice in Vietnam in the 20th Century, part 2, Agricultural Publishing House, Hanoi, pp206–238 Vien, T. D. (2007) ‘Indigenous fallow management with Melia azedarach Linn in northern Vietnam’, in M. F. Cairns (ed.) Voices from the Forest: Integrating Indigenous Knowledge into Sustainable Upland Farming, Resources for the Future Press, Washington, DC, pp435–443

490  Vien et al.

Vien, T. D., Leisz, S. J., Lam, N. T. and Rambo, A. T. (2006) ‘Using traditional swidden agriculture to enhance rural livelihoods in Vietnam’s uplands’, Mountain Research and Development 26 (3), pp192–196 Vien,T. D., Rambo, A.T. and Lam, N.T. (eds) (2009) Farming with Fire and Water:The Human Ecology of a Composite Swiddening Community in Vietnam’s Northern Mountains, Kyoto Area Studies on Asia, Kyoto University Press and Trans Pacific Press, Kyoto Wezel, A. (2000) ‘Weed vegetation and land use of upland maize fields in north-west Vietnam’, GeoJournal 50, pp349–357 Wezel, A., Steinmüller, N. and Friederichsen J. R. (2002a) ‘Slope position effects on soil fertility and crop productivity and implications for soil conservation in upland north-west Vietnam’, Agriculture, Ecosystems and Environment 91 (1-3), pp113–126 Wezel, A., Luibrand, A. and Thanh, L. Q. (2002b) ‘Temporal changes of resource use, soil fertility and economic situation in upland north-west Vietnam’, Land Degradation and Development 13 (1), pp33–44 Ziegler, A. D., Bruun, T. B., Guardiola-Claramonte, M., Giambelluca, T. W., Lawrence, D. and Lam, N. T. (2009) ‘Environmental consequences of the demise in swidden cultivation in montane mainland Southeast Asia: Hydrology and geomorphology’, Human Ecology 37 (3), pp361–373

Note 1 Men men is maize flour that is carefully prepared by lengthy steaming and then grinding of the kernels. The dry maize flour is eaten together with vegetable soups or soybean sauce, or sometimes it is mixed into soup. The mixed soup, called thang co, is prepared using animal bones, meat and intestines (see Vien, 2002a).

26 EXPERIMENTING WITH CHANGE Shifting beliefs and rice varieties in swidden communities in northern Laos Karen McAllister*

A long time ago, rice had a very big seed – about the size of a pumpkin. At that time, people did not have to work in the uplands or the lowlands because when it had grown up and was ready to be harvested, the rice would fly home to the village by itself. But people had to build granaries to store the rice. There was a widow who built her granary very late, and it was not finished when the rice was ready for harvest. Maybe she was lazy; maybe not. When it was time for the rice to fly to the village, it flew directly to the granary. But because the granary was not finished, it flew around and around the village, hitting cows and pigs and buffaloes, and killing them. So the widow hit the rice with a stick, and shouted ‘You should not fly by yourself. If we want rice, we will go to plant it. We will go to carry it. We will go to harvest it by ourselves.’ And the rice, which was broken when the widow struck it with the stick, fell into a stream and was eaten by fish.The people were then short of rice, and they had to look for wild cassava, taro, and other things like potatoes to eat. One day, because they were hungry, some people went fishing and they caught a fish called Pha Nai (carp).When they cut the fish open before cooking it, they found small rice seeds inside it.They planted the small rice, and ever since then, people have been using the same small rice to plant and eat. And because of what the widow said, people have to plant, harvest and carry rice by themselves. (A myth about rice, as told by a farmer in Houay Lo village)

* 

Karen McAllister is a doctoral student in anthropology and a faculty lecturer in international development studies at McGill University. She has worked intermittently in Laos since 2001, with the International Rice Research Institute, in collaboration with the International Centre for Tropical Agriculture (CIAT-Asia), and for her doctoral fieldwork in Anthropology.

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The rice myth was told to me by a farmer in Houay Lo, an ethnic Lao and Lue village in Luang Prabang province, Northern Laos. A similar version of the story was recounted to me by a Kammu man who had been educated at a Buddhist temple in a different part of the province, and a more detailed version of the same myth was documented by Tambiah (1970), an anthropologist working in a Lao-Tai village in northeastern Thailand in the 1960s. He entitled it The Story of Nang Phrakosob (the female spirit of rice), and he argues that the myth represents the domestication of rice from the wild. The myth also reflects a moral of reciprocity between people and rice: rice must be treated with respect, and people must work hard, or the rice will not grow well and people will go hungry. It was the fault of people that rice became small, because they mistreated the rice and did not work efficiently to create a good home for it, so they now have to work hard in their upland fields. The prevalence of this myth in northern Thailand and Laos highlights the spiritual and cultural importance of rice, the region’s main subsistence crop. In Laos, a meal is not a meal without rice. When people are invited to eat, Lao ask kin khao? (‘Have you eaten rice?’) never merely ‘have you eaten?’1 Rice exists in a category of its own, separate from all other foods (ahaan), including vegetables, meats and all other grains. Like people, rice becomes ‘pregnant’, while other crops simply produce grain or have flowers.2 Rice is also believed to have a soul, or ‘life force’ (khwan), similar to people, and to have the capacity to interact with humans and the environment. Different rice varieties are described as ‘choosing the soil’ (or not) if they grow well or poorly on different land types. This chapter concerns the changing relationship between rice and the people who grow it, as a result of the current transition of upland swidden systems in Laos, with a focus on how highland farmers of various ethnic groups perceive and apply their indigenous knowledge of rice cultivation in adapting to environmental pressures. As in many other cultures, indigenous agricultural knowledge in Laos not only encompasses empirically based observations and technical knowledge of different cropping systems and the environment, but also supernatural understandings of how ‘nature’ and rice respond to human actions. These broad local understandings influence how farmers perceive and adapt to environmental change, yet they are often left out of more scientifically focused studies of farmers’ indigenous knowledge. In this chapter, I attempt to describe farmers’ adaptation to changing conditions in the highlands within their holistic understanding of environmental causality. The first part of the chapter provides an introduction to the current situation facing Lao swidden cultivators, and the specific situation in the district where I conducted this research. I then introduce aspects of local cosmologies and understandings of environmental causality and the spiritual importance of rice. The third part of the chapter focuses on the importance of rice varietal diversity in highland swidden systems. The final part of the chapter examines how farmers are attempting to adapt to deteriorating ecological conditions, with particular reference to changes in the rice varieties they are planting, how they understand and experiment to adapt to

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declining rice yields, and the consequent shifts in their belief systems about rice and the environment. This chapter is based on one year of ethnographic research in villages of Pak Ou district, in Luang Prabang province of northern Laos, undertaken in 2006 as part of a doctoral programme in anthropology (Figure 26.1). This research broadly concerned the adaptations and responses of highland communities to land tenure reform, agriculture development projects and new market opportunities, and focused primarily on conflicts and negotiation over rights to resources and how this influenced farmers’ land-management decisions, perceptions and acceptance or rejection of project interventions. As part of the research, I collected information on farmers’ understandings of environmental change and their attempts to experiment with new land-management and cropping alternatives, as well as anecdotal information about the rice varieties farmers were growing on their swidden fields and accounts of how this had changed over time. The information on rice varieties presented in this chapter is based on semi-structured group and individual interviews with farmers rather than on laboratory testing of plant genetic differences, and therefore relies on farmers’ own classification and naming systems. The information on changes in the varieties used over time relies on farmers’ accounts and memories of what they planted previously and how varietal diversity has changed in their villages. Current situation of swidden cultivators in Laos

As in most Southeast Asian countries, the government of Laos has implemented policies to eradicate swidden cultivation and ‘modernize’ upland agriculture. Contemporary state policies encourage farmers to abandon subsistence rice cultivation in the highlands in favour of cultivating cash crops for markets. While farmers are often eager to take advantage of new economic opportunities and are not tied to growing rice for subsistence, they are concerned about managing the risks that reliance on commercial agriculture entails and about ensuring that they can meet household requirements for rice – not for just any rice, but for the highquality rice that they prefer to eat and have been growing themselves for centuries. Highland farmers in Laos and elsewhere have long been engaged in commercial agriculture and regional trade networks in addition to subsistence rice production (Walker, 1999; Michaud, 2010). However, many of the cash crops currently being promoted as alternatives to upland rice do not provide enough income to buy rice for the household. Volatile markets, poor transportation and price information, limited market size and dependency on multiple layers of middlemen leave producers with only a small percentage of the profit. Furthermore, valuable tree crops such as rubber and teak take many years to produce income, leaving livelihoods vulnerable in the meantime and opening the potential for distress sales of long-surviving trees and dispossession of land when households have an urgent need for cash.3 Therefore, rice continues to be the priority crop for farmers living in the Lao highlands.

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Upland farmers in Laos are adapting to new environmental pressures, consumer desires and economic opportunities (and risks) under conditions of increasing vulnerability. The mountainous areas they inhabit are officially classified as ‘state forests’ (Lao PDR, 2007); that is, they are ‘political forests’ whose legal definition is based on what ‘should’ be growing there, mainly according to slope and distance from the road, rather than the actual tree cover. Local tenurial rights remain insecure. Small, remote villages have been resettled to roadsides to facilitate the provision of state services and to ‘conserve’ forest areas for uses deemed more economically productive or ecologically sustainable (e.g. national parks, commercial plantations or forestry). Some claim that this policy also has the effect of intensifying state control over highland peoples, particularly ethnic minorities (Vandergeest, 2003; Baird and Shoemaker, 2007). Beginning in 2000, a Land and Forest Allocation Policy (LFAP) was implemented to demarcate community territorial boundaries, zone village lands for specific uses and enforce more privatized forms of land tenure.The policy provides for the allocation of three ‘upland’ parcels of one hectare each per adult labourer in each household, or two parcels to those that own lowland fields. (This has often been interpreted locally as three parcels per household, although this is not precisely what the law states.) These policies are intended to assist national economic development and the ‘modernization’ of Laos as a whole. However, the combination of policies and growing upland populations has limited the land available to highland households, making swidden cultivation ecologically and socially unsustainable because of increased weed infestation, declining soil fertility and a spiralling need for labour (ADB, 2001; Vandergeest, 2003; Lestrelin and Giordano, 2007). This is particularly true in areas along roads, where people have been resettled in new villages on land that was already populated and where land-allocation restrictions have been more strictly enforced (Vandergeest, 2003). My research sites intentionally included one roadside village and one remote village, and I spent the large part of a year living in two villages – Houay Lo, a Lao Loum (‘lowland Lao’, a mix of Lue and Lao people) village located along a major road, and Houay Kha, a small 54-household Kammu (Lao Theung, or midland Lao) village where a number of resettled Hmong (Lao Sung, or highland Lao) had immigrated, located about one-and-a-half hours’ hike from the main road.4 I also conducted some informal interviews in the roadside villages of Lattahae (ethnically Lue), Houay Leuang and Houay Lat (both ethnically Kammu). Village livelihoods in Houay Kha relied primarily on swidden farming for upland rice and a few cash crops such as Job’s tears, sesame and paper mulberry; on hunting and gathering in the forests; and on selling labour to neighbouring communities to generate cash when their rice stocks ran out. Very few households had lowland rice fields and animal husbandry was not a significant component of most household incomes because of problems with epidemic livestock diseases. Most households in the village were short of rice for between three and six months of the year. In Houay Lo and Lattahae, many Lue and Lao farmers owned lowland rice fields as well as upland swiddens, and some households cultivated only cash crops in their

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FIGURE 26.1 

Location of the study villages

highland fields. Livestock husbandry and river fisheries were important components of household livelihood in these villages, and households also earned income from gold panning in the Pak Ou River. Many Lao and Lue households in the roadside villages were actively involved in trade, purchasing crops such as rice, Job’s tears and sesame from remote Kammu and Hmong villages immediately after harvest and reselling these to other middlemen or back to the Kammu later in the year, when their rice stocks had run out and local rice prices were high. The economies and livelihoods of the different ethnic groups, and of the roadside and remote villages, were integrally connected through local trade networks. Rural households in these areas were also becoming increasingly multi-local and connected to urban developments, as villagers (most of them younger-generation) sought employment in Lao cities and towns and in neighbouring countries like Thailand, and sent remittances back to their families.5 Most non-farm jobs outside of the district were in tourism, construction, housekeeping, small-scale factory work, and for young Kammu women (who were the main labour migrants sending remittances back to Houay Kha), the national sex industry. Thus, the traditional notion of the ‘rural household’ needs to be broadened to include income and resources arising from outside the village. Because they were easily accessible, roadside villages had been more affected by the government’s Land and Forest Allocation Policy. Farmers had been confined to using three upland plots (or two plots if they owned lowland fields), and were feeling the consequences of restricted land access. However, in more remote villages, such as Houay Kha, the Land and Forest Allocation Policy had been only partially implemented, and although village territorial borders had been formally demarcated,

496  McAllister

the land continued to be used under customary tenure. Farmers were not feeling the constraints of restricted land access as severely as their roadside neighbours, and still had areas of old fallow and virgin forests within their territories. In all villages, farm households held rights to several land parcels scattered across the landscape, each with different biophysical characteristics. Local land-tenure rights (whether customary or formalized through the LFAP) and the diversity and variability of land parcels were having a significant influence on how farmers adapted to environmental change and new market opportunities, as will be discussed below. Defining indigenous agricultural knowledge

Sivilai, the Lao headman of Houay Lo,6 set out to plant upland rice with his wife, three teenage sons and daughter on the day that his older brother – the village astrologer – had told him was auspicious for his household. Sivilai owned three upland plots, two of which were infested with Imperata grass (nya kha), and his rice had not been growing well in recent years. He had decided that this year he would not exchange labour with other households because he suspected that they were too ‘sloppy’. The planting involved a lot of flirtation, and the men, who made holes in the soil with their dibble sticks, often teased the women by going very quickly, and the women appeared to be more concerned with catching up than taking care to drop seeds into the holes. Sivilai wondered if this carelessness was contributing to his low rice yields. He had also decided to use metal tips on the ends of his dibble sticks to make the holes precise, and had instructed his family to be careful when they put the seeds into the holes. People in Houay Lo had recently stopped using metal tips on their dibble sticks because the soil had become soft and they were no longer needed, but there was also the suspicion that the metal tips were contributing to the lower rice yields. However, Sivilai had noticed that some newly resettled Hmong families were still using the metal tips on their dibble sticks, and their rice had grown well. That morning, Sivilai rose early to build a spirit hut for the rice soul (Figure 26.2), and had made offerings to the rice soul and spirits in the field (Figure 26.3). His sons had also placed taleo around the FIGURE 26.2  A Kammu farmer building a entrances of the field because ‘the khwan spirit hut for the rice soul and spirits of the of people entering the field will help the field

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rice grow well’. The taleo would help guide the khwan to the field (Figure 26.4).7 None of the members of Sivilai’s household was drinking water that had been boiled that day – because it would be like ‘boiling the rice’ and this would prevent the rice from growing well. Sivilai mentioned that some other farmers had tested this belief by drinking boiled water, and their rice had not grown well, so his family was not taking any chances. Sivilai and his wife had divided the field into sections, and had already planted Job’s tears in those areas with the worst soils, and where Imperata was a problem. Job’s tears, they said, did not ‘choose the soil’, and competed better against weeds than did rice. Sivilai had also planted teak saplings between the Job’s tears and on some of the land to be planted with rice, because he was concerned that the Imperata was going to get worse and the land would no longer be usable. He had even sprayed herbicide on patches of the field that were particularly badly affected by the rhizomatous weed. On the remaining area, they were planting two varieties of glutinous rice – Khao Laboun and Khao Sukiang Nyai (‘Big’ Khao Sukiang). The latter was a new rice variety that had appeared spontaneously in his cousin’s field of Khao Sukiang. Nobody knew where it had come from and they had yet to give it a proper name. However, many people liked it because it had a large grain and was aromatic, so they had carefully selected it from the fields to keep it as a separate variety, and were planting more of it each year as the seed supply increased. Later, during the growing season, wild pigs invaded Sivilai’s field and selectively ate most of his Khao Sukiang Nyai crop, so he decided not to plant the new variety in future. The other variety, Khao Laboun, had been introduced by the IUARP project,8 and Sivilai had seen it growing in participatory varietal selection (PVS) trials organized in the village, and had asked for seed.9 The variety had been given a very low ranking by farmers in PVS trials across Pak Ou district. However, Sivilai had noticed that it grew very well on soil that was similar to his own, and therefore asked specifically for that seed rather than the very highly ranked Khao Nok. He explained, as he prepared to plant the rice, that the soil in the field in which he was working was too good for Khao Nok or Khao Pé, the most common varieties grown in the village. The soil was black FIGURE 26.3 A Kammu farmer makes offerings to the spirits and the rice soul. and moist near the surface and ‘held water Similar spirit huts and rituals are enacted by well’, and was therefore not suitable for the Lao and Lue in the area. varieties that grew well on poor soils.

498  McAllister

As headman, Sivilai was the main contact in the village for agriculture and development projects. He arranged meetings with villagers and project staff, organized the participation of villagers in project activities, distributed seeds and technologies from projects, and had been on many study tours to learn new agricultural techniques to teach to his fellow villagers on his return. Sivilai was also actively involved in farmer-researcher experiments and trials being undertaken in the village and had a solid understanding of the project experimental and scientific approach, the different activities undertaken and the various technologies being tested. He was adapting some of the trials for his own experiments. Earlier, he had been involved in formal trials using pigeon pea as an improved fallow, and experiments which attached khang to the bark of pigeon pea in order to promote growth of an insect that produces resin, in the hope of creating another cash crop.10 However, because it needed to be cared for and there was no market for it as a crop, he and other villagers did not like pigeon pea, so he was experimenting independently of the project and unknown to the researchers, trying to attach khang to other shrub species that he preferred, and which he knew had similarly sticky sap. Sivilai’s case provided an example of how different aspects of ‘indigenous agricultural knowledge’ act together in swidden farmers’ attempts to adapt to changing environments. It also challenged perceptions of what knowledge was ‘indigenous’ or ‘local’. Local experiments and processes of adaptation incorporate knowledge from a variety of sources and world views. These are derived from different ethnic groups newly resettled to the area who bring in different agricultural techniques and crops, from entrepreneurs taking advantage of more open trade relations with neighbouring countries, from agricultural research and development projects and from farmers’ own experiential and empirical understandings of environmental management and spiritual understandings of causality. Local or ‘indigenous’ farmer knowledge does not begin and end with the technical skills and knowledge involved in agriculture, such as the classification and selection of rice varieties for different soil types, or local pest, soil and weed management strategies. It also encompasses political and social knowledge, such as knowledge about patronage networks between villagers and state officials or middlemen; about tenure relations, and how rights to and uses of land or other resources are negotiated, and how conflicts are resolved.Then, importantly, there are local cosmological understandings of the world and of environmental causality. In agricultural-development projects, focus has largely been on the technical aspects of ‘local’ knowledge, while the social, political and spiritual are often overlooked. However, as the example of Sivilai illustrates, these aspects can be equally important in how farmers perceive and adapt to changes in their environment. While many researchers describe local agricultural knowledge as a coherent ‘system’, and assume that it can be easily articulated, gathered and organized (Brokensha et al., 1980; DeWalt, 1994; Scoones and Thompson, 1994; Brodt, 2001), others describe it as a creative ‘performance’ in ‘time and place’, during which farmers consciously adapt to shifting social, ecological and economic conditions rather than enact a set of planned activities and technical skills that can be articulated to researchers

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(Fairhead, 1993; Richards, 1993; Scott, 1998). Agriculture as a performance requires evolving in-time adjustments and fine tuning crop and livelihood management according to local knowledge about how to respond to short- and long-term fluctuations in weather, soils, pests, political and social circumstances, market opportunities and so on. Considering agriculture as a performance incorporates the notion of an intentional and dynamic ‘adaptation’ that draws upon experienced knowledge of techniques and beliefs about the environment and social systems, but which is underpinned by individual talent to perceive, adapt and experiment (van Beek, 1993, p56). This is the knowledge of ‘improvisational capacities that can be called forth by the needs of the moment’, and which James Scott referred to as Metis – ‘knowing how and when to apply rules of thumb in a concrete situation’ (Scott, 1998, p316). In many non-Western cosmologies, ‘the environment’ not only incorporates people, other species and ‘nature’, but also the supernatural (Evans-Pritchard, 1937; Malinowski, 1948; Maddock, 1991; Fairhead, 1993; van der Ploeg, 1993; Salas, 1994; Hviding, 1996). Nature, other species and supernatural beings may be invested with agency, and thought to respond kindly or malevolently to people, depending on how they are treated (Scott, 1996; Fienup-Riordan, 2001). Farmers in many parts of the world combine practical technical knowledge (such as maintaining crop biodiversity) with practices to appease supernatural forces in order to mediate agricultural risk, and both are considered to be essential for a successful harvest (Fairhead, 1993; Millar, 1993; van der Ploeg 1993; Salas, 1994; Fairhead and Leach, 1996; Hviding 1996). For most swidden cultivators in Southeast Asia, successful harvests are seen as a reciprocal arrangement with the spirits of nature, and ritual animal sacrifices along with ‘practical’ agronomic practices are considered to be essential for a successful crop (Conklin, 1957; Freeman, 1970; Hanks, 1972; Geddes, 1976; Condominas, 1977; Izikowitz, 1979 [1951]; Dove, 1985; Elliott, 1992; Matisoff, 1992; Tayanin and Vang, 1992; Dove and Kammen, 1997; Friedman, 1998 [1979]; Delang, 2003).This is part of a wider cosmological perspective that positions people, nature and the spiritual world within one interacting and interrelating system.11 Farmers’ understandings of how to adapt their agricultural systems in the face of change therefore often go beyond material concerns and agronomic variables to include the social, cultural and spiritual worlds, which also influence farmers’ agricultural decisions and interpretations of environmental change (Millar, 1993; Dove, 1996, 1999). What constitutes a total environment cannot be assumed a priori without regard to indigenous notions. Not only may different peoples classify similar environmental components differently; they may also maintain notions about linkages between people and the environment that range beyond natural laws. (Hviding, 1996, p180)

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Of people, spirits and the rice soul

As in most swidden communities in Southeast Asia, farming in Laos, particularly rice cultivation, is highly ritualized. Highland farmers combine local ecological knowledge about soil types and different crop and rice varieties with social considerations such as tenure and labour exchange as well as with spiritual concerns about land spirits (phi), the soul of rice (khwan), dreams, omens and astrology. Lao, Lue and Kammu farmers alike believe in a variety of unpredictable disembodied spirits, or phi (hrooy in Kammu), that can be malevolent, capricious or beneficial12 (Lebar et al., 1964; Tambiah, 1970; Simana and Preisig, 1997; Hayashi, 2003; Évrard, 2006; Holt, 2009). Certain phi are considered to be guardians of villages (phi ban), homes (phi heuan) and of natural places, such as paddy-field spirits (phi na), swidden-field spirits (phi hai), forest spirits (phi pa), mountain spirits (phi pu), soil spirits (phi din) and so on. Phi are often considered to be the spirit owners of the fields and wilderness, and have to be appeased through ritual offerings in order to establish cultivation rights in the human world, and coaxed into helping the crops to grow well (see also Tambiah, 1970; Holt, 2009; Évrard, 2006). Among the Kammu, certain types of phi are also believed to cause illness, possession or death, and illness caused by phi is sometimes attributed to doing something bad to the phi of natural places, and thus human health can be linked to an ethic of environmental respect, enforcing a type of ‘moral ecology’. Kammu farmers describe how phi can ‘burn the field’ if they are not treated with respect, causing crops not to grow well, or causing illness in people: If you don’t build a spirit house, then you won’t be able to eat rice. If you build it, you will get more rice. But if you don’t, then the forest spirits (phi pa) will burn your field and the rice will die. The Kammu also believe that certain parts of the landscape are haunted by phi, and these areas are not cultivated for fear of illness or crop failure. Land phi are also thought to have an influence on rice, making it grow well in some places but not in others. Some areas have spirits in the land. Some areas have good spirits (phi dee) and the rice grows well, but other areas have bad spirits (phi bo dee), and the rice doesn’t grow well. We know [where], because the old people say this land has spirits. The Kammu at Houay Kha were concerned that the good spirits should stay in the fields and help with the rice, and that if they were mistreated or not respected, the spirits would leave the field: My field used to have phi, but some people were very naughty – they used to shoot the stone where I put the offerings of food for the phi. They took the

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stone and shot at it. And in this place, the spirits have gone away and won’t come back. Rice also has a special status in local cosmologies, and rice cultivation is highly ritualized by all the different ethnic groups in Laos. Kammu and Lao farmers believe rice to have multiple souls or ‘life forces’ or khwan (hmang in Kammu), a characteristic otherwise reserved for humans and sometimes for a few select animal species (for example, elephants and water buffaloes).13 Other living and non-living entities – including most animals, the land, some rocks, trees and plants, houses and so on - have phi that are considered to be completely different entities from khwan. The Kammu, Lao and Lue build small spirit huts in their rice fields and make offerings at important stages of the agricultural cycle in order to respect the rice soul and appease the spirits of the land and forests (the phi owners of the field – chao din chao den). In addition, most farmers with whom I spoke would not boil water nor drink water that had been boiled on the day they planted rice, because this would be like ‘boiling the rice’ and the rice would not grow well. According to Kammu and Lao farmers I interviewed, the khwan of rice is embodied in humans as one of their 32 khwan.14 The first three souls represent the order in which developing humans are nourished – the first khwan comes from the mother, the second from mother’s milk and the third from rice (see also Keyes, 1995).15 The remaining 29 souls reside in different parts of the body. According to Tambiah’s (1970) interpretation of the Nang Phrakasob myth with which I began this chapter, the large rice grain is the embodiment of Nang Phrakasob, which is broken into many small rice(s) (or pieces) when beaten, and these small rice(s) symbolically represent the plural khwan of rice and the many different traditional varieties of rice that farmers plant today. Tambiah further connects the idea of plural khwan in people and plural khwan in rice through ritual parallels in the sukhwan ceremony (baci in Lao), for calling back the souls of people and the rituals for calling the khwan of rice back to the granary after harvest, which is considered to be necessary for continuing the productivity and fertility of rice cultivation in future years.16 The association between people and their well-being, and rice and its well-being, and the connections between rice and humans are thus entrenched in local cosmologies.17 As well as respecting the need to provide offerings to phi and the rice soul during the growing season, Kammu, Lao and Lue farmers consult local astrologers (who are sometimes the same people in ethnically mixed or neighbouring communities) in order to determine what days are auspicious for a household to plant rice, as well as for other activities such as cutting hair, getting married, buying or selling a water buffalo, fixing a house and so on. The Lao and Lue follow a Buddhist lunar calendar, while the Kammu follow their own lunar calendar (Lindell et al., 1982; Évrard, 2006; Tayanin, 2007). Neither of these calendars is the same as the international calendar, and local astrologers may draw from both. Among the Kammu, dreams are also often interpreted as omens, or to help farmers decide which areas of land and forest they should (or should not) plant. In addition to ‘material’ factors such as poor rainfall, pests

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and soil degradation, making a mistake in any of these ‘ritual’ aspects of agricultural practice – not respecting phi or honouring the rice soul, not following the correct planting days, or not reacting to omens – may be interpreted as contributing to a poor rice crop. These rituals, along with variability in the weather, soil management, choosing the right crops or rice varieties for the soil and so on, are all considered to be important for a good rice crop, and are ways in which farmers attempt to manage the risks inherent in agriculture. Of rice varietal diversity

The importance of rice biodiversity in upland swidden systems across Southeast Asia has been well documented (see e.g. Freeman, 1970; Dove, 1985; Schiller et al., 2001; Évrard, 2006; Soemarwoto, 2007). Farmers in Laos grow both glutinous (sticky) (khao nieow) and non-glutinous (non-sticky) (khao chao) rice varieties, which are classified as either upland rice (khao hai) - aerobic rice varieties grown in swidden fields - or lowland rice (khao na), which is ‘wet rice’ that is grown in rainfed or irrigated paddy fields.Varieties are further classified into three categories depending on the length of time required for reaching maturity (‘duration’). Khao pi (late-duration rice) matures in about five months, or more than 145 days, khao khang (medium-duration rice) matures in about 125 to 145 days, while khao daw (early-duration rice) matures in about three months, or between 90 and 130 days. Laos and northern Thailand are considered to be the centre of origin of glutinous rice (Appa Rao et al., 2001, p4, citing Watabe, 1976), and the diversity of traditional rice varieties grown in upland swidden systems is astounding. The International Rice Research Institute (IRRI) holds more than 13,000 different rice variety accessions from Laos in its gene bank at Los Baños in the Philippines (IRRI, 2003), making Laos second only to India in the number of accessions it has contributed.18 In Houay Kha, farmers identified 20 different ‘traditional’ varieties of upland rice, of which seven were Hmong varieties, while three of the 13 varieties identified by Kammu farmers were further classified into different duration groups, giving a total of 17 different varieties planted by Kammu farmers and a total of 24 distinct varieties. In addition to these 24 varieties, another six varieties were classified by generic names and two more were identified as being recently introduced by the IUARP project and were traditional varieties originating in other parts of Laos that were being tested for suitability in degrading upland environments. In the roadside village of Houay Lo, farmers identified 11 different upland-rice varieties, and another three varieties had been introduced the previous year by the IUARP, making a total of 14 different varieties. Although farmers in Houay Kha (above) identified more upland varieties, this may have been an artefact of sampling, since I interviewed more households in Houay Kha. However, it could also have been related to the more degraded soil conditions in the roadside villages and a loss of rice varietal diversity, as was asserted by farmers. This will be discussed in more detail later. Also, some farmers in Houay Lo no longer grew rice on their upland

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plots. When farmers were not familiar with the varieties of rice to which they were referring, they often used generic names based on maturation (Khao khang, pi or daw), size of grain (Khao met nyai or Khao met noi – large-grain or small-grain rice) and ethnic origin (Khao Lao Sung – or ‘Hmong rice’) rather than a specific varietal name. Generic names were often given for varieties that farmers had obtained from other places, such as from the IUARP project or from other ethnic groups.Varieties that were relatively popular in both villages included Khao Pé, a small-seed variety that grew well on poor soils (it ‘doesn’t choose the soil’) and Khao Khao, a large-seed variety that farmers said tasted very good, but which grew well only on good, black soil. Farmers were able to get seed of different rice varieties from other farmers, by exchanging an equal amount of their own rice grain (either for food or for seed), by purchasing the seed, or by exchanging labour for the seed. Different rice varieties were sometimes associated with specific ethnic groups.While the Kammu, Lao and Lue preferred to grow glutinous rice (khao nieow), Hmong preferred non-glutinous (non-sticky) varieties (khao chao) (see Roder et al., 1996; Schiller et al., 2001). As one Kammu farmer explained,‘Most varieties in the lowlands belong to the Lao Loum and Lao Lue. The Kammu have upland sticky rice and the Lao Sung have upland non-sticky rice.’ Because of cultural preferences for certain rice varieties, farmers generally preferred to exchange seed varieties with members of their own ethnic group, even if this meant travelling to a different village. This was particularly true for the Hmong, who usually brought rice seeds with them from their original villages when they were resettled. One Hmong farmer who had recently moved to Houay Kha explained that he was afraid to try new varieties because he was concerned they would not grow well. However, he was planting new rice varieties that year because the rice he had grown the previous year was ‘itchy’. He had obtained the seeds from a nearby Hmong community rather than from Kammu within the village because he trusted Hmong varieties more. Other Hmong farmers claimed that non-glutinous rice varieties gave higher yields: ‘I don’t grow sticky rice. If you grow sticky rice, then you cannot get enough rice to eat.’ This claim was supported by research performed by IRRI, which showed that farmers in countries neighbouring Laos had switched to growing non-glutinous varieties because they gave higher yields (Appa Rao et al., 2001, p3). Because of the variability of the mountain ecosystem, each land parcel had different physical characteristics based on length of fallow, type of vegetation, soil type and slope. Location of the field within the broader landscape was also important – whether the parcel was located high on a hillside, near a stream or ravine, the distance from the road or village and so on. Farmers usually cleared adjacent fields for ease in exchanging labour for cutting and burning and in fencing the entire cultivated area to keep wild animals out. Where a land parcel was located within the swidden group also influenced the environmental context, since the field could be surrounded by other cultivated fields, or near the forest, higher on the hill and so on. Therefore, tenurial rights had a significant influence on farmers’ decisions about what to plant, and even if farmers held exclusive claims to their land, they had to consider

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those who owned adjacent plots when they made decisions about what they planted. For example, if everyone in the area was involved in cutting and burning for annual crops, a farmer with land in the middle of the rotational group, or high on the hill, could not choose to plant permanent crops like rubber, since it would be difficult to protect these from livestock when the land was fallowed and used for livestock grazing, and difficult to protect them from fire when the other farmers returned to clear the area for rice cultivation. Swidden farmers took advantage of the ecological diversity of the landscape and specific fields, and planted rice varieties or other crops that suited specific microenvironments and soil types. In villages in Pak Ou district, a single household generally planted between one and four different rice varieties, along with annual cash crops such as Job’s tears and sesame, which were suited to different soil types, to manage their risks in case one variety didn’t grow well or was affected by pests or weather conditions, and to stagger the need for labour during harvest and planting by choosing varieties with different maturation times. Households that were short of labour and didn’t require a large amount of rice for subsistence sometimes planted only one rice variety so that they could finish harvesting and threshing at the same time. However, they often also planted cash crops in addition to rice in order to provide income and to balance risk if the rice didn’t produce well. Shorter rice varieties were planted higher in the mountains, where taller varieties would be blown down in the wind. Farmers complained that wild pigs and rats were particularly fond of aromatic rice varieties, so these were planted in fields that were surrounded by other cultivated plots and were not adjacent to the forest where pigs and rats were more likely to roam. And, as one farmer explained, ants also prefer aromatic rice: ‘Khao Khao smells nice. If I plant this and use no pesticides, the ants will say, “Oh, this is my rice”. Ants like this better than the other kinds of rice. Pigs and rats all like this rice.’ Farmers sometimes abandoned planting aromatic varieties even though they grew well and they preferred eating them, because they were specifically affected by certain pests. ‘Awned’ varieties, which had sharp hair growing from the seed and which farmers often complained were ‘itchy’ (and they sometimes stopped planting for this reason), were cultivated in fields near forests where there was a greater problem with wild pigs and other animals eating the crop, since the animals preferred to eat rice without the hair. Planting adjacent fields in rotational groups not only helped farmers to share labour for fencing and burning, it also spread possible destruction of crops among many fields instead of it being concentrated in just one field. It was thus considered an important part of pest management. Pest management also influenced the farmers’ choice of varieties for their duration. The farmers pointed out that if everyone in an area planted early or medium rice varieties, then they would stop caring for their fields after harvest and make it more likely that cattle, pigs and rats would eat the late rice varieties still reaching maturity on adjacent fields. Similarly, if only one person planted early rice, animals would be attracted to this field and the others ignored. Therefore, the decision on which rice or crop varieties to plant was not a simple individual decision, but depended on the cropping

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choices of those with adjacent fields, even when the land was individually owned. This had important consequences for agricultural research and development projects, which tended to focus on testing crop varieties and land-management strategies on individual plots, with individual farmers, and while they may have taken economic and ecological concerns into consideration, they often did not recognize how the social context influenced individual household decisions. Farmers planted early varieties in order to be able to harvest early in the season, when rice stocks had run low. In Houay Kha, one of the most popular varieties was Khao Man Pu, an early variety, reflecting the fact that most households were short of rice for three to six months of the year and needed rice to be ready for harvest as soon as possible. Some farmers chose not to plant late varieties if they had limited access to labour, because these needed to be weeded four times during the growing season, while early varieties only needed to be weeded two or three times. Some varieties were planted because they were good for making noodles or because of individual taste preferences. Most farmers preferred the taste of large-grain rice varieties, and these also earned higher prices when sold on the market.19 However, they planted small-seed varieties on poor soils because these ‘did not choose the soil’, while large-grain varieties would not yield well on poor soils. Because of this, farmers near the road, where there was greater pressure on land and poorer soils, were increasingly choosing to plant small-seed rice varieties in their upland plots. Although there were some varieties that farmers appeared to have maintained over generations, the diversity of rice varieties grown by farmers in Pak Ou district was dynamic, changing from year to year and across time as farmers shifted between fields, adapted to changing environmental and social conditions, and as new varieties arose spontaneously in fields or were introduced by projects, new immigrants, other ethnic groups, or by farmers who had travelled and found interesting seeds in other places. Adaptation to environmental change and changes in rice varietal diversity

The need to experiment, to adapt and to intensify their cropping systems had been forced upon farmers by land constraints and environmental pressures. Farmers in all villages expressed concern that their rice yields were declining.They complained that the rice was not growing well; that even when it grew, the grains no longer filled, or it grew ‘too well’ and did not produce any grain. Farmers also asserted that weather patterns had changed and that rainfall had become increasingly inconsistent and came at the wrong time. Farmers in all villages were experimenting with different options in order to cope with the new ecological problems they were facing. In Houay Lo, many farmers who were struggling with increased weed infestation as a result of shorter fallow periods switched from rice to growing crops that were less affected by weeds and poor soils, such as Job’s tears and sesame, which ‘do not choose the soil’ and which were taller and had a larger leaf canopy than rice, shading the weeds as they grew and therefore needing to be weeded fewer times over the growing season. On fields badly infested with Imperata grass (nya kha), farmers

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sometimes planted teak saplings, in spite of the fact that it would take many years before they would benefit economically from the trees, because they were afraid they would lose the land altogether once the Imperata became too dense or spread. Alternatively, some left these areas fallow, used the area for animal grazing, or used herbicides if they had only patches of Imperata on their fields. Switching to cash crops in the uplands complied with state policies. However, because of the volatility of markets for common annual cash crops such as Job’s tears and sesame, farmers who had no paddy fields preferred to grow at least some upland rice because the income they could earn from other crops was variable and often too low to cover the cost of buying subsistence rice on the market for the entire year. Many farmers asserted that they were changing the rice varieties that they cultivated because of increased soil degradation. Particularly in villages along the road, where land limitations were more extreme, farmers were selecting from a smaller pool of rice varieties that grew well on poor soils and were abandoning varieties that used to be popular. In addition to the switch to cash crops, this shift in the varieties being planted was potentially leading to an overall loss of agricultural biodiversity. In the roadside villages of Lattahae, Houay Leuang and Houay Lo, farmers of all different ethnic groups said they were replacing favoured large-seed varieties with Khao Pé, a small-seed late-duration variety that grew well on poor soils. Most people in the village now plant Khao Deng and Khao Pé [both lateduration, small-seed varieties], because these can give a good yield. However, we used to cultivate different varieties - Khao Khao, Khao Mak Khua, Khao Sukiang, Khao Man Pu. (Lao village headman, Houay Lo) Near Lattahae, some areas are good, some are not good. If we use Khao Pé it grows, but if we use large-seed rice, then it’s not good. You can use large-seed rice ‘up here’ in Houay Kha. Khao Pé doesn’t choose the soil – it grows on any soil. Because it [my land] is young fallow, I use Khao Pé … Before we had only young fallow [land], we planted many different rice varieties – Khao Pulouey, Khao Longkan, Khao Khao. Everyone used to use these varieties – not only the Lue people – in Houay Kha and other villages as well. Lattahae and Nanoi used the same varieties. Before, there was no limit on the land and we could clear the forest, but now we are not allowed to clear the forest and have only young fallow, so have to use Khao Pé. Some Kammu still have old fallow, but now, for Lao Lue and Lao Loum, we don’t use the other varieties because we only have young fallow. In Houay Khot and Nazzavan,20 they still use these varieties because they still have lots of forest – also some people in Houay Kha still use them. (Lue farmer from Lattahae, with land near Houay Kha) Last year I planted Khao Pé and Khao Deng. Before we used other varieties, but now, because the field is young fallow, other varieties are not good for young fallow. If we plant other local varieties, they are not good for young fallow. So most people [in Houay Lo] only use Khao Deng and Khao Pé. For two to three

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years now, I have not been planting the other varieties. A lot of people have stopped planting different rice varieties – most people now plant Khao Pé… I used to plant Khao Pu, which had a good smell. However, I stopped planting this because the rats liked to eat it as soon as the rice became pregnant and until it was ready for harvest, and also because it was not good for young fallow. Khao Pé and Khao Deng do not have as much of a problem with rats – they will eat it, but only after it produces and not all of it. Khao Pé itches, so rats don’t like to eat it. Also, Khao Deng and Khao Pé have small seeds and can be in the sun – they are patient in the sun.When the weather is hot they can stay and won’t die. Other rice varieties will die when it is too hot. (Lue farmer from Houay Lo) In Lattahae, if you don’t use Khao Pé, then you won’t get a good yield because the soil in Lattahae is not good, and so you can’t use another variety. If you use another variety, you cannot even get enough rice to eat. The soil in Lattahae is bad because it has been used a lot. Because it is young fallow, the soil has become dry. (Kammu farmer from Houay Kha) In Houay Kha, where villagers were only beginning to feel pressure on land resources and still had access to fertile soil, farmers also planted Khao Pé on areas of their fields where soils were poor and on fields closer to the village that were cultivated more frequently. However, they grew large-seed varieties on the better parts of their fields and in fields that were further from the village that had been cleared from older fallows. However, comments from farmers indicated that a shift in varietal diversity was also beginning to happen in Houay Kha: I only use Khao Pé on my land now because it is the only one that grows well. Before, we used to cut old forest and rice grew very well, but now they don’t allow people to cut the forest. Now we have young fallow and the soil is getting dry. (Farmer, Houay Kha)

Khao Khao chooses the soil. If the soil has small stones, it doesn’t grow very well. We usually plant this on old fallow or land cleared directly from forest. We still plant this, although fewer people plant this than before. Most people who plant this have fields very far from the village. (Group discussion with Kammu farmers in Houay Kha) The International Rice Research Institute (IRRI) has voiced concern over the erosion of rice varietal diversity in Laos, in both the uplands and the lowlands, primarily attributing this to both the spread of ‘modern’ high-yielding varieties that have been replacing traditional landraces in the lowlands, and state policies that seek to replace upland rice with other crops. In 1993, less than 10% of lowland wet-rice paddy fields were planted with ‘modern’ varieties, but by 2001 this had increased to 50% (Appa Rao et al., 2001, p3), indicating a loss of traditional varieties similar to that which occurred throughout much of Southeast Asia during the Green Revolution.

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Although traditional rice varieties planted in highland areas are not being replaced by high-yielding varieties, since these are generally poorly suited to the diverse and often marginal ecological conditions in the hills, rice varietal diversity is threatened by other aspects of agricultural ‘modernization’.21 It is threatened directly by state policies seeking to eliminate swidden cultivation and promote sedentary cultivation of cash crops in the uplands, by replacing rice with other crops. It is also threatened indirectly, as deteriorating ecological conditions that have been partially brought about by these policies are forcing farmers to abandon preferred varieties in favour of those that grow better on poor soils. It is widely recognised that conservation of varietal diversity of staple crops such as rice is important for global food security. However, there are ethical problems involved in collecting local knowledge and rice varieties for the ‘common global good’ and saving these in gene banks to be managed and controlled by scientists, as well as in encouraging local people to forgo their own desires for development in order to conserve these in situ in their fields. Of cosmologies, perceptions and adaptations to environmental change

Local adaptations to environmental degradation and declining rice yields have been based not only on farmers’ empirical experimentation with different crops, rice varieties and land management, but also on their holistic understandings of causality. While most farmers have attributed declining rice yields to physical factors such as degrading soils or erratic rainfall, some have also considered the land spirits and the rice soul as contributing factors (Figure 26.4). Some Kammu farmers have stopped building spirit huts and offering gifts to the rice soul and phi – not because they have been exposed to new ideas and no longer believe in these things, but because they feel the contract of reciprocity has been broken, and they no longer want to waste chickens or ducks in sacrifices to the spirits and rice soul if these entities are not going to help with the success of their crops. Others feel that the success of the rice crop now depends solely on the weather, so they have stopped building spirit huts. Building spirit huts in the field is a tradition of the old people – but some people have given up now. Some people – they can’t give up, and they still build them. Most

FIGURE 26.4  A Kammu farmer builds a taleo as a guide to the rice spirit. Some farmers are abandoning these traditional practices.

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people think that if they plant rice, and get a lot of rice, then they are happy to offer a chicken and a duck to the rice soul. But if they don’t get a lot of rice, they don’t want to do this because they lose a chicken or duck. People are stopping, because if the rice doesn’t grow well, then they don’t want to give an offering to the rice soul. (Kammu farmer, Houay Kha) Fewer people are building spirit houses now because there is no reason to build the spirit house, because there is no result. Because if you build, you don’t get anything, and if you don’t build, it’s the same. Now, rice depends on the weather. People don’t believe in spirit houses. They don’t believe in the old customs any more. In the Kammu religion, if a relative died, then [in the past] they wouldn’t plant rice. But now, it depends on the weather. (Kammu village headman, Houay Leuang) Some farmers experimented, to test ‘empirically’ whether spirit huts and rituals made any difference to rice yields – in the same manner that they might test different crops or rice varieties. When they observed no benefits, then they stopped building them. This did not necessarily imply that they had stopped believing in phi, only that they felt that phi were no longer influencing the rice crop, and they might equally find ‘empirical’ evidence that phi were influencing other aspects of their lives. Nobody can see phi – only believe in them. If you believe, then you will follow the belief. When I was living in my parents’ house, we believed in the phi, and my parents worked in the uplands and cleared the land very well and weeded very well. But still the rice did not grow very well. When I moved out of their house, I didn’t care about the spirits and didn’t do anything for the phi, and I cleared the field just like my father had done, and my rice grew very well. So I don’t believe in the phi. … It’s not that I don’t believe at all. I still believe in some. One time one of my children got sick, and I took her to the hospital. At first, she got a little bit better, and we came back to the village again. But she was still sick, and we took her to the hospital again, and this time she didn’t get well. So we came back to the village and went to the shaman to ask what was wrong with my daughter. He said that phi were causing the illness, and that the phi wanted to eat a red chicken. So I looked for a red chicken, and killed it to offer to the phi, and my daughter got well. So this I believe. (Kammu farmer, Houay Kha) However, when I asked if he had built a spirit house, he emphasized the importance of continuing to honour rice because ‘rice is our life’: We still build spirit houses for the rice soul. When we build the rice-soul hut, kill a chicken and offer the chicken, and put rice on it, we tell the rice to grow very well and get yield. Because we don’t want to forget rice, because rice is our life.

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The astrologer-cum-shaman of Houay Kha was concerned about changing beliefs and practices in the village, and conversely blamed the increasing problems of rice shortage in the village on lack of attention and respect for the spirits. Before, we believed in the spirits. But now a lot of people don’t believe and some have stopped. So now the Kammu people are getting short of rice. Hanging on a wall in his house, he had posted a sign in large letters: ‘BELIEVE THE SPIRITS!’ Although a few farmers told me that the traditional rituals were ‘out of date’, the shift in ritual practices did not appear to be a response to either new ideas or perceptions that such beliefs were ‘backward’, but related more to deteriorating environmental conditions, declining rice yields and farmers’ own ‘empirical’ observations, which, within their own cosmology, were interpreted as evidence that these rituals ‘no longer’ influenced rice productivity. It was not that phi and rice souls were no longer believed to exist, but that they either no longer had the power to influence rice growth, or that they were no longer ‘pulling their weight’ and therefore did not deserve the offered gifts. These shifts in beliefs about rice cultivation were therefore indirectly a result of ‘modernization’, not simply because the ideologies of modernity had been accepted, but rather because the ecological and social effects of ‘modernizing’ policies were negatively influencing crop yields. Conclusion

Swidden farmers are neither locked in ‘tradition’ nor completely risk averse; the histories of highland swidden communities are peppered with examples of mass adoption of boom-or-bust tree crops (Li, 1999, 2002; Hall, 2011). In spite of the cultural and livelihood importance of rice, farmers in Pak Ou district have expressed eagerness to completely switch to cash crops if these promise to be economically lucrative and will help them to become ‘up to date’. However, they are facing the new market economy in a situation of increasing vulnerability. Currently, farmers in Laos follow a number of strategies to adapt to, and manage, these risks. They maintain multiple and diverse livelihood activities, both within the farming system – by maintaining crop biodiversity, taking advantage of different ecologies, and ‘keeping one foot in the market, and the other in subsistence’ - and within the household, increasingly by having some household members engaged in non-farm work within or outside the village (Ellis, 2000).They also manage risk by maintaining strong social ties within communities, so that they can get help when it is needed.The performance of rituals to appease supernatural forces is an aspect of risk management through which farmers attempt to influence the unpredictable and unexpected aspects of agriculture. It forms part of ‘holistic’ local agricultural knowledge that influences how farmers interpret and adapt to change. As swidden farmers in Laos respond to increasing ecological and social constraints, they draw from all aspects of their knowledge about farming and environmental causality, and not just the technical

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aspects of this knowledge. At the same time, their long-held cultivation practices, rice biodiversity and cultural understandings of environmental causality are all currently challenged by new ecological conditions. References ADB (2001) Participatory Poverty Assessment: Lao People’s Democratic Republic, Asian Development Bank (ADB), Manila Appa Rao, S., Bounphanousay, C., Schiller J. M. and Jackson, M. T. (2001) Collection, Classification, and Conservation of Cultivated and Wild Rices of the Lao PDR, National Agricultural and Forestry Institute, Lao National Rice Research Programme and Lao-IRRI Project.Vientiane, Lao PDR Baird, I. G. and Shoemaker, B. (2007) ‘Unsettling experiences: Internal resettlement and international aid agencies in Laos’, Development and Change 38(5), pp865–888 Brodt, S. B. (2001) ‘A systems perspective on the conservation and erosion of indigenous agricultural knowledge in Central India’, Human Ecology 29(1), pp99–120 Brokensha, D.,Warren, D. and Werner, O. (eds) (1980) Indigenous Knowledge Systems and Development, University Press of America, Lanham, MD Condominas, G. (1977) We have Eaten the Forest: The Story of a Montagnard Village in the Central Highlands of Vietnam, Hill and Wang, New York Conklin, H. C. (1957) Hanunóo Agriculture: A Report on an Integral System of Shifting Cultivation in the Philippines, Food and Agriculture Organisation of the United Nations, Rome Delang, C. O. (2003) ‘Social and economic adaptations to a changing landscape: Realities, opportunities and constraints’, in C. O. Delang (ed.) Living at the Edge of Thai Society:The Karen in the Highlands of Northern Thailand, Routledge, London and New York, pp155–182 DeWalt, B. R. (1994) ‘Using indigenous knowledge to improve agriculture and natural resource management’, Human Organization 53 (2), pp123–131 Dove, M. (1985) Swidden Agriculture in Indonesia:The Subsistence Strategies of the Kalimantan Kantu, Mouton, New York Dove, M. (1996) ‘Center, periphery, and biodiversity: A paradox of governance and a development challenge’, in S. B. Brush and D. Stabinsky (eds) Valuing Local Knowledge: Indigenous People and Intellectual Property Rights, Island Press, Washington, DC, pp41–67 Dove, M. R. (1999) ‘The agronomy of memory and the memory of agronomy: Ritual conservation of archaic cultigens in contemporary farming systems’, in V. D. Nazarea (ed.) Ethnoecology: Situated Knowledge/Located Lives, University of Arizona Press, Tucson, AZ, pp45–70 Dove, M. R. and Kammen, D. M. (1997) ‘The epistemology of sustainable resource use: Managing forest products, swiddens, and high-yielding variety crops’, Human Organization 56 (1), pp91–101 Elliott, J. (1992) ‘The Lua’ (T’in): Remembering life in Laos’, in J. Lewis (ed) Minority cultures of Laos: Kammu, Lua’, Lahu, Hmong, and Iu-Mien, Southeast Asia Community Resource Centre, Rancho Cordove, CA, pp73–123 Ellis, F. (2000) ‘Livelihoods, diversification and agrarian change’. in F. Ellis (ed.) Rural Livelihoods and Diversity in Developing Countries, Oxford University Press, New York, pp3–27 Evans-Pritchard, E. E. (1937) ‘The notion of witchcraft explains unfortunate events’, in E. E. EvansPritchard (ed.) Witchcraft, Oracles and Magic among the Azande, Clarendon Press, Oxford, UK, pp63–83 Évrard, O. (2006) Chroniques des cendres: Anthropologie des sociétés khmou et des dynamiques interethniques du Nord-Laos, Institut de Recherche pour le Développement (IRD) Éditions, Paris Fairhead, J. (1993) ‘Representing knowledge: The “new farmer” in research fashions’, in J. Pottier (ed.) Practising Development: Social Science Perspectives, Routledge, London, pp187–204 Fairhead, J. and Leach, M. (1996) Misreading the African Landscape: Society and Ecology in a ForestSavanna Mosaic, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, UK

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Fienup-Riordan, A. (2001) ‘A guest at the table: Ecology from the Yup’ik eskimo point of view’, in J. A. Grim (ed.) Indigenous Traditions and Ecology: The Interbeing of Cosmology and Community, Harvard University Press, Cambridge, MA, pp541–558 Freeman, D. (1970) Report on the Iban, University of London, The Athlone Press, London Friedman, J. (1998 [1979]) System, Structure, and Contradiction: The Evolution of Asiatic Social Formations, second edition, Walnut Creek, London, Altamira Press, New Delhi Geddes, W. R. (1976) Migrants of the Mountains: The Cultural Ecology of the Blue Miao (Hmong Njua) of Thailand, Clarendon Press, Oxford, UK Hall, D. (2011) “Land grabs, land control, and Southeast Asian crop booms’, The Journal of Peasant Studies 38 (4), pp837–857 Hanks, L. M. (1972) Rice and Man: Agricultural Ecology in Southeast Asia, Aldine-Atherton, Chicago, IL Hayashi, Y. (2003) Practical Buddhism among the Thai-Lao: A Regional Study of Religion in the Making, Kyoto University Press, Kyoto, Japan Holt, J. C. (2009) Spirits of the Place: Buddhism and Lao Religious Culture, University of Hawai’i Press, Honolulu Hviding, E. (1996) ‘Nature, culture, magic, science: On meta-languages for comparison in cultural ecology’, in P. Descola and G. Palsson (eds) Nature and Society: Anthropological Perspectives, Routledge, London, pp165–184 IRRI (2003) ‘Looking up in Laos’, Rice Today 2 (1), International Rice Research Institute, Los Baños, Philippines, pp16–19 Izikowitz, K. G. (1979 [1951]) Lamet: Hill Peasants in French Indochina, AMS Press, New York Keyes, C. F. (1995) Golden Peninsula: Culture and Adaptation in Mainland Southeast Asia, ch. 3: ‘Rural life in Theravada Buddhist societies’, University of Hawaii Press, Honolulu Kothari, B. (2002) ‘Theoretical streams in marginalised peoples’ knowledge(s): Systems, asystems, and subaltern knowledge(s)’, Agriculture and Human Values 19, pp225–237 Lao PDR (2007) Lao Forestry Law, 24 December 2007 (unofficial translation), Government of Lao PDR,Vientiane Leach, E. (1997 [1954]) Political Systems of Highland Burma: A Study of Kachin Social Structure, The Athlone Press, London and Atlantic Highlands, NJ Lebar, F. M., Hickey, G. C. and Musgrave, J. K. (eds) (1964) Ethnic Groups of Mainland Southeast Asia, Human Relations Area Files Press, New Haven, CT Lestrelin, G. and Giordano, M. (2007) ‘Upland development policy, livelihood change and land degradation: Interactions from a Laotian village’, Land Degradation and Development 18, pp55–76 Li, T. M. (1999) ‘Marginality, power and production: Analysing upland transformations’, in T. M. Li (ed.) Transforming the Indonesian Uplands, Harwood Academic Publishers, Amsterdam, pp1–43 Li, T. M. (2002) ‘Local histories, global markets: Cocoa and class in upland Sulawesi’, Development and Change 33 (3), pp415–437 Lindell, K., Lundström, H., Svantesson, J. O. and Tayanin, D. (1982) The Kammu Year: Its Lore and Music, Scandinavian Instititute of Asian Studies, Studies on Asian Topics no. 4, Curzon Press, London Maddock, K. (1991) ‘Metamorphosing the Sacred in Australia’, The Australian Journal of Anthropology 2 (2), pp213–232 Malinowski, B. (1948) ‘Rational mastery by man of his surroundings’, in Magic, Science and Religion and Other Essays, Beacon Press, Boston Matisoff, J. A. (1992) ‘The Lahu people and their language’, in J. Lewis (ed.) Minority Cultures of Laos: Kammu, Lua’, Lahu, Hmong, and Mien, Southeast Asia Community Resource Centre, Rancho Cordoca, CA, pp125–247 Michaud, J. (2010) ‘Editorial: Zomia and beyond’, Journal of Global History 5, pp187–214 Michaud, J. and Culas, C. (2000) ‘The Hmong of Southeast Asia massif:Their recent history of migration’, in G. Evans, C. Hutton and K. K. Eng (eds) Where China Meets Southeast Asia: Social and Cultural Change in the Border Regions, St. Martin’s Press, New York, pp98–121

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Millar, D. (1993) ‘Farmer experimentation and the cosmovision paradigm’, in W. de Boef, K. Amanor, K. Wellard and A. Bebbington (eds) Cultivating Knowledge: Genetic Diversity, Farmer Experimentation and Crop Research, Intermediate Technology Publications, London, pp44–50 Richards, P. (1993) ‘Cultivation: Knowledge or performance?’, in M. Hobart (ed.) An Anthropological Critique of Development: The Growth of Ignorance, Routledge, London, pp61–78 Roder,W., Keoboulapha, B.,Vannalath, K. and Phouaravanh, B. (1996) ‘Glutinous rice and its importance for hill farmers in Laos’, Economic Botany 50 (4), pp401–408 Salas, M. A. (1994) ‘“The technicians only believe in science and cannot read the sky”: The cultural dimension of the knowledge conflict in the Andes’, in I. Scoones and J. Thompson (eds) Beyond Farmer First: Rural Peoples’ Knowledge, Agricultural Research and Extension Practice, Intermediate Technology Publications, London, pp57–69 Schiller, J. M., Appa Rao, S., Hatsadong, and Inthapanya, P. (2001). Glutinous Rice Varieties of Laos, their Improvement, Cultivation, Processing and Consumption, National Agriculture and Forestry Research Institute, Lao National Rice Research Programme and Lao-IRRI Project,Vientiane, Lao PDR Scoones, I. and Thompson, J. (1994) ‘Knowledge, power and agriculture: Towards a theoretical understanding’, in I. Scoones and J.Thompson (eds) Beyond Farmer First: Rural People’s Knowledge, Agricultural Research and Extension Practice, Intermediate Technology Publications. London, pp16–32 Scott, C. (1996) ‘Science for the West, myth for the rest? The case of James Bay Cree knowledge construction’, in L. Nader (ed.) Naked Science: Anthropological Inquiry into Boundaries, Power, and Knowledge, Routledge, London, pp69–86 Scott, J. C. (1998) Seeing Like a State: How Certain Schemes to Improve the Human Condition have Failed, Yale University Press, New Haven, CT Simana, S. and Preisig, E. (1997) Khmu Livelihood: Farming the Forest, Institute for Cultural Research, Ministry for Information and Culture,Vientiane, Lao PDR Soemarwoto, R. (2007) ‘Kasepuhan rice landrace diversity, risk management, and agricultural modernization’, in R. Ellen (ed.) Modern Crises and Traditional Strategies: Local Ecological Knowledge in Island Southeast Asia, Berghahn Books, New York and Oxford, UK, pp83–111 Tambiah, S. J. (1970) Buddhism and the Spirit Cults in North-East Thailand, Cambridge University Press. Cambridge, UK Tayanin, D. (2007) ‘Kammu fallow management in Lao P.D.R., with emphasis on bamboo use’, in M. F. Cairns (ed.) Voices from the Forest: Integrating Indigenous Knowledge into Sustainable Upland Farming, Resources for the Future Press, Washington, DC, pp65–72 Tayanin, D. and Vang, L. (1992) ‘From the village to the city: The changing life of the Kammu’, in J. Lewis (ed.) Minority Cultures of Laos: Kammu, Lua’, Lahu, Hmong, and Iu-Mien, Southeast Asia Community Resource Center, Rancho, Cordova, CA, pp1–71 van Beek, W. E. A. (1993) ‘Processes and limitations of Dogon agricultural knowledge’, in M. Hobart (ed.) An Anthropological Critique of Development: The Growth of Ignorance, Routledge, London, pp43–60 van der Ploeg, J. D. (1993) ‘Potatoes and knowledge’, in M. Hobart (ed.) An Anthropological Critique of Development: The Growth of Ignorance, Routledge, London, pp209–227 Vandergeest, P. (2003) ‘Land to some tillers: Development-induced displacement in Laos’, International Social Science Journal 55 (1), pp47–56 Walker, A. (1999) The Legend of the Golden Boat: Regulation, Trade and Traders in the Borderlands of Laos, Thailand, China and Burma, University of Hawai’i Press, Honolulu

Notes 1 Similarly, the Kammu ask mah mah? or Pé mah? (depending on the dialect) – meaning ‘have you eaten rice?’ or simply, ‘eat rice’ (see Évrard, 2006, p93).

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2 Rice with grain is described as being pregnant, in the same way as people and mammals (khao man or khao tangton). Corn with grain is described as ‘corn before it produces’ (salee ok hung). Job’s tears are described as ‘Job’s tears will have grain’ (mak douay bin mak). Cucumber is described as ‘having a flower’ (mak teng dok). 3 See Li (2002) for an excellent example of how the introduction of commercial tree crops into swidden systems can lead to enclosure and piecemeal dispossession of farmers. 4 The Lao Loum include ethnic Lao and Lao-Tai speakers (Tai-Kadai) that are said to be mainly wet-rice farmers living between altitudes of 200 and 400 metres above sea level (masl), and followers of Theravada Buddhism. The Lao Theung include Austro-Asiatic/Mon-Khmer speakers such as Kammu, Lamet and Lahu, and are officially described as animists who practise swidden cultivation for glutinous rice and hunting-gathering in the forested areas of middle mountain ranges, with altitudes above 700 masl. The Lao Sung include Tibeto-Burman and Hmong-Yao groups, such as the Hmong, Akha, Lisu and Lu-Mien. These groups are considered to be more recent immigrants to Laos, and are described as animists living in higher mountain ranges above 1000 masl. They are said to be highly migratory, practising pioneer shifting cultivation in which rice, opium poppies and corn are grown continuously until the soils are depleted and then the entire village moves to clear a new area of primary forest. This classification system has been heavily criticized for its ethnic stereotypes and simplistic assumptions of discrete bounded ethnic groups that overlap with specific livelihood practices and places of residence, and was officially abandoned by the government in 1981. However, the three categories continue to be widely used, both formally and informally, in state and development discourse. The same categories are also used by villagers in local discussions about ethnicity and ethnic differences. 5 Although Hmong farmers in many parts of Laos receive remittances from kin who migrated as refugees to the United States in the mid- to late 1970s, this was not a major source of income among the Hmong I interviewed in the study villages. 6 The name Sivilai is a pseudonym. 7 Taleo are circles of woven bamboo posted on sticks that are often used to mark areas that farmers plan to clear the following year, and they are used to mark the borders of the field. 8 IUARP – the Integrated Upland Agricultural Research Project – was a five-year project run by the Lao National Agriculture and Forestry Research Institute in collaboration with various international institutions, primarily the International Rice Research Institute. The project involved a wide range of field-based experiments with farmers taking part, and was focused on developing new cropping and land-management alternatives to intensive upland cultivation systems. 9 PVS trials involve farmers in evaluating and ranking a series of different rice (or other crop) varieties, grown side by side in rows in a single field, at different stages of growth. The goal is for scientists to gain information on farmer preferences for different varietal traits, and select those varieties that are ranked highly and grow well across soil types so that they can be distributed to farmers in many different areas. However, as Sivilai’s choice illustrates, farmers choose varieties that grow well under specific conditions, while researchers are often looking for varieties that grow well across a range of different conditions so that the results of the project can be ‘scaled up’ to have greater impact. 10 Khang is resin produced by an insect which it uses to attach itself to the bark of certain tree species. The resin is sold and made into lac. 11 For example, the Kantu Dayak interpret their swidden agriculture within a wider moral and cosmological context that Dove refers to as ‘moral ecology’. A successful harvest is related to the fulfilment of a moral pact between the human and spirit worlds, which includes not only following the ritual proscriptions within the agricultural cycle, but also respecting taboos in relationships between people. Bad harvests are often blamed on incest in the community (Dove and Kammen, 1997). Spirits may also play a role in encouraging people to follow social norms that act to protect the environment. Among the Karen in Thailand, if certain customs concerning the environment are broken and the spirits of nature are offended, the spirits might harm the village by causing disease or a bad harvest (Delang, 2003). Some ethnic groups (including the Hmong, Kammu, Kachin and Lamet) will relocate entire villages if they believe they have been cursed by bad spirits, and epidemics are often interpreted as spiritual curses and motivate migration (Izikowitz, 1979 [1951];

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Leach, 1997 [1954]; Tayanin and Vang, 1992; Michaud and Culas, 2000). Belief in spirits and taboos may also influence agricultural-work patterns. In Laos, among the Lamet (who are a Mon Khmer ethnic group, similar to the Kammu), there are certain days when working on swiddens or winnowing rice are taboo (Izikowitz, 1979 [1951]), and among the Lahu, agricultural work ceases during the day of the new moon and the full moon (Matisoff, 1992). Similarly, presence of bad spirits or omens, as well as physical factors such as soil quality, length of fallow, nearness to villages and so on, may have some influence on which fields are cleared in a given year (ADB, 2001). It has been argued that the role of ritual as a form of reciprocity between the human, spiritual and natural world tends to coincide with an environmental ethic that respects nature. 12 For the Lao and Lue, who follow Theravadda Buddhism, the belief in phi coexists and is syncretic with Buddhist beliefs in karma and reincarnation. Buddhism provides a framework for moral behaviour to influence future lives, and helps explain one’s current life situation (according to past karma), while belief in phi, the rice soul and astrology are ‘pragmatic’ approaches to help manage risk and misfortune in people’s current incarnation.There is some overlap between the Lao and Lue with the Kammu beliefs in phi. The Kammu are considered by the Lao to be the original owners of the land and to have special authority over the guardian phi (as continually evidenced in yearly rituals involving the Kammu and Lao held in Luang Prabang) (Holt, 2009), and the Kammu of Houay Kha claim that it was the Kammu people who originally taught the Lao how to build spirit huts. 13 The belief that rice has a ‘soul’ is common among swidden cultivators, and special rituals are often performed at various stages in rice development to protect the rice soul from evil spirits and lead it to storage after the harvest. Conklin wrote that the Hanunoo of the Philippines believed that the rice plant had spirits and that the welfare of people in the region depended on the relationship between swidden farmers and rice people (Conklin, 1957, pp88-89). Izikowitz wrote that the Lamet of Laos (who are a Mon Khmer ethnic group, similar to the Kammu) believed that if the soul of rice escaped, then rice supplies would be exhausted and there would be famine, so they took particular care with ceremonies to ensure that the rice soul found its way to seed storage after harvest and did not get waylaid by evil spirits en route (Izikowitz, 1979 [1951], p171). Hanks (1972) wrote that the Thai believed in a ‘rice mother’ who needed to be treated as a pregnant woman. The rice grains were considered to be her offspring. During budding of the rice, women needed to ‘feed’ the rice mother with offerings of bitter leaves and sweet-smelling powder. After harvest, the rice soul was set free and had to be carefully recovered by women, who made a doll from rice straw left in the field and led the rice to the granary (Hanks, 1972, pp21,78-79). 14 The notion of a plural soul of 32 parts located in different parts of the body is common among the Lao and Lao-Tai (Tambiah, 1970; Keyes, 1995; Holt, 2009). 15 Keyes (1995, p132) writes about a similar belief in Thailand, arguing that the mother, milk and rice are considered as inherently the same. He argues that this reflects the association of women with nurturing, the earth and with rice (conceived as a feminine entity), and explains that men are associated with power to fertilize the earth and women, and to govern others, and have a higher spiritual status than women. Women are linked with the earth and nurturing, while men are linked with the spiritual (superhuman) world and with potency. 16 The Kammu, Lao and Hmong all believe that people host multiple souls that can become scared and leave the body.This loss of souls is thought to cause illness, and one purpose of a baci ceremony is to recall wayward souls back to the body. The people in the village then tie cotton strings around each wrist of the person (or people) for whom the baci is held, wishing the person long life, good health and so on. This represents tying the recalled souls back to the body, and can also be interpreted as bringing the person back into the village and back into ‘domesticated space’. Baci ceremonies are held for rites of passage (e.g. marriage), when beginning a new enterprise, when someone is travelling (leaving the village or coming back to the village), when someone is moving to a new house, when someone needs better luck, when someone is ill and needs their souls recalled, and so on (Tambiah, 1970; Holt, 2009). 17 For detailed descriptions of the rice-soul-calling ceremony of the Lao-Thai, see Tambiah (1970), and for the Kammu, see Evrard (2006) and Simana and Preisig (1997).

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18 India has contributed 18,000 varieties of rice.These numbers include all varieties of rice – glutinous and non-glutinous, aerobic rice planted in the highlands as well as lowland paddy-rice varieties (IRRI, 2003). 19 In Houay Kha, the price for small-grain rice was 1200 kip per kilo compared with 1500 kip per kilo for large-seed rice. In Lattahae, a neighbouring roadside village, the price was 1700 kip per kilo for small-seed rice and 2000 kip per kilo for large-seed rice. (In 2006, 1000 kip was equivalent to about 10 US cents.) 20 These are Kammu communities located further into the mountains, more remote than Houay Kha. 21 In order to be cost-effective, scientific plant-breeding programmes are designed to develop ‘improved’ rice varieties that can be produced on a large scale, for distribution to many farmers across a wide geographical area that is relatively uniform, in ecological terms. Breeders have struggled with the complexity of upland environments, since it is difficult to produce a single variety that grows well across the many different micro-ecologies in these areas. Upland areas and marginal lands have been little influenced by Green Revolution technologies, and have long been seen as repositories of agricultural biodiversity.

27 IS THE ‘BOGEYMAN’ REAL? Shifting cultivation and the forests, Papua New Guinea Bryant Allen and Colin Filer*

Introduction

A ‘bogeyman’ is an imaginary creature used to evoke fear and anxiety.1 The question we address here arises from a recent claim by Shearman et al. (2008), that shifting cultivation is a real threat to Papua New Guinea (PNG)’s forests, and hence to global warming. We ask: is this threat real, or is it imaginary? We explore the evidence for this allegation by examining research on shifting cultivation in PNG and arguments about its impact on forests from the 1920s to the present day. We argue that the 2008 findings contradict most previous findings and have probably resulted from an incorrect classification of tall secondary-forest fallows as primary forest.2 Nevertheless, we find that the changes revealed in these forest fallows by the 2008 study are a serious cause for concern for the long-term food security and welfare of about five million people in PNG who depend upon shifting cultivation to feed themselves. The dimensions of shifting cultivation in PNG

Before we examine what has been said about PNG’s shifting cultivation systems since the 1920s, we provide some broad background information about the importance of shifting cultivation to the economy and society in that country. Agriculture has a very long history in PNG. Paleo-botanical and archeological research has established that in highland locations forest began to be cleared, probably for agriculture, around 10,000 years ago, and certainly by 7000 years ago (Denham, 2003). These very early agriculture systems were shifting systems and the fact that they once existed is revealed

* 

Dr Bryant Allen,Visiting Fellow, State, Society and Governance in Melanesia Programme, College of Asia and the Pacific, The Australian National University, Canberra; Dr Colin Filer, Associate Professor, Crawford School of Public Policy, College of Asia and the Pacific, The Australian National University, Canberra.

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by significant increases in pollen from secondary-forest species found in cores from swamps and lakes (Haberle, 1998). Highland fallows were dominated by tall grasses (mainly Saccharum and Miscanthus species), scrub and trees (Casuarina spp.). In the lowlands, extensive shifting cultivation created large areas of secondary forest. Long fallow periods meant that forest fallows commonly comprised tall trees with well-developed understoreys. In some locations with strong seasonality, areas of short grasses (mainly Imperata and Ischaemum spp.) appeared. As we shall see, their origins were probably a combination of forest clearing on very poor soils and subsequent annual burning. Around 1700 ce,3 a ‘revolution’ occurred in PNG highlands agriculture and society (Brookfield and White, 1968).4 A South American plant, sweet potato (Ipomoea batatas), was introduced. Sweet potato yielded better on poorer soils and could be grown at higher altitudes. Highland agriculture systems were intensified by the development of tillage and green manuring on mounds and beds to maintain continuous production, and cultivation expanded upslope to around 2700m above sea level (asl). Highland environments, with lower temperatures, volcanic-ash soils and well-distributed moderate rainfall, meant that these developments were sustainable. By the 1900s, most occupied highland valleys had been cleared of forest to around 2700m asl. In the lowlands, sweet potato had a lesser impact, but since 1950 it has been adopted as a staple food in many lowland systems and it is now the staple food for about 68% of PNG’s total population. In 1986, the Australian Commonwealth Scientific and Industrial Research Organization (CSIRO) estimated that 117,858sq km, or 26% of PNG’s total land area of 459,854sq km, was ‘cultivated’ (Bellamy and McAlpine, 1995).5 The CSIRO defined ‘cultivated land’ as land planted to crops and land which had been planted to crops but which was currently in fallow. The inclusion of fallows as ‘cultivated’ land was an explicit recognition of the critical importance of forest fallowing and the cyclical pattern of planting and fallowing. In 1996, a five-year-long field-based national survey of PNG agriculture systems estimated that more than half of the land being planted to crops was cleared from tall secondary forest (Allen et al., 1995).6 The fallow periods in these systems were certainly longer than 15 years – long enough to allow the successional vegetation in fallowed plots to reach a tall-forest stage. In a further 13,400sq km, or 13% of agriculture systems, short, woody re-growth (or scrub) was cleared to plant crops. Only in systems covering less than 600sq km of land were crops being planted on land that had never before been cultivated; that is, cleared from primary forest (Allen et al., 2001, p533). This survey was unable to estimate the rates at which, for example, tall secondary forest was being converted to low, woody re-growth as a result of shortening fallow periods, or whether previously unused and forested land was being cleared for agriculture at an increasing rate. However, significant expansion of cultivated land into primary forest was observed only where oil palm was being planted by villages (as opposed to plantations).

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The 1996 survey found that every agriculture system in PNG involved, to a greater or lesser extent, the shifting of fields in which crops were planted (Allen et al., 2001). Half of the total area of land used for agriculture in PNG was fallowed for more than 15 years; around 40% was fallowed for between five and 15 years, and about 5% for between one and four years. A small 2% of the land was fallowed for less than a year and had all the characteristics of permanent cultivation, with short fallows of six to eight weeks between crops. Even in these systems, the whole of the cultivated area, comprising numerous fields enclosed by a long perimeter fence to exclude pigs, was moved about every 25 to 30 years. Land that was fallowed for less than five years had been cleared of forest as long as 200 years earlier; the fallow vegetation included tall and short grasses, low trees and numerous trees that had been planted by humans. Cropping periods also varied. More than half of the total area used for agriculture was planted in crops only once before it was fallowed; one-third was planted twice and less than 10% was planted between three and 40 times before a long fallow. Only 1% was planted more than 40 times. Thus, almost 90% of cultivated land in PNG was cultivated at very low land-use intensities and less than 2% at medium to high intensities. In 2004, PNG’s agricultural systems produced an estimated 4.5 million tonnes of food per year, worth around US$1400 million.7 This provided about 83% of the food energy and 76% of the protein consumed by the total PNG population (Bourke and Harwood, 2009, p130). Foremost in the minds of researchers in this period was a common-sense equation relating to the future of subsistence agriculture: if a group of people requires one hectare of land to be cultivated for one year to keep them in staple foods, and 15 years is then needed to restore the soil of that one hectare to its pre-cultivation condition, 16 hectares are needed to maintain this system in a steady state, provided the number of people does not increase. However, in most parts of the world – and certainly in PNG – the number of people is increasing. Hence, the amount of food produced has to increase at the same pace, and this means that the land has to be cultivated more often, or larger areas have to be under crops. The most common responses of PNG shifting cultivators to an increase in the human population is to intensify land use, either by increasing the number of times land is cropped before it is fallowed, or by reducing the time for which the land is fallowed – or both. Another very common response is to change to a new staple crop that will produce more carbohydrate on less fertile soils. In PNG, this is usually sweet potato (Ipomoea batatas) introduced in the 1700s, or less often, cassava (Manihot esculenta) or Chinese taro (Xanthosoma saggitifolia), introduced in the 1900s (Bourke, 2001, p224). All of these crops originated in South America. At the margins of some systems, especially those in the highlands with very high land-use intensity, previously unused land, usually upslope, is cleared and planted in mixed crops once or twice, after which it is fallowed for 10 to 15 years. The fallow produces firewood and timber for houses and fence construction. The land is then permanently cleared

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of secondary forest, enclosed by a fence and becomes part of a high-intensity sweet potato-production system.8 Colonial responses to shifting cultivation in PNG

Prior to Independence in 1975, concerns about shifting cultivation were almost all about whether existing agriculture systems could continue to provide adequate food for a growing rural population. There was rarely any concern about its impacts on primary forests.But that statement needs qualification:shifting-cultivation systems were poorly understood and so they were not dealt with seriously by most administrators, policy-makers in Canberra, or government-funded researchers, including those responsible for the administration of agriculture.9 The reasons were probably similar to those argued by Padoch et al. (2007, p32): because shifting-cultivation systems were, first, so ‘diverse, complex and dynamic’, data gatherers found it difficult to ‘see’, define or measure them; and second, because they were practised by rural villagers, governments found it difficult to manage them and so to collect statistics from them.10 PNG colonial administrations were dominated by a Department of District Administration structured along paramilitary lines, with a headquarters in Port Moresby and officers based at many isolated outposts who maintained relatively close contact with the rural population by regularly visiting villages, holding courts and taking censuses. But they and their Department of Agriculture counterparts made little attempt to understand shifting cultivation, and when they did, they were frustrated by its complexity and diversity. PNG was colonized by Germany, Great Britain and Australia.11 In the 1870s, the German New Guinea Company invested in agricultural projects that attempted to produce tobacco, cotton, kapok, rubber, coffee, cocoa and sisal at a handful of small outposts along the north coast of the mainland and on New Britain, New Ireland and Bougainville. Most of these plantations failed, and between 1909 and 1912 the most valuable item exported from New Guinea was bird-of-paradise plumes (Allen, 1981, p109).12 According to McKillop and Firth (1981, p97), British agricultural development in the colony of Papua was ‘ad hoc and speculative: periods of optimism promoted frantic searches for suitable crops and the failure of these crops brought stagnation and depression’.Both administrations more or less ignored village agriculture and were more concerned with clearing forest themselves for plantations and field crops, and with finding labour to work on the plantations. Annual reports from the German administrators regularly bemoaned the lack of interest shown by the ‘natives’ in commercial agriculture.There was no mention of threats to the forest from shifting cultivators in English translations of these reports (Sack and Clark, 1979). The first expressions of concern about damage to forests caused by ‘native agriculture’ appear to have been made in the 1920s, but almost immediately, other voices disagreed with concerns about the contemporary role of shifting cultivation. Those who held the negative view (mainly foresters) argued for government regulations against the cutting and burning of forests. They made little distinction between tall secondary

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forest and primary forest, and re-growth of forest trees during fallows was discounted. On the other hand, those who thought that indigenous agriculture was benign in its effects (mainly agronomists) believed that subsistence systems warranted some kind of government protection in the face of threats posed by the developing cash economy. The difference between these views was never debated with any vigour, which suggests that it was not viewed as a critical problem. The destruction-of-the-forests argument was first put forward in a report written for the Australian government in 1925 by the future head of the Australian Forestry School, Charles Lane-Poole (1925). This was based on surveys undertaken in 1923 and 1924. Lane-Poole believed all areas of grassland were the result of deliberate and repeated burning, either for the clearing of forest for cultivation or from hunting (Lane-Poole, 1925, pp63, 68). He saw the ‘shift’ in shifting cultivation as a periodic movement that was forced upon village communities because their production systems were not sustainable if they stayed at one location. When Lane-Poole encountered sparsely inhabited areas of grassland, he assumed that they had once been heavily populated and the people had moved away for one reason or another, ‘possibly the most urgent being that [they] had exhausted the land, created the grass, and could no longer farm it’. However, he allowed for a cyclical movement of people between different physical environments as each in turn was degraded by local subsistence practices. He also recognized that trees re-grew after the abandonment of land. He

FIGURE 27.1 

Gardens cleared from tall, woody re-growth on very steep slopes in the Saruwaget Mountains, Morobe Province, PNG (1992). Sweet potato, Chinese taro and yams are planted in these steep gardens, but always in separate blocks, or in separate gardens. Chinese taro and yams are planted only once. Great care is taken with yam cultivation, including the preparation of holes from which the soil is removed, broken into a fine tilth, and replaced before planting. Yam, sugar cane and beans are staked. Sturdy fences with downslope supports are constructed across the slope. Soil builds up to a depth of 2m behind the fences and is used for planting greens. The gardens are cropped for one or two years and fallowed for 10 to 15 years. Photo: Bryant Allen

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wrote: ‘where the whole population has come down from its strategical [sic] hill top villages to the valleys, the abandoned sites have entirely reverted to woodland’ (Lane-Poole, 1925, p35). Lane-Poole’s criticisms of shifting cultivation were tangential to the main purpose of his study, which was to assess the feasibility of a commercial forest industry and the need for a colonial-government agency to promote or regulate it. The writings of the senior officers of Ficus copiosa Steud. [Moraceae] a new agency, some of whom were graduates of the Australian Forestry Widely used in lowland PNG as a School, show that they understood green-leafed vegetable, this is a pioneer how shifting cultivation produced a species that appears spontaneously after vegetation is cleared complex pattern of vegetation types. They described this as a ‘mosaic or patchwork quilt, the components [of] which include a large number of “seral stages”, of which the production garden is one extreme and at the other is a [plant] community approaching, but doubtfully reaching, the climatic climax’.13 They described a typical PNG pattern as one in which two or three years of cultivation were followed by the re-growth of secondary forest or other secondary vegetation which was ‘broken by the agricultural cycle at intervals of eight to 20 years’. They understood that if the vegetation originally cleared was ‘tall rainforest’, the forest would revert to its original state after 50 years and that the fallow period was ‘essential for the productive utilization of the relatively poor, permanently leached soils of the ever-wet tropics’ (Womersley and McAdam, 1957, p21). A symposium sponsored by the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) on the ‘impact of man on humid-tropics vegetation’, held at Goroka in Papua New Guinea in 1960, provided post-war insights into the views of colonial administrators on shifting cultivation in PNG, through its published proceedings. A senior officer in the Department of Agriculture, Stock and Fisheries (DASF) questioned ‘the assumption so often made, that Man – agricultural Man – and particularly primitive Man in the tropics, is slowly destroying the resources of his agricultural environment’ (Conroy, 1962, p94).14 Conroy argued that human activity was a stabilizing influence on an inherently unstable natural environment. While he agreed that shifting cultivators used fire to create and maintain grassland fallows in preference to other forms of fallow vegetation, he could ‘see no evidence here … that the agricultural activities themselves have ever resulted in the degradation of natural forest country to grassland’ (Conroy, 1962, p96).

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However, other participants from the Department of Forests argued that shifting cultivation in at least one part of the central highlands had ‘resulted in large areas of land topographically suitable for agriculture being reduced to useless country’ through the premature burning of fallow vegetation, ‘in most cases for the sheer delight of satisfying arsonical [sic] tendencies’ (McIntosh, 1962, p123). He noted that regulations to ban burning of grassland areas without permission had been ineffectual (McIntosh, 1962, p126). Another Department of Forests officer agreed that shifting cultivators had been responsible for a long-term transition from ‘climax’ rainforest to grassland in some parts of the country, but argued that ‘the impact of primitive man is not universally and grossly degenerative to the vegetation of the territory’, (Gray, 1962, p350). A member of the CSIRO team that was surveying natural resources in PNG at the time (Robbins, 1962, p325) said that ‘short grassland is the final result of either a lengthy or an intense history of interference’ by human agency, and then went on to say that ‘its development is more rapid in areas of unfavourable habitat, but everywhere it represents a disclimax – an induced and stabilized community’. But this view was not held by his colleagues, who thought the grasslands were caused by a combination of agriculture, poor soils and seasonality.The origin of PNG’s grasslands was debated vigorously within CSIRO field teams in PNG, and in their published papers (Haantjens et al., 1965; Reiner and Robbins, 1964; Allen, 2005). Participants at the 1960 Goroka symposium were aware of the hypothesis that sweet potato had been adopted as the staple crop in highland agriculture systems only 300 years earlier, and that its introduction had been responsible for a rapid increase in population and the expansion of agriculture upslope about 500m in altitude (Keleny, 1962). The question being posed in 1960 was whether, prior to European contact, the ‘sweet-potato revolution’ had produced a more exaggerated form of ‘vicious downwards spiral’ in the relationship between highland agriculture systems and the natural environment, or whether this relationship had achieved a new form of equilibrium – notwithstanding the fact that in places it was one with a lot more grassland and a lot less forest. A new question was whether a further round of technical and institutional innovation was about to initiate a new type of destructive feedback loop in this relationship. The 1960 symposium was conducted coincidentally with the emergence of cultural ecology or human ecology as a field of study. In the United States, the relatively new discipline of cultural ecology pioneered by Carl Sauer at Berkeley and ecological anthropology, led by Roy Rappaport and Andrew Vayda at Columbia University and James Watson at Chicago, brought geographers and anthropologists to PNG to undertake intensive research into individual agriculture systems (Watson, 1965; Clarke, 1966, 1976; Bowers, 1968; Rappaport, 1971). At the Australian National University (ANU), Harold Brookfield and his students and others associated with the ANU also began studies of individual agricultural systems in Chimbu, Enga, Goroka and Maprik (Howlett, 1962; Lea, 1964; Brookfield and Brown, 1963; Waddell, 1972). These studies demonstrated the very close associations between natural environments,

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domesticated plants, natural plant species and animals, human-population numbers and the knowledge of plants and environments held by shifting cultivators. They showed that clearing for gardens was not random and that fallows were not just abandoned gardens, but were fields growing trees and were plant communities with their associated feral animals that were richer in resources useful to humans than primary forest. Also in the 1960s, the Australian colonial administration in Canberra and in PNG became concerned with PNG subsistence-agriculture systems, not because of any perceived impact on forests, but over how long particular places with high population densities and high land-use intensities could continue to feed a rapidly growing population without causing land degradation and a consequent decline in crop yields. Between 1961 and 1962, the PNG Bureau of Statistics and the Department of Agriculture, Stock and Fisheries (DASF), in collaboration with the Australian Bureau of Statistics (ABS), carried out a national sample survey of ‘indigenous agriculture’. The summary report stated that ‘the high intrinsic variability between families and villages’ resulted in standard errors of the means that were ‘much larger than would normally be desired for general-purpose publication’ (Walters, 1963). The national survey was followed by three regional surveys in areas of known high population

FIGURE 27.2 

A single-crop taro garden near Tari (altitude 1600m asl) in Hela province, PNG, in a poorly drained gully surrounded by low forest. Before the introduction of sweet potato in the 1700s, taro was the staple food. Sweet potato is now the most important staple, but taro is still highly valued. Photo: Bryant Allen (1982)

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density: Wabag (Enga), and Chimbu and Maprik (East Sepik) (Bureau of Statistics, 1965, 1967a, 1967b). These surveys concentrated on land planted to food crops and took only indirect account of fallow cycles or land in fallow and did not survey fallow vegetation or forest land owned by the sample villages.While the communities studied had access to primary forest, none of the survey data included information about this resource and the land used for agriculture by all communities had been cleared of forest long ago. While these surveys reflected concerns about the longer-term welfare of the rural population, another significant change in Australia’s colonial administration in the 1960s had to do with the economic development of a future independent PNG, and involved a transition from a ‘uniform development policy’ to an ‘accelerated development policy’ (Downs, 1980; MacWilliam, 2009). The ‘uniform development’ policy was designed to achieve a balance between districts that had been colonized early and therefore had infrastructure and commercial development, and those that were still largely under-developed and needed help to catch up with the rest of the country. The ‘accelerated development’ policy was recommended by a World Bank Mission in 1964, which suggested investment in areas that would give the greatest economic return (World Bank, 1965). Garnuat (1973, p164) argues that this policy was not applied to the extent that its critics and supporters liked to believe. Nevertheless, a policy of promoting income growth was implemented.15 Australia wanted to reduce the financial reliance of PNG on the Australian budget, and this required the greatest possible growth of PNG’s national income. In the highland valleys, development of village cash cropping was already well underway, with villagers enthusiastically planting small plots of Arabica coffee, mainly on land not being used for sweet potatoes, but already cleared from forest, including grassland (Brookfield, 1968; Cartledge, 1978; Sinclair, 1995). From the mid-1960s, village cattle projects – encouraged by the Australian administration – were also established in areas of existing grassland (McKillop, 1989). In a number of lowland sites, notably on the Gazelle Peninsula of New Britain and on Bougainville, village cocoa planting was encouraged. On the mainland, lowland villagers planted small areas of Robusta Melanolepis multiglandulosa (Reinw. ex Blume) coffee, almost all in secondaryReichb. f. & Zoll. [Euphorbiaceae] forest fallows. Detailed studies of village land use in A tree common in lowland fallows for about Nagovisi villages in southwest 20 years, after which it is replaced by slowerBougainville in 1969 to 1970 growing hardwood species and again in 1971 to 1973

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produced histories of new cocoa plantings between 1960 and 1970, and showed that most cocoa was planted ‘within the temporary and shifting system of root-crop gardening’ (Mitchell, 1976, p81).16 Early cocoa plantings were made in active sweetpotato gardens, against the advice of expatriate extension officers, who recommended the use of secondary-forest land. Some cocoa was planted on land cleared from primary forest, but only where a new road had been built through previously unused forest. The new development policy led to the clearing of forest only in West New Britain, where oil palm was planted in nucleus estates and on resettlement blocks.17 On the eve of Independence, the senior staff of the Department of Primary Industry wrote a series of review papers, entitled Agriculture in the Economy. In a paper on subsistence agriculture, the expansion of agriculture at the expense of forest was not mentioned, although a diagram of ‘garden rotations’, taken from Powell et al. (1975), begins with ‘primary forest’ (Macewan, n.d., p13).The possibility of ‘land degradation’ caused by shortened fallows is discussed in one page, while the problem of malnutrition in children was given 12 pages. Surveys of land and agriculture systems

It was within this policy context that the Australian government funded an extension of the CSIRO’s land surveys from the Northern Territory in Australia to PNG. The CSIRO had developed a new approach to the integration of information on topography, vegetation and soils, and underlying causal factors such as climate, geology and geomorphology. A composite mapping unit was devised and given the name ‘land system’. A land system was defined as ‘an area or group of areas throughout which there is a recurring pattern of topography, soils and vegetation’ (Stewart, 1968). By 1972, 11 detailed reports and maps, covering about 40% of the country, had been produced for PNG. With PNG about to become independent, the CSIRO used aerial photography by the Royal Australian Air Force to extrapolate the detailed information from individual land-systems reports and produced a series of national reports.18 The attributes of landform, relief, inundation, altitude (as a surrogate for temperature) and rainfall were used to define what were called Resource Mapping Units (RMUs) at a scale of 1:500,000. Other attributes including soils, vegetation and land use were then incorporated into the RMUs, but importantly were not used to define the RMU boundaries. Population figures from the national census of 1980 were allocated to RMUs. These data were then used to create a national geographic information system, known as the Papua New Guinea Resource Information System (PNGRIS). PNGRIS identified 4566 RMUs in PNG (Bellamy and McAlpine, 1995). The CSIRO’s work continued after PNG’s independence in 1975. The CSIRO teams had collaborated closely with the Research and Land Utilization Sections of the pre-Independence Department of Primary Industry (DPI), and under an agreement between the governments of Australia and Papua New Guinea, the CSIRO was funded by the Australian Development Assistance Bureau (later known as AusAID)

Chapter 27. Is the ‘Bogeyman’ real?  527

to complete PNGRIS and to write a number of reports using data from the new information system.19 The underlying objective of PNGRIS was to investigate the capacity of PNG’s natural resources to support village agriculture systems in the face of a rapidly increasing population and increasing demands for cash. The investigation of impacts of shifting cultivation on PNG’s forests was not a primary objective of the programme, but the photo-interpretation skills that were demonstrated with PNGRIS were later applied to a forest-resources assessment. PNGRIS was given to PNG to administer. It was initially a computerized database with paper maps. Some programming skills in the database-management system Knowledgeman were needed to use the system. Senior administrators in the Department of Agriculture, Stock and Fisheries (DASF) decided not to make PNGRIS freely available, on the grounds that naïve users would generate spurious and misleading results, which could be used as a justification for bad policies or wrong decisions. The CSIRO trained a small cadre of PNGRIS specialists within DASF, but PNGRIS was never, for example, taught as part of university courses on natural-resource analysis. For these reasons, PNGRIS remained largely unknown to other public service departments in PNG. The CSIRO was struggling to collect information on agriculture systems to put alongside its natural-resource data, so it began cooperating with a group of people at the

FIGURE 27.3 

Sweet-potato gardens in the Owen Stanley Mountains, on the famous wartime Kokoda Trail near Kagi village, Central Province, PNG. A new garden is being cleared for planting, with last year’s garden planted in sweet potato to the right. The gardens have been cleared from low, woody fallows that are 10 to 15 years old (seen behind the gardens). They grow only one crop. Trees are pollarded, the leaves and branches dried and burned and the main trunks left standing. Photo: Bryant Allen (1995)

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Australian National University who were developing a method by which agriculture systems in PNG could be systematically documented.The group’s project came to be known as Mapping Agriculture Systems in PNG (MASP) (Bourke et al., 1998). The MASP group was multi-disciplinary, comprising an agronomist, an anthropologist, a geographer and a soil scientist, three of whom had worked in PNG public service departments or universities and three of whom had done intensive research into individual PNG agriculture systems. One had been a member of the CSIRO’s PNGRIS team. After some initial delays, the MASP team was funded by AusAID to carry out a national survey. The MASP teams carried out field surveys in every district in PNG within an area identified by the CSIRO as ‘cultivated land’, on the Agricultural Land-Use Map of Papua New Guinea (Saunders, 1993a). MASP used the same base maps as PNGRIS – Tactical Pilotage Charts with a scale of 1:500,000.20 MASP identified a unique agricultural system, the key attributes of which were the cultivation of staple crops, the vegetation cleared for planting, the cultivation period (the number of times crops were planted), the fallow period and techniques used to maintain soil fertility. Another 102 attributes were mapped into the agriculture systems defined by these five key attributes, the most important of which were cash cropping and accessibility to services. Thus, MASP identified 287 unique systems within PNG, without the systematic use of aerial photography or satellite images.21 Neither PNGRIS nor MASP was tasked with investigating the impact of agriculture on forests as a primary objective, but both provided insights into this matter. PNGRIS used the concept of ‘anthropogenous vegetation’ to develop a Land-Use Intensity (LUI) measure. ‘Anthropogenous vegetation’ is natural vegetation that has been changed or interfered with by humans, and its extent was assessed from the ‘Skai Piksa’ aerial photographs taken earlier by the Royal Australian Air Force (see endnote 17). The LUI on ‘cultivated’ land (describing both land planted to crops and fallow land) ranged from 0 to 6. LUI 6 is ‘extremely low’, and is the point at which anthropogenous vegetation is less than 10% of the total area of an RMU and ‘current use’ (land planted to crops) is less Pipturus argenteus (G. Forst.) Wedd. than 1%. LUIs 4 and 5 also have [Urticaceae] current land use of less than 1%, A tree common in early fallow successions in but anthropogenous vegetation lowland PNG. It is replaced after around 15 covers 20% to 50% and 10% to years by developing hardwood species 20% respectively.

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LUIs were identified from patterns on the photographs, and not from the mapping of individual areas of cleared land. The LUI boundaries were drawn by hand on the aerial photographs by comparing the patterns on the photographs with a set of standard reference images created for each LUI level from suitable photographs. Using this method of estimating land use, 79% of the total area classed as being ‘cultivated’ was classed as LUI 4, ‘low’; LUI 5, ‘very low’; or LUI 6, ‘extremely low’. These three LUI classes were forested, with varying levels of agriculture and logging. In LUI 4 areas, half of the forest was secondary forest and half was primary forest; in LUI 5, 20% was secondary forest and 80% primary forest; and in LUI 6, 10% was secondary forest and 90% primary forest. The CSIRO measured LUI as a proportion of the area of land that was in crops and fallows to the total area of land in an RMU, whereas MASP estimated LUI by calculating Ruthenberg’s R-value (Ruthenberg, 1980), which is a measure of the proportion of time land is cropped relative to the proportion of time it is fallowed. MASP’s information came from estimates of fallow and cropping periods made in the field.22 Like PNGRIS, MASP found that almost 70% of ‘cultivated’ land was used at very low land-use intensities (R values of less than 10), and 19% at low intensities (R values between 11 and 33). In order to define agricultural systems, MASP also used the type of vegetation cleared to plant crops. Only on the Bialla oil-palm scheme did the MASP researchers observe significant areas of previously unused forest being cleared before the planting of crops.23 The area involved was less than 0.1% of the total ‘cultivated’ land area in PNG. This does not mean that previously unused land was not being incorporated into agriculture systems elsewhere, but where it was, it was on the margins of ‘cultivated’ land and the amount of land being converted annually from unused forest to ‘cultivated’ land was believed to be insignificant. It was not possible to estimate the rate at which this land was being converted. The CSIRO team leader, John McAlpine, and the head of the Land-Use section of the PNG Department of Agriculture and Livestock, David Freyne, analysed their land-use data and concluded that while the population had increased by around 50% between 1975 and 1996, the area of land used for village agriculture had expanded by only 11%. They found that, rather than widespread expansion of agriculture into forests, increases in land-use intensity were occurring on land ‘already used at significantly high levels of intensity’ (McAlpine and Freyne, 2001, p218). They identified the areas of greatest increase in land-use intensity. These included peri-urban areas where towns had expanded onto agricultural land; highland areas where environmental constraints meant that most intensification had taken place within areas already used for agriculture; off-shore islands where there was no land on to which agriculture could expand; oil-palm block developments where forest land purchased for resettlement projects, or village land, had been cleared and planted to oil palm; reforestation areas, such as the Gogol project, where villagers had taken advantage of initial clearing of primary forest to plant crops;24 and places where infrastructure, especially roads, had allowed shifting cultivators access to previously unused forested land (McAlpine and Freyne, 2001).

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In an attempt to further document the land-use changes, McAlpine and Freyne tried to use prints of Landsat satellite images in the same way that they had used aerial photographs to make their LUI measures.25 They later reported: As a result of a lower level of resolution of the Landsat imagery, compared to the earlier Skai Piksa air photography, it was not possible in the update procedure to distinguish each one of the original seven levels of land-use intensity delineated on the air photos by Saunders. However, the resolution was sufficient to distinguish changes in the area of significantly used land (land-use intensity classes 0-4). (McAlpine and Freyne, 2001, pp210-211) The Forest Inventory Mapping System (FIMS)

In 1993, the same team that produced PNGRIS produced two maps focused on PNG’s forest resources. A national map of forest resources (Saunders, 1993a) was created at a scale of 1:1,000,000 from two existing maps: the vegetation map (Paijmans, 1975) and the land-use map (Saunders, 1993b). Then, the Forest Inventory Mapping System (FIMS GIS) was created at a scale of 1:100,000 from a remapping and reinterpretation of the Skai Piksa aerial photographs, complemented by information from previous ground surveys undertaken during the CSIRO’s land-system surveys and from information held by the PNG Forest Authority. A ‘disturbance code’ with a range of 0 to 9 was used to indicate the degree of disturbance from agriculture, logging and other human activities. A code of ‘9’ signified 90% forest cover and 10% disturbance (Hammermaster and Saunders, 1995). Change in forest disturbance was estimated for the period from 1975 to 1996 using the 1975 forest baseline in FIMS, created from the Skai Piksa photos.The paper copies of the Landsat images from 1996 were compared with the Skai Piksa prints. Areas identified with significant changes were then inspected on the ground or from an aircraft, to determine the type and cause of the loss of forest. In 2001 the details of the changes were published (McAlpine et al., 2001; McAlpine and Freyne, 2001). The area converted from forest to other uses between 1975 and 1996 was estimated to be 9614sq km, of which 6424sq km had been converted to village agriculture, an increase of 11% in the area of ‘cultivated’ land over the period; 490sq km had been converted to estate development (oil palm and rubber), resource extraction (mining and oil), urban expansion and reforestation. A further 19,224sq km had been logged over and was ‘regenerating’ (McAlpine and Freyne, 2001, p212). On this land, ‘in many cases, the degree of disturbance and canopy clearing during logging operations has been significant [and] it is likely that regeneration may be a long-term process, certainly lasting more than one human generation’. The logging of this land had made it easier for village agriculturalists to later clear it and convert it to agriculture, especially in areas of higher population density (McAlpine and Freyne, 2001, p213).

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The State of the Forests Report 2008: releasing the ‘bogeyman’?

The State of the Forests Report was published by the University of Papua New Guinea’s Remote Sensing Center in 2008.26 The report made few references to the previous 40 years of research by the CSIRO, and there was no reference made to the MASP reports. The report included the statement: the conversion of forest land to gardens for subsistence agriculture was the main driver of deforestation [emphasis added] in PNG between 1972 and 2002. Over this period, 3.6 million hectares, 11% of the 1972 forest cover, was cleared through subsistence-related activities. (Shearman et al., 2008, p25)27 This finding was based solely on an analysis of remotely sensed images in which vegetation was classified and the area of ‘forests’ in 2000 was compared to a baseline set in 1972. The way in which this baseline was created is discussed further below. The report concluded that ‘the diverse old-growth forests … are being destroyed rapidly. It will not be long … before the ecology of large portions of the country has been degraded permanently with consequences not only for terrestrial and marine diversity and timber and non-timber production, but also for the livelihoods, health and development prospects of large numbers of Papua New Guineans’ (Shearman et al., 2008, p95). The report found that 79,000sq km of ‘primary rainforest’ had been cleared between 1972 and 2002 – almost 25% of the forest said to exist in PNG in 1972 – and that shifting cultivation was responsible for the loss of 36,000sq km of this forest. Logging was found to be responsible for the destruction of 9000sq km of FIGURE 27.4  A five-year-old fallow at Waiutang forest and the ‘degradation’ of a further village, Josephstaal, Madang Province, PNG. 29,000sq km of forest that was possibly This land was cultivated for one year, and was regenerating, although the report left as expected to remain fallow for 15 to 20 years. an open question how much loggedThe fallow is dominated by Althoffia sp. over forest would fully regenerate Photo: Bryant Allen (1991) (Shearman et al., 2008, pp52-53).

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This conclusion was in sharp contradiction to the findings of PNGRIS and MASP. Both had concluded independently that the expansion of the area of land used for agriculture and the loss of forest was significantly less than that found in the Shearman et al. report, and that land-use intensification and not expansion of area had been critical to how PNG agriculture systems had met increased demands for food and cash from a growing population. We needed to understand how the report, using remote sensing, came to find that agriculture had expanded into previously unused forest at four times the rate of the CSIRO estimates, which were based on more than 40 years of fieldwork supported by interpretation of extensive aerial photography.28 There is much more at stake here than simply putting a possible ‘bogeyman’ back in his box. The Shearman et al. report argued that the expansion of agriculture into forests would result in a reduction of biodiversity values, ecological services, catchment and coastal protection, as well contributing to global climate change and the ability of PNG to earn international income by storing carbon. We do not disagree that the loss of forests in PNG could have these consequences, but PNGRIS and MASP were always concerned with food security for PNG’s rural populations and whether PNG had the natural resources to sustain food production, and that remains our concern here. We agree with the Shearman et al. report that the reason why agriculture in PNG has either expanded or intensified, or done both, over the previous 30 years, is PNG’s high population-growth rate. Between 1966 and 2000 the population of PNG increased at an average 2.5% per year, or doubling every 30 years.The country’s population more than doubled in the 34 years between 1966 and 2000: it was 2.18 million in 1966 and 5.19 million in 2000. Importantly, of the 5.19 million counted in the 2000 census, 4.2 million, or 81%, were rural dwellers and only 0.68 million, or 13%, were urban. A further 0.31 million (6%) lived in small rural settlements such as mission stations, administration posts or schools and health centres. In 11 out of 20 provinces, the rural population was 85% or more (Allen, 2009).29 PNG’s rural dwellers produce all of their staple foods from agriculture, which, as we have described above, overwhelmingly takes the form of shifting cultivation. We believe the differences between the findings of the Shearman et al. report and those of PNGRIS and MASP arise mainly from the 1972 baseline from which the former report measured forest change. If this baseline was incorrect, then measurements of change from it would also be erroneous. In addition, the introduction of the global warming and forest carbon-storage questions into the research contributed to the problem. In his thesis, Shearman described the frustrations of his search for a baseline and his conclusion that the CSIRO forest-resources map and the Forest Inventory Mapping System (FIMS) were not accurate enough to use as a baseline. The reason why Shearman could not use FIMS as a baseline was not because Saunder’s mapping was done badly or ‘inaccurately’, but because it used a fundamentally different method to that being used by Shearman. Unable to plot every clearing in the forests individually in 1972, Saunders mapped patterns from aerial photographs, comparing individual

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prints to examples or templates that he created for himself and drew his own subjective boundary lines on the photographs, to divide areas of forest from one another when they showed different levels of disturbance.30 Shearman, on the other hand, was able to use remote-sensing software, to classify and map every pixel of a digital image and so could map individual areas of cleared land, at least within the limits of the pixel size of his images. So Shearman was correct in concluding that he could not use FIMS as a baseline, unless he chose a different method to classify forests in 2000.31 Shearman then had what he called a ‘eureka moment’. He wrote,‘it became apparent that vegetation had been mapped very precisely and reliably at a true 1:100,000 scale for the T601 Australian Army maps’ (Shearman, 2008, p96). Shearman assumed, we believe mistakenly, that the attributes of what was mapped by the Australian Army cartographers were as accurate as their mapping of vegetation boundaries. There were strong reasons to believe that what the Army cartographers mapped, and what Shearman identified on images as primary forest, included large areas that Saunders had mapped as ‘cultivated’ land, with very low LUI measures. These areas contained primary forest, secondary forest and gardens in the proportions described above. We believe this to be the case because the Army cartographers, who had no experience in classifying forests from aerial photography, asked for help from McAlpine and Saunders. They visited their Bendigo base in Victoria, Australia, and Saunders provided them with examples of images of various classes of forest from which they could work. But later comparisons of the published maps and the CSIRO’s work by McAlpine found significant differences in the classification of forests on the T601 topographical maps that were used by Shearman as a 1972 baseline, and those on the original CSIRO maps. In 2008, following the publication of the Shearman et al. report, John McAlpine described the CSIRO team’s relationship with the Army cartographers in a letter to author Colin Filer, and commented on the vegetation mapping of the topographical map series: If you have a look at the legend and mapping you will see that cultivation is minute [very small areas] and what we [CSIRO] mapped as land use, is shown on the topo [sic] maps as medium forest. For example if you look at the Madang 1:100,000 sheet, at the area from Madang town to Yagaum to Amele and out on the old road to Mawan you will see it all mapped as medium forest, not secondary growth.We had mapped the same area from the same photos as Land Use Intensity classes 2 and 3 (i.e., pretty intensively used). The Bendigo Royal Australian Army Survey Corps was under huge pressure to get the photography, control and 1:100,000 mapping completed before Independence. Obviously they were more than competent for the topo [sic] but had no experience in the API [aerial-photo interpretation] for land cover. … They knew CSIRO had been banging around for many years and asked John [Saunders] and I to come down [to Bendigo] and advise. The outcome was twofold - John drew up a specification with examples for the air photo

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interpretation of the land cover, the one adopted in the legend [of the T601 map series], for them to use.The problem was that it got muddled in the application, especially for the secondary vegetation. (McAlpine, 2008)32 So the 1972 forest baseline used in the Shearman et al. report was derived from the PNG 1:100,000 topographical maps, in which ‘forest’ was mapped by Australian Army cartographers with no experience of forest classification or shifting cultivation, who struggled to map PNG vegetation and who sought help from the creators of FIMS.We acknowledge the technical superiority and increased geographical accuracy of the report, using as it did remote-sensing mapping techniques, but we argue that the accuracy of the mapping was irrelevant if the attributes of what was mapped were wrongly classified. We believe that by using the T601 topographical maps as the 1972 forest baseline, Shearman inadvertently included as ‘primary forest’ areas that the CSIRO team had mapped as forest modified by shifting cultivation; that is, secondary forest growing on what the CSIRO classified as ‘cultivated’ land. Hence, the Shearman et al. report’s baseline area of forest was significantly larger than the CSIRO’s and included land in use, albeit at very low levels of land-use intensity. So the rates of expansion of the area of land used for agriculture and the areas of forest being lost were inflated, compared with those of the CSIRO. Was the Shearman et al. report a ‘bogeyman’?

So can we treat the report’s findings as though it was just a ‘bogeyman’ – an imagined threat that we need not take seriously? Unfortunately we cannot.Although we disagree with the scale of the ‘destruction’ of PNG forests calculated by Shearman et al. (2008), we agree with their broad findings, that significant changes are occurring within PNG forests. However, PNG’s forests include large areas of tall secondary forest that are an integral part of the shifting-cultivation systems that feed a majority of the country’s population. Our interpretation of many of the images presented in the report (and Shearman’s thesis) is that of forest fallows that were associated with very low-intensity shifting cultivation, being transformed into areas of low to medium land-use intensity. These changes in the fallows of agriculture systems that feed the majority of people in PNG concern us at least as much, if not more, than the possible loss of primary forest. The conversion of tall secondary forest to lower forms of re-growth represents a loss of biomass from these systems. When cut down and usually burned, the fallow biomass provides the inherently poor forest soils with the chemical elements that are needed to produce crops and ultimately, to re-grow the fallow vegetation.33 The loss of biomass occurs because the fallow vegetation is not left long enough to develop into tall trees, but is cut down at an earlier successional stage. The fallow-cultivation cycles are increasing in frequency. In addition, the number of times crops are planted after forest has been cleared is increasing. Extending the cropping period means crops take more from soil, the soil is exposed to sun and rainfall for longer and the number

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of tree-species seeds in soil seed banks is reduced (Manner, 1977). Continued loss of biomass will eventually result in significant losses of soil fertility and reduced crop yields. We have noted that a common response to falling crop yields is to change staple crops, often from taro and bananas to the South American sweet potato and cassava and Chinese taro. But where a change of staple has already occurred, no other new crops exist that are capable of producing under conditions of declining soil fertility. And, as we said at the beginning of this chapter, these shifting-cultivation systems are critical to feeding the population of PNG.34 We are forced to conclude that it is not reliably known how much forest has been lost to agriculture in PNG over the past 40 years. Perhaps more importantly, neither do we know reliably where in PNG land-use intensification is occurring at the greatest rate, nor the extent of the impacts of this land-use intensification on the soils and forest fallows that support the country’s food production. It is very important that agricultural intensification is monitored and that rates of intensification in different areas are estimated.The University of Papua New Guinea’s Remote Sensing Centre is the only group that is in a position to carry out this monitoring. It is the only group that has in its possession digital versions of FIMS, the T601 maps, the relevant satellite imagery and the PNGRIS and MASP geographic information systems. These need to be brought together to re-examine the question of what is happening in PNG’s shifting-cultivation systems. An afterthought: does anyone care?

Finally, we raise the question of whether anyone in PNG cares about this situation. As far as we can tell, there was no public reaction to the accusation by the Sherman et al. report that villagers were destroying the nation’s forests by practising shifting cultivation. It is worthwhile briefly pondering why this was so, and what it means for attempts to deal with the problem. The first explanation is that possibly no one bothered to read the report, so its findings had no impact in the realm of public policy.35 This can be discounted because the findings were rapidly absorbed into national government policy documents dealing with the reduction of carbon dioxide emissions from deforestation and forest degradation (REDD). The findings are also commonly cited in local academic commentaries on the subject (GPNG, 2010a, 2010b; Babon, 2011; Bingeding, 2011; Leggett and Lovell, 2012; UN-REDD, 2011). REDD+ offered chances of cash inflows into PNG,36 and that possibility triggered an immediate interest in the report by public servants and politicians (Filer and Wood, 2012). A second explanation may be found in the way that representations of shifting cultivation and subsistence agriculture have been framed in the national forest carbon policy debate. Shearman and his colleagues wanted to establish a baseline from which carbon dioxide emissions from forest degradation could be measured, as well as deforestation. In this larger context, subsistence farmers do not carry so much responsibility, because large-scale logging operations are said to be the one and only

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cause of forest degradation. When 2.9 million hectares’-worth of degradation was added to 5 million hectares’-worth of deforestation, the logging industry came out with a slightly bigger share of responsibility for the overall decline in both the quantity and quality of PNG’s native forests – 48.2%, compared with 45.6% attributed to local farmers (Shearman et al., 2008, p39). This helps to remove the first element in the puzzle. Advocates for the logging industry were less inclined to blame shifting cultivators for the rate of deforestation than they were to claim that the Shearman et al. report had infected the forest carbon policy debate with a spurious set of numbers (ITS Global, 2010). If the report was making a case for forest conservation, and if that case were opposed by the logging industry, it would seem quite natural for other conservationists to support Shearman et al. against the loggers. However, their common opposition to commercial logging and other forms of large-scale rural industry concealed a deepening division of opinion in the forest-conservation community about the sustainability of smallscale farming systems. The paradox inherent in this issue is by no means unique to PNG, but PNG’s conservation-policy community seems unable to resolve it – or even to acknowledge it – because PNG is not a typical Asian country containing a large area of primary forest with shifting cultivators making up a minority of the population. PNG’s shifting cultivators are not members of an indigenous tribal minority confronted by a state that devalues their mode of production and denies their ownership of forested land (but see below). In PNG, shifting cultivators account for a large majority of customary landowners who have legal tenure to more than 97% of the country and to more than 99% of that area of the country that is covered by forests.37 Another possible reason why the report failed to gain public awareness was the breaking of a larger scandal in which it was revealed that under Special Agricultural and Business Leases (SABLs), individuals and companies had acquired 99-year leases over 4.9 million hectares of customary land (Filer, 2011b). The primary objective of this ‘land grab’ appeared to be to gain access to loggable forests, but the public outcry was not about the possible destruction of forests, but the way in which customary landowners had been duped into giving up their inheritance.38 A non-governmental organization appealed to the United Nations’ Special Rapporteur on the Situation of Human Rights and Fundamental Freedoms of Indigenous People (Filer, 2012). The government pre-empted international reactions by imposing a moratorium on all new leases and set up a commission of inquiry into existing leases.39 The outcry over the SABLs reflected the way in which environmental NGOs had been representing local farmers as forest-dependent people who, after living harmoniously with their natural environment for thousands of years, should ‘be given more power to decide the future of their forests’ (Filer, 2004; PNGNFC, 2009, p12). Others represented them as economic innovators, capable of improving their livelihoods and those of their children by ‘supplementing (rather than abolishing) their subsistence practices’ by planting additional cash crops on their own customary land (Anderson, 2006, p147). But if shifting cultivation lies at the core of these

Chapter 27. Is the ‘Bogeyman’ real?  537

subsistence practices, and if it has been the main driver of deforestation for the past 30 or 40 years, how can forest-dependent people dismantle the conditions of their very existence and in the course of doing so improve the value of their land and labour (Filer, 2011a, p260)? At present there are no farming system alternatives to offer rural people to tempt them away from shifting cultivation. PNG shifting-cultivation systems are not being researched in PNG, even by the National Agricultural Research Institute (NARI), the government-funded body responsible for research into village production systems. NARI’s research programme reads like programmes from similar organizations in developed countries, concentrated on crops, soils, genetic resources and so on.40 So whether Shearman et al. are right or we are right, any attempts to change shiftingcultivation systems in PNG in the near future will be severely constrained by there being no alternatives to offer the rural majority. Members of this rural majority often express feelings of abandonment by the PNG State. They are growing increasingly reluctant to do anything asked of them by outsiders unless they are paid large sums of money. This reflects past experiences of fraud, embezzlement and broken promises.41 It may prove difficult to persuade them that changes in their food-production systems are required for their own good. No research organization in PNG appears to have considered that shifting-cultivation systems may be better at storing carbon than many other forms of land use, including rubber and oil-palm plantations (Fox et al., 2013). Despite wide differences in fallow cycles and fallow vegetation, and the possible capacity of tall secondary-forest fallows to store as much carbon as primary forests, all shifting-cultivation systems are lumped together in REDD+ estimates of carbon storage (Mertz et al., 2012). The PNG Government seemingly made no attempt to question the prescriptions of REDD+, which might have resulted in better deals for their majority shifting cultivators. If it is true that PNG shifting cultivators have been undermining the conditions of their own existence at a rapid rate, then the nation as a whole appears to be trapped in the type of feedback loop described in the Brundtland Report: ‘Many parts of the world are caught in a vicious downwards spiral: poor people are forced to overuse environmental resources to survive from day to day, and their impoverishment of their environment further impoverishes them, making their survival ever more difficult and uncertain’ (WCED, 1987, p27). In that case, we are not dealing simply with a paradox in the way that conservationists think about shifting cultivation – we are dealing with a pending national agrarian crisis whose resolution will require a great deal more than the adoption of a new REDD policy framework by the national government. Acknowledgement

The authors wish to acknowledge critical comments from Dr Robin Hide, of the Crawford School of Public Policy, College of Asia and the Pacific, Australian National University, on a number of versions of this chapter.

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Leggett, M. and Lovell, H. (2012) ‘Community perceptions of REDD+: A case study from Papua New Guinea’, Climate Policy 12 (1), pp115-134 Macewan, J. M. (n.d.) ‘Subsistence agriculture’, in Agriculture in the Economy: a Series of Review Papers, vol. 3, Department of Primary Industry, Port Moresby MacWilliam, S. (2009) ‘Development and agriculture in late colonial Papua New Guinea’, PhD dissertation to the Australian National University, Canberra Manner, H. I. (1977) ‘Biomass: Its determination and implications in tropical agro-ecosystems. An example from montane New Guinea’, in T. P. Bayliss-Smith and R. G. Feachem (eds) Subsistence and Survival: Rural Ecology in the Pacific, Academic Press, London, pp215-242 Manner, H. I. (1981) ‘Ecological succession in new and old swiddens of montane Papua New Guinea’, Human Ecology 9, pp359-377 Mertz, O., Mueller, D., Sikor, T., Hett, C., Heinimann, A., Castella, J-C., Lestrelin, G., Ryan, C. M., Reay, D. S., Schmidt-Vogt, D., Danielsen, F., Theilade, I., van Noordwijk, M.,Verchot, L.V., Burgess, N. D., Berry, N. J., Pham, T. T., Messerli, P., Xu, J., Fensholt, R., Hostert, P., Pflugmacher, D., Bruun, T. B., de Neergaard, A., Dons, K., Dewi, S., Rutishauser, E. and Sun, Z. (2012) ‘The forgotten D: challenges of addressing forest degradation in complex mosaic landscapes under REDD’, Geografisk tidsskriftDanish Journal of Geography 112 (1), pp63-76 McAlpine, J. R. (1969) ‘A system for measuring and mapping areas of shifting cultivation’, BA (Hons) dissertation to the Australian National University, Canberra McAlpine, J. R. (2008) Personal communication by letter between former CSIRO team leader in PNG, John McAlpine, and author Colin Filer, August McAlpine, J. R. and Freyne, D. F. (2001) ‘Land use change and intensification in Papua New Guinea, 1975-1996’, Asia Pacific Viewpoint 42 (2/3), pp209-218 McAlpine, J. R., Freyne, D. F. and Keig, G. (2001) ‘Land use and rural population change in PNG, 197596’, in R. M. Bourke, M. G. Allen and J. G. Salisbury (eds) Food Security for Papua New Guinea. Proceedings of the Papua New Guinea Food and Nutrition 2000 Conference, Papua New Guinea University of Technology, Lae, Canberra, pp277-283 McIntosh, D. H. (1962) ‘The effect of man on the forests of the highlands of Eastern New Guinea’, in Symposium on the Impact of Man on Humid Tropics Vegetation, Commonwealth Government Printer, Canberra McKillop, R. F. (1989) ‘Village beef cattle development:The Melanesian experience’, in Islands/Australia Working Paper No 89/2, National Centre for Development Studies, Canberra McKillop, R. and Firth, S. G. (1981) ‘Foreign intrusion: The first fifty years’, in D. Denoon and C. Snowden (eds) A History of Agriculture in Papua New Guinea: A Time to Plant and a Time to Uproot, Institute of Papua New Guinea Studies, Port Moresby, pp85-104 Mitchell, D. D. (1976) Land and Agriculture in Nagovisi, Papua New Guinea, IASER Monograph 3, Institute of Applied Social and Economic Research, Port Moresby Modjeska, N. (1982) ‘Production and inequality: Perspectives from central New Guinea’, in A. Strathern (ed.) Inequality in New Guinea Highlands Societies, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, UK, pp50-108 Mueller, I. and Smith, T. A. (1999) ‘Patterns of child growth in Papua New Guinea and their relation to environmental, dietary and socioeconomic factors. Further analyses of the 1982-1983 Papua New Guinea National Nutrition Survey’, Papua New Guinea Medical Journal 42, pp94-113 Namarong, M. (2013) ‘Unraveling the predatory elite’, Namarong Report, 21 March, http://namorong. blogspot.com.au/2013_03_01_archive.html, accessed 20 October 2013 Padoch, C., Coffey, K., Mertz, O., Leisz, S. J., Fox, J. and Wadley, R. L. (2007) ‘The demise of swidden in Southeast Asia? Local realities and regional ambiguities’, Geografisk Tidsskrift – Danish Journal of Geography 107, pp29-41 Paijmans, K. (1975) Vegetation of Papua New Guinea (Map with explanatory notes), Land Research series 35, Commonwealth Scientific and Industrial Research Organisation, Melbourne Parkinson, R. (1999) Thirty Years in the South Seas: Land and People, Customs and Traditions in the Bismarck Archipelago and on the German Solomon Islands, University of Hawai’i Press, Honolulu

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Pistorius, T., Schmidt, C. B., Benick, D., Entenmenn, S. and Reinecke, S. (2011) Greening REDD+:

Challenges and Opportunities for Integrating Biodiversity Safeguards at and across Policy Levels,

Allgemeine Forst- und Jagdzeitung (AFJZ)(Euro Forest Portal), Joensuu, Finland, pp82-97 PNGNFC (PNG National Forest Coalition) (2009) Our Forests Our Future: Bus Bilong Yumi Laip Bilong Yumi, Papua New Guinea National Forest Coalition, Boroko, PNG Powell, J. M., Kulunga, A., Moge, R., Pono, C., Zimike, F. and Golson, J. (1975) Agricultural Traditions of the Mount Hagen Area, Department of Geography Occasional Paper 12, Department of Geography, University of Papua New Guinea, Port Moresby Rappaport, R. A. (1971) ‘The flow of energy in an agricultural society’, Scientific American 225 (3), pp116-132 Reiner, E. J. and Robbins, R. G. (1964) ‘The middle Sepik Plains, New Guinea’, Geographical Review 54, pp20-44 Robbins, R. G. (1962) ‘The anthropogenic grasslands of Papua and New Guinea’, in Symposium on the Impact of Man on Humid Tropics Vegetation, Commonwealth Government Printer, Canberra Ruthenberg, H. (1980) Farming Systems in the Tropics, third edition, Clarendon Press, Oxford, UK Sack, P. and Clark, D. (1979) German New Guinea:The Annual Reports, Australian National University Press, Canberra Saulei, S., Parsons, M. and Petasi, I. (1999) ‘Forest regeneration ten years after clear-fell logging in the Gogol Valley, Madang Province: Implications for the 35-year forest cutting cycle in Papua New Guinea’, Science in New Guinea 24 (3), pp119-134 Saunders, J. C. (1993a) Agricultural Land Use of Papua New Guinea (Map with explanatory notes), PNGRIS publication 1, Commonwealth Scientific and Industrial Research Organisation for the Australian International Development Assistance Bureau, Canberra Saunders, J. C. (1993b) Forest Resources of Papua New Guinea (Map with explanatory notes), PNGRIS Publication 2, Commonwealth Scientific and Industrial Research Organisation for the Australian International Development Assistance Bureau, Canberra Shearman, P. L. (2008) ‘An assessment of forest cover, deforestation and forest degradation in Papua New Guinea’, PhD dissertation to the Australian National University, Canberra Shearman, P. L., Ash, J., Mackey, B., Bryan, J. E. and Lokes, B. (2009) ‘Forest conversion and degradation in Papua New Guinea, 1972-2002’, Biotropica 41 (3), pp379-390 Shearman, P. L., Bryan, J., Ash, J., Mackey, B. and Lokes, B. (2010) ‘Deforestation and forest degradation in Papua New Guinea: A response to Filer and colleagues, 2009’, Annals of Forest Science 67 (300), pp1-4 Shearman, P. L., Bryan, J. E., Ash, J., Hunnam, P., Mackey, B. and Lokes, B. (2008) The State of the Forests

of Papua New Guinea: Mapping the Extent and Condition of Forest Cover and Measuring the Drivers of Forest Change in the Period 1972-2002, University of Papua New Guinea, Port Moresby Sinclair, J. P. (1995) The Money Tree: Coffee in Papua New Guinea, Crawford House Press, Bathurst,

New South Wales, Australia Stewart, G. A. (1968) Land Evaluation: Papers of a CSIRO Symposium Organized in Cooperation with UNESCO, 26-31 August, Macmillan, Melbourne UN-REDD (2011) National Programme Document: Papua New Guinea, United Nations Collaborative Programme on Reducing Emissions from Deforestation and Forest Degradation in Developing Countries, Port Moresby Waddell, E. (1972) The Mound Builders: Agricultural Practices, Environment and Society in the Central Highlands of New Guinea, University of Washington Press, Seattle and London Walters, C. L. (1963) Survey of Indigenous Agriculture and Indigenous Surveys 1961-63, Bureau of Statitsics, Konedobu, Port Moresby Watson, J. B. (1965) ‘From hunting to horticulture in the New Guinea highlands’, Ethnology 4 (3), pp295-309 WCED (1987) Our Common Future: The Report of the World Commission on Environment and Development, Oxford University Press, Oxford, UK Womersley, J. S. and McAdam, J. B. (1957) The Forests and Forest Conditions in the Territories of Papua and New Guinea, Government Printer, Port Moresby

542  Allen and Filer

World Bank (1965) The Economic Development of the Territory of Papua and New Guinea, Johns Hopkins Press, Baltimore, MD

Notes 1 The archetypical Papua New Guinea bogeyman is the masalai [Pidgin], a natural spirit that frequents waterholes and pools, and fittingly for the subject of this chapter, lives deep in the forest. Masalai are closely associated with ancestral descent groups, now known widely as ‘clans’, and are commonly blamed for otherwise inexplicable misfortune, sickness and death. 2 The contents of the 2008 Shearman et al. report were also published in a peer-reviewed journal (Shearman et al., 2009). In 2009, Filer et al. raised concerns about some of the report’s findings, and Shearman et al. (2010) responded. 3 ce can stand for Common Era, Current Era or Christian Era and is an alternative to ‘Anno Domini’, or ad. 4 Highland societies began to develop their present-day characteristics of large pig herds and the use of pigs as exchange items in marriages, births and deaths – particularly in the case of deaths caused by physical violence. Modjeska (1982) argues that the changes involved increases in human and pig numbers, and the invention of permanent agriculture based on mounding and green manuring was an adaptation forced by ecological changes. 5 This estimate came from 30 years of detailed field-based natural-resource surveys in PNG, interpretation of aerial photographs and mapping. Read further for the political settings for this project. 6 This survey occurred within the land identified by the CSIRO as ‘cultivated’. It was known as the Mapping Agriculture Systems Project (MASP). 7 This was calculated on the basis of a 2004 value for the amount of rice that would have to be imported to fully replace locally produced food. 8 The best description of this process is that by Bowers (1968). Although Bowers’ study was conducted 50 years ago, this process continues today at the head of many highlands valleys, especially in Southern Highlands, Enga and Western Highlands provinces. 9 This does not apply to all PNG-government-funded researchers.The agriculture system surveys that produced MASP originated in the PNG Department of Primary Industry in the 1970s. 10 Padoch et al. were discussing the situation in Southeast Asia, and had a third reason why shifting cultivation there was poorly understood: many Southeast Asian governments had tried to ban the practice and to force the adoption of permanent agriculture. That has not happened in PNG. 11 In August 1828, Holland claimed possession of the western ‘half ’ of the island of New Guinea, from 141 degrees east longitude. This is now part of Indonesia. In September 1884, Germany claimed the north coast of New Guinea east of 141 degrees east and inland to straight lines defined by latitudes and longitudes as well as the large islands of New Britain, New Ireland and Bougainville. In October 1884, Great Britain claimed the south coast. In 1904, the British government passed the administration of Papua to Australia. New Guinea was administered by the New Guinea Company from 1884 to 1899, when the German government took over. In 1914, Australian forces forcibly took New Guinea away from Germany and it became a League of Nations Mandate. The Japanese invaded and occupied much of what was formerly German New Guinea in 1942. Following World War Two, Australia administered Papua and New Guinea as a single entity on behalf of the United Nations. Papua New Guinea was granted Independence in September 1975 and became a member of the British Commonwealth and the UN. 12 The early German projects involved clearing forest and planting mainly field crops and coconuts. After about five years, yields declined rapidly, soil fertility declined, diseases killed the crops and malaria killed the German managers and their labourers. Of the agricultural crops initially developed, only copra remained.

Chapter 27. Is the ‘Bogeyman’ real?  543

13 ‘Seral stages’ refers to the plant communities that succeed one another on a site undergoing re-growth after having been cleared. These are more commonly known now as ‘successional stages’. See Manner (1981) for a description of PNG examples. 14 Bill Conroy was director of the Department of Agriculture, Stock and Fisheries (DASF) from 1966 until 1973. He strongly supported village or smallholder agriculture and was instrumental in developing smallholder coffee, tea, copra and palm oil. He also held posts with the Research Council of the South Pacific Commission; the International Fats, Oils and Beverages Committee of the Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations (FAO); the International Cocoa and Coffee Agreements, various PNG commodity, marketing and stabilization boards, and the FAO’s Land Use and Conservation Committee for Southeast Asia and the Southwest Pacific. 15 Garnaut (1973, p165) describes four major policy objectives promulgated in August 1971: maximum increases in production; maximum increases in participation in the economy by Papua New Guineans; maximum progress towards financial self-reliance; and maximum contributions towards meeting the social needs of the people and raising their standards of living. Garnaut argues that, at least in the short term, these objectives were contradictory, so not all of them could be pursued simultaneously. 16 Sweet potato replaced taro as the staple food on Bougainville when, between 1942 and 1945, a blight (Phytophera colocasiae) made taro cultivation impossible. Sweet potato was a crop that required less land and less labour to produce the same amount of food, releasing both land and labour to cocoa and reducing the need to clear land that had never before been cultivated for cocoa planting. 17 Even some of this forest may technically have been secondary forest. The Danish explorer and businessman Richard Parkinson travelled along the west coast of New Britain in the 1890s and wrote, ‘The results of a disastrous epidemic, against which the natives were quite helpless, are still to be seen in districts which formerly carried a big population’ (Parkinson, 1999). He was referring to smallpox, which was carried to Madang by labourers imported from China by the New Guinea Company and which is known to have spread to New Britain. 18 This series of aerial photographs was known as Skai Piksa (literally ‘sky picture’ in PNG Pidgin). A Royal Australian Air Force Canberra aircraft was used between 1969 and 1972 to provide highaltitude aerial photography covering PNG at scales between 1:110,000 and 1:120,000.These photos were the basis for a series of 1:100,000-scale national topographical maps which were later used by Shearman et al. (2008) as a forest baseline from which they measured the expansion of agriculture in PNG. The CSIRO also used an earlier series of aerial photrographs, the 1:50,000 CAJ series. 19 After Independence, Australia’s aid programme to PNG was agreed upon by both governments. It was common at this time for individuals and organizations seeking financial support for research in PNG to first gain the support of PNG government departments. Then they passed on their recommendations to the Australian government, to be incorporated into the Australian aid programme, which was then approved by the PNG National Executive Council (the equivalent of the PNG Cabinet). In this case, the PNGRIS initiative originated in Australia with CSIRO, but was supported by the Research Division of PNG’s DPI and by AusAID as part of a broad food-security initiative. 20 Tactical Pilotage Charts (TPCs) are a standard series of medium-scale aeronautical charts (1: 500,000) used for world aeronautical navigation.The original TPCs were created by the United States Defense Mapping Agency.The whole of PNG can be displayed on TPC sheets without a break caused by the earth’s curvature. This cannot be done with maps drawn at smaller scales (1;100,000 or 1:250,000). 21 The scale of the Skai Piksa series was too large for individual gardens to be seen clearly and for gardens planted to crops to be distinguished from fallow land. The scale of the next most-recent series of aerial photographs (CAJ) was 1:50,000. It was flown in the 1960s and contained too many prints to be manageable in the field. Satellite imagery was precluded because PNG images had high levels of cloud cover and the expense of obtaining recent images was beyond the project’s budget. Available individual photographs and images were used from time to time. 22 R=(cropping period x 100)/(cropping period + fallow period). The maximum value is 100, representing permanent land use. MASP estimated cropping and fallow periods by interviewing landowners, and used references to locally significant historical events to establish dates.

544  Allen and Filer

23 The West New Britain oil-palm schemes were initially made up of nucleus estates with smallholder blocks. The blocks were on state land purchased from local landowners. The smallholders were settlers from elsewhere in PNG who leased blocks from the state. After some years, local villagers were encouraged to plant palms on their own land. Most previously unused forest was cleared by both smallholders and villagers, who initially planted food crops, followed by young palms. 24 Lowland rainforest at Gogol, in Madang province, was cleared to supply a Japanese-owned woodchip mill at Madang.The cleared land, which remained under customary tenure, was to be replanted with a single species of Eucalypt, to provide a sustainable supply of timber to the wood-chip mill and a sustainable source of income to the village landowners (Saulei et al., 1999). Instead, they planted food crops and cash crops on much of the cleared land. 25 McAlpine was familiar with shifting cultivation in PNG. His ANU honours thesis involved an investigation of the successional stages of recovering shifting-cultivation fallows inland of Madang, using black-and-white, colour and infra-red aerial photography (McAlpine, 1969). 26 The report is a much shortened and simplified version of a PhD dissertation submitted by the leading author, P. L. Shearman, to the Australian National University in 2008 (Shearman, 2008). Some of his co-authors were his thesis supervisors in the Fenner School of Environment and Society. Filer et al. (2009) directly addressed concerns raised by the report. 27 The report also states: ‘Forestry operations are confirmed by the study as the main driver of overall forest change in PNG, responsible for deforestation of 0.9 million hectares and degradation of a further 2.9 million hectares of primary forest between 1972 and 2002’ (Shearman et al., 2008, p25). So logging is still implicated in the loss of forest in PNG. 28 We make no comment on the Shearman et al. report’s findings on the impacts of logging and fires, except to observe that the 1997 to 1998 drought, which was associated with the El Niño-Southern Oscillation climatic phenomenon, was probably a 1-in-100-year event.The rate of forest loss due to fires may be lower if the period used to estimate it was 100 years, instead of 30 years. 29 Only Rwanda, Bhutan, Nepal and Uganda have a greater proportion of people living in rural areas than PNG. 30 Saunders’ ‘patterns’ method was adopted because of the scale of the 1972 Skai Piksa photographs, on which a plot 100m by 100m appeared as a square about 1mm by 1mm in size; the mapping by hand of thousands of such clearings was impossible. For some areas, Saunders complemented the Skai Piksa prints with another set of photographs at a different scale, the 1:50,000 CAJ series. 31 Even then, Saunders’ mapping was his subjective interpretation of a visual image (as is all aerialphoto interpretation), and could not be reproduced exactly by another person. But Shearman was to later rely upon Australian Army cartographers, with only a fraction of Saunders’ experience in aerial-photo interpretation of PNG vegetation, to accurately map PNG’s forests from the same photographs. 32 Both John McAlpine and John Saunders are now deceased.The T601 map series legend contains the following classes of vegetation: rainforest, medium forest, secondary growth, plantation, savannah, grassland, flood plain forest, nipa, tree swamp, and mangroves. 33 A number of shifting-cultivation systems in PNG do not involve burning. Most of these are located in the high-rainfall areas at the western end of the mainland. Undergrowth is cleared beneath tall secondary forest and crops are planted. The trees are then felled on to the crops. This practice never exposes the soil to the high rainfall environment and weeding is not required. Some groups cut tall secondary forest without planting crops first and leave the felled vegetation to decompose. Around 10 years later they return to the site to plant crops and cut the regrowth onto them. They say this improves crop yields because the site receives more fertility (gris in Pidgin) from the cut vegetation than a single cutting of the forest. 34 The results of a child-growth study in PNG, published by the PNG Institute of Medical Research, conclude: ‘Almost all the factors, apart from some parental characteristics, which were found to be associated with child growth in this study are related in one form or another to the local subsistence agriculture’ (Mueller and Smith, 1999, p111).

Chapter 27. Is the ‘Bogeyman’ real?  545

35 The report’s findings appear to have been mentioned once in PNG’s two daily newspapers. They were also reported in the major Australian dailies and in a number of weekly publications, such as the New Scientist. 36 The original REDD set out to contribute to conservation, sustainable forest management and enhancement of carbon stocks by reducing deforestation and sequestering carbon (Pistorius et al., 2011). In December 2008, a ‘plus’ was added (REDD+), providing for additional benefits that have been broadly interpreted as environmental, social and/or economic. 37 The owners of customary land are descent groups or clans. Individuals must be able to demonstrate their right to use land through links to a clan by descent or by historical events such as adoption or immigration into the group by ancestors. Disputes are resolved by recitation of oral histories to clan leaders and knowledgeable older men or to special land-court magistrates, or by fighting. The logging of forests can occur without land being removed from customary tenure. Customary land can be leased by a non-customary owner or a formally incorporated group of customary owners for a particular purpose, or it can ‘alienated’, in which case it is purchased by the state and ceases to be customary land. 38 Filer (2011b) describes the ‘projects’ identified as the reasons for the leases. They include ‘agroforestry’,‘integrated agriculture’, oil-palm production and cassava biofuel cropping, but all have links to logging and timber companies, many originating in Malaysia. 39 PNG newspapers report that the person chairing the inquiry has been posted overseas and a draft report has been suppressed. However, transcripts of the hundreds of interviews of landowners are in the public domain. 40 NARI’s Research and Development streams are: crop improvement, crop protection, livestock, postharvest processing, natural-resource management, plant-genetic resources, climate change, marketing, technology transfer, farm mechanization and training. The natural-resource management stream includes four programmes: soil-fertility management in highlands sweet-potato systems, improving productivity in coffee-based farming systems, floriculture, and El Niño-Southern Oscillation-related drought alleviation. ‘Shifting cultivation’ is mentioned only once on NARI’s website, in reference to growing rice. 41 Award-winning Papua New Guinean writer and anti-corruption campaigner Martyn Namarong wrote on his blog site in 2013: ‘The big problem that exists in PNG … is the existence of this self-serving, rent-seeking, carpet-bagging, predatory elite. These are highly-educated, moneyed elite who use their wealth and influence to distort the distribution of national wealth in their favour.’ (Namarong, 2013)

28 THE END OF SWIDDEN IN BHUTAN Implications for forest cover and biodiversity Stephen F. Siebert, Jill M. Belsky, Sangay Wangchuk and James Riddering*

Introduction

Bhutan and the eastern Himalayas more generally are among the world’s most biologically and culturally diverse areas; home to numerous cultures with long and rich traditions of forest use and management. This chapter explores relationships between swidden and ecological disturbance regimes, forest cover and biological diversity in Bhutan. Specifically, we consider the role and importance of swidden for forest cover, flora and fauna, since it can be thought of ecologically as a historic anthropogenic disturbance. Further, we reflect on the potential implications associated with the end of historic swidden practices as an ecological disturbance. For a small country of just 38,000km2, Bhutan contains extraordinary biological diversity. It is home to at least 5,500 plant species, more than 160 mammal species and 616 bird species (Inskipp et al., 1999; Groombridge and Jenkins, 2002). This includes a number of charismatic vertebrates of international conservation interest, including tigers (Panthera tigris), which are considered an umbrella species for the conservation of other biodiversity (Wikramanayake et al., 2011). In an influential publication, WWF (2005) documented the global biodiversity conservation significance of Bhutan and the eastern Himalayas, and offered several explanations for the region’s importance, including: (1) its location in the convergence zone of two biogeographic realms (the Palearctic and Indo-Malayan), (2) climatic variability associated with tremendous topographic relief, (3) complex and steep topography, particularly along

* 

Dr Stephen F. Siebert, Professor of Tropical Forest Conservation and Management, College of Forestry and Conservation, University of Montana, Missoula, MT; Dr Jill M. Belsky, Professor of Environmental Social Science, College of Forestry and Conservation, University of Montana, Missoula, MT; Sangay Wangchuk, Chair, Socioeconomic and Policy Sciences Department, Ugyen Wangchuck Institute for Conservation and Environment, Bumthang, Bhutan; Dr James Riddering, Research Assistant Professor, National Center for Landscape Fire Analysis, College of Forestry and Conservation, University of Montana, Missoula, MT.

Chapter 28. End of swidden in Bhutan  547

a north-south axis, and (4) the isolation of plant and animal populations due to topography and climate. While this explanation encompasses important continental and regional environmental influences on biodiversity, it ignores the importance of iterative local biological and anthropogenic forces, including swidden. This chapter documents recent changes in the area under swidden cultivation and forest cover, offers reasons for the continued demise of swidden, identifies and describes disturbance attributes associated with historic swidden practices, and evaluates potential effects that changes in swidden and associated disturbance regimes may have on biological diversity (i.e. flora and fauna). Biological diversity and the structure and function of ecosystems reflect sitespecific ecological-disturbance regimes (Mori, 2011; Uhl et al., 1990). Disturbance is defined as ‘discrete events in time that disrupt the ecosystem, community, or population structure and bring about a change in resources, substrate availability, or the physical environment’ (Mori, 2011). Both natural and anthropogenic disturbances create these effects, and consequently both warrant attention. Ecologists have attempted to characterize disturbance attributes for decades. In a comparison of natural and anthropogenic disturbances in the Amazon, Uhl et al. (1990) employed the type, size, duration and frequency or return interval of disturbances as a means of comparing their differing ecological effects. More recently, Mori (2011) argued that disturbances could be characterized by their type (e.g. tree fall or swidden), spatial characteristics (i.e. the area, shape and spatial distribution of patches created), temporal characteristics (i.e. the frequency, return interval, cycle and rotation period), specificity (i.e. relationships between types of disturbances and the characteristics of the disturbed site, such as species, size class and seral stage), magnitude (i.e. disturbance intensity and severity) and synergisms (i.e. interactions among different kinds of disturbances over time). One challenge in describing historic disturbance regimes, whether natural or anthropogenic, is that they are constantly changing in unpredictable ways in response to normal variations in climatic conditions, random (i.e. stochastic) events, and other factors which affect subsequent disturbance impacts and trajectories. Nevertheless, by identifying and characterizing specific attributes of historic disturbance regimes, the influence they may have exerted on the composition, structure and distribution of flora and fauna can be evaluated. Important natural ecological disturbances in Bhutan include: (1) landslides and other erosion/mass wasting processes characteristic of young, steep mountain topography in conjunction with heavy monsoonal rainfall, and (2) tree-fall gaps associated with wind, insect- and disease-induced mortality. Landslides and tree falls, while very different in terms of specific disturbance attributes and effect, both create gaps in forest cover and favour the establishment of light-demanding, early successional plant species and associated fauna.The creation of gaps in forest canopies play a major role in the maintenance of woody species diversity in tropical and other forest ecosystems (Schnitzer and Carson, 2001).

548  Siebert et al.

Swidden agriculture, which was widely practised for centuries throughout much of Bhutan, increases the number and frequency of gaps and the proportion of secondary vegetation associated with fallows. Therefore, it influences the abundance and distribution of flora and fauna, particularly when it is a dominant land use (Finegan and Nasi, 2004). Researchers unbiased by anti-swidden sentiments suggest that swidden systems maintain high levels of biodiversity (Padoch and Pinedo-Vasquez, 2010). Indeed, a recent re-evaluation of the ecological role and importance of swidden cultivation asserts that: Shifting cultivation has transformed a great part of the ‘natural’ landscapes of the eastern Himalayas into cultural landscapes with their own unique biodiversity. It is now impossible to distinguish between ‘natural’ or ‘pristine’ forests and human-influenced or ‘secondary’ vegetation … people themselves are probably at least partly responsible for the wealth of biodiversity that is now present. Forest farmers are often found to have an enriching influence on natural vegetation. (Kerkhoff and Sharma, 2006. p40) Two types of swidden were historically practised in Bhutan: tseri, a tree or bush-fallow system at low to mid-elevations (500-2500m) and pangshing, a grass-fallow system at higher elevations (2500-3500m) (see Roder et al. (1992) and Dukpa et al. (2007) for detailed descriptions). As recently as the early 1990s, tseri and pangshing covered approximately 200,000ha of Bhutan (Roder et al., 1992). However, that declined to about 45,000ha by the early 2000s (Dukpa et al., 2007). Swidden farming declined throughout Bhutan as a consequence of: (1) a lack of farm labour due to ruralto-urban migration, particularly among young adults; (2) increased road access and market opportunities which led farmers to abandon historic, subsistence foodcrop production in favour of cultivating higher-value export cash crops; and (3) a Royal Government of Bhutan policy to prohibit and phase out tseri by the end of 1997 (Dukpa et al., 2007; Wangchuk and Siebert, 2013). A recent meta-analysis of land-cover transformations around the world also found that swidden agriculture decreases in landscapes with access to markets that encourage cattle production and cash cropping (van Vliet et al., 2012). However, there is limited spatial documentation of the decline of swidden or discussion about whether these or additional factors continue to limit its use. Research site and methods

We focus our study in Bumthang and Zhemgang districts of Central Bhutan, where swidden was widely practised for many generations (specifically pangshing in Bumthang and tseri in Zhemgang, according to Dukpa et al., 2007). In particular, we document changes in the area under swidden cultivation and in forest cover, and reasons given for these changes by local farmers at two sites: Nasiphel (2900m) in

Chapter 28. End of swidden in Bhutan  549

Bumthang district and Shingkhar (1400m) in Zhemgang district between 1989 and 2011. To document changes in the extent of swidden cultivation and forest cover we used paired Landsat imagery in a 25sq-km area surrounding each village between 1989 and 2010. The images, which were acquired on 13 February 1989 (Landsat 4) and 15 February 2010 (Landsat 5), were calibrated to reflectance (Chander et al., 2009) to allow comparisons over the intervening years. Additionally, a Normalized Difference Vegetation Index was calculated (NDVI rationale from Tucker, 1979) and added to the satellite data. We then visually interpreted the imagery and identified areas that showed apparent swidden loss between the years 1989 and 2010. Finally, NDVI values were extracted for those areas to evaluate landscape changes associated with swidden loss and forest encroachment. The Normalized Difference Vegetation Index (NDVI) is a commonly used index in remote sensing to evaluate vegetated surfaces. It is a ratio index that is calculated by: (NIR - Red) NDVI = (NIR + Red) where NIR = near-infra-red reflectance (Landsat Thematic Mapper band 4, 0.76– 0.90µm) and Red = red reflectance (Landsat Thematic Mapper band 3, 0.63-0.69µm). In contrast with other terrestrial surface and atmospheric features, vegetation reflects highly in the near-infra-red, while absorbing red wavelengths. This allows the discrimination of vegetation from other features (e.g. bare rock, water or clouds) that show very different reflective characteristics. Additionally, NDVI provides an assessment of vegetation condition and is often used as a surrogate for many biophysical parameters. Examples include: leaf area index (e.g. Myneni et al., 1997), photosynthetic activity (e.g. Running and Nemani, 1988) and biomass (e.g. Box et al., 1989). In order to provide insights into changes in swidden practices and forest cover observed over recent decades, we interviewed elderly residents at each village that local people identified as the most knowledgeable about long-standing agricultural practices.The interviews, conducted in November and December 2011, involved five people in Nasiphel, two of whom were women, and three in Shingkhar, all of them men. The interviews were not a random sample and hence cannot be generalized. Based on the observed and reported changes in swidden practices and forest cover, and published accounts of disturbance attributes associated with historic swidden practices (from Roder et al., 1992; Dukpa et al., 2007), we evaluated the potential effects the changes in historic swidden-disturbance regimes may have had on flora and fauna in these locations. Results

Based on visual interpretation of satellite imagery, there are clear changes associated with swidden loss in the study areas. Polygons identified as areas of agriculture change

550  Siebert et al.

(loss of swidden) totalled 54.17ha (2.17% of the 25sq-km area) in the Nasiphel region and 18.51ha (0.74%) in Shingkhar (Figures 28.1 to 28.7). Additionally, NDVI values were extracted from the identified areas to preliminarily assess how vegetation was changing and data were extracted from areas adjacent to our ‘study sites’ to serve as controls. Initial evaluation of mean change over time indicates that the areas interpreted as swidden loss show increases in the NDVI trajectory that are consistent with a transition from agriculture to forest-cover types, where biomass, leaf area index and photosynthetic activity are increasing. The control site, in contrast, showed NDVI values that remained consistent over time (Table 28.1). All of the elderly interview respondents reported that significant changes in agriculture and forest cover had occurred over the past two decades. All noted that swidden farming had ceased and forest cover had increased, and that while agriculture now occupied less land than in the past, it is more intensive (i.e. it involves the use of commercial fertilizers and improved varieties) and is commercially oriented (i.e. producing cash crops for market rather than for subsistence consumption). This is particularly the case in Nasiphel, which has had road, and hence, market access for years.

FIGURE 28.1 

Overview of 2010 image, acquired 15 February 2010 from Landsat 5 Thematic Mapper (Row 41, Path 137). Circles indicate 25sq-km buffer around Nasiphel and Shingkhar.

Chapter 28. End of swidden in Bhutan  551

FIGURE 28.2 Subset

of 2010 image. Buffers around Nasiphel and Shingkhar shown by circles.

FIGURE 28.3 Subset

FIGURE 28.4 

FIGURE 28.5 

1989 image with buffer and areas delineated as lost swidden agriculture near Nasiphel

of 1989 image, acquired 13 February 1989 from Landsat 4 Thematic Mapper (Row 41, Path 137). Circles represent 25sq-km areas around Nasiphel and Shingkhar.

2010 image with buffer and areas delineated as lost swidden agriculture near Nasiphel

552  Siebert et al.

FIGURE 28.6 

1989 image with buffer and areas delineated as lost swidden agriculture near Shingkhar

FIGURE 28.7 

2010 image with buffer and areas delineated as lost swidden agriculture near Shingkhar

Disturbance attributes associated with swidden agriculture in Nasiphel and Shingkhar are summarized in Table 28.2. It is noteworthy that swidden farming created disturbances that were significantly larger than natural disturbances, particularly tree falls, and that extensive early seral vegetation was maintained at both sites. Swidden fields were typically greater than 0.5ha, often adjacent to one another, and irregularly shaped (based on Landsat imagery and the statements of elderly farmers). These conditions are likely to have favoured flora and fauna that prefer disturbed, high-light environments. With the decline in swidden agriculture, dense, +/- even-aged stands of blue pine and broadleaf forests have established at Nasiphel and Shingkhar, respectively. Discussion

Historic livelihood activities and associated ecological-disturbance regimes have changed in Nasiphel and Shingkhar over the past two decades. According to TABLE 28.1  Twenty-year mean NDVI values for areas exhibiting swidden loss and control sites in Nasiphel and Shingkhar, Bhutan

Swidden-loss sites Nasiphel + Shingkhar combined Nasiphel Shingkhar Control sites Nasiphel + Shingkhar control combined Nasiphel control Shingkhar control

1989 mean NDVI

2010 mean NDVI

Difference

0.380 0.344 0.480

0.568 0.519 0.699

0.188 0.175 0.219

0.569 0.523 0.627

0.615 0.561 0.682

0.0456 0.038 0.055

Note: Nasiphel ‘lost’ 54.17ha of swidden, or 2.17% of the 25sq-km study area; Shingkhar ‘lost’ 18.51ha of swidden, or 0.74% of the 25sq-km study area.

Chapter 28. End of swidden in Bhutan  553 TABLE 28.2  Disturbance attributes associated with swidden (tseri and pangshing) in Nasiphel and Shingkhar, Bhutan

Type

tseri

Location/elevation Forest type Size Intensityx Duration (yrs)x Frequency (yrs)x Shape Spatial distribution Vegetation (swidden) Cropx Fallowx Seral stage Plant regeneration x

pangshing

500-2500m 2500-3500m warm and cool broadleaf blue pine variable, all > 0.5 ha, many > 1.0 ha cut, burnt, not ploughed cut, burnt and ploughed 1-2 of cultivation 2-3 of cultivation 2-8 of fallow 6-20 of fallow variable variable usually adjacent to other cultivated fields and/or fallows maize, millet, rice shrubs, trees, annuals early successional/perennials coppicing, seed bank, seed rain

buckwheat, wheat grasses, forbs, blue pine early successional/grass all vegetation eliminated, seed rain Vegetation (2011) dense broadleaf forests dense blue pine Note: Disturbance attributes marked with an ‘x’ are from Dukpa et al. (2007) and Roder et al. (1992); other attributes based on field observations and discussions with knowledgeable older farmers at the two sites.

knowledgeable older residents, swidden agricultural practices ceased in Nasiphel due to: (1) improved road and market access, which stimulated farmers to switch from cultivating a diversity of annual food crops for domestic household consumption to high-value cash crops for sale, principally potatoes (cited by all five elderly farmers); and: (2) the Royal Government of Bhutan’s decision to eliminate swidden throughout the country by 1997 (cited by two farmers). Adult male migration to urban areas to seek work is widely known as a cause of farm-labour shortage across the Himalayas (Saxena et al., 2005). However, in Nasiphel it seems to be largely young people – both male and female - who leave. In Shingkhar, elderly farmers stated that swidden agriculture ceased due to: (1) limited household labour resulting from young people leaving for urban areas to join the army, attend school or find work (cited by all three elderly farmers) and: (2) preparations to produce and sell market crops pending road and market access (also cited by all three farmers). The differences between the two communities are not surprising as a rough road reached Nasiphel in the late 1990s, while Shingkhar expects to have farm road access in 2013. It is also noteworthy that all eight elderly farmers at both sites stated that the climate had warmed significantly in their lifetimes and that as a result new crops were now able to be cultivated (particularly paddy rice and chilli in Nasiphel). Using NDVI values (Table 28.1) as a surrogate for and a measure of forest encroachment in former swidden areas supports the observed (i.e. Landsat) and farmer-reported evidence of land-use change. The mean NDVI values for both sites (Nasiphel and Shingkhar) show an increase over the 20-year period, which would be

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expected in an area that transitioned from agriculture to forest. This interpretation is supported by the fact that the acquisition dates occur in winter when agriculture NDVI values would likely be low and forested areas higher. In contrast, the forested ‘control’ sites show similar NDVI values over the 20-year period. These forested ‘control’ sites exhibit NDVI scores similar to the 2010 values in areas where swidden has been lost, thus suggesting transition to forest. When the sites are considered individually, Shingkhar, the more southerly, shows a greater increase in vegetation (NDVI difference = 0.219 vs. 0.175). This north-south difference likely corresponds to a general increase in productivity and vegetation vigour associated with lower elevations and more southerly sites. The cessation of swidden agriculture altered historic ecological-disturbance regimes that were at least partially responsible for the development and maintenance of flora and fauna (i.e. biodiversity) in both locations. The end of swidden-associated disturbances is manifest in the significant increase in forest cover, decrease in cultivated area and reduction in the number of farm parcels observed between 1989 and 2010 at both sites. The specific effects associated with these changes include: (1) widespread establishment of dense, +/- even-aged forests (blue pine in Nasiphel, broadleaf forest in Shingkhar); (2) reduced grass, forbs, shrubs and other early successional vegetation; and (3) a reduction in the extent of forest-gap edges. All of the elderly farmers in both sites noted that forest cover had increased significantly in recent decades and two farmers at Nasiphel stated that as a consequence of the increased forest cover, crop predation by deer and pigs was much more severe than in the past. At a landscape level, there has been a transition in vegetation cover at both Nasiphel and Shingkhar. Whereas it was once a complex mosaic of cultivated swidden fields, a diversity of seral vegetation up to 20 years of age associated with swidden fallows, and uncultivated closed-canopy primary forests, it now consists of more homogeneous, dense, closed-canopy forests. The disturbance attributes associated with swidden agriculture differ markedly from ‘natural’ tree falls. In particular, tseri- and pangshingcreated gaps that were much larger than tree falls, and swidden fields were typically located adjacent to other cultivated and/or fallowed fields (Table 28.1). Consequently, historic swidden disturbances maintained more open fields and a greater proportion of secondary vegetation in a variety of successional stages than presently exists. The biodiversity implications associated with these changes have yet to be documented, but we suggest they are potentially profound. In general, the establishment of dense, closed-canopy forests favours interior, forest-dependent flora and fauna and is poorly suited to plants and animals that prefer gaps or high-light environments. While the specific habitat requirements of most of Bhutan’s diverse flora and fauna are unknown, tigers – a flagship umbrella species of domestic and international conservation concern – are habitat generalists whose populations are strongly influenced by the availability of prey (Khan and Chivers, 2007; Kanagaraj et al., 2011; Wikramanayake et al., 2011). The preferred prey of tigers in Bhutan includes various ungulates (e.g. sambar and musk deer) and wild pigs. Interestingly, more evidence of tigers (i.e. scats, tracks and camera-trap photos) was recorded in disturbed secondary

Chapter 28. End of swidden in Bhutan  555

forests associated with swidden cultivation than in dense, undisturbed forests in Jigme Singye Wangchuck National Park in central Bhutan (Namgyel et al., 2008). Research in the nearby Terai of Nepal and India found that the most parsimonious model of habitat selection by tigers incorporated habitats suited to their two main prey species – spotted deer and sambar – both of which favour open forests and grasslands, where browse and forage are more abundant (Kanagaraj et al., 2011). Similarly, Khan and Chivers (2007) concluded that tigers in Bangladesh benefited from habitat diversity because that maintained populations of their preferred prey: spotted deer and wild pig. Studies in Nepal found that open Sal forests, tall grass, mixed grasslands, upper bench Sal forests, mixed deciduous forests, Siwalik Hills and dry river courses provided the best tiger habitat (Smith et al., 1998). None of these are dense closed-canopy forests. Even more interesting is a recent study in Nepal’s Chitwan National Park, which found high tiger densities both within and outside the park, notwithstanding ubiquitous and abundant humanity (Carter et al., 2012). Could forest disturbances associated with small-scale farming and grazing increase the availability of forage and browse for wild ungulates, thereby providing tigers with more prey? Finally, a recent analysis of potential tiger population densities concluded that dry deciduous forests and alluvial savannas/grasslands could support significantly higher tiger population densities than rainforests, subtropical broadleaf, pine and other dense, closed-canopy forests (Wikramanayake et al., 2011). While these results might be expected of a habitat generalist, it is noteworthy that blue- and chir-pine forests in Bhutan also exhibit relatively low bird species diversity and contain no specialist species (Inskipp et al., 1999). The recent land-use and forest-cover changes documented in Nasiphel and Shingkhar represent a significant departure from historic disturbance regimes that may result in reduced annual- and woody-species diversity and less productive habitat for many animal species in addition to tigers. Furthermore, the establishment of dense, homogeneous, closed-canopy forests is widespread. For example, more than 28% of the area long inhabited by indigenous swidden farmers in Jigme Singye Wangchuck National Park was in cultivated or fallowed swidden fields in 1989, but only 6% remained in 2005 (Namgyel et al., 2008). A recent nationwide land cover assessment reveals that total forest cover in Bhutan increased from 72% in 1995 to 81% in 2010, while the area of cultivated agricultural land declined from 7.85% to 2.93% (NSSC and PPD, 2011). These results are similar to our observations in Nasiphel and Shingkhar. Elsewhere in the eastern Himalayas, Salick et al. (2005) documented widespread abandonment of agriculture and increased tree growth associated with government afforestation programmes and suppression of burning in Tibet, which resulted in a shift of the tree line into alpine meadows and an influx of fire-intolerant plant species that are unpalatable, indigestible or poisonous to domestic and wild ungulates. Similarly, Xu et al. (2009) observed a significant shift from open- to closedcanopy forests and a decline in biological diversity associated with swidden fallows in southwest China between 1993 and 2006. Finally, Saxena et al. (2005) noted that there has simultaneously been large-scale outmigration leading to abandonment of

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agricultural land and change from subsistence to market economies and cash crop cultivation throughout much of the Himalayas. The contribution of swidden-associated disturbance to biological diversity is most significant at the landscape level.While fallow vegetation and other early successional forests are structurally less diverse than primary forest, landscapes that incorporate swidden disturbances are more structurally diverse than primary forest alone, and habitat modifications associated with swidden tend to increase faunal diversity at many spatial scales (Finegan and Nasi, 2004).The converse also appears to be the case; that is, the cessation of historic swidden agriculture may affect floristic and faunal diversity. For example, the recent decline in traditional milpa (i.e. swidden) agriculture due to rural-to-urban migration in Oaxaca, Mexico has resulted in reduced spatial heterogeneity of forest structure with potentially significant implications for the conservation of native flora and fauna (Robson and Berkes, 2011). It is noteworthy that swidden farming is only one previously widespread historic anthropogenic disturbance that is changing in Bhutan. Changes in historic grazing are likely to have even greater ecological significance because of the larger proportion of total land area affected. For centuries, yak and cattle grazed under traditional cultural-management practices throughout much of the country, from subtropical and warm broadleaf forests below 1000m to alpine meadows above 5000m. Extensive livestock grazing and its associated ecological disturbances, like swidden farming, tend to increase landscape heterogeneity, reduce the abundance and density of tree cover, and favour the establishment and growth of grasses and other early successional vegetation. The decline in floristic diversity and structural heterogeneity associated with the end of extensive livestock grazing and swidden also means the loss of wild foods, fibre, medicinals, and other materials used by local households. Conclusions

The biodiversity effects associated with changes in swidden, a key historic anthropogenic disturbance in Bhutan, are potentially profound, but uncertain and largely unknown.The intimate relationships between historic livelihood practices and the abundance and distribution of flora and fauna, and basic ecological processes and functions, argues for a concerted effort to understand, document and monitor current conditions, and the transformations now occurring across the landscapes of Bhutan and the eastern Himalayas more generally. As dynamic social-ecological systems, this necessitates a multi-disciplinary and multi-scaled approach. It is imperative that this inquiry commence soon while sites still subject to historic anthropogenic ecologicaldisturbance regimes persist and individuals with long-standing traditional ecological knowledge that helped to create and maintain these landscapes and their associated biological diversity are still living and able to participate in the research.

Chapter 28. End of swidden in Bhutan  557

References Box, E., Holben, B. and Kalb, V. (1989) ‘Accuracy of the AVHRR vegetation index as a predictor of biomass, primary productivity and net CO2 flux’, Plant Ecology 80, pp71–89 Carter, N., Shrestha, B., Karki, J., Pradhan, N. and Liu, J. (2012) ‘Coexistence between wildlife and humans at fine spatial scales’, PNAS 109, pp15360–16365 Ghander, G., Markham, B. L. and Helder, D. L. (2009) ‘Summary of Current Radiometric Calibration Coefficients for Landsat MSS,TM, ETM+, and EO-1 ALI Sensors’, Remote Sensing of Environment 113, pp893–903 Dukpa, T., Wangchuk, P., Rinchin, Wangdi, K. and Roder, W. (2007) ‘Changes and innovations in the management of shifting cultivation land in Bhutan’, in M. Cairns (ed.) Voices From the Forest: Integrating Indigenous Knowledge into Sustainable Upland Farming, Resources for the Future, Washington, DC, pp692–699 Finegan, B. and Nasi, R. (2004) ‘The biodiversity and conservation potential of shifting cultivation landscapes’, in G. Schroth, G. daFonseca, C. Harvey, C. Gascon, H. Vasconcelso and A. Izac (eds) Agriculture and Biodiversity Conservation in Tropical Landscapes, Island Press, Washington, DC, pp153–197 Groombridge, B. and Jenkins, M. (2002) World Atlas of Biodiversity, University of California Press, Berkeley, CA Inskipp, C., Inskipp, T. and Grimmett, R. (1999) Birds of Bhutan, Christopher Helm, London Kanagaraj, R.,Wiegand,T., Kramer-Schadt, S.,Anwar, M. and Goyal, S. (2011) ‘Assessing habitat suitability for tiger in the fragmented Terai Arc landscape of India and Nepal’, Ecography 34, pp970–981 Kerkhoff, E. and Sharma, E. (eds) (2006) Debating Shifting Cultivation in the Eastern Himalayas, International Centre for Integrated Mountain Development (ICIMOD), Kathmandu Khan, M. and Chivers, D. (2007) ‘Habitat preferences of tigers, Panthera tigris, in the Sundarbans East Wildlife Sanctuary, Bangledesh, and management recommendations’, Oryx 41, pp463–468 Mori, A. (2011) ‘Ecosystem management based on natural disturbances: Hierarchical context and nonequilibrium paradigm’, Journal of Applied Ecology 48, pp280–292 Myneni, R., Ramakrishna, R., Nemani, R. and Running, S. (1997) ‘Estimation of global leaf area index and absorbed PAR using radiative transfer’, IEEE Transactions of Geoscience and Remote Sensing 35 (6) Namgyel, U., Siebert, S. and Wang, S. (2008) ‘Shifting cultivation and biodiversity conservation in Bhutan’, Conservation Biology 22, pp1349–1351 NSSC and PPD. (2011) Bhutan Land Cover Assessment 2010 (LCMP-2010), Ministry of Agriculture and Forests, Bhutan Padoch, C. and Pinedo-Vasquez, M. (2010) ‘Saving slash-and-burn to save biodiversity’, Biotropica 42, pp550–552 Robson, J. and Berkes, F. (2011) ‘Exploring some of the myths of land use change: Can rural to urban migration drive declines in biodiversity?’, Global Environmental Change 21, pp844–854 Roder,W., Calvert, O. and Dorji,Y. (1992) ‘Shifting cultivation systems practiced in Bhutan’, Agroforestry Systems 19, pp149–158 Running, S. and Nemani, R. (1988) ‘Relating seasonal patterns of the AVHRR vegetation index to simulated photosynthesis and transpiration of forests in different climates’, Remote Sensing of Environment 24, pp347–367 Salick, J., Yongping, Y. and Amend, A. (2005) ‘Tibetan land use and change near Khawa Karpo, eastern Himalayas’, Economic Botany 59, pp312–325 Saxena, K., Maikhuri, R. and Rao, K. (2005) ‘Changes in agricultural biodiversity: Implications for sustainable livelihood in the Himalaya’, Journal of Mountain Science 2, pp23–31 Schnitzer, S. and Carson, W. (2001) ‘Treefall gaps and the maintenance of species diversity in a tropical forest’, Ecology 82, pp913–919 Smith, J., Ahern, S. and McDougal, C. (1998) ‘Landscape analysis of tiger distribution and habitat quality in Nepal’, Conservation Biology 12, pp1338–1346

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Tucker, C. (1979) ‘Red and photographic infrared linear combinations for monitoring vegetation’, Remote Sensing of Environment 8, pp127–150 Uhl, C., Nepstad, D., Buschbacher, R., Clark, K., Kauffman, B. and Subler, S. (1990) ‘Studies of ecosystem response to natural and anthropogenic disturbances provide guidelines for designing sustainable landuse systems in Amazonia’, in A. Anderson (ed.) Alternatives to Deforestation, Columbia University Press, New York, pp24–47 van Vliet, N., Mertz, O., Heinimann, A., Langanke, T., Pascual, U., Schmook, B., Adams, C., Schmidt-Vogt, D., Messerli, P., Leisz, S., Castella, J-C., Jørgensen, L., Birch-Thomsen, T., Hett, C., Bech-Bruun, T., Ickowitz, A.,Vu, Kim Chi,Yasuyuki, K., Fox, J., Padoch, C., Dressler, W. and Ziegler, A. D. (2012) ‘Trends, drivers and impacts of changes in swidden cultivation in tropical forestagriculture frontiers: A global assessment’, Global Environmental Change 22 (2), pp418–429 Wangchuk, S. and Siebert, S. (2013) ‘Agricultural change in Bumthang, Bhutan: Market opportunities, government policies and climate change’, Society and Natural Resources DOI: 10.1080/08941920.2013.789575 Wikramanayake, E., Dinerstein, E., Seidensticker, J., Lumpkin, S., Pandav, B., Shrestha, M., Mishra, H., Ballou, J., Johnsingh, A., Chestin, I., Sunarto, S., Thinley, P., Thapa, K., Jiang, G., Elagupillay, S., Kafley, H., Pradhan, N., Jigme, K., Teak, S., Cutter, P., Abdula Aziz, M. and Than, U. (2011) ‘A landscape-based conservation strategy to double the wild tiger population’, Conservation Letters 4, pp219–227 WWF (World Wide Fund for nature) (2005) Ecosystem Profile: Eastern Himalayas Region, Critical Ecosystem Partnership Fund, Washington, DC Xu, J., Lebel, L. and Sturgeon, J. (2009) ‘Functional links between biodiversity, livelihoods, and culture in a Hani swidden landscape in southeast China’, Ecology and Society 14 (2), p20

29 VALUATION AND MANAGEMENT OF FOREST ECOSYSTEM SERVICES A skill well exercised by the forest people of Upper Nam Theun, Lao PDR Laurent Chazée* Introduction and objectives

If one analyses the evolving international concepts of sustainable development, ecosystem services and ecological footprints, among other concepts, and compares them with the way the forest people of central Laos adapted their livelihood to suit their environment, then perhaps one must admit that these people managed a perfect consumption model. At least, they did so until the construction of the Nam Theun hydro-power dam in 2005. This analysis demonstrates that these people were in perfect harmony with nature, many generations before the Millennium Ecosystem Assessment concluded in 2003 that natural forest and wetlands ecosystems provided a wide range of services. The study from which this chapter is drawn set out to estimate, in the period from 1998 to 2003, the degree of use of forest and wetlands ecosystems services in the livelihood of forest people of the Upper Nakai-Nam Theun area in the Lao PDR. It attempted to estimate the benefits these people were receiving from forests and wetlands ecosystems, in terms of provisioning, regulating and cultural services, and how these influenced their food security, well-being and culture. The study context The study area

Between 1990 and 2002, a long series of feasibility and preparatory environmental and social studies took place in the context of the looming Nam Theun II hydro-power

* 

Dr Laurent Chazée, Coordinator of the Mediterranean Wetlands Observatory, Tour du Valat, France; former chief technical adviser to several rural development projects of the United Nations Development Programme, and a researcher on rural and swidden farming systems in Lao PDR throughout the 1990s.

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project, with the objective of protecting the Theun watershed. In 1993, this watershed was included in the large (3869sq-km) Nakai-Nam Theun Biodiversity Conservation Area (NBCA), mostly motivated by the coming hydro-power project and the recent discovery of the critically endangered Saola (sometimes known as the Asian Unicorn) and another endangered species, the Giant Muntjac deer (Figure 29.1). In 2000, it was found that about 5000 forest people (1.3 persons/sq km) were living in 36 small, permanent settlements and eight temporary ones in the forested Theun watershed (Chazée and Syphanravong, 2000). Their way of life involved hunting and gathering and swidden farming, following a long tropical-forest cycle. Successive development projects set out to find alternatives to slash-and-burn practices to protect the watershed and limit soil erosion. However, conventional project mechanisms could not be

FIGURE 29.1 

Central Laos, showing the areas affected by development of the Nam Theun hydro-electricity project, and the Nakai-Nam Theun Biodiversity Conservation Area, created in 1993

Chapter 29. Valuation and management of forest  561

employed in this very specific historical, social and cultural setting. A preliminary study – for social acceptance of change – was conducted between 1998 and 2002 in 15 communities living in dense forest at an altitude of 400 to 600m asl, between the Nam Sot and Nam Noy rivers. These included communities of the Brou, Kri, Malang, Maleng, Atel and Témarou ethnicities, from the austro-asiatic and vietic language families. Based on this study, a side analysis was conducted in a second stage that sought a better understanding of the links between people’s livelihoods and their natural capital, through the concept of ecosystem services.This analysis demonstrated that these people were living in perfect harmony with nature.There were benefits on all sides, and this had been the case for a long time before the Millennium Ecosystem Assessment concluded in 2003 that a wide range of services were provided by natural forest and wetland ecosystems. Social features in the study area

The livelihood, swidden-farming patterns and wealth or poverty status of these forest people were largely explained by past historical events, their cultural values, social organization and religious beliefs. While the Brou-So were the largest ethnic group in the area, they were also represented in other parts of central Lao PDR. However, the Kri, Malang, Maleng, Atel and Témarou were specific to the study area, and could be represented by only a few households, or sometimes individuals. Other ethnic groups such as the Sek, Phong and Arao were also represented in the area.1 Households were generally nuclear, comprising parents and children. They practised monogamy and their lineal system was patrilineal (Kri, Atel, Maleng, Malang) or sometimes bilateral (Brou-So), tending towards patrilineal. However, for young couples, matrilocality took place between engagement (called ‘little marriage’) and marriage, for a period of up to three years. This social mechanism allowed for control and assistance from the bride’s parents before marriage. Residence was then patrilocal or neolocal after marriage. Material and religious inheritance passed down the male line to the eldest son. Other inheritance went to the other sons. Although, in principle, there was freedom to marry into other ethnic groups, marriages were mostly within the same ethnicity. For example, in the Brou-So village of Markfeuang, of the 52 male heads of household in February 2002, only four were not Brou So. Of the 57 wives, only one was not of Brou-So origin. In Navang village of the same group, of the 45 male heads of household in February 2002, only three were not Brou-So. Of the 42 wives in Navang, only two were not of Brou-So origin. This ethnic endogamy was motivated by spiritual considerations, social and cultural values and references, languages, and also reluctance to share inherited territory with other groups through patrilines (in particular for the Sek group). However, ethnic exogamy at marriage was a survival strategy when there was less than a critical mass of people to enable marriage within the same group (Atel, Kri, Témarou).

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The peoples of Theun watershed worshipped a wide pantheon of natural and ancestral spirits and strongly believed, more than people elsewhere in Lao PDR, that their respective ancestral domains were protected by guardian spirits. Some, such as the Brou-So and Sek, showed an old Buddhism influence that seemed to pre-date 1850 and was maintained in the valleys until the 1950s. As with the Brou, Kaleung and Arao in the valleys of the Nam Theun, Nam Mone and Nam Xot, some Maleng were sometimes possessed by the spirits of dead people. This cult of possession was a means of communication between the sacred and profane worlds. It was difficult to work out how it had originated. However, there was no doubt that the importance of these Nakai Plateau cults of possession – in the eyes of other Lao people – was that they put them in touch with the history of groups oppressed by slavery, deportation and the old hierarchy of patrilineal filiation, and passed on a sense of this oppression. In Songkhone village, where possessed people were considered to be ‘sorcerers’, the possessed held an annual festival for the spirits called Phi moung Djemia mo.The Kri, on the other hand, had a special relationship with blood (Figure 29.2). No traces of blood were permitted to enter a house: not the wife when she began to menstruate or had given birth; not a bloody piece of meat for an evening meal. The elders claimed that at one time, the Kri were not allowed to eat buffalo, deer, wild boar, gaur, goral or tiger, or they would inevitably go mad. An accident, epidemic or serious illness in a house automatically meant that the site had to be abandoned, leaving the basic structure of pillars, beams and floor. Men had a higher status than women because of the patrilineal tendency and patrilocality at marriage. Women did not inherit much and thus had little economic independence. Contrary to most Tai societies living in Lao PDR, women from the austro-asiatic and vietic language groups did not hold the household cash savings. They took part in financial decisionmaking, but the husband usually had the last word. Wives were in charge of fetching water and firewood, household tasks, cooking, tending small animals, vegetable FIGURE 29.2  An old Kri woman smoking tobacco gardening and brewing alcohol. wrapped in a corn leaf, Maka Neua village, Nam They shared fieldwork, forest Noy valley, Khammouane province, 2001 gathering and fishing. They did no Photo: L. Chazée weaving or embroidery. The men

Chapter 29. Valuation and management of forest  563

also worked in the fields and were responsible for building and maintenance of housing and fencing, rearing large animals, hunting, making baskets and nets and commercial gathering. In reality, among the Atel, Kri, Témarou, Malang and Maleng, daily life favoured neither male nor female, who shared the work needed for family subsistence. For them, a patrilineal system and patrilocal residence for the eldest son did not really give advantage to the men, given the day-to-day lifestyle and low value of capital inheritance. Until the 1980s, their capital consisted only of a temporary house and a few poultry. Women were responsible for domestic and gathering tasks, while men took charge of hunting, trapping and large fishing (Figure 29.3). They shared work in the fields, with women more commonly in routine work, and men in ploughing and construction. People’s livelihood

29.3 A Maleng youth returns from the forest with fruit and a captive passerine bird, Songkone village, Nakai district, Khammouane province, 2001 FIGURE

Photo: L. Chazée

Except for the Sek group, the ethnic groups of the Upper Nakai-Nam Theun area were semiitinerant swidden farmers practising hill-slope cultivation (hai) in either rotational or pioneering systems, cutting primary forest. Choice and management of swidden areas was closely associated with beliefs, and had to be validated by rites based on the rice cycle. Swidden farming temporarily exploited part of the ‘non-organized’ space protected by the local spirit (Kamouth tang nsak for the Brou group), but good relations with the spirit were always maintained. The swidden farmer would choose an area to clear for his swidden, but would only go ahead and use it if his next nights were not disturbed by bad dreams. If he had a nightmare after cutting certain trees, such as May Khagnoung, May Peuay, May Mi and May Xot, he would have to sacrifice a chicken to appease the spirits (Chazée, 2004). The livelihood of the Brou-So was largely based on sticky rice, buffaloes, pigs, chickens, vegetable-and-fruit gardens, cassava, maize, seasonal labour, hunting, gathering and fishing. They also produced ordinary rice, rice beer and rattan handicrafts. Their income was generated from the sale of maize, pigs, chickens, nontimber forest products, seasonal labour and trade in rice alcohol and cigarettes. Since 1997, the richest families of the less remote villages of Brou-So had also engaged in small businesses and run river-transport services with motorboats. Kri, Témarou and Atel relied mostly on gathering, hunting, fishing and swidden farming, keeping very low capital of livestock. Brou of the high valleys of the Nam Theun, Nam Noy and

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Nam Mone exploited the land in many ways: rotational swidden farming (hai) was used by 90 to 100% of families in secondary forest that was 15 to 40 years old, or in seven- to 12-year-old fallow land. In the past, each swidden farm was cropped for two or three years in succession, but during the study period, cultivation was limited to one year. Almost all swiddens (96% of households in Markfeuang and 86% in Navang in 2000) grew mostly rice, including a variety of ordinary rice - Khao Tchao – and a variety of sticky rice - Khao Hao. In the lower valleys of the Nam Theun and Nam One, the Brou sometimes cultivated rice in alluvial zones, using fast-maturing varieties to avoid the usual October to November flooding. Each group sowed 15 to 40kg of seeds into holes made with a small dibble stick. The seeds were covered with earth for protection from birds, rodents and insects. In 1997, many families began treating seeds with the insecticide Furadan, against ants and termites. Swidden farmers without settled ricefields rarely managed to grow more than six months’ supply of rice. Unlike the Lao, however, that did not mean they ran short of food, although rice was still the preferred staple. The Brou practised mixed farming and animal husbandry, and had an impressive production range as well as using non-timber forest products, thus guaranteeing themselves enough to eat. This, however, excepted those in difficult circumstances – the childless aged, divorced men or women, widows with many young children, the handicapped or those with chronic illness. Other crops grown in association with rice were maize, pumpkins, eggplants, beans, sorghum, sesame, Job’s tears, sweet potatoes, basil, lemon grass, chillies, melons, ginger, taro, and sometimes cassava, banana and coriander (Tables 29.1 and 29.3). The Kri were purely hunters and gatherers in the 1950s and 1960s.They then began to grow cassava, maize and taro in a rotational swidden-farming system. Since then, their swidden crops have expanded to include ordinary rice (Khao Mane Toune) in association with maize, sorghum, chillies, sweet potatoes, beans, basil, pumpkins and eggplants. In 2000 to 2002, swiddens were often cultivated for more than six years before the land was left fallow and the farmers cleared new land. For the Kri, swiddens were not private and could be used by other families with the verbal approval of the previous users. The Kri also had permanent or semi-permanent family gardens, usually private, for maize and cassava. A few families also cultivated small vegetable gardens along the Nam Noy river bank in the dry season. Buffaloes wandered semitended.The Kri gathered more than 150 products from the nearby forest, particularly bamboos, rattans, spices, leaves and mushrooms. These 150 products were capable of creating more than 500 ‘sub-products’. Hunting, trapping and river fishing supplied animal protein to their diet. Since 1998, with external project assistance, some families had been cropping permanent ricefields. It was interesting to note that the Kri had numerous alimentary taboos, which differed from family to family. Many concerned buffaloes; others related to wild animals. Up until the end of the 1970s, the Atel and Témarou ethnic groups lived as hunters, gatherers and fisherfolk in their respective ancestral domains, to which they were attached through their guardian spirits. These groups in the Upper Nakai-Nam Theun area were the only representatives of their ethnicity, and they were few in

Chapter 29. Valuation and management of forest  565 TABLE 29.1  Swidden-farming characteristics of Brou-So communities in the Nakai-Nam Theun Area

Elements of swidden farming

Main characteristics

Land management

Rotational system around the settled Sek village (Teung) and Brou village (Navang) due to the presence of settled ricefields. Migratory and rotational systems in Markfeuang, within territory boundary. Reported fallow period 1-2 years cropping and 3-12 years fallow (6 years average). Observed fallow period 1-2 years cropping and 7-40 years fallow (15 years average). Months of cropping April to November. Land tenure Temporary use of communal (not protected) forest. Access to land Free selection and preparation based on labour-force capacity. Employment of labour by rich families. Cropping pattern Rice and associated vegetables (maize, sorghum, sweet potatoes, pumpkins, melons, chillies, courgettes, taro) and attached gardens (beans, lemon grass, basil, cassava, job’s tears, eggplants, bananas, tobacco, sesame). Single rice cropping (sometimes with maize, sorghum, chillies and basil). Agroforestry system None or few (medium to large animal snares around the swidden, falling-tree traps for rodents within the swidden). Location Nearby ricefields (for convenience of dual-purpose work) or in suitable soil/orientation areas, preferably near abundant NTFPs and wildlife/fishing sites for trapping or fishing. Maximum 70 minutes’ walking from village - average 40 minutes. Area by labour force 0-0.4ha per worker for households with settled ricefields. 0.15-0.8ha per worker for households without settled ricefields. Environmentally friendly No use of chemicals and pesticide except limited use of techniques Furadan to protect seeds against termites and ants. Use of traditional and selective traps for rodents, birds and large animals. Source: Chazée and Syphanravong (2000)

number. But the natural resources of the area assured them of sufficient food and daily animal protein. Several families also practised some swidden farming; growing maize, cassava, tubers and rice. Sickness, accidents, snakebite and tiger attack were their only real problems. The altitude was sufficient to discourage mosquitoes, so malaria was no health threat. Entrenched in poorly accessible primary forest, but quite self-sufficient, it is hard to judge in hindsight whether the Atel and Témarou chose their lifestyle or whether they fled to their remote enclave to escape a more powerful social group. During the study period, their main livelihood was based on hunting, trapping, gathering, fishing, sticky rice, cassava, maize, melons, pumpkins and poultry. In their swiddens, families grew different rice varieties: Khao mong, Khao leu, Khao hao and Khao bay. They also grew associated crops of beans, taro, eggplants, sweet potatoes, zucchinis, chillies, basil, tobacco, coriander and lemon grass.

566  Chazée

Some families had small vegetable gardens on the banks of the Nam Xot river in the dry season, growing lettuce, mustard, onions, chillies, coriander and mint. It would be more appropriate to write of the forest pursuits of the Atel and Témarou as a life system rather than as a production system. The bulk of their time was spent in consumption rather than production.The search for animals in the forest and fish in the rivers, streams and lakes, with seasonal subsistence gathering, were activities that assured daily sustenance.The swiddens, from March to December, were designed not only for growing crops, but also for catching forest game, with rice used in bait traps for rodents, ungulates and granivorous birds. Swiddens were also the starting-point for hunting and fishing expeditions (Chazée, 2004). Poverty/wealth issues

The two core criteria in defining socio-economic differences among households were access or non-access to inheritance (house, buffalo, ricefield) and the dependency ratio (the total number of mouths to feed from a given labour force).The productivity of forest-related activities and various farming systems was a secondary criterion because consumption and farming patterns were very similar from village to village and there was not much difference in terms of productivity between swidden farming and settled rice cultivation. A detailed study conducted in three Brou-So villages in the Upper Nakai-Nam Theun area in 2000 concluded in a typology of four poverty/wealth groups (Table 29.2). For the very poor, the causes of socio-economic poverty were, in order of importance, lack of inheritance (100% of cases), orphanage (50%) and poor parents (50%), while long periods of disease or sickness, being widowed or divorced, or having a mental or physical handicap were less common causes.Visible core indicators of the very poor were a very small and very poor-quality house, a lack of ricefields and TABLE 29.2 

Poverty/wealth status of households in three Brou-So villages

Social indicators Number of households Families Population People per household Very poor households Poor households Medium to poor households Medium-situation households Medium rich households Rich households

Teung village

Markfeuang village Navang village

47 53 242 5.15 6 (13%) 18 (38%)

57 68 320 5.6 4(7%) 24 (42%)

54 79 288 5.35 4 (7%) 16 (30%)

9 (19%)

7 (12%)

8 (15%)

9 (19%) 5 (11%) 0

11 (20%) 7 (12%) 4 (7%)

15 (28%) 5 (9%) 6 (11%)

Source: Chazée and Syphanravong (2000)

Chapter 29. Valuation and management of forest  567

buffaloes, and the relative importance of seasonal employment. These households usually lacked a labour force to cultivate and maintain swiddens and gardens. Members were regularly involved in seasonal work within the village. Begging, reliance on the village ‘social safety net’ and performing additional gathering were their main coping strategies. In the case of poor households, the main causes of their socio-economic situation were a lack of, or poor, inheritance, a relatively high dependency ratio (parents with more than three children and without assistance from relatives), and divorced or widowed women with small children.Visible core indicators of the poor were small size and a poor-quality house; ownership of one buffalo, or maybe no buffalo at all, lack of even a small piece of a ricefield (sometimes these had been sold or mortgaged) and reliance on seasonal employment.These households usually lacked a labour force to improve their socio-economic status, and they could tumble very quickly into the ‘very poor’ category if stricken by a case of household illness or successive bad harvests. Their main sources of income were sales of cardamom, chickens, seasonal work within the village and small-scale buying and selling. Additional gathering activities and seasonal work were their main coping strategies. Households with a medium socio-economic status had inherited at least one buffalo and had a favourable labour-force ratio to progressively capitalize on buffaloes, ricefields and small businesses or service-oriented activities. Buffaloes and service-oriented activities had more economic weight than ricefields. Illegal trading and remittances from outside could also explain their socio-economic situation. The visible core indicators of this group were a medium stature and houses of poor to medium quality; ownership of two to five buffaloes, and from no ricefield at all to a medium-sized piece of a ricefield. These households usually had a labour force sufficient to improve their socio-economic status or to manage a productive off-farm activity such as running a transport service. Sales of cardamom, chickens, pigs and buffaloes, along with a small-scale business, were their sources of income. Additional sales of pigs or buffaloes were their main coping strategy. Households with a good socio-economic status had inherited at least buffaloes and a house from their parents and had a favourable labour-force ratio that allowed them to progressively capitalize on the buffaloes, ricefields, a small business or serviceoriented activities. Inheritance of the house also meant the transfer of religious power and social recognition that facilitated the control of people and territory. Buffaloes and service-oriented activities had more economic weight than the ricefields, and the socio-economic status of these households could often be explained by illegal trading activities and remittances from outside. Visible core indicators of this group were large to medium stature, a good-quality house, ownership of five to 27 buffaloes and a medium-sized piece of ricefield obtained through inheritance, purchase or preparation. These households usually had a labour force sufficient to improve their socio-economic situation or manage a productive off-farm activity such as a transport service. Although this category of households did not need a coping strategy, they still

568  Chazée

sold cardamom, damar resin (khisi), chickens, ducks, pigs and buffaloes and conducted small-scale business to boost their income. The concept of ecosystem services

Ecosystem services are broadly defined as the ‘benefits that people obtain from ecosystems’ (Millennium Ecosystem Assessment, 2003).This concept provides a means of conceptualizing the relationship between ecosystem structures or functions and human well-being (Gomez-Baggethun and de Groot, 2010) (Figure 29.4). Ecosystem services are usually divided into four main classes: provisioning services (e.g. food and water supply), regulating services (e.g. flood attenuation), cultural services (e.g. aesthetics or tourism) and supporting services (e.g. nutrient recycling) (Millennium Ecosystem Assessment, 2003, 2005; TEEB, 2010). Human society and its economic systems depend ultimately on natural ecosystems both as sources of energy and raw materials and for waste processing and/or dispersion. The fact that standard economic theory neglects this principle has been identified as a main cause of current environmental degradation (Millennium Ecosystem Assessment, 2003). Reconnecting economic systems with underlying ecological systems has been one of the aims of ecological and environmental economists. For this purpose, they began to develop the concept of ecosystem in the 1970s (Gomez-Baggethun and de Groot, 2010). In recent decades, the literature around ecosystem services has grown exponentially (Fisher et al., 2009). At a political level, an important milestone was the delivery by the United Nations Environment Programme in 2005 of a comprehensive international study on the state of ecosystem services worldwide: the Millennium Ecosystem Assessment.This assessment promoted a whole new approach to nature. Another major international initiative is the ongoing development of a System of integrated Environmental and Economic Accounts (SEEA) led by the United Nations, which should provide guidelines for amending existing systems of national accounts. At the conference of parties to the Convention on Biological Diversity (CBD) in Nagoya, Japan in October 2010, the conservation of ecosystem services was included as a new international target, at the same level as biodiversity.The CBD also endorsed the Intergovernmental Science-Policy Platform on Biodiversity and Ecosystem Services (IPBES), which was approved in 2010. In 2012, this concept of ecosystem services is on the agendas of the Conference of Parties to the Ramsar Convention on Wetlands, the Rio + 20 conference and the IUCN Congress for Nature. While international conservation networks develop the concept of ecosystem services, international socio-economic-development networks are including the dimension of natural capital and vulnerabilities in their analytical framework towards poverty-reduction programmes. The Ecological Footprint indicator is an emerging composite indicator based on comparing a consumption model and biocapacity, to assess the degree of sustainability of consumption models (Wackernagel et al., 1999).

Chapter 29. Valuation and management of forest  569

FIGURE 29.4 

Framework for linking ecosystems to human well-being Source: De Groot et al. (2010), modified from Haines-Young and Potschin (2010)

Land-use management by the forest people of the Upper Nakai area Historical influence on livelihoods

In 2002, the livelihood models adopted by the forest communities of Upper Nakai and their mobility showed the influences of historical events. It was difficult to determine whether hunting and gathering had been the initial livelihood of these people, and whether it had been continuous, or if, at some point, they had taken refuge in the forest to escape rebellion and insecurity. Some religious, social and handicraft features showed the ancient influences of Buddhism and a settled livelihood, but there were no written documents in existence. Oral history maintained that the main challenges their ancestors had faced were finding available and appropriate forest land that was peaceful, and in which they could find food and construction materials. As well as insecurity arising from the activities of armed bandits, their main threats were diseases, epidemics, accidents and attacks by tigers or leopards. In a case of repeated bad omens, they simply moved to another place, after a successful spiritual ceremony performed by their ritualists. In recent history, these forest people of the Annamite Mountains in what is now the Lao PDR suffered from occupation first by the Vietnamese and then the Siamese (1834 to 1847), including seizure of people who were taken into slavery.The people of the Upper Nakai-Nam Theun area claimed in 2002 that their ancestors had escaped slavery by finding refuge in their remote forest. Between 1893 and 1954, the French presence in the region was associated with recruitment of indigenous people for the army and for construction work. Then, the occupation of the region by the Pathet Lao during the American presence involved heavy bombing between 1967 and 1969. Between 1974 and 1989, some communities returned to their ancestral domain to flee cholera, leprosy and other epidemic disasters, as well as avoiding involuntary

570  Chazée

displacement to join larger villages being organized by local authorities with the help of the army. There were also continuing political and army influences between 1976 and 1992, before the creation of the Nakai-Nam Theun Biodiversity Conservation Area, and starting in 1997, the conservation and development initiatives associated with Nam Theun II hydro-power project (Chazée, 2002). In early 1990, district political leaders and the army strongly encouraged the villagers of the Upper Nakai-Nam Theun area to settle permanently, and to expand their swidden farming instead of hunting and gathering. In the same period, as the market economy opened, illegalVietnamese and Lao traders and the Lao army’s BPKP Company oversaw a well-organized commercial operation in which wood and nontimber forest products were collected and traded, using forest people to identify the best sites and collect the products. Since 2000, illegal poaching and gathering activities have been reduced by better controls and the presence of hydro-project workers, but the illegal operations were still ongoing in 2005. A sustainable way of life before the Nam Theun II project

The study from which this chapter was drawn concluded that the livelihood model adopted by the Upper Nakai forest people before the implementation of the Operational Plan for the Environmental and Social Management of the NakaiNam Theun Biodiversity Conservation Area in 2002 was not only ecologically sustainable, but far under the area’s biocapacity for regeneration. The main livelihood models adopted by these communities was based on hunting, gathering, trapping, fishing, cropping, animal husbandry, barter trade and local seasonal employment. The management of these activities was a learned consequence of past practical experiences, transferred and refined from generation to generation, and adapted to climatic and seasonal fluctuations, specific social events, the security of the area, household life cycle requirements and natural disasters. Cultural and religious values were also important influences on livelihood management at both community and household levels. Cropping techniques included rotational and pioneering swidden farming of rice; settled tea growing; vegetables, maize and cassava gardening; and semipermanent upland banana and cassava gardening. A FIGURE 29.5 A Maleng study conducted in 2000 among three Brou-So villages mother and her child (Table 29.3) shows that these communities had 25 to in Songkone village, 27 ways of providing food and income. While rice Nakai district, Khammouane became their preferred staple food, paddy cultivation province, 2001 was not a priority pillar of their working calendar. In Photo: L. Chazée

Chapter 29. Valuation and management of forest  571 TABLE 29.3 

Main livelihood systems of three Brou-So villages

Teung

Farming/forest-based indicators

Number

Markfeuang

Navang

% of Number % of Number % of households households households

Cropping pattern Number of cultivated crop varieties Pure rice swidden farming Mixed rice swidden farming Settled rainy season ricefield Settled dry season ricefield Number of maize gardens Number of cassava gardens Number of river vegetable gardens Number of village vegetable/ orchards gardens Number of tea gardens Number of tobacco gardens Number of banana/pineapple gardens Number of sugarcane gardens Number of cultivated forestproducts gardens

44

59

59

5.8ha 10.5ha 16.8ha 3.0ha 30 29 34

45 43 79 23 55 60 72

0.5ha 57.3ha 1.9ha 0 42 35 45

2 96 16 0 72 60 70

1.4ha 19.2ha 18.8ha 4.8ha 58 20 45

6 86 72 22 89 37 81

17

34

46

75

40

74

100 0 3

87 0 6

30 45 14

53 77 25

13 22 27

20 41 49

0

0

0

0

12

24

3

6

9

13

4

9

123 108 669 12 39 4

39 75 96 7 42 7

128 98 230 39 107 0

66 70 80 22 89 0

Animal husbandry Buffaloes Pigs Chickens Ducks Dogs Cats

72 110 271 42 69 18

40 89 98 19 81 30

Forest gathering, hunting, fishing Vegetable/mushroom FPs collected for consumption Vegetable FPs collected for market Total varieties of wild fish

83

100

123

100

139

100

4

95

3

95

3

95

100

19

100

24

100

13

Other activities Small-scale buy-sell businesses Family in seasonal work Family in service-oriented activities Handicrafts for district market

27 22 0

57 47 0

24 32 7

42 56 12

32 39 3

59 72 6

7

15

0

0

15

29

Note:  Chazée and Syphanravong (2000)

572  Chazée

reality, several upland ricefields also served as good trapping fields for birds, rodents, deer and wild pigs. Food security, basic needs and alternative sources of food and income were ensured within their development reference and strategy. Their strategy was based on four primary principles: a low level of needs; low labour and capital-input requirements; an adaptive capacity to seasonal and climatic factors; and protection of inherited practices and cultural values through religious beliefs and events. Within their natural environment, the only components of biodiversity (Rattan cane, cardamom, dammar resin, golden turtles, pangolins, monitor lizards and tigers) and natural habitat (logging of commercial trees such as Eagle Wood (May Ketsena), May Longleng and May Khagnoung) that were suffering degradation were doing so because of external demands, either legal or illegal.These external demands, channelled through the army, government trade agencies and private traders, increased at the end of the 1980s, after the introduction of the New Economic Mechanisms in Vietnam and Lao PDR. These demands and market forces accelerated after 1991, when the Lao border with Thailand opened and the market economy with non-communist countries began. A very high, diversified and wise use of natural ecosystems

In the interests of maintaining their livelihood, indigenous people knew how to benefit from all types of ecosystem services. On the provisioning side, each community managed between 44 and 59 cultivated crops and five to nine types of domestic animals. They gathered between 83 and 139 types of vegetable and mushroom products and 29 medicinal plants from the forest. They also benefited from 13 to 24 types of products from rivers and other wetlands and between 32 and 92 main types of wild animals and animal by-products (birds, mammals, reptiles, amphibians, molluscs, worms, insects, honey, eggs and so on). They were using between 25 and 32 types of trees out of the 42 species identified in their territories. Altogether, with wood, fibres, medicinal plants and forest by-products such as resins, each community relied on 350 to 500 local products for their food, income, construction, clothing and handicraft materials. Besides the products of biodiversity, the people also relied on soil, water, clay and salty land for their production or consumption. This diversity of products was far higher than the average number of products used by swidden farmers in the northern provinces of Lao PDR. On the regulating side, the regulating functions and services of their territories were almost intact: flood and drought regulation, moisture due to tropical forest micro-climate, ground-water recharge, anti-soil-erosion effect of good forest and fallow coverage, and so on. The forest communities had adapted their survival and development strategies to the forest and wetlands cycles.Water filtered by clean forest soil was potable.Their hunting and gathering practices were opportunistic, adapted to seasonal biodiversity and climatic fluctuation while adopting time-saving and lowest risk-factor strategies. Subsistence farming on river banks was managed according to

Chapter 29. Valuation and management of forest  573

seasonal considerations.The selection of the site for their settlement took into account several geographic and natural criteria directly or indirectly linked to the regulating services of ecosystems, such as geomorphology, distance from rivers to avoid flooding and at the same time reduce the distance to fetch water and tend river-bank gardens, and types of soil less prone to ants and termites. Their regulating alternatives in case of food shortage or economic difficulty were based on a series of 11 main coping activities, with a clear order of preference. These activities, in order of preference, were: (1) more consumption of cassava; (2) more consumption of taro; (3) more sales of chicken; (4) more sales and purchases of alcohol; (5) seasonal employment (or begging when nobody was capable of working) within the village; (6) seasonal employment outside the village; (7) borrowing food from relatives; (8) boosting the collection of NTFPs and fish for sale within the village; (9) additional consumption of best wild tubers (Mane Lay, Bao, Mane Khang, Houa La, Houa Kima, Houa Katat); (10) consumption of second-choice tubers (Mane Imou, Koy, Mane Toeiy, Mane Komsang); (11) consumption of least-preferred tubers (Mane Luang, Mane Inyang). In the memories of villagers, very poor households never went beyond step 8, poor households did not sink below step 6, medium households would go only as far as step 4, while better-off households resorted only to the first preferred coping activity. This showed that the entire forest society was able to sustain its subsistence, basic needs and social conditions in any situation. On the cultural side, the forest people of Upper Nakai believed in a wide pantheon of natural and ancestor or village spirits that guided their daily attitudes and behaviour. The guardian spirits of their territories (mahesak) were of paramount importance for the security of both their ‘organized space’ – in the village, where ancestors’ and people’s spirits lived – and ‘non-organized space’ – outside the village boundaries; the realm of wildlife and forest-based spirits. Most of the spirits of this ‘non-organized space’ were the ones controlling the appropriate use of forests, large trees, water, cliffs, salty land and termite mounds, among other things. It was believed that anyone using these resources unwisely could become ill or disabled, face accidents or attacks by wild animals, and ultimately could die. Fear of these interdictions acted as a spiritual mechanism guarding against the misuse of natural resources. Traditional healers and sorcerers were the keepers of these beliefs, and benefited from the spiritual services they delivered in upholding them. The value of the natural provisioning and regulating services of the forest ecosystem at household level was able to be estimated on the basis of four criteria: the household labour calendar and time spent on various activities; consumption patterns (food and construction or handicraft materials); estimated barter-trade values; and priorities of livelihood preferences. A practical ecosystem-service valuation involved calculating the percentage of overall livelihood value attributed to natural ecosystems. A monetary valuation was not considered because of the lack of official local prices and international-price references for most forest products, and because of the high difference in price per product at village and national-market levels. Based on this methodology, about 70% (ranging from 55% in a Brou village to 85% in a Témarou

574  Chazée

village) of the value of household consumption (food, medicine, construction, clothing, handicrafts, equipment, tools) originated directly from natural ecosystem provisioning and regulating services. This included the value of forest products exchanged through barter trade or sale. The remaining value of their consumption for livelihood came mostly from crops, domestic animals and seasonal employment. About 30% of the cash income generated through sales of forest products and seasonal employment was invested in purchasing local products from neighbouring villages (from similar ecosystems) while 70% was used to purchase products and manufactured items from outside the forest (importation of products and services to their territory). Disaggregation by poverty/wealth group showed that the percentage of livelihood based on natural services was higher for poor households (average of 90% of consumption value from local natural services), compared to the medium socio-economic group (55% to 70%) and the well-off category (25% to 50%), which capitalized on the trade in buffaloes, cattle and commercial NTFPs.The consumption patterns of very poor households showed the least reliance on local natural services (20% to 30%) because of their low ability and labour capacity to go into the forest. They survived mostly through casual employment, begging and social solidarity. The value of cultural traditions linked to the capital assets and territory of the forest people could not be examined in terms of consumption or monetary value. However, cultural dimensions were highly regarded by the people because of a strong preference for a way of life based on historical references transmitted from generation to generation.This preference was clear when decisions made during recent historical events were analysed. They strongly preferred to retain their freedom, autonomy of mobility, cultural and linguistic identity, community and religious calendars and the ability to transmit ecological knowledge, including traditional medicine and naturalresource management. They also preferred to practise and transmit spiritual beliefs linked to the forest and to hold the belief that security of the community’s territories was controlled by powerful guardian spirits. However, they all recognized that health issues, injuries from accidents and occasional problems encountered with wild fauna such as bears, snakes and tigers were the key difficulties in their lives. Conclusions

Until the implementation of the Nam Theun II hydro-power project, the swidden farmers/forest gatherers of the Upper Nakai–Nam Teun area, within their traditional livelihood references and with low demographic density, were able to sustain their lives and ensure their food security in any climatic or social situation by relying mostly on forest and wetlands resources.The forest’s biocapacity for regeneration was much higher than the level of the people’s use of natural resources. It was estimated that the demographic density would have to be multiplied at least five times before there was any significant modification of the value of biodiversity and other natural resources, and before there was any modification of ecosystem functions. Pressures on natural resources, including those imposed by swidden farming, were minimal within

Chapter 29. Valuation and management of forest  575

their traditional livelihood systems. Pollution and waste were almost non-existent, given the very low use of pesticides and plastic products. The real threats to wise and sustainable use of natural resources came from outside, mainly from market forces and demands, either legal or illegal, for high-value commercial products. These demands increased between 1980 and 2000 without much control and the consequence was the rapid depletion of some local products. Inequitable sharing of the benefits from this trade also produced a sharp increase in social differences among households in communities involved in these businesses. While the different wealth/poverty groups existed before 1980 due to the social and inheritance reasons explained earlier, the new market dynamic created a concept of ‘economic difference’ among these households. Swidden farming and subsistence food gathering were not issues at the time when the Nam Theun II project was being planned and built. Given the increasing demographic density in the world and the need to feed humanity, the livelihood model created by the forest people of the Upper NakaiNam Theun area can no longer be applied, anywhere. However, we must recognize the unsustainable socio-economic models that have been adopted internationally, guided by the dogma of high Gross Domestic Product (GDP) and high Human Development Index (HDI). At the same time, we must recognize the increasing disconnection between humanity and nature and the urgent need to speed up actions to save our natural capital for the well-being of future generations. In this atmosphere, it is important to keep in mind how traditional societies were able to benefit sustainably from ecosystem services. References Chazée, L. (2002) Farming System and Agroforestry Mission, Mission 3, Vol. 1, Main Report, District Upland Development and Conservation Project, Lao PDR (unpublished) Chazée, L. (2004) Community Profiles of Upper Nakai Communities: Kri, Témarou, Atel, Malang, Maleng, Phong, Brou and Sek, Lao PDR (unpublished) Chazée, L. and Syphanravong, S. (2000) Farming System and Agroforestry Mission,Vol. 1, Main Report, and Vol. 2, District Upland Development and Conservation Project, Lao PDR (unpublished) De Groot, R. S., Alkemade, R., Hein, L. and Willemen, L. (2010) ‘Challenges in integrating the concept of ecosystem services and values in landscape planning, management and decision making’, Journal of Ecological Complexity 7, pp260–272 Fisher, B., Turner, R. K. and Morling, P. (2009) ‘Defining and classifying ecosystem services for decision making’, Ecological Economics 68, pp643–653 Foppes, J. (2001) Learning on Agroforestry Innovations in Ban Teung, Lao PDR (unpublished) Gómez-Baggethun, E. and de Groot, R. (2010) ‘Natural capital and ecosystem services: The ecological foundation of human society’, in R. E. Hester and R. M. Harrison (eds) ‘Ecosystem services’ (Issues in Environmental Science and Technology 30), Royal Society of Chemistry, Cambridge, UK, pp105–121 Haines-Young, R. and Potschin, M. (2010) ‘The links between biodiversity, ecosystem services and human well-being’, in D. Raffaelli and C. Frid (eds) Ecosystem Ecology:A New Synthesis, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, UK, pp110–139 Millennium Ecosystem Assessment (2003) Ecosystems and Human Well-Being: A Framework for Assessment, Island Press, Washington, DC

576  Chazée

Millennium Ecosystem Assessment (2005) Ecosystems and Human Well-Being: Wetlands and Water Synthesis, Millennium Ecosystem Assessment and World Resources Institute, Washington, DC TEEB (2010) The Economics of Ecosystems and Biodiversity: Mainstreaming the Economics of Nature: A synthesis of the approach, conclusions and recommendations of The Economics of Ecosystems and Biodiversity, www.teebweb.org/Portals/25/TEEB%20Synthesis/TEEB_ SynthReport_09_2010_online.pdf, accessed 19 June 2012 Wackernagel, M., Lewan, L. and Hansson, C. B. (1999) ‘Evaluating the use of natural capital with the ecological footprint’, Ambio 28, pp604–612

Notes 1 The Brou are a large ethnic group of more than 50,000 people (in 2003) living in about 150 villages of Khammouane and Bolikhamxay provinces. The Brou-So group is particularly important in the districts of Mahaxay, Nakai and Gnommalath in Khammouane province. In 2003, there were about 880 Kri people in Lao PDR, all living in Nakai and Bualapha districts of Khammouane province. Three villages (Maka Tai, Maka Neua and Maka Kang) were in the study area, all in Nam Noy valley, totalling 29 households and 137 people, in December 2000. In 2000, we estimated that there were about 11 households and 50 people from the Atel ethnic group in Lao PDR, all of them in Nakai district. Atel people live in Thamuang village and in the Kanil catchment area (Huay Kanil), a high valley tributary of the Xot river.Through intermarriage, the Atel people are now totally mixed with the Arao, Malang and Brou ethnic groups. We estimated in 2003 that there were about 19 households and 30 Témarou individuals in Lao PDR, all living in Nakai district in the high valley forests of the Nam Theun and Nam Noy, above Vangchang village. Some Témarou were mixed with other ethnic groups in the areas of Naphou, Xeuk and Songlerk villages. In 2003, there were about 470 Malang individuals in Lao PDR, mostly grouped in five villages:Thammuang (Nakai, Khammouane province), Pa Katan, Nam Hoay, Khet Namkéo and Poungkuet (Khamkeut district, Bolikhamxay province). Other Malang families were also recorded in Songkhone,Vangchang, Navang, Maka Tai, Maka Neua and Maka Kang villages. In Nakai district there were only 168 Maleng people, most of them living in Songkone village. 2 ‘Non-organized space’ referred to forest areas with wild animals and plants, as opposed to ‘organized space’, where people and domestic animals lived.

30 BENUARON The fruit gardens of the Orang Rimba Bambang Hariyadi and Dedi Harmoko*

Introduction

Orang Rimba means literally the forest people.They are a group of indigenous people inhabiting tropical lowland rainforest areas in Jambi province, Sumatra, Indonesia. They have a strong association with the forest, believing that the forest not only supplies most of their basic needs, but it is also their home; in effect, their hometown. There are several other terms that are commonly used to refer to the Orang Rimba, i.e. Suku Anak Dalam, Orang Kubu and Sanak. These terms have differences in meaning and socio-political implications.The Orang Rimba do not like being called Orang Kubu, because they say the name is inappropriate (Kamocki, 1972). Kubu has a negative connotation, suggesting a backward, uncivilized and barbarian people. Nevertheless, Sandbukt (1984), who conducted extensive ethnographic research with the Orang Rimba, preferred to use the term kubu to identify the community with clarity. In this chapter, we prefer the name Orang Rimba to provide a neutral view of a traditional community with deep knowledge of the forest, and to give them equal status with other ethnic groups. The name Orang Rimba is also used by some other authors, such as Manurung (2007), Sager (2008) and Mandaloni (2009). Basically, the Orang Rimba live as hunters and gatherers, collecting plants and hunting animals in the forests. Their need for carbohydrates, for example, is met by different types of bulbs and fruit. They gather and consume several types of banar (Dioscorea spp.), including banar dompas, banar seluang, banar berbulu and banar licin (Setyowati, 2003). They get protein from the meat of game animals such as pigs, deer, antelope and scaly anteaters. However, the Orang Rimba have interacted

* 

Bambang Hariyadi, Graduate School for Science Education, University of Jambi, Jambi, Indonesia; Dedi Harmoko Bachelor’s graduate, Biology Education Programme, School of Education, University of Jambi, Jambi, Indonesia.

578  Hariyadi and Harmoko

with and gradually adopted the lifestyles of people around them, especially Malays. Nowadays, as well as hunting and gathering, the Orang Rimba practise swidden cultivation by clearing the forest and planting crops, especially food crops. The Orang Rimba live mostly within and around the Bukit Dua Belas National Park in central Jambi (Figure 30.1). However, some groups of Orang Rimba have spread to other areas, including the Bukit Tigapuluh National Park on the border between Jambi and Riau provinces. A minority of Orang Rimba have also been integrated into surrounding communities, including some in transmigration villages. Within the Bukit Dua Belas National Park, the Orang Rimba have divided themselves into several groups, named, for instance, the Makekal, Bernai, Kejasung Besar, Kajasung Kecil, Seranggam and Air Hitam. The groups are usually named for the nearest river in their territory. In 2003, the population of Orang Rimba in the National Park was estimated to be 12,000 (Sager, 2008). Although the overall number of Orang Rimba tends to increase over time, the size of the separate communities tends to shrink.To an extent, this is a consequence of more intense interaction between the Orang Rimba and outsiders.Values ​​adopted from outside tend to weaken the bonds between members of Orang Rimba groups. Those who are not satisfied with the

FIGURE 30.1 

Bukit Dua Belas National Park in central Jambi province, home to the majority of Orang Rimba

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performance and leadership of their community chief will readily quit the group to form break-away communities. Origins of the Orang Rimba

The history of the Orang Rimba can be traced through written documents and oral traditions that are widely articulated throughout the various communities (Soetomo, 1995). There is also some folklore about the history of the Orang Rimba in Jambi province. In general, there are three accounts of how the original Orang Rimba came to Jambi, and these boil down to approaches from the west, the north and the south (see Muchlas, 1975; Sasmita, 2009; Rangkuti and Angkawidjaja, 2010). From the west side, it is believed that the Orang Rimba originated from western Sumatra, especially from the ancient kingdom of Pagaruyung. One of the several stories explaining the western origins says the Orang Rimba began as Pagaruyung troops who travelled to do battle in Jambi and surrounding areas. However, they were defeated, and thereafter felt too ashamed to return to Pagaruyung, so they isolated themselves in the interior forests of Jambi, eventually evolving into the Orang Rimba community of the present day.Another version says the Orang Rimba are descendants of a young Pagaruyung prince who wandered into the Jambi forests and married a Jambinese Princess. From the north side, it is believed that the Orang Rimba are descendants of the native Malays – the Austronesian groups who migrated from China to Southeast Asia several thousand years ago. Most of them inhabited the forested interior of Jambi, where they were isolated for a very long time and were not affected by the development of civilizations and cultures in surrounding areas. As a result, they still maintain and perform the traditions of their ancestors, such as continuing a nomadic lifestyle (Schebesta, 1926; Rangkuti and Angkawidjaja, 2010). Schebesta (1926) observed similar anthropological characteristics in the Orang Rimba and the Orang Jakun, an indigenous community living in the Malaysian state of ​​Pahang. Moreover, he believed that the Orang Rimba and Orang Jakun were derived from the same ethnic group. From the south side, the Orang Rimba are believed to have come from southern Sumatra. Driven by rapid developments in the region, they moved into forested areas in southern Jambi province. Schebesta (1926) noted the Orang Rimba population around the South Sumatra capital of Palembang on a visit to the region. Kamocki (1972), in his expedition to South Sumatra in 1970 and 1971, was still able to meet the Orang Rimba community in the area, especially in the Bayung Lencir district. The lifestyle of Orang Rimba

Orang Rimba live in traditional wooden houses called sudung. The houses are very simple, consisting of just one room with no walls and a roof made of leaves or bark. The condition of the sudung is in keeping with the dynamics of the mobile Orang

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Rimba lifestyle. They usually make several moves – from one part of the forest to another – in the course of a lifetime. Their main reason for moving is the availability of food sources, including the need for new swidden sites. As well, the Orang Rimba have a strong tradition of moving to another dwelling site to overcome the grief of losing a family member. In their everyday life, the Orang Rimba use a single length of cloth that is shaped into a loincloth for men and a garment for women, which covers married women from the waist down and unmarried women from the armpits to the feet. However, those among the Orang Rimba who have interacted intensively with outsiders usually abandon the traditional garments. Both men and women commonly wear T-shirts, most of which are handed out as gifts by parties or candidates in politicalelection campaigns. The traditional Orang Rimba hold polytheistic beliefs, believing in a variety of gods that govern their lives. The existence of these gods is expressed in rituals at various important moments in their lives. For example, they consult the gods to determine the proper forest area to be cleared for cultivation. This consultation process is performed by a shaman. However, some Orang Rimba have abandoned the old beliefs and converted to Christianity or Islam. They have been assimilated into Malay or migrant villages and no longer practise the traditions and rituals of their former communities. As mentioned earlier, the Orang Rimba have a tradition called melangun, in which they move temporarily to another place to overcome their grief following a death in the family. In observing this tradition, the whole family shifts, with whatever property it claims it owns. They may return to their original dwelling after a period ranging from two to six years, if they lose the feelings of grief for the departed loved one. Lately, however, as more and more Orang Rimba have adopted sedentary-farming practices, such as growing rubber or oil palm, an observance of melangun may last for only a few months. For more details about the traditions and beliefs of the Orang Rimba, see Sandbukt (1984) and Sager (2008). Orang Rimba who live in traditional style in the forest establish communities that differ from what might normally be regarded as ‘villages’. Within each group there is usually an appointed ‘chairman’, or leader. If the group is large enough, that chief will be called the temenggung. The chief will have several staff, called the wakil temenggung, the depati, menti, mangku, anak dalam, debalang batin and tengganai. Each will have responsibility for various matters related to the everyday life of the group. The traditional customary leaders are collectively called penghulu. As formal as this may sound, Orang Rimba community-leadership structures may vary from one group to another. In addition to these, the Orang Rimba also recognize dukun (shaman) and jenang, both of which have important socio-cultural roles and influence (Sasmita, 2009). The dukun is a spiritual leader; a highly respected figure and a role model for the Orang Rimba. The dukun presides over various rituals and ceremonies, because in the Orang Rimba worldview, the dukun is able to communicate with the gods and

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ancestral spirits. Sometimes, the temenggung has a double role: besides serving as a chief, he also serves as a dukun. Orang Rimba spend most of their time in the forest, and they strive to minimize their contact with outsiders (see Marsden, 1986). They have a language, culture and lifestyle that are distinctly different. Nevertheless, they have a need to interact with outsiders, at least for necessities such as salt, cloth and tools (such as machetes), and to find markets for the products they collect from the forest. In the past, these products were sold through a ‘silent barter’ trade. They put their forest products, such as honey, rattan or jernang (dragon’s-blood resin), in a particular place. Then outsiders would ‘buy’ the products by leaving some necessary items, such as salt and tools, in exchange. In such transactions, the Orang Rimba never met face-to-face with their outsidercustomers (Elkholy, 2001). More recently, interaction between the Orang Rimba and outsiders has been conducted through particular people known as a waris or a jenang. These people are outsiders living in villages near the forests of the Orang Rimba. Traditionally, a complete Orang Rimba community structure had both a waris and a jenang. The waris had more power and a more prominent role than the jenang. However, as a consequence of greater interaction with outsiders, the traditional community structure has become simpler and the roles of the waris and the jenang have merged, and they are nowadays commonly performed by the same person. The role is one of liaison between the Orang Rimba and outsiders for various matters, including communications and economic activities such as the sale and purchase of forest and farm products. According to Mandaloni (2009), communication patterns for the Orang Rimba take the form of a wheel: information traffic is directed to a central hub and passed through only one key person. Information dissemination within the Orang Rimba community is delivered through a person called the menti, while communication with outsiders is conveyed through the waris. However, with more open and intense interaction between Orang Rimba and outsiders, the role of the waris is diminishing and is currently limited to certain matters such as disputes between the Orang Rimba and outsiders. The lives of the Orang Rimba are controlled by hukum adat, or more commonly, just adat – a set of unwritten customary laws. Knowledge of the adat is mainly held in the memories of community leaders and elders who pass it on orally, from generation to generation. The dictums of adat are usually quoted in the form of a seloko – a short, witty poem that ends in an aphorism which provides a short and an easy way to memorize the legal codes of adat. An example of such a seloko is: ado rimba ada bungo, ada bungo ado balai (when there are forests then there will be flowers; when there are flowers then there will be a wedding ceremony). This explains that a wedding ceremony needs various flowers and the flowers will only bloom if the forests are healthy. In other words, the seloko persuades young people who will sooner or later be getting married to keep and maintain the forests. The meanings of a seloko are subject to change; it depends on the event and the situation in which a seloko is pronounced.

582  Hariyadi and Harmoko

Any violations of adat are customarily punished by fines, and these are paid in sheets of cloth (kain panjang). The cloth is Javanese batik procured in the local market, which is commonly imported from Java. The most severe penalties are imposed in cases of murder. These are called bayar bangun, which means ‘equal to the value of one’s life’; the fine amounts to 500 pieces of cloth. Violations of other customary laws, such as theft, are generally said to invite fines of half bayar bangun. However, this does not always mean 250 pieces of cloth; it could be 50 or 60 pieces of cloth, depending on the severity of the violation. In these cases, the fine is not calculated precisely, underlining the suspicion that part of the Orang Rimba tradition seems to be an ineptitude with mathematics. Sager (2008) mentioned their difficulty in counting, such that they were often incapable of delivering up bunches of rattan tips containing a standard quantity. Adat laws are enforced by the traditional leaders of the Orang Rimba, along with their entire communities. In daily life, the Penghulu explain the rules and their penalties; the rules are then articulated by community members through word of mouth, usually in the form of seloko. If an innocent child breaks the law, the parents will explain to the child why his or her actions were wrong and outline proper behaviour, as well as explaining the consequences and penalties of adat violations. In addition, socialization of adat laws to ordinary community members may be performed at the time of trials or lawsuit settlements. There is no special ceremony for prosecuting those who violate adat. However, there is still a sequence of procedures, as at formal hearings.The trials can be conducted anywhere: at a home, a farm, or any other place, and members of the community are urged to observe. First, the disputing parties and their families are gathered in front of the penghulu. The menti invites people to participate in the conduct of the trial and the anak dalam calls for the temenggung. Once the penghulu is assembled, the guilty party may declare his guilt and then pay a fine in keeping with the magnitude of his violation. If there is argument that there was no violation of adat, then arguments for and against will be heard. The penghulu will then determine who is at fault and fix the penalty. Fine payments received by the temenggung are handed over to the aggrieved party, who usually shares them with the temenggung and other parties involved in the trial. The Bukit Dua Belas National Park

The Bukit Dua Belas National Park is one of the most important forested areas of in situ conservation in Sumatra. The ​​60,500-hectare park was officially established in 2000. Previously, the area included a limited-production forest of 20,700ha, a permanent-production forest of 11,400ha, nature reserves and a conservation area totalling 27,200ha and areas for other uses covering 1,200ha. The park, with its rich diversity of flora and fauna, is now like an oasis within a vast area of oil palm and rubber plantations and human settlements.

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In general the Bukit Dua Belas National Park region is dominated by lowland tropical forest ecosystems. In terms of ecological services, the National Park is an important water-catchment area and headwaters of several important rivers, including the Air Hitam, Jelutih, Serengam, Kejasung Kecil, Kejasung Besar, Sungkai, Makekal, Bernai and Seranten rivers. These eventually flow into the Batang Hari and Batang Tembesi, the main rivers that flow across Jambi province. The park is dominated by podzolic soils, which are generally poor in nutrients and easily eroded in open conditions. Rainfall in the National Park ranges from 3,294 to 3,669mm; the highest temperature ranges between 32oC and 40oC; and humidity ranges from 80 to 94%. The park’s topography is generally flat, but some parts are undulating and hilly, with altitudes from 20 to 440m asl. Although most of the Bukit Dua Belas National Park is former logging territory, the park maintains a high diversity of flora and fauna. There are several rare flora species that can still be found in the park, such as the tropical pitcher plant, Nepentes ampullaria; Agarwood-producer Aquilaria malaccensis; and the rainforest hardwood, Scorodocarpus borneensis. The National Park is also covered by dipterocarp species such as Shorea, Dipterocarpus and Hopea (BKSDA, 2005). In terms of fauna, Bukit Dua Belas National Park is home to a wide range of mammals, primates, birds, reptiles, amphibians, insects and fish. These include the Sumatran tiger (Panthera tigris sumatrae), Asian leopard cat (Felis bengalensis), sun bear or honey bear (Helarctos malayanus), sambar deer (Cervus unicolor), wild boar (Sus scrofa), Asian tapir (Tapirus indicus), muntjak deer (Muntiacus muntjak), Malayan porcupine (Hystrix brachyura), ground squirrel (Lariscus spp.), Asian palm civet (Paradoxurus hermaphroditus), long-tailed macaque (Macaca fascicularis), southern pig-tailed macaque (Macaca nemestrina) and monitor lizards (Varanus salvator). The aims of establishing national parks in Indonesia are to protect the ecological processes that sustain life; to preserve the diversity of ecosystems and species and to harness the potential of natural resources for research, education, naturalsciences development, recreation, eco-tourism and environmentalservices.However, Aquilaria malaccensis Lam. [Thymelaeaceae] unlike other national parks in Indonesia, Bukit Dua Rare producer of agarwood, called skhroi by the Belas National Park was also Orang Rimba

584  Hariyadi and Harmoko

established specifically to protect the Orang Rimba, who were the Park’s original inhabitants. Bukit Dua Belas National Park is one of the last remaining ​​lowland tropicalrainforest areas in Jambi. As an indigenous group, the Orang Rimba have been privileged by the creation of the Park and their ability to use it. However, recent trends have highlighted the Park’s vulnerability to exploitation. The boom in plantation commodities over recent decades, especially oil palm and rubber, has led to changes in land use around the Park. Some parts of the Park itself have become oil palm and rubber plantations. Most of the area is also vulnerable to illegal logging. The Orang Rimba are allowed to use certain parts of the Park for farming, including the growing of some tree crops such as oil palm and rubber. As the Orang Rimba have been increasingly exposed to outside cultures, many have left the subsistence lifestyle behind them for a share of modern consumerism. Such goods as cell phones and motorcycles have become a common need among the Orang Rimba, tempting them to devise quick methods of raising cash. For example, an Orang Rimba man will sell his ‘jungle rubber’ agroforest within the National Park to an outsider, just to be able to buy a motorcycle. Such sales are illegal and occur without approval from the Park Authorities.The Orang Rimba man who sold his farm will then clear a new area of the Park to establish another rubber garden. Such changes in the lifestyle of the Orang Rimba, as well as the massive plantation development around Bukit Dua Belas National Park, are challenging the Park’s long-term sustainability. Orang Rimba and the forest

The Orang Rimba community knows the forest as rimba. The important events in their lives, ranging from the birth of a child to the death of an elder, all take place in the forest. And since most Orang Rimba observe polytheism, the forest is also a ‘home’ for a variety of gods. Consequently, a wide range of rituals and ceremonies of worship are also performed in the forest. When a baby is born, the father immediately goes into the forest in search of three species of trees. He takes four twigs of the sentubung (Drypetes polyneura), three pieces Koompassia excelsa (Becc.) Taub. [Leguminosae] of bark from the tenggris Giving a new-born baby ‘a solid crown’ (Koompassia excelsa) and

Chapter 30. Benuaron  585

seven leaves from the tomtomu (Goniothalamus macrophyllus). In searching for tenggris and sentubung trees, the father will prefer those that grow inside the forest rather than those near footpaths where many people pass by. The three pieces of tenggris bark are taken from the same tree, but from different locations adjacent to the forehead, hips and knees of the father. The pieces of tenggris bark are placed on the tomtomu leaves, and the inner lining of the bark is scraped into a powder, which is then rubbed on to the fontanelle on top of the baby’s cranium. This is done in a ritual guided by a dukun. The Orang Rimba believe that the bark powder will give the baby’s head a solid crown. The rest of the tenggris bark, together with the tomtomu leaves, are then stored under the mother’s sleeping mat. The three sentubung twigs are planted around the spot where the placenta is buried, and care is taken to keep them alive. The young cuttings of sentubung and the tenggris tree that gave of its bark for the sake of the birth ceremony are declared sacred and are protected by adat. The area surrounding such sacred trees is cleared of weeds to stand the trees out from the rest. If the three sentubung cuttings die, then the tree from which they were taken is declared sacred and protected by adat. In the worldview of the Orang Rimba, injuring these trees would hurt the baby. Moreover, cutting them down would risk killing the baby. This is an extremely serious adat violation; the fine is bayar bangun, equal to 500 pieces of cloth. Orang Rimba wedding ceremonies are also performed in the forest.The ceremony is performed on a wooden stage called a balai, which measures about 12m x 12m, and stands about two metres above the forest floor. The balai is usually built in late succession forest. It is said that prior to the wedding ceremony, the Orang Rimba provide an opportunity to the families of both the bride and the groom ‘to showcase the divine power of gods they have hired’ for the occasion. Weddings involve sacred rituals that should not be attended by outsiders, because, in the Orang Rimba view, this would preclude the presence of the gods. After the wedding ceremony, the forest around the balai is protected by adat and should not be cleared for any reason. Funerals in the forest are sombre affairs that usually culminate in the family of the Kalanchoe pinnata (Lam.) Pers. [Crassulaceae] deceased moving away from the community to help overcome Called sedingin by the Orang Rimba their grief. An Orang Rimba who dies is not buried in the

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ground, but the body is placed on a rack made of wood with a height of about two metres. The rack is placed within the forest at a place not frequented by people. The body slowly decomposes, causing a foul smell. Some wildlife, such as monitor lizards, will also feed on the body. As mentioned earlier, Bukit Dua Belas National Park is rich in floral diversity. Various plants ranging from understorey species to trees of all descriptions, lianas, vines and epiphytes are widely distributed throughout the park. Because of the sheer variety of plant species, outsiders frequently have difficulty recognizing their whereabouts and can often get lost. However, for the Orang Rimba, the tropical rainforest is like a city landscape abounding with memorable landmarks. For example, if an Orang Rimba is asked where a specimen of jernang (dragon’s blood; Daemonorops draco) might be found, then he will easily list places in the forest where the plants are located. The Orang Rimba recognize various categories of forest, according to their characteristics and uses. These include the following (see also Harmoko, 2012): Bungaron are areas of intact primary forest that have never been opened. They are easily recognized by the size of the trees, which usually have a diameter of more than one metre. The Orang Rimba believe that bungaron are inhabited by gods. Several of their rituals, such as balai, are performed in bungaron. On account of the importance of this category of forest in the social and cultural lives of the Orang Rimba, bungaron are protected by adat and cannot be cleared for farming purposes. Tenggelow are parts of forest that are dominated by different species of rattan, most of them belonging to the genera Daemonorops and Calamus. Tenggelow forest is usually difficult to traverse because of spines surrounding the rattan canes. As well, collections of thorns arrayed at the top ends of rattan leaves often overlap with spines from other individuals, creating a complex barbed web. Some of the rattan species in these parts of the forest have high economic value, such as manau (Calamus manan) and jernang (Daemonorops draco). Manau is widely used to make household furniture, while the fruit of jernang yields resin known as dragon’s blood, which has medicinal properties and is a valuable commodity. The Manihot esculenta Crantz [Euphorbiaceae] Orang Rimba say that tenggelow are home Ubi lembau (Cassava): a common food of to a number of gods, as the Orang Rimba

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well as an evil deity. Tenggelow are therefore protected under adat and cannot be opened for farming purposes. Tano Perano’on are parts of the forest that have been, or will be, used as places to give birth.They are usually sought out with the assistance of a dukun long before the arrival of the baby. However, if the birth is imminent, an existing tano perano’on – a place that has been used for this purpose before – can be used. In selecting places for tano perano’on, the dukun communicates with spirit keepers of the area. Choice of the wrong place to deliver a baby invites failed delivery, psychiatric disorder or death of the child. Forest areas around tano perano’on are customarily protected and should not be opened for settlement or swidden farming. Pasoron are parts of the forest where the dead are left to decompose. Pasoron is also the name for the simple platforms on which bodies are left in the forest.The sites are usually selected from virgin forests, or bungaron. Forests around the pasoron are protected by adat and should not be opened for other purposes. People who open the forest around pasoron are liable to be fined as much as 60 sheets of cloth. Rimba Larangan means protected forest that should not be opened. For the Orang Rimba, this includes forest areas in which there are plants, animals or other entities that are taboo. For example, forest areas where sacred sentubung and tenggris trees are found are treated as Rimba Larangan. As noted earlier, these two species play an important role in the birthing ritual. Other Rimba Larangan sites include forest that was previously used for a wedding ceremony (balai), forest for delivering a baby (Tano Perano’on), forest for the dead (Pasoron), and protected aspects of the landscape such as a cave, which the Orang Rimba regard as an abode of the gods. Susumpon are swampy areas of forest overgrown with trees; they are inundated either temporarily or permanently. The size of a susumpon is usually about one hectare or smaller. Susumpon also belong to the category of forest that should not be opened either for housing or farming. Nevertheless, people are allowed to cross this swampy forest. Subon are swamp sites in the forest where wild animals and birds come to drink. Some species often found in subon include sambar deer (Cervus unicolor) and muntjak deer (Muntiacus muntjak). Unlike susumpon, subon are muddy swamps usually overgrown by mengkuang (Pandanus spp.) and rattan, mainly Calamus spp. and Daemonorops spp. In the worldview of the Orang Rimba, subon are home to a number of gods, so they are not allowed to live or farm nearby. However, people are allowed to collect and use forest products found in subon, such as mengkuang and rattan. Mengkuang is usually used as raw material for weaving traditional mats, and the canes of rattan are used to produce household items. Before forest products can be taken from the subon, permission must first be sought from a guardian deity, and this is usually done with the help of a dukun. There are also traditional harvesting restrictions applying to forest products from subon. The Orang Rimba are forbidden to take young palm plants or to take an entire palm thicket without leaving juvenile plants.

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Tano tepruang are steep parts of the forest that are naturally prone to landslides. The Orang Rimba believe that tano tepruang are also inhabited by the gods, so they are unable to open the forest in the vicinity. The naming of parts of the forest as tano tepruang is something that is usually done with the help of a dukun. Benuaron are parts of the forest that are overgrown by trees producing edible fruit. Benuaron are also protected by adat and should not be cleared for other purposes.We will further describe benuaron in the following section of this chapter. Tano Sialang are parts of the forest with tree species that are occupied by honeybees. The bees usually inhabit tree species such as kedundung and kruing. The Orang Rimba believe that the honeybees are helped by the gods to occupy these trees, and to clear forested areas around the trees would discourage the presence of the gods and therefore banish the bees. The name Bukit Dua Belas National Park means literally the national park of twelve hills. The Orang Rimba deem that the bukits (hills) are also inhabited by gods, especially mountain gods. People entering the bukit forests first have to seek the permission of the gatekeeper gods to the hills, and this is normally done through a dukun. Without such permission, they could become lost or suffer an incurable sickness. Bukit is also recognized as a type of forest that should not be opened. Rimba Ranah are forested areas around watersheds. This is the only type of forest that can be cleared and converted for other purposes, mainly for farming.

Benuaron: shifting from swidden agriculture to fruit gardens Swidden agriculture has, to a large extent, vanished on the island of Sumatra (Tomich and van Noordwijk, 1995). Nowadays, only a few ethnic groups on the island still practise this traditional farming system. One of these groups is the Orang Rimba. Although the farming system is considered to be traditional, farming itself is quite a novel undertaking for the Orang Rimba (Schebesta, 1926). Nevertheless, the Orang Rimba believe that their farming systems comply with the teachings of their ancestors. In reality, they learnt the arts of swidden farming from outsiders, especially the Malay people who live outside the boundaries of the Bukit Dua Belas National Park (Sasmita, 2009). Swidden farming is undertaken by opening and clearing secondary forests for cultivation of crops. From the forest types described above, only one – rimba ranah – can be cleared for swidden. However, rules still apply, even in opening rimba ranah. The Orang Rimba prefer to open swiddens around existing farming fields. They choose embankment land that is not too steep, lying between the river and the slopes. Sasmita (2009) observes that the ecological wisdom of the Orang Rimba has thus been embedded in their practice of shifting cultivation; they avoid farming on steep areas that are prone to soil erosion. The process of selecting land appropriate for farming is something handled by a dukun. The person who wants to open the swidden visits the dukun and conveys his intention to open a particular forest block. In the evening, the dukun performs a

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ritual summoning the gods and asks for directions. The next day, the dukun delivers judgment on the feasibility of farming the proposed area. Opening a swidden requires site selection, slashing, cutting, burning and clearing the fields, planting, plant maintenance and harvesting. In this regard, the Orang Rimba share similar practices with swidden farmers elsewhere in Southeast Asia (Conklin, 1957; Spencer, 1966; Soedjito, 1985; Hariyadi and Ticktin, 2012). The common crops being cultivated are rice, cassava, yams, sweet potatoes, taro, sugar cane and bananas.There is one difference from other swidden-farming systems in Sumatra: rice is not the main staple food. Instead, the Orang Rimba rely more on cassava and sweet potatoes. In addition to the annual crops, Orang Rimba farmers gradually integrate a number of tree crops into their swiddens, such as rubber, in between the food crops. This enrichment is partly deliberate, but otherwise it occurs naturally. A number of other tree species occur spontaneously, as part of the process of secondary succession. Orang Rimba farmers also ‘maintain’ tree species, either planted or wild, that grow in the fallow, after the cultivation phase of the swidden cycle, which usually lasts only one to two years. The incorporation of a tree cash crop into shifting cultivation, as practised by the Orang Rimba, is consistent with adaptations by swidden farmers elsewhere. Potter (2001) observed that initiatives to advance swidden farming would, over long periods of time, usually result in tree-based agroforestry. In other parts of Jambi, shifting cultivation has resulted in ‘jungle rubber’ agroforests (Gouyon et al., 1993). The Krui in Southern Sumatra developed a resin-producing system based on a complex Dipterocarpaceae-based agroforest after first trying a series of cropping systems, including rice cultivation (Mary and Michon, 1987). The Badui in Western Java enrich their farming with albizia (Paraserianthes falcataria) (Iskandar and Ellen, 2000), and swidden farming in central Sulawesi has gradually shifted towards the establishment of cacao agroforests (Belsky and Siebert, 2003). In contrast to these, swidden farming practised by the Orang Rimba has evolved into two agroforestry models called hompongon and benuaron. Hompongon is enrichment of swidden farming with several tree species, especially rubber. It is more or less the same as the jungle-rubber agroforests described by Gouyon et al. (1993). However, there is one difference: hompongon is developed only in swiddens established on the forest margin. Hompongon is not only an advancement of a swidden system; it articulates the socio-political interests of the Orang Rimba. Besides having an important economic value, the rubber stands in hompongon have become a marker that the land is occupied by a particular person; therefore, other people can no longer open or claim the area. Hompongon is a strategy developed by the Orang Rimba to ‘fence off ’ the forests of the Bukit Dua Belas National Park; to keep outsiders from penetrating the forest. Hompongon is also associated with an old covenant between the Orang Rimba and outsiders: if an area becomes the swidden fields of the Orang Rimba, then Malay people should not pass through it, and vice versa (Hendra, 2010).

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Rapid development of oil-palm plantations and transmigration settlements around the national park have helped to create a greater demand for land. Hompongon is a natural resource-management strategy adopted by the Orang Rimba to divert growing pressure on the forests of the Bukit Dua Belas National Park – forests that the Orang Rimba regard as their home. The other Orang Rimba agroforestry model is benuaron – a term used by the Orang Rimba to refer to former swiddens that have turned into orchards. Benuaron differ from hompongon in that they are mainly established in the middle of the forest, rather than at the forest margins.They are an advancement of swidden farming that involves trees that produce edible fruit. Most of the fruit trees are wild species that over time have become associated with Orang Rimba swidden systems and can therefore be regarded as semi-domesticated. The system grew up naturally. Farmers working in their swiddens ate fruit and threw the seeds in the vicinity of the field.The seeds germinated, grew and gradually developed into a secondary forest dominated by trees producing edible fruit. Only a small portion of fruit tree species in benuaron are planted intentionally. Benuaron have assumed an important ecological role in the Bukit Dua Belas National Park. The structure and diversity of the fruit trees growing in benuaron more closely resemble natural forests than do agricultural fields. The high, dense canopies create space and a microenvironment suitable for a number of wildlife species (Figure 30.2).The fruit produced by the benuaron, as well as being consumed by humans, is also important as food for wildlife, especially mammals. The fruit tree species that grow in benuaron include duku or langsat (Lansium domesticum), durian (Durio zibethinus), rambutan (Nephelium cuspidatum), jackfruit (Artocarpus heterophyllus), cempedak (Artocarpus integer), pedero (Nephelium sp.) and tampuy nasi (Baccaurea bracteata). As well as having an important ecological role, the benuaron have important social, economic and cultural roles for the Orang Rimba. As is the case with other important properties, rights of ownership of fruit trees in the benuaron belong to women, and they can be passed down to younger generations (Sager, 2008). Taking fruit from a benuaron without the owner’s permission can result in a customary FIGURE 30.2  A towering durian tree in a fine. mature benuaron

Chapter 30. Benuaron  591

In addition to the benuaron, trees that produce edible fruit grow extensively in the forests of the Bukit Dua Belas National Park. These are wild trees that have no association with the swidden farming of the Orang Rimba. Some of them produce fruit seasonally, others produce fruit year-round. Fruit, therefore, has a very big place in the lives of the Orang Rimba. Hidayanti (2012) recorded at least 15 fruit species that were regarded by the Orang Rimba as ‘most preferred’. The time of year when most trees are bearing fruit is a season longawaited by the Orang Rimba, who spend the happiest days of their existence when the forest bears an abundance of fruit. In this season, various fruits temporarily replace common staple foods. Some Orang Rimba rituals, such as balai, are commonly performed during the fruit season (Sager, 2008). Unlike benuaron, in which the fruit trees belong to the person who earlier cultivated the swidden, fruit trees in the forest are common property and everyone has access to them. However, there are exceptions to this rule. Some individuals claim ownership of trees in the forest, making it necessary to seek the owner’s permission before taking fruit, or face a customary fine. Orang Rimba use a number of signs to claim ownership of fruit trees in the forest. In general, a fruit tree that is surrounded by a space cleared of bushes indicates that someone has claimed ownership of it. However, there are other such signs, as follows: Sugu lantak are sharp pieces of wood that are driven like nails into the trunk of a tree, and serve as steps in a ladder so the owner can climb the tree. This system is usually applied in the case of sialang, or beehive host trees (Figure 30.3). Common sialang trees include kedundung (Spondias sp.), durian (Durio sp.), pulai (Alstonia

FIGURE 3 

A ladder to the sky: Sugu lantak climb the trunk of a sialang tree

592  Hariyadi and Harmoko

scholaris) and keruing (Dipterocarpus hasseltii). The wooden sugu lantak are commonly made from kayu pisang (Garcinia sp.) due to its durability and strength sufficient to carry the weight of the climber’s body. The sugu lantaks are prepared by cutting the kayu pisang wood 30 to 40cm in length and sharpening one end, to be driven into the sialang trunk. Once sharpened, the sugu lantak are strengthened by smoking them over a fire. As well as forming a ladder to harvest honey, the sugu lantak are an obvious sign that someone claims ownership of the sialang tree. Gelang gadis kanti means literally the ring of a neighbour’s daughter. The Orang Rimba wrap a liana or climber around a particular tree in order to show that it is owned (Figure 30.4). As well as using the gelang gadis kanti, it is common for Orang Rimba to also adorn a tree with other signs, such as tying branches or sticks about 10cm long to the trunk of the claimed tree (Figure 30.5). Taking fruit from trees marked in this fashion is tantamount to disturbing a neighbour’s daughter, which is a serious adat violation. Rumah tanggo kanti means literally the neighbour’s household. Several parallel scratches are made on the trunk of a tree with the intention that they resemble stairs. Beneath this, an inverted triangle shape is made in the bark of the tree (Figure 30.6). Disturbing a tree with a rumah tanggo kanti sign is equal to disturbing another person’s household, which is a serious adat violation. If the sign begins to fade, the owner will usually scratch it deeper into the bark, to show that the tree remains someone’s property. Kayu ditajom diseleligi is a mark of tree ownership made by placing a pair of sticks in the ground near the tree, with the upper end of one of the sticks pointed at

FIGURE 30.4 (left) and FIGURE 30.5 

Trees marked for ownership: taking their fruit is banned

Chapter 30. Benuaron  593

FIGURE 30.6 

A tree marked ‘do not disturb’

the claimed tree (Figure 30.7).Taking parts of such a tree, including its fruit, is an offence for which customary law provides a fine of 60 pieces of cloth. However, if the owner gives permission, then fruit may be freely taken from the tree. Basically, all Orang Rimba have the right to harvest and use various products from the forest, including fruit. However, restrictions and taboos must be observed. They are not allowed to:

FIGURE 30.7 

‘owned’

A stick points at a tree that is

• take forest products in a way that could damage plant life or interfere with its growth; • take a whole plant and leave no young plant to regenerate growth; • take plants or plant parts that have been marked as privately owned, except with the consent of the owner;

594  Hariyadi and Harmoko

• •

claim ownership rights of more than two trees; take immature fruit.

As well as ensuring equitable access to non-timber forest products and benefits to the whole Orang Rimba community, the taboos and restrictions also encourage more sustainable management of forest resources. Conclusion

Until recently, the Orang Rimba were mainly forest hunters and gatherers, so fruit plays a very important role in their survival. As well as taking fruit from plants and trees growing wild in the forest, they now have the mature fruit orchards called benuaron, which are a development of swidden farming. Benuaron are not only important for the life of the Orang Rimba, but are also essential for conserving the Bukit Dua Belas National Park, which is their home. A number of changes are taking place within Orang Rimba communities, as well as within other communities living around the National Park. On one hand, the Orang Rimba have gradually changed from subsistence towards an exploitative lifestyle based on consumerism. On the other hand, threats to the sustainability of the National Park’s forests are tending to increase. The future of the Bukit Dua Belas National Park is challenged by land clearance on the part of oil-palm plantation companies, illegal logging and transmigration, as well as spontaneous migration. Recognizing and strengthening the indigenous Orang Rimba system, including the benuaron, might be a key strategy for promoting conservation of the National Park’s forests, as well as securing the future of the Orang Rimba. Acknowledgements

The authors would like to express their gratitude to the Orang Rimba community, particularly Temenggung Betaring and Temenggung Tarib, for their unreserved efforts and support in sharing knowledge associated with benuaron. We also thank Dr. Saharudin and Keith Bettinger, for their suggestions and discussion on this paper. This research was partially supported by a start-up funding research grant from CRC 990 EFForTS. References Belsky, J. M. and Siebert, S. F. (2003) ‘Cultivating cacao: Implications of sun-grown cacao on local food security and environmental sustainability’, Agriculture and Human Values 20, pp277–285 BKSDA (Balai Konservasi Sumber Daya Alam – Nature Conservation Agency of Jambi province) (2005) Rencana Pengelolaan Taman Nasional Bukit Duabelas (Management Plan for Bukit Dua Belas National Park), BKSDA, Jambi Conklin, H. C. (1957) Hanunóo Agriculture: A Report on an Integral System of Shifting Cultivation in the Philippines, Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations, Rome

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Elkholy, R. (2001) ‘Indonesia (Republik Indonesia), Part 2:The Orang Rimba indigenous forest people’, in P. D. Robert, T. Francoeur and Raymond J. Noonan (eds) The International Encyclopedia of Sexuality, vol. 4, Continuum International Publishing Group, New York Gouyon, A., De Foresta, H. and Levang, P. (1993) ‘Does “jungle rubber” deserve its name? An analysis of rubber agroforestry systems in Southeast Sumatra’, Agroforestry Systems 22, pp181–206 Hariyadi, B. and Ticktin, T. (2012) ‘From shifting cultivation to cinnamon agroforestry: Changing agricultural practices among the Serampas in the Kerinci Seblat National Park, Indonesia’, Human Ecology 40 (2), pp315–325 Harmoko, D. (2012) ‘Kajian pengelolaan hutan oleh masyarakat suku anak dalam di taman Nasional Bukit Dua Belas Kabupaten’ (Traditional forest management of the Suku Anak Dalam tribe in Bukit Dua Belas National Park, Sarolangun), thesis, Biology-education Studies Programme, Faculty of Teacher Training and Education, University of Jambi, Jambi Hendra, M. (2010) ‘Hompongon: Antara peluang dan ancaman pelestarian kawasan hidup Orang Rimba’ (Hompongon: Threatening or conserving the space for the Orang Rimba), in Sukmareni (ed.) Orang Rimba Menantang Zaman (Orang Rimba: Challenging the Changes), KKI Warsi, Jambi Hidayanti, N. (2012) ‘Studi etnobotani buah-buahan yang dimakan oleh suku anak dalam di taman Nasional Bukit Dua Belas Kabupaten, Sarolangun’ (Ethnobotanical study of edible fruits of the Suku Anak Dalam tribe in Bukit Dua Belas National Park, Sarolangun), thesis, Biology-education Studies Programme, Faculty of Teacher Training and Education, University of Jambi, Jambi Iskandar, J. and Ellen, R. F. (2000) ‘The contribution of Albizia (Paraserianthes falcataria) to sustainable swidden management practices among the Baduy of West Java’, Human Ecology 28 (1), pp1–17 Kamocki, J. (1972) ‘Medak River Kubu’, Asian Folklore Studies, pp91–106 Mandaloni, A. (2009) Pola Komunikasi orang Rimba Taman Nasional Bukit Dua Belas Jambi (Communication patterns of Orang Rimba in the Bukit Dua Belas National Park, Jambi), Department of Communications and Islamic Broadcasting, Sunan Kalijaga State Islamic University,Yogyakarta Manurung, B. (2007) Sokola Rimba: Pengalaman Belajar Bersama Orang Rimba (Sokola Rimba: Learning Experiences with the Orang Rimba), Insist Press,Yogyakarta Marsden, W. (1986) The History of Sumatra (first published in 1783), Oxford University Press, Kuala Lumpur Mary, F. and Michon, G. (1987) ‘When agroforests drive back natural forests: A socio-economic analysis of a rice-agroforest system in Sumatra’, Agroforestry Systems 5 (1) Muchlas, M. (1975) Sedikit Tentang Kehidupan Suku Anak Dalam (Orang Kubu) di Provinsi Jambi (A Brief Description of the Life of Suku Anak Dalam in Jambi Province), Ministry of Social Affairs, Regional Office, Jambi Potter, L. (2001) ‘Agricultural intensification in Indonesia: Outside pressure and indigenous strategies’, Asia Pacific Viewpoint 42 (2/3), pp305–324 Rangkuti, R. and Angkawijaya, B. (2010) ‘Mengenal Orang Rimba’ (Introduction to the Orang Rimba), in Sukmareni (ed.) Orang Rimba Menantang Zaman (Orang Rimba: Challenging the Changes), KKI Warsi, Jambi Sager, S. (2008) ‘The sky is our roof, the earth our floor: Orang Rimba customs and religion in the Bukit Duabelas region of Jambi, Sumatra’, PhD dissertation, The Australian National University, Canberra Sandbukt, O. (1984) ‘Kubu conceptions of reality’, Asian Folklore Studies 43, pp85–98 Sasmita, K. (2009) ‘Etnoekologi perladangan Orang Rimba: Studi kasus di Taman Nasional Bukit Dua Belas Jambi’ (Ethnoecology of Orang Rimba swidden farming: A case study in Dukit Bua Delas National Park, Jambi), Master’s thesis, Graduate School of Science, Gadja Mada University,Yogyakarta Schebesta, P. (1926) ‘Kubu und Jakudn (Jakun) als Protomalayen’ (Kubu and Jakun as proto-Malays), Mitteilungen der anthropologischen Gesellschaft in Wien (56), pp192–201 (Releases of the Anthropological Society in Vienna (56), pp192–201 (translated by M. Kummerow and A. Baer, 2005) Setyowati, F. M. (2003) ‘Hubungan keterikatan masyarakat Kubu dengan sumberdaya tumbuh-tumbuhan di cagar biosfer Bukit Duabelas, Jambi’ (The relationship between the Jubu community and plant resources in the biosphere reserve of Bukit Dua Belas, Jambi), Biodiversitas 4 (1), pp47–54 Soedjito, H. (1985) ‘Succession and nutrient dynamics following shifting cultivation in Long Sungai Barang, East Kalimantan, Indonesia’, Master’s thesis, Rutgers University, Newark, NJ

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Soetomo, M. (1995) Orang Rimba: kajian struktural-fungsional masyarakat terasing di Makekal, Provinsi Jambi, (Orang Rimba: Structural-functional Studies of a Tribal Community in Makekal, Jambi Province), Universitas Padjajaran, Bandung Spencer, J. E. (1966) Shifting Cultivation in Southeastern Asia, University of California publication in geography vol. 19, University of California Press, Berkeley and Los Angeles, CA Tomich, T. P. and van Noorwidjk, M. (1995) ‘What drives deforestation in Sumatra?’, paper presented to a regional symposium on ‘Montane Mainland Southeast Asia in Transition’, 13-16 November, Chiang Mai, Thailand

31 ANCESTRAL DOMAIN AND NATIONAL PARK PROTECTION: A LOGICAL UNION? A case study of the Mt Kitangland Range National Park, Bukidnon, Philippines Malcolm Cairns* Introduction

We are now well into the second decade of the 21st century, and we are still searching for new and innovative approaches to the protection of national parks. Forest margins that contain much of the Earth’s biodiversity continue to retreat at a worrying pace. Expansion of road infrastructure, often aiming to facilitate logging, brings with it waves of land-hungry migrants eager to convert the logged-over forest into agricultural uses. These pioneer communities generally continue small-scale logging of the remaining smaller-diameter trees, collect non-timber forest products, hunt and trap game, and bring other human pressures to bear on protected areas. Much of the relatively pristine ‘wild’ land that has been gazetted under protectedarea regimes has historically been insulated from these pressures by virtue of geographic isolation and difficult terrain; these have generally been environments hostile to human habitation. However, these lands have not gone unclaimed. In the centuries before recorded history, indigenous cultural communities occupied these forest ecosystems and evolved cultures and resource-use strategies which, according to their needs, tamed their environment. Generations of trial and error built up a rich resource of indigenous technical knowledge detailing the management of their biotic resource base in order that they could survive. Anthropological studies that began in the 1950s with the seminal work of Harold Conklin (1956) in the Philippines, and have since generated major works from tropical-forest regions around the world, have concluded that many of these systems, usually based on shifting cultivation supplemented by hunting and gathering, are admirable systems that demonstrate sustainability and an intricate knowledge of, and care for, the local environment.

* 

Dr Malcolm Cairns is a freelance researcher who was most recently a Research Fellow at the Centre for Southeast Asian Studies (CSEAS), Kyoto University, Kyoto, Japan.

598  Cairns

During the latter half of the 20th century, rapid deforestation and the relentless encroachment of more technically advanced and aggressive migrants brought both economic and socio-cultural turmoil to tribal groups.This invasion was accompanied by the imposition of new versions of government, education, religion, law and justice, resource tenure and capitalist economies – all foreign concepts that marginalized indigenous cultural communities. Many national governments not only failed to recognize the ancestral-land claims of indigenous groups, but also proclaimed them to be illegal squatters on the public domain. With the cultural absorption or ‘detribalization’ that inevitably followed, there was a concomitant erosion of the indigenous knowledge and resource-management practices that underpinned the sustainability of their interaction with the local environment. Hence, the synergistic linkages between biological and cultural diversity became clear (Gurung, 1994), and they now provide a cogent framework for strategizing new approaches to biodiversity conservation. Those charged with the protection of national parks have generally viewed human settlements as incompatible with their conservation objectives and have sought to resettle such communities away from protected areas. However, forced resettlement has become increasingly unpalatable in democratic countries and forestry departments have been incapable of policing expansive protected-area boundaries because of sheer lack of resources. Years of experience have aptly demonstrated that the paramilitary approach to park protection is untenable. Recognizing the futility of relying on force to keep farmers out of forests, park planners have instead tried to ‘distract’ them away from park resources by offering more attractive livelihood alternatives. This strategy gave birth to a whole generation of ‘integrated conservation and development projects’ that attempted to reconcile park conservation objectives with the socio-economic needs of communities living on park peripheries. Although the concept was laudable, evaluations have not been encouraging. Development initiatives in park buffer zones tended to attract in-migration (or at least discourage out-migration) and exacerbate encroachment pressures on forest margins. Furthermore, the causal linkages between buffer-zone development projects and reduced pressure on adjacent park boundaries have not been sufficiently clear. There is a growing consensus that the best hope for effective protection of national parks lies in the decentralization of stewardship responsibilities to local communities living on park peripheries.This would necessitate the negotiation of a ‘social contract’ between national and international stakeholders concerned with biodiversity conservation on one hand, and buffer-zone communities intent on economic survival and, where possible, advancements in living standards on the other. This agreement would essentially guarantee buffer-zone communities the benefits of development interventions in exchange for their active participation as vigilant guardians of protected areas. Although this concept may sound fine in theory, it leaves critical questions unanswered. These include identification of the local community that holds the most compelling vested interest in preserving the wild lands in question (i.e. the potential target group with whom the social contract would be made), the

Chapter 31. Ancestral domain and national park protection  599

appropriate terms of the contract, and institutional mechanisms through which it could realistically be implemented. This chapter uses as its basis the following hypothesis: the increasing global trend for indigenous cultural communities to assert their ancestral claims provides a firm basis for designing a social contract that would strengthen ethnic identities, harness native initiative in protecting critical ecosystems and build constructive partnerships between government agencies and tribal organizations. The following case study involves a major national park in the Philippines. It assembles empirical evidence that demonstrates a commonality of agendas between ancestral domain claims and wild-land conservation. Tribal communities that occupy and have de facto control of buffer-zone areas of the park articulate a self-interest in its protection, so it is logical that they be empowered to achieve that end. The author will argue that rightful recognition of ancestral lands and empowerment of tribes as custodians can give rise to highly motivated, community-based park protection that is compatible with conservation agendas. Based on this proposed model, policy perspectives would need to shift from viewing indigenous cultural communities as a threat to recognizing them as the most-committed allies of governments in wild-land preservation. The provincial setting

Research was conducted at the Mt Kitanglad Range National Park in Bukidnon, Northern Mindanao. Bukidnon (lit. ‘people of the mountains’) is an inland province (Figure 31.1) that is perched on a plateau. Its higher elevation favours it with a relatively cool climate; the average annual mean temperature is about 230C. The wet season is not well pronounced, with 2000 to 2750mm of rainfall annually. February and March tend to be the driest months, while June to September are the wettest. The plateau drains through a series of seven deeply incised canyons that intersect it. Several mountain massifs, including the Mt Kitanglad Range, add to the province’s rugged terrain and have inspired its name. A 2010 census put the population at 1,299,192 (NSO, 2010). The provincial economy continues to be overwhelmingly agrarian-based. Uncontrolled logging and heavy in-migration of land-hungry settlers since World War II exacted a heavy toll on Bukidnon’s forest areas, leaving many watersheds seriously degraded. Although there is continued debate about the origins and ethnolinguistic distinctions between the tribes and subtribes that inhabit Bukidnon province (Biernatzki, 1973; Opena, 1974a, 1979, 1980, 1982; Javier, 1978; Saway, 1981, 1988; Briones, 1989; Brandeis, 1993; Sario, 1993; Del Rosario et al., 1994), the issue is largely immaterial to this chapter. Despite minor variations in linguistics, dress and housing, Bukidnon’s tribes generally share a common world view: the forces of nature are personalized by a hierarchy of ruling spirits under a supreme God called Magbabaya; the people see a need to placate these guardian spirits and treat the environment carefully to avoid their wrath; and they have a strong sense of the sacredness of their ancestral homeland.

600  Cairns

The term Bukidnon, when used in this chapter to refer to people, generally refers to the Bukidnon Manobo or Binukid, and to speakers of the languages of the same names (Fox and Flory, 1974; Post, 1992). But since the municipality of Lantapan is the cultural heartland of a Binukid people now claiming to be known as the distinct Talaandig tribe, and since much of the Mt Kitanglad Range lies within Lantapan, there is a strong and unavoidable Tala-andig ethnic bias in many of the perceptions and practices described in this chapter. The Talaandig are one of three tribes who, in 1995, made a joint ancestral-domain FIGURE 31.1 Bukidnon Province (top), showing Mt claim covering the entirety Kitanglad Range National Park, and (lower) the National of the Mt Kitanglad Range Park and the river systems flowing from it National Park. The other tribes were the closely related Higaonon and Bukidnon-Daraghuyan. Supportive examples are cited from these related groups to strengthen the data and broaden the extrapolation domain of the conclusions. The Mt Kitanglad Range National Park

The volcanic peaks of the Mt Kitanglad Range dominate the north-central portion of the Bukidnon plateau and have long been considered as the ancestral homeland of the Bukidnon tribes (Figure 31.2). In addition to their cultural significance, these mountain slopes represent a wider strategic importance to Mindanao as a vital watershed area feeding several major rivers. Rapid deforestation on the lower slopes has prompted major reforestation efforts that have met with only limited success. Conservation efforts on Mt Kitanglad (also Katanglad, ‘place where lemon grass abounds’) were originally intended to secure the habitat of the endangered Philippine eagle (Pithecophaga jefferyi). However, the area has since assumed a much

Chapter 31. Ancestral domain and national park protection  601

wider conservation value. Heaney and Peterson (1992) concluded that it provided the richest known habitat of some Philippine vertebrate fauna, including a large portion of endemic species. Floral surveys also revealed rare and endangered species (Amoroso, 1994; Madulid and Pipoly, 1994). In recognition of its biodiversity value, Mt Kitanglad FIGURE 31.2  The rugged landscape of Mt Kitanglad was gazetted as a national park Range National Park in 1990, and was later named Photo: Malcolm Cairns as one of 10 priority sites for conservation and protection under the National Integrated Protected Area Systems Act. The Department of Environment and Natural Resources (DENR), which administers this Act, drafted a park-management plan that was approved by each of the municipalities whose territories lie at least partially within the 30,642ha park (DENR, 1992, 1993). In 2009, Mt Kitanglad Range National Park was declared a heritage park by the Association of Southeast Asian Nations (ASEAN). In the early 1990s, the Park became a unifying focus for tribal groups living on its boundaries. A joint ancestral-domain claim was filed with the DENR in May 1995 by the Tala-andig, Bukidnon-Daraghuyan and Higaonon tribes (Saway, 1995). The ancestral-domain claim covered about 45,100ha, encompassing the entire National Park and outlying forest areas on its northern and western borders. The application was strengthened by clear recognition of ancestral-domain and customary rights within protected areas by the National Integrated Protected Area Systems Act (DENR, 1992). However, the joint claim quickly bogged down in a mire of bitter local conflict, bureaucratic opposition and legal challenges to enabling legislation (Suminguit and Burton, 1999; Catacutan, 2000). It remains unsuccessful. In 2003, one of the three tribes, the Bukidnon-Daraghuyan, abandoned the joint claim and filed an independent ancestral-domain claim covering about 5,000 hectares, some of it within the Mt Kitanglad Range National Park. Nine years later, in March 2009, after protracted complexity and legal complication, the Bukidnon-Daraghuyan tribe was granted title to its ancestral domain (Cruz, 2011). It has since turned to implementing and monitoring the ancestral-domain plan that helped win its title, and the DENR is clearly coming to grips with the challenge – or arguably the opportunity – of reconciling ancestral-land claims with protection of the Mt Kitanglad Range National Park.1

602  Cairns

Methods

Although the research team was based in Lantapan municipality, and the findings are thus biased towards the south-eastern quadrant of the park buffer zone, it attempted to address the wider rationale and potential implementation of park protection through official recognition of ancestral land claims, and subsequent empowerment of tribal communities in the buffer zone as the most logical forest guardians. A review of secondary data was conducted to obtain a cultural understanding of Bukidnon’s indigenous cultural communities and to build a historical picture of land use in the province. Fieldwork began with key-informant interviews of a sample of datus (tribal leaders) purposely selected for their proximity to the Park’s forest margins. Since the success of any strategy for community-based park protection would rely heavily on their cooperation, their inclusion in the planning stages of setting research priorities and designing park management was thus vital. Informal, openended interviews sought to determine tribal leaders’ perceptions of the significance of the Mt Kitanglad Range to the tribes; indigenous resource-use practices that demonstrated careful environmental management and sustainability; past and current causative agents of deforestation; pathways by which the tribes could cooperate with the DENR; and strategies for buffer-zone management. Meanwhile, a more detailed survey was made of farm households that were cultivating land either abutting, or within, the forest margins. It was envisioned that this would identify the ‘critical users’ of park resources who would constitute the target group of any development interventions attempting to provide other livelihood options and ameliorate encroachment pressures. Ten households were selected for interviews in each of 10 forest-margin sitios (subvillages), providing a total sample of 100 respondents. A list of guide issues was used to structure these interviews. It was hoped that they would generate an understanding of ethnic and demographic dynamics at the forest margins; the history of migration to increasingly higher elevations on the park slopes; land uses and the expectation of converting more forest land to agricultural use; income sources; problems identified by farmers and their ranking; farmer use and perception of tree crops; forest products harvested; and farmer cognition of environmental changes in the time they had been living in the area. The same park-related issues as discussed with the datus would also be put to the household respondents. It was hoped that this work would give a voice to tribal claimants of the Mt Kitanglad Range and contribute to the debate on the workability of meshing local cultural objectives with national and global conservation agendas.The limited success it has had in this regard illustrates the multiplicity of obstacles to be encountered when trying to bring these sometimes bitterly opposed stakeholders closer to consensus. The long retreat: the historical context of ancestral land claims

Before considering the merits of the ancestral land claims and their interaction with the conservation mandate of the National Park, it is useful to consider the

Chapter 31. Ancestral domain and national park protection  603

following thumbnail sketch of the history of native occupation of what is now known as Bukidnon, the increasing contact of uplanders with lowland cultures and their eventual subjection to centralized national government. A significant aspect of this consideration should also be the realization that, in very broad terms, the history of Bukidnon is similar to that of other parts of Southeast Asia, where the interests of upland communities have conflicted with those of officialdom. The first inhabitants of Bukidnon are thought to have originated in Indonesia and arrived on Mindanao’s shores around 500 bc through an island-hopping migration pattern (Lao, 1980, 1985). Through the ensuing centuries, they were visited and greatly influenced by Chinese traders and Islamic groups; successively colonized by the Spanish (1596-1900), the Americans (1907-1942) and the Japanese (19421945); and later brought under the political hegemony of lowland Filipinos in 1946. Evidence indicates that the Bukidnon expanded northward into the coastal areas of what is today Misamis Oriental (Opena, 1979, 1982; Lao, 1980), but ‘Visayan settlers had already driven the Bukidnon to the mountains before the Spaniards arrived’ (Bienatzki, 1973, p22). This was the beginning of a long retreat that continues even today. The Spanish called the natives Montesses (‘inhabitants of the thickets’) and by 1596, Jesuit missionaries were already in Northern Mindanao to ‘civilize’ and Christianize them, bringing the colony more firmly under Spain’s control. It was not until the 1880s that the Jesuits succeeded in penetrating the Bukidnon heartland wilderness, and described a plateau of gently rolling cogon (Imperata cylindrica) grasslands, intersected by deeply incised river canyons and flanked by forested mountains (Anonymous, 1956; Cole, 1956; Madigan, 1969). The Bukidnon were scattered in small settlements on the hillsides, at the forest edge and usually near rivers.They lived a semi-nomadic lifestyle, growing sweet potatoes, upland rice, corn, cassava, taro and squash in small swiddens; hunting wild pigs, deer, monkeys and forest rats; catching some riverine fish and gathering edible native plants (Cole, 1956; Burton, n.d.). Ploughs and draught animals were unknown to the Bukidnon, so they generally avoided the grasslands. Imperata fallows were too difficult to manage in a shifting-cultivation system when they had only rudimentary tools (Cole, 1956; Madigan, 1969). The missionaries mounted a vigorous ‘resettle, civilize and Christianize’ campaign. Resettling the disparate native bands into barrios (villages) on the plateau was seen as necessary to provide protection against raiding non-Christian groups, facilitate development, allow visiting priests to make easy contact and consolidate the community around the church.The Christianization of the Bukidnon (Cullen, 1973, 1980), abandonment of their nomadic lifestyle on forested mountain slopes in favour of sedentary residence in towns and barrios on the grasslands, and increased contact with Visayan settlers, caused tremendous social turmoil in the native community. Cole observed the rapid changes in Bukidnon traditional cultural patterns during field research in 1910:

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The newly established villages were, for the most part, replicas of the less advanced settlements of the Christianized Bisayan of the coast. The datos, or local headmen, were being replaced by ‘elected’ village officials, and in some towns the dress was changing towards that of the civilized peoples. It is evident that the old life is largely gone. (Cole, 1956, p6) This trend was accelerated by Manuel Fortich in 1914 during his tenure as the first governor of Bukidnon, in the American colonial period. Recalcitrant natives were sometimes threatened with prison if they refused resettlement. Disk ploughs pulled by draught animals were introduced, allowing the natives to turn over the Imperata sod and expand rice and corn cultivation in the grasslands (Madigan, 1969; Lao, 1985). As transport to coastal markets gradually improved, coffee and abaca (Musa textilis) were introduced as major cash crops. The American administration brought with it another potent catalyst for cultural change – a Western-style education system. By 1908, settlement ‘farm schools’ were being organized, with the intention of providing practical livelihood skills in farming, home management, basic reading, writing and arithmetic, and installing a sense of democratic principles and political awareness (Anonymous, 1956; Lao, 1985). These vocation-oriented schools gradually evolved into more academic institutions and were absorbed into the public-school attendance system; local police were sent to round up truant Bukidnon children (Lao, 1985). As alluded to by Cole (1956, p6), the social fabric of the Bukidnon tribal society was further weakened by its subjugation to the centralized government of the Philippine state. The province was carved up into municipal, barangay (village) and sitio (subvillage) political units and the tribal power structure was gradually supplanted by a civil-government administration. The datus, who were traditionally the leaders and mediators of tribal communities (Bienatzki, 1973; Claver, 1973; Opena, 1974b), saw their power evaporate as provincial governors, municipal mayors and barangay captains became the legitimate holders of political power and took over most of their functions. Centralized government was also accompanied by a Western-based legal system meant to replace the batasan (customary laws) that had traditionally been administered by the datus. Although natives understood little of this system, they were informed that it had relegated them to the status of illegal squatters on the land of their ancestors. ‘Detribalization’ of the Bukidnon, ostensibly to integrate them into larger Philippine society, was inevitable; their traditions of spirituality, government, education, justice and land tenure were challenged and replaced by outside principles and values. This loss of cultural identity was aggravated by progressive displacement from their ancestral lands. After World War II, the trickle of migrants arriving in Bukidnon swelled to a flood. Mindanao was vaunted as the ‘Land of Promise’, and attracted waves of settlers from crowded Luzon and the Visayas, to the north. Most came to the Mindanao frontier seeking to claim a piece of farmland as their own, or to find employment in the

Chapter 31. Ancestral domain and national park protection  605

booming logging industry (Madigan, 1969; Lao, 1992). This was an era of uncontrolled logging in Bukidnon, resulting in rampant destruction of its upland forests (Madigan, 1969; Kummer, 1991; Lao, 1992; Poffenberger and McGean, 1993). Migrants followed the logging roads and cleared swiddens from logged-over areas, resulting in rapid conversion of forest areas to agricultural use. In addition to spontaneous migration, the Bukidnon governor began an advertising campaign to promote the province’s vast unclaimed frontiers and assist in-migration by land-hungry settlers (Madigan, 1969; Lao, 1992). The intention was to accelerate Bukidnon’s economic development. The effect of combined spontaneous and government-sponsored migration is clear in Table 31.1. In the 62 years from 1948, when the migration boom gained momentum, until the most recent census in 2010, the population of Bukidnon multiplied by a factor of 20.46. Population densities (Table 31.2) likewise rose from 7.7 to 170.3 persons per square kilometre over the same period. Despite this staggering growth, it is notable that Bukidnon’s population density (170.3) is still only a little more than half that of the Philippines generally (308). This imbalance suggests that Bukidnon will probably continue to attract migrants from the increasingly crowded regions to the north. The Bukidnon were ill-equipped to adjust to this inflow of dumagat (‘people of the sea’, or Christian lowlanders). New to the ways of commerce, ignorant of lowland law, parochial and politically unorganized and lacking formal education or financial resources, they found themselves increasingly marginalized in a complex and competitive society. Unscrupulous traders exploited their vulnerability, as observed by one writer: they [Chinese merchants] fill them [Bukidnon] with alcohol, enticing them to drink more and more. Finally, after wasting a week in the transaction, the poor Bukidnon return to their forests feeling the effects of their drunkenness, with no money, with no abaca. (Lynch, 1967, p476) More seriously, the Bukidnon were alienated from their land almost as easily as from the abaca (Musa textilis, Manila hemp). According to Lynch, land routinely changed TABLE 31.1 

Populations counted in Censuses between 1903 and 2010

Year 1903 1939 1948 1960 1970 1980 1990 2000 2010 Source: NSO (2000, 2010).

Lantapan 14,523 22,678 33,581 42,383 55,934

Bukidnon

Philippines

21,163 57,561 63,470 194,368 414,762 631,634 843,891 1,060,415 1,299,192

7,635,426 16,000,303 19,234,182 27,087,685 36,684,486 48,098,460 60,073,206 76,504,077 92,337,852

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Year

Population densities between 1903 and 2010 (persons per sq km)

Lantapan

1903 1939 1948 1960 1970 45.5 1980 71 1990 105 2000 129 2010 170.3 Source: NSO (2000, 2010, 2012).

Bukidnon

Philippines

2.6 6.9 7.7 23.4 50 76.2 101.7 129 170.3

25.5 53.3 64.1 90.3 122.3 160.3 202.3 255 308

from native to migrant hands for a few tins of sardines, three bottles of ‘Fighter’ wine, or cancellation of small debts. Barrio life thus became increasingly ‘Visayan’ as the Bukidnon sold residential lots and farmland near the barrio and retreated to the periphery. Their apparent carelessness with their ancestral lands may be explained from several perspectives: 1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

Progressive domination of community structures in the barrios by migrants alienated the Bukidnon and left them feeling like second-class citizens. As a relatively non-confrontational people, they sought to escape domination by the migrants and the loggers by withdrawing, usually further up the slopes. The concept of private-landownership was foreign to the Bukidnon. It was tribal custom that land was not ‘owned’ by individuals, but taken on an usufruct basis within the territorial jurisdiction of a datu. Abandoned or fallowed land reverted again to common property, usable by any member of the community. As noted by Bienatzki (1973, p45), ‘In the mind of the Bukidon seller, the land itself is inalienable, and the dumagat buyer has no continuing rights to it and can be thrown off at any time.’ The Bukidnon were not accustomed to using draught animals and ploughs that would have enabled successful cultivation of cogon grasslands on the plateau. They were easily convinced to sell these areas near the barrios and move closer to forest margins more conducive to their traditional swidden system. Madigan (1969, p49) wrote:‘Still attached to a shifting-swidden agriculture, [the Bukidnon] does not see much value in a single, particular plot of land. Thus when given a title to land, he doesn’t need much inducement or motivation to sell it.’ It was the experience of the Bukidnon that whenever land disputes with migrants were submitted to the lowlanders’ judicial system, the more worldly and politically connected dumagat invariably won. Hence, when migrants settled on their fallowed swiddens and claimed them as their own, the only recourse for the Bukidnon was to retreat further up the slopes.

Chapter 31. Ancestral domain and national park protection  607

6.

Finally, the refusal of the state to recognize either indigenous claims to ownership of the land or its communal nature undermined tribal initiative in trying to protect their ancestral homelands.

Tribal lands that had traditionally been common property, and carefully managed under datu supervision, reverted to a dualistic system of private ownership (strictly controlled by the title-holders) and open-access commons (uncontrolled and subject to ‘tragedy of the commons’ scenarios). In addition to heavy in-migration to Bukidnon, the proliferation of cattle ranches (1910-1915), pineapple farms (since 1928) and more recently sugar cane plantations (from 1975) are notable because they occupy large tracts of fertile land that could otherwise have accommodated many smallholder farms. Arguably, the consolidation of large landholdings on the plateau by wealthy investors and corporations has displaced mostly migrant farmers, by pushing them on to the lower slopes, and, in turn, forcing the natives on to upper watershed slopes. Bukidnon has thus been targeted by recent agrarian reform programmes (Ledesma, n.d.). This section has attempted to provide a historical context to the case of Mt Kitanglad Range National Park and the tribal groups that are claiming ownership of its land. It traces the long retreat of Bukidnon’s native people and explains why their backs are now against the last forest remnants, facing a society that trivializes their beliefs and culture, and questions their right of stewardship over the land of their ancestors. Catalysts of deforestation on the slopes of Mt Kitanglad

The forest margin has receded rapidly on the Park’s lower slopes, indicating an urgent need to conceptualize new and innovative approaches to protecting its boundaries. In the Lantapan area, deforestation has advanced to the collar of the volcanic peaks. In designing new strategies for buffer-zone management, it is instructive to first analyse the underlying dynamics of human activities that threaten the Park’s conservation value. The following insights were gained from key-informant interviews with Tala-andig datus on the park’s perimeter in Lantapan. Logging

Farmer respondents spoke in a united voice in identifying logging between 1967 and 1983 as the major cause of deforestation on the Park’s perimeter. Rough roads were carved up the lower slopes for the extraction of red lawaan and white lawaan (Shorea sp.), agoho (Casuarina equisetifolia) and tungog (Phyllocladus hypophyllus). No compensation was paid to the towns whose territorial jurisdiction was being logged and few local jobs were created. Only a few natives were hired to guide the loggers to the biggest trees. There was no replanting or other silvicultural management after logging and, according to the farmers, even trees near the headwaters of rivers were cut.

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When asked how the forest was destroyed, many Tala-andig responded that a major political family had cut down all the trees. They were keenly aware that the Rozfor (Remedios Ozamis Fortich) timber concession2 that degraded much of their forest was connected to the highest political echelons in the province (see Lao, 1992, p100). This chapter proposes that the resulting outrage must be set aside, and following the plunder of the forests’ natural weath by Bukidnon’s richest and most privileged families, the most resource-poor communities should now be asked to protect what is left. Forest fires

The second factor most often cited as a threat to the Park was the outbreak of major forest fires during El Niño-induced droughts. Some respondents thought that the fires began in the cogon grasslands on the lower slopes, and were probably swidden fires that blazed out of control. They spread rapidly into the Park’s interior, fuelled by highly combustible dried mossy forest and resinous pine trees. Logging may have contributed to the severity of the burn by leaving dried brush on the forest floor. The DENR (1995, p4) estimated that 6,477 hectares had been damaged during just one such fire in 1983. Farmers on the upper slopes lost coffee and abaca plantations. The forests would have regenerated naturally and recovered from the fire, but the combination of logging roads and charred forests attracted migrants who set about converting the burnt land to agricultural uses. The fires had already accomplished much of the clearing work and little additional labour was needed to bring the land into cultivable condition. Land privatization and in-migration

Lantapan was not immune to the post-World War II flood of land-hungry migrants from Luzon and the Visayas. The Tala-andig datus generally welcomed these new arrivals and often provided them with land at no charge. As the notion of private land gained currency in the 1950s, this also encouraged land sales by the locals. Some migrants declared their fields for taxation purposes (Declaration of Real Property), and after cadastral surveys, were able to upgrade to a Torrens Title. Land was no longer communal and subject to control by the already weakened datus, and could be sold for individual gain. Thus many natives, aware that they could open a new swidden further up the slope, were easily persuaded to sell their land near to barrios and roads to the newcomers. This was also motivated, to some extent, by fear of cultural absorption and domination by lowlanders. The Tala-andig stuck to a strategy that has characterized native migration patterns throughout this century – avoiding confrontation and retreating up the mountains. Ethnographies of Tala-andig datus describe temporal patterns in the ethnic composition of Lantapan’s barangays. More accessible villages near the north-andsouth Sayre Highway, and those near the poblacion (the political centre of the

Chapter 31. Ancestral domain and national park protection  609

municipality) attracted the greatest in-migration. Datus interviewed in barangay Alanib, for example, told of an ethnic milieu that was 80% Tala-andig and 20% dumagat during their boyhoods. Migrants to Alanib often got a foothold in their adopted home by cultivating Tala-andig-owned land as tenants, then through hard work and the native propensity for selling land, the migrants ended up owning more and more of the highest-potential land on the lower slopes. The 1991 Barangay Profile of Alanib illustrated in Figure 31.3 indicates that within the lifetimes of these middle-aged datus, the native-migrant ratio exactly reversed; the Tala-andig became a minority constituting 15% of the village population. Most Tala-andig have sold their land and work as tenants on dumagat farms, or sell their labour to sugar cane plantations. Heightened encroachment pressures on the forest margins in the upper portions of the watershed of the Manupali river were clearly expected when the map in Figure 31.3 was drawn as long ago as 1991. Improvements made to the road to barangay Basak were leading the migrant trend towards the upper portions of the watershed, portrayed near the top of the map. The upper barangays tended to have high projected growth rates, including 9.68% in Cawayan. However, those barangays that remained isolated by poor road infrastructure, Kaatuan and Kapitan Juan, were less attractive to migrants and had low growth projections. These figures speak convincingly of the catalyzing role of roads in bringing human pressures to bear against fragile ecosystems. The spatial pattern of ethnic composition in Lantapan is also shown in Figure 31.3.The concentration of migrants near the political centre of the municipality and at the more accessible lower end of the Manupali watershed is most striking, when compared to the Tala-andig majorities in remote barangays near the forest margin and in the upper reaches of the valley. This verifies that the buffer zone of the National Park was then under the de facto control of the Tala-andig and supports the argument that tribal organizations need to be empowered to take an active role in park protection. Arrival of mid-latitude vegetables

The arrival of one ethnic group from Luzon warrants particular mention, since its migrants were credited with introducing high-value vegetable crops to the lower slopes of Mt Kitanglad. The Igorots of Mountain Province, in Central Luzon, were attracted to Bukidnon because of its similarities to their homeland. The vegetable gardening that they practised in the Cordilleras was well adapted to the cool temperatures and higher elevations of the upper Manupali watershed and land was much more accessible. By the mid-1980s, vegetable farming began to expand rapidly on the Bukidnon landscape – cabbages, cauliflowers, carrots, Chinese cabbages, and, most importantly, potatoes. Potatoes enjoyed a lucrative market in Cagayan de Oro city and were the Igorots’ preferred crop. They rented land from the local people, usually on the upper slopes

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FIGURE 31.3 

Ethnic distribution and projected population growth rates in Lantapan municipality, shown on a map drawn in 1991

where the temperatures were cool and the soils not yet exhausted. Unlike the traditional swiddening procedures of the Tala-andig, the Igorots cleared away all logs and brush, dug out tree stumps and used draught animals to cultivate the soil into a fine seedbed. The fields’ vulnerability to severe erosion was not a major concern, since the land was rented and the growers had no long-term interest in its condition.

Chapter 31. Ancestral domain and national park protection  611

The potato industry was beginning to fuel deforestation when bacterial wilt built up in the soil after two to three crops and caused severe yield declines. To avoid this disease, the general practice was to harvest only two potato crops and then switch to another crop. New fields that had never grown a crop of potatoes, and hence would not yet be infected were then sought for planting the next potato crop. This meant that the Igorots became transient on the landscape, seeking black fertile soils near the forest margin, renting it for two crops of potatoes, and then moving on in their search for the next disease-free plot.3 As the Visayans and Tala-andig began to emulate their Igorot neighbours, the demand for prime potato land induced many farmers to follow logging trails further up the slopes and convert fire-damaged forest into potato fields. Intensive vegetable gardening is often criticized as being a threat to the conservation objectives of a national park because of its role in deforestation, degradation of soil and liberal use of chemical inputs. However, it should be recognized that the introduction of high-value crops has enabled farmers to finance nutrient inputs (both chicken dung and inorganic fertilizers), and this has enabled an evolution from rotationalswidden systems to permanent cultivation. Such land-use intensification means that a larger population can be supported on a smaller land base, and this is vital to bufferzone management if the pressure for farmers to encroach into the Park in search of agricultural land is to be alleviated. High fertility rates

Tala-andig culture places high value on family, and much of the population growth in Lantapan is attributable to birth rates exceeding mortality rates. Seven to 12 children is the family norm. This bodes poorly for future park conservation, with demographic densities and demand for resources escalating in the buffer zone. Low educational levels mean that most children have few livelihood options other than finding their own plot of land to farm. There is then a reluctance to move elsewhere, and kin clusters gather to live in their villages of birth. Gains in standards of living will be thwarted as long as population growth continues to out-pace economic growth. The prospect of large communities living in poverty in the buffer zone remains a significant threat to the future of the Mt Kitanglad Range National Park. Shifting cultivation

Farmer respondents strongly associated swidden farming and the use of fire with loss of forest cover. They said fallow periods were shrinking as they grew upland rice and maize in repeated swidden cycles, leaving soils exhausted and colonized by Imperata. This land, infested with cogon, was then abandoned and the farmers moved further up the toposequence to clear virgin land on the forest edge. The abandoned and degraded fields on the lower slopes were often those that were easily sold for a pittance to dumagat migrants.

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Community timber needs

The population explosion on the forest margin created demand for timber to be used in house construction. Much of this was probably taken from new swiddens being cleared, or by selective logging on the forest perimeter using carabao (water buffaloes) as draught animals. Timber extraction for local needs was likely to have been a relatively minor factor in deforestation, causing some forest degradation in localized areas surrounding settlements. However, when small-scale logging by farmers was financed by businessmen it became a significant threat. It was usually the poorest strata of communities, under the pressure of economic necessity, who were vulnerable to timber-poaching propositions. They were provided with credit and equipment on the condition that they would covertly extract timber for delivery to the financier. Boards were concealed under piles of vegetables and smuggled out in trucks. This was more common prior to the Bukidnon logging moratorium in 1992. However, in the absence of close monitoring, it will persist at low chronic levels as long as there are no more attractive livelihood options for farmers living in poverty on the forest margins. This brief description of the dynamics underlying deforestation in Lantapan identifies some of the challenges that must be addressed by any proposed framework for community-based protection of the Mt Kitanglad Range National Park. The following section presents evidence that the culture of the Bukidnon has at its core a deep respect for the sacredness of ancestral lands and respect for the natural environment. If these spiritual values and customs can be revived and strengthened, there are grounds for strong optimism that empowering tribal organizations as guardians of the forest can address both cultural and conservation agendas. Compelling tribal interest in preservation of Mt Kitanglad Range

In developing an argument that the ancestral-land claims of indigenous cultural communities are not antagonistic to the wider conservation objectives of the National Park, it is essential to demonstrate that the local people have a self-interest in protecting these lands and would perform effectively as forest guardians. In other words, it needs evidence that the indigenous people have a long tradition of preserving the environment and are motivated to continue this role of stewardship in the future. The tribal people’s perception of the mountains as being a sacred place is essentially the core issue that both justifies their ancestral-domain claim and generates a close and protective relationship with their natural environment. Interview respondents described Mt Kitanglad as the sacred domain of a variety of invisible spirits, the origin of their ancestors and the source of their livelihood. Spirits: supernatural forest guardians

The daily lives of the Bukidnon natives are interwoven into a world view that sees nature as being controlled by a host of guardian spirits (migbaya), under the rule of

Chapter 31. Ancestral domain and national park protection  613

a supreme God called Magbabaya (Cole, 1956; Cullen, 1973, 1980; Banaynal, 1980; Saway, 1981; Briones, 1989). Six spirits are believed to govern the most critical components of their livelihoods: water, the soil, bees and honey, the forest and its wildlife, the abundant growth of crops, and wealth (Banaynal, 1980; Saway, 1981). These supernatural beings dwell in rocks, trees, cliffs, mountains and rivers and, it is believed, control what happens within their sphere of influence. It is essential to the Bukidnon that they maintain harmonious relationships with the spirits and seek their assistance ‘towards the fulfilment of immediate needs, such as a good harvest, a successful hunt, or the cure of illness’ (Cullen, 1973, p2). This liaison is achieved by performing rituals, providing offerings and observing taboos and prohibitions. Failure to show proper respect may provoke anger and punitive action in the form of crop failure, sickness, or some other kind of disaster that may threaten the whole tribe.The perception that nature is governed by guardian spirits that must be shown respect means, by extension, that nature itself must be treated with respect, or there is a risk of supernatural sanctions. This world view, with minor variations, is common to all indigenous groups in Bukidnon. Since their practices are a product of their own cognition of reality, their interaction with the environment is guided by compliance with the spirits, taboos and omens. The Tala-andig datus explained that the harvest or use of a natural resource was always accompanied by rituals, first to seek the permission of the spirits and later to give thanks. Before beginning to open a swidden, rituals called panalabugta are performed, sacrificing a chicken and offering betel nut, pieces of coloured cloth and a few coins to ask the spirit of the land, Talagbuta, for permission to clear the specific plot. Pangibabasuk rituals are performed before planting, seeking assistance from the spirit of the crops, Ibabasuk, to provide bountiful harvests. After the harvest, a pamahandi ritual is performed to give thanks to the spirits and to Magbabaya for blessings received during the cropping season. Corn harvests are celebrated with a pamuhat ritual, as a gesture of thanksgiving. Young corn called lagon is ground and cooked in banana leaves to make a delicacy called binaki. Nearby villagers will be invited to join the feast in a tradition of handogan – sharing what you have with others. Hunting was accompanied by similar rituals. Lime, tobacco and betel nut are placed in a balite tree (Ficus elastica) to implore the assistance of the spirit of the forest (Mamemeling) to guide the dogs to the scent of a wild boar. A successful hunt is concluded with a panganuyo, a prayer of thanks for the benevolence of the spirits. Similar examples have been documented of native resource management balanced with the need to respect the environment and maintain harmony with the spirit world. The Bukidnon, like most indigenous cultural coimmunities in the Philippines, believe that balite trees are inhabited by a powerful engkanto or ‘spirit’ that will inflict sickness and death on anyone who cuts down its dwelling place. Cutting balite is thus generally prohibited or, as described by Banaynal (1980, p71), when a balite tree is found growing in an area intended for a swidden and it becomes necessary to cut it down, the Tala-andig may first make offerings to the resident engkanto and wait for its reaction. If the offerings remain intact, this is believed to mean that the spirit has

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agreed to transfer to another tree and permission has been granted. If, on the other hand, the offering has been scattered, this indicates that the spirit has not found an alternative dwelling and permission is refused. Cole (1956, p98) recorded a variation of this regard for balite trees during his fieldwork with the Bukidnon in 1910. A farmer leaned a sapling against the balite tree and spoke to the engkanto: If there is a man living in this tree, here is wood for you to use as a sign. If you are unwilling that I cut this tree, throw this wood away. If it pleases you to have this tree cut down then leave this pole where it is. He would return to the field the following day and if the sapling was as he left it, this signified that consent had been granted. According to some informants, talisay and kalamagan trees are also associated with spirits, while others insist that all big trees are inhabited by spirits. Briones (1989) and Javier (1978) both mention a Tigkalasan Manobo (also sometimes referred to as Talaandig)4 practice of placing chicken eggs on the stumps of felled trees to appease the spirits that resided in them before they crashed to the ground. Certain peaks and slopes of the Mt Kitanglad Range are particularly sacred and are spoken of as being the ‘church’ of the Tala-andig. Flags, altars and other religious paraphernalia used in communing with the spirits and Magbabaya can be found in these locations. They are strictly off-limits for hunting or swiddening and women and children may even be forbidden to enter. On the forested slopes above barangay Songco, an area known as Tuminungan Plaza is carefully protected by the local datu; the sharply defined boundary between farmers’ fields and the pristine forest of the sacred area is evidence of the effectiveness of tribal sanctions.Within the Mt Kitanglad Range, many peaks are revered as places of worship (Saway, 1995) and are likewise protected. Other spots in the park’s landscape are protected by taboos and fear of upsetting malevolent spirits. Lake Kigiba, for example, is believed to be inhabited by an evil spirit that will inflict leprosy on anyone who bathes in its waters. Pananawa Hill, near Malaybalay, is similarly avoided out of fear of a pair of giants thought to inhabit the area. Any hunter venturing too close will be troubled by evil spirits and unable to sleep at night. Omens may also affect resource-use practices. The lumokon, a wild dove, is widely known as an omen bird. Its call, depending on the direction from which it is heard, indicates whether a chosen swidden site will be suitable or should be abandoned (Arquisola, 1980; Agbayani, 1993). The call of the kulago, a night bird, is believed to foretell a plague or some other misfortune. These examples suggest that the Mt Kitanglad forests have traditionally been protected from over-exploitation by the highest of all authorities – the power of the spirits. Burton’s conclusions (1985, p23) about Agusan Manobo resource-use patterns are probably equally applicable to Bukidnon groups:

Chapter 31. Ancestral domain and national park protection  615

they take precautions in everything they do to avoid the violation of taboos and offending the spirits. The interplay between the human and the supernatural inculcates respect for nature. Thus, trees are not cut down without a propitiatory ritual; wild game are not killed without the suguy; the crops are not planted without seeking permission; and the yield is not harvested without the taephag ritual. Ecologically, the Manobo are conservationists and protectors of the environment. Ancestral homeland

All Tala-andig (see Figure 31.4) are familiar with the creation myth that describes the origin of their tribe (Saway, 1981). It tells of a great flood that submerged the world, leaving only the upper peaks of Mt Kitanglad and Mt Kalatungan (to the south, across the Manupali river) above the waters. A lone man called Agbibilin escaped drowning by seeking refuge on the top of Mt Kitanglad. Across the valley, a woman by the name of Ginamayung had saved herself by floating in a wooden drum which finally beached on the peak of Mt Kalatungan (‘wooden drum’). After the floodwater receded, the couple found each other and eventually had eight children: four sons and four daughters. At Magbabaya’s instructions, Agbibilin allowed his children to intermarry and establish separate residences. As the four couples multiplied, they became the ancestors of the Tala-andig, Maranaw, Maguindanao and Manobo tribes that eventually spread throughout Mindanao. Based on this myth, the Talaandig consider Mt Kitanglad FIGURE 31.4  Tala-andig elders dressed in traditional attire take part in a ritual at barangay Songco, Lantapan, and Mt Kalatungan to be the Bukidnon. father and mother mountains Photo: Datu Migketay Victorino Saway of the tribe. They are sacred as

616  Cairns

both the origin and burial grounds of their ancestors. Many interview respondents said the Mt Kitanglad Range was central to the identity of the Tala-andig tribe; that their cultural identity and the ecology of the slopes were inextricably interwoven. Preservation of the forest, they said, was synonymous with protecting their culture. It was their objective to preserve the mountain range long before anyone thought of gazetting it as a national park, and they would continue to do so even without the assistance of the Department of Environment and Natural Resources. Source of economic necessities

As already described, the Tala-andig are reliant on the benevolence of the spirits to assist them in securing their economic needs from nature. They view the forest as equivalent to a marketplace that provides them with wildlife, fish, honey, wild fruits and berries, and other native edible plants; an outlet for construction supplies that provides timber for building, rattan to lash the pieces together, and nipa or cogon for roofing; and a pharmacy where herbal plants can be gathered to treat injuries, diseases, and to use as contraceptives.The forested mountains thus have a spiritual significance as the providers of all the Tala-andig’s needs. This view of the spiritual, cultural and historical relationship between the tribal people and the Mt Kitanglad Range provides persuasive insights into why they are likely to be the most committed guardians of the park borders. The most positive prospect for successfully conserving the Mt Kitanglad Range is precisely that it is not strictly an externally driven agenda, but in fact responds to the expressed needs of the community. Their high motivation coupled with their physical place on the Park’s periphery argues strongly for their enlistment as the custodians of the Park’s forest. Indigenous resource management

In addition to spiritual influences on resource management, there is also evidence that the Tala-andig have evolved pragmatic practices to moderate extraction and ensure sustainable use of natural resources. Hunting

One of the most striking examples of a conservation approach to resource management is the concept of tangkal, a recognized safe haven for wildlife where hunting or trapping is strictly forbidden. If a pursued pig or deer crosses the boundary into the tangkal, the chase must stop and the dogs called off. This indigenous concept is analogous to what conservation planners now call a strict protection zone, and acts as a reservoir to protect wildlife populations from over-hunting. The resolve of the tribes to protect tangkal from encroachment should not be underestimated. When a government programme attempted in 1984 to resettle 350 Iglesia ni Kristo (Church of Christ) families in a Higaonan tangkal at barangay Hagpa, Impasug-ong, in the northeast of Bukidnon, the locals armed themselves to fight to protect it – until the

Chapter 31. Ancestral domain and national park protection  617

government backed down (Lao, 1992, p161). Another example of judicious limits on hunting is a prohibition against killing immature wildlife, or heavily pregnant deer (Burton, n.d.). Preservation of trees

1. As food sources for bees and wildlife: From their observations of nature, the indigenous people recognize which tree species are vital food sources for wildlife and preserve these as hunting sites. Baganalan trees are conserved as food sources for birds, while wild pigs are keen to forage fruit fallen from gasa and balite (Ficus spp.) trees. Kalamagan and olayan (Lithocarpus spp.) trees are protected as important sources of nectar for honeybees. 2.

As sources of medicine:

Bayog, bitaug (Calophyllum inophyllum) and other trees with curative properties are spared the axe while clearing land and are carefully protected for future use. 3. As raw materials for handicrafts: Tribal restrictions prohibit cutting shoots of bamboo (Bambusa spp.) that is used in weaving; grasses such as sud-sod (Fimbristylis globulosa), which are woven into mats, are conserved; and rattan (Calamus spp.) is nurtured for later harvest. 4. To protect streams: Plants categorized as mavahig (water-bearing) are conserved to maintain the watertable and prevent erosion of stream banks. Planting abaca (Musa textilis) near favoured fishing spots is believed to protect the water source and prevent streams from drying out even during prolonged droughts. Balite is also considered important to stream ecology; its protection by spiritual sanctions may be strategic in maintaining watershed hydrology. See Table 31.3 for a list of farmer-identified water-bearing species. Swiddening

Like many swidden-based cultures, the Tala-andig have evolved cultivation practices that demonstrate both an intricate knowledge of their environment and an intentional strategy to minimize the ecological impacts of their activities. TABLE 31.3 

Farmer-identified water-bearing plants

Vernacular Abaca Agutay Bagatamaing/agoho Balagon/uway Balite Buntong Hanagdong Tangko-lubar

English name Manila hemp Wild banana Agoho Rattan Strangling fig Bamboo – –

Scientific name Musa textilis Musa sp. Casuarina equisetifolia Calamus spp. Ficus elastica Bambusa spp. – –

618  Cairns

The position of star constellations and the presence of indicator trees, such as kadugi, kalamagan and talisay (Terminalia catappa), are used to monitor the passing of the seasons and judge when it is time to begin clearing swiddens. In choosing swidden sites, the headwaters of streams are avoided both to protect the water source and because drying the slash sufficiently for a good burn is problematic in sheltered valley areas. Moderate slopes are preferred to enable the trees to be felled downslope in a relatively uniform pattern, leaving more exposed soil for planting between the fallen trunks. Working in sloping fields also requires less bending, compared to level areas. The floral composition of prospective sites is noted in order to judge the soil properties and decide upon the most suitable crops. For example, the presence of lawaan (Shorea sp.) indicates black, fertile soils in which abaca, maize or coffee would thrive; olayan suggests impoverished, reddish soils that should be limited to lessdemanding crops such as sweet potatoes or cassava. Swidden size is determined by throwing a bolo (machete) either overhand, or in a more demanding style, backwards between the swidden farmer’s legs. The distance of the throw marks the boundaries of the plot to be cleared. The rationale behind this unusual practice is that the distance of the throw indicates the farmer’s strength, and the size of the swidden that he has the capacity to maintain. From an ecological viewpoint, these smaller swiddens are less vulnerable to erosion, and rapid forest regeneration during the subsequent fallow is assisted by coppicing tree stumps left in the field as well as seed dispersal from forest adjacent to the plot. After burning the slash and allowing the soil to cool, rice and corn are dibbled directly into holes in the soil using standard swidden technologies. After two or three crops, increasing growth of grasses that become more and more difficult to control demands high labour inputs for weeding, and farmers are prompted to fallow the plots or, alternatively, to plant perennials such lutya (Xanthosoma violaceum), banana, abaca, pomelo or avocado. These indigenous resource-management practices suggest a tradition of careful manipulation of the environment, balancing the extractive demands of the Talaandig with the ecological resilience of nature.This conservation approach to resource management needs to be revived or strengthened and aligned with strategies for managing of the Park’s buffer zone. Tribal conservation initiatives

The final measure of the determination of tribal communities to bring an end to the assault on the Mt Kitanglad Range is their initiative in organizing a united response to the threat to their ancestral lands. While external agencies continued to wring their hands over issues of boundary locations, park zoning and bufferzone management, tribal organizations rallied around the Park perimeter to form a front line of defence, and for many years have clearly led the way in protecting Mt Kitanglad Range National Park.

Chapter 31. Ancestral domain and national park protection  619

The tribal forest guards

In the 1990s, the tribal communities grew tired of being front-seat witnesses to the failure of a highly centralized approach to forest protection. Not only was the forest margin retreating further up the slopes of Mt Kitanglad, but the local people found themselves accused of being the villains responsible for the problem. In response, a group of 14 Tala-andig datus wrote to the Department of Environment and Natural Resources – the Park’s administrator – offering to organize a tribal-based programme to assist in forest protection. The forest guards, known locally as the bantay gubat (guards of the forest), were instituted in forest-margin communities; they were provided with training and deputized by the DENR. With this modest decentralization of responsibilities to the communities, the tribal forest guards became the eyes and ears of the DENR. The datus held community meetings to explain the new initiative to protect ancestral lands and emphasized their shared responsibility in enforcing park regulations.The expansion of swidden farming into the forest would no longer be permitted; hunting within park boundaries was banned, and only dead or fallen trees could be extracted for timber. The fact that responsibility for enforcement of these prohibitions now rested at community level demanded a much higher level of accountability. Flaunting of the regulations would no longer be the sole concern of the DENR, but would be a direct challenge to the datus and tribal law. Within the communities, social pressure to conform is enormous and the protection system soon became largely self-policing. The forest guards are not burdened with daily foot patrols along the park boundary, but simply maintain a cognizance of activities at the forest margin.Violations are reported to a high datu, who investigates, passes judgement and imposes punitive measures based on tribal law. Thus, both monitoring and enforcement are accomplished by the community without need for the DENR’s intervention. Soon after the forest guards began, a second tribal initiative expanded the force, assembling a network of 260 forest guards spread around the periphery of the Park. The active participation of tribal members in park protection appears to have been the result of a reawakening of their sense of responsibility for their ancestral lands, and with this has almost certainly come a revived sense of cultural identity and historical roots in the Mt Kitanglad Range. In their early days, the forest guards apprehended four Igorot farmers who extended their fields into park forests and, in doing so, harvested timber from the felled trees. A repeat offender was penalized an 80-kilogram pig and several chickens, and in all cases, the timber was seized and used for community projects. Even the Philippine National Museum was stung by the increased assertiveness of the tribes in policing their ancestral lands. A field expedition that climbed up the slopes on a botanical survey was confronted and their specimens seized, for failing to seek permission from tribal authorities. These were positive indicators that if their ancestral domain claims were recognized, tribal organizations had the initiative and ability to control access to the Park and ensure that its conservation objectives were not compromised.

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Other tribal projects

There have been other Tala-andig initiatives that have demonstrated a conservation intent: 1. 2.

3.

A Tala-andig Multi-Purpose Cooperative was instituted that had forest protection and reforestation as one of its key objectives. The World Bank-supported Manupali Watershed Project provided farmers with fertilizers and seedlings and paid them to reforest critical areas of the watershed. Some sitios in barangay Sungco refused this offer out of fear that acceptance of project wages and inputs might weaken their land claims. However, they were so keen on the reforestation objective that they accepted the seedlings and planted them on their own initiative, without pay.They then applied to the municipality for assistance in reforesting another 50 hectares along the banks of the Alanib Creek, which is Lantapan’s major water source. The tribal communities continue to guard an area of 500 hectares of pristine forest on the mid-slopes that was set aside in 1975 by a group of datus as a conservation area. This area continues to be guarded by the tribe.

These spontaneous initiatives clearly demonstrate that the cultural values and beliefs that guide the behaviour of the tribal communities are directly compatible with the National Park’s conservation agenda. This shared vision of a well-conserved Mt Kitanglad Range could form the basis of a social contract in which the state would grant the tribes’ ancestral domain claims, contingent upon a firm commitment that the Park’s conservation value would be strictly protected by the tribes. This marriage between ancestral domain and park protection is a logical union that would capitalize on their interlinkages and provide synergy between biological and cultural conservation. Enforcement of park boundaries through existing tribal institutions

The many social forestry-oriented programmes that have been implemented in Southeast Asia acknowledge the years of failure by centralized, bureaucratic agencies in managing public forests. The current trend to devolve forest control to local communities requires that local-level institutional mechanisms must be created to provide a management framework. Community organizers are often engaged to build or strengthen local institutions and guide communities in designing workable management plans. In this case, the preparatory stage for communal management of the Mt Kitanglad Range may be abbreviated because all the necessary components for community-based park protection already exist within tribal institutions, and are only in need of strengthening. The Bukdinon tribal institutions are already sophisticated, but that has been eroded by the imposition of centralized state institutions. The following key concepts need to be revived and harnessed towards tribal stewardship of the park.

Chapter 31. Ancestral domain and national park protection  621

Datuship

In pre-colonial times, the Bukidnon were scattered over the landscape in small kinship-based settlements. Within each community, the datu (chieftain) was the head of the tribal power structure and was considered the father of his followers. Central to his position were his command of the community’s respect, and his ability to arbitrate disputes based on unwritten customary law. Although the introduction of civil government has weakened the datu system, most barangays continue to function under dual tribal-civil structures. The datus will be linchpins in the success of any community-based park-protection initiative because of their leadership role and knowledge of territorial boundaries and customary law. It is critical that datus be closely consulted in deliberations on park management and recruited as committed allies in the implementation of such plans. Existing territorial boundaries

The concept of tribe came late to the Bukidnon; originally, the population lived in disparate swidden enclaves at the forest margin and those loyal to one datu were much like independent states (Burton, 1995). There was no overarching tribal structure that bound these scattered communities together in a unified tribal federation. Each libulung (settlement) is territorially defined by duluna (boundaries) such as hills, mountains, ravines, creeks and rivers. Each datu takes care of all the people in his banuwa (township). He sees to it that his sakop (members or followers) establish his sakum [swidden] within his territory and that these ogaop (members) of his do their fishing and hunting within his boundaries. (Opena, 1974a, p20) Thus, the landscape was carved up into independent territories under the control of the resident datu and for the exclusive use of his followers. When civil government in Bukdinon began to absorb these settlements into a hierarchy of sitios, barangays and municipalities, the same territorial boundaries were maintained in defining the new political units. This is crucial to the notion of community-based park protection for two reasons. First, these existing boundaries already carve up the entire Park into discrete management units, each of which could be assigned to the protective care of a local community and its datu and forest guards. This would diminish chances of conflict between communities and heighten the initiative and accountability of community members for protecting ‘their’ section of the Park. The second point is that these boundaries have long been recognized and respected by the local people under sanctions of tribal law and would not be perceived as a new and oppressive regulation imposed by park management. In this manner, 28 barangays that are within municipalities that lie in the periphery of the Park could be subdivided into smaller management units and monitored by

622  Cairns

local communities, creating an effective tribal buffer around the entire park perimeter. This could be coordinated by the Tala-andig, Bukidnon-Daraghuyan and Higaonon tribes under the umbrella of a tribal federation, or each barangay could report directly to the DENR. Tribal justice

Social control has traditionally been enforced in Bukidnon communities by customary laws (batasan) that have been handed down from generation to generation (see Burton and Canoy, 1991). The datu, assisted by his tribal council, investigated alleged transgressions against the batasan, weighed the evidence and imposed sanctions on those judged to be guilty. Nowdays, the tribal judicial process continues to operate at the barangay level, coexisting with the national legal system. Its decisions and dispensation of justice are recognized by the Philippine authorities. This local judicial process could strengthen the ability of communities to police the forests in a culturally appropriate manner. Park-protection regulations may be obeyed more readily if interwoven into the fabric of tribal laws.Violations could be considered tantamount to crimes against the ancestral homeland and the spirits that dwell there. The forest guards could report anomalies to a high datu for judgment, with only more serious cases or repeat offenders being referred to the DENR. Tribal organizations

Existing tribal organizations can provide the institutional framework needed for implementing an integrated conservation and development project in the Park buffer zone. Saway and Salazar (1995, p6) note that high datus coordinate with tribal committees on spiritual values and religion, oral histories, justice and equality based on custom and traditions, health and traditional medicines, indigenous farm technology, livelihood and cooperation, and maintenance of peace, order and security. Buffer-zone development projects designed to improve living standards and alleviate encroachment pressures on the forest margins would be multi-sectoral, involving components of income generation, introduction of new-crop germplasm and farming technologies, education, health and family planning, and so on. Thus, the different initiatives that may emerge from an integrated conservation and development project could be planned and implemented in partnership with appropriate tribal committees. Tribal Development Plans and Barangay Development Plans are usually written annually to reflect tribal and civic priorities, and are submitted to the municipality for funding. Both of these plans could be collaborative with the park-protection and development activities of an integrated conservation and development project. Finally, the Bukidnon Alliance of Tribal Communities (BATCOM), a federation of seven Bukidnon tribes, was formed to facilitate intertribal cooperation in a parkwide approach to conservation.

Chapter 31. Ancestral domain and national park protection  623

Also important is the Kitanglad Integrated NGOs (KIN), a consortium of seven non-governmental organizations involved in various fields of environment, upland and tribal-community welfare activities such as area development, site restoration, community training and social preparation, and information and education campaigns. It began operations with the implementation of the Mt Kitanglad National Park Community Resource Management Project, a component of the Conservation Priority of Protected Areas Project of the World Bank-Global Environment Facility and the Philippines Government. It coordinates with the DENR’s Protected-Area Staff and Protected-Area Management Board. Thus, the institutional framework for tribal stewardship of the Mt Kitanglad Range already exists in the form of the respected authority of the datus, territorial boundaries that delineate the Park into smaller operational units, a tribal judicial process to enforce regulations and tribal organizations to assist in planning and implementing the initiatives of an integrated conservation and development project. Strategies for buffer-zone management

The future of the Mt. Kitanglad Range will depend heavily on the ability of the buffer zone to cloak the Park’s perimeter with an effective barrier, comprising cultural (tribal vigilance of ancestral lands), religious (threats of spiritual sanctions), legal (tribal customary law), moral (community norms), economic (alternative livelihood options) and physical (long distances inaccessible by road) elements. The proposed buffer zone is a belt of DENR-managed land on the mid-slopes, creating a corridor between the National Park’s boundary and privately owned alienable and disposable land. It needs to address the dual objectives of insulating the Park from the impacts of human activities while simultaneously providing products or ecological services useful to local communities. Although it is beyond the scope of this chapter to design a comprehensive blueprint for managing Mt Kitanglad’s perimeter, ten operating principles are proposed as critical to success. Demarcate park boundaries

The initial task is to eliminate confusion about the location of the Park’s boundaries. In consultation with local datus, and with a geographic positioning system in hand, park management needs to walk the agreed park boundaries, installing temporary markers and recording precise map coordinates. Rather than installing concrete markers (mohon) that are foreign to local communities, it is preferable to seek their assistance in planting species such as kilala (Cordyline fruticosa) or bamboo, which are readily recognized as boundary markers by Bukidnon tribes. Participation in this process would instil in villagers a sense of ownership and responsibility for the boundary lines. Expansion of agriculture, logging or hunting would be strictly forbidden beyond the boundary, and this would be policed by the forest guards and datus. The same process involved in marking the outer boundary of the buffer zone

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would then be repeated for the internal boundaries that would divide the Park into smaller, community-controlled management units. Deputize tribal forest guards

The initiative of the datus in mobilizing tribal forest guards to protect the forest should be commended and strengthened. The DENR should provide them with training seminars on park regulations, deputize them and otherwise capitalize on the opportunity to develop strong relationships of trust and partnership with buffer-zone communities. Maintain an education campaign

A public awareness campaign would sensitize buffer-zone communities about the Park’s objectives and regulations and emphasize the vital role of these communities in conserving their ancestral lands. The message should not be overly focused on biodiversity conservation, but should be couched in terms more meaningful to resource-poor farmers, such as regulation of watershed hydrology. Radio is the most effective medium for reaching isolated forest-margin households. In schools, special attention should be paid to native ways of learning, so that environmental messages are presented to students in culturally appropriate formats (see Pechora, 1993). The oral traditions of the Bukidnon could be recorded, for example, to convey environmental themes in ballads, poetry or proverbs. Restrict land transfers

The flow of migrants to the upper slopes of Mt Kitanglad must be stemmed by imposing limitations on renting and selling land within the buffer zone. One workable option would be for the tribal councils to register as legal entities and then apply to the DENR for 25-year Community-Forestry Management Agreements covering those portions of the buffer zone within their territorial jurisdictions. This would divide the buffer zone into several contiguous areas, each under the stewardship of a different tribal council via Community-Forestry Management Agreements. Applying such agreements as a buffer-zone tenurial instrument offers several advantages: 1.

2. 3.

The communal tenure of a Community-Forestry Management Agreement fits well with the tribes’ traditional concept of land as common property for the mutual benefit of the entire community. Equitable exploitation rights to resources within the area would be managed by the tribal council. Community-Forestry Management Agreements are inalienable and nontransferable, preventing new migrants from settling in the buffer zone. The guiding principles of Community-Forestry Management Agreements – forest rehabilitation and sustained-yield management – are equally appropriate

Chapter 31. Ancestral domain and national park protection  625

4.

for buffer-zone management. Management plans could be tailored to accommodate considerations specific to park protection. Community-Forestry Management Agreements would provide the DENR with institutional leverages to ensure that the buffer zone was being managed in a manner consistent with park-protection objectives.

Although it is democratically more problematic to impose limitations on the transfer of alienable and disposable land on the lower slopes of Mt Kitanglad, tribal leaders sensitized to the seriousness of the problem (given the indigenous propensity for selling land and migrating further up the slopes) may help to dissuade community members from selling their land. Incorporate indigenous knowledge

Indigenous knowledge and traditional resource-management practices should form the basis of efforts to restore the ecology of the buffer zone. Forest species providing useful products need to be planted in the zone, thereby alleviating the need to harvest from the park. A preliminary list of such species suggested by farmers is presented in Table 31.4. It also includes species identified as performing important ecological services within the ecosystem. For example, planting abaca, balite, or other ‘waterbearing’ plants (see table 3) near streams helps to maintain water levels. Honey production can be stimulated by planting kalamagan and olayan to attract bees and provide nectar. Herbal medicines that have become scarce can be propagated within buffer-zone agroforests. Rattan, bamboo and other species used in cottage industries can be planted in the shaded understorey of large-canopy trees. Preferred timber species can be grown to satisfy domestic timber needs. Farmer knowledge of tree properties, such as which species are unsuitable for high elevations (gmelina, molave, TABLE 31.4 

Tala-andig-identified species for buffer-zone restoration (cross-referenced from

Post, 1992)

Local name

English name Scientific name

Uses

Boundary markers Bayog Bitaog Buntog

Kilala

Bamboo

Calophyllum inophyllum Bambusa spp.

Cordyline fruticosa

Timber Demarcates boundaries/ construction/water bearing Demarcates boundaries/decorates ceremonial tables/ ornamental/treats earache and coughs

626  Cairns TABLE 31.4 (cont.) 

Tala-andig-identified species for buffer-zone restoration

Local name

English name Scientific name

Uses

Herbal medicines Alik Gabon Kawilan

Uncaria setiloba

Mayana Tuba tuba

Jatropha curcas

Hanupul

Poikilospermum suaveolens

Kilang kilang Saksakolab Eucalyptus ab

Eucalyptus

Abaca c Balagen

Manila hemp Musa textilis Rattan Calamus spp.

Eucalyptus camaldensis

Pain relief Pain relief Antiseptic for wounds Treats coughs Applied to sprains, dislocated bones and fractures Cleans eyes For post-partem mothers Contraceptive Treats coughs/timber

Raw materials for handicrafts Yields fibre/water-bearing Handicrafts/water-bearing

Food sources for wildlife Kalamagan

Olayan

Lithocarpus

Baganalan Gasa

Abukadul

Avocado

Bugka d Garnada Marang d Santol Kayumitul Bayabas Duriyan e Saging

Lansones Pomelo

Kapi

Fruit trees Persea americana

Nectar source for honeybees/flowering indicates onset of rainy season Indicator of soil fertility/ honey/nectar source for honeybees Food source for birds Fruit eaten by wild boar/ people Treats stomach-ache and diarrhoea

Santol Star apple Guava Durian Banana

Lansium domesticum Citrus grandis Artocarpus odoratissima Sandoricum koetjape Chrysophyllum cainito Psidium guajava Durio zibethinus Musa spp.

Treats headache and cough

Coffee

Other perennial crops Coffea spp.

Sales and consumption

Treats diarrhoea

Chapter 31. Ancestral domain and national park protection  627 TABLE 31.4 (cont.)

Tala-andig-identified species for buffer-zone restoration

Local name

English name Scientific name

Nangka d Gmelina a Acacia Mahogany Red lawaan

Jackfruit

Gmelina

Timber species Artocarpus heterophyllus Gmelina arborea Acacia mangium Shorea spp.

Kulasi Balite

Strangler fig

Falcuta Agoho/ bagatamaing

Black wattle Pereserianthes falcateria Wild pine tree Casuarina equisetifolia

Tungog Andalogong

Ficus benjamina

Phyllocladus hypophyllus Trema orientalis

Tigbi Hinanaplan Buga Malagingay Kalaw-kalaw Talisay Calliandra b

Calliandra

Calliandra

Uses Fruit/timber

Indictor of soil fertility/ favoured by Philippine Eagle Firewood/timber/house posts Food source for wildlife/ treats sprains, bone dislocations and fractures/ water-bearing/occupied by spirits Shade tree for coffee Posts and boards for houses/ construction/root carved into yokes for oxen Bark used for walling and flooring/branches carved into yokes for oxen House posts/carved into mortars and pestles Timber for house constructions Timber Indicator of onset of rainy season/occupied by evil spirits

Notes: a Strongly associated with drying up of streams and soil; b Introduced by farmers to Manupali Watershed Project; c Formerly a common crop in swiddens, but now avoided because of Mosaic alqueris infection; d Thrive when combined with forest trees; e Durian fruit of inferior quality and unable to compete with those from Davao.

manggal), fruit trees that combine well with forest species (nangka, marang, bugka), or trees associated with dry stream beds (gmelina, eucalyptus), can be used in agroforestry design. Gradual enrichment planting of a wide variety of trees, shrubs, herbs and vines used by the tribal communities would thus evolve into diverse, manmade agroforests that would minimize conflicts between the Park and people living around it.

628  Cairns

Park management could also benefit from the insights of indigenous knowledge. The farmer-developed system of broadcasting wild sunflower (Tithonia diversifolia) seeds to smother out Imperata cylindrica could be useful in rehabilitating cogon grasslands in the Park’s interior. Farmers suggest planting gasa, baganalan and balite to provide more food for wild boar, monkeys, birds and other wildlife. And they say that red lawaan is a tree favoured by the rare Philippine eagle. Rehabilitate ravines

Deeply cleft ravines that extend down the slopes of Mt Kitanglad have maintained some of their natural forest cover. These are of conservation interest because they are narrow repositories of biodiversity that extend down to the valley floor. They produce small streams that flow into the Manupali river and may function as wildlife corridors to the Mt Kalatungan area on the opposite side of the valley. These ravines need to be protected from expansion of agriculture and rehabilitated through assisted natural regeneration and enrichment planting of indigenous tree species. Establish a no-burning policy

Fire has played a central role in the rapid retreat of Mt Kitangland’s forest margins and has left Imperata swards deep within the park’s interior (Mirasol, 1995). Most fires originate in farmers’ swiddens.A no-burning policy needs to be enforced in the buffer zone as part of the tribal forest-guards’ mandate. Slash-and-mulch techniques can be introduced to those farmers wishing to continue using fallows in the short term, but ultimately they should be assisted in adopting permanent forms of cultivation. Social pressure against burning will gain momentum as villagers include more tree crops on their farms and have a greater investment at stake that is vulnerable to wildfires. Intensify land use

If growing populations are to be sustained on a static land base, land-use intensification must be a major component of any strategy for buffer-zone management. Research in Indonesia has shown that buffer zones need complex, multi-strata agroforests that provide most of the ecological functions of a natural forest, including an extended wildlife habitat, insulation of the Park from human activities, absorption of household labour and provision of substantial incomes from a wide variety of harvestable products (Michon et al., 1986, 1992; de Foresta, 1992). Development of complex agroforests in the buffer zone of Mt Kitanglad could be encouraged by helping farmers to identify and address constraints to planting trees, assisting in nursery establishment and propagation techniques and practising standard extension methodologies such as demonstration plots, field trips and training seminars. This initiative should be supported by a rigorous research programme aimed at identifying appropriate agroforestry technologies for the Mt Kitanglad landscape.

Chapter 31. Ancestral domain and national park protection  629

Cultivation of mid-latitude vegetable crops in more gently sloping fields may be intensified by crop rotations, interplanting and relay planting, and made more sustainable by the adoption of contour hedgerows and integrated pest management (IPM) technologies. Integrate approaches

The complex interplay of factors contributing to forest degradation on Mt Kitanglad demands a holistic and integrated programming approach in which social and cultural aspects are held in prominent regard. In planning an integrated conservation and development project, five central pillars should focus on: • • • •

•

education, so that tribal children can participate more fully in Philippine society and have the option of pursuing professional occupations; family-health planning, to reduce infant mortality, improve general health and help to meet demand for family-planning services; income generation, to ‘distract’ resource-poor farmers from exploiting park resources by offering them more attractive livelihood options; credit access, to free local people from the parasitic grip of the suki system of merchandising patronage and provide them with the investment capital needed to grow high-value crops and intensify rotational swiddening into permanent cultivation; farming-systems research and extension, to identify and extend farming systems that build on indigenous knowledge and practices, have high agrodiversity, provide attractive incomes, are sustainable and are ‘park-friendly’.

Cultural sensitivity is essential

The rich biodiversity that scientists have documented on the slopes of the Mt Kitanglad Range has been conserved under the stewardship of the indigenous people for countless years. It is intricately interwoven with their cultural identity, their sense of origin and attachment to the forests, their religion and need to maintain a harmonious relationship with the environment and its resident spirits, their ecological knowledge developed through centuries of experience and their customary laws and communal land tenure, all of which have contributed to the shaping of resource-use practices. The strong linkages between cultural diversity and biodiversity suggest that cultural conservation should be an integral goal in national park protection (Gurung, 1994). Ultimately, the conservation objectives of the Park must be reconciled with the socio-economic needs of buffer-zone communities, and initiatives aimed at achieving this must include elements of both enforcement and development. Development interventions designed to alleviate forest-encroachment pressures should carefully identify and target the ‘critical users’ group that is most heavily reliant on harvesting park resources. This group’s ability to benefit from the buffer-zone projects would

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be strictly contingent upon its active participation in park-boundary enforcement. Projects located on the valley floor may assist in attracting population pressures away from the Park boundary on the upper slopes, but in the long term, the jobs and incomes generated by a fast-growing Philippine economy may provide the most effective park buffer. Conclusions

The commitment of tribal communities to principles of conservation suggests that granting them title to ancestral domains that encompass the entire Mt Kitanglad Range Nationl Park would not be antagonistic to the objectives of the Park. Indeed, such a move could form the foundation of a ‘social contract’ between the local stakeholders – the tribal communities – and the national and international stakeholders represented by the DENR. The fact that both parties share a vision for park conservation, albeit for very different reasons, highlights the disquieting multitude of issues that divert the parties from the conservation imperative and withhold ancestral-land title from most of the tribal groups who recognize the Mt Kitanglad Range as their home. It is hoped that the broad measure of common ground will prevail, giving rise to an alternative paradigm for park protection that sees buffer-zone communities not as threats, but as highly committed guardians of protected wildlands. For both groups of stakeholders, preservation of a near-pristine Mt Kitanglad ecosystem is a core objective that is beyond negotiation; granting ancestral domain must be contingent upon ensuring that the Park’s conservation value is not threatened. The necessary mechanisms are already in place for the Bukidnon tribes to protect the forest on a community-by-community basis, and this function has already begun. If these buffer-zone communities are able to effectively secure access to the Park perimeter, then the conservation objective of the social contact has already been met. However, even if ancestral domain is granted, there remains the sobering reality of expanding communities of resource-poor farmers trying to eke out a livelihood from the mountain slopes. As one Tala-andig datu observed, the pain of hunger may force his people to violate their own laws of environmental conservation. This underlines the critical importance of combining biodiversity conservation with sustainable development, in mutually supportive programmes. A siege mentality continues to predominate in the uplands of Bukidnon. Environmentalists, alarmed by the rapid decimation of Philippines forests over the past 70 years, are determined to find new approaches to protect remnant wildlands. Indigenous communities live not only on the forest margins, but also on the political and economic margins of Bukidnon society. If they continue their historical retreat up the mountain slopes, the Higaonon, Bukidnon-Daraghuyan and Tala-andig tribes will soon find themselves gathering on the peaks with nowhere left to flee; the tribes’ retreat will have ended on the same mountain peaks where their origin myths describe their beginning. The cultural identity of the Bukidnon is so inextricably interwoven with the forest and the mountains that ecological survival of the Park

Chapter 31. Ancestral domain and national park protection  631

is strongly equated with their own cultural survival. Therefore, the commonality of conservation agendas should provide a basis for developing a strong coalition between the tribes, the DENR, the NGOs and scientists, to protect what is left. Since the cultural diversity of the tribes has contributed so much to the maintenance of Mt Kitanglad’s rich biodiversity, cultural conservation should be an integral part of national park protection. This chapter has intentionally avoided appealing to perceptions of social justice and fairness. Rather, it has assembled empirical facts and argued that the tribal communities who occupy the Park’s buffer zone are, pragmatically, the only means by which the Park can be effectively protected. Granting them their ancestral land claims, contingent upon conservation-related conditions, would provide a rallying point for a revived sense of ethnic identity and empowerment, and harness their initiative towards park protection. Acknowledgements

This investigation was sponsored by the International Development Research Centre (IDRC), Canada, under a project grant to the World Agroforestry Centre (ICRAF). The author acknowledges with gratitude permission to reprint this chapter granted by The Philippine Quarterly of Culture and Society, which published an original version in its volume 5, issue 4. References Agbayani, R. V. (1993) ‘Some indigenous cultural traditions in the Philippines: Their implications on environmental conservation’, Kasarinlan 9 (1), pp54-69 Anonymous (1956) ’A history of the province of Bukdinon’, unpublished paper Amoroso,V. (1994) ’Floral survey of Mt. Kitanglad Range Nature Park’, unpublished workshop report, Sustainable Agriculture and Natural Resource Management Collaborative Research Support Programme Arquisola, H. L. (1980) ‘Manobo folklore of Agusan del Sur’, Chiang Mai University Journal of Sciences, Education and Humanities 1 (2), pp134-139 Banaynal, J. A. (1980) ‘The worldview of the native Tala-andigs of Songco and their changing sociopolitical institution’, Chiang Mai University Journal of Sciences, Education and Humanities 1 (1), pp65-90 Bienatzki, W. E. (1973) ‘Bukidnon datuship in the Upper Pulangi river valley’, in Alfonso de Guzman II and Esther H. Pacheco (eds) Bukdinon Politics and Religion, Ateneo de Manila University Press for the Institute of Philippine Culture, Manila, pp15-51 Brandeis, H. (1993) Music and Dance of the Bukidnons of Mindanao: A Short Introduction, Filipino Association of Berlin Briones, S. M. (1989) ‘The Tigkalasan (Tala-andig) in the rainforest of Agusan del Sur and Bukidnon border: A preliminary culture-construct’, Mindanao Journal 15 (1/4), pp64-82 Burton, E. M. (n.d.) Resource Utilization and Management Practices of the Northern Mindanao Indigenous Cultural Communities, Research Institute for Mindanao Culture, Xavier University, Cagayan de Oro, Mindanao Burton, E. M. (1985) ‘The Manabo religion and its rituals’, in Kinaodman (Wisdom): A Journal of the Southern Philippines 7 (1), pp13–24 Burton, E. M. (1995) Personal communication with the author

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Burton, E. M. and Canoy, E. S. (1991) The Concept of Justice among the Indigenous Communities

of Northeastern Mindanao: A Comparative Study of Customary Laws and Resolution of Conflict,

Research Institute for Mindanao Culture, Xavier University, Cagayan de Oro, Mindanao Catacutan, D. (2000) ‘The preventive systems approach (PSA) to protected-area management: The case of Mt Kitanglad Range Nature Park, Bukidnon, Philippines’, paper presented to the 7th National Consultative Confence of the Upland NGO Assistance Committee, 26-29 November, Batangas, Philippines Claver, F. F. (1973) ‘Dinawat Ogil: High Datu of Namnam’, in Alfonso de Guzman II and Esther H. Pacheco (eds) Bukidnon Politics and Religion, Ateneo de Manila University Press for the Institute of Philippine Culture, Manila, pp51–112 Cole, F. C. (1956) The Bukidnon of Mindanao, Chicago Natural History Museum, Chicago, IL Conklin, H. C. (1956) Hanunoo Agriculture: A Report on an Integral System of Shifting Agriculture in the Philippines, FAO Forestry Development Paper no. 12, Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations, Rome Cruz, R. B. (2011) ‘Harnessing geo-information technology for community empowerment and identity: The case of the Bukidnon tribe in the Philippines’, Talamdan, official publication of the Kitanglad Integrated NGOs, vol. 13 (2) Cullen, V. G. (1973) ‘Bukidnon animism and Christianity,” in Alfonso de Guzman II and Esther H. Pacheco (eds) Bukidnon Politics and Religion, Ateneo De Manila University Press for the Institute of Philippine Culture, Manila, pp1–13 Cullen,V. G. (1980) ‘Social change and religion among the Bukdinon’, Chiang Mai University Journal of Sciences, Education and Humanities 1 (2), pp91–100 Del Rosario, R. M., Recente, E. D. and Lisis, I. S. (1994) ‘Ethnobotanical studies in Bukidnon, Mindanao: An ethnobotanical research’, unpublished paper, National Museum, Manila, Philippines DENR (1992) NIPA Act R.A. No. 7586 and Implementing Rules and Regulation, DAO 25, S 1992, Department of Environment and Natural Resources, Manila, Philippines DENR (1993) Mt. Kitanglad Range Nature Park Management Plan, Department of Environment and Natural Resources, Malaybalay, Bukidnon, Mindanao de Foresta, H. (1992) ‘Botany’s contribution to the understanding of smallholder rubber plantation in Indonesia: An example from South Sumatra’, in Sumatera, Lingkungan Dan Pembangunan: Yang Lalu, Sekarang Dan Yang Ajkan Datang (Sumatra, Environment and Development: Its Past, Present and Future), proceedings of a workshop, 16-18 September, Bogor, Indonesia, pp363–368 Fox, R. B. and Flory, E. H. (1974) The Filipino People (Map), National Museum of the Philippines, Manila Gurung, J. D. (1994) ‘Indigenous knowledge systems and biodiversity management’, in J. D. Gurung (ed.) Proceedings of a MacArthur Foundation – ICIMOD Seminar, 13-15 April, Kathmandu, Nepal, International Centre for Integrated Mountain Development, Kathmandu Heaney, L. R. and Peterson, A. T. (1992) ‘Inventory of the vertebrates of Mt. Kitanglad Nature Park’, unpublished paper Javier, I. N. (1978) ‘On the Tala-andig: An ethnographic account’, Minadanao Journal 5 (2), pp31–41 Kitanglad Integrated NGOs (n.d.) Know Your KIN, brochure Kummer, D. M. (1991) Deforestation in the Post-war Philippines, University of Chicago Press, Chicago, IL Lao, M. M. (1980) ‘Bukidnon prior to the American occupation’, Chiang Mai University Journal of Sciences, Education and Humanities 1 (2), pp111–133 Lao, M. M. (1985) Bukidnon in Historical Perspective, vol. 1, Publications Office of Research and Extension Services, Central Mindanao University, Musuan, Bukidnon, Mindanao Lao, M. M. (1992) Bukidnon in Historical Perspective, vol. 2, Publications Office of Research and Extension Services, Central Mindanao Univesity, Musuan, Bukidnon, Mindanao Ledesma, A. J. (n.d.) ‘Bukidnon: Mindanao’s heartland for agrarian reform’, unpublished paper Lynch, F. (1967) ‘The Bukidnon of north-central Mindanao in 1889’, Philippine Studies 15 (3), pp464– 482

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Madigan, F. C. (1969) Mindanao’s Inland Province: A Socio-Economic Survey of Bukidnon, Research Institute for Mindanao Culture, Xavier University, Cagayan de Oro, Mindanao Madulid, D. A. and Pipoly, J. J. (1994) Preliminary Checklist of the Flowering Plants Found in Mt. Kitanglad National Park, Bukidnon, Philippines National Museum, Manila Michon, G., Mary, F. and Bompard, J. (1986) ‘Multistoreyed agroforestry garden system in West Sumatra, Indonesia’, in P. K. R. Nair (ed.) Agroforestry Systems in the Tropics, Kluwer Academic Publishers, Dordrecht, Netherlands, pp243–268 Michon, G., de Foresta, H. and Widjayanto, N. (1992) ‘Complex agroforestry systems in Sumatra’, in Sumatera, Lingkungan Dan Pembangunan: Yang Lalu, Sekarang Dan Yang Akan dating (Sumatra, Environment and Development: Its Past, Present and Future), proceedings of a workshop, 16-18 September, Bogor, Indonesia, pp335–347 Mirasol, F. (1995) Personal communication with the author NSO (2000) 2000 Census of Population and Housing, National Statistics Office, Manila NSO (2010) 2010 Census of Population and Housing, National Statistics Office, Manila, www.census. gov.ph/sites/default/files/attachments/hsd/pressrelease/Northern%20Mindanao.pdf, accessed 27 November 2013 NSO (2012) Population Density Increase by 53 Persons per Square Kilometre, National Statistics Office, Manila, http://www.census.gov.ph/content/population-density-increase-53-persons-squarekilometer, accessed 1 December 2013 Opena, L. R. (1974a) ‘On clarification of tribal names: The Bukidnon and their misnomers’, Malaybalay ’74 1 (1), pp2–10 Opena, L. R. (1974b) ‘The Bukidnon datu’, Malaybalay ’74 1 (1), pp11–32 Opena, L. R. (1979) ‘The Bukidnon: An ethnographic profile’, Archipelago, Oct-Dec., pp54–61 Opena, L. R. (1980) ‘A brief ethonography of Bukidnon’, Chiang Mai University Journal of Sciences, Education and Humanities 1 (2), pp101–110 Opena, L. R. (1982) An Introduction to Bukidnon Culture, Malaybalay, Bukdinon, Mindano Pechora, M. L. (1993) ‘Equitable education for the tribal communities’, paper presented at a Cultural Communities Celebration, 17 July, Malaybalay, Bukidnon, Mindanao Poffenberger, M. and McGean, B. (eds) (1993) Upland Philippine Communities: Guardians of the Final Forest Frontiers, research network report no. 4, Southeast Asia Sustainable Forest Management Network, Center for Southeast Asia Studies, University of California, Berkeley, CA Post, U. (1992) ‘Binukid dictionary’, Studies in Philippine Linguistics 9 (2) Sario, S. D. (1993) ‘The Bukidnon culture’, paper presented at a Cultural Communities Celebration, 17 July, Malaybalay, Bukidnon, Mindanao Saway,V. L. (1981) ‘Belief system and mythology of a Philippine ethnic community’, unpublished paper Saway, V. L. (1988) ‘Extinction and survival of the indigenous Tala-andig cultural community’, paper presented at the 10th National Annual Conference of Ugnayang-Pangagham Tao, 6-9 April, Danslan College, Marawi City, Mindanao Saway,V. L. (1995) Ancestral Domain Claim of the Tala-andig-Higaonon-Bukidnon Tribes Surrounding Mt. Kitanglad, document submitted to the Provincial Special Task Force on Ancestral Domain, DENR, 17 May Saway, V. L. and Salazar, L. I. (1995) Guidelines on Community Organizing and Planning for Cultural Survival and Development: A Bukidnon Model, Bukidnon, Mindanao Suminguit, V. J. and Burton, E. (1999) A Study on Ancestral Domain Recognition and Management within and around the Mt Kitanglad Range National Park, Southeast Asia Policy Research Working Paper no. 18, World Agroforestry Centre (ICRAF), Bogor, Indonesia

Notes 1 The National Park lies primarily in the northwestern portion of the municipality of Lantapan, and to the north and west it extends into the municipalities of Malaybalay, Sumi-lao, Libona, Baungon and Talakag, which adjoin Lantapan. Lantapan lies to the southwest of Malybalay City. The official

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name refers to Mt Kitanglad Range as a ‘nature park’ which, in the Philippines, is a category of ‘national park’. This chapter uses the broader designation ‘national park’. The boundaries of the Park are generally within the joint ancestral-domain claim made in 1995 by the Tala-andig, Bukidnon-Daraghuyan and Higaonon peoples. From the Mt Kitanglad Range, a number of streams (such as the Alanib, Ma-agnaw, Tagasan and Ti-mago) run southward across the municipality of Lantapan and join with the Manupali river, which separates Lantapan from the town of Valencia to the south. The Manupali originates to the west of the range and runs eastward to join the Sawaga, which also comes out of the north side of the range and flows into the great Pulangi river. A number of important rivers running to the north and northwest originate in the range, such as the Cagayan, Kalawaig, Tagiti, Samalauan, Tumulaong and Bubunawan, along with the Tagaloan and its upstream tributaries, including the Agusan, Culaman, and Atugan, to the northeast. As well as Mt Kitanglad (2938m), the Range includes, among others, Mts Alanib, Lunayon, Dulangdulang, Kadaraghoyan, Apolang, Kaatoan, Ma-agnaw and Nanluyaw. 2 Later sold to Talaka Timber Incorporated (ITTI) with a concession area of 38,793 hectares (Madigan, 1969, p105a). 3 Rental agreements were usually made on a three-crop basis; potatoes were usually grown for the first two crops and then rotated to corn or another vegetable cash crop. 4 Despite having the same name, Briones noted that this tribe was distinct from the Tala-andig of the Lantapan study area (see also Javier, 1978).

32 SHIFTING CULTIVATION AND WILDLIFE SANCTUARIES IN ANCESTRAL DOMAINS Friend or foe of biodiversity conservation? Gliceto ‘Butch’ O. Dagondon and Maria Easterluna Luz S. Canoy*

Introduction

Mindanao is the second-largest island of the Philippines, and is located in the southern part of the archipelago. Its remnant forests are estimated to cover one million hectares, representing barely 10% of the island’s land mass. A large portion of these forests cover the ancestral-domain territories of indigenous people belonging to 18 major ethnolinguistic groups. In the recent past, community-oriented and decentralized policies covered natural-resource management and community-based forestry schemes. These included Integrated Forest-Management Agreements (IFMAs) and Integrated Social Forestry (ISF) and Natural Resource-Management Programmes in the 1980s and the National Integrated Protected Areas System (NIPAS) law in the 1990s. However, forest destruction and degradation continued, even in those areas inhabited by indigenous people. Historically, much of the forest loss was attributed to logging, mining and the proliferation of monocrop plantations.These extractive projects were often state-sanctioned industries which led to the fragmentation of forest blocks in lowlands, mid-montane ecosystems and residual forest corridors. The shift in favour of community-based approaches in the design of governmentinitiated forestry programmes came after almost 30 years of dictatorial rule in the Philippines. In 1986 the ‘People Power’ that unseated a dictator led to the rebirth of political freedom and mobility. This, in turn, made possible the socio-political change in governance. The political shift opened new opportunities for peoplecentred endeavours, including the local control and management of natural resources. The political dynamics following the martial-law era attempted to realize a true democratic space by encouraging participatory governance and empowering civil

* 

Gliceto ‘Butch’ O. Dagondon is Executive Director, Green Mindanao Association, and Maria Easterluna Luz S. Canoy is Executive Director, Kitanglad Integrated NGOs, Inc. (KIN) and a Board Member, Green Mindanao Association.

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society – especially involving non-governmental organizations (NGOs) and people’s organizations (POs). However, at that time, most people at local and community level failed to recognize that the management and control of resources rested with indigenous authorities whose identity, culture and traditions endowed them with the fundamental right to protect and manage their ancestral homelands and natural resources. The Filipino nation is characterized by diverse cultural backgrounds; its indigenous people belong to 110 ethno-linguistic groups. The continued well-being of each group is determined by its heritage, identity and cultural life. It was only fitting, therefore, that a national policy – the first ever in Asia and the world – was written into law to reinforce the fundamental rights of indigenous peoples throughout the country. The Republic Act 8371, or the Indigenous People’s Rights Act (IPRA), was enacted in 1997 to uphold four fundamental rights of tribal groups. Chapters three through six of the IPRA provide rights to ancestral domains, self-governance and empowerment, social justice and human rights and the right to cultural integrity. To ensure these entitlements, indigenous people were granted the right to file for collective ownership of their ancestral domains and to be asked for their free and prior consent to every development project planned within their territory. The IPRA law renewed the hopes of many indigenous people within the Philippines. The pioneering policy also created a government agency – the National Commission on Indigenous Peoples (NCIP) – to represent indigenous groups and uphold the tenets of the new law. This chapter sets out to underscore the unique role of indigenous people in forest management and biodiversity conservation in the northern Mindanao region (Figure 32.1), as a consequence not only of cultural diversity, but also of the favourable legal environment in the Philippines. In particular, it gives an account of initiatives taken by the Higaonon tribe to utilize and cultivate the lands of its ancestral domain. As well as shifting cultivation (pagsakum), the tribe has specified other purposes for its highly forested areas. We describe the resilience of the Higaonon people through changing circumstances and their struggles to achieve a balance between customary laws and national policies. In particular, we show how Community-Based Forest Management (CBFM), Integrated Forestry-Management Agreements and the IPRA Law have affected their environment and their aspirations for development. For example, in 2010, a group of Higaonon people, especially those from the barangay (village) of Minalwang, made headlines when they granted a 25-year logging concession to the Southwood Timberwood Corporation (STC) covering a forest area of 11,476 hectares. The contract allowed natural forests to be harvested under a thriving Integrated Forest-Management Agreement. The Higaonon owners of subterritories or sectors known as gaop say they were not consulted in negotiations for the contract.They have expressed outrage over the company’s logging operations, which have subsequently destroyed vast areas of conserved forest. There are claims that the deal was an accelerated arrangement that bypassed the free, prior and informed consent (FPIC) process. People in Gingoog City and

Chapter 32. Farming and sanctuaries in ancestral domains  637

FIGURE 32.1 

Northern Mindanao, with locations discussed in this chapter.

neighbouring communities, supported by activitists, have questioned Higaonon tribal authorities on the free, prior and informed consent issue. Mass public protests against the logging company followed calls by indigenous groups living in the concession area for immediate cancellation of the Integrated Forest-Management Agreement permit issued to Southwood Timberwood Corporation by the Department of Environment and Natural Resources (DENR) (www.saveminalwang.blogspot.com). The people

The Higaonon are one of the dominant tribal groups of northern Mindanao, particularly of Claveria, in Misamis Oriental province. The name ‘Higaonon’ (also spelled ‘Higaunon’) means ‘mountain or forest dwellers’ (Lacson and Green Mindanao, 2005). The tribe’s territory is divided into sub-territories based on the eight major river systems in which they settled, including the Tagoloan, Cagayan, Lanao, Cabulig, Agusan, Odiongan, Ojot and Pulangi rivers. The tribe is spread widely throughout the mountainous parts of Mindanao in the provinces of Bukidnon,Agusan and Lanao.The town of Claveria, covering 825sq km, is the largest of 24 municipalities in the principal territory of the Higaonon. Agriculture is its predominant land use and it has a population of more than 44,000.The town is a landlocked, forested domain bounded by the coastal towns of Villanueva to Gingoog city in the north and northwest, Bukidnon province in the south and Agusan del Norte province in the east. The Higaonon practise a strong cultural solidarity in the form of mutual cross-exchange visits called buntula, mutual information sharing

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(sayuda), close relationships to ease one another’s burdens (pagbatasan and lagimoha) and taking care of each other (pagbatun-batuna). The vast territory of Claveria hosts four important sacred and contiguous forested mountains named Kimangkil, Kalanawan, Sumagaya and Pamalihi (KKSP). These mountains range from 2,000 to 2,200 metres above sea level and have a predominantly forested landscape where deer, FIGURE 32.2  One of the ‘KKSP’ mountains, Mt Kimangkil is very sacred to the Higaonon. It is offpigs and birds are reportedly limits to outside visitors, whether mountaineers or abundant. This is sacred land to tourists. the Higaonon (Figure 32.2). Photo: Green Mindanao (2005) Several tribal elders and chieftains share leadership of the KKSP, as it is divided into several subterritories, or gaop. Each of these is led by a prominent Higaonon elder who is his or her community’s most senior and highly esteemed person. Every leader or chieftain (datu) is knowledgeable of the tribe’s ancient customary laws. In ordinary day-to-day situations, the datu or his equivalent female leader (bae) prefer not to use their formal titles of leadership, and are commonly known as amay or tatay (father) or inay or nanay (mother), and are often shy in showing off their traditional costumes in big barangay gatherings or events outside their communities. Over the past five years, the Higaonon – through the elders’ councils and with assistance from younger members – have made efforts to organize themselves to follow traditional ways. They regard their most influential leaders as ininay-inamay, thus recognizing their matriarchal and patriarchal qualities and their ability to lead their people with the same kind of care a good father or mother would extend to his or her own children. Political life

The Higaonon who live in the area surrounding the four forested mountains known as KKSP use their own culture and traditional laws as a compass for their future path. In 1995, they organized themselves into the Minalwang Higaonon Tribal Community (MIHITRICO). Two years later, when they decided to assert their role in forest and ancestral-domain management, the Higaonon sought assistance from the Green Mindanao Association. At that time, the Department of Environment and Natural Resources (DENR) was responsible for processing their application for a

Chapter 32. Farming and sanctuaries in ancestral domains  639

certificate of ancestral-domain claim following Department Administrative Order (DAO) #2. The application for their CADC was assisted financially by Development Alternatives Inc. It pushed for the claim’s approval while at the same time providing technical assistance in community-based forest management. Subsequent passage of the IPRA law encouraged the tribe to convert its application for a certificate of ancestral-domain claim to an application for a certificate of ancestral-domain title (CADT), which meant a shift from a holding certificate to a title as a secure tenurial instrument. The DENR handed the tribe’s CADC documents over to the National Commission on Indigenous Peoples (NCIP), and in 2007, the MIHITRICO’s CADT was approved. The tribe’s official title to its ancestral domain was awarded in 2009. Green Mindanao’s link with the Higaonon of Minalwang, particularly in its remote sitios (subvillages) of Impadiding and Kalahaan, began in 1995, when author Dagondon began a search for nesting sites of the critically endangered Philippine eagle. One of the world’s most famous raptors, the Philippine eagle, occupies top position in the forest food chain, preying on a wide menu of 13 kinds of animals. Its endangered status is mainly due to massive loss of habitat due to deforestation in most of its range. In the course of his quest, Dagondon discovered a secluded tribal village in the midst of closed-canopy forests. As it happened, the Higaonon community in sitios Impadiding and Kalahaan of barangay Minalwang were just becoming involved in the most novel undertaking in their history. Author Dagondon learned that the late Datu Mansipadano, also known as Julio Pinalandang, was worried about the diminishing population of Philippine brown deer (Cervus mariannus) in the forests and grasslands of the Higaonon ancestral domain. At the same time, he was leading his people towards eventual secure recognition of their ancestral-domain rights covering more than 20,000 hectares of forest.The datu’s causes excited Dagondon’s assistance, and in 2004, Green Mindanao linked the ambitions of the Higaonon to the European Union-United Nations Development Programme project Promoting Tropical Forestry. The project funded training for Higaonon elders in community organizing and capacity building. This training not only influenced the formation of the Minalwang Higaonon Tribal Council (MIHITRICO), but also expedited MIHITRICO’s application for its certificate of ancestral-domain claim and influenced its ancestral-domain management planning. During the project, Green Mindanao conducted a census in Higaonon areas that reported a population of 21,794, of which members of the tribe made up 70% of residents. Under the Green Mindanao, EU-UNDP project, the Higaonon were given a series of IPRA policy-orientation sessions, which prompted them to establish more natural-resource management practices in their communities. The tribe introduced practical forest-management regimes anchored on their cultural values. These included reinforcing the recognition of sacred sites; regulating extraction, hunting and gathering activities and designating areas where they could be allowed; and establishing agroforestry zones. Patagunan or wildlife sanctuaries were declared and hunting was banned in areas where deer were reported. Harvesting of non-timber

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forest products such as rattan was regulated, as was hunting or collecting wild food and medicinal plants from the forests.The agroforestry zones were intended primarily for food production on mixed farms growing abaca (Manila hemp, Musa textilis), coffee, falcatta, fruits and other traditional commodity crops, as well as rearing livestock. In 2006, because of the widely known success of the forest-conservation policies and wildlife sanctuaries established by the Higaonon, they became a major advocacy exemplar in Green Mindanao’s ‘One Million Forest-People Campaign’. This campaign appeals to all indigenous individuals and communities who are directly responsible or involved in protecting and managing an area of forest. The 1MFPC campaign also seeks support from allies and networks that advocate forest protection and are committed to promoting the rights of indigenous people over their ancestral domains and securing their territories against wanton destruction. The campaign aims to buffer Mindanao’s remaining forests against threats created by aggressive development projects that may be proposed by indigenous people or outsiders alike, and initiated either privately or by the government. Making a living from swidden farming (pagsakum)

Reydan Lacson (2005) reported that the Higaonon of KKSP mountains in Claveria were once traditional swidden farmers (Lacson and Green Mindanao, 2005). Green Mindanao’s field visits in 1997 and 1998, which focused on the tribe’s CADC application, observed that swidden farming remained a predominant practice. These farming activities were characterized by strict prescriptions of spiritual significance, known to most remotely dwelling Higaonon who were not exposed to city life. Moreover, food was also gathered by hunting wild pigs, deer and birds, and they also fished in big rivers and creeks, created dams and trapped abundant numbers of fish, eels and crabs. But undertakings that could be regarded as ‘economic’ had their own niche, in which they were allowed and rotated in an average three-year cycle. Before such pursuits were undertaken, the tribe required the performance of various rituals to seek the help of unseen beings who regulated the relationship between the tribe and the spirit world. When opening a new field for cultivation, the Higaonon perform a farm-forecasting rite (pagbala), to consult the spirits of nature on whether the farming activities will remain unhampered and continue to be guided by portentous signs. A personal rite called pamagtu or panalibagto is also performed to determine whether the chosen area is fit for cultivation and safe to clear. For three days following the ritual, omens and signs such as injuries or cuts (no matter how small) during clearing and burning, or the unusual presence of animals such as snakes or wild doves (limokon), or even sneezing as one leaves the house, are carefully considered, as they could indicate that a pagsakum plan should be abandoned. A pagsakum is a highly laborious clearing of the land which requires the help of relatives. It is futile for a farmer to ignore these omens because the tribe believes that clearing fields with untoward signs will lead to less productive harvests.

Chapter 32. Farming and sanctuaries in ancestral domains  641

When plans are unhampered in the pagbala and pagbagtu rites, the Higaonon farmer may proceed to clear his chosen plot in the forested range or gaop that belongs to his clan. When a pagsakum is undertaken, relatives come to help with what is an arduous task. Often, this free labour is reciprocated when the relative needs manpower to help break in a new field. As the forest is cleared, it is proper for workers to maintain their silence and wear a solemn countenance. Both men and women should refrain from cursing, mumbling and making jokes or noises. Women who are having their menstrual period are banned from taking part in the clearing. After the Higaonon have slashed and cleared the vegetation from the site, the clearing is left for a week to dry, to prepare for burning.The Higaonon use a systematic method of burning that begins at the periphery of a field and travels towards the centre. It is said: ‘One’s bolo (machete) should not be used to randomly cut any tree or plant during the pagsakum, or some kind of bad luck will appear, to one’s dismay.’ The farmers observe changes in wind directions and create fire breaks to avoid the flames escaping into the forest. All of these practices ensure that the pagsakum or swidden farming is performed in a proper way. After the clearing is burned, the planting of corn begins, with observance of traditional gender roles. In this case, the men use wooden dibble sticks called udok to punch holes in the ground. The women follow behind, planting three grains of corn in each hole.Teenagers who have relationships are discouraged from taking part, even if they volunteer to help. In addition to corn, the farmers plant rice, cassava, sweet potatoes, bananas, ginger and wild ferns such as pako or hagpa.The Higaonon have another series of rituals for the distribution of harvests. Members of a farmer’s clan are entitled to an equal share, so that a harvest is enjoyed by all. Recently, under alternative livelihood programmes promoted by Kitanglad Integrated NGOs, adlai wheat (Coix lacryma-jobi – elsewhere known as Job’s tears) is being planted and backyard native chickens are being raised. Adlai wheat is regarded as a prime alternative crop, for which farmers can request additional planting materials if they have safe areas available for cultivation at the edge of their traditional farms. Overcoming hardships and moving on

After the approval of their ancestral-domain claim application and the implementation of their Ancestral-Domain Management Plan, the Higaonon found that they needed to make increased contacts with the government and the outside world. These programmes gradually exposed the tribes to large-scale irrigation farming, postharvest infrastructures and the cultivation of cash crops. However, most members of the tribe were then engaged in a variety of economic activities, such as small-scale farming, employment as farm labourers, rattan gathering, small retail-store enterprises and timber harvesting. Higaonon farmers cultivate cash crops of corn, rice, coffee, abaca, tomatoes, sweet potatoes, coconuts, lanzones (Lansium domesticum), banana, falcatta, gabi and lutya. Occasionally, the Higaonon still perform swidden cultivation

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on steep slopes (Lacson and Green Mindanao, 2005). Interestingly, on lower slopes, they maintain their own kind of irrigated rice farming, especially around sitio Impadiding, nourished by running water from surrounding creeks. Sometime in the late 1990s, Green Mindanao recommended that five young Higaonon should be admitted for studies of biodynamic farming at Xavier University’s Sustainable Agriculture Center in Cagayan de Oro city, Mindanao. After six months, two of these students completed their integrated course, particularly in the cultivation of rice varieties offered by the Masipag farmer-led network of people’s organizations. As a reward for the two graduates, Masipag rice seeds were supplied to farmers in the areas of sitios Impadiding and Minalwang. People’s self-mobilization

As mentioned earlier, the Higaonon of Minalwang, in the southern part of Claveria, formed MIHITRICO to pursue their ancestral-domain claims and to ensure direct control over their forest resources. Their partnerships with Green Mindanao and Development Alternatives Inc. led to an application for implementation of a community-based forest-management project, along with their claim for a certificate of ancestral-domain claim covering 20,000 hectares. Ten years later, the adjacent barangays of Mat-I, Man-ibay, Civoleg and Langguyod followed suit by launching an organization called MAMACILA, an acronym using the first syllable from the names of the four barangays it represented. Lacson and Green Mondanao (2005) reported, ‘The tribal organization aspires to boost the living conditions (social, economic and traditional) of the tribe by advocating a healthier and progressive environment and to achieve unity, prosperity and cultural well-being through the practice of mutual exchanges (buntula), cultural learning and sharing (sayuda) and easing of burdens (lagimoha).’ Seven tribal leaders, including two women chiefs (baes), were chosen as the organization’s first-generation officers. After the success of MIHITRICO’s ancestral-domain claim, MAMACILA decided to file its claim as well. In 2005, the late Datu Pignanawan, otherwise known as Art Maloay, was designated as the leader who would be responsible for leading MAMACILA to comply with the requirements of the application for a Certificate of Ancestral Domain Title (CADT). Lacson and Green Mindanao (2005) related that the Higaonon in MIHITRICO and MAMACILA shared common traditions and ethno-linguistic characteristics, as they were affiliated members of the same tribe and clustered in one big territory. The MIHITRICO initiative for Impadiding and Kalahaan sanctuaries

MIHITRICO’s partnership with Green Mindanao included the establishment of a deer sanctuary or patagunan in sitios Impadiding and Kalahaan. The two subvillages set aside a portion of their territory covering between 10,000 and 15,000 hectares, where discarded antlers were mostly frequently found. Soon, the sanctuary expanded

Chapter 32. Farming and sanctuaries in ancestral domains  643

towards the neighbouring territories of Mintapud village in Bukidnon province and Lakbangan in Agusan province. The locations of the sanctuaries were chosen by a consensus of tribal elders, hunters, trappers, barrio officials and virtually the entire Higaonon community. The tribal initiative was backed by a barangay ordinance that articulated the same rules, regulations and penalties to be enforced by tribal guards, elders and barrio officials (Dagondon, 2012). In evaluating the sanctuaries in 2007, Green Mindanao and MIHITRICO reported a remarkable increase in the number of wild pigs trapped or hunted outside the sanctuaries (Figure 32.3). Community members were convinced of the importance and practical value of establishing more sanctuaries, hence their expansion into the two neighbouring provinces. It was five years before the sanctuary project was reviewed again. In June 2012, a Higaonon tribal community facilitator of the Kitanglad Integrated NGOs (KIN) visited the remote villages of Impadiding and Kalahaan to inquire about the status of their wildlife sanctuaries, or patagunan. Datu Amumahan, or Manuel Pinaandil, assured his visitor that, even after the end of the Green Mindanao project, his people continued to protect and maintain their patagunan. In fact, the datu pointed out that the patagunan was divided into two zones, and one of them was a restricted zone where no hunting or human intrusion was allowed. This was reserved for spiritual leaders (shamans) to perform their prayers, and as much as possible, the Higaonon elders made sure that these spiritual duties were not neglected. In the other part of the sanctuary, hunting, trapping and harvesting were permitted. However, hunting was only undertaken in an atmosphere of reverence for those dwelling within the patagunan. Before every hunt, rituals had to be performed to seek permission from the spirits that guarded the animals, and to request a catch during the expedition. The hunter was then required to exercise care and caution with the game he stalked. It was taboo to mock animals or make unnecessary noise, and hunters had to avoid ‘asking’ or ‘naming’ what could be seen or felt inside the hunting grounds. In fact, the elders were uncomfortable when people mentioned the sanctuaries. However, if support groups FIGURE 32.3  A hunter carries home a 40kg wild pig asked about the tribes’ wildlife caught in a trap alongside the Mamato river in Misamis management, the elders could Oriental province Photo: Maria Easterluna Canoy (1997)

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not avoid using terms that best described their traditions in the treatment of wildlife in their territories. Datu Amumahan was wholehearted in promoting the value of sanctuaries within ancestral domains, and said that every now and then, people observed wild pigs and deer wandering out of the patagunan. Community members knew that they had ‘food in store’ anytime, and it would continue to be abundant. However, they were cautious about hunting, and did so only as guided by the elders’ tribal policies. It was said that people should not abuse the community’s good fortune, that it could hunt and offer good food to guests on special occasions, or when it had visitors. The Higaonon believe that regulating their forest farming, or pagsakum, while preserving their patagunan, has contributed to maintaining healthy forest ecosystems. They say the existence of the patagunan helps to improve the surrounding soils, which are fertile and receptive to the rice, corn and root crops that they commonly cultivate. However, despite their collective feat, the Higaonon have resisted any interventions related to policies of classifying forested mountains as parts of integrated, protected-area systems. They believe that in official consultations, the Department of Environment and Natural Resources will not reinforce the policies fixed by the tribe. A seven-point agenda and Green Mindanao’s One-million Forest People Campaign

In August 2008, Green Mindanao, in conjunction with the Higaonon people of KKSP, launched its One-million Forest People Campaign (1MFPC). The launching ceremony, in Cagayan de Oro, saw the leaders of 11 of Mindanao’s 18 tribes make an initial commitment to protect 660,000 hectares of forest under a tribal compact (Figure 32.4). The undertaking to protect the forests, under any circumstances or conditions, was projected to continue into the next century, since it involved prioritizing care for native and indigenous species known for their longevity. The Higaonon, for their part, used the establishment of wildlife sanctuaries and proclamation of sacred spaces such as those at Mt Kimangkil and its neighbouring mountains as examples of their commitment FIGURE 32.4  Green Mindanao’s launching of its Onemillion Forest People Campaign yielded a commitment to a pledge that was part of a by 11 of Mindanao’s 18 tribes to protect 660,000 seven-point agenda aiming to hectares of forest unify the efforts of the tribe Photo: Green Mindanao (2008)

Chapter 32. Farming and sanctuaries in ancestral domains  645

across its entire territory, covering four provinces of Mindanao. The seven principles of unity, cooperation and vision included: 1.

Lig-unan su Kabilin hu bugta (Strengthen ancestral-domain claims to secure the territory).

2. 3.

Lig-unan su kadadatuen (Strengthen tribal leadership and governance). Pugnao hu sumusunod ha kabataan (Educate the next generation on tribal culture).

4. 5.

Inuhon su hadi pakigduma duma su datu (Investigate non-cooperating datus). Lig-onan su kaguna ha lagimo (Strengthen self-help and mutual tribal cooperation).

6.

Pogtukod ko pederasyon ta Mts Kimangkil and Kalanawan (Build a tribal

7.

Hinangon ha ulagdok daw salukan sa bubungan ta Kimangkil daw Kalanawan

federation from Kimangkil to Kalanawan). (Hold regular consultation meetings at the gateways of Mts Kimangkil and Kalanawan). The seven-point agenda had earlier been the focus of discussions among Higaonon elders at a meeting organized by Green Mindanao with support from the United Nations Development Programme. The meeting was intended to advance the tribe’s development agenda. Datu Manlimbatao of Civoleg was passionate about the need to strengthen Higaonon ancestral domains and defend their territories against migrant intrusion. It was noted that indigenous leadership needed to be fortified, and every datu should be supported by his bagani (tribal) warriors. Mintapud Tribal Community Leader, Amay Mantangkilan Cumatang, suggested that when implementing the seven-point agenda, strategies should be sensitive to women’s roles and viewpoints, and that education of young people should start as early as possible. Furthermore, he said members of the tribe should follow the cultural protocol of building solidarity through mutual information sharing, mutual help and forming of alliances. Datu Cristito Buotan said he believed the seven-point agenda was a solution to the internal organizational problems of the Higaonon, while Datu Mangansehan of Mat-I urged promotion of the Higaonon culture in the face of fast-occurring changes. He believed this was the only way to save the Higaonon culture and maintain peace in the tribe’s vast territories. Datu Amomahan Manuel Pinaandil said the tribal culture should be documented properly and adequate information provided to anyone wanting to learn about the Higaonon. Further, he suggested that part of a datu’s strength lay in the loyalty of his bagani (tribal) warriors. Datu Perfecto Mantondaan Pinuhan reminded the meeting that, although it was not clearly articulated in the seven-point agenda, he believed that organizing the tribal women should include providing them with livelihood opportunities distinct

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from those of their spouses.Thus, on-farm or off-farm sources of income for women should be given equal emphasis. After agreeing to the seven-point agenda, the elders expressed their concern about the incursions of armed groups (such the New People’s Army, the armed wing of the Communist Party of the Philippines), whose presence created tensions within the tribal communities. The elders agreed that this trend had to be stopped, because the ‘leftist elements’ were causing worry and anxiety, especially among women and children. After it was launched, Green Mindanao’s 1MFPC earned the support of both its indigenous people’s network and non-indigenous society. The next stage involved scaling it up to get commitments from local government. Prior to the gathering of tribes on the 1MFPC, Green Mindanao had seen the need to cement ‘ridge to reef ecosystems alliances’. It initiated cross-visits between the Higaonon of Minalwang and coastal communities in Magsaysay, Misamis Oriental, which, with Green Mindanao’s help, had been able to establish marine sanctuaries. In addition, Green Mindanao sought the involvement of ethnic groups from Davao Norte and Davao Oriental, to the south, including the Mandaya, whose forest at Mt Hamiguitan and marine resources at Cape San Agustin and Pujada Bay were both remarkable sites deserving of protected status. One month after its launching, the 1MFPC campaign suffered a serious blow when its main advocate among the Higaonon, Datu Art Maloay Pignanawan, died following a motorcycle accident. He was only 30 years old. The Higaonon of KKSP felt a great loss; both the 1MFPC and MAMACILA’s application for a certificate of ancestral-domain title lost momentum. Datu Art’s widow, Bae Erlinda Maloay, assumed her late husband’s role. But she was a single mother raising two very young children who had suddenly lost their father. It took four years, until 2012, before notions of wildlife sanctuaries were gradually revived to once more inspire Higaonon communities in barangay Man-ibay. Overall chieftain and grand elder Datu Cristituto Buotan – the late Datu Art’s father – expressed concern for a lapse in the performance of spiritual obligations, especially annual rites intended for the sacred parts of the tribe’s domain. He knew he had to reinvigorate his vision and leadership responsibilities in order to pursue the sevenpoint cultural agenda of the Higaonon, and for this he had to start with a performance of sacred rites taking him back to his spiritual obligations. Once he performed his own personal rites as a leader, he believed he would be able to prescribe the cultural requirements for the establishment of additional sanctuaries in his territory in Man-ibay, close to Mt Kalanawan, and regulate the use of resources found inside the forests. Together with the elders of MAMACILA and support from an NGO called AnthroWatch, the Higaonon gradually revived their projects, to pursue their certificate of ancestral-domain title and implement their development aspirations according to their ancestral-domain plans (Figure 32.5). Early in July 2012, Datu Buotan expressed concern for the need to reinstate wildlife sanctuaries because intrusion by investors

Chapter 32. Farming and sanctuaries in ancestral domains  647

and outsiders had become rampant; the elders regarded these people as cultural violators who had no regard for traditional leadership. Minalwang’s deer sanctuary

Five years earlier, in 2007, following a report from Green Mindanao, a patagunan wildlife sanctuary was established in Minalwang. This one covered an estimated 8,000 hectares, including village- FIGURE 32.5  Green Mindanao staff inspect a like sites of Kalo-Kalo, Kiiblag, wildlife sanctuary with Higaonon guides Malatuka, Ginahawaan, Tubig Kiawig, Dalaw-ay, Kimantasaw and Kalahaan. It was about three kilometres from Sitio Impadiding and close to the Mt Kimangkil range. The following bans and prohibitions were imposed by Higaonon elders, to be observed in the use of the Minalwang sanctuary: • • • • • •

Hunting with the use of dogs, shooting animals inside the sanctuary and trapping animals on land or water. Gathering of honey from different kinds of bees, such as putyokan, tamaing, kiyot and palagaway. Cutting and harvesting of trees and rattan, or picking flowers. Opening of swiddens or kaingin farms. Gathering of medicinal plants, herbs and flowers. Fishing, use of poisons to catch fish and hunting in the evening.

The elders also issued additional conditions on management and use of the Minalwang sanctuary: • • • •

Hunting with dogs is allowed up to the sanctuary’s boundary, but not beyond it. Hunting or harming pregnant animals, such as pigs, is forbidden. If a deer or a pig enters a sanctuary, hot pursuit will automatically cease. Harvesting of wildlife inside the sanctuaries will be undertaken once every five years. There should be a pamuhat ritual before this harvesting of animals begins. A sanctuary must be marked, fenced and protected from day-to-day threats.

Penalties for violations

Different kinds of penalties were prescribed for transgressions, abuse of indigenous people’s policies, improper harvesting and trespassing on sanctuaries. Penalties

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depended on the degree of damage done, the malicious intent, or the recalcitrance of tribal members who refused to listen to the elders. Penalties ranged from 20 candles or 10 pieces of aluminium cookware to 10 metres of white cloth, 24 chickens, 10 pigs, a cow, water buffalo or horse, and even a fine of 20,000 pesos (US$457). Mintapud sanctuary

Establishment of the Minalwang sanctuary influenced the creation of new sanctuaries at Mintapud, where they are managed by Amay (father) Mantangkilan, under the AGMIHICU indigenous people’s organization (Figure 32.6). Sitios (subvillages) have sought support to build their own kinds of sanctuaries, including one that the community said was its main source of food. In this case, the people were concerned that the area’s natural resources should be conserved for coming generations. Cultural rites, such as the establishment of close relationships aimed at easing one another’s burdens (pagbatasan and lagimoha), continue to be practised, although members of the tribes are becoming more confident when discussing their personal involvement in establishing wildlife sanctuaries. The cultural significance of wildlife sanctuaries is linked to the observance of pagbatasan and lagimoha, and maintaining them ensures the perpetuity of Higaonon cultural traditions. The Higaonon have also observed the benefits of maintaining the sanctuaries. Proper care and maintenance of these areas has resulted in clean and potable water supplies. The sanctuaries provide a good, cool climate and new sources of livelihood. This is a boon for all Higaonon, since it also provides a learning field for youngsters. Young people have been assigned to monitor the state of the sanctuaries and to report their findings to their leaders. In 2013, following the celebration of the awarding of Mintapud’s certificate of ancestral-domain title, the tribe held a ceremonial walk around its sanctuaries to mark the successful achievement of legal title to its own lands. A new sanctuary in barangay Man-ibay

Recent activity in barangay Man-ibay, Claveria has paved the way for the establishment of the community’s own kind of patagunan or wildlife sanctuary. It should be pointed out that since the creation of sanctuaries is a cultural legacy bequeathed by tribal elders,

FIGURE 32.6 Grand Higaonon elder Amay Mantangkilan led his people in Mintapud to protect Mt Kimangkil, a sacred domain surrounded by traditional farms and wildlife sanctuaries

Photo: Green Mindanao

Chapter 32. Farming and sanctuaries in ancestral domains  649

it becomes a responsibility that is hard for tribal members to ignore. In the past, members have been prohibited from discussing what lies within sanctuaries that are in the process of establishment. Designating an area as a sanctuary allows the protection in perpetuity of wildlife and medicinal plants, and the latter are vital for the tribe’s well-being. Animals, especially those that are pregnant, are left undisturbed within the refuge. Plants, especially herbs, cannot be cut or taken away. Each Higaonon community is able to prescribe its own rules with regard to a sanctuary’s use and purpose. While the condition of land and forests surrounding these sanctuaries may deteriorate, the patagunan serve to maintain and safeguard the food and ‘green stocks’ of the people. Higaonon elders and young leaders alike appreciate the creation of sanctuaries in their territories. The protected patches are the tribe’s ‘food keepers’ and natural pharmacies, which demand no more than to be maintained and allowed to thrive freely. Healthy and abundant sanctuaries help ensure safe and potable water as they capture rainwater and make it available as it flows out to rivers and creeks. Providing wildlife shelters also gives the Higaonon pride in their culture and beliefs, since preserving nature forms part of their sacred traditions. The Higaonon also believe that the existence of cultural zones, such as sanctuaries, compels them to resist the lure of financial reward that is often offered by outsiders who are keen to acquire land at any cost. The tribe sees a pattern of forest degradation when places like the patagunan are no longer enforced. In October 2012, the Higaonon community at barangay Man-ibay, Claveria finished building a three-dimensional map of its territory, with the support of AnthroWatch (Figure 32.7). The diorama is used to pinpoint current agricultural land uses and identify the best locations for wildlife sanctuaries. It ‘levels off ’ the cultural values and perspectives attached to any given area and facilitates the study of prospects for development at selected sites. The 3D map also enables the Higaonon to develop a more realistic policy on the use of their entire ancestral domain claim – beyond their patagunan – so as to prevent future conflicts among their people. The MAMACILA Tribal FIGURE 32.7  Higaonon people from barangay Council, however, is worried that Man-ibay, Claveria, pinpoint important cultural outsiders, including members of zones, including their patagunan, on their 3D map the rebel New People’s Army and Photo: Jofilo Pinaandil (2012) mountaineers, still do not respect their domains or boundaries. It is

650  Dagondon and Canoy

claimed that the rebels enter the patagunan without seeking permission and camp there. Mountaineers often take offence when reprimanded for entering communities at ‘gateways’ to important peaks within tribal domains. The council plans to survey all patagunan, including potential sites; install boundary markers so that outsiders are warned not to enter tribal domains without proper formalities; and post billboards to explain what lies within the patagunan and how hunting is regulated. Sanctuaries elsewhere in the region

In 2008, the Daraghuyan-Bukidnon tribe of Malaybalay City, in a two-part series of cultural-zoning workshops, proposed indigenous-zoning concepts aimed at delineating various land uses, such as prohibited areas (igbando), sacred spaces (lalaw) and wildlife sanctuaries (tangkal). Each is a specific area with a clear distinction and purpose, lying among a multitude of other land-use categories. The zoning proposals came as an adjunct to a participatory three-dimensional mapping exercise, covering the entire 46,000 hectares of the Mt Kitanglad Range Natural Park. Members of the tribe had no difficulty interpreting information marked on the 3D diorama. As well, they were able to articulate the unique land uses and land categories within their ancestral domain, which is part of a large protected area including major regional watersheds. While the Higaonon maintain their kind of patagunan, the Kitanglad tribes such as the Daraghuyan-Bukidnon and the Talaandig of Talakag tribe have their own kinds of wildlife sanctuaries, intended as breeding areas for wild pigs and deer, where no hunting is permitted. The Daraghuyan sanctuary is estimated to cover 200 hectares, and is marked by 10,000 bamboo cuttings planted on its boundaries, in some places stretching for up to eight kilometres along river banks. The Daraghuyan people call these areas inalad and tangkal. Inalad normally refers to a small area where a plant or an important object is fenced in to protect it from harm or disturbance. A tangkal can be a backyard-sized cage for animals, usually big wild pigs, but the Bukidnon and the Talaandig of Talakag town apply the word when referring to bigger areas. However, in this case, the inalad or tangkal areas are known only to the members and hunters of neighbouring communities, who are informed of prohibitions in force in these sanctuaries. In 2012, the Talaandig-Higaonon of Talakag asked the Katinglad Integrated NGOs organization (KIN) to help them create sanctuaries in their territory as reserves for the kalaw (Rufus hornbill), as well as other wildlife. Their chieftain, Datu Elito Guinoay, revealed plans to involve both local government bodies and tribal councils to work side by side to protect the bird. Datu Guinoay handed over a sketch map showing the proposed site for a sanctuary, selected by the elders in a pagbala ritual.The people asked KIN to fix the location with global positioning system (GPS) instruments and prepare a map of the protected area.

Chapter 32. Farming and sanctuaries in ancestral domains  651

Additionally, the datu asked both the council of elders and the barangay councils to formulate policies or resolutions to support the proposed kalaw sanctuary of the Talaandig-Higaonon, estimated to cover about 2,000 hectares. It is proposed that these local ordinances will be presented to the Protected Area Management Board as part of the basis for a policy resolution covering the entire protected area. Another interesting aspect of the Talakag sanctuary is that it must first be established as a regulated zone, rather than as an ecotourism destination with potential for generating income. The Talaandig-Higaonon leaders believe that within two or three years of the area being fully secured by local and cultural policies, it will be designed as a site for ecotourism. However, Datu Guinoay is quick to note that such a notion does not necessarily mean that tourists will be able to freely move around the sanctuary.There will still be limits, as areas within the sanctuary will be sacred spaces able to be entered only by the tribe’s spiritual leaders for annual rites or prayers. Conclusion

The Higaonon leaders of Impadiding were pioneers in initiating the creation of wildlife sanctuaries. In the first instance, the sanctuaries were intended to protect dwindling numbers of Philippine brown deer. Concerned to protect their traditional system of swidden farming, or sakum, in select gaop areas, the Higaonon knew that establishing their patagunan sanctuaries was an assured way of maintaining healthy habitats and, at the same time, providing for full-protein diets. Both sakum and patagunan are regulated by customary land-use laws, and bring advantages to both the initiating tribes and their neighbours.The two-pronged strategy provides benefits for biodiversity conservation, food security and ancestral-domain management, and is deemed practical and replicable. It was no surprise, therefore, when the establishment of patagunan spread from the Impadiding area to barangays Mintapud and Man-ibay. The proliferation of sanctuaries has succeeded without government assistance. The growing drive to strengthen tribal culture and traditional governance of forested mountain areas in northern Mindanao received a major boost at a major tribal summit called Lambaga in December 2012. The event focused on a project of the KKSP forest-mountain alliance, to strengthen traditional governance in seven mountainous areas of Kitanglad, Kalatungan and Pantaron (in Bukidnon) and Kimangkil, Kalanawan, Sumagaya and Pamalihi (in Misamis Oriental). The project is supported by the Ecosystems Alliance composed of the International Union for the Conservation of Nature (IUCN), both ENDS and Wetlands International.The Tribal Summit of Seven Mountains of KKP-KKSP was co-hosted by Bae Inatlawan of the Bukidnon-Daraghuyan tribe and attracted about 50 leaders from the Higaonon, Bukidnon, Talaandig, Menuvu, Manobo and Matigsalug tribes. The tribal summit underlined the importance of current land use among the tribes of Mindanao, such as maintaining healthy traditional farms while remaining open to adapting new technologies to cope with climate change. Speakers also emphasized the need to continue establishing patagunan as a form of wildlife ‘safety deposit’ in

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the event of climatic disasters, such as storms, landslides and droughts. The elders also moved to prohibit the intrusion of armed groups and ‘reckless tribal members’ into the patagunan. While the tribes are now encouraging a return to traditional and resilient crops, such as adlai wheat (Coix lacryma-jobi), they are simultaneously imposing strict hunting and gathering regulations in their sanctuaries. With these coping strategies, the Higaonon, along with the rest of the indigenous peoples of Mindanao, hope to survive this era of climate crisis with dignity and tenacity. They are certain that conservation measures will continue in their sacred domains and that succeeding generations will have a heritage of which to be proud. Their aspirations have proven difficult to achieve, particularly because the government has been slow to recognize the value of their initiatives to conserve vital ecosystems that carry great benefits, first for the tribes, but equally for the general public. References Dagondon, Gliceto (2012) Tribal Community Deer Sanctuaries in Kimangkil Mountains, IUCN World Conservation Congress, https://portals.iucn.org/2012forum/?q=0276, accessed 19 May 2014 Lacson, R. C. and Green Mindanao Association, Inc. (2005) Ancestral Mountains, published by Green Mindanao with support from the Small Grants Program for Operations to Support Tropical Forests, Philippines, Cagayan de Oro city, Philippines Saveminalwang.blogspot.com (2010) Justice for Berting Pinagawa, www.saveminalwang.blogspot.com, accessed 19 May 2014

33 THE MISSING LINK OF FOREST REGENERATION Dwindling shifting cultivation in India’s Northwestern Ghats Archana Godbole, Jayant Sarnaik and Yogita Gokhale* Introduction

Shifting cultivation has been the main form of agriculture practised in the hilly regions of South Asia since ancient times and continues to be the principal subsistence activity of many indigenous communities. As forests and agriculture are rotated, the main driver of swidden systems is the recycling of nutrients in the relatively poor soils of tropical forests. Research has concentrated on soil quality or other areas with potential for improvement in shifting cultivation practices, but relatively few studies have examined the role of shifting agriculture in forest regeneration. Most studies report that although pioneer tree species recover relatively quickly, the woody biomass of mature forest trees takes several decades to recover after shifting cultivators have moved on (Teegalapalli et al., 2009). Rotational swidden-cultivation systems with fallow periods long enough for the regeneration of secondary forests are capable of maintaining forest cover and plant diversity in a dynamic balance in swidden-cultivation landscapes (Wangpakapattanawong et al., 2010). The regeneration of secondary forests through several successional stages, and by a combination of coppicing and seedling development, is still poorly understood. However, viable sources of knowledge about forest restoration can be found in studies of the semi-natural regeneration processes in swidden fallows, as well as in the indigenous knowledge of shifting cultivators. Few studies exist to either confirm or deny the hypothesis that, for ages past, the practice of shifting agriculture has been responsible for maintaining forest biodiversity. However, studies of the regeneration pattern in swidden fallows in the Northwestern

* 

Dr Achana Godbole and Jayant Sarnaik are Director and Deputy Director, respectively, of the Applied Environmental Research Foundation (AERF), a non-governmental organization based in Pune, India. AERF works towards biodiversity conservation by developing natural-resource management models that actively involve local communities.Yogita Gokhale is also from AERF.

654  Godbole et al.

Ghats region of India clearly shows that there is a need to conduct more in-depth research, from both ecological and socio-cultural points of view (Godbole et al., 2000). This chapter discusses studies undertaken in the Northwestern Ghats in support of this hypothesis. For countless generations, shifting agriculture has been practised in the northeastern states of India, as well as in the Eastern Ghats and Western Ghats regions. In all locations, these farming systems are responsible for production of staple foods, but differences in climate and rainfall, as well as other conditions, help to create a wide range of indigenous practices, all of which are nevertheless forms of shifting cultivation. In India, there has been a continuous effort at policy level, as part of the post-Independence ‘Green Revolution’ drive, to reduce these practices and, if possible, develop them into some form of sedentary cultivation. Another form of change has been the conversion of large tracts of shifting-agriculture land into agroforestry and tree-based cash crops such as rubber (Government of India, 2008). Through all this change, there has been hardly any attention given to either the role played by traditional swidden practices in the food security of indigenous communities, or their critical role in the rotation and maintenance of forests and enriching agrobiodiversity. Shifting cultivation in the Western Ghats

The Western Ghats of India form one of 34 global biodiversity hotspots. ‘Ghat’ is a local term for mountains and the Western Ghats are a mountain range that runs parallel to the entire west coast of peninsular India, barely 30km from the coast. The range spreads across six west-coast states. The northern part of the range covers large areas of the states of Maharashtra and Goa (Figure 33.1). The practice of shifting cultivation is common in areas adjacent to the western side of the Sahyadri ranges in Maharashtra.1 In the Ratnagiri and Sindhudurg districts of the Konkan (the western coastal area of Maharashtra), shifting cultivation is practised intensively in villages in the foothills of the Sahyadri ranges, providing the main source of subsistence (Figure 33.2). In the Konkan region, shifting cultivation is known as dongarsheti or nagalisheti. It is used mainly to cultivate types of millet, including finger millet (nachani), on higher slopes. The fallow cycle is six to seven years in most areas. The entire harvest from shifting cultivation is used for livelihood purposes and very little is marketed.There is generally a lesser market demand for local varieties, combined with a lack of proper communication facilities to access big markets. Communities that are dependent on these systems for their livelihood also rely on the forests and regenerating fallows for other needs such as firewood, small timber, wild vegetables, livestock grazing and collection of non-timber forest products (NTFPs) to supplement their income. Therefore it is extremely important for these communities to maintain and manage fallow areas when they are not under cultivation. As part of detailed research into shifting cultivation in the Northwestern Ghats in 2001 and 2002, studies focused on regeneration patterns of fallows of different ages.

Chapter 33. The missing link of forest regeneration  655

FIGURE 33.1 

India, showing the main shifting-cultivation regions

The aim was to determine the impact of regeneration, and the period between fallow and cultivation, on the region’s biodiversity. The important role of shifting agriculture in conserving agrobiodiversity and maintaining the viability of specific landraces has long been accepted, but it is still cursed for its role in tropical deforestation. Methods

Shifting agriculture was practised on a large scale in the Northwestern Ghats until the 1980s. It began to decrease with the advent of modernization; a large percentage of village people migrated to urban areas and charcoal making, using wood cut from forest trees, became a popular income earner. However, swiddening continues in remote villages along the westerly slopes of the Sahyadri range, in both Ratnagiri and Sindhudurg districts of Maharashtra. The study, conducted by the Applied Environmental Research Foundation (AERF), sought to understand both the level of agrobiodiversity in the area and the characteristics of local communities that

656  Godbole et al.

FIGURE 33.2 

Villages where biodiversity data were collected from forests

and fallows

depended on it for a secure livelihood. We also aimed to learn the role of shifting cultivation in maintaining forests and biodiversity. First, three villages were selected from each of the districts before both qualitative and quantitative data were collected and analysed. These villages had similar communities of Kunabi people practising dongarsheti.2 However, the type of forest was different. In Ratnagiri district, it was moist deciduous forest and in Sindhudurg, moist deciduous forest with an increasing percentage of semi-evergreen elements (Kulkarni, 1984) Data were collected in the six villages using well-known ethnobotanical methods, such as focus-group discussions and village resource mapping. The stories and knowledge imparted by the villagers were checked and rechecked over two years, during which the practice of shifting agriculture was observed. Such qualitative data were useful in understanding the swiddening system and the indigenous knowledge of communities engaged in similar forms of agriculture. Data were also collected to document dependence on swidden fallows for food and other natural resources at various stages. To understand the regeneration patterns within the fallows, data were collected on species (trees and shrubs) re-growing at various fallow stages, such as recently abandoned fallows, one-year-old fallow and two-year-old fallow. It was assumed that after two years, regenerating seedlings would survive. The list of species was prepared and compared with other longer, mature fallows and/or forests that had not been cut for more than 10 years. Data concerning regenerating tree and shrub species within the fallows were collected using quadrate sampling. As a comparative exercise to measure the capacity of shifting-agriculture fallows for regeneration, samples were

Chapter 33. The missing link of forest regeneration  657

also taken from mature fallows that were ready to be cut and from forests that had not been cut for more than 10 years. Vegetation studies of fallows and forests

Shifting cultivation has received a great deal of attention due to its observed or hypothesized role in deforestation and loss of biodiversity. In this context, we decided to study the regeneration pattern of shifting-cultivation fallows in the selected areas and to compile data showing the effect of shifting cultivation on biodiversity in general. For that purpose, shifting-cultivation fields from five of the six selected villages were studied carefully and periodically. The outcome was a preliminary checklist of plant species found in fallows at various stages of maturity. It was observed that secondary succession on abandoned farms (recent fallows) followed immediately after the rapid regeneration of species such as Holarrhena antydicenterica, Catunaregam spinosa and Bauhinia racemosa. This occurred within two years of a swidden being left fallow. In the first year, only grasses and some ferns grew in abundance. The composition of fallow vegetation indicated the biodiversity potential of a site, as well as throwing light on the regeneration capacity of the species found there. In a mature fallow that had not been opened for shifting cultivation in the study year because of unusually high rainfall, it was found that the number of species per square metre exceeded that found in the fallows of other villages that recorded normal rainfall. In this fallow, wakeri (Moullava spicata) was a component of early succession, whereas in other villages, kuda (Holarrhena antidysenterica) was a component of late succession. It was observed that the fallows maintained a high level of species diversity with an increasing number of tree and shrub species regenerating from a one-year-old fallow. TABLE 33.1 

Village

Phansavale Devle Kundi

Number of species recorded in fallows and forests

Number of species Freshly One-year- Two-yearMature cultivated field old fallow old fallow fallow Ratnagiri district 2 2 2

9 11 13

Forest

16 16 18

20 40 22

18 43 28

18 24 22

19 16 26

37 46 56

Sindhudurg district Shivapur Godvewadi Fukeri

1 2 3

12 19 12

658  Godbole et al.

Discussion

In the study area, shifting cultivation is practised away from the village, on higher slopes. The villages selected for the study had limited or no flat land for paddy cultivation and were therefore largely dependent on shifting agriculture for subsistence. The forestland available for dongarsheti is divided into eight to ten resource areas, each about six to ten hectares in size. Each Holarrhena antidysenterica (Roth) Wall. ex resource area is further divided A.DC. or allotted to families for Syn. of Holarrhena pubescens Wall. ex G. Don. shifting cultivation. Use of the [Apocynaceae] available area, fully or partially, is pre-determined, because A common forest-re-growth species appearing cultivation is a community in the fallows of the Northwestern Ghats within two years of cultivation ceasing activity and the swidden area has to be continuous. Indigenous knowledge developed over generations through experiment and experience helps the community to decide which varieties of millet or other supplementary crops to grow. The acquired knowledge also provides an overall expectation of yields, quality of soils and potential weeds. The resource areas of previous fallows are well known to elderly people in the community, and so, based on the plant diversity and dominant tree species in the fallow, they can make estimates of future yields. Trees such as nana (Lagerstroemia parviflora), mango (Mangifera indica) and asana (Bridelia retusa) are not fully cut when a fallow is slashed and burned; the stumps are kept intact.The stumps are used for growing vegetables such as Phaseaolus sp. (a legume) and other cucurbitaceous climbers. In the process. the trees receive nourishment and sprout a number of coppiced trunks in the next cycle. However, this system of maintaining particular tree species is not as elaborate as that of the Angami Nagas in Nagaland (Cairns et al., 2007). Fallows are named on the basis of dominant tree species, and this indicates the quality of the fallow and its developing secondary forest. Nanerai is a fallow full of Lagerstroemia parviflora, while an aamrai fallow has a lot of mango trees. Wakeri mal indicates the abundance of the thorny climber Moullava spicata, and these areas are considered unsuitable for swidden cultivation. The number of species recorded in the fallows and forests of Ratnagiri district was less than that in Sindhudurg district, mainly because of location. Sindhudurg

Chapter 33. The missing link of forest regeneration  659

is located in the south, where the Western Ghats have rich semi-evergreen to evergreen forests that are intact because of the area’s remoteness and low population. The number of rainy days increases from north to south in the Western Ghats, allowing the Sindhuburg area to support semi-evergreen to evergreen vegetation. However, the regeneration pattern in Moullava spicata (Dalzell) Nicolson shifting-agriculture fallows is [Leguminosae] similar in the two locations. Further enquiries and detailed Fallows are regarded as unsuitable for comparative studies are cultivation if this thorny climber is abundant in planned, with the promise of the vegetation concrete results. The number of species recorded in mature fallows was highest in the more remote villages. In other areas, where human intervention and pressures such as grazing had affected the vegetation, the number of species reaching maturity was fewer. Factors that significantly affected the vegetation-recovery trajectory in clearings formed by the abandonment of cultivation included disturbance of the existing seed bank, the presence of re-sprouting species and poor seed-dispersal rates from surrounding forests (Del Castillo and Rios, 2008). In general, the succession of pioneer vegetation occurred rapidly in the early stages of regeneration following abandonment of cultivation, and was followed by delayed recovery of woody biomass (Tokey and Ramakrishnan, 1983). Conclusion

The practice of shifting agriculture or dongarsheti in the Northwestern Ghats has dwindled very rapidly over the past decade due to a lack of manpower, changing land-use practices and the impact of globalization and markets. In order to encourage development, the cultivation of cash crops – mainly mangos and cashews – is being promoted on shifting-cultivation lands, with support from a state government subsidy scheme. The input requirements are very high in order to produce these crops from this land, such that local farmers are often unable to meet the costs. Such landuse conversions lead to a complete change in the characteristics of local forests and mature fallows, and leave a very limited possibility of recovering either the forest or the levels of biodiversity that were maintained over many generations by shiftingagriculture systems.

660  Godbole et al.

The preliminary study presented in this chapter clearly indicates the relationship between shifting agriculture and the potential of vegetation to regenerate. Such systems therefore support a diversity of tree and shrub species. It has also been observed that where shifting agriculture has completely stopped, and only periodical logging is practised, the number of species is very low. Such periodical logging promotes invasive species such as Eupatorium and Lantana, which then penetrate forests over time. We conclude, therefore, that shifting agriculture is extremely important for maintaining tree and shrub diversity. Swidden fallows provide forest products such as firewood, small timber, medicinal and edible plants. To the contrary, cash-crop plantations and degrading logging areas provide no such supplements, and these are important elements in the food security of local people. In the remote corners of the Northwestern Ghats, few communities and villages still continue the practice of shifting agriculture. There is a need to expand scientific enquiry to find more of the ‘missing links’, so that we can understand the relationships between shifting-agriculture systems, forest recovery and forest diversity. Acknowledgements

Our sincere thanks go to the International Development Research Centre (IDRC), Canada, for supporting this research for two years. We are also grateful to the Society for Research and Initiatives for Sustainable Technologies and Institutions (SRISTI), Ahmadabad, for its efforts in coordinating the administrative work between IDRC and the Applied Environmental Research Foundation (AERF). We also thank Professor P. S. Ramakrishnan of Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi, for his valuable guidance. We are deeply indebted to all the villagers in the study area for their invaluable input, without which the project could not have been possible, and we are also grateful to the State Forest Department of Maharashtra for its support. References Cairns, M. F., Keitzar, S. and Yaden, A. (2007) ‘Shifting forests in northeast India: Management of Alnus Nepalensis as an improved fallow in Nagaland’, in M. F. Cairns (ed.) Voices from the Forest: Integrating Indigenous Knowledge into Sustainable Upland Farming, Resources for the Future Press, Washington, DC, pp341–378 Del Castillo, R. F. and Rios, M. A. P. (2008) ‘Changes in seed rain during secondary succession in a tropical montane cloud forest region in Oaxaca, Mexico’, Journal of Tropical Ecology 24, pp433–444 Godbole, A., Jayant, S., Prabhu S. and Gokhale,Y. (2000) The Study of Shifting Cultivation Practices in Konkan Region (North Western Ghats) and their Role in Agrobiodiversity Conservation, research report, Applied Environmental Research Foundation, Pune, India Government of India (2008) Report of the Inter-Ministerial National Task Force on Rehabilitation of Shifting Cultivation Areas, Ministry of Environment and Forests, New Delhi Kulkarni B. G. (1984) Flora of Sindhudurg, Botanical Survey of India, Ministry of Environment and Forests, New Delhi Teegalapalli, K.,Veeraswami, G. G. and Samal, P. K. (2009) ‘Forest recovery following shifting cultivation: An overview of existing research’, Mongabay.com Open Access Journal, Tropical Conservation Science 2 (4), pp374–387

Chapter 33. The missing link of forest regeneration  661

Toky, O. P. and Ramakrishnan, P. S. (1983) ‘Secondary succession following slash and burn agriculture in north-eastern India: I. Biomass, litterfall and productivity’, Journal of Ecology 71, pp735–745 Wangpakapattanawong , P., Kavinchana, N., Vaidhayakarna, C., Schmidt-Vogt, D. and Elliott, S. (2010) ‘Fallow to forest: Applying indigenous and scientific knowledge of swidden cultivation to tropical forest restoration’, Forest Ecology and Management 260, pp1399–1406

Notes 1 The Western Ghats are called the Sahydri ranges in the local Marathi language of Maharashtra. 2 Kunabi is the name given to a caste of farming people in the Konkan area of Maharashtra state.

34 FALLOWS AND FOREST RESTORATION Kuswata Kartawinata and Rochadi Abdulhadi*

Introduction

Indonesia has large areas of land that have been left fallow for varying periods. This land is often considered to be degraded forest, as a result of deforestation. However, deforestation has taken place mainly in production and conversion forests (Sutter, 1989), and this has led to the formation of disturbed forests with differing degrees of degradation, and in some cases to completely degraded lands. Between 2003 and 2006, the rate of forest destruction in Indonesia was 761,197ha/year (Ministry of Forestry, 2010). At that time, the total area of deforested lands, including secondary forests, grasslands and fallows, would have been very large, because nearly 20 years earlier, in 1987, the total area of deforested land was about 33 million hectares, while logged-over forest covered 28.3 million hectares (Sutter, 1989). Almost half of the area deforested annually in tropical Asia is attributed to shifting cultivation (Lanly, 1982), and is frequently associated with logging and logging roads. By 1996, the total area of swidden agriculture in Indonesia was estimated to be 14 million hectares (Sunderlin and Resosudarmo, 1996). The association of logging and subsequent clearing was especially strong in Indonesia’s lowland dipterocarp forests, which are richer in commercially valuable species and hence more intensively logged than other tropical rainforests. Pressure on remaining forest resources was aggravated by a rapid increase in population. Shifting cultivation may be distinguished from ‘slash-and-burn’ systems that cover a large variety of land uses that rely on burning to clear forest for cultivation or other development (Lawrence et al., 1998). In rotational shifting cultivation, farmers return

* 

Dr Kuswata Kartawinata, Research Associate, Integrative Research Center, The Field Museum, Chicago, IL, USA, and Herbarium Bogoriense, Research Center for Biology, LIPI, Cibinong, Bogor, Indonesia; Dr Rochadi Abdulhadi, Research Professor, Herbarium Bogoriense, Research Center for Biology, LIPI, Cibinong, Bogor, Indonesia.

Chapter 34. Fallows and forest restoration  663

to their fallowed land after a certain period to clear it again and cultivate crops, while in some other slash-and-burn systems, they may never return to the same plot after the soil is exhausted. Thus, there are sites that have been developed into fallows that remain abandoned, and which are allowed to undergo natural vegetation succession in the process of reverting to forests similar to those that originally covered the land. The latter types are fallows that can be targeted for intervention, enrichment and enhancement through ecosystem restoration, but with some modifications to deflect their development according to different objectives. Improvement of fallows and other secondry forests in terms of farming have been thoroughly discussed by de Jong et al. (2001). In this chapter we are concerned with forest restoration. The rehabilitation of deforested lands, including the improvement of fallows, is a matter of economic and social importance (Lovejoy, 1985). It not only provides useful productive land, but also serves to reduce pressures on remaining primary tropical forests. Although various countries have attempted to rehabilitate and restore their deforested lands, the current rate of deforestation still outpaces that of rehabilitation and restoration. Ecosystem restoration through natural succession

Ecosystem restoration may be defined as repairing, or returning to some former state of structure and function, an ecosystem that has been damaged by disturbance or environmental change (Jordan et al., 1987; Sauer, 1998; Suding, 2011), while restoration ecology is ‘the scientific study of repairing and managing disturbed ecosystems through human intervention’ (Suding, 2011). The principles of restoration ecology are currently being employed in many parts of the world to rehabilitate and improve degraded ecosystems. Suding (2011) points out that in Indonesia, the increasing trend for implementing ecosystem restoration is seen in the number of applications for forest restoration licences, which these days equal those for logging concessions. She further indicates that in the United States, the Department of Agriculture has confirmed ‘complete commitment to restoration’; in Australia, the restoration of fragmented landscapes and aquatic systems is included in the country’s biodiversity conservation strategy; while the United Nations Environment Programme (UNEP) considers ecosystem restoration as one of most profitable investments for economic growth and poverty alleviation. In terms of application, ecosystem restoration may be (1) passive restoration, which means removing or reducing the adverse or degrading disturbance and using natural regenerative process without additional remedial action; or (2) active restoration, in which human intervention is encouraged to assist in reassembling a damaged ecosystem (Suding, 2011). Restoration implies an incremental and developmental process, proceeding in phases and representing the levels of complexity in the disturbances to the original ecosystem. It is most important to note that a restoration project should be both community- and science-based (Sauer, 1998). Ecosystem restoration requires active management, in order to arrive at an end point or goal at which the past

664  Kartawinata and Abdulhadi

environmental conditions on which indigenous plants and animals depend have been re-established. We may not be able to fully recreate past environmental conditions; to ‘recover the unrecoverable’ (Sauer, 1998). However, we should at least be dealing with basic ecosystem features, keystone and conservative species and communities (Sauer, 1998). Therefore, in setting up the goals, consideration should be given to critical natural processes – within historic ranges of variability – that are probably necessary for ecosystem function, integrity, resiliency and stability (Sauer, 1998; Suding, 2011). It may be impossible to restore an indigenous forest to its former condition, and the degree of recovery will be dependent on the extent of damage and time since disturbance, but we can hope to sustain enough of its patterns and components to support much of the biotic richness that still persists. In view of rapid shifts taking place in the composition and function of many ecosystems because of climate, land use and biodiversity changes, setting up a goal of returning to past conditions may not be an easy undertaking. Restoration goals, therefore, should be broader, so as to include ‘ecosystem services and ecological resilience to future changes’ (Suding, 2011). Ecosystem services refers to benefits such as increasing biodiversity, increasing the provision of food, timber and non-timber forest products, improving the availability of water, raising carbon sequestration, intensifying restraints on climate change, strengthening nutrient cycling, expanding cultural values and fostering recreational values (Rey Benayas et al., 2009, Birch et al., 2010; Suding, 2011). Ecosystem resilience refers to the capacity of a system to absorb disturbances and reorganize while still retaining its functions, structure and feedback (Suding, 2011). Large-scale restoration of tropical forest has been recognized as one of the possible alternatives for mitigating climate change and conserving biodiversity (Kettle et al., 2010, 2011). By selecting appropriate fast-growing but long-lived species, restoration helps to enhance carbon stocks in a manner recognized by the Reduced Emissions from Deforestation and Degradation (REDD) programme. The following species, for example, are fast-growing secondary-forest species with low specific gravity that live for as long as 30 years or more, and are therefore good for restoration with REDD perspectives: Cratoxylum arborescens, Duabanga moluccana, Eucalyptus deglupta, Macaranga gigantea and Octomeles sumatrana (Kartawinata, 1994). Many primary forest species, including dipterocarps, are also fast growing and have low specific gravity. Many of them are listed by Oey (1990). In a paper written in 1998, Lamb recommended the application of restoration ecology in the establishment of forest plantations of mixed native and exotic species, thus leading to the formation of plantation forests with high biodiversity. In later writing, he referred to ecosystem rehabilitation and restoration in a much more comprehensive way, covering cases from the entire Asia and Pacific regions (Lamb, 2011). Lovejoy (1985) formulated general guidelines for the rehabilitation of degraded tropical forest lands covering barren lands, grasslands, low secondary forests and degraded logged forest, and these guidelines can be adapted to restoration.The National Working Group on Landscape Restoration in Indonesia (2009) developed guidelines for forest landscape restoration

Chapter 34. Fallows and forest restoration  665

in Indonesia, and Elliott et al. (2006) developed the principles of forest restoration in Thailand. Fallows, if left undisturbed, will slowly revert through natural vegetation succession to forests similar to those that originally covered the same land. Thus, nature can recuperate if there is no indiscriminate human disturbance. However, the rate at which natural succession leads to forests similar to the original ones (climax forests) depends on climate, habitat type, soil conditions, frequency of burning before cultivation and the presence of propagules in areas surrounding the fallows. In general, natural recovery takes a long time. In Kalimantan, for instance, an abandoned pepper garden surrounded by a primary dipterocarp forest took 30 years or more for soil organic matter to return to pre-disturbance levels, and about 30 to 60 years before sizeable economically useful native trees appeared (Riswan, 1982; Riswan and Kartawinata, 1988). The secondary forest that developed on the old pepper garden was in no way similar in species composition to the original and neighbouring forests, 35 years after its abandonment. It was dominated by fast-growing secondary-forest species not present in the original forest. It showed a relatively high species diversity (121 tree species of >10cm diameter at breast height in a 0.8ha plot with density of 578 trees/ ha). Although 70% of the trees were primary-forest species, the biggest of them, the emergents and the most common species were secondary-forest species, particularly Macaranga spp. Only one species of Dipterocarpaceae was recorded, although the plot was surrounded by primary dipterocarp forest. By using a floristic similarity index, stem biomass and girth measurement, it was estimated that it would take 150 to 500 years for this patch of forest to develop a similarity to the primary forest. Riswan et al. (1985) used data from primary, secondary, and experimentally cleared forest sites to estimate the minimum time required for various phases involved in the re-establishment of tropical rainforest after disturbance. A model they developed predicted a minimum period of 60 to 70 years for the stabilization of secondary species numbers, and their replacement by primary species in 150 years, at which point gap formation was initiated. After about 220 to 250 years, the biomass stabilized, while individual trees existed for more than 500 years. Similar estimates have emerged from studies of successional sequences of subtropical rainforest after clearing and burning for pasture in southern Queensland, Australia (Abdulhadi, 1992) and on Barro Colorado Island, Panama (Knight, 1975). Severe and extensive destruction of forest followed by repeated burning leads in a very short time to the formation of Imperata grasslands, which take a very long time to return to forests, if they ever return at all.This is due to either the absence of seeds, or the great distance to seed sources, and also to repeated burning, which destroys seed banks as well as stimulating the growth of the grass (Abdulhadi, 1990). The key strategy for tropical forest restoration is the use of natural processes and natural subsidies as far as possible (Lugo, 1988). In this case, forest restoration and rehabilitation requires the management of succession, where the direction and speed of change involve all components of ecosystems, including vegetation, soils, animals and microbes. A method of reforestation that exploits the natural processes of

666  Kartawinata and Abdulhadi

vegetation recovery, known as assisted (or accelerated) natural regeneration (ANR), has been developed and applied in the Philippines, and is a potentially rapid, efficient and cost-effective means of reforesting critical watersheds (Dalmacio, 1987). ANR has been described as ‘any reforestation method that relies on natural regeneration and has weed-suppression activities’ (Drilling, 1989). The application of this method has recently been explored in Indonesia, with some modifications. In the Philippines, it has reportedly resulted in good regeneration of secondary forest (Dalmacio, 1987), and with some adjustments it can definitely be applied in forest restoration. Through ecosystem restoration, we can attempt to convert fallows to more productive lands. In this regard, natural successional processes can be manipulated so that the end result of successional change has higher economic value and contains higher biodiversity (Figure 34.1). However, the end product of successional change is uncertain in terms of species composition, so there is need for flexibility in fixing the goal of a rehabilitation project. The goal should be sustainable forest productivity, with species composition a secondary consideration (Lugo, 1988). If the aim is to obtain usable forest products, this will require one group of species, but if the purpose is to achieve species diversity instead of certain forest products, then a different group of species is involved whose value to society can be sustainably enhanced through human intervention. Basic requirements for successful restoration of forest are the conservation and restoration of soil organic matter and soil fertility, an adequate supply of genetic materials and favourable substrates. In improving fallows to restore them to forests, Lugo (1988) suggested that a flexible approach should be maintained. As well, the strategy should involve alertness to environmental conditions, avoidance of being too specific about ultimate goals, manipulation of existing vegetation before attempting substitution, restoration of the tree cover as rapidly as possible, development of species mixtures based on their ‘ecological’ combining ability and creation of ‘nuclei of biotic activity’ from which habitat rehabilitation will occur under the influence of biotic agents. Species for forest restoration and fallow improvement

The restoration of native plants in disturbed forest ecosystems requires very good knowledge and creativity. In the past, when disturbances were relatively limited to those of the human kind, inflicted by traditional shifting cultivators, and damage resulting from natural phenomena, plant communities were able to recover on their own (Mackie et al., 1987; Kartawinata et al., 1989, 1992; Riswan and Abdulhadi, 1992).We need to assist the reproduction and growth of plants in those communities that need to be restored. Protected forests, production forests and other nature reserves may ultimately become important sources of seeds and other propagules that can potentially be introduced into successional communities. Germplasm and seed banks are an important component.

Chapter 34. Fallows and forest restoration  667

FIGURE 34.1 

Natural succession after clear-cutting and selective logging of tropical forests (solid lines) and possible interventions (broken lines) for forest restoration and other developments Note:  ANR=accelerated natural regeneration; C=conversion; E=enrichment planting; E&S=enrichment planting with, and selection of, fast-growing commercial species; RF=recurrent fire.

Source:  Kartawinata (2005, revised)

In carrying out a forest restoration project, sources of seeds and propagules ideally should be as close as possible to the communities to be restored. To create a reference site from which to obtain good and ecologically reliable planting materials, and from which to learn the correct species to select, a permanent plot should be established within a nearby primary forest and its structure, species composition, regeneration

668  Kartawinata and Abdulhadi

and habitat conditions studied. Species selection for planting will depend on the successional stage of the fallows to be restored or improved. This approach was used in the restoration of a secondary forest developing from an abandoned oil-palm plantation in the Leuser National Park in North Sumatra, Indonesia (Tim UNESCO, 2008). If such forests are not available nearby, similar forests can be sought some distance away, but only with similar environmental conditions. If this is not possible, then references should be sought to past studies in the area. Forests in Indonesia often have the intermittent habit of mast fruiting and producing high numbers of recalcitrant seeds that are not suitable for long storage in seed banks (Kettle et al., 2010, 2011). During the mast-fruiting period, seeds germinate in large quantities, forming carpets on the forest floor.The majority of the seedlings die and only a small percentage of them develop to maturity and become fully grown trees.This large number of seedlings could become a natural nursery and the seedlings, before they perish, could be exploited as a source of planting materials for forest-restoration projects.To accommodate wildlings for acclimatization, for seed germination and for seedling establishment, a good nursery is required for any forestrestoration or fallow-improvement project. Good information on forest species can be obtained from the Flora Malesiana, on such subjects as Dipterocarpaceae, by Ashton (1982); checklists of trees for Sumatra (Sidiyasa et al., 1986); Kalimantan (Sidiyasa et al., 1990); Sulawesi (Sidiyasa et al., 1989); Papua (Sidiyasa et al., 1997); trees of East Kalimantan (Keβler and Sidiyasa, 1999); and secondary forest trees of Kalimantan (Keβler et al., 2000). Lists of tree species in forestry regions throughout Indonesia, such as those for Bulungan and Berau region (Prawira, 1974), and North Sumatra (Prawira and Tantra, 1973), published by the Forest Research Institute (now Agency for Forestry Research and Development), are very useful and helpful as guides for selecting tree species typical of various restoration areas. Restoration to climax forest

The objective is to rejuvenate fallows into forests similar to the original climax forests, with high species diversity. Passive restoration may be allowed to follow its course, but as indicated above, it takes a very long time (Riswan, 1982; Riswan et al., 1985; Riswan and Kartawinata, 1988), and to enhance the process, active restoration should be undertaken. Any primary-forest species can be used for active restoration, but it is better to use fast-growing tree species that occur in primary forests, both secondaryand primary-forest species. There are a number of tree species that produce litter containing higher amounts of important nutrients, such as nitrogen, phosphorus and potassium, than other species (Riswan, 1982). In addition to legumes, such species as Artocarpus

elasticus, A. integer, Anthocephalus chinensis, Urophyllum polyneurum, Macaranga gigantea and M. winkleri are good sources of nitrogen because their leaves have high nitrogen content. High levels of phosphorus can be found in the leaves

Chapter 34. Fallows and forest restoration  669

of Artocarpus integer, Anthocephalus chinensis, Cananga odorata, Lindera lucida, Nephelium lappaceum, Pithecellobium microcarpum and Symplocos fasciculata, while potassium is stored in the leaves of Artocarpus elasticus, A. integer, Bridelia

glauca, Eusideroxylon zwageri, Lindera lucida, Nauclea orientalis, Payena lucida and Saurauia subcordata. High amounts of calcium have been recorded in Artocarpus elasticus, Bridelia glauca, Cananga odorata, Cratoxylum sumatranum, Duabanga moluccana and Symplocos fasciculata, while magnesium is high in Cananga odorata, Macaranga gigantea, M. winkleri, Saurauia subcordata and Symplocos fasciculata.

The dominant trees in lowland dipterocarp forests in East Kalimantan generally have high nutrient contents (Riswan, 1982): Shorea parvifolia and other dipterocarp species for P; Eusideroxylon zwageri for K; a legume species such as Intsia palembanica for N; and Mallotus muticus and other fast-growing species for Ca, Na and Mg. These species may also be used in agroforestry as sources of fertilizer to complement the planting of commercially desired non-timber species, such as fruit trees, food plants, spice species and medicinal plants. Various methods of enrichment planting for reforestation are available, including assisted (or accelerated) natural regeneration (ANR), mentioned earlier (Kartawinata, 1994). Application of ANR in Indonesia is expected to have many benefits. In addition to ANR, several community-reforestation alternatives are available. Fallow improvement

Fallows can be restored to climax forest in the same way as described above, using the same species, especially those with high contents of leaf nutrients. But here we emphasize the improvement of fallows by promoting the dominance of different non-timber forest species with economic and commercial value, as end products.The selection of species depends on the goals and direction of the improvement. There are various methods of fallow enrichment, including those used for rehabilitation of degraded lands (Kartawinata, 1994), such as community-regulated enrichment fallows. This procedure is designed to shorten the fallow period by encouraging shifting cultivators to plant trees and cover crops before abandoning a site, so as to reduce the pressure on the production forest. The shifting cultivators are paid to plant tree seedlings and cover crops.They also receive a second remuneration, depending on plant survival, when they are ready to move. A community nursery is used for growing the tree seedlings and cover crops, which are selected by the community. This method was recommended for use in Indonesia as early as 1928 (Rhijn, 1928). It should be emphasized that a strategy of rehabilitation that includes improvement of fallows needs to pay particular attention to tackling problems as part of a package of rural development and improvement of the productivity of common property resources, while ensuring access for the lower sections of society, whose dependence on common property resources is extremely high (Kartawinata, 1994).

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The following is a brief account of currently harvested and potential products from non-timber forest species that can be used in restoration programmes. They can also be developed into crop plants, to be used for improving the productivity of fallows (Kartawinata, 1990). Further references on these species include Heyne (1950, 1987), Burkill (1966), Mueller-Dombois et al. (1983), and a series of Prosea publications (e.g. Lemmens and Wulijarni-Sutjipto, 1992;Verheij and Coronel,1992; Soerianegara and Lemmens, 1994). Fruit trees

Native Southeast Asian fruit species are primarily forest species, including Baccaurea spp., Durio spp., Mangifera spp., Lansium spp., and Nephelium spp. (Kostermans, 1958; Kostermans and Bompard, 1993; Loh, 1975; Meijer, 1969; Soegeng-Reksodihardjo, 1962;Valmayor and Espino, 1975; Whitmore, 1975). The genus Durio has 27 species that grow in forests, particularly in the forests of Borneo, and nine of them bear edible fruit (D. dulcis, D. grandiflorus, D. graveolens, D. kutejensis, D. lanceolatus, D. lowianus, D. oxleyanus, D. testudinarium and D. zibethinus). Only one of them (D. zibethinus) has been widely cultivated in Southeast Asia, and one (D. kutejensis) is under semi-cultivation in Borneo, particularly in East Kalimantan. Other species that commonly occur in Southeast Asian forests, and are used as sources of food, include Alocasia, Amorphophallus, Antidesma, Arenga, Canarium,

Castanopsis, Colocasia, Cubilia, Cyrtosperma, Dioscorea, Flacourtia, Gnetum, Licuala, Musa, Pithecellobium, Stelechocarpus, Sterculia, Symplocos and Vaccinium (De Guzman, 1975; Sastrapradja and Kartawinata, 1975; Sastrapradja, 1977). Many species that have not only been used traditionally, but also for commercial purposes are described by Burkill (1966) and Heyne (1950, 1987). These, too, grow mainly in forests. Chemical products

A variety of chemical compounds may be extracted from forest plants. Therefore, forests have the potential to be a major source of raw materials for future biochemical and pharmacological technologies, and several chemical products from plants are presently known to have commercial importance (Lowry, 1971, 1973; MuellerDombois et al., 1983; Whitmore, 1971). Many compounds that are used, or have potential uses, as insecticides, colouring media, essential oils, drugs, medicines and other purposes are produced by tropical forest plants. Rotenoids (a source of insecticides) are produced by Derris, Milletia, Tephrosia and other leguminous species; reserpine by Rauvolfia; diosgenin (a plant steroid used in anti-fertility pills) by Dioscorea; and diterpene alcohol (used as a substitute for ambergris by the perfume industry) by Dacrydium (Lowry, 1971, 1973). It is known that edible protein can be extracted from leaves; lignin is used in the manufacture of plastics, ion-exchange resins, soil stabilizers, rubber reinforcers, fertilizers, vanillin, tanning agents, stabilizers for asphalt

Chapter 34. Fallows and forest restoration  671

emulsions, dispersants for oil-well drilling and for ceramics processing; and cellulose can be used for rayon and plastics and as a raw material for hydrolysis to sugar (Bray and Gorham, 1964; Whitmore, 1975). Tannin and dye are also produced by many forest plants, such as Albizia spp., Adenanthera microsperma, Aporusa frutescens, Artocarpus heterophyllus, Baccaurea spp., Castanopsis spp., Casuarina equisetifolia., Daemonorops spp., Eugenia spp., Garcinia spp., Peltophorum spp., Pithecellobium spp., Pterospermum spp., Terminalia catappa and Uncaria spp.(Burkill, 1966; Heyne, 1950, 1987; Sastrapradja et al., 1989). Essential oils

These are produced by rainforest species such as Aquilaria spp., Cananga odorata, Cinnamomum spp., Dryobalanops aromatica, Eucalyptus spp., Ganua motleyana, Gaultheria spp., Illicium spp, Litsea spp., Melaleuca leucadendra, Michelia champaca, Payena spp., Pogostemon spp., and Sideroxylon glabrescens (Lowry, 1977; Sastrapradja, 1977). The essential oils from Cinnamomum porrectum and Litsea odorifera are comparable to those from Brazil and may be considered as an alternate source (Lowry, 1977). The wood extracts from Rutaceae, Eoudia ridleyi, E. latifolia and Melicope suberosa contain essential oils showing anti-bacterial qualities against gram-positive bacteria (Bacillus subtilis and Staphylococcus aureus) (Ali and Zakaria, 1989), while goniothalamin obtained from Goniothalamus andersonii has an effect on the central nervous system of mice and anti-microbial qualities against certain bacteria (Jewers et al., 1972). A richness of information on various aspects of medicinal plants used in traditional medicine in Malaysia is contained in Soepadmo et al. (1989). Fatty oils

Of about 163 species of Shorea (Dipterocarpaceae) occurring in the biogeographical region of Malesia (Brunei, Indonesia, Malaysia, Papua New Guinea, the Philippines, Singapore and Timor Leste) (Ashton, 1982), 17 species are known to produce nuts containing oil, known commercially as illipe or tengkawang nuts (Anderson, 1975). The oil is used as an alternative to cocoa-butter in the confectionery, cosmetics and soap industries and is also used to a small extent for medicinal purposes. Large quantities of nuts are exported from Borneo and Sumatra, but as yet they remain a jungle crop and to date there is no record of tengkawang plantation. The primary species include: Shorea macrophylla, S. beccariana, S. amplexicaulis, S. pinanga,

S. splendida, S. stenoptera, S. macrantha, S. palembanica, S. mecistopteryx, S. fallax and S. seminis. The secondary species are S. almon ssp parvistipulata, S. hemsleyana, S. pilosa and S. smithiana. Other species include S. atrinervosa and S. ferruginea.

Other forest-tree species producing fatty oils include those of the following families: Arecaceae (e.g. Areca catechu); Mysristicaceae (Horsfieldia spp., Myristica spp., Knema glauca); Lauraceae (Cinnamomum zeylanicum, Litsea sebifera); Rosaceae

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(Parinari glaberima); Burseraceae spp., Santiria (Canarium tomentosa); and Sapotaceae (Ganua motleyana, Madhuca spp., Palaquium spp.).

Alstonia scholaris (L.) R. Br. [Apocynaceae]

Many other non-timber products are produced by forest species, such as camphor (from Cinnamomum camphora and Dryobalanops aromatica); balsams (from Sindora spp., Canarium oleosum and Dipterocarpus spp.); resins (from Agathis spp.,

Pinus merkusii, Euodia latifolia, Canarium spp. and Vatica spp.); A fast-growing medicinal tree species scented resins (Altingia excelsa, Styrax spp.); gum (from Anisoptera marginata, Dryobalanops aromatica, Hopea mangarawan, Shorea spp., Albizia spp., Parkia speciosa and Spondias dulcis); rubber (from Willughbeia spp., Alstonia spp. and Dyera spp.); guttah-percha (from Payena spp., Ganua motleyana, Palaquium spp.); and waxy substances (from Musa zebrina, Paratrocarpus triandra, Artocarpus kemando, Ficus spp. and Balanocarpus elongata). Rattan and bamboo

Other important non-timber forest products are rattans and bamboos. Dransfield (1979) recorded 600 species of rattans in Southeast Asia, mostly of the genera Daemonorops and Calamus. Rattans are used for a variety of purposes, and the ‘cabbage’, or foliage, of most rattans is edible (e.g. Daemonorops melanochytes and D. halleriana). Indonesia and Malaysia dominate the world rattan trade by producing 94% of the world’s raw rattan (Dransfield, 1979). In addition to rattans, other species of palms have a variety of economic values, such as Arenga pinnata, Eugeissona utilis and Metroxylon sagu as sources of carbohydrate, Caryota no for its edible ‘cabbage’, and Pigaffetta filaris, Pinanga spp., Areca spp., Nenga spp., Iguanura spp., Licuala spp., Rhophalobastre, Maxburretia and Liberbaileya as ornamental plants. About 1200 to 1500 species of bamboo have been recorded in the world, and of these, 154 species occur in Indonesia (Widjaja et al., 2004). Bamboos are mainly used as building materials, but are also used for furniture, musical instruments, handicrafts, basketry and paper (e.g. Dendrocalamus strictus and Bambusa arundinacea), and bamboo shoots of many species (e.g. Gigantochloa atter, Dendrocalamus asper, Dinochloa scandens and Bambusa vulgaris) are edible (Sastrapradja et al., 1977).

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The need to learn more

Our knowledge of native plants is currently full of gaps. Few native species are used in forest rehabilitation and restoration. In Indonesia, for instance, the Ministry of Forestry lists no more than 50 native species, many of which are fast-growing species. The most widely used species in rehabilitation of degraded lands and establishment of timber estates are Paraserianthes falcataria, Acacia mangium, Eucalyptus urophylla and Pinus merkusii. We need further efforts to select native species for these purposes. Although guidelines and methods for the use of native species are available and have been applied in Southeast Asia with some successes and failures, further research in this direction is needed. Research on native species should also cover the rate of CO2 absorption, growth rate, specific gravity and carbon stock, so these species can be used for REDD (Reducing Emissions from Deforestation and Forest Degradation) projects. Another area in need of restoration and rehabilitation research is the utilization of pioneer and secondary-forest species of economic value. Many species such as Cratoxylum arborescens, Duabanga moluccana, Macaranga spp., Trema orientalis, Peronema canescens, Pometia pinnata and Cananga odorata grow in early to old successional communities. Cratoxylum has good-quality wood and is used by indigenous people in Kalimantan for roof shingles, and no doubt it could be used for other purposes. Duabanga moluccana produces potentially exportable timber. At Mount Tambora in Sumbawa it is a dominant species in natural forest and has been exploited commercially. All species of Macaranga have lightweight wood, and one species has a specific gravity close to that of balsa wood (Kartawinata, 1979). Peronema canescens is classified as a fancy wood. It has earned high export prices and is now one of the preferred species planted in industrial timber estates in Indonesia. Cananga odorata not only has good-quality wood, but also produces oil for commercial use in perfume industries. Pometia pinnata is a complex species that has been commercially exploited for its timber. There are nine subspecies and varieties growing in different habitats (Jacobs, 1962). Certain varieties growing in Papua produce delicious fruit that is sold Parkia speciosa Hassk. [Leguminosae] in local markets and has the potential for commercial development. These are The fruit of this tree species has just a few examples. No doubt there are medicinal value and is eaten as a many more economically useful species vegetable growing in secondary forests.

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Further research on assisted (or accelerated) natural regeneration (ANR) is needed, particularly concerning (1) identification of multipurpose tree species, (2) documentation of secondary succession, (3) design of suitable agroforestry systems, (4) species and provenance selection trials, (5) changes in soil fertility, (6) enrichment planting, and (7) firebreaks and community fire regulations. Information such as that contained in the Biological Flora of the British Islands is very valuable for the purposes of forest restoration, fallow improvement and rehabilitation of degraded lands, but unfortunately only few such information bases are available in Indonesia. A survey of published papers on all aspects of natural regeneration and succession should be conducted (Kartawinata, 1994). Such papers are numerous and carry a large amount of information that needs to be extracted and synthesized into a body of data constituting a basis for forest restoration, fallow improvement and rehabilitation of degraded land. Such data should list the location of studies and the species described. Importantly, for each species, there should be records of (1) uses, (2) habitat conditions, including precipitation (rainfall and fog drips), soils (physical and chemical properties), topography and altitudes, (3) status in the community (pioneer, later invader and so on), (4) vertical and horizontal position in the community, (5) tolerance to extreme habitat conditions (drought, permanent or periodic inundation, frost, strong and low light intensity), (6) tree architecture, (7) growth characteristics, (8) phenology (including deciduousness), (9) seed dispersal mechanism, (10) sprouting ability, (11) geographical distribution, and (12) specific and ecotypic variations. These details could be complemented with information from herbarium collections and preferably from further field studies. In essence, the purpose would be to collect ecological information (autecology) for each species. The following aspects of research are regarded as important to support forest restoration and fallow improvement projects (Kartawinata, 2005): • • •

Studies of secondary forest, which is expanding very rapidly, yet remains poorly investigated. Attention should be given to research on all aspects of ethnobotany in various vegetation types. Long-term synecological studies of pattern and process in permanent plots in different forest types. This would be aimed at studying (1) growth rate, covering periodic measurement of the girth of all mapped trees, seedling recruitment and mortality in representative samples, and continuous phenological recording of all numbered individuals; (2) dynamics in relation to canopy structure in both primary and secondary forest plots; (3) distribution of canopy gaps in space and time; (4) understory composition and canopy species regeneration; (5) understory dynamics, as affected by canopy structure; (6) the relationship between gap sizes and gap-phase succession; (7) seed dormancy, germination and seedling competition in gap succession; and (8) investigation of diaspores: do they arrive after the formation of a gap, or are they already present, and released from dormancy?

Chapter 34. Fallows and forest restoration  675

•

The ecology of succession: (1) investigating changes in floristic composition, structure and habitat conditions, through time; (2) discovering whether secondary-forest pioneer species colonize from seeds dormant in the soil or from seeds invading the clearing after its creation; (3) studying the ecology of good-quality and fast-growing secondary species that have economic potential for practical application and CO2 absorption. • Research on applying the principles of succession to provide bases for better implementation of restoration and rehabilitation of deforested and degraded lands, which in Indonesia cover millions of hectares. The approach outlined in Figure 34.1 may be followed in the implementation of such projects, involving the use of economically valuable fast-growing seral species (those that are bound to be replaced), promotion of agroforestry approaches and participation of local communities. • Autecological studies, including phenology, reproductive ecology, fruiting biology, seed ecology, seedling ecology, ecophysiology and ecology of exotic invaders into tropical forests. • Integrated studies of plant taxonomy, ecology, ethnobotany, phytochemistry and pharmacognosy, which I call ‘ecotaxopharmacognosy’ (Kartawinata, 2010). This has been applied successfully in various vegetation types, using permanent sample plots of vegetation, including fallows This approach provides the following advantages (Soejarto, 2000): (1) data on plant species diversity; (2) vegetation structure and habitats; (3) data on taxonomic identity, genetic variability, ecology and ethnobotany of each species; (4) data on the chemical diversity needed for biological screening; (5) data on the percentage of species containing active chemical compounds within a unit area; (6) extrapolation of data can provide estimates of the medicinal value of plants in a vegetation plot; (7) all trees within the plots are numbered to facilitate recollection of a large numbers of important active species for further phytochemical analysis, and (8) this approach is like ‘fishing with a net rather than with a fishing rod’. Closing remarks

The extremely rapid rate of tropical forest destruction has left a vast area of forest, including fallows, with various degrees of degradation. The consequence is biodiversity loss. Only some of this degraded forest is able to recover without intervention. Restoration, rehabilitation and improvement of forests are becoming important activities, to restore biological diversity, ecological function and ecological services; to diversify the products coming from these degraded lands and increase their productivity; and to provide socio-economic benefits to both governments and rural communities. The use of native species is best in restoration, rehabilitation and improvement, as it enhances species diversity. While there is sufficient knowledge and experience to form a basis for trial action programmes, further research is required, in particular

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concerning the ecology of fast-growing species of both primary- and secondaryforest communities that are important for restoration, and the use of economically valuable species for domestication and improvement of degraded forests. A large number of species yielding useful non-timber forest products are currently exploited, or have potential commercial value. These could be domesticated and developed into crop plants and used in fallow improvement and rehabilitation of degraded lands and forest restoration. With the very rapid rate of primary-forest destruction, there is a danger that many of these plants will become extinct before they can be domesticated and utilized for various purposes. Efforts should be made to conserve many of them for immediate and future uses. Ex situ conservation of these species, in particular the endemic, threatened and rare species, may be achieved through their use in improving fallows, restoring forests and rehabilitating degraded forest lands. If, at the same time, we selected and used appropriate fast-growing but long-lived species, we would be helping to enhance carbon stocks, as envisaged by the REDD programme. In projects seeking to restore forests, improve fallows or rehabilitate degraded forest lands, community participation should always be emphasized. This community participation is expected to increase through the development of community forests, partnerships in forest management, capacity building and the exploitation of non-timber forest products. The sustainability of fallows and other secondary forests will depend a great deal on how local governments manage forests and allocate them for other purposes. Forest restoration, fallow improvement, rehabilitation of degraded forest lands and protecting forests may be considered part of the customary practices of indigenous forest-dwelling people. Forest areas known as tana’ ulen in East Kalimantan (Iwan and Limberg, 2009), or repong damar (resin-producing gardens in Lampung) (Tim, 1999), are more likely to be managed and protected for their production of non-timber forest products. The government has legally recognized repong damar as ‘areas with special purposes’. The rehabilitation of degraded lands and the facilitation of natural regeneration by empowering local communities to protect them from further disturbance may be a more feasible, less expensive option for solving the problem of Indonesia’s vast expanse of degraded forest. Partnering local communities and empowering them to protect and manage these forests is essential for success, and there is increasing evidence that local communities and governments are capable of working together towards such rehabilitation (Poffenberger and MacGean, 1994). References Abdulhadi, R. (1990) ‘Effects of heating and shading on seed bank germination’, Ekologi Indonesia 1, pp57–62 Abdulhadi, R. (1992) ‘Floristic changes in a subtropical rain forest succession’, Reinwardtia 11 (1), pp13–22 Ali, R. M. and Zakaria, M. (1989) ‘Anti-bacterial activity of extracts from Melicope and Euodia species’, in E. Soepadmo, S. H. Goh, W. H. Wong, L. B. Din and C. H. Chuah (eds) Malaysian Traditional Medicine, Institute of Advanced Studies, University of Malaya and Malaysian Institute of Chemistry, Kuala Lumpur

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Anderson, J. A. R. (1975) ‘Illipe nuts (Shorea spp.) as potential agricultural crops’ , in J. T. Williams, C. H. Lamoureux and N. W. Soetjipto (eds) South East Asian Plant Genetic Resources, International Board of Plant Genetic Resources, Regional Centre for Tropical Biology of the Southeast Asian Ministers of Education Organization, Badan Penelitian dan Pengembangan Pertanian (Agency for Agricultural Research and Development) and Lembaga Biologi Nasional (National Biological Institute, Indonesian Institute of Sciences), Bogor, Indonesia Ashton, P. S. (1982) ‘Dipterocarpaceae’, Flora Malesiana, series I, vol 9, part 2, pp237–552 Birch, C., Newton, A. C., Alvarez-Aquino, C., Cantarello, E. and Echeveria, C. (2010) ‘Cost effectiveness of dry land forest restoration evaluated by spatial analysis of ecosystem services’, Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences USA 107, pp21925–21930 Bray, J. R. and Gorham, E. (1964) ‘Litter production in forests of the world’, Advances in Ecological Research 2, pp101–157 Burkill, I. H. (1966) Dictionary of Economic Products of the Malay Peninsula, 2nd edition, Ministry of Agriculture and Cooperatives, Kuala Lumpur Dalmacio, M. V. (1987) Assisted Natural Regeneration: A Strategy for Cheap, Fast, and Effective Regeneration of Denuded Forest Lands, Regional Office, Department of Environment and Natural Resources, Tacloban City, Philippines De Guzman, E. D. (1975) ‘Conservation of vanishing timber species in the Philippines’, in J. T. Williams, C. H. Lamoureux and N.W. Soetjipto (eds) South East Asian Plant Genetic Resources, International Board of Plant Genetic Resources, Regional Centre for Tropical Biology of the Southeast Asian Ministers of Education Organization, Badan Penelitian dan Pengembangan Pertanian (Agency for Agricultural Research and Development) and Lembaga Biologi Nasional (National Biological Institute, Indonesian Institute of Sciences), Bogor, Indonesia de Jong, W., van Noordwijk, M., Sirait, N., Liswanti and Suyanto (2001) ‘Farming secondary forests in Indonesia’, Journal of Tropical Forest Science 13 (4), pp705–726 Dransfield, J. (1979) ‘A manual of the rattans of the Malay Peninsula’, Malayan Forest Record 29 Drilling, N. E. (1989) Research Priorities for Reforestation in Indonesia, with Emphasis on Accelerated Natural Regeneration, United States Agency for International Development (USAID), Jakarta Elliott, S., Blakesley, D., Maxwell, J. F., Doust S. and Suwannaratana, S. (2006) How To Plant A Forest: The Principles And Practice of Restoring Tropical Forests, The Forest Restoration Research Unit, Chiang Mai University, Chiang Mai Heyne, K. (1950) ‘Nuttige planten van Indonesië’, Van Hoeve, Bandung, Indonesia (in Dutch language) Heyne, K. (1987) ‘Tumbuhan Berguna Indonesia’, Penerbit Yayasan Sarana Wana Jaya, Jakarta (translated edition of Heyne, 1950, in Indonesian language) Iwan, R. and Limberg, G. (2009) ‘Tane Olen as an alternative for forest management: Further development in Setulang Village, East Kalimantan’, in M. Moeliono, E. Wollenberg and G. Limberg (eds) The Decentralization of Forest Governance – Politics, Economics and the Fight for Control of Forests in Indonesian Borneo, Earthscan, London Jacobs, M. (1962) ‘Pometia (Sapindaceae), a study in variability’, Reinwardtia 6 (2), pp109–144 Jewers, K., Davis, J. B., Dougan, J., Machanda, A., Blunden, G., Kyi, A. and Wetchapinan, S. (1972) ‘Goniothalamin and its distribution in four Goniothalamus species’, Phytochemistry 11, pp2025– 2030 Jordan, W. R. III, Gilpin, N. and Aber, J. D. (1987) ‘Restoration ecology: Ecological restoration as a technique for basic research’, in W. R. Jordan III, N. Gilpin and J. D. Aber (eds) Restoration Ecology, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, UK Kartawinata, K. (1979) Kayu Indonesia (Indonesian Timber), Lembaga Biologi Nasional (National Biological Institute), Iembaga Ilmu Pengetahuan Indonesia (Indonesian Institute of Sciences), Bogor Kartawinata, K (1990) ‘A note on the potential application of some non-timber forest plants in agroforestry’, in J. Kartasubrata, S. S. Tjitrosomo and R. C. Umaly (eds) Symposium on Agroforestry Systems and Technologies, BIOTROP Special Publication 39, pp93–97 Kartawinata, K. (1994) ‘The use of secondary forest species in rehabilitation of degraded forest lands’, Journal of Tropical Forest Science 7 (1), pp76–86

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Kartawinata, K. (2005) ‘Six decades of natural vegetation studies in Indonesia’, in S. Soemodihardjo and S. D. Sastrapradja (eds) Six Decades of Science and Scientists in Indonesia, Naturindo, Bogor Kartawinata, K. (2010) Dua abad mengungkap kekayaan flora dan ekosistem Indonesia (Two centuries of uncovering flora and ecosystems of Indonesia), Sarwono Prawirohardjo Memorial Lecture X, 23 Agustus (August) 2010, Lembaga Ilmu Pengetahuan Indonesia (Indonesian Institute of Sciences), Jakarta Kartawinata, K., Jessup, T. C. and Vayda, A. P. (1989) ‘Exploitation in Southeast Asia’, in H. Lieth and M. J. A. Werger (eds) Tropical Rainforest Ecosystems: Biogeographical and Ecological Studies, Ecosystems of the World 14B, Elsevier, Amsterdam Kartawinata, K., Jessup, T. C., Vayda, A. P., Riswan, S., Mackie, C. and Peluso, N. E. (1992) ‘People and Forests in East Kalimantan’, in E.C. and L.A. Newell (technical coordinators) Proceedings of the Session on Tropical Forestry for People of the Pacific, XVII Pacific Science Congress, 27-28 May 1991, Honolulu, Gen. Tech. Rep. PSW-GTR-129, Albany, CA, Pacific Southwest Research Station, Forest Service, US Department of Agriculture Kettle, C. J., Ghazoul, J., Ashton, P., Cannon, C. H., Chong, L., Diway, B., Faridah, E., Harrison, R., Hector, A., Hollingsworth, P., Koh, L. P., Khoo, E., Kitayama, K., Kartawinata, K., Marshall, A., Maycock, C., Nanami, S., Paoli, G., Potts, M. D., Samsoedin, I., Sheil, D., Tan, S., Tomoaki, I., Webb, C., Yamakura, T. and Burslem, D. (2010) ‘Mass fruiting in Borneo: A missed opportunity’, Science 330, p584 Kettle, C. J., Ghazoul, J., Ashton, P., Cannon, C. H., Chong, L., Diway, B., Faridah, E., Harrison, R., Hector, A., Hollingsworth, P., Koh, L. P., Khoo, E., Kitayama, K., Kartawinata, K., Marshall, A., Maycock, C., Nanami, S., Paoli, G., Potts, M. D., Samsoedin, I., Sheil, D.,Tan, S.,Tomoaki, I.,Webb, C., Yamakura, T. and Burslem, D. (2011) ‘Seeing the fruit for the trees in Borneo’, Conservation Letters 4 (3), pp184–191 Keβler, P. J.A. and Sidiyasa, K. (1999) Pohon-pohon Kalimantan Timur, MOFEC-Tropenbos-Kalimantan Project, Balikpapan, East Kalimantan, Borneo Keβler, P. J. A., Pelser, P. B., Ridsdale, C. E. and Sidiyasa, K. (2000) Secondary Forest Trees of Kalimantan, Indonesia: A Manual to 300 Selected Species, MOFEC-Tropenbos-Kalimantan Project, Balikpapan, East Kalimantan, Borneo Knight, D. H. (1975) ‘A phytosociological analysis of species rich tropical rain forest on Barro Colorado Island, Panama’, Ecological Monograph 45, pp259–284 Kostermans, A. J. G. H. (1958) ‘The genus Durio Adans (Bombac.)’, Reinwardtia 4, pp357–460 Kostermans, A. J. G. H. and Bompard, J. (1993) The Mangoes:Their Botany, Nomenclature, Horticulture and Utilization, Academic Press, London Lamb, D. (1998) ‘Large scale restoration of degraded tropical forest lands: The potential role of timber plantation’, Restoration Ecology 6 (3), pp271–279 Lamb, D. (2011) Regreening the Bare Hills: Tropical Forest Restoration in the Asia-Pacific Region, Springer, New York Lanly, J. P. (1982) Tropical Forest Resources, FAO Forestry Paper no. 30 (Technical Report of the Tropical Forest Resources Assessment Project), FAO (Food and Agriculture Organisation of the United Nations), Rome Lawrence, D., Peart, D. R. and Leighton, M. (1998) ‘The impact of shifting cultivation on a rainforest landscape in West Kalimantan: Spatial and temporal dynamics’, Landscape Ecology 13, pp135–148 Lemmens, R. H. M. J. and Wuliyarni-Sutjipto, N. (eds) (1992) Plant Resources of Southeast Asia 3: Dye and Tannin-producing Plants, Plant Resources of Southeast Asia, Bogor, Indonesia Loh, C. L. (1975) ‘Fruits in Peninsular Malaysia’, in J. T. Williams, C. H. Lamoureux and N. W. Soetjipto (eds) Southeast Asian Plant Genetic Resources, International Board of Plant Genetic Resources, Regional Centre for Tropical Biology of the Southeast Asian Ministers of Education Organization, Badan Penelitian dan Pengembangan Pertanian (Agency for Agricultural Research and Development) and Lembaga Biologi Nasional (National Biological Institute, Indonesian Institute of Sciences), Bogor, Indonesia Lovejoy,T. E. (1985) ‘Rehabilitation of degraded tropical forest lands’, The Environmentalist 5, pp13–20

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Lowry, J. B. (1971) ‘Conserving the forest: A phytochemical view’, Malayan Nature Journal 24, pp225– 230 Lowry, J. B. (1973) ‘Phytochemical prospecting and conservation of lowland tropical rain forests’, in Soeratno Partoatmodjo (ed.) Pacific Science Association Pre-Congress Conference Symposium on Planned Utilization of the Lowland Tropical Forests, 12-14 August, 1971, National Biological Institute of the Institute of Sciences , Bogor, Indonesia Lowry, J. B. (1977) ‘Safrole: Two sources from Malaysian forests’, Malayan Forester 40, pp177–183 Lugo, A. E. (1988) ‘The future of the forest: Ecosystem rehabilitation in the tropics’, Environment 30, pp17–20 and 41–45 Mackie, C., Jessup, T. C.,Vayda, A. P. and Kartawinata, K. (1987) ‘Shifting cultivation and patch dynamics in an upland forest in East Kalimantan, Indonesia’, in Y. Hadi, K. Awang, N.M. Majid and S. Mohamed (eds) Proceedings of Regional Workshop on Impacts of Man’s Activities on Tropical Upland Forest Ecosystems, 3-6 February 1986, Faculty of Forestry, Universiti Pertanian Malaysia, Selangor, Malaysia Meijer, W. (1969) ‘Fruit trees in Sabah (North Borneo)’, Malayan Forester 32, pp252–265 Ministry of Forestry. (2010) Forestry Statistics of Indonesia, 2009, Ministry of Forestry, Jakarta Mueller-Dombois, D., Kartawinata, K. and Handley, L. (1983) ‘Conservation planning’, in R. J. Carpenter (ed.) Natural Systems for Development: What Planners Need to Know, Macmillan, New York National Working Group on Landscape Restoration in Indonesia. (2009) Guidelines for Forest Landscape Restoration in Indonesia, Tropenbos International Indonesia, Jakarta Oey, D. S. (1990) Berat Jenis-jenis Kayu Indomesoa dam Pengertian Beratnya Kayu untuk Keperluan Praktek (Specific Gravity of Indonesian Woods and its Significance for Practical Use), Pengumuman Pusat Penelitian dan Pengembangan Hasil Hutan (Forest Products Research and Development Centre communication) no. 13 Poffenberger, M. and MacGean, B. (1994) Policy Dialogue on Natural Forest Regeneration and Community Management, Asia Sustainable Forest Management Network, Research Network Report no. 5, East-West Centre, Honolulu Prawira, R. S. A. (1974), Daftar nama pohon-pohonan Bulungan dan Berau, Kalimantan Timur (List of Tree Species of Bulungan and Berau, East Borneo), Laporan (Report) no. 196, Lembaga Penelitian Hutan, Direktorat Jenderal Kehutanan, Departemen Pertanian (Forest Research Institute, Directorate-General of Forestry, Department of Agriculture), Bogor Prawira, R. S. A. and Tantra, I. G. M. (1973) Daftar nama pohon-pohonan Sumatera Utara (List of Tree Species of North Sumatera), Laporan (Report) no. 171, Lembaga Penelitian Hutan, Direktorat Jenderal Kehutanan, Departemen Pertanian (Forest Research Institute, Directorate-General of Forestry, Department of Agriculture), Bogor Rey Benayas, J. M. R., Newton, A. C., Diaz, A. and Bullock, M. (2009) ‘Enhancement of biodiversity and ecosystem services by ecological restoration: A meta analysis’, Science 325, pp1121–1124 Rhijn, V. (1928) ‘Rapport over de maatregelen te nemen in het brongebied der Palaka en Patirorivicr (Report on measures to be taken in the catchment area of the Palaka and Patiro rivers, South Sulawesi)’, abstract, in C. P. Goor and J. Kartasubrata (eds) Indonesian Forestry Abstracts: Dutch Literature Until About I960, Centre for Agricultural Publishing and Documentation, Wageningen Riswan, S. (1982) ’Ecological studies on primary, secondary and experimentally cleared mixed dipterocarp forests and kerangas forests in East Kalimantan, Indonesia’, PhD dissertation, University of Aberdeen, Scotland Riswan, S. and Abdulhadi, R. (1992) ‘Succession after disturbance of lowland mixed dipterocarp forest by shifting agriculture in East Kalimantan, Indonesia’, in J. G. Goldammer (ed.) Tropical Forests in Transition, Birkhäuser Verlag, Basel Riswan, S. and Kartawinata, K. (1988) ‘A lowland dipterocarp forest 35 years after pepper plantation in East Kalimantan’, in S. Soemodihardjo (ed.) Some Ecological Aspects of Tropical Forests of East Kalimantan: A Collection of Research Reports, Indonesian National Man and the Biosphere committee contribution no. 48, Indonesian Institute of Sciences, Jakarta, pp1–40 Riswan, S., Kentworthy, J. B. and Kartawinata, K. (1985) ‘The estimation of temporal processes in tropical rain forest: A study of primary mixed dipterocarp forest in Indonesia’, Journal of Tropical Ecology 1, pp171–182

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Sastrapradja, S. (ed.) (1977) Sumber daya hayati Indonesia (Biological Resources of Indonesia), Lembaga Biologi Nasional, Lembaga Ilmu Pengetahuan Indonesia, Bogor, Indonesia Sastrapradja, S. and Kartawinata, K. (1975) ‘Leafy vegetables in the Sundanese diet’, in J. T. Williams, C. H. Lamoureux and N. W. Soetjipto (eds) Southeast Asian Plant Genetic Resources, International Board of Plant Genetic Resources, Regional Centre for Tropical Biology of the Southeast Asian Ministers of Education Organization, Badan Penelitian dan Pengembangan Pertanian (Agency for Agricultural Research and Development) and Lembaga Biologi Nasional (National Biological Institute, Indonesian Institute of Sciences), Bogor, Indonesia Sastrapradja, S.,Widjaja, E. A., Prawiroartmodjo, S. and Soenarko, S. (1977) Beberapa jenis bambu (Some Species of Bamboo), National Biological Institute of the Indonesian Institute of Sciences, Bogor, Indonesia Sastrapradja, D.,Adisoemarto, S., Kartawinata, K., Rifai, M.A. and Sastrapradja, S. (1989) Keanekaragaman Hayati untuk Kelangsungan Hidup Bangsa (Biological Diversity for the Survival of the Nation), Pusat Peneiltian Biotechnology (Research Centre in Biotechnology, Indonesian Institute of Sciences), Bogor, Indonesia Sauer, L. J. (1998) The Once and Future Forest: A Guide to Forest Restoration Strategies, Island Press, Washington, DC Sidiyasa, K., Sutisna, U., Sutiyono, M., Sutrasno,T. K. and Whitmore,T. C. (1986) Tree Flora of Indonesia: Check List for Sumatra, Forest Research and Development Centre, Bogor, Indonesia Sidiyasa, K., Sutisna, U., Sutiyono, M., Sutrasno,T. K. and Whitmore,T. C. (1989) Tree Flora of Indonesia: Check List for Sulawesi, Forest Research and Development Centre, Bogor, Indonesia Sidiyasa, K., Sutisna, U., Sutiyono, M., Sutrasno,T. K. and Whitmore,T. C. (1990) Tree Flora of Indonesia: Check List for Kalimantan, Forest Research and Development Centre, Bogor, Indonesia Sidiyasa, K., Sutisna, U., Sutiyono, M., Sutrasno,T. K. and Whitmore,T. C. (1997) Tree Flora of Indonesia: Check List for Irian Jaya, Forest Research and Development Centre, Bogor, Indonesia Soegeng-Reksodihardjo, W. (1962) ‘The species of Durio with edible fruits’, Economic Botany 16, pp272–282 Soejarto., D. D. (2000) ‘Forest plots as a tool in a biodiversity-based plant selection approach in a natural products drug discovery program’, Advances in Natural Sciences 1, Supp. 1, pp9–15 Soepadmo, E., Goh, S. H., Wong, W. H., Din, L. B. and Chuah, C. H. (1989) Malaysian Traditional Medicine, Institute of Advanced Studies, University of Malaya and Malaysian Institute of Chemistry, Kuala Lumpur Soerianegara, I. and Lemmens, R. H. M. J. (eds) (1994) Plant Resources of Southeast Asia 5 (1): Timber Trees: Major Commercial Timbers, PROSEA, Bogor, Indonesia Suding, N. K. (2011) ‘Toward an era of restoration in ecology: Successes, failures, and opportunities ahead’, Annual Review of Ecology, Systematics and Evolution 42, pp465–487 Sunderlin, W. D. and Resosudarmo, I. A. P. (1996) Rates and Causes of Deforestation in Indonesia: Towards a Resolution of the Ambiguities, CIFOR Occasional Paper 9, Center for International Forestry Research, Bogor, Indonesia Sutter, H. (1989) Forest Resources and Land Use in Indonesia, Directorate General of Forest Utilisation, Ministry of Forestry, and Food and Agricultural Organisation of the United Nations, Jakarta Tim, S. (1999) Pengelolaan Repong Damar dan Ekonomi Rumah Tangga di Pesisir Krui, Lampung Barat, CIFOR, Waitala dan Universitas Indonesi Tim UNESCO (UNESCO Team) (2008) Ecosystem Restoration of Abandoned Palm-oil Plantation at the Gunung Leuser National Park, Sei Serdang, Besitang, North Sumatra, The United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organisation (UNESCO), Jakarta (in Indonesian) Valmayor, R. V. and Espino, R. C. (1975) ‘Germplasm resources for horticultural breeding in the Philippines’, in J.T.Williams, C. H. Lamoureux and N.W. Soetjipto (eds) Southeast Asian Plant Genetic Resources, International Board of Plant Genetic Resources, Regional Centre for Tropical Biology of the Southeast Asian Ministers of Education Organization, Badan Penelitian dan Pengembangan Pertanian (Agency for Agricultural Research and Development) and Lembaga Biologi Nasional (National Biological Institute, Indonesian Institute of Sciences), Bogor, Indonesia

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Verheij, E. W. M. and Coronel, R. E. (eds) (1992) Plant Resources of Southeast Asia 2: Edible Fruits and Nuts, PROSEA, Bogor, Indonesia Whitmore, T. C. (1971) ‘Wild fruit trees and some trees of pharmacological potential in the rain forest of Ulu Kelantan’, Malayan Nature Journal 24, pp222–224 Whitmore, T. C. (1975) ‘South East Asian forests as an unexploited source of fast growing timber’, in J. T. Williams, C. H. Lamoureux and N. W. Soetjipto (eds) South East Asian Plant Genetic Resources, International Board of Plant Genetic Resources, Regional Centre for Tropical Biology of the Southeast Asian Ministers of Education Organization, Badan Penelitian dan Pengembangan Pertanian (Agency for Agricultural Research and Development) and Lembaga Biologi Nasional (National Biological Institute, Indonesian Institute of Sciences), Bogor, Indonesia Widjaja, E. A., Utami, N. W. and Saefudin (2004) Panduan Membudidayakan Bambu, Pusat Penelitian Biologi, LIPI, Bogor, Indonesia



35 CHARACTERISTICS AND ROLES OF FALLOW AND RIPARIAN FORESTS In a mountainous region of northern Laos Isao Hirota*

Introduction

In northern Laos, more than 90% of the total land area is mountainous (Ministry of Agriculture and Forestry, 2003). Although rice is the staple food of the region, the area suitable for paddy fields is limited, and rice is most often grown on sloping lands using shifting cultivation. Shifting cultivation, therefore, plays an indispensable role in maintaining livelihoods in mountain communities. In a typical cycle of shifting cultivation, agricultural crops are cultivated for one year, after which the plot is allowed to lie fallow for several years, during which various forest products are gathered from the regrowing vegetation. In most mountain villages of northern Laos, rice production is not sufficient to supply villagers until the following harvest. Shortages are offset by buying rice using cash from the sale of products gathered from various forest environments surrounding the villages. Agricultural production by shifting cultivation is easily affected by variations in climate occurring between years, and farmers use various strategies to minimize their risks. For example, some villagers cultivate several types of traditional rice varieties. Appa Rao et al. (2002) reported that many rice varieties exist in northern Laos and have been preserved within villages. Other crops sown in addition to rice include sesame, Job’s tears, maize, peanuts, winter melon, perilla, chilli and sweet sorghum. After the harvest, fallowed swiddens continue to be important and are used for collecting forest products and raising livestock. In northern Laos, dense forests often occur along valleys, and these forests remain relatively pristine because the rocky terrain prevents the practice of shifting cultivation. The species composition of these riparian forests differs markedly from that of fallow forests. At the local level, riparian forests are often designated as ‘conservation forests’.

* 

Dr Isao Hirota, Graduate School of Bioagricultural Sciences, Nagoya University, Japan.

Chapter 35. Fallow and riparian forests  683

Villagers use these forests as an environmental resource in which to gather useful plants, including vegetables, medicinal plants and timber trees, and hunt wild animals for household consumption. While the role of fallow forests has been subject to numerous studies (e.g. Yokoyama, 2004), in this chapter I examine fallow and riparian forests in a mountainous area of northern Laos. I describe the basic environmental dynamics and conditions of these systems, focusing on the benefits gained from each forest type and the contributions they make to risk management for local villagers. Study site and methods Study site

This study was conducted in the village of Houay Phee, in La district of Oudomxay province in northern Laos. Annual rainfall in the area is about 1500mm, with distinct wet and dry seasons, and the average annual temperature is 17°C.The potential natural vegetation of the region is hilly evergreen forest. The topography is at a mature stage and the mountain slopes are gentle. The village is located along the Phak River, a tributary of the Ou River, at an elevation of about 800m above sea level (asl) (Figure 35.1). Within the area of the village there are 16 streams, one to four metres wide, flowing into the Phak River, which is about 20m wide.The streams have rocky banks that are not considered suitable for shifting cultivation, so riparian forests thrive along the stream banks. At the time of this study, the village had 339 residents and all 59 households engaged in shifting cultivation. All villagers belong to the Kammu ethnic group, which commonly practises traditional shifting cultivation. Only one household engaged in both shifting cultivation and wet-rice cultivation. The average shifting-cultivation cycle involves one year of cropping followed by five to seven

FIGURE 35.1 

Lao PDR

Map of the study site, Houay Phee village, La district, Oudomxay province,

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years of fallow. The livelihood of the villagers is therefore typical of people living in the mountainous areas of northern Laos. The government of the Lao PDR aims to stabilize shifting cultivation, and for this reason alternative cash crops and plantation species are rapidly expanding in northern Laos. For example, the area on which maize is grown was nine times larger in 2010 than it was in 2000. In addition, Lao and Chinese merchants became active at the study site in 2000 and accordingly, cash crops were introduced. Some of these crops, such as sesame, maize and peanuts, were introduced to the village between 2000 and 2009, but were all abandoned after several years because of unstable prices. The price was initially high, but it fell when many people adopted the same strategy. A multilayer land-use system has now developed, because agricultural production has been unstable for a long time. However, when habitats where various kinds of useful plants previously grew are devoted to maize, rubber or eucalyptus plantations, there is concern that villagers are unable to choose an alternative approach for their livelihoods. This study reports on the local value of fallow and riparian forests, which in this environment are easily overlooked. Field survey

To determine the characteristics of fallow and riparian forests, a vegetation survey was conducted in each forest type in an area surrounded by mountain ridges and the Phak River. The area of riparian forest (17%) was directly measured using GPS, and 20 × 20m quadrats were established in each fallow forest. The quadrats were spread through fallow forests of varying ages in the following numbers: 1-year-old fallows (2 quadrats); 2 years (4 quadrats); 3 years (6 quadrats); 4 years (6 quadrats); 5 years (7 quadrats); 6 years (4 quadrats); 7 years (2 quadrats); 8 years (2 quadrats); 9 years (3 quadrats); 15 years (7 quadrats); and 25 years (2 quadrats). Riparian forests close to seven streams were selected for the establishment of several quadrats. The names of the streams were the Chuk, Phung Luang, Sampan, Dri Keu Chi, Chi Leuang, Waan and Phee. The quadrats marked out nearby these streams measured 10 × 40m, to correspond to the area of those in the fallow forests. In the case of lengthy streams, several riparian-forest quadrats were established in the upper, middle and downstream reaches. A vegetation survey was then conducted in November and December 2007. Later, in January and February 2008 and in March 2009, I interviewed villagers regarding their sources of cash income, including crops, non-timber forest products (NTFPs) and labour. Crops were divided into rice, sesame and maize. In the case of labour, wages from felling timber and other labour were included as options, to differentiate it from labour performed in the village’s riparian forests and labour performed elsewhere. Rice production in 2007 was lower than usual because of low rainfall. A drought occurred after the sowing of upland rice, and the villagers had to plant rice two times. In 2008, rice production returned to a normal level. Thus, for this study, 2007

Chapter 35. Fallow and riparian forests  685

is considered a year of low agricultural production and 2008 is considered a normal year. Data analysis

To describe the dynamics of fallow forests, the abundance (A), dominance (D) and importance (I) of a species in a quadrat were calculated using the following formulae: Aij = (Nij/Nj) × 100; Dij = (Sij/Sj) × 100; Iij = (Aij + Dij)/2

where Nij is the number of individuals of the i tree species in the j quadrat, Nj is the total number of individuals of all tree species in the j quadrat, Sij is the total basal area of the i tree species in the j quadrat, and Sj is the total number of tree species in the j quadrat. Ij is the sum of all values of Iij in the j quadrat. Although the number of species, Ni, is generally used for analysis, the frequency of species was not incorporated. Zhang and Cao (1995) adapted I to more precisely represent actual data, and I followed their method. To characterize the community dynamics in each quadrat, principal-components analysis was performed using the 20 species with the highest I values. In addition, cluster analysis was used to compare species composition between riparian and fallow forests. Results and discussion Characteristics of riparian and fallow forests

Forest structure differed markedly between the fallow and riparian forests, as illustrated by the size distribution of the two forest types (Figure 35.2). In fallow forests, trees were generally up to 20cm in girth at breast height (GBH).The abundance of largersized trees increased with fallow duration. In contrast, in riparian forests, larger trees had a more scattered distribution than those in fallow forests. Tree basal area, an index of biomass, was higher in riparian forests than in fallow forests, except along Chuk stream (Figure 35.3).The biomass in riparian forests was not evenly distributed within quadrats, although there were no significant differences in the biomass in the upper, middle and downstream reaches. The number of species in fallow forests did not significantly increase with forest age. In other words, young fallow forests had relatively high levels of species diversity, similar to that in old fallow forests (Figure 35.4), perhaps because sprouting regeneration by several tree species enabled rapid growth. At the study site, re-sprouting tree species included Fagaceous species, bamboo species, Alchornea trewioides, Engelhardtia spicata and Mallotus paniculatus. Previous studies have suggested that tree species that regenerate by sprouting are important for both maintenance of diversity and fast recovery of fallow forests (e.g. Fukushima et al., 2008). Although the number of species in fallow and riparian forests was nearly equal, the constituent species differed between the forest types. Cluster analysis of similarity

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FIGURE 35.2 

Size distribution of GBH (girth at breast height) in fallow and riparian forest

FIGURE 35.3 

Basal area per hectare in fallow and riparian forest

data indicated that all quadrats primarily separated into two groups (i.e. fallow and riparian forests), whereas one quadrat along the Chuk stream was exceptionally similar to those of fallow forests (Figure 35.5). These results suggested that species composition differed drastically between fallow and riparian forests. Among the fallow forests, clusters fell into two groups, those younger and older than nine years of age (Figure 35.5). In the village area, riparian forests existed where villagers had been unable to practise shifting cultivation; thus, the streams had greatly affected the composition of vegetation. Because the streams were often inundated during the rainy

Chapter 35. Fallow and riparian forests  687

FIGURE 35.4 

Number of tree species per quadrat in fallow and riparian forests

FIGURE 35.5 

Dendrogram of all quadrats in fallow and riparian forests by cluster analysis

season, the litter layer and soil A-layer were absent. Along mountain streams, slopes were steep, and sand and gravel were frequently exposed to erosion, conveyance and deposition. Thus, the soil properties in these areas formed a mosaic pattern and may have caused an irregular biomass distribution. As described above, the soil conditions and thus the vegetation of fallow and riparian forests varied greatly.These contrasting types of vegetation provided different ecological environments for the villagers and thus varying distributions of forest resources.

688  Hirota

Structure of fallow forests and succession

Even though the number of species did not differ among fallow forests of different ages (Figure 35.4), some component species exhibited changes in abundance with age. Cluster analysis was used to visualize the similarity among quadrats (Figure 35.5). To analyse the dynamics in more detail, principal-components analysis was conducted using importance data from the formulae above for the top-20 tree species in fallow forests (Figure 35.6). Figure 35.6(a) presents the factor loadings of the first and second principal components. The influence of species becomes stronger as the distance from the origin approaches 1. Figure 35.6(b) illustrates the succession of fallow forests with plots of each quadrat using the factor loadings. Because bamboo species load positively whereas many of the other species load negatively along the x-axis, the first principal component represents the presence of bamboo species. On the other hand, because pioneer species (i.e. Euphorbiaceae) exhibit positive values and late successional species (i.e. Fagaceae and Lauraceae) exhibit negative values along the y-axis, the second principal component is considered maturity of vegetation (Figure 35.6(a)). Whereas younger-fallow quadrats are distributed within the second quadrant, quadrats for fallows up to eight years old shift towards the lower right (Figure 35.6(b)). Quadrats fallowed for nine, 15 and 25 years are distributed towards the lower left. Clearly, constituent species shift with changes in the age of fallow forests. More specifically, bamboo appears to form a stable community for about the first first three years. Subsequently, in five to eight-year-old fallow forests, succession slows for several years. In 15- and 25-year-old fallow forests, late successional tree species become sufficiently abundant to suppress the bamboo community; however, according to interviews with villagers, a flowering of the gregarious bamboo species Oxytenanthera parvifolia occurred in the 1990s. In the present study, 15- and

FIGURE 35.6 

Results of principal component analysis (PCA) Notes:  (a) Distribution of factor loading of main 20 constituent species.The first component indicates the existence of Oxytenanthera parvifolia (bamboo) and other tree species, and the second component indicates the natural succession of tree species. (b) Scatter diagram, which indicates the direction of succession of fallow forests. The numerals attached to dots indicate fallow years.

Chapter 35. Fallow and riparian forests  689

25-year-old fallow forests were surveyed, and bamboo may have been rare prior to the flowering. Although the scale of the bamboo flowering is unclear, villagers also mentioned an increase in bamboo after the flowering event. Therefore, the possible influence of bamboo flowering cannot be ignored (Figure 35.6(b)). According to reports from Japan, although bamboo species differ, bamboo communities in general do not readily decline. In Laos, even where shifting cultivation is prohibited by forest law and fallow forests remain uncultivated, dominance by bamboo communities may remain for a long time. Useful plants and their roles in fallow and riparian forests

As outlined above, the characteristics of fallow and riparian forests differ. In fallow forests, forest products change according to forest age because of the continuous succession of vegetation. In contrast, similar successional shifts do not occur in riparian forests; these forests harbour different plant resources, such as vegetables for daily consumption and timber. Figure 35.7 presents sources of cash income per village household from seven items. Although rice production was low in 2007 because of low rainfall and villagers had to plant their fields a second time, rice production in 2008 was typical of most years. Even though conditions in 2007 and 2008 differed greatly and 13 households introduced maize in 2008, the socio-economic conditions within the village were nearly the same in both years. In 2008,maize,rice,NTFPs and livestock were important sources of cash.Commonly, products from fallow forests provide an important safety net for villagers relying on shifting cultivation (e.g. Yamada et al., 2004). On average, the study village suffers a shortage of rice that lasts for about three months every year, and villagers compensate by selling forest products. In this village, rice was important not only for self-sufficiency, but also as a source of cash income.Although the practice seems contradictory, villagers sell rice just after each harvest and buy rice before the following harvest. The income from rice is used for school expenses, medications and other medical expenses. Non-timber forest products in the village include broom grass, cardamom, galangal fruits, peuak meuak, paper mulberry, bitter bamboo shoots, konjak roots and FIGURE 35.7  Cash income per household from each item red mushrooms (ti maam). in 2007 and 2008 Broom grass (Thysanolaena maxima) grows in locations

690  Hirota

where the canopy is not completely closed in two- to three-year-old fallow forests. After gathering broom grass in March, villagers remove the pollen dust by beating the flowers against paved roads; they then sell the grass to merchants. Brooms made of broom grass are used in Laos, Thailand and Vietnam. Cardamom and wild galangal grow along the forest floor of fallow forests that are about five to six years old. These are shade-tolerant species that prefer moist areas. They are gathered from August to September and are used in Chinese medicine. Peuak meuak (Boehmeria malabarica) is a woody plant that grows in fallow forest margins adjacent to streams.The dried bark is used as a bonding material for Buddhist incense sticks. Although peuak meuak can be gathered throughout the year, villagers are in the habit of harvesting it during the agricultural off-season (i.e. the dry season). Paper mulberry (Broussonetia papyrifera) grows in three- to five-year-old fallow forests. Its dry bark is used in a similar way to that of peuak meuak, and it is also used to make paper. Bitter bamboo shoots (Indosasa sinica – also called no khom) are gathered in the dry season. Bamboo is an important ingredient of Laotian food, and various bamboo species are used. Bitter bamboo shoots are more valuable than others because they appear in the dry season. Bitter bamboo has a monopodial branching-type rhizome, which is a less common type in tropical bamboo; it often forms populations on mountain- or hill-tops.Young bitter bamboo is not very bitter, but it becomes increasingly so towards the end of the dry season. Bitter bamboo is often gathered along with young shoots of rattan. Konjak (Amorphophallus spp.) grows in moist, sloping areas, and it has only recently become an important commodity. Villagers were unaware that konjak was edible until recent contact with Chinese merchants, who often search for commodities such as konjak by using illustrated field guides. Red mushroom (ti maam) is another potential commodity serving the Chinese market. This species grows in Fagaceous forests, which are a typical vegetation type in hilly evergreen forests. Red mushroom may be a mycorrhizal fungus that provides soil nutrients to Fagaceous trees; however, the details of this species are not well known. Among these NTFPs, cardamom, wild galangal, bitter bamboo shoots and red mushroom grow in public areas, and a common gathering season has been established. However, broom grass and paper mulberry grow on privately owned lands. Ownership of fallow forests is generally not recognized in mountain villages as a land-allocation programme has not been implemented. However, in this case, because specific species have economic value, ownership of shifting-cultivation fields continues for several years of fallow. NTFPs are scattered throughout various environments, and although they grow mainly in fallow forests, these plants can be found in all environments. In 2008 cash income from NTFPs gathered in fallow forests was higher than that from other sources, and income sources differed from those in 2007. During 2007, income from rice, sesame and maize was lower, and that from livestock and off-farm income higher, than in 2008. Off-farm income was earned from labouring jobs such as timber cutting (52%), construction in urban areas (24%), digging holes for rubber seedlings in plantations that have expanded rapidly in northern Laos (13%), and other sources (11%). Because both agricultural production in shifting cultivation

Chapter 35. Fallow and riparian forests  691

fields and the rate of self-sufficiency was low in 2007, villagers found themselves having to compensate for annual rice shortages and provide for the need to buy rice from outside. Among possible sources of cash income, NTFPs have specific gathering seasons, and the period during which villagers can expect a sizeable income from NFTPs is limited. On the other hand, the village has ‘stocks’ of both livestock and timber, and when villagers need cash, such as in a drought year like 2007, they can use these to generate income. Table 35.1 lists tree species with a girth at breast height exceeding 100cm, found within the 4800m2 covered by the 12 quadrats in riparian forests. Nineteen individuals of 10 species were observed in the survey area. Among these species, Albizia lucidor (Leguminosae), Gmelina arborea (Verbenaceae) and Pometia pinnata (Sapindaceae) had economic value, but only when diameters were more than 20 to 25cm (GBH of about 60 to 75cm). The cash received for all of these species was 1,700,000 kip (about US$170) for trees measuring 5cm × 10cm × 4.5m and 1,800,000 kip (about US$180) for those measuring 2cm × 20cm × 4.5m. The tree species in Table 35.1 are characteristic of riparian forests, with the exception of Engelhardtia spicata and Lithocarpus annamensis. Considering the ratio of the surveyed area to the village’s entire territory, it was estimated that there were about 350 individuals of these largeGBH species in the riparian forests of the study site. Felling of timber using chainsaws is prohibited, except in plantations. Instead, villagers fell trees using axes, saws or hatchets. Tree felling is only permitted for construction use; commercial cutting is prohibited. Income gained by selling timber to outsiders or industry is incorporated TABLE 35.1 

Tree species larger than 100cm in GBH in research quadrats of riparian forests

Scientiic name

Khmu name

Tetrameles nudiflora Albizia lucidor Albizia lucidor Gmelina arborea Pometia pinnata Albizia lucidor Dracontmelon dao Pometia pinnata Albizia lucidor Albizia lucidor Albizia lucidor Engelhardtia spicata Lithocarpus annamensis Urophyllum sp. Lithocarpus annamensis Antidesma sp. Triadica cochinchinensis Pometia pinnata Ficus callosa

seun ter sa khee sa khee chi la ta ngouai sa khee kuu ta ngouai sa khee sa khee sa khee cho n gein teun wang n gein breung ta ngouai

-

GBH (cm)

470.3 389.3 277 224.8 224.5 220.5 184.8 184.6 156.1 153 149.5 149.4 124.5 121 113 112.9 112.7 108.5 100

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directly into the village budget. Although NTFPs offer substantial direct benefits to villagers, the environment within riparian forests also provides the indirect benefit of creating jobs for villagers when their labour is needed to generate cash by harvesting timber to buy food to make up for shortfalls in swidden production. The village income structure in 2007 and 2008 (Figure 35.7) suggests that villagers do not seek to accumulate property. For example, villagers started to work only when their rice stocks ran out, and they bought rice after obtaining cash income from sales of NTFPs. The price of rice before harvest was 3500 kip, whereas the price after harvest rose to 4500 kip. It might have made economic sense for them to sell their labour and buy rice before the harvest, while prices were low, and then sell rice from their harvest when prices were high. However, the villagers seemed disinclined to create stocks of rice and sometimes worked as labourers only when they needed cash. In the study village, raising livestock such as pigs and poultry was also seen as ‘money in the bank’. Although cattle and buffaloes are the most important livestock in northern Laos, the study village had none of these because it had few paddy fields and the need for draft animals was minimal. Villagers had raised cattle until 2003, but a sickness decimated the village herd. Disease is a substantial risk when raising livestock to accumulate property. Although property accumulation does not seem to be of high importance in the villages of northern Laos, stocks of economic commodities in the surrounding environment are crucial for the stability of the local livelihood. Conclusions

The study described herein focused on fallow and riparian forests and described their different vegetation characteristics and their role in the livelihood of the local people. Fallow forests have diverse habitats that harbour useful plants, with forests at different stages of succession providing various kinds of NTFPs. Riparian forests contain more biomass than fallow forests, and the felling of large trees generates jobs to deliver cash when rice shortages occur. The forest floors of both fallow and riparian forests contain many useful products such as edible plants, herbs, firewood and medicinal plants for household consumption.Villagers also fish in the rivers and hunt and trap wild animals in the forests. Clearly, the environment surrounding villages plays a key role in the livelihood of the people. This livelihood, in which local people utilize various natural resources, is typical in northern Laos and would not be feasible in unstable environments that lack rich natural resources. However, resource utilization in riparian forests, such as the felling of large trees, may not be sustainable. Shifts from a multi-layered land-use system such as long-cycle shifting cultivation to a simple land use such as rubber or eucalyptus plantations will generate simple resource use and a monoculture economy. Such changes may greatly affect the sustainability of the local livelihood as well as the conservation of environments such as fallow and riparian forests of Northern Laos.

Chapter 35. Fallow and riparian forests  693

References Appa Rao, S., Bounphanousay, C., Schiller, J. M. and Jackson, M. T. (2002) ‘Naming of traditional rice varieties by farmers in the Lao PDR’, Genetic Resources and Crop Evolution 49 (1), pp83-88 Fukushima, M., Kanzaki, M., Hara, M., Ohkubo, T., Preechapanya, P. and Choocharoen, C. (2008) ‘Secondary forest succession after the cessation of swidden cultivation in the montane forest area in northern Thailand’, Forest Ecology and Management 255 (5-6), pp1994-2006 Gardner, S., Sidisunthorn, P. and Anusarnsunthorn,V. (2000) A Field Guide to Forest Trees of Northern Thailand, Kobfai Publishing Project, Bangkok Ministry of Agriculture and Forestry. (2003) Biodiversity Country Report, Ministry of Agriculture and Forestry,Vientiane Yamada, K., Yanagisawa, M., Kono, Y. and Nawata, E. (2004) ‘Use of natural biological resources and their roles in household food security in northwest Laos’, Southeast Asian Studies 41(4), pp426–442 Yokoyama, S. (2004) ‘Forest, ethnicity and settlement in the mountainous areas of Northern Laos’, Southeast Asian Studies 42 (2), pp132-156 Zhang, J. and Cao, M. (1995) ‘Tropical forest vegetation of Xishuangbanna, SW China, and its secondary changes, with special reference to some problems in local nature conservation’, Biological Conservation 73, pp229-238

36 A PLANT-RESOURCES SURVEY AND FESTIVAL A community-based approach to biodiversity education and conservation Venancio A. Acebedo, Lorna F. Acebedo and David M. Bates* Introduction

The sustainability of human societies depends on the continued health of natural and human-managed ecosystems. In turn, ecosystem health relies on the maintenance of appropriate levels of biodiversity (Bates and Tucker, 2001). The connections between sustainability, ecosystem services and biodiversity are well illustrated in the innovative use and management of biological resources, including soils, water, flora and fauna, by indigenous and marginalized agrarian peoples. See, for example, Cairns (2007), Carlson and Maffi (2004) and Howard (2003). However, as such peoples are drawn into the dominant realms of modern societies and market economies, their direct connections with natural biota and indigenous agro-ecosystems appear to weaken and may eventually be remembered only in abstract form, or even forgotten. This problem is particularly acute in tropical, upland regions characterized by rain-fed subsistence agriculture with low input levels, environmental degradation, severe poverty and lack of access to government services. Responses to these problems by government agencies and non-governmental organizations now appear to pivot on people-centred appraisals, stakeholder involvement and community-centred management. In the Philippines, these approaches formed the foundation of a collaborative, institutional and stakeholder-based programme known as Conservation Farming in the Tropical Uplands (CFTU) (Bates et al., 2003). Among CFTU’s concerns are fostering and strengthening awareness of the importance of local, native and agricultural biodiversity and its conservation in upland-farming communities. In

* 

Dr Venancio A. Acebedo is Executive Director of HealthWays Inc, a Californian non-profit organization specializing in urban agriculture, natural resources stewardship and education on healthy lifestyles; Lorna F. Acebedo is a comunity outreach and education specialist for HealthWays Inc; Dr David M. Bates is Professor of Botany Emeritus at Cornell University, Ithaca, NY.

Chapter 36. Plant-resources survey and festival  695

this chapter, we report on one novel phase of that effort – a community-based, participatory plant-resources survey and subsequent festival, designed to document the extent of local biodiversity and to enhance and reinforce knowledge and appreciation of the value of this diversity and the services it delivers (V. A. Acebedo, 1999). The survey and festival demonstrated effective collaboration among many stakeholders, but especially between researchers and local communities. Educational experiences provided the foundation for the festival, but its success was due equally to the recreational atmosphere and social opportunities it gave to participants. The setting

The plant-resources survey and festival were held in the barangays (villages) of Owac and Subayon, in the municipality of Bilar on the island province of Bohol in the central Philippines (Figure 36.1). Two of the authors (V. A. and L. F. Acebedo) conducted participatory, development-based research in Owac and Subayon in the late 1990s (V. A.Acebedo, 1999; L. F. Acebedo, 1999).The terrain of Bilar municipality combines lowland and upland ecosystems with ridge and valley topography, steep watercourses and calcareous soils. Sporadically distributed ‘haycock’ karst hills (limestone residuals), which extend from Bohol’s well-known Chocolate Hills, intersperse the flatlands and are generally covered with secondary vegetation.They are often used for shifting cultivation for annual-crop production. The flooded, flat areas are mainly used to grow irrigated rice. In addition to its agricultural lands, Bilar also includes two quasiprotected forested zones – the Rajah Sikatuna National Park and a micro-watershed in the larger Loboc Watershed Rehabilitation Project in the plateau-like interior of Bohol. The existence of protected areas with persistent forest vegetation, coupled with farming communities distributed among mosaics of vegetation and hills, make Bilar an attractive site for ecological and social studies. The agricultural economy of Bilar is based primarily on small-scale farming, largely for subsistence. In the barangays of Owac and Subayon, the average farm size is less than one hectare. Farms are fragmented by hills and have depleted calcareous soils. The current state of plant and land use in Owac and Subayon is a consequence of the strains placed on the local physical and biotic environments by social and economic forces. These forces include high population growth, poverty, poor nutrition and health, out-migration, economic and social inequality, land tenure inequalities, land scarcity and political instability. Much of the land in Bilar is severely degraded, following a long history of settlement, resource exploitation, unsustainable agricultural practices on fragile lands, indiscriminate burning of forests and grasslands, and forest loss. Consequently, the productivity of most crops is low and stagnant, despite government initiatives to improve cropping practices.

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FIGURE 36.1 

The study sites of Owac and Subayon, Bilar, Bohol, Philippines

The plant-resources survey

A survey of plant diversity was initiated in Owac and Subayon to provide baseline information concerning the state of the area’s plant resources. Normally, such inventories would be conducted by professionally trained taxonomists, ecologists and foresters, using standard sampling methods. In contrast, this study relied on the knowledge and interests of the men, women and children of Owac and Subayon, with leadership in basic sampling provided by the authors V. A. and L. F. Acebedo. The resulting inventory was not designed to be a comprehensive floristic analysis, but rather a representative sample of the diversity of the native and introduced flora, both domesticated and wild. Moreover, it served as more than a simple enumeration of plant species. It was a vehicle for engaging people’s interest in Bilar’s plant resources; for acquiring new experiences and knowledge in a socially supportive environment, as

Chapter 36. Plant-resources survey and festival  697

a rationale for promoting conservation and the restoration of degraded environments, and as a basis for environmental education. To facilitate the sampling and categorizing of the local flora, a research committee of residents was formed to work collaboratively with the outside researchers; to fully involve local men, women and children in the sampling and other activities, and to facilitate interaction between the researchers and local residents. The inventory was given focus and guidance by questions such as the following: • • • • • •

What plant resources are available at the farm and landscape level and what is the nature of their management? What knowledge do farmers possess about plant-resources utilization and conservation? How do gender differences and household groups affect plant-resource management in situations of increasing population and unstable environments? What are the outcomes of protected areas for plant diversity and utilization? What local knowledge can be used in designing and implementing effective community-based resource-management alternatives, particularly in farming systems? What strategies are likely to be the most rewarding in utilizing and improving the resource base in the farm system as a whole or maximizing the productivity of a particular commodity or enterprise?

The results of the survey were impressive. In a mixture of semi-natural and cultural vegetation, 594 species were recorded in Owac and Subayon.The definition of seminatural vegetation given by local people followed that of Kuchler and Zonneveld (1988), who described it as vegetation that developed on previously managed plots that had been abandoned for some time, allowing the plants to grow without further human influence. Thus, it encompassed vegetation in long-term fallows. In contrast, cultural vegetation was regarded as that which owed its character to human influence and could replace any previous vegetation type. Cornfields, rice paddies, tree plantations, home or kitchen gardens and short-term fallows were of this type. Local residents identified seven common vegetation types that recurred through the barangays in mosaics. These included natad (home gardens, 203 species); darohan (cultivated plots, 72 species); baol or kaingin (swiddens, 62 species); lukat and tawid (young and older fallows, respectively, 69 species); lasang (secondary forest, 144 species); sapa (riparian and waterway or drainage, 19 species); and miscellaneous (roadsides, field margins, wet places, 29 species). The natad (home gardens) featured mostly domesticated plants in complex tiered agroforestry systems, such as the forest-farming systems described by Milan and Margraf (1992). They included a wide range of permanent crops, such as lubi or coconut (Cocos nucifera); fruit trees, such as karnaba or soursop (Annona muricata), nangka or jackfruit (Artocarpus heterophyllus), manga or mango (Mangifera indica) and santol (Sandoricum koetjape); and timber trees, such as tugas (Vitex parviflora),

698  Acebedo et al.

bagalunga (Melia dubia), mahogany (Swietenia macrophylla) and gmelina (Gmelina arborea) forming a canopy. In the lower strata, among others, were saging or plantain (Musa x paradisiaca), limonsito (x Citrofortunella mitis), cacao (Theobroma cacao), and coffee (Coffea arabica and C. canephora [robusta]). Open spaces were planted to such herbaceous species as kubasa or squash (Cucurbita maxima or C. moschata), alugbati (Basella alba) and tawong (Solanum melongena). Various spice, medicinal and ornamental plants were grown in the ground or in pots and filled out the natad. The plant composition of each natad varied in its range of species and number and distribution of individual plants depending on the duration of human residency, fertility of the soil, proximity to water sources and appreciation of ornamentals. Natads on degraded hillsides, for example, had only 50 to 60 species; those on flatlands often exceeded 100 species. The darohan provide an ongoing, central foundation for subsistence in Owac and Subayon. Generally, they are plots that are ploughed before planting. The most important species in the darohan were humay or rice (Oryza sativa), mais or maize (Zea mays), kamote or sweet potato (Ipomoea batatas), bulanghoy or cassava (Manihot esculenta), different kinds of gabi or taro (Colocasia esculenta), and mani or peanuts (Arachis hypogaea). Minor crops included tabako (Nicotiana tabacum) and vegetables, such as batongkupis or mung beans (Vigna radiata) and batong, cowpeas or yard-long beans (Vigna unguiculata), tahuri or rice beans (Vigna umbellata) and kubasa, as well as a ubiquitous weed flora. As in natad, coconuts, fruit and timber trees may be integrated into darohan. The baol, also known as kaingin, are hillside swiddens in which natural vegetational succession has been arrested by periodic slashing and burning. Early in the settlement of Owac and Subayon, widespread, uncontrolled burning at short intervals was common. Constant burning resulted in thinning of the vegetation and reduction of its capacity to regenerate. In the past, many farmers practised baol by clearing and burning large plots. The old system has now been modified to suit a shrinking farm size and to respond to increasing environmental concerns. Farmers convert their long-term fallow plots (lukat or tawid) into baol by clearing and burning only small patches. Some of them slash the vegetation selectively and protect large trees and other important species in the baol by controlling the fires. As a result, a variety of useful plants were found in baol, including ipil-ipil (Leucaena leucocephala), tugas (Vitex parviflora) and bagalunga (Melia dubia), along with the food staples mais (Zea mays), kamote or sweet potato (Ipomoea batatas), bulanghoy or cassava (Manihot esculenta), and mani or peanuts (Arachis hypogaea). Lukat (young fallows) and tawid (older fallows) follow naturally in succession from baol on hillsides, although lukat also applies to short-term fallows on flatlands. During the early stages of fallow, annuals and herbaceous and woody perennials invade the plot. Many are used as medicines, food or fuel, or in house construction. Some farmers enhance the value of their lukat plots by planting perennials such as bananas or coffee, or timber species such as mahogany or gmelina. This leads to complex vegetational associations that are difficult to classify. Early succession is generally

Chapter 36. Plant-resources survey and festival  699

dominated by cogon (Imperata cylindrica), until it is succeeded by a prickly scrub of badiday (Lantana camara) and bayabas (Psidium guajava). Other plots of this age may be dominated by hagonoy (Chromolaena odorata), payao (Monochoria hastata) and porsinas (Senna alata). On hillsides, plots that have been fallow for more than 10 years have tree-shrub associations dominated by anislag (Securinega flexuosa), bagalunga (Melia dubia), baliktadhan (Arytera littoralis), lagnob (Ficus septica) and halib-on (Blumea balsamifera). Grasslands that result from recurrent burning are considered to be lukat and are dominated by bugang (Saccharum spontaneum) and cogon (Imperata cylindrica). The higher-elevation vegetation of Owac and Subayon is called lasang. It comprises remnants of primary forest, secondary forest and old fallow areas that have been converted to woodland. Timber harvesting and agricultural clearing of the original dipterocarp hardwood forest led to its replacement by secondary forest. Lasang usually comprises a mixed tree canopy and an understorey. Dominance of the canopy varies with terrain and soil conditions although anislag (Securinega flexuosa), bagalunga (Melia dubia), tugas (Vitex parviflora), abgaw (Premna subglabra), lagnub (Ficus hauili), bintoko (Evodia bintoco), badbaran (Cryptocarya griffithiana), sagimsim (Syzygium brevistylum) and sagusahis (Ficus ulmifolia) are common. Most tree species are broadleaf evergreens. Deciduous species include narra (Pterocarpus indicus), tugas, bagalunga, mahogany, teak (Tectona grandis) and dipterocarps such as balaw (Dipterocarpus kerii), buyayang (D. hassletii) and sugyang (D. alatus). Narrow strips of vegetation grow naturally along the Bilar river and other waterways. These are referred to as sapa, which means river. Shrubs and trees of the sapa are commonly cut, leaving relatively limited vegetation. The most common species are abihid (Ficus sp.), taw-ot (F. variegata), lipay (Mucuna pruriens), pako (Pteridium aquilinum) and various kawayan (Bambusa spp. and others). Kamura (Vetiveria zizanioides) is planted for erosion control. A total of 29 species constituted a class of species found in miscellaneous waste places, roadsides, field margins and wet places. Common roadside species included mahogany, mansanitas (Muntingia calabura), crotalaria (Crotalaria juncea) and buwakanbagon (Centrosema pubescens). Plants of wet areas included lukdo (ferns of different kinds) and kangkong (Ipomoea aquatica). Along field margins, kagaykagay (Argemone mexicana), hamboboyna (Mentha arvensis), kudyapa (Amaranthus spinosus), saging-saging (Canna coccinea) and ubi (Dioscorea alata) were the most common. Of the 594 species recorded in Owac and Subayon, more than 90% have uses in one or more of seven categories: food (142), fodder (87), medicine (140), fuel (168), ornamental (141), spice (17) and timber (150). As expected, use for a species in any category may occur in more than one of the vegetation types in which it was found. Thus, food plants are not only elements of the natad, darohan and fallow variants, but also of the forest, sapa and marginal places. Of course, not all plants used in any particular category are of equal importance. Use, as discussed by Bates (1998), occurs in hierarchical patterns. Some species are of prime importance or what

700  Acebedo et al.

may be referred to as staples; others occur in supporting roles. Those of prime value collectively determine the basic outlines of agricultural systems. Hence, rice, maize and kamote are among the first-rank determinants of resource management in Owac and Subayon. Other species, such as ibjok (Arenga pinnata) and buli (Corypha elata) in long-term fallow and forest plots, are of secondary importance. Gradients ranking the relative importance of various species reflect the many factors – biological, agronomic, economic and social – that influence human choice of, and interaction with, resources in an ecosystem. Drawing on the individual and collective knowledge of the people of Owac and Subayon, the plant-resources survey documented the evolution of plant use through time and space in the two barangays. Degradation of soils, especially in baol, but also in the landscape generally, was attributed to many factors operating singly and interactively. Population growth, the effects of inheritance on land holdings, inequalities in wealth and other resources, ownership versus tenancy, labour supply and out-migration, government regulations, political unrest and poor management, among other factors were all identified as contributors to the current state of agriculture and life in Owac and Subayon. That state, however, is not a uniform or static one. Farmers have responded to the constraints placed on them by adapting their livelihood systems within the bounds of their own capacity and that of their tiny holdings. Notable among these responses has been the increased integration of trees into landscapes. Trees are being planted or nurtured as sources of diversified income; to increase farm productivity, for their ecological resilience, and to replace forest species sequestered by laws protecting native hardwood species in certain areas.While the plant-resources survey did not initiate this trend – farmers can take credit for that – it has reinforced it and given context to the movement. Participatory approaches designed to understand local farming practices and strategies, reconnaissance with local people to characterize their resources, in-field workshops and normal interviews generated information that was then shared by all. The faces of agroforestry in Owac and Subayon are highly variable. Simple agroforestry systems may reflect the natural regeneration of old fallows (i.e. lukat or tawid), or the selection and protection of desirable trees in baol where they mix with patches of annual crops. The value of these plots may be augmented by planting native and exotic trees. Historically, woody species such as coconuts and fruit trees were planted in rows along the borders of cultivated fields, or at the bases of mounds or hills, spaced to allow for annual crops. As mature coconut trees are harvested for lumber, they are being replaced with mahogany, gmelina or other species, which may be planted in discrete patches separate from annual crops. Planted individually or in linear, block or random arrangements, trees are gaining wider adoption, mainly at the expense of baol. Mahogany is heavily promoted and planted as a timber source, although its dense shade allows little understorey growth, especially in block plantings. Other tree species, both native and exotic, are seen as desirable for other purposes as well as for timber. Of the many possible species, farmers ranked 14 for their value in nine combined-

Chapter 36. Plant-resources survey and festival  701

use categories: lumber, food, fuel, medicine, erosion control, fertilizer, shade, fodder and others. They placed ipil-ipil (Leucaena leucocephala) at the top, followed in order of decreasing rank by madre de cacao (Gliricidia sepium), narra (Pterocarpus indicus), acacia (Albizia saman), tugas (Vitex parviflora), mahogany (Swietenia macrophylla), anislag (Securinega flexuosa), bagalunga (Melia dubia), maksa (Salix tetrasperma), lagnob (Ficus septica), Gliricidia sepium (Jacq.) Walp. [Leguminosae] gmelina (Gmelina arborea), One of the most highly valued multi-purpose hambabawod (Neonauclea legume trees in the central Philippines, where calycina), barit (Erioglossum it is known as madre de cacao, this tree is rubiginosum) and bajong nurtured in agroforestry systems around the (Afzelia rhomboidea). Of 25 world tree species grown principally for their fruit, but also for other uses, 10 were ranked as the most favoured: lubi or coconut (Cocos nucifera), santol (Sandoricum koetjape), kaimito (Chrysophyllum cainito), manga or mango (Mangifera indica), sambag (Tamarindus indica), bayabas (Psidium guajava), lumboy (Syzygium cumini), nangka or jackfruit (Artocarpus heterophyllus), limonsito (x Citrofortunella mitis) and suwa/biyasong or pomelo (Citrus grandis). Given the diversity of landforms and land holdings in Owac and Subayon and other variables affecting farmers’ management strategies, the response to promotion of agroforestry is likewise variable. On the other hand, farmers with land parcels located in the national park or the reforestation zone of the Loboc watershed give low priority to tree culture except in the immediate vicinity of their houses. In the protected areas, maintaining open fields serves to draw clear boundaries between government-sponsored projects and farmers’ plots. However, in general, farmers see the further integration of trees into the landscape as a positive step. They are eager to more closely integrate trees with crops, to increase the number of products and land uses per plot. The plant-resources festival

The festival was not planned at the beginning of the plant-resources survey. Rather, it emerged as the culmination of the survey. The people of Owac and Subayon were

702  Acebedo et al.

eager to share what they had learned from their research with the residents of other barangays and the wider Bilar community. Most importantly, they wanted to show the richness of plant resources in their area and demonstrate the uses for the plants, as well as expressing their appreciation for the opportunity to participate in the research and to promote local ecotourism. With these thoughts in mind, the local people suggested a festival involving the entire municipality of Bilar. The research committee formed for the survey became the festival’s organizing group. The idea was proposed to the municipal Albizia saman (Jacq.) Merr. [Leguminosae] government and to faculties of the local Bohol Agricultural Known locally simply as acacia, this species is high on the list of multi-purpose trees in the College. Eventually, active study area, where it has many uses collaboration extended to a variety of other organizations, among them the management of the National Park, the agricultural department, local individuals, students, people’s organizations, NGOs and even the provincial government of Bohol. The research committee expanded to include barangay captains, leaders of the participating groups or exhibitors, the local government units of Bilar, student and faculty representatives from the college, and your authors, V. A. and L. F. Acebedo. This body was responsible for developing guidelines and a programme of activities. Subcommittees were formed to attend to innumerable details. And since the festival was to be a celebration, each participating group was asked to prepare food for potluck, to be enjoyed as lunch on the day of the festival. Funding for the festival came from a number of sources.The provincial government of Bohol, through the offices of the Governor and the Vice Governor, and Cornell University, through the Cornell Institute for Food Agriculture and Development (CIFAD) and its Conservation Farming in the Tropical Uplands programme, were the major donors. Other community organizations and offices in the province also gave financial support and donated prizes.

Chapter 36. Plant-resources survey and festival  703

Participating groups and exhibitors

A model for the plant-resources festival was found in Bilar’s annual agri-fairs, which are branded as ‘achievement days’; farmers have the opportunity to display and promote products from their farms. The agri-fairs have booths or display centres, novelty games and competitions, demonstrations and judging to select the most noteworthy exhibitors. The plant-resources festival had all of these features. But it was unique in its local initiation and management, and particularly in its motivation: knowledge and education about local plant resources and their conservation. Preparation for and conduct of the festival involved men, women and children. Available household members voluntarily joined in the acquisition of materials for building booths, the collection of products and the display of exhibits. Men were involved in such heavy activities as the acquisition of timber, bamboo, vines and other forest products, while women and children took the materials to the festival grounds. Men, women and children were jointly responsible for planning and choreographing the booths and displays. They were led, in general, by those with higher educational backgrounds. The festival had 21 groups of exhibitors: nine neighbourhoods, seven barangays, the Rajah Sikatuna National Park and four student organizations. Each of the groups spent about a week preparing exhibits and building display centres on the grounds in front of the Bohol Agricultural College.The festival also attracted representatives from the government offices of Bilar, the Agricultural Training Institute, the Department of Environment and Natural Resources, five non-profit organizations and a number of business operators in Bilar and the provincial capital, Tagbilaran. It was also attended by officials of the Philippine Rice Research Institute, World Neighbors and the Bohol Conservation Society, as well as schoolchildren and teachers from different barangays, high-school students, teachers and parents from adjacent municipalities, residents from all parts of Bohol and some guests from the neighbouring island of Cebu. Although it is a tradition in the Philippines to cut ribbons to open such events, the ‘barrier’ that was breached at the opening of the plantresources festival was made from vines that were mounted at the entrance to emphasize the plant and plant-products themes (Figure 36.2). Small booths were arranged around the one-hectare front lawn of the Bohol Agricultural College FIGURE 36.2  Provincial and local officials open the to depict a miniature map of plant-resources festival by cutting not a ribbon, but Bilar. These were constructed vines across the entrance by participating exhibitors and

704  Acebedo et al.

functioned as display centres, interspersed among creatively arranged exhibits of plants and products. The booths were made of locally harvested lowcost materials, mainly bamboo, banana leaves and bracts, coconut leaves and lumber, palm leaves and branches, leaves of various forest and fruit trees, rice straw, vines, grasses and different wild plants for walls, FIGURE 36.3  One of the most popular booths at roofs and fences (Figure 36.3). The opening programme the festival was made by Purok (neighbourhood) 3, barangay Subayon. Constructed from large tree leaves featured nature themes to and bamboo, the booth depicted a rural home and set the tone and purpose home garden with more than 100 plant species of the festival. There were contests to determine the best booths and quality and diversity of plant displays, games and contests to integrate elements of fun, and prizes and messages of appreciation for participating groups. Games and contests included the best attendance by a purok (neighbourhood), peeling the coconut, identification of plant species, seeds, pests and diseases, identification of fertilizers commonly used for economic FIGURE 36.4  An entry in the festival’s ‘biggest product’ competition gets an enthusiastic introduction to judges plants, baking and sewing. The and onlookers most exciting contests were for the biggest, longest and smallest products, including gourds, beans, coconuts, bananas, seeds, and many more (Figure 36.4). Suspense was introduced as competitors revealed their entries only at the time of judging. Although nearly 600 species were collected and identified during the plantresources survey, it was not possible to put them all on display, and only the more common were displayed at the festival grounds.Yet one exhibit displayed about 400 species of trees, shrubs, grasses, herbs and other plants (Figure 36.5). Exhibits of candies, pastries and breads fashioned from flowers, fruits and seeds used between 12 and 140 species. The displays were judged according to plant diversity, creativity,

Chapter 36. Plant-resources survey and festival  705

design and art.Villa Aurora took a place among the winners by displaying 350 plant species creatively arranged as an ideal home yard, along with 112 plant products. Puroks four and six of Barangay Subayon were among others cited for excellence. A students’ exhibit, fashioned as an above-ground cave with 357 plants on display, scored highest in all categories and was given a special recognition award.

FIGURE 36.5  Youngsters

learn about the medicinal

qualities of local plants

Values

The plant-resources festival and the survey leading up to it, provided individuals and their communities with a wide range of values. Some were educational, others social or recreational. They are perhaps best viewed as integrated experiences that resulted in an expanded knowledge and appreciation of the biodiversity of Bilar, a positive mindset among local people concerning the conservation and wise use of natural resources, and an awareness of the intimate connections and parallels between natural and human-managed ecosystems. While the plant-resources festival played an important role in the participatory aspects of the research programme, it also served other objectives. At the localgovernment level, the municipal staff of Bilar learned how to conduct a participatory resources inventory, how to identify plants aiding good human nutrition for the sake of the municipality’s nutrition programme, demonstrated a ‘shared responsibility’ approach to partnership, supported local initiatives, provided a venue for people to discuss environmental conservation and promoted local ecotourism. Faculties of the Bohol Agricultural College, which are engaged in research and extension, were able to identify social, economic and political problems associated with management of natural resources; experience multi-organizational management of outdoor activities and learn how to integrate with communities and become involved in collaborative and partnership activities. Students from the College and the municipality were able to focus the activities of the Future Farmers of the Philippines and the Future Agricultural Homemakers of the Philippines in innovative ways. They were able to mingle and interact with famers and community members and experience community-wide engagement. While the plant-resources festival was conceived as an educational event, its recreational and social aspects were ultimately recognized as being equally important. Camaraderie, entrepreneurship, competition and fun were integral to the festival. As well as the display of different plant species and plant-based products, which was the

706  Acebedo et al.

main focus of the festival, games and contests enhanced the enjoyment of students, local people, visitors and exhibitors. The attendance contest, individuals husking coconuts with their teeth in a bid to become the ‘Buko (green coconut) King’, and competitions for the biggest, smallest or longest plants or agricultural products, all generated a common excitement. The activities were created by different organizing groups, whose members joined in with wholehearted delight. Generally speaking, the plant-resources festival encouraged socialization because it included in all of its activities a large proportion of the people of the different barangays or communities it served. Although there were certain limitations in regard to both the locality and different plants and products, the festival was able to appeal to the personal interests of every participant and visitor, no matter what age, gender or social class. It was an enterprise in which organizers and residents were able to unite. The common interests of the local people were expressed in camaraderie, community fellowship, consciousness of social responsibilities and recognition of individual and social needs.The festival necessitated meetings of people, construction of booths and choreographing of exhibits. Neighbours worked with neighbours to plan and arrange, so the circumstances and conditions under which specimens were collected became more or less common knowledge. Nevertheless, shared interests did not diminish recognition of individual and community achievement, not only in the competitions and displays, but also as expressions of increased knowledge of, and concern for, Bilar’s biodiversity. The plant-resources festival and the floristic survey leading to it demonstrated that indigenous farming families and communities have a strong interest in preserving their natural and agricultural environments, and they are responsive to innovative approaches to conservation. Furthermore, they are willing, even eager, to form partnerships with outside researchers to conduct studies that may help to achieve those ends. The plant-resources festival provided a climactic focus to the discovery and learning that was part of the survey. Just as important, the festival provided an opportunity to fully integrate social and recreational aspects into the research process. This not only made it more attractive and effective, but also created a model for similar resource evaluations that might be held elsewhere. Finally, the plant-resource festival was a way for the people of Bilar to celebrate their own achievements. Not only did they discover an ability to conduct an effective research programme by learning and teaching together, but they also created an inventory of local plant resources and products, assumed leadership roles in planning and managing the festival, and amazed themselves with the artistry of their creations. Acknowledgements

We acknowledge with heartfelt thanks the many individuals and organizations that provided material and financial support for the many aspects of the plant-resources festival. Most importantly, we thank the people of Owac and Subayon and other parts

Chapter 36. Plant-resources survey and festival  707

of Bilar who were committed to and actively participated in the biodiversity survey and its exciting festival. References Acebedo, L. F. (1999) ‘Understanding community-based natural resource management in Bohol, Philippines: A participatory and gender-sensitive approach’, MPS (Agric) paper, Cornell University, Ithaca, NY Acebedo,V. A. (1999) ‘Participatory analysis of plant resource management on Bohol, Philippines’, PhD dissertation, Cornell University, Ithaca, NY Bates, D. M. (1998) ‘Ethnobotanical perspectives of agroforestry’, in L. E. Buck, J. P. Lassoie and E. C. M. Fernandes (eds) Agroforestry in Sustainable Agricultural Systems, CRC Press LLC, Lewis Publishers, Boca Raton, FL, pp339-359 Bates, D. M. and Tucker, T. W. (2001) ‘Biodiversity: Evolving paradigms for rural community development’, in G. Lawrence, V. Higgins and S. Lockie (eds) Environment, Society and Natural Resource Management, Edward Elgar, Cheltenham, UK, and Northampton, MA, pp175-184 Bates, D. M., Tucker, T. W. and Jackson, J. R. B. (2003) ‘Building bridges for sustainable development: Conservation farming in the tropical uplands’, in R. C. Serrano and R. T. Aggangan (eds) Sustaining Upland Development in Southeast Asia, PCARRD, Los Baños, Laguna, Philippines, pp77-90 Cairns, M. F. (ed.) (2007) Voices from the Forest: Integrating Indigenous Knowledge into Sustainable Upland Farming, Resources for the Future Press, Washington, DC Carlson, T. J. S. and Maffi, L. (eds) (2004) Ethnobotany and Conservation of Biocultural Diversity (Advances in Economic Botany, vol. 15), New York Botanical Garden Press, Bronx, NY Howard, P. L. (ed.) (2003) Women and Plants: Gender Relations in Biodiversity Management and Conservation, Zed Books, London Kuchler, A. W. and Zonneveld, I. S. (1988) ‘Floristic analysis and vegetation’, in A. W. Kuchler and I. S. Zonneveld (eds) Vegetation Mapping, Kluwer, Dordrecht, Netherlands Milan, P. P. and Margraf, J. (1992) ‘Land-use management towards increased biodiversity of ecosystems’, in Proceedings, Workshop on Indigenous Knowledge and Sustainable Development, International Institute of Rural Reconstruction, Silang, Cavite, Philippines

37 DEVELOPING INFORMATION SYSTEMS ON INDIGENOUS PLANT RESOURCES In the Cordillera Administrative Region, Philippines Damasa B. Magcale-Macandog, Edwin R. Abucay, Lorenza G. Lirio, Lito O. Ayyokad, Joyce N. Paing, Jovita E. Saguibo, Enesto T. Miguel and Marlyn Tombali*

Introduction

Informal forms of knowledge such as ethnomusicology, ethnomathematics and indigenous science generally pertain to the wider field known as indigenous knowledge (Hortsthemke, 2008). Moreover, indigenous science covers broad areas like ethnomedicine and ethnobotany. Odora Hoppers (2005) argued that this knowledge was commonly linked to culture in the form of rituals, songs, dances, medicinal knowledge, food preservation and conservation and agricultural practices. In general terms, indigenous knowledge covers local, traditional and indigenous practices and customs (Hortsthemke, 2008). Indigenous-knowledge systems refer to unique, traditional local knowledge existing within and developed around specific conditions indigenous to a particular geographic area. It was defined by Rajasekaran et al. (1992) and Tella (2007) as a systematic body of knowledge acquired by local people through accumulation of experiences, informal experiments and an intimate understanding of the environment of a given culture. Appiah-Opoku (1999) noted that indigenous-knowledge systems included a system of classification and a system of self-management that governed resource use. Indigenous knowledge is the basic component of a country’s knowledge system and represents the successful ways in

* 

Professor Damasa B. Magcale-Macandog, Institute of Biological Science, College of Arts and Sciences, University of the Philippines, Los Baños; Assistant Professor Edwin R. Abucay, College of Human Ecology, University of the Philippines, Los Baños; Professor Lorenza G. Lirio, Department of Biology, College of Arts and Science, Benguet State University, La Trinidad, Benguet; Lito O. Ayyokad, project assistant and Joyce N. Paing, instructor, both from the Department of Biology, College of Arts and Science, Benguet State University, La Trinidad, Benguet; Professor Jovita E. Saguibo and Professor Enesto T. Miguel, both from Kalinga-Apayao State College, Tabuk, Kalinga; Marlyn Tombali, a PhD student from Kalinga-Apayao State College, Tabuk, Kalinga.

Chapter 37. Developing information systems  709

which people have dealt with their environment in the past (Puffer, 1995). It is holistic and a basis for self-sufficiency and self-determination. Moreover, it reflects the dynamics of the interrelationship between humans and their environment, in organizing the folk knowledge of flora and fauna and cultural beliefs, to improve their lives (Semali and Kincheloe, 1999). Indigenous-knowledge systems are stored in people’s memories and are shared orally by specific example and culture (Tella, 2007). Indigenous knowledge is expressed in many forms, such as folktales, songs, dances, cultural beliefs and values and customary laws, among others. These forms of communication are important in decision-making processes at a local level, and in the development and promotion of indigenous-knowledge systems (Tella, 2007). These systems are essential for their contribution to global development of knowledge, as well as for the problem-solving strategies of local communities. In a broader sense, they diminish the risk of becoming extinct; they are relevant to any development process, and they are resources that are generally underutilized (Tella, 2007). In contrast to formal scientific knowledge, indigenous-knowledge systems are holistic in approach, communicated orally, taught by experience and observation and explained on a basis of social values and cultural beliefs. For any development project to succeed, the indigenous-knowledge system of a given community is crucial, as it serves as a knowledge base prior to project implementation. Proper documentation of these indigenous-knowledge systems is very limited and quite fragmented. The recording and documentation of an indigenous-knowledge system is a major challenge because of its tacit nature.This knowledge is commonly exchanged through personal communication and demonstration: from master to apprentice, from parents to children, from neighbour to neighbour. Tacit knowledge has to be converted into explicit form by using special methods like story-telling, interactive conversations, sharing experiences and face-to-face communication. Both traditional and modern documentation tools can be used, depending on their availability and the situation. Modern tools include digital audio and video recorders and digital cameras, whereas tape narration, drawings, illustrations and field interviews are traditional tools and approaches (Tella, 2007). Bioinformatics, an interdisciplinary research area that brings together a diverse group of researchers in biological sciences, agriculture, physical sciences, computer science and engineering, has now grown to include the use of computing science to organize, compare and analyse biological data generated at all levels, from the molecular level (molecular biology and biochemistry) to the macro level (population genetics, ecosystem services). It has tremendous applications in medical research, plant and animal diseases, agricultural research and natural-resource management. As an interdisciplinary research area combining biological sciences, agriculture, physical sciences and computer science, bioinformatics can be used to manage indigenousknowledge systems. It enhances access, sharing and conservation of knowledge (Muswazi, 2001). Information-and-communication-technology (ICT) tools such as the Internet and databases can be used to organize and manage information and data

710  Magcale-Macandog et al.

from indigenous-knowledge systems and to disseminate this knowledge around the world and across vast distances. ICT can also uplift the presentation of indigenousknowledge systems by promoting farmers’ success stories and best practices. However, in communities where there is no access to the Internet, radio and television broadcasts in local dialects can help to disseminate indigenous-knowledge systems (Tella, 2007). Brochures, flyers and story books translated into local dialects are among other means of extending these systems to assist stakeholders and other upland communities. This study concerns an attempt to organize information and knowledge on indigenous plants that are used for various purposes in the Cordillera Administrative Region of the Philippines, by applying bioinformatics through the development of a database information system. Scope and limitations of the study

The data and information sources in this study include published literature, ethnobotanical studies, theses, manuscripts and project reports, among other documents located in the libraries and archives of state colleges and universities in a desk literature search. Field visits, key-informant interviews and focus-group discussions conducted at selected case-study sites in the provinces of Benguet, Kalinga and Ifugao served to cross-validate data gathered and the information contained in the database information system. The listing of documented indigenous-plant resources covers only the Cordillera Region. Methodology The study site

The Cordillera is a landlocked region in the central part of northern Luzon, Philippines, geographically located at 120° 57’ 0’’ east longitude and 17° 19’ 60’’ north latitude, with a total land area of 18,300sq km (Figure 37.1). It is considered to be a major resource base for the Philippines as it is one of the country’s richest regions in terms of natural resources and mineral reserves (Cordillera People’s Alliance, 2006). Metallic ores found in this region include gold, copper, silver and zinc, and reserves of non-metallic minerals such as sand, gravel and sulphur are also exploited (eTravel Pilipinas, n.d.). The region has rugged terrain and mountainous topography. About half of its total land area has a slope of more than 50 per cent (National Power Corporation, 2006). The elevation of the region ranges from a minimum of 5m above sea level at Abra to a maximum of 2,922m asl at Mt Pulag, Benguet (Department of Tourism, 2011). There are two climatic types in the region. The first is characterized by a dry season from December to May and a wet season from June to November, and it covers most of Benguet, eastern Abra, Ifugao and Mountain provinces (Department of Tourism, 2011). The provinces of Apayao and Kalinga, along with parts of Ifugao and Mountain provinces and west Abra, have a short dry season of one to three

Chapter 37. Developing information systems  711

FIGURE 37.1 

The provinces of the Cordillera Administrative Region, northern Luzon, Philippines

months with no pronounced maximum rain period. The high-elevation areas of the region have a generally cooler climate than the lowlands. For example, the temperature at Baguio City, in Benguet Province, is about 8˚C cooler than lowland areas (Department of Tourism, 2011). Documentation process

There were two stages in the documentation (Figure 37.2). The first involved the gathering of secondary data from existing literature, located through a desk search; a literature survey in the libraries and departments of state colleges and universities in the study area; and scrutiny of past and existing studies and project reports. Second, key-informant interviews were conducted with selected local farmers and others in Benguet, Kalinga and Ifugao provinces. Key informants were chosen for their knowledge of indigenous-plant species and their various uses. We defined indigenous plants as being native to a specific area of the country (Byrne, 2005) and growing in

712  Magcale-Macandog et al.

a particular region, having arrived naturally, i.e. without human intervention (Yahoo! Answers, UK and Ireland, 2010). Field visits to selected areas of the study sites during key-informant interviews helped to cross-validate gathered data. In the process of the literature survey, the following uses for indigenous plants were identified: (1) organic farming; (2) sustainable indigenous farming; (3) food and food supplements; (4) cultural practices; (5) construction and livelihood; (6) ornamentals, gardening and landscaping; and (7) community healthcare. Development and management of the database information system

Open-source tools were employed in the development of the database information system (Figure 37.2). In line with this, a website was developed to serve as a portal for online publication of the system. The general-purpose server-side scripting language PHP was used in the front end while MySQL – the world’s most popular open-source relational database-management system – was used for the back end. Cascading Style Sheets (CSS) and JavaScript were used for the website and database information system interface. The content of the database information system was subjected to cross-validation (after the field visits) and the data were cleaned to remove duplicate entries and those with insufficient descriptions. Then, the final database information system was published.

FIGURE 37.2 

Methodological framework of the study

Chapter 37. Developing information systems  713

Data analysis

The information gathered by the project was mainly qualitative in nature. Descriptive statistics were used to analyse and present the data. Results and discussion Project information system (website and database)

The Internet is a valuable tool for publishing information around the world and to different countries with varying cultures and knowledge systems. Thus, the project website, www.infosys.ecoinfolab.com, was developed to promote and disseminate indigenous knowledge on natural-resource management, using an organized indigenous-plant database system. The database information system, www.infosys. ecoinfolab.com/database.html, was developed as a framework to organize the documentation of indigenous plants used for different purposes in the Cordillera Administrative Region. Its concept and design were based on the project’s objectives and the structure of information received from secondary sources and key-informant interviews. Seven key areas of documentation served as separate MySQL database tables of indigenous plants in the Cordilleras. Each database table consisted of species name, local or common name(s), a photograph, family, distribution, site description (e.g. topography, soil type and climate), a description of its uses and sources of data as a reference. With the availability of open-source tools on the Web and the database (e.g. Joomla!, PHP, MySQL) and the right expertise, development and integration was relatively simple. At the time, there were no other online databases on indigenous plants available in the Philippines. If they already existed, they were available only at government or organizational level. Most often, this type of information is stored in library archives, project reports and manuscripts. Website and online databases can also be searched using popular Web-based search engines such as Google and Yahoo! Search engines provide the tools with which students, researchers, environmentalists and others can study indigenous-knowledge systems related to indigenous plants and natural-resource management. However, caution must be taken with indigenous plants located in national parks or in areas of biodiversity crisis – particularly those plants used in community healthcare – to avoid exploration and exploitation by profit-oriented enterprises. Use of indigenous-plant resources in the region

The results showed that of those indigenous-plant species identified as having uses, the largest number were used as food, as a source of food, or as a food ingredient (Figure 37.3). In total, 305 different uses of indigenous plants were identified.Thirteen were in indigenous-farming systems; five in organic-farming systems, 93 were in the food category; 62 in construction and livelihood; 17 had ornamental uses in

714  Magcale-Macandog et al.

FIGURE 37.3 

Total number of indigenous-plant species in the Cordilleras contained in the Infososys database information system

landscaping and gardening; 30 in local cultural practices; and 85 were in community healthcare. Later, it was discovered that many of the plants had multiple uses, and although 305 uses had been identified, these involved only 167 individual indigenous-plant species. In other words, out of the 305 uses for various plant species, 232 of them were cases of multiple uses. As shown in Figure 37.4, multi-purpose indigenous plants were mainly those used in community healthcare (27.16%) and food and food supplements (26.29%). A significant percentage of these indigenous plants were also of importance to construction and livelihood (19.83%) while only about 2% were used in organic-farming systems, either as organic fertilizer or as a natural pesticide.

FIGURE 37.4 

Frequency of multi-purpose indigenous-plant species in the Cordillera region

Chapter 37. Developing information systems  715

FIGURE 37.5 

Growth habits of the 167 indigenous-plant species in the Cordillera region

Of the 167 indigenous-plant species with identified uses, about 40% were trees, while 25% and 22% were shrubs and herbs, respectively (Figure 37.5). The remaining species were palms (4.79%), vines (3.79%), grasses (2.99%) and ferns (1.80%). About 32 indigenous-plant species had between three and five different uses (Table 37.1).The most commonly used multi-purpose indigenous plant was Bischofia javanica (Blume), followed by Caryota rumphiana, Garcinia mangostana, Erythrina orientalis L. Meril, Pinus kesiya Royle Ex. Gordon, Wrightia pubescens R. Br. spp. laniti (Blanco) Ngan, Mangifera altissima L., Lagerstroemia speciosa, Miscanthus sinensis, Ficus balite Merr., and Pterocarpus indicus. All of these plant species were regarded as important in house construction, livelihood, healthcare and cultural practices. Organic farming

Organic agriculture is a production system that aims to sustain the health of the soil, the ecosystem and people. It relies on techniques such as crop rotation, green manure, compost and biological pest control to maintain soil productivity and control farm pests. Organic farming excludes the use of manufactured inorganic fertilizers, pesticides, plant-growth regulators, antibiotics, food additives and genetically modified organisms. The system relies on ecological processes, biodiversity and cycles adapted to local conditions (Wikipedia, 2011). Tithonia diversifolia (wild sunflower, or lampaw) is used as an organic fertilizer in the Cordilleras, particularly in vegetable and rice farming. In rice farming, a system known as tapak-tapak uses sunflower as a major organic fertilizer (Magcale-Macandog and Ocampo, 2005). The abundant growth of sunflower in Benguet, particularly in LaTrinidad, may explain its use as an organic fertilizer in vegetable production. Bischofia javanica (tuai) is used in Kalinga and central Cordillera as green manure for rice farming

Anacardiaceae Thymelaeceae Poaceae

pal1O, pahutan, malarnanga, pau, appau banaba, ganaba

japanese silver grass, rnaiden grass/ stick, 11mo, pao, galladaw/ segbat, sapsap7labilib/dabidab, fululung, pao mno

balete, baliti, cobal, puspos nand, Philippine Rosewood, taggay aoee, sahhay

9 Miscandllls sinensis

10 Ficus halite MelT.

12 Albizia proceccl (Roxb.) Bendl. ahlar, adaan, kalai 13 BambuSd bllUlleana kauayan t:inik anabiong, arandong, anardong, hubudos, 14 Tremd OlienCcws L. BIUlTle lanai 15 Ficus pseudopalmd niogniogan, adiagi, kadiabUllg, taldbang

11 Pterocalpus indiazsl Vldalianus

6 Wlia:htia El:lb=ens R . Br. spp lama (1:5lanco) Ngan

5 Pinus kesiya Royle Ex. Gordon

Tree Shmb Tree Tree

MOldceae

Tree Tree

Grass

Tree Tree

Tree

Tree

Tree

Tree Pahn Tree

Crowd1 habit

LegUlninosae Poaceae Celtidaceae

Moraceae Fabaceae

Apocynaceae

Pinaceae

Moraceae

7 Mangi£era altissima L. 8 Lagerstluenlia speciosa

Calyota rlUllplliana

dapdap, bubug, sabbang, sablang, kabkab, sabrang and gabgab wamng (pine tree), vfOlvfor, bolbol, halong, saleng, salong, batang, vfatang, velver, fatang laneta, lanoti

2

3 Carcinia mangostana

EuphOlbiaceae Pahnae Moraceae

Family

4 Elydllina Olientalis L. Melil

Commonllocal name (s)

tuai, tu-wor, tu-wol, tuwirl, tuwel, towe takipan, bangi, banaue nut mangosteen (wild), bili, bulon

Species name

1 Bischofia javanica (BIUlne)

22

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TABLE 37.1 Top multi-pUlpose indigenous plant resomces in dle Cordillera region

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