Indigenous peoples and conservation organizations

Indigenous Peoples and Conservation Organizations

Experiences in Collaboration

Indigenous Peoples andConservation Organizations

Experiences in Collaboration

Ron Weber, John Butler, and Patty Larson, Editors

February 2000

Support for this publication was provided by the Biodiversity Support Program, the Ford Foundation, andWorld Wildlife Fund.

The Biodiversity Support Program (BSP) is a consortium of World Wildlife Fund, The NatureConservancy, and World Resources Institute, funded by the United States Agency for InternationalDevelopment (USAID). This publication was made possible through support provided to BSP by theGlobal Bureau of USAID, under the terms of Cooperative Agreement Number DHR-5554-A-00-8044-00.The opinions expressed herein are those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the views of USAID.

Typography and layout by Williams Production Group

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments iv

Preface v

Part One: Introduction

Chapter 1 Conservation and Indigenous Peoples 3

Chapter 2 Conservation Partnerships with Indigenous Peoples 7

Part Two: Case Studies

Chapter 3 Indigenous Federations and the Market:The Runa of Napo, Ecuador Dominique Irvine 21

Chapter 4 Lessons in Collaboration: The Xavante/WWF Wildlife Management Project in Central Brazil Laura R. Graham 47

Chapter 5 Holding On to the Land: The Long Journey of the Sirionó Indians of Eastern Lowland Bolivia Wendy R. Townsend 73

Chapter 6 WWF’s Partnership with the Foi of Lake Kutubu,Papua New Guinea Joe Regis 91

Chapter 7 Environmental Governance: Lessons from the Ju/’hoan Bushmen in Northeastern Namibia Barbara Wyckoff-Baird 113

Part Three: Conclusions

Chapter 8 Signposts for the Road Ahead 139

Contributors 147

Annex. Indigenous Peoples and Conservation: WWF Statement of Principles 149

AcknowledgmentsThe editors would like to thank the case study authors, whose work forms the core of this book, fortheir dedication to carefully documenting project experiences so that others can learn from them.Thanks also go to participants in WWF’s 1998 workshop on collaboration with indigenous peoples forsharing their firsthand knowledge to help identify approaches to effective collaboration. This bookwould not have come to fruition without the long-term commitment, advice, and contributions of JanisAlcorn, Bronwen Golder, Gonzalo Oviedo, Femy Pinto, Kirsten Silvius, Stephanie Thullen, MargaretWilliams, Diane Wood, and Sejal Worah. Special appreciation goes to Barbara Wyckoff-Baird, whocoordinated the development of the case studies and played a lead role in designing the 1998 workshop.Last, but not least, we thank the initiative’s funders—the Ford Foundation; Peoples, Forests and Reefs,a USAID-funded program of the Biodiversity Support Program; and World Wildlife Fund—for seeingthe importance of sharing lessons and guidelines for improving collaborative efforts between conserva-tion organizations and indigenous peoples.

iv

v

Preface Each day, more and more of the world’s species are losing their toeholds on the future. As cities andagricultural lands spread, wildlife habitats are increasingly enveloped and erased by the expanding ringsof modern human activity. At the margins of these circles of change, in the last remaining remnants oftropical forests, grasslands, and pristine coasts, live isolated peoples with traditional ties to their landsand waters. Indigenous people inhabit over 85 percent of the world’s protected areas. New proposedprotected areas almost invariably include areas claimed as indigenous territories. In some countries,more biodiversity is found in indigenous reserves than in nature preserves. And so it is that, at the end ofthe twentieth century, conservationists are urgently seeking ways to collaborate with indigenous peoplesto preserve biodiversity and expand wildlife habitats for the future.

Conservationists have found that such collaboration is not always easy—either locally at the level ofcommunities or regionally at the level of federations. Collaboration remains a work in progress.Indigenous groups are suspicious that conservationists intend to alienate their lands from them. Whiletraditional resource management and value systems generally support conservation objectives, indige-nous communities often lack people with expertise for monitoring biodiversity levels and planning landuse that is compatible with habitat maintenance. They sometimes lack the organizational capacity tointeract with outsiders or to manage project funds. They face multiple problems that accompany mod-ernization. They usually have very little political weight at the national level and are sometimes viewedas troublemakers by national governments. At the international level, however, indigenous peoples areincreasingly asserting their right to be recognized as conservation partners, and conservation NGOsincreasingly find indigenous interests represented in stakeholder groups.

There is a critical need to strengthen the ability and rights of indigenous peoples to manage biodiversityand find productive avenues for working with conservation NGOs. Donors increasingly recognize thisand are responding by providing technical assistance to indigenous resource managers, strengthening thecapacity of indigenous groups to communicate effectively with outside NGOs and government agencies,and supporting appropriate policy reforms. Yet insufficient attention has been paid to sharing the lessonsNGOs have learned from their efforts to collaborate with indigenous peoples.

World Wildlife Fund’s (WWF) project experiences can provide lessons for all conservation groups, andfoster a broader understanding of the implications of applying WWF’s 1996 statement of principles forworking with indigenous peoples. While the case studies in this volume review efforts designed withmore limited objectives than the new ecoregional initiatives WWF is moving toward, the lessons aboutcollaboration with indigenous communities remain valid. And while the meaning of indigenous differsin Asia, Africa, and Latin America, and the degree of self-identification as indigenous peoples varieswithin regions, the general lessons and insights from WWF field experiences can be applied globally inall types of conservation initiatives involving marginalized ethnic minorities.

I hope that the lessons from this first-ever review of WWF’s engagement with indigenous communitieswill be widely read, and integrated into the operational guidelines of conservation organizations andagencies around the world.

Janis B. AlcornDirector, Peoples, Forests & Reefs ProgramBiodiversity Support Program, Washington, D.C.

PART ONE: INTRODUCTION

In The Diversity of Life, biologist Edward O.Wilson notes that five cataclysmic “spasms ofextinction” from meteorite collisions, climaticchanges, and other natural events have swept likescythes through the biosphere during the past 600million years. He postulates that a sixth greatcycle of extinction is now under way, this onecaused entirely by humans. Perhaps one-fifth ofthe world’s biodiversity will vanish by the year2020 if current trends persist.

Less well known is another cycle of extinctionsthat parallels the one presently sweeping throughthe biosphere. Traditional societies, with theirrich cultural heritage and historical link to nature,are vanishing at a rate unmatched in recordedhistory, and as many as half of those that remainare expected to disappear in the first 100 years ofthe new millennium.

It only takes a glance at a map to show why con-servationists should be concerned—biodiversityand cultural diversity are highly correlated. Ifone uses language as an indicator of culturaldiversity, then six of the nine countries thataccount for 60 percent of all human languagesare also areas of biological “megadiversity”teeming with plant and animal species so numer-ous a multitude remains uncounted. In terms ofbiomass, tropical rain forests are known to be the

richest and most varied habitats on the planet.They are also the most culturally diverse regions,home to as many as half the world’s more than4,000 indigenous peoples.

This is significant because, until recently, mostof these peoples lived in relative harmony withtheir environments, using and managing theirresource bases sustainably. The environmentalalterations made by indigenous groups, such asthe Bentian Dayak rattan farmers ofKalimantaan, were so subtle, in fact, that out-siders have mistakenly presumed vast stretchesof the Earth to be wildernesses barren of humanpopulations. The movement to establishnational parks and reserves that began at theturn of the twentieth century was intended tokeep at least a representative portion of theseareas pristine, removed from human predationas the pace of technology and economic devel-opment accelerated. By the last quarter of thecentury it became clear in much of the worldthat this idea had serious flaws. Conser-vationists who persuaded the state to establishprotected areas found many of these victories tobe hollow. Government agencies often lackedeither the political will or the manpower, skills,and funding to defend park boundaries fromoutside encroachment.

CHAPTER 1Conservation and Indigenous Peoples

By the 1980s, some conservation organizationsbegan to develop new strategies designed to turnlocal communities into allies of park conserva-tion. Some approaches focused on creating ringsof low-intensity development around parks thatwould act as barriers to colonization by migrantfarmers who practiced slash-and-burn agriculture.Others focused on projects that more activelyinvolved local populations in managing wildlifeand other resources in ways that gave them a tan-gible stake in preserving habitat not only aroundbut in protected areas. Sustainable developmentthat merged income generation and conservationbecame a new watchword.

WWF published a book about its experiencesduring a decade of work with rural communitiesin integrated conservation and developmentprojects (Larson et al. 1996). Valuable lessonswere learned that are being applied in workingwith communities around the world. Yet thisfield experience also suggested that the ruralpoor are far from monolithic, varying not onlyfrom country to country, but within nationalborders. In fact, many of the projects involvedpopulations that were marginalized from themainstream by language and culture as well asclass and income. And it became increasinglyevident that these groups were not intruders towilderness ecosystems but integral parts ofthem. Indeed, in many places national reservesand parks had been carved out of their tradi-tional territories. Conservationists were in dan-ger of adding to the misery of the world’s mostdisenfranchised peoples. WWF responded bydrafting a policy statement respecting theintegrity and rights of traditional peoples andestablishing guidelines for its relations withthem (see Annex).

It became apparent that working with indigenouscommunities involves complex issues that posenew challenges but also open up new opportuni-ties. Indigenous peoples are in many ways moreorganized and better able to represent their owninterests and make their case to outsiders thanever before. Indigenous groups around the worldhave established more than a thousand grass-rootsorganizations to enhance their livelihoods andgain greater control of their land and resources(Hitchcock 1994). Many indigenous groups arepolitically active and play an important role in

influencing national and international environ-mental and sustainable development policies.

At the same time, these communities stand at acrossroads and confront an uncertain future. Ifmany indigenous groups once lived in relativebalance with their environments, that equation hasbeen severely disrupted. Indigenous peoples facemounting pressures from the outside as encroach-ment by agribusiness, by petroleum, mineral, andtimber combines, and by uprooted, landless farm-ers shrinks traditional territories. They also face agrowing internal challenge as their populationdensities increase and the market economy under-mines subsistence strategies and the cultural tradi-tions that supported them. Indigenous peoples arenot only in danger of losing their land but theidentity the land gave them. They are increas-ingly under pressure to augment rates of resourceextraction to unsustainable levels. If they resistdoing so, someone else is ready to argue for theright to do so—and the state, starved for funds, isoften more than ready to listen.

Indigenous groups that have maintained closecontact with the land know it well. Where cul-tures and traditional resource management prac-tices remain relatively intact, they often havemechanisms for dealing with resource scarcity orother changes in the natural resource base, buthave limited means for assessing the side effectsof new technologies or new kinds of exploitation.A potential role for conservation organizations isto help indigenous groups obtain relevant legal,scientific, and economic information, weigh theiroptions, and select strategies that are appropriate.This is more complicated than it seems, sincemany traditional peoples face the dual challengeof organizing themselves institutionally, first toclaim legal title to their land and second to man-age the land wisely.

In looking at the issue of conservation andindigenous peoples, two key questions emerge:What are the common concerns of conservationorganizations and indigenous peoples? How canthey collaborate effectively?

To better understand the issues involved, WWF’sLatin America and Caribbean Program (LAC)decided in 1996 to survey its experience workingwith indigenous peoples. From a decade offunding, 35 projects were identified that had atleast one component related to indigenous peo-

4 Conservation and Indigenous Peoples

ple. These projects ranged from efforts inMexico and Central America that involved theMaya, Miskito, and Kuna Indians, to efforts inSouth America with a wide variety of indigenousgroups in Brazil, Peru, Colombia, Ecuador,Chile, Argentina, and Bolivia.

The spectrum of project activities has been asbroad as the geographic distribution was wide.Support has been provided for training, educa-tional, and capacity-building efforts. Some proj-ects focused entirely on a specific issue ofinterest to an indigenous group, such as theXavante’s concern about declining wildlife popu-lations on their homeland in central Brazil.Other efforts, such as the Pacaya–Samiria projectin Peru, included indigenous people as stakehold-ers in larger integrated conservation and develop-ment projects. Over time, WWF gatheredexperience at working with indigenous organiza-tions that ranged in size from village associationsto regional federations, and national and eventransnational confederations. All of these proj-ects contributed to WWF’s growing understand-ing of the need for meaningful partnerships withindigenous peoples on conservation and naturalresource management at the community, national,and international levels.

In collaboration with WWF’s People andConservation Program, LAC decided to selectseveral case studies for in-depth review and aug-ment them with case studies from other areas ofthe globe to identify common processes and les-sons that could help guide future project activity.Respected experts in conservation and develop-ment who were closely involved with the com-munities and projects being profiled were askedto prepare the case studies. They were asked toexamine how conservation organizations collabo-rated with indigenous groups to develop a com-mon agenda and strengthen local capacity toimplement it, and how this process affected proj-ect results. A workshop brought together fieldstaff from four regional programs within WWFto discuss the studies and bring their own experi-ences to bear in analyzing issues that had beenspotlighted. An overview of the history and situ-ation of indigenous peoples worldwide, presentedat the workshop, is included here to provide acontextual lens that readers can use to bring indi-vidual cases into sharper focus.

The structure of this book mirrors the process ofits formation. The overview concludes Part One.Part Two contains the five case studies that formthe book’s core. Part Three discusses commonthemes and closes with a look ahead at how les-sons might be applied.

Although the sample of case studies is small,taken together they suggest how human cultureshave mirrored the richness and diversity of thenatural environments that helped shape them.Although they are from different parts of theworld and involve peoples who would have greatdifficulty speaking to one another directly, theexperiences in one locale often throw light onefforts in the other case studies to locally manageresources vital to community survival. Chapter 3examines an attempt to selectively harvest, plane,and market wood products for export byQuichua-speaking communities in an oil-richarea of the Ecuadorian Amazon. Chapter 4 pres-ents an effort in Brazil by outsiders and aWestern-educated Xavante leader to process andmarket native fruits, and contrasts it with a proj-ect to manage subsistence game harvests whichhas helped spark a cultural revival and engagethe broader community. Chapter 5 looks at theSirionó Indians of eastern Bolivia, who have bat-tled back from the verge of extinction to win aterritory, and now must develop a resource man-agement plan to hold on to it. Chapter 6 exam-ines how subsistence fisheries management istaking hold among the Foi people of LakeKutubu in Papua New Guinea (PNG), one of thecrown jewels of world biodiversity. Chapter 7explores how the Ju/’hoan Bushmen in northeast-ern Namibia are working with government plan-ners to adapt traditional resource managementsystems, invent new institutional structures, anddevelop ecotourism in the Kalahari Desert.

Readers should keep in mind two sets of issues.The first set is internal to indigenous groups andinvolves questions about cultural intactness, insti-tutional capacity, and the mix of subsistence andcash economies. Issues about land tenure andusage rights are central here. The second set ofissues is external and concerns the kind anddegree of involvement by outside actors. Two ofthe case studies, for example, involve nearbynational parks, but government policies in thetwo cases are polar opposites, shedding light on

Conservation and Indigenous Peoples 5

the difference it makes when the state encouragesrather than discourages community involvementin managing natural resources. Another exampleis petroleum development. In the case of Napo,Ecuador, local communities are scrambling tocope with the side effects of unbridled develop-ment by multinational firms in partnership withthe state. In PNG, a petroleum consortium is try-ing to minimize its intrusiveness and share thebenefits of newfound wealth with local commu-nities. One might also note the role that tenureplays in the two cases, since indigenous peoplesin PNG enjoy customary ownership and usagerights unparalleled in most areas of the world.

A final example is the role conservation organiza-tions, particularly WWF, played in these case stud-ies. In some, WWF was a peripheral collaboratorin a cobbled-together coalition. In others its goalwas to be an active partner. Sometimes, this dif-ference reflected a disparity in resources betweenpartners whose primary focus was socioeconomicdevelopment and those whose long-term focuswas conservation. Other times, it reflected wherea project fell on WWF’s learning curve. TheBrazil and Ecuador projects, for instance, datefrom WWF’s first experiences with community-based conservation and development, while theexamples from PNG and Namibia began later andbenefited from what was learned before.

Lessons from the case studies are also relevant tonew conservation contexts. During the past twoyears, WWF and other conservation organiza-tions have widened their focus to target conserva-tion resources on ecoregions—large geographicareas that contain tightly integrated sets ofecosystems and important ecological interactionsand evolutionary mechanisms that generate andmaintain species. The new strategy grows out ofheightened concern that successfully protectingisolated patches of wilderness and specificspecies is not enough to ward off acceleratingthreats to the planet’s biodiversity. A new scaleof thinking, planning, and acting is needed tomeet the scale of the biological challenge.Collaboration of diverse stakeholders is a pri-mary strategy for achieving these ambitious goals(Dinerstein et al. 1999). Examples of emergingpartnerships with indigenous peoples and otherissues involved in working at this larger scale areprovided in the conclusion.

ReferencesDinerstein, Eric, George Powell, David Olson,Eric Wikramanayake, Robin Abell, ColbyLoucks, Emma Underwood, Tom Allnut, WesWettengel, Taylor Ricketts, Neil Burgess, SheilaO’Connor, Holly Strand, and Melody Mobley.1999. Workbook for Conducting BiologicalAssessments and Developing Diversity Visionsfor Ecoregion-Based Conservation, Part I:Terrestrial Ecoregions. Washington, D.C.: WorldWildlife Fund.

Hitchcock, Robert K. 1994. EndangeredPeoples: Indigenous Rights and the Environment.Colorado Journal of International EnvironmentalLaw and Policy 5 (1):11.

Larson, Patricia S., Mark Freudenberger, andBarbara Wyckoff-Baird. 1996. WWF IntegratedConservation and Development Projects.Washington, D.C.: World Wildlife Fund.

Wilson, Edward O. 1992. The Diversity of Life.Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press.

6 Conservation and Indigenous Peoples

To form effective partnerships, one must knowone’s partners well. In the case of indigenouspeoples, this poses special problems. The popu-lations are so diverse and their marginalization sodeep in many cases that outsiders frequently lacka clear picture of whom exactly they are workingwith. This chapter reviews the terminology inorder to explain why these groups are importantto conservation of global biodiversity. It thenreviews the broader policy and programmaticcontext in which indigenous peoples and conser-vation organizations are interacting. It closes byexamining how WWF approaches its work withindigenous peoples, and profiles issues that otherconservation groups are likely to face as theytake on similar activities.

I. A Global Overview

1.1 Defining What Indigenous MeansGiven their diverse histories, cultures, andlocales, it is not surprising that no single termcompletely encompasses the people who are thefocus of this book. Officially, WWF uses thedefinition (or “statement of coverage”) of theInternational Labour Organization (ILO) inConvention 169—Concerning Indigenous andTribal Peoples in Independent Countries.1

According to ILO (1998):

The term indigenous refers to those who,while retaining totally or partially their tra-ditional languages, institutions, andlifestyles which distinguish them from thedominant society, occupied a particulararea before other population groupsarrived. This is a description which isvalid in North and South America, and insome areas of the Pacific. In most of theworld, however, there is very little distinc-tion between the time at which tribal andother traditional peoples arrived in theregion and the time at which other popula-tions arrived. In Africa, for instance, thereis no evidence to indicate that the Maasai,the Pygmies or the San (Bushmen),namely peoples who have distinct social,economic and cultural features, arrived inthe region they now inhabit long beforeother African populations. The same istrue in some parts of Asia. The ILO there-fore decided, when it first began workingintensively on these questions shortly afterWorld War II, that it should refer to indige-nous and tribal peoples. The intention wasto cover a social situation, rather than toestablish a priority based on whose ances-tors had arrived in a particular area first.In addition, the description of certain

CHAPTER 2Conservation Partnerships with

Indigenous Peoples

population groups as tribal is more easilyaccepted by some governments than adescription of those peoples as indigenous.

Another term that has become relevant for biodi-versity conservation since the Convention onBiological Diversity came into force is that of“local communities embodying traditionallifestyles,” or “traditional peoples” for short.This term has a socioeconomic as well as a cul-tural dimension. It usually implies a largely sub-sistence economy based on close ties to the land.

International organizations that are working withindigenous peoples, such as the UN WorkingGroup on Indigenous Populations, the WorldBank, and the European Union, have identifiedthe following characteristics of indigenous peo-ples relative to natural resource management:

• ancestral attachment to lands and resources;

• management of relatively large territoriesor areas;

• collective rights over resources;

• traditional systems of control, use, andmanagement of lands and resources;

• traditional institutions and leadershipstructures for self-governance and decision making;

• systems for benefit sharing;

• traditional ecological knowledge; and

• subsistence economies that are largely self-sufficient and rely on resource diversityrather than monocultures or simplifiedecosystems.

The question for conservation organizations iswhether these characteristics apply as well to tra-ditional rural peoples, mainly in Asia, Africa, andLatin America, who generally are not called ordon’t call themselves “indigenous.” In LatinAmerica, for example, this question can be askedabout Afro–Latin American groups like theMaroons of Suriname, the black communities ofthe Chocó forests, and the Garífunas of CentralAmerica. If, generally speaking, these groupsshare most of the characteristics listed above, anessential difference between traditional andindigenous peoples has been the latter’s claimedright to political self-determination, based on adistinct identity and culture and often on prioroccupation. This distinction, however, is also

blurring since traditional peoples often have dis-tinctive cultures that marginalize them frommainstream society, and many ethnolinguisticcommunities around the world are claiming theright to political self-determination.

In many cases, the primary difference betweenindigenous and traditional peoples may be one ofaboriginality to the place in question, particularlyin cases where colonialism has uprooted and dis-possessed indigenous peoples. Aboriginality, inmany legal systems, can be used to supportclaims to limited sovereignty, a right that theoccupying power sometimes has implicitlyacknowledged through the signing of treaties.Until recently, these rights have remained latent,and aboriginal peoples have faced a Hobson’schoice between cultural assimilation and remain-ing wards of the state. When indigenous peoplesare able to establish these rights legally, theyhave an important power that traditional peoplesoften lack: the power to say “no” to outsiders,whether they are conservationists or developers.

For WWF’s conservation work, the differencesbetween indigenous and traditional peoples arefar less important than the similarities. ThereforeWWF policies that refer to indigenous peoplesrefer also to tribal peoples, and by extension totraditional peoples.

1.2 Population Estimates and DistributionUsing ILO Convention 169’s definition, there aresome 300 million men, women, and childrenworldwide who can be called “indigenous andtribal” people living within the borders of inde-pendent nation states in North and South America,Northern Europe, Asia, Africa, and Oceania. Theland they occupy spans a wide geographical range,including the polar regions, northern and southerndeserts, and tropical savannas and forests.Indigenous peoples account for 4,000 to 5,000 ofthe nearly 7,000 spoken languages, representingmuch of humankind’s cultural diversity. Theyinclude groups as disparate as the Quechua fromBolivia, Ecuador, and Peru, who collectively num-ber more than 10 million people, and the tiny bandof Gurumalum in Papua New Guinea who numberfewer than 10 individuals (IUCN 1997, 30).

Although these groups account for only about 6percent of the world’s population (Hitchcock1994), they live in areas of vital importance to

8 Conservation Partnerships

Conservation Partnerships 9

conservationists. Alan Durning (1992) notes that“the vast majority of the world’s biological diver-sity ... is in landscapes and seascapes inhabitedand used by local peoples, mostly indigenous.”This is reflected in the correlation between lin-guistic diversity and biodiversity. Of the ninecountries that account for 60 percent of all humanlanguages, six are also centers of biodiversity thatcontain immense numbers of plant and animalspecies (see figure 2.1). Ten of the 12 megacen-ters for biodiversity listed in figure 2.1 can befound among the 25 countries containing thelargest numbers of endemic languages (see lists2.1 and 2.2). Bio-rich tropical rain forests arealso culturally diverse, containing about 2,000indigenous peoples, nearly half the world’s total.

Indigenous peoples are linked with the land theyoccupy through highly sophisticated resourcemanagement practices. Most “wildernesses,”especially those that currently are sparsely popu-lated, are not pristine (Gomez-Pompa and Kaus1992). Many seemingly untouched landscapes areactually cultural landscapes, either created ormodified by humans through natural forest man-agement, cultivation, or the use of fire. Accordingto a Canadian indigenous peoples’ organization,the Four Directions Council (1996), “the territoriesin which indigenous peoples traditionally live areshaped environments, with biodiversity as a priority goal, notwithstanding the fact that the

modifications may be subtle and can be confusedwith the natural evolution of the landscape.”

WWF International’s People and ConservationUnit has conducted an analysis that supports theseviews. It superimposed maps of WWF’s 200 prior-ity ecoregions around the world onto maps show-ing the distribution of indigenous cultures. Theresults show a significant overlap of cultural andbiological diversity (see table 2.1). Although theanalysis is not yet complete, preliminary resultsconfirm the importance of indigenous peoples andtheir issues for scaling up conservation efforts.

1.3 Threats, Vulnerability, andMarginalization

Tragically, and despite their contributions to biodiversity conservation and to human culture,indigenous societies are disappearing at an unpre-cedented pace. Approximately 10 percent ofexisting indigenous languages are nearly extinct,endangering the cultures of hundreds of peoples.Among countries facing the highest rates of lan-guage extinction are Australia with 138 and theUnited States with 67. During the next century, atleast half the existing indigenous languages areprojected to disappear, erasing the ecologicalknowledge accumulated by countless generations.

Indigenous cultures face threats from many direc-tions. Often they are direct targets of hatred and

Papua New Guinea

NigeriaCameroon

IndonesiaIndia

AustraliaMexicoZaireBrazil

ColombiaChinaPeru

MalaysiaEcuador

Madagascar

Highest Cultural Diversity1 Highest Biological Diversity2

1Countries where more than 200 languages are spoken2Countries listed by biologists as ‘megadiversity’ countries for their exceptional numbers of unique species

Source: Worldwatch Institute, cited in Durning (1992:16)

Figure 2.1 Countries with Cultural and Biological Megadiversity

hostility from the groups that dominate main-stream national societies. Other times they arevictimized by policies and actions that are wellintentioned but harmful. The imposition of alienland tenure, religions, and educational systemsmay be motivated by the desire to “advance,”“integrate,” or help indigenous peoples “progress”in the modern world, yet these efforts often areself-defeating because they undermine the iden-tity and values systems of the people being“helped.” Until recently the conventional wisdomof modernity held that the rural poor, includingindigenous populations, were part of the problemof “underdevelopment,” sometimes even the mainproblem, rather than part of the solution. Blindedby cultural arrogance, too many conservation and

development projects have gone awry or donemore harm than good because they did not tap theresourcefulness of local communities.

The accelerating integration of the global economy now touches indigenous people livingin the remotest corners of the planet.Technological change and consumerism intro-duced by the public and private sectors haveundermined traditional value systems as the con-version from a subsistence economy to a casheconomy follows in the wake of large-scaleefforts to extract mineral, timber, and other natu-ral resources. The result in many places has beena loss of social cohesion, displacement fromtraditional territories, dependency, impoverish-ment, and disease.


1. Papua New Guinea (847)

2. Indonesia (655)

3. Nigeria (376)

4. India (309)

5. Australia (261)

6. Mexico (230)

7. Cameroon (201)

8. Brazil (185)

9. Zaire (158)

10. Philippines (153)

11. USA (143)

12. Vanuatu (105)

13. Tanzania (101)

14. Sudan (97)

15. Malaysia (92)

16. Ethiopia (90)

17. China (77)

18. Peru ( 75)

19. Chad (74)

20. Russia (71)

21. Solomon Islands (69)

22. Nepal (68)

23. Colombia (55)

24. Côte d’Ivoire (51)

25. Canada (47)

List 2.1 Top 25 Countries by Number of Endemic Languages

List 2.2 Megadiversity Countries: Concurrence with Endemic Languages

(Countries in top 25 for endemic languages in bold)Countries listed alphabetically (rank in “Top 25,” list 2.1, in parentheses)

Australia (5)

Brazil (8)

China (17)

Colombia (23)

Ecuador—

India (4)

Indonesia (2)

Madagascar—

Malaysia (15)

Mexico (6)

Peru (18)

Zaire (9)

Source: Maffi 1999.

1.4 Indigenous Peoples and InternationalEnvironmental Policy

WWF’s indigenous peoples policy recognizes that“unfortunately, [indigenous] cultures have becomehighly vulnerable to destructive forces related tounsustainable use of resources, population expan-sion, and the global economy,” and that “industri-alized societies bear a heavy responsibility for thecreation of these destructive forces.” It points tothe need to “correct the national and internationalpolitical, economic, social, and legal imbalancesgiving rise to these destructive forces, and toaddress their local effects.”

WWF is not alone in this recognition. The 1992United Nations Conference on Environment andDevelopment in Rio de Janeiro recognizedindigenous peoples as important stakeholders inenvironment and development policies at theinternational level. Almost every relevant inter-national instrument on the environment signed ator developed after the Rio Summit includes pro-visions related to indigenous peoples or has initi-ated processes to promote their participation.

Agenda 21, the international agreement on fol-low-up actions to the conference, considersindigenous peoples to be a “Major Group” intrailblazing a path toward sustainable develop-ment, and proposes a number of objectives andactivities that are compatible with WWF’sagenda (see box 2.1). The international policyforums that address conservation issues—theCommission on Sustainable Development, theConvention on Biological Diversity, theConvention to Combat Desertification, the Inter-Governmental Forum on Forests, and the RamsarConvention, among others—include indigenouspeoples as essential stakeholders. In policydebates, the interests of indigenous peoples oftencoincide with those of WWF and other conserva-tion organizations, especially when dealing withenvironmental threats and the underlying causesof biodiversity loss.

Apart from the arena of international environ-mental policy, an array of multinational organiza-tions has incorporated policy provisions onindigenous peoples into their program operations.


BiogeographicalRealm

Number of terrestrial

ecoregions (TERs) in realm

Number andpercentage ofTERs in realm

that contain EGs

Number of ethnolinguisiticgroups (EGs)

in realm

Number andpercentage of

the realm s EGsliving in the

realm s TERs

Afrotropical

Neotropical

Nearctic

Indomalayan

Oceanian

Palearctic

Australasian

WORLD

32

30

11

24

3

21

15

136

30 (94%)

28 (93%)

11 (100%)

24 (100%)

3 (100%)

21 (100%)

15 (100%)

132 (97%) 2

1,934

830

223

1,547

153

748

1,432

6,867 3

1,364 (71%)

535 (64%)

80 (36%)

1,117 (72%)

9 (6%)

662 (89%)

1,122 (78%)

4,889 (71%)

Source: WWF-International, People and Conservation Program, Gland, Switzerland, 1998.

Table 2.1 Ethnolinguistic Groups (EG) in Global 200 Terrestrial Ecoregions (TER)

Particularly prominent are the World Bank,whose Operational Directive on IndigenousPeoples is well known and frequently cited, andthe Inter-American Development Bank (IDB) andthe Asian Development Bank (ADB), which havesimilar policies.

Many governments of developed countries havealso adopted policies to ensure that their interna-tional assistance programs for development andthe environment respect indigenous rights.Among others, Denmark, the Netherlands, Spain,and more recently the European Union have allspecifically addressed the issue of local commu-nity rights and interests in undertaking develop-ment and environmental actions with indigenousgroups. This convergence in policy is an impor-tant strand in the growing partnership betweenWWF and the aid agencies of these governmentson conservation projects worldwide.

Finally, a broad spectrum of international conser-vation organizations has adopted policies gearedtoward indigenous peoples. WWF adopted itsStatement of Principles on Indigenous Peoplesand Conservation (see Annex) in May 1996. InOctober 1996, the World Conservation Congressof the World Conservation Union (IUCN) passeda set of eight resolutions related to indigenouspeoples. IUCN recognized them as repositoriesof traditional knowledge about biodiversity, andnoted the role they play in protected areas,forests, marine and coastal habitats, and a host ofother environmental areas. Nongovernmentalorganizations (NGOs) dealing with forest issues,such as the World Rainforest Movement and theRainforest Foundation, have made issues affect-ing indigenous peoples a fundamental componentof their strategy. Although some environmentalgroups like The Nature Conservancy, Friends ofthe Earth, and Conservation International do nothave specific policies or programs dealing withindigenous peoples, they have carried out activi-ties in coordination with indigenous organiza-tions on many occasions and have expressedinterest in indigenous issues.

Perhaps the most notable exception to this policyconvergence in the international conservationmovement is Greenpeace, which, in spite ofinternal discussions and pressure, has declaredindigenous peoples outside its orbit of priorities.

II. WWF’s Approach to Workingwith Indigenous Peoples

WWF seeks to partner with indigenous groupswhen conservation of their land and resourcescoincides with its conservation priorities.WWF’s partnerships with indigenous peoples arebased on recognition of their legitimate rightsand interests. These two affirmations are the cor-nerstones of WWF’s indigenous peoples policy,which includes a set of principles to guide theformation of partnerships. This section discussesthe principles, and the next section addresses theprogrammatic guides to partnership.

2.1 Achieving WWF’s Conservation Mission WWF’s guiding philosophy is that the Earth’snatural systems, resources, and life formsshould be conserved for their intrinsic value andfor the benefit of future generations. WWF’scommitment to collaborating with indigenouspeoples to achieve conservation is firm, but notunconditional. As stated in WWF’s indigenouspeoples policy:

WWF may choose not to support, andmay actively oppose, activities it judgesunsustainable from the standpoint ofspecies or ecosystems… even if suchactivities are carried out by indigenouspeoples. WWF seeks out partnershipswith local communities, grassrootsgroups, nongovernmental organizations,and other groups, including indigenouscommunities and indigenous peoples’organizations, that share WWF’s commit-ment to the conservation of biodiversity,sustainable use of resources, and pollu-tion prevention.

This echoes Article 10(c) of the Convention onBiological Diversity, which requires parties to“protect and encourage customary use of biologi-cal resources in accordance with traditional cul-tural practices that are compatible withconservation or sustainable use requirements.”This means that traditional systems for environ-mental management and for the use of biologicalresources should be supported by conservationorganizations as long as those systems contributeto the conservation and sustainable use of biodi-versity. Clearly those systems are more likely toremain sustainable as circumstances change if



Box 1 AGENDA 21 - CHAPTER 26: Recognizing and Strengthening the Role ofIndigenous People and Their Communities

Objectives

26.3 In full partnership with indigenous people and their communities, Governments and, whereappropriate, intergovernmental organizations should aim at fulfilling the following objectives:

(a) Establishment of a process to empower indigenous people and their communities throughmeasures that include:

(i) Adoption or strengthening of appropriate policies and/or legal instruments atthe national level;

(ii) Recognition that the lands of indigenous people and their communities shouldbe protected from activities that are environmentally unsound or that the indige-nous people concerned consider to be socially and culturally inappropriate;

(iii) Recognition of their values, traditional knowledge and resource managementpractices with a view to promoting environmentally sound and sustainabledevelopment;

(iv) Recognition that traditional and direct dependence on renewable resources andecosystems, including sustainable harvesting, continues to be essential to thecultural, economic and physical well-being of indigenous people and theircommunities;

(v) Development and strengthening of national dispute-resolution arrangements inrelation to settlement of land and resource-management concerns;

(vi) Support for alternative environmentally sound means of production to ensure arange of choices on how to improve their quality of life so that they effec-tively participate in sustainable development;

(vii) Enhancement of capacity-building for indigenous communities, based on theadaptation and exchange of traditional experience, knowledge and resource-management practices, to ensure their sustainable development;

(b) Establishment, where appropriate, of arrangements to strengthen the active participation ofindigenous people and their communities in the national formulation of policies, laws and pro-grammes relating to resource management and other development processes that may affectthem, and their initiation of proposals for such policies and programmes;

(c) Involvement of indigenous people and their communities at the national and local levels inresource management and conservation strategies and other relevant programmes established tosupport and review sustainable development strategies, such as those suggested in other pro-gramme areas of Agenda 21.

Source: UNCED 1992.

indigenous peoples and local communities partici-pate in determining the criteria for measuring sus-tainability. If they understand the reasons forchanging behaviors, they are more likely to makethe changes.

There is no blueprint for working with indige-nous peoples. Each situation is different, notonly culturally but socially, politically, economi-cally, and geographically. While WWF’sinvolvement is based on a clear set of principles,a solid understanding of the links between bio-logical and cultural diversity, and a genuineappreciation for indigenous peoples’ contributionto biodiversity conservation, its operationalapproach should be sensitive and flexible in orderto maximize the input of its partners.

2.2 Why Human Rights and Self-Determination Should Matter to Conservationists

Indigenous organizations repeatedly and force-fully insist that development and the environmentmust be approached from a human-rights per-spective. The conservation movement has oftenresponded that human rights are beyond its mis-sion and mandate. Increasingly the differencebetween these two viewpoints is narrowing.

Environmental human rights—the right of presentand future generations to enjoy a healthy life in ahealthy environment—are implicitly at the heart ofthe environmental agenda, and will become moreexplicitly so in the future. Environmental humanrights are linked to the right to a decent quality oflife and to other related rights recognized in theInternational Covenant on Economic, Social, andCultural Rights. WWF and other conservationorganizations recognize that indigenous groupscannot be expected to commit themselves to con-servation if their livelihoods are in peril from lackof secure tenure to land and resources. Indeed, it isthe strength of their claim to the land, coupled withlong histories of managing it wisely, that makethem attractive potential partners for environmentalstewardship. They cannot play this role under con-ditions of political oppression and marginalization.The more people’s basic needs are met and theirrights respected, the more they will be willing andable to engage in biodiversity conservation becausethey understand it is in their own interest to do so.

For indigenous peoples, the question of humanrights is bound up with the struggle for self-determination, which involves control of tradi-tional resources and cultural autonomy withinexisting nation states. WWF acknowledgesindigenous peoples’ right to self-determination,and has built its own policies on it. Whenindigenous peoples define themselves as distinctnations and seek political autonomy, WWFrespects their efforts to negotiate their status withgovernments, but does not consider this to be anissue on which it must take sides.

III. Key Program Issues forConservation Organizations

Collaboration with indigenous peoples fallsunder several programmatic areas. This sectionexplores six of them: 1) participation and priorinformed consent; 2) protected areas; 3) tradi-tional ecological knowledge and managementpractices; 4) alternative economic options andbenefit sharing; 5) mitigation of environmentalimpacts; and 6) conservation capacity-building.Many of these issues are discussed in more detailin the case studies that follow.

3.1 Prior Informed ConsentPrior informed consent (PIC) is a fundamentalprinciple for indigenous collaboration with out-side organizations and the basis for protecting allother rights. PIC requires outsiders proposingany action to fully inform indigenous groups ofthe reasons for the activity, how it will be imple-mented in detail, the potential risks involved, andhow this activity realistically can be expected toaffect other aspects of community life in the shortand long terms. If the indigenous communitywithholds its consent, no activities can begin, andactivities already under way must be halted. Thefollowing types of activities relevant to biodiver-sity conservation should be subject to PIC:

• the extraction of renewable or nonrenew-able resources from indigenous communi-ties or their territories;

• the acquisition of knowledge from a personor people, whether for commercial or non-commercial purposes; and

• all projects affecting indigenous communi-ties, including infrastructure construction ofroads and dams, and colonization schemes.


Since legal frameworks and tools to exercise andprotect PIC are still in their infancy, WWFaddresses this issue primarily at the local levelthrough agreements with communities. Thisdoes not foreclose efforts to establish neededlegal tools at national and other levels.

3.2 Protected AreasThe establishment of protected areas is a primarytool for conserving biodiversity around theworld. Indigenous peoples inhabit nearly 20 per-cent of the world’s surface, or close to threetimes the total surface covered by protectedareas. Of course, many of the world’s protectedareas overlap with indigenous lands and territo-ries. For example, in Latin America local popu-lations, most of them indigenous, inhabit 86percent of protected areas (Amend 1992).

The protected area model is presumed to be acreation of modern Western societies, datingback to the establishment of YellowstoneNational Park in the United States in 1872. Yetthere are similar models that are much older. Forhundreds if not thousands of years, traditionalsocieties have established “sacred” areas withinthe compass of their territorial lands and waterswhere human activities have been very limitedand strictly regulated. This traditional concept ofprotected areas is alive and functioning in manyparts of the world, although it generally lacksrecognition and support from modern states andsocieties. Sadly, despite their respect for nature,indigenous communities have been expelled fromtheir traditional lands to create reserves andparks. The livelihoods and cultures of thesecommunities have been severely disrupted, turn-ing protected areas into an enemy rather than aguarantor of community survival.

WWF has joined with the World Commission onProtected Areas (WCPA) to develop a newframework policy on indigenous/traditional peo-ples and protected areas. This policy promotesthe concept of partnerships between indigenouscommunities and the public or private institutionsresponsible for administering a park or reservewhen the local groups’ lands and resources fallwithin the boundaries of the protected area. Thepolicy also supports indigenous peoples’ ownactions to protect their territories. Within thisframework, conservation groups are encouragedto support the growing number of comanagement

arrangements between the state and indigenouspeoples, and to work to extend recognition ofindigenous protected areas as self-regulated partsof national protected-area systems.

3.3 Traditional Ecological KnowledgeTraditional knowledge is an important resourcefor development of strategies to conserve biodi-versity. Generations of interaction with specifichabitats and species can provide a long-term per-spective on ecosystem dynamics. Anthropologistsand other researchers have frequently documentedhow various traditional peoples have developedsophisticated classification systems, in manycases producing more complete taxonomies thanthose of Western science. Traditional knowledgeis also a catalyst for cultural adaptation to envi-ronmental conditions. One of the great ironiesfacing many indigenous peoples is that scientificand commercial interest in their ecological knowl-edge and resource management practices isincreasing while traditional knowledge systemsare disappearing at an accelerating rate as global-ization makes the world more biologically andculturally uniform.

WWF has worked with indigenous peoples inseveral countries to protect and revitalize tradi-tional knowledge. In Thailand, WWF supportsthe Karen people’s efforts to maintain and con-solidate their cultural practices, and pays particu-lar attention to strengthening knowledge of localecosystems. The People and Plants Programimplements various ethnobotany projects in Asia,Africa, and the Pacific to recuperate, protect, andrevitalize traditional botanical knowledge, and tohelp local people conserve their plant resources.

Traditional management practices also have muchto offer to biodiversity conservation. Article 10(c)of the Convention on Biological Diversityrequires recovery and support of these practiceswhen they are “compatible with conservation orsustainable use requirements.” The assumptionunderlying this injunction is that these practicesnot only have specific local values but can beintegrated into national efforts to enhance biodi-versity conservation in a given country.

Some of WWF’s work with indigenous groupssupports that assumption. For instance, a studywith indigenous communities in the Arcticshowed that their use of wildlife was essentially


compatible with conservation objectives, and thatexternal market forces have caused recent disrup-tions. Based on this analysis, and on workingwith local people, WWF developed guidelinesfor the sustainable use of wildlife in the region.Many of the concepts in the guidelines are appli-cable to other areas where communities are con-cerned that their wildlife is dwindling.

Fortunately international environmental lawincreasingly recognizes, through agreements suchas the Convention on Biological Diversity, thatthe knowledge, innovations, and practices ofindigenous peoples and local communities arevital resources for preserving the genetic heritageof the planet. Systematic effort is needed to helprevitalize and protect such knowledge in collabo-ration with concerned communities, with fullrespect for their intellectual property rights.Indigenous peoples should have the opportunityto benefit fairly from the use and application oftheir knowledge, and this will serve our commoninterest by strengthening their ability and com-mitment to act as environmental stewards.

3.4 Benefit Sharing and EconomicAlternatives

Long-term conservation of indigenous peoples’territories and resources requires that communi-ties directly and equitably benefit from the use oftheir land. In most cases, conservation impliestrade-offs that have direct or indirect impact onlocal livelihoods. Indigenous and traditional peo-ple should not be expected to participate in con-servation activities that do not contribute toimproving their quality of life. Ensuring animproved quality of life often involves the cre-ation of economic alternatives that promote sus-tainable resource use and generate income tocounterbalance market pressures to overexploitresources for short-term gain. Care must also betaken that benefits are broadly distributed toavoid fragmenting the community and undermin-ing its ability to manage its resource base wisely.

3.5 Mitigation of Environmental ImpactsIndigenous groups and conservation organiza-tions are both concerned about the destructiveimpact that ill-conceived logging, mining, oilexploitation, and other development efforts canhave on the environment. These issues have con-verted many indigenous groups into activists

fighting to defend the integrity of their lands andecosystems. Through coordinated and mutuallysupportive work, conservationists and indigenouspeoples can mitigate these threats and promotepractices that lead to sustainable development.

Article 7 of ILO Convention 169 requires govern-ments to carry out environmental impact assess-ments (EIAs) for any activities taking place on thelands and territories of indigenous peoples thatcould affect the quality of their environment andresource bases. To help ensure that this proscrip-tion is followed, WWF has pledged to help moni-tor development of EIAs for external interventionsin any indigenous territory where WWF works sothat affected communities are fully informed,allowed to voice their concerns, and able to defendtheir rights. WWF, in cooperation with concernedindigenous organizations, will also urge govern-ments to put in place all necessary measures toprevent and control environmental impacts inthose lands and territories, and will help localorganizations strengthen their own capacity forprevention, control, monitoring, and mitigation.

3.6 Building Conservation CapacityBuilding the conservation capacity of communityorganizations is not limited to the circumstancesdescribed in the preceding section. It is a funda-mental tool for enabling indigenous and othercommunities to plan and implement conservationactivities, and it is a bedrock of WWF’s conser-vation strategy. Capacity building covers a widerange of activities—from training to improve theleadership, accounting, and administrative skillsof indigenous organizations, to providing techni-cal assistance, access to information, and supportfor networking. Assistance should take place inthe context of respect for self-governing institu-tions and customary law, and should promote asocial environment that is conducive to realdemocracy—one in which marginalized peopleshave a say in all matters that affect their well-being. Indigenous conservation capacity will beenhanced through the promotion of macro-poli-cies like the decentralization of natural resourcemanagement, and capacity building at the localand regional levels will make states more likelyto devolve responsibility.

One aspect of capacity building deserves specialattention. Environmental problems affectingindigenous peoples’ lands and resources are often


linked to conflicts of interest among a variety ofstakeholders, including governments, businesses,and other local groups. In these situations,indigenous peoples frequently lack the power tobe included in the decision-making process fromthe beginning, and lack access to the information,expertise, and funding needed to define, articu-late, and defend their interests through publicadvocacy campaigns. Conservation groups canplay a role in providing support to indigenouspeoples to help even the playing field. In doingso, it is important to partner with other organiza-tions experienced in environmental brokerage toensure that the best possible expertise is broughtto bear in finding fair solutions from both theenvironmental and social points of view. Theobjective is twofold: to make sure that indige-nous peoples are recognized as legitimate stake-holders and to help them develop the institutionalcapacity to become effective stakeholders able toexercise their rights and responsibilities as stew-ards of their lands and resources.

Endnotes1. According to Article 1 of the Convention, it“applies to (a) tribal peoples in independent coun-tries whose social, cultural and economic condi-tions distinguish them from other sections of thenational community, and whose status is regulatedwholly or in partially by their own customs or tra-ditions or by special laws or regulations; (b) peo-ples in independent countries who are regarded asindigenous on account of their descent from thepopulations which inhabited the country, or a geo-graphical region to which the country belongs, atthe time of conquest or colonisation or the estab-lishment of present state boundaries and who,irrespective of their legal status, retain some or allof their own social, economic, cultural and politi-cal institutions.” It adds that “self-identificationas indigenous or tribal shall be regarded as a fun-damental criterion for determining the groups towhich the provisions of this Convention apply.”

2. The exceptions are represented by the follow-ing ecoregions: Caribbean (WWF ecoregion #s 5,65), where the indigenous populations werewiped out soon after the arrival of the Spaniards;coastal Venezuela (#4), where no ethnolinguisticgroups appear to fall within the boundaries of theecoregion; Galápagos Islands (#123), wherehuman settlements were only established in1912; and Fynbos (#134), where the situationcorresponds to that in coastal Venezuela.

3. The number of languages in the world (exclud-ing for present purposes, sign languages, creoles,pidgins, and Romany/“gypsy” languages) can becalculated as 6,611 of the 6,703 cited inEthnologue. As table 3 shows, however, there aremore than 6,611 ethnolinguistic groups.Ethnologue lists 256 groups who speak the samelanguage as one or more of their neighbors, but dif-ferentiate themselves by the use of distinct ethnicnames. Since the present mapping project focuseson ethnolinguistic groups, not just languages, andthus takes ethnic criteria into account, these 256ethnic groups were included in calculating theworld’s total number of EGs (6,611 + 256 =6,867). For the same reason, the world total alsoincludes ethnic groups who still maintain their dis-tinct culture even though their ancestral languageis, or is thought to be, extinct. As far as possible,duplicate entries of EGs across ecoregions wereeliminated from the calculations.


ReferencesAmend, Stephan and Thora. 1992. Espacios sinHabitantes? Parques Nacionales de America delSur. Caracas: The World Conservation Union(IUCN) and Editorial Nueva Sociedad.

Durning, A. T. 1992. Guardians of the Land:Indigenous Peoples and the Health of the Earth.Worldwatch Paper No. 112. Washington, D.C.:Worldwatch Intstitute.

Four Directions Council. 1996. Forests,Indigenous Peoples and Biodiversity:Contribution of the Four Directions Council.Draft paper submitted to the Secretariat of theConvention on Biodiversity, Montreal.

Gomez-Pompa, A., and A. Kaus. 1992. Tamingthe Wilderness Myth. BioScience 42:271–279.

Hitchcock, Robert K. 1994. EndangeredPeoples: Indigenous Rights and the Environment.Colorado Journal of International EnvironmentalLaw and Policy 5 (1):11.

International Labour Organization (ILO). 1998.Indigenous and Tribal Peoples: A Guide to ILOConvention No. 169. Geneva: ILO.

IUCN–Inter-Commission Task Force onIndigenous Peoples. 1997. Indigenous Peoplesand Sustainability, Cases and Actions. Utrecht:International Books and IUCN-The WorldConservation Union.

Maffi, Luisa. 1999. Language and Diversity. InCultural and Spiritual Values of Biodiversity,Darrell Posey, ed. London: IntermediateTechnology Publications Ltd./UNEP, 1999.

United Nations Conference on Environment andDevelopment (UNCED). 1992. Agenda 21. Riode Janeiro: UNCED.


PART TWO: CASE STUDIES

I. IntroductionIndigenous peoples throughout the AmazonBasin are under duress as they confront chal-lenges that are transforming their lives and thelandscapes they inhabit. New roads—thoughoften muddy and potholed—have been carvedinto the remote rain forests they call home andhave opened access to outsiders. Even as com-munities reorganize to ward off incursion bysettlers and uncontrolled extraction ofresources, changes have been set in motion thattie indigenous peoples more tightly to marketeconomies. As a result they face not onlyexternal pressure but the internal challenge ofdeveloping new ways to manage, withoutdestroying or depleting, the resource base theyhave conserved for millennia.

The struggle to develop new land-use models thatcombine conservation and economic goals isurgent because indigenous peoples’ control over

their territories is in peril. Threats come not onlyfrom lumber trucks, oil rigs, and encroachingcolonization, but also from environmentalreserves that appropriate traditional lands butexclude local inhabitants from reserve oversight.This case study explores how one group ofindigenous people in Ecuador developed newtools to meet these challenges.

Their experience has implications for the entireupper Amazon, where rivers tumble precipitouslyfrom the Andes to the lowlands of Colombia,Ecuador, Peru, Bolivia, and western Brazil, andwhere development pressures have accelerated inthe past 25 years. In Ecuador, oil discoveries inthe late 1960s led to road and infrastructuredevelopment that paved the way for lumber inter-ests, colonization by small-scale subsistencefarmers, and establishment of large African oilpalm plantations. Newcomers arrived with thenotion that the land was unoccupied and unused.

CHAPTER 3Indigenous Federations and the Market:

The Runa of Napo, EcuadorDominique Irvine1

In fact, the band of rain forest in the headwatersof the Amazon River in Colombia, Ecuador,Peru, and Bolivia shelters the largest indigenouspopulations in the entire basin. Surprisingly, theestimated 104,000 indigenous people of theEcuadorian Amazon (see table 3.1), which coversonly 138,000 square kilometers, are nearly asnumerous as the indigenous population of theentire Brazilian Amazon, which has 45 times theland area.2 Furthermore, 75 percent of theEcuadorian Amazon is claimed by its native peo-ples, while only 21 percent of the BrazilianAmazon is similarly claimed.

This relative density is among the factors thatmake the region a promising place to test theidea that indigenous peoples can play a vital rolein continuing to preserve biodiversity. That ideagathered steam in 1988, when a diverse conglom-eration of interests formed to protect habitataround Sumaco Volcano and the adjacent GalerasRidge in northeastern Ecuador. This area hashistorically been a significant center of settle-ment by Runa Indians, who have organized sev-eral federations of communities to defend theirinterests throughout the region (see map 3.1).The local federation around Sumaco, known asFOIN, had been working for nearly a decadewith the human rights organization CulturalSurvival (CS) and others to help member com-munities strengthen their organization and gaintitles to ancestral territories before a major newroad crossed the Andes to connect oil-rich NapoProvince with western ports. State and interna-tional efforts to finish that link became urgentafter a devastating earthquake in 1987, but inter-national aid was tied to local efforts to offsetanticipated side effects on the Sumaco area, withits unique flora and fauna.

The diverse group of actors involved in thisprocess had interests that only partially over-lapped. Many of the fault lines separating themwere initially invisible. FOIN, for instance,viewed donor investments in PUMAREN (theProject for the Use and Management of NaturalResources), which is the focus of this case study,in the context of solidifying FOIN’s ongoingregional land-titling and training programs.3

FOIN hoped to develop a sustainable model forextracting renewable resources that membercommunities could use as an alternative to the

cattle herding and cash monocropping that hadproved socially divisive and environmentallydestructive. By strengthening services to itsmembers, FOIN hoped to increase membershipcohesion, attract new communities into the fold,and impress the government and the interna-tional community. The model developed byPUMAREN focused over time on a communityforest initiative in three Sumaco communities.Participating communities saw the projectthrough a narrower lens: not as a model for oth-ers, but as a tool to secure local tenure rights andgenerate income for local families.

To most donors—including the U.S. Agency forInternational Development (USAID) and WorldWildlife Fund–US (WWF)—FOIN’s role wasdownplayed and PUMAREN and the forestryenterprise were viewed primarily as a commu-nity-based effort in integrated conservation anddevelopment that would reduce deforestation in alarge and important tract of endangered wilder-ness. To the Ecuadorian Ministry of Agriculture,PUMAREN’s forestry project was a cost-effec-tive way to limit encroachment and resource lossin a region where the government lacked effec-tive control on the ground.

Embedded in these separate points of view aretwo contrasting visions of how to achieve conser-vation goals. To the Ecuadorian government andto some environmental organizations, the mosteffective way to halt deforestation and safeguardbiodiversity was the protected-area model,

Table 3.1 Indigenous Population of theEcuadorian Amazon (estimated numbers)

Quichua (Runa) 60,000

Shuar 40,000

Achuar 2,400

Huaorani 600

Siona-Secoya 600

Cofan 460

Total 104,060Source: CONAIE (1989)

22 The Runa in Ecuador

The Runa in Ecuador 23

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in which the state appropriates a core zone ringedby local communities that form a buffer zone as afirst line of defense.

In contrast, the indigenous organizations sawthemselves as defending ancestral territory ofwhich they form an ongoing part. The distinctionbetween these two approaches and their long-termimplications were not recognized fully by localcommunities or by most donors.

The confusion of long- and short-term conserva-tion and development objectives and the diffi-culty in getting such a diverse group of intereststo work together to implement a concrete plan ofaction would play a role in how the projectevolved. The complexity of the undertakingmight have been clearer to its framers had theybetter understood the project’s cultural, environ-mental, legal, and political contexts.

II. Clarifying the Context

2.1 Indigenous Society and CultureQuichua-speaking peoples are the dominantindigenous group in the northern EcuadorianAmazon. An estimated 60,000 live in theprovinces of Napo, Sucumbios, Orellana, andPastaza.4 Sizable numbers also live across theborder in the rain forests of neighboring Peru andColombia. Although they now make up about 40percent of the total Amazonian population, theyclaim about 75 percent of the land area as theirterritory, enough to continue living at the samerelatively low densities using traditional manage-ment practices described in Section 2.3.

Calling themselves Runa, or the People, they areoften referred to as Lowland Quichua. Bothnames are somewhat misleading. Although theQuichua language is the native tongue of manyAndean highlanders in Ecuador, Peru, and Bolivia,strong evidence suggests that the Runa are unre-lated to these groups. Moreover, beneath theirshared language and economic system, significantinternal cultural diversity also exists among low-land communities that belies surface similarities.

Both linguistic and historical data indicate that theRuna of the Amazon are an amalgam forged froma multitude of cultures that existed in the regionprior to the sixteenth-century Spanish Conquest.The exact number of distinct peoples is unknown,but early Spanish expeditions chronicled those they

encountered. Many groups were described, andthey spoke a multiplicity of mutually unintelligiblelanguages. Some were small and dispersed; othersnumerous and more densely populated. Somewore painted garments, others went naked, stillothers were adorned with large gold plates.

The Spanish Crown divided the upper Amazoninto encomiendas and awarded these royal con-cessions to Spaniards entitled to collect tributethat depended on the mix of local resources orskills. Some villages were commanded to panfor gold; some to weave cotton cloth; and someto extract fiber from pita, a forest plant related topineapple (Aechmea magdalenae). Archivesrecord that the “King’s men” were cruel in thisregion even by Spanish standards—suicide ratesrose, and some women reportedly killed theirnewborns rather than raise them under such des-perate conditions (Muratorio 1991, Irvine 1987).Organized resistance was recurrent, each attemptbrutally repressed. Populations plummeted fur-ther as smallpox epidemics swept through thearea. Between 1577 and 1608, the number ofindigenous people was reduced by almost 80 per-cent (Irvine 1987).

During these violent times survivors of differentethnic groups either decided—or were obliged—to live in mission villages where Quichua, anAndean language, was a lingua franca. Spanishvisitors during the 1600s and 1700s reported thatvillagers still spoke their native languages withintheir ethnic circles, while communicating withother villagers in Quichua. By about 1800, mostinhabitants had lost their original languages andhad forged a new Runa identity.

That amalgam, however, was far from uniform.Each mission village was a crucible for the eth-nic groups in its area. Today, the Runa recognizethree main zones that reflect discrete cultural andlinguistic blends. The southern part of their terri-tory, in what is now Pastaza Province, is home tothe Canelos Runa, who are descended fromShuar, Achuar, and Zaparo speakers.5 The north-ern part, containing the Napo watershed, has twozones, corresponding roughly to elevation. Thenative languages of the Quichua speakers thereare not fully documented, and may be lost for-ever. The watershed above 600 meters came tobe inhabited by the Napo Runa, clustered aroundthe mission towns of Archidona and Tena.


Lower elevations are recognized centers of theLoreto Runa, descended from mission townsaround Loreto, Avila, and San José de Payamino.

These three zones have distinct mythological tra-ditions, and their elaborate ceramic heritages arereadily distinguishable in form and design. Thedetailed and colorful decorations on chicha potsand bowls made by Runa women in Pastaza con-trast with the simple but elegant, unpaintedceramics and modestly painted gourds crafted forthe same beverage by women in Napo nearLoreto. Runa from each area speak dialects thatvary significantly in grammar and vocabulary,linguistic differences widely recognized by theRuna themselves as markers of identity.

Despite these cultural differences, Runa subsis-tence economies share many similarities acrossecological zones, and probably have long doneso. Principal crops of manioc and plantain areinterplanted with minor crops and fruit trees insmall clearings, which are then allowed to revertto forest after one or two harvests. Largelyunknown to outsiders, the upper Amazon hasbeen identified as a major domestication centerfor harvestable crops from a variety of rain foresttrees, including the peach palm (Bactrisgasipaes), which must be planted to reproduce.Hunting, fishing, and the collection of nativeplant products provide a varied diet, and all othernecessities of life—medicines, constructionmaterials, fibers, firewood.

The Napo Runa are much more densely popu-lated than other Runa groups in the province.Roads entered their territory in the 1960s, anddevelopment pressure hit them earlier and harderthan populations to the east. At first they formednew villages in old hunting territories; then theybegan to migrate to unsettled areas within LoretoRuna territory and farther downriver all the wayto the Peruvian frontier. As hacienda owners,peasant colonists, and the church swallowed bitsand chunks of their home territory, displacedNapo Runa families and the young seeking landthat was not overcrowded spilled north and east,forming an indigenous colonization front. Attimes colonization was a result of conscious policy by indigenous organizations. Other times,families spontaneously resettled. With popula-tions on the move, intermarriages of Runa fromdifferent cultural zones increased.

Boundaries, once distinct, have blurred. The areaaround Sumaco marks a recent border shiftbetween the Napo and Loreto Runa. Before theHollín–Loreto leg of the new trans-Andean roadwas built, the Napo Runa hunted west of thePingullo River, and the Loreto Runa stayed to theeast. Now Runa villages along the road are oftena mix of the two groups, and the three villagesinvolved in the PUMAREN project reflect thisdiverse background.

2.2 Organizing to Deal with OutsidersOther changes to Runa life have accompaniedcontested land claims and shifts in settlement.People have reworked how they organize them-selves as communities and their relation to theoutside world. One of the foremost develop-ments has been the growth of regional indige-nous organizations since 1964, when the firstmajor threat to traditional land tenure material-ized. Following the Agrarian Reform andColonization Law enacted that year, peasant families began to spill into the western fringe ofthe Amazon headwaters from Napo in the north toMorona–Santiago in the south, where the Shuarreacted by organizing the first federation withsupport from Salesian missionaries (Rudel 1993).

Petroleum development intensified the incursionsand extended the pressure to organize amongRuna deep in the interior. Exploration in the late1960s hit pay dirt in Napo Province. By the timeEcuador joined OPEC in 1973, the landscapearound Texaco’s concession—between LagoAgrio and Coca—had been transformed. Roadsto bring drilling equipment in and to service thenew pipeline that snaked like a giant anacondafrom the Amazon to the coast also opened theway for peasants hungry for land and jobs. State-sponsored and spontaneous colonization pouredinto the area at the fastest rate in the world.Settlers cleared farms in long swaths as many asfive rows back from the dusty roads. As roadsproliferated, deforestation relentlessly kept pace.

North and south, dispersed communities werebewildered to learn that the newly altered andunfamiliar framework of Ecuadorian law affectedtheir rights, and they slowly developed responses.Lands held under customary tenure for centurieswere suddenly subject to a maze of rules and reg-ulations that voided traditional rights and imposeddemands that had to be met to prove ownership.


The federations that formed to confront this situa-tion were headquartered in the towns hardesthit—from Tena to Coca to Lago Agrio. Becausethe young men who led these federations wereaccustomed to town life, conversant in the waysof white people, and schooled in reading andwriting, the institutional structures they createddid not spring from existing indigenous socialorganizations. What emerged was a new kind ofintermediary between subsistence-level, initiallyilliterate communities and government ministries.

Federations were based on democratic Westernmodels in which communities elected the leader-ship—presidents, vice presidents, secretaries, andtreasurers. As federations took root, theybranched out from working on land rights to avariety of other problems ranging from agricul-ture to health to bilingual education. Oftendependent on international foundation funding,the federations resembled a cross between agrass-roots membership organization and a non-profit nongovernmental organization (NGO).

Eventually representative federations formed inall the Amazonian provinces in Ecuador. As theygained strength and experience, they began toorganize tertiary institutions to deal with thepolitical problems of all indigenous people in theregion. In 1980 an Amazonian confederation,CONFENIAE, was formed. Allies were alsosought at the national and international levels. In late 1980, CONFENIAE joined withECUARUNARI, a highland Indian organization,to coordinate activities through a national indige-nous council called CONACNIE. By 1994 thishad evolved into a confederation of EcuadorianIndian organizations called CONAIE, which nowserves as a national umbrella organization.Realizing that the problems of AmazonianIndians spilled across national borders, CONFE-NIAE also met with indigenous organizations inthe neighboring lowlands of Peru, Colombia,Bolivia, and Brazil. COICA, the Confederationof Indigenous Organizations of the AmazonBasin, was established in 1984.

The multitiered structure of organizations (seefigure 3.1) led to unprecedented interchangeamong indigenous groups. A new indigenousconsciousness and identity emerged that trans-formed the debate between local communities andthe Ecuadorian state. This evolving conscious-

ness has focused on two principal concepts—ter-ritoriality and self-determination—that call forlegal titling of ancestral lands and political, cul-tural, and economic control over them. Thesedemands, initially considered seditious, arebecoming more broadly accepted as indigenousorganizations become a major force in Ecuado-rian political life and receive surprising publicsupport. Between 1990 and 1997, confederationscoordinated four major protest campaigns thathalted national activity for as much as a week.6

One of these, a march from the rain forests ofPastaza Province to the Presidential Palace inQuito in 1992, was a brilliant display of publicrelations and grass-roots involvement. The marchleaders knew that the impending United NationsConference on the Environment and Development(UNCED) would cast an international spotlighton what states were doing to support indigenouspeople and conservation, and that Ecuador’s gov-ernment would strive to appear “green.” As aresult, protesters obtained from the president apromise to title 75 percent of the province asindigenous lands. Now indigenous organizationsalso have entered the electoral arena and havewon numerous seats in the legislature. A formerpresident of CONAIE became Ecuador’s firstindigenous senator.

2.3 Ecology and Traditional Management,or Agroforestry

The Runa in Ecuador occupy a large though no-longer-contiguous territory that straddles theequator and cuts a transect from the east-Andeanfoothills to the borders with Peru and Colombia.It includes habitats that range from montane tolowland moist forest, and that represent ecore-gions considered to be globally outstanding.7

According to Neill (1999) these upper-Amazonforests have as many as 300 species per hectare,the highest ratio in the world.

Runa lands in Napo Province descend from over1,200 meters on the slopes of Sumaco Volcano inthe foothills to about 250 meters at the Peruvianborder. Communities line the banks of the NapoRiver from its source, where the Jatunyacu andAnzu rivers merge, all the way to Ecuador’s east-ern rim. Runa also live along two large tributar-ies of the Napo—the Coca and Payaminorivers—and many of the smaller streams thatdrain these watersheds and flow from Sumaco.



Figure 3.1 Indigenous Organizations of the Ecuadorian Amazon

CONAIE

CONFENIAE (Amazon)

Sierra(Not Listed)

Coast(Not Listed)

Shuar Achuar Quichua Cofan Siona-Secoya Huao

FISCH FIPSE FINAE FOIN FCUNAE FOISE OPIP AIEPRA OINCE ACOINCO OISE ONISE ONHAE

CONAIE Confederación de NacionalidadesIndígenas del Ecuador

CONFENIAE Confederación de NacionalidadesIndígenas de la Amazonia Ecuatoriana

FICSH Federación Indígena de Centros Shuar(Shuar)

FIPSE Federación Independiente del PuebloShuar Ecuatoriano (Shuar)

FINAE Federación Interprovincial de laNacionalidad Achuar del Ecuador (Achuar)

FOIN Federación de Organizaciones Indígenasde Napo (Runa)

FCUNAE Federación de Comunidades, Union deNativos de la Amazonia Ecuatoriana (Runa)

FOISE Federación de Organizaciones IndígenasSucumbios-Ecuador (Runa) (formerly JatunComuna Aguarico)

OPIP Organización de Pueblos Indígenas dePastaza (Runa)

AIEPRA Asociación de Indígenas EvangélicosPastaza Región Amazónica (Runa)

OINCE Organización Indígena Nacional Cofan delEcuador (Cofan)

ACOINCO Asociación de Comunas Indígenas Cofanes(Cofan)

OISE Organización Indígena Secoya del Ecuador(Secoya)

ONISE Organización de la Nacionalidad IndígenaSiona del Ecuador (Siona)

ONHAE Organización de Nacionalidad Huarani dela Amazonia Ecuatoriana (Huao)

Source: Compiled by D. Irvine.

The total area occupied by Runa has increasedduring the 30 years since discovery of oil,although traditional homelands have shrunk asoutsiders have moved in. Migration also hasbrought change in how the Runa interact withhabitat. In their traditional settlement areas nearSumaco, the Runa cleared gardens along relativelyflat hilltops and hunted more frequently thanfished. Moving eastward, migrants have adaptedtheir livelihoods to riverine habitats. They buildtheir houses near medium to large rivers wherethey increasingly farm alluvial soils to grow sub-sistence and cash crops. Fishing along the banksprovides the principal source of protein.

PUMAREN, the focus of this case study,involves an area of traditional forest manage-

ment. Sumaco is one of the smallest of theAndean volcanoes, with a peak of 3,828 meters.Its symmetrical cone dominates the horizon inthe surrounding lowland forests as far away asthe provincial capital of Tena. The volcano’sslopes encompass significant ecosystem diversity,but the area of human settlement ranges onlyfrom 320 to about 1,200 meters. The mountain-top, which contains the only untouched paramoleft in Ecuador, remains isolated.

Forests on the flanks of Sumaco and theadjoining Galeras Ridge (where the PUMARENproject is centered) are not only diverse, butunusually rich in endemic species—that is, plantsor animals unique to this restricted area. TheWWF/IUCN Centres for Plant Diversity Project

has identified the Gran Sumaco and Upper NapoRiver region as one of 46 top-priority sites inSouth America for plant conservation (Harcourtand Sayer 1996, 32–33). According to BirdLifeInternational the region of the Napo and upperAmazon lowlands is an Endemic Bird Area, oneof 60 identified in South America (Harcourt andSayer 1996, 39).

In part, the biota diversity is due to the numeroushabitat types concentrated in a small area.8 Somedifferences result from soil variations. Althoughsoils throughout the area are young, without adeveloped structure, those in the western sectionare volcanic while the eastern soils have evolvedfrom a sedimentary base. Studies by the MissouriBotanical Garden of the flora on the summit ofthe Cordillera de Galeras found endemic plantspecies that occur only on its limestone outcropsand soils and that do not appear at similar eleva-tions on the nearby but volcanic rocks and soils ofSumaco (Neill 1999; Neill and Palacios 1997).

The forests that cloak the volcano change dramati-cally in species and structure as rainfall rises andtemperature decreases with altitude (Watson andSilva del Pozo 1989/90, 16–18). Annual rainfallvaries from 3 to 4 meters per year at lower eleva-tions, to 6 to 8 meters per year higher up. At alti-tudes above 600 meters, trees grow only 30 to 40meters tall, but their girth is often impressive, andmany reach diameters of 1 meter. Trees in the lau-rel family (Lauraceae) as well as the palm Wettiniamaynensis are common. Below 600 meters, forestcanopy is noticeably taller, reaching 40 to 50meters, but the trees are less massive. These habi-tats share less than 20 percent of their species withthe higher forest. The diverse lower forest has athick understory and is characterized by an abun-dant and widespread palm known as Iriartea del-toidea. The Runa call it patihua, and consider itone of the most useful trees in the forest. They usethe mature fronds for palm thatch and eat theunopened leaf shoots as palm heart. The trunkprovides a very hard wood, ideal for home con-struction posts and flooring. Wedges are cut in thetrunks to raise a species of edible palm larvae(Rhynchophorus palmarun) that is considered adelicacy. Even the spiny stilt roots become a graterto prepare plantains for soup. The palms are theobject of indigenous forest management, whichmay account for their large numbers (Irvine 1989).

Forest management by Runa peoples has shapedthe landscape despite their relatively low popula-tion densities (about 1 person/km2 over the wholeterritory). For centuries they have lived by alter-nating short-term crops, grown in agriculturalfields, with resources collected from the managedsecondary forest that regrows in their garden andfrom the mature forest that eventually follows—asystem known as agroforestry. As people cutclearings and manage successional forests, theyhave a strong impact on what is easily misper-ceived by outsiders to be untouched wilderness(Irvine 1989). A typical family that clears onehectare of forest per year and allows it to regrowafter planting one crop would cut a square kilo-meter per century. Estimated indigenous popula-tions in Napo must have cleared significant upperAmazonian rain forest since the Conquest whilepreserving high biodiversity.

This rate of human clearing, in fact, approximatesthe current rate at which these forests appear toturn over naturally. The upper Napo is consideredone of the world’s most “dynamic” tropicalforests. Its trees typically grow quickly and dieyoung. One scientist estimates that the averagelife expectancy of a tree in this region that reachesadult size—10 centimeters dbh (diameter at breastheight)—is only about 64 years (Neill 1999). He concludes that “the relatively high dynamismreported for forests in Amazonian Ecuador mayexplain the high frequency of canopy gaps and therelatively few large trees, as compared with othertropical forest regions such as the Guyana shieldarea and Borneo in southeast Asia.”

Historically, Runa families have lived in housesdotted through the forest, and have cut smallclearings to plant their basic crops—manioc,plantains, and peach palm. As crops grew, theRuna carefully and selectively weeded their gar-dens, protecting what was valuable. This man-agement set the stage for the growth of a diversefallow forest filled with useful species. Over 90percent of the species in these traditionally man-aged landscapes were known and used by theRuna. Supplying food, medicines, and buildingand craft materials, forests supported a healthylife for humans with little trading or marketinvolvement. Indeed, managed areas were morediverse than the natural secondary forests in theregion. Fallow forests also attracted certain



game animals that proliferated as they fed on thefruiting trees that people planted or protected(Irvine 1987).

Evidence also suggests that, depending on usagecustoms, indigenous management affected someforest areas more than others. Lowland forestswere probably preferred to higher ones sinceRuna gardens were generally cleared below ele-vations of 600 meters. The higher parts ofSumaco Volcano were seasonal hunting groundsfor a variety of Runa communities. Small gar-dens were cleared there only occasionally, tosupply food for people visiting their purinahuasi, or small hunting houses.

2.4 Shifts in Tenure, from Custom to LawTraditional Runa tenure relations provided thesecurity and flexibility needed for sustainablemanagement of rain forest resources by futuregenerations. Large community territoriesafforded ample space for gardening and hunting.Community boundaries were not demarcated butwere well known and recognized. Individualswithin a community negotiated directly with theirneighbors to obtain land for gardening and foraccess to hunting and fishing areas. Such usagerights were widely respected by other indigenouscommunities, and provided the inhabitants ofeach community with a degree of control overresource extraction by outsiders. Disputes wereresolved internally.

This customary system has been superseded byan evolving patchwork of Ecuadorian law.Ecuador’s native Amazonians must negotiate amaze of laws that fall into three categories: thosespecific to indigenous communities, those regu-lating tenure for agricultural lands, and thosegoverning forest areas. Usufructuary rights andresponsibilities vary by category. Resourcerights are divided by the state and apportioned asit sees fit. For example, Ecuadorian law assignssubsoil sovereignty to the state. Concessionsmay be (and are) granted to companies to explorefor and extract petroleum or mineral resourcesdespite the wishes of the individual or groupholding surface rights. Not only do applicablelaws differ, depending on category, but so do theinstitutions that oversee land titling.

Indigenous Land. Ecuador’s Law of Comunas,established in 1937, provided a legal framework

for indigenous communities to keep control overresource use. Few communities in the Amazonlowlands knew about or took advantage of thisprovision, however, given the lack of stateadministrative presence, the complicated andexpensive procedure for gaining title, and a func-tioning traditional system to regulate resourceuse. When oil exploitation opened the rain forestwide to other groups 35 years later, the windowof opportunity had severely narrowed if notclosed. Neither the state nor new settlers knewexisting community boundaries, and neitherunderstood nor respected indigenous systems ofcoordinating forest use. As the Runa scrambledto understand Ecuadorian rules, they found thatthe legal landscape had changed. Many, oftencontradictory, laws appropriated their territoryand ceded areas to colonists for agriculture, to oilcompanies for petroleum extraction, to lumbercompanies for forestry, and to the state for pro-tected areas. Indigenous populations faced thedaunting task of mastering the rules of engage-ment on several battlegrounds at once.

Agrarian Reform and Colonization. The firstrisk many indigenous communities faced camefrom the deluge of settlers during the 1970s.Roads and infrastructure cleared the way into theAmazon, but public policy opened the floodgates.Agrarian reform laws in 1964 abolished the feudalhuasipungo system that had kept Andean peoplein a state of serfdom, and promised to transformthe highland hacienda by redistributing land to thepoor. The Agrarian Reform and Colonization Actestablished the Instituto Ecuatoriano de ReformaAgraria y Colonización (IERAC) as an agency toimplement the law. IERAC’s land-titling policiesfavored colonization over expropriation, and theAmazon offered a tempting solution. Since so lit-tle of it was titled, it must be empty, free, andavailable. IERAC soon set up offices in eachAmazonian province, and much of the land dis-tributed by the agency in its first years belonged toAmazonian Indians rather than hacienda owners.

The 1978 Law of Amazon Colonization put alegal stamp on the policy, superseding previouslegislation and setting a national priority on thesettlement and occupation of the region in orderto relieve pressure in the densely populated high-lands. About 85 percent of the 75,000 squarekilometers adjudicated from 1964 to 1994 was for


Forests Areas Province Area (ha) Date Decree Above 600 m Established Acdo/Resol

BP Hollín-Loreto-Coca Napo 100,046 87-12-08 #36287-09-22 #476

BP Rio Tigre Sucumbios 4,908 91-06-28 #322

BP Llanganates Napo/ Tungurahua 82,047 91-10-21 #459

BP Antisana, Tambo, Napo/Pichincha 78,188 92-02-21 #100Tamboyacu, Saloya,Verde Cocha

BP Cumandá Napo 224 93-12-13 #046

BP Lumbaqui Sucumbios 95 95-05-28 #029

Subtotal 265,508

Protected Areas Province Area (ha) Date Decree Below 600 m Established Acdo/Resol

PN Yasuni Napo/Pastaza 982,300* 79-07-27

RPF Cuyabeno Sucumbios 655,781 79-07-26

RB Limoncocha Sucumbios 4,613 85-09-23

Subtotal 1,642,694

Forest Areas Province Area (ha) Date Decree Below 600 m Established Acdo/Resol

BP Pañacocha Sucumbios 56,000 94-3-23 #016

BP Estación INIAP Napo 1,798 92-04-10 #157

BP Venecia Napo 159 92-06-16 #280

Subtotal 57,957

* expanded May 1992 from 544,730 ha

Protected Areas Province Area (ha) Date Decree Above 600 m Established Acdo/Resol

PN Sangay Morona-Santiago 517,765 79-07-26

PN Llangates Pastaza/Tungurahua 219,707 96-03-19

PN Sumaco/Galeras Napo 205,249 94-04-02

PN Podocarpus Zamora-Chinchipe/Loja 146,280 82-12-15

RE Cayambe-Coca Sucumbios/Napo/ 403,103 70-11-17Pichincha

RE Antisana Napo 120,000 93-07-21

Subtotal 1,612,104

Table 3.2 Protected and Forest Areas in the Ecuadorian Amazon

colonization, and 60 percent of that was in theAmazon (Sawyer 1997, 5–6). As a result, nearlyone-third of the Ecuadorian Amazon—more than38,000 square kilometers—was titled for settle-ment by outsiders in the short space of 30 years.

The policy governing Amazonian land was basedon the concept of tierras baldias, or empty lands,which by definition fell under state jurisdiction.Baldias has multiple connotations as a legalterm—empty, unoccupied, and uncultivated.Incorporating notions of both use and ownership,it specified that lands with no owner or forestedareas uncultivated for longer than 10 yearsreverted to the state. Indigenous occupation ofthe forest for centuries and traditional systems ofresource management had no legal standing.

Linkage of “appropriate use” to the granting oftenure rights was designed to promote marketdevelopment, and it quickly transformed thelandscape. Colonists were restricted to approxi-mately 50 hectares per family, and had to demon-strate within five years that at least half their“empty” homestead had been brought into culti-vation. With limited labor at their disposal, mostsettlers not only clear-cut forest but had to adoptan easily managed production strategy to main-tain tenure. A policy to provide bank loans forcattle raising ensured that vast extensions of for-est would become pasture in an eye-blink.Caught in the same vice, Runa families who

obtained title under this system also had to cleartheir lands to hold onto them (Macdonald 1999).

Privatization of tenure to “reinvigorate” the agri-cultural sector and promote large-scale exportcrops has gained speed in Ecuador in the pastfive years, further complicating indigenousrecourse to this body of law. The 1994 AgrarianDevelopment Law (Ley de Desarrollo Agrario)abolished both the 1964 Agrarian Reform Lawand the land-titling agency IERAC. The newimplementing agency is the Instituto Nacional deDesarrollo Agrario (INDA). INDA continues toregister and confer legal title; but, unlike its pred-ecessor IERAC, it has no mandate to delimitland, and prospective owners must hire approvedsurveyors. Even applicants who can afford thenew costs face serious delays since regionaloffices took as long as three years to open,thereby stalling land-titling. The office in Tena,capital of Napo Province, only opened inFebruary 1997; the Coca office for SucumbiosProvince was still unopened in late 1997.

Forests. The Law of Forestry and Conservationof Natural Areas and Wildlife9 puts usufructuaryrights to forests under the administration ofINEFAN, the Ecuadorian Institute for Forestry andNatural Areas.10 The law has two broadbranches—one for production forests and one forprotected areas. Indigenous peoples whose landsfall within INEFAN’s purview obtain title or use


Table 3.2 Protected and Forest Areas in the Ecuadorian Amazon (continued)

Total Protected 3,259,208 (25% of Areas (ha) Ecuadorian

Amazon)

Upland 1,612,104

Lowland 1,647,104

Total Protected 323,365 (2.5% ofForests (ha) Ecuadorian

Amazon)

Upland 265,408

Lowland 57,957

Abbreviations:Acdo/Resol Acuerdo/Resolucion (Legal

Agreement/Resolution)

BP Bosque Protector (ProtectedForest)

PN Parque Nacional (National Forest)

RB Reserva Biológica (BiologicalReserve)

RE Reserva Ecológica (EcologicalReserve)

RPF Reserva de (Wildlife Producción Faunistica Production

Reserve)

Source: Data compiled from Vázquez and Ulloa (1997) and from INEFAN/GEF (1996).

rights from INEFAN rather than IERAC, and mustmeet different demands depending on how theland has been categorized—as protected forest,national park, or one of several kinds of reserve.

The Ecuadorian state claims extensive public landin the Amazon, but has difficulty controlling it.Policies to regulate colonization through plannedsettlement projects proved to be largely ineffectual,and were swamped by the spontaneous movementof people from drought-stricken regions.

Development of a protected-area network thatnow encompasses 25 percent of the Amazon (see table 3.2) looks more impressive on a mapthan on the ground. INEFAN (and previouslyDINAF, Dirección Nacional Forestal, the ForestDirectorate) lacks the manpower and resources to administer such a system and ward off theintense development pressures. Promoting con-servation on ancestral, communal, or privatelands, which include the majority of forest in theregion, has been even harder. Institutional sup-port from the Global Environment Facility (GEF)of the World Bank, the German aid organizationGTZ, and others has helped improve INEFAN’scapacity, but effective management of conserva-tion areas is unlikely without significant coordi-nation with local communities.

In developing a protected area around SumacoVolcano, the zone inhabited by communities wasredefined as either Forest Patrimony (PatrimonioForestal) or Protected Forest (Bosque Protector),removing it from the jurisdiction of agriculturalreform law administered by IERAC.Communities could receive tenure directly fromINEFAN by presenting a management plan thatwould be reviewed periodically for renewal.Tenure also required communities to organize for-est worker cooperatives to implement the plan, aform substantially different than the comunas orcentros acceptable under Agrarian Reform Law.

III. The Evolution of PUMARENFor more than five months following the devas-tating earthquake of March 1987, broken roadsand shattered pipelines cut off the flow of petro-leum from Napo Province, severing the country’sprincipal source of income. Resources were fun-neled to hasten completion of a more direct roadfrom the provincial capital of Coca to Pacific

ports. The final leg, known as the Hollín–Loretoroad, was carved along the flank of SumacoVolcano. By December, traffic started to move,opening a biologically diverse and little-impactedregion to logging and colonization.

During the more than five years of construction,the government of Ecuador never proposed anymeasures to allay the biological and culturalimpacts of the new road, even though the unto-ward side effects of earlier infrastructure devel-opment in the region were well known. So theRuna communities living in the area took twomajor actions on their own, assisted by FOIN.First, those living at lower altitudes moved fromtheir dispersed forest clearings to villages spacedout along the planned roadbed to discouragespontaneous colonization. Sentinel villagescould better monitor incursions and stake outindigenous claims to the land. Second, somepeople moved from their primary lowland resi-dences to higher-altitude hunting territories tosecure rights there.

Both strategies had unintended side effects.Concentrated population meant concentrated landclearing that intensified pressure on the forestaround villages and its capacity for regrowth.Those who moved higher up to cultivate moun-tainous ecosystems found them unable to supporttraditional forest management. Unable to managebasic subsistence, families turned to cash crops,cattle, and other income sources to buy food.

Local indigenous federations (with support fromCapuchin missionaries, nonprofit organizationssuch as Cultural Survival, and donor agenciessuch as the Inter-American Foundation) workedwith member communities to secure legal rightsto this large, traditionally indigenous territory.They never gained significant political supportfor their efforts, but persistence achieved partialsuccess in land titling. Yet even that success wasundermined because the federations had yet todevise a workable strategy to help member com-munities make the transition to a cash economy.

Even as internal resettlement efforts grew unsus-tainable, the federations were failing to meet theexternal threat that had called them into being.When the Hollín–Loreto road opened, colonistsspontaneously put down roots wherever the Runahad left a gap. The government even moved earth-quake victims into a newly created town called El


Pacto Sumaco. Colonists quickly cleared land forcash crops and began small-scale logging withchain saws and mules. Two lumber companies,ENDESA and Arboriente, then negotiated withcash-starved Runa villages the right to extractwhole trees. Villagers thought this would be apainless way to settle outstanding bank loans forcattle raising. The communities were dismayed,however, when loggers who had contracted forprized specimens of copal (Dacryodes olivifera) at$4 a tree leveled nearby trees as well, and hauledthe booty out on roads cut through crop fields.These practices left some villagers ruined when thecompany refused to pay for damages. FOINfeared that all their efforts had come to naught.

This early setback, however, stiffened the resolveof local communities to organize their ownresource management to generate income.11 Andthe earthquake also brought in influential outsideactors who tipped the balance of power in theregion. USAID funded the bridges to make theHollín–Loreto road passable, but restrictionsimposed by the U.S. Congress conditioned allsuch assistance in tropical rain forests on mitiga-tion of deforestation along the demarcated route.Among the steps USAID requested of theEcuadorian government was to make the Sumacoarea a protected conservation zone. USAID alsoprovided FOIN with seed money for a land-titlingand resource-management proposal to strengthenthe ability of indigenous inhabitants to controldeforestation in their territory. This was the seedof what would eventually become the PUMARENproject. The following subsections review threephases in the development of natural resourcemanagement in Runa territory, moving from landtitling and community evaluations in ProjectLETIMAREN, to the income-generation activitiesof PUMAREN and its later fragmentation.

3.1 Phase One: Land Titling andAssessment (~1988–1990)

The Federation of Indigenous Organizations ofNapo (FOIN) is one of four principal organiza-tions representing Runa in the EcuadorianAmazon.12 As of 1997, FOIN represented 101member communities.13 Every three years com-munities select federation officials to carry outprograms in land titling, agriculture, and health,and to provide a regional political voice.

FOIN’S Sumaco effort got under way in March1988 as Project LETIMAREN (Legalization ofIndigenous Lands and Management of NaturalResources). Local priorities and those ofdonors overlapped without coinciding.USAID’s principal concern was to preventdeforestation and biodiversity loss. This wouldoccur primarily through establishment of a pro-tected-area model for the region, with supple-mentary seed funding for FOIN. FOIN’sobjective was to secure indigenous control overthis traditional territory, and then to help mem-ber communities maintain control by managingforest resources to earn income without deplet-ing their children’s legacy. FOIN’s leadershipdenounced rapid deforestation by logging com-panies that had signed contracts with indigenouscommunities and homesteaders along the road.But this deforestation was viewed in terms ofloss of indigenous control over resource use thatstemmed from unfavorable and deceptive con-tract terms logging companies negotiated withunsuspecting and unprepared villagers.

The federation also saw the local crisis as anopportunity to develop a response to a regionalproblem. International attention had spotlightedSumaco, but incorporation of Napo into thenational economy had transformed indigenousland use and tenure throughout the province.Many other Runa communities were strugglingquietly out of sight, and FOIN hoped to learnhow to help them by developing models from theinflux of funding and technical assistance donorshad earmarked for communities along theHollín–Loreto road.

FOIN’s leaders decided to form and train aresource management team from a group ofrecent high school graduates who had participatedin the federation’s youth leadership program.They would work with member communities tosecure land rights and to help develop more sus-tainable economic strategies as their resource basewas threatened.

After training by Cultural Survival and FUNDA-GRO (Fundación para el DesarrolloAgropecuario) in social-science data collectionand analysis, the team fanned out to survey the29 communities affected by the Hollín–Loretoroad about the legal status of their lands and theimpact of logging in the zone. Surveyors would



also conduct a census of the local indigenouspopulation, and evaluate community needs andmethods of resource management.

Results were compiled in Legalization ofIndigenous Lands and Management of NaturalResources in the Hollín–Loreto Road Zone ofInfluence (FOIN–Cultural Survival 1988). Thereport showed that out of 29 communities, 9 (or31 percent) had legal title to land totaling 72,602hectares. Another four (or 14 percent) had pre-sented documented claims and were waiting forapproval of 20,651 hectares. The remaining 16communities had not been able to obtain title orwere attempting to obtain individual family titlesto small plots. One of the longest-settled com-munities in the zone had been trying to obtaintitle for over 10 years without success.

The 29 communities contained approximately9,000 indigenous inhabitants. More than 50 per-cent were under 15 years old, at least half ofwhom would soon come of age and require landto establish families. The amount of land eligiblefor legalization was often restricted by the gov-ernment to that needed by the present adult popu-lation, ignoring pressing needs for futureagricultural production or for forest range to sup-port hunting and gathering.

Seven centers of outside colonization were iden-tified. These settlements were establisheddespite the accord between the Ministry ofAgriculture and USAID that government wouldnot promote colonization in the area. Somecolonists occupied areas where individual indige-nous families had failed to claim and title theland they used; others were authorized to occupyillegally territory already delimited as indigenousby IERAC under agrarian reform law. TheFOIN–CS report highlighted how the Law ofOpen Lands and Colonization (Ley de TierrasBaldias y Colonización) gave traditional indige-nous settlements priority in adjudication of titles.This called attention to the fact that IERAC wasnot following its own statutes, and that local gov-ernments were acting in ways that contravenedagreements made by the national government.

Although oil had yet to be discovered in theSumaco area, the government had assignedexploration rights to multinational companies.The potential threat was of great concern because19 of the communities surveyed were located

inside the Block 7 concession assigned to BritishPetroleum, and two were inside ESSO’s Block 8.

FOIN presented the report to Ministry ofAgriculture officials just before the presidentialelections to get maximum leverage. The timingwas designed to appeal to the liberal presidencyof Rodrigo Borja. Based on survey data, FOINproposed specific government actions to haltindiscriminate logging and promote resourcemanagement in the region. The government wasasked to expedite adequate global land titles forindigenous communities in the zone and act tohalt colonization. One of the boldest proposalscalled for establishment of an Ethnic ForestBiosphere Reserve in untitled lands that wouldbe managed under formal contract with indige-nous organizations, with government support totrain personnel and test alternative land-usestrategies. This idea was inspired by the AwáReserve on Ecuador’s Pacific Coast.

The report was designed to build on a recentdeparture from previous indigenous calls for landtitle. For the first time in the EcuadorianAmazon, communities were seeking legal titleunder the rubric of forestry law. In 1987 a bandof land bordering the Hollín–Loreto road—landtotaling 100,046 hectares and incorporating theprincipal area of settlement—had been declared“protected”14 and transferred administratively tothe Forestry Directorate (DINAF). As a result,many communities along the road no longer hadto deal with IERAC, which for 20 years hadshown little political will to process and protectindigenous land titles.

The land-titling process was FOIN’s first positiveinteraction with DINAF, which previously hadbeen perceived to favor industry.15 Of course, thegovernment now had an incentive to regularizeand expedite tenure in the zone to meet USAID’sconditions for road construction. If that stiffenedDINAF’S will, the LETIMAREN (laterPUMAREN) project made DINAF’s task easierby providing a framework for interactions withlocal communities and permitting titling to moveahead as a block. It also simplified anotherrequirement. A community seeking title in anarea of protected forest must develop a manage-ment plan. DINAF agreed that the 29 indigenouscommunities along the road could fold all oftheir plans together through LETIMAREN. Thecollaboration among communities, FOIN, and

DINAF and its successor, INEFAN, proved effec-tive. By 1992, 55 percent of the communitieshad secured legal title. By 1997, all except twonew ones had tenure.

However, indigenous participation in planning theproposed protected area was far less effective.Government plans to conserve the Sumaco areaproceeded steadily. Studies of the socioeconomicstatus of the region’s population, the land-usecapacity of the zone, and possible managementalternatives were carried out by the EcuadorianNGO Fundación Natura in 1989 (Pereira et al.1989) and by a USAID consulting team in 1990(Hanrahan and Pereira 1990). By 1992, a feasi-bility study carried out with German governmentsupport proposed establishment of a national parkfor Sumaco Volcano and the adjoining GalerasRidge. In April 1994, 205,249 hectares were offi-cially set aside as the Sumaco–Galeras NationalPark. An interim institution, Proyecto GranSumaco, was established within INEFAN withfinancial and technical support from the Germanaid organization GTZ, and offices were opened inQuito and in the regional capital of Tena to helpestablish the park.

Throughout this process of planning and establish-ing the park, there was little coordination and a cli-mate of mutual suspicion between the governmentand the Indian organizations. The governmentnever seemed to take seriously the idea that indige-nous organizations were capable of managing aprotected area. The lack of any response toFOIN’s proposal to form a partnership only deep-ened FOIN’s underlying distrust of governmentintentions. Unable to engage the process from theinside, FOIN watched park formation unfold fromthe outside. It continued to insist on a joint man-agement model under a conservation category thatrecognized indigenous rights to the area, withoutbeing able to show (partly because it was not askedto do so) how the idea would work in practice.

This proposal regarding Sumaco reflected alarger strategy being promoted by the regionalAmazonian and national Indian organizations inEcuador. In 1990–1991, CONFENIAE drafted amap that reclaimed existing protected areas in theAmazon as indigenous territory to be jointlymanaged by local Indian federations and commu-nities in coordination with INEFAN. This pro-posal was also greeted with silence.

The Sumaco and regional indigenous proposalswere virtually identical, and both might have beenmore persuasive if FOIN had better used its ownresource management team. LETIMAREN(PUMAREN) staff members were minimallyinvolved in drafting proposals, or in governmentnegotiations, despite their hands-on involvementwith local planning, management alternatives, andthe protected-area model. They were on goodterms with INEFAN personnel in promoting landtitling, and were working closely with local com-munities to develop forest management plans. Asfor theory, the LETIMAREN team had beenimmersed since completion of the community survey in learning resource management.Indigenous-to-indigenous training had been usedto help Runa staff overcome suspicion of conser-vationists’ motives. The team had visited otherindigenous experiments in resource managementbeing carried out by the Awá in northeasternEcuador, by the Kuna PEMASKY project inPanama, and by the Yanesha in the PeruvianAmazon. Kuna trainers spent four monthsinstructing the team in conservation models (put-ting into perspective the different conservation cat-egories then in use) and in different managementalternatives that local communities might consider(including agroforestry, tourism, and communityforestry). At the same time, team and communitymembers began to learn field techniques for inven-torying forests and planning their management.From these experiences had emerged an interest incommunity forestry that would take shape inphase two of PUMAREN. Yanesha trainers froma forestry project in Palcazu, Peru, would visittwice to aid assessment of this alternative.

None of this knowledge was tapped in respond-ing to the park proposal, however, because FOINand its regional confederation discounted theteam as young and politically inexperienced. Asa result, indigenous organizations framed theirproposals rhetorically and were unable to providespecifics to show the government and the publichow joint management would work.

3.2 Phase Two: Community Planning(1991–1995)

As land titling moved forward and began tooccupy less time, project staff began to apply whatthey had learned from the Awá, the Kuna, andother indigenous trainers by helping communities



develop income-generating activities that wereeconomically and environmentally sustainable.By 1991 LETIMAREN had been renamedPUMAREN (Project for the Use and Managementof Natural Resources) to reflect this new thrust.The focus of training now shifted to communitymembers as the PUMAREN team helped localgroups assess their resource bases and tried toidentify those able and willing to participate in amodel enterprise. PUMAREN staff had leeway toget the enterprise up and going, but were ulti-mately responsible to FOIN, which held the pursestrings for donor money. WWF joined CS as theprincipal institutions providing financial and tech-nical support during this phase.

All the parties involved in planning the commu-nity forestry enterprise set out to keep the projectas small and simple as possible. Three villagesinterested in developing a community forestryenterprise on their lands were selected (see table3.3). The federation’s criteria for participationincluded (1) a demonstrated ability to organize asa community and carry out planned activities; (2) forest reserves that the community was will-ing to manage jointly; and (3) access, or plannedaccess, to a road.

Each of the three communities agreed to set asidea forest reserve for common management, leav-ing enough land for member households to worktheir own agroforestry plots. Logging in theseareas was intended to supplement and not replaceeach person’s agricultural work, and designatedforest reserves comprised only 6 to 18 percent ofeach community’s total land area. Within thesemanagement areas, logging would only be per-mitted in specified sections where logging couldbe done efficiently and with minimal collateraldamage. The community of Huahua Sumaco,where steep slopes were common, set aside only24 percent of its reserve as suitable for timberextraction. The flatter terrain of Amazonas andChonta Cocha allowed those communities to tar-get nearly half their reserves.

To keep capital investments and environmentalimpacts low and to reduce the tasks that had to bemastered, advisors proposed that chain saws withguides be used to cut trees and mill planks in theforest, so that wood could be more easily totedout with mules. However, as the project tookshape a more elaborate vision began to emerge.Forestry consultants hired by PUMAREN arguedthat the only way to cover the communities’ man-

Community Population Total Area of Operable Commercial(Number Area Forest Area Volume

of Families) (km2) Management _______________ m3/ha/yr(km2) km2 % of

total area

Amazonas NA 48 6.6 2.8 5.8% 83

(126)

Chonta Cocha 170 22 2.0 1.0 4.5% 139

(40)

Huahua Sumaco 250 28 5.0 1.2 4.3% 123

(44)

Population from unpublished FOIN data, June 1997.

Area and volume statistics from Rubio, et al. (1995).

Table 3.3 Population, Area, and Forest Reserves of Three Communities in the PUMAREN Forestry Project

agement costs was to develop a business plan thattargeted an export or a national market that couldabsorb a wider variety of tree species, offer betterprices, and bypass middlemen. The relativelymodest scale of the initial proposal soon expand-ed as dryers, carpentry equipment, milling gear,and a processing center to house them were pro-posed as a way to add value to local wood andproduce high-quality, planed lumber for export.The cost of acquiring this infrastructure whiletraining novice workers to operate and maintain itwould quickly become substantial.

By industrial standards, the envisioned enter-prise looked miniscule, but keeping it suppliedwith wood to fulfill contracts with demandingbuyers would require the communities to adoptsocioeconomic models that were completely newto them. The communities would have to learnto work together as a team and pool forestresources to generate the volumes needed sincepreliminary inventories of their trees made itclear that none had sufficient reserves to justifya stand-alone enterprise.

Although the upgraded project would be demand-ing, it seemed doable, and all parties decided tomove ahead. However the shift in project focusleft little wiggle room for mistakes and proved tobe more difficult to implement than either the advi-sors or the community members had anticipated.Some of the challenges were common to timberenterprises throughout the tropics. For instance,there is no developed market for the lesser-knownwoods that make up the majority of tree speciesfound in rain forests. This problem was exacer-bated in the PUMAREN project because the forestreserves of the three communities comprised dif-ferent ecosystems and therefore different kinds ofwood. Huahua Sumaco’s land ranges in elevationbetween 1,000 and 1,400 meters, and is character-ized by Premontane Rain Forest growing in vol-canic soils on dissected mountainsides, often withsteep slopes. Rain falls throughout the year andtotals 4 to 6 meters annually. Many of the treespecies found there and higher up on the mountainare not found in either of the other two communi-ties even though they are common near HuahuaSumaco. The woods of Amazonas and ChontaCocha grow at elevations below 400 meters, arerooted in sedimentary soils, and are classified asTropical Moist Forest. Joining forces would,indeed, boost the amount of timber a pilot project

could process, but the diverse makeup of that woodwould make marketing much trickier.

The expanded project also intensified the impor-tance of training in both forest management andbusiness skills. Forest management was rela-tively easy for community members to grasp andmaster since they had extensive knowledge oftheir land and its habitats. Even so, inventoryingtrees to identify marketable species and draftingfinal management plans that adjusted harvestingmethods to regeneration cycles fell behind sched-ule. Many of the snags were the result of notdelegating sufficient control of the process to thecommunities who were expected to operate theenterprise once it was up and running. By thetime phase three of PUMAREN was scheduled tostart, only the community of Huahua Sumacohad finished a management plan.

This did not bode well for other aspects of theproject that did not rest on a solid foundation ofprior community experience. As a later study byregional indigenous organizations of income-gen-erating community projects would show (Smithand Wray 1996), business administration andmarketing skills are difficult to graft onto thetrunk of a “gift economy”—one that is based onsubsistence and reciprocal exchange. In the caseof PUMAREN, market experience varied widelyamong the three communities. Huahua Sumacowas the most closely linked to and dependent onmarkets, and its local project leaders proved to bevery entrepreneurial. However, even they haddifficulty picturing who their customers wouldactually be. For the business to flourish, thecommunities would need substantial and sus-tained technical support.

Because the economic challenge was understoodto be daunting, it received much of the focus ofproject advisors and participants. Unfortunately,the social challenge was not so well understood.What looked like a hill was actually the summitof a mountain enveloped by clouds. Even thefederation and villagers were unaware of howmassive the hidden obstacles might be. Thecommunities were selected, in part, because theyhad shown the ability to mobilize to protect theirland. Yet they had not had much experienceworking with each other, which is what theywould have to do in processing and marketing ifthe project was to be economically viable.


This kind of cooperation would have been achallenge even if only one community had beeninvolved. Members were accustomed to work-ing individually or as a part of household units.Although kinship relationships often extendedbeyond the village and tied householdstogether, families in these three communitieshad few significant links with one another.Building relationships, while conceivable,would take time and effort, which a tight proj-ect schedule might not permit. Had there beena more conscious effort to build on existing tiesand customary patterns of organizing work, adifferent economic model might have evolvedthat did not rely upon a strained partnershipbetween unrelated communities.

As the communities and the federation struggledto find their common footing, factors over whichthey had little control continued to trip them up.Even land tenure proved to be thornier thanexpected. Chonta Cocha, in particular, wasunable to obtain legal title. FOIN, based in Tena,was able to facilitate the process for the commu-nities in that jurisdiction, but Chonta Cocha islocated in another administrative unit and had towork with the agrarian land-titling agency inCoca. The delay of working at a distance wasfurther exacerbated when, as Section 2.4 details,the 1994 Agrarian Development Law set up anew agency, INDA, to title land, includingparcels that were to be processed under forestrylaw. More than three years later, the INDAbranch office in Coca would still be on the draw-ing board, paralyzing local adjudications.

As the time neared for active implementation tobegin, even FOIN’s requirement that project com-munities have imminent access to roads began toseem overly ambitious. Although Huahua Sumacowas located along the Hollín-Loreto road, theother two communities were not and required con-struction or improvement of side roads if theywere to export their timber. Despite years of effortwith the local municipalities, preliminary roadbedswere not upgraded. In December 1994, on the eveof phase three, they were still rivers of mud.Amazonas and Chonta Cocha would each eventu-ally complete the mapping of their borders, mark-ing out individual members’ parcels andcommunal reserves. They would distinguish areasof harvesting from zones to be protected and

inventory their resources, but by then PUMARENitself would be unrecognizable.

3.3 Phase Three: Downsizing andFragmentation (1995–Present)

In 1995 the project received funding from theUnited Nations Development Programme (UNDP)for equipment to implement the forest manage-ment project. This funded chain-saw mills, car-pentry and wood-processing equipment, agenerator, and the construction of a processing andstorage center. At about the same time, WWF andCultural Survival withdrew from the project fordifferent reasons, leaving PUMAREN and thecommunities without technical assistance. CSexperienced an organizational crisis that forced itto withdraw from projects in many areas of theworld. WWF was operating on a narrow timelineand withdrew when its activities were scheduledfor completion. The PUMAREN team was unableto obtain new funding and was forced to downsizewhen the federation could not pay salaries.Although WWF had planned to be present whenequipment purchases were made, delays in theUNDP grant left the communities without supportwhen critical decisions were made. Furthermore,since basic organizational issues had never beenadequately addressed, an underlying lack of con-sensus soon emerged as a significant problem.

The communities had never agreed about exactlywhere on the Hollín-Loreto road the processingcenter should be located to maximize efficiencyand reduce costs—higher up near HuahuaSumaco or in the town of Loreto, which wascloser to the two lowland communities.Ultimately consultants hired by UNDP broke theimpasse and chose the Loreto site. Yet evenwith construction under way, neither Amazonasnor Chonta Cocha had a finished forest manage-ment plan or a finished road to haul timber outon. Huahua Sumaco, on the other hand, waseager to start implementing the plan it had pre-pared and gotten approved. Lacking easy accessto the proposed processing center, the commu-nity began to clamor for locating the carpentryequipment within Huahua Sumaco. The wran-gling only grew more intense when the architecthired to design the processing center underesti-mated the cost, and construction halted midwayas funds ran out.


Ultimately the uneasy alliance splintered, andHuahua Sumaco moved ahead on its own with aredesigned project on a smaller scale. The com-munity succeeded in obtaining use of the carpen-try equipment (officially owned by FOIN). Theyreorganized activities to focus on interested indi-vidual community members who were maderesponsible for, and would benefit directly from,different forestry activities, including care of themules used to haul wood out and the processingof what had been extracted. To gain experienceand benefit the community, participants decidedto produce wood for local housing and to con-struct crates for selling their naranjilla fruitcrops. Some individuals planned to sell boards,milled with a chain saw, on the local market.

The lowland communities, however, were stalledsince they had no support to finish their manage-ment plans or revise them midstream. ChontaCocha, frustrated by these combined setbacks,decided to withdraw. Amazonas continues to waitfor the situation to improve, but has not figuredout how to reduce the scale of activities from theambitious plan villagers originally approved.

One institution has partially filled the gap left by the departure of WWF and CS. The GranSumaco Project, which is establishing the nationalpark, has provided limited funding and technicalassistance. However, until recently its activitieshave been planned and carried out directly withcommunities and not with the federation. In theinitial phase of park consolidation, Gran Sumacohas worked with three upland communities in thebuffer zone of protected forests, including HuahuaSumaco. It has carried out socioeconomic studiesand provided broad support to communities inagriculture and agroforestry, and limited supportto the forestry enterprise. There are no activitiesin the lowland zone. Although support to FOINhas recently resumed, initial activities were car-ried out by hiring individual PUMAREN teammembers, whom the federation could no longerpay, to provide technical assistance to buffer-zonecommunities and to train as park guards.

IV. Building EffectivePartnerships—Lessons in Scale

Although the PUMAREN project fell short ofexpectations, what happened must be understoodin the context of an evolving effort to build rela-

tionships that achieve conservation through sus-tainable resource management. It is rich in les-sons at three levels, with implications that stretchbeyond Sumaco to include the whole region.

4.1 The Role of Federations in CommunityEnterprises

Some of the problems of PUMAREN can betraced to internal contradictions at the core of thefederation and its relationship with member com-munities. The LETIMAREN phase of the projectwent smoothly, but land titling and surveyingcommunities to voice their interests politicallywere activities familiar to FOIN and within itstraditional scope of operations. Serious contra-dictions only began to surface during the pro-ject’s second phase, when the focus switched todeveloping economic projects.

FOIN knew that action was needed, not only tomaintain tenure and benefit member communi-ties, but to strengthen the federation’s autonomy.Since its inception, FOIN has required founda-tion funds to carry out its work and has struggledwith the dependency that resulted. The leader-ship believed it was necessary to find ways toincrease their financial independence if they wereto set priorities and keep the strategic agendafrom being distorted. Two possibilities existed.One was that communities could pay fees to thefederation in recognition of its services. Thiscould occur through membership dues or throughremittance of a portion of the gains from commu-nity projects. However, the communities hadnever been willing to support the federation inthis way. A second possibility was for the feder-ation to become directly involved in economicactivities and earn a financial return. Some ofthe leadership, however, feared that transformingFOIN into an economic entity could undermineits political independence. They also feared thatan independent economic structure for commu-nity projects would take on a life of its own thatmight eventually undermine the federation itself.

As a result, the PUMAREN team never receiveda clear mandate. It was conceived as a technicalarm of the federation that would work directlywith communities to develop economic alterna-tives. However, such a unit could play a varietyof roles. It could 1) build networks to brokermarketing, funding, etc.; 2) provide communities



with planning and technical support services; or3) establish an economic partnership with com-munities by taking responsibility for activitiessuch as marketing. FOIN was well positioned tocarry out the first role. It had developed a strongnational and international network over the yearsand had achieved some success in obtainingfunds. Although links for marketing and invest-ment were weak, new contacts were made as theproject evolved. PUMAREN also succeeded intraining a core team able to work with communi-ties to evaluate their resource base and alterna-tives, produce resource management plans, andprovide limited technical support. Confusion,however, abounded when FOIN proposed work-ing in partnership with communities to developincome-producing activities.

The federation envisioned that work would start ata small scale, focusing on a few communities. Ifsuccessful, the model could be shared with othercommunities, which would become involved overtime and learn from earlier experiences. Howeverthe economic model proposed by advisors was nota community-based enterprise that other commu-nities could replicate one by one. It required acritical mass of participating communities interact-ing with one another to succeed. Under this sce-nario, the PUMAREN community forestry projectrepresented both a new economic model and anew social model. To achieve economies of scale,forestry enterprises must coordinate activitiesamong communities as well as links with regionalorganizations. Individuals and communities havenot traditionally worked in this way, so it neverbecame clear who was in charge of the forestryproject. Some of this ambiguity might have beenavoided if PUMAREN had been built on underly-ing social relationships. The two lowland forestcommunities near Sumaco maintain contact witheach other and might have been able to build onthat trust to carry out a joint project. Including anupland community without such ties argued for adifferent approach.

The project shows that greater attention to thenuances of cultural links is required to forge neworganizational structures. New group structuresare theoretically feasible, but the effort to createthem requires significantly greater resources anda wider consensus than was available here.Perhaps recommendations that focus on the

advantages of group marketing are inappropriateat this stage until FOIN and its member commu-nities have thought through the federation’s eco-nomic role and an effective and responsiveorganizational structure for implementing it.

PUMAREN was one of FOIN’s first experimentswith a sustainable development project. Itsprogress has been followed by indigenous com-munities belonging to other federations in threeprovinces where Runa claim significant territory.Until now, the federations have worked to pro-mote regional and national policies that benefittheir broad indigenous constituency by providingindividual communities with political clout.Now they find themselves having to develop theadministrative capacity to work on the groundwith communities. Clarification of relationshipshas been impeded by the inherent conflicts oftrying to carry out both a political and economicagenda, and appropriate organizational structuresare still being developed.

Of course, community forestry is only one of sev-eral alternatives being explored, some by commu-nities themselves. The most notable of these wasstarted by Capirona, and then expanded to othercommunities, mainly near the banks of the NapoRiver. With support from the NGO Ayuda enAcción, an indigenous ecotourism network calledRICANCIE (Red Indígena de Comunidades delAlto Napo para la Convivencia Intercultural yEcoturismo) has formed to promote community-controlled tourism.

4.2 NGOs and the Myth of Stand-AloneProjects

PUMAREN also highlights the role of NGOs inhelping indigenous communities and organiza-tions develop new economic models. NGOs offertechnical advice and training. They can link localcommunity projects to a wide network of valuablecontacts. They can provide financial backing,especially to buffer the risk of starting new ven-tures, and help fledgling management find its feet.

However even in a good working relationship—where the local organizations significantly controlplanning and implementation—three questionsmust be addressed. First, is the technical advicetoo ambitious, outstripping the NGO’s capacity toprovide effective support? Indigenous conserva-tion/development projects theoretically can be


small or large—from household-based to regionalin scope. However, difficulty in developing newstructures and coordinating multiple layers oforganization rises with the grandeur of the con-ceptualization. Second, is the continuity of sup-port adequate? The more complicated the projectis, the longer technical and economic assistancewill likely be needed. Finally, does the technicaladvice match the social conditions? Even in rela-tively simple projects, planning a time frame thatpermits communities and organizations to evolveculturally appropriate structures for ongoing man-agement is tricky.

Two international NGOs played a critical role inPUMAREN. Cultural Survival, an indigenousrights organization, helped to establish the proj-ect and saw it as an opportunity to strengthenfederation capacity to serve member communi-ties. CS focused assistance at the federationlevel. World Wildlife Fund–US, an environmen-tal NGO, started to work in partnership with CSwhen PUMAREN zeroed in on communityforestry. Together they provided direct financialand technical assistance to FOIN, and helped toestablish links with other indigenous projects andsupport institutions.

Although initially conceived as a small-scaleproject based on individual communities,PUMAREN soon developed into a formal enter-prise requiring the coordination of multiple com-munities to achieve economies of scale andcontinuity of supply. To project advisers, theproposed structure was still small-scale andseemed manageable with appropriate training.However the communities had no administrativeexperience, no commercial forestry expertise, noexperience with marketing, and no contacts tobuild such a network. Furthermore the cost ofadding value to harvested timber quickly scaledthe project out of direct community control.Local participants were dependent on outsidersnot only for training, but for market links andstart-up capital.

Development of new regional economic structurescreates these kinds of dependencies, which requiresustained investment most NGOs are unwilling orunable to give. Where a group of NGOs isinvolved, support must be coordinated so that delayin one project component doesn’t derail the rest.In the case of PUMAREN, CS was able to lever-

age significant support early on, and was institu-tionally committed to a long-term relationship withFOIN. However, unexpected cutbacks in its ownfunding forced CS to withdraw precipitously in1994. The other major NGO, WWF, had a nar-rower, short-term commitment to the communityforestry project. Unfortunately its support ended ata critical juncture—soon after CS’s departure andjust before the large UNDP grant arrived.Equipment-buying decisions had to be made, butwere made in the absence of agreed-upon relation-ships with clear responsibilities and an agreed-upon distribution of benefits. The decisions weremade despite the problem of appropriate scale,which had been highlighted but not yet resolved.

NGOs often think of a pilot project in conserva-tion and development as a stand-alone model andassume it will be self-replicating once it is shownto work. PUMAREN suggests that the modelhas to fit the needs of the community implement-ing it and mesh with a larger matrix of socialstructures if it is to survive and replicate. In thiscase, the design did not mesh with either thecommunities or the federation.

4.3 Government, Communities, and thePyrrhic Victory of National Parks

Since development of a protected area aroundSumaco, interactions between government insti-tutions and local indigenous peoples have variedsignificantly, showing progress on some frontsand persistent problems in others. First, somepolicy changes have been beneficial. Long-standing federation efforts to acquire tenure formember communities were expedited by appli-cation of land-titling categories new to theregion. Furthermore, the shift in institutionalresponsibility away from the agrarian reformagency to the forestry and natural resourcesdivisions (DINAF/INEFAN) constructivelylinked land titling with resource use. It facili-tated the federation’s efforts to steer communitymanagement plans away from destructive cattleherding and toward potentially sustainableforestry and agriculture.

The relationship between INEFAN andPUMAREN also improved at the local level asINEFAN provided technical support and trainingto the project team in the development of man-agement plans. Frequent communication has led


to greater trust and better coordination. Theselinks have also provided FOIN with a potentiallypositive channel for pushing proposals for co-management based on the practical aspects ofcommunity economic development, rather thanthe highly charged politics that characterized pre-vious contacts.

But at the same time, development of a pro-tected-area model has weakened indigenous con-trol over this territory. Establishment of anational park has made indigenous communitiesand federations just one of many stakeholders.Although able to influence decisions aboutresource use in the region, they lack the decidingvoice that would come from establishment andrecognition of an indigenous territory.

The government’s Gran Sumaco Project to helpestablish the park has had a number of sideeffects. One of them seems ironically beneficial.In working with the single community of HuahuaSumaco, the Gran Sumaco Project showed thatPUMAREN’s original simple structure for aforestry project was probably on track. Yet bytending to focus its efforts (as has INEFAN) onindividual communities within the park bufferzone, the government undermines the coordinat-ing role played by the federation and arbitrarilydivides the social fabric of the region by exclud-ing communities in the much larger area outsidethe park. Because it sees the indigenous popula-tion as one among many with interests in thearea, the Gran Sumaco Project has also elevatedthe claims of others within the region. One daythe established park may be as magnificentlyunique as Sumaco Volcano, standing in splendidisolation as a green island in a landscape devas-tated by unbridled development.

V. The Future of the RegionIndigenous federations have made great strides tobe included in the political life of Ecuador. Theirleaders have become adept at organizing a varietyof successful campaigns that have raised awarenessabout issues ranging from land claims to theimpacts of oil development on indigenous commu-nities. In building a regional, national, and interna-tional movement, they have also forged a broader“indigenous” identity that cuts across ethnic bound-aries. Their struggle has gone a long way to trans-form the public’s image of indigenous peoples.

A vital part of the campaign for indigenous rightshas been the ongoing fight for legal recognitionthat Ecuador is a “plurinational state”—a countrythat comprises different ethnic “nations.”Indigenous organizations have proposed amend-ing the national Constitution to mandate a decen-tralized political and administrative structure.The amendment would recognize the culturalheterogeneity of the country and allow local con-trol over economic and cultural development.16

That would have significant consequences for theEcuadorian Amazon, much of which indigenouspeoples claim as ancestral land. In the past quar-ter century, they have already achieved remark-able success in obtaining title to large segmentsof this territory, largely through the work ofindigenous organizations formed in response todevelopment pressures. The proposed politicalchanges would have a greater impact on conser-vation of the region than any activities with indi-vidual communities are likely to achieve. Thoseinterested in conservation of the region’s rainforests cannot ignore the indigenous movementas a primary ally in making the changes neededto conserve resources on a landscape scale.

However, implementation of such a far-reachingamendment, or even the less radical proposal tocomanage protected areas that make up a quarterof the region, will require integration of thelarger indigenous movement with communityeconomic initiatives. The social landscape haschanged drastically during the past quarter cen-tury, with significant implications for conserva-tion. The relationship of most Runa communitiesto their environment has been irrevocably alteredby development pressures and extensive defor-estation that have tied indigenous people moreclosely to a market economy. Simultaneously,the changing policy terrain has incorporated evenremote communities into the national legal struc-ture. In order to conserve the resource baseindigenous people have depended on for genera-tions, new economic models—ones that build onan extensive traditional knowledge and practiceof forest management—must be created.

As PUMAREN showed, that will require newgovernance structures. The federations that haveplayed such an important part in protectingindigenous rights and resources have also addednew layers to the regional social structure.

However, it remains an open question what theirrole should be in the evolution of new structuresfor sustainable development. Do new economicmodels require transformation of the federations’mission and governing structure, or can newmodels bubble up through small community-levelprojects? If federations do not play a role, howwill communities obtain the skills needed tocarry out these projects and obtain access to mar-keting, funding, and information networks?

Environmental NGOs must analyze more care-fully their strategies to combine conservation anddevelopment. In choosing to support communitydevelopment projects, NGOs need to think aboutwhat impact results will have at a wider “land-scape” level. Where real regional impact is pos-sible, higher levels of commitment and continuityof support may be justified. Inevitably thatmeans NGOs should look at the role indigenousorganizations play and can play in the policyarena. Commitment to a new vision of people’sparks requires rethinking past patterns of institu-tional support and helping to foster institutionsthat increase community control and capacity andmake proposed models for indigenous manage-ment of territories viable.

Endnotes1. The author would like to thank the directorateof FOIN, the members of the PUMAREN team(especially Jaime Shiguango), and communitymembers in Huahua Sumaco and Amazonas fortheir help in obtaining updated information forthis case study. Thanks are also offered to JamesLevy, David Neill, Matthew Perl, Jorge Uquillas,and Barbara Wyckoff-Baird for their commentson early drafts of this chapter.

2. According to CEDI (1991, 64), 138,935 indige-nous people lived in the approximately 6.2 mil-lion square kilometers of the Brazilian Amazon.

3. For simplicity, PUMAREN is used here as thename for an evolving project whose first phasebegan as LETIMAREN (Legalization of IndigenousLands and Management of Natural Resources).

4. This chapter often uses Napo Province asinclusive of Sucumbios and Orellana provinces.In 1920 the uncharted region east of the Andesknown as the Oriente was divided into fourprovinces, including Napo and Pastaza. Only in1989 was Napo’s northern section sliced off toform Sucumbios Province, and in 1998 Napo wasfurther subdivided to form Orellana.

5. Shuar and Achuar peoples, who successfullyavoided being missionized early on, still maintaintheir unique identities and live in large numbersin western Pastaza and southern Ecuador. Only afew Zaparo speakers have survived, intermixedwith Quichua speakers.

6. Since 1997, indigenous organizations havecoordinated more major protests (including twoin 1999) with a broader base of peasant and laborunion organizations.

7. According to Dinerstein, et al. (1995), theecoregions occupied by Runa include twoTropical Moist Broadleaf Forest habitats and oneMontane Grassland habitat. All are ranked asglobally outstanding, and of highest regional pri-ority for conservation. The Sumaco regionincludes all three: #22, Napo Moist Forest(369,847 km2) in Ecuador, Colombia, and Peru;#47, Eastern Cordillera Real Montane forests(84,442 km2) in Ecuador, Colombia, and Peru;and #139, Northern Andean Paramo (58,806 km2)in Ecuador and Peru.


8. The Sumaco region includes 11 Holdridge LifeZones (including transitional zones) ranging fromMoist Forest to Wet Forest to Rain Forest, andfrom Tropical Premontane to Montane andSubalpine Forests (Watson and Silva del Pozo1989; Hanrahan and Pereira 1990).

9. Ley Forestal y de Conservación de AreasNaturales y Vida Silvestre R.O. 64, 24 VIII 81.

10. Until 1994 they were administered by theForestry Directory (DINAF) in the Ministry ofAgriculture (MAG). Protected areas had littleclout vis-à-vis farm interests in MAG, so respon-sibility was transferred to INEFAN, which spe-cialized in forestry.

11. Huahua Sumaco was one of the communitiestargeted by loggers. They were the last villagescheduled for logging, and cancelled their con-tract after discussing in PUMAREN projectworkshops the devastation other communitieshad suffered. Huahua Sumaco would work withthe PUMAREN team as one of the three commu-nities involved in the forestry enterprise that is atthe heart of this case study.

12. FCUNAE (Federation of United Communitiesof the Ecuadorian Amazon) operates from theeastern slope of Sumaco to the Peruvian border.To the northeast, FOINSE (Federation ofIndigenous Organizations of Sucumbios) drawstogether Runa communities that have moved tothis center of oil development around Lago Agrio.To the south is OPIP (Organization of IndigenousPueblos of Pastaza).

13. The numbers vary as communities join andleave. In 1993 about 60 Quichua-speaking com-munities in the upper Napo claimed membershipin FOIN.

14. The area was declared Bosque Protector, orProtected Forest, under decrees #362 and #476in September and December of 1987, respec-tively, fulfilling a USAID condition to financeroad construction.

15. For example, DINAF had done little toenforce its own regulations requiring manage-ment plans and permits when timber companiesextracted lumber with impunity when theHollín–Loreto road first opened.

16. “The declaration of a Plurinational Statewithout privatization is one of [our] principaldemands. This is not a proposal to divide up thestate or generate another state. It is a proposal toconstruct a decentralized political-administrativestructure that is culturally heterogeneous andopen to proper participatory representation by allsocial sectors, particularly those who, for reasonsof culture, ethnicity, gender, physical condition,and economic position have been marginalizedand excluded from the state’s dominant form andscheme of socioeconomic development. Thisimplies … an institutional broadening thatencompasses the sociocultural diversity ofEcuador within a new concept of developmentand citizenship that promotes rather than crushesEcuador’s cultural richness and resourcefulness(CONAIE 1997 [Translation from Spanish]).”



ReferencesBrown, I. Foster, Dominique Irvine, TheodoreMacdonald, Nicanor Gonzalez, and IsaacBastidas. 1992. Applications of Geochemistryand Training Programs for Indigenous Land-UsePlanning in the Ecuadorian Amazon.Interciencia 17 (5):284–292.

CEDI (Centro Ecumênico de Documentação eInformação). 1991. Povos Indigenas no Brasil1987/ 88/ 89/ 90, Série Aconteceu Especial, 18.São Paulo: CEDI.

CONAIE. 1989. Las Nacionalidades Indígenasen el Ecuador: Nuestro Proceso Organizativo.2nd ed., 1992: 500 Años de Resistencia India.Quito, Ecuador: Ediciones Tincui-CONAIE,Ediciones Abya Yala.

———. 1997. Marchas Llegan a LaConstituyente Plurinacional. E-mail PressRelease, October 10, Quito.

Dinerstein, Eric, David M. Olson, Douglas J.Graham, Avis L. Webster, Steven A. Primm,Marnie P. Bookbinder, and George Ledec. 1995.A Conservation Assessment of the TerrestrialEcoregions of Latin America and the Caribbean.Washington, D.C.: The World Bank.

FOIN–Cultural Survival. 1988. La Legalizaciónde Tierras Indígenas y el Manejo de RecursosNaturales en la Zona de Influencia de la CarreteraHollín-Loreto. Cambridge, MA: CulturalSurvival. Photocopy of an unpublished report.

Hanrahan, Michael S., and José Pereira. 1990.Manejo de la Zona del Gran Sumaco Provinciadel Napo, Ecuador. Report prepared for USAID,Washington, D.C. Photocopy.

Harcourt, Caroline S., Jeffrey A. Sayer, and mapeditor Clare Billington, eds. 1996. TheConservation Atlas of Tropical Forests: TheAmericas. New York: Simon & Schuster.

Hudelson, John E. 1981. The Expansion andDevelopment of Quichua Transitional Culture inthe Upper Amazon Basin. Ph.D. diss.,Department of Anthropology, ColumbiaUniversity.

INEFAN/GEF. 1996. Sistema Nacional deAreas Protegidas del Ecuador: ParquesNacionales y Reservas, Incluye Bosques yVegetación Protectores. Quito: InstitutoGeografico Militar.

Irvine, Dominique. 1987. ResourceManagement by the Runa Indians of theEcuadorian Amazon. Ph.D. diss., AnthropologyDepartment, Stanford University.

———. 1989. Succession Management andResource Distribution in an Amazonian RainForest. In Resource Management in Amazonia:Indigenous and Folk Strategies, eds., D. A. Poseyand W. Balée. Bronx, N.Y.: The New YorkBotanical Garden.

Macdonald Jr., Theodore. 1999. Ethnicity andCulture amidst New “Neighbors”: The Runa ofEcuador’s Amazon Region. Cultural SurvivalStudies in Ethnicity and Change, series eds., D.Maybury-Lewis and T. Macdonald, Jr. NeedhamHeights, Mass.: Allyn and Bacon.

Muratorio, Blanca. 1991. The Life and Times ofGrandfather Alonso: Culture and History in theUpper Amazon (Rucuyaya Alonso y la HistoriaSocial y Económica del Alto Napo, 1850–1950).Hegemony and Experience: Critical Studies inAnthropology and History, series eds., W.Roseberry and H. Rebel. New Brunswick, N.J.:Rutgers University Press.

Neill, David A. 1999. Introduction: Geography,Geology, Paleoclimates, Climates and Vegetationof Ecuador. In Catalogue of the Vascular Plantsof Ecuador, eds., P.M. Jorgensen and S. Leon-Yanez, 2–25. Monographs in Systematic Botany,Missouri Botanical Garden Vol. 75.

Neill, David A., and Walter A. Palacios. 1997.Sumaco and Upper Napo River Region, Ecuador.In Centers of Plant Diversity: A Guide andStrategy for their Conservation, Volume 3: TheAmericas, eds., S. Davis, V. Heywood, and O.Herrera-MacBryde, 496–500. Cambridge, U.K.:World Wide Fund for Nature and IUCN–TheWorld Conservation Union.

Pereira V., José, Jaime Espin D., Javier Silva delPozo, Fabian Cuesta, Walter Palacios, BellaVelez, Alfredo Muñoz, Freddy Rivera, Ana Llore,and Juan C. Dueñas. 1989. Proyecto Sumaco:Informe Final para la Definición del Area aProtegerse y la Selección de Alternativas deManjeo del Area del Sumaco. Unpublishedreport prepared for Fundación Natura, DINAF,and USAID. Photocopy.


Reeve, Mary-Elizabeth. 1985. Identity asProcess: The Meaning of Runapura for QuichuaSpeakers of the Curaray River, Eastern Ecuador.Ph.D. diss., Department of Anthropology,University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign.

Rubio, Daniel, Juan Calderón, and XavierGutiérrez. 1995. Consultoria sobreEstablecimiento de la Central Maderera delProyecto de Manejo Forestal ComunitarioPUMAREN-FOIN: Informe Final. Unpublishedreport prepared for PUMAREN-FOIN, Quito,Ecuador. Photocopy.

Rudel, Thomas K. 1993. TropicalDeforestation—Small Farmers and Land Clearingin the Ecuadorian Amazon: Methods and Casesin Conservation Science. New York: ColumbiaUniversity Press.

Sawyer, Suzana M. 1997. Marching to Nationacross Ethnic Terrain: The Politics of Identity,Territory, and Resource Use in the EcuadorianAmazon. Ph.D. diss., Anthropology Department,Stanford University.

Shiguango, Jaime, Carlos Avilés, and DominiqueIrvine. 1993. An Experiment in Rainforest Conser-vation. Cultural Survival Quarterly 17 (1):12–14.

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Vázquez P., Miguel Á., and Roberto Ulloa V.1997. Estrategia para la Conservación de laDiversidad Biológica en el Sector Forestal delEcuador. Quito, Ecuador: Proyecto FAO-Holanda“Apoyo a la Ejecución del Plan de Acción Forestaldel Ecuador (PAFE)”/EcoCiencia.

Watson, Vicente, and Xavier Silva del Pozo.1989. Mapa de Capacidad de Uso de la Tierra,Laminas 11 (Volcan Sumaco/Pavayacu) y 12(Avila Viejo/Loreto). Quito: DESFIL/USAID.Scale of 1:50,000.

Wray, Natalia, and Jorge Alvarado. 1996.Sumaco National Park, Ecuador: Change andContinuity in the Indigenous Economy and theChallenges of Biodiversity Conservation. InTraditional Peoples and Biodiversity Conservationin Large Tropical Landscapes, eds., K. H. Redfordand J. A. Mansour. Arlington, Va.: America VerdePublications, The Nature Conservancy.

I. Introduction In 1990, WWF and the Xavante community ofEtéñiritipa 2 embarked on an innovative projectto protect the integrity and traditional resourcebase of the Pimentel Barbosa Reserve in thestate of Mato Grosso, Brazil. The project wasone of the first attempts to integrate indigenoushunters’ and Western biologists’ understandingsof nature in order to collaboratively construct agame management plan and prevent overhunting(Fragoso and Silvius 1997). The stakes werehigh for everyone. During the past half century,the Xavante had come under increasing externaland internal pressure that had begun to erode theecosystems of the land they used and threatenthe sustainability of their way of life. Conser-vationists saw that the reserve comprised thelargest relatively intact piece of cerrado environ-ment remaining in South America (Leeuwenbergand Robinson 1998), and offered the opportunity

to empower the people who lived there to hus-band its resources.

The project to promote sustainable hunting didnot originate in isolation. It was conceptuallylinked to a broader effort called Project Jaburuthat was conceived by an alliance of membersfrom Brazil’s Union of Indigenous Nations(UNI), pro-Indian activists from mainstream soci-ety, and a Xavante culture broker from theEtéñiritipa community. Beginning in the late1980s, these parties began to design projects thatwould match local needs with the agendas ofnational and international funders. The goal wasto help the Xavante become more economicallyself-sufficient by building on rather than sacrific-ing their cultural heritage and natural resourcebase. The hub of Project Jaburu was the IndianResearch Center—a short-lived collaboration,with lead funding from the Ford Foundation,among UNI, a university, and the national agricul-

CHAPTER 4Lessons in Collaboration:

The Xavante/WWF Wildlife ManagementProject in Central Brazil

Laura R. Graham 1

tural research agency. One ambitious projectspawned by Jaburu would use funding from theInter-American Foundation (IAF) to build on sub-sistence traditions by planting, harvesting, andprocessing native fruits to generate income andprotect habitat. Another concentrated on upgrad-ing reserve infrastructure, including better accessto profitable fishing sites. WWF was asked byUNI to support a project to breed and raise gamethat the Xavante normally hunted. The gamemanagement project that eventually evolved withWWF did not officially fall under the purview ofJaburu, but the idea originated there.

WWF representatives who vetted the initialrequest were receptive for three principal reasons.First, the project was located in the highly endan-gered cerrado environment. Second, theWWF–Brazil program, prompted by staff memberJohn Butler, was looking for proposals fromindigenous peoples that focused on the nuts andbolts of resource management and that appearedto offer potential for real engagement with com-munities on issues of conservation and sustainabledevelopment. The program at that time was peri-odically being asked to support other types ofprojects from indigenous peoples (e.g., for landtitling or leadership travel) that did not directlysupport WWF’s interests in sustainable manage-ment of natural resources. The Xavante projectwas one of the first proposals for indigenous man-agement that seemed to offer a close fit.3 Third,the project appeared to have originated within thecommunity itself. WWF committed funds for athree-year endeavor of research, planning, andimplementation that seemed straightforward.

As this case study will show, much was not as itfirst seemed. The route traveled has been longerand more circuitous than expected. The projectteetered on the brink of disaster, but survived theunraveling of Jaburu because WWF was flexibleenough to allow the project to evolve and becausethe Xavante, who disagreed among themselves onmany things, would not let it die. It began withideas for captive and semicaptive breeding ofwhite-lipped and banded peccaries. Theseplans—envisioned by well-intentioned activistswho had little understanding of Xavante attitudestoward animals, animal husbandry, or hunting—were quickly abandoned when community mem-bers became more directly involved. It soon

became clear that game management was a pipedream without a clearer understanding of wildlifepopulation distribution in the area and how con-temporary Xavante hunting practices affectspecies populations. Research to answer thosequestions consequently assumed center stage.

Eventually a tripartite program for wildlife studyand management evolved. Phase I focused onwildlife population surveys to determine if therewas overhunting; Phase II on refinement of thedata, including density estimates, to help design amanagement plan; and Phase III on implementa-tion of the plan the Xavante accepted.4 As of mid1998, some eight years after WWF’s initial com-mitment, communities in the reserve had finallyapproved a wildlife management plan and imple-mentation was about to begin (Fragoso et al. 1998).

Some of the challenges this project has faced andsurvived can be attributed to the cultural unique-ness of the Xavante; some of the challengesmight be expected to arise in work with mostindigenous peoples. To better understand whathappened, this case study begins with a discus-sion of Xavante social life and the community’shistory of interactions with outsiders while underthe thumb of state agencies. It then looks at therise of a new generation of leaders able to adaptto new opportunities when they arose, and thefalse starts that were made. This is followed by alook at the role of hunting in Xavante society andwhat made the wildlife management project dif-ferent than the failed projects around it. It con-cludes with suggestions about what might havebeen done better and offers a brief glimpse of thechallenges ahead.

II. The Central Brazilian Context

2.1 People and Land The Xavante, together with the closely relatedXerente, form the central branch of the Gê lin-guistic family, one of four major Amazonian lin-guistic families.5 Gê groups span a large area,stretching from the Brazilian states of Maranhãoand Pará in the north to the southern state ofSanta Catarina.

By tradition the Xavante are seminomadichunter–gatherers who once exploited a large terri-tory. Today approximately 9,000 Xavante livebetween the Araguaia and Batovi rivers (the latter

48 The Xavante in Central Brazil

The Xavante in Central Brazil 49

a tributary of the Xingu) in the eastern part ofMato Grosso State on six reserves (see maps 4.1and 4.2): Areões, São Marcos, Sangradouro,Parabubure, Marechal Rondon, and PimentelBarbosa. With 329,000 hectares, PimentelBarbosa is the largest of the six reserves and cur-rently encompasses five communities (see map4.3). Etéñiritépa (also known as Pimentel Barbosaand Posto Indigena Rio das Mortes in official gov-ernment communications), is the original settle-ment from which Caçula, Tangure, andPe’adzarupré have splintered since the 1980s. Theresidents of Agua Branca are refugees waiting torecoup their former territory in the area of the SuiáMissú River to the north, which will become aseventh reserve known as Marawaitsede.

The landscape is cerrado: savanna, with galleryforest along riverbanks. Elevation is between300 and 400 meters. There is a relatively shortdry season from May to August, and a rainy season with average precipitation of 1,750 mil-limeters. Fluctuations may be considerable,however, with yearly rainfall ranging 15–20 per-cent from the norm and short dry spells thatunpredictably punctuate the rainy season(Flowers 1983). Most cerrado soils are moder-ately to highly acidic; low in nutrients; and highin aluminum, toxic to most crops. To make thesoil arable requires considerable addition of fer-tilizer and lime. The Xavante’s former semino-madic, hunter–gatherer lifestyle was welladapted to this environment.

Map 4.1 Location of Xavante Reserves in Mato Grosso State

Map by John Cotter in Graham 1995. Reproduced with permission of the University of Texas Press.


It is best to think of the Xavante as a more or lessintegral group of politically autonomous commu-nities whose members share similar cultural andlinguistic patterns. Factionalism is pervasivewithin and between communities. Agreementstherefore can be precarious, and village fission-ing is characteristic of the political system(Maybury-Lewis 1974, 165–213). As their his-tory of interactions with outsiders demonstrates,distinct Xavante groups act independently.Cooperation between communities can beachieved to advance perceived common goals,but as the next section shows, the potential fordisaggregation and conflict is ever present.

2.2 The Quest for Autonomy and TerritoryXavante are known for their fierce desire forautonomy and self-determination. For more thantwo centuries they moved steadily westward, in

retreat from the advancing frontier of Braziliancolonization. The first historical documents6 tomention the Xavante date from the late eighteenthcentury and locate them in what is now theBrazilian state of Tocantins, in territory occupiedeither contiguously or in common with theXerente, from whom they were probably indistin-guishable. Some time in the second half of thenineteenth century, a number of disparate Xavantefactions united to put distance between them-selves and the advancing frontier by pushingacross the Araguaia River into new territory.They settled in the Rio das Mortes region, in avillage known as Tsõrepré. By the 1930s thiscoalescence had begun to fracture, and variousgroups splintered off from Tsõrepré to populate abroad area in what is now eastern Mato Grosso.These groups still shared a common aversiontoward outsiders and any attempt to establish

Map 4.2 Xavante Reserves in Eastern Mato Grosso State

Map by John Cotter in Graham 1995. Reproduced with permission of the University of Texas Press.


peaceful contact. By the mid-1940s, however, theXavante faced other indigenous peoples who werefirmly settled to the west while the expandingBrazilian frontier had caught up on the east. TheXavante had run out of room for further flight.

During the 1940s the Brazilian governmentstepped up efforts to colonize the area for com-mercial use. The Xavante became famous fortheir bellicosity in resisting these efforts. In1946, after two disastrous government attemptsto “pacify” the Xavantes, representatives of thegovernment’s Indian Protection Service (SPI)made the first peaceful contact.7 The renownedleader Apöwe, whose descendants now reside inthe Pimentel Barbosa Reserve, led the Xavantegroup initiating this contact. By the mid-1960s,all Xavante groups had established relations withoutsiders.8 The population, devastated by diseaseand violence, had shrunk to at least half its pre-contact size, and now numbered between 1,500and 2,500 people.

Pacification, then, was not to be confused withsubmission or peace. During the 1960s and1970s, there were frequent clashes with Braziliansover territorial claims. Settlers, garimpeiros(mineral prospectors), and ranchers flooded intoterritory the Xavante occupied, in response togovernment fiscal incentives. Government fraudceded large portions of Xavante land to colonistsand to corporations (Garfield 1996). SPI wasreplaced by the National Indian Foundation(FUNAI) in 1967, large-scale monoculture (pri-marily upland rice) was soon introduced, andextensive tracts of savanna forest were cleared forcattle pasture. What is today the PimentelBarbosa Reserve became splotched with largeranches and small squatter homesteads.

After sometimes violent campaigns (Lopes daSilva 1986; Graham 1995, 37–42), differentXavante groups in Central Brazil convinced thegovernment to recognize their territorial claims.By the end of 1980 all squatters and commercial

Map 4.3 Communities in the Xavante Indigenous Reserve of Pimentel Barbosa

Map by John Cotter in Graham 1995. Reproduced with permission of the University ofTexas Press.

ranches were removed from areas formally recog-nized as Xavante reserves. Land disputes, how-ever, persisted. As previously noted, people in thecommunity of Agua Branca have won claim to areserve of some 165,000 hectares, but FUNAI hasyet to demarcate the boundaries and squattershave not been evicted. The Etéñiritipa Xavanteare still pressing claim both to their ancestral vil-lage of Tsõrepre that lies within a ranch north ofthe Pimentel Barbosa Reserve’s current boundary,and to 80,000 hectares on the east bank of the Riodas Mortes where they had been forcibly resettledby the government following first contact.

Despite considerable Xavante success in layingclaim to land, there are other problems. Con-trolling resources and maintaining the politicaland social autonomy of the reserves are ongoingchallenges. Mineral prospectors, cattle ranchers,and sportsmen continue to trespass. The pro-posed massive Hidrovia Araguaia–Tocantins proj-ect and the increased water traffic and pollution itwould bring to the region pose a large-scale threat(Graham 1999). If completed, the waterwaywould skirt the borders of the two largest Xavantereserves (Areões and Pimentel Barbosa), and dis-rupt their environment and social life. In June1997, lawyers from the Brazilian NGO InstitutoSocioambiental successfully obtained a federalcourt injunction on behalf of the two reserves andbrought the Rio das Mortes part of the Hidroviato a halt. That left the problem of policing thecurrent borders. In 1998, as part of the gamemanagement project’s phase III implementation,WWF supplied the communities of Etéñiritipaand Tangure with aluminum motor boats thatcould be used for fishing and antipoaching work.The communities of Caçula and Pe’adzaruprereceived boats from FUNAI.

2.3 FUNAI and the Game of State Funding As we have seen, relations between the state andthe Xavante have been thorny at best. If theXavante have been forced into a dialogue whoseterms others set, they have struggled persistentlyto redefine those terms to fit their own culturalmatrix and meet their own ends. In the mid-1970s, FUNAI launched “Project Xavante,” acolossal effort to mechanize rice farming in thereserve area.9 The project seemed to respond toXavante needs by justifying their claims to largeterritories that would be used to aid the national

economy. The project also was intended eventu-ally to make the Xavante economically self-suffi-cient since the traditional hunter–gatherer systemno longer sufficed. On one level, it can be arguedthat the attempt to fold the Xavante into theregion’s cash-based market economy was a contin-uation of the pacification policy by other means.But pacification now had a literal as well as a fig-urative dimension. FUNAI was attempting to pla-cate Xavante leaders, such as the politically astuteMario Juruna from São Marcos, who were gainingnational notoriety by spotlighting the govern-ment’s neglect of indigenous affairs and wereexerting public pressure to reclaim their lands.10

From the late 1970s to the mid-1980s, the gov-ernment poured money and energy into Xavanterice cultivation. During the 1981–1982 growingseason in Etéñiritipa, FUNAI budgeted $19,159for a single 110-hectare plantation. Communitiesin what is now part of the Parabubure Reservereceived $35,447. Budgets covered expenses forgrowing and harvesting the rice; maintainingmotor vehicles; and paying salaries to caciquesor chiefs, vice-caciques or “secretaries,” teachers’aides, and motorized equipment drivers.

The salary figures considerably understate whatwas actually spent on personnel costs. For exam-ple, FUNAI instituted a policy of giving leadersfinancial “supplements” when they visited admin-istrative offices in Barra do Garças or Brasília. InJune 1987 these supplements averaged around$1,300, but varied according to a leader’s statusand the degree of pressure he exerted on FUNAIadministrators. The Xavante earned the status ofbeing the most expensive and exasperatingIndians in Brazil.

For Xavante leaders, who aspired to the ranchers’model of agribusiness and material signs of pros-perity such as trucks and tractors, having a projectconferred considerable prestige, and sometimeswealth. By the early 1980s the possibility of beinggiven leadership of a project began to fuel rivalryamong the Xavante and spark divisions in the vil-lage. A community leader who obtained a projectcould supply material goods to members of his fac-tion and salaried positions to a select group. Forexample, the second major split from Etéñiritipaoccurred in 1983 when Sõrupredu departed toestablish his own village, Tangure, that would haveits own project resources and cattle herd.


Between 1974 and 1984, the number of Xavantevillages mushroomed from 7 to 35—a fivefoldincrease. By 1987, over 50 independent commu-nities had formed, some comprising only a singlefamily. Again, as in the 1970s, when the strugglewas to control land, the tendency toward faction-alism was aligned with pragmatic goals. In the1980s the objective became access to the materialgoods and associated prestige that controlling aproject conferred (Graham 1987).

Growing extremely aggressive in their relationswith FUNAI administrators, Xavante leadersmade increasingly unrealistic demands for atten-tion, equipment, and supplements. Scores ofXavante leaders regularly trekked to Brasília,and some established semipermanent residencyin the capital and insisted that FUNAI covertheir expenses (Graham 1995, 55–59). Theirconstant pressure on FUNAI and outrageousfinancial claims became onerous for the under-funded agency. Eventually FUNAI’s tap beganto run dry, and in 1988 the agency abandonedthe project. Xavante who had become accus-tomed to their favored status and were finan-cially dependent on FUNAI felt abandoned.Without an SPI or FUNAI to pay heed to theneeds that had developed in the 40 years sincecontact, leadership found itself in a novel posi-tion. New ways to meet their financial needsbecame a pressing issue.

III. The Rise of Cultural Brokersand Project Jaburu

FUNAI’s sudden withdrawal of support left theXavante without means to acquire the Westerngoods to which they had grown accustomed. Twofactors made it possible for Xavante leaders to lookbeyond the Brazilian government for economic andother support (see Graham 1995, 61–63).

First and foremost were political changes at thenational level that reshaped the landscape for allof Brazil’s indigenous peoples. The military dic-tatorship, in power since the coup of 1964, endedin 1986 after a thaw in repression during the early1980s known as the abertura.11 In the civic spaceopened during the abertura, pro-Indian groupsflowered (see Urban 1985) and UNI, the firstindependent organization of Brazilian indigenouspeoples, was founded (see Graham 1995, 453).

Return to civilian rule led to the drafting of a newnational Constitution that included wider legaland economic independence for indigenous peo-ples. The 1988 Constitution enabled indigenouspeoples to establish their own legal associationsthat could deal directly with outside fundingagencies and NGOs. Among other things, thatmeant foreign funding would no longer have to befunneled through FUNAI, which had a history ofexpropriating money for its own purposes so thatoften only a trickle reached indigenous communi-ties. Now money could be sent directly to indige-nous associations. In 1988, the Xavante ofEtéñiritipa established their own legal entity, theAssociação dos Xavante de Pimentel Barbosa(AXPB). By its very name, AXPB may haveconfused outsiders. Although the association rep-resented the largest community in the reserve, itdid not speak for every Xavante community,much less every Xavante.

In fact, it was led by a new kind of cultural brokerwho kept only one foot tentatively in the commu-nity, and without whom the hunt for fundingwould have been vastly more difficult. The needfor a new kind of leadership had been anticipatedby Xavante elders for more than a generation, butits arrival would see old problems resurface insidethe new opportunities. The ability or inability toaccount for the changes in context would haveimportant consequences for both Project Jaburuand the wildlife management project.

3.1 The Role of Cultural BrokersIn the years following initial contact with SPI,elders from what is now the community ofEtéñiritipa began to see that coexistence withBrazilian national society would require newleadership skills. To prepare a new generation ofleaders to mediate relations with outsiders, a planwas developed to send a number of young boysinto mainstream society to learn Portuguese andthe ways of the whites.12 They were to learn thenew terrain on which battles would be fought topreserve Xavante autonomy and well-being. Theelders hoped that these boys would be commu-nity guides into the new era.

In the late 1970s several boys were sent to citiesto live with Brazilian families and attend school.Six went to Riberão Preto in São Paulo State.After only two years or so, four returned. One,Paulo, remained longer and worked in a shoe


factory before returning to the community in1984. Another, Zezinho (the son of Milton,leader of a major faction), lived with a relativelywell-to-do family and stayed long enough to fin-ish high school. Following their sojourns allreturned to marry in their communities, havefamilies, and become active leaders in Xavantesocial life. Of those who now reside in Etéñiritipa,Suptó is cacique, Paulo is vice-cacique, and JéPaulo is the current president of AXPB.

Two other boys, Cipassé and Jurandir, were sentto Goiânia. They stayed longer than the boyswho went to Riberão Preto, with the exception ofZezhinho, partially because scholarships fromFUNAI made it possible. Jurandir completed hissecondary education in 1988, married a whitewoman, and chose to live in São Paulo. His tieswith the community are irregular. In 1988,Cipassé married Severiá, an acculturated Karajáwoman active in the urban Indian politics ofGoiânia. While maintaining their primary resi-dence in the city (at first in Goiânia, morerecently in Nova Xavantina), they also kept ahouse in the reserve (initially in Etéñiritipa, mostrecently in the newly established community ofPe’adzarupré) for periodic visits.

While in high school, Cipassé became interestedin indigenous politics beyond community affairsin Etéñiritipa. His family had controlledEtéñiritipa leadership before contact with SPI,although men from other families also playedimportant community roles.13 Cipassé’s uncle,14

Warodi, became cacique during the 1970s andcontinued until being displaced by Milton in1985. Support for Milton was not unanimous,however, and members of Warodi’s factionaspired to regain their former prominence.Warodi and his brothers had groomed Cipassé tobe a cacique. During their visits to Goiânia andwhen Cipassé visited the community, they dis-cussed community politics with him and taughthim what they knew (Graham 1995, 61–62). By1987 Cipassé’s role began to change in thesefamily meetings.15 He began to articulate ideashe was developing through conversations withUNI’s inspirational Ailton Krenak, pro-Indianactivists, and eventually NGO representatives,ideas concerning projects that would enable theXavante to maintain economic and culturalautonomy while living side by side with

Brazilians. The ideas and the contacts Cipasséwas developing persuaded the elders that he hadfound the pathway for their recently deposed fac-tion to regain its authority.

The senior members of his faction enthusiasti-cally embraced Cipassé’s course and the possi-bility for new types of projects, which wereperceived as markers of status and prowess. Ashis ideas were transmitted to the community,Cipassé earned substantial prestige and his fac-tion began to regain some of its former statuseven though he did not live in the community.When the Etéñiritipa Xavante established AXPBin 1988 with the help of outside advisors,Cipassé was elected president. As support forCipassé grew, support for Milton weakened. In May 1991, Milton departed with the membersof his faction to join the group in Caçula aftercharges that goods purchased from sale of thecommunity’s cattle had unduly benefited his kin(see Aparicio Gabara 1994, 24). A leadershipcrisis ensued but did not result in Cipassé’sbecoming cacique. Nevertheless his outsidecontacts continued to lend him considerablecommunity support and respect.

In his role as a bicultural broker, Cipassé fit theclassic portrait of an indigenous mediator who isan “uncomfortable bridge” between two worlds(Karttunen 1994). Outsiders tended to recognizehim as the authentic “chief” and often overlookedother important players. Meanwhile communitymembers increasingly regarded him with suspi-cion. Like other Xavante leaders who have foundthemselves in positions to control material goodsand outside contacts, Cipassé became a lightningrod for factional disputes. His control over accessto outside donors exacerbated tensions internallyand would play a role in Project Jaburu’s unravel-ing. Closely guarding the source of his influence,Cipassé tightly controlled information flows.Donors were kept at arm’s length from each otherso that they lost opportunities to coordinate theirefforts by sharing knowledge of what had workedand what had not. According to WWF’s JohnButler, a great opportunity to deepen future col-laboration among donor agencies was lost.

The lack of full information also eroded trustwithin the community. Many members becamedistrustful of any project Cipassé promoted.Rumors that he used the community’s name to


achieve personal goals and wealth were wide-spread. They gathered force in the vacuum ofhard facts and were made more plausible by hisfailure to open accounting books or to facilitatecontacts between community representatives andoutsiders. AXPB increasingly acted indepen-dently of the community and its warã, the centraldecision-making forum. Eventually, Cipassé’ssupport dwindled to his core faction, which in1995 left Etéñiritipa to start a new village,Pe’adzarupré, 15 kilometers away. In 1997,when the association reorganized, Cipassé wasnot reelected president.

Many of the problems with Cipassé’s leadershipare not unique to him personally. Assuming theposition of a bicultural mediator in contemporaryAmazonia is fraught with pitfalls, as scholarshave noted.16 Cipassé is a charismatic figureamong his generation. His vision broke newground, ushering in an era of interaction withoutsiders in which the Xavante would play amore decisive role. He established a precedentfor project collaboration in which Xavante repre-sentatives would design and implement activities.He set a precedent for community members toassume administrative responsibilities such asgrant writing, budgeting, and accounting.Without him, Project Jaburu would likely neverhave occurred. However, in the process of build-ing it up, Cipassé acquired more power than thesociety sanctioned.17 This led to his eventualdownfall and perhaps to the lack of communitysupport that helped undermine Jaburu itself.

3.2 The Unsustainable Life Cycle of JaburuThe Jabiru is a stork with extensive range in theAmazon region. Its common name comes fromthe Tupi/Guarani peoples much farther south, andit is known as Jaburu in Portuguese. For Xavante,the bird has powerful mythological associationsas a creator figure and is featured in several cere-monies. So when elders bestowed the name onthe project, they signaled its importance as a turn-ing point in Xavante relations with outsiders. Itwas, after all, the first endeavor the people ofEtéñiritipa undertook independent of FUNAI’sheavy hand, and they wanted it to fly. Unlikegovernment projects that were ordained from thetop down with little indigenous input, Xavanteactors played a major role in Jaburu’s design andimplementation. Most of the projects associated

with Jaburu eventually unraveled, with the excep-tion of the WWF Wildlife Management Project.This section will explore what happened and why.

As previously noted, Jaburu was a complex ofprojects initiated as independent endeavors. MostXavante, however, conceptualized it as a whole,with two distinct phases (Aparicio Gabara 1994,127). The first phase, from 1988 to 1991, con-sisted of economic improvements to the PimentelBarbosa Reserve, funded by the Denmark-basedInternational Work Group for Indigenous Affairs(IWGIA). Cipassé and his wife opened an officein Goiânia and hired an engineering firm to man-age infrastructure improvements to the reserve. Abridge was built to provide the Xavante withaccess by motor vehicle to fishing areas near theRio das Mortes that were previously accessibleonly by foot. Salt magazines and water troughswere installed for Etéñiritipa’s cattle herd, and avaccination program and other veterinary serviceswere started.

The second phase of Jaburu revolved aroundXavante participation in the Centro de PesquisaIndigena (CPI), or Indian Research Center. CPIwas founded in 1987 as a collaborative experi-ment between Ailton Krenak’s UNI, severalindigenous groups, the Catholic University ofGoiâs (UCG), and the state agricultural agencyEmbrapa. With financial support from the FordFoundation, the European Economic Community,GAIA Foundation, NORAD, and the RainforestAction Network, a research center was built on asite provided by the government on the outskirtsof Goiânia, and staffed by professional biolo-gists, agronomists, foresters, activists, and otherconsultants. Among the program ideas theychurned out were the seeds for the XavanteWildlife Management Project and the NativeFruit Processing Project.

A primary CPI objective was to provide Brazil’sindigenous peoples with Western knowledge andskills in applied biological sciences so that theycould use new technologies in their reserves.Between 1989 and 1992, CPI and the CatholicUniversity offered a training program tailored toindigenous students. Five students were allowed tobypass the vestibular, an admissions exam thateffectively reinforces class and racial divisions inBrazil’s post-secondary schools, and were admittedto UCG’s four-year undergraduate law program.18


Seven students from diverse indigenous groups,including Kaingang, Krenak, Surui, Tikuna,Terena, Yanomami, and one young Xavante manfrom Eteñiritipa, Jaimiro, participated to receivetraining in wildlife management.

The natural resource program, primarily fundedby $190,000 from the Ford Foundation, focusedon five areas. Wildlife management includedtopics such as population surveys of targetspecies and husbandry in captivity and semicap-tivity. Freshwater ecosystem developmentincluded aquaculture of native fishes andshrimps. The third involved conservation andcultivation of native plants. The fourth woulddevelop technologies for collecting, processing,and marketing native fruits and plant essences.Finally, regenerative agriculture encompassedtechniques for soil recuperation, organic fertiliza-tion, and planting (Aparicio Gabara 1994, 128).

The natural resource program encountered manychallenges. Some observers believed that it fellshort of its objectives because, among otherthings, training was inadequate and participantshad difficulty coping with the new demands theyfaced.19 According to Ailton Krenak, however,the program was a success. It was the first initia-tive of its sort and offered an unprecedentedopportunity for indigenous participants to learnabout wildlife management from Westernexperts. All the students had the chance to learnPortuguese, and acquired important skills fromthe experience of interacting with members ofother indigenous groups and Brazilian nationalsociety. The Xavante student, Jamiro, for a timeapplied what he learned as a research assistant tothe WWF-sponsored wildlife management effortin Etéñiritipa. Eventually he chose to become ahealth care provider. The Goiânia facility itselfclosed at the end of 1992 when the CPI decen-tralized in order to implement programs inreserves along the Upper Jurua River in Acre,among the Krenak of the Rio Doce Valley inMinas Gerais, and among the Tukano of the RioNegro in Amazonas.20

Perhaps the biggest disappointment associated withJaburu, however, is what might be called the“Native Fruit [Misad]Venture.” In 1991 AXPBheadquarters moved to the Brazilian town of NovaXavantina, some 250 kilometers from the PimentelBarbosa Reserve, to be closer to the community

yet remain in a commercial center. It was at thistime that IAF and WWF initiated support for twoprograms perceived to be complementary. IAFdirected funding toward developing activitiesrelated to native fruits. WWF pursued the wildlifemanagement endeavor. As we will see, the out-comes for the two efforts were markedly different.

The idea for the native fruit venture grew out ofCPI’s brainstorming. It seemed a viable way forthe community to earn high profits with rela-tively low production levels from a renewablecerrado resource. Cipassé flew to Europe toassess the prime target markets and found inter-est in fruits processed and sold by BrazilianIndians was much greater than anticipated(Aparicio Gabara 1994, 129). IAF funds wereused in 1993 to turn an abandoned ranch nearEtéñiritipa into a fruit-processing plant. Thefacility was a white elephant and never operated,for reasons that will be discussed below.

Using European Community (EC) funds totaling$100,000, a state-of-the-art processing plant wasbuilt in Nova Xavantina the next year. Theswitch was justified by the fact that harvests fromthe reserve were low and, to operate the planteconomically, at least 70 percent of the fruitwould have to be procured locally (AparicioGabara 1994, 131). The town’s larger populationwould also provide a larger pool of labor.Perhaps this was a clue that something waswrong with the idea, that it had failed to enlistenthusiastic support in Etéñiritipa itself. ECfunds were also used to remodel AXPB’s head-quarters, including a cultural center and guest-house so community members would have aplace to stay in town. The fact that funds werespent on infrastructure rather than pressing needssuch as training, for example, may also havebeen a warning that something was awry.

The enterprise was to process a number of cerrado fruits, including baru, jatoba, murici,araticum, buriti, macauba, and piqui. Like thelow-tech plant in the reserve, however, this facility,too, never became operational. An independentevaluation in early 1995 would show that no eco-nomic feasibility study had been carried out to jus-tify the investment in the factory. And it becameobvious that members of AXPB and the CPI stafflacked the training to properly process, package,or market the fruits.


With Xavante unable to manage processing andpackaging or even to provide adequate raw mate-rials and labor, there can be no doubt that thefruit-processing venture was a failure. Severalfactors help explain this and provide contrast forwhat eventually happened in the wildlife man-agement project. One reason the effort nevertook off was the failure to root the project in thecultural dynamics of the community. It was abasic flaw in project design that no one won-dered what impact the gender division of labor inXavante society would have on the enterprise.The fruit project placed an unreasonable burdenon women, the collectors and processors of foodin this society. Xavante women have the leastfree time yet were expected to bear the brunt ofthis new labor. Many later problems might havebeen anticipated if women, who were to be prin-cipal actors in implementing the project, hadbeen asked to participate in designing the project.

Although women were enthusiastic at first aboutthe money they would generate, their enthusiasmdeclined in tandem with the failure of cash flowsto materialize quickly (Aparicio Gabara 1994,129). No one explained beforehand that the mar-ket economy demands major start-up costs andlabor investments before a profit can be realized.The women also expected other immediaterewards for their labor, such as clothing. Asmotivation waned, it became clear that workerswere not maintaining the sanitary requirementsfor handling fruits such as pequi. They were alsonot collecting sufficient surplus to gear produc-tion to scale. The fruit shortage was exacerbatedbecause few of the trees that were supposed to beplanted for harvesting were in fact planted. Allof this implies that the women and the commu-nity itself never felt the project belonged to them.

Another problem was that the project rapidlybecame hooked on relatively high levels of tech-nology without concomitant technical support.One observer noted that no one involved in theenterprise had experience in operating such a facil-ity. Rather than slowly developing processing andmarketing skills at a level commensurate withwhat could be produced by community memberswith the available resources, project designers sep-arated ends from means. They too quickly aspiredto acquire the elaborate infrastructure for successwithout having a clue about how to attain or sus-

tain it. Echoing what had happened in FUNAI’srice projects, once again acquisition of materialgoods as a sign of status, in this case the fruit-pro-cessing factory, became an end in itself.

After 1994, the IAF and the EC withdrew sup-port for the project. The processing plantremains unused, a monument to an appetite formaterial goods and to overwhelming ambition.The problems that undermined the fruit projectstem from lack of consistent monitoring by fun-ders, technical support, background information,and dialogue among all the parties involved.

IV. The Wildlife ManagementProject

Whereas IAF and EC funds supported implemen-tation of technological innovations and infra-structure, WWF funding primarily supportedresearch. This began in 1991 when FransLeeuwenberg, a wildlife biologist contracted bythe CPI, initiated fieldwork designed to uncoverwhy the reserve’s game populations seemed to bedeclining.21 Early on, the Xavante had made itvery clear that they were not interested in raisinganimals in captivity, so Leeuwenberg’s workfocused on understanding the current naturalresource base and how this aspect of it could beimproved and managed by the Xavante.

4.1 The Role of Game Hunting in Xavante Society

To understand the dynamics of Xavante gamehunting, one must first appreciate how centralwildlife has been and is to Xavante life.Following “peaceful” contact, the SPI had tried totransform the Xavante into sedentary farmers (seeFlowers 1983, 218–225; Maybury-Lewis 1974).The Xavante, however, abhorred intensive agricul-ture. The few crops they did plant—principallymaize, beans, and squash—played a minor role as“bonus” foods used in celebrations (Maybury-Lewis 1974, 48), and could be sown and leftuntended while the group took off on trek. Wildroots, nuts, fruits, and vegetables formed the corediet, and fresh game, smoked meats, and fish werethe most coveted foods. Game was and still is acenterpiece for many ritual occasions.

Meeting these subsistence and cultural needs hastaken several forms. First is dzö mori, or trekking.Traditionally Xavante treks were hunting and


gathering expeditions that radiated out from asemipermanent base village and lasted from sixweeks to three months. Treks took place in therainy as well as the dry season (Maybury-Lewis1974, 52–59). Trekking bands included entireextended families; women focused on collectingfruits and plants while men focused primarily onhunting and fishing.22 The elders planned thesetreks so that the community might cover certainterrain and exploit certain resources. The area thata group was able to cover during a year’s wander-ings was considered to be its territory (Maybury-Lewis 1974, 53). Each community heldproprietary rights in common over the area and itsproducts, but did not recognize specific boundariesbetween its own territory and that of other groups.“[Xavante] felt free to wander out of ‘their own’territory if they were prepared to risk a clash withother [Xavante] groups, who might resent theintrusion” (Maybury-Lewis 1974, 53).

Of central Brazilian groups in the 1950s, theXavante were probably among the most nomadic(Flowers 1983, 53). The Pimentel Barbosa groupfollowed in this case study spent as much aseight months of the year on trek (Maybury-Lewis1974, 44–45). Around 1970, they began to shiftfrom trekking to intensified rice and manioc pro-duction (Flowers 1983, 226). Families contin-ued, however, to take short treks of up to threeweeks or so until the 1990s. Leeuwenberg(1994, 11) thought family hunts seemed toincrease between 1991 and 1993, while individ-ual hunting declined. This was apparently a blipsince family hunts stopped after 1994(Leeuwenberg, personal communication). Todaythe trekking pattern has all but disappearedbecause of the significant reduction of availablelands and the growing importance of consumergoods. In the smaller Xavante reserves, such asSão Marcos and Sangradouro, trekking dimin-ished even earlier.

Despite the decline in trekking, hunting contin-ues to be very important in the diet and essentialto social life. Hunting is fundamental to Xavanteidentity, particularly for males. Men think ofthemselves as hunters. Little boys are encour-aged to play at hunting, preparing for their futurerole. Fathers craft small bows and arrows fortheir sons, who tote them around for target prac-tice on small lizards, rodents, and inanimate

objects. Boys begin their career as serioushunters by shooting birds with sling shots. In thebachelors’ hut, boys between the ages of 10 and15 accompany the older men on organized hunt-ing trips. By watching their seniors, they learnhow to stalk particular kinds of animals, and tobutcher, smoke, and carry the kill. While oldermen have probably always been more proficientthan the young, today’s youth know much lessthan before about habitat and tracking, and eldersopenly voice concern that knowledge needed tocarry on hunting traditions is being lost(Leeuwenberg 1994, 37).

Today most men hunt with .22 rifles, which wereintroduced during the pacification. Some 15 to20 percent of hunters still use bows and arrows(Leeuwenberg 1994, 32). In his researchLeeuwenberg notes that, contrary to speculationsby some conservationists, introduction of riflesdid not stimulate overhunting by the Xavante.Nevertheless he observes that 20 to 25 percent ofanimal kills from .22 rifles are not used. Theseare principally large animals such as tapirs, deer,and peccaries that are wounded but escape to dielater in the bush. A man ceases hunting andreturns to the village when he has obtained themaximum weight that he can carry; if he is notfar from the village, he may leave his kill andfetch help.

Meat provides a significant part of the diet in allXavante communities, and game is, withoutdoubt, the most desired food. In fact, theXavante language has two ways to expresshunger. One concerns food in general (mram di);the other specifies meat or fish (toro di).According to Leeuwenberg (1994, 16), huntedgame in 1993 provided approximately 85 to 90percent of the animal protein in the diet; domesti-cated chickens, fish, turtle, and turtle eggs sup-plied the remainder. In the years 1991–1993,Xavante adults consumed 144–255 grams ofmeat per day (Leeuwenberg 1994, 18).

Xavante use 65 percent of the gross weight of ahunted animal; only claws, bones, and the con-tents of the stomach and intestines are not eaten(Leeuwenberg 1994, 17). The brain is consid-ered a delicacy appropriate for elder women.When a man returns from a hunt, he gives hisshare of the kill to his wife or mother (if he isunmarried), who then distributes it to kin and


affines to whom she is obliged to share meat.23

The practice known as da-niwari entails askingfor meat or fish from women whose husbandsand sons have returned from a successful hunt.

Time allocation studies conducted in 1976–1977show that Xavante men spent an average of 1.06hours per day hunting (Flowers 1983; 231,233).24 This accounted for 14 percent of the timethey devoted to subsistence activities. Data from1994 indicate that men spend more time huntingnow, some 25.7 percent of their subsistenceactivity (Santos, Flowers, Coimbra, andGugelmin 1997, 553, especially table II). Whenhunting and fishing are combined, the change iseven more striking. In 1976, men hunted orfished for 30 percent of the time they devoted tosubsistence activities. In 1994 it was 60 percent.

With the decline of trekking, other forms of hunt-ing have expanded. Individual hunting is themost common, although not the most productive(Flowers 1983, 231). Xavante men always carrytheir guns and are alert to signs of game whengoing to and from their gardens, on any sort oferrand, and even while riding in motorized vehi-cles. In 1976, Flowers found that only 21 per-cent of hunts involving up to three men weresuccessful (meaning some game was bagged),and the average share of dressed meat per hunterwas 1.7 kilograms.25

Collective hunts may include as few as four men,and often include many more, sometimes nearlythe entire adult male population of a community.Xavante maintain that collective hunting is moreproductive than individual hunting, and the studyby Flowers (1983, 232) showed this has been thecase. The documented success rate of collectivehunting in 1976 was 67 percent, and the averageshare for each hunter was 4.7 kilograms ofdressed meat per day. The higher figures may beattributed to the fact that among the most com-monly taken game animals are white-lipped andbanded peccaries that run in large herds of 15 to40 in the cerrado. An individual is lucky to shootone or two, but a large number of hunters canoften head off the herd and give more men thechance to shoot. On the other hand it is also truethat a group can fail to encounter any peccaries,and everyone returns empty-handed (Flowers1983, 232–233). Elders from the patrilineageknown as the “peccary lineage” (uhö and uhöre)

recall that lineage leaders once had the power tosummon peccary herds (Giaccaria and Heide1972, 111–112; Flowers 1983, 236). Thisknowledge may have been lost, although severalelders suspect that some individuals still possesscertain powers.

Flowers observes that collective hunting may bemost efficient when there is high dependence onherd game in relatively open country like the cer-rado, where visibility extends a considerable dis-tance (1983, 235). Leeuwenberg’s recent datapartly supports this proposition (1994, 17; alsoLeeuwenberg and Robinson 1998). He finds thatthe two kinds of peccary—white lipped andwhite collared—constituted 48.39 percent ofgame kills between 1991 and 1993. Nonherdspecies accounted for a substantially lower pro-portion: anteater (tamandua bandeira), 19.96percent; deer (cervo do pantanal, veado cameiro,veado mateiro, veado catingueiro), 14.21 per-cent; armadillo (tatu canastra, tatu peba), 10.86percent; tapir, 4.29 percent; unspecified, 2.29percent. However when percentages are calcu-lated for volume or biomass, Leeuwenberg(1994, 17; 1997a, 1997b) finds that the ratiosreverse dramatically. Nonherding species—mostly deer (28.81 percent), anteater (18.65 per-cent), and tapir (18.05 percent)—account for 76percent of the total volume of game meat, whilepeccaries account for only 30.27 percent. This isa more accurate picture of the relative importanceof species the Xavante rely on. It also reflectsXavante food taboos. Capybara, anaconda, andsavanna fox (which was consumed in the past)are not eaten despite being readily available inthe area.

Men enthusiastically engage in collective huntingtrips, some of which form the backbone ofimportant ceremonials. For example prior to theadaba, or wedding ceremony, the groom’s malekin depart on a hunt known as da-batsa that lastsup to three weeks. The hunt ends when familyleaders deem that game in sufficient variety andquantity has been obtained to make an honorableoffering to the bride’s mother.26 When thehunters return to the village, the groom, deco-rated with ceremonial body paint, carries a hugebasket piled high with as much as 150 kilos ofsmoked meat across the plaza to his bride’shousehold. In one ceremony, the net weight of


game hunted over an eight-day period was 487kilograms (Leeuwenberg, personal communica-tion). An alternative to the da-batsa is thetsérére, a one-day communal wedding huntinvolving all adult males in which the meatexchanged is raw rather than smoked.27 The da-batsa is much preferred, but the tsérére can occurin special circumstances and, in recent years, isincreasingly common (Leeuwenberg, personalcommunication). Game must also be suppliedduring the extended wai’a ceremony that placesadult men in contact with the spirit world fromwhich they derive power (see Valadão nd;Aparicio Gabara 1994, 36–38).

Because large amounts of game are needed inthese ceremonials, hunting parties sometimestrespass onto privately held lands. Xavante menconsider lands on the eastern side of the Rio dasMortes, where some 80,000 hectares are in dis-pute, to be good hunting territory. In some casesthis has led to hostilities with landowners.

Another type of collective hunt, known as du,occurs during the dry season. Men set fire to theparched grass and undergrowth to drive out game.The hunt usually lasts one day and involves mostof the adult and adolescent men, and sometimesboys who reside in the bachelors’ hut. Prior todeparting in the morning, participants decoratethemselves with body paint and assemble in thewarã, or central plaza, to sing a special songknown as du’u ño’re. The “owner of the hunt”(aba tede ’wa) articulates the plan for the day in aformal speech. Men depart together in a feverpitch, either by foot or in trucks. Once thehunters reach the designated starting point, theyassemble to hear the “owner of the hunt” reiteratethe plan. Two designated seniors, one from eachmarriage group, or moiety, set off at a trot carry-ing torches in opposite directions. They periodi-cally pause to set the grass afire in a large arc thatis fanned by arid breezes. The assembled huntersthen pursue the fleeing game that head to dampareas and watering holes for safety. Men use dis-tinctive calls to notify others of their kill and tosummon help. Women often follow behind theflames, collecting forest products such as palmhearts from the charred open fields.

In recent years Xavante became overly reliant onthese game drives, using them throughout the dryseason rather than at the end as traditional knowl-

edge prescribes. Food supplies and animal habi-tats consequently have suffered (Leeuwenberg1994, 32, 41). One result of the wildlife manage-ment plan the Xavante would eventually draftwould be to return to the elders’ methods of deter-mining appropriate times for fire drives.

4.2 Threats to the Game SupplyPaying attention to elders’ knowledge is crucialfor replenishing wildlife because changesthroughout the Rio das Mortes region have sig-nificantly affected game populations. A studyby the government rural extension agencyEmpresa de Assistencia Tecnica e ExtensãoRural (EMATER) paints a dismal picture of theregion’s habitat. Farms larger than 100 hectaresaccount for more than half of nearby land.Those 100–500 hectares in size account for32.25 percent of land in the two districts thatcontain or adjoin Pimentel Barbosa, and farmslarger than 500 hectares account for another 16percent (EMATER 1989).

Eighty to 85 percent of the surrounding landshave been deforested. Ranchers cleared largeareas for pasture or for monocropping soybeansor upland rice. They also introduced severalexotic feed-grasses—such as Brachiaria spp.,Rhynchelytrum repens, Andropogon ssp.,and Panicum maximum—that are extremelyaggressive and are displacing natural flora(Leeuwenberg 1994, 4). In addition to commer-cial activities adjacent to the reserve, intrusionsfor timber or mineral extraction or for poachinghave also seriously disrupted game populationswithin Xavante territory.

The Xavante’s increased sedentariness andchanged hunting patterns have also affected thegame supply. Reliance on subsistence crops thatrequire constant attention and on Western medi-cine and other consumer goods have made theXavante reluctant to leave their villages for pro-longed periods. Treks have given way to inten-sive hunting in areas close to villages and havelead to overexploitation there.

During phase one of the project, data collectionfocused on identification of hunting ranges and thenumber of each species taken. By extrapolatinginformation from several kinds of data, estimateswere made about productivity rates that could beused to measure harvest sustainability. For


1991–1993, Leeuwenberg found that theEtéñiritipa Xavante hunted only some 65,000 ofthe reserve’s 329,000 hectares. He reports that“from February to October [1991], the Xavantehad 82 hunting days, of which 85 percent [tookplace] in an area” within 25 kilometers of the vil-lage (Leeuwenberg 1994, 7). This badly disturbedanimal populations, and several species basic tothe diet risk local extinction.28 Corollary to theoverhunting near settlements is the underuse oflarge portions of the reserve, which has politicalconsequences. Trekking parties once helpedpolice the reserve’s borders, which are now leftmore unguarded and open to invasion by squatters.

Cattle ranching might seem to offer the Xavantea potential alternative to hunting, and indeed itwas government policy for more than 30 years toencourage such a shift. Xavante, however, havelittle interest in the care of domestic animals.Each community has its own cattle but seems toprefer to hire Brazilians to care for the herds.29

Xavante think of their cattle as assets that can beconverted to cash to repair a truck or buy somedurable good, and as an emergency food reserve,rather than as a permanent source of animal pro-tein. Senior men are minimally involved in ani-mal husbandry. When game is scarce and thecommunity “is hungry for meat,” they kill andbutcher cattle as needed. But cattle are not usedto substitute for hunted game in ceremonies.Unfortunately this cultural resistance to cattledoes not mean that the reserve has escaped fromthe ravages of ranching unscathed. Leeuwenberg(1992, 5) reports that approximately 10 percentof the reserve’s natural habitat has been severelydegraded by cattle since the 1970s.

4.3 Taking Ownership of the WildlifeManagement Project 30

When the project began in 1991, WWF funds,most of which were supporting Leeuwenberg’ssalary, were routed through CPI. When CPI’sGoiânia facility shut down, WWF funds wentdirectly to AXPB. From this point on, WWF’sinteractions with AXPB were not mediated. TheXavante became more involved in the project asthey began to administer its funds and as theyworked alongside the field researcher.

Establishing baseline data to determine the sus-tainability of animal harvests proved to be a com-plex undertaking. Believing that the project had

originated inside the community and that thecommunity would wish to continue monitoringonce his work was complete, Leeuwenbergtrained community members in appropriate data-gathering methods. This ensured that the accu-mulated knowledge of experienced hunters, whowere also phenomenal trackers, would be tapped,but it also limited what kinds of methods could beused. Trained observers would monitor hunts,record the sex and number of kills and where theyoccurred, and collect the lower jaws to determineage through tooth wear. All animals brought intothe village were recorded, but not all skulls weredescribed since the Xavante break open the cra-nium to remove the brain. Each of these meas-urements contained hidden assumptions. Forinstance, the sex ratio would show how much ofthe population was female and producing off-spring, while the age structure would allow one torefine the projection since the likelihood of repro-duction and survival varies with age. A prepon-derance of young animals in long-lived specieswould support the likelihood of overhunting. Theproblem was that not enough is known about thelife cycle of some species to have reliable base-line data for drawing conclusions. This was com-plicated by gaps in new data. In addition to theincomplete skull samples, the Xavante did notsave the uteruses of killed females so that a valu-able clue to reproductive history was lost.31

Establishing population densities per square kilo-meter and comparing them to game taken overthe three years of the study would have negatedsome of these difficulties. WWF and theWildlife Conservation Society (WCS), whichcontributed some funds, were highly interested inobtaining density data, and in 1993 Leeuwenbergtried to comply, plotting out transects of knownlengths in four different habitats in order toobtain census data. Three problems surfaced.The number of encounters with game per transectwas too low to be statistically significant; severaltransects flooded during the rainy season andcould not be sampled; and finally, the Xavantesampling the trails had no cultural precedent fortracking game without shooting it. Ultimately,the Xavante found that censusing was not, forthem, a viable method of data collection.

Most studies of this kind in fact have difficulty inobtaining a productivity estimate at the site thatmatches the accuracy of data for harvested ani-


mals. Because of such difficulties, J. Robinsonand K. Redford developed a model (the R&Rmodel) to fill the void (Silvius 1998). They“abstracted all reliable values on density andreproductive parameters from the literature forthe principal Neotropical game species, calculat-ing a maximum average potential production foreach species and estimating the proportion ofproduction that could be taken to maintain sus-tainability.” Using the R&R model for a baselineto compare data the community gathered,Leeuwenberg concluded that marsh and pampasdeer, tapirs, and anteaters were being overhunted.

In part because of internal community factional-ism, WWF received no proposal for the1994–1995 period. Instead the communityrequested time to think about the project.Funding was suspended and WWF conducted aninterim evaluation. This evaluation kept the proj-ect on the table and provided a way to get itrestarted in the event that the communityexpressed interest, which it did. Fundingresumed the next year.

Based on the interim evaluation, conducted bywildlife biologist José Fragoso, the original pro-posal was revised to test for the existence andsustainability of a source–sink system of gamesupply. In a reserve the size of Pimentel Barbosain which large areas were unhunted, game popu-lations might be depleted around the home vil-lage but be periodically renewed by animalsmoving in from undisturbed areas of higher population and production. If this scenario isoperating, population density should increasewith distance from the village, and sex- and age-distribution ratios should stabilize. If populationdensities and ratios for a particular species arehigher near the village, then one can presumethat the species is undesirable to hunters or thatgardens or some other feature of the local habitat(such as removal of a predator) have enhanced itsfitness. If populations are low or sex and ageratios are skewed everywhere, one can presumethat the species is being overhunted.

A second research phase was proposed, whichwould culminate in the drafting of a wildlifemanagement plan. Leeuwenberg’s data andinput from the community would be analyzedmore rigorously to see whether the expectedskewing of age structure and sex ratio occurred

as hunting moved away from the village.Additionally, a more sustained effort would bemade to assess relative population densities.Equal numbers of transects would be set at threedistances from the community and sampled forgame tracks to measure seasonal variation.Although there might be gaps in any one set ofdata, comparing sex and age ratios and densitiesto look for convergent trends would offer a moreaccurate picture of what was actually going on.A second research biologist, Manrique Prada,was hired under Fragoso’s supervision to man-age field tracking.

The incorporation of new personnel and perspec-tives made it essential for the community to feelthat continuity was maintained and that localcontrol of the project had not been lost to the scientists and NGO. Leeuwenberg’s ongoingparticipation and his skill as a facilitator wouldprove to be particularly valuable. Early on, hehad established the precedent of reporting regu-larly to the warã, or men’s council, and wasespecially adept in translating Western scientificknowledge into language that the Xavante couldunderstand. Xavante men became engaged in anongoing dialogue over hunting and resourcemanagement, which would over time lead to therevitalization of conservation practices that werein danger of being forgotten.

This task, however, was about to become evenmore complicated. The interruption of WWFfunding during 1994–1995 coincided with grow-ing turmoil in the community concerningCipassé’s leadership, so the Xavantes were dis-tracted from the project. This leadership crisismade it difficult for WWF to negotiate withAXPB about how to proceed. WWF recognizedthat Cipassé no longer had full community sup-port, yet was bound to negotiate with himbecause he was still president of the association.Community members, who wanted the project tocontinue, faced a dilemma as well. They eitherhad to remove Cipassé from office or form a newassociation. WWF had made considerableinvestment in the husband-and-wife team ofCipassé and Severia as community leaders andproject mediators. It had, for example, fundedtheir participation in training seminars in projectplanning and management. Yet at this point theWWF representative recognized that other com-


munity members would need to acquire adminis-trative skills if the project was to move forward.

Project scientists and consultants were also caughtin the crossfire of factional pressures. The recentlyarrived Prada was in a precarious position becauseCipassé had hired him and controlled the issuing ofhis paychecks. Leeuwenberg’s situation was some-what better since CPI had hired him with WWFfunding. He had also spent enough time workingalongside the Xavante to develop strong relation-ships with a broad cross-section of the community.Nonetheless conflicts with AXPB and its leader-ship would cause him to leave the project for atime, between January and August of 1997.

In navigating this turmoil, the team of biologistsconfronted the fact that scientific method andpractice could not be ends in themselves but hadto be adapted to the social context in which theywere being applied. Some methodological rigorhad to be sacrificed to ensure the Xavante’s par-ticipation in the study so they could take owner-ship of it. The community wanted to know whyparticular methods were being used so theycould evaluate the validity of the findings.During the second phase of data collection, com-munication about the science was sometimesunclear and community support more lukewarm,which only intensified the dispute aroundCipassé’s stewardship.

When the community split in 1996 and Cipassé’sfamily left to establish a new village, the pro-ject’s future was clouded. It had been envisionedand funded as a collaborative endeavor betweenWWF and Etéñiritipa. Now WWF found itself inthe awkward situation of having to deal with theleader of the community organization authorizedto handle funds who was no longer part of thecommunity. Cipassé had so tightly controlledAXPB that other leaders had little or no familiar-ity with the legal requirements and even the rou-tine administrative affairs of the organization.Only Cipassé knew, for example, with whichlegal office the association and its officers hadbeen formally registered.

At this point, WWF asked an anthropologist whohad worked in the community since 1981 to con-duct an ethnographic evaluation of the situationand assess the Xavante’s perspectives on theproject to see if it could be revived and set oncourse. The 1996 evaluation clarified the need

for AXPB’s reorganization and suggested waysto involve the community in the development ofa management plan. The evaluation process alsobrought outsiders with different project roles intocontact and created a dialogue across areas ofexpertise. This helped improve communicationamong all participants and furthered communityunderstanding. Better coordination earlier mighthave avoided or diffused some of the difficultiesthe project had encountered. The WWF projectdirector left the Brazil program in January 1996but continued to monitor the project until hisreplacement took over in the fall.

As Phase II data collection neared completion, itbecame clear that reorganization of AXPB wouldbe essential to drafting and implementing aneffective wildlife management plan. Assistingcommunity members to meet the legal obliga-tions involved became a major priority. Newleaders, such as Suptó, Paulo, and Jé Paulo,needed training in how to meet the legal require-ments for holding a valid election, and in theadministrative and financial skills to manage theassociation and the project.

In March 1997 new elections were held.Organizational control passed into the hands ofleaders from Etéñiritipa, and Jé Paulo was electedpresident. Although Cipassé no longer retainedan influential position, he agreed to collaborate inthe WWF project, with the understanding that hiscommunity would share in its benefits.

In July 1997 WWF proposed that the team ofbiologists led by Fragoso would draft a manage-ment proposal. While this proposal would bebased on scientific data and analysis, the teamagreed that fundamental ideas for the plan mustoriginate from within the community if they wereto be implemented effectively.

Following an August 1997 meeting between thebiologists and community members in Etéñiritipa,Leeuwenberg held follow-up sessions to clarifythe scientific data and research conclusions withthe Xavante. The data indicated that the anteater,armadillo, and marsh and pampas deer were atrisk, while the tapir was “vulnerable.” Trackingdata suggested possible source areas for some ofthe species. Because the natural history wasunclear or the supply source was outside thereserve for the anteater and the armadillo, it wasrecommended that they not be hunted until more


was known or the populations grew. A ban wasalso proposed for pampas deer because their num-bers seemed unusually low. Marsh deer, tapir,and white-lipped peccaries could be hunted indistant source areas only, allowing their numbersto recover in depleted areas. This would shift thesource–sink system from one based on distancefrom the village to a rotational system that uti-lized the whole reserve. Finally, collared peccary,brocket deer, and smaller species could be huntedeverywhere because they were in abundance. Thedraft plan also recommended constant monitoringin open and banned areas to control for naturaldeclines in populations and to shift hunting whentracking data indicated numbers were in markeddecline. There would be no need to determineand set sustainable harvest levels because huntingwould shift before populations were depleted.

The Xavante discussed these proposals for sev-eral months and began to think, in their ownways, about how to diminish hunting’s impact ongame populations and how to recover the threat-ened populations. In November, the huntersoffered their plan. Rather than general huntingbans for any species, they proposed that specificareas be designated as temporary wildliferefuges, perhaps because this model fit in withthe traditional system of rotation inherent intrekking. They also proposed to intensify fishingduring the dry season, and underlined the need tomonitor reserve borders against intruders.

At a two-day meeting held in Brasília in Decem-ber 1997, representatives from Tangure andCaçula met with the leaders from Pe’adzarupréand Etéñiritipa. All four communities agreed toparticipate in the management plan and to desig-nate three refuges totaling more than 100,000hectares. They also agreed to intensify dry-seasonfishing, reinstate traditional burning patterns at theend of dry seasons to limit collateral damage, andcollaborate on border monitoring.

Intervillage rivalries resurfaced, however, whenthe time for formal ratification came. The threeresearch scientists—Fragoso, Leeuwenberg, andPrada—traveled to the reserve in May 1998with the new WWF representative to present awritten plan and an agreement to be signed byrepresentatives of the four communities.Representatives from Caçula and Pe’adzaruprédid not attend, perhaps to register their objec-

tions to the meeting’s location in Etéñiritipa(Leeuwenberg, personal communication). Afterholding a meeting with the leaders fromEtéñiritipa and Tangure, the three scientiststraveled to Caçula and met its leaders. In June,a leader from Caçula contacted WWF and pro-posed that representatives of his communitywould travel to Brasília to sign the agreement.

The project is likely to continue being buffetedby intervillage rivalries and the politics of powerand influence within the reserve, although theissues in dispute may change as plan implemen-tation evolves. Given Xavante factionalism sucha situation is not surprising; indeed, the challengeof forging a consensus among all of the reserve’scommunities has been present from the begin-ning (Graham 1992). Factionalism makes imple-mentation difficult but it does not preclude themajority of the reserve’s residents from partici-pating in moving things forward. As in pastendeavors, collaboration is likely insofar asmembers of the different communities perceivethe plan to be in their interests.

V. ConclusionsWWF’s involvement with Etéñiritipa coincidedwith two turning points in the community’s his-tory. First was the termination of FUNAI’s riceproject and the withdrawal of most of the agency’sancillary support. Taking advantage of changes innational law affecting indigenous peoples, theXavante turned to new sources of outside supportsuch as NGOs. WWF was among the first privateentities to collaborate with the Xavante.

The second event was the Xavante’s mountingconcern about the dwindling supply of game inthe Pimentel Barbosa Reserve. Alternative waysto provide dietary protein had either been unsuc-cessful (cattle ranching) or were rejected (raisinganimals in captivity). The Xavante wished todiscover ways to manage game supplies withinthe reserve so that they could maintain the hunt-ing practices fundamental to their identity. Theircontacts with indigenous activists at the nationallevel, via Cipassé, enabled them to explore waysto do this by collaborating with new entities suchas WWF.

The wildlife management project had two advan-tages over other collaborations with donors thatemerged under the auspices of Project Jaburu.


First, the idea resonated powerfully within thecommunity and was rooted in community experi-ence and expertise. And second, there was norush to implement a plan by importing an elabo-rate theoretical framework or building physicalinfrastructure that no one knew how to operate.The project began with a period of joint researchthat over time allowed WWF to better understandits partner as well as what had to be done. Thefruit-processing effort rushed to open a factoryand never gave funders the opportunity to meetthe community firsthand.

Rather than imposing an outside agenda, thewildlife project respected and tried to build onthe foundation of the Xavante’s knowledge ofnatural resource management. In doing so, itreinforced the cultural recovery that was underway and stirred thinking about what was at stake.The danger was not simply that wildlife wouldvanish, but that an important dimension ofXavante identity would perish with it. This wasreflected in elders’ growing fear that youth wereuninformed and uninterested, and that essentialknowledge was being lost. Now there are ani-mated discussions about the habits of variousanimals and how they are to be hunted. Thisprocess has also inverted the conventional wis-dom that hunting cultures are dysfunctionalunder environmental stress. In realizing howclose they are to the animals they hunt, theXavante have found a powerful cultural reason tosustain the resource and the motivation to findthe means for doing so.

Thus, Xavante involvement in project data col-lection and decision making has been very pro-ductive. The Xavante have begun to understandhow their lifestyle changes have affected the ter-ritory around them. There is greater recognitionof the reserve’s unique resources, and protectingthem has become a priority.

A number of secondary benefits unrelated towildlife management or natural resource conser-vation also have been achieved. The first sus-tained collaboration between the community andan NGO has helped the Xavante gain importantskills that are essential to their ability to managefuture dealings with outside entities. Theseskills, which can be thought of as the socialinfrastructure for any kind of project success,include such things as how to negotiate with

NGO representatives, devise project ideas andwrite grant proposals, prepare progress reports,keep accounting records, and gain managementexperience. In founding the association andlearning how to make it work, they have beendoing nothing less than inventing a new kind ofsocial tool for themselves.

Yet anyone who presumes that there is somemagic formula for working with indigenous peo-ples only needs to look at the problems that sur-faced and at times threatened to undermine thecollaboration. Many of these were unavoidablesince they were deeply embedded in the cultureor a result of a long and troubled history withoutsiders. The point is not that all collaborationswill face these particular obstacles, but that aclear understanding of the cultural matrix ineach project is vital to its success. A betterunderstanding of the factional nature of Xavantesociety and of the complexity of forming trans-parent partnerships might have enabled WWF toanticipate and avoid some of the pitfalls thatnearly swallowed the project.

Not all problems, however, are what they seem.Some not only cannot be avoided, they must bewelcomed. In this case, factionalism needs to beput into perspective. What would often be a signof decay or disorganization in other societies isan indicator of cultural intactness among theXavante. Posturing and politicizing are funda-mental to Xavante social life, and individualsenjoy engaging in political disputes and displays.While politicization of nearly every imaginableaspect of the project may seem paralyzing to out-siders, it can also be interpreted as a sign of howdeeply the Xavante are engaged, a sign that theyare assuming project ownership on their ownterms, at their own pace. Comparing the wildlifemanagement experience with the failed fruit-pro-cessing component of Project Jaburu makes thismore apparent. Fruit processing foundered qui-etly, without public acrimony, because the com-munity had been excluded from decision makingand had decided not to participate. The lack of“noise” in that case was a warning sign thatthings were not going well. In contrast, the cur-rent intercommunity factionalism may be a posi-tive sign that the process of taking projectownership is extending beyond Etéñiritipa toother autonomous communities in the reserve.


Because funders and outside actors did not easilygrasp the intricacies of Xavante society, they alsomisread the importance of the cultural mediatorat the heart of a cluster of community projects.Too much was invested in a single individualwho was presumed to speak for the community.Although he enjoyed wide acceptance at thebeginning of the project, this changed over timeas he began to use access to outside resources toleverage internal influence. Funders need tounderstand that their mere presence, and theaccess to resources that they offer, can alter theplaying field of community dynamics even ifthere is no overt attempt on their part to do so.

One can also argue that some problems that hin-dered the wildlife management effort might havebeen ameliorated had representatives of otherfactions been more actively involved in the man-agement of the Xavante association. (AlthoughWWF made several attempts to include other fac-tions of the village, including the chief, it wasnever clear to the organization how much theyshould push on this issue.) This is not just aquestion about politics and diplomacy. It alsoinvolves a question about what kind of informa-tion is needed to make a project viable. Westernscience can provide tools to help the Xavanteconfirm in detail what they already suspect, thatgame is growing scarce, but the best scientificsolution will not work if the Xavante do notunderstand it and are unwilling to support it.

A process of hunting culture recovery wasalready under way, but things might have movedmore smoothly in the project if ethnographicmonitoring had occurred in tandem with biologi-cal data gathering. An anthropologist or outsiderwith in-depth knowledge of the culture workingin rapport with the technical staff from the outsetmight have realized sooner that the project timeframe had to be longer. Such a person couldalso have helped build a conceptual frameworkthat would minimize disruptions from staffturnover that are inevitable in any long-termproject. More importantly, difficult conceptsmight have been easier to translate into termsthat the Xavante could understand. And such anindividual might in turn have facilitated scien-tists’ understanding of Xavante concerns. Aconscious process might have been engaged thatwould have helped the Xavante to look sooner at

what aspects of their hunting culture and newlysedentary lifestyle were contributing to gamedepletion and what hidden resources were dor-mant within the culture as possible solutions.

Fortunately the first research biologist understoodthe need to work closely with the Xavante in hisfieldwork and had the rare interpersonal skills todo so. But the informational net might have beencast more widely since hunting cannot be sepa-rated from questions about Xavante lifestyle ingeneral. Women, whose role in communityaffairs must not be underestimated, had very littleunderstanding of the project. The need for themto do so may not have been obvious since menare the principal hunters, and the biologists wereunlikely to think about women’s relationship tothe project since they relied on the warã as thevenue for communications. Although the warã isthe arena for public decision making and discus-sion, in fact most important matters are discussedand decided upon in meetings that take place out-side its sphere (Graham 1993). Had outsidersmore actively sought to communicate in theseforums, women might have had a greater chanceof indirect participation and more opportunities togain understanding and make their voices heard(see Graham 1992, 1995). Xavante male leadersdid not welcome such overtures and activelysought to discourage them. However, closerethnographic monitoring from the beginningmight have helped open doors and providedaccess to new information and a wider perspec-tive on project means and goals. It might alsohave helped funders identify the roots of emerg-ing problems and begin a dialogue with oneanother and with the Xavante to resolve them.

Important decisions lie ahead for the Xavante.Establishing refuges is provisional, pending theresults of ongoing monitoring. Since 1991 theXavante have been encouraged to hunt awayfrom their home village. With hunters driving todistant zones, it is likely that pressure on gamehas actually increased throughout the reserve.The system of refuges may suffice for a while,although additional species may have to be pro-tected. If source areas are encroached upon,which may occur as Xavante populationincreases, some species may dwindle danger-ously. Fortunately, as their history shows,Xavante are expert at adapting to new situations.


There are indications that they have shifted theirhunting preferences from species to species inthe past, depending on availability. The practiceof informally hunting in gardens can be moresystematically exploited in order to reduce pres-sure on larger game populations.

It is too early to say how the Xavante will fare inthe future, but they are determined to pursue theirobjectives and are prepared to meet challengeshead on. They are a fiercely independent peoplewho understand that their autonomy depends onhow well they protect their land. Once, that meantguarding against all outsiders. Now it meansworking with those who work with them to protecttheir land, its resources, and their identity.

Endnotes 1. The author would like to thank John Butler,Nancy Flowers, Ailton Krenak, FransLeeuwenberg, Rosa Lemos, and Kirsten Silviusfor their thoughtful comments about this casestudy. Thanks also are extended to the InstitutoSocioambiental for answering questions aboutthe legal status of Xavante reserves.

2. This case study uses the form that literatemembers of the community have adopted in des-ignating this community to outsiders, and in dis-tinguishing it from others within the PimentelBarbosa Reserve. Variant spellings are recordedas Etéñitepa, Etenhiritipá, and Tenipá.

3. The Kaxinawa of the Rio Jordão in Acre hadreceived several grants that focused on issuesimportant to WWF. These involved the market-ing of renewable forest resources, includingnatural fiber handicrafts and improved rubberprocessing. The mayor of Rio Blanco, the statecapital, donated land and WWF covered buildingcosts for a small shop on the main plaza inwhich the Kaxinawa could sell crafts and pro-mote their culture.

4. Allocations ran approximately $25,000 to$30,000 per year during phases I and II forresearch and planning. Budgets for implementa-tion ran higher. For example, WWF–Brazilrequested approximately $100,000 for FY 1998to cover the cost of scientists’ salaries, two alu-minum boats, motors, and fuel, and to installradio towers so that the reserve’s separate com-munities would be able to communicate.Approximately $70,000 was received, primarilyfrom WWF–Sweden, to cover all expensesexcept for the radio communication system.

5. The other major Amazonian language familiesare Arawak, Carib, and Tupi. Other members ofthe Gê language family include the Kayapó,Krahó, Suyá and Timbira (Northern Gê) and theKaingang and Xokleng (Southern Gê). Gê lan-guages are closely related and their speakersshare many cultural features.

6. The background material presented here sum-marizes information from several major works onthe Xavante. Lopes da Silva (1992) provides anexcellent historical overview. Other importantsources are Chaim (1983), Flowers (1983),Graham (1995), Maybury-Lewis (1974), and


Ravagnani (1978). Garfield (1996) is importantfor the period 1937–1988.

7. “Pacification” is the term used by SPI and itssuccessor FUNAI to describe government effortsto establish peaceful relations with indigenouspeoples confronted by outside economic and colo-nial expansion. Under the directorship of GeneralRondon, the SPI developed a unique strategy forconvincing hostile Indians that government agentswere different than bandeirante slave hunters andsettlers who were moving into Brazil’s interior.The policy called for teams of unarmed SPI agentsto introduce contact by leaving gifts of beads,machetes, mirrors, and clothing in areas fre-quented by members of a targeted group.

8. Other Xavante groups entered into peacefulrelations with outsiders during the late 1940s andthe 1950s. Some groups sought refuge from dis-ease and hostilities with Salesian missionaries.Their descendants now reside in the São Marcos(188,478 ha) and Sangradouro (100,280 ha)reserves. Other groups, which had moved muchfurther west, were considerably influenced byProtestant missionaries from the South AmericanIndian Mission and the Summer Institute ofLinguistics (Wycliff Bible Translators). Thesegroups now reside in the Parabubure (224,447ha) and Marechal Rondon (98,500 ha) reserves.

9. The mechanized rice-cultivation project waspart of the integrated development plan for theXavante Nation, a grand strategy that graftedindigenous policy and efforts to improve healthand education onto the economic developmentideology of the post-1964 military government(Lopes da Silva 1986, 103–105).

10. For further discussion of the Xavante projectsee Graham (1995, 44–61) and Garfield (1996,477–548).

11. For an excellent discussion of indigenousrights and legislation prior to the 1988Constitution, see Carneiro da Cunha (1987).

12. Xavante use the Portuguese term branco, orwhite, to refer to non-Indians.

13. For more information on this family’s leader-ship, see Maybury-Lewis (1974).

14. Warodi is the brother of Cipassé’s biologicalfather; within the Xavante kinship system he isclassified as a father to Cipassé.

15. I attended several of these meetings inGoiânia and Pimentel Barbosa.

16. Scholars have noted similar patterns forbicultural mediators elsewhere in nativeAmazonia. See Jackson (1991, 1995), Brown(1993), Ramos (1994a, 1994b), and Conklin andGraham (1995).

17. Graham (1995) discusses the tension betweenindividual prominence and collective identity.

18. A new UCG rector would reverse this admis-sions policy after the students were enrolled forover a year.

19. Quickly learning enough Portuguese to fol-low university courses was a severe challenge,and adapting to life in Goiânia was hard formany students, especially the Yanomami, Surui,and Tikuna, whose homelands are very differentfrom a cerrado environment.

20. There is some disagreement about the reasonsfor closing the facility. According to FransLeeuwenberg, who worked as a consultant forthe CPI, operations shut down because the FordFoundation and the EC withdrew funding. AiltonKrenak maintains that funding was not an issue,and moving research to local communities wasthe next logical step for the program to take.

21. Leeuwenberg had been associated with the CPIand had already initiated some preliminary studies.

22. Women also hunt small animals, but never asan end in itself. They take opportunities as theyarise, for instance when a woman en route to hergarden comes across an armadillo.

23. Women give a portion of their meat to thefamilies of their sons’ brides-to-be who recipro-cate with garden produce and collected food.

24. Flowers cautions that individual hunting maybe underestimated since men take guns withthem everywhere and serendipitous kills may notbe reported as hunting.

25. Flowers cautions that low-prized game notshared between households may have beenunderreported.

26. This meat is then distributed to the entire com-munity and everyone but the groom’s family par-takes. The bride’s family reciprocates with largeceremonial corn cakes to the groom’s family. Thisexchange models the contributions to the diet thathusband and wife will make in their marriage.


27. One such hunt, which bagged a tapir and adeer, took place in 1991 for my wedding.Tsérére was appropriate because time was short(my husband would be in the community for lessthan two weeks) and because he was not accus-tomed to the strenuous conditions of Xavanteextended-hunting excursions.

28. The hunting range area increased to 85,000 in1992 and 115,000 in 1993, which created a rota-tion total of some 200,000 hectares (Silvius1998). These increases coincide withLeeuwenberg’s presence, and the wildlife biolo-gist’s efforts to explain the effects of overhunt-ing in finite areas may have led the Xavante toexpand their hunting ranges.

29. I know of only one Xavante who cares for hiscommunity’s herd, in the Parabubure area.

30. This section draws extensively on technicalmaterial in “Development of a WildlifeManagement Plan for the Rio das MortesXavante Reserve,” an unpublished 1998 reportprepared by Kirsten M. Silvius for WWF.

31. According to Leeuwenberg (personal commu-nication), the Xavante, when there is no embryo,roast and eat this small organ along with the con-nective tissue at the site of the kill. When there isan embryo, the uterus is cut out and discarded.Leeuwenberg accompanied some hunts, and noneof the small number of uteruses he was able toobserve had placental scars, which indicate thenumber of embryos the female was carrying.

ReferencesAparicio Gabara, Teresa. 1994. Development,Politics and the Environment: A Case Studyamong the Xavante Indians of Central Brazil.Unpublished MS.

Brown, Michael F. 1993. Facing the State,Facing the World: Amazonia’s Native Leadersand the New Politics of Identity. L’Homme 33(2–4): 307–326.

Chaim, Marivone M. 1983. Os AldeamentosIndígenas (Goiáis 1749–1811), 2d ed. SãoPaulo: Nobel; Pró-Memória, Instituto Nacionaldo Livro.

Carneiro da Cunha, Manuela. 1987. Of Diretosdo Indio: Ensaios e Documentos. São Paulo:Editora Brasiliense.

Conklin, Beth, and Laura Graham. 1995. TheShifting Middle Ground: Amazonian Indians andEco-Politics. American Anthropologist 97(4):695–710.

Empresa de Assistencia Tecnica e ExtensãoRural (EMATER). 1989. Estudo da Realidade.Study prepared for EMATER, vinculada aSecretaria de Agricultura, in Cuiaba, MT.Mimeographed.

Flowers, Nancy. 1983. Forager–Farmers: TheXavante Indians of Central Brazil. Ph.D. diss.,City University of New York.

Fragoso, José M. V., and Kirsten Silvius. 1997.Xavante Hunting Impact on Wildlife Populationsand the Development of a Wildlife-HuntingManagement Plan. Proposal to WWF. Typescript.

Fragoso, José M. V., F. Leeuwenberg, K. Silvius,and M. Prada Villalobos. 1998. IntegratingScientific and Indigenous Wildlife ManagementApproaches in Indigenous Areas: Status Evaluationand Management of Hunted Wildlife Populationsin the Rio das Mortes Xavante Reserve, MatoGrosso, Brazil. Report of April 4 to WWF–Brazil.

Garfield, Seth. 1996. “Civilized” butDiscontent: The Xavante Indians andGovernment Policy in Brazil, 1937–88. Ph.D.diss., Yale University.

Giaccaria, B., and A. Heide. 1972. Xavante:Povo Autênico. São Paulo: Dom Bosco.


Graham, Laura. 1987. Uma Aldeia por umProjeto. In Povos Indígenas no Brasil—85/86.Aconteceu Especial 17:348–350. São Paulo:Centro Ecumênico de Documentação e Informação.

———. 1992. Letter of November 9 to JohnButler commenting on the proposed Xavantewildlife management project.

———. 1993. A Public Sphere in Amazonia?The Depersonalized Collaborative Constructionof Discourse in Xavante. American Ethnologist20(4):717–741.

———. 1995. Performing Dreams: Discourses ofImmortality among the Xavante of Central Brazil.Austin: University of Texas Press.

———. 1996. Union of Indigenous Nations,União das Naçãoes Indigenas–UNI. InEncyclopedia of Latin American History andCulture, Vol. 1., ed. Barbara Tenenbaum, 453.New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons.

———. 1999. Special Projects Update: XavanteEducation Fund and Xavante Oppose Araguaia-Tocantins (Hibrovia). Cultural SurvivalQuarterly 22(4):16–19.

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———. 1995. Culture, Genuine and Spurious:The Politics of Indianness in the Vaupés,Colombia. American Ethnologist 22 (1):3–27.

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I. IntroductionCenturies after the Spanish Conquest the SirionóIndians still roamed freely in small nomadicbands over a vast area of eastern lowlandBolivia. The rubber boom sparked by two worldwars and then the establishment of large cattleranches in northeastern Bolivia brought that idyllto an end and brought the Sirionó to the edge ofextinction. Many were settled as captive work-ers on large ranches or in government trainingschools that were actually forced labor camps(Holmberg 1969).

One tiny door remained ajar, and even this led toa kind of imprisonment. Thomas Anderson, amissionary from the Four Square Gospel Churchin California, was among the first outsiders to putdown roots in the area. In the early 1930s, hehad established a mission at a spot chosen by aSirionó group, a place they called Ibiato, or HighHill, which lies about 55 kilometers due east of

Trinidad, the capital of Beni State. AlanHolmberg, an anthropologist who described histravels with a nomadic band in the 1940s, dis-missed this missionary effort as marginal, littlesuspecting that within two generations it wouldbe the center of what remained of an entire peo-ple. The missionary’s son, Jack Anderson,became fluent in the Sirionó language and beganto wage campaigns of recruitment. He gatheredsmall bands from the forest, brought others fromforced labor on ranches, and settled them all inIbiato. Following the centuries-old Jesuit systemof the reducción, or reduction (a South AmericanIndian settlement directed by Jesuit missionar-ies), Anderson put the Sirionó to work for themission three days a week (CIDDEBENI 1996).

For the Sirionó, gaining possession of even thissmall foothold has been precarious. It has been astruggle not only to claim the land but to deter-mine how it will be used. Thomas Anderson

CHAPTER 5Holding On to the Land: The LongJourney of the Sirionó Indians of

Eastern Lowland Bolivia Wendy R. Townsend1

seemed to settle the first question by applyingsoon after his arrival for territory from theMinistry of Colonization and the Beni State gov-ernor’s office, or prefectura. In 1933 theBolivian government’s resolución supremo con-ferred “right of possession” to the mission, andthe claim was measured and titled a year later.

But the 1953 Agrarian Land Reform Lawreopened what had seemed settled, requiring alllandowners to reestablish tenure. Living so farfrom the eye of the state, in an area where fewoutsiders bothered to visit, the mission over-looked this “formality” until 1982, when theSirionó pressured Jack Anderson to reregister.Even with help from two membership organiza-tions working on land rights issues in the state—CIDOB (the Confederation of Indigenous Peoplesof Bolivia) and APCOB (Aid for the RuralPeoples of Eastern Bolivia)—the application wasrejected because of “poor topographic mapping.”Meanwhile mission administrators appointed bythe aging Jack Anderson to act in his stead werewhittling the territory away through piecemealsales, and the government was issuing duplicatetitles for other parcels to influential cattle ranch-ers. Land reform was a cruel joke for the surviv-ing Sirionó: it created a noose of cattle ranchesthat was steadily being pulled tighter. That pres-sure intensified in 1987 when a new road fromTrinidad to Santa Cruz, the capital of the neigh-boring state, opened up Sirionó territory to vehi-cles where once only oxcarts could pass. TheSirionó seemed in danger of losing everything.

Fortunately the budding indigenous rights move-ment in the Beni was bringing together manygroups with similar stories. In 1990, 38 Sirionójoined with members of other groups in the areafor a march to the national capital, La Paz, todemand their territory and affirmation of theirhuman dignity. The route was backbreaking—atrek of over 400 kilometers that wound its wayup Andean passes more than 4,000 meters higherthan the spot from which the marchers set out.Aided by national and international press cover-age (including CNN), the march captured thepopular imagination. By the time the marchersreached La Paz, Bolivian President Jaime PazZamora was ready to sign several executiveorders designating indigenous territories. Withthe first of these, registered number 22609, the

government recognized the Sirionó Territory as“the area they traditionally occupy … delimitedby 36 natural landmarks well-known by the peo-ple of Ibiato.” In 1994 this area was demarcatedbetween 64º16" by 64º34" W and 14º40" by14º53" S (see map 5.1). Not all the traditionallandmarks were respected, and claims to some30,000 hectares in the neighboring San PabloForest were left unspecified.

Besides the problem of what was omitted, theSirionó faced the challenge of taking control ofwhat was included. Consolidation of the territoryproved difficult and is still incomplete. The firstto cede land was the State University, which hadtitle to the central savanna. Not surprisingly, pri-vate landowners were less willing, and they stalledto consolidate paperwork to buttress their ownclaims. Some disputed areas were purchased forthe Sirionó through the generous donations ofTUFF (the Swedish Peace and ArbitrationSociety). People who had taken properties alongthe road, however, often refused to cede theirclaims and the land value rose beyond TUFF’smeans to buy it back. The woodland claims wereeven more tangled. In Bolivia, tenure does notguarantee land-use rights. The state retains own-ership of most natural resources and assignsusufruct at its discretion. Most of the San PabloForest had already been assigned to private con-cessions, although some parcels would eventuallybe returned to state control by concessionairesunwilling to pay taxes from a new forestry lawpassed by Paz Zamora’s successor as part of aseries of sweeping governmental reforms.

That tide of reform held great hope for Bolivia’sindigenous peoples. The new Agrarian ReformLaw (INRA) allowed groups like the Sirionó tohold territory in common in newly establishedindigenous homelands known as TierrasComunitarias de Origen. The new Law ofPopular Participation promised to strengthenlocal government and allowed the people ofIbiato to create a municipal district eligible fordevelopment, education, and health funding fromthe state.

However, the ruling party that passed this legisla-tion lost power in the 1997 elections before all ofthe administrative procedures for implementingthe laws could be finalized. Doubts about thenew government’s intentions to enforce the spirit

74 The Sirionó in Bolivia

The Sirionó in Bolivia 75

of the law quickly surfaced when ambiguities inthe legislation were interpreted narrowly. Someof the rules changed in midstream, imposing bur-dens that low-income communities would havedifficulty meeting and putting them at a disad-vantage with large landowners or businessescompeting for the same resources.

Even as the Sirionó wrestle with the question ofusufruct, a new threat of outside colonization islooming. The new government is distracted byproblems with coca growers in the Chapareregion at the foot of the Andes, and has sug-gested moving some of them to the Beni. Suchan invasion would chill consolidation of territo-rial demands by all the indigenous peoples of thestate, but the Sirionó are particularly vulnerablebecause the dirt access road that connects Ibiato

to the Trinidad–Santa Cruz highway is an arrowthrough the heart of their territory.

So the victory the Sirionó won with the marchcan still be reversed. The more than 500 Sirionówho live on High Hill face a dual challenge asthey look to the future. First, they must developa resource management plan to consolidatetenure and protect their land from outsiders.Second, as their population rises and the impactof market society intensifies, the Sirionó mustlook inward to organize their own resourceful-ness if the resource base is to be sustained.

The external and internal challenges are inter-twined but have different timelines. A manage-ment plan is needed quickly, but building socialinstitutions to reach consensus and make it sticktakes much longer. This task is complicated by

Sirionó Territory of Ibiato

Savanna ForestBorders according to Decree 22609Road Casarabe-El CarmenRoad Trinidad-Santa CruzCocharca RiverWaterholes (not marked when near road)

IBIATO

Map 5.1 Borders of the Sirionó Territory of Ibiato According to Decree 22609

Source: Townsend 1996. Insert map: Cartesia Software.

Santa Cruz

Tari ja

La Paz

Sucre

B O L I V I A

Trinidad Ib iato

more than half a century of dependence on“benevolent” outsiders and by the influx of NGOsthat have descended on High Hill since the presi-dential decree. Many have come with their ownagendas, offering services that sound good but donot necessarily meet the needs of the Sirionó orprepare them to run their own projects once theshort-term funding runs out. This case studylooks at a long-term effort that is under way tohelp the Sirionó develop an integrated forest man-agement plan to hold on to their land and use itsresources wisely. This effort is still in its earlyphases, and some of its components, includingwildlife management, are focused on research tohelp the community recover its knowledge of theenvironment and adapt scientific concepts, whenappropriate, to meet local needs.

The story of this effort to put the Sirionó incharge of their own destiny is broken into threeparts. The first gives a brief overview of localecosystems, social organization, and resource-usepatterns, and the implications of new tenure andusufruct legislation. The second looks moreclosely at the forest management initiative and itswildlife component. Finally, lessons are offeredthat may be of use to others. The Sirionó are asmall group, their territory is modest, and it sitson the far fringes of the more biodiverse parts ofBolivia’s Amazon Basin. But the Sirionó are for-tunate to have what so many other groups inthose areas lack—a presidential decree thatallows them to begin turning the dream of ahomeland into a lasting reality. They are part ofa much larger indigenous movement, and what islearned in Ibiato can be applied elsewhere andbecome a precedent for persuading a reluctantgovernment to give others the same opportunity.Lessons are also being learned about how conser-vation NGOs can build a sustained dialogue withindigenous peoples to build partnerships in whicheconomic viability and environmental steward-ship go hand in hand.

II. An Overview

2.1 Ecosystems of the Sirionó Territory Sirionó ancestors chose their foraging groundswisely. As nomads who roamed a wide belt eastof the Andes, they knew that the transition zonebetween the forested Chiquitano highlands andthe savannas of the Beni Basin was rich in the

motacú palm (Attalea phalerata), which wastheir principal carbohydrate source (Holmberg1969). The area is abundant with game, aswildlife also feed on the palm, which producesfruit year-round. The density of these palms isnot accidental, but is a sign of intensive pre-Columbian activity by indigenous peoples(Balée 1987, 1988, 1989), who nurtured theplant as a wild crop. Confirmation of that pres-ence can be seen in the many human-made hillsand canals carved across the region (Denevan1966; Townsend 1995, 1996). The village ofIbiato is built on one of these hills, rising about80 meters above the surrounding floodplain.Visible reminders of past human habitation areevident in the pottery shards littering more than20 other hills elsewhere in the territory. TheSirionó do not remember the people who onceinhabited this zone and are probably notdescended from them, since the Sirionó lan-guage is linked to those of the greatTupi–Guarani migrations entering the area priorto the arrival of the Spaniards (Holmberg 1969).

Although they have roamed the zone for muchlonger, the Sirionó have been rooted to the patcharound Ibiato for little more than half a century,some three generations. Nonetheless they know itintimately, as their names for the mission’s 36landmarks indicate. Some of the names refer torelatively recent events: Ama Nguichia is where“the woman was struck by lightning.” Othernames come from the particular resource endemicto the spot: Tambatá savanna bears the moniker ofthe walking catfish (Hoplosternum thoracatum)that is common there. The accumulated knowl-edge crystallized in the language includes an abil-ity to describe the great diversity of habitatsfound in this region. The area of the San PabloForest that has yet to be demarcated is less wellknown by living Sirionó.

The landscape delineated by the presidentialdecree is primarily of two types. Some 46 per-cent is flooding forest, and 48 percent is floodinggrassland or swamp. The remaining patches con-sist of artificial hills, gallery forests, and relatedagricultural land. Even though soils may be vari-able, over 70 percent of the territory floods fortwo to six months a year. Some forested areasonly flood in peak rainfall years, and the watermay drain in only days or weeks, making agri-culture possible most of the time.


But a satellite photograph that divides the land-scape into savanna and forest does not begin tocapture the diversity seen on ground level by anexperienced eye. The Sirionó recognize manyforest types by their soils and the presence ofindicator species (CIDDEBENI 1996). The threemost extensive forest categories recognized bythe Sirionó are tagged by prominent species intheir undergrowths. The first, Ibera, refers to ahigh density of lianas. The second, Quiarochu, isnamed after a prolific Heliconia. Finally, Ibieteis abundant with a rapidly growing ginger plant.Palms, such as the motacú and the chonta(Astrocaryum chonta), are abundant and oftenmake up more than half the trees in all three for-est types (Townsend 1996).

Although the land is flooded part of the year, coldsoutherly winds during the dry season leavebehind only water holes, which become a cruciallimiting factor for game populations. The swampsof the deepest savanna, locally called yomomos,contain considerable water even in dry yearsbecause each is capped by a floating peat masscapable of supporting Tajibo trees (Tabebuia) fivemeters tall. Yomomos provide refuge for manyaquatic animals, including two species of caiman(Caiman yacare, C. nigricollis), three kinds ofstork (Jabiru mycteria, Ciconia manguari,Mycteria americana), capybara (Hydrochaerishydrochaeris), and marsh deer (Blastocerusdichotomus). Other important water holes liebeside many of the pre-Columbian mounds.

Before wells were dug in Ibiato, the Sirionóoften had to walk a kilometer or more to dig forwater in the savanna. Many people still do soduring the dry season because they find wellwater too “salty.” A recent development projectin Ibiato has perforated a new well and built awater tank, and though the water’s taste has notimproved, it is available on most days at variousspigots near the houses. The children who werethe principal water carriers from the savanna nowhave more free time. This benefit is offset byother costs: it takes fuel to keep the tank pumpedfull and, more ominously, runoff from the newwater system threatens to erode the Ibiato hill-side, which was constructed by generations ofpre-Columbian labor.

When the rains return sometime between Octoberand December, the creeks overflow. Millions of

walking catfish emerge from aestivation andswarm onto the flooding savanna. Overnightwhat was parched landscape becomes a super-rich breeding ground for fish, reptiles, amphib-ians, and insects, drawing a multitude ofmigratory birds and mammals to feast on theabundance. The savannas submerge as the rainyseason progresses, significantly hampering trans-portation. It requires a strong ox to cross fromIbiato to the forest, and most people must walkcircuitously around the swamp to reach their gar-den plots. During this period Ibiato turns from avillage on a hill into an island.

The floodwaters drain northeast into the CocharcaRiver and from there into the Itenez and Madeirarivers of the Amazon Basin. The northeasterlydrainage is aided by dry southerly winds that fol-low the winter cold fronts from June to August.These fronts, locally known as surazos, can droptemperatures from 36º C to 7º C in a few hours.After a few days these winds usually shift, andtemperatures return to average, about 25º C.

2.2 Sirionó Social OrganizationAccording to Holmberg (1969), the fundamentalsocial and economic unit of the nomadic Sirionówas the matrilineal nuclear family (married man,spouse or spouses, and their children). TheSirionó wandered in bands, usually consisting ofseveral matrilineal extended families (withmatrilocal residency), which were loosely associ-ated around strong leaders. The chieftain (a patri-lineal position) knew where the game and otherfood resources could be found, but his band hadno prescribed territory. Resources were held incommon but belonged to whoever used them.When one band came across another, the meetingswere peaceful and without prescribed ceremonies.

The Four Square Gospel Mission joined variousbands together at Ibiato, each with its own leaderor cacique, some of whom had considerable famein the Sirionó world. Several caciques weregiven equal roles to play in managing the com-munity, and in this way a council was created.For decades these leaders solved internal prob-lems and represented the Sirionó with the mis-sion while the Andersons managed thecommunity’s relations with the outside world.During the 1970s, direct management of the mis-sion and its cattle herd was delegated to a seriesof hired outside administrators.


With the improvement of the road from Trinidad toSanta Cruz in 1987, Ibiato became more accessibleand, despite Jack Anderson’s efforts, direct contactwith the outside world became inevitable. Leader-ship in the community began to change as outsidecontact increased and literacy became more impor-tant. The average age of leaders dropped by 10years. This new group of cultural brokers wasmore worldly-wise but less knowledgeable abouttraditions and the local environment. The olderchieftains were relegated to an advisory Council ofElders, while the younger generation took over theSirionó Council and revamped it with a more for-malized, functional structure.

Today the community is governed by this coun-cil, which consists of a president, vice president,secretary of minutes, secretary of communica-tion, secretary of land affairs, secretary of organi-zation, corregidor, sub-alcalde (vice mayor), andthe Council of Elders. Only the president andthe secretary of land affairs are empowered tospeak formally for the Sirionó. But the corregi-dor and the vice mayor have roles to play as rep-resentatives who report to the federal and stategovernments, and the municipal government,respectively. Now that the Sirionó territory is itsown municipal district (#12) eligible for fundingunder the new Law of Popular Participation, theSirionó have created an independent watchdogcommittee to monitor proper use of the funds.

The Sirionó are also represented in the network ofBolivian indigenous organizations, starting withthe statewide CPIB (Center for Indigenous Peopleof the Beni) and CMIB (Center for IndigenousWomen of the Beni). These in turn are affiliatedwith the national umbrella organization CIDOB(Confederation of Indigenous Peoples of Bolivia),which in turn is represented in the multinationalCOICA (Confederation of Indigenous Organi-zations of the Amazon Basin). Through theseorganizations (or directly if needed), the Sirionócan receive counsel from lawyers hired by CEJIS(the Research Center for Social Justice). As aresult of these contacts, the Sirionó have learnedto make their collective voice heard, especiallywhen political action is required. For example,when the government seemed to drag its feet onincluding indigenous territories in the new agrar-ian reforms of INRA in 1996, the Sirionó partici-pated in a CIDOB-organized protest march fromSanta Cruz to La Paz.

Bolivia’s indigenous people have begun to assertthemselves in the electoral arena also. Duringthe last elections indigenous candidates wonlocal offices and even Senate seats in La Pazunder various party banners. At the nationalexecutive level, however, the results were dis-couraging for the indigenous rights movement.The prominent leader Marcial Fabricano, aMojeño from Trinidad, ran for vice president onthe ticket of MBL, the country’s fifth-largestpolitical party. Unfortunately the slate lost quitebadly, even in Ibiato, which did not turn out tosupport an indigenous leader. The roots of politi-cal patronage run deep, and the Sirionó tradition-ally have had closer ties through one of JackAnderson’s sons to another party, the MNR,which had won the previous election.

A key player in helping negotiate terms with theoutside world has been the mission school, whichhas played a dual role in Sirionó life. On onehand it has probably helped erode the accumu-lated knowledge of the traditional culture. Onthe other it has conferred the powerful tool ofbasic literacy. Fortunately this missionary enter-prise was bilingual and avoided the pitfalls ofreplacing a native oral tongue with the Spanish ofmainstream society. In the 1960s, missionariesPerry and Anne Priest of the Summer Institute ofLinguistics (SIL) began giving Sirionó a writtenform by translating the Bible. They educated afew youths at the SIL compound in Tumichuquabefore moving their translation work to Ibiato,living in the village for months at a time. ThePriests supported education in both Spanish andSirionó, and paid teachers’ salaries. Later theyarranged for the teachers to be given governmentpositions. Today the school has five grades.Like Bolivian rural education in general, thequality is not high but nearly 95 percent ofIbiato’s children attend school.2 The young peo-ple that these missionaries trained are today’sSirionó leaders and educators. Without thesemissionaries’ early efforts to educate the Sirionóin the national language while preserving theSirionó language, the community would not belearning to handle its own affairs today.

The missionaries also brought Western medicalcare and a dependence on commercial pharma-ceuticals. Anne Priest ran a daily clinic to treatthe Sirionó, who faced serious epidemics ofmeasles, mumps, and assorted influenzas.


Lung problems are still very common. Youngchildren not given antibiotics still die of pneumo-nia, and tuberculosis is endemic. More recently,nurses from Caritas have supplied prenatal healthcare along with pediatric care and nutrition pro-grams. There is also a state-paid communityhealth worker who has been trained to treat themost common illnesses such as diarrhea, bacter-ial infections, and colds. Major problems arereferred to a hospital in Trinidad. Recent pavingof the road to within 14 kilometers of Ibiatomakes that easier, and the community radio canbe used to summon an emergency vehicle even inthe rainy season when the dirt road turns to mud.Child mortality has dropped dramatically.Women now in their 60s lost most or all of theirchildren to various epidemics that once sweptlike a scythe through the population; now thereare younger mothers who have 10 to 13 livingchildren. The 1993 estimated population growthrate predicted a doubling time of 11.1 years,which means that there will be over 1,000Sirionó in the Tierras Comunitarias de Origen(TCOs) by 2004 if recent trends continue.

Nearness to the state capital has affected commu-nity life in another way. Bolivia has seen anexplosion of NGOs in recent years. As a remnantindigenous group within a taxi drive of theregional airport, the Sirionó have become “posterchildren” for service NGOs staffed by urban pro-fessionals who seldom stray far from a pavedroad and have little interest in long-term commu-nity development. The Sirionó are anxiouslylooking for solutions to their everyday livingrequirements, and for anything that promises tohelp them consolidate their territory. Many NGOproject ideas sound enticing because they promiseto be “cost free.” Yet too often they pull theSirionó in different directions, since NGOsincreasingly offer specialized services keyed totheir own internal agendas rather than to an over-all assessment of the needs and aspirations of thecommunity. Because many of these proposals areconceived as short-term transferable packages ofinfrastructure or technology, the need for involv-ing local people in planning, design, implementa-tion, and evaluation is ignored. The end result ispredictable. Either the technology does not workas advertised or it has unintended consequences.

Several projects, for instance, have focused oncattle production. The Sirionó are attracted

because it seems like an uncomplicated way toreinforce their claim to the land by showing it isbeing used, and perhaps because some of themhave worked on ranches elsewhere in the state.Yet similar projects throughout the Amazonregion have usually had unhappy results. If thecattle are held privately, incomes can becomeskewed and community polarization increases,particularly if the grazing areas are communallyheld and not everyone shares in the benefits.Perhaps more importantly in the case of theSirionó is the question of what environmentalimpact more intensive cattle herding would haveon native plants and animals that people arealready concerned may be diminishing.

2.3 A Subsistence Economy in TransitionHolmberg (1969) described the Sirionó as beingfirst and foremost hunters, with little or no horti-culture. Their agriculture in the 1940s was littlemore than planting maize in natural tree-falls.Even in the farming colony that Holmberg helpedfound, Tibaera, the quest for meat kept peoplemoving, often to the detriment of their crops. AtTibaera, Holmberg recorded a daily per-personmeat consumption during August, September,and October 1941 of 238, 225, and 153 grams,respectively. While trekking, he reported dailyintakes of up to 1 kilogram of meat per person.Fishing by bow and arrow occurred but was con-sidered unimportant.

The primary supplement to hunting was the gath-ering of forest foods, particularly palm hearts andvarious fruits. The entire family took part, withchildren learning what plants were edible byhelping to collect them. The quest for wildhoney was constant, and the Sirionó were adeptat spotting the small holes native bees bored indead trees for hives.

Today the Sirionó lifestyle has been reversed.They live mostly from the bounty of their gar-dens, with primary crops of upland rice, maize,sweet manioc, bananas, yams, sugar cane, avoca-dos, citrus, pineapple, and mangos. Excess pro-duce is fed to pigs, chickens, and a few ducksthat roam freely throughout the village.Supplementary staples such as sugar, cooking oilor lard, and wheat flour can be purchased fromhousehold shops that stock items when they can.Traveling salesmen who once came intermittentlyon horseback now arrive regularly by vehicle,


bartering goods for chickens or for honey when itis available. Domesticated animals are rarelyeaten but are held in reserve as a source of emer-gency cash. Some community members own ahorse or two and a few cattle, or keep saddleoxen to get around during the rainy season.

Finding outside work to earn cash is not diffi-cult. Most surrounding ranches hire Sirionómen as cowhands or as day labor for buildingfences or clearing land. A cowhand takes hisfamily to the ranch that employs him, leavingbehind children still in grade school to boardwith other families. About one-third of outsidework is on cattle ranches, while agriculture andconstruction split another third (CIDDEBENI1996). The remaining third comes from work insawmills, palm heart factories, and assortedother activities. There is also the beginning ofan internal labor market from the influx of NGOprojects and the creation of a municipal district.At times the heavy demand for certain skilledpeople requires the Sirionó to hire others to helptend their garden plots.

Yet despite these activities the Sirionó still con-sider themselves to be hunters, and leadership isstill linked to hunting prowess. The hunting haschanged considerably, however. No longer dothe Sirionó employ the world’s longest bows andarrows as described by Holmberg. Now morethan half the game is killed by firearms, andthree-quarters is taken using weapons unavail-able before Columbus. Although fishing is stillsecondary, it is a regular source of protein forsome families. Boys spend afternoons usinghook and line to bring in 5 to 10 kilograms of asmany as 50 small fish. This may soon be amemory, however, because the road dike con-structed across the nearby lake blocked flowsand is building up sediment. What was onceopen water is becoming a peat bog.

During 1991–1992, hunting supplied over two-thirds of the animal protein in the Sirionó diet(Townsend 1995, 1996). Wildlife comes fromboth savanna and forest. If one considers all thefish as savanna products, approximately 100 kilo-grams per square kilometer per year are extractedfrom this habitat. In addition to fish, the consid-erable harvest of savanna biomass includes marshdeer, nine-banded armadillo (Dasypus novem-cinctus), gray brocket deer (Mazama goua-zoubira), and various marsh birds. In a year, the

Sirionó extract 134 kilograms per square kilome-ter of game from the forest, including tapir, twospecies of peccary, red and gray brocket deer,coatimundi, and two large rodents, the paca andthe agouti. Hunting is practiced year-round andharvest composition varies seasonally. Over 90percent of game biomass taken in 1991–1992was mammalian, and 75 percent of that camefrom ungulates. If the extracted biomass is aver-aged across the population of Ibiato, it averagesabout 55 grams of protein per capita daily. Thiscorresponds to the average daily intake of wildanimal protein by other Latin American indige-nous groups, which has been estimated at 59grams per capita (Townsend 1995, 1996). It isalso nearly three times the recommended adultminimum daily allowance of 20 grams of protein(FAO/WHO 1973).

Game harvests have fallen in recent years, per-haps because the number of domesticated ani-mals, overseas food-aid efforts, and jobs from theinflux of NGO projects have risen. But it is thedecline in game supply reported by Sirionóhunters that has sparked interest in producing awildlife management plan. That interest dove-tails with the desire to earn income, since theSirionó also sell skins and hides when there is abuyer. One game hunt has been monitored(Stearman and Redford 1992), and the harvestwas judged to be sustainable.

The Sirionó also harvest various wild honeys pro-duced by the native meliponid bees. They havean elaborate identification system for 15 differentbee types based on the taste of their honeys(Montaño 1996). Although most are too acidicfor sweetening, each honey has a medicinal use.The Sirionó barter the honey in Ibiato but preferto sell it in Trinidad, where the women offer itdoor to door for higher prices. The revenues areused to buy household utensils, school supplies,oil, sugar, flour, and other necessities.

There is also some interest in marketing crafts.Some of the women fashion simple necklaces ofseeds, feathers, and porcupine quills to sell inTrinidad and also to the numerous visitors toIbiato. Traditionally women have made stringhammocks from Cecropia fibers, but thewomen’s club has learned how to weave ham-mocks and some members are now producingthem. Sirionó baskets—usually rudimentary andunfinished—are not an inspiring tourist item.


The clay tobacco pipes made by the older folkcrack easily because of their poor firing and areequally hard to sell. A recent project has set upan artisan center where men and women canlearn woodcarving, ceramics, basketry, andweaving, but the teacher was hired for only ashort period. The sponsoring NGO overlookedlocal master artisans for the position, and pre-sumed they should offer their skills for free. Theoutsider who was hired offers only outside tech-niques, and there is no effort to recover or refinedesigns based on local tradition.

2.4 Tenure and Resource RightsThe Sirionó are interested in using theirresources to raise income and to ward off outsideclaims by showing that the land is already beingused. The recently enacted agrarian reform lawsetting up legally established indigenous home-lands, or TCOs, would help consolidate what wasgranted through the presidential decree.Legislators who drafted the law, however, mayhave underestimated the difficulty in equitablyadministering it. A community must show that itis culturally intact and has the ability and intentto manage the ecology of the land in its posses-sion. In practice, this means showing proof ofownership and obtaining registered land-use con-cessions from the agencies in charge. Even whena community has title, it is often described interms of metes and bounds without meaningfulreference points.

The Sirionó thought they had resolved all doubtsby surveying their land with navigation-qualityglobal positioning instruments (GPS), which metthe government standards in place at the time.The Agrarian Reform Institute set up to imple-ment the law, however, now says it requires theextraordinarily expensive geodesic GPS survey,whose accuracy far supercedes that of most titlesalready on file. The midstream switch in require-ments has raised concerns among the Sirionó thatthe government does not want to issue finaldeeds and is stalling until large landowners canconsolidate rival claims. Even if that suspicionproves unfounded, to comply with the require-ments for a definitive study of even one territoryis daunting, and the flood of applicants forTCOs, many of which have more tangled claimsthan the Sirionó, ensures long processing delays.

Another problem concerns registration ofusufruct with the appropriate government agency.The presidential territorial decree exempts theSirionó from justifying why they need as muchland as they have asked for, but the new forestrylaw applies in full force to preexisting as well asnew activities on their territory. It says thatbefore they can commercially harvest their forestproducts—including wood, honey, game, or wildfruits—the Sirionó must have a written manage-ment plan, produced by a professional forester.Other strictures apply as well. As the next sec-tion will explore more fully, this creates a senseof urgency not only because it affects long-stand-ing sources of income but because forestresources have value to other interests in the areawho may be able to prepare their own manage-ment proposals more quickly.

Fortunately for the Sirionó, there has been nodiscovery of mineral resources in their territory:Bolivia’s mining law supercedes all other lawand allows those obtaining concessions consider-able leeway in terms of environmental damage.Other laws presently under review govern water,hydrocarbon extractions, and biodiversity andgenetic resources. The draft biodiversity lawwould give the federal government completeresponsibility for managing the natural flora andfauna of the entire nation plus all rights to com-mercial benefits from the genetic material.

III. Community-Based ResourceManagement

The Sirionó are caught in a bind. They haveestablished legal claim to much of their territory,but do not control its resources. To secure title totheir land, ward off outside threats, and earn cashneeded to supplement their subsistence economy,they may feel compelled to choose a course thatwill destroy their resource base. Most NGOshave focused on income generation rather thansustainable development. Perhaps that is becausecommunity-based natural resource managementthat includes the promotion of sound economicopportunities would require a long-term commit-ment of resources to local capacity building.NGOs with short-term outlooks are often reluc-tant to invest in results that are likely to material-ize only down the road on someone else’s books.This section will look at precursors in wildlife


research that helped spark local interest in sus-tainable management, and then examine effortsby an exceptional local NGO, CIDDEBENI, tohelp the community develop an integratedresource management plan.

3.1 Game Counts and the Seeds ofResource Management

Some of the first seeds for sustainable manage-ment were sown in 1987, with field researchundertaken by anthropologist Allyn M. Stearmanfrom the University of Central Florida. Stearmanstudied Sirionó natural resource use and recordeda 90-day measurement of game and fish extrac-tion. The Sirionó found the process and theirvisitor interesting, and this paved the way for atwo-year study by one of Stearman’s dissertationstudents. Despite pressure from the missionaries,who saw their grip being loosened, the commu-nity decided to participate in the study becausethey saw how the research could prove to out-siders that the Sirionó were using a much largerterritory than the village of Ibiato.

The follow-up study began in 1991, and was tar-geted at measuring the game, fish, and honeyused by the Sirionó over a long enough period toenable an estimate of the territory required forsustainable harvests.3 Community involvementwas tremendous because people saw how thisinformation would buttress their claim to theland. Foreign scientists and Bolivian universitystudents were welcomed into the community andgiven open access to what was hunted and caughtand gathered. Many friendships formed as biol-ogy students worked hand in hand with Sirionóassistants in measuring the game, fish, and honeyharvests, and the close collaboration insured thatthe skill for measuring future harvests was trans-ferred to members of the community. SixSirionó were trained in detailed data collection,while various hunters helped weigh game andtook detailed field notes about their kills.

Measurements were made by observation duringthe 1991 harvests and by self-monitoring the nextyear. During 1992, 19 of the approximately 46hunters monitored their own game harvests,faithfully registering their game in booklets sup-plied through grants from the BiodiversitySupport Program (BSP)/WWF, and the WildlifeConservation Society (WCS). Results showed

wide variation between the 1991 and 1992 har-vests taken in by most of the 19 hunters’ 11households, but average daily biomass harvestedper person (0.34 kg) did not differ significantly(Townsend 1997). The monitoring would nothave worked so smoothly without the widespreadliteracy instilled by the mission school, but thehunters’ thoroughness and persistence probablystemmed from their excitement in finally findinga practical way to apply little-used writing skillsto benefit their community. Perhaps personalpride in hunting prowess also played a part, butthe rationale for boasting was minimized sincethe research focused on numbers rather thanexact details of hunts. Since game is seldomsecretly brought to Ibiato anyway, what was newwas not knowledge about a specific hunter’s ability but a growing awareness about the totalcollective harvest. This experience in self-moni-toring created baseline data to show hunterschanges in the abundance or scarcity of game,and woke community interest in resource man-agement. Some of the hunters continued to fill intheir data booklets years after the study ended,and what they found fueled suspicion that gamewas not as plentiful as before. Eventually thiswould lead them to request that a way be foundto renew the monitoring on a formal basis.

3.2 An Integrated Community ForestManagement Plan

A major step forward took place in 1996, whenCIDDEBENI, a local NGO that had assisted theSirionó since the early days of the indigenousrights movement, intensified its involvement.The NGO had focused its attention on securing aterritory, supporting the Sirionó during theprotest marches, and providing counsel duringthe negotiations that followed. It advised thecommunity about the legal hurdles that had to besurmounted and provided technical assistance forland demarcation. With CIDDEBENI’s help, theSirionó reconnoitered where their ancestors onceroamed freely and used Landsat imaging andGPS technology to delineate the 30,000 hectaresin the San Pablo Forest that was given to them byPresidential Decree 22609. They focused onhigh ground that was at least 5 to 10 kilometersfrom the road, did not overlap with cattle rancheson savanna lands or timber concessions in theforest, and was contiguous with the area speci-


fied by the 36 traditional landmarks cited in theexecutive order.

When the new legislation began its passagethrough the legislature, CIDDEBENI realized theopportunity and danger it posed. If the commu-nity could develop a plan to manage its forestresources, it would have the leverage to push for-ward and consolidate what the presidential decreehad promised. If the community did not act, thenew laws could be turned against the communityand all that had been gained might be lost.

To its credit, CIDDEBENI realized that for anyvictory to be lasting, the community would haveto take charge. But it also knew that the commu-nity did not have the skills or the awareness yetto meet the challenge it faced. With preliminaryfinancing from the International Work Group forIndigenous Affairs (IWGIA), a donor based inDenmark that supports training in self-gover-nance, CIDDEBENI helped the community sur-vey its needs, set priorities, and identify what hadto be done to meet them. The Sirionó identifiedseveral areas for attention (CIDDEBENI 1996).The two at the top of the list—territory andhealth—were to be expected, given the history ofthe past half-century. In descending order theremaining priorities were education, organiza-tion, cattle husbandry, overuse of plants, lack ofarable land, overexploitation of wildlife, facilita-tion of honey production, commercialization oflocal products, and the need for outside work.

Participants concerned with each priority werethen asked to analyze its problems in detail.Those concerned with wildlife, for instance,reported that game was growing scarce in thetraditional hunting grounds and hunters musttravel farther from the community to find it.Possible reasons for this were outside poachingbecause the territorial guards were ineffective,and the absence of internal controls over the har-vest. Analysis of plant overexploitation led tosimilar findings, and a list of threatened woodplants was drawn up. Participants noted thatmedicinal plants were also being lost, along withthe knowledge of how to use them. Graduallythe dialogues in these small focus groups movedto communitywide planning sessions at whichconflicts and connections that were hiddenbecame apparent. Thus awareness grew thatpeople cutting dead trees for firewood were

competing for a common resource with thosehunting honey, since some native bees requirehollow logs for their hives. This led people tothink about the lack of forest resource manage-ment and administration not only for fallen butfor standing trees.

When the diagnostic survey was complete,IWGIA funded community development of aresource management plan and its partial imple-mentation. Technical assistance to help theSirionó handle their 200 cattle is being funded bythe Japanese donor JBN. But the core of thecommunity effort is an integrated forest manage-ment plan with two primary components—forfirewood cutting and honey production—andresearch to add a third component for wildlife.CIDDEBENI, with IWGIA support, is teachingthe Sirionó how to inventory their woodlands anddevelop rational schemes for firewood and honeyproduction that can be presented to the BolivianSuperintendent of Forests as required by law.

The driving force behind the forestry manage-ment plan has been the exploding firewood mar-ket. Outsiders constantly pressure the Sirionó tosell timber, especially what remains of the hard-woods, but many other trees are useful as fuel.Fortunately, since 1991 the community organiza-tion has been strong enough to legally repossesswood taken by pirate loggers. But the situationis complicated by the fact that individual Sirionóand the community organization have been mak-ing agreements with outsiders for selective treecutting. Since 1992 the extraction of firewoodfrom the territory has skyrocketed, with thou-sands of cubic meters from agricultural clearingbeing sold to the ceramics industry in Trinidadalone. The integrated planning process is anattempt to bring order to a process that has beenout of control.

Following is an example of how seriously theSirionó are taking this opportunity. In January1998, prior to approval of the management project,the Sirionó Council signed a contract with an out-sider to cut wood to repay old community debts.The contractor agreed to pay Sirionó men to cutthe wood with the community chainsaws, but onlyif the timber was priced cheaply. The contractorwaited five months to call in his claim only to begreeted by an unwelcome surprise. Financing forthe management project had finally been approved


by IWGIA, and the community was canceling thefirewood contract. It chose to stick with its man-agement plan and abide by forestry law. The con-tractor was accustomed to getting his way withindigenous people, and threatened to confiscate thecommunity chainsaws he had taken for repair inJanuary. Despite the fact that he might just getaway with it, the entire community decided to staythe course. They would complete their manage-ment plan and master the new skills that requiredbefore selling any more wood.

The community is conducting inventories to esti-mate the rotation cycle of firewood trees, concen-trating on fast-growing species. The communitywill also begin seeding forests with hive boxes,providing ample space for native bees to multi-ply. Since meliponid bee honey is a rarity on theworld market, the Sirionó and their advisors hopeto develop an exclusive market niche for at leastsome of the varieties.

At first, it seemed there would be no wildlifecomponent. It was down the list in the diagnos-tic survey and no funder stepped forward eagerlyto embrace it, perhaps because market applica-tions seemed vague. Interest among hunters washigh, however, especially among those who hadparticipated in previous research studies andwere eager to explore the possibilities. And therewas an indirect indication that communitywideinterest was deeper than it first appeared. Anearlier reforestation project funded by TUFFwent awry when the local NGO providing techni-cal assistance insisted on growing hardwoodsaplings in the tree nursery because they had thehighest cash value. It was only when a newNGO took over and let Sirionó choose their owntrees that the project went forward. The Sirionóchose fruit trees they knew would be a foodsource for game.

Finally, a $2,000 grant from the WildlifeConservation Society stimulated further financingfrom a CIDOB research project, funded by theBritish government’s Department for InternationalDevelopment (DFID). This allowed the Sirionóto begin wildlife inventories as part of the overallforest management plan. The CIDOB project isdesigned to transfer research and analytic skills tocommunities by letting them play an active role indesigning and implementing their own field stud-ies in partnership with an outside technician. To

help integrate results with the overall plan, JohnKudrenecky, the Canadian forester already guid-ing the forest inventory, agreed to help guidefieldwork in the new study as well. With his help,and advice from CIDOB’s research coordinator,the community designed its own data collectionformats to census wildlife and monitor hunting.The intent is to assess the sustainability of pec-cary populations and set the stage for marketingthe hides from a species that is a prime source ofprotein in the local diet.

The skills being learned are not simply technical;they involve making explicit what was oftenimplicit in cultural practice and traditions. In thepast, resource conservation was a byproduct of anomadic lifestyle. Because the Sirionó moved onwhen resources became scarce, hunting rangeswere allowed to regenerate naturally. Since theSirionó have settled in Ibiato, their zone of influ-ence has shrunk drastically. For decades gamepopulations remained sustainable because of thesource–sink phenomenon, in which the surround-ing area produced enough wildlife to resupply thecapture basin of the Sirionó. Large ranches in thearea left the landscape relatively unchanged andfed their workers with slaughtered cattle. Now,with the along-the-road settlement of colonistswho practice slash-and-burn agriculture and alsohunt for subsistence, the regeneration time forgame in the surrounding area has nearly vanished.Unfortunately the Sirionó did not understand thisphenomenon when they requested their territory,but it is unclear what difference this would havemade, given the difficulty in establishing controlover what was claimed.

The new Bolivian laws requiring a managementplan for commercializing any wildlife resourceare forcing the Sirionó to consider matters thatwould soon have to be confronted anyway. Andearly indications suggest they are up to the chal-lenge. As previous work with wildlife studies inthe early 1990s showed, the Sirionó have the lit-eracy, numeric skills, and motivation to preparemanagement plans for sustainable harvests.What was needed was the opportunity and timefor training in transect censuses and other relatedanalytic skills. The research grant from DFID ismaking that possible, and what is being learnedin counting peccaries can be applied to other ani-mals as well. A number of Sirionó hunters are


engaged now in producing some of the first den-sity estimates for various species ever completedin Bolivia. Typical data will cover over 350 kilo-meters of transects walked.

Discussions about wildlife management are alsoraising awareness of the double-edged dangers thecommunity faces. As the Sirionó realize theyhave no control over land-use changes occurringaround them, concern rises about the need to beextra vigilant over resources they do control.There is a voluntary territorial guard to ward offpoaching, but as the survey showed it has hadmixed success. Warding off neighboringcolonists who hunt along the road and trails andat the water holes is one thing; sport hunters arequite another. They sometimes kill numerous animals in a night, often indiscriminately, leavingthe less-desirable carcasses behind to rot. Theexact toll is difficult to estimate because woundedanimals often escape to die out of sight in thebush. The territory vigilance system has reducedpoaching in recent years, but the community war-dens have no official government standing andfind it hard to face down rich hunters.

This increases pressure on the Sirionó for self-restraint if the game supply is to be sustainable.This is a challenge, but there are some traditionsto build on. Holmberg (1969) noted that oneband would not hunt animals near the campsiteof another, perhaps out of respect for limits ingame supply. Yet he went on to say that explicitownership of a resource did not exist until it wasactually harvested, and then it was considered tobe private. The concept of personal ownership ofmaterial goods is the norm today in Ibiato, whilethe idea of formal legal ownership of a territoryand its resources is quite new. So the Sirionó arestruggling to reconcile community managementof fixed natural resources with norms that permitindividuals to use the resources for personal gain.They have to figure out how, as a community thathas always had a very loose leadership structure,to police themselves as well as control outsiders.

Obviously this strain is not confined to the ques-tion of hunting but extends to other aspects of theforest management plan and to new kinds ofwealth in general. The community, for instance,must decide how to manage use of a small truckthat was purchased for the firewood project.Who gets to use it for what and when has gener-

ated impassioned discussions. Listening to someof the talk, one wonders if a major flaw in proj-ect design is also being exposed. There is a pushto do everything at once while financing is stillavailable. The IWGIA grant and most of the oth-ers have a time frame of three years or less.

Yet the road to self-determination is long andconvoluted. The Sirionó have progressed amaz-ingly far in evolving community institutionscompared to a decade ago, but there is still far-ther to go if they are to successfully plan andachieve their own sustainable goals. The urgencyfor legalizing their commercial use of theresource base, forced by the new legislation, onlymakes the quick and easy answer of entering intosubsidiary contracts with outsiders even harder toresist. One wonders what will happen if thenear-term financing for setting up the integratedforestry plan runs out before community manage-ment processes cohere. What answer will therecently turned-away firewood contractor receiveshould he return on that day with a cut-rate offerof ready cash for timber?

IV. The Search for a Long-TermPartnership

The participatory planning process sparked byCIDDEBENI has been exemplary. It is beingguided by awareness that indigenous people wishto participate on all levels of a project—fromresearch, to planning, to implementation. If thegoal is sustainability, this makes good sense.Community members are likely to be in posses-sion of vital information without which a projectis likely to fail. And by developing the skills tomanage project activities, indigenous people fur-ther their capacity not only to defend their landbut also to manage it for future generations.

Environmentalists can contribute by providingcommunities like Ibiato with key informationthey need to make wise choices. Working at thecommunity’s pace takes patience, but it is theonly way to build a foundation for lasting part-nerships in areas of mutual interest. Several les-sons can be gleaned from the first steps towardforest and wildlife management now under way.First, the Sirionó, like other indigenous groups inBolivia, clearly want to participate actively in themanagement of their natural resources. Theyhave shown an insatiable hunger for training in


these topics in workshop after workshop. BothCIDDEBENI and CIDOB have emphasized theimportance of holding training sessions in thecommunity and opening them to everyone who isinterested. In the past, individuals have leftIbiato for specialized training from NGOs, butwhat they have learned has been closely held.Perhaps this mirrors the Sirionó concept of own-ership, with knowledge belonging to the personwho finds and uses it. Opening informationflows is essential if the community is to build theconsensus that is needed to collectively managecommunal resources.

Second, the training must be conducted as a dia-logue rather than a monologue. In discussing thecommunity’s options and how environmentalissues affect potential gains and losses, it isimperative to avoid jargon. CIDOB’s experiencein several Bolivian communities is that indige-nous people will rarely ask for clarification ofterms that they do not understand if they sensethe purpose of the encounter is not a two-wayexchange of information. Like most nonspecial-ists, in fact, they simply stop listening. Eventhough both sides in Ibiato may speak Spanish,the technician must listen carefully if he or shehopes to speak clearly and be understood in turn.

To further this process, it makes sense to usebilingual training materials. Local participantsmay all read and write Spanish, but they are morelikely to take ownership of the material when it isalso expressed in Sirionó. They feel it helps keeptheir language alive and provides a quick litmustest of whether or not the materials are relevant.

Third, it is important to communicate with localleaders because they are often the gatekeepers oftheir communities. Of course outsiders are notalways in the best position to judge who the lead-ers are. This is why starting activities in newareas as small research projects makes goodsense. It allows both partners to learn more aboutone another, find out what the real issues are, andbuild the trust needed to devise solutions.

Finally, issues and concepts should be framed inways that touch a local chord. Abstractions mustbe grounded, wherever possible, in local realitiesand values. Take the question of biodiversity.The Sirionó understand that their resource base isthreatened. People know they are lucky to stillhave game, and are concerned that harvests seem

to be shrinking since the first measurements sev-eral years ago. They have heard others complainabout how poor the hunting is in neighboring vil-lages, and have seen with their own eyes thechanges to the landscape around them. Theyrealize that they inhabit a complex system ofresources and are looking for synergies that mul-tiply returns rather than more intensive exploita-tion that cashes out a resource. They were theones who broadened a reforestation projectbeyond hardwoods for export, to hardy nativespecies that would provide a food source forgame as well as firewood for local markets. Thetrade-off being worked out between bee and fire-wood producers is also based on multiple use ofresources. Indigenous peoples have usuallyrelied on a variety of sources for subsistence, andthey seek to add income-generating activities tothe mix. It is a lifestyle that mirrors and dependson the biodiversity around them.

Recently a workshop held in Ibiato to design thewildlife census introduced a larger notion of bio-diversity conservation by talking about theimmense Amazonian Corridor of which theSirionó are a tiny and marginal part. Some of thefish that breed in local waters during the rainyseason work their way much farther downstream.And the jabiru stork that arrives to feed on themis a mythic bird for the Xavante Indians in Brazilhundreds of miles to the north. Workshop partici-pants expressed pride in having the opportunity toplay an important role in keeping this systemfunctioning, especially since changes to the landaround Ibiato may make a Sirionó TCO a vitalisland for migrating species. Still, they wonderedwhat direct benefits that role might confer.

One answer comes from an idea being tried else-where by other indigenous groups. Word has fil-tered into Ibiato about ecotourism, and theSirionó quiz anyone who seems to know moreabout it. They like the idea that the land couldbe left much as it is and still provide the commu-nity with the basic elements of a good life.

And there are reasons for finding the idea plausi-ble. The international airport at Trinidad isaccessible, the pre-Columbian mounds are arche-ological sites available for exploration, wildlifecan be viewed at water holes, and the people ofIbiato generally like visitors and have the lan-guage skills to communicate in Spanish. There


are also reports that some of the last remainingblue-throated macaws (Ara glaucalularis) areresident in part of the territory. The Sirionó aredefinitely intrigued by this option but not at allsure how to make it work. Residents have heardabout highland communities like Taquile in LakeTiticaca getting into the tourist business withoutdestroying the quality of local life (Healy1982/83), as well as similar efforts by lowlandBolivian groups in Pilon Lajas, Madidi, IsiboroSecure, and other national parks. Now there istalk in Ibiato of family-run cabins that can berented to visitors.

Of course, this dream is rife among many peo-ples worldwide—from Zimbabwe to theEcuadorian Amazon. Finding what it takes tocompete in this global market is probably beyondthe Sirionó for the moment since it would requiresubstantial outside resources to succeed.

Nonetheless the mere fact that the Sirionó haveheard of the possibility and are interested testifiesto the window that has opened up for interna-tional conservation groups to play a larger role.Only a dozen years ago much of what the Sirionóknew about the rest of Bolivia, much less theworld, was filtered through the sensibilities of afew North American missionaries. The Sirionónow not only have a different set of missionaries,in the form of NGO staff members, to bring inthe good news, they are plugged into their ownindigenous networks. Transnational confedera-tions like COICA and its national federationmembers are available as transmission belts forideas and common concerns. The desire todefend their land and use it sustainably is widelyshared among indigenous groups throughout theregion and offers an immense opportunity forconservation groups willing to commit resourcesto build partnerships that preserve biodiversity.

Certainly the Sirionó are willing to play theirpart. They are about to make their first smallcontribution to building a more comprehensivedatabase about the biodiversity of the AmazonCorridor. Results of their wildlife census arebeing written up for presentation at an interna-tional conference on wildlife being held inParaguay, and Sirionó speakers will be there todeliver the papers.

When they look around at the other participantsthey will see many people of goodwill, some of

them scientists in jackets and ties who are con-cerned about preventing global warming and pre-serving the world’s genetic heritage. The Sirionówill also see other representatives from indige-nous peoples who have been invited to this par-ticular table to tell what they know. When theyreturn home, the Sirionó participants are likely tohave a fuller view of how biodiversity and cul-tural diversity overlap. And then they will lookaround and take up the work again of trying tomake a living from the land.

They will examine the possibilities of sustainablyharvesting Paraguayan caiman in addition to thecollared peccary. The Sirionó sustainably har-vested this species before the sale of wild ani-mals was banned in Bolivia (Stearman andRedford 1992). Recently the government madean exception to the general prohibition in orderto explore the possibility of a controlled caimanharvest from lowland Bolivia. The Sirionówanted to participate but were excluded from thefirst trial harvest, which the government plannedwith three large ranches. The Sirionó must beready to participate when and if the programexpands from the experimental stage.

Capybara may also be an excellent commodity.They are abundant in the marshes of the pro-posed TCO, and are considered a pest since theycan devour large tracts of rice or corn. Althoughthey are not hunted for their meat, which is saidto be bitter and carries the unfounded stigma ofbeing a carrier of leprosy and other diseases,there is a demand for the skins, and the meatcould find other markets outside the Beni wherecustoms are different. Commercial feasibility isenhanced by the capybara’s prolificity, and man-agement tools have been developed in Venezuelafor sustainably harvesting them. That task issimplified by their concentration around openwater holes during the dry season, making themeasier to census.

The potential for marketing collared peccaryskins is also being explored. The skins are insteady demand by luxury glove makers in Europe.Presently the Sirionó waste their peccary skinsbecause they cannot reach this market. Doing sowill require a management plan for sustainableharvests and certification from the IUCN andother international organizations. Developingsome of the tools needed for this is at the core ofthe wildlife censuses now under way.



The main limiting factor of all these income-gen-erating ideas is the lack of business experience.The Sirionó run their household economies, butmanaging community finances is new territory.A microenterprise credit program that loanssmall groups $50 to purchase apiary materialscould become a model. Whichever option finallyemerges, the community structure (and municipalgovernment) must play the role of watchdog overthe commons. Here too the Sirionó are anxiousto know more.

That brings us back to the integrated forestry man-agement plan. The process facilitated by CID-DEBENI has been a major step forward, but itsdevelopment-oriented funders have only commit-ted themselves to a two-year program, a perilouslyshort period for a natural resource managementproject, even under ideal circumstances. Therehas been insufficient time to explore options otherthan firewood production, and unless the NGOfinds additional support elsewhere, the sustainedmonitoring and feedback effort this complex ini-tiative needs to take hold and prosper may dry up.A well-designed, sensitively implemented effortmay fall short because donors were locked intotheir own schedule rather than paying attention tothe community’s capacity to absorb and masterneeded skills. A succession of short-term projectsis also not the answer since communities take theirown time warming up to a professional, and by thetime they do, the technician is already moving onto the next stop. This would be particularlydestructive in the case of the Sirionó, who are try-ing to master the big picture.

As international conservation organizations thinkabout working in partnership with indigenousgroups, they need to keep this in mind and com-mit themselves to a longer-term process. Thiswill give indigenous groups like the Sirionó andtheir prospective partners time to build a relation-ship and explore common interests in conservingthe land.

Endnotes1. I want to thank the Sirionó people for theirparticipation and congratulate them on theirexcellent efforts towards self determination. Ithank the funders of my research, which stimu-lated the process described in this chapter: theBiodiversity Support Program, World ResourcesInstitute, The Nature Conservancy, L.S.B.Leakey Foundation, Scott Neotropical Fund,World Conservation Society, Organization ofAmerican States, American Association ofUniversity Women, and the University of Florida.I also thank those funders that have allowed thework to continue, including Tyresso Peace andArbitration Society, International Work Group forIndigenous Affairs, World Conservation Society,and Department for International Development. Iwant to recognize the contribution of ZulemaLehm and John Kudrenecky, among others fromCIDDEBENI, and the participation of the localindigenous organizations such as ConsejoSirionó, CPIB, and CIDOB.

2. Comparable figures for other rural areas andurban areas of the Beni are 75 percent and 87percent, respectively (CIDDEBENI 1996).

3. What would become the Sirionó wildlife proj-ect began as my dissertation research project. Itwas supported by small grants from the L.S.B.Leakey Foundation; the Scott Neotropical Fundat Lincoln Park Zoo; the Program for Studies inTropical Conservation and the TropicalConservation and Development Program of theUniversity of Florida; the Wildlife ConservationSociety; the Organization of American States; theAmerican Association of University Women; andthe Biodiversity Support Program, a USAID-financed program with WWF-US, the WorldResources Institute, and The NatureConservancy.

ReferencesBalée, W. 1987. Cultural Forests of theAmazon. Garden 6:12–14.

———. 1988. Indigenous Adaptations toAmazonian Palm Forests. Principes 32(2):47–54.

———. 1989. The Culture of AmazonianForests. In Resource Management in Amazonia:Indigenous and Folk Strategies, eds., D.A. Poseyand W. Balée, 1–21. Bronx, N.Y.: New YorkBotanical Garden.

CIDDEBENI. 1996. Diagnóstico ParticipativoSocioeconómico del Territorio Sirionó. CID-DEBENI, Trinidad, Bolivia. Photocopy.

Denevan, W. M. 1966. The Aboriginal CulturalGeography of the Llanos de Mojos of Bolivia.Berkeley: University of California Press.

FAO/WHO. 1973. Energy and ProteinRequirements: Report of a Joint FAO/WHO AdHoc Expert Committee. [United Nations Foodand Agriculture Organization/World HealthOrganization] WHO Technical Report, SeriesNo. 522. Geneva: WHO.

Healy, Kevin. 1982/1983. Lake Titicaca’sCampesino-Controlled Tourism. GrassrootsDevelopment 6 (2)–7 (1):3–10.

Holmberg, A. R. 1969. Nomads of the LongBow: The Sirionó of Eastern Bolivia. GardenCity N.J.: The Natural History Press, AmericanMuseum of Natural History.

Lehm, Z. 1991. La Demanda Territorial delPueblo Sirionó. CIDDEBENI, Trinidad, Bolivia.Photocopy.

Montaño, M. E. 1996. La Explotación de MielSilvestre y su Importancia en la ComunidadIndígena Sirionó de Ibiato en el Beni, Bolivia.Bachelor’s thesis, Universidad Autonomo GabrielRene Moreno, Santa Cruz, Bolivia.

Pulliam, H. R. 1988. Sinks, Sources, andPopulation Regulation. American Naturalist 132(5):652–661.

Stearman, A. M. 1987. No Longer Nomads: TheSirionó Re-visited. Lanham: Hamilton Press.

Stearman, A. M. and R. H. Redford. 1992.Commercial Hunting by Subsistence Hunters:Sirionó Indians and Paraguayan Cayman inLowland Bolivia. Human Organization 51(3):235–244.

Townsend, W. R. 1995. Living on the Edge:Sirionó Hunting and Fishing in Lowland Bolivia.Ph.D. diss., University of Florida, Gainesville.

———. 1996. Nyao Ito: Caza y Pesca de losSirionó. La Paz, Bolivia: Instituto de Ecología.

———. 1997. La Participación Comunal en elManejo de Vida Silvestre en el Oriente deBolivia. In Manejo de Fauna Silvestre en laAmazonia, eds., T. G. Fang, R. E. Bodmer, R.Aquino, and M. H. Valquie, 105–109. La Paz,Bolivia: Instituto de Ecología.


I. IntroductionAccording to a legend of the Foi people who livealong the shores of one of the world’s naturalwonders, Lake Kutubu was once not a lake at all(Craft Works 1992). It was a dry and thirsty val-ley nestled between limestone pinnacles. Mendid not live there because the rains soaked intothe limestone, leaving behind nothing to drink.But there were a few women who managedsomehow to eke out a living anyway. One day adog they owned came prancing into the village,licking his lips, the picture of health and vitality.Obviously he had found water, but where?

The women decided among themselves that thenext day they would follow the dog to find out.They tied a strong string to his back leg while heslept, and rose the next day to follow closebehind as the dog loped through the forest.Finally he entered a clearing where there was ahuge tree, and without looking left or right he

jumped straight through a hole in the trunk andvanished. The hole was too small for a person tosqueeze through, but the women could hearsplashing coming from deep inside. The thoughtof not being able to get at the water made thewomen angry, so they took their stone axes andwhacked the tree again and again.

Finally it fell with a great crash. And close behindcame a great spout of water that quickly spreadover the land. The women ran as fast as their legswould carry them uphill, scrambled over rocks andsnapped tree limbs, but still the water climbedfaster and higher. They cried out spells and incan-tations, but were swept up by the rising water anddrowned. They remain by the shores of the laketo this day in the form of palm trees.

For uncounted generations, the ancestors of theFoi lived by the waters of Kutubu, which means“the lake that came out of a tree.” The landscapewas lush and abundant, and it was difficult to

CHAPTER 6WWF’s Partnership with the Foi of Lake Kutubu, Papua New Guinea

Joe Regis1

imagine how any of this could change. But inthe 1980s another hole was opened in the Earth,releasing a different kind of flood. The discoveryof petroleum brought a tide of change that stillhas not crested. Like the first flood, this one isfraught with peril and opportunity. The oil con-sortium has pledged to funnel resources intoefforts led by WWF to manage the change so thatthe people who live in the area can preserve theirresource base and the richness of their own cul-tures. Not all of these efforts have fared well, butone in particular, focused on the rare fish thatinhabit the lake, has shown great promise as amodel that local people can build on and follow.

This case study examines that effort. To providecontext, it begins with a country and regionaloverview of the land and its people. It then looksmore closely at how the Lake Kutubu FishManagement Project evolved. It concludes bydrawing lessons that may be useful to others.

II. An OverviewPapua New Guinea (PNG) comprises the easternhalf of New Guinea, the world’s largest and high-est tropical subcontinental island; the islands ofBismarck Archipelago; the northernmost part ofthe Solomon Group; and some 600 smallerislands. PNG’s 465,000 square kilometers support a remarkable range of equatorial ecosys-tems—from high alpine peaks that are periodi-cally dusted with snow, to extensive pristine tractsof steamy lowland tropical rain forest snarled byriver deltas. And this landscape is home to one ofthe planet’s most unique and diverse biologicalendowments. PNG is estimated to accommodate5 percent of the world’s biodiversity in less than 1percent of its land area.

The mainland coastline is rich in species andincludes extensive mangrove swamps, lagoons,wetlands, coral reefs, and atolls. Inland is one ofthe world’s last frontiers with extensive stands oftropical rain forest, totaling some 36 millionhectares, or roughly 80 percent of the country’stotal land area. The forest flora is one of the rich-est on Earth and exhibits high endemism, about53 percent.

This bounty has sustained human subsistence formillennia and continues to provide for the morethan 85 percent of the population who reside in

rural communities. The incredible natural diver-sity is mirrored by PNG’s unparalleled concentra-tion of ethnolinguistic and cultural diversity. Thepopulation of 4.9 million people is divided amongmore than 800 languages and nearly as many cul-tures. This is perhaps the only country in theworld where indigenous peoples make up morethan 95 percent of the population and where morethan 97 percent of the land is still controlled byindigenous landholders under traditional systemsof tenure. Indigenous communities are closelytied to the ecosystems they inhabit. Renewablebiological resources are the mainstay of thesepeople and provide the foundation for sustainableeconomic growth and new employment.

The forests provide people with remedies for ill-ness and material for traditional homes and cloth-ing, and are the domain of ancestral spirits thatextend far back in mythological time. Since tra-ditional tenure prevails, local people are the stew-ards of the forests on which they depend.Resource and ecosystem conservation is not onlyessential to the well-being of communities, but isalso in their hands.

2.1 Land TenureMost land in Papua New Guinea is held in com-mon by kinship groups under customary lawsthat generally set out permanent and absoluterights. Knowledge of land rights and boundarieshas been passed orally from generation togeneration. There is no system of registration ordocumentation to provide legal proof of owner-ship. Past attempts by colonial administratorsand more recently by a World Bank/IMF-spon-sored “Land Mobilization Program” to registertitles in the name of “development” have metwith fierce resistance and failed.

Customary land is alienable under terms thatvary by group, although ownership is confined tothe biological resources within a given area anddoes not govern subsoil usufruct. This is one ofthe few areas in which the modern legal systemhas jurisdiction over changes in ownership. Only3 percent of all land has been alienated, most ofit held in government leases and the rest in free-hold titles granted before the early part of thetwentieth century. Any acquisition of territory bythe state is subject to provisions of the Land Actthat require an exclusively “public purpose” and“a reasonable justification.”

92 The Foi in Papua New Guinea

The Foi in Papua New Guinea 93

Some legal provisions would seem to includeconservation as one of those public purposes.The fourth goal of the Constitution calls for theconservation and use of natural resources and theenvironment “for the collective benefit of all” andin ways that guarantee “replenishment for futuregenerations.” The Directive Principles of theConstitution advocate “all necessary steps…togive adequate protection to our valued birds,animals, fish, insects, plants and trees.” Yet con-stitutional protection also gives customary land-owners protection from usurpation, deprivation,or infringement of their rights to property. Inpractice this means that any conservation efforts,even those that are state-led, must involve the fullparticipation of landowners in the planning anddecision-making process and enlist their coopera-tion in order to succeed.

Disputes over land are common and traditionallyoften led to warfare that settled things for a timebut planted the seeds of the next conflict. TheLand Disputes Settlement Act of 1975 tried tobring some coherence to the process. Coveringdisagreements over boundaries, customary own-ership, usufructuary rights, and other claims, theact establishes a legal framework for amicablemediation that extends from local land courts toappeals at the regional and national levels. Butthe act cannot guarantee certainty of title by adecision at any level. Since decisions occur onlywithin the context of customary rights, they aresubject to later disputation should circumstanceschange among the contesting parties. Land-owners do not have the right to mortgage theirproperty under customary law, and banks gener-ally are unwilling to issue loans using customaryland tenure for collateral.

2.2 The Kikori Integrated Conservation andDevelopment Project (ICDP)

The Kikori Integrated Conservation andDevelopment Project (ICDP) was established in1993 with funding from an oil consortium to pro-mote sustainable development among the peoplesof the Kikori River watershed. Phase I of theICDP ran from 1993 to 1997, and Phase II beganin 1998 and will run through 2000. It covers amostly tropical rain forest area of more than 2.3million hectares, or approximately 23,000 squarekilometers in the Gulf and the SouthernHighlands provinces of PNG. This area repre-

sents 6 percent of the country’s land area andharbors 30 to 50 percent of New Guinea Islandspecies in several major animal groups (see map6.1) (Leary et al. 1996).

The Kikori River catchment is a vast, intact, andlargely undisturbed biogeographic unit. The areais very diverse in topography, landforms, relief,soils, and vegetation. It extends from the precipi-tous Doma Peaks in the Southern Highlands tothe Gulf of Papua, encompassing habitats as dis-tinct as Lake Kutubu, the nation’s second largestfreshwater body; the Great Papuan Plateau;rugged limestone ranges; extinct volcanoes;extensive tropical rain forests; and complex low-land river deltas.

Recent surveys across key sites in the projectarea testify to the high level of biodiversity. Theproject area is also rich in cultural diversity, withabout 20 different ethnolinguistic groups amongthe more than 80,000 people.

The Kikori ICDP was envisaged as a pioneeringmodel project that would enlist maximum com-munity participation to achieve conservation andsustainable development initiatives. Its ongoingmission is to help local people identify and refineculturally appropriate strategies to improve theirsubsistence and generate needed income, whileprotecting the long-term resource base of biodi-verse ecosystems in the area.

The diverse stakeholders involved in this processinclude local landholders and their organizations,national and provincial government agencies,Chevron Niugini and its joint venture partners,and various nongovernmental organizations(NGOs). The collaboration between WWF andChevron and its partners is a pioneering effort bythe oil industry to demonstrate responsible corpo-rate citizenship in the communities affected byits business activities. Chevron Niugini and itsjoint venture partners have provided substantialfunding to the project to protect the rich biodiver-sity of the Kikori watershed region and benefit itspeople. The environmental impact of the oilproject has been minimal.

Most of the communities involved are in areasthat are remote even by PNG standards. Theyare thinly populated and widely scattered, theylack basic services, and they are on the peripheryof the market economy but feel its pull. They areblessed with abundant natural resources.

In general, they want project activities to gener-ate cash income and improve access to basicservices. The resources they own, particularlythe forests, are perceived to be the sole means ofachieving these goals. Therefore, they areextremely vulnerable to timber companies thatemploy devious means to lure landholders intocontracts for industrial logging. For many com-munities, logging has become almost synony-mous with development.

III. Lake Kutubu and SustainableResource Management

This case study focuses on one small componentof the Kikori ICDP and covers an area of lessthan 8,000 hectares or less than 3.5 percent of thetotal project area. It examines the partnershipthat WWF developed with the Foi people livingon the shores of Lake Kutubu to help them

develop and manage sustainable subsistence fish-eries. The ecosystem involved is the catchmentarea of Lake Kutubu, which is held in customaryownership by the clan groups of villages aroundthe lake (see map 6.2).

Lake Kutubu is Papua New Guinea’s secondlargest lake and its largest mid-altitude lake. This inland freshwater body sprawls over approx-imately 4,930 hectares nestled in mountainousterrain 800 meters above sea level. The lake liesin a narrow valley flanked by rugged limestoneranges and precipitous hills that jut up 1,400meters high and are covered by pristine tropicalrain forest. The lake, which has a maximumdepth of about 80 meters, is approximately 18kilometers long and about 4 kilometers across atits widest point.

The people living along its shores call it the“mother of water.” Geologists suspect the lake


Map 6.1 The Kikori River Watershed Area Covered by the Kikori ICDP

Source: Steve Wright, Chevron


was formed some 10,000 years ago when itssoutheastern end was blocked by volcanicdeposits (Sullivan et al. 1990).

3.1 Biodiversity Value of Lake KutubuLake Kutubu is of global significance and hasbeen described as the most unique lacustrinehabitat for fish in the entire New Guinea andAustralasia region (Allen 1995). No other lakein all of Oceania has as many endemic species.Of the 16 freshwater fish species occurring inthe lake, at least 12 are not known to occur any-where else in the world (Allen 1995; T. Leary,personal communication).2 Another four speciesof freshwater fish and two species of crustaceanshave been recorded either in the lake or in thestreams that feed it, constituting a total fisheryof 22 species on which local people can draw.Only lakes Sentani and Jamur in Irian Jaya arericher in the number of freshwater fish species,

but their fisheries do not exhibit a comparablelevel of endemism.

The diversity of terrestrial fauna in the area isalso great. Burrows (1995) recorded 146 speciesin the Moro/Agogo/Lake Kutubu region.Jaensch (1997) recorded a further eight birdspecies. Orsak and Eason (1995) recorded a highdiversity of 656 moth species at a site near Moro,not far from the lake. Lake Kutubu also supportsmore species of birdwing butterfly than any otherknown site in PNG (L. Orsak, personal commu-nication). Balun (1995) states that the flora inthis area also has some unusual aspects, such asthe occurrence of Nothofagus grandis at altitudesas low as 800 meters. This species usuallyoccurs above 2,000 meters. Another unusualplant occurrence is that of Tapeinocholos sp.,which is normally a lowland species but wasrecorded in this area 800 meters above sea level.

Lake Kutubu

Villages

SwampLake

RoadsRivers

Lake Kutubu Villages

Map 6.2 Location of Major Villages on Lake Kutubu

Source: Leary 1997

Leary and Serin (1997) recorded 31 species ofnative mammal on Mt. Kemenagi, which risesabove the lake. This included the rare long-beaked echidna and the rare three-stripeddasyure. A new rat species (Rattus nov. sp.) wasalso discovered in abundance on Mt. Kemenagiduring the survey.

Jaensch (1997) observed the occurrence ofswamp forest on peat substrate occupying an areaof approximately 1,000 hectares. His prelimi-nary investigations suggested a rich diversity ofplant and animal species. It is suspected that thepeat swamp forest may also play a critical role infiltering floodwaters before they reach the lakeand preventing degradation by silt and pollutants.

3.2 The People of Lake KutubuThe inhabitants of the shores of Lake Kutubu areculturally part of a larger grouping of 169 clanscalled the Foi, who also inhabit the broad MubiRiver Valley and the area east of the lake near theborder of Southern Highlands and Gulf provinces.

Large tracts of uninhabited forest and mountain-ous terrain separated the Foi from their closestneighbors until recently, when roads were builtfor oil rigs. The group most closely related tothe Foi, both culturally and linguistically, are theFasu, 1,200 of whom live southwest of the laketoward the upper reaches of the Kikori River inan area east of Hegigio River. The Foi of LakeKutubu traditionally have accepted Fasu immi-grants and intermarried with them.

Foi people speak Foime, which has only minordialectal differences from the Fasu language. Inall, there are around 7,000 Foi, dispersed intothree geographical groupings. The biggest grouplives in villages along the upper Mubi River in thePimaga area, southeast of Lake Kutubu. They arecalled the Awamena, or the northern hill people.

The smallest group is the Foimena, or Foi people.They are often referred to as the Lower Foi sincethey live along the lower Mubi River south ofPimaga. Some of their villages are very remote.

The 1,600 or so people living on Kutubu’s shoresare called Ibumena or Gurubumena, or the LakePeople. They are a mixture of Foi from the upperand lower Mubi River, and the previously men-tioned Fasu people. There are seven main villagesand a large number of small settlements, someconsisting of only one or two families. The Lake

People still lead a largely subsistence lifestyle,relying on fish and sago as dietary staples.

The Foi are one of nearly 20 ethnic groups in theKikori River catchment who pursue similar sub-sistence lifestyles. However, several environ-mental and cultural differences distinguish themfrom their neighbors.

3.3 The “Long House” Community, SocialOrganization, and Leadership

The hallmark of a Foi village is the centrallylocated long house. The culture is strongly com-munal, and the long house symbolizes that. It isthe social and ceremonial heart of the village andreflects how the community is organized. Allimportant political and social events and decisionstake place there. It is also called the “men’shouse,” because all male members of the commu-nity, married or not, live there. Women are notallowed inside, a practice that clearly demon-strates how women are peripheral to the socialand political processes governing the community.By tradition, they live with their children in smallseparate houses that flank either side of the longhouse. Behind each of these rows there is usuallya “confinement” house for women who are givingbirth or are in menstruation.

The long house is usually bisected longitudinallyby a central corridor. On either side, sleepingplatforms rise up about 10 inches off the floor,separated at regular intervals by fireplaces orfireboxes. To those who can read it, the occupa-tion of specified quadrants in the long house byindividuals and groups provides a social map oftheir leadership, status, and social alliances.

Every individual has a web of relationships deter-mined directly by descent and kinship, or throughaffinal links when an outsider marries a localwoman. One claims rights over land and resourcesor obligations from relatives by invoking theserelationships. The dominant mode of descent ispatrilineal, which confers membership in a clan.Each clan is figuratively referred to as a tree, andkinship ties are described by tracing its branches.

Foi clans are totemic and few in number. Theyare spread over many long house communities,however, so that each long house is associatedwith two or more other communities to form dis-tinct units that are described as regions, tribes, orextended communities. The land-holding unit of


a particular long house is the clan segment whosemembers reside there and share food together.Individuals inherit from their ancestors the rightto use certain pieces of the clan’s territory, andthis right is often continuous so long as the landuse is maintained. Right to unclaimed land canbe asserted by continuous use of it. Each longhouse community also has territories, usuallyhunting grounds held in common by the men.

Traditionally Foi communities were not headed bychiefs, but were dominated by “big men” whoseleadership was earned rather than inherited. Ratherthan invoking institutional authority, big menrelied on their charisma and accomplishments towield power. In any given long house, two orthree men always emerged as acknowledged lead-ers who had earned prestige and built extensivepersonal connections with other communities.

As we have seen with the sleeping arrangementsand the discussion of land rights and clan andaffinal ties, each community is like a web in itsformation. The ability to negotiate the strandsof divergent interests and their connections toother communities shapes the pattern of leader-ship and the range of power and influence eachleader can exert.

Among the Foi, complex networks of marriageand matrifiliation between individual familiescut across the grain of long house communityorganization so that a web of personal and famil-ial alliances, rather than any formal politicalunity, link communities together. Individuals orindividual families, by and large, alter the bal-ance of forces, influences, and interests that linkthe various communities.

However, the petroleum project has altered theterrain in which leadership functions and creatednew institutional forms for dealing with socialand economic relations beyond the scope of tra-ditional means. National legislation established aframework for setting up legally charteredIncorporated Land Groups (ILGs), LandownerCompanies (LANCOs), and LandownerAssociations (LAs). The Incorporated LandGroups Act authorizes landowner ILGs to negoti-ate with government, companies, and developersand receive royalty, equity, and compensationpayments. The Business Groups IncorporationAct enables ILGs to establish LANCOs toengage in commerce, provide direct or indirect

employment, and undertake contracts or subcon-tracts from developers. These two pieces of leg-islation have enabled customary land groups toenhance their collective decision capacity andcreate a more formal leadership structure.Collective decision capacity is further enhancedwhen ILGs band together to form a LandownersAssociation to negotiate better terms from anoutside developer. These new formalized institu-tions have played a significant role in helpinglandowners get a fairer deal from developers andthe national and provincial governments, andhave generated spillover benefits for communi-ties. But these institutions also suffer from clanrivalries, mismanagement, and corruption.

They have not ended the old disputes, but movedthem to a new battleground on which finding reso-lution requires new tactics and leadership skills.Major development activities such as logging,mining, or oil extraction tend to escalate existingland disputes and revive dormant ones because ofthe revenue streams they generate. The 1997Social Impact Survey carried out for the Moran oilproject near Lake Kutubu found a 700 percentincrease in land disputes within a five-monthperiod and a doubling of disputes in the Kutubupetroleum development project area. Similarreports came from the Gobe petroleum projectarea not far from the territory of the Lower Foi.

3.4 Gender RelationsIn Foi society, all major social process beginswith the culturally defined and historically deter-mined sexual separation of men and women anddistinction between male and female dominions.Traditionally, Foi women had no role in the lead-ership structure and were excluded in all deci-sions governing land and other resources. Theprocess of change initiated by developments suchas the petroleum project has had little impact onthe traditional status and role of women.

Although men and women as married couples areresponsible for generating food for the family,there are clearly defined gender roles in the divi-sion of productive labor. Traditionally, men taketheir wives and children and live deep in the bushfor weeks or even months during the hunting sea-son. The men do the hunting for flying foxes,cassowaries, birds, tree kangaroos, and snakes,and butcher, cook, and distribute the meat.Women help with fishing, and also forage for


bush fowl eggs, edible wild plants, and small ani-mals that can be caught by hand.

Even in the garden, where women do most of theplanting, weeding, and harvesting, men have acontrolling role. They clear the space and con-trol the planting and cooking of certain crops,such as banana, breadfruit, ginger, and sugarcane.Crops controlled by women include the sagopalm, greens, and vegetables.

The Subsistence Fish Catch Monitoring Programof Lake Kutubu identified that women did mostof the fishing, but men dominated the use ofspearing, spear-diving, and mixed gill nets. Theprevailing pattern of gender relations and theexclusion of women from decision-makingprocesses would limit partnership in the fisheryproject with WWF.

3.5 The Changing Culture of ResourceManagement

The Foi, like other indigenous peoples in PNG,are tied on many levels to the land and its plantsand animals. Local people value Lake Kutubu notonly as a provider of sustenance, but also as afount for their social identity and cultural survival.

Foi subsistence activities include slash-and-burngardening, tree-crop cultivation, fishing, hunting,foraging, and pig husbandry. The sago palm is amultipurpose resource. Sago is the staple food,and women spend considerable time processingthe starchy pulp year-round. The palm also pro-vides building material for houses and fodder forpigs, and is a source for protein-rich grubs.

Forests provide materials used for rituals, sorcery,and body decorations. For generations they alsohave provided items that the Foi could trade toacquire what was scarce or otherwise unavailable.Traditionally, economic productivity did not resultin the accumulation of wealth, but provided themeans for ceremonial feasting, exchanges, andpresentations that nurtured social and politicalharmony and stability within the community andbetween the community and its allies, rivals,affines, and trading partners. Exchange and reci-procity are foundational not only among the Foibut are underlying principles of Melanesian socialand cultural organization generally.

Foi culture is closely attuned to the natural worldthrough changes in resource availability during

the five recognized seasons. These changes affectthe diet, the distribution of labor among men andwomen, the pattern of resource use, residentialpatterns, and other activities, and reinforce theapparent seamlessness of nature and culture.

Foi clans are totemic, and the Foi believe thespirit that animates the body and leaves it indeath also inhabits certain plant and animalspecies. For instance, a man who is murdered orkilled during battle becomes far more dangerousand takes the form of a cockatoo. Some departedspirits inhabit tabia trees, whose bark is used tocure genaro sickness. In addition to ghosts ofdead people, the forest is alive with other danger-ous spirits that take revenge and cause illnesswhen certain conditions are not met or transgres-sions occur. Feelings of reverence and fear,embodied in myths and beliefs, shape how andwhen resources are used and who may use them.

Because the social and cultural fabric is so tightlyinterwoven with the biodiversity that providesmaterial sustenance, the Foi perception of“ecosystem” is markedly different from theWestern scientific concept. The natural worldincludes human beings and their spiritual, cultural,and economic activities from resource-use patternsto gardening cycles to modes of territorial owner-ship. The Foi do not see themselves operating onthe ecosystem but participating within it. Thiscosmic unity becomes a celebration of “a commu-nity of life” in which there is interdependency andharmony among humans and nonhumans. To theFoi, biodiversity is the “capital inheritance” thathas sustained them for millennia and provided theaffluent foundation for their culture.

The cultural value of individual flora and fauna,however, may transcend their biological impor-tance in the ecosystem. So the indigenous peo-ples of PNG are not passive parts of theecosystem. They have had impact on the envi-ronment. Vast anthropogenic grasslands in thehighlands testify to how traditional societiessince antiquity have modified the natural envi-ronment in meeting their subsistence needs.

It can be argued that whatever conservation hasoccurred was a product of circumstance ratherthan intention, and transpired because populationdensities were low and technologies simple(Bulmer 1982). Though drawing generalizationsin PNG may not be appropriate due to its cultural


heterogeneity, it may be said that the relations ofthe forest-edge communities to their environmentwas largely mediated by traditional religion andbeliefs about sorcery. Restrictions on naturalresource use that resulted in conservation werelargely aimed at protecting the welfare ofhumans and inspired by the need to assuage for-est spirits, or masalai. This reveals a dichotomy,beneath the surface unity, between the “naturalworld” and the “social world.” The Foi believethe former is owned and tended by the masalai,while the ancestors protect the latter. Bulmersuggests that this traditional cosmogony may beincompatible at its root with the notion of conser-vation because it blurs the causal relationshipsbetween human action and environmental degra-dation. Caught between competing explanationsof sorcery and the wrath of ancestors or masalai,the governing assumption is that man, not nature,is vulnerable.

Because there is no experience of resourcescarcity or large-scale environmental disaster, autilitarian view prevails. People are generallyconcerned with the immediate benefits of huntingand gardening rather than conscious of a need tomanage resources sustainably. In contemporaryPNG, monetization of the economy, increasedexposure to the outside world, changing con-sumption patterns, and population growth havechanged the balance. Attitudes that underlayhitherto benign subsistence practices are beingtransformed into ecologically damaging ones.Land and other resources are increasingly per-ceived as a potential source of cash to meetexpanded needs that have been stimulated by theinflux of enormous private overseas investmentsin natural resource extraction.

Thus far notions of conservation have centered onpreserving traditional claims to land and itsresources. This, too, poses a hidden danger to theenvironment. Ownership can be weakened oreven forfeited by nonuse of land and its resources.Land claims are thus in constant peril from otherindividuals and groups, and must be constantlyrenewed either through active use or by bestowingtemporary usufruct to others (Giddings 1984).The pivotal question that remains undecided hereand elsewhere is what constitutes proper use.

Conservationists thus face the problem of findingaccess points within a given culture in order to

raise their concerns and have them heard.Environmentalists view nature as vulnerable andbelieve it is the responsibility of humankind toprotect and preserve it. For indigenous landown-ers, nature is often a powerful omnipresence thatfalls outside human control and responsibility.For most indigenous communities, the naturalenvironment is not something apart, to be valuedfor itself. It is what provides for their needs.Perhaps the most pressing of those needs is thedesire for cultural integrity and continuity thatcan be bequeathed to future generations.Environmentalists need to learn how to maketheir case for conservation of biodiversity byfinding and developing strategies that allow peo-ple to see how their cultural identity is linked notonly to protecting their claims to the land but tosustainably managing its resources.

This is even more complex than it sounds sincethe cultures in question are often under duress orare no longer intact. In the case of the Foi,recent changes brought by Christian missions andthen the petroleum project have introduced newresponsibilities and social and economic activi-ties that have profoundly altered the traditionallifestyle and worldview of the lake communities.

3.6 The Impact of Outside InfluencesIt was only in 1935 that the expansive mountain-ous territory now known as Southern Highlands,where Lake Kutubu is located, was first exploredby an Australian patrol team dispatched by thecolonial government in Port Moresby. The firstwhite man to view Lake Kutubu did so the fol-lowing year during a reconnaissance flight acrossFoi territory. In 1937, a patrol post was estab-lished in a lake village to serve as the stagingpoint for intensive exploration and consolidationof colonial administration in the Highlands.

The uncanny and dramatic nature of the first con-tact was a harbinger of the change that Westerntechnology and political control would bring toindigenous groups in the next few decades. Tosome extent the expansion of colonial dominionwas limited by indigenous communities’ inalien-able hold over the land and its resources.Although the Foi had the longest history of per-manent contact with colonial administration ofany group in Southern Highlands, they experi-enced no significant economic development.


Soon after contact, however, fundamentalistChristian mission stations were established in Foiterritory and protected by the state. As the stateusurped tribal autonomy, the missions becameagents of pacification. They were a major force inundermining the traditional way of life, and cere-monial dances, rituals, art, clothing, and body dec-oration began to disappear. This snapped thethreads of connection between culture and nature,and would have far-reaching consequences. Asprohibitions against violating the dominion ofmasalai and ancestral spirits waned, the forest-edge communities began to think of offers by com-mercial loggers as an easy road to development.

Finally significant economic development arrivedin the form of the Kutubu Oil Project, operatedby Chevron Niugini. This project, which spentnearly $1.5 billion (in 1992 dollars) on explo-ration and project construction, was the singlebiggest resource sector investment in the historyof PNG. The sparse population within thePetroleum Development License area comprisedonly about 134 Fasu and Foi clans, each of whichaveraged about 10 to 15 members in size. A roadwas built at enormous cost to service the project,and ended in the blink of an eye the long geo-graphical isolation of the Foi and Fasu from theoutside world. Project development and con-struction were carried out between December1990 and September 1992.

The benefit streams that have flowed to theaffected landowner communities since then areworth tens of million of dollars. By 1995, thetotal benefits from royalty, compensation, andland use payments, a Special Support Grant, taxcredit schemes, and direct and indirect servicesfrom developers amounted to over K69.6 million.3

This does not include the K70 million in contractsnegotiated with Landowner Companies and theprojected equity payment of K62.85 million. TheKutubu Access Road and the Moro airstriptogether cost about K91 million.

The impact of these benefits, however, has notbeen equal. By 1995, beneficiaries numberedabout 427 clans and 13,750 people living in 84villages in Southern Highlands and Gulfprovinces. The Fasu, who numbered only about1,500 people and 58 clans, were the largest bene-ficiaries. The Foi consisted of 169 clans and7,000 people, but reaped a much smaller portion

of income flows. The remaining 5,250 people,distributed in 200 clans, live in Gulf Province.

The Foi and Fasu, who traditionally enjoyed verystrong social and cultural ties and shared similarsubsistence lifestyles, were quickly divided bythe huge economic chasm created by the unequalbenefit streams from the petroleum project. TheFoi benefit pie is about one-tenth the size of theFasu pie, and must be shared among nearly fivetimes as many people. This inequality hasimposed serious social strains on the Foi andironically threatens to be a curse rather than ablessing for the Fasu. WWF does little or nowork among the Fasu people since their “petro-affluence” has minimized the common groundneeded to evolve a meaningful partnership. TheFoi have watched their Fasu neighbors drown inwealth as a flood of consumption has led tosocial and cultural degradation. The Foi believe,with reason, that the Fasu cannot sustain theirpresent course without irremediable damage.

The Foi have also seen the impact on their ownway of life. Stanley Wabi, for instance, is a com-munity outreach worker in WWF’s local pro-gram. His first experience with money came in1980, when he was paid K6 for carrying thepatrol box of a soldier. Wabi had no place tospend the money, nothing to spend it on. Hedepended entirely on game meat and gardenfood. Throughout the 1980s, unskilled laborcould earn one about K10 a fortnight. But withthe arrival of the oil project, opportunities forwage labor increased and pay rose to K200 orK300 per fortnight. The cash flowing from workwith the oil project and its contractors and fromroyalty and compensation payments has created aminiconsumer economy. Reliance on subsistencefoods is waning, and consumption of soft drinks,rice, sugar, and canned meat are on the rise.Subsistence production is increasingly thought ofas hard, time-consuming work. Knowledge ofplants and the natural world is in danger of beinglost. Traditional authority and leadership isbeing challenged, and the young, drawn toWestern ways, are becoming alienated from theirown heritage. Today, Wabi is 34, and he and oth-ers of his generation see things slipping away.He and others say that their way of life can lastforever but only as long as they look after theirresources and use them wisely. Spared from theoverwhelming temptation the Fasu face, the Foi


have seen the warning sign in their own commu-nities, and this has paved the way for a strongerpartnership with conservation organizations.

IV. Partnership between WWFand the Lake People

4.1 Establishing the Lake Kutubu WildlifeManagement Area

In 1988, Kone Yore, a community leader fromTubage village, proposed that a national park beestablished around Mt. Kemenagi, which risesabove Lake Kutubu at the southeastern end. Thecommunity knew very little about what establish-ing such a park would mean, but it supported theidea of establishing an area in which resourceswould be preserved for future generations. KoneYore visited the Department of Environment andConservation (DEC), which had jurisdiction ofprotected areas in PNG, to discuss the matter. Hewas surprised to hear that the National Parks Actrequired that parkland be ceded to the state. Thecommunity was not interested in surrenderingownership, and the idea was temporarily dropped.

In 1989 Chevron Niugini cleared an area nearGesege village to drill a test well. The commu-nity expressed dissatisfaction with the K1,000compensation paid by Chevron Niugini for theclearing the site. The lake communities werealso increasingly concerned about the potentialimpact of planned infrastructure, including theaccess road from Pimaga to the oil fields and theMoro airstrip. One community member, SabeKo’osabe, wrote and later visited the DEC to dis-cuss the establishment of some sort of protectedarea around Lake Kutubu that did not require sur-render of land ownership.

DEC suggested that a Wildlife Management Area(WMA) could be established under the Fauna(Protection and Control) Act 1978. A WMA doesnot require the surrender of land to the Crown,and does retain customary ownership. The actessentially enables local communities to establishrules for the management of fauna and flora habi-tat. These rules are administered by a WildlifeManagement Area Committee (WMAC)appointed by the landowners. The governmentpublicly registers a WMA once its boundary isdemarcated, the rules agreed upon, and theWMAC members nominated. The rules then

have the force of law. Unlike a national park, aWMA may be dissolved by landowners at anytime, or its rules amended or altered. Landownersset the penalty for infringement of rules, and it islargely up to the WMAC to enforce them, sinceDEC has a very small rural presence.

For a WMA to be established, all landownersmust agree to the establishment and to the rulesof enforcement. Leaders from Gesege villageapproached Chevron for assistance to engage aconsultant to help garner support for setting up amanagement area and to prepare the paperworkfor registering it. Meetings were held in all ofthe lake communities, and broad supportemerged to establish the Lake Kutubu WildlifeManagement Area. Each community defined theboundaries of the land that members wished toinclude, and made recommendations for the rulesof enforcement. The key issues that the commu-nity wished to address were

• control of land clearing;

• appropriate compensation for land clearingby the Kutubu Oil Project and others;

• the potential impacts of the Kutubu accessroad;

• achievement of balanced development; and

• improved management of traditionalresources such as canoe trees, orchids, andblack palm.

In 1991, Chevron Niugini provided surveyors toallow the boundary to be legally defined. InApril 1992, DEC was advised of the communi-ties’ desire and readiness to establish LakeKutubu WMA, the proposed rules of enforce-ment, the boundary description, and the membersof the WMAC. The WMA was publicly regis-tered on June 25, 1992, but for some reason therules were not included in the official notice.

4.2 WWF’s Involvement in CommunityResearch

In late 1993, prior to commencement of theKikori ICDP, WWF received a request from theLake Kutubu WMA to help prepare interimmanagement guidelines for the area. This assis-tance was provided and, through extensive com-munity consultations, a more comprehensive setof management procedures and rules was devel-oped in 1994.


The Kikori ICDP commenced in 1994 and anenvironment coordinator was recruited in 1995.Lake Kutubu and its WMA became a focus ofwork because of the uniqueness of its fish, itshigh biodiversity values, and the intensivenearby development. Environmental awarenessactivities were conducted in all the villagesaround the lake in 1995. Discussions with communities and formal workshops in the vil-lages of Gesege and Yo’obo revealed the deepen-ing alarm among the Foi at what was perceivedto be a decline in fish size and numbers. Thisconcern was expressed most keenly by severalkey clan leaders from Gesege, Tugiri, Yo’obo,and Wasemi villages. The Lake Kutubu WMACechoed the concern, although some membersmay have been more interested in pursuing com-pensation from Chevron than finding methods toconserve fish populations.

Explanations for the decline of fish stocks werevaried. Some people pointed a finger at thepetroleum development—although there was noevidence to substantiate an impact apart fromlocalized sedimentation from road runoff. Othersdiscussed changes in fishing technology, andincreased population around the lake. If therewas no consensus about cause, the communitymeetings made clear that the level of alarm wasacute and general. Fish were a prized food andthe major source of protein, and they were get-ting harder to catch and smaller in size. Manypeople, especially older male clan leaders andwomen with babies, were concerned that theirchildren and grandchildren would not be able toenjoy freshly caught fish from Lake Kutubu asthey themselves had.

When WWF held community meetings andworkshops to discuss this issue more fully, itbecame clear that knowledge was scattered.Individuals had a general idea of where fishingwas best and how much fish they typicallycaught, but no one could quantify the catches,frequency of fishing, or the fishing ranges of theentire community. Although the men recognizedthat women spent much time fishing, manyinsisted that they contributed more fish to theaverage household than their women did. Thewomen, on the other hand, believed that theycontributed far more fish to the household. Thedifferences in perception that surfaced at theworkshop at Gesege village finally made it obvi-

ous that fishing had to be observed more closelyto see who was participating and where, whatmethods were being used, and with what results.The communities and WWF agreed to start aprogram for monitoring subsistence catches andprofiling the characteristics of the fishery, so thatstrategies for sustainable harvesting could bedeveloped. WWF was careful to dispel unrealis-tic expectations. It would be vital to establish abaseline against which any future decline in fishcatch and fish size could be detected.

4.3 Designing a Subsistence Fish CatchMonitoring Program

The concept of a fish catch monitoring programwas discussed in detail with members of theWMAC, and WWF held meetings in all the lakevillages to build consensus and participation.Each community believed that it was importantfor villagers to do the monitoring if the findingswere to be credible.

The pattern of settlement around the lake made itimpossible to monitor all canoe landing sitessimultaneously. To maximize the efficiency of theeffort, monitoring focused on the larger villages,which also tended to have fewer canoe landingsites. Villages were selected from all the majorzones of the lake. Only two of the major villageson the lake were not sampled. Soro was omittedbecause of community disinterest—perhapsbecause many of the villagers were Fasu who hadchosen to work locally for wages rather thanspend their time fishing. Inu was omitted becauseit was likely to duplicate the results from anothervillage that shares the same fishing habitats. Sinceboth villages had a large number of landing sites,it seemed wiser to concentrate limited resources tomake sure that all catches from one were recordedrather than partial results from both. Wasemi wasselected because of the interest and enthusiasm ofa number of key clan leaders.

WWF trained and worked with monitoring teamsof two to eight members from the five selectedvillages. Monitoring was conducted for a total of85 days. Monitoring began with a pilot study inSeptember 1995 in Gesege, Yo’obo, and Tugiri totest and refine the methodology. Quarterly moni-toring, with at least three days per quarter, thenfollowed between January 1996 and February1997 in all the villages. Larger villages such asWasemi had more monitoring days.


A pair of trained observers was stationed at eachobservation point or canoe landing site to ensurethat all catches were recorded. The observersnoted the times of departure and arrival of allcanoes in the area. When a canoe returned, theobservers asked permission to examine the catchand interview the men or women who had donethe fishing.

The following kinds of information were documented:

• Catch composition was determined by not-ing the number and type of each fish orcrayfish caught, and identifying it by itsFoi name or English common name;

• The total weight of the catch by species,including, where possible, individualweights and lengths;

• The number of hours people spent fishingwas determined by interviewing the leader ofeach fishing trip to see if other activities hadoccurred, such as bamboo collecting or gar-dening, and subtracting the time devoted tosecondary activities from the canoe’s depar-ture–return log on the monitoring sheet;

• The gender and age distribution of peopledoing the fishing was loosely defined asmen, boys, women, and girls (the age dis-tinctions were somewhat subjective, butwomen and men were generally those whowere married or of a marriageable age); theleader’s name was also recorded, to helpkeep track of gill net owners;

• The destination of the catch was noted todetermine whether it was for home con-sumption or sale;

• The fishing gear and/or fishing methodused were noted, including separate nota-tions for fishing and crayfishing equip-ment, and the mesh size of gill nets;

• The fishing site was recorded, using the Foiplace names, to determine the intensity offishing at each site; distances to the sitewere added later using CAMRIS, a geo-graphic information systems tool.

For a variety of reasons, as in cases of peoplecamping out overnight at bush huts, not allcatches could be monitored. Wherever possible,fishermen whose catch could not be viewed

directly were interviewed either the same day orthe day after to gather data. The observers alsorecorded weather conditions and any other factorsthat might influence the amount of time spentfishing on a particular day, noting holidays, mar-ket days, community work days, church days, andcompensation claim days on the record sheets.

The subsistence fish catch monitoring programproduced a vast amount of data, and will pro-vide ample baseline data against which to com-pare changes in the future. There were severalkey findings.

First, the fishery was found to be far more signif-icant to the community than first thought. Theannual catch for the entire lake was estimated tobe 70.1 tons/annum. This is equivalent to164,941.2 tins (425-g mackerel tins) of fish peryear. The cheapest brand at the Moro trade storein 1997 was K2.20 per tin, so the replacementvalue of fish to the lake communities would beK362,870.59 per year. The resource is economi-cally important to the lake people.

Second, a total of 2,143 crayfish and 1,259 fishwere caught per day by the five villages, andapproximately 2,118,460 crayfish and 1,244,285fish were caught per year. This is an extremelylarge number and highlights the highly produc-tive nature of the lake.

Third, the mean catch weight/person/day for allfive villages was 121.2 g/day. This is muchhigher than that reported for a number of otherPacific Islands such as the Solomons (63–78g/day), Tigak Island, PNG (24 g), West NewBritain (11 g), and Western Samoa (27–69 g).

Fourth, a total of 19 species of fish and crustaceanswere recorded in the catch. When the data for allvillages was pooled, three of the species contributed80 percent of the total catch weight: crayfish, orCherax papuanus (35 percent); Adamson’s grunter,or Hephaestus adamsoni (23 percent); and fimbriategudgeon, or Oxyeleotris fimbriata (22 percent).

Fifth, fish were caught by a variety of methods,including more traditional methods such as poi-soning with plant extracts such as Derris.However, pooled data for the five villages showed,in descending order, that hand lining (30 percent),mixed fishing using hand lines and catching cray-fish by hand (24 percent), spearing (17 percent),and gill netting plus mixed gill netting (17 per-


cent) contributed most by weight. Gill nettinggave the highest catch/unit effort (1085.6 g/hr),while hand lining gave the lowest (200.5 g/hr).

Sixth, a large proportion of the people (111, or19 percent of the 5 villages) engaged daily infishing activity, indicating its importance to theFoi. An estimated 370.3 person-hours/day werespent fishing in the five villages combined.

Seventh, females undertook the majority of fishing(53–85 percent of the effort, depending on the vil-lage). The average one-way distance traveled to afishing ground was 891 meters, but ranged from50 meters to 7,199 meters.

Eighth, for each village, the monitoring programidentified a number of areas that appeared to beheavily fished (>10 percent of total catch weight)and that would require management attention.

Ninth, fish of all weights and lengths were cap-tured; nothing seemed to be considered toosmall. Fish as light as 1 g and as short as 20 mmwere included in the catch.

Tenth, gill-net mesh size ranged from 1" to 3.5".Fish had to run the gauntlet of being caught in agill net at all stages of their life because of thewide range of mesh sizes being used.

4.4 Development of a Community-BasedManagement Strategy

WWF produced a large written report analyzingthe catch monitoring data and made recommenda-tions for fishery management strategies. In manycases, WWF presented a number of options.There were three main recommendations.

• Heavily fished areas should be closed for aperiod of time. Four options were dis-cussed with communities—

1) a two-to-three-year closure of heavilyfished areas;

2) closure of heavily fished areas everysecond year;

3) closure of heavily fished areas during thewetter months (April–September); and

4) a ban on use of gill nets in heavilyfished areas during April–September.

• Small-mesh (<2.5"), 3" and 3.5" mesh netsshould be exchanged for 2.5"-mesh gillnets. The exchange of nets would be sub-sidized by WWF.

• WWF would implement ongoing awarenessactivities encouraging the release of fishsmaller than the palm of a hand (<10 cm).

The findings of the catch monitoring program andthe recommendations were presented at commu-nity meetings. The community members who hadbeen monitors acted as facilitators. Whereverpossible, separate meetings were held for menand women to allow ample opportunity forwomen to participate in the development of fish-ery management strategies since they were doingso much of the fishing. Youth, particularly younggirls, were encouraged to attend these workshops.Awareness/information/education sessions werealso held at Inu community school since many ofits children fished on weekends and school holi-days. Particular emphasis was given to awarenessregarding the release of fish smaller than 10 cm.

Pictorial leaflets in “pidgin” language were devel-oped and distributed in villages and the commu-nity school to ensure ongoing awareness after theworkshops or meetings concluded. Several topicswere featured: the unique biodiversity of LakeKutubu, a summary of monitoring results for eachvillage, the proposed fishing management strategy,protection of small fish and fish of breeding size,the impact of logging and land-clearing around thelake, and the impact of dumping oil and soap andrubbish in or near the lake.

Communities then decided which recommenda-tions they could and would like to implement.There was enthusiastic response to the gill-netexchange program, and numerous nets wereexchanged. To prevent overfishing, communitiesopted for the strategy of closing heavily fishedareas every second year. The areas to be closedwere actually determined by clan leaders whoowned the adjacent shoreline since customaryland tenure extends ownership rights to adjoininglake water. Clan leaders consulted all membersof the clan and agreed to close the area to fishing.The clan leader then notified the WMAC, whichgave its imprimatur to the ban. WWF assisted thecommunities by providing signboards to declarethat specified areas were closed to fishing. Theseillustrated signs were posted in the Foi languageand in pidgin at various locations on the lake.

During 1997–1998, four villages created five no-fishing zones. People who violated the ban weretaken to village court and fined. Communities and


village court magistrates have cooperated toenforce the restrictions because their purpose iswidely understood and supported. In fact theresponse was so good that after the first year ofclosure, many new requests were made for signboards to create new no-fishing zones and toextend the ban in existing areas about to reopen.Recently, seven villages closed nine additionalzones, after clan leaders who had been participantsand seen the results for themselves encouragedother leaders to join in. Fish stocks haveincreased in closed areas, and the word has spread.

It is too early to tell whether communities arereleasing fish smaller than 10 cm. However,WWF continues to reinforce the awareness pro-grams. Lake communities are now requestingthat WWF provide technical assistance to set upfish-stock monitoring in closed areas before andafter bans are imposed to evaluate changes.WWF is planning to provide training so thatlandowners can conduct visual timed-swim-tran-sect counts of fish stocks in the closed areas.

Another spin-off of increased environmentalawareness has been the growing interest in hav-ing Lake Kutubu listed as a RAMSAR wetlandsite in recognition of its biological wealth. TheWMAC and local communities are working withWetlands International to provide the documenta-tion for listing. This is one of many signs ofhow the WMAC itself has been revitalized after along period of inactivity following its creation.The WMAC has recently sent a funding proposalto the Southern Highlands provincial governmentto assist them in their work.

The Tugiri and Yo’obo communities have alsobeen inspired by WWF awareness activities todevelop a small ecotourism business on the lake.The two communities have jointly constructed arustic lodge, and WWF is now providing techni-cal assistance for future development of the lodgeand a tourist trade. It is interesting to note thatfour of the key individuals involved in the enter-prise also played key roles in fish monitoring atthe two villages.

V. Analysis

5.1 Making the Program Accountable to the Community

Perhaps one of the key reasons for project successwas that WWF did not approach the communitywith a rigidly predetermined goal. Rather it wasexpected that the project would evolve over timeand that WWF and the lake communities wouldjointly develop the objectives. WWF’s generalpurpose was to build environmental and sustain-able resource management awareness in the lakecommunities and to strengthen the WMA. Thesustainable management of fishery resources inLake Kutubu was a common agenda that devel-oped through a process of community awarenessand analysis, and an assessment of where theinterests of concerned communities and WWFoverlapped. The communities wanted to be ableto use fishery resources now and in the future,and WWF wanted to conserve the lake’s uniquebiodiversity. These goals were compatibleenough to develop an effective partnership tomeet both aspirations.

It is important to note that the resource involvedwas of major significance to the community, andits management did not conflict with the commu-nity’s desire for development. Unlike someresources, fish are exploited by all sectors of thecommunity—from very young children to old menand women—so interest was high and general.

WWF’s policies made it eager and willing towork with indigenous peoples, and the legal andextralegal climate of PNG made it difficult if notimpossible to protect biodiversity without doingso. The question was one of finding suitable localpartners among the indigenous stakeholders.

WWF carefully analyzed the local institutionsand leadership structure on the lake in its searchfor the most effective partner. Although theWMAC technically should have fit the bill, thetraditional clan leadership had more cloutbecause they held customary tenure and wererespected in the communities. WWF thusfocused its attention on clan leaders withoutignoring other players. WMAC members andless traditional leaders such as village magistratesand local councilors were kept informed andinvolved, not least because they would have rolesto play in enforcing the no-fishing zones. As it


evolved, the project created the conditions forsymbiotic relationships to form.

The dynamic worked this way: By closing anarea, traditional clan leaders could proclaim andreinforce their customary tenure rights. TheWMAC added a legal seal of approval by ratify-ing the closure, helping to protect traditionallandowners from rival claims while gaining pres-tige within the community by association with itstraditional leadership. The village magistrate andlocal councilors reinforced the managementstrategies by using their power to deal with viola-tors, and simultaneously gained status in the lakevillages by enforcing the community’s will.

This last element was crucial. The process ofidentifying problems and needs and devising andimplementing management strategies was a coop-erative effort among the local communities.WWF played an important role in this. Althoughthe communities had significant traditional knowl-edge about the lake’s biological resources—knowledge that was incorporated into managementstrategies—they lacked the skills to objectivelyassess the overall characteristics and use of thefishery resources. WWF provided training to localcommunity members in order to acquire informa-tion on the total fishery, monitor fish catches, andhelp communities make informed managementdecisions. This facilitated more effective collabo-ration with and among clan leaders, WMAC mem-bers, and village court magistrates.

Although WWF took the lead in analyzing fish-eries data, it did not confront the communitywith rigid prescriptions for improved manage-ment. Assisted by the trained community mem-bers, WWF presented a series of options for thecommunity to discuss, weigh, and modify so thatfinal management strategies would have commu-nity support and fit the community’s means toimplement them. Indeed all initiative to imple-ment final management strategies was left in thehands of local clan leaders and WMAC members.WWF merely responded to requests for assis-tance when required. In effect, WWF made itselfaccountable to the community.

5.2 A Balance Sheet of Community andConservation Benefits

The conservation benefits of fish catch monitor-ing are clear, even though compliance is not uni-

versal. There has been an improvement in thesustainable management of fishery resources thatwill promote the long-term survival of the lake’sunique fish species. As previously mentioned,clan leaders and landowners report a noticeableimprovement in fish stocks in the areas that wereclosed for a year and then reopened. Areasclosed between December 1996 and October1998 show a remarkable increase in both the sizeand number of fish. These results have piquedthe interest of other clan leaders, and requests areup for signboards to close off more areas.

The fisheries management project has also spurredinterest in other ideas for environmental awarenessand sustainable resource management by the Foicommunities. The ecotourism lodge and prepara-tion for RAMSAR listing of Lake Kutubu havealready been cited. Now that it has gained thetrust of local communities and proven that it is aneffective partner, WWF hopes to remain on thecutting edge of this process and is helping to buildlocal skills to keep the momentum going.

As a result of their participation in the fisheriesproject, a number of respected community mem-bers have now become serious advocates of con-servation and sustainable resource management.Many of the directors of the Landowner Companystarting the Tubo Lodge for ecotourism weretrained as fish catch monitors and communityworkshop facilitators. It is also important to notethat the local communities themselves are nowrequesting WWF training for local landowners tomore effectively quantify the success of theirmanagement strategies. Because these technicalskills are being internalized, the community is ina better position not only to monitor the status offisheries but to make informed management deci-sions in general and to make them stick.

One sign of that is the revitalization of theWMAC. Not only is it taking on a more activerole, but community pressure has built to replacemembers who have been ineffective. The factthat local clan leaders are now interested in join-ing the committee is an indication of its newimportance. How effective the committee willbecome is yet to be determined. It remains to beseen if members can transcend their personalinterests and collegially develop a genuine com-mitment to sustainable resource management.


Yet it would be unrealistic to expect an overnighttransformation or one independent of changewithin the communities. WWF, for instance, hascontinuously involved women in awareness activi-ties, discussion of fishery management strategies,and the monitoring program. Yet it was men whoalways made the final management strategy deci-sions even for activities that were mainly carriedout by women. Ensuring that the women who domost of the work in exploiting a resource aregiven a voice in community decision makingabout how to conserve that resource is perhapsWWF’s greatest challenge in all its work in theKikori ICDP. The recruitment of local women tobe outreach workers in WWF’s CommunityOutreach Program may set a precedent for helpingthe Foi tap resources and a resourcefulness theydid not know they had.

Still, there is no magic formula for predetermin-ing what will work. When the first communitymeetings with the Foi were held, several commu-nity concerns were identified as possible priori-ties. One from the village of Gesege seemed, atfirst glance, to parallel the fisheries project.WWF decided to help develop a strategy for sus-tainable management of useful wild plants thatvillagers believed were growing scarce. The firststep was to recruit two local men and two womenfacilitators and train them in basic participatoryresearch and analysis. Data collection wouldfocus on helping the community compile a usefulplant dictionary and determine whether or notparticular species were growing harder to find.Ninety-six species of the most commonly usedplants were listed by their Foi names in a prelimi-nary dictionary that described their uses as food,building materials, tools, implements, cordage,baskets, other woven articles, medicine, andmagic. Specimens were also collected for herbarium identification of Latin names thatwould be added to the final draft. Despite thispromising start, data about plant status proved tobe ambiguous. Some interview respondentsthought that certain species were less commonwhile others were sure that nothing had changed.And when WWF convened a meeting to discussthe results, there was little interest in pursuing themanagement of any of these plants any further.

A number of suppositions can be made about whythe community was less interested in developing

sustainable management strategies for plants thanfor fish. First, fish are a far more importantresource to the people of Gesege. Almost every-one in the community fishes, while many plantsare used by only a few people. Second, there aremore substitutes available for certain plant uses.Canoes and house posts, for example, are cutfrom a number of different species, none of whichappear to have critically declined. As more peo-ple obtain cash income, there is a growing prefer-ence for permanent building materials such ascorrugated iron roofing and planed timber.Although people can substitute tinned fish or meatfor fresh fish, people generally express a prefer-ence for the latter. And finally, fishing is an enjoy-able social activity, particularly for women whocan often be seen with their canoes lined up nextto each other so that talk is plentiful even whenthe fish are not. Collection of plant material isgenerally viewed as hard work, and not conduciveto social exchange. For the moment at least thisproject idea is on hold.

This brings us back to the beginning. Howeverpromising a project idea seems, it is best to beginat an appropriate scale. Usually that means estab-lishing a dialogue through participatory research.If you listen closely and make it clear that nothingwill happen unless the community helps make ithappen, people will quickly help you figure outwhether the idea has a future or not.

VI. ConclusionsThe territory and lives of indigenous peoplesalmost everywhere in Papua New Guinea coincidewith ecosystems of high significance. This is par-ticularly true of the Kikori River watershed wherethe ICDP is being implemented. Conservationgroups in other parts of the world might try to circumvent local people and form top-downalliances with the state in an effort to expediteenvironmental initiatives. Customary land tenurein PNG requires conservation groups to work withindigenous peoples if they wish to do any mean-ingful work at all. Consequently, lessons arebeing learned here that may apply elsewhere whenhidden opportunities are being overlooked becausethe balance of power does not require lookingdeeper. Working with the people who are the primary stakeholders in a place may be slower, butit also may be the best chance for an effective and


long-lasting partnership to conserve the land andits resources.

The challenge confronting WWF in PNG has beenin forming an effective and meaningful partnershipwith indigenous communities. As this case studyindicates, their goals and priorities often do notmatch those held by conservation groups. Part-nership is not a given; it usually must be created.That involves a long process of dialogue andaction to learn about one another, develop trust,and find where a mutuality of interests existsbetween conservation and development.

In the case of the sustainable management ofsubsistence fisheries in Lake Kutubu, the goals ofthe Foi and WWF overlapped to provide firmground on which a partnership could be builtalmost immediately. In successfully carrying outthe project, the communities began to appropriatefor themselves certain conservation goals. Thelinkage of conservation to resources crucial tothe community was vital to this process. Nowthat the notion has taken root, the lake communi-ties are beginning to apply it in other initiatives.WWF supplied needed skills, knowledge, andresources to facilitate the process. In turn, thecommunities taught WWF much about this par-ticular corner of the world that the Foi and theirancestors have tended for thousands of years.

Lessons that might be of use in building effec-tive partnerships elsewhere include the followingsix points:

• Do not approach indigenous communitieswith predetermined goals and a rigid con-servation agenda. Local priorities must bethe starting point for a transparent dialogueabout means and ends. The knowledge,skills, and culture of the indigenous groupmust be expressed if any project is to takeroot and flower. On its side, a conservationorganization must be frank about dispellingunrealistic expectations about what it candeliver. Both parties can then search forareas where their goals are complementaryor overlap, and build on them for broaderconservation initiatives.

• Search for appropriate institutions withwhich to work. Do not limit this search toformally structured organizations such as theWMAC or village courts or local govern-

ment officials. Traditional leadership struc-tures are often more powerful and influentialinstitutions and better reflect the voice of thecommunity than formal organizations.

• Improve community capacity throughmeetings, workshops, and training thatbuild awareness, skills, and knowledgeneeded to make informed resource man-agement decisions. Involving the Foi inthe collection and analysis of the data theyneeded to assess fish populations made itpossible for the community to believe thatthey owned the project and could claimcredit for the results. This increasedcapacity, in turn, has built a foundation forrefining results and taking on new chal-lenges in other areas.

• In engaging the community in dialogue,conservation organizations must make con-scious efforts to recapture traditionalknowledge and resource management skillsand look for ways to supplement thatknowledge with modern tools and tech-niques that the community can appropriateto achieve conservation goals. The valuesand practices of indigenous communitiesare the foundation for building lasting solu-tions. Without a strong sense of culturalidentity, a community is unlikely to mobi-lize the broad support needed to form deci-sions and make them stick. Specificcultural forms may also be latent resources,waiting to be tapped in new ways. Beliefsamong the Foi about forest spirits andancestral obligations, for instance, mayprove key to devising culture-based strate-gies for protecting the resource base forfuture generations.

• In reaching out to the community, conser-vation organizations also need to be moreresourceful and creative in involvingwomen, who after all are often the primaryactors in subsistence activities.

• Finally, one must always be aware of thelong-term, even when the step being takenis short-term and halting. This spotlightsthe importance of reaching out to theyoung as the fishery project did when itinvolved schoolchildren as well as theirelders. It also means that youth should be


involved in the recovery of traditionalknowledge and how it is connected tonature. The young are in danger of losingtheir link to their past, yet they may be inthe best position to adapt their heritage toinvent a habitable future. In this equation,the vitality of the culture and the vitality ofthe resource base may well rise or falltogether.

Endnotes1. I want to acknowledge the valuable commentsand contribution made by Tanya Leary, the archi-tect of the Fish Monitoring Program, and the Foileaders of Tugiri, Wasame, K-Point, Yo’obo, andGesege villages of Lake Kutubu.

2. Scientists originally identified only 10endemic species. The monitoring project discov-ered that the Foi had names for two additionalspecies that scientists had been lumping togetherwith fish that looked similar. Double-checkingproved the Foi to be correct.

3. K= kina, Papua New Guinea’s currency. In1995, one kina = U.S. 90 cents.


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Burrows, I. 1995. A Field Survey of theAvifauna of the Kikori River Basin. In FieldSurvey of Biodiversity in the Kikori River Basin,Papua New Guinea. 1995. Unpublished docu-ment, Kikori Integrated Conservation andDevelopment Project. Asia Pacific Program,World Wildlife Fund, Washington, D.C.

Busse, M. 1991. Report on Research amongFasu Speakers: 29 March 1991 to 29 April 1991.Papua New Guinea National Museum, PortMoresby. Typescript.

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Community Affairs Department. 1993. Socio-Economic Impact of Kutubu Petroleum Project.A report to the Department of Environment andConservation from the community affairs depart-ment of Chevron Niugini Pty Ltd., Moro, PapuaNew Guinea. Photocopy.

———. 1995. Kutubu Project Area CensusReport, Southern Highlands Province & GulfProvince. Report prepared for Chevron NiuginiPty Ltd., Moro, Papua New Guinea. Photocopy.

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Ernst, T. 1993. Social Mapping: KutubuPetroleum Project Report. Prepared for ChevronNiugini Pty Ltd., Moro, Papua New Guinea.Photocopy.

Giddings, R. 1984. Land tenure. In AnIntroduction to Melanesian Cultures, ed., D. L.Whiteman, 149–172. Goroka: The MelanesianInstitute.

Goldman, L., and G. Simpson. 1997a. MoranSocial and Economic Impact Study. Prepared forChevron Niugini Pty Ltd., Moro, Papua NewGuinea. Photocopy.

———. 1997b. Moran Social Mapping Report:11 February. Prepared for Chevron Niugini PtyLtd., Moro, Papua New Guinea. Photocopy.

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Jaensch, R. 1997. Unpublished report on speciesaround Lake Kutubu, submitted to the project byRoger Jaensch of Wetlands International.

Kurita, H. 1985. Who Came First? The ContactHistory of the Fasu-Speaking People, Papua NewGuinea. Man and Culture in Oceania 1:55–56.

Langlas, C. M. 1974. Foi Land Use, PrestigeEconomics and Residence: A ProcessualAnalysis. Ph.D. diss., University of Hawaii.

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Leary, T. 1997. Subsistence Fish CatchMonitoring, Lake Kutubu, Southern HighlandsProvince, Papua New Guinea. Report toWWF–Kikori ICDP. Typescript.

Leary, T. and L. Serin. 1997. Unpublished mam-mal survey.

Leary, T., R. Naug, and J. Price. 1996. KikoriIntegrated Conservation and DevelopmentProject: Sustaining the Environment andPromoting Conservation and SustainableDevelopment alongside the Kutubu Joint Venture Petroleum Development. In PetroleumExploration, Development and Production inPapua New Guinea: Proceedings of the ThirdPNG Petroleum Convention, Port Moresby, 9–11September 1996. P. G. Buchanan, ed.

Orsak, L. J., and N. Easen. 1995. AnAssessment of the Moth Fauna of the KikoriBasin, Papua New Guinea. In Field Survey ofBiodiversity in the Kikori River Basin, PapuaNew Guinea. 1995. Unpublished document,Kikori Integrated Conservation and DevelopmentProject. Asia Pacific Program, World WildlifeFund, Washington, D.C.

Power, A. P., and P. Hagen. 1996. TheEscalation of Landowner Benefits in the KutubuPetroleum Development Project. In PetroleumExploration, Development and Production inPapua New Guinea: Proceedings of the ThirdPNG Petroleum Convention, Port Moresby, 9–11September 1996. P. G. Buchanan, ed.

Rule, Murray. 1993. The Culture and Language ofthe Foe: The People of Lake Kutubu, SouthernHighlands Province, Papua New Guinea. Brisbane:Uniting Print Shop and Chevron Niugini Pty Ltd.

Schieffelin, E. L. 1975. Felling the Trees onTop of the Crop. Oceania 46 (1):25–39.

———. 1976. The Sorrow of the Lonely andthe Burning of the Dancers. New York: St.Martin’s Press.

———. 1980. Reciprocity and the Constructionof Reality on the Papuan Plateau. Man15:502–517.

Schieffelin, E. L., and R. Crittenden (Eds.).1991. Like People You See in a Dream: FirstContact in Six Papuan Societies. Palo Alto:Stanford University Press.

Schieffelin, E. L., and H. Kurita. 1988. ThePhantom Patrol: Reconciling Native Narrativesand Colonial Documents in Reconstructing theHistory of Exploration in Papua New Guinea.Journal of Pacific History 23 (1):52–69.

Sekharan, N., and S. Miller (Eds.). 1996. PapuaNew Guinea Country Study on Biological Diversity.Department of Environment and Conservation andthe Africa Center for Resources and Environment.

Sinclair, J. 1988. Last Frontiers: TheExplorations of Ivan Champion of Papua.Broadbeach Waters, Queensland: Pacific Press.

Sullivan, M., P. Hughes, and R. Kimbu. 1990.Land Use and Bushland Resources. In TechnicalSupport Documents - Kutubu PetroleumDevelopment Project Environmental Plan,Osborne et al. Environmental Consultants PtyLtd, Hawthorne, Australia. Report CR 501/1.

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———. 1996. Human Development Report.New York: Oxford University Press.

Weiner, J. F. 1977. Natives of Lake Kutubu.Oceania monograph No. 16. Reprinted in TheVailala Madness and Other Essays, ed., E.Schwimmer. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press.

———. 1985a. Affinity and Cross-CousinTerminology among the Foi. Social Analysis17:93–112.

———. 1985b. The Treachery of Co-Wives:The Mythical Origin of Mediating Food Items inFoi. Journal de la Societes des Oceanistes80:39–50.

———. 1988a. The Heart of the Pearl Shell:The Mythological Dimension of Foi Sociality.Berkeley: University of California Press.

——— (Ed.). 1988b. Mountain Papuans:Historical and Comparative Perspectives fromNew Guinea Fringe Highland Societies. AnnArbor: University of Michigan Press.

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I. IntroductionSmoke hangs in the still air, pierced by sunlightslanting through the doorway of the training cen-ter’s conference room. On one side sit leadersand community rangers from the Nyae NyaeFarmers Cooperative (NNFC), representing about3,000 Ju/’hoan Bushmen living in northeasternNamibia. On the other side are staff of theNamibian Ministry of Environment and Tourism(MET). It is something of an accomplishmentjust to have both parties sitting quietly togetherin the same place. It is even more unusual thatthey are listening intently to the same thing.

Everyone has come to hear a wildlife biologistand a range management expert from Botswanawho were hired by the NNFC to help draft agame management plan. The wildlife biologist isquite blunt. He says the Ju/’hoan are not using

their wildlife sustainably. He suggests that thecommunity curtail its hunting.

As the translator conveys this message, it sparkssharp comments in Ju/’hoansi, the local lan-guage. NNFC representatives direct these com-ments not at the biologist, but toward oneanother. Most of these men are old; many areexpert hunters who have tracked on foot and usedbows and arrows to bring down buffalo, giraffe,eland, kudu, and other animals. The Ju/’hoanpeople, who are also known as the !Kung and theJu/Wasi, are no longer, strictly speaking, hunter-gatherers. They pursue a mixed economy, com-bining foraging and subsistence hunting withlivestock production, small-scale dryland agricul-ture, craftwork, and wage labor. In the NyaeNyae area they still exploit a wide variety ofresources, including more than 120 species ofedible plants and dozens of large and small mam-

CHAPTER 7Environmental Governance: Lessons

From the Ju/’hoan Bushmen inNortheastern Namibia

Barbara Wyckoff-Baird 1

mal species (Hitchcock 1992). Game popula-tions have been used sustainably for centurieswithout conscious coordination of overall kills,so the management plan being put on the tableby the wildlife biologist is an abstract conceptwith several difficult-to-grasp components.

The debate blazes for some time until finally aconsensus emerges from the smoke. /Ui, one ofthe best hunters, expresses it this way: “The newsis bad and good. Now we know how many ani-mals it is safe to take. It may not be as many aswe would want or as a hunt will bring, but we canbe sure that some will be left for our children.”

Even as this conclusion is being reached, mindsare also being changed among the MET staffwho watch silently on the other side of the table.For years tension has existed between the METand the local community, and some governmentagents charged with protecting wildlife havethought of the Ju/’hoan as greedy children oreven as predatory poachers. What they hear nowbegins to persuade them that these people (andJu/’hoan can be translated as “the Real People”)do not want to kill all their animals. Rather they share with MET a vision of a future thatincludes both people and wildlife. While no onethinks that all differences have vanished, itseems clear that the time has come to build apartnership. The community and the govern-ment need to act in tandem to preserve the natu-ral resource base if local people and theircultural identity are to survive.

The outline for a wildlife management plan isagreed to. It has been developed through a par-ticipatory process that captures the Ju/’hoan’sknowledge of their resources. It calls for wildlifemonitoring; construction of game water points;live sale of buffalo, roan, and eland; developmentof tourism; reduced hunting by community mem-bers; and control of poaching by “outsiders.”The NNFC will plan and implement some of theelements alone, but the harvest quotas will haveto be negotiated with MET staff. The people ofNyae Nyae and the MET will also need to worktogether to stop poaching.

As the meeting winds down, staff from the METand NNFC make plans for airing the variousoptions with the community members who arenot present. The community will have to weighthe benefits and costs of each choice and make

some tradeoffs if the plan is to be enforceable.The Ju/’hoan will have to establish rules andsanctions governing resource use and developmechanisms for monitoring compliance. TheNNFC’s board, and the community rangers whowill be on the front line of implementing theplan, are prepared to discuss these issues, andhave the authority and confidence to do so.

That meeting took place in 1997, when a newgovernment policy to establish game conservan-cies managed by local communities was takingshape. There were doubters on both sides aboutwhat this policy really meant and whether itcould work. This case study describes how theJu/’hoan community and the government foundcommon ground, and how an outside broker—theLiving in a Finite Environment (LIFE) Program,established by the government, comanaged byWorld Wildlife Fund–US, and funded byUSAID—facilitated the process. What is specialabout this story is not the idea, which has beentried elsewhere in Africa with mixed results, butthe effectiveness of the community response.This study will detail what that involved andwhat steps an outside organization like WWF cantake to support community-based efforts.

As will become clear, such support is crucial.The Ju/’hoan experience shows that when govern-ments devolve resource management rights, bene-fits, and responsibilities to local levels, theindigenous community must build new partner-ships with the public and private sectors and oftenwith international donors to make the devolutionwork. The community must be able to clearlystate its agenda and find mutually shared objec-tives with other actors. Developing the confi-dence, information, and skills necessary to be apartner in joint decision making is an institutionalchallenge, particularly for most hunter-gatherersocieties that rely on consensus rather than for-mally established hierarchies of authority. Oldinstitutions will find their effectiveness tested, andnewly created institutions will find their legiti-macy questioned. The indigenous communitymust ensure that its institutions function bothlocally and within these new alliances by adaptingrather than scrapping existing social organizationsand cultural values. At the same time, the gov-ernment agencies involved are also likely to bebreaking new ground and in need of advice and

114 The Ju/’hoan in Namibia

support. The LIFE Program played a key role incapacity building by helping open lines of com-munication within the community and betweenthe community and the government.

As the case study unfolds, lessons will emergethat others can apply to similar projects else-where. This does not mean that what happenedin Nyae Nyae can be replicated literally, as if itwere a master blueprint for game management byindigenous peoples. Historical and cultural con-texts, environmental conditions, national policiesand legal systems, the mix of actors, and avail-able resources vary too widely for that.

Above all, indigenous communities are not allalike. Nyae Nyae provides an environment inwhich the conservancy idea may flourish. First,the Ju/’hoan Bushmen are effective managers oftheir natural resources. They know thoseresources intimately, understand the past andpresent ecological contexts in which the resourcesexist, and have developed social systems to man-age them. At current population levels theJu/’hoan lifestyle is consistent with an increase ofwildlife in the area. The success of hunting as alivelihood, in fact, depends on increased gamesupply. Unlike more sedentary agriculturists, theJu/’hoan see wildlife not as a threat but as a nec-essary element in their environment.

The Ju/’hoan community is also relatively smalland homogenous. Conflicts exist, primarilybetween age groups and between members ofdifferent n!oresi (the places to which peoplebelong), as well as with individuals seeking per-sonal gain; yet common goals, beliefs, and valuesprevail. The community has maintained its cul-tural identity despite the rapid changes broughton by engaging in the political and economic lifeof the nation state.

To better understand what is happening in NyaeNyae, this case study will proceed in threestages. First, the environmental, cultural, andlegal context for game management will beexamined. This will be followed by a discussionof how the idea evolved and took hold within thecommunity and the problems and opportunitiesthat have followed. Then lessons that havebroader application will be highlighted. Theselessons fall into three broad categories: thenecessity for an enabling policy environment andthe limitations of this particular system; steps to

take in strengthening local institutions; and ingre-dients for effective partnerships, and the roles ofexternal facilitators.

II. An Overview

2.1 Land and EcologyThe Ju/’hoan once lived on a vast tract of landthat encompassed parts of Namibia andBotswana, mainly in what is now known as theKalahari Desert (see map 7.1). The “RealPeople” were able to collect food and hunt gameover wide-ranging areas (Marshall 1976).Construction of a fence along the border betweenBotswana and Namibia blocked migration routesfor game and divided the Ju/’hoan, who lost terri-tory. The Nyae Nyae area is now about 9,000square kilometers (3,240 square miles) of mostlysemiarid tree-shrub savanna. Rainfall averages300–500 millimeters per year but varies greatlyin both time and space. The mixture of clay pansand nonporous calcrete creates a system of sea-sonal pans and wetlands unique in the Kalahariarea. In years of good rainfall, the pans and thelarge areas of calcrete fill with water in summerand attract large numbers of water and wadingbirds, including flamingos and pelicans.Endangered wattled cranes, snipe, the rare slatyegret, and many migrants from Europe are foundwhen the pans are full (Jones 1996a).

Vegetation is characterized by mixed broadleafand acacia woodland where the dominant speciesinclude several types of combretum and theweeping wattle (Peltophorum africanum). Otherspecies are baobab (Adansonia digitata), tamboti(Spirostachys africana), marula (Sclerocarya caf-fra), and mangetti (Ricinodendron rautanenii).

The area is home to a number of rare or endan-gered animals. There is still a sizeable populationof most antelope species, as well as elephants.All six of the continent’s predators and scav-engers live in Nyae Nyae, which stands out asone of the last two refuges in Namibia for thewild dog, one of Africa’s most endangered mam-mals. There is a remnant herd of buffalo that wascut off from its migration route to the OkavangoDelta by the Botswana border fence. Governmentofficials have caught and quarantined this herdbecause of veterinary regulations. While the veg-etation in Nyae Nyae is ecologically balanced,game resources are depleted and unbalanced.

The Ju/’hoan in Namibia 115


Map 7.1 The Ju/’hoansi’s Ancestral Territory (shaded area)

A N G O L A Z A M B I A

Z I M B A B W E

B O T S W A N A

N A M I B I A

S O U T H A F R I C A

Tsumeb

Grootfontein

Gobabis

Gaborone

Francistown/Du/da

/Xai/xai

Dobe

Chum/kwe

CAPRIVI STRIP

Za

mb

e

zi River

Limpopo

R

iver

Populations of buffalo, roan antelope, lion,giraffe, and other species are low, while those ofelephant, hyena, and leopard are high.

The nearby Khaudum Game Reserve, a wilder-ness area of 3,841 square kilometers (1,380square miles), is a central element of the ecosys-tem. With no fence between the park and sur-rounding land, animals—including lion andelephant—leave the reserve in the winter insearch of food and water. Now that the Ju/’hoankeep livestock, they are no longer tolerant oflions; and elephants, too, have become enemies,destroying crops and water points. Veterinaryfences in the south and west, and the borderfence with Botswana in the east, have signifi-cantly reduced the area over which wildlife canroam. Animals such as elands and giraffes havedied after finding their migration routes barred.

2.2 People and CultureIn 1970 the colonial government of South Africadivided Namibia into several regions, reservingthe more productive areas for whites and desig-nating less productive areas as homelands forblack Africans. The Ju/’hoan lost 40,000 square

kilometers of ancestral territory to other ethnicgroups, and the government designated anotherportion to the aforementioned Khaudum GameReserve. The remaining land becameBushmanland, an ethnic homeland for theJu/’hoan, and the “Real People” were left withonly 14 percent of the territory they held prior to1950, and only one permanent water hole.

As part of this process, many Ju/’hoan moved tothe small administrative center of Tsumkwe,which had a school, a clinic, a few jobs, a jail,and a liquor store. The Ju/’hoan social systemnearly collapsed. Many families becamedependent on a few people working for theadministration or the South African army.Alcoholism, disease, malnutrition, prostitution,and a high rate of infant mortality became wide-spread. By the late 1970s, Tsumkwe was a ruralslum. The Ju/’hoan referred to it as “the placeof death” (Biesele 1990).

The South African Bantu administration and thenthe Department of Governmental Affairs gov-erned the Nyae Nyae area until independence in1990, when the homelands formally ceased toexist. In fact, however, these areas are still

Source: Biesele 1990


inhabited predominately by tribal peoples like theJu/’hoan who practice “communal” rather thanprivate ownership. The Nyae Nyae area extendsthrough what is currently known as the TsumkweDistrict of the eastern Otjozondjupa Region.Throughout the changing administrative struc-tures of the past two decades, an authority ofcentral government responsible for wildlife man-agement has been based in Tsumkwe, and METmaintains a significant presence and some deci-sion-making authority there today.

Traditionally the Ju/’hoan are organized as bandsof individuals centered on and supported by theresources of a n!ore (singular form of n!oresi).During the 1980s some Ju/’hoan began a “backto the land” movement, leaving Tsumkwe toreturn to their n!oresi to reestablish occupancyrights. Today there are about 32 decentralizedcommunities in Nyae Nyae, each with a watersource (usually a well with a windmill), corralsfor protecting small herds of cattle, and smallagricultural fields/gardens. The communitiesrange in size from a dozen to 150 people.

An extended family group is headed by a n!orekxao (plural—kxaosi), or “steward of sharedresources” that include water, small game, andwild foods. Group members select the n!orekxao, either a man or a woman, from amongtheir elders. The Ju/’hoan see some resources as“common” beyond family, in which case two ormore n!oresi kxaosi jointly undertake decisionmaking (see figure 7.1). All game and naturalwater points are deemed common property, as aresome wild foods, including mangetti nuts, marulanuts, and morama beans (=Oma and /Aice 1996).N!ore kxaosi have been known to jointly agree toa moratorium on certain species within theirhunting grounds to avoid depletion.

The Ju/’hoan culture of equality and tolerancehas always favored decision making by consen-sus rather than by individual leaders. When suchleaders do arise, their authority stems from howwell they uphold the values of the society.Leadership is based on experience and wisdom,and leaders are generally older community mem-bers. Historically, men and women have hadequal stature since gathering tasks were as criti-cal as hunting was to group survival. As theJu/’hoan became more integrated into the largereconomy with the introduction of cattle and agri-

cultural crops, women have lost some prestigeand their social position has changed.

The traditional egalitarianism and toleranceinherent in Ju/’hoan values tends to prevent aconcentration of power. As in many otherhunter-gatherer societies, there is a lack of hierar-chical structure for decision making. Even theidea of representation—one person speaking foranother—is unfamiliar, though less so amongyounger, more educated members of the commu-nity. As one person stated, “Each of us is a head-man over himself” (Lee 1993). This makes itdifficult for the Ju/’hoan to exercise their rightswithin the governmental framework of the coun-try. The Traditional Authorities Act of 1996 pro-vides for one “traditional leader” and one to threecouncilors, based on population, to represent acommunity at the central government level. TheJu/’hoan have no single individual to representthem in this way.

A key feature of the past 15 years has been theslow emergence of legitimate and effectiveorganizational structures among the Ju/’hoan todeal with the outside world (see figure 7.2).The Ju/Wa Farmers Union was started in 1986as the back-to-the-land movement gatheredsteam. By late 1988, with the number ofn!oresi increasing rapidly and with a growingneed to facilitate applications for legal recogni-tion in the soon-to-be-independent Namibia,awareness grew that the organization needed toformalize and institutionalize its structure andleadership. The union drafted a set of statutesto establish a representative organization gov-erned by a council. Each n!ore would choose amale and a female representative to sit on theRepresentative Council, which would selectindividuals to communicate with outsiders andwould meet at least every six months to providefeedback to and from the community.

The Ju/Wa Farmers Union further tightened itsstructure and became the NNFC in 1990 when adevelopment program took shape with fundingfrom international donors and support from aNamibian nongovernmental organization (NGO).Members of the NNFC Representative Councilelected a chairperson, a secretary, and one repre-sentative from each of the three districts of NyaeNyae to form a management committee andsupervise day-to-day program services. Megan


Biesele (1994), an anthropologist and longtimecolleague of the NNFC, describes this period as“the application of an international stereotype ofleadership and community management in…along and subtle process.” The new structureswere essentially imported models created to meetexpectations that did not originate locally.Wyckoff-Baird (1996) adds, “The early approachfocused on the products of democratization (i.e.,creating representative institutions) rather than onthe process of democratization (i.e., indigenouspeople defining and achieving their own appro-

priate models).” The project to establish and runa conservancy with the assistance of the LIFEProgram eventually helped to narrow this gap.

2.3 Conservancy and TenureThe indigenous people of Nyae Nyae have foughtlong for recognition of their traditional tenuresystem. Several factors have complicated the bat-tle since national independence. Until recentlythere was no national legislation detailing com-munal land and resource rights. The NamibianConstitution recognizes some land rights by infer-

N!ore

N!ore

N!ore

N!ore

N!ore

N!ore

Wildlife: may beresident or migratory

Hunting Area: always shared between more than one N!ore

Wildlife movements

Veld Food GatheringArea: Including tubers,roots, berries, etc.

Indigenous Fruit TreeArea: may be anindividual tree or grove

A N!ore is roughly equal to a village or farm.

N!oresi resources are managed by a N!ore Kxao or “owner” who makes desisions in consultation with the other residents of his or her N!ore.

Rights to live in or use the resources of a N!ore are inherited at birth or gained through marriage.

Resource areas can be “owned” by one N!ore or they may be shared between several.

Rights to use the resources owned by another N!ore may be shared, but only whenpermission is given by the N!ore Kxao. Hunting or gathering without permission is considered “stealing,” and was traditionally punishable by death.

Adapted from =Oma and /Aice 1996

Figure 7.1 Common Property Resources in Nyae Nyae


ence, stating that “any Namibian has the right tomove anywhere in Namibia, but must gain per-mission from the traditional authority in the area.”Given the lack of easily identifiable hierarchicaldecision-making structures among the Ju/’hoan, itis difficult to implement even this provision andmost outsiders ignore it. The lack of effectivepolitical representation hampers the Ju/’hoan’sability to win redress from the state.

Sometimes the challenge to tenure is consider-able. Since independence, more than 5,000Hereros, descendants of those who fled Germancolonial authority in the early 1900s, have beenrepatriated, with 40,000 head of cattle, fromBotswana to Namibia just south of Nyae Nyae.The grasslands there are inferior, especially com-pared to those of the Ju/’hoan, who have muchsmaller herds. Ignoring the fence separating thetwo areas, the Herero began moving their cattlenorth in 1995. The resulting damage to wildlifewas significant (Stuart-Hill and Perkins 1997),and the Ju/’hoan at first seemed powerless to pro-tect their livelihoods.

It is not surprising, then, that the Ju/’hoan werewilling to listen to MET staff who came to NyaeNyae at about that time touting a new policy thatpromised local people rights to wildlife. InNamibia the state owns all protected and endan-gered wildlife, but a private landowner owns thehuntable game and can petition MET for a har-vest quota for protected and endangered speciesliving on the property. This quota is generallythe number of animals that can be removed with-out negatively affecting species sustainability. In1995 the government enacted a policy forWildlife Management, Utilization, and Tourismin Communal Areas to promote community-based natural resource management, which wascodified the following year in the 1996Amendment to the Nature Conservation Act.This act extends some private landowner rights tocommunal landowners by setting up proceduresto establish conservancies. When governmentcertifies that conditions have been met, a conser-vancy is established that gives the communityconditional and limited rights to wildlife on com-munal land. The use of harvest quotas lets the

Ju/Wa Farmer’s Union1986–1990

Nyae Nyae Farmer’sCooperative 1990–1995

Nyae Nyae Farmer’sCooperative 1995–

Union

Representative Council

Community

NNFC ManagementCommittee

Management Board

Annual GeneralMeeting

District Meetings

Community Rangers

Village Meetings

ManagementCommittee

N!oresi

Community

A facilitative organization. Individuals chosen as com-munication links between community (decision makers) and outsiders. All sectors of population participate to reach a high level of consensus. Effective with low population.

External model of representation imposed in 1990. By early 1995, Management Committee be-comes isolated, speaks on behalf of community, makes decisions for them, and rarely reports back.

District representatives form a Management Board decision-making body. Management Committee makes only day-to-day imple-mentation decisions. While population and other factors preclude return to facilitative structure, communication and consensus building is facilitated by work of community rangers and by village and district level meetings.

Decision Making Adapted from Wyckoff-Baird 1996Information Flow

Figure 7.2 Evolution of Decision-making Structures in Nyae Nyae


local resource manager see clear linkagesbetween costs and benefits: As farmers manageresources more intensively to increase populationnumbers, they receive the benefit of higher quo-tas. These quotas generally translate into finan-cial returns through live sale, tourism, and trophyhunting. It is assumed that these benefits will beincentives to use natural resources sustainably,thereby helping to improve conservation of biodi-versity and habitats outside of protected areaslike the Khaudum Game Reserve.

Although Namibia now has strong legislation forcommunity wildlife management, it does notdirectly address the greatest threat to theJu/’hoan, the lack of secure tenure over their landand other resources. In the case of the challengeposed by the Herero cattle herds, the partnershipbetween the NNFC and MET to establish a con-servancy may have influenced the government’sdecision in June 1997 to order the Herero toleave Nyae Nyae. However the growing pressurebeing brought to bear by Bushmen both insideand outside the country for tenure rights mayalso have played a role.2 At any rate, by the endof 1997 all but one Herero family had complied.

III. The Evolution of Community-based Natural ResourceManagement in Nyae Nyae

The story of how a partnership formed to bringeffective community-based natural resource man-agement to Nyae Nyae is complicated. It extendsover nearly a decade and involves an extensivecast of actors (see figure 7.3). The story proceedsin three phases: impasse and the search for newapproaches; revamping community institutions totake ownership of the project; and negotiating withoutsiders to create a conservancy. Because thereare so many diverse threads to this story, thesephases contain areas of overlap. Like snapshotstaken at three intervals, they show the growth andcapacity of community organization among theJu/’hoan as they struggle to become effectivestakeholders in managing the land they live on.

3.1 Institutional Gridlock and a New LIFE(1990–1995)

To a great extent, what is happening in Namibiatoday would not have been possible without fun-damental policy changes at the national level.

MET did not begin with a blank slate. It inher-ited field staff, policies, and a history of conflictwith communities from its colonial predecessor,the Department of Nature Conservation (DNC).Charged with managing wildlife throughout thecountry, the DNC concentrated on a system ofparks and game reserves and limited its rural out-reach activities to law enforcement, the control ofproblem animals (predators killing livestock andelephants destroying crops), and ad hoc environ-mental awareness-building. In Nyae Nyae, mostof the effort went into building up the infrastruc-ture of the Khaudum Game Reserve and restrict-ing its use by local people. Water points wereconstructed to encourage game to enter thereserve, and DNC staff patrolled to controlpoaching by local people. They had the authorityto enter people’s homes to apprehend suspectsand to build campsites on community land foruse by government staff. Many such activitieswere carried out without consulting local resi-dents or n!ore leaders.

Following independence, the DNC was replacedby MET. The pace of change since 1990 hasbeen rapid, as the new ministry has increasinglyfocused on the development of ideas and prac-tices that link conservation with development toimprove the quality of life for all Namibians. In1991, MET began reaching out to local NGOs toconduct socio-ecological surveys of local viewsabout resource management to identify problemsand solutions. The survey in Nyae Nyae was thebeginning of a different kind of relationshipbetween the agency and the community. While itdid not result in joint planning and implementa-tion of wildlife management, it legitimized face-to-face contacts and began a dialogue that mightone day make those outcomes possible.

At the time, of course, one could not tell whatdirection was being followed. Certainly METdelivered confusing and contradictory messagesto the people of Nyae Nyae. Those messagesreflected deep conflicts within the ministrybetween those who thought nature had to be pro-tected from local people and those who wantedto find a new way. One day representatives fromMET would arrive bringing promises of localcontrol over and benefit from the community’swildlife, while the next day another set of staffwould install pumps at water points for game

near villages without consulting anyone. Feelingpressure from NGOs and donors to work withlocal communities, senior MET officials inWindhoek, the national capital, made promises tolocal residents, but seemingly without tellingfield staff. Despite assurances that the practiceof raiding people’s homes would stop, forinstance, arrests continued, and MET began toseem no different than the DNC.

Trust was further undermined by the reluctanceof local MET agents to expedite poaching cases

reported by the Ju/’hoan. Even though the com-munity was aware of exceptional individuals, theagency quickly earned a reputation for being dis-honest and incompetent. Partnership did notseem to be on anyone’s mind.

After this halting start, which was not confined toNyae Nyae, MET recognized that both the gov-ernment and local NGOs lacked the financialresources, skills, and staff to work effectivelywith local communities. So in 1993 the ministryestablished the Living in a Finite Environment


GOVERNMENT PRIVATE SECTOR

NGOS

NNFCLocal community as

stewards of the resources. Conservancy status approved in 1997. Gained rights to manage

and benefit from wildlife in the conservancy.

METAgency responsible for safeguarding national interest in wildlife. In 1997 delegated these

rights to NNFC through the conservancy.

LOCAL GOVERNMENTOnly recently gaining importance. Balances local level interests

between ethnic groups, land use options, etc. Needs more support.

LIFE ProgramCo-managed by WWF-US.

Supports technical and organizational capacity building of

Namibian NGOS and CBOs.

NNDFNA Namibia-based NGO

providing administrative and institutional assistance to

the NNFC.

TOURISMPrivate sector operators negotiated directly with

the government. In 1997, have to now negotiate with NNFC who hold the rights

to consumptive use of wildlife in the conservancy.

NATIONAL POLICY1996 Amendment to Nature Conservation Act of 1975.

Management Benefits

Facilitation

Technical Assistance

Facilitation

Diagram by B. Wyckoff-Baird,1997

Figure 7.3 Wildlife Management in Nyae Nyae: Institutional Map, 1997

(LIFE) Program. This program, comanaged byWWF–US, would provide grants, training, andadministrative and technical assistance to localNGOs and community-based organizations(CBOs). Its goals were to develop or strengthenrepresentational decision-making bodies; expandskills in resource management and planning, aswell as project development, implementation, andmonitoring; increase economic benefits fromresource use by promoting community-basedtourism and other enterprises; and increase accessto knowledge and information on which to basedecisions. The LIFE Program would also act as a“buffer” between the local organizations andUSAID, the primary donor, by absorbing someadministrative, reporting, and financial manage-ment requirements. Both MET and WWF–USalso pledged financial resources to the program.

In January 1994 LIFE made its first grant in theNyae Nyae area to the Nyae Nyae DevelopmentFoundation of Namibia (NNDFN), an NGO thatwas formed in the 1980s to aid Ju/’hoan efforts atself-reliance and to support the back-to-the-landmovement. From early efforts to dig wells andsupply them with pumps to build cattle herdingin the n!oresi, the NNDFN expanded its supportuntil by 1994 it included an integrated develop-ment program of education, preventive healthcare, agriculture, income generation, and naturalresource management.

The LIFE grant was provisional for six months,while an effort was undertaken to see what thecommunity wanted to do. In July the Nyae NyaeFarmers Cooperative (NNFC) council met andasked the NGO to scale back its staff support anddelegate more authority to the community. A newinstitution—community rangers—was estab-lished, and 10 young men were selected at districtmeetings to monitor game movements and keeppeople informed about what was happening in thedevelopment program. In August, the LIFE advi-sor and representatives of MET and the NNDFNcame to Nyae Nyae to assess the situation.

The LIFE Program decided to work directly withthe NNFC. Realizing that community-basedorganizations face the dual task of identifyingtheir priorities and developing the capacity tomeet them, the LIFE Program is designed to pro-vide CBOs with more proactive technical assis-tance than a professionally staffed development

NGO would receive. In this case, several thingswere immediately apparent from discussions withcommunity members. The NNFC, despite thelofty aims of its creators, was alienated from thepeople it was supposed to represent.3 TheRepresentative Council did not communicateeffectively with its constituents and made onlysuperficial decisions. Several community mem-bers would buttress this opinion in comingmonths by saying that their nominal representa-tive to the council was not in fact chosen.Several n!oresi kxaosi reported that someone dif-ferent attended almost every meeting. As onecouncil member explained the selection process,“Whoever is in the n!ore when the truck arrives,jumps on and goes to the meeting.”

The gap between the community and theManagement Committee, the small group of fivemen selected by the council to run things day today, was even wider. The committee made deci-sions on behalf of local residents but rarely com-municated the results. It rarely consulted thecommunity about how planning and implemen-tation of the development program could beimproved. Visits by committee members to then!oresi had practically ceased. Most communitymembers were unaware of what the committeewas doing, and felt that the people on it shouldbe replaced.

Ironically the new “representational” system hadincreased stratification within the community.Many NNFC leaders were young men who hadreceived an education. They felt comfortablearound outsiders and were confident in express-ing themselves as individuals. Lacking theattributes required by the new structure, oldercommunity members became marginalized.Women also lost much of their right to partici-pate in decision making since they generally didnot attend school, did not have needed languageskills, and knew little about other culturesbecause they were shielded from extensive inter-actions with outsiders.

While it was clear that the current structure wasineffective, it was unclear what should develop inits place. The Ju/’hoan wanted to engage in thenational political process and eventually with thewider global society. They needed an organiza-tion that government would consider legitimateand representative in the new Namibian democ-


racy. At the same time, the LIFE advisor knewthat experience in many community developmentefforts had shown that building on existing struc-tures is more effective than creating new ones(Brown and Wyckoff-Baird 1992). The Ju/’hoancould not afford to forfeit their indigenous valuesand culture, and they did not wish to do so. Thechallenge was to find out how the indigenoussocial organization could accommodate itself to anew political process that required streamlineddecision making to be effective.

The LIFE technical advisor for community-basednatural resource management (CBNRM) helpedthe community draft an action proposal, and theNNFC received its first direct grant from LIFE inSeptember 1994. During the next 21 months, thetechnical advisor visited Nyae Nyae almost oneweek per month, working closely with other staffthe NNFC hired. It was agreed that the NNFCand the advisor would jointly set objectives foreach visit. A primary goal would be to facilitateindependent assessments of activities and providefeedback to the community. A process would bedesigned to help the community identify its ownneeds and priorities, and begin to develop its ownsolutions. A wildlife management committee(the NNWMC) was also established that broughttogether NNFC leaders and community rangerswith MET staff to build trust, reduce suspicions,and discuss how community-based naturalresource management might be undertaken.

How that proposal fared will be the subject of thenext two sections. But to understand what even-tually happened, it is first necessary to take a stepback and see how LIFE was interacting at thenational policy level with MET to make commu-nity ownership of natural resource managementviable. The idea of establishing conservancieshad gained a foothold within MET. Although itwas not directly involved in drafting policy or thepolitical process of changing it, the LIFEProgram supported the idea of conservancies andhelped provide outreach, materials development,and training to identify what was needed to makeit work. LIFE Program funds supported theUniversity of Namibia in undertaking a broadreview of legislation that influenced wildlifemanagement and conservancies. LIFE staff alsoworked with MET personnel and the staffs ofpartner NGOs, such as the Legal AssistanceCenter, to help develop an NGO position paper

on land reform as part of a national governmentconsultation process. LIFE also supported train-ing for CBNRM in the MET, led by the RossingFoundation, a local NGO.

By 1995 MET’s leadership was convinced, and itadopted a new working policy to prepare the wayfor development of conservancies. In 1996Parliament passed conservancy legislation thatcontained an unusual idea. It would allow localpeople to develop their own wildlife managementbodies, rather than mandating how they shouldbe organized and work. The stage was set for thecommunity of Nyae Nyae to speak and act on itsown behalf.

3.2 Building Institutional Capacity andMobilizing Community Resources(1994–1996)

Although Nyae Nyae wanted to take the stage onits own behalf, it would take time to be able todo so. As the last section indicated, the NNDFNhanded over most of its responsibilities to theNNFC in mid-1994. While the NGO would con-tinue to provide administrative and institutionalsupport, the CBO for the first time would controlthe program and budget. If the transfer of powerwas to be real, however, the NNFC had to berevamped. To be effective it could not simplyclaim to speak for the community, it had to findways to let the community’s voice be heard andheeded. New structures had to be devised thatmet a fourfold agenda. An effective communityorganization must 1) communicate with its mem-bers and involve all groups in decision making,2) reconcile internal differences and individualinterests, 3) articulate views and positions effec-tively with external stakeholders, and 4) be rec-ognized as legitimate by both communitymembers and outsiders (Murphree 1994). Thenew structures would also need to build upon thecommunity’s cultural values, beliefs, and socialorganization if they were going to have somechance of success (Larson et. al. 1998). Giventhe Ju/’hoan culture, decision making would haveto be by consensus, with no individuals accruingundue power or authority. The structures wouldneed to facilitate informed and direct decisionmaking by the community, and men and womenof all age groups would need to be involved.

To help the community develop such structures,the NNDFN and LIFE worked together during


the early months of the community grant todevise a process of self-analysis and strategicplanning. That led to an internal review con-ducted by a group comprising the NNFC’s man-aging committee, 10 senior representatives fromthe council, and 11 other community members.As a critical first step, the LIFE technical advi-sor, acting as a “neutral” observer, independentlyconducted interviews in the community to assesssupport for the NNFC. The review group thenidentified the key issues and possible solutions.They discussed traditional decision making; thecharacteristics a modern institution had to haveto be seen as legitimate in the eyes of the largersociety and government; issues of representa-tion, specifically gender and age; and the differ-ent roles of leadership. Meetings held over sixmonths allowed community members time todebate these issues among themselves and withthe n!oresi kxaosi. Including community mem-bers in frank and meaningful dialogue and jointdecision making incorporated local knowledgeand values into the design of more appropriatestructures. This process worked so well that iteventually became an annual event, with theLIFE advisor providing an independent audit ofinstitutional performance and the NNFC decid-ing what adjustments could be made to buildbroader participation.

As a result of the first review process, theNNFC decided in March 1995 to create a Boardof Management to oversee the managementcommittee and make it more responsive to thecommunity. Two representatives were electedfrom each of the four districts in Nyae Nyae tojoin officers of the existing management com-mittee and form a board of 13 members. Thecommunity selected new members on the basisof traditional leadership values rather than mod-ern skills. Wisdom, experience, and how well aperson upheld the values of the society out-weighed literacy and the ability to communicatewith outsiders, and resulted in the election ofcommunity elders, including some n!oresikxaosi. Although young men from the originalmanagement committee remained on the newboard, power had effectively shifted back to theelders. During this period, the NNFC also hiredan institutional consultant to provide boardmembers with training and support in staff man-agement, strategic planning, proposal writing,

work plan development, leadership, and finan-cial management.

The board scheduled bimonthly meetings toreview how the development program of theNNFC was being handled, to set policies, and toplan for the short and long terms. During theintervening month, board members would holdcommunity meetings in their respective districtsto gather and share information. The board hadthe authority to make decisions, and it was theprimary mediator between community membersand NNFC operating officials and outsiders (i.e.,state agencies, donors, and NGOs).

To further insure that the new board did notbecome alienated from the membership, specialattention was paid to the community rangers.The new board met with the rangers in mid-1995to clarify roles and establish accountability. Therangers’ primary role was to create feedbackloops that facilitated the free flow of informationwithin NNFC so the board could assess theimpact of its actions and gauge community sen-timent and the community could participate indecision making. Rangers were asked to makemonthly reports to the board about education,health, and water in their districts—all of thedevelopment issues facing the community.During the following month, rangers wouldreport back to the n!oresi in their districts aboutdecisions made at the board meeting, provideupdates on visitors to the area, and disseminateinformation on relevant legislative changes inNamibia. To insure the accuracy of information,rangers were insulated from conflicts of interestby abstaining from any decision-making or rep-resentative role. According to one communitymember, “A community ranger is not an individ-ual, but all the inhabitants of the district.” Ineffect, the eyes, ears, and consciences of localpeople are opened to him, and he becomes “thelink that broadens community consciousness toNNFC ... levels” (Powell 1995). The rangersalso collect information about the land and envi-ronment—including data on animal populations,grazing areas, bush foods, and plants—thatwould otherwise be scattered among the n!oresi.The NNFC hired a natural resource advisor in1995 to train and supervise community rangersin data collection techniques and analysis.These skills proved crucial as the proposal for


establishing a conservancy surfaced and therangers’ role grew.

In mid-1995, the new Nyae Nyae WildlifeManagement Committee held its second meeting,bringing together MET staff, NNFC representa-tives, and the community rangers. MET/LIFEbegan to work with the community rangers in aparticipatory mapping process that would allowlocal people to visualize their resource base,articulate the names of landmarks in the nativelanguage, and gather knowledge that had beenscattered among individuals and across n!oresi.This process had several beneficial results. Itallowed MET and the community to develop acommon language to discuss wildlife manage-ment and other issues. MET began to see howmuch information the community had to contribute; perhaps even more important, thecommunity developed greater self-confidence asit realized the same thing. Finally, a new set oftools was being developed and put at the commu-nity’s disposal. In the years ahead, new trainingprograms would build on the concepts involved.Project maps would be drawn that used flow dia-grams and problem trees and allowed the boardand the rangers to plan and target research in avariety of programmatic areas. These “maps,”too, would have a double-sided benefit. Theywould bolster the confidence and authority of thepeople who made them, and they would prove tobe valuable in communicating community inter-ests to outside actors.

By the end of the year, MET policy was crystalliz-ing around the idea of conservancies, and the ideawas being discussed in Nyae Nyae. The LIFEadvisor acted as a facilitator in these discussionsand in the conservancy planning process that fol-lowed. Facilitation can be defined as “remov[ing]the impediments to opportunities for people tolearn from themselves and to speak for them-selves” (Murphree 1996). One of the principalimpediments is lack of access to information, andopening the flow was the first step that had to betaken. In collaboration with the communityrangers and the NNFC’s natural resources advisor,the LIFE technical advisor visited a number of vil-lages, attended district meetings, and spoke to theNNFC leadership about the conservancy conceptand requirements. The technical advisor also heldsessions for the NNFC leadership to prepare themto brief the community about a conservancy.

In early 1996 a conservancy workshop and districtmeetings, attended by 15 percent of adults and allthe n!ore kxaosi, were held. This coincided withcompletion of the second annual performance sur-vey of NNFC. All these showed that there wassignificant support in the community for the man-agement board, but that the process of institutionaltransformation was not yet complete. A survey ofrandomly selected community members indicatedthat everyone had heard about the efforts to planfor wildlife management. Although the depth ofunderstanding varied, this was a marked improve-ment over results from the previous year. It wasalso clear that the multiple lines of communicationthat had been opened were reaching differentgroups within the community:

• Community rangers had been particularlyeffective in reaching their peers, young men.

• District meetings seemed more effective inreaching men than women, who made upless than 40 percent of the participants.This was not surprising for an open publicforum, but the fact that few attendeespassed information on to members of theirn!ore who did not attend was unexpected.

• Board members seemed to be doing anadequate job of reporting back to their ownage group, elders. However, they did notmove between villages, so the 55 percentof n!oresi without a board member onlyhad access to information through districtmeetings and the community rangers.

• People who attended the RepresentativeCouncil meetings felt well informed and feltthat they had participated in decision mak-ing. However they, too, did not communi-cate results to residents of their n!oresi.

• Young women had the least effective andmost indirect means of learning aboutboard decisions and were dependent oninformation filtering down to them byword of mouth.

The Board of Management took steps to addresssome of these problems. Agreeing that the inter-ests of women were not adequately included inthe decision-making process, the board decidedto expand its membership to facilitate communi-cation with women in the community. Each dis-trict would add a representative to bring total


board membership to 5 women and 12 men.Since the Representative Council meetingsseemed to involve in decision making only the 70or so people attending them, the board decided itwould be better to hold the meeting once ratherthan twice yearly, and to use the savings toengage more community members directly. Anannual general meeting, open to all residents,would be held each May or June.4

None of these procedural steps, however,addressed lingering doubts in the communityabout the proposal for a conservancy. Mostpeople had responded positively, but somefeared that the idea was a ruse to expand thegame reserve and evict local people. Anexchange visit in March 1996 that allowedNNFC leadership and rangers to talk to the peo-ple implementing the CAMPFIRE Program, asimilar effort in Zimbabwe, proved to be animportant turning point.

The most encouraging lesson was that theCAMPFIRE Program had a five-year trackrecord of providing benefits from game manage-ment that local residents were using for projectsthey had identified as priorities. As oneZimbabwean told a Namibian counterpart, “Wealso didn’t believe the program would work. Wedidn’t think we could trust the Department ofNational Parks and didn’t understand how wewould benefit. Now we have a community cen-ter, a small store, and an electric fence to protectour crops from elephants. The elephants are pay-ing for our development.” The Ju/’hoan visitorswere also impressed with the participatory plan-ning of the various CAMPFIRE projects, andagreed to undertake a similar planning effort intheir own community to identify its priorities.

While the apparent success of CAMPFIRE wasreassuring, some of the things they saw and heardraised concern among the Namibians. Mostimportantly, they wondered about the lack of feed-back channels between decision makers on man-agement committees and the community at large.Community meetings were not apparent, andmany residents complained about being unin-formed. The fact is that the communities, includ-ing the decision makers, were excluded from someinformation channels. The Department ofNational Parks, for example, controlled wildlifemonitoring and set the quotas. The Ju/’hoan

became more convinced than ever of the impor-tance of community rangers. Unless they com-pleted their patrols thoroughly and transmitted theresults accurately, the Ju/’hoan would lack theindependent information needed to make manage-ment decisions and convince others to honor them.

When they returned home, NNFC leaders tooktheir message to the community in a series of localmeetings. There they attested to their belief thatthe conservancy was the right path to follow, andthrough the new structures of communication thecommunity gave them the go-ahead to proceed.

3.3 The Community as EffectiveStakeholder (1996–1998)

The LIFE Program had taken an “empowerment”approach to participation by the Ju/’hoan for twointerrelated reasons. First, the community couldnot manage its resources over the long-term with-out effective organization. Second, it would notget the opportunity to do so unless it could alterthe prevailing pattern that favored the concentra-tion of power in the hands of external actors.Aided by the change in legislation, it became pos-sible to move forward on both fronts. Establishinga conservancy would require the community todemonstrate it could formulate a management planand had the means to carry it out. In doing so itwould begin the process of realigning power rela-tions so that the Ju/’hoan were on more equalfooting with the other stakeholders in the area.

Parliament set the bar for establishing a conser-vancy and specified requirements that had to bemet (Aribeb 1996). There had to be clear physi-cal boundaries that neighbors accepted andrespected. The people living within the conser-vancy had to define its membership, and therehad to be a plan for equitable distribution ofbenefits. A representative body, accountable tothe community, had to be in charge of runningthe conservancy, and it had to demonstrate com-mitment to and capacity for sustainable wildlifemanagement. Before a conservancy could belegally established, MET had to certify an offtakequota, and the governor of the region had toapprove the boundaries.

To prepare the ground for final approval, theLIFE Program pursued two strategies. First, bothdirectly and by supporting the efforts of the insti-tutional consultant, the program provided skills,


training, and facilitation of community problemsolving to strengthen the NNFC’s ability to planand manage a conservancy. The NNFC also usedLIFE funds to add staff, hiring the wildlife biolo-gist and range management expert mentioned inthe introduction, and later a tourism advisor anda craft specialist. Second, the LIFE Programworked as a broker between the community andthe MET, often assisting both groups to findunderlying commonalities by creating opportuni-ties to share viewpoints and perspectives. Whenmembers of each side met in sessions of theNNWMC to discuss conservancies, they discov-ered that the goals of the MET and the indige-nous community were amazingly consistent.5

The LIFE advisor had prepared the way by lead-ing the NNFC through a goal-setting activity thatallowed the community to articulate its objectiveswithout influence or pressure from the MET.

A March 1996 meeting facilitated by the LIFEadvisor provides a sense of how dialogue betweenthe two parties evolved. MET representatives andthe NNFC leadership were asked to independ-ently identify the five or six wildlife species thatwere most important to them. Each group alsohad to specify the criteria used to rank impor-tance. Not surprisingly the two parties chosemany of the same species, with the importantexception of the community initially omitting ele-phants and predators (lions, leopards, and hye-nas). The groups identified different criteria,however, with one important exception. Thecommunity’s criteria emphasized importance formanufacturing household items; spiritual valuefor healing; meat; and income. The MET’s crite-ria emphasized importance to biodiversity conser-vation, ecological integrity, and financial returns.Each group then explained their “picture” to theentire group. After a long discussion of biodiver-sity—what it is and why it is important—thecommunity members agreed to add this criteria totheir matrix. And when the community realizedthe financial benefits that elephants and predatorscould bring to the community, those animals wereadded to the species list.

Perhaps more important than the actual matrix wasthe discussion it sparked. Both groups saw valuein managing the wildlife, and the MET was will-ing to accept use by the community in return fortheir anticipated support. Similarly the Ju’/’hoan

were willing to tolerate the threat and costs of ele-phants, lions, and other predators if they could beassured of financial return from these species.Both sides saw the importance of collaborationwith the private sector in meeting their objectives.The LIFE Program agreed to facilitate contactswith vendors to solicit bids and terms.

One of the last remaining hurdles was agreeingon how to determine baseline population num-bers for each species in order to set offtake quo-tas. Although the face-to-face dialogues hadmade progress in resolving problems betweenthe two parties, the long history of mistrust andlack of transparency and accountability made itimpossible for either side to simply acceptinformation provided by the other stakeholder ina matter this crucial. Senior MET officialsjoined the NNWMC dialogue soon afterParliament passed the conservancy bill, butholdover staff in Tsumkwe seemed eitherincompetent to perform the technical tasksassigned to them or unwilling to do so. FromMET’s point of view, the NNFC had no experi-ence in conducting so complicated a task.

The LIFE Program addressed this mismatch byproviding funds for the NNFC to hire their ownwildlife biologist and range management expertas consultants. They were to play a dual role,helping the community develop a plan that couldstand on its merits and providing analysis of METfigures to assess their reliability. As discussionsbetween MET staff and the NNFC leadershipunfolded, it became clear that undertaking inde-pendent data collection and comparing resultswould only exacerbate the conflict. When thiswas factored into the duplication of costs and thenumber of skilled people it would take, the con-sultants suggested a combination of approaches(Stuart-Hill and Perkins 1997). MET would con-duct a regional census of game populations toprovide a broad view of distribution and popula-tion trends. MET and the NNFC would jointlycarry out a census to obtain estimated populationsin Nyae Nyae. Each party would independentlyevaluate the buffalo population to assess its condi-tion and gender and age distributions, and thencompare the results. Finally, the NNFC would beresponsible for monitoring harvested game.

In May 1997, just as the final snarls seemedsmoothed out and the conservancy was on its


way, the governor of Otjozondjupa Regionrefused to ratify the boundaries. Apparently thisstemmed as much from uncertainty about, asrejection of, the concept. Conservancy advocatesin Namibia had not brought local governmentinto the process sufficiently for officeholders tounderstand the policy or its effect on their inter-ests. Outreach was limited to an explanatory let-ter from the Permanent Secretary of MET and toa governors’ workshop held jointly by MET andLIFE in June 1997. Most regional authoritiessimply did not know what conservancies werewhen the first communities approached them forapproval of proposed boundaries. Once the METexplained the policy, its importance, and the roleof regional government, the governor signed theapplication. As a senior staff member in theMET explained it, “Many regional councils arenow behind the conservancy policy. We are theonly ones paying any attention to them.”

In January 1998, the MET officially recognizedthe Nyae Nyae Conservancy as the first in thecountry and approved an offtake quota of valuablewildlife species. With this authority the NNFCleadership, having discussed options with the con-servancy members at district meetings, negotiateda contract with a prominent safari operation thatincluded both trophy hunting and photographictourism. In addition to paying fees to the com-munity, the operator agreed to provide trainingand employment for some conservancy members.

IV. The Road Ahead—Problemsand Opportunities

The NNFC and the community it representsfinally got their conservancy. But can they makeit work over the long term now that they face thevery real challenge of limiting subsistence hunt-ing? While local residents have agreed to amoratorium on threatened species, it is unclearwhether community cohesion and the institu-tional framework are strong enough to make thedecision stick. Discussions about how to usemoney from the conservancy illustrate the diffi-culty. Most conservancy members have agreedthat it is critical to use earnings from tourism topurchase stock to replace the meat that will belost from reduced subsistence hunting. Thedebate has centered on purchasing springbok (aspecies of small antelope) or goats. The NNFC

would manage the springbok as a commonresource, while the goats would belong to eachn!oresi. An elder made the following tellingcomment: “We would prefer the goats becausethey would be ours and we would take care ofthem. The springbok would move all aroundand would be taken by people living elsewhere.”

Much will depend on the ability of the NNFC toresolve its own inner contradictions so that allelements of the community believe their interestsare being served and protected. Much remains tobe done because linkages to the community as awhole are still tenuous. Only a few board mem-bers go beyond their immediate n!ore to reporton decisions of the NNFC leadership. Addingwomen board members was an important step,but it did not open access to information or moreinvolvement in decision making for the majorityof women. One idea to redress these problemshas been to expand the community rangers.Women would be selected who would focus oncraft production, commercialization of wildfoods, monitoring the impact of game and live-stock on wild plants around water points, andmaking sure that the board is exposed to abroader set of issues and concerns.

This is not simply a matter of gender equity but ofusing the conservancy to build a more secure basefor the future. The Ju/’hoan are dependent onmore than game for survival. One indication ofthis came in the difficulty the community had inestablishing conservancy boundaries. The taskseemed simple enough from the outside. The vet-erinary fence to the south, the border fence withBotswana to the east, and the Khaudum Reserve tothe north left only the western border to mark.Meetings were held with n!oresi in the west, butthese communities and their leaders chose not tojoin the conservancy. The senior communityranger visited the westernmost villages that wishedto join and took Global Positioning System (GPS)readings for their resources that would demarcatethe last remaining boundary line. It still took sev-eral months for the NNFC leadership to resolve thematter. Some community members not onlywanted to include the villages that had declined tojoin but areas even farther west that lay outsideNyae Nyae altogether and had no wildlife. Whenasked why, people explained that they did not wantto be cut off from gathering bush foods essential totheir livelihoods during times of drought.


The effort to expand activities from the conser-vancy beyond wildlife to crafts that can be soldto tourists visiting the area and the KhaudumReserve can also be viewed in this context. Itnot only makes good economic sense, it is also away of building support for the conservancy invillages that do not have ample game. It also hasthe advantage of bringing a broader array ofresources into the community-based system ofsustainable management.

However a new problem has accompanied thenew opportunities. Now that the Ju/’hoan seemany of their crafts as valuable sources ofincome, the traditional view of ownership hascome under stress. By custom the raw materialsbelong to all members of the n!ore in whichthey occur, but they become the property of theperson doing the craftwork. The n!ore kxao, asleader of the group and steward of its commonresources, manages the resource base for thebenefit of everyone. So it was a surprise whena steward, just before the conservancy opened,began charging craft producers fees for theresources they had collected and were using.The issue was discussed at a village meeting,and the villagers, at the urging of NNFC, agreedto uphold the traditional system. The n!orekxao went on charging fees anyway. Hisactions were confined to one village, but theypoint to a new set of issues that will not goaway and that the Ju/’hoan will have to address.Versions of private ownership may arise that canresult in social and economic inequality andfracture support for the community institutionsmanaging the conservancy. Serious resourcedegradation could follow, as happened in Kenyawhen the government created “group ranches”on land that the Masai had previously held col-lectively (Lawry 1990).

Many of the problems that the Ju/’hoan face arenot of their own making. What they are beingasked to do is extraordinarily difficult—to man-age a resource to which they have limited rights,and to do so without secure tenure over the com-munal land upon which the sustainability of thatresource ultimately depends. The final sectionlooks at some of the lessons this project offers tocommunity-based resource management not justin Nyae Nyae, but in Namibia and elsewhere.

V. Lessons from the Ju/’hoanBushmen

The story of the Ju/’hoan is unique in manyways. It is developing against a backdrop of arelatively progressive policy and legislativeframework, with secure long-term funding inwhich money and technical assistance are wellmatched to the tasks. It describes a homoge-neous community with a strong cultural identitythat holds dear its wildlife for both intrinsic andsubsistence values. Furthermore the commu-nity’s goals are compatible with those of theMET, the leading conservation organization inthe area. Perhaps most important, there is stilltime left for Nyae Nyae. Ecologists say thehabitat remains intact because the Ju/’hoan haveso few cattle. Given additional water sources,the game should recover (Stuart-Hill andPerkins 1997).

Yet the Ju/’hoan are traveling a road that manyother local communities will find familiar. Thestatus of the Real People as indigenous and mar-ginalized, for instance, has led some outsiders toassume that the most effective strategy is to dothings for the Ju/’hoan rather than to strengthentheir ability to do things for themselves. Othershave noted, in myriad places, the damage that canspread from this misperception. This perspective“reveals the dangers inherent in links betweencommunity and external actors. External inter-ventions can easily shift from facilitation to co-option” (Murphree 1994). Murphree concludes:“Community-based conservation programs thuspose a dilemma: [T]hey require the very commu-nity–external linkages that have such high poten-tial to subvert the community itself.” Murphreesuggests that clear priorities should be specifiedfor all activities and that the community’s inter-ests, responsibility, and authority should be para-mount. Jones (1996b) adds, “Institutionalrelationships must be structured so that outsideorganizations are cast firmly in the role of sup-porting agencies to community organizations.”

The following lessons can be drawn about con-servancies and community-based natural resourcemanagement (CBNRM). They ring with greaterauthority for other communities in Namibia, butthey offer insights that will be of use elsewhere.


5.1 Legislation to grant rights to selectresources can be self-defeating if collec-tive communal units do not also have orreceive strong property rights to theland itself.

In Namibia the conservancy legislation clearlystipulates that the community does not haverights over the land, only usufruct rights oversome of the wildlife and the benefits derivedfrom them. This creates a double bind. Theofficial policy to decentralize wildlife manage-ment by handing it over to the local communityis subverted by denying the community thesecure tenure it needs to maintain sustainablegame populations. For example, in Nyae Nyaethe community has no legal authority to preventthe Herero from moving again into the conser-vancy to graze their cattle. There is no guaran-tee what will happen if government turns a blindeye. Unless the conservancy is grounded insecure tenure, it will be in constant danger.

The lack of comprehensive legislation is not sim-ply a question of the state trying to retain finalauthority. It also points to how policy reform israrely coordinated, and how the state oftenspeaks with more than one voice. Although sen-ior policy makers at the MET are aware of thedouble bind, the agency lacks the power toaddress it directly. It has chosen instead to workclosely with local NGOs to play a prominent rolein developing an NGO position paper to clarifyand sharpen the public debate on land reform.International conservation NGOs can supportpolicy analysis necessary for reform and providethis information to the advocates of change. TheLIFE Program supported a critique of the conser-vancy legislation by the University of Namibiaand outreach activities by others.

5.2 Legislation is hollow without theresources, skills, and political will forimplementation.

By almost any standard, the legislation inNamibia is progressive—it gives local communi-ties the authority to manage and benefit fromtheir resources. What sounds good, however,may not be good in practice. In Nyae Nyae theMET lacks the financial and human resources tocarry their share of the load, which threatens toundermine the building of an effective partner-

ship with the community. MET’s local branchstaff is frequently unable to meet its commit-ments to collect data or attend meetings.

Indeed there are doubts about how fully commit-ted the agency is to carrying out the legislation.A debate still rages within the ranks of METbetween advocates of preservation and of commu-nity-based natural resource management. Seniorofficials talk the new talk. But field staff tend tochange attitudes only with the addition of newpersonnel when holdovers leave by attrition,rather than through some systematic process. TheMET has yet to change job descriptions, perform-ance criteria, and training procedures to supportCBNRM, and many field staff lack the skills andexperience necessary to work with the commu-nity. As one MET official casually stated, “I tookthis job because I wanted to be alone in the bushwith the wildlife, not to work with communities.”

This debate exists within many conservationinstitutions, and will not be easily resolved. Yetunless change occurs throughout an institution,the handful of dreamers and visionaries whospeak for the organization will be unable to shiftits approach and philosophy on the ground.

International conservation NGOs can supporttraining—targeted at both field staff and nationalpolicy makers—as well as create forums for pol-icy debate. Conservation NGOs are in a positionto see the big picture and address an institution asa whole, rather than argue a narrow point of viewshaped by the interests of patrons or the guardingof bureaucratic turf. However seeing the big pic-ture and offering help is not always enough.Namibia illustrates the paradox that can ensue.LIFE’s attempts to address the lack of politicalwill within MET were met by indifference to theopportunities for change offered by the program.Training works only if the institution wants itspeople trained and if the staff is open to newideas and approaches. The challenge for conser-vation organizations in finding ways of encourag-ing institutional reform and capacity building isnot simply a question of finding and distributingthe right manual. One must work closely withstaff and design efforts that are adapted to thespecific circumstances at hand.


5.3 Local governments are stakeholders andmust be involved in the policy process.

Local governments’ interest in resource man-agement within their jurisdictions makes themlegitimate stakeholders. They play a role incoordinating and balancing local interests andare often involved in land-use decisions. Thereare several ways to increase their involvement.One is simply to keep them informed of what ishappening and why. They might also be given agreater formal role in legitimizing local commu-nity institutions or activities. Taxes on incomegenerated by the conservancy might also bepaid into the local government coffer. Whilethe community’s interests are paramount, otherinterested parties must also be accommodated.

Local governmental structures, often onlyrecently empowered with rights and responsibili-ties, are hesitant to pass on this newfound author-ity to lower levels of social organization.Murphree (1991) refers to this as “the bureau-cratic impulse to resist the loss of authority andthe tendency to enlarge administrative struc-tures.” In addition, when financial benefits are atstake, local government may want to retainresource control for its own present and futureobligations. Local public structures may seecommunity empowerment as a threat to theirdecision-making authority and the means to rein-force or expand their power.

To prevent local government from hijacking theprocess, legislation must strongly and clearlygive rights to community institutions and definethe role the local governmental structure is toplay. Even if there is a lack of political will tofully implement the legislation, communitieswill pressure authorities and demand their rightsif they know they are being cheated out of them.Murphree (1997) writes, “To the farmers ofcommunal lands, the delineation of what theyare missing is a critical step in the escalation oftheir assertiveness.”

5.4 Fully integrate local knowledge,values, and social organization into the project cycle.

While this lesson is not new, the Ju/’hoan casesupports the tenet that integrating local knowl-edge into the project cycle is likely to result inactivities that are more appropriate, and therefore

probably more sustainable. Efforts to do so,however, must go far beyond merely document-ing traditional beliefs and practices, as manyanthropologists have done in Nyae Nyae, toengaging communities in substantive dialogueand joint decision making. This takes patienceand significant resources. Conservation organi-zations need to think in terms of building a long-term dialogue grounded in mutual respect andtrust. Care must be taken not to undermine localcommunities’ rights to self-determination by act-ing precipitously to conserve biodiversity.

5.5 There can be significant differencesbetween democratic procedures anddemocracy.

The staff of the NNDFN who built the earlystructures of the NNFC had the best interests ofthe Ju/’hoan at heart. They designed the institu-tional structures in the image of what they knewbest: democratic procedures revolving aroundrepresentatives and elections. Ultimately thisapproach resulted in the exclusion of subgroupswithin the community, particularly women andelders, and a takeover of decision making byelites. The LIFE Program facilitated the commu-nity’s search for its own solutions. Recognizingthe need for an organization that would haveauthority, legitimacy, and be able to communicateeffectively with external actors, the Ju/’hoan set-tled on the Board of Management, accompaniedby several additional communication paths: thecommunity rangers, district meetings, and anannual general meeting. As Megan Biesele(1994) writes, “allowing traditional ideas andmodels to persist or to be changed organically bythe people’s own initiatives is a pretty good indi-cator of democracy at work.”

The Ju/’hoan have made great strides since 1994in building the accountability and transparency oftheir community institutions, but work still needsto be done. The current system of district meet-ings is still overly dependent on transportationprovided by the NNFC, and not all residentsattend. It could potentially be beneficial toexplore a more “bottom-up” approach andexpand the district organizational concept toinclude “village associations.” It would be possi-ble for the board to construct, jointly with villageresidents, maps depicting n!oresi that worktogether to manage natural resources. These


groups of collaborating n!oresi could then formthe basis of village associations. This wouldbuild on the traditional networks for managingcommon resources. One or more members of theboard could represent these “n!oresi associa-tions.” Current board members would probablyremain—the change would be in the extent ofarea covered and number of people to whom theymust report.

5.6 Outsiders have an important role to playas facilitators of community analysis anddecision making, and as brokers betweenthe community and other stakeholders.

The facilitative role of LIFE’s technical advisorfor community-based natural resource manage-ment was crucial to the development of the NyaeNyae Conservancy. Underlying this role was acommitment to the community’s inherent right toplan, manage, and benefit from their resource use.The community learned from mistakes andadjusted its program accordingly. The outsideorganization played an important role in undertak-ing independent annual assessments and assistingthe community with analyzing the issues anddeveloping possible solutions. But facilitatorsmust consciously recognize the potential dangersof inadvertently co-opting the community to thefacilitator’s point of view rather than sparking thedevelopment of the community’s own ideas. Co-option can too easily subvert rather than supportcommunity-based conservation.

The goal is to prepare the community to participatein authentic partnerships. An authentic partnershiphas four qualities: mutual trust, transparency, reci-procity, and accountability. Both parties mustknow that promises will be honored, and this mustbe demonstrated over time. Agendas must beclearly stated; sources of funding, allocations,monitoring and evaluation reports, and other perti-nent information must be shared. Neither partyshould impose a condition on the other that it isunwilling to undertake itself. Finally, partnersmust agree on procedures by which they will beheld responsible for their actions.

LIFE thought of partnership in two ways. Thefirst involved its own relationship with the com-munity in building strong and flexible representa-tive institutions. The LIFE Program played acritical role in facilitating community-level discus-

sions of the key issues in order to identify solu-tions (Jones 1996b). Providing the communitywith an annual independent assessment and thenfacilitating their analysis and integration of theresults into project management was key to build-ing skills in problem solving, gender analysis,institutional development, and strategic planning.LIFE also facilitated training and helped the com-munity hire and learn how to manage the technicalassistance it needed, based on the belief that previ-ous low levels of participation in decision makingstemmed from the community’s lack of skills andknowledge. Care was taken to make sure that thecommunity set the pace so that facilitation did notmutate into a patron-client relationship in whichthe community took a secondary position as the“less skilled, less informed” partner.

As the community found its own voice, attentionturned to helping it become an effective partnerwith other stakeholders in resource management.This would eventually involve other actors, butthe key early relationship was with MET. TheLIFE technical advisor acted as a broker in theevolving relationship. Experience has shown thatfor an authentic partnership to form, all stake-holders must recognize the community’s right toparticipate in decision making. So a key earlydecision was to narrow the focus of theNNWMC to wildlife issues within Nyae Nyae.As a result, the stakeholders were limited toMET staff, subsequently including theDirectorate of Forestry, and the NNFC, repre-sented by its board and the community rangers.By limiting the topics and thereby the interestgroups, it was easier to reach concrete decisionsand implement them. Generally LIFE’s technicaladvisor would meet with NNFC representativesbefore the NNWMC meeting to help them planstrategy, prepare discussion points, and decidewhat they believed was or was not negotiable.During the meetings, the advisor helped eachside see the other’s position, understand the moti-vations behind it, and develop a mutually under-standable language for seeing the big picture andbringing issues and solutions into focus.

To ensure that the community could participatefully, meetings were scheduled whenever possi-ble in Nyae Nyae since MET headquarters in thecapital city is a hard eight-hour drive away. Thatplaced a burden on MET, which is also often


strapped for time and resources. So the LIFEProgram provided funds to enable the NNFC toreimburse its representatives when travel wasnecessary. NGOs and donors working with com-munity-based organizations must realize thatmeetings will often be held far away from thelocal community, in cities and office buildings ofmore powerful stakeholders. Community repre-sentatives will need to be compensated for timespent away from their homes and work. Theywill also need resources to be able to hold meet-ings with their constituents before they departand after they return.

Communication did improve and power relationsbecame more balanced once MET adopted com-munity-based conservation as its official policyin 1996, but obstacles to an honest partnershipremain. Prior to establishing the conservancy,the NNWMC meetings never resulted in jointdecision making by the local community andMET. The underlying problem is that the NNFClacks the authority to participate in all aspects ofwildlife management, the most obvious being thelack of control over land. That may begin tochange as the NNFC shows its ability to managethe conservancy, and as realization deepens inMET that neither the central government nor thecommunity can manage wildlife sustainably untilthere is communal land tenure.

Finally, while not explicitly analyzed in this casestudy, the LIFE technical advisor worked as amember of a team. The expertise and knowledgeof a diverse group of specialists were needed tosupport the integrated conservation and develop-ment program of a conservancy. Because theNyae Nyae Conservancy was developed withinthe context of a national CBNRM program, itwas also important to facilitate the sharing ofexperiences and learning within the network ofcommunities developing conservancies.

5.7 Replication is not duplication, but projects have much to learn from one another.

Visiting the CAMPFIRE Program in Zimbabwewas a crucial step in the evolution of the NyaeNyae Conservancy, because it gave NNFC lead-ers and the community rangers confidence in theenterprise and a better perspective on how theywould do things differently. Now Nyae Nyae has

blazed a trail that can be followed by other com-munities in Namibia.

Several factors will make it easier for otherNamibian communities to follow and embellishthe NNFC map. The national program is grow-ing, and more NGOs and communities are sign-ing on. As they plan and develop conservanciesthere will be greater opportunity to exchangeexperiences and skills. The MET is slowlyevolving its methods and philosophy to be betterable to implement the policy. Local governmentis increasingly involved and supportive. Specifictools for awareness building, for using GPS map-ping to promote participation and communica-tion, and for analyzing institutional capabilityhave been developed.

Yet one should not presume that progress will beuniform. Several factors have also made devel-opment of the conservancy in Nyae Nyae easierthan it might be elsewhere. The conservationgoals of the MET—to maintain biological diver-sity and ecological processes and to improve thequality of life for all Namibians—are compatiblewith the livelihood strategies of the Ju/’hoan.Generally, conflicts have not stemmed from dif-ferences in objectives, but from differences in themeans employed to reach those objectives. Theconservancy is an approach, legitimized throughlegislation, that both parties have agreed to fol-low to reach similar goals.

In other regions of Namibia compatibility ofgoals is far less clear. In areas where crop pro-duction is dominant, for example, conflicts aremore prevalent. Furthermore, the specific con-texts, both social and ecological, are different.Although the conservancy concept still offers aviable option in these cases, the size and mem-bership of the conservancy, the ways of benefit-ing, the institutional structure, and the definitionof the partnership will vary widely.

Many challenges lie ahead for the Ju/’hoan andthe other communities involved. In some ways,the most difficult work—ensuring that the com-munity manages the conservancy sustainably anddelivers benefits equitably—is still ahead. Forthat to happen, the government-community part-nership must continue to evolve. Without thewillingness to learn from one another, manage-ment of wildlife and other natural resources islikely to prove impossible.


Endnotes1. This work draws upon the ideas and experi-ences of many other practitioners and academics,including Marshall Murphree, Hugh Hogan,Murray Dawson-Smith, Neil Powell, Jo Tagg,and the whole LIFE team. I thank Janis Alcornand Mac Chapin for their comments and closereadings of earlier drafts. I am particularlyindebted to Brian Jones, a longtime colleagueand friend, without whom the work of the con-servancies would not be possible. Most impor-tant, I wish to thank the people of Nyae Nyae forsharing with me their time and ideas, especiallyKxao Moses =Oma, Benjamin /Ai!ae /Aice, andShebby Mate. I would not know what I think Iknow today if it were not for their patience,detailed explanations, and support during myyears in Namibia.

2. In January 1997 a small group of Bushmenstaged a protest demanding the return of theirindigenous territory, presently Etosha NationalPark. They were quickly arrested and silenced,but not before their story reached the interna-tional press. Then in April, John Hardbattle fromBotswana took a case to the Human RightsCommission to protest the removal of Ju/’hoanfrom the Central Kalahari Game Reserve.

3. The evolution of the NNFC before 1995 isdocumented more fully in Wyckoff-Baird (1996).

4. As a result, attendance rose nearly fourfold,reaching as high as 250, or more than 25 percentof all adults.

5. The Nyae Nyae Conservancy constitutionstates: “The community residing in the NyaeNyae area of Tjum!kui District wishes to estab-lish a conservancy to: 1) restore and sustainablymanage and utilize the area’s wildlife for thebenefit of present and future generations and formaintaining Namibia’s biodiversity; and 2) pro-mote the economic and social well-being of themembers of the conservancy by equitably distrib-uting the benefits generated through consumptiveand nonconsumptive exploitation of the wildlife.”

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Wyckoff-Baird, Barbara. 1996. Democracy:Indicators from Ju/’hoan Bushmen in Namibia.Cultural Survival 20 (2).


PART THREE: CONCLUSIONS

The concluding part of this book contains two sec-tions. The first draws lessons that emerged fromdiscussions of the case studies at a workshop oncollaborating with indigenous groups held byWWF in 1998. The second looks to the futureand what conservation organizations are doing, orneed to do, to advance stakeholder collaboration.

I. Lessons from ExperienceIn 1998 WWF staff from programs and projectsaround the world met to pool their knowledgeabout collaborating with indigenous groups andto distill from firsthand experience lessons forfuture conservation efforts. Case studies pre-sented by their authors provided rich, practicalinformation to fuel the discussions. While thecase study contexts were quite different, severalcommon themes emerged. In general, the casesrevealed that what worked best were community-level efforts that involved

• dialogue, joint activities, and mutual learn-ing on shared interests in natural resourcemanagement;

• in-depth understanding of the local socioe-conomic context and institutions;

• focus on a resource that the communitybelieved was threatened; and

• relatively small financial inputs and tech-nology that matched communities’ skilllevels.

The lessons are organized under four themes thatwere highlighted during the workshop discus-sion: finding common goals, strengtheningindigenous institutions for collaboration, sharingconservation knowledge, and establishing appro-priate project processes. Discussion of eachtheme concludes with a series of recommenda-tions for how conservation organizations canimprove collaboration with indigenous groups.Many of these recommendations are applicableto work done at larger scales, such as ecoregion-based conservation.

1.1 Finding Common Goals WWF’s experience reveals that while the goals ofconservation organizations and indigenous peo-ples often overlap, their motivations and method-ologies often differ. Indigenous people want touse natural resources sustainably to ensure theirlivelihoods, maintain control over their lands,preserve their cultural heritage, and provide fortheir children and grandchildren. In Brazil,Namibia, and Bolivia, indigenous communities

CHAPTER 8Signposts for the Road Ahead

were concerned about the decline in wildlife populations not only because game is the mostdesired food, but also because hunting is a cen-tral aspect of their social life.

Conservation organizations, on the other hand,want first and foremost to conserve the biodiver-sity of important ecosystems around the world.To achieve this goal, they support a variety ofstrategies including strict protection, sustainablenatural resource management and related socio-economic activities, policy reform, partnerships,and capacity building.

Yet there are a number of areas where the inter-ests of the two parties intersect. Geography is apowerful force binding indigenous groups andconservation organizations together. As dis-cussed in the first two chapters, much of the bio-diversity that conservation groups want toconserve is in areas where indigenous peoplelive. Conservation organizations can benefitfrom the fact that indigenous groups are commit-ted to living on and protecting the land over thelong term. In turn, by collaborating with conser-vation organizations, indigenous groups can gainadditional skills and resources to help them pro-tect their lands and their ways of life. Mappingand other activities related to documentingresource management, for instance, can beimportant in establishing and maintaining legaltenure. Beyond tenure, both parties want to pre-vent environmental damage from large-scale eco-nomic and infrastructure development, and todevelop sustainable alternatives. Finally, bothhave important knowledge to share about conser-vation and resource use. These common interestscan form a foundation for collaboration, and setthe stage for lasting partnerships.

Where this confluence of interests sometimessplits is in setting resource management priorities,such as which species are most important to pro-tect, appropriate levels of resource use, and whatstrategy will be most effective. Differences alsotend to emerge regarding the degree to whichconservation organizations should support eco-nomic development activities. Geographically,conservation organizations are increasingly inter-ested in conserving large regions containing mul-tiple ecosystems that often go beyond theboundaries of indigenous territories.

In some cases, differences that seem deep-seatedare actually the result of misunderstanding. Forexample, while indigenous groups are generallynot familiar with the term biodiversity, they areconcerned with conserving a diversity ofresources to maintain healthy subsistenceeconomies, to protect important aspects of theircultures, and to benefit future generations. Iftheir respective priorities are better understoodthrough creative planning and compromise, thetwo groups can collaborate to achieve their goals.

In the case study from Ecuador, the objectives ofthe government, donors, NGOs, and the indige-nous federation and its community membersoverlapped, but did not completely coincide. TheRuna wanted to secure their land and livelihoodsover the long term. Beneath this unity of pur-pose, however, the federation and the participat-ing communities had their own agendas, whichwere not thoroughly aired before the project gotunder way. Development agencies and conserva-tion groups were promoting a sustainable forestryenterprise that would help put the market to workconserving habitat. They did not ask whether themodel chosen was appropriate to communitiesthat had never worked together or had prior expe-rience running an economic enterprise. Fundingwas short-term and tightly scheduled so thatbasic questions about local capacity to carry outthe project once outsiders withdrew were notasked or answered. Insufficient attention wasalso paid to the federation’s capacity to help notonly these but other communities once the fund-ing ran out. The government, meanwhile, movedforward on its own and established a park inwhich Runa communities would have no deci-sion-making role but would serve as a cost-effec-tive buffer to prevent encroachment by colonists.As a result, much of the community now sees thepark not as a protective shield but as a loss ofcontrol over their ancestral territories. If thestakeholders had discussed and reconciled theirobjectives at the outset, a different project designmight have emerged that would have been moresustainable and had wider impact.

While indigenous people and conservationistsmay have common interests, the time frames forachieving their respective goals are often differ-ent. Conservation groups are often bound to athree-to-five-year project cycle established by

140 Signposts for the Road Ahead

their donors. Obviously the lives of indigenouspeoples do not revolve around a project cycle.They often need time to assess what is happeningto their environment, absorb new information andideas, and develop their own solutions. In theBrazil case, when the community said theyneeded several months to discuss the proposedmanagement plan, project staff gave them thespace to work through the issues. Developedmore recently, the Namibia project is uniqueamong conservation and development projects inthat it was designed to be implemented over a10-year period. This long-term commitmentreflected awareness of the time it takes to under-stand the local context, build trust, strengthencapacity, create a favorable policy environment,and design appropriate activities. Once a grantends, conservation organizations can also supportindigenous groups in other ways, such as provid-ing them with advice and information and withlinks to networks and other resources.

The collaborative process is often as important asthe explicit project goals. Priorities need to beclearly articulated and discussed at the beginningof a potential collaboration to ensure that com-mon ground exists, and to avoid misunderstand-ings down the road. In some cases, groups mayhave secondary agendas that will emerge througha process of dialogue. The development ofresource management plans was successful in theBrazil, Namibia, and Papua New Guinea casesbecause of how decisions were reached. All ofthem involved a long process of dialogue withcommunities, including joint data collection,which allowed new information to be absorbedand stimulated the recovery of traditional knowl-edge. By working closely with the community,an outside expert earned peoples’ trust andhelped them identify and assess their options.Because the community could take the lead rolein developing a strategy, a consensus was formedthat made the strategy easier to implement.

Conservation organization staff or other outsideadvisors who play roles as facilitators, acting asbrokers between the community and other stake-holders and exposing communities to new ideas,must be sure that the community accepts theirrole and is aware that advisors also have theirown priorities.

Recommendations• Don’t embark on a collaborative effort with

preconceived solutions; be aware that giveand take are needed in order to reach a sus-tainable solution.

• Recognize the dynamic change indigenouscultures are undergoing; outside organiza-tions seeking to partner with them need torespect and support, as appropriate, theirefforts toward self-determination andsocioeconomic development.

• Make a long-term commitment to dialogueand partnership.

• Make sure that communication is two-way;be clear, transparent, consistent, and honestin communicating with partners.

• Secure the agreement of all partnersregarding who will facilitate the collabora-tive process.

1.2 Strengthening Indigenous Institutionsfor Collaboration

In order to manage their resources effectively andinteract equitably with other stakeholders, indige-nous groups need institutions that are able toidentify and articulate their priorities. Toadvance their agendas, indigenous groups have inrecent years formed a variety of organizationsincluding community-level associations andregional and national federations. The form thatthese institutions take is often influenced by out-siders who promote the democratic structures andprocedures, such as representatives and elections,with which they are most familiar. As discussedin the Namibia case, this can result “in the exclu-sion of subgroups within the community, particu-larly women and elders, and a takeover ofdecision making by [young] elites.” New projectstaff subsequently facilitated a process in whichthe community used traditional values to forgetheir own unique institutional structures andmeans of communication.

Before becoming involved in modifying old orestablishing new institutional structures, conserva-tion organizations need to understand the culture,subgroups within the community, and traditionaldecision-making processes. What works will oftenbe a blend of new and old decision-making mecha-nisms that both builds on traditional practices and

Signposts for the Road Ahead 141

adapts to current realities. In the case of PapuaNew Guinea, clan groups that are the traditionaldecision-making structures and recently formedWildlife Management Area Committees bothplayed a role in the fish-monitoring effort. InNamibia, the first three years of the project weredevoted largely to institution building.

How they represent themselves to outsiders is anissue that traditional cultures increasingly need toaddress. In many of the groups featured in the casestudies, individuals do not have the authority torepresent the group. The Ju/’hoan in Namibia say“each one of us is a headman over himself.” Inmany indigenous communities, young, educated,and articulate men are beginning to promote them-selves as community spokesmen, playing the roleof what one author calls a “culture broker”—a per-son who can interact in both the traditional and themodern worlds. Outside organizations areattracted to this type of leader since they find iteasier to communicate with one individual whospeaks the language of modernity. As was the casein Namibia and Brazil, culture brokers can poseproblems if they lose touch with the communityand forfeit its trust.

In several of the cases, as decision-makingprocesses became more formalized, certain sec-tors of the community were excluded. The exclu-sion of women proved to be a crucial omissionsince women are often involved in subsistenceactivities and have knowledge key to naturalresource management. In Papua New Guinea andBrazil, separate meetings were held with womenin an attempt to bring their perspectives into theplanning process. In Namibia, institutions andleadership structures were adapted through aprocess of participatory research to make themmore responsive to all sectors of the community.

Federations of indigenous organizations playedcentral roles in all of the Latin America cases,particularly in getting indigenous concerns onthe national agenda, lobbying for laws and poli-cies to expand indigenous rights, and obtainingdonor funding. Yet they are having difficultymoving beyond public advocacy to the effectiveprovision of services, including efforts to helpmember communities design and implementincome-generating projects based on renewableresources. The lessons that apply to buildingcapacity with local associations and communi-

ties also need to be applied at the federationlevel if ecoegion conservation is to be achieved.Federations in Ecuador, for instance, have for-mulated proposals for comanagement of pro-tected areas, but they still need to demonstratethe skills that are required to put the idea intoaction. The state is much more likely to regardthem as a partner if it believes they can pull theirown weight. NGOs and donors can play animportant role in encouraging the state to experi-ment with such partnerships and can providetechnical assistance to help participants makethem work, as was the case in Namibia.

Recommendations• Take time to understand traditional decision-

making structures and processes beforemodifying or establishing institutions.

• Recognize that forming new organizationstakes a lot of time, effort, and resources,and that communities need the time andspace to develop or modify their ownorganizations.

• Verify that representatives of communitygroups truly represent the range of commu-nity views; be aware of the pitfalls ofworking through “culture brokers” or aneducated elite.

• Find appropriate ways to involve disenfran-chised groups, such as women, in naturalresource planning and management.

• Examine the strengths and weaknesses offederations of indigenous groups as part-ners in large-scale conservation efforts,such as ecoregion-based conservation.

1.3 Sharing Knowledge about NaturalResources

Enhancing mutual understanding and informationsharing between Western scientists and indige-nous people about natural resources and ecologi-cal processes produces better conservation plans,as exemplified in several of the cases. Theauthors suggest that two types of indigenousknowledge are important for conservation. Onetype is practical and includes information aboutday-to-day resource use that can help in thedevelopment of resource management plans. Theother is broader and encompasses a culture’s


views of the relationship between people andnature. This information is important to under-stand when talking to communities about conser-vation goals.

Traditional knowledge is dynamic, not static as isoften assumed. It is modified over time as com-munities interact with the external environment.But it is also eroding rapidly around the world,becoming stories rather than methodology—atrend which will be a great loss for peoples’ cul-tural integrity, and for conservation. Recognitionof the importance of traditional knowledge is notonly important to natural resource planning;recovering this knowledge reinforces culturalpride, helps communities understand howchanges in their lifestyle are affecting theresource base, and mobilizes participation toimplement remedies.

Resource management planning is much moreeffective if there is a two-way exchange of infor-mation between biologists and indigenous groupsabout natural resources and their use. Local peo-ple have detailed knowledge about species thatare important to them, but often a more limitedunderstanding of the overall characteristics of thewider ecosystem and how resource use affects it.To benefit from each other’s knowledge, thesetwo groups need to find more effective ways ofcommunicating and understanding one another.

The Xavante project in Brazil was among thefirst attempts to integrate hunters’ and biologists’understandings of game management. In PapuaNew Guinea, scientists used traditional taxonomyto refine their own analyses and record the exis-tence of two new species. The Brazil andNamibia cases show that by working with indige-nous groups to develop management plans,Western scientists found indigenous knowledgeuseful in the establishment of wildlife refugeareas. An approach that worked in several caseswas for biologists to develop resource manage-ment options (based on joint data collection)from which the community made the final selec-tion. And because this process is grounded indialogue, the plan that is selected incorporatesprocedures that allow for corrections as futurecircumstances dictate.

Recommendations• Invest more in understanding and incorpo-

rating indigenous knowledge and worldviews into conservation planning.

• Promote greater understanding and infor-mation exchange between modern scien-tists and indigenous peoples. Use jointdata collection and analysis, especiallymapping, as a tool for building skills andfor discussing natural resource manage-ment issues and priorities.

1.4 Establishing Appropriate ProjectProcesses

The process or approach employed by a projectcan either create dependence on the donor or part-ner or build the community’s capacity and moti-vation to sustain the activity. A key issue indetermining which outcome prevails is the pro-ject’s time frame and pace. Activities should beplanned and implemented based on the commu-nity’s ability to participate, so that local resourcescan be mobilized and local people can takeresponsibility and credit for outcomes. For exam-ple, community decision making is often basedon consensus, which takes time to generate.Spending time up front to build community skillsand institutions also builds a foundation for sus-tainability. Short-term funding cycles and rigidproject time frames do not give the communityenough time to assess resource managementissues, gather needed information, and generateand discuss options.

Enabling the community to play a greater rolein project implementation in areas like staffingwill also increase their “ownership” of and abil-ity to manage project activities. For example, inthe Xavante project the community and the con-servation organization jointly developed a list ofthree candidates for a game monitoring position,from which the community selected the finalist.In Namibia, the project provided funds for abiologist who was identified and managed bythe community.

Policies that expand local control over resourcedecision making are another important way toempower indigenous communities. In Namibia,the passage of the conservancy law, which WWFactively supported, helps the Ju/’hoan reinforcetheir borders and control incursions. This, in


turn, provides the security the community needsto invest in resource management. In Bolivia, anewly enacted forest law is positive in that it rec-ognizes local communities’ role in naturalresource management. However, some of itsrequirements, such as the stipulation that com-munities produce resource management plansendorsed by forest professionals, price local peo-ple out of the process and can bring communityaction to a standstill. Both cases show that policy issues do not stop with the drafting andpassing of legislation but extend to engaging theadministrative agencies charged with drawing uprules and procedures for implementation.

A project’s scale of effort can also affect its sus-tainability. In general, the case studies showedthat the most successful efforts were those thathad relatively small budgets and were carried outover a relatively long period of time. Too big aninfusion of outside resources and the introductionof complex technologies can overwhelm localaccountability and result in overdependence onoutside institutions. In Ecuador, collaborationamong three communities on a timber processingenterprise was found to be both socially andtechnologically unsustainable. The fruit-process-ing effort that paralleled the wildlife managementproject in Brazil also suffered from the samedrawbacks. In assessing the impact of this lessonon efforts to conserve resources at larger scales,one should not preclude the possibility of scalingup community-level conservation efforts. Suchefforts, however, should be tested at smallerscales, carefully planned to ensure they aresocially sound, and proceed at a pace that partici-pants can handle.

Recommendations• Ensure that community decision-making

processes, the pace at which participantsare prepared to proceed, and the need forcapacity building are factored into projectdesign and implementation.

• Encourage donors to support more flexibleproject designs with longer time framesthat can be adjusted midstream to respondto what is being learned.

• Promote national policies that expand com-munity control over natural resource stew-ardship and lobby for adequate funding tomove policy from the drawing board toactual implementation.

• Find ways to replicate successful small-scale efforts.

II. Toward Building ConservationPartnerships with IndigenousPeoples

WWF and other conservation organizations haverecognized for some time that they need to workmore effectively with a diverse range of stake-holders, including indigenous peoples, if conser-vation goals are to be achieved. Discussions atthe 1998 workshop moved beyond what wasinvolved in successful local projects to throw aspotlight on the potential for indigenous groupsto be fully engaged as long-term conservationpartners. It heightened awareness of indigenouspeoples as important and unique conservationstakeholders, and generated recommendations forimproving collaborative efforts with them.Regardless of the scale of the effort, successfulcollaboration between conservation organizationsand indigenous peoples requires a foundation ofmutual understanding and respect; a well-facili-tated process of dialogue and negotiation; greatercapacity built through acquisition of new skillsand the creation of effective institutions; and afavorable policy environment. It is in these areasthat conservation organizations need to make asignificant investment.

Drawing on the recommendations outlinedabove, and the principles of stakeholder collabo-ration that they represent, WWF’s work onindigenous issues moved forward on a number ofnew fronts in 1999:

• In the Bering Sea ecoregion, covering por-tions of the United States and Russia,WWF and its partners have recognizedindigenous peoples as key stakeholders.As a result, input from indigenous peoplesis actively sought on the threats, problems,and conservation needs of the area.Activities carried out during the past twoyears included 1) support for a majornative peoples’ summit that brought


together approximately 300 indigenouspeople to discuss conservation and thehealth of the Bering Sea; 2) the participa-tion of native partners in press briefings toinform the public about issues affecting theregion; and 3) the funding of a study of tra-ditional resource use and a socio-ecologicalsurvey of local views on conservation andmarine resources in order to gauge interestin establishing a marine protected area thatwould include subsistence activities.

• In the southwest Amazon ecoregion, WWFand its partners have been actively involvedin engaging stakeholders and determiningconservation priorities. In the Bolivia por-tion of the ecoregion, for example, WWFand other groups have begun to identifyareas of significant biological importance,and in those areas to communicate withindigenous groups about exploring com-mon interests. While much more informa-tion and consultation is needed, possiblejoint activities include biological invento-ries, the development of wildlife manage-ment plans, community-based wildlifemonitoring, and the creation of a privateprotected area. Indigenous groups willalso be an integral part of broad-basedstakeholder dialogue and decision makingin the ecoregion.

• The framework policy on indigenous peoplesand protected areas on which WWF collabo-rated with the World Commission onProtected Areas (WCPA) was endorsed bythe IUCN Council in April 1999 and theWWF network in May 1999. This is nowthe official IUCN/WWF/WCPA position onprotected areas that overlap with the lands,territories, waters, coastal seas, and otherresources of indigenous and other traditionalpeoples. The policy provides guidelines forforging sustainable partnerships with the peo-ple who have been the traditional guardiansof a large number of the world’s biodiversity-rich habitats before they became protectedareas. Despite its limitations, the documentrepresents considerable progress and willopen more opportunities for collaborationwith indigenous and traditional peoples toensure the long-term survival of those areas.

• Capacity building for stakeholder collabo-ration is a WWF priority. Significantinvestments are being made to adapt whathas been learned in prior fieldwork,develop new tools, and test them in pilotefforts that bring stakeholders together toresolve conflicts and forge coalitions thatfurther conservation goals. Working withindigenous groups will be an importantpart of this effort.

• New developments have taken place in sev-eral of the projects reviewed in the casestudies. In Papua New Guinea, the fisheriesmanagement plan is being implemented andresources are being managed more sustain-ably. Income is being generated through avariety of community-run enterprises inNamibia. In Brazil, the resource manage-ment plan is being returned to the commu-nity via a manual and audiotapes in theXavante language.

A common sense of urgency has made conserva-tion organizations and indigenous peoplesincreasingly aware of one another and multipliedthe opportunities for collaboration. The possibili-ties are limited largely by the willingness to lookfor them. While their aims and approaches arenot identical, nearly a decade of experience showsthat when both groups are willing to listen to oneanother and be flexible when searching for com-mon ground, both will make progress toward real-izing their goals. Effective partnerships are beingforged from an awareness that the land and itsnatural resources cannot be protected unless all itsstewards learn to work together.


JOHN BUTLER holds a Ph.D. in Anthropologyfrom the University of Florida. He has workedfor more than 16 years in community-based natu-ral resource management in Latin America, andspecialized in the Amazon Basin with a particularfocus on indigenous communities. Since 1990,he has worked with the WWF-Latin Americaprogram in Brazil, Peru, Bolivia, Argentina, andChile. While based in Brazil, he worked todevelop natural resource management projectswith several indigenous communities in theBrazilian Amazon and Cerrado.

LAURA R. GRAHAM is associate professor inthe Department of Anthropology of theUniversity of Iowa. Her extensive fieldworksince 1981 in the community of Etéñiritipa,Brazil, formed the basis for numerous articlesand the book Performing Dreams: Discourses ofImmortality among the Xavante.

DOMINIQUE IRVINE is consulting assistantprofessor in Anthropological Sciences at StanfordUniversity. She holds a master’s degree inforestry and environmental studies from YaleUniversity and a Ph.D. in ecological anthropol-ogy from Stanford University. During the past20 years she has worked with various indigenousfederations in Ecuador’s Napo Province on issuesof land rights, organizational strengthening,resource management, and marketing. She col-laborated with FCUNAE on a postdoctoral fel-

lowship from the Smithsonian Institution, andlater with FOIN when she was IndigenousResource Management Program director withCultural Survival from 1989 to 1995. Sheworked as an advisor to the PUMAREN Projectfrom its inception.

PATTY LARSON was with the World WildlifeFund’s People and Conservation Program from1991 to 1998 and coordinated the indigenous peo-ples initiative. Now an independent consultant onsustainable development and environment issues,she holds a master’s degree in international affairsfrom American University in Washington, D.C.

JOE REGIS is the community outreach programcoordinator of the Kikori Integrated Conservationand Development Project. He holds a master’sdegree in personnel management, industrial rela-tions, and labour welfare from Loyola College,Madras University, India, and has worked as acommunity development trainer and promoterwith NGOs and church groups in various parts ofAsia and Europe during the past 15 years.

WENDY R. TOWNSEND holds a Ph.D. in for-est resources and conservation, with a major inwildlife management and a minor in anthropol-ogy, from the University of Florida. She is coor-dinator of CIDOB’s Indigenous ManagementResearch Project in Bolivia.

Contributors

RON WEBER is a free-lance writer and editorbased in Washington, D.C. He was the editor ofGrassroots Development, the journal of the Inter-American Foundation, from 1991 to 1994, and acontributing editor from 1981 to 1991.

BARBARA WYCKOFF-BAIRD holds a mas-ter’s degree in anthropology from AmericanUniversity in Washington, D.C. She has workedfor more than 16 years in rural development andcommunity-based natural resource managementin Africa and elsewhere. Now an independentconsultant and senior associate of the AspenInstitute, she was the LIFE Program technicaladvisor to the Nyae Nyae Farmers Cooperativefrom 1994 to 1996.

148 Contributors

PhotographyCover (upper left), Kate Newman; cover (upper right), Laura R. Graham; cover (lower left), DominiqueIrvine; cover (lower right), Bija Sass and Paul Smotherman; page 21, William H. Durham; page 47,Laura R. Graham; page 73, Giandomenico Tono; page 91, Bija Sass and Paul Smotherman; page 113,Kate Newman.

The graphic design bar at the page heads is from Adobe Illustrator Deluxe software.

Contents

Foreword

Preamble

I. Rights and Interests of Indigenous Peoples

II. Conservation Objectives

III. Principles of Partnership

Foreword

Indigenous peoples inhabit nearly 20 per cent of the planet, mainly in areas where theyhave lived for thousands of years. Compared with protected area managers, who controlabout 6 per cent of the world’s land mass, indigenous peoples are the earth’s mostimportant stewards.

During more than three decades of conservation work, WWF has been approached bymany indigenous and rural communities seeking collaboration on issues like protected areamanagement and the conservation of natural resources. Notable amongst them are theHupa Indians of northern California, the Inuit of Isabella Bay in Canada, the Zoque Indiansof Mexico, the Karen of Thailand, the Shona people in Zimbabwe, the Kuna of Panama,the Shimshali of Pakistan, the Phoka people of northern Malawi, the Imagruen ofMauritania, the Ewenk of Siberia, and many others scattered all over the globe. WWF is,or has recently been, working with indigenous peoples in all regions of the world: inEurope, Latin America, North America, Asia, the Pacific, and Africa.

WWF’s views on the relationship between indigenous peoples and modern conservationhave been touched upon in several of our recent publications. As a result of its central rolein discussing indigenous peoples issues at the IV World Congress on National Parks and

Indigenous Peoples and Conservation:WWF Statement of PrinciplesA WWF International

Position Paper

Annex

Protected Areas, WWF published the book The Law of the Mother, edited by ElizabethKemf, which collects and analyses experiences at the interface between indigenous peo-ples and conservation, including several project sites where WWF has been involved. Inpublications like Conservation with People and Forests For Life, WWF has expressed itsconviction that indigenous peoples are crucial actors in conservation. Together with IUCNand UNEP, in Caring for the Earth WWF acknowledged the need for recognition “of theaboriginal rights of indigenous peoples to their lands and resources ... and to participateeffectively in decisions affecting their lands and resources”.

Despite this history, the statement which follows represents WWF’s first attempt toenunciate a broad policy to guide its work. It has been prepared following extensive con-sultation throughout the WWF network, which has an institutional presence in more than50 countries. Building consensus on an emotive and politically sensitive topic is far fromeasy; moreover, there is a great diversity of national and regional situations in countrieswhere WWF is active. The statement is our current best effort, but there may remain cer-tain issues on which full consensus has still to be built. The interpretation and applica-tion of the statement may thus need to be adapted according to each national context.These variations must be interpreted as an expression of the diversity of circumstanceswithin and outside the organization. From time to time, as WWF learns more about thetopic, the statement may be updated to incorporate new views or perspectives.

Over the coming months, WWF will be preparing guidelines to assist its Programmestaff in their work as it relates to the statement. As always, the implementation of suchguidelines will be determined by the twin constraints of personnel and funds.

We believe the statement is a far-sighted step for an international organization whosemission is the conservation of nature, but we also recognize it may not be perfect to alleyes. Therefore, we would be pleased to receive comment and criticism from readersof this statement, to enable us to continue to improve our approach and contribution inthis field.

Dr Claude Martin Dr Chris Hails

Director General Programme Director

Gland, Switzerland

22 May 1996

150 Annex

Indigenous Peoples1 and Conservation:WWF Statement of PrinciplesPrinciples for partnership between WWF and indigenous peoples’ organizations in conserving biodiversitywithin indigenous peoples’ lands and territories, and in promoting sustainable use of natural resources

Preamble1. Most of the remaining significant areas of high natural value on earth are inhabited by indigenous

peoples. This testifies to the efficacy of indigenous resource management systems. Indigenous peo-ples and conservation organizations should be natural allies in the struggle to conserve both a healthynatural world and healthy human societies. Regrettably, the goals of conserving biodiversity and pro-tecting and securing indigenous cultures and livelihoods have sometimes been perceived as contra-dictory rather than mutually reinforcing.

2. The principles for partnership outlined in this statement arise from WWF’s mission to conserve biodi-versity, combined with a recognition that indigenous peoples have been often stewards and protectorsof nature. Their knowledge, social, and livelihood systems - their cultures - are closely attuned to thenatural laws operating in local ecosystems. Unfortunately, such nature-attuned cultures have becomehighly vulnerable to destructive forces related to unsustainable use of resources, population expansion,and the global economy.

3. WWF recognizes that industrialized societies bear a heavy responsibility for the creation of thesedestructive forces. WWF believes that environmental and other non-governmental organizations, togetherwith other institutions worldwide, should adopt strategies with indigenous peoples, both to correct thenational and international political, economic, social, and legal imbalances giving rise to these destruc-tive forces, and to address their local effects. The following principles aim to provide guidance in formu-lating and implementing such strategies.

I. Rights and Interests of Indigenous Peoples4. WWF acknowledges that, without recognition of the rights of indigenous peoples, no constructive

agreements can be drawn up between conservation organizations and indigenous peoples groups.

5. Since indigenous peoples are often discriminated against and politically marginalized, WWF is com-mited to make special efforts to respect, protect, and comply with their basic human rights and cus-tomary as well as resource rights, in the context of conservation initiatives. This includes, but is notlimited to, those set out in national and international law, and in other international instruments.

In particular, WWF fully endorses the provisions about indigenous peoples contained in the follow-ing international instruments:

• Agenda 21

• Convention on Biological Diversity

• ILO Convention 169 (Convention Concerning Indigenous and Tribal Peoples in IndependentCountries)2

• Draft UN Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples3

6. WWF appreciates the enormous contributions indigenous peoples have made to the maintenance ofmany of the earth’s most fragile ecosystems. It recognizes the importance of indigenous resourcerights and knowledge for the conservation of these areas in the future.

7. WWF recognizes indigenous peoples as rightful architects of and partners for conservation anddevelopment strategies that affect their territories.

Annex 151

8. WWF recognizes that indigenous peoples have the rights to the lands, territories, and resources thatthey have traditionally owned or otherwise occupied or used, and that those rights must be recog-nized and effectively protected, as laid out in the ILO Convention 169.

9. WWF recognizes the right of indigenous peoples to exert control over their lands, territories, andresources, and establish on them the management and governance systems that best suit their culturesand social needs, whilst respecting national sovereignty and conforming to national conservation anddevelopment objectives.

10. WWF recognizes, respects, and promotes the collective rights of indigenous peoples to maintain andenjoy their cultural and intellectual heritage.

11. Consistent with Article 7 of the ILO Convention 169, WWF recognizes indigenous peoples’ right todecide on issues such as technologies and management systems to be used on their lands, and sup-ports their application insofar as they are environmentally sustainable and contribute to the conserva-tion of nature.

12. WWF recognizes that indigenous peoples have the right to determine priorities and strategies for thedevelopment or use of their lands, territories, and other resources, including the right to require thatStates obtain their free and informed consent prior to the approval of any project affecting thoselands, territories, and resources.

13. WWF recognizes and supports the rights of indigenous peoples to improve the quality of their lives,and to benefit directly and equitably from the conservation and sustainable use of natural resourceswithin their territories.

14. In instances where multiple local groups claim rights to resources in indigenous territories, WWF rec-ognizes the primary rights of indigenous peoples based on historical claims and long-term presence,with due regard for the rights and welfare of other legitimate stakeholders.

15. WWF respects the rights of indigenous peoples to enjoy an equitable share in any economic or otherbenefits realized from their intellectual property and traditional knowledge, building on the provi-sions of the Convention on Biological Diversity.

16. In conformity with the provisions of the ILO Convention 169, WWF recognizes the right of indige-nous peoples not to be removed from the territories they occupy. Where their relocation is considerednecessary as an exceptional measure, it shall take place only with their free, prior informed consent.

II. Conservation Objectives17. At the heart of WWF’s work is the belief that the earth’s natural systems, resources, and life forms

should be conserved for their intrinsic value and for the benefit of future generations.

WWF bases all of its conservation work on the principles contained in its Mission statement.

In addition, WWF fully endorses the provisions about biodiversity conservation and sustainabledevelopment contained in the following documents:

• Agenda 21

• Convention on Biological Diversity

• Convention on Trade in Endangered Species of Flora and Fauna (CITES)

• Convention on Wetlands of International Importance (Ramsar Convention)

• Caring for the Earth

18. WWF encourages and supports ecologically sound development activities, particularly those that linkconservation and human needs. WWF may choose not to support, and may actively oppose, activities itjudges unsustainable from the standpoint of species or ecosystems, or which are inconsistent withWWF policies on endangered or threatened species or with international agreements protecting wildlifeand other natural resources, even if those activities are carried out by indigenous communities.

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19. WWF seeks out partnerships with local communities, grass roots groups, non-governmental organi-zations, governments, corporations, international funding institutions, and other groups, includingindigenous communities and indigenous peoples’ organizations, who share WWF’s commitment tothe following conservation objectives:

i) Conservation of biodiversity: to conserve biological diversity at the genetic, species, andecosystem levels; to improve knowledge and understanding of species and ecosystems; to pro-tect endangered species of animals and plants; to maintain ecosystem functions; to maintainprotected areas and improve their management.

ii) Sustainable use of resources: to ensure that any harvest of natural resources is sustainable; tosupport community management of renewable resources according to subsistence and culturalneeds; to use recycling methods where appropriate; to use resource-efficient methods and tech-nologies; and to substitute non-renewable with renewable resources wherever possible.

iii) Pollution prevention: to prevent, wherever possible, discharges of environmentally damagingsubstances, and ensure that products and processes are non-polluting.

III.Principles of Partnership20. The following principles will govern: (i) WWF conservation activities within indigenous peoples’

lands and territories; (ii) WWF partnerships with indigenous peoples’ organizations; (iii) WWF part-nerships with other organizations whose activities may impact upon indigenous peoples.

21. Whenever it promotes conservation objectives, and in the context of its involvement in conservationactivities affecting indigenous peoples’ lands and territories, WWF will encourage governments to “takesteps as necessary ... to guarantee effective protection of [indigenous peoples’] rights of ownership andpossession” of those lands and territories, as determined by the ILO Convention 169 (Art. 14).

22. Prior to initiating conservation activities in an area, WWF will exercise due diligence to:

• seek out information about the historic claims and current exercise of customary rights of indige-nous peoples in that area; and

• inform itself about relevant constitutional provisions, legislation, and administrative practicesaffecting such rights and claims in the national context.

23. When WWF conservation activities impinge on areas where historic claims and/or current exercise ofcustomary resource rights of indigenous peoples are present, WWF will assume an obligation to:

• identify, seek out, and consult with legitimate representatives of relevant indigenous peoples’organizations at the earliest stages of programme development; and

• provide fora for consultation between WWF and affected peoples, so that information can beshared on an ongoing basis, and problems, grievances, and disputes related to the partnership canbe resolved in a timely manner.

In addition, consistent with the relevance and significance of the proposed activities to the achieve-ment of conservation objectives, WWF will be ready to:

• assist indigenous peoples’ organizations in the design, implementation, monitoring, and evaluationof conservation activities, and to invest in strengthening such organizations and in developing rele-vant human resources in the respective indigenous communities;

• assist them in gaining access to other sources of technical and financial support to advance thosedevelopment objectives that fall outside WWF’s mission.

24. In instances where states or other stakeholders, including long-term residents, contest the rights ofindigenous peoples, WWF will be ready to assist indigenous peoples to protect, through legallyaccepted mechanisms, their natural resource base, consistent with the achievement of WWF’sMission and subject to availability of resources.

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25. Where the resource rights of indigenous peoples are challenged by national governments, private cor-porations, and/or other groups, and the defence of those rights are deemed relevant and significant tothe achievement of its Mission, WWF will, in coordination and consultation with indigenous peo-ples’ organizations and subject to availability of resources:

• seek out and/or invest in the development of legitimate and transparent mechanisms to resolve con-flicts at local, regional, national, and international levels, as appropriate;

• seek to ensure that the primary rights and interests of indigenous peoples are well represented insuch fora, including investment to inform and prepare indigenous peoples’ representatives to takepart in negotiations.

26. Consistent with WWF conservation priorities, WWF will promote and advocate for the implementa-tion of Article 7 of the ILO Convention 169: “Governments shall take measures, in co-operationwith the peoples concerned, to protect and preserve the environment of the territories they inhabit”.

27. WWF will not promote or support, and may actively oppose, interventions which have not receivedthe prior free and informed consent of affected indigenous communities, and/or would adverselyimpact - directly or indirectly - on the environment of indigenous peoples’ territories, and/or wouldaffect their rights. This includes activities such as:

• economic or other development activities;

• natural resources exploitation;

• commercially oriented or academic research;

• resettlement of indigenous communities;

• creation of protected areas or imposition of restrictions on subsistence resource use;

• colonization within indigenous territories.

28. With respect to the existing knowledge of indigenous communities, prior to starting work in a par-ticular area, WWF will establish agreements with the indigenous organizations representing localcommunities, to ensure that they are able to fully participate in decisions about the use of knowl-edge acquired in or about the area they inhabit, and equitably benefit from it. These agreements willexplicitly determine the ways and conditions under which WWF will be allowed to use such knowl-edge.

29. In the context of its partnerships with organizations other than those specifically representing theinterests of indigenous peoples (including national governments, donor agencies, private corpora-tions, and non-governmental organizations), WWF will:

• ensure that such partnerships do not undermine, and if possible serve to actively promote, the basichuman rights and customary resource rights of indigenous peoples;

• ensure that all relevant information developed through such partnerships and accessible to WWF, isshared with the appropriate representatives of indigenous peoples;

• ensure that any national or international advocacy or fundraising activity related to indigenous peo-ples will be undertaken in consultation with representatives of relevant indigenous peoples’ organi-zations.

30. WWF recognizes that the resolution of problems related to indigenous peoples may require actionin international fora, in addition to national interventions. In pursuit of the foregoing principles,and in order to enhance its own understanding of indigenous peoples’ issues, and when consistentand relevant to its conservation objectives, WWF will:

• actively seek inclusion and engagement in relevant international, as well as national fora.

• initiate an ongoing process of dialogue with indigenous peoples’ groups on the principles for part-nership proposed herein.

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31. WWF commits itself to promoting nationally and internationally, whenever possible and appropriate,the implementation of all of these principles in the context of conservation actions within indigenouspeoples’ lands and territories.

32. WWF is committed to upholding the above principles, and the spirit that informs them, to the best ofits abilities.

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Notes1. In this position statement, as well as in otherinstitutional documents, WWF refers to indige-nous and tribal peoples using the definition of theILO Convention 169. Unless explicitly said oth-erwise, the term “indigenous peoples” includesboth concepts, “indigenous” and “tribal”.

2. Adopted by the General Conference of theInternational Labour Organization on 27 June1989.

3. As adopted by the Working Group onIndigenous Populations of the Sub-Commissionon Prevention of Discrimination and Protectionof Minorities of the UN Commission on HumanRights, at its eleventh session (UN documentE/CN.4/Sub.2/1993/29, Annex I).

For more information contact:

Gonzalo Oviedo

Head, People & Conservation Unit

WWF International

Avenue du Mont-Blanc

1196-Gland

Switzerland

Tel: + 41 22 364 9542

Fax: +41 22 364 5829

<[email protected]>

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World Wildlife Fund1250 24th Street, N.W.

Washington, D.C. 20037www.worldwildlife.org

Indigenous peoples and conservation organizations

Documents

Transcript of Indigenous peoples and conservation organizations