Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Edited by
Fausto O. Sarmiento
Department of Geography, University of Georgia, USA
Larry M. Frolich
Department of Natural Sciences, Miami Dade College, Florida, USA
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List of contributorsviii
17 Land cover and land use change in an emerging national park gateway region:
implications for mountain sustainability 270
Lynn M. Resler, Yang Shao, James B. Campbell and Amanda Michaels
18 Listening to the campesinos: sustaining rural livelihoods in the tropical Andes 293
Christoph Stadel
19 Decolonizing ecological knowledge: transdisciplinary ecology, place making
and cognitive justice in the Andes 307
Sébastien Boillat
20 Cultural sustainability and notions of cultural heritage: a review with some
reference to an Asian perspective 320
Ken Taylor
21 Threats to sustainability in the Galapagos Islands: a social–ecological
perspective342
Carlos F. Mena, Diego Quiroga and Stephen J. Walsh
22 Celestial bird’s eye view: tracking forest cover change in the Bellbird
Biological Corridor of Costa Rica 359
Steve Padgett-Vasquez
23 Andean indigenous foodscapes: food security and food sovereignty in
mountains’ sustainability scenarios 378
Juan A. González and Fausto O. Sarmiento
PART V POSTCRIPT
Index419
viii
According to the quantum mechanics model, the ultimate physical particles that make up
matter may only exist, statistically speaking, when we try to measure them. These quan-
tum particles may also be able to surmount the supposed speed-of-light limit and cross
distances instantly. Are they anything more than statistical probabilities, and, if that is all
they are, then are they at once completely unsustainable, yet also eternal? If calculus, the
mathematics that allows rigorous and precise approaches to the binaries of infinities and
infinitesimals, can describe these phenomena at the extremes of scale, then, as Richard
Feynman said, it is the language that God speaks (Feynman et al. 2011).
Clearly the daily discourse about sustainability is not at the scale of the Big Bang
or Quantum Mechanics, although we risk reactionary responses when we ignore that
grander context. We must deliberately, and with deliberation, decide on what scale we
most effectively analyze geographic sustainability and with what discipline or cluster
of disciplines we can attempt such approximations. If, on the extreme scales, nothing
and everything is sustainable, then why does it matter how long things last? That
must depend on the scale of analysis, and the political climate that controls decisions
and policies that affect generational concerns of the present. Before we look at some
examples that are within the grasp of our everyday minds (hopefully no calculus
required!), let’s be sure we erase any potential pre-reactions based on political senti-
ments or expediency.
At both ends of today’s political spectrum, some irony can be discovered in views
about sustainability (Avelino et al. 2016). Among political progressives, for decades,
environmental conservation has been a central goal. Under the rubric of conservation,
a resistance to change drives the discourse, despite a dissatisfaction with the status quo,
under which current lifestyles, consumption levels and policies are seen as unsustainable.
Yet, rather than embrace technological solutions, much of the rhetoric is about conserving
and preserving wild areas, returning or rediscovering lower consumption lifestyles and
rejecting new technologies. The result can be not only viewpoints that are contradictory,
but hypocritical lifestyles that depend on high levels of consumption of cutting-edge
technologies in defense of pristine wildlands and a so-called traditional, or minimalist,
way of life.
At the same time, political conservatives believe that environmental conservation should
not interfere with capital development and business opportunities. However, despite this
drive for an expanded human economy, the rhetoric values maintaining the social status
quo and supporting only existing industries, especially fossil-fuel-based development.
New technologies, particularly in the energy sector, are seen as unacceptable, often solely
because they are promoted by political progressives. The result is again viewpoints that
can be contradictory and, as with progressives, hypocritical lifestyles that strive for ever-
expanded affluence while rejecting the potential for new sources of energy, which, at some
point, must be the basis for economic growth. Debarbieux and Balsiger (Chapter 3) dive
into the ramifications of scale and sustainable development highlighting the tendencies
of traditional politics.
Wherever an individual’s political ideologies lie, we must, as natural and social scien-
tists, look to the realities of what the data tell us and analyze them in the context of a scale
that makes sense. Only then do we have a chance of applying the lens of sustainability in
a rigorous way (Miller 2005). However, we are still faced with the question of what we
mean by, and how we might defend, the idea of sustainability.
Rationalism and the birth of so-called “Western Thought” required two pillars. The first
is an assumption that we share a common reality that can be described, probed, tested
and explained. The second is that this understanding of that common reality can be
parlayed into improvements in quality of life. The sustainability movement takes its roots
from deep within these two foundational pillars. Whether we are trying to understand
extinction rates, global climate change, economic inequalities or resource utilization, we
assume that a rigorous analysis will bring light on a shared common understanding of
the question, and that we will then use that understanding to foment better quality of life.
However, what we mean by quality of life can, and perhaps inevitably must, become a
spiritual question. One part of the shared common understanding is that death cannot
be eliminated, and most people might also agree that suffering cannot be eliminated. So,
if death and suffering are the impediments to much of what we might call quality of life,
how do we pursue their diminution? Here, religion and spiritual beliefs may be just as
important as a scientific rational approach. Is there anything special about human quality
of life, or are other non-human species equally or more important? Do we give primacy to
animals, or to plants, or to microbes? Are quick young deaths better than later, prolonged
deaths? Or is minimizing suffering at the end of life more important than prolonging it?
How can we optimize the distribution of a resource to most improve quality of life? Is it
more important to reach more people with a minimal increment, or a few people with a
maximal increment improvement? How can we measure suffering, and how can we be sure
we are reducing it, or maximizing that reduction?
Interestingly and probably detrimental to the goal of maximizing well-being, the most
common measures for quality of life are economic, under an assumption that more is
better, especially with regards to production as in gross domestic product (GDP), Global
Hunger Index (GHI), etc. (Gullone & Cummins 2012) and income (as in median income
for a population or an individual’s personal income bracket). More capital is almost
always assumed to link with higher quality of life. This leads to monetizing nature and
assigning commodity value to ecosystem services. But human capital is rarely considered.
And capital goods are most often reduced to their monetary equivalent with little regard
to their intrinsic value—in other words an inventory of firearms is considered as equal to
an inventory of tulips if they have the same dollar valuation.
A call for the inclusion of a non-monetary, and even spiritual, component to the analysis
of quality of life has been heard from the fringes of many scientific disciplines, including
environmental economics and perhaps notably sustainability studies (Kenter 2016). As
geographers interested in sustainability, we must move beyond some of the basic assump-
tions of economics and bring personal, social, community and spiritual measures to our
valuation of quality of life, and thereby the inherent sustainability of a given resource or
practice. A true quality of life framework for sustainability suggests that we should appraise
the Nature Values to People (NVP) on the same level as Ecosystem Services (ES) to have a
better grasp of well-being assessments (Díaz et al. 2015). Guevara and Frolich (2016) delve
more deeply into an analysis of how well-being metrics should be measured and also tabu-
larize many of the known GDP alternatives. Finally, the new effort of the Intergovernmental
Platform on Biodiversity and Ecosystem Services (IPBES) is a global effort to formalize a
more robust and inclusive approach to how well-being and quality of life are measured.
Science fiction and popular culture also provide insights on problematic or unsustain-
able futures. In the recent set of Marvel Avengers Super-Hero “Infinity Wars” movies, the
compellingly sympathetic villain, Thanos, has slaughtered half of the population on his
home planet under the belief that this would allow utilization of the remaining resources to
end suffering for those who survived. Now, he believes the same principle must be applied
universe-wide. Lewis Thomas (1978) argued that life is surely the “toughest membrane in
the universe” and we concur that we are naïve to be concerned about its ultimate lasting
sustainability. In the end, Thanos is defeated, but to what end if the remaining resources
of the universe are so scarce that the incursion of massive suffering is inevitable. And, by
the same token, if life is ultimately impermeable to death, where, how and on what scale
do we apply our lens of sustainability to strive for ever-increasing quality of life? And how
do we dare define this, and its corollary, the diminution of suffering?
Theory can only take us so far, and the scale of sustainability, the often hypocritical
politics from both ends of the political spectrum that surround it, and the attempts to
define sustainability in the spiritual realm, must frame our debate. But in the end, we are
also compelled to take real decisions and real policy about the scalable world around us.
The larger-scale questions might best serve to frame a rational analysis of the data, and
to take informed decisions within a discipline of moderation. Let’s then look at some
examples of how binary issues encountered in this Elgar Companion book, which can
present initially as opposites, might help us arrive at moderation with regard to applying
scaling of sustainability to geographic analyses.
important than the great leap into sedentary agricultural communities after millennia
of nomadic hunting and gathering, more important than the initial transition to an
industrial economy.
The advantages of the urban environment are numerous. People desire a vibrant central
district with cultural, banking and industrial infrastructure. Cities provide economies of
scale, ease of provisioning for basic necessities, a concentration of human diversity and
the fomentation of innovation through access to new technologies. At the same time,
migration to the urban environment presents the risk of a decrease in quality of life, to
levels of misery among economically poor segments of the population. The great chal-
lenge for the twenty-first century is to analyze the key elements of urban culture that promote
higher quality of life, within the framework of an integral evolutionary ecology that includes
the human being. The geography of sustainability is at the core of this analysis.
In the modern urban areas of the world today, the problem of the confrontation between
human beings and the “natural” world is solved with an approach where socio-economic-
cultural processes are recognized as part of the natural world, and where economic activi-
ties are seen as fundamentally ecological in nature—that in fact economies are nothing
more than ecologies where energy can be represented as monetary currency (Vermeij,
1993). A realization of the paradigm of nature pristine is presented by Sarmiento (Chapter
1) analyzing the need of transdisciplinarity approaches to understanding mountains with
the new integrative, crosscutting science of montology. He argues, following Nicolescu
(2002) for a change of paradigm whereby we will manage the urban/rural dynamics by con-
sidering mountainscapes as socio-ecological production landscapes (SEPLS). Sarmiento
points, as a leading example, to the International Program of the Satoyama Initiative (IPSI)
headquartered at the University of the United Nations’ Institute for Global Sustainability
(UNU-IGES) in Japan while Dunbar and Ichikawa (Chapter 10) present this innovative
collaborative program in detail. Conurbations, where amalgamated cities become mega-
lopoli, and exurbations, where cities have expanded towards the wooded edges, blur the
boundary between urban and rural, resulting in a new class of manufactured landscape:
the “rurban,” where SEPLS are highlighted (Kendal & Raymond 2019). However, rurality
is still manifest around the world, such as the Satoyama landscapes of Japan: these tradi-
tional environments call for a unique understanding of conservation within the framework
of a sustainable geography (Subramanian et al. 2018).
The effect of urbanization on the human species is all-encompassing. At every
level—from individual to family to society to population to species—virtually all aspects of
human life change in the urban sphere. A new concept, the Technosphere, complements the
Biosphere in the Total Human Ecosystem concept (Naveh et al., 2002). Virtually every
contribution to this volume on the geography of sustainability addresses, sometimes
directly or sometimes peripherally, this greatest of all human transitions.
Christoffel (Chapter 25) brings forth the tight “sister-discipline” relationship between
geography and urban planning. He dismisses the term “urbanization” and rather sees
cities as fundamental to human culture in today’s world. Cities are “smart” in and of
themselves—an emergent intelligence. They illustrate a higher evolved form that is self-
perpetuating and self-governing, a high-value and high-maintenance super-organism in
the cityscape.
Taylor (Chapter 20) calls for a fourth pillar of sustainability (after ecological, social
and economic) which he labels cultural. In the social sciences, especially geography and
anthropology, the idea of culture has traditionally come from the study of pre-urban so-
called indigenous cultures (Cosgrove & Jackson 1987). Ironically, even the ability to label
something as “cultural” is an urban phenomenon, rooted in the notion of the appreciation
of “culture and the arts.” Now, the term has come full-circle and includes the cultural
contribution of city lifestyles—not only in terms of class-defined “cultural activities”
like museums and theatres—but an urban culture that might include street-life, popular
music, clothing fashion and more. This newly defined urban human culture affects who
we are at every level, from the individual to the species to the new urban super-organism.
For the geography of sustainability, urban culture and all that it encompasses must be
a part of the analysis and the solutions that are proposed. Taylor defines the Historical
Urban Landscape (HUL) as an essential part of sustainability analyses, where the cultural
traditions that emerge from urban lifestyles are seen as a driving creative force for “pov-
erty alleviation, gender and youth empowerment, and sustainable use and conservation
of natural resources.”
Zimmerman and Zimmerman-Janschitz (Chapter 8) call for the use of GIS (Geographic
Information Systems) technology, on a global scale, with an emphasis on urban areas, to
guide sustainability decision-making with regards to the geography of inclusion. They
focus on equity for the disabled, or differentially abled, population, but their approach
is quintessentially urban and applicable across the broad spectrum of our newly defined
urban culture. GIS technology itself, inasmuch as it blankets our globe, making a “Google
Earth” and mobile interactive mapping possible (Wood et al. 2007), required all the techno-
logical advantages and demands of an urban species to come into being. We then see how
GIS technology and its derivative mapping allows for a distinctly wildland-based analysis
of land cover around Glacier National Park by Resler et al. (Chapter 17) and long-term
land use change in Costa Rica by Padgett-Vasquez (Chapter 22). Resler et al., despite their
focus on a relatively remote pristine wilderness, still surrounded by rural lands, see signifi-
cant urban effects, including loss of traditional farmland, “ex-urban” development, loss of
impervious land cover and increased forest fragmentation. They conclude that the concept
of “mountain protected area” must be challenged, based on the ubiquitous effect of cities.
Finally, Borsdorf and Haller (Chapter 9) look at the particular challenges faced by
mountain cities. They elegantly place the city within its natural geographic context, exam-
ining how tectonic activity and the orographic terrain impact urban life and its cultural
components. They identify how the geography of mountains, which transcend political
boundaries, interact with the lifestyle necessities of people living in mountain cities, which
are political–social–cultural constructs, thereby merging the physical and cultural aspects
of the geography of sustainability. However, Donoso-Correa and Sarmiento (Chapter
16) present an example from southern Ecuador where a case is made for better planning
against smart growth and the recovery of elements of village lifestyle in a more harmoni-
ous farmscape dynamics.
The natural–human binary is only subtly distinct from the urban–rural spectrum.
Increasingly, humans as a species are defined by the city construct, while the built
Dudley (Chapter 14) seeks to ultimately define what “natural” means. He promotes
moving beyond notions of “natural” as meaning devoid of human influence, to “authen-
tic” ecosystems, which he defines as “a resilient ecosystem with the level of biodiversity
and range of ecological interactions that would be predicted as a result of the combina-
tion of historic, geographic and climatic conditions in a particular location” (Dudley
2012). He considers to what extent integration with humans is “natural” and values the
services that ecosystems provide. Müller (Chapter 13) sees stress from population growth
and resource utilization as so extreme that “regenerative development” is called for, where
environmental, social, political and cultural systems must be oriented not just towards
sustaining, but regenerating from the losses that have already accumulated.
The Galapagos Islands are presented as one of our great examples of where humans
and nature have interacted and sometimes collided. Mena et al. (Chapter 21) appreciate
how the islands evolved for millennia with no human presence, have been significantly
impacted since the arrival of humans and their introduced species, continue to feel strong
pressure from that impact, but also remain a great worldwide treasure for viewing pristine
processes of evolution, while bringing that biological diversity to the cultural world
through a well-developed tourism infrastructure. They conclude with a concern that “lack
of understanding about how external pressures like tourism and economic development,
population growth and increasing production of waste and pollution will affect key
ecosystems now and into the future.”
For decades we’ve heard the slogan: “Think Globally, Act Locally.” But in an increasingly
globalized world, instantaneous communication around the planet, and fast, efficient
movement of people and goods can make the entire planet at times feel local, the so-called
“glocal.” In fact, people increasingly have closer relationships in other cities and on other
continents than with their neighbors. Furthermore, the mass, globalized provisioning of
resources into urban cultural landscapes may actually be more resource efficient than
a distributed, locally-based production model. Again, the scale is crucial since some
resources or products may scale up into mass production and distribution more readily,
more healthfully and more efficiently than others. One of the dangers of a capitalist model
is when initial scale-up allows for market dominance, making it impossible for smaller-scale
producers or distributors to compete, even though they may have a better, healthier and even
ultimately more efficient product. Large-scale market players can even afford to lose profits
until they eliminate competition. On the other hand, many sustainability advocates make
the faulty assumption that small-scale is always better. Dwellings are probably most energy
efficient in buildings that are six to 12 stories high (Ali & Moon 2007). Transportation and
distribution infrastructure are also probably most efficient in densely populated areas, even
when sourcing might be far from local. However, cities, on a global scale, also bring higher
economic standards of living and overall increased consumption. The highest levels of
energy use come about, anywhere in the world, when, after some number of generations
of dense urban living, certain populations return to suburban, ex-urban and rural lifestyles
for amenity migration (Gosnell & Abrams 2011). Proponents of these lifestyles might
feel as if they are returning to a more locally-based and sustainable way of life, but, on a
global scale, they become the highest users of resources. The well-developed urban data
infrastructure also makes it much easier to collect massive amounts of quantitative data on
the economic efficiency of resource distribution and capital/infrastructure development.
However, purely economic analyses, as we’ve mentioned before, do not always arrive at the
best solutions to improve quality of life or provide for long-term sustainability.
Harden (Chapter 5) is especially sensitive to the need for multiple-scale analysis, and
strongly promotes the role of transdisciplinary geographers:
Geographers are uniquely equipped to study and understand the spatial relationships of actions
that increase or decrease sustainability and that link local to global scales.
She draws three lessons from the analysis of scale: (1) that small actions can, in their
multiplicity, have larger effects, both positive and negative; (2) that we can clean up our
past mistakes and learn from trying to do this on a small scale and then amplifying it; and
(3) changes in behavior are possible and can lead to massive-scale improvements in quality
of life, as evidenced by the spread of xeriscaping, recycling and the use of LED light bulbs.
Finally, Harden insists on the importance of feedback, on measuring the real effects of
actions and then adjusting them. She insists on the keystone role that geographers can
play in finding the linkages among scale when analyzing system feedback:
To ensure that actions intended to increase sustainability are indeed having the desired outcomes,
it is important to approach the quest for sustainability through multiple scales and with well-
informed understandings of those scales and how they are connected.
framework for geography’s contributions from its broad base and role as a scientific integrator
of knowledge in support of planning processes whose implementation by public and private gov-
erning bodies affects the built and natural environments. This challenge will soon be recognized
as being so great that boundaries between disciplines, trades and skills, nations and peoples, will
have to be crossed to solve the sustainability challenges. Planning, informed by greater science
and real-world experience, will have to network even more broadly, becoming more comprehen-
sive, so implementation will be more effective at all levels and in all circumstances. The deepest,
most basic community motive can be brought forth at a greater level for action, as individuals
and groups understand the need of human civilization for sustainability long term. This is the
level of understanding this volume supports. The future of geography is sustainability.
This binary, from local weather conditions that change from minute to minute to long-
term modeling of the global climate, has, obviously, been the focus of an immense research
and analysis effort (Pachauri et al., 2014), far beyond the scope of this volume. However,
it is worthwhile pointing out that the discipline of geography incorporates virtually all of
the kinds of sub-analyses that should be, but are perhaps not always, included in climate
models. Not only are physical processes important, but cultural, social, demographic,
and economic processes may well affect the ultimate outcome of a climate model. Young
(Chapter 7) makes a case for how the climate framework is biased by a Global North
perspective and calls for the inclusion of Global South views. An important contribution
of this volume is that the meteorological climate changing is but one of the climates that
have affected farmscapes and cityscapes alike. Mostly in the developing world, there are
other climates that have had and continue to have deleterious environmental effects, such
as religious climates, political climates, investment climates, armament racing climates.
Again, whereas this volume does not even begin to pierce into this topic, we believe it
is worthwhile to call for a comprehensive, physical–cultural geographic approach to the
multiple temporal and spatial scales of climate change.
considering the “plurality of place concepts and place making processes in sustainability
research can play a crucial role in understanding and bridging systems of knowledge and
values.”
Syncretism of religions has helped to mold unique identity markers that fuse the binary
terminus into a continuum of shared values, generally based on respect for Mother Earth
(Pachamama), accentuation of the reciprocity of community members (Ayni) and the
possibilities to envision the “good living” or Buen Vivir (Sumak kawsay) that have made
the Andean lifescape (Guevara and Frolich, 2016).
CONCLUSION
We are glad that the reader has entertained the concepts presented in this introduction,
so as to avoid a fatalistic outlook on sustainability. We wish to emphasize that the ran-
domized occurrences of natural processes can provide a frame of understanding for the
actual cultural responses of society resulting in an ever-changing mindscape. Navigating
this topography necessitates a clear sense of scale and an appreciation for the potential
of scaling up or down in reference to sustainability issues in geography (Sarmiento &
Frolich, 2012).
As geographers interested in questions of sustainability, we must employ our daily cur-
rency of analysis: the temporal and spatial scale. In so doing we wield a powerful tool for
arriving at rational useful and applicable approaches to what can seem to be intractable
problems of space/time pulses. Choosing the appropriate scale of reference, however,
carries its own set of potential pitfalls.
First, we must be aware that at the extremes of scale, sustainability has no meaning.
If we delve out to the supra-telescopic infinities of the universe, or inwards to the sub-
microscopic infinitesimals, we can only arrive at the conclusion that everything, or if you
like nothing, is sustainable. At these extreme scales, time and space lose their tangible
meaning and we are left with larger questions in the scientific domain of cosmology and
quantum mechanics or in the spiritual domain of where, how and why all this that sur-
rounds us is possible. But we mustn’t neglect this larger framework for the value it holds
in providing perspective on the realizable and understandable scales within which we
contemplate what is sustainable, how it can be sustained and why it should be sustained.
The other major pitfall we encounter is a tendency towards political polarization
around sustainability questions. Here, allegiance to a particular brand of politics can lead
even academic practitioners to hypocritical and contradictory policies and conclusions.
Whereas those on the left-leaning progressive side of politics tend to promote change and
adoption of new technologies to help solve problems while incorporating diverse cultural
approaches, they also believe that conservation of so-called (and probably non-existent)
“wildland” areas is central to sustainability. Meanwhile those on the right-leaning con-
servative side of politics tend to promote economic growth even at the cost of sensitive
ecological environments but negate the value of many new and alternative technologies,
especially in the energy sector, which at some level is the basis for all economic growth.
Our hope is that this Companion book to geography, transdisciplinarity and sustain-
ability can provide some helpful perspectives on the scale of sustainability problems as
they relate to particular aspects of the physical and cultural world. We know that our
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FOUNDATIONAL BINARIES
OF GEOGRAPHY AND
SUSTAINABILITY
INTRODUCTION
This Elgar Companion book seeks to frame sustainability as an exemplar of transdiscipli-
nary science informing critical geography while improving future scenarios for the world
communities that are debating prospective fates between the rich North and the poor
South, the modern urban and the backwards rural, and everything in between. Through
the following pages the reader will find unorthodox views about sustainable development
and sustainability science, challenging dialectics and incorporating alternative proposi-
tions for defining sustainability as the maintenance, improvement or regeneration of
living conditions in the planet for both human and more-than-human constituents
(Gibbes et al. 2018). The use of mountain studies exemplifies the new narrative of integra-
tive, holistic approaches for geoliteracy about mountainscapes and will serve to motivate
further research in the field of transdisciplinary mountain science.
Earlier calls for transdisciplinary approaches to understanding landscapes were made
by Naveh and Liebermann (1984) who viewed landscape ecology as a transdisciplinary,
ecosystem-education approach, based on general system theory, cybernetics and eco-
systemology as a branch of the total human ecosystem science. Yet, despite the more
comprehensive planning angle exhibited in Europe contrasting to the more geospatial-
based landscape ecology of North America (Forman & Godron 1984), the notion of
transdisciplinary science still retained the character of positivistic Western Ecological
Knowledge (WEK). It was not until 1992 with the development geographies of the Global
South approach to Political Ecology that transdisciplinarity became a paradigm to under-
standing nature and culture from a Latin American perspective (Naveh et al. 2002) and
from the critical move to activate interdisciplinary studies and multidisciplinary studies
favoring the integration of alternative epistemologies (Lang et al. 2012).
“Mountains” as an exemplar of the challenge of packing sustainability from frame-
works of development geographies, area studies and biogeography of socio-ecological
systems (SES) add to a decadal effort from a plethora of mountain scholars of inserting
a recognizable goal of a new transdisciplinary field, montology (Mahat and Boom 2008).
The reason for this contemporary framing of sustainability is the impetus that new
paradigms to understand human–environmental relations from several perspectives at
the same time (Dunlap and Van Liere 1978; Dunlap et al. 2000; Boillat, Chapter 19, this
volume) bring to post-phenomenological landscape studies in the geographies’ frontier of
decolonial theories and hybrid narratives. Recently, the search for integrative approaches
to the understanding of Complex Adaptive Systems (CASs) and the long-term steward-
ship of mountain ecosystems as SESs has led to a renewed focus in “montology” (Haslett
1998). Thus, the evolving theoretical and practical applications of critical geography
15
require a fresh effort, echoing from its initial postulation in 1977 to develop the discipline
of mountain studies from a new angle towards sustainability (Allan n.d.). The integrative
bridging of science and humanities via transdisciplinary approaches is now perceived
as necessary to understand even the most complex of issues and grandest challenges
of the present day (Baer & Singer 2014). This chapter peruses an onomastic context to
reflect lexicographic domains—not easily translated into English—to help comprehend
unorthodox geographic traditions of sense of place. In so doing, this chapter shows how
the transdisciplinary approach of montology challenges geographic realism and informs
the complete SES dimension of sustainable mountainscapes.
HISTORICITY
Unlike past disciplinary trends in geography’s subfields, and due to increasingly avail-
able sources of information, funding and academic training at present, most scholars
interested in mountain issues find themselves now navigating a labyrinthine circuitry of
environmental cognition, mostly guided by reductionist premises and positivistic meth-
odologies for field research, theoretical dogmas and applied technologies for mountain
terrains (Price 2015). These scholars have found themselves locked in binary silos that
brand them as either “physical geographers” or “human geographers.” However, with the
realization by ecologists and social scientists alike that geography is the environmental
science par excellence (Wulf 2015a), more professional geographers have, indeed, internal-
ized notions that navigating the CAS of mountains must be done along the spectrum of
the two disciplinary poles, allowing for integrative, comprehensive and critical views of
sustainability (Wilcock and Brierley 2012) of the space/time compression of the present
(Massey 1999) in contrast with the static, descriptive views of mountain geography of
the past (Wulf 2015b). Sustainability science and landscape ecology theorists called this
“cross-disciplinarity” (Wu 2006).
Being more than inter- or multidisciplinary (Annan-Diab and Molinari 2017), modern
assessments of SESs require transdisciplinarity when considering research priorities of
sustainability (Wu & Hobbs 2002); this approach is something that Jack D. Ives has long
suggested as “montology” to advocate for mountain cognition (Mainali and Sicroff 2016).
According to Mahat and Boom (2008), conceptualizing disciplinary fragmentation in
mountain research and development indicated that:
The term montology has been used in oral communication and in print many times over the past
twenty-five years. According to Jack Ives, the term was first informally introduced by Frank
Davidson in 1974 in Munich, Germany, at the same conference in which the journal Mountain
Research and Development (MRD) and a future International Centre for Integrated Mountain
Development (ICIMOD) were envisioned (Jack Ives in personal communication with Robert E.
Rhoades). The Munich conference proceedings reported: “just as oceanography has spawned
a number of major and minor institutions concerned with the protection and development of
ocean resources, so mountainology, once its importance and implications are realized, will lead
to a proliferation of institutional responses” (GTZ, 1974: 186). In subsequent discussion between
Frank Davidson and Jack Ives, the term mountainology was dropped in favor of montology.
Notwithstanding the lexicographic difficulty with the call for montology in 1974, the
“Club of Munich” persisted in the effort, which became stronger with the addition of
American scholars such as Paul Baker, Ben Orlove, Steve Brush and Colin Rosser, and
the consolidation of the International Mountain Society (IMS) and its journal MRD
(Ives 2005). It is because of this momentum that in the Cambridge Mountain Conference
of 1977, the myriad sources of information on mountains evidenced the need for
transdisciplinary approaches. The conference proceedings, compiled in 1982 by Susanne
Fairclough, records:
At the Cambridge Mountain Conference in 1977, participants discussed the creation of a
discipline for the study of mountains, as has been accorded to oceans, and gave it the name of
montology, to denote an active, protective emphasis (Allan n.d.).
The term montology was included in the unabridged Oxford English Dictionary in 2002,
generating debate between those that saw it as jargon or unnecessary, and those that
claimed disciplinary identity with the exclusive moniker. Because of the ambivalence
towards montology in the mountain scientific community, a call to move “mountains”
up in the global environmental agenda was formalized (Bandyopadhyay and Perveen
2004), which prompted Rhoades (2007) to state the need for more discussion on whether
mountain scholars and practitioners needed a field of their own. The application of
transdisciplinary science started with Piaget (1972) and became standard in modern
academia (Hadorn et al. 2008), with the popularity of this approach reflected mainly in
three substantive gains: (a) holistic health science and medicinal issues (Klein 2008); (b)
the bridging of disciplines (Veteto 2009); and (c) the need for integration (Nanshan 1998).
Not only the recognition of mountainscapes as CASs, but also the realization that those
mountainscapes were actually SESs propelled scholarship towards seeking explanatory
research for emergent properties of mountain sustainability (Polk 2014), including their
diversity, memory, openness, synergy, uncertainty and resilience, particularly amidst
global environmental transformation, including climate change research (Xishi and
Yuanchang 1996). These efforts towards mountain studies have coalesced now in the
Feldafing Accord of 2010, prompting universities and governments to create research
institutions for mountain research among countries of Asia and the European Alps.
These trends have repercussions in what Sarmiento (in press) calls “the Montology
Manifesto,” calling for action to transgress academic silos, affording mountain research
not only to the established research centers, but welcoming unorthodox institutions,
foundations, non-governmental organizations (NGOs) and community driven mountain
work both in the sciences and the arts.
TRANSGRESSIVITY
CRITICAL IN
G
cy
eo
ra
lit
it e
er
ac
ol
ph
y
So
MONTOLOGY
CRITICAL
CRITICAL OF
THROUGH
Ecoliteracy
This new epistemology seeks to radicalize geoscience (sensu Castree 2017) with
linguistic artifacts conveying ideas without a readily translatable English word, so that
the reader is forced to use whole sentences (instead of single terms, as a way to integrate
disparate concepts from several subjects) to execute transgression towards mountain
cognition (Prieto 2011) to sustainability. Examples of those untranslatable terms include
Arabic (barzahk), Portuguese (saudade), Sanskrit (kharma), Spanish (arraigo), French
(terroir), and German (Gemütlichkeit) languages. I invite anglophone readers to try and
think about unfamiliar terms, to realize the move to geocritical acceptance of montology
as a foreign word, and to get on track with its customary use by mainstream researchers.
Indeed, as geocriticism becomes the tool of choice for understanding environmental
literature (Prieto 2016), the accent placed on fuzzy boundaries of science and humanities
become notable, making geoliteracy more relevant than ecoliteracy when confronting
research questions dealing with the hybrids of science and humanities, because ecoliter-
ate points to the “nature only” shrewdness of the biological landscape, while geoliterate
points to “nature/culture linkages” sagacity of the biocultural landscape.
In-depth understanding of “Mountain Research” reflects a tendency to shift from the
archaic term orology (Greek etymology for mountain and knowledge) to the postmodern
term montology, (mixed Latin and Greek etymology for mountain discourse) posing a
trend to incorporate more-than-human elements and spiritual dimensions in understand-
ing those mountainscapes as SESs. Even specialized bibliographies on mountain geog-
raphy (e.g., Resler & Sarmiento 2016) are inclusive of this new trend of multifunctional
approaches for complex adaptive systems (CASs) with holistic premises and postmodern
and poststructuralist methodologies for mountain cognition (Sarmiento et al. 2017).
Earlier pundits of the term criticized this etymological mixing, without realizing that
many scientific disciplines mix Latin and Greek roots, including mineralogy, inscriptol-
ogy, phraseology and oceanology (Yuanchang 1986).
New integrative research includes not only multidisciplinary (sensu lato) or interdisci-
plinary (sensu lato), but transdisciplinary teams (sensu stricto) that allow a crosscutting
of collectives of researchers and practitioners to understand farmscape transformation
for agrobiodiversity (Zimmerer et al. 2017) or the risk of glacier retreat and climate
change adaptation for resiliency and risk assessment (Carey 2010). As of late, funding
agencies have prioritized transdisciplinary teams for successful proposals. An example
is the creation of groups that take such an approach in American universities with
NSF funding: TARN (Transdisciplinary Andean Research Network) funded by NSF
as a Collaborative Research Network (Polk et al. 2017) or the SENTINELS group for
mountain observatories (https://mountainsentinels.org/), MtnSEON (Mountain Social
Ecological Observatory Network (https://webpages.uidaho.edu/mtnseon/) and the NMC
(Neotropical Montology Collaboratory (http://research.franklin.uga.edu/Montology/).
Another international example is the project VULPES (Vulnerability of Populations
Under Extreme Scenarios) funded by the Belmont Forum (https://www.belmontforum.
org) for global research on mountains and climate change applications, dealing with
microrefugia conservation research into mountain forests’ paleodynamics and cur-
rent ecological trends in several selected sites around the world (https://vulpesproject.
wixsite.com/vulpes) (Cheddadi et al. 2017). Further indication of this vogue in favor
of montology is the policy implemented by the German International Cooperation for
Development (GTZ) to only fund development projects if they observe transdisciplinary
tenets. Academically, the effort is invigorated by the United Nations University Institute
of Advanced Studies in Sustainability (UNU-IAS) running, from UNU headquarters
in Japan, a successful International Program of the Satoyama Initiative (IPSI) of pro-
ductive landscapes and seascapes (http://satoyama-initiative.org/partnership/). Another
important contribution comes from sustainability science researchers who have identified
the transdisciplinary basis of montology (Lang et al. 2012). In the City of Science, near
Tokyo, a United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO)
chair on Nature–Culture Linkages keeps many scholars at Tsukuba University busy
researching biocultural heritage (http://nc.heritage.tsukuba.ac.jp/UNESCO-Chair/) that
contributes to training students in a Master’s program on Mountains. A key move in favor
of montology came from MRD, the journal Mountain Research and Development, which
With the advent of critical social theory and postmodernism, scientific disciplines that
followed strict frameworks of quantitative descriptive phenomena of dialectics in the
hypothesis-testing procedures have found the need to incorporate qualitative, analytic
phenomena of trialectics that require a different mindset, and concomitant different tools
and protocols, such as onomastics and term causation, political ecology explanatory
tropes and critical biocultural heritage paradigms (Sarmiento 2016a). Thus, in order to
understand mountain theory from either side of the scientific divide, whether following
Cartesian determinism or Spinozan relativism, the need for a transdisciplinary field
for mountain studies is evident for sustainability applications (Painter 2008; Hansson
2012). Following Gregory (1994), this “cartographic anxiety” created by linkages of
nature/culture defiant against truism urges the epistemology of geoliteracy (critical- in),
ecoliteracy (critical- of) and sopholiteracy (critical- through). Thus, montology becomes
a tour-de-force in current thinking and practical applications of mountain research,
particularly in the Global South, where the majority of humanity practices non-Western
thought and speaks languages other than English. Translation of whole ideas into a single
word will help to cleave geographic referents of mountains.
active
MASINTIN (or dynamic resonance)
ANDEANITUDE
Subducted and Am
a inferred from as
ll hu
a ki mental imaginaries a
Am
ANDEANESS
AYNI ANDEANITY
Reciprocity Measurable and
Induced and conceived
from socio-cultural quantifiable
attributes physical attributes
Ama llulla
passive
The Arabic term al-barzahk describes a condition for the Islamic world, what Catholics
interpret as “purgatory” in Western thinking. However, it goes much further in describ-
ing the fuzzy line that separates two adjacent fields that are often hard to separate. For
instance, the line that separates life from death, light from darkness, or the line that
separates the present from the past, or even the separation of the seen and the imagined,
some even suggest that separates what constitutes the realm of humans and of gods.
This is precisely what montology does in helping to understand the trifecta of mountain
ecosystems, by helping to form a complete picture of the mountainscape. Using the
example of the Andes, for instance, mountains can be (de)ducted from what it seems,
and can be touched and measured (or Andeanity). They can be (in)ducted from what
it appears and can be conceived and planned (or Andeaness). Also, they can be (sub)
ducted from what it means and can be revealed and imagined (or Andeanitude). The
Sarmiento trilemma has now been applied to explain Andean identity and the forces
that move effective mountain conservation (Sarmiento 2016b) based on the reciprocity
concept of the Andean lifescape (or Ayni). The Sarmiento trilemma for Andean identity
can be applied to find the essence of place in other mountain systems, by incorporating
the so-called deep ecology consideration of landscape dynamics; hence, you may think of
Alpeaness, Appalachianity, or Himalitude when you are searching for the hidden mental
framework of the Alps, the physical spatialities of the Appalachians or the sacred and
spiritual markers of the Himalayas (see Figure 1.2).
Despite having mountains present in the scenery of major urban centers, the meaning
of mountain livelihood is diminished due to municipal facilities and infrastructure that
allow for easy connectivity, short travel time, flat terrain or central locations for city
businesses or harbors to export to the global society, mostly associated with the low-
lands and deltas (Messerli and Ives 1999). In the past, however, mountain civilizations
developed their core areas in isolated, often forgotten valleys, where they remained in the
backwardness of the edge, the marginal space where they evolved in unique groups and
hegemonic empires. The endemicity generated by this geographical isolation produced a
subspeciation of groups with different cultures, languages, creeds and available resource
uses in the creation of mountain myths (Sarmiento 1987; Lewis and Wigen 1997;
Zimmerer et al. 2017).
It is here that the Portuguese term saudade comes into place, as something that is longed
for without proper realization. Most citizens, including the suburbanites and exurbanites
of amenity migration areas worldwide, have shown a trend to incorporate the “mountain
specificity” needed to survive in the faraway port cities or megalopolises. This longing for
the mountain is evident in the manifestation of second-home development or summer
home retreats of the expatriates around the world, particularly in the tropical mountains
(Moss 2006). The metageography of mountains as part of the identity of “the Self ” makes
a mountaineer easily identifiable as “the Other.” As the old Irish saying goes: “You can
take the girl out of the mountains, but you can never take the mountains out of the girl”;
montology allows putting personalized perspectives in the deeply ingrained notion of
mountain lifescapes, often politicized and appropriated by contested political ecologies
(Ives and Messerli 1989; Debarbieux 2008; and Chapter 3, this volume). In the current
globalization race, mountains provide the much needed brake not only to the monotonous
flat topography, but enhance landscape quality by providing strategic landscape services,
including fresh water, fresh air, ample vistas, resource potential, wildlife refuge, spiritual
fulfillment, theophanies and epiphanies, sanctuaries for ancient practices, national pride,
historical memory, tourism and recreation, and more intangibles worth protecting
as biocultural heritage for the sustainable future (Termorshuizen and Opdam 2009).
Therefore, it is in the appreciation of many literary texts and its diffusion through the
world’s cultures that montology gets a grip on this integrative effort of geoliteracy (Tally
and Battista 2016).
The cross-disciplinarity of the sciences and the humanities has flourished recently with
the inclusion of scholarly trends to fuse geopoetics, history, religion and other non-science
fields as proxies to understand the reality of modern landscapes towards sustainability.
Going beyond the confines of the discipline has helped to transgress fields. This recogni-
tion is now fueling the training of future scientists as part of STEAM education (science,
technology, engineering, arts and medicine) to complete the biased STEM education
(science, technology, engineering and mathematics). Hybrid teams are becoming popular
across North American campuses, just as collaborative multiversities are now replacing
the individualistic universities in the Global South.
With the first book on geocriticism, which appeared in French in 2007, and its English
translation (Westphal 2011), the term transgressivity took hold in many social science
writings on the need to break down borders, debunk stereotypes and open frontiers
to mesh the sciences and the humanities, even the physical sciences with the social
sciences themselves. On the other hand, the transdisciplinary spatial turn is highlighted
for the complex urban–rural edges (Soja 1996) and particularly in the integration of
multimethods research to inform the challenge of framing shifting mosaics of mountain
environments (Zimmerer 1994). However, in order to effectively integrate knowledge,
the sequence of events has to exhibit an organized order or self-organizing trend,
typical of the so-called Gestalt systems (Naveh et al. 2002). In Gestaltism, there are
different factors that have to work together to create order out of chaos, among them:
Emergence of the whole before the parts; Reification of objects with imaginary to fill
the gaps; Multi-stability by having alternative pathways seeking to avoid uncertainty;
and Invariance by locking patterns to fast recognition. Montology allows the integration
of scientific methods and traditional wisdom to follow the Gestalt principles of spatial
arrangement (á la Bradley 2014), including the laws of simplicity; of closure, of sym-
metry oriented to a central place; of figure/ground contrasting elements; of uniformity
and connectedness; of common regions, proximity, continuation; of synchrony or
common fate, parallelism, similarity; of focal points or locus; and of past experiences
towards landscape memory.
Going back to ancestral practices of the Hindu river civilizations, and followed by
those of Hinduism and Buddhism affiliation, the cumulative actions of the Self propel
the individual towards higher and more complex levels of integration. The Kharmic sense
of spiritual account towards improvement of soul and body reinforces the needs of the
new transdisciplinary science of montology to achieve higher organization and complex-
ity to truly understand sustainable mountainscapes (Sarmiento and Hitchner 2017). An
important account of a lifetime effort is given in Ives (2013).
In the recognition that mountains, by definition, are heterotopic spaces, it follows that
anthropogenic landscapes are what we could consider literary palimpsests, often with
bioengineered modification by ancient practices that have been sustained by ritual, force
or conviction, that prompt us to read our version of the landscape from a paradigmatic
narrative. Debarbieux and Rudaz (2015) have pointed to the realization that historicity
and political maneuvers have created the idea that we have about mountains, which
becomes clear in the confusion of biologists and ecologists when tabulating diversity of
neotropical forests that “look” pristine (realized mountainscape), but in reality are hidden
SESs and CADs (fundamental mountainscape). These interventions have since millennia
constructed anthromes that mountain folk deeply respect and care for (Scheiber and
Zedeño 2015). An example from the Andes brings the Spanish term arraigo as reference
for the love of the land, not only in the territoriality of their construction, but also in
the imaginary and representation of ancestry, identity, even nationality. As Borsdorf
and Stadel (2016) show in their Andean portrait, the people of the highlands exhibit
a highlighted trait of deep arraigo. However, the term is more than just rootedness of
a person in the area of residence; they are intrinsically linked to the essence of land in
space and time. This linkage requires recognition of the social belonging to a place made
by intimate relationships with the various elements of the mountainscape. In the Kichwa
language or runashimi, the word pachamama describes not only the land and its products,
but also the tenderness of rearing as part of the communal effort, where reciprocity or
ayni is manifested as the engine of social cohesion of different mountain groups or ayllu,
and gratitude is acknowledged with payments and offerings or “pagamentos” to the land
linked in space, with the three commandments for Inka wellbeing or sumak kawsay, when
they are balanced within the trilemma: Do not steal (ama sua), do not lie (ama llulla) and
do not be lazy (ama killa) (see Figure 1.2).
They are also intimately linked with the landscape in time, as they train the young in the
labor of the land, but also respect the old by providing them a hierarchical place of power
with elders often running decision-making in small citadels or Llakta. The links in time go
back several generations, as it is common for them to bury the dead underneath the floors
inside their houses, mimicking the ancestral practice of mummifying the dead. Having
this intimate relationship with the land makes “arraigo” one of their most cherished values
(Sarmiento 2012). Conversely, one of the worst punishments in the Andes is to take the
person away from his/her homeland. Extirpated prisoners of war or mitima were often
forced to colonize faraway lands during the Inka territorial expansion. Even at present,
Andean communities’ first and foremost political platform is land ownership, communal
territories titling, and water rights associated with their cherished homeland or manta.
Source: Photo by the author. Taken on-site at the installation of the tri-lingual plaque in 2003. A script from
the English section is included above. Pictured are park rangers, the superintendent of the Chimborazo faunal
reserve and workers from the signage company.
change (Sarmiento 2002). Humboldt is immortalized with a bronze plaque that lies on
a cairn at Chimborazo’s snowline (see Figure 1.3), including the words geoecology and
montology recognized in Kichwa for the Andean world, in “Español” for Latin America,
and in English for the Global North (Sarmiento 1999).
The National Geographic Society (NGS) in the United States has identified “GeoLiteracy”
as our most important educational target for instruction to obtain geographic literate
youth (Edelson 2011), to which the International Geographical Union (IGU) aptly wel-
comed the Three-I’s approach into the “Home of Geography,” the putative headquarters
of the geographical academy worldwide. I argue that montology must be incorporated as
the de facto trend to provide geoliteracy about the mountains of the world. By using the
transdisciplinary science of montology, we are inclusive of the whole content that affects
mountain cognition (Avriel-Avni & Dick 2019). By using montology, we are not only
using the Three-I’s approach (Interdependence, Interconnectedness, and Implications)
in our study of mountains, but, also, we are facilitating the inclusion of what in German
is called Gemütlichkeit, a welcoming feeling of hominess, peace, and prosperity that you
perceive in the place you love. It is neither the physical appearance of the house environ-
ment (Umwelt) of the mountain space, nor the imagined sensorial agreement of the home
environment (Lebenswelt) of the mountain place, but it evokes the actual social construct
of the shared built environment (Mitwelt) of the mountainscape or SES (Westphal 2011).
The fact that montology eases the categorization of positivistic science, allowing the spa-
tiotemporal identities—or tempusculus—in the transgression of disciplinary fields (sensu
Tadaki 2017), should be recognized, as well as the new referentiality of TEK coupled
with WEK to understand dynamic CASs. It makes sense having transgressed referents
as the only pathway to comprehend holistic mountain landscapes to juggle myths of the
“axial age” or the “dark green religion” as drivers of sustainable future (Provan 2013). As
the age-old quest for finding paradise requires—which in many cultures has often been
associated with somewhere up there in the mountains (c.f. Shangri La, Meru, Xanadu,
Satoyama, Hallelujah, Sumak waka urcu, Zomia, Apu, Tepuy, etc.)—this utopian space/
place/landscape/inscape of the mountain ontological challenge is herein made manifest
with the use of montology to frame sustainability.
CONCLUSION
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
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INTRODUCTION
Maps were humans’ first interactive media. A map aims to put in front of us, on a small
scale, the reality of a much larger-scale world. As such, the map becomes useful as we explore
the world it portrays. From that seemingly simple idea, we get the discipline of geography,
attempting to capture not only the physical reality of the world, but the cultural milieu of
the people living in it. These simple roots then allow us to develop beautiful and complex
evolutionary trees of understanding, about who we are and where we live, as represented
through media—written, pictorial and increasingly interactive. Geography is our tool to
interactively explore, at a manageable scale, the physical and cultural world around us.
We were recently visiting some friends whose four-year-old child was very adept
at interactively swiping icons and images around a “smart-phone” home screen, that
everyday map from which we organize our daily digital lives. The family’s giant living
room television had been, until recently, one-way media—an image broadcaster with
no interaction. But the installation of a “smart TV” system brought the interactive
smart-phone style icons onto the giant TV screen. We watched with amusement as the
four-year-old went right up to the giant screen and attempted to swipe the icons around.
That moment—a small child swiping at icons on a giant TV screen—captures some-
thing profound about who we are, geographically, as a species at this moment in history.
It encapsulates our union into a digital world where we all live now as cyborgs—few
of us with actual implants, but just as successfully “linked in” intimately through our
tiny swipe-screen smart-phones and broadly through our ubiquitous interactive digital
devices. Worldwide, for most of the upper and middle economic classes, being connected
to the larger digital world is requisite—an assumed extension of our cerebrum (as well
as our emotional centers). That four-year-old swiping at the screen also represents the
power of the urban environment where a large percentage of the population can become
wealthy enough, economically, not only to own this kind of cutting-edge technology, but
also to actually entrust it to the hands of their four-year-old children. The fact that our
friends with the four-year-old are first-generation Southern hemisphere immigrants to the
U.S. gives weight to that moment from a global perspective, as many of our traditional
geographical constructs lose ground to a globalizing, digitizing and urbanizing world
where a four-year-old swipes, so far futilely, at a giant screen full of familiar interactive
map-like icons.
31
During the course of the twentieth century, half of the world’s population migrated from
rural agricultural environments into urban areas, mostly in the Northern hemisphere (Hall
2014; Cohen 2003; Zimmerman 1926). The United Nations has identified the year 2013
as the inflection point for half of the world’s people to live in a city (UN-DESA 2014).
Current demographic tendencies indicate that, as the twenty-first century unfolds, most
of the rest of humanity will join the urban migration, mostly in the Southern hemisphere
(Castles & Miller 2003; WHO 2014). This creation of a planetary city will take us towards
the “Ecumenopolis” of urban architect Apostolos Doxiadis (1974), as time and space are
further united in the great megalopolises on each continent. The advantages of the urban
environment are numerous. People desire a vibrant central district with cultural, banking
and industrial infrastructure (Carrión & Hanley 2005). Cities also provide economies of
scale, ease of provisioning for basic necessities, a concentration of human diversity and
the fomentation of innovation through ease of access to new technologies (Johnson 2006).
At the same time, migration to the urban environment presents the risk of a decrease
in quality of life, to levels of misery among economically poor segments of the popula-
tion (Mingione 1996, Wratten 1995). This process of degradation in urban areas occurs
when the coupling between the human being and the biogeographic reality of the area
is lost (Satterthwaite 2003) since not only does a globalized urban culture develop, but
the foundation for a localized rural cultural is lost in its entirety (Sarmiento 2012). The
challenge for the geographical disciplines that promote sustainability in the twenty-first
century is to analyze the key elements of globalized urban culture that promote a good
quality of life, within the framework of an integral ecology that includes the human being.
In the modern urban areas of the world today, the problem of the confrontation between
human beings and the “natural” world is solved with an approach where socio-cultural
processes are recognized as part of the natural world, and where economic activities are
seen as fundamentally ecological in nature—that in fact economies are nothing more
than ecologies where power can be represented as monetary currency. Both ecologies and
economies depend, for their fundamentals, on the underlying physical–biological–cultural
ecosystem (Sarmiento & Viteri 2015).
The effect of urbanization on the human species encompasses every aspect of life. Since
the beginning of the Anthropocene around 14,000 years before the present, humans have
gradually come to occupy and alter more and more of the planet’s surface. These are times
of dramatic evolutionary change for the species (Harari 2016) in a way that has not been
seen before—more important than the great migrations out of Africa to inhabit all of the
continents, or the great leap into sedentary agricultural communities after millennia of
nomadic hunting and gathering. At every level—from individual to family to society to
population to species—virtually all aspects of human life changes in the urban sphere. A
few examples follow.
● Air Pollutants in urban areas drastically change air quality and are correlated with
high incidence of respiratory diseases such as asthma and allergies.
●● Water A distribution network of piped water and sewers, although not ubiqui-
tously present in urban areas, and sometimes available in rural areas, nonetheless,
●● Physical activity In urban areas, people tend towards a sedentary lifestyle where
use of the physical body for daily transport is extremely rare. Jobs tend to require
sitting or passing large periods of time with little physical movement, all of which
leads to very little use of muscles to move the body. While physical trauma and
injury may be diminished, diseases related to low activity levels, such as type II
diabetes, cardiovascular illnesses, osteoporosis, osteoarthritis and some respiratory
problems are at high levels and continue to rise in urban areas.
●● Transportation The transition from walking to the use of motorized vehicles,
private or public, results in significant shifts in how the physical body is used, as
well as a change in the opportunities to meet other people (perhaps more frequent
on public transport and less frequent in private cars). Some urban areas have a
high density of pedestrians while other urban areas, and particularly Northern
hemisphere suburbs, are virtually devoid of people on the street since they are all
inside houses, offices or cars.
●● Education Educational systems in urban areas tend to include more schools,
larger schools and a higher level of teacher preparation. The variety of schools,
colleges and universities results in diverse educational options in urban areas.
Other educational installations, such as museums, libraries and bookstores, further
enhance educational opportunities in the urban environment. Informal education
networks, exposure to a wide variety of job-types, the diverse origins and enhanced
online access, all result in a population that has a much more varied bank of experi-
ences, educational and otherwise.
●● Health As with education, the variety, level of training and type of health services
that are available are much greater in the urban area. At the same time, folk
medicines and traditional cures may be more difficult, or even impossible to find,
although the realm of possibilities for “alternative medicines” may be far more vari-
able. Western-style or allopathic medicine offers highly technified medical services
and procedures, but the presence of numerous and varied systems of folk medicine
means that the possibility for multiple approaches to health, well-being and quality
of life are available in the urban setting.
●● Government The government in the urban area tends to be more powerful
with highly developed facilities and infrastructure based on a more lucrative and
diversified tax base. The government has broad responsibilities such as maintaining
road systems, water systems, sewage systems, fire and police services, and cultural
facilities, among others.
● Family structure Not surprisingly given all the other changes, the structure of
the family tends to change in the urban setting. Mothers and fathers most often
work outside the home. Same-sex couples, single mothers or fathers, and a wide
variety of other gender diversified households give witness to the decreasing
frequency of “traditional” nuclear families living in a single family home. An
extended family is less likely to share a single home in the city. The number of
children per family tends to fall substantially. In biological–evolutionary terms,
the reduction, often drastic, of the birth rate may be the single most important
impact of the urban area. As the birth rate falls to less than two births per
woman, a demographic shift occurs from previously exponential population
growth rates to stable or even declining population size. Many highly urbanized
Northern hemisphere countries already are, or soon will see, declining total
population numbers due to low birth rates, meaning the population is no longer
growing, but rather decreasing.
From these few examples, we can see how impactful the evolutionary migration to cities
has been, and will be, for human life. The worldwide trend of moving to urban areas, fol-
lowed by conurbation and the urban theory of ekistics science (Doxiadis 1968), suggests
that the quality of life may increase in the city. Or, at least, there is the perception that the
quality of life is better in the city. At the same time, economic poverty and other miseries
are by no means eliminated through urbanization, and we must analyze what forces
determine the way cities grow, and what key elements will support an urban evolutionary
migration that leads to improvement, rather than loss, of quality of life. Urbanization
leading to enhanced quality of life must be at the heart of sustainable geography.
We delineate four binary systems that capture how sustainability issues might be
understood in the context of urbanization. The two elements of each system, previously
understood as opposed dichotomies, have undercut many attempts to create urban areas
that promote better quality of life. We suggest that the supposedly opposing or conflicting
components of each binary are better understood as complementary. In a binary system,
the two elements, instead of being in conflict, or seen as opposing forces, are understood
as corollaries where one depends on the other (Elbow 1993). Examples of binary systems
include, in astronomy, the binary stars that orbit around each other in an ellipse (Schlosser
et al. 1991), or, in computing, the most basic enumeration system used by integrated
circuits or logic gates of zeros and ones. In both of these cases, the one component of
the binary is fundamentally dependent upon the other. In order to guide a sustainable
geography within the context of human evolutionary urbanization, we analyze how four
different sets of concepts are best understood, not as mythological opposites, but as
binaries that depend on each other (Figure 2.1).
Human–Natural
A supposed struggle exists between what humans create, and what happens in what
is understood as an entirely separate “natural” world. This struggle takes roots in
Judeo-Christian culture, starting with the creation story of the Bible and subsequently
integrated into the entire notion of “development” and “civilization” that defines
Western culture (Dove & Kammen 2015; Glacken 1967). In the twentieth century,
urbanization and the new tourism industry (Wilson 1991) have spurred the idea of
preserving and conserving nature in regions and zones designated as parks, reserves or
wildlife areas (Sellars 1997; 1991). Western culture takes pride in having developed the
fields of “ecology” or “environmental science,” with their focus on the importance of
natural areas and regions. In so doing, these sciences give substance to what is revealed
through ecological and environmental studies, most often with a conclusion that
nature and natural areas are very fragile. But the supposed conflict between the human
beings and nature, as revealed through environmental science, is better understood as
a cultural construct: the idea of a
nature apart from the human being is false (Frolich
& Guevara 2015, Sarmiento 2003). Founding religions and beliefs of Eastern cultures
integrate human beings into the world where nature can only be understood in terms
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of its co-relationship with humans (Barnhart 1997; Kellert 1995). What is human or
“cultural” and what is “natural,” then, only function as binary, not in conflict, but
revolving around each other. A life and world of fulfillment looks for harmony in
those orbits, especially in urban areas where most people live, and where ecologists
and environmental scientists reject the presence of some mystical or pristine tradition
idea of nature. We must accept that the notion of the “pristine” in nature has already
been demystified by contemporary geographers (Denevan 2011) and ecologists (Balée
2014). Urban areas are, in every sense, as natural as a national park. We cannot advance
a sustainable geography until we understand that harmony between what is natural
and what is cultural is a binary where human development, even in the urban setting,
revolves around and integrates as a part of nature.
South–North
From the beginning of the Age of Exploration, and with the formation of the Dutch,
Portuguese, Spanish and English empires, a Western–Eastern division dominated our
understanding of global geography (Lewis & Wigen 1997). But with industrialization
and the arrival of the twentieth century, known as the “American” century reflecting the
ascendancy of the American empire (Slater 1995), came a tendency to see global divisions
in terms of North–South. Global North populations, in the countries of North America
and Europe, were seen to be living in sophisticated cities whereas the populations of the
South, understood as economically poor, were seen to be living in rustic rural areas or
“the countryside.” Southern cities are understood to be made up of slums like the urban
cortiços of São Paulo, the favelas of Rio de Janeiro or the slums of Quito (Perlman 1979;
Carrión & Hanley 2005). In reality, the cities of the Global South have a rich culture,
which can be seen to have equally influenced the North. Half of the population of the
Global South is already located in so-called “primate cities” or urban areas. The rich
Global South cultural heritage has become increasingly influential—Mexican food is
now the number one type of restaurant in the United States (CHD North America 2017).
We must understand, then, that the economies and cultural trends of the Global South
and the Global North are involved and inter-dependent, as a binary system. A geography
of sustainability demands that we redefine our understanding of global divisions in this
way.
Urban–Rural
as a new way for cities to organize themselves. Examples, such as Detroit in the United
States, are even seeing urban revitalization around agricultural lands within the city limits
(Mogk et al. 2010).
Wealth–Poverty
Typically, wealth and poverty are understood as opposite ends of a scale where the
assumed universal desire is to move up, or move rightward, to the wealthy end. But in
reality, looking deeply into the complete needs of human beings (Max-Neef 1989, Elkins
& Max-Neef 1992, Green 2014), economic wealth does not solve the search for quality
of life. Common sense and a litany of proverbs reinforces this: “Money can’t buy you
love”; “More money, more problems”; “Por la plata baila el mono [It’s for money that the
monkey dances].” However, from a binary perspective, wealth is understood not only in
economic terms, such that a rise in the level of economic wealth is accompanied by a fall
in spiritual wealth. Urbanization can be understood in economic terms as a movement
towards greater wealth, as reinforced by economic indicators that show concentrations of
wealth in cities (Bloom et al. 2008). However, this strictly economic analysis neglects to
take into account the loss of spirituality that can accompany urbanization. For example,
when an urban couple purchases a stroller to wheel their baby down paved sidewalks—an
economic act of urban wealth that relieves the parents’ tired arms—they, and their baby,
lose the sense of the physical connection that comes from holding and carrying a baby in a
less economically wealthy, rural environment. By appreciating wealth–poverty as a binary
that incorporates a sense of spiritual wealth (literally incorporates itself into the quality of
life that we embody in our corporeal selves), we arrive at a fuller and healthier understand-
ing of what true wealth is, and how it affects quality of life. A geography of sustainability
must justify full wealth accounting, not just from an economic point of view, but in a way
that includes the spiritual (as more fully elaborated in the following section).
Our goal, then, is to dispense with epistemologies of opposition, and reveal the
integrated urban–rural environment as a human–natural system, developed in the Global
South with equal strength and success as in the Global North. Urban and rural functions
are then carried out under an understanding of the relationship between economic wealth
and spiritual poverty and their dramatic impact on the quality of human life.
By treating human–natural, south–north, urban–rural, and wealth–poverty as binaries,
we change the dynamics of everyday life in a way that allows us to seek moderations that
balance our evolutionary migration into the city. If nothing else, a geography of sustain-
ability must look for balance in these essential elements of twenty-first-century physical
and cultural life. In order to bring some reality to how this binary approach can bring
sustainable geographical thinking to the reality of our everyday world, we give a brief
sample analysis around food, in particular potatoes.
human domestication is somehow distinct from the rest of evolutionary natural selection
(Sauer 1969). That is, it assumes a human–nature dichotomy. A much better way of
understanding domestication is as a co-evolutionary process where the two (or more)
species involved are in a binary relationship as presented by McAuliffe (2016) in her
argument for parasites. For potatoes, it is just as valid to ask how potatoes have been able
to convince people to take care of them, as it is to ask what benefits humans have received
from domesticating the potato (see Pollan 2001 for a book-length analysis of this question
including a full chapter on the potato). In other words, there is no subject and object in
natural selection—no human subjects manipulating natural objects. Evolution works on
the currency of fitness—what particular combination of genes (or species that carry those
genes). So, if we want to analyze how potatoes fit into a sustainable geography we must
first recognize that we, too, are objects of this binary co-evolutionary relationship.
Potatoes are the staple root crop with the greatest increase in production over the last 20
years (Birch et al. 2012). Obviously raw potato production takes places in agricultural or
rural settings. But the increase in human consumption that has driven the market for more
potato planting worldwide is in the form of potato chips and French fries—distinctly
urban food choices. In fact, most new varieties of potatoes are analyzed for their durabil-
ity in transport and storability for later use. This serves an urban market where the raw
potato might take a long time to get to a grocery store, and also the factory market, where
vast quantities of ready potatoes are needed for mass production of chips and fries.
Again, if we want to analyze potato production within a geography of sustainability, we
must look at how this rural production–urban consumption binary revolves around itself.
Given the potato’s fame in German cuisine, the well-known Irish potato famine and
the Italian tradition of gnocchi, many people might identify its origin as a European
or Western culture staple. But the potato takes its domesticated origin from the Andes
of South America, and it was not until the Columbian Exchange (Crosby 2003) that it
was brought to Europe. Later, European immigrants brought the potato back across
the Northern Atlantic to North America where it has also permeated the cuisine, most
recently in the form of fast food French fries and potato chips. The great agricultural
domestications and cuisines that developed in the Southern hemispheres are not always
recognized, or only recognized as annexes to European/Western culture. Even in our
increasingly globalized world, there is often an assumption that technologies, and even
cuisines, only travel from the supposedly advanced Global North to the supposedly
primitive Global South. The two regions are seen as diametrically opposed, with a goal
of the North (the subject always in the relationship) bringing the South (always the
object in the relationship) up to speed, or to “full development.” But a truly sustainable
geography analysis of something as simple as the potato shows us how Global South
and Global North, to the point that they can even be clearly distinguished or defined,
must be seen as binaries that constantly interchange ideas, products, technologies and
more.
The words “poverty” and “potato” together bring to mind the most famous of historical
events involving potatoes—the Irish Potato famine. In fact, many people believe potatoes
originated in Ireland, given the fame of this event, and it is not widely appreciated that
their true origin is with the great Andean pre-Colombian agricultural civilization culmi-
nating in the Incan Empire (Mann 2006). Potatoes do have a history and reputation for
“low cuisine.” They are the only staple crop that can go right from the field into the pot.
Other staples, all grains, need some sort of processing be it drying, grinding or husking.
Perhaps this ease of use has made potatoes a favorite among low-resource populations.
A common full nutrition diet around the world is potatoes in combination with milk. In
the case of the Irish Potato famine, this diet was subsistence for large parts of the Irish
population, and when the potato crops failed in several consecutive years due to a new
plague, late blight, thousands of people died.
Even today, as potato production and consumption expand, the principle use, now in
processed form as chips and fries, is still considered a low cuisine in urban foodscapes.
However, as economically wealthier segments of the population begin to understand more
about the true origins of potatoes, it is taking its place in haute cuisine, ironically in the
form of traditional Andean heirloom landraces, such as the papa chilota and the chuño.
These more delicate varieties come in a wide range of textures and colors and are being
deliberately cultivated for high-end gourmet restaurant use, both locally in the Andean
countries and for export to the Global North’s upscale food hubs. A full geography of
sustainability must take into account how economic wealth and economic poverty have
driven the history of the varieties of potatoes that are cultivated, where they are cultivated
and how they are used as foodstuff for human consumption.
Our analysis of potatoes fails to bring in a binary that forms perhaps the most signifi-
cant component of what drives the geographies of sustainability—the material–spiritual
energy binary. Potatoes may well be a “poor-man’s” food, later adapted through the
wealth of urbanization into fries and chips, which, although they might not be considered
haute cuisine are a packaged urban product that requires economic wealth to obtain. In
a final twist, what in the past was considered the lowliest of potato varieties—heirloom
landraces (chauchas) that were seen fit only for rural Andean home consumption—are
now being specially shipped to high-end restaurants around the world. In all of this, the
question that we have so far failed to address is how energy resources are expended to
bring about this physical and cultural distribution. In the next section, we analyze the
relationship between material energy, or its representation in currency, with spiritual
energy, which is very difficult to measure and define.
Potatoes may well be a “poor-man’s” food, later adapted through the wealth of urbaniza-
tion into fries and chips, which, although they might not be considered haute cuisine are
a packaged urban product that requires economic wealth to obtain. Today, what in the
past was considered the lowliest of potato varieties—heirloom landraces that were seen fit
only for rural Andean home consumption—are now being specially shipped to high-end
restaurants around the world. In all of this, the question that we have so far failed to
address is how energy resources are expended to bring about this physical and cultural
distribution. Perhaps the most significant component of what drives the geographies of
sustainability—the material–spiritual energy binary—transcends all the other aspects of
urbanization that we have so far discussed. We need to analyze the relationship between
material energy, or its representation in currency, with spiritual energy, which is very
difficult to measure and define. As an entry-point into that analysis, we pose the rhetori-
cal question: does a huge material energy expenditure into large-scale cultivation of an
Andean heirloom chaucha potato that is then shipped thousands of miles to a high-end
urban, Global North restaurant, retain the same spiritual energy that might be found
when that same potato is consumed, from field to pot, in an economically low-resource
kitchen in the Andes of South America?
In ecology, the planetary function is thought to be driven by emergy (with an ‘m’)
to emphasize the important metabolic function of the food chains in environmental
accountability (Odum 1996). In geography, we believe that a robust analysis of resource
use requires exploring the integration between human economies and the idea of natural
resources. In this context, the ultimate geographical currency becomes energy or power,
which is energy use over time. However, as living beings in a geographical world, as well
as spiritual beings in a cultural world, we must look at the full picture of how different
types of energies and powers contribute to a fulfilled life (Lovins 2011).
A typical 60 kg human has a metabolism that uses energy at a rate equivalent to a bright
light bulb, or about 130 watts. The typical human diet of some 2000–2500 calories daily
provides the energy for this metabolic use of power. Among humans, when non-metabolic
energy is considered, the range of power use extends across many orders of magnitude,
with peak per capita power use in developing countries reaching tens of thousands of
watts per individual (Moses & Brown 2003). This additional “non-metabolic” power
use is provided principally by fossil fuels. Typically, as power use increases, the system is
thought to gain selective advantage, whatever measure of power use might be employed.
Ecologists use net productivity, evolutionary biologists use reproductive fitness, and
economists use profit; we can understand any one of these as a measure of efficient
power use (Vermeij 2004). Better performance in any of these areas, then, might result in
a more viable economic entity, be it a “natural” organismal, populational or ecological
entity, or a “cultural” economic/financial entity. (That increased viability may be transient
depending on environmental change, which is basically how natural selection brings about
evolutionary change.) High power-use economic systems have shown, at least in recent
historical time, a great selective advantage. Higher profits result in greater ability to store
and cycle energy, or its representation as money. Political power in today’s world scales
with the ability to cycle resources and energy, or economic well-being.
However, there must be some limit to the selective advantage for these kinds of material
measures of power use. If nothing else, common sense tells us that too much accumulation
of power in one place creates an extremely non-selective entity called an explosion. But
even, outside the explosive range, as entities accumulate physical wealth through so-called
efficient power use, they reach a point where quality of life, and very likely other aspects
that lead to strong selective advantage, are diminished. Daly and Farley (2004) show how,
past approximately 1950, increases in U.S. per capita gross national product (GNP) and
family income have not correlated with overall increases in life satisfaction. In fact, in
recent times, overall satisfaction in monetarily rich Northern countries and regions has
declined despite continued increases in financial measures of performance (Costanza et
al. 2014; Frolich & Guevara 2015). Also, increases in economic wealth in the population
are almost always accompanied by decreases in birth rates (Moses & Brown 2003), show-
ing that the various measures of power use might naturally counteract each other. Once
economic necessities are met, non-economic cycling of energy or spiritual power may be
a more important contributor to overall well-being.
Most sustainability efforts have focused on reducing economic power use among the
wealthy and perhaps sustainably developing more power use, or at least greater access to
power, among the poor. However, these efforts assume that reducing economic power use
will come as a sacrifice. As Baldwin (1962) points out, though, the only thing repressed
people want is power, and they may not want it on the same economic terms. Increased
overall life fulfillment for individuals, and well-being among the population as a whole,
might only be possible when the financially wealthy classes are convinced that they could
(should?) unconditionally surrender their economic power and replace it with an even
greater value of non-economic or spiritual power—the path to enlightenment!
To return to our rhetorical question, does the high-Andean chaucha potato retain its
spiritual energy when vast amounts of extra-metabolic, fossil-fuel-based, high-tech, trans-
portation, storage, packaging and preparation have brought it to the plate of a customer
at a haute cuisine restaurant in one of the world’s great urban centers? Or does it embody
a different material–spiritual balance when it is harvested from a family chagra directly to
a clay pot on the kitchen tulpa from where it is served? Urbanization worldwide, regardless
of cultural constraints, leads to heavier fossil fuel contribution, and thus higher power use,
in food provisioning. The local cultural basis for diet, especially what staples form the diet
base of “foodies,” may greatly affect this pattern (Heron & Waters 2008).
As we mentioned, the human diet of about 2000–2500 calories daily provides the energy
for our daily 130 watt power use. However, in “developed” countries and economies,
provisioning that 2500 calories—growing and transporting it—involves thousands of
calories of fossil fuel “subsidies.” The amount of fossil fuel input will vary tremendously
depending on the particular food item and how it is provisioned. Home vegetable garden
products may have little or almost no fossil fuel subsidy, although this depends greatly on
how the garden is managed. Factory-raised animal products transported long distances
may have very high fossil fuel subsidies. Moreover, in the age of assembly lines, a simple
box of yogurt would have components made in China, Canada, Switzerland, Brazil and
Hawai’i, all of them packed in plastics produced from oil from the Middle East and
eventually sold, perhaps in England.
Extreme contributions of fossil fuel energy to food production and distribution may
be a North American phenomenon related to the vast heartland breadbasket geography.
However, urbanization worldwide, regardless of cultural constraints, leads to heavier
fossil fuel contribution, and thus higher power use, in food provisioning. The local cultural
basis for diet, especially what staples form the diet base of “foodies,” may greatly affect
this pattern (Heron & Waters 2008). In the sustainability paradigm, “food security” is
often presented as an ideal measure of performance. It is an interesting concept that
incorporates both the economist’s financial profit measure as well as the ecologist’s net
productivity measure of performance. Solutions to food provisioning and increases
in production are often provided by power-use heavy sectors of the economy. Green
revolution technologies and the forced distribution of famine relief supplies show the
success of power intensive agricultural production in terms of short-term selective forces.
However, non-economic, or “spiritual” measures of fulfillment or well-being may require
recognition of the local cultural base for diet, including the so-called “sacred” foods, and
the long-term selective advantage may go to lower power use approaches, such as how
gardening can provide “food security” but, above all, “food sovereignty.”
The ability to buy food can be stored as money. And, to some extent, the food itself can
be stored using power-dependent technologies such as refrigerators, cans and nitrogen-
rooms. However, despite these abilities, high power-use humans may also tend towards
storing food energy in their own organism as accumulated fat reserves. Obesity should
scale with high economic performance (profit well-being) related to food provisioning.
The trade-off with non-economic or spiritual well-being may explain morbid or health-
detrimental obesity prevalent in the Global North.
Green Revolution agriculture uses energy inputs to increase production by faster
cycling of energy. More power input results in greater production output. Eventually,
however, the nutritional value of the product may decrease, even as its weight or quantity
increases. Again, lower power-use production techniques may create a “spiritually”
and nutritionally more satisfying product. The modern supermarket may be a classic
demonstration of this effect. At some point, the number of products to choose from, and
the vast fossil fuel subsidy to their production and distribution, detract from the actual
nutritional and spiritual satisfaction that their culinary potential might represent. We see
this today with a movement, among spiritually thoughtful individuals, towards local food
provisioning or “localvory,” and the recognition that freshness and ease of access may be
a key component of a healthy and fulfilling diet (Heron & Waters 2008).
One of the most satisfying ways to achieve more spiritual well-being from the food we
eat is re-establishing the co-evolutionary domesticate relationship in our homes, perhaps by
growing a vegetable garden or keeping chickens in our backyard. The reality of provisioning
billions of people means that mass agricultural production will be a long-term necessity.
However, home food production may alleviate some of the loss of spiritual well-being that
accompanies provisioning through strictly financial arrangements, thereby bringing a much
needed cultural and spiritual basis back to the diet. Part of a geography of sustainability
must take into account this binary between material-based and spiritual-based power use.
As we become more fully integrated with the silicon-based smart devices that permeate
our lives, we also become an increasingly map-reliant species. Many aspects of our
digital lives, and our digital interactions can be understood as mapping, from the way we
search through the geographical space of the internet, to the way we organize computer
desktops and cloud-storage in tiny map-style folders for our images and text, to the way
we organize multitudes of information from myriad sources, to even, of course, the way
we navigate through the world while receiving instructions from a talking, real-time map.
It is no accident that all the digital “Tech Giants” are very interested in mapping as well as
transport. Google, the company that has taken the lead in maps that organize our digital
lives, is investing heavily in all self-driving cars through their subsidiary Waymo. The race
for internet and high-tech dominance will be won by the company or entity that fully maps
the geographical space of our world—from every outdoor feature to the inside of every
building (Farman 2010).
Working out the relationship between how we navigate through the digital-silicon
world and how we navigate through our real-carbon world is going to be one of the great
challenges for the twenty-first century. Online interactive digital maps, digitally-based
ride-sharing services like Lyft and Uber, and scattered, untethered rental bikes and electric
scooters, like Lyme and Byrd, are just the start. We can now easily search virtually all
plane, train and boat routes, their costs, and where cars can be obtained in a dizzying
array of online services. We can even live-track every ship on the seas and every plane in
the skies on any internet-linked screen device.
Streamlining our carbon-body mobility through the use of digital-map-scale devices
will increasingly dominate how we live our lives. This will even come into our buildings,
as smart-home/smart-building controls and appliances become ubiquitous, and onto the
micro-scale of our body’s internal workings as digital-carbon hybrid robot swarms enter
into our blood to find and repair our body‘s ailments.
But every aspect of this carbon–silicon integration comes with a risk of throwing the
potential binaries of urbanization, and the grand binary trade-off of the spiritual and
material out of balance. The human–natural scale might seem fully skewed away from
“nature” by our digital integration. However, some of the greatest online experiences
are high-definition, fully immersed, three-dimensional recordings or portrayals of the
natural world. And, without a doubt, our ability to appreciate the carbon life around us
is enhanced by being able to take a photo of a particular plant or animal, and then have
our smart device’s built-in access to image identification AI (artificial intelligence) identify
it and provide background information.
The urban–rural binary is also starting to close in as we un-carbon and silicon-digitize
ourselves. The great advantages of an urban setting, including the social interactions and
great educational institutions, are now available without physically moving through a city,
but by going there online, from anywhere that we have internet access; or at least being
able to visit the great cities of the world’s museums, attractions and more. Not only for
pleasure and education, but also for work, many people now commute “digitally” from
rural and remote locations.
The realities of life in the binary of “developed” North and “developing” South are
also being turned upside down. Technological leapfrogging means that landline phones
have no legacy value in a developing country, as most people first connect to the phone
network through a cell service. This technological leapfrogging leads to economies of
infrastructure that can also be seen in smart electric grids that are fully renewable in
countries like Ecuador and Costa Rica. As the Global South shows in a myriad of ways
that late arrival to digital technology leads to economizing and innovating, we can no
longer assume that we have a North–South trendline in development.
Finally, the wealth and poverty binary is also flattened as we become increasingly
digitalized. No longer are all the economically wealthiest people in the world from the
North. Online, it can be very difficult to know someone’s material wealth. And the instant
access, via portals like YouTube, Instagram or SnapChat, to put oneself in front of the
entire world’s billions of digitally connected people at very low cost, means that fame and
artistic recognition is more and more democratically accessible (Wesch 2008). At the same
time, people around the globe and across economic classes are increasingly recognizing
the value in spiritual wealth. Striving for more money at the expense of all else seems to
be lost on a new generation that is mostly interested in having enough economic wealth
to provide the basic necessities and maintain their connection to the internet. The other
material “trappings” have limited appeal.
For a geography of sustainability, we must look at how the carbon–silicon binary will
play out as this century unfolds. Without a doubt, the above portrayal neglects the extent
to which commerce and material consumption dominate people’s digital and online lives,
with shopping taking a huge amount of web space. However, the potential to find spiritual
fulfillment through our integration with the digital-technical world is immense and we
must, as sustainability geographers, give attention to those elements of the virtual-digital-
silicon world that enhance sustainability in the real-analog-carbon world.
smart-phone and an internet connection can find and define for themselves the continents
through any of the fantastic interactive online digital maps. This is a global-scale example
of how physical geography becomes integrated into our carbon–silicon binary interaction
in a way that breaks down past understandings. In daily life, we find ourselves navigating
through the world, on foot and in our vehicles, while constantly getting directions, both
visual and voice, from a traffic-advising, route-optimizing digital map update. In a true
geography of sustainability, we must consider how dramatically this carbon–silicon
binary is going to change, at every scale, the way we physically understand, navigate and
absorb the reality of the world around us.
In the cultural world, the carbon–silicon binary is also redefining how we understand
who we are geographically. Here, the pace of change in how we define our cultural spaces,
what kind of language we use, how tribes are re-oriented through the digital media,
its effect on local, national and global politics, ways in which deeply seated concepts
like religion are changing, and what it means to be culturally spiritual takes on a new
dimension, making this an overwhelming shift into a new way of understanding. A
cultural geography of sustainability must start with a deep dive into what it will mean to
be human as we integrate into a digitally connected worldwide ether. The ease with which
physical geography, from local to global, is altered by a fully scalable interactive digital
map is further amplified by the scale of cultural realignment that the digital interconnec-
tion is bringing about. It could be argued that local cultural norms are reinforced at the
micro-neighborhood level, just as easily as it could be argued that full globalization is
coming about through our carbon–silicon binary selves. A full exploration of the topic
of cultural realignment through the carbon–silicon binary is beyond the scope of the
current work, but is one that must be addressed as we contemplate what a true geography
of sustainability means.
Our friend’s four-year-old, swiping at the giant screen, is the epitome of the twenty-
first-century high-energy urbanized human. The future that awaits them will re-align
basic concepts that have driven our geographic understanding of who we are, both
physically and culturally. The material and the spiritual will continue to merge and play
off each other as physical consumption becomes less important to a new generation
of silicon–carbon cyborgs. A geography of sustainability will require examining how
this realignment of fundamental concepts affects human quality of life. Fulfillment,
or plenitude, or happiness, have always been illusive concepts. Within a geography of
sustainability, we must re-examine what the principal contributions to quality of life are.
By recognizing the need for balance among such fundamental binaries as the human–
natural, Global South–Global North, urban–rural, wealth–poverty, spiritual–material
and carbon–silicon, we take the first strides towards a geography of sustainability that
can be applied to our urbanizing and digitalizing world.
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INTRODUCTION
Scale is one of those concepts scientists rarely spend much time second-guessing. In
the natural and social sciences alike, scale is most often seen as an intrinsic feature of
observation and analysis. It is also commonly used when relating actions or policies to
jurisdictional perimeters. Yet the meaning and use of scale are largely taken for granted,
considered unproblematic (Herod and Wright 2002). Discussions of sustainable devel-
opment are no exception: diagnosis, prognostication, and recommendation regularly
materialize without extensive reflection on scale beyond the well-trodden local–global
dichotomy.
This disregard ignores a lively debate that took place during the 2000s on the conceptual
value and theoretical implications of the notion of scale. Often summarized under the
heading “politics of scale”, the debate was grounded in political economic approaches
(mostly in geography) to the study of socio-economic issues revealing shifts in so-called
“power geometries” (Swyngedouw 2004). While the debate on scale subsequently impacted
scholarship on environmental issues (Young 2002) and political ecology (Neumann 2009),
it has so far barely dealt with sustainable development itself.
Our contribution in this chapter is to address this gap by outlining a reflection on the
scaling of sustainability. In so doing, we build on one of the central tenets of the earlier
scale debate, namely a constructivist point of view and a focus on scale as a category of
scientific, political and social practices that results from action and discourse (Moore
2008). We further question the dominant invocation of hierarchical, institutional levels for
analysing sustainable development and invite researchers, social actors and policy makers
to take into account more complex and nuanced perspectives that point to horizontal and
network dimensions of sustainable development.
We argue that paying attention to scale in the discussion and practice of sustainable
development is important for at least two reasons. First, since the pursuit of sustainable
development consistently involves numerous and diverse actors, taking explicit account
of the scale of a given sustainable development initiative can help ensure that the voice
of all actors with legitimate stakes are heard and taken into account. Second, because
sustainable development constitutes the integration of different sectors (biodiversity,
transport, agriculture, energy, education, etc.), careful consideration of scale can be useful
when identifying contradictions, evaluating trade-offs and managing conflict.
The argument we present in this chapter proceeds as follows. The next section intro-
duces sustainable development as a global concept that is both the source and outcome
of rescaling processes. We then take a closer look at how scaling has been used, suggesting
that limiting analysis to processes of scaling up or scaling down misses much of the
picture, and outlining the main reasons why this is so. The following two sections present,
respectively, a way to combine the concept of scaling with framing and a way to think
49
about the relationship between scales and networks. The penultimate section illustrates
the consequences of this combination through an examination of sustainable develop-
ment in two different settings: cities and mountains. We conclude with some thoughts on
implications for practice and ideas for future research.
rephrase and reframe traditional concerns for inclusion in global sustainable development
discourse.
The second process (the framing of emerging issues at the global scale from the outset)
can be illustrated with the cases of the ozone hole and global warming. Formulated for
the first time during the 1970s and 1980s, these two environmental problems had not
previously been identified below the global scale. It is true that related issues were known
and discussed under different names (e.g. air pollution or desertification), but they were
rephrased and embedded in new vocabulary thanks to the collection and analysis of
new types of data at the global scale. Their initial framing as global problems was also
facilitated by the fact that problems could be caused in one place but their consequences
observed somewhere else. As a consequence, the global scale is now upheld as the most
relevant scale for observation, diagnosis and decision making: global problems require
global solutions appears to have become a “new” old adage.
Regardless of whether emerging problems have appeared on the global agenda by
means of scaling up processes or of an initial global framing, these problems, whose
histories of identification have been widely analysed in various disciplines and for various
issues (see, e.g. Debarbieux and Rudaz 2015; Litfin 1994), have become associated with
the concept of sustainable development as an overall framework for devising solutions to
these same problems.
While sustainable development can be considered an outcome of reframing processes
that scale problems and solutions up to (or originating at) the global scale, it has at the
same time become a tool for scaling down from the global scale. Most of the major
initiatives designed to consolidate sustainable development as a global principle have
unfolded inside the United Nations and its specialized agencies. It should therefore come
as no surprise that even as states contribute to a global sustainability discourse, the
responsibility for implementing sustainable development would ultimately lie with states
(and their constituent parts). For example, the final declarations of the Johannesburg and
Rio120 conferences make repeated reference to the national, subnational and local as the
main institutional scales. To take but one of numerous examples of this kind, Morocco
illustrates how global norms are transferred to the national scale in order to demonstrate
how the country participates in international mobilization (and is able to take advantage
of international opportunities) around sustainable development: the introduction to the
final document of the 2015–2020 Moroccan National Sustainable Development Strategy
adopted in 2011 considers it to be “a concrete reply to international commitments of
Morocco and a way of getting recognition of donors and the international community”
(Stratégie Nationale de Développement Durable, Ministère de l’Energie, des mines et de
l’Environnement, Gouvernement du Maroc 2017; authors’ translation).
Scaling down is not limited to a transfer from the global to national levels. Based on
the common idea that sustainable development initiatives are more effective at the local
level (for a critical view, see Brown and Purcell 2005), or following decentralization trends,
several states have also implemented an internal downscaling of their sustainable develop-
ment policies, requiring or encouraging subnational authorities and/or cities to adopt
their own sustainable development visions and plans, for example through Local Agenda
21 (Brodhag 2005; Brodhag and Talière 2006; Gibbs and Jonas 2000, 2001; Lafferty and
Eckerberg 2013).
Though useful for tracing vertical shifts of authority along a continuum between centrali-
zation and devolution, a narrow view of scaling sustainable development practices that
only considers upscaling and downscaling is neither fully relevant nor sufficient. Treating
sustainable development exclusively (even primarily) as a feature of territorial policies
and relations between territorial levels greatly oversimplifies and distorts the spatial and
scalar issues and processes related to sustainable development. Below we elaborate four
key limitations of the model.
First, the upscaling/downscaling perspective focuses on a strictly territorial, vertical,
and (‘Russian doll like’) hierarchical approach to sustainable development; it is fixated
on institutional levels rather than on scales broadly speaking: the global level correlates to
an international regime, while downscaling processes are seen to proceed through increas-
ingly more local territorial levels (states, provinces, districts, municipalities) where variants
of Local Agenda 21 can be adopted. Arrangements of institutional levels are of course
crucial for understanding sustainable development policy making; however, they are not
the only forms of scalar processes that should be seriously taken into account. A much
wider range of meanings of scale (scale-as-size, scale-as-level, scale-as-functional-scope)
as used by the various stakeholders, especially scientists, needs to be taken into account
when analysing sustainable development.
Second, the upscaling/downscaling model does not sufficiently recognize autonomy
at any specific political level. In particular, it has a tendency to view the local level as
little more than the end-of-the-pipe in sustainable development policy making within
a purely hierarchical system of dependence. On the contrary, research has shown that
local initiatives can directly adopt global norms without steering or guidance from
national or subnational levels (e.g. cities implementing international treaties such as on
climate change); conversely, local actors may directly influence international rulemaking,
bypassing national governments or even influencing national governments via pressure
from above (the famous boomerang pattern of influence stipulated by Keck and Sikkink
1998). In general, multidimensional domains are often subject to complex multilevel
architectures of separate but interlinked regulatory sites that constitute contested arenas
of cooperation, norms diffusion and policy learning (Ansell and Balsiger 2011).
The concept of glocalization (Robertson 1995), which denotes the local institution-
alization of a global trend, is useful for understanding sustainable development. But,
more importantly, a local sustainable development agenda or other local initiative can
take shape without explicit connection to any global or national policy. During the
last decades, we have been witnessing the rise of such initiatives in various fields: the
so-called “territorialists” have promoted urban projects described as “sustainable self-
development projects”, denying any capacity to actors other than the people living there
to act in this direction (Magnaghi 2005). Several actors in Europe and North America
have initiated alternative food systems guided by sustainability objectives in order to
fight environmental, social and health problems generated by industrial food production,
global supply chains and multinational business, without acting under the recommenda-
tions of any global or national agenda (Goodman et al. 2012; this example is further
developed below). It is thus highly reductionist to think of local sustainable development
initiatives as miniatures of regional or national initiatives. Sustainable development is not
fractal (Godard, 1994); its characteristics vary tremendously from place to place, from
scale/level to scale/level.
Third, the upscaling/downscaling model is based on the idea that international regimes
are only defined by state coalitions or consensus (or power relations between states), that
action for sustainability is mainly shaped by international recommendations and state
policies, and that it is organized in the public sphere. While this does not leave much
room for stakeholders other than states and international organizations, it is well known
that many other types of stakeholders – private companies, scientists, non-governmental
organizations (NGOs), the media, celebrities – have played important roles in defining
sustainable development. Indeed, it is not so easy to assign companies, scientists or NGOs
to a single institutional level or even to some kind of scale (nor is it easy to determine
what kind of scale they promote when they engage in sustainable development initiatives).
Even where the role of civil society is called for (i.e. in both Agenda 21 and Agenda 2030),
interaction is supposed to focus on their respective governments, thus ignoring that civil
society is able to organize itself and to influence policies and practices in various, includ-
ing unconventional, ways. This third limitation illustrates the tendency of many analysts
of sustainable development (and some of its promotors at the global scale) to fall into
what John Agnew (1994) has called the “territorial trap”, i.e. to pay exclusive attention
to territorial actors (states, inter-state organizations, sub-state institutions) when dealing
with complex arrangements of stakeholders or to look at all socio-political and socio-
economic processes with territorial lenses.
Fourth, a view of sustainable development scaling that posits vertical embeddedness as
the principal axis of transposition misses the multidimensional character at the heart of
sustainable development. Because each of these domains – think of them as scales – has
its own functional logic and specific spatialities, it is virtually impossible to unify them in a
single territory. A concept that is more useful for capturing the scalar dynamics of sustain-
able development is heterarchy, which refers to situations where overlapping elements lack
a clear ranking and have varying degrees of connectivity (Balsiger 2012; Crumley 1995).
Different paths can be followed when trying to escape these forms of oversimplification
and to improve our understanding of sustainable development scaling. These paths share
in common the idea that scale (as size, as level, as scale-level, or as relation) is shaped
by discourse and action, requiring broader or alternative conceptions of the spatiality/
scalarity of collective action from those illustrated in the first section of this chapter. In
this section, we suggest that scaling (as a tool for spatializing problems and solutions) be
considered as inextricably linked with framing (as a generic mode of defining problems
and foreseeing solutions), as hinted at above.
The concepts of frame and framing emerged in political sociology and political science in
the late 1980s, particularly through the work of David Snow and Robert Benford (1988,
1992). As specialists of collective action and social movements, they focused on framing
as a means to “assign meaning to and interpret relevant events and conditions in ways
that are intended to mobilize potential adherents and constituents, to garner bystander
support, and to demobilize antagonists” (Snow and Benford 1988, p. 198). They also
proposed a clear distinction between three “functions” of framing: (1) diagnostic framing,
which points at “some event or aspect of social life as problematic and in need of altera-
tion”; (2) prognostic framing, which draws a solution from the respective problem; and
(3) motivational framing, which is a “call to arms or rationale for engaging in ameliorative
action” (1988, p. 199).
Similarly, Rein and Schön (1993, pp. 146–148) define framing as “a way of selecting,
organizing, interpreting, and making sense of a complex reality to provide guideposts
for knowing, analysing, persuading, and acting” and, more generally, that a frame “is a
perspective from which an amorphous, ill-defined, problematic situation can be made
sense of and acted on”.
From these perspectives, sustainable development can be considered as a frame and a
way of framing, that is, a particular way of pointing at a problem and creating the problem
at the same time, a way of shaping solutions or alternatives, of saying what is good and
what is bad.
Scale “is not simply an external fact awaiting discovery but a way of framing conceptions
of reality” (Delaney and Leitner, 1997, p. 94). In other words, scale is not an intrinsic
quality of space and spatial relations but has to be understood as a spatial modality of
framing. This holds true in scientific discourse as well as in socio-political practice.
Scientists use various conceptions of scale and various sets of scales, all more or less
strongly derived from the scientific framing of the reality they want to analyse. For social
scientists working on issues of governance, as noted above, scale is often synonymous with
institutional level. To natural scientists, scale is often a methodological device for focusing
on some part of reality, for example when selecting a spatial frame for observation or map-
ping (biodiversity indicators, socio-economic inequalities, epidemiologic data, etc.). Scale
is sometimes considered as the structural level at which biophysical (biotopes, ecosystems,
biomes) or social realities (neighbourhoods, urban areas, regions) appear to be organized.
In short, scale in this sense is an epistemological construction tied to the observer’s model
of understanding. As Sayre (2009, p. 98) wisely notes, “scales required for an analysis
depend on the related issue, always particular, at hand”. In other words, scientists do not
have a common conception of what is a scale and how to mobilize the notion.
Socio-political conceptions are not that different. They also combine institutional levels
and spatial frames for describing reality, along with frequent invocations of the “global”,
the “regional” or the “local” devoid of any formal explanation of their respective mean-
ings. What makes their rhetorical use of scale different from much scientific work is that
the latter mobilize tools, instruments, and analytic models in an effort to render their way
of scaling reality scientifically objective. By contrast, mundane use of scale, while often
implicit, is always related to the interlocutor’s own framing of reality and intention to
exert influence within the social world.
As a consequence, “the politics of scale may often take the form of contending
‘framings’” (Delaney and Leitner 1997, p. 95) and the academic analysis of such politics
should focus on the “scalar practices of social actors”, not on scale itself as an analytical
category (Moore 2008, p. 212). For this reason, Kurtz (2003, p. 894) proposes the concept
of “scale frames”, defined as “discursive practices that construct meaningful (and action-
able) linkages between the scale at which a social problem is experienced and the scale(s)
at which it could be politically addressed or resolved”.
In other words, scaling and framing are always entangled. Actors who invoke sustain-
able development are always simultaneously involved in its framing and its scaling,
arguing for and shaping spatial issues and solutions according to their own vision, but
also in concert or competition with one another. Scalar framing, beyond being useful to
“spatially ‘frame’ problems and solutions”, allows stakeholders to “include or exclude
certain actors, legitimate political projects, rework relations of power and coalesce politi-
cal processes around particular scalar orders” (Moore 2008, p. 218).
The fact that virtually all territorial organizations are invited to adopt sustainable develop-
ment strategies and policies (and that many are indeed doing this) implies a convergence,
where sustainable development has become a potentially universal way of framing present
and future in the sense that full implementation requires universal participation. But
this universality and its framing at the global scale also involves stakeholders other than
territorial authorities: many multinational corporations (by themselves or within formal
associations such as the World Business Council for Sustainable Development), scientists
and their networks, and NGOs have adopted their own sustainable development agendas.
What kinds of scale are at stake here? One relates to scale-as-size: the globe as the size
at which corporations, organizations and networks may happen to develop. The other
relates to scale-as-level: the global level at which all-embracing visions and agendas are
defined and for which actors design their own sustainability strategies. The promotion of
Partnerships for Sustainable Development in the wake of the 2002 Johannesburg Summit
and their implementation at the global scale are a good illustration.
This adoption of the global scale of action by a wide set of heterogeneous actors
helps explain the success of the global framing of sustainable development. Scholars
in different fields have proposed concepts such as transnational advocacy networks
(Keck and Sikkink 1998) or global civil society (Lipschutz 1996) to capture the idea
that an increasing number of non-territorial actors are engaging at this scale, chal-
lenging the common meaning of the global as an inter-state sphere, and promoting
alternative conceptions of authority (from hierarchical authority to moral spheres of
authority; see Rosenau 2000). In other words, the stakeholders of these global arrange-
ments have either reframed the global scale as an alternative “discursive space” (Ford
2003, p. 129), or they have adjusted to become involved alongside inter-governmental
organizations and states in an all-encompassing process aimed at producing a common
agenda, thereby transcending institutional levels and heterogeneous networks. The
unprecedentedly participatory development of Agenda 2030 can be seen as an example
of such cooperation between states, inter-state and non-state actors as well as millions
of contributors (Geller 2016).
Beyond the upscaling and downscaling processes proper to state (including sub-state and
inter-state) institutions, other processes involving similar or alternative sets of scales are
observed within non-state or multi-stakeholder arrangements. Alternative food systems
are a good illustration of this. As noted above, the development of such systems since
the 1970s has been based on a critique of globalization spearheaded by multinational
corporations and global free trade agreements (from GATT (General Agreement on
Trade and Tariffs) to WTO (World Trade Organization)). Alternative food systems have
had various priorities – favouring local circuits of production and commercialization
(for reducing carbon footprints and promoting social interactions between producers
and consumers), limiting intermediaries and ensuring decent remuneration of producers
(for contributing to their well-being and acting for socio-economic justice), increasing
food quality standards (to fight illnesses frequently associated with industrial food such
as obesity and allergies) and providing monetary revenues to small producers living
far from markets (for reducing socio-economic inequalities and keeping alive marginal
socio-territorial systems). One can easily recognize various ingredients used for framing
sustainability during the last decades.
What kinds of scale, upscaling and downscaling processes do these alternative food
systems promote? To begin with, the reference to the “local” is omnipresent: many
of these alternatives have been invented in very specific places and most of them are
especially attentive to sustaining local systems of production. However, other scales are
also at stake due to upscaling dynamics, especially scale-as-size (often regional, national
or transnational) for which alternative private distribution systems have settled, and
scale-as-level (state and European Union (EU) for example) at which labels and standards
are defined and legalized (municipalities, subnational levels) and at which these kinds of
alternatives have been translated into policies (such as the promotion of local products
in public services; see Pitt and Jones 2016). Simultaneously, downscaling has occurred
(literally speaking) at the initiative of NGOs or private companies when encouraging
local producers to adopt standards and norms required to enter alternative networks of
distribution. The example of alternative food systems demonstrates how framing and
scaling can be combined and how fundamentally political both operations are.
A closer look at the role of scientists reveals still further evidence of complex scaling
and framing dynamics relating to sustainable development. Scientists have their own
way(s) of dealing with scale, but they are also important actors in sustainable development
policies and initiatives. They provide conceptual expertise related to the notion of sustain-
ability itself, carry out assessments of (natural, social, economic, or integrated) systems
sustainability and sometimes promote alternative or improved practices. Under the term
“epistemic communities” popularized by Peter Haas (1990), scholars have shown great
interest in the various roles of scientists. As in the case of alternative food systems, this
raises questions about their scalar practices.
When academic expertise contributes to greater understanding and assessment of
(natural, social, economic) systems sustainability as well as the promotion of alternative
or improved practices, scientists are keen to rely on scalar systems. However, as noted
previously, scientists rarely share a common conception of scale. Instead, when working
on specific issues related to sustainable development, they invoke a specific set of scales
in accordance with the indicators and data they use, or the way they frame a scientific
question in the first place. In the domain of sustainable development, the scales at which
problems such as health, poverty problems, gender imbalance, or risks related to climate
change are observed differ greatly. The question then becomes whether and how the
(huge variety and heterogeneity of) sets of scales adopted by scientists match the scales
and networks of actual sustainable development strategies? The most frequent answer is:
by simplification. When scientists from different academic fields are willing to contribute
to assessing or promoting sustainable development policies, experience shows that they
usually adopt a rather simple set of scales.
One example of simplification as a strategy for overcoming complexity can be found in
a recent report on the assessment of urban sustainability. After recalling the difficulty of
taking into account the large variety of scales required by an analysis of climate change
mitigation and adaptation related to urban biotopes and ecosystems, the authors propose
to “choose a scale set (city–region, neighbourhood–district, site–block) that would help in
considering scalar aspects of each benefit (of various types of green urban infrastructure)
but still be simple enough to allow a general overview” (Dawson et al. 2014, p. 155).
Another example is the simplification frequently found when devising indicators
for biodiversity conservation and ecosystem services that adequately reflect the social
and policy dimensions. In a contribution by the Stockholm Resilience Centre and the
International Council of Scientific Unions to a United Nations General Assembly meet-
ing on sustainable development, the authors suggest that “the task of developing more
integrated and scalable indicators will be crucial for SDGs” and that “using indicators that
make sense on a local scale and then possible to scale up on a regional and global scale
opens up the possibility to engage local stakeholders, citizen groups, indigenous groups
and many other knowledge holders in the monitoring, reporting and development of the
SDGs” (Norström et al. 2014, p. 4). The demand for sustainable development indicators
to be “scalable” suggests that scale does not matter for operationalization, nor does it
matter at what scales scientists analyse the related issues.
Our analysis of scalar practices by various types of stakeholders has so far left aside
an important spatial feature, namely that most actors are networks and adopt network
practices, even if this is more evident for multinational organizations, social movements
or scientific consortia than for state actors. The questions this raises are the following:
are scalar practices and network practices two independent dimensions of institutional
practices? If not, how are they linked? Is scaling essentially a network activity and net-
working a scalar activity? To these very general questions, observations of the dynamics
of sustainable development initiatives can bring important elements of a response.
Before dealing with sustainable development itself, however, it is necessary to stress
that territorial institutions such as states or municipalities are also social networks. What
constitutes the glue between the various units of a government, an administration, or
a territory are the direct and indirect relationships that public officials and inhabitants
of a given territory are able to develop. Sustainable development policies illustrate this
well. One of the main challenges governments committed to sustainable development
encounter is how to connect sectoral policies (and administrations) in ways that generate
integrated, or at least complementary contributions to overarching sustainability goals.
Therefore, the ability of a state to implement sustainability policies relies in large part on
its capacity to function as a complex network.
A similar logic applies to the downscaling of some policies. States that encourage or
force subnational authorities to elaborate sustainable development strategies, thereby
activating the hierarchical dimension of scalar organization in public institutions, often
devise accompanying measures that emphasize networking such as training, collection
and dissemination of best practices, study visits or technical backstopping. The same can
be said at the global level: international agreements on sustainability commit states and
only states but their elaboration (through negotiations) and implementation (e.g. through
peer reviewing of national sustainable development strategies; see Meadowcroft 2007)
involve complex networks of diverse actors.
Attention to the network dimension of sustainable development policies creates a
deeper understanding of their scalar dimension. Networks’ horizontal character contrib-
utes not only to the transfer of sustainability practices at upper and lower scale-levels, but
also their diffusion at larger scale-sizes. Geographers who have shaped the field of “policy
mobilities”, studying the practical modalities of the spatial dissemination of models of
policies, have shown how sustainable development policy models have experienced such
a mobility: in some cases policy mobility has led to the emergence of ad hoc neologisms
such as “Vancouverism”, as stylized, packaged understandings of complex “local”
approaches to urban planning, design and redevelopment first analysed in Vancouver,
Canada (McCann and Ward 2012).
While the network dimension of sustainability is important for all types of actors, it is
most prominent among non-state actors. The main reason for this is that, as much of an
oversimplification the downscaling/upscaling model may be, it is difficult to ignore the
constitutional rules that tie territorial authorities to a specific level (municipality, district,
province, etc.) by means of a jurisdictional envelope. In turn, territorial authorities,
in contrast to non-state actors, have greater means to seek a fit between the scale of a
problem and the scale of a solution.
In the previous sections we have drawn attention to the consequences of taking for
granted the notion of scale when analysing and practising sustainable development. We
have proposed that considering scale through the prism of framing and being attentive
to the role of networking practices can contribute to a more nuanced understanding of
what has become one of the most important global norms. In this section, we combine
our analytical arguments, or focus on more specific ones, to show why and how o
bservers
consider certain types of geographical objects and associated scales to be especially
relevant for sustainable development. We illustrate this with reference to cities and
mountains.
There is a wide consensus among scholars and policy makers that cities play a crucial
role in sustainable development. With more than 50 per cent of the world population
and roughly three-quarters of global economic activity, the United Nations Human
Settlement Program (UN-HABITAT) estimated in 2011 that cities are the source of 70
per cent of global greenhouse gas emissions (UN-HABITAT 2011).
Consequently, many international initiatives (such as the Habitat programme and
Agenda 21) or supranational organizations (such as the EU through the 2007 Leipzig
Charter on Sustainable European Cities) have promoted sustainability assessments
and the implementation of sustainable development plans for urban areas. In the 2030
Agenda, SDG 11 specifically seeks to “make cities and human settlements inclusive, safe,
resilient and sustainable” (United Nations 2015; see also Parnell et al. 2014).
How can we explain such focused attention, especially when considering cities in
comparison with such weighty SDG topics as hunger, poverty, or life on land? For some
observers, the reasons are to be sought in the specificity of the object. For others, it is
mainly a question of scale. Only a few suggest that both arguments are valuable. The
first argument was used during debates on the opportunity of having an urban SDG,
for instance in the form “urbanization and urban phenomena touch on all aspects of
sustainable development” (Parnell et al. 2014, p. 38). In this view, cities are seen to some-
how embody the necessity of integrating all the other SDGs. The second argument was
mentioned above when we referred to the popularity of the “local” scale in sustainability
projects: social interactions at the local scale and the material condition of daily life of
those who interact are said to favour sensitivity to sustainability issues (Moore 2007).
Moreover, it is often suggested that cities, being locales inhabited by heterogeneous actors,
some being wide open to collaborative practices, are natural laboratories (Evans et al.
2016); both arguments are combined in such a statement.
So let us assume that cities are a good context and a good scale-size for sustainability
initiatives. But do they teach us anything more in terms of scaling? Does the involvement
of numerous urban actors and stakeholders in sustainable development initiatives illustrate
upscaling or downscaling processes or other dynamics in the scalar practices of actors?
In a recent study based on a panel of 200 large and medium-sized cities across 11
European countries, Reckien and colleagues (2014) showed that 65 per cent have
adopted climate change policies at least in terms of mitigation planning (energy savings
and efficiency, transport, buildings, etc.), with half of these combining mitigation and
adaptation planning (urban planning, water management). The same study shows that
the involvement of cities in such plans is not correlated with the existence and ambition
of a national plan: if many French, British and German cities seem to take advantage
of ambitious national plans, cities in the Netherlands, which often combine mitigation
and adaptation plans, do not have a national plan to back their efforts. We are invited to
conclude from this study that municipal governments are an innovative milieu for sustain-
able development initiatives, but not a level activated by downscaling processes. A very
popular book has recently made the same argument: Benjamin Barber (2013) attracted
some attention when he stated that the future of a sustainable world is in the hands of
the mayors of big cities, in part due to their capacity to cope with challenges that states
are no longer able to address.
urban sustainability in 39 European cities from 26 countries concluded after five years
that “the policy or decision scales differ from the scales for which the (integrated assess-
ment) models were originally developed. The change of scale in integrated assessment
modelling approaches involves up- and downscaling of model inputs, model parameters
and adaptations of model equations in order to make predictions at the policy scales”
(Dawson et al. 2014, p. 20). This disconnect is often reinforced because scientists may
have to rely on data provided at an institutional scale (municipalities, urban districts)
when studying drivers and effects, making it still more difficult to understand the mutual
influence of academic and political scale-levels.
CONCLUSION
Our point of departure in this chapter was the observation that contemporary discussions
of sustainable development have largely ignored the insights from recent debates on
the concept of scale. As a consequence, a simplistic view of rescaling limited to vertical
authority shifts along jurisdictional levels dominates sustainable development theoriz-
ing and practice. To be sure, the continued importance of national sovereignty as an
international norm, combined with the inter-governmental nature of the organizations
driving the global sustainable development agenda, has meant that implementing global
initiatives and programmes such as the 2030 Agenda largely rely on state-based channels
and instruments. At the same time, we have argued that too narrow a view of scale can lead
to a neglect of actors operating at scales other than those sanctioned in official discourses
and covered in mainstream media. Ignoring the full diversity of actors involved in sustain-
able development creates the added risk of losing sight of spatial logics such actors follow
because of the issues they represent.
To develop a better understanding of sustainable development through the prism of
scale, however, is no easy task because scientists are uncritical in their own use of the
concept; conflate scale-as-size, scale-as-level and scale-as-relation; or because the scales
they use in their scientific work are not the same as those they face when engaging in
concrete practices. Beyond the need to pay greater attention to these differences, we
build on the politics of scale literature and suggest two ways for fostering clarity. The
first consists of linking the concepts of scale and frame because scales are never just out
there to be discovered but rather are the products of social contestation. Paying atten-
tion to the strategies actors deploy when framing what they consider appropriate scales
for sustainable development can generate pivotal insights of a conceptual and practical
nature. The second involves greater recognition of the network dimensions of sustainable
development, which in turn facilitates appreciation of its scalar dimensions. The short
case studies of cities and mountains are meant to illustrate these points.
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INTRODUCTION
In the current global warming context, mountain tree species need to adapt locally within
their modern range (Sexton et al. 2009; Aitken et al. 2008; Hoffmann & Sgro 2011) or
migrate (Malcolm et al. 2006; Williams et al. 2007) to more climatically suitable areas.
If these two options cannot be accomplished then at best the species will persist in a
restricted range as small populations (Araújo & Williams 2000; Keppel et al. 2015) under
a suitable local (micro)climate or might become extinct. Mountain species in Europe are
considered highly sensitive to climate change with 60 percent of them threatened with
complete extinction by 2080 (Thuiller et al. 2005; Thomas et al. 2004). The involved
mechanisms seem complex. Steinbauer et al. (2018) demonstrated that mountain summits
became enriched in species at an accelerating pace during the last decade and that the new
colonizers show traits which are typical of lower altitude species. They suggested that this
phenomenon will later result in the impoverishment of the initial diversity by competitive
replacement. At the global scale, observed changes indicate a sustained decline in cold
mountain plant communities in response to the recent warming while the climatic impact
seems more pronounced in areas with a marked increase in temperature (Gottfried et al.
2012). The International Union for Conservation of Nature (IUCN) has reported about
800 extinctions in species over the last 500 years, with more extinctions that have probably
not been inventoried. Species extinction is a natural process that one may observe in the
geological records (Darwin 1985, p. 656). However, in the natural process a species may
persist for a few million years (Raup & Sepkoski 1984).
Fossil records contain information on how plant species have responded to past climate
changes over the geological periods. Spatial data syntheses allow us to depict where species
have persisted during past periods when climates were not suitable (Bennett & Provan
2008) and how they expanded their range to more suitable habitats (Jackson & Overpeck
2000) when climates became more favorable. Fossil records also allow us to depict periods
of times when species became extinct (Magri et al. 2017). Expected rapid climate changes
during the next century will likely induce noticeable changes in the ranges of species and
will impact their potential extinction rates (Thomas et al. 2004; Thuiller et al. 2005). The
modern challenge is that the velocity of the ongoing global climate change exceeds the
known migration rates of the many plant species composing major global ecosystems
(Loarie et al. 2009; Dobrowski et al. 2013, Corlett & Westcott 2013).
The expansion/regression and adaptation/extinction processes which have taken
thousands of years may occur within the next century. This is why scientists are exploring
67
different options to preserve those species which may not be able to either migrate to
more suitable habitats or adapt locally in such a short period of time (Aitken et al. 2008).
The objective of this chapter is to show that the integration of different but comple-
mentary disciplines such as palaeoecology, genetics and species modeling can provide
us with pertinent information on the environmental changes which have impacted plant
species across time, and, therefore, can contribute to setting better strategy for preserving
species. Genetics allow us, for instance, to evaluate the infra-specific diversity between
and among populations (Petit et al. 2008) and the overall capacity of a species to cope (or
not) with strong environmental changes. Meanwhile, vegetation model simulations may
provide useful information on the geographical range changes through time and help
predict future suitable areas for the species persistence (Pearman et al. 2007; Maiorano et
al. 2013). Palaeoecological data allows us to evaluate the past relationships between plant
species and their contemporaneous climate, which can contribute to a better management
of the future plant/environment relationship (Gillson & Marchant 2014; Petit et al. 2008;
Willis et al. 2007). These disciplines are of particular interest to the conservation of
mountain tree species, which often represent a great value to the ecosystem in the services
they provide (Schröter et al. 2005). The mountain landscapes of Morocco have been
declared a critical habitat for conservation by the United Nations Educational, Scientific
and Cultural Organization (UNESCO), justifying the recent inclusion of the Atlas Cedar
Biosphere Reserve (Sarmiento 2011).
One of the goals of conservation is to prevent species from becoming extinct. Thus, one
of the key conservation aims is to identify the threatened species, evaluate the degree of
the threat, identify putative regions where the species may be preserved, and consider
the environmental conditions that are suitable for the survival of the species. Thus, a
scientific-based management strategy for preserving species requires the integration of
several disciplines such as ecology, climatology, genetics and modeling. In order to be
pertinent and efficient at managing species under any different climate from that of today,
we need this integrated multidisciplinary approach within a historic data frame.
Palaeoecology is the study of the interactions between species and their environment,
including climate, over geological timescales. The study of these interactions provides
a scientific basis for evaluating a species’ capacity to cope with climate fluctuations, its
capacity for migration or the suitable areas for its potential occurrence. Thus, palaeoecol-
ogy can provide sound interpretations that can be directly used for species conservation.
Fossil pollen grains are one of the most used biological proxies in vegetation palaeoecol-
ogy for reconstructing past plant-environment relationships. Their excellent preservation
in sediments is due to sporopollenin, one of the most resistant biological substances
to degradation, which constitutes their ornamented and recognizable outer wall. The
highest number of fossil pollen records available cover the last 20,000 years, which is a
period of time that covers the last glacial maximum and its transition to the Holocene
warm period where the human population massively colonized the planet. Fossil pollen
records contain information on the occurrences of all the local species through time. A
data set of well-dated fossil records allows for the spatial reconstruction of past species
occurrences at different time periods and spatial scales (Brewer et al. 2002). Using these
spatial past occurrences across time, one can evaluate the evolution of the species’ range
over time and the velocity of the spread (Cheddadi et al. 2014; Huntley 1991). These
estimates may provide us with information on whether a species may cope with a climate
warming scenario or not.
Fossil pollen data sets can also provide essential information on the past ecosystems
composition and dynamics (Overpeck et al. 1990), the species richness through time
(Svenning & Skov 2007), the competition between species (Clark & McLachlan 2003),
the abundances of the species composing the succession of ecosystems through time
(Bennett 2004, discussion 303), the prevalence of a species over the others, the expansion
and extinction of species (Jackson & Weng 1999) when climate changes, and so on. All
these past ecological parameters are essential for vegetation modelers and conservation
managers. Quantifying ecological variables can be directly applicable to conservation
managers to (1) identify whether there is a risk of extinction; (2) develop realistic plans
for conservation in suitable areas; and (3) to identify appropriate management tools for
maintaining or, if at all possible, restore the ad hoc ecological settings. Basing conservation
decisions on a long-term ecological perspective will undoubtedly be of a more robust
approach than only on contemporary observations (Willis et al. 2007) and the inclusion
of a long-term ecological perspective can provide a more scientifically defensible basis for
conservation decisions than the one based only on contemporary records.
Vegetation models are required to predict future species distributions and potential
suitable areas and habitats for their conservation (Pearman et al. 2007; Sykes et al. 1996;
Prentice et al. 1992). However, reconstructing past ecological parameters of a species from
fossil data sets is essential for validating and improving the vegetation models (Maiorano
et al. 2013; Cheddadi et al. 2016). There are basically two types of model describing the
geographical distribution of plant species: the ecological niche-based models (ENMs)
and the process-based dynamic vegetation models (DVMs). ENMs are empirical relation-
ships between plant species occurrences, or more rarely abundances, and spatial climate
datasets (e.g. Guisan & Thuiller 2005). ENMs don’t take into account the atmospheric
CO2 concentration which has a direct impact on the plant tolerance to water stress. DVMs
are more complex tools that combine, in a chronological process, schemes and feedback,
both inputs and outputs of sub-models. Beside species distribution, DVMs compute
productivity and other ecological variables (e.g. Dury et al. 2011; Snell et al. 2014). The
sub-models are designed to compute environmental conditions at plant level (e.g. water
availability, CO2 concentration inside the leaves, photon flux) from environmental data
(including climate) and physiological processes describing plant functions and allowing
growth and development (e.g. stomatal aperture, fixed carbon allocation). So far, DVMs
are rather limited by the lack of specific information required for each species to be
simulated (i.e. plant traits).
More recently, environmental DNA (eDNA), a powerful past environmental proxy, has
been developed and is experiencing an unprecedented boom for reconstructing past plant
occurrences from the fossil records (Taberlet et al. 2012; Willerslev et al. 2014). eDNA
already allows us to identify many more organisms (plant and animals), in a fossil record,
that have lived in the past ecosystem (Giguet-Covex et al. 2014; Pansu et al. 2015), which
represents essential information for conservation managers on the habitat suitability and
Cedrus atlantica (Atlas cedar) is a North African mountain conifer tree that can withstand
strong droughts (Aussenac & Finkelstein 1983; Aussenac & Valette 1982) that are higher
than any European temperate coeval mountain tree species. However, the aridification trend
recorded over the last century has already impacted its range with a migration of its lower
viable elevation limit by about 200 m in the Middle Atlas (Rhanem 2011) and a substantial
reduction of its range in the Rif Mountains (Cheddadi et al. 2017). The increase in winter
temperatures (Ezzahiri & Belghazi 2000) and the recent successive years of soil droughts
(Ladjal et al. 2005) seem to affect its growth as well. Tree-ring data has allowed us to observe
the negative impact of the recent recurrent droughts and temperature increase on its growth
(Linares 2011). The Atlas cedar is now considered an endangered species by the IUCN
(2019). Forest managers in Morocco are now protecting some populations with fences
and replanting seedlings around existing populations that show a strong trend in popula-
tion decline. Indeed, locally, grazing, poaching and inadequate management still hinder
regeneration (Navarro-Cerrillo et al. 2013) while replanting is not 100 percent successful.
In order to evaluate the impact of past environmental changes on the Moroccan Atlas
cedar and contribute to its conservation, we need to identify the areas of concern with
potentially threatened populations and propose a strategy based on both the scientific
facts and a realistic strategy for conserving the species over the long term.
Our approach is based on reconstructing past climates and species occurrences from
fossil records, simulating the species’ past ranges using a vegetation model and evaluating
the species’ genetic diversity through an exhaustive genetic survey of the modern popula-
tions. The target area is located in the northernmost part of the Atlas cedar distribution
in Morocco. We collected several geological corings from the Rif Mountains at different
altitudes and distances from the modern Atlas cedar forests. Then we sampled the modern
populations for their DNA study before finally using a DVM to simulate the evolution of
the Atlas cedar productivity and range in the Rif Mountains continuously over 50 years
between 1960 and 2010.
We know from fossil pollen records that Cedrus sp. has been present in the Mediterranean
borderlands for at least 2.6 million years (Magri et al. 2017) including Northern Morocco
during the Pleistocene (Feddi et al. 2011). How did the species persist throughout several
climatic cycles with marked alternating glacial and interglacial climates?
Fossil records allow us to track species occurrences in space and time. However, there are
several physical limitations in arid areas, such as North Africa, to the accumulation of
sediments and the preservation of fossil biological environmental proxies in continuous
records encompassing more than the last glacial period and the Holocene. As a matter of
fact, there are very few records encompassing more than the last 20,000 years. These avail-
able geological records contain vegetation and climate proxies that help us reconstruct
past species occurrences and past climate variability. The fossil proxies help reconstruct
and then interpret the relationship between species and their contemporaneous climate
over the time period covered by the record.
The pollen records available in the Rif Mountains indicate that Atlas cedar populations
were present at much lower altitudes than today, near the Mediterranean Sea (Linstädter
et al. 2016; Zapata et al. 2013). Today, Atlas cedar occurs at altitudes higher than 1400 m
above sea level (asl) in a more reduced and fragmented range than during the last glacial
period at lower elevations (Figure 4.1).
Based on several fossil records from the Rif Mountains, we can observe that the Atlas
cedar had a much more extended range around 6000 years Before the Present (BP) with
extensive populations down to 800 masl or probably at lower elevations. The 600 m
Figure 4.1 Geographical range of Cedrus atlantica (dark shaded) in the Rif Mountains,
Morocco
Tjan (°C)
6
5
220
DJF (mm)
210
190
200
MAM (mm)
170
150
80
60
Cedrus %
40
20
0
0 1000 2000 3000 4000 5000 6000 7000 8000 9000 10,000
Years Cal. BP
Figure 4.2 Pollen percentages and climate variables from a geological record collected in
the Rif Mountains, Morocco
migration upwards to the modern 1400 masl took place over the past thousand years
after 6000 BP. These expansion/regression spatial movements during the Holocene allow
us to evaluate the response velocity of the Atlas cedar to the climate forcing that may be
inferred from the climate proxies.
The climate reconstructions (Figure 4.2) that we have performed from the pollen
records show that winter temperatures were lower between 7500 and 5700 BP than today.
This time span was also the wettest within the Holocene time period with a more marked
increase of precipitation during spring than in the winter season.
This cool and wet time interval corresponds to the most extended geographical range
of Atlas cedar in the Rif Mountains (Figure 4.2). These past climate data tend to
suggest that even if the Atlas cedar is rather well adapted to drier climates than many
other conifer species, it may show a more sustained growth and expansion of its range
under a wetter and colder climate than today. These past climate interpretations are
coherent with the genetic data and confirm that the species expanded its range during
the last glacial period, more probably at lower altitudes towards the Mediterranean Sea
Figure 4.3 Genetic distances between populations of Cedar sp. collected in Morocco
(Linstädter et al. 2016; Zapata et al. 2013) where some moisture may be available even
during cold periods.
The modern genetic data reveal very low divergence between populations and do not
support a recolonization process from isolated population(s) (Figure 4.3), but rather
a persistence of at least one large population which has fragmented in the Moroccan
mountains by extinction at lower elevations. This process prevented a marked genetic
drift, led to the modern low genetic differentiation in the whole range of the species and
maintained the occurrence of all haplotypes in all populations. Indeed, previous genetic
surveys carried out on the modern populations of Atlas cedar in Morocco show that there
is no clear geographical diversity structure (Terrab et al. 2006; Cheddadi et al. 2009), which
tends to suggest that, since pollen does not disperse far from its originating Atlas cedar
tree (Wright 1952; Hajar et al. 2008), the most likely explanation is that Moroccan popula-
tions are the result of a massive colonization event, without founder effect. According
to the ecological requirements of the species, such colonization happened during cold
periods when the potential distribution area was probably continuous.
DVMs may help identifying potential suitable areas and evaluating the risk of extinction
of a species under different climate scenarios. To assess the impact of the past climate
changes on cedar populations, we ran a model simulation continuously over the past 50
years, between 1960 and 2010. Our model simulation (Cheddadi et al. 2017) provided
three major pieces of information: (1) that the range of the Atlas cedar in Northern
Morocco decreased by about 75 percent; (2) that those populations located at the east-
ernmost part of the range are heavily threatened by the decrease in water availability; and
(3) that populations at lower elevations are strongly impacted, which led over the past few
decades to an upward lift of the lower limit of the distribution by about 200 m. The latter
is coherent with observed data in the Middle Atlas (Rhanem 2011).
Today, Atlas cedar populations in Northern Morocco occur in quite restricted and
fragmented areas. The main populations are located in Jbel Kelti, Talassemtane National
Park, Jbel Tiziren, Targuist, Oursane and Tidighine and they occupy less than 12 k ha.
The populations in Jbel Bouhachem have strongly declined with many becoming extinct
over the past few decades. There remains only one very reduced population that is almost
close to extinction. Our model simulations show that the occupied range was about four
times higher (40 k ha) in 1960–70 than today, which is coherent with the IUCN status of
Cedrus atlantica, which states that the species is “endangered with a decreasing popula-
tion trend” (IUCN 2019). The fossil data have recorded an even more extensive range
6000 years ago and the genetic surveys confirm the presence of few and very extended
populations in Morocco, since there is very weak genetic structure between the isolated
modern population.
Thus, based on our multidisciplinary and multi-scale approach, we consider the
modern populations of Atlas cedar in the Rif Mountains as relic populations that are
persisting today in microrefugial areas which offer a habitat that has a suitable microcli-
mate. However, these populations are quite distant from each other, which prevents the
gene flow between them. Such genetic isolation may lead to a collapse of all these remnant
populations on a more or less short term.
To maximize the chances of persistence for the Atlas cedar in its endemic range we
may propose: (1) as a basic rule, to protect all the remaining microrefugial areas from
any human disturbance, mostly seedlings at the upper limit of each population, since the
species requires cool and wet conditions which may be still available at higher elevations;
(2) to evaluate quantitatively the microclimate suitability in each microrefugial area with
a dedicated system for climate monitoring; (3) eventually, to transplant seedlings into
new areas that are unoccupied today by the Atlas cedar but which have been identified
by the model simulations as potentially suitable new microrefugial areas under different
climate scenarios; and (4) since the modern populations are too remote to have any gene
exchanges, we could also consider some gene exchanges between them, which could
improve heterozygosity and potentially the capacity of the successful hybridized genera-
tion to adapt locally.
CONCLUSIONS
The aim of this work is to highlight the importance of combining information from dif-
ferent but complementary disciplines within a multi-scale approach to build a r easonable
Figure 4.4 Populations of Atlas cedar under the snow in 2017 between Jbel Tiziren and
Issaguen, Rif Mountains
scientific basis that may contribute to species conservation. This approach is being
developed within the VULPES project (www.vulpesproject.com) for other species in
South America, Tropical Africa and China.
The case study chosen here is the threatened species Cedrus atlantica in Northern
Africa, which persists as a few remaining and geographically isolated populations.
The combined data that we have collected and analyzed tend to indicate that the areas
where the Atlas cedar populations are persisting today should be considered as microrefu-
gia with a microclimate that is still cooler and wetter than the average climate in Northern
Morocco where snow still occurs, although not every year, during winter (Figure 4.4).
The future persistence of the remaining Atlas cedar populations in the Rif Mountains
will depend on the long-term natural climate stability of these microrefugia and the man-
agement strategies. Generally, one may observe that the human impact is not as strong in
the Rif Mountains as in the Middle Atlas because the remaining populations are not so
easily accessible, such as in Jbel Kelti, Talassemtane National Park or Jbel Tiziren.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This work is a contribution to the Belmont Forum funded project VULPES (Project ID:
ANR-15-MASC-0003). Other members engaged in this publication include Anne-Marie
Lézine, Kangyou Huang, Mark Bush, Paulo de Oliveira, Matthieu Carré and Zhuo
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impair environments at locations distant from the sites that generate the waste. Of all
consequences of human activities that affect the environment, those of anthropogenically
caused climate change have an unusually global spatial extent, thanks to the ability of
the atmosphere to distribute inputs. Geographers are uniquely equipped to study and
understand the spatial relationships of actions that increase or decrease sustainability
and that link local to global scales. To ensure that actions intended to increase sustain-
ability are indeed having the desired outcomes, it is important to approach the quest for
sustainability through multiple scales and with well-informed understandings of those
scales and how they are connected. Geographers, therefore, have special roles to play in
recognizing the spatial relationships and the linkages among spatial scales that are associ-
ated, positively or negatively, with sustainability.
The purpose of this chapter is to reflect on the dynamic nature of the quest for sustain-
ability and demonstrate that issues of scale and the need to integrate human actions
with other changing aspects of the planetary environment provide rich opportunities for
geographers to be more engaged in research on topics of sustainability. The metaphor
of dancing underscores the need for participation, coordination and agility in efforts to
increase the sustainability of the human presence on Earth. Geographers are challenged
to recognize and join this ‘dance’ to better understand the interactions – b
iogeochemical,
biological, social and political, hydrological and atmospheric – that link the human
population to other component systems of our planet and to inform the development of
sustainability-oriented policies and action plans.
WHAT IS TO BE SUSTAINED?
Sustainability is a human construct, viewed through a human lens, that emphasizes that
maintaining the resources and environmental services that support life is essential for
sustaining cultures and quality of life. The penetration of effects of human actions into
other components of the planetary system, especially the growing effects of anthropo-
genic climate change, has led to widespread recognition that people are not actors on the
stage of nature, but rather that humans are one of many species on the planet and human
actions are subsystems of the planetary system, with tremendous capacity to destabilize
the very systems that support them (e.g., Cronon, 1996; Harden, 2012). Butman (2016)
argued that people are selective in the way they value nature, wanting to sustain not
the entirety of nature, but the nature that serves them best by providing the resources
needed for human consumption. As an example of our selectivity, he noted that people
eliminated lions in Europe and that lions are not viewed as a compatible component of
contemporary European life.
The concept of sustainability reflects the sense that people have created problems that
need to be fixed and that we have reduced our resources and adversely altered the environ-
mental systems of our planet that support life – all life, including that of homo sapiens –
even as we have increased our dependence on these resources. Before humans appeared on
Earth, populations of other living things rose and fell, organisms modified their physical
and biotic environments, species evolved and extinctions occurred. The ability to harness
and modify the environment, key to the success of our human species, has now reached
a point of having changed terrestrial and marine environments and the atmosphere in
measurable ways, even above the noise of ongoing cycles and changes occurring naturally
in the Earth systems. Some authors have claimed that the idea of environment has lost
its meaning because it has been so altered by human actions (e.g., Biermann, 2016). As
the effects of human activities on planetary subsystems have become more evident in the
stratigraphic record, geologists have proposed that this period of Earth history be called
the Anthropocene, characterized by anthropogenic evidence (Zalasiewicz et al., 2008).
In 1980, when the human population was 5.3 billion, the time frame of sustainability
was viewed as indefinite (IUCN/UNEP/WWF, 1991). Today, human societies are on
trajectories that we recognize as being environmentally unsustainable. To take no action,
then, is to continue to reduce the capacity of our planet to sustain us. With the human
population rising toward a projected 9.7 billion persons by 2050 (UN Department of
Economic and Social Affairs, 2019), and faced with mounting evidence of the effects of
human societies on Earth systems, we recognize the need to adjust that trajectory to at
least slow the pace of change to Earth systems. On a planet with a growing human popula-
tion, with increasing per capita resource use and economies dependent on growth and
material goods, maintaining the status quo is not possible. We can already see our impact
in the form of dwindling resources of certain commodities (e.g., copper, oil), shrinking
populations of marine species that feed the human population (e.g., species of grouper,
salmon, sturgeon, abalone; NOAA, 2017), changes to the composition of the atmosphere
that affect the heat budget of the planet, species extinctions and desertification.
It is easier to recognize what actions are not sustainable than those that are likely to
be sustainable (Table 5.1). Publicity and education have been effective in raising public
awareness of the fates of threatened and endangered species, and the irreversibility of
extinction has proven to be a powerful signal. What will happen to polar bears as Arctic
ice disappears? Can the oceans continue to feed our human population? It has been easier
to muster concern for the irreversible loss of a few charismatic species than to turn atten-
tion to more subtle effects of human actions, like the emission of atmosphere-altering
gases by gas-powered vehicles, that are tightly woven into the fabrics of our daily lives.
Yet, while our lives may go on in familiar settings with familiar infrastructure, economic
growth and construction continue to fragment habitats important to many species,
human use of resources continues to introduce toxins into the environment, hunting
and fishing in some regions have removed certain species at rates exceeding the rates of
replenishment, and our use of energy and extraction of energy-generating resources alter
local environments and continue to affect the entire planet by causing climate change
(National Research Council, 2011).
The necessity of understanding the human situation as part of larger, more complex
environmental systems becomes apparent when we discover that actions undertaken to
improve the quality of human life are contributing, directly and indirectly, to an unsus-
tainable trajectory. With excellent intentions and at great expense, we have dammed rivers
to help society by reducing downstream flooding, producing hydroelectric power and
creating lakes for recreation and water supply. However, the same dams have also altered
aquatic ecosystems and blocked the movements of fish, other organisms and sediments
(Graf, 2006). Ultimately, every action causes change and extends the human footprint.
An important shift in cultural perspective occurred during the environmental movement
of the twentieth century, when unintended consequences of anthropogenic development
– consequences with negative effects on the environment, on other species, and on issues
Table 5.1 Examples of human actions that do not sustain the capacity of physical
environments to support humanity
of social justice among our own people – were elevated to a position of open study and
discussion. Nonetheless, we continue to rely on environmental systems and materials as
sources of power, water, food and resources, and the human population continues to grow.
This leads to the question of what is it that we are trying to sustain?
Do we expect future generations to have exactly what we have and live exactly as we
do? Recent history shows the answer to be ‘no’. Compared to our own parents and
grandparents, we are more likely to live in a city, shop using the internet and travel by air.
But even when the details of daily life change, we would like future generations to have the
resources and freedoms to experience the degrees of comfort, security, health, and choice
that we are accustomed to having today. Referring to what is to be sustained as ‘critical
natural capital’, Ekins et al. (2003) acknowledged that public policies to promote sustain-
ability will need to prioritize and focus attention on certain highly valued environmental
Given that sustainability implies actions, what should be done? The past offers excellent
examples – it is important to continue to draw lessons from them. The first lesson is that,
yes, we can identify and reduce the most offensive sources of environmental contamina-
tion. The second is that we can rehabilitate or restore places altered in the past, and the
third is that people can change their behaviors and even their values.
Our ability to identify and reduce the most offensive sources of environmental contami-
nation is complicated by our dependence on resource extraction. Resource extraction,
power production and major industrial production are tied to enormous economic inter-
ests. Interactions between the public and major corporations involve a new type of dance,
with attention to the partners and cooperation needed to aim the dance in the direction
of sustainability. The international cooperation that produced the Montreal Protocol, a
treaty that phased out and banned the production and use of chlorofluorocarbons, which
had allowed ultraviolet radiation-B to pass through a ‘hole’ in the protective stratosphere,
serves as an excellent example of a successful, cooperative international effort to reverse
damage to an environmental (here, atmospheric) system affecting life on Earth.
The question of how to behave more sustainably is spatially scale dependent in multiple
ways. Species, including humans, can adapt to a change at one location by moving to
another. Overharvesting of a species at one site might be offset by a population boom
in that place or an adjacent location, or by a population crash that extends beyond the
original site. People can engage in sustainable behaviors at the local level, while broader
scales of environmental governance and monitoring are needed to keep local actions on
track to make a positive difference. One plastic bag tossed to the wind (or one farmer’s
field poorly plowed or water drawn from one freshwater well) might have little impact,
but extrapolating from the local to the global scale reveals a crisis of epic proportions. The
locations of sources and sinks of contaminants, whether the contaminants are plastics
accumulating in the ocean or hazardous chemicals adsorbed to soils in floodplains, also
highlight the geographies and scale linkages of unsustainable actions. Geographers who
study water resource management know the distinction made between point sources (e.g.,
a pipe discharging liquid into a river) and non-point sources (the diffuse and more difficult
to pinpoint sources, such as nutrients that can enter the water in runoff from agriculture,
suburban lawns, animal waste, golf courses or industrial sources), and recognize that
pollution from multiple non-point sources is more challenging to identify and control.
The second lesson is that we can clean up our messes and undo actions that are later
found to impair our path to sustainability. Over decades, people have demonstrated that
environmental destruction can be remediated, if not completely restored. We have reveg-
etated mined sites, constructed wetlands, reforested denuded lands, de-listed endangered
species such as the bald eagle, and removed dams to let rivers flow freely. We have added
sand to beaches, given channelized rivers freedom to meander and eradicated invasive
plants and animals. Numerous lessons have been learned from the successes and failures
of these endeavors: a restoration effort is unlikely to restore the complete range of eco-
system services to a site (Palmer and Filoso, 2009), post-project monitoring is important
(Bernhardt et al., 2005), too much restoration in an urban area can raise rents and drive
out the very people it was intended to benefit (Wolch, Byrne, and Newell, 2014) and scal-
ing up to extend the area of a restoration project requires a broad range of stakeholder
involvement, appropriate regulatory structures and capacity building (Melo et al., 2013).
Remediation projects are place based, so understanding the place, its physical char-
acteristics and processes, and its relation to other places is essential. Geographers can
target places for remediation, extrapolate lessons from remediation projects and track
the progress of remediations over time. The expertise of geographers in linking physical
and social settings is needed, particularly in places where environmental justice, eco-
nomic, political and/or cultural concerns play into decision-making about environmental
restoration.
The third lesson, from the recent past, is that changes in behavior and values are pos-
sible, especially when people are given incentives. At the local scale, people have converted
from grass lawns to xeriscaping, complied with water use restrictions during dry times,
become more active pedestrians and users of public transportation (Miller et al., 2015),
learned to recycle waste materials, moved from sprawling suburbs to cities and changed
their electric light bulbs to consume less energy. Such local/individual adjustments have
been facilitated by actions at broader scales, including changes in technology (LED light
bulbs), environmental education, pricing strategies, and provision of public transporta-
tion, that reflect visions of enhancing sustainability. The geographies of these and other
behavioral changes reflect demand and culture and cross spatial scales.
Across the United States, differences in cultures affect local attitudes, policies, and
actions related to the environment. In the state of Vermont, with a culture of resilience
and self-reliance, the major power company, Green Mountain Power, encourages the
development of solar energy as part of its strategy to manage demand for electricity
(Green Mountain Power, 2017). This northern state is not known for its sunshine, so
visitors are likely to be surprised to see the extent of solar power production. In contrast,
restrictive regulations in other states, including Florida, which receive more solar energy
during the year, have not only not encouraged, but have discouraged solar power genera-
tion (McKibben, 2015).
Beyond these lessons, it is evident that the sustainability agenda must be attentive to
global concerns, including imbalances of power and resources, and realistically consider
the future of life on our finite planet. If those of us with comfortable lives choose to
sustain what is good about our own lifestyles, and, at the same time, reduce inequality
by facilitating the economic development of people in less comfortable circumstances,
we must plan for the increased use of natural resources by those in the developing world,
as well as for our own continued use. This ‘dance’ requires considerable flexibility. The
reality is that to raise the standard of living around the world to (or even toward) the level
of that enjoyed by people in the richest nations would require energy production and
consumption far beyond present levels and a dramatic increase in material possessions,
changes that would put even greater pressure on Earth’s environmental resources and
systems.
FEEDBACK SYSTEMS
The metaphor of a dance helps us see the importance of feedback systems in efforts to
increase sustainability. Waltzing partners constantly receive and adjust to feedback from
each other, their own bodies, other dancers, the music, the neighbors, the boundaries of
the dance floor and the temperature of the air around them. Because human–environment
systems are far more complex, one adjustment affects many connected systems and the
types and sources of feedback needed to ensure sustainability may not be evident.
How do you recognize when your dancing partner needs to take a break? Certain
indicators such as words, color, gasping for breath, loss of balance or a pained expres-
sion might lead you quickly to that conclusion. How do we determine whether an effort
to increase sustainability needs to end or change? An important field of scholarship
is that of identifying and testing indicators – early warning signs – so that the health
more accurately assess and model the effects of different land management policies. Dale
and Kline (2013) also called upon the creativity of the research community to develop
modeling approaches that better represent ongoing change dynamics.
Linkages between scales often emerge from qualitative research. Matous (2015)
compared coffee-producing farmers in Sumatra who relied on local social networks for
advice on how to best manage their soils with others whose guidance came from sources
external to the community. Producers whose networks extended to the scales of external
markets and traders obtained new knowledge about organic fertilizers that benefited the
environment, production, and global marketability of their crop, while those lacking
external links were more apt to apply chemical fertilizer (Matous, 2015).
Feedback ranges from personal anecdotes, at the local scale, to global change.
Understanding the effectiveness of different types of feedback, interpreting their meaning
and placing them in the context of spatial scale are among the challenges that open oppor-
tunities for geographers to engage in these important efforts. Much research remains to
be done to use and improve the feedback and keep humanity on a sustainable path. As
scientists who use quantitative and qualitative methods and understand relationships
among people and places, geographers have key roles to play in this research.
Challenges present opportunities. The challenges presented by the urgent need for humans
to live more sustainably on Earth offer numerous opportunities for geographers to engage
in this quest. Four challenges call upon the expertise and perspectives of geographers.
These are the challenges to (1) envision sustainable futures; (2) understand the spatial ele-
ments of increasing sustainability; (3) integrate social dynamics into sustainability efforts;
and (4) bring multiple perspectives to increase agility in the face of change.
The work of envisioning sustainable futures is not discipline specific, but geographers
are encouraged to contribute their knowledge of the world and their integrated under-
standings of places and societies to the processes of deciding what future to aim for.
With respect to Earth resources and ecosystem services, and especially with respect to
the composition of the atmosphere and the climate system, the future promises to differ
from our experience of the past. Dramatic changes may create catastrophes and open
new opportunities. No longer being able to assume a continuation of the status quo
allows, even compels, us to create future scenarios and consider which ones seem feasible,
desirable and sustainable, so that we can begin to work toward them. At the same time,
we need to be monitoring the world to become aware of unsustainable trajectories so that
we can take early steps to redirect them.
Geographers should boldly engage in creative thinking that connects the dots between
the present time and different points of time in the future. As geographers, we have
developed skills to address multi-faceted problems. The world needs this set of skills and
the perspectives of geographers to help answer questions like the following ones. What
options do coastal cities have as sea levels rise? What changes in global food production
and distribution will be needed to sustainably feed seven or nine billion people? How can
the benefits of tourism supersede the consequences of tourism that negatively alter the
special places people wish to visit? How will transitions to clean energy affect politics,
transportation, and daily lives? What world would we like to live in? Of the multidis-
ciplinary groups around the world that grapple with this type of question, one, Future
Earth (2017) frequently reaches out to the international geographic community to invite
geographers to add their voices to this challenge.
The second challenge – understanding the spatial dimensions of increasing sustainability
– calls on the special expertise of geographers in identifying and understanding the spatial
dimensions of complex problems. The geographic literature is rich with field-based case
studies that provide examples of sustainable or unsustainable behavior at the local level
and typically relate those experiences to theories of broader patterns. Research done at
the local scale anchors the researcher’s knowledge and builds authority. It is important
to remember that geographers are citizens as well as scholars. The overlap between these
roles can sharpen the insights obtained, at least when investigating one’s own culture.
Individual actions matter, locally and in the aggregate. These include behaviors of
recycling, supporting the development and use of renewable energy, reducing carbon
footprints, replacing lawns with xeriscaping in water-scarce areas, and avoiding the use
of plastic bags and bottles. Overall, these advance the path to sustainability. At the local
level, they are particularly important for the engagement they promote and the awareness
of the finiteness of Earth’s resources they demonstrate.
Barriers to sustainability occur at different spatial scales. At the local scale, impediments
to more sustainable actions might be tied to problems of access to information, lack
of education, insufficient income or resources, cultural norms or ‘downstream’ effects
created by barriers at other scales, such as groundwater overdraft or national regulations.
Moving from the local to the global scale, impediments to sustainability can result from
the irregular distribution of Earth resources over the globe, political boundaries that
do not align with environmental boundaries, legacies of power and influence, access to
knowledge and differences in worldviews, perceptions and priorities. On the other hand,
collective action and shared resources can enable transformation, and major changes
require actions at state, regional, and national scales to enact and enforce regulations and
provide incentives for new ways of living and doing business.
Environmental/resource management transcends spatial scales to link the on-the-
ground efforts of local people and the regulatory frameworks of broader scales. The
movement away from purely top-down management to more participatory forms of
management and feedback can increase the sense of responsibility and ownership of
people at the local scale if two-way communication is effective (e.g., Dyer et al., 2014).
The third challenge – to better integrate social dynamics into sustainability efforts
– begs for more input from geographers. Compared to other social scientists (e.g., sociolo-
gists), geographers have broader backgrounds for integrating environmental changes into
studies of human–environment interrelationships. Compared to other natural scientists
(e.g., biologists), geographers are more connected to the interrelationships of people and
their environments. This ability to integrate natural and human sciences gives geographers
a valuable perspective that is needed for the human presence on Earth to become more
sustainable. This challenge calls for nuanced understanding of such important but
potentially subtle consequences associated with the deterioration or loss of environmental
sustainability as losses of opportunity, dignity, or the resilience of a well-knit community.
Moreover, geographers have the capacity to shine new light on the relationships between
the environment and human behavior.
This challenge also opens new opportunities for geographers to more clearly relate basic
human conditions, including inequalities of wealth and power, and institutions, including
economies dependent on growth and material possessions. Capitalism, as known today,
has largely been driven by carbon-dioxide-producing activities and has promoted the
development of civilizations based so much on private property, individual mobility,
and consumerism that those principles have seemingly become ingrained habits, even
entitlements (Wilhite, 2016). How can capitalism become less carbon intensive? How
would people derive happiness in a less materialistic society? Could people be happy with
less (Moran, 2006)? How can increasing sustainability increase equality, which promotes
environmental protection (Islam, 2015)?
The fourth challenge – to use multiple perspectives to increase agility in the face of
change – calls upon the skills of geographers in studying, often in collaboration with
others, complex, open systems in which new conditions require the ability to make adjust-
ments. In the case of climate change, agility is essential – the dance is underway and the
floor is shifting. Sea ice extent in both of the Earth’s polar regions in 2016 was less than
extents typical of recent decades (National Snow and Ice Data Center (NSIDC), 2017).
Changes in environmental governance, nationally and/or globally, along with changes in
human behavior that might advance or deter efforts toward sustainability and changes
in the physical environment, could change the function of social-environmental systems
at any time, requiring researchers to reset their assumptions and adjust their projections.
We have seen people beat the odds – strong families and communities have allowed
people to move beyond natural disasters in some cases – and we understand the
importance of resilience, the ability to rebound from what otherwise might have been a
damaging change. Resilience manifests the agility of the dance – the ability to continu-
ously adjust and the need to have systems in place to facilitate adjustments. Resilience
requires not only flexibility, but also awareness of potential as well as actual stresses.
Like sustainability, resilience is expressed (or not) at different spatial scales, challenging
geographers to better understand what occurs at each scale and what controls relation-
ships among scales.
The quest for sustainability is a performance, a dance. A good dance gets everyone tap-
ping their toes and taking turns on the dance floor. Whether a dance has prescribed steps
or partners, dancers must be alert to the movements of others and aware of the limitations
of space and time as they move. Agility is needed, as is concern for the wellbeing of other
dancers. With so many unanswered questions and roles to play in the ‘dance’ toward
sustainability, it is time for geographers to step up and take more prominent roles. This is
no time for geographers to be wallflowers, but rather a time to join the dance.
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INTRODUCTION
Sustainability is a remarkably pliable word. These days one is likely to hear it tripping off
the lips of a politician at the World Economic Forum or the CEO of Monsanto, or to see it
in a glossy advertisement for British Petroleum. It has been transformed into a comforting
word—a green-tinged smoke screen behind which big business carries on as usual. It has
come to mean “sustaining economic growth and corporate profits.”
If, on the other hand, we reclaim the original definition of sustainability—something
akin to “the ability to sustain all life on earth while ensuring for human wellbeing”—
economic growth and corporate profits are revealed as sustainability’s biggest obstacles
(Jackson 2009). In 2015, a major study of 24 indicators of human activity and environ-
mental decline titled “The Great Acceleration” concluded that, “the last 60 years have
without doubt seen the most profound transformation of the human relationship with
the natural world in the history of humankind” (Broadgate et al. 2015). The authors of
the study make clear that it is the global, growth-based corporate economy driving the
Great Acceleration (a rather clinical term for global ecocide). Accordingly, if sustain-
ability as sustaining-life-and-wellbeing is to come to pass, we must confront the global
growth economy— globalization—head-on. And if the global economy is fundamentally,
structurally unsustainable, then it is only logical that its opposite—localization—is the
path towards genuine sustainability.
Localization means reorienting our economic priorities away from ever-increasing
growth, distance and concentration of wealth and power towards the revitalization of
communities and local economies. This simple shift is a remarkable solution-multiplier,
simultaneously reducing greenhouse gas emissions, providing more and better jobs, and
improving our quality of life. If we want to protect the natural world, effectively address
poverty, rebuild harmonious societies and have real economic prosperity, a shift from
globalizing to localizing is absolutely necessary. A quick look at the basic features of the
global economy shows us why.
It is a peculiar situation we have found ourselves in today, where many governments are
in debt and struggling to stay afloat, while global corporations and banks are flush with
cash. In fact, more than half of the 100 biggest economies in the world now are corpora-
tions (Jackson 2009). This should not be surprising when seen in the context of globalizing
policies over the past decades. Through tax incentives, subsidies and regulatory policies,
governments have systematically promoted the growth of global banks and corporations.
At the same time, governments have been left holding the bag for all the social and
93
could keep growing until the last tree falls. Despite its deep flaws and contradictions, the
current economic system may outlive much of the natural and social world. Indeed, in
many places, it already has.
One of the main features of the global economy is its reliance on long-distance trade
and transport, which is a major contributor to carbon emissions and climate change.
Much of this trade is needless. In China, for example, selling goods domestically incurs
a Value Added Tax (VAT) of 17 percent, while exports enjoy VAT rebates and imports
are completely exempt. As a result, China’s businesses routinely export goods and then
reimport them to evade VAT. In most years since 2005, China has imported more goods
from itself than it did from the US. Such absurdities are enabled by global subsidies on
fossil fuels, which the International Monetary Fund (IMF) estimates total a staggering
US$1.9 trillion per year (World Bank 2008).
Cheap fossil fuel and skewed tax breaks also support “redundant trade,” the regular
exchange of identical products back and forth from country to country as companies try
to take advantage of minute price swings and other financial advantages. For example,
the US exports around 350,000 tons of potatoes each year, while importing roughly
320,000 tons. Beef exports and imports both total approximately 900,000 tons. The same
holds true for a range of other goods including sugar, bottled water and waffles in the
US, and milk, bread, eggs, and pork in the UK. This practice is commonplace in most
industrialized countries. So, while the economic theories behind global trade speak of
“comparative advantage” and increased efficiency, the system is in fact incredibly inef-
ficient, needlessly wasting natural resources and generating vast quantities of pointless
pollution.
Prioritizing production for export rather than for local consumption has also encour-
aged a widespread shift from small-scale, diversified farming in favor of large-scale,
energy- and chemical-intensive monocultural production. This shift is fundamentally
anti-ecological, as acknowledged in a recent report by the World Bank- and United
Nations-commissioned IAASTD (International Assessment of Agricultural Knowledge,
Science and Technology for Development). The report found that “more than 40% of all
[greenhouse gas] emissions depend on the way we farm and eat,” and added that “small-
scale systems producing for local markets and direct consumption have a significantly
lower climate impact than large-scale commodity production with complex transport,
processing and cold chains.” The report argued that, “the most important measures to
achieve [the prevention of greenhouse gas emissions] are reducing the use of mineral fer-
tilizer and substituting chemical fertilizer with green manure and organic matter, as well
as using natural pest control instead of chemical herbicides and insecticides” (IAASTD
2014a).
Because they are tailored to their local ecosystems, diverse local food systems excel in
utilizing these low-impact agricultural methods. Unfortunately, existing local food sys-
tems in much of the world—especially the Global South—are being eliminated as global
trade in food expands. The global food system cannot use low-impact ecological methods
because it requires the mass-production of standardized commodities—which in turn
Social Consequences
fundamentalism and fascism have always emerged when societies are pushed into deep insecurity
by outside forces—most commonly those of imperialism and economic globalization . . .
Today, these forces are creating deep-seated insecurities and resentments across the world, as
traditional cultures, value systems and even elected governments crumble before the onslaught
of rapid technological change, the Americanization of culture and the spread of the corporate
monoculture (interview with Vandana Shiva, July 2006).
Psychological Consequences
Biocultural Consequences
Cultural and biological diversity go hand in hand. We know that the more biodiverse
an ecosystem is, the more resilient it is and the greater chance it has of surviving
drastic changes—from severe fires and natural disasters to climate change. Although
many people are aware of the rapid loss of biodiversity in recent years, far fewer are
aware that we may be losing the diversity of human cultures on the planet at an even
greater rate (Relinger 2010). Global cultural diversity is not easy to measure, but the
United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) regards
languages as a key parameter. It states that “predicted extinction rates for languages
range from 50 to 90% of the world’s 6900 languages by the end of this century” (Scott
2015). Not only do other cultures have an intrinsic right to survive, those diverse ways
of life represent a key component of our shared human heritage: if we dare to listen,
we may learn important lessons about patterns of living that can help us to reverse
our many crises.
The Himalayan region of Ladakh or Little Tibet, had been isolated from the outside world for centu-
ries before it was suddenly thrown open to development and the global economy in the mid 1970s.
At that time, I arrived there as a linguist to learn the language so I could assist in making a film
about this pristine culture. I spoke several languages and had seen a lot of the world, but nothing
had prepared me for what I encountered in Ladakh.
High up on the Tibetan plateau, I came to know a people who had never been colonized or
“developed,” and were still living according to their own values and principles. Despite a harsh and
barren environment with extreme temperatures and almost no rainfall, the Ladakhis were prospering
materially. Even more importantly, they were also prospering emotionally. I was able to pick up the
language quickly, enabling me to experience the culture almost as an insider. Over time, I came to
realize that the Ladakhis were the most free, peaceful, and joyous people I had ever met.
The culture was so attuned to their environment that—with only the scarce resources available
locally—the Ladakhis managed to attain almost complete self-reliance: they were dependent on the
outside world for just salt, tea, and a few metals for cooking utensils and tools. Yet they enjoyed more
than mere subsistence. By adapting their activities to the exigencies of their natural environment
and the rhythm of the seasons, the Ladakhis had a remarkably high standard of living: in fact, there
was neither poverty nor hunger. Although Ladakhis spent a long time accomplishing each task, they
worked at a gentle pace and had a surprising amount of leisure.
The traditional way of life was based upon and continually fostered a deep connection with place,
which in turn supported community. Ladakhis were thus raised in an enveloping network of extended
family, friends, plants, and animals. This profound security, in turn, fostered tolerance and openness
towards others. Unfortunately, most people in the West believe that small towns breed small-mind-
edness, and that big multicultural cities promote understanding and peaceful coexistence. And, of
course, in a modern context, this is what we experience. In most parts of the world, small towns and
rural villages have been marginalized for many generations and their populations disempowered,
which in turn brings out some of the worst human characteristics. Feeling that you are backward and
less worthy than others fuels both intolerance and an aggressive attempt to prove yourself.
Perhaps the biggest gift Ladakh has given me is the firm conviction that human beings inher-
ently desire love and social harmony. We are shaped by culture to a far greater extent than we often
realize, and this influence extends throughout our entire lives. While the global economy is fostering
competition and consumerism worldwide, in traditional cultures like Ladakh, spiritual teachings offer
a constant reminder of belonging, of our inextricable interdependence with one another and with
everything in the cosmos. For centuries this reminder has been ever present in daily affairs, in rituals
and in words of wisdom, passed on from the elders to the young ones.
Yet, everything is not as it was when I first arrived. As “development” and consumer pressures
got underway, I began to see the same problems we take for granted in the West. Village life itself
was radically transformed. Subsidies for imports destroyed the market for local producers, creating
a cascade of negative effects. This one shift simultaneously destroyed livelihoods and cultural tradi-
tions, undermined cooperation and community, created competition and poverty and severed the
connections between people and the land.
Losing their sense of connection and belonging meant a concurrent loss of self-esteem. The
young were particularly vulnerable. The previously strong, outgoing women of Ladakh were replaced
by a new generation who were unsure of themselves and desperately concerned with their appear-
ance. Young men rushed after the symbols of modernity such as sunglasses, iPods and blue
jeans – not because they found those jeans more attractive or comfortable, but because they were
symbols of modern life. I have seen Ladakhis wearing wristwatches they cannot read, and heard
them apologizing for the lack of electric lighting in their homes – the same villagers who laughed at
electric lighting as an unnecessary gimmick when it first appeared in 1975. Even traditional foods
were no longer a source of pride: when I was guest in the villages, people apologized if they served
the traditional roasted barley, ngamphe, instead of instant noodles. These changes eroded Ladakh’s
material and cultural richness and, at a fundamental level, were about a loss of self-esteem. Over
the next 20 years I watched Leh, the capital, turn into an urban sprawl. The streets became choked
with traffic, and the air tasted of diesel fumes. “Housing colonies” of soulless, cement boxes spread
into the dusty desert. The once pristine streams became polluted, the water undrinkable. For the
first time, there were homeless people. Within a few years, unemployment and poverty, pollution and
friction between different communities appeared – problems that were previously unknown.
Some consequences were deadly. Although the majority of Ladakhis are Buddhist, there is also
a significant number of Muslims. For more than 500 years, these two communities lived side by side
with no recorded instance of group conflict. They helped each other at harvest time, attended one
another’s religious festivals, sometimes even intermarried. But within a decade of the imposition of
Western-style “development,” Buddhists and Muslims were engaged in pitched battles—including
the bombing of each other’s homes. The modern economy had centralized jobs in the capital, creat-
ing tremendous competition for employment. Because people felt deeply insecure both economically
and psychologically, religious and ethnic differences escalated into group rivalry.
Shortly after witnessing these tragic changes in Ladakh, I was invited to work in Bhutan where I
saw almost identical cultural destruction taking place because of imposed development—only this
time it was Buddhists and Hindus that were suddenly in conflict. These experiences forced me to
recognize the economic and psychological underpinnings of so much of the bloodshed and violence,
isolation, and despair that have become commonplace throughout the “developing” world.
These dynamics are not limited to the less industrialized world. Most Western countries went
through this process several generations ago. Yet small pockets remained where local economies
thrived. In the 1980s, my husband and I lived in rural Spain and were delighted to find that many of
the more remote villages were still vibrant and self-reliant. In the years since, however, the majority
of these have also been drained of life. As commerce and political power became more and more
concentrated, rural livelihoods were undermined and jobs moved into urban areas. Now most of
these villages are tourist curiosities and home only to residents old enough to remember when their
villages were still lively and resilient.
In Ladakh and elsewhere, these changes were not the result of human nature, but of an inhuman
system. What motivates us as human beings is not innate greed; it is the need to be loved and to
belong. Looking at the bigger picture in this way is empowering, and is essential to effecting mean-
ingful and lasting change; it can help us to realize that the same economic policies that are breaking
down community are destroying our environment. This means we can reject the dominant view,
which is that protecting the environment must entail sacrificing quality of life, and that destroying
nature for its resources is essential for our wellbeing. As more people become aware of this, there
is growing broad-based support—from social as well as environmental movements—for a funda-
mental, systemic shift in direction.
In the global economy, it’s as though our arms are so long, we can’t see what our hands
are doing: we can’t know whether we are acting ethically when we shop or when we invest,
or even when we flip on a light switch. When the economy operates on a smaller scale,
by contrast, everything is necessarily more transparent. We can see if the apples we are
buying from the neighboring farm are being sprayed with pesticides; we can see if workers’
rights are being abused. In this way, localization makes business more accountable.
Localization has nothing to do with xenophobic isolationism. On the contrary, it
emerges as a humane response to the profound social and ecological harms occasioned
by the global growth economy. Perhaps counter-intuitively, localization is supportive of
greater global collaboration, understanding, compassion and cultural exchange. In fact,
reversing the global juggernaut will require collaboration between grassroots efforts
worldwide. The competitive stresses and pressures imposed by corporate-controlled
globalization, by contrast, have only hardened and exacerbated racial, ethnic, religious,
and international friction.
The shift from global to local will require efforts on two levels. At the grassroots level,
millions of local and regional enterprises are already demonstrating that they can do
a better job at providing necessary goods and services than the handful of large cor-
porations that currently dominate markets (Goodman 1999). These community-based
economic structures reweave the social and economic fabric in ways that meet the needs
of nature—both wild and human. But in order for these initiatives to spread more
widely, localization also requires “top down” policy change. Taxes and subsidies need to
be shifted, and trade and finance need to be re-regulated so that businesses and banks
become place-based and adhere to the rules and regulations determined by society (see
Box 6.1).
Rather than just thinking in terms of isolated, scattered grassroots efforts, it is neces-
sary to encourage government policies that would promote small-scale on a large-scale,
leveling the economic playing field that is currently favoring the big and the global
through outrageous tax breaks, hidden subsidies, and skewed regulations.
Shifting policy means looking at trade agreements, public expenditures, regulatory
reform, and development practices in many different sectors. Here are some examples:
● Fossil fuels: The estimates for subsidies for fossil fuel companies range from $10
billion to $52 billion a year in the US alone. Globally, it’s around $500 billion. These
come in the form of direct monetary gifts, tax exemptions, infrastructure and devel-
opment support, price controls, and so on. What these figures do not include is the
estimated $120 billion spent in the US on healthcare related to pollution-induced
illnesses and the environmental “externalities,” including the effects of climate
change that defy quantification. Renewable energy technologies receive less than
a fifth of the subsidies—about $88 billion globally. Shifting these subsidies would
result in less pollution, more jobs and cost savings in the long run.
●● Energy installations: From nuclear power stations to big dams, large-scale central-
ized energy projects are today heavily subsidized, their environmental costs largely
●●Global media: Television and other centralized mass media have been the recipients
of massive subsidies in the form of research and development, infrastructure
development, educational training, and other direct and indirect support. Now
even national broadcasting companies are threatened by takeover by global media
empires. These conglomerates are rapidly homogenizing diverse traditions around
the world. Supporting facilities for regional entertainment—from music and drama
to dances and festivals—would offer a healthy alternative. Communities and nations
should have the right to restrict the bombardment of their children by violent and
commercial media images.
●● Education: Schooling is being increasingly geared towards the needs of corpora-
tions, which are presumed to be the future employers of today’s children. In North
and South, curricula are ever more standardized and technology focused. In much
of the developing world, formal education continues to be based on the colonial
model—with rote-learning in the language of the colonial power, with cultural,
historical and other information coming from abroad, and with training in skills
relevant to the export economy rather than the local or regional economy. In most
countries, this form of education filters out any information from around the world
about widespread social and economic problems, leaving idealized myths about
“development” and Western urban life intact.
In the North, corporations are edging their way into education through wide-
spread privatization of schools. Charter schools in the US were originally intended
as sites of innovation and individualized, even place-based learning. In the last
decade, however, there has been a subtle takeover, with the charitable arms of
corporations such as Walmart and Microsoft donating large amounts of money
to charter management organizations (CMOs). These CMOs, large corporations
themselves, are perfectly positioned to siphon off government education spending.
Localized education, in contrast, would be for the benefit of students and society,
not corporations and far off investors. Schools would be held accountable to the
local communities and taxes would be spent on bettering education. Societies in both
North and South would benefit enormously from a shift away from corporate-style
curricula towards diverse forms of place-based, student-centred learning. Rather
than encouraging specialization for a competitive, “jobless growth” economy, chil-
dren would be educated for diverse environments, cultures and economic systems.
Shifting course so as to provide training in regional agriculture, architecture, and
appropriate technology would further a real decentralization of production for basic
needs. This does not imply that the flow of information from other cultures would
be curtailed; in fact, cultural exchange would be an important part of education.
●● Healthcare: At present, investments in healthcare favor huge, centralized hospitals
serving urban populations. The inevitable pressure to cut costs means that doctors
and nurses have to serve more and more patients, inevitably eroding the quality
of attention given to each patient. Spending the same money instead on a greater
number of smaller local clinics—relying less on high technology and more on health
practitioners, local health education and preventative medicine—would bring
healthcare to more people while boosting local economies.
In the South, local economies and communities would similarly benefit if sup-
port for capital- and energy-intensive, centralized healthcare based on a Western
model were shifted towards more localized and indigenous alternatives that are
affordable to the majority of the population.
● Trade treaties: Instead of continuing to deregulate trade and finance, nations could
work together on agreements that prioritize healthy local and national economies.
Rather than to increase corporate profits and Gross Domestic Product (GDP),
the purpose of trade would be to provide a market for surplus production and to
supplement goods that cannot be produced domestically.
In the South, many are aware that they would be far better off if they were
allowed to protect and conserve their natural resources, nurture national and local
business enterprises, and limit the impact of foreign media and advertising on their
cultures. In much of the South, even “fair trade” may not be in people’s long-term
interest if it pulls them away from a relatively secure local economy, rather than
freeing them from “unfair trade.”
●● Capital flows: The unregulated flow of capital has been a prerequisite for the rapid
growth of transnational corporations. The ease with which they can shift profits,
operating costs and investment capital to and from all of their far-flung enterprises
enables them to operate anywhere in the world, and even to hold sovereign nations
hostage by threatening to leave and take their jobs with them. As a consequence,
they can obtain subsidies and tax breaks denied to smaller companies. Limiting the
free flow of capital would help to reduce the advantage that huge corporations have
over smaller, more local enterprises, and help to make corporations more account-
able to the places where they operate.
●● Indicators of economic health: Decision-makers often point to rising levels of GDP
as proof that their policies are successful. What they fail to acknowledge is that
GDP is woefully inadequate as a measure of societal wellbeing. GDP is simply a
gross measure of market activity, of money changing hands. It does not distinguish
between the desirable and the undesirable, between costs and gain. Increased
expenditures on cancer, crime, car accidents, or oil spills all lead to rising GDP, but
any reasonable assessment would count these as symptoms of societal ill-health,
rather than wellbeing.
What’s more, GDP considers only the portion of economic activity that involves
monetary transactions, thereby leaving out the functions of family, community,
and the environment. Thus, paying to send one’s children to a day-care centre adds
to GDP, while care at home by members of the family does not. Similarly, a forest
cut down and turned into pulp adds to GDP, but a standing forest—crucial to the
health of the biosphere—does not. As a result, policymakers who rely on GDP can
easily support policies that do irreparable harm.
In the South, in particular, policies that focus on elevating GDP systematically
lead to the breakdown of self-reliant economies that provide people’s needs with
little use of cash. Through the process of “development,” healthy self-reliance
is thus replaced by real poverty within the global economy. More accurate and
complete measures of economic health would help reveal many of the hidden costs
of our present globalizing course, and would make clear how much better off a shift
in direction would leave us (Romaine 2015).
●● Tax systems: In almost every country, tax regulations systematically discriminate
against small- and medium-scale businesses. Smaller-scale production is usually
more labor-intensive, and heavy taxes are levied on labor through income taxes,
social welfare taxes, value added taxes, payroll taxes, etc. Meanwhile, tax breaks
(accelerated depreciation, investment allowances and tax credits, etc.) are afforded
the capital- and energy-intensive technologies used by large corporate producers.
Reversing this bias in the tax system would not only help local economies, but
would create more jobs by favoring people instead of machines. Similarly, taxes
on the energy used in production would encourage businesses that are less
dependent on high levels of technological input—which again means smaller,
more labor-intensive enterprises. And if fossil fuels were taxed so that their price
reflected their real costs—including some measure of the environmental damage
their consumption causes—there would be a reduction in transport, an increase
in regional production for local consumption, and a healthy diversification of the
economy.
●● Banking policies: Small businesses are also discriminated against through the
lending policies of banks, which charge them significantly higher interest rates for
loans than they charge big firms. They also often require that small business owners
personally guarantee their loans—a guarantee not sought from the directors of
large businesses. If more support were given to community banks and credit unions,
then a greater number and variety of local businesses would thrive. For example, in
the US, although small, localized financial institutions hold only about 11 percent
of the banking assets, they account for more than a third of the small business
lending nationwide (Guardian 2016).
●● Land use regulations: Local and regional land use rules could be amended to protect
wild areas, open space and farmland from development. Political and financial sup-
port could be given to the various forms of land trust that have been designed for
this purpose. In some cases, local governments have used public money to buy the
development rights to farmland, thereby simultaneously protecting the land from
suburban sprawl while reducing the financial pressure on farmers.
In urban areas, zoning regulations usually segregate residential, business, and
manufacturing areas—a restriction necessitated by the needs and hazards of large-
scale production and marketing. These could be changed to enable an integration
of homes, small shops and small-scale production. A rethinking of restrictions
In addition to these policy and regulatory shifts, we need countless more small, diverse,
local initiatives of the kind that are already emerging. Unlike actions to halt the global
economic steamroller, these small-scale steps require a slow pace and a deep, intimate
understanding of local contexts, and are best designed and implemented by local people
themselves. If supported by the policy changes discussed above, such initiatives will,
over time, inevitably foster a return to cultural and biological diversity and long-term
sustainability.
Economic localization means an adaptation to cultural and biological diversity; there-
fore, no single “blueprint” is appropriate everywhere. The range of possibilities for local
grassroots effort is as diverse as the locales in which it would take place. The following
survey is by no means exhaustive, but illustrates the sorts of steps being taken today:
● Community banks and loan funds allow people to invest in their neighbors and their
community, rather than in distant corporations. These schemes enable small busi-
nesses to obtain cheap start-up loans of the kind that banks typically offer only to
large corporations.
●● “Buy-local” campaigns help local businesses survive, even when pitted against heav-
ily subsidized corporate competitors. These campaigns not only help keep money
from “leaking” out of the local economy, but also help educate people about the
hidden costs—to the environment and to the community—in purchasing artificially
cheaper distantly produced products. Around the world, grassroots organizations
have emerged in response to the intrusion of huge corporate marketing chains into
rural and small-town economies. For example, the McDonald’s Corporation—
which aspires to open a new restaurant nearly every day in China, in addition to its
existing empire of 35,000 in 100 countries (Norberg-Hodge 2016)—has met with
grassroots resistance in at least two dozen countries. In the US, Canada and, most
recently, the UK, the rapid expansion of Wal-Mart, the world’s largest retailer, has
spawned a whole network of citizens groups to protect jobs and the fabric of their
communities from these sprawling “superstores.”
●● A way of guaranteeing that money stays within the local economy is through the
creation of local currencies that are only recognized by community members and
local participating businesses. Similarly, Local Exchange Trading Systems (LETS)
are, in effect, large-scale local barter systems. People list the services or goods they
have to offer and the amount they expect in return. Their account is credited for
goods or services they provide to other LETS members, and they can use those
credits to purchase goods or services from anyone else in the local system. Thus,
even people with little or no “real money” can participate in, and benefit from, the
circulation of credit within the local economy.
●● The eco-village movement aims at creating a complete antidote to dependence on the
global economy. Around the industrialized world, people are building communities
that attempt to get away from the waste and pollution, competition, and violence
of contemporary life. Many rely on renewable energy and are seeking to develop
more cooperative local economies. These efforts provide a significant alternative to
the Western consumer model now being imposed on the less-developed parts of the
world (Shuman 2006).
●● The concept of the modern artisan economy has arisen both through conscious
planning to conserve and promote cultural diversity and through innate human
ingenuity. These human-scale, diversified economies can be found in many parts
of the world, supporting the viability of traditional culture and demonstrating the
need to avoid loss of further cultural diversity.
Related to the enthusiasm for CSAs and the spread of farmers’ markets is the growing
general interest in local organic food. Despite the fact that some large-scale producers
oriented towards export have tapped into this burgeoning segment of the food market,
organic agricultural methods are most conducive to small-scale, diversified, local produc-
tion for local consumption. If chemical-intensive, industrial agriculture continues to give
way to organic methods, the potential for truly sustainable local food systems will increase
dramatically.
The most important thing to recognize is that we do have the power to change things. The
destructive, growth-at-any-cost global economy can only exist as long as we are prepared
to accept and subsidize it. We can reject it, and instead rebuild diverse and interdependent
local economies based on human-scale, place-based economic interactions.
Localization is the solution that links so many issues together—social, economic,
and environmental. Through localization rural economies in both North and South
would be revitalized, helping to stem the unhealthy tide of urbanization. Production
processes would be smaller in scale and more diversified, and therefore less stressful to the
environment. Unnecessary transport would be minimized. Small-scale, renewable energy
installations would both reduce the ecological costs of energy extraction and greenhouse
gas emissions. People would no longer be forced to conform to the impossible ideals of
a global consumer monoculture, thereby lessening the psychological pressures that often
lead to ethnic conflict and violence. Ending the manic pursuit of trade would reduce the
economic and hence political power of global corporations and eliminate the need to
hand power to such supranational institutions as the WTO, thereby helping to reverse
the erosion of democracy.
Our changing climate and the end of cheap oil demand a fundamental shift in the way
that we live. Continuing down the path of economic globalization will only create greater
human suffering and environmental problems. The time to act is now. Through localiza-
tion, we can begin to rebuild our communities and create true sustainability, ensuring a
healthy planet for future generations.
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INTRODUCTION
Use of land and other natural resources requires people to have knowledge of their
environment. They need to evaluate levels of production of useful goods or services;
to gauge their access to needed assets; and to consider the long-term sustainability of
the land use practices involved (Ostrom, 2009; Young, 2012). Sustainability research
also evaluates many additional environmental, economic, and social considerations, as
explored in the other chapters in this volume. For all of these concerns, global climate
change acts as a particularly important challenge. If conditions that affect agriculture,
rangelands, fisheries, and urban spaces will be subject to continual shifts over the next
century and beyond, then what goals should be used in sustainability efforts? Will there
need to be continual reassessments of objectives, means, and metrics of success? Will new
institutions be needed for these tasks?
The goal of this chapter is to examine these issues, but to do so from a “Global South”
perspective (e.g., Lunn, 2014; Slovic et al., 2015). Much of the anthropogenic greenhouse
gas additions to the atmosphere originated with land use practices and industrial devel-
opments in the United States and Europe (Brown et al., 2013). However, many of the
harshest consequences will affect people elsewhere, especially those living near coastlines,
at high latitudes or elevations, and in places where temperature and precipitation extremes
may increase. Given colonial histories and uneven economic development worldwide
(Butlin, 2009; Sachs, 2015), such a perspective also works to bring equity considerations
to the fore. There are legacies of past injustices that will complicate needed mitigation
and adaptation strategies.
This chapter begins by exploring the consequences of climate change in the Global South.
Although many of these effects will take place on lands in the respective nations, there are
also changes taking place in Earth’s oceans, connecting the composition of atmospheric
gases to surface waters, thus translating atmospheric change to oceanographic processes
including acidification. The current international climate framework is epitomized by the
Paris Agreement, discussed in the following section. Finally, the chapter concludes with
an overview, including thoughts on how urban spaces will need to be a particular focus for
sustainability efforts given future climate, demographic, and economic shifts.
There are basic asymmetries in how the planet’s geosystems function, with much solar
energy impinging upon the low latitudes, setting up atmospheric and oceanic circulation
110
systems driven by energetic differences and resulting in climate regimes that range from
humid tropical to cold-winter middle and high latitudes (Young, 2007). Together with
available biodiversity, such processes set limitations on planning for the long-term pro-
ductivity of agricultural systems, the fertility of soils, and the availability of water. There
are also basic asymmetries due to other aspects of human societies, with the caprices of
global history adding additional marked place-to-place differences in poverty, longevities,
working conditions, public health, and demographic trends (Sachs, 2015).
As a result, there are some predictable restrictions acting upon livelihoods, and some
likely trajectories for the interaction of economic development with global climate change
(Lambin et al., 2001; Adger et al., 2003; Leichenko and O’Brien, 2008; Young, 2013). Some
of the most dramatic current changes are in high latitudes, altering species distributions and
ecosystem processes, including feedback that would tend to further increase greenhouse
gases (Schuur et al., 2015); the indigenous groups in the far North would be among the
most vulnerable in terms of their exposure and sensitivity (Pearce et al., 2015). Similarly,
high mountains are exposed to dramatic shifts in environmental gradients, with possible
mountaintop extinction for native species, and the need for flexible land tenure systems
for local people (Young, 2008, 2015); there is also much increased risk for natural hazards
triggered by receding glaciers (Huggel et al., 2015). The water-limited climate regimes of the
world are likely to increase in extent, with decreases in the availability of water resources and
augmented fire regimes (Stephens et al., 2013; Huang et al., 2016; Altieri and Nicholls, 2017).
Food security is dependent upon the physical environment and the social actors
involved, from farmers to governments (Wheeler and von Braun, 2013). Demographic
shifts and consumer demands for certain products shape the food types produced,
while also influencing such environmental concerns as water use, soil erosion, pesticides,
nutrients, and loss of agrobiodiversity. There may also be (perverse) incentives from
government or industry that alter decision-making and land management.
The directional nature of future climate change, with likely continued warming accom-
panied in many locations with increased variability in precipitation and the possibility of
increased storm intensity, all act to complicate land use decisions of individual farmers or
pastoralists. Their respective households, communities, local governments, and national
governments must somehow factor in both directionality and unpredictability into
sustainability planning and debates (e.g., Young and Lipton, 2006; Adger et al., 2009).
These are not easy tasks.
A fundamental social constraint is the influence of poverty (Hallegatte and Rozenberg,
2017), which may limit options that people have for acting on or even considering sustain-
ability and long-term climate change as part of their livelihood strategies. In terms of
environmental justice, those most vulnerable due to where their lands or settlements are
located include those people who are collectively least responsible for past greenhouse gas
production. What is more, the deforestation or other land degradation of the twentieth
century may have its roots in the designs of imperialism and colonialism, rather than being
a direct result of indigenous land use practices. Thus, global efforts to control or mitigate
climate change require restitution and an accounting for past greenhouse gas emissions.
Resilience thinking offers additional development pathways (Lade et al., 2017).
Another fundamental social trend is urbanization, ongoing since 1750, with megacities
on the rise and the majority of people now living in urban areas (Montgomery, 2008;
Estrada et al., 2017). There are likely both challenges and opportunities with most people
living in densely occupied areas: there may be efficiencies in delivering services to those
people, but additional environmental costs must be borne by outlying areas that need
to supply water, food, and fibers. Inequality likely increases within cities, but there are
more opportunities for work, for healthcare, and for education. In turn, rural areas may
continue to have out-migration affecting both land cover and livelihoods of those who
remain (e.g., Chant, 1998; Aide et al., 2013). Decisions by rapidly changing countries, like
China and India, need to include sustainability considerations for the expanding urban
areas, without neglecting the rural poor or the further complications of climate change.
Among the most tragic cases are those of the environmental refugees affected by rising
sea levels, often aggravated by other sociopolitical concerns (e.g., Kothari, 2014). Thermal
expansion and melting glaciers contribute to putting small island nations in existential
risk, and require adaptation or dislocation of many coastal areas (Hay, 2013; Lloyd et
al., 2016). Storm surges and related flooding will affect even larger areas. Debates about
sustainability itself may seem trivial compared to the magnitude of possible negative
consequences for the people most disadvantaged by these kinds of future change.
In addition to sea level rise, ocean chemistry is affected by increased amounts of car-
bonic acid, itself the result of higher carbon dioxide levels mixed in from the atmosphere.
Thus, greenhouse gases in Earth’s environmental commons affect the global seas. Over
time this results in a slightly lower pH, stressing sensitive organisms, most obviously those
with calcium carbonate structures such as corals and mollusks. The coral reefs of tropical
latitudes house a significant part of marine biodiversity, in addition to providing habitat
supporting many kinds of fisheries (Hughes et al., 2017).
PARIS AGREEMENT
Given these trends and other encroachments upon planetary environmental boundaries
(Steffen et al., 2015), nations of the world eventually used the United Nations Framework
Convention on Climate Change (UNFCCC) to set up (1) an ongoing Intergovernmental
Panel on Climate Change (IPCC) mechanism to provide policy-relevant summaries and
research syntheses; (2) a financing mechanism for developing countries wanting to adapt
or mitigate for climate change; and (3) a political process implemented in 2015 whereby
the pledges of individual countries would be utilized to collectively aim for global
greenhouse gas reduction goals. Its passing was partly fueled by the organization and
remonstrations of the Small Island Nations, an example of how concerns from the Global
South may influence global agreements.
The IPCC process uses a complicated sequence of peer review and editing to produce
overviews of the science of climate change, including interactions of atmospheric gases,
land surfaces, the cryosphere, and the oceans (IPCC, 2014a), and the implications for
adaptation and mitigation of sectoral and regional concerns (IPCC, 2014b, 2014c). Those
and previous synthesis documents are available back to when the procedure began in 1988
(http://www.ipcc.ch). It is a comprehensive effort, but there is much current interest in
reevaluating the mechanisms to include more social dimensions in a timely manner (e.g.,
Stocker and Plattner, 2014).
The Green Climate Fund financing mechanism (van Kerkhoff et al., 2011) includes
opportunities to improve governance, water projects, and health infrastructure. These
efforts help bring the “externalities” of planetary damage into policy realms where
economic tools can be implemented. For example, it is being utilized for carbon credits
through the Clean Development Mechanism and the various efforts to stop or limit defor-
estation and forest degradation (REDD1, http://www.un-redd.org; see, for example,
Pearson and Brown, 2013).
Given the possible inadequacies of the pledges in the Paris Agreement compared
to the challenges involved (Rogelj et al., 2016), and the reluctance (refusal) of
countries such as the United States to fully participate, this accord will not in and
of itself be sufficient. There are substantial multigenerational impacts difficult even
to conceptualize. More to the point, sustainability of Earth geosystems, even if
unthreatened by global change processes, may not easily map onto the sustainability
of rural and urban land use and livelihood systems. As a result, the climate framework
for sustainability research may be the most challenging aspect of sustainability goals
and aspirations.
CONCLUSIONS
Llanos, 2016), especially if it also pays attention to the high biodiversity of the tropics and
the livelihood needs of rural peoples.
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INTEGRATION OF
DISCIPLINARY
DEVELOPMENT FOR
SUSTAINABILITY
INTRODUCTION
The question of the future development of our society has bothered humans since the
beginning of time. However, the future and sustainable development of humans and
nature seems to be more endangered than ever. Since the Brundtland Report (World
Commission on Environment and Development (WCED) 1987), sustainability has been
discussed in both science and civil society, so far without offering “sustainable solutions.”
The value and belief systems of humans in different societies and cultures, and the
attitudes and behaviors on which they are based are very diverse, while the influence of
globalization and the impact of economic elites and power networks are too dominant to
allow for cohesive solutions.
Sustainability is often reflected in the mission statements of companies and enterprises,
regions and communities, but frequent, unreflective and fashionable use of the term
“sustainability” is turning it into an empty term. It is difficult to change sustainability
approaches from a pure vision into a value-based mindset (or should we say mentality)
to foster sustainable development. However, this is necessary to cope with the global and
local challenges of our societies – we are in tremendous need of change and transition
based on “sustainable value systems,” leading to increased awareness about a common
future for Planet Earth.
Without dwelling on the genesis of the term sustainability, some important milestones
and discussions should be mentioned (Zimmermann 2016a). By the beginning of the
1980s, the sustainability discussion was being dominated by an ecological aspect, sup-
ported by the World Conservation Strategy of the International Union for Conservation
of Nature and Natural Resources (IUCN) (1980). The Brundtland Report (WCED 1987)
added a social dimension and included aspects of intra-generational and intergenerational
equity; moreover, economic aspects like poverty and human needs were included. This
important position paper, the policy papers of the UNCED conference in Rio de Janeiro
in 1992 and the debates at the Post-Rio-Conferences fostered inhomogeneous perception
of sustainability in the Global North and the Global South along with differences about
the importance and the meaning of the different dimensions of sustainability (ecological
versus social versus economic) and their integration. The discussion about the hierarchy
of the dimensions is ongoing (Rogall 2013, p. 126):
117
Grand Challenges
Source: Zimmermann (2016b); adapted and supplemented after Coy and Stötter (2013); Garland et al.
(2007); Urdal (2005).
Globalization, commonly seen as the main reason for global change, requires deeper
analysis. Many definitions of globalization are strictly economic (for a comprehensive
overview see: Al-Rodhan and Stoudmann 2006). Some include a wider scope like
Beerkens (2004, p. 13), who argues, globalization is “a process in which basic social
arrangements (like power, culture, markets, politics, rights, values, norms, ideology,
identity, citizenship, solidarity) become disembedded from their spatial context (mainly
the nation-state) due to the acceleration, massification, flexibilisation, diffusion and
expansion of transnational flows of people, products, finance, images and information.”
Held et al. (1999, p. 12) specify global interdependencies by arguing that “globalization
might be better conceived as a highly differentiated process which finds expression in
all the key domains of social activity (including the political, the military, the legal, the
ecological, the criminal, etc.).”
Thus, global developments have impacts not only at local levels, but selective local
decisions and occurrences (e.g., the fiscal policy of the US or the European Union (EU),
terror attacks, civil wars, and natural disasters) can cause global effects and consequences.
The intensified political interdependencies, as well as the tightened global financial and
commercial relations, are having considerable impact at the local level and on our daily
life. The dynamism of information and communication technologies and innovations in
logistics are causing a steady acceleration of our daily routine.
All these complex processes of modernization are resulting in a global spread of so-
called “Western” life and consumer lifestyles, which are changing the habits and value
systems of humans worldwide. The increasing interconnectedness of global trade is
leading to homogeneous markets and to a dictate of the (neoliberal) economy. This global
“horse-trade” shows clear impacts: the competition between production locations takes
place at a global level, the material (resources) and immaterial (humans) lifelines of local
societies are exploited, and cheap resources and cheap labor are the basis of the economy.
The winners of globalization are focusing on the production of consumer goods and the
permanent growth of global trade; the losers of globalization are those regions – mainly,
but not only, in less developed countries – where humans and resources are exploited at
the economic, social, and health related expense of the local population (Zimmermann
and Pizzera 2016).
What are the consequences? The steady and dynamic increase of consumption world-
wide is leading to overuse and exploitation of natural resources. Agenda 21 (UN 1992)
argued for necessary changes in consumer habits in order to achieve more sustainable
development. Twenty-five years later, those goals for sustainable consumption, listed
below, are further away than ever:
An increasing world population and the postulate of permanent economic growth are
still the strongest incitements for excessive overuse of natural resources. The additional
needs for consumption (and consequently for resources) are caused by the growth of
the new middle class in the emerging markets of newly industrialized countries (China,
India, Brazil, Mexico etc.) where democratization, reduction of poverty and the shift
towards Western lifestyles is rapidly changing societies and value systems. The adaptation
of people in emerging economies towards globalized consumer habits (supported by the
neoliberal concept of a permanent expansion into new markets) is leading to an increased
consumption and overuse of natural resources, further increase in CO2 emissions, and the
collapse of energy, water, food, raw material and commodity supplies (cp. also: Nölke et al.
2014, 2015). One critical question remains: who – in the “old middle class” of the global
North – is going to reduce or even give up high living standards in favor of development
for people in emerging economies?
These trends in global development are leading to a new dualism: development towards
a globalized economy and universalization of cultures and value systems versus frag-
mentation in and between our societies, leading to new protectionism, fundamentalism
and nationalism (Grobbauer et al. 2012; Martell 2010). However, according to Held et
al. (1999), different conceptualizations of globalization in different cultural, political and
civil society contexts have produced three core ideas:
Does the future hold a perfectly integrated global market, in a global society, or even
in a global civilization? We find ourselves in this transformation process with an open
denouement (cp. also Held et al. 1999).
initiatives of the solidarity economy include everyday local practices like urban garden-
ing, cooperative housing, eco-villages, open-source platforms and regional currencies
(Bauhardt 2014).
The Post-Growth Economy views the current dogmatic growth of the global develop-
ment resulting from the Western notion of opulence gradually being transferred to emerg-
ing economies and developing countries as being contrary to the finiteness of natural
resources and increasing ecological problems. The Post-Growth Economy argues that less
or no economic growth is inevitable in the future and that we will have to focus on specific
quality-of-life issues, while questioning our (capitalist) production and consumption pat-
terns. Paech (2012) calls for a complete renunciation of the growth paradigm and argues
for a radical reduction of the individual consumption standards leading to a simpler and
slower-paced lifestyle (for more detailed concepts in German-speaking realms see: Seidl
and Zahnrt, 2010).
In summary, sustainability is a recommendable framework not only for solutions to
global challenges but also for research in many fields of geography. Randers’ (2012)
prognosis says that the crucial issues for the next decades include politics and economy,
energy supply and resource depletion, climate change and food supply as well as popula-
tion development and urbanization. His future scenarios describe technological changes
and progress in the use of resources, the increasing importance of quality of life and
well-being, the changes as well as economic problems and social unrest caused by rapid
urbanization, and the consequences of disparities and poverty, with four especially
important components:
“So, how do we prepare for the years ahead? Our personal journey into the future will
need a mix of: values meeting valuation, the head meeting the heart, and the normative
marrying with the positive” (Randers 2012). This quotation summarizes all the param-
eters that we have already discussed as important aspects of social sustainability.
America, go back to the 1990s when the Rediscovering Geography Committee, the Board
on Earth Sciences and Resources, the Commission on Geosciences, Environment, and
Resources, and the National Research Council published a book entitled Rediscovering
Geography: New Relevance for Science and Society (Rediscovering Geography Committee
1997). This book paved the way for new topics and perspectives in geography. But ten
years after the Brundtland Report and five years after the Rio Conference, the sustain-
able development debate appears only in a sidebar entitled “Future Geographies.” More
recently, sustainability research in geography is emerging, e.g., at the Annual Meeting of
the AAG in San Francisco in 2016, 105 sessions had the term sustainability in the title.
In German-speaking countries, discipline change has proved more dynamic and geog-
raphers are intensively discussing holistic approaches to environmental research at the
interface of geosphere, biosphere and anthroposphere (Ehlers 1999), the reintegration
of physical geography and human geography by applying the concept of a “third pillar”
(Weichhart 2003), the (new) integrative geography (Gebhardt 2003; Ehlers 2000) as well as the
human–ecological paradigm under the motto “not humans against nature but the humans
within nature” (Weichhart 1995). However, new (human) geography paradigms like action
oriented and behavioral approaches, new cultural geography, or systems/constructivist
concepts are elegantly avoiding the sustainability issue. The multi-paradigmatic approach
of human geography, which would be an excellent prerequisite for sustainability research,
is mostly focusing on questions like how epistemological approaches of positivism can be
linked to realism or how to appraise the validity of quantitative approaches in comparison
to hermeneutical or even systems theory approaches (Weichhart 2009).
Primarily from outside the geography discipline, many academic areas, including
medicine and health, sociology, economy or history and other cultural and social sciences,
have come to recognize the importance of space and claimed spatial approaches in their
paradigms. This appropriation of space (by different disciplines) has been discussed under
the label “spatial turn” (Döring and Thielmann 2008).
Developments in information and communication technologies create new spaces, new
spatial concepts and new spatial constructs, resulting in new potential for geography. The
spatial turn in geography is mostly associated with technologies (geographic informa-
tion systems, cartography, remote sensing) or with developments in neo-geography
(cp. Richardson et al. 2013). Some of the German authors are talking about a “bizarre
backwards-reinvention” of geography (Döring and Thielmann 2008; Hard 2008), while
others are calling this development a “self-consciousness push” for geography (Stichweh
2008, p. 160).
The discourse around space ontologies and space paradigms has now climaxed (Lossau
2012) and geography is slowly bethinking its core competencies by extending the tradi-
tional spatial approach towards a practice-centered, transdisciplinary perspective, which
is able to analyze societal relations of space and time in both diachronic and synchronic
ways (Werlen 2015). We must avoid losing core competences of geography to other disci-
plines while consolidating and tightening our scientific role in cooperative research. The
spatial turn in geography should bring about increased appreciation of our own discipline
and the chance to place our core competencies in inter- and transdisciplinary cooperation.
The spatial turn has brought a new understanding of geography in the wider public
through new dynamic information and communication technologies. This new relevance
and importance of space is represented by (internet) maps for location and orientation
purposes, maps in information, education and training (e.g. mental maps), as well as in
new functions, resulting in new map competences. Döring and Thielmann (2009, p. 46) are
even recognizing a “media(l) turn in geography.” Consequently, if geography is not able
to “create space” for space, the space is evidently creating new potentials for geography.
Apart from the focus on theories of space, research activities and theoretical debates
in geography are not reflected in civil society and public discourse (Gans and Hemmer
2015). Our perceived “reality,” as geographers, is very different from the public’s image
where the keyword “geography” basically covers the main aspects of geography as a
school subject. This includes spatial knowledge as well as media and methods for orienta-
tion in space. Geography in school is seen as extremely important for improving personal/
social competences and for its societal importance in the context of maps and their spatial
components. But geography in school delivers little knowledge about environmentally
responsible behavior and actions, and political and cultural education and values, all core
elements of geography and sustainability. Debate around geographic topics to be covered
in school show high demand for environmental and climate change issues, natural risks
and disasters, and sustainable development (ranked 1, 2, 5 and 7). This is a clear demand
of the civil society, which needs to be taken seriously by geographers, especially those of
us with an interest in sustainability questions.
Geography as a science is able to answer key questions about our globalized world
and to understand the complex interactions between humans and their environment.
Geographical research can connect scientific findings from natural and social sciences.
However, exposure for research results is minimal, leaving doubts about the core research
areas and core competencies of geography. Widely dispersed results mostly target ques-
tions of physical geography or human–environment relations (natural disasters, use of
natural resources), and human geography research findings are rarely disseminated.
Human geography sustainability research has tremendous potential, especially when
thinking about new research approaches when they are based on inter- and transdiscipli-
nary concepts (built upon the strong potential for geography as a science at the interface
of humans and the environment).
Vision Sustainability
● intact environment;
●● humane society; and
● social compatible economy.
In research – for example at the RCE Graz-Styria, the UN certified Regional Center of
Expertise (RCE) on Education for Sustainable Development (www.rce-graz.at (accessed
10 February 2019)) – we are going beyond these aspects and are using the tetrahedron
of sustainability (Figure 8.1). There we are extending the ecological, economic and
social dimensions of sustainability, which are well known as the “magic triangle” by the
Tetrahedron of Sustainability
Improvement of
economic competitiveness,
user-orientation
n
ainst exploitatio
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tec ici
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Careful handling and social
protection of nature
Justice, consolidation
and cohesion
Source: Adapted and modified after Spangenberg (1997); Valentin and Spangenberg (2000). © Spangenberg
(1997, 2000).
institutional dimension. Especially from the viewpoint of global challenges, the institu-
tional framework is essential: on the one hand for implementing and realizing different
sustainability initiatives and projects, on the other hand for a serious transdisciplinary
sustainability research agenda. Ecological problems like the deterioration of biodiversity
or the excessive overuse of nonrenewable resources demand joint actions and institution-
ally positioned routines. Similar institutional routines are necessary to cope with negative
effects of financial markets, migration and flight, the handling of North–South disparities
or the increasing risks of conflict and terrorism.
Additionally, Figure 8.1 shows possible connections and crosslinks between the four
dimensions: the link between the social and economic dimension is determined by
schemes of (equal) distribution. Issues of accessibility (to resources) govern the link
between the social and ecological dimension. The institutional and the social dimensions
are connected via the degree of democracy implementation and its stability. The goal of
economic justice is included in the economic, social, and institutional dimension, and
concerns about nature and the environment or topics between ecology and institutional
implementation. The common goal for the economic and ecological dimension is eco-
efficiency – a corporate strategy which is dedicated to an efficient/sufficient use of natural
resources, energy, and commodities striving for a reduction in waste and emissions (cp.
Spangenberg et al. 2002; Valentin and Spangenberg 2000). Summing up we can say that
the tetrahedron of sustainability is an appropriate framework for inter- and transdiscipli-
nary research approaches.
Based on the arguments above it is obvious that problem areas and research questions of
a “sustainable” (human) geography should be assigned to the interconnected dimensions
of the tetrahedron of sustainability and that specific attention should be paid to integrat-
ing this into holistic approaches. However, when talking about sustainability and global/
regional challenges we always need to be aware of the fact that sustainability is often a
versus to challenges, e.g., sustainability versus political systems/power; sustainability versus
technological progress; sustainability versus population development; sustainability versus
ethics and morale (a special thanks to Professor Bruno Backé for inspiring the “versus”
discussion). This is precisely the challenge for sustainability research because we always have
to cope with partial systems, and consequently partial solutions, determined by individual
and societal values, beliefs and, consequently, needs. Therefore, if we take sustainability
seriously in a regional or urban context – without paying closer attention to the complex
debate on different perspectives of (regional) change and transition (for details see: Capello
and Nijkamp 2009; Hanink 2010) – we have to integrate questions of individual values,
value systems, and the change of values into sustainability research in geography.
In doing so, we are following Bateson (1972) and Dilts (1990, 1996) and the concept
of “logical levels” as a natural classification hierarchy for processes of thinking and
learning in communication and change. Dilts (1990, p. 217) called logical levels “an
internal hierarchy in which each level is progressively more psychologically encompassing
and impactful.” In more detail we have to know that our human thinking and acting is
influenced and determined by five different levels (Figure 8.2, left triangle description):
(1) The basis is built by our natural and societal environments which are forming our
external frameworks. (2) These environments are the basis for our behavior. (3) Our
behavior is organized by our capabilities (our perceptions, our knowledge, our personal
strategies). (4) These capabilities are determined – quasi top-down – by our beliefs and
belief systems. (5) Our belief systems, finally, are shaped and coined by our value systems
and our identity. “In our brain structure, language, and perceptual systems there are
natural hierarchies or levels of experiences. The effect of each level is to organize and
control the information on the level below it. Changing something on an upper level
would necessarily change things on the lower levels, changing something on a lower level
could but would not necessarily affect the upper levels” (Dilts et al. 1991, p. 26).
This logical level framework shows that changes in the higher hierarchy levels of the
development process are organizing and controlling all processes at the lower level. In
many cases – mostly out of political or medial opportunities and for reasons of fast
success – concrete measures at the lowest level are executed (e.g. infrastructure projects,
tourism investments, regional development measures). These projects cannot be success-
ful if they are not compatible with the identity, the value systems, and the capabilities as
well as the needs of the local population. Therefore, if we are thinking about the strategic
development processes by considering the logical levels approach we need to follow the
hierarchies of the logical levels (Figure 8.2, right triangle description). This consequently
means following the order from vision to mission (as guiding development principles) fol-
lowed by a problem-based SWOT (strengths, weaknesses, opportunities, threats) analysis,
leading to strategies and consequently to concrete measures.
The problem of this research design in a transdisciplinary approach is that people
involved in these kinds of empirical and participatory process are mostly arguing at the
Logics of Sustainability
Identity
Value(systems) Visions
Str
ls
social
ate
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Beliefs Mission,
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oc
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ess
instituti nal
Behavior Strategies
ecological
Environments Measures/Actions
Sustainability
lowest levels of activities, measures and concrete projects without considering the higher
levels of the hierarchy. But especially these levels of value and belief systems are extremely
crucial for “sustainable” change and “sustainable” transition.
This is leading to the third step where the four dimensions of sustainability are included
into the logical level triangle (Figure 8.2, description in the triangle), which finally leads to
the concept “Logics of Sustainability” (Janschitz and Zimmermann 2010). Illustrating the
concept, we can argue that: (1) Ecologic sustainability, e.g., the reduction of resource use,
is mostly tackling the two lowest levels, the environments and our behavior (e.g. regulative
policies, awareness raising, energy saving etc.). (2) Institutional sustainability, such as
justice, human rights, democracy, and social responsibility, is mostly based on the levels
of behavior and capabilities (e.g., formal and informal participation, governance aspects).
These are leading to institutional changes but they are not necessarily affecting beliefs and
value systems or are changing identities. (3) Economic sustainability (e.g., the improve-
ment of competitiveness) is a cross-level issue and needs aspects at the environmental
level (e.g., improvement of eco-efficiency), but this also affects the behavior (e.g., change
of behavior by information) and the capabilities (e.g., improvements through education
and training). Finally, the level of beliefs needs to be included (e.g., improvements by
trust-based cooperation and networks). (4) The most complex dimension is social sustain-
ability. Participation is the guiding principle, the inclusion of the population is leading to
a needs-based development of capabilities (e.g., by empowerment) and especially targets
the transformation of beliefs and value systems, which finally leads to new/transformed
identities. Only by applying these logical levels, e.g., in regional or urban development
processes (but also in personal or corporate change processes), can a new orientation
focusing on sustainable transformation happen.
It is clear to us that this approach for research in human geography under the guiding
principles of sustainability can just be a framework. It is obvious that only a change of
our values and value systems can guarantee a sustainable future for our society and our
planet – and especially human geography, with its critical theoretical concepts, could
contribute a lot. Particularly when thinking about our geography research work in com-
munities, regions, urban settings, etc. the logics of a sustainability approach is neither
a fast nor an easy methodological option for transformation processes. Our concept is
targeting those researchers in geography who are involved in applied and participative
development processes and who want to contribute to a respectful, humane, value-based
and transdisciplinary research and who do not see the ultimate goal of research in human
geography as “analyzing, constructing and optimizing a spatial order” (Janschitz and
Zimmermann 2010, p. 140).
Geography, with its long history in researching cities and urban developments, nowadays
is getting even more important as a research discipline. The dynamic urbanization, the
interconnectedness of our globalized world, and the “wicked” challenges in urban settings
worldwide are creating a wide range of new development, change, transformation and
planning agendas (Dubbeling et al. 2009; Healey 2007; Rittel and Webber 1973). Cities
are facing growing economic, social, and ecological challenges, characterized by complex
processes like suburbanization, migration, an increasing diversity, disparities and growing
environmental pollution, the degradation of public spaces, as well as the negative effects
of the real estate market. These aspects need more integrated holistic approaches and a
new (spatial) governance to cope with all these challenges – actually a good model for
an innovative bridging of geography and sustainability. Moreover, it is a fact that urban
dynamism and rapid growth are making cities and urban environments into key players
and core target areas for the implementation of sustainability strategies and measures –
especially when thinking about the realization of the Paris 2015 agreement. The prognosis
that in 2050 two-thirds of the world population will live in cities is severely underpinning
this assumption.
To cope with all these global challenges and to support transition and change, research
needs to be transdisciplinary, including key aspects of social sustainability. Solution
oriented research is in need of holistic approaches targeting new forms of (reflexive)
governance in urban settings and neighborhoods. Participation, empowerment and social
learning can be seen as the most effective tools for sustainable spatial developments.
These tools allow cities to adapt to challenges according to the requirements and needs
of the local population and to set the path for change towards sustainable development
(Corfee-Morlot et al. 2009; Eraydin and Tasan-Kok 2013; Reimer 2013). In this frame-
work the resilience of cities is essential – depending on how urban actors are dealing with
disturbances and threats and how they succeed in shaping cooperative and self-organized
forms of governance (Seelinger and Turok 2013; Pugh 2014).
The RCE Graz-Styria, the RCE on Education for Sustainable Development at
the University of Graz (www.rce-graz.at) is involved in an international EU project,
funded by the Joint Programming Initiative Urban Europe (FFG), called “URB@
Exp – Towards new forms of urban governance and city development” (http://www.
urbanexp.eu/ (accessed 10 February 2019)). In this project the RCE is working with an
international consortium consisting of five cities (Antwerp, Graz, Leoben, Maastricht,
Malmö), four universities (Maastricht, Malmö, Lund, Graz), and a foresight and
design studio (Pantopicon, Antwerp). The project goals are targeting innovative forms
of governance in urban development by working with/establishing different urban lab
experiments (city labs) and are thereby creating new forms of cooperation and mutual
learning between policy makers, actors from the civil society, and academics with rel-
evant interdisciplinary knowledge. Of importance is the involvement of different groups
of actors with diverse values and value systems working in new and transdisciplinary
forms of communication and cooperation. Participatory spaces like living labs or city
labs are rapidly developing and spreading across cities around the world in order to sup-
port transition and transformation (Kieboom 2014). The theoretical basis of living labs
goes back to the participation concepts for software development in computer sciences in
the 1980s (Bødker et al. 2000). Urban development labs can be described as institutional
platforms for generating ideas for urban innovation by experiments with real users in real
contexts – in other words co-creation and joint learning in a multi-actor setting which is
more open, more inclusive, more democratic, and more creative than other traditional
approaches (Mastelic et al. 2015; Følstad, 2008; Hillgren, 2013; Hellström-Reimer et al.
2012; Wallin 2010).
The conceptual background of the research project is based on a transdisciplinary
multi-method approach, which is transferring three scientific approaches into practice by
testing and improving new methods and new forms of (spatial) governance:
● The concept of transition experiments (Hoogma et al. 2002; Kemp and Loorbach
2006; Van den Bosch 2010), promoting change processes by multi-actor involve-
ment, value-based reflexive learning, co-creation in real-world contexts, and
embedding lessons learned into governance structures.
●● The concept of agonistic participatory design (Björgvinsson et al. 2012) is aiming at
the democratization of social innovation processes by involving actors with diverg-
ing or even conflicting interests. The focus is on creating a common space where
controversial perspectives and values may not necessarily lead to a consensus but
may lead to a common ground for discussions and may result in participation-based
individual solutions.
● The concept of logical levels (which has been mentioned above), which is focusing
on sustainable urban development based on value-oriented visions and value-based
goals and strategies by means of new communication and mediation technologies
(Janschitz and Zimmermann 2010).
n
ig
es
or c
at sti
yd
cip gno
A
Value-
rti
Tr eri
based
pa
ex
an me
p
visions
sit nt
ion s
Logical Levels
gone through transformation?
Strategies
How can we implement transition processes
by social/reflexive learning and changing capabilities?
Measures
What are the “ingredients” for change?
What are concrete advantages and opportunities?
Where should we set measures and actions?
The results of the transdisciplinary action research and the mutual learning processes
in the URB@Exp project show that the theoretical approach and the methodological
realization through urban labs/city labs are able to contribute to a new governance of
urban challenges. When working with a complex agenda, labs seem to be a suitable
interface between city representatives, local governments, stakeholders and actors from
civil society – especially when using tailored and innovative, value-oriented and partici-
patory working methods. Based on the results so far, there are three important phases
for implementing and working with urban experiments (Höflehner and Zimmermann
2016):
● Agenda setting: After the identification of central actors for the respective
experiment for an integrative development, the long-term visions and the common
strategies have to be developed based upon a joint (new) value orientation. Value
based strategic learning goals have to be developed including top-down (e.g.,
preparation by a small urban lab task-force) and bottom-up approaches (followed
by the involvement of a wider public). Consequently, common ground has to be
found at the interface of “top-down meets bottom-up,” providing discussion and
room for individual values, needs, and preferences – this is a crucial point in the
process, including possible clashes between common and individual value systems
Results for the societal practice Results for the scientific practice
• Innovative governance Knowledge integration • Theories and methods for
concepts • New transdisciplinary planning, for monitoring of
• Problem-oriented solutions knowledge is contributing to resilience and for urban
(scaleable) solutions for social and transformation
• Networking, capacity building scientific challenges • New research agenda
• Awareness raising
Source: Adapted and modified after Jahn et al. (2012). © Jahn (2012).
and interests. Mediation and envisioning processes play an important role and are
the basis for the success of experiments.
●● Process design and experimenting: Following the co-design approach and the ago-
nistic participatory design, urban experiments should include actors from different
social groups, different environments and different or even conflicting opinions.
By using appropriate communication methods and focusing on social learning a
mutual understanding of the respective ideas and needs can be created – if not,
urban experiments even have a “license to fail.” Generally speaking, transition
experiments are strategic instruments fostering learning based innovation projects
and change processes. The transdisciplinary setting supports co-creation and guar-
antees multi-party work on innovative ideas using a wide range of different pro-
cesses like collective working and collaboration, dialogue and consensus-building,
and concrete projects and visible results. These processes lead to adaptation and
changes in knowledge, values, attitudes, and perceptions and create new coalitions
and long-term relationships between different actors – all of them necessary
prerequisites for supporting sustainable urban change processes.
These three elements are not necessarily seen in a hierarchical order; moreover, they are
components of an iterative (co-design) procedure when creating and implementing urban/
city labs. There are always mutual social learning and knowledge exchange processes,
creating new values, visions, and new basic conditions, which lead to a new agenda setting,
a new process design, and even a new experiment. Different experiences with urban labs
in different cities, with different challenges, consequently different urban projects, differ-
ently embedded in urban governance systems are showing different critical conditions for
success. There is one decisive joint aspect: the need for wide participation, for individual
solutions and intensive discussions, especially in the agenda setting phase when linking
spatial urban challenges with value orientation.
CONCLUSION
Global change caused by economic globalization, the development of the new middle
class in newly industrialized countries, the consequences of climate change, etc. are lead-
ing to Grand Challenges not only for global but also for local societies. There is an open
question: how can we cope with the balancing act between the interests of the globalized
economic systems and societies and the necessary sustainable rethinking of the paths into
our future which needs to be based on massive changes of our value systems – a paradox?
The demand for sustainability is growing, the problem is that the interpretation of what
sustainability is and means is carried out controversially and mostly mono-directionally
in everyday life, in civil society, and in research concepts and theories. However, especially
sustainable solution strategies for global challenges are in need of integrative approaches.
Here, geography comes into play with its natural- as well as social-scientific spatial con-
cepts and approaches and the ability to integrate sustainability issues into different spatial
perspectives of the global–local interplay – sustainability is the chance for geography in
the twenty-first century.
This chapter tries to point to the “sustainability deficit” in geography. We know that
criticism is easy but rarely positive; therefore, we tried to investigate some of the core
topics of geography and a variety of connections, links, and overlaps in terms of the
suitability for the further development of sustainable (spatial) society concepts. Thereby,
the advantage could be that geography traditionally is an integrative discipline (but are
traditions still playing a role in our contemporary society?). This means that we need
to rediscover “the integrative” in geography – or to use Döring and Thielmann’s (2008)
strong words in another context – in a “bizarre backwards-reinvention” of geography. In
the meantime, the so-called modern geography is linking the research areas with different
other disciplines, which is a first and important step for an interdisciplinary debate about
relevant research questions. This interdisciplinarity is in line with the guiding principles of
sustainability as a cross-sectional discipline and is the basis for society-relevant research.
But interdisciplinarity is too little: the complexity of global and local challenges is striving
for the active involvement of civil society – similar to the motto of people with disabilities
“nothing about us without us” – and requires us to integrate transdisciplinarity into our
daily routine. Transdisciplinarity is a must-have, especially when dealing with future
oriented and sustainable strategies, concepts, and projects: only when acting this way
does sustainability arrive in reality and with the people “on the ground”. And we need
to stress that sustainability is a (never-ending) process which is based on a permanent
dynamism and striving for core values such as protection of (natural) resources, intra- and
intergenerational equity, democracy, and justice as well as a reduction in disparities.
Adaptation and change, transition and transformation are necessary to guarantee a
sustainable development at different spatial levels. It is essential that geographers are
increasingly engaging themselves into debates about values, value systems, and value
changes and consequently are integrating these aspects into their research approaches (or,
even better, contributing to a new research paradigm). Therefore, we need to transform
geography as a science and, by doing so, global, regional, and local developments could
converge with the necessary postulate for sustainability – always incorporating the
integration of ecological, social, economic, and institutional dimensions, as shown in the
concept of the logics of sustainability. We should not be afraid of finally abstaining from
the inner-disciplinary, mostly theoretical, often devastating discussion about (integrative)
geography and its role and importance for society-relevant research. We need to be more
open towards new research questions. We need to look for inter- and transdisciplinary
cooperation and collaboration and we need to position ourselves as “spatial scientists and
experts” who are able to not only bring specific competencies into scientific cooperation
but also, concretely contribute to solutions for the Grand Challenges – which has the
potential to lead to a better reputation for geography in science and society.
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INTRODUCTION
Urbanization has been the challenge of the late nineteenth and twentieth century. Today
for the first time in history the global urban population exceeds the rural population.
Around 54 percent of mankind lives in urban areas, and this proportion is assumed
to increase to 66 percent by 2050 (United Nations Department of Economic and
Social Affairs 2015). This demographic development and its consequences for human–
environmental systems clearly create both risks and opportunities. One of the main tasks
for the twenty-first century is to find new perspectives and strategies to handle these
challenges in a sustainable way. From a geographical perspective, regional specificities
such as a location in mountains may be seen as determining factors for facing challenges
such as urban settlement growth, the provision of infrastructure, economic development,
and the safeguarding of social and ecological aspects of quality of life. Cities in the
Alps, for instance, are faced with different urban fabrics, locational characteristics, and
urban functions as a result of their geographical conditions (Borsdorf and Paal 2000;
Fourny 2001; Messerli 1999; Perlik 2000, 2001; Racine 1999). Despite the manifold
particularities of mountain cities, more general research on (not just in) mountain cities
is very rare; v aluable exceptions include subsections in Gardner et al. (2013) and Borsdorf
et al. (2015), as well as a short architectural article by Du (2009) on ‘mountain urban
landscape studies’. Yet pursuing a mountain-specific perspective in the study of cities
in mountains could provide valuable insights for the sustainable development of these
unique regions.
It was geographer Carl Troll who coined the term Landschaftsökologie, translating it
into English as ‘geoecology’, and applied the concept to the study of mountains (Troll
1939, 1971). High-altitude geoecology was institutionalized by creating a commission of
the International Geographical Union in 1968 and laid the ground for the development
of ‘montology’, a neologism that emerged in 1977 (Neustadtl 1977). With the rise of the
idea of sustainable development in the early 1990s, mountain researchers like Jack D.
Ives, Bruno Messerli or Robert E. Rhoades have increasingly called for the further devel-
opment of montology as a transdisciplinary form of human–environmental research on
the sustainable development of mountain regions (Ives et al. 1997). Many montological
studies concentrated on rural mountain areas, and still do. Although a range of valuable
research on cities located in mountains evolved, as did research on specific types of
cities in mountains (e.g. the Alpine city or the Andean city), these studies mostly focus
on socio-economic issues and seldom fulfil the holistic aspirations of sustainability-
oriented montology. It is the aim of this chapter to advance a montological perspective
on the study of cities in mountains. By raising consciousness of the spatial and temporal
140
specificities of mountain cities, urban montological scholarship may not only contribute
to the sustainability of these settlements, but also drive future-proof development in
their hinterlands.
Mountain cities are often situated in extreme locations. The mining settlement of La
Rinconada (Peruvian Andes) is probably the highest city in the world (estimated 50,000
inhabitants at 5100 m or 16,732 ft.), the metropolitan region of La Paz and El Alto
(1.8 million inhabitants) in the Bolivian Andes spans an altitudinal difference of about
1000 m, reaching up to 4150 m or 13,615 ft. The city of Lhasa (550,000 inhabitants
at 3600 m or 11,800 ft.) on the Tibetan Plateau is the final stop of the world’s highest
railway line Qinghai–Tibet. Potosí, Bolivia (240,000 inhabitants at 4090 m or 13,420 ft.),
represents one of the highest UNESCO (United Nations Educational, Scientific and
Cultural Organization) World Heritage Centres – by cultural criteria – and a number of
other mountain cities, such as Shigatse, Tibet (100,000 inhabitants at 3840 m or 12,600
ft.), Juliaca, Peru (225,000 inhabitants at 3825 m or 12,549 ft.), and Andorra la Vella –
Europe’s highest capital city in the Pyrenees (about 45,000 inhabitants at 1000 m (3281
ft.) – all have breathtaking locations. As these examples make clear, what makes mountain
cities specific is location.
Position within
city networks Upland–lowland
relations
Centrality
Geographical
position
Accessibility and
transport
Industrialization
Tectonic
Position within challenges
natural space
Orographic
challenges
Topographic
position Availability of
settlement area
For the Alps Messerli (1999) found that urban development in historic times happened in
a delayed fashion. He identifies low population density, territorial backwardness and the
limited growth potential due to linear transport structures as the reasons. These factors
also apply for many other mountain regions outside the tropics.
The post-Fordist growth model reached the Alps between 1950 and 1980 and intro-
duced mainly disadvantages. On the mountain rim, hubs grew (economic growth poles,
transport and airway hubs), while Alpine cities, under improved transport infrastructure,
came into the catchment of their central places. Bätzing (1998) called this the ‘suburbani-
zation’ of Alpine cities.
In the latest phase, Alpine cities have benefitted from flexible specialization, the
expansion of trade, services, research, education, tourism, location-independent busi-
nesses (telematics) and improved trans- and inner-Alpine transport systems. All this
also encouraged strong post-suburbanization, including the emergence of a polycentric
structure (Dematteis 2009), which over time reduced the flight of capital to cities on the
Alpine rim. Agglomeration drawbacks of the very large cities on the Alpine rim also
helped Alpine cities to catch up. After years of demographic stagnation, core cities are
now growing again in the course of reurbanization processes. More dynamic growth,
however, is reserved for the fringes, so that urban regions as a whole grow strongly and
have in many cases emancipated themselves from metropoles on the Alpine rim. Even so,
as Perlik (2001) claimed as far back as 2001, apart from city tourism these places are of
national rather than international significance. In Europe the conscious acceptance of
post-suburban, polycentric settlement structures and valorization of their special location
in the mountains is seen as a future-proof model for development even outside the Alps,
for instance on the rim of the Portuguese Serra da Estrela (Vaz and Matos 2015).
Most European mountain regions, however, have not reached this phase yet. The moun-
tains of South-Eastern Europe still suffer from political instability. In the Carpathians
– for instance in the Polish part – there are very few urban settlements at altitudes above
300 m (Więcław-Michniewska 2013), and the Apennine Mountains suffer from natural
hazards (Vai and Martini 2001). Smaller rural towns in the Apennine Mountains – as in
other mountain areas – benefit, at least demographically, from amenity migration, for
instance Montalcino in the Orcia valley (Steinicke et al. 2009).
In the Andes mining and processing of ores has played a major role, from colonial
times until today. It is there that we find one of the most polluted cities, La Oroya (Peru),
as well as probably the largest copper strip mine, Chuquicamata near Calama (Chile). In
tropical regions many mountain cities have grown into major hubs. In Ecuador, however,
the coastal town of Guayaquil has long surpassed the capital Quito, and in other tropical
Andean states the sierra is also more of a region of inertia and emigration. African and
Asian mountain areas often suffer from political conflict or even civil war situations, as is
the case in the Caucasus (Coene 2010). Only in East Asia have economic circumstances
improved considerably even in the mountain regions.
In Asian and New World mountains the market function plays a major role in urban
development. Periodic markets have a large catchment area, while the daily exchange of
commodities and agrarian produce is more relevant on a local and smaller scale. In the
tropics the products from different altitudinal levels are offered on open squares or in cov-
ered markets. In Oriental cultures bazaars offer products for daily and periodic demand
(Ehlers et al. 1990). Accessibility, catchment and/or reach determine the significance of
a market in all cases.
Given the altitude and the relief, the specific challenges for sustainable planning and
development of mountain cities result largely from the manifold relations with the
physical–material surroundings and from the perspective on and assessment of the
geographical and topographical position by individuals and society, as this determines
usage and formation of urban settlements in mountain areas.
Tectonic Challenges
Many mountain cities are located in geologically young mountains that have evolved the
edges of convergent plates. These are zones with high frequencies of earthquakes. Essential
for such settlements are earthquake-proof construction methods for buildings and hard
infrastructure (e.g. transport and communications, water and energy provision) as well
as the creation and maintenance of soft infrastructure. Historic buildings and marginal
settlements present particular challenges in this respect. A recent example is Kathmandu
(Nepalese Himalayas), where an earthquake in 2015 cost many lives and destroyed much
of the settlement and its infrastructure (Sandholz 2016: 335–341). Earthquakes not only
damage mountain cities themselves but also affect their rural hinterland. Often this leads
to migration processes, as the rural population moves to the urban centers in search
of safety, where help is available first. Paradoxically such destructive events thus bring
about an increase in population and a growth for the settlement. This was the case with
Popayán in the Colombian Andes, where post-earthquake developments changed the
settlement and social structure permanently (Haller 2016). In addition to earthquakes,
many mountain cities may also need to cope with volcanic activity.
Orographic Challenges
In mountain cities, earthquakes and volcanic activity may also trigger gravitative mass
movements with even more damaging effects in cities than the original earthquake itself.
Rock falls, avalanches and break-outs of glacial lakes are just some examples for the special
relation between city and mountains, e.g. in the Andean cities of the Santa Valley in Peru
(Carey 2005). The same is true for the vicinity of volcanoes. Such areas often have plenty
of natural potential, e.g. fertile soils or thermal springs, which has encouraged settlements
and the creation of cities. At the same time these volcanoes can unfold great destructive
powers, as did the Cotopaxi volcano in Ecuador, which repeatedly threatened the town
of Latacunga, or the Nevado del Ruiz, which triggered lahars in 1985 and annihilated
the Colombian city of Armero (Lowe et al. 1986). For the controlled resettlement of risk
zones it is necessary to pay more attention to the risk awareness of the local population. As
the results of Haller (2010) in Yungay (Peruvian Andes) suggest, the Nevado Huascarán
was still recognized as a source of danger years after a disaster event, but over time the
perception of the city as a risk zone faded. Flooding as a result of (extreme) precipitation
also presents mountain cities with enormous challenges. The sealed surfaces increase
direct outflow into the receiving water course and, in extreme events, this often leads to
flooding in the city. Mountain cities, not just in high-precipitation areas like the Eastern
Himalayas, need to plan against the negative effects of heavy rains on the population, the
settlement and its infrastructure.
Atmospheric Challenges
In many mountain cities maintaining water provision for the population presents a chal-
lenge. On high-altitude plains like the Bolivian Altiplano – around the metropoles of La
Paz and El Alto (Hoffmann 2008) – or in the highlands of Tibet this is a big problem,
exacerbated by the melting of many glaciers in recent decades. The Indian city of Leh is
a very good example. Nüsser et al. (2015) have traced its development: in recent decades
the population of this regional center in Ladakh grew from nearly 3000 (1911) to around
30,000 (2011). Water demands in this city, in an arid mountain area, are pushed further
by numerous tourists and seasonal workers not included in the census. Local planners and
politicians – and the population of the city – are facing severe challenges. The example of
Leh demonstrates moreover that water shortage and flooding caused by extreme precipita-
tion by no means cancel each other out. Even though the region has an average annual
precipitation of just 115 mm, floods have been registered in 2005, 2006 and 2010 (Thayyen
et al. 2013). Dame (2010) reports that the flood of August 2010 severely damaged settlement
and infrastructure. Other atmospheric challenges are downslope winds and atmospheric
inversion, which may affect the quality of life for the inhabitants of mountain cities in
several ways. When a pool of cold air develops with an inversion at the upper limit, problems
of air hygiene may develop because the vertical exchange of air is hampered in addition to
the horizontal exchange, which is limited by the mountains. Any air pollutants produced on
the valley floor (e.g. from traffic and industry) remain in the city for longer. Salt Lake City,
Utah (US), is a well-known example where air pollution has already had documented effects
on real estate prices (Li et al. 2016). In addition, traffic and industry noise spreads further
in inversion conditions. Cities on high-altitude plains also have atmospheric specificities as
a result of their high altitude. Air pressure is generally lower up there (and so is the partial
pressure of oxygen) and the relative UVB radiation of the sun is higher (Körner 2007), a
significant health aspect, as it can damage skin, eyes and the immune system. Mountain
cities on high plateaus try to mitigate this by urban greening. Clever planting of trees can
protect against UVB radiation and contribute to reducing air pollution and noise. Yang et
al. (2012) have shown for Lhasa (Tibetan highlands) that on windy and very sunny high-
altitude plateaus it is important to choose and arrange the tree species very carefully.
Social/Cultural Challenges
Except for cities on the high-altitude plains and those on the rim of mountains, the
expansion of settlements in mountain areas often leads to conflicts over land use because
of limited space on valley floors and in basins. Conflicts between urban and agrarian
populations are exacerbated in mountain cities. Often different world views collide: One
is dominated by a globalized perspective, the other by a traditional one based on the local-
ity. The Shullcas Valley on the edge of Huancayo (Peruvian Andes) is a typical example.
While the former group has increasingly discovered the peri-urban space and its ameni-
ties, with a boom in the construction of exclusive and sometimes gated condominiums,
plus private universities for an upwardly mobile middle class (Haller and Borsdorf 2013),
many small farmers on the edge of the city, still rooted in a world view called lo andino
(Gade 1999; Sarmiento 2013), feel marginalized. With poor spatial planning, unclear
ownership of plots and numerous farmers dependent on renting land, these hardly profit
from the growing demand for land on the part of the real estate developers (Haller 2014).
Moreover these developments on the valley floor also affect the areas around the city at
higher altitudes (Haller and Einsiedler 2015) and have repercussions (e.g. as orographic
challenges) for the entire city population. Comparable processes have been noted in the
mountain regions of China (Zhang et al. 2004). In European mountain regions like the
Alps the situation is somewhat different because of clearer spatial planning and regula-
tions: Here farmers may – with suitable spatial rezoning – profit, at least financially, from
the sale of plots. As Diamantini (2016) has shown for Trento (Italian Alps), however,
stronger functional meshing of city and agriculture is needed to maintain a future-proof
peri-urban agricultural area on the edge of mountain cities.
Another feature of many, especially middle and larger, mountain cities, despite increas-
ing fragmentation of social space, is a still recognizable hypsometric social gradient. This
is particularly noticeable in La Paz and El Alto, where the residential areas of the upper
class in La Paz are located in the parts of town with the more pleasant climate, up to 1000
m below the consolidated marginal quarters of El Alto. This has multiple consequences.
The consolidated marginal quarters are much more vulnerable, for instance, in terms of
water and energy provision, below the Altiplano also in terms of orographic risks (flood-
ing, landslides, debris flows) as Urquieta (2014) reports. The lower-income quarters are,
of course, not always situated above the more affluent quarters. In Popayán (Colombian
Andes) or in Bozen/Bolzano (Italian Alps) the more affluent quarters are located higher
up than the lower-income quarters. Often the more expensive real estate objects – often
quite far from the original city center – are advertised to financially powerful buyers
with reference to their special location in the mountains, to unobstructable views or to
the unique aesthetics of the mountain scenery. The mountains thus become a locational
advantage – as ‘urban garden’ sensu Mattiucci (2013) even part of the mountain cities.
How they are perceived by developers, potential buyers, planners and politicians indirectly
affects the socio-spatial structure of the cities and contributes to new segregation trends.
As Perlik (2015) sums up, this is true not only of the peri-urban space of middle and
larger mountain cities but also of urban tourist places. Originally this was essentially a
European and North-American mountain phenomenon, but today it is becoming a global
phenomenon.
The location systems also present special challenges in many mountain cities. The catch-
ment areas of the cities in narrow valleys differ greatly from the spatially homogenous,
circular or hexagonal supply areas of radial cityscapes. In mountain areas enormous
distances may have to be overcome to maintain the provisioning of the population. The
problem of the distance between demand and the provision in the center concerns any
part of the working population not involved in agriculture or the local tourism-dominated
service sector, i.e. people who have to commute between their place of residence and
that of work and who depend on an efficient transport network. At the same time it is
a costly undertaking to provide public infrastructure for a catchment area of vast reach
but comparatively low demand and insufficient load. These costs must be accepted to
ensure the provision of the population. For such cities the central-place model needs to
be modified, because its basic assumption of a homogenous space in terms of topography
and orography is in conflict with the mountain city situation. For retail and service centers
to be frequented sufficiently, we must assume much greater distances (Borsdorf and Paal
2000). Such drawbacks may be compensated with new networking and cooperation within
the city system.
A location in the mountains is often difficult to access. In Colombia, for instance, this
has led to the capital losing some of the primary function typical in the rest of the Andes.
Cali and Medellín in the Western Cordillera developed into significant centers. Table
9.2 presents an overview of these, often overlapping, mountain-specific challenges for
mountain cities.
Type Challenge
Tectonic Earthquake
Volcanic activity
Orographic Rock falls
Avalanches
Debris flows
Lahars
Flooding
Break-out of glacier lakes
Atmospheric Glacier melt
Drought
Fall winds
Inversions and cold air pools
Low air pressure
Higher proportion of UVB radiation
Social/cultural Settlement expansion and loss of arable land on valley floors
Conflicts of world views and mountain culture
Social segregation, mountain commodification and gentrification
Location systems, provision and access
Characteristic for mountain cities is their location in the natural space and in various
cultural spaces. In contrast to other cities, there are numerous physical-geographic
and cultural-geographic processes that overlap in mountain cities, resulting in higher
complexity than in lowland regions. The quality of life approach tries to overcome the
dichotomies of objectivism and subjectivism, and of man and the environment, which
makes it particularly suited as an approach for sustainable development (Moser 2009).
In addition, special attention needs to be paid to regional-geographic particularities:
mainly because of different world views and value systems – which in turn are influenced
by zeitgeist and the local historical developments – it is rarely possible to transfer
experiences from one mountain area to another, so region-specific solutions need to be
taken into account. Frolich et al. (2015) demonstrated this on the example of Ecuador
and the Andean philosophy of the ‘good life’ (sumak kawsay in Ecuadorean Quechua).
Other geographic contexts provide more approaches, e.g. Bhutan and its ‘gross national
happiness’.
Taking the Austrian Alpine towns of Innsbruck and Bregenz as a case in point,
Borsdorf (1999) developed a concept of quality of life that may serve as the basis for
developing regionally specific approaches. He distinguishes three levels: (1) the trans-
personal and objective level, which covers quantifiable aspects of circumstance (physical
environment, social environment, infrastructure, interference factors) which can be
captured with quantitative methods on inventorying; (2) a personal and objectifiable
level, where the factors on offer are perceived in terms of individual social variables (social
group, age, gender, formal education level, income, leisure budget) – the demand factors;
(3) a personal and subjective (non-objectifiable) level of assessment, dependent on the
world view and the value system of an individual and leading to the assessment result
(happiness, well-being, health). In order to trigger a sustainable development process
and keep it going, boundaries of disciplines need to be overcome and the population
needs to be included and participating, both urban and peri-urban groups. Practical
research of urban montology might do well to orient itself on the three-phases concept
of ideal–typical transdisciplinary research by Lang et al. (2012): the first phase of joint
problem framing, definition of the goals and putting together a transdisciplinary research
team is followed by a second phase focused on jointly working on solution-oriented and
transferable knowledge. The third and last phase is of special significance. This is when
research findings are integrated into societal practice, i.e. they really are implemented and
used in the mountain city. That city should, of course, not be looked at in isolation but as
part of a mountain region, with the hinterland being influenced by developments in the
city in both central–peripheral and in hypsometric terms – and in turn affecting the city.
It has been the aim of this chapter to advance a montological perspective on the study of
cities in mountains. It has become clear that mountain cities differ from non-mountain
cities in terms of location, function, risks and challenges. Sustainability approaches devel-
oped in lowland cities can therefore not be transferred directly. Instead, the peculiarities
of the mountain cities must be taken into account. This has far-reaching consequences for
research. If it wants to provide the scientific basis for sustainable development, it has to be
participatory and transdisciplinary in its concept, i.e. it must integrate experts, decision-
makers and the population. We want to conclude with a research agenda for mountain
cities, oriented on the Strategic Research Agenda (Drexler et al. 2016), developed for
European mountain regions. It includes issues neglected in research so far.
Its eight basic statements apply to mountain areas across the world:
In this view it becomes essential to analyze and assess the urbanization process in
mountains. Maintaining cultural heritage in old town centers, careful renovation of cities
while safeguarding the traditional aspect and using local and regional building materials
is as desirable as controlling sub-, peri- and post-suburbanization processes, which use up
enormous amounts of open land. Such processes require tailored planning, which does
not endanger the quality of life and the local provisioning of the city dwellers while provid-
ing transport links from the more distant urbanization zones to the core city. Developing
equitable models to provide services for all ages is a challenge for research as well. National
and international city tourism is an economic pillar of many mountain cities, but includes
the threat of cultural globalization, ‘festivalization’ and ‘Disneylandization’.
When it comes to urban and peri-urban agriculture in mountain areas, research needs
to create the foundations for redefining the role of quality production in the bio-economy,
developing and promoting innovative technologies, improving business management,
marketing and supply chains, and capitalizing on opportunities specific to the local
geography.
Mountains are rich in renewable energy. Therefore research should undertake an
integrated assessment of the availability and use of natural resources for renewable energy
production, evaluate the impacts of renewable energy production, storage and transmis-
sion, implement innovative and competitive strategies for energy efficiency and develop
green energy model cities.
Access, transport and traffic emission are key problems of mountain cities because of
their location, often in valleys and mountain basins. The challenges here are assessing the
parameters of mobility, deploying new mobility systems, increasing acceptance and use of
public transport, proposing integrated transport solutions and quantifying the environ-
mental and public health benefits associated with the transport behavior of inhabitants
and tourists, as well as the transport of goods.
With regard to natural risks and hazards, the study of mountain urban ecosystems
is needed to reduce the physical vulnerability of mountain communities to natural and
man-made hazards and to establish holistic strategies for the long-term resilience of
urban socio-ecological systems in the mountains. And, lastly, education and communica-
tion are important to safeguard sustainability in mountain cities. Research should be
conducted to facilitate the education of mountain people in urban and rural regions, to
enable communication among mountain people and municipalities and between upland
and lowland communities in order to sustain and improve networking and cooperation,
and to encourage social impact and social innovation in mountain cities and regions.
In this way, mountain city inhabitants should be supported to resolve ecological and
economic crises.
To facilitate innovative and solid research on these topics, open-access databases, user-
friendly or even user-controlled geographical information systems and other instruments
to visualize structures, changes, trends and scenarios should be provided by researchers
to allow a close participation of mountain citizens. In doing so, montological scholarship
could be on the right way up to the peaks of transdisciplinarity, opening up new views on
the mountain-specific, sustainable development of cities in mountains.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENT
The authors are very thankful to Brigitte Scott (Institute for Interdisciplinary Mountain
Research, Austrian Academy of Sciences) for translating the manuscript.
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155
In these landscapes, natural resources are used in a cyclical manner within the carrying capacity
and resilience of ecosystems; the value and importance of local traditions and cultures are recog-
nized; and the management of natural resources involves various participating and cooperating
entities and contributes to local socio-economies. These landscape management practices are
conducive to maintaining an optimal balance of food production, livelihood improvement and
ecosystem conservation. (CBD Secretariat, 2004a)
1
The United Nations University Institute of Advanced Studies was merged into a new institute named the
United Nations University Institute for the Advanced Study of Sustainability in 2014, retaining the same acro-
nym. Subsequent uses of “UNU-IAS” in this chapter refer to the institute with whichever name is appropriate
to the time frame.
The mention here of Japan’s satoyama landscapes points to the background to the Paris
workshop and the reason behind the initiative’s name. The Paris Declaration points to a
number of studies indicating that management of socio-ecological production landscapes
can contribute to sustainable use of biodiversity, and one of the chief among these
studies is a multi-year project carried out in Japan, titled the “Japan Satoyama–Satoumi
Assessment” (JSSA) (Duraiappah et al., 2012). The JSSA was developed and carried out
from 2006 to 2010, to study “the interaction between humans and terrestrial–aquatic
landscape ecosystems (satoyama) and marine–coastal ecosystems (satoumi) in Japan.”
It applied the framework of assessments carried out under the Millennium Ecosystem
Assessment (Alcamo et al., 2003), looking at various aspects of mosaic satoyama land-
scapes and satoumi seascapes in different regions around Japan.
The executive summary of the JSSA identifies a number of key findings, many of
which find parallels in the subsequent development of the Satoyama Initiative. These
include findings that the critical feature of satoyama landscapes and satoumi seascapes
that makes them able to provide for biodiversity and human well-being is their mosaic
composition, and that these landscapes and seascapes have faced significant decline
in recent decades, with important potential negative consequences. As solutions, it
suggests that integrated approaches to the landscape or seascape can be effective
where “unconnected and piecemeal” approaches have had limited success, and that
such integrated approaches should include a new approach to common resources and
lands. Notably, the summary suggests that such an approach would not only apply in
Japan, but “could provide the basis for sustainable development in both developing and
developed countries”.
The findings of the JSSA were specifically intended to feed into the Satoyama
Initiative, which was just being developed at the time, so it should not be surprising
that the Paris Declaration follows a similar pattern to the JSSA findings in laying
the groundwork for the initiative, even if it was developed by workshop participants
from around the world. The generalization of characteristics of Japanese satoyama
and satoumi to socio-ecological production landscapes worldwide was one of the key
outcomes of the JSSA. After pointing out the mosaic composition and benefits for
biodiversity and human well-being of socio-ecological production landscapes as noted
above—terminology that was employed under the Satoyama Initiative to describe
its target areas of conservation and revitalization—the declaration describes recent
degradation issues facing them due to rural depopulation and ageing populations,
unplanned urbanization, industrialization and increases in population and resource
demands. It then outlines the Satoyama Initiative as an integrated approach to address
these issues.
The specific goals of the initiative as presented in the Paris Declaration are three-fold,
to:
Mechanisms for achieving the first two of these goals are also identified as follows.
Satoyama Initiative”, and invited “Parties, other Governments and relevant organizations
to support, as appropriate, the promotion of the sustainable use of biodiversity, including
the Satoyama Initiative”. This represented the first time the Satoyama Initiative was
recognized in international policy-making processes.
As proposed by the Paris Declaration, IPSI was established on 19 October 2010 with
a launch ceremony held during CBD COP 10 in Nagoya, Aichi, Japan. The ceremony
was organized by the MOEJ and UNU-IAS, and co-organized by the CBD Secretariat.
The first 51 founding organizations became IPSI partners at this time, to be joined by
further partners over time, with the number of member organizations reaching 202 as of
November 2016. The following section provides a brief outline of how the partnership
works and some of its activities.
According to its Charter (IPSI, 2014a), IPSI is “open to all organizations committed
to promote and support SEPLS for the benefit of biodiversity and human well-being”,
listing the following types of organizations: national or local governmental organiza-
tions, non-governmental or civil society organizations, indigenous or local community
organizations, academic, educational and/or research institutes, industry or private sector
organizations, UN or other international organizations, and others. The partnership was
created to be a place where these different types of organizations can engage and work
together on an equal footing.
The IPSI Charter also identifies the partnership’s “vision”, to “realize societies in
harmony with nature”, and outlines its approach and perspectives. A three-fold approach
is given here somewhat different from that described in the Paris Declaration, to: con-
solidate wisdom on securing diverse ecosystem services and values; integrate traditional
ecological knowledge and modern science to promote innovations; and explore new forms
of co-management systems or evolving frameworks of “commons” while respecting
traditional communal land tenure. Six “ecological and socioeconomic perspectives” are
also given for members’ assent: resource use within the carrying capacity and resilience
of the environment; cyclic use of natural resources; recognition of the value and impor-
tance of local and indigenous traditions and culture; multi-stakeholder participation
and collaboration in sustainable and multi-functional management of natural resources
and ecosystem services; contributions to sustainable socio-economies including poverty
reduction, food security, sustainable livelihood and local community empowerment;
improved community resilience to achieve multiple benefits, including ecological, social,
cultural, spiritual and economic benefits, inter alia through ecosystem-based approaches
for climate change mitigation and adaptation activities.
Finally, the Charter identifies three governing bodies for IPSI: a General Assembly
of representatives of all member organizations; a Steering Committee; and a Secretariat
to serve the former two. In addition to its Charter, IPSI’s operational principles and
strategic directions are laid out in two more documents, the IPSI Operational Guidelines
(IPSI, 2014b) and the IPSI Strategy (IPSI Secretariat, 2012). The Operational Guidelines
(IPSI, 2014b) follow the Charter, providing more detail on the roles and functions of the
General Assembly, Steering Committee and Secretariat. They also describe IPSI’s activi-
ties, including a mechanism for members to create and carry out collaborative activities,
and hold regular meetings for members, both meetings of the General Assembly and
Public Forums to strengthen collaboration and enhance awareness about the Satoyama
Initiative.
The IPSI Strategy, developed in 2012, gives basic directions for what IPSI is actu-
ally supposed to do in implementing the Satoyama Initiative. After reaffirming the
background, vision and concepts of IPSI as outlined above, it lists the partnership’s
four strategic objectives, paraphrased here: Objective 1, to increase knowledge and
understanding of SEPLS and make information widely accessible that is of relevance
to decision-making on their values, history, status and trends; Objective 2, to address
the direct and underlying causes responsible for the decline or loss of biological and
cultural diversity as well as ecological and socio-economic services from SEPLS, so as to
maintain those that are functioning well and rebuild, revitalize or restore those that are
lost or degraded; Objective 3, to enhance benefits from SEPLS including by supporting
factors and actions that increase the sustainable delivery of ecosystem services for human
well-being; and Objective 4, to enhance the human, institutional and sustainable financial
capacities for the implementation of the Satoyama Initiative.
The diagram in Figure 10.1 was developed along with the IPSI Strategy to illustrate the
relationship between IPSI, the Satoyama Initiative and international processes.
Satoyama Initiative
Financial
mechanisms/resources
IPSI
including innovative
mechanisms
The general objectives laid out in the IPSI Strategy and listed above were further
fleshed out with points for concrete action by IPSI members in 2014, when a Plan of
Action was published for the partnership (IPSI Secretariat, 2014). For each of the four
strategic objectives, the Plan of Action describes the current situation within IPSI as
of 2014, and then provides a list of priority actions. It then gives three mechanisms to
implement these priority actions: build and strategically expand the IPSI membership to
enhance balance in terms of regional and organizational representation; strengthen and
enhance collaborative activities and their implementation, reporting, and dissemination
of best practices and achievements; and enhance collaboration with relevant initiatives,
programs and networks. It also describes the current situation within IPSI and lists
planned measures for each of the three mechanisms.
Building on this basic strategic framework of the partnership, the following section
describes some of the activities that have been carried out toward implementing the
priority actions and planned measures for IPSI’s strategic objectives and mechanisms for
implementation.
As mentioned above, the IPSI Operational Guidelines (2014b) include a mechanism for
development and implementation of collaborative activities between members. The inten-
tion of this mechanism is to facilitate collaboration among members and create synergies
by bringing together members’ expertise and resources in order to further promote work
on SEPLS in general. These activities are proposed by two or more member organizations,
with or without further collaborators from outside the partnership, and endorsed by the
IPSI Steering Committee. These are carried out on a voluntary basis; as the Operational
Guidelines state, “resource mobilization for IPSI collaborative activities shall be the
responsibility of the implementing members in principle”.
As of November 2016, 40 collaborative activities had been endorsed by the IPSI
Steering Committee. These range widely in scope, type and content, from relatively
small-scale projects to restore a single landscape or produce a publication, to much larger
global-scale funding allocation and knowledge management projects. Some notable col-
laborative activities are listed below.
The Community Development and Knowledge Management for the Satoyama Initiative
(COMDEKS) Project
The COMDEKS Project was a large project incorporating aspects of knowledge man-
agement as well as providing funding in target landscapes and seascapes in 20 countries
around the world (UNDP, 2014, 2016). The COMDEKS Project was administered using
an existing scheme for small-scale direct funding through the Global Environmental
Facility’s Small Grants Programme to advance the Satoyama Initiative on the ground. The
project’s timeframe was from 2011 through 2016, and it was implemented by UNDP along
with the MOEJ, the CBD Secretariat and UNU-IAS. Under COMDEKS, each target
landscape or seascape created a strategy, which was then used to identify projects for
funding and further development, with knowledge management and monitoring carried
out throughout the projects’ period. The aim in each landscape or seascape was to apply
a landscape approach for sustainable development and improved resilience.
The SDM is an ongoing funding mechanism, providing small grant funding to six
selected IPSI member organizations each year to serve as seed funding for projects that
are expected to be sustainable and that would then be able to attract further funding from
other sources (Institute for Global Environmental Strategies (IGES), 2016). Its stated
objectives are to: promote the implementation of activities under the IPSI Strategy and
Plan of Action; promote the development of model practices for living in harmony with
nature and contribution to the CBD’s Aichi Biodiversity Targets; and provide an incentive
for IPSI members to strengthen partnerships and to generate a knock-on effect from
joint activities. SDM has been administered since 2013 by IGES, along with MOEJ and
UNU-IAS.
As mentioned above, the Paris Declaration on the Satoyama Initiative calls for “Developing
measurable indicators of resilience associated with linkages between human well-being
and the socio-ecological production landscape mosaic, including linkages between
wild and anthropogenic components of landscape and ecosystems; and applying these
indicators to contribute to the implementation of the Ecosystem Approach”, while the
IPSI Strategy calls for indicators of resilience to be included in IPSI’s monitoring and
reporting processes. Accordingly, a set of 20 “Indicators of Resilience in Socio-ecological
Production Landscapes and Seascapes” were first developed in 2012 as part of a col-
laborative activity titled “Communities and agricultural landscapes in Cuban Man and
Biosphere Reserves”. The indicators were then field-tested and applied in more than 20
countries around the world, and revised in another activity titled “Developing a toolkit
for ‘Indicators for resilience in socio-ecological production landscapes and seascapes’”,
which produced a freely-available “Toolkit” publication (UNU-IAS et al., 2014). The
primary purpose of the indicators is to empower local communities to plan and imple-
ment activities by themselves to enhance resilience in their landscapes, so they have been
designed to be used by local communities based on their experiences and observations.
The indicators have now been applied in over 30 countries, and are used for strategy
development, monitoring and assessment processes including in the COMDEKS and
GEF-Satoyama projects (see above).
Among the priority actions for IPSI in its Plan of Action is to “exchange knowledge and
lessons learned, including from case studies, member activities, and collaborative activi-
ties, and feed synthesis into relevant policy discussions” (IPSI Secretariat, 2014). Since
the partnership’s beginning, more than 80 case studies from IPSI members, including
examples of successful management practices in landscapes and seascapes around the
world, have been collected and shared on IPSI’s website. An analysis project was also
carried out to distill and compile lessons learned (UNU-IAS and IGES, 2015a), and
publications have been created bringing together case studies from the Asian and African
regions (Ichikawa, 2012; UNU-IAS and IR3S/UTIAS, 2016). A publication series titled
the “Satoyama Initiative Thematic Review” is also being published annually, collecting
case studies around a theme along with a synthesis chapter to capture lessons useful
for policy-making and practice. Each year’s theme is intended to be relevant to current
policy issues. The 2015 edition’s theme is “Enhancing knowledge for better management
of socio-ecological production landscapes and seascapes” (UNU-IAS and IGES, 2015b),
and 2016’s is “Mainstreaming concepts and approaches of SEPLS into policy and
decision-making” (UNU-IAS and IGES, 2016).
The IPSI Global Conference is the major regularly-held event under the partnership’s
processes for important decision-making and for raising public awareness. As called for
in the IPSI Operational Guidelines, it generally consists of a meeting of the IPSI General
Assembly and a Public Forum. The first IPSI Global Conference was held in Japan in
March 2011, and conferences have been held on a regular basis since then in various
countries, often back-to-back with CBD COP meetings. The General Assembly meeting
covers operational issues for the partnership, while the Public Forum is used for outreach
and information sharing.
Regional workshops are organized to explore issues related to landscapes and seascapes
in terms of the particular characteristics of a region and how they relate to issues faced in
the rest of the world, as well as to share information and promote the Satoyama Initiative
in the region. As of July 2016, workshops had been held in Kathmandu, Nepal for Asia,
Florence, Italy for Europe, Accra, Ghana for Africa, and Cusco, Peru for Latin America
and the Caribbean. Workshops include presentations by IPSI members in the region,
keynote speeches by invited experts, working-group discussions and others. Contents are
unified around a theme intended to highlight important issues in the particular region.
The following section covers the 2016 Satoyama Initiative Regional Workshop in Peru
as an example of how the Satoyama Initiative is being implemented and to highlight issues
uncovered through processes carried out by IPSI in continuing to develop the initiative.
The Satoyama Initiative Regional Workshop in Peru 2016 was the fourth regional work-
shop, and covered the Latin America and Caribbean region, where the initiative has not
had as strong a presence as in Asia and some other regions. Accordingly, membership
of IPSI is relatively low in the region. Accordingly, this workshop was partly planned to
improve the initiative’s regional recognition and effectiveness. In the global context, the
workshop was held in the same year as CBD COP 13, and just a few months after the
adoption of the UN’s Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs). It was co-organized by
UNU-IAS and local partner Asociación ANDES, with major support from the Ministry
of Environment of Peru (MINAM).
The first day of the workshop was held in Cusco with an opening ceremony and plenary
session. This included a roundtable discussion with officials from local governments
and national government ministries on issues facing Peru and efforts to address them.
Presentations from various sub-regions and panel and plenary discussions followed.
The following two days’ events were held in and around the town of Pisac, with
field sessions held in the Potato Park. The Potato Park is a confederation of Quechua-
speaking communities that came together in a collectively administrated association
in order, according to its website, to “protect our rights and in our role as a center
of potato origin and diversity . . . promote environmentally sustainable agriculture”
(Parque de la Papa, n.d.). After a welcome ceremony and blessing at a sacred site in
the Pisac Archeological Park, participants split into working groups to visit different
communities. Presentations were given by both local community members explaining
the local landscape and their work, and by workshop participants from other places
introducing their own interests and projects. This format gave participants the chance
to discuss and compare issues while physically moving through the landscape and
observing its various elements. A closing plenary session was then used for participants
to consolidate and report on the outcomes of their groups’ discussions in the field
sessions, and to synthesize these into overall conclusions and lessons learned from the
workshop as a whole.
In the working groups, participants were asked to respond to three key questions:
● What are some of the key issues for SEPLS in Latin America and Caribbean?
●● What are some of the challenges and opportunities for:
– Group 1: sustainable management of biodiversity and local food production
system in – SEPLS?
Responses to these questions were very diverse and difficult to summarize, but emerging
common lessons learned help to highlight salient issues in the region and how they relate
to and may be partially addressed by the principles of the Satoyama Initiative.
First, a number of key issues facing the region were identified:
of institutions, traditional knowledge and the oral tradition can help to address many
problems. It was suggested that, similar to integrating modern science and traditional
knowledge, modern communications technologies could be used to disseminate knowl-
edge and help make it effective for today’s world.
Similar points were raised relating to governance, including the need for local govern-
ance, alternatives to dominant capitalist economic models, and improved partnership and
dialogue, including all concerned actors in any projects. The Satoyama Initiative was seen
as helpful in this area with its focus at the landscape or seascape level, and because it does
not focus only on agriculture or conservation, allowing it to be an effective means to bring
different interests together.
Finally, the workshop addressed possible future actions in the Latin America and
Caribbean region, with actions falling under themes similar to many of those found above:
CONCLUSIONS
This chapter has two main aims: first, to present readers of this volume with an overview
of the Satoyama Initiative including its background, concepts and implementation status;
and, second, using the Satoyama Initiative Regional Workshop in Peru as an example,
to show how the initiative continues to be developed in light of new perspectives found
through various projects and activities as it continues to gain recognition and spread
around the world. We, the authors, hope that the perspectives on a landscape-focused
resource-management approach found in the Satoyama Initiative will provide a valuable
contribution to the discussion of the geography and landscape—in all senses of the
word—that this volume addresses.
In an attempt to sum up the information here in a way that will be useful to readers and
other contributors, we would like to offer a few points learned from activities described
in this chapter.
First, in implementing a concept like the Satoyama Initiative, there is a constant
balancing act between generality and specificity that must be recognized and addressed.
In the largest sense, this is seen in the balance between general principles of the Satoyama
Initiative—“socio-ecological production landscapes and seascapes”, its three-fold
approach and six perspectives, etc.—and the degree of specificity to which these prin-
ciples can support individual landscapes and seascapes on the ground. The Satoyama
Initiative Regional Workshops are one attempt to address this balance, considering that
larger-scale events like the IPSI Global Conference may be too broad for some purposes,
while small-scale projects in individual landscapes may produce knowledge that is too
specific for broader application. The response based on what is presented in this chapter,
particularly the Peru workshop, is to work toward governance that is coherent both
horizontally and vertically at multiple levels, from local to regional to global (Duraiappah
et al., 2014), recognizing and retaining what is applicable or replicable, while remaining
willing to ignore what may not be applicable in a certain situation. This approach has
been seen throughout the Satoyama Initiative, with its concept of multilevel, multi-
stakeholder, multi-functional management of resources, and is echoed in workshop
participants’ repeated emphasis on bringing coherence to multiple levels of governance
in their findings.
Second, creation and good management of knowledge is key. Importantly in the
context of the Satoyama Initiative, this includes the ongoing effort to integrate traditional
knowledge and modern science (Takeuchi, 2010). While this effort has been discussed
since the formation of the initiative, the Peru workshop provides further examples, both
of participants expressing their desire for more work in this direction and of real-world
cases. One of the best of these came from the work at the Potato Park venue itself, where a
great deal of traditional knowledge about cultivation of potatoes and other Andean crops
is being directly fed into modern scientific research investigating means for sustainable
agriculture in the region (Asociación ANDES and the Potato Park, 2015).
Finally, both the experiences of IPSI and the findings of the Peru workshop repeatedly
emphasize the importance of partnership and networking to achieve all goals in terms
of implementation, knowledge-sharing, mainstreaming, replication of good practices
and others. One of the outstanding conclusions from the Peru workshop was that, while
knowledge-sharing may be comparatively easy at the local level, and various mechanisms
and clearing houses may exist for knowledge relevant at the global scale, often practitioners
within a region have no idea what is going on in other parts of the same region. For this
reason, concrete and proactive efforts are needed to share knowledge in an appropriate
manner for the scale at which it is most useful. Efforts in this direction, such as Satoyama
Initiative Regional Workshops continue, and participants expressed the desire that these
efforts be continued and increased.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The authors would like to thank the editors and other contributors to this volume for
the opportunity to engage in this important dialogue on the geography of sustainability,
and would also like to thank all of the participants in the Satoyama Initiative Regional
Workshop in Peru for the valuable insights contained herein, as well as the MOEJ for their
financial contribution to the International Satoyama Initiative project at UNU-IAS and
its role as the Secretariat of IPSI.
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INTRODUCTION
The global ecological footprint of humanity has exceeded the Earth’s annual biocapacity
by 150 percent since 2007 (Hoekstra & Wiedmann, 2014). It is not the whole of the human
race, however, that is equally responsible for “humanity’s unsustainable environmental
footprint” (Ogden et al. 2015). Consequently, we need to better distinguish specific
human groups or individuals who have negative, or favorable, environmental impacts
(Rozzi 2015a). To improve an unsustainable environmental footprint it is indispensable
to better assess the carrying capacity of heterogeneous habitats, contrasting life habits
that influence environmental impacts, and human inhabitants that are most responsible
for these impacts.1 In order to undertake this task, and to foster planetary sustainability
in the midst of the vortex of socio-environmental changes in our twenty-first century we
urgently need to forge more informed and respectful forms of dialogue between different
socio-cultural groups, and between local and global discourses.
To foster intercultural dialogues that incorporate both the biophysical and the cultural
heterogeneity of the planet, we offer the perspective of the biocultural ethic. Its central
concept relies on the vital links between (i) the well-being and identity of the co-inhabitants
(humans and other-than-humans);2 (ii) their life habits; and (iii) the habitats where they
take place (Rozzi 2012a). This formal proposal of the “3Hs” (co-inhabitants, habits and
1
Carrying capacity was originally used to determine the number of animals that could graze on a segment
of land without destroying it. With a broader approach, later biologists defined the concept as the maximum
population of a given species that can survive indefinitely in a given environment. In the 1960s, carrying capac-
ity was applied to human populations using the IPAT equation (Daily & Ehrlich 1992). This equation estimates
the multiplicative contributions of human population (P), affluence (A, which is associated with the level of
consumption by that population) and technology (T, which refers to the processes used to obtain resources
and transform them into useful goods and wastes) to environmental impact (I, expressed in terms of resource
depletion or waste accumulation). This approach has several limitations (Zimmerer 1994), and recently the
concepts of environmental footprints, and planetary boundaries have gained more attention (Fang et al. 2015).
However, the IPAT equation has been useful to clarify that carrying capacity for humans is a function not only
of population size, but also of differing levels of consumption, which in turn are affected by the technologies
involved in production and consumption. The carrying capacity approach and the IPAT equation have been
also useful to assist in thinking about ways of reducing environmental impacts by cutting down various types
of throughput. For these reasons, the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC) has applied the
IPAT equation to assess the contribution of different factors to greenhouse gas emissions. However, until now
there is a poor understanding about the complex links among biophysical, cultural, social, and technological
dimensions in different cultures that inhabit heterogeneous regions of the world. I hope this chapter draws
attention to this point.
2
The expression “other-than-humans” avoids the dichotomy derived from the more usual expression: “non-
humans.” It overcomes this dichotomy for two reasons. First, it alludes to the set of biotic and abiotic beings that
form different levels of organization and interactions in the ecosystems they co-inhabit. Second, the expression
“other-than-humans” allows us to understand that these beings inhabit not only biophysical nature but also the
images, symbols and values of our cultures. Therefore, they are co-inhabitants in our biocultural communities,
which encompass biophysical and linguistic domains of reality, and wakeful and oniric phases of our lives.
172
Human language, culture and the environment have been molded co-constitutively
throughout the evolutionary histories of our species, Homo sapiens. Recent studies have
demonstrated positive correlations between biological diversity and linguistic diversity
derived from coevolution processes of human groups with their local ecosystems (Maffi
2001, Loh & Harmon 2005). Throughout history human beings have interacted with
their environment, modifying it and developing specialized knowledge about it. In order
to convey ecological knowledge and practices, humans have also developed specialized
ways of talking about the environment (Fill & Mühlhäusler 2006). These eco-linguistic
relationships have developed over thousands, hundreds, or sometimes even tens of years
(Steffensen & Fill 2014, Toyoda 2018). The continued use of these local, co-evolved
languages promotes, in turn, the continuity of local ecological knowledge and practices.
The relationships between cultures, their local languages and their socio-ecological
environments are particularly evident in local communities that maintain close material
and spiritual ties with their regional ecosystems and biodiversity (Maffi 2001). Under the
conceptual framework of the biocultural ethic, I highlight that biological and cultural
diversity are inevitably interwoven in all cultures for at least two reasons (Rozzi 2001):
1.
Homo sapiens, like other biological species, is a component of ecosystems and
biodiversity; as a consequence of the participation of humans in the structure and
processes of the ecosystems, biocultural landscapes are generated.
3
The term co-inhabitant refers to sharing the habitat in a way analogous to the way in which the word
companion alludes to sharing life and bread (from Latin, cum 5 with; panis 5 bread). The understanding that
we are part of multiple-species communities of life and ecosystems is implicit in the term human, which comes
from the Latin humus (5 earth). The term person comes from the Latin persona, which means a mask used
by an actor. The concept of co-inhabitant springs from multiple cultural roots and, in the framework of the
biocultural ethic, it reminds us that humans are not the only important actors on the planet.
Biocultural Landscapes
Ecological and evolutionary sciences have helped us to understand that Homo sapiens is
an animal species that, like other biological species, participates in the structure, processes
and composition of ecosystems (McDonnell and Pickett, 1994). We humans are part of
biodiversity. With our diverse cultures we generate networks of biocultural relationships
that diversify (and are diversified by) the heterogeneity of ecosystems and landscapes
where they unfold. In fact, novel biocultural approaches in anthropological and ecological
research have helped to disclose that many landscapes previously represented as pure
(or “pristine”) expressions of nature are in fact cultural landscapes (Denevan 1992). As
human populations are components of biodiversity they co-constitute landscapes, which
could be better understood as biocultural landscapes (Rozzi 2001, 2012a), since they
are generated and modified by communities of co-inhabitants of humans and multiple
biological species embedded in their ecosystems.
Biocultural landscapes encompass a wide variety of ecoregions and historical epochs.
In this chapter we will focus on South America where a great diversity of biocultural
landscapes is found in both the high and lowlands. In the highlands of the Andes, sacred
sites and Inca trails still represent major trade routes. They have been used over the past
10,000 years. Today these trails feature visible traces of pre-Columbian hunter–gatherer
communities, the Inca Empire (fifteenth to sixteenth centuries), battles with the Spaniard
conquistadors (seventeenth and eighteenth centuries), and are still currently used by
Aymara, Quechua and Mestizo peasant communities (Moore 2005, Sarmiento 2000,
2002, 2015). In the lowlands, in vast areas of Amazonian tropical forests, scientists began
to distinguish patterns of vegetation from the 1970s that were the result of extensive tree
plantations of fruit trees and nuts (Barlow et al. 2012). A notable example corresponds to
the forest islands, or apêté habitat of the Kayapó people.
Rooted in their ecological worldview, the Kayapó people practice itinerant horticulture
in the savannas bordering the Amazonian southeastern forests. With these practices they
achieve a high productivity of fruits, seeds and tubers, and high numbers of monkeys and
other animals that are attracted to these habitats. The temporal sequence in the sowing
of a variety of crops closely mimics the sequence of the ecological succession of the
plants and other organisms that co-inhabit with the Kayapó (Posey 1983). The resulting
biocultural landscape with the apêté habitat brings well-being to both human and other-
than-human co-inhabitants.
The concept of co-inhabitant of the biocultural ethic finds an exemplary convergence
with the Kayapó concept of ômbiqwa-ô-toro: plants that are “good friends” or “good
neighbors” with respect to each other. The Kayapó know that, when planted together,
some combinations of plant species are more prosperous. Synergistic cultivation of plant
species requires complex cultivation patterns, and is characterized in terms of “plant
energy.” In this way, a “Kayapó garden” is created through careful consideration of the
complex combinations of “plant energies.” Planting practices based on plant energies
can be compared to the ecological principles that today guide the “new agroforestry” of
Western science (Posey 1985).
The Kayapó now inhabit a reserve that includes a variety of tropical habitats, ranging
from dense forests to vast grasslands, intertwined with varied waterscapes (Zanotti 2018).
In these fluvial and terrestrial habitats, the creation of “forest islands” in the tropical
savannas shows the extent to which the Kayapó can alter and manage ecosystems to
increase biological diversity. This “ecological engineering” requires a detailed knowledge
of soil fertility, microclimatic variations and species niches, as well as the interrelation-
ships between species that are introduced into these human-created communities. Because
numerous plants are cultivated to attract animals for hunting, the apêté can be considered
as both agroforestry plots and hunting reserves (Posey 1985).
The biocultural ethic underlines that the conservation of habitats, and their co-
inhabitants’ access to them, is a necessary condition for the well-being and identity of
both the habitats and their inhabitants, and is sustained through the dynamic continuity
of traditional habits of life. This emphasis is of major importance given that biocultural
landscapes, such as that of the Kayapó, today, are the arena of tense conflicts with
national and global development policies. In northern Brazil, the Amazon jungle that
was once exuberant and impenetrable has lost large tracts of land destroyed by defor-
estation and overexploitation. However, aerial views of the Kayapó tribes’ territory still
show well preserved habitats. The Kayapó have effectively protected their lands against
illegal logging, ranching, and gold mining. Now, as expanding economic and political
interests encroach upon their habitats, it is uncertain whether the Kayapó will be able to
continue to protect their territory. Today, spokespersons of the Kayapó peoples (as well
as other Amazonian peoples, parliamentarians, scientists and several organizations) have
expressed fear that access to their protected territories will be granted to large multina-
tional companies. For this reason they have organized conservation alliances with various
organizations, and delivered signed petitions to the Brazilian Congress. The Brazilian
government has announced that it is expected to expand its agrarian industry, promote
mining, and construct several hydroelectric power stations, highways, waterways, ports
and railways for industrial transportation.4
Like the Kayapó, numerous Amerindian peoples with ecological worldviews, ethical
values, and practices that include the use of fire, forest management, planting, and
transplants within and between ecological zones of the Amazon have created a mosaic of
islands and forest corridors, which also attract animals. These discoveries in the world’s
largest forest region have forced scientists to re-evaluate what had been mistakenly
considered “natural” Amazonian landscapes and reinterpret them as “cultural forests”
(Heckenberger et al., 2003), or as biocultural landscapes (Rozzi 2001), including large
agricultural areas, open parks, hills built with clay, and forests (Mann 2005).
Cultural landscapes have attracted increasing attention. The United Nations
Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) World Heritage Committee
has adopted and adapted this concept as part of an international effort to overcome “one
4
See the short documentary on the controversial project to build the “Belo Monte” hydroelectric power
plant in the Amazon jungle, narrated by Brazilian actor Dira Paes and US actress Sigourney Weaver, created
by Amazon Watch and International Rivers in support of the Xingu Movement Vivo Para Semper of Brazil:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K-seAAIsJLQ (accessed September 17, 2016).
of the most pervasive dualisms in Western thought: nature and culture” (in Pannell 2013,
p. 53). It is important to note that this perspective has historical roots. Indeed, nature
and culture have been integrated from the outset by conservation movements in Europe.
For instance, the first protected area in Germany, established during the 1830s, was the
Drachenfels, a hill with an ancient ruin of a castle that stands on the banks of the Rhine
south of Bonn. The reason for protecting it as a natural monument (Naturdenkmal)
was the danger of complete destruction of the castle, and of the mountainside pointing
towards the Rhine, due to a quarry that had already caused part of the old ruin to collapse.
Later, the area was extended greatly to include the surrounding hills in the nature protec-
tion area (Naturschutzgebiet) in Siebengebirge. Both the hills of the Siebengebirge and the
ruin of Drachenfels had, however, a high symbolic value in the context of romanticism
and the search for national identity in Germany, which at that time was divided into many
small, more or less independent states (Jax & Rozzi 2004). The Drachenfels Naturdenkmal
shows how in Germany the conservation movement began not as a movement to protect
“wild” landscapes, but as Heimatschutz (Dominick 1992, Knaut 1993); i.e., the protec-
tion (Schutz) of biocultural landscapes that formed the homeland (Heimat). This was
essentially the protection of landscapes shaped by centuries of cultural practices and a
variety of economic and political uses (Jax & Rozzi 2004).
Previous examples from South America and Europe illustrate how the concept of
biocultural landscape (where humans modify and are modified by the habitats they
co-inhabit) can be applied to a wide range of ecosystems subject to different degrees of
anthropic influence. This gradient extends from remote areas with low direct impact to
large, fast growing cities in the world. Urban ecosystems are particularly relevant today,
since, as of 2007, more than 50 percent of the world’s population began to live in cities (see
Rozzi 2015b). In response to this demographic change, the 2008 Erfurt Declaration made
a call to apply the Convention on Biological Diversity specifically to urban environments,
considering urbanization as one of the main drivers of loss of biological and cultural diver-
sity (Müller & Werner 2010). Although cities cover only 2 percent of the world’s surface,
they account for more than 75 percent of the world’s resources (Poole 2015). It is therefore
essential to examine biocultural relations in urban habitats of the twenty-first century.
The composition of innovative life habits that are environmentally and economically
sustainable, at the same time as being ethically virtuous in their relationships with cohabit-
ants, can be dynamic and have rapid responses in urban habitats. In Japan, for example,
some recent urban initiatives have successfully focused on the restoration of estuaries. In
cities of Sado Island, the restoration of estuarine habitat has, in turn, enabled the restora-
tion of life habits associated with oyster fishing and education, which have catalyzed the
return of diverse co-inhabitants, including diverse forms of human cultures (e.g., fishers
and other citizens of Sado Island) and biological species (e.g., oysters, wetland plants)
(Toyoda 2018). To achieve estuarine restoration it has been crucial to invite people in
a variety of positions, such as fishers, farmers, government officials, schoolteachers,
and even children, to participate and share their ideas (Takada et al. 2012). Another
interesting example associated with urban estuarine habitats is found in Chesapeake Bay
in the United States of America, where oyster fishers have resisted privatization of the
commons, while adopting an alternative strategy more in keeping with their life habits and
cultural values. In the Chesapeake Bay initiative creating trust among different citizens,
including fishers and scientists has been difficult, however (Kingsland 2015).
Biocultural Languages
1. diverse ecological practices, through which humans transform other species and the
environment; and
2. diverse forms of ecological knowledge, through which humans perceive other species
and their environment (Rozzi 2001).
The defense of the rights to manage biocultural landscapes in traditional ways and to
continue speaking and teaching local languages is urgently required to address the intense
losses of biocultural diversity that affect even the most remote regions of the planet today.
Biodiversity loss is a relatively well-known phenomenon. During the twenty-first century,
20 percent of the world’s existing biological species may cease to exist, and up to 43 per-
cent of the species with high habitat specificity might become extinct (Malcolm et al. 2006,
Pereira et al. 2010). Less known, though attracting increasing attention, are the rapid and
extensive losses of languages and cultures. There are an estimated 6912 languages spoken
in the world today (Lewis 2009). However, more than half of these languages are spoken
by very small communities of less than 1000 or 10,000 fluent speakers. On the other
hand, the top ten languages (Chinese, English, Spanish, Hindi, Arabic, Russian, Bengali,
Portuguese, German, and French) comprise more than half of the world’s population.
This rapidly growing concentration of the world population in a few languages is taking
place at the expense of the diversity of human languages that have co-evolved in specific
ecological and cultural environments.
This global “language shift” (Harmon 2002) is promoted by growing assimilation
pressures that entail collective abandonment of native languages. Today, many threatened
languages belong to small language families, and are spoken by less than 100 people.
For instance, the Fuegian language family in southern South America includes four
languages, two already extinct (Selknam and Haush), and two nearly extinct spoken
by less than ten persons (Yahgan and Kaweshkar) (Rozzi et al. 2010). Worldwide more
than 10 percent of the living languages are “nearly extinct,” almost 30 percent are highly
threatened (less than 10,000 speakers), and up to 90 percent may vanish during the course
of this century (Krauss 1992, Maffi 2005). To protect biocultural diversity and defend the
rights of indigenous people and multiple species to inhabit their biocultural landscapes, in
the twenty-first century we need to better address three challenging facts:
1. More than 70 percent of the 6912 languages in the world are indigenous; hence,
indigenous peoples constitute most of contemporary cultural diversity (WGIP 2001).
2. Indigenous people represent a minority; considering the world’s 5000 ethnic groups,
they comprise an estimated population of 300 to 350 million, i.e. less than 6 percent
of the total world population (United Nations Department of Economic and Social
Affairs (DESA) 2009).
3. Areas of highest biological diversity on the planet (over a wide biogeographical range
from the Polar regions to the deserts, from coastal areas to high altitude zones, from
savannas to tropical and temperate rainforests) are inhabited by indigenous people.
More than two thirds of the world’s languages are found in the set of 238 ecoregions
that were identified by the World Wildlife Fund as having the highest priority for
current biological conservation efforts (Oviedo et al. 2000).
These three interrelated facts make evident the current fragility of biocultural diversity.
In 1988, foreseeing this scenario, the International Society of Ethnobiology was created.
Under the lead of Darrell Posey, during its First International Congress of Ethnobiology
in Belém (Brazil) this society prepared the Declaration of Belém to call public attention
towards the need to better understand and conserve the “inextricable links” between
biological and cultural diversity. Four years later, during another landmark international
conference held in Brazil, the Earth Summit, these inextricable biocultural links were
widely recognized by the Convention of Biological Diversity (CBD).
The terms traditional ecological knowledge (TEK) and indigenous knowledge (IK)
were first used in 1979 and 1980 (Maffi 2001). However, it was only under the influence
of the Earth Summit that these terms began to be widely used. Rio 1992 generated
global awareness about the complementary nature of biodiversity and the IK of it.
The CBD, Agenda 21 and the Global Biodiversity Strategy included as a principle that
“cultural diversity is closely linked to biodiversity. Humanity’s collective knowledge of
biodiversity and its use and management rests in cultural diversity; conversely conserv-
ing biodiversity often helps strengthen cultural integrity and values” (WRI et al. 1992).
In turn, the US National Research Council stated in 1992 that development agencies
should place greater emphasis on, and assume a stronger role in, systematizing the local
knowledge held by IK, gray literature, and anecdotal information. It also underlined that
“a vast heritage about species, ecosystems, and their use exists, but it does not appear in
the world literature.” Consequently, it mandated that: “If indigenous knowledge has not
been documented and compiled, doing so should be a research priority of the highest
order. Indigenous knowledge is being lost at an unprecedented rate, and its preservation,
preferably in data base form, must take place as quickly as possible” (National Research
Council 1992).
Recording of TEK and IK is necessary, but not sufficient. It is also vital to protect the
habitats where TEK and IK are cultivated. The United Nations Environment Program
(UNEP) has stressed that “biodiversity also incorporates human cultural diversity, which
can be affected by the same factors as biodiversity, and impacts on the diversity of genes,
other species and ecosystems” (UNEP 2007). The understanding about the interconnect-
edness between life habits and habitats is widespread among vernacular worldviews, and is
also justified by ecological and evolutionary sciences (Prance & Kallunki, 1984, Harmon
1992, 2002, Wilcox & Duin 1995, Callicott 1994, Posey 1999, Rozzi 2001, Brown et al.,
2005). But this comprehension is only incorporated incipiently in most academic circles
and by decision-makers (Maffi 2001). By interrelating habitats, habits and co-inhabitants,
the 3Hs framework of the biocultural ethic aims to help to better integrate biological,
linguistic, and cultural diversity into conservation policies and practices that enhance our
ability to:
The “3Hs” formal framework of the biocultural ethic captures the seriousness of the
problem of displacements of local communities whose life habits and well-being are
dependent on the conservation and access to their habitats. To contribute to transforming
the global prevailing development and economic paradigm, the “3Hs” perspective focuses
on traditions of environmental thinking, worldviews and ecological practices forged in
different continents. This biocultural optics has a double relevance because it enables us:
1. to better know and value a multiplicity of cultures that promote harmonious relation-
ships between human communities and the natural world where they live; and
2. to de-construct the neoliberal discourse that has been progressively and monolithi-
cally installed in the media, formal education, and political decision-making since the
mid-twentieth century, promoting an unsustainable culture that threatens the life of
most human and other-than-human beings.
Each ecological worldview is valuable in itself. At the same time, it provides a point of
reference to rethink what it means to be integrally human. In the context of contemporary
cosmopolitan society, this reflection urges an ethical sense of multicultural solidarity for
all humanity.5 A comprehension of the diversity of ecological worldviews helps to better
value the ethical multi-potentiality of the human species to co-inhabit with diverse cultures
5
As Uruguay’s former President José Mujica has said, “we must understand that the world’s indigents are
not from Africa or Latin America, they are from all of humanity.” Address to the 68th General Assembly of the
Nature, or Pacha Mama, where life is reproduced and occurs, has the right to integral respect for
its existence and for the maintenance and regeneration of its life cycles, structure, functions and
evolutionary processes. (República del Ecuador 2008)
To promote governance and actions consistent with this worldview, Article 414 states that:
United Nations at its New York headquarters, USA: https://gadebate.un.org/en/68/uruguay (accessed August
19, 2016).
6
Justice has a cultural foundation based on a social consensus about the concepts of the good and the bad,
and the just, and about social virtues that demand action in accordance with that concept and the associated
practical aspects that define how relationships between people are rightly organized. Justice also has a formal
foundation, codified in written provisions, such as the constitution of the nation states that we will discuss below
(e.g., Ecuador and Bolivia), which define a set of rules applied by impartial judges to assess the relationships
and the conflicts among individual members and institutions of society.
7
Co-inhabitation with multiple species requires not only rational or verbal interactions, but also corporeal-
ity, affection and sharing everyday life (see May 2015, Mamani-Bernabé 2015).
The State will adopt adequate and cross-cutting measures for the mitigation of climate change,
by limiting greenhouse gas emissions, deforestation, and air pollution; it will take measures for
the conservation of the forests and vegetation; and it shall protect the population at risk.
The right of the population to live in a healthy and ecologically balanced environment that
guarantees sustainability and the good way of living, Sumak Kawsay, is recognized.
In the Quechua language, Sumak Kawsay means harmonious life among humans and
between humans and the Earth. The new Ecuadorian Constitution represents a contri-
bution that illustrates how changes in the ontological foundations can (and should) be
associated with changes in the normative contents, associated to reforms in the govern-
ance, the economy, the ethics and the legislation. As we will discuss in the next section,
recently other South American countries, such as the Plurinational State of Bolivia, have
introduced normative concepts and incorporated the rights of nature into their constitu-
tions (see Zaffaroni 2011).
In ancient times mountains arose, rivers moved, and lakes were formed. Our Amazonia, our
swamps, our highlands, and our plains and valleys were covered with greenery and flowers. We
populated this sacred Mother Earth with different faces, and since that time we have understood
the plurality that exists in all things and in our diversity as human beings and cultures. Thus, our
peoples were formed, and we never knew racism until we were subjected to it during the terrible
times of colonialism . . .
We have left the colonial, republican and neo-liberal State in the past. We take on the historic
challenge of collectively constructing a Unified Social State of Pluri-National Communitarian
law, which includes and articulates the goal of advancing toward a democratic, productive,
peace-loving and peaceful Bolivia, committed to the full development and free determination
of the peoples . . .
We found Bolivia anew, fulfilling the mandate of our people, with the strength of our
Pachamama and with gratefulness to God . . .
The concept of Suma Qamaña is then included among the great ethical principles in
Article 8:
I. The State adopts and promotes the following as ethical, moral principles of the plural society:
ama qhilla, ama llulla, ama suwa (do not be lazy, do not be a liar or a thief), suma qamaña (living
well), ñandereko (live harmoniously), teko kavi (good life), ivi maraei (land without evil) and
qhapaj ñan (noble path or life).
II. The State is based on the values of unity, equality, inclusion, dignity, liberty, solidarity,
reciprocity, respect, interdependence, harmony, transparency, equilibrium, equality of opportu-
nity, social and gender equality in participation, common welfare, responsibility, social justice,
distribution and redistribution of the social wealth and assets for wellbeing.
growth (Chakravorty 2016). Finally, to live better than others will require exploitation,
embarking upon serious competition, concentrating wealth in a few (Rozzi 2015b).
The concept of suma qamaña offers ecosocial foundations that broaden the concepts
of “living better” and “quality of life.” It emphasizes the importance of harmonious
relations between nature and human beings. Its translation into public policy and the
adoption of a development model is highly relevant at this historical moment because
suma qamaña provides an important link to sustainability, a link that current concepts of
quality of life fail to make.
1. abandoning their native languages (and the eco-cultural knowledge that accompanies
them) to gain access to wider society; or
2. conserving their languages but remaining marginalized from national affairs.
The temporal rate and biogeographic scale of current global cultural homogenization
is unprecedented. The spread of the dominant culture is proceeding by way of linguis-
tic assimilation, as languages of stronger groups monopolize education, the media,
g overnment, and other avenues of public discourse. Still today, in Africa and South
America, it is possible to detect how the use of local languages and forms of knowledge
are restricted. Vernacular languages are often denigrated by labeling them as primitive,
and even as superstitious and unfit for the present-day world (Rodney 1982, Mignolo
2000). Analysis about the ongoing linguistic elimination uncovers postcolonial patterns
of biocultural homogenization (Rozzi 2013). With the aim of overcoming these patterns
of linguistic discrimination, UNESCO and numerous non-governmental organizations
signed the Universal Declaration of Linguistic Rights in Barcelona in 1996. This affirms
that “all language communities have equal rights.” Its implementation requires halting
the overriding effects of the global-uniform education system, and to foster instead the
continuity of local languages and their educational practices.
The assimilating educational system constitutes an ethical problem since it conceals
the plurality of human natures. It is imperative to criticize this educational oppression.
To make visible, understand, and value biological and cultural diversity we need a multi-
versitality; not a uni-versality. Multiversitality allows an appreciation of the wisdom
included in vernacular worldviews, and stimulates intercultural dialogues. The revaluation
of the cultures of peoples that have been invisibilized in each of the continents will
disclose narratives that will nourish global society with concepts to co-inhabit sustainable
geographies. An intercultural debate centered on co-inhabitation among multiple cultures
and multiple biological species should help restoring an axiological order that places the
value of life above the value of capital.
A central task for the biocultural ethic will be to demonstrate that, in contrast to the
monoculture of consumption established by the global hegemonic economic discourse,
a wealth of biocultural worldviews and practices exist in each of the continents. To cease
awareness of our ways of co-inhabiting with our co-inhabitants, the birds, the moon,
the flowers, and the diversity of life forms represents an anomalous life habit for most
ancestral and current cultures. The notion of kinship between humans and other animal
species is as present in scientific evolutionary theory as it is in indigenous and Buddhist
worldviews. These ecological worldviews are embodied in the everyday lives of com-
munities, urban and rural, which are often organized to resist the impact of prevailing
one-dimensional economic policies. Knowledge about the heterogeneity of habitats and
life habits of their co-inhabitants contributes to overcoming current narrow economic
perspectives centered on monetary indicators. This biocultural knowledge broadens the
spectrum of values by reintegrating ecological, aesthetic, and ethical dimensions into the
appreciation of life.
Paraphrasing the motto of the World Social Forum “Another World is Possible”, I
propose to affirm that “This Biocultural World is Actual” (Rozzi 2012b). I say “actual”
in contrast to “possible” or potential, in an Aristotelian sense. The world that actually
exists today encompasses a myriad of worldviews and sustainable ecological practices.
Sustainable geographies are not only a potentiality or “possibility” for a future world.
I say “this world” in contrast to “another world” because the actuality of sustainable
geographies is rooted in this planet and its multiplicity of cultures; we do not have
to look for a distant planet or future societies. By changing the motto of the World
Social Forum, we can affirm that the world governed by a one-dimensional monetary
orientation (which imposes a homogenizing and oppressive developmental model on
biocultural heterogeneity) should be understood as an infectious “other world,” which
threatens sustainable geographies. The biocultural ethic condemns this “other world,”
which should be dissolved in order to allow the reemergence of the multiple actual,
sustainable geographies that vitally resist with their plethora of biocultural worldviews
and practices.8
In summary, sustainable geographies in this world are not only possibilities, but actuali-
ties. However, for the actualization of the manifold sustainable geographies it is essential
to more precisely and severely sanction those agents who act guided by a self-absorbed
economic interest threating the sustainability of life. In addition, it is urgent to more
decisively defend those who favor the continuity of life in its diversity of biological and
cultural expressions. The biocultural ethic considers that conservation of and access to
habitats is the condition of possibility for the continuity of diverse, sustainable life habits
of communities of co-inhabitants. This condition represents an ethical imperative that
should be incorporated into government policies as a fundamental dimension of socio-
environmental justice. To implement this ethical imperative it is essential to reorient global
society to foster a culture that achieves a better integration between (i) biological and
cultural diversity; (ii) local and global scales; (iii) scientific disciplines and the humanities.
This triple integration will contribute to more fully understanding and more effectively
resolving the pressing socio-environmental problems we face today. In order to contribute
to this triple integration, we offer the “3Hs conceptual lens” of the biocultural ethic to
re-cognize and re-value the multiplicity of ecological worldviews, practices, and values
that contribute to the sustainability of life through planetary histories and geographies.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The author specially thanks the valuable comments provided by Francisca Massardo,
and Kelli Moses. The research has been supported primarily by the Millennium Scientific
Initiative (grant no. P05-002 ICM, Chile), and the Basal Financing Program of the
Comisión Nacional de Investigación Científica y Tecnológica (grant no. CONICYT-
AFB170008, Chile). This chapter is a contribution of the Sub-Antarctic Biocultural
Conservation Program (http://www.chile.unt.edu) coordinated by the University of
North Texas in the US, the Universidad de Magallanes and the Institute of Ecology
and Biodiversity in Chile.
8
With a voice of resistance, unity and change, the Declaration of the IV Continental Summit of
Indigenous Peoples and Nationalities of Abya Yala (2005) affirms that the resistance and historical struggle
of the Indigenous Peoples of the Americas in defense of their territories and cultural identity today extends to
every corner of the continent. The Declaration culminates stating that: “Another America is Possible! Never
Again an America without the Indigenous Peoples!”: http://www.cumbrecontinentalindigena.org/index_en.php
(accessed March 17, 2016).
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The rise of modern protected area systems—usually sourced to the creation in 1872 of
Yellowstone National Park in the USA—is, fundamentally, a global expression of longing
for sustainability. The stated purpose of protected areas is to protect aspects of nature
and culture against destruction, despoliation, or other kinds of impairment. But this
doesn’t really get to the heart of the matter. When we declare an area to be worthy of
special protection, what we are really doing is proclaiming a set of values associated with
that place and declaring that others should recognize and respect those values too. In fact,
the central unifying principle underlying all protected areas is that they are committed to
sustaining values in the face of change.
The Brundtland Commission report, Our Common Future, famously defined sustain-
able development as that which “meets the needs of the present without compromising
the ability of future generations to meet their own needs” (World Commission on
Environment and Development (WCED) 1987, 8). Needs, not values or aspirations,
appear to be front and center. But just underneath this definition is an implied value, of
equity: that there should be an equal opportunity across generations of people to have
the basics for a good life. Protected areas share this forward-looking, open-ended ethic
of intergenerational equity: they are being protected from harm not just for the benefit of
people now, but equally for those to come into the indefinite future.
This chapter will explore the relationship between protected places, values, and sustain-
ability: what we might call a “geography of commitment.” Its foundation is a fundamental
promise from those in charge of these areas: to sustain them and their associated values
not just for some set number of years, but for all time. Outlandish? Perhaps. Nonetheless,
the promise of perpetuity defines the mission of protected area conservation.
“Protected area” is a generic term that encompasses places such as nature preserves,
wildlife refuges, game reserves, national and state/provincial parks, and so on. There are
literally hundreds of names for these places that are set apart and treated differently;
a common catch-all descriptor is the word “park.” The number of protected areas
worldwide rose slowly during the first decades of the twentieth century and began
climbing noticeably in mid-century. Since 1990, the number of parks and their coverage
has burgeoned so that now nearly 15 percent of Earth’s terrestrial area and just over 10
percent of the oceans have some kind of protection status (Figure 12.1; United Nations
Environment Programme and World Conservation Monitoring Centre (UNEP–WCMC)
and International Union for Conservation of Nature (IUCN) 2016). The tens of
190
16
14.7
14 Terrestrial area
including inland waters
Percentage protected
12
30% of target for marine protection 10.1
10
Marine area within
8 national jurisdiction
0
1990 1992 1994 1996 1998 2000 2002 2004 2006 2008 2010 2012 2014 2016
Status Year
thousands of protected areas around the globe form a loose but broadly unified inter-
national network (Figure 12.2; UNEP–WCMC and IUCN 2016). The areas are arrayed
along a continuum of management objectives, from strict nature protection where human
use is severely constrained (such as in designated wilderness areas and Russia’s zapovednik
system of reserves largely devoted to scientific research) to mixtures of protection and
human use (such as North American-style national parks and, in a very different way,
their counterparts in Europe), to community-recognized and -administered places where
cultural and natural considerations intertwine (such as sacred sites of indigenous peoples;
Wild and McLeod 2008; Verschuuren et al. 2010).
IUCN has done more than any other organization to think through what the term
“protected area” means. IUCN undertook years of consultations with its volunteer
networks of professionals to hone a definition, and the wording—sometimes hotly
debated—underwent several revisions. Finally, in 2008 this sentence was settled on:
A protected area is a clearly defined geographical space, recognised, dedicated and managed,
through legal or other effective means, to achieve the long term conservation of nature with
associated ecosystem services and cultural values. (Dudley 2008: 8)
Every word of the definition was carefully chosen, and each key phrase comes with an
official explanation. For example, the phrase “clearly defined geographical space” is
meant to include:
land, inland water, marine and coastal areas or a combination of two or more of these. “Space”
has three dimensions, e.g. as when the airspace above a protected area is protected from
low-flying aircraft or in marine protected areas where a certain water depth is protected or
the seabed is protected but water above is not . . . “Clearly defined” implies a spatially defined
area with agreed and demarcated borders. These borders can sometimes be defined by physical
features that move over time (e.g. river banks) or by management actions (e.g. agreed no-take
zones). (Dudley 2008: 8)
IUCN’s parsings of the 34-word definition continue in this vein for a page and a half.
The detail is warranted precisely because protected areas come in such a large number of
varieties and with many different objectives. IUCN recognized that no single body, itself
included, can dictate which methods individual governments and other managing entities
use to protect highly valued places. But the definition does provide a consensus view of
the professional parks community.
Other noteworthy aspects of the definition are that it includes community-led areas
protected by the force of custom rather than law (“legal or other effective means”), and
that conservation of nature is paramount whenever other considerations, such as the
provision of ecosystem services or the maintenance of cultural traditions, are present in
a given park.
That, then, is the standard functional definition of a protected area. It tells one what
these areas can and should be, but it doesn’t speak to the questions of why and how a
particular place becomes acknowledged as being worthy of protected status in the first
place. The answers to these questions take us into the realm of how values relate to
protected areas. But first we need to ask: where do values come from?
Source: https://wdpa.s3.amazonaws.com/Files_pp_net/Global_PAs_April_2016_w_logos.png.
Human beings are incessant, exuberant classifiers. All day long, practically from the
moment we are born to the day we die, we sort and winnow, lump and split, include and
exclude. In order to survive, all sentient life forms have to make distinctions, if only at
a rudimentary level, and some have evolved complex behavioral repertoires that rely on
a sophisticated capacity to categorize. But ours is the classifying species par excellence.
According to some analysts of cultural evolution, one of the cooperation-enabling
mechanisms that make society possible is our innate tendency to impose distinctions
onto continuous cultural differences, leading to group boundaries and identities (Jordan
et al. 2013: 87). We bring the same skills to bear upon the analysis of nature: nearly every
field in science has its version of biology’s taxonomy. Putting all this conversely (but
equivalently), we can say that the ability to discern commonalities—to distil sameness
out of a sea of differences in nature and culture—is arguably the single most important
diagnostic marker that defines us as human (Harmon 2002).
These differences in nature and culture are the respective working materials of physical
and human geography. Considered together—as biocultural diversity—they are the basis
of the fertile history of interchange between the field’s two great branches. From this
perspective, we might say that geography is the science of distinctions projected onto
Earth’s landscape and analyzed spatially.
The classifications we make are not just relativistic judgment calls. They are based on
elemental differences that intrinsically exist in nature and culture, products of tens of
thousands of years of biological and cultural evolution. But neither do we just take these
basic distinctions as they are and leave them at that. We assign them values. We project
onto them verdicts of relative importance. When the distinctions are geographical ones,
we end up with a complex of places with different worth: some more “special,” more
valued, than others; or at least valued in a different way.
KINDS OF VALUE
When we speak of “value,” we need to distinguish between two distinct senses of the
word. A value can be a completely abstract concept, such as the principle of fairness
or the virtue of being kind to strangers in need. Or, it can be a quality or characteristic
associated with a physical entity or place, often capable of being experienced directly. An
example from a famous protected area would be the looming presence of Uluru (Ayers
Rock) in Australia’s Uluru–Kata Tjuta World Heritage Site. In both cases, the word
signifies something of merit, something estimable—whether or not such worth is intrinsic
or assigned or by people.
That is an important qualification. As they have for centuries, philosophers continue to
disagree about where values come from. Are they “out there” inherent in things—autono-
mous, as it were—or do we humans generate them out of our own psyches, cultures,
religions, or whatever? In the larger philosophical debate over the source of values, many
have defended one view or the other. There is a third way, however, and it is not just
a compromise, but a more ecologically informed answer that has ramifications for the
relationship between values, protected areas, and sustainability.
The environmental philosopher Holmes Rolston III holds that some values are indeed
objectively present in nature, “discovered, not generated, by a valuer.” Such values are
intrinsic to their objects. Once discovered, these intrinsic values have the potential to
become appreciated by a beholder. This act of appreciation confers instrumental value:
that which serves a purpose. The more an intrinsically valuable natural object is appreci-
ated by people, the more instrumental value it gains, and, hence, the more total value it
carries (Rolston 1988, 116). All park educational, guiding, and interpretive programs are
based on this principle. The more visitors understand a protected area’s features, the more
they appreciate them, and the more likely they will care for them—and by caring, the
chances of the place as a whole being protected are greatly enhanced. Human apprecia-
tion is, therefore, “value added” to protected areas.
SYSTEMIC VALUE
But there is more. Rolston observes that the interaction of intrinsic and instrumental
values occurs not in discrete, unconnected events, but as part of a larger system: an
ecosystem. Within the ecosystem context, the two forms of value are not merely added
together; rather, each may be transformed, transferred, and projected from individual
features or organisms to other individuals or collectivities. Our example above involved
people, but the process is not limited to humans. For example, an individual moose has
intrinsic value, just because of what it is. It also has latent instrumental value as a food
source in relation to certain predators: a specific wolf pack, let us say. We cannot know
in advance exactly which wolf pack will realize the moose’s latent instrumental value by
means of a successful hunt; in fact, we cannot know whether it will happen at all. What we
do know is this: if it does happen, not only is the latent instrumental value of the moose
brought forth and (literally) realized by a particular pack of wolves, part of the intrinsic
value of the moose is transformed into instrumental value and transferred to the wolves.
This is because part of what makes a moose a moose—part of its intrinsic value—is that
it is a prey species. Yet—and this is the key point—the original intrinsic value of the eaten
animal does not entirely disappear, even in death. That intrinsic value is projected onto
the whole ecosystem by being an integral part of a larger predator–prey relationship vital
to the system’s functioning. Intrinsic natural value is therefore “a part in a whole, not to
be fragmented by valuing it in isolation” (Rolston 1988, 217). Rolston calls this condition
of transformation, transference, and projection systemic value (Rolston 1988, 216–225).
Extending Rolston’s thinking to protected areas, we see that their systemic value
includes more than the interplay between intrinsic and instrumental values in nature
alone. Recall that values are rooted in a mixed roster of natural and cultural differences
(biocultural diversity), and that the variety of protected area types now includes many in
which the protection of natural and cultural features are important objectives. Therefore,
the systemic value of protected areas is expressed as an interchange between intrinsic and
instrumental values in nature and their counterparts in culture.
At the risk of oversimplifying things, one can argue that protected areas will be suc-
cessful in their sustainability mission to the extent they are successful in sustaining their
systemic value. In an era of quickening climatic and demographic change, shocks to a
protected area can come from many directions. The better that managers account for and
address the full range of natural and cultural values their parks encompass, the more likely
they are to be able to build resiliency into these places they’ve been tasked to care for. We
know that the physical context of parks—the overall condition of Earth’s biosphere—will
be transformed in the decades to come. We know that the social context—the organization
of society and its priorities—will shift as well. Managing for systemic value gives us the
best chance of sustaining protected places within these overlapping contexts of continual,
far-reaching change.
a small homogeneous community or a tiny sliver of elites. The other is that it intended the
designation to be in perpetuity, and made provisions for its indefinite care.
Congress was rushing to save Yellowstone’s intrinsic values from being converted to a
specific kind of instrumental value: as privately held tourist attractions aimed at making
a profit for their owners. The act was approved on 1 March 1872 under a real sense of
urgency because, the lawmakers were assured, “persons are now waiting for the spring
[season] to open to enter in and take possession of these remarkable curiosities, to make
merchandise of these beautiful specimens, to fence in these rare wonders so as to charge
visitors a fee, as is now done at Niagara Falls, for the sight of that which ought to be as free
as the air or water” (Dunnell 1872). The remedy was to withdraw the area from settlement
or other forms of development—permanently.
That commitment to a perpetual reserved status has since become synonymous with
what designating a protected area means. Protection must be permanent or it is no protec-
tion at all. Imagine if Congress had placed a “sunset” provision in the Yellowstone law:
an expiration date on which its status as a protected area would be subject to termination
unless renewed. No matter how well protected in the interim, Yellowstone’s value as a park
would have been fatally compromised by the uncertainty. Had this been the “Yellowstone
model,” protected areas as we know them today might never have developed.
The formal designation of Yellowstone was something truly new under the sun. A new
relationship between humans and geography had been born, and would prove to be
revolutionary. It immediately called into being the need to distinguish the value of an
area’s features from that of the protected area designation itself, which is superimposed
upon those features.
Designation places the area within a formal protective framework, and from this act
additional value comes. Again, “designation” should be interpreted broadly so as to
include customary forms of recognition that are equivalent to the force of law within
indigenous and other traditional communities—the “legal or other effective means” of the
IUCN definition. Binding customs are what make protected areas out of sacred natural
sites, regulated commons, and similar community-run places. Intent and effectiveness are
paramount, not whether the protective designation is enshrined in state-sponsored civil
law.
Designation also affords an opportunity for the values being proclaimed to maintain or
achieve legitimacy. For better or worse, people’s values are influenced by others’ opinions.
Much of our social life depends on the existence of shared values that govern behavior.
Opinions gain broad acceptance by exhibiting certain qualities that are seen as good, or
at least expedient. Together, these qualities are what make a particular action legitimate.
Ideally, the process of designating a protected area is characterized by judiciousness,
trustworthiness, veracity, and similar virtues. Under these conditions, legal or customary
designation becomes a widely accepted affirmation of importance, elevating the status of
a place in the eyes of the public and helping reinforce the values it is meant to protect. The
additional status leads people to care more about the intrinsic and instrumental values
contained in the protected area’s features, resulting in better protection and stewardship.
This is not to say that designation assures the permanent protection of an area. Far
from it: there have been numerous instances of parks (or portions of them) being delisted
(“degazetted”) or downgraded because of blatant political considerations, uncontrolled
encroachment by displaced communities, changes in standards of park-worthiness, and
many other reasons (WWF 2017). But the promise of perpetuity must be there, and suc-
cess in carrying it out must be seen as a real possibility, not a long shot. That is precisely
what a legal designation bestows.
A related critical issue is the displacement of people from newly designated protected
areas. For years it was considered necessary to eject residents from parks in order to fully
protect their natural values. Often it was done without consultation or compensation,
resulting in great hardship to the people affected (Brockington and Igoe 2006). The
practice is less prevalent now, thanks to changing attitudes and the increasing use of more
flexible protected area designations, but it still happens too often. Where communities
have been displaced against their will, they, at least, view the designation as illegitimate.
Since these communities usually relocate to areas adjacent to the park, a host of continu-
ing boundary-control problems ensue.
Another way values are related to protected areas is when the latter are used as arenas
for ethical discovery. Many people go to parks to “find themselves” in an informal way.
This often entails sorting out moral issues or problems while in the presence of nature
or a profoundly moving cultural site. Parks are even used purposely as backdrops for
self-discovery. At least one American university has culminated a course in ethics with
a ten-day backpacking trip in a designated wilderness area. The wild setting encourages
students to prepare themselves to explore value systems in ways not possible in a walled-
in classroom. They learn skills—such as self-reliance and the necessity of working with
others in an uncompromising environment—that boost their capacity and confidence
to tackle complex ethical questions. In addition, they engage the beauty and sublimity
of wild nature, thereby awakening a sense of wonder at their own lives, disrupting “the
sleepwalking attitude toward life that the comforts and familiarity of the modern world
call forth in nearly all of us” (Frederickson and Johnson 2000, 179). In so doing they create
a new “ethical space” for productive reflection on life’s meanings.
IS PERPETUITY POSSIBLE?
Values on many levels interweave with geography to create the modern notion of a “pro-
tected area.” To return to (and restate) the central question of this chapter, can protected
areas sustain their systemic value as the planet enters a truly unprecedented period of
wholesale change in both nature and culture?
The unspoken assumptions beneath the promise of perpetuity were always problematic.
First, the science of ecology embraced the idea that dynamism, and not equilibria,
characterized many ecosystems, so that the prevalence of a given set of conditions at any
one point in time does not imply their continuance. With respect to the management of
protected areas, this insight has culminated in recent years with a wholesale rethinking of
“naturalness” as a measure of management effectiveness (Cole and Yung 2010). Second,
globalization’s march as the twentieth century wore on put paid to the idea that at least
some cultures could remain autochthonous. Now, the onset of global climate change
has decisively ended any hope that the features of protected areas can be maintained
absolutely unimpaired, so managers are rapidly recalibrating their goals and management
methods by shifting toward a posture that emphasizes adapting to change and promoting
resilience within mixed natural/social systems (see, e.g., Gross et al. 2016; U.S. National
Park Service (USNPS) 2016).
Yet no one in the mainstream of the park profession is advocating a retreat from a
commitment to permanent absolute protection, let alone the abandonment of protected
areas as a conservation strategy, as some in the so-called ecopragmatist movements have
called for. Why not? The science is unequivocal. We will lose significant portions of parks’
systemic values in the years to come. The process is already underway, and nothing can be
done to stop it entirely. Too, the declarations and legal actions that create protected areas
are not permanent. Neither is the geography of the places being protected.
Standing stubbornly against all this, however, is a towering psychological reason to set
an impossibly high bar when you are trying to do something sustainable: idealism is what
motivates people over the long run, and ideals are most effective when they are framed
in ultimate terms.
In 1903, President Theodore Roosevelt addressed a crowd at the state capitol in
Sacramento. “I have come across the continent from the East to the West, and now
beyond the West to California, for California stands by itself,” he related, with his natural
politician’s gift for understated but unmistakable flattery. He had just come from four
days’ rest in Yosemite, and invited the audience to reflect on the park’s natural wonders,
some of which are unique in all the world:
Lying out at night under those giant Sequoias was lying in a temple built by no hand of man,
a temple grander than any human architect could by any possibility build, and I hope for the
preservation of the groves of giant trees simply because it would be a shame to our civilization
to let them disappear. They are monuments in themselves. (Roosevelt 1903)
There was no question of hedging superlatives here, of quibbling over whether these
majestic trees really were grander than any monument made by human hands. Roosevelt
declared it so—and the audience was in thrall. Then he said these famous words:
We are not building this country of ours for a day. It is to last through the ages. We stand on the
threshold of a new century. We look into the dim years that rise before us, knowing that if we
are true that the generations that succeed us here shall fall heir to a heritage such as has never
been known before. I ask that we keep in mind not only our own interests, but the interests of
our children. Any generation fit to do its work must work for the future, for the people of the
future, as well as for itself. (Roosevelt 1903)
It is not a coincidence that Roosevelt set forth these sentiments having just come from a
particular place, a protected place, a place dedicated to be protected for all time, not for
a day or a year or even a century. “If we are true”—he is calling the listeners to dedica-
tion, calling on them to hew to a set of common values as they pass out into a dim and
unknowable future. His call would have fallen flat, his words leaden and forgotten, had
he not aimed as high as possible. Higher, actually.
That is how it is with those who steward protected areas. Without a commitment
to permanence, however impossible it may be on a practical level, there is no hope of
sustainability at all. And, in the end, the quest for sustainability is as much a matter of
hope as it is of reason.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
REFERENCES
Brockington, Daniel, and John Igoe. 2006. Eviction for conservation: A global overview. Conservation and
Society 4(3): 424–470.
Cole, David N., and Laurie Yung. 2010. Beyond Naturalness: Rethinking Park and Wilderness Stewardship in an
Era of Rapid Change. Washington, DC: Island Press.
Dudley, Nigel, ed. 2008. Guidelines for Applying Protected Area Management Categories. Gland, Switzerland:
IUCN.
Dunnell, Mark H. 1872. The Yellowstone Park. House Report no. 26, 42nd United States Congress, 2nd session.
Frederickson, Laura M., and Baylor L. Johnson. 2000. Wilderness: A place for ethical inquiry. In Wilderness
Science in a Time of Change Conference. Volume 3: Wilderness as a Place for Scientific Inquiry, S.F. McCool,
D.N. Cole, W.T. Borrie, and J. O’Laughlin, comps. Proceedings RMRS-P-15-VOL-3. Ogden, UT: U.S.
Department of Agriculture–Forest Service, Rocky Mountain Research Station, 177–180.
Gross, John E., Stephen Woodley, Leigh A. Welling, and James E.M. Watson, eds. 2016. Adapting to Climate
Change: Guidance for Protected Area Managers and Planners. Best Practice Protected Area Guidelines Series
no. 24. Gland, Switzerland: IUCN.
Harmon, David. 2002. In Light of Our Differences: How Diversity in Nature and Culture Makes Us Human.
Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press.
Harmon, David. 2003. The source and significance of values in protected areas. In The Full Value of Parks:
From Economics to the Intangible, David Harmon and Allen D. Putney, eds. Lanham, MD: Rowman and
Littlefield, 13–25.
Jordan, Fiona M., Carel van Schaik, Pieter François, Herbert Gintis, Daniel B.M. Haun, Daniel J. Hruschka,
Marco A. Janssen, James A. Kitts, Laurent Lehmann, Sarah Mathew, Peter J. Richerson, Peter Turchin, and
Polly Weissner. 2013. Cultural evolution of the structure of human groups. In Cultural Evolution: Society,
Technology, Language, and Religion, Peter J. Richerson and Morten H. Christiansen, eds. Cambridge, MA:
MIT Press, 87–116.
Rolston, Holmes, III. 1988. Environmental Ethics: Duties to and Values in the Natural World. Philadelphia:
Temple University Press.
Roosevelt, Theodore. 1903. Address at the Capitol Building in Sacramento, California, May 19. Online at http://
www.presidency.ucsb.edu/ws/?pid=97748. Accessed 27 January 2017.
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Verschuuren, Bas, Robert Wild, Jeffrey A. McNeely, and Gonzalo Oviedo, eds. 2010. Sacred Natural Sites:
Conserving Nature and Culture. London: Earthscan.
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at: http://www.padddtracker.org/. Accessed 27 January 2017.
RESOURCE EXPLOITATION
AND CYCLING OF
ACCOMMODATION
INTRODUCTION
We are already living in a different world, a world that changes so rapidly that much
of humanity is being left behind. In 2016, the same amount of data was produced as
in all previous years including 2015 (Helbing, 2019). We have more information and
knowledge than needed to save our planet, yet we have not been able to transform it into
wisdom, enlightenment and action. The fourth industrial revolution, especially artificial
intelligence, will dramatically change our world over the next few years (not decades);
meanwhile we are not able to maintain our life supporting planetary services, putting our
civilization at risk of extinction together with many other life forms.
Over the last three decades, we have been discussing sustainable development, holding
hundreds of conferences all over the world, first to agree on a definition and then on
how to achieve it, with hundreds of beautiful booklets and reports printed. In May
2016, looking up “sustainable development” on Google came up with 14,300,000 entries,
in October 2019 the number had climbed to 233,000,000. Yet, we have never achieved
sustainable development; we have not even curbed the rate of global destruction. I truly
believe sustainable development is not achievable anymore; we are 20 years too late. In the
early definitions, sustainable development was about leaving future generations similar
conditions to the ones we inherited. Now, it is about all present human beings, irrelevant
of age, class or race, being able to make the change that will allow our civilization as a
whole to have a future. Now, it will be a different future, but the more we wait to take
action, the more people will be vulnerable, the more people will suffer and the whole
foundation for our current civilization will be undermined.
In order to reverse our self-destructive pathway, we need to modify what we have been
doing so far, moving to holistic approaches that optimize Earth’s biocapacity while keep-
ing our footprint within the planetary boundaries.
201
PLANETARY BOUNDARIES
The planetary boundaries approach defines the “safe operating space for humanity” – the
conditions required for human societies to develop and thrive, based on the biophysical
processes that regulate the stability of Earth’s system (Steffen, 2015). Four of the bounda-
ries have apparently been crossed: biodiversity loss, the biogeochemical flow, land-use
change and climate change, putting the future of the planet in danger. Three of these are
discussed below.
Biodiversity Loss
Biodiversity loss has escalated to unprecedented levels. How much loss ecosystems can
tolerate before losing their capacity for supporting life on Earth, including human life, is
not yet clear from the scientific perspective. In practice, signs of ecosystem changes are
visible throughout the planet: flooding in deforested lands, coastal erosion from destruc-
tion of mangroves, depletion of fish populations, massive death of coral reefs, massive
death of marine life washing up on shores, insect collapse and loss of pollinators affecting
agricultural and natural systems, transformation of cloud forests into rain forests, loss of
life in soils, and many more. Thousands of reports confirm the graveness of the situation.
Climate change is accelerating and is today one of the main drivers for the loss of
biodiversity through changing precipitation patterns and increasing temperatures with
important impacts on species distribution, trophic chains, breeding cycles, genetics,
invasive species, and more. Research over the last two decades in the Monteverde Cloud
Forest in Costa Rica reveals that it is transitioning from a cloud forest to a rainforest;
atmospheric warming has raised the clouds and there has been a dramatic decline of
dry-season mist frequency. Monteverde is also the site for the first documented climate
change related extinction in 1987, that of the golden toad (Bufo periglenses) that followed
synchronous population crashes that led to the disappearance of 40 percent of the species
of frogs and toads that year (Pounds, 1999).
Biogeochemical Flow
Excessive use of nitrogen and phosphorus has led to the crossing of another planetary
boundary (Steffen, 2015). Disturbances to the nitrogen cycle are greater than those
of the carbon cycle (Fields, 2004). Anthropogenic nitrogen leakage to the environ-
ment can harm the ecosystems and human health, and contributes to changes in the
global climate system (Davidson, 2009; Sobota, 2015). Academic institutions and the
petrochemical industry in what was called the Green Revolution, somehow managed
to convince the world that in order to produce food for all, it was necessary to use
“agricultural packages” consisting of agrochemicals, irrigation, high yielding varieties
and mechanization. Abundant short-term experiments in research plots show expo-
nential increases in productivity; nevertheless, long-term unintended consequences are
now being harvested.
If we take into account the impacts beyond agriculture, it becomes even more
questionable whether we can keep on with current agricultural practices. Agriculture
is today responsible for about 80 percent of global changes (Campbell, 2017).
Agricultural side-effects and externalities are not well studied and the full cost of
cleaning up environmental consequences is passed on to society as a whole. Pesticide
manufacturers are not charged with the full cost of their products’ side-effects. Run-off
fertilizers are severely damaging marine systems and the future of fisheries which are
already affected by overfishing. Since the 1960s, the number of marine dead zones
(hypoxia) has doubled each decade with over 1000 dead zones globally. Until 2008,
over 1 billion square kilometers of seabed were covered by oxygen minimum zones
(Diaz, 2008).
Climate Change
Climate change is the fourth planetary boundary to be crossed. Most of the recent climate
change information indicates a great urgency for action if our current civilization is to
survive. What was once debatable doom and gloom information is now underpinned by
the most rigorous scientific evidence. Scenarios vary but more and more the worst-case
ones are proving to be the most probable.
Most importantly, climate change is already underway and nature as a whole is being
affected, with clear consequences for millions of people in every part of the globe. We are
getting used to information reporting that the 20 warmest years on record have been in
the past 22 years and that the four last years have been the hottest ever (WMO, 2019), that
the globally-averaged land surface temperature was 1.43 °C above the twentieth century
average (NOAA, s.f.), or that Arctic sea ice is at a record low (National Snow and Ice Data
Center, 2017). In February 2016 global temperature reached 1.35 °C (NASA GISS, s.f.),
which is very close to the 1.5 °C mark that is supposed to be reached in 83 years, a clear
reason for immediate action.
Highly reputable scientists are affirming that critical tipping points have been crossed
or are on the verge thereof. The widely endorsed maximum atmospheric CO2 limit to
maintain the climate to what humans and nature are adapted is 350 ppm (parts per
million) (Hansen, 2008); this was crossed back in 1988 (NASA GISS, 2017). Twenty-
five years of negotiations have not been able to change the constant increasing trend
of CO2 equivalent in the atmosphere. In my view, this is due mainly to the question
of “who is responsible” and who must reduce more. Countries such as Bolivia kept
pointing their fingers at the “capitalist nations”, blaming them for all of climate change
and claiming the right to have access to the “remaining carbon budget” to reach
The linear economic model imposed on us with the promise that ever increasing economic
growth and the globalization of markets would trickle down benefits to everyone, has left
hundreds of millions of people without access to the so called “development”. For me,
one of the main causes of the disaster we are facing is the reductionist approach that has
been consolidated by the academic and institutional framework of the Western world.
Complex problems such as global change, poverty, global unrest and many others will
not be solved through disciplinary approaches alone. We have “large numbers of scientists
working competitively in silos without combining their efforts” (Munafo, 2017). Complex
problems require complex thinking and holistic approaches that do not fit into an aca-
demic world with ever growing specialization, set up in “pigeonholes”, where scientists
are recognized and praised by how many other scientists are using their information, even
if it has little or no impact in the real world. I have heard hundreds of times “My job is
getting peer review articles into renowned journals, it is not to communicate my results
to decision makers or even the broader audience” – “I do not have the skills required for
this”. Academic careers and university rankings are still strongly tied to the number of
publications (Times Higher Education World University Rankings, 2016) with little if any
weight given to how much and how fast the results of these publications get used by policy
makers to take decisions and actions, let alone to be incorporated into university cur-
ricula. Researchers working on holistic approaches and complexity have still today little
or no possibility of publishing in the “best renowned” journals. Much of the information
they could publish is qualitative, highly variable and sometimes even intuitive.
Scientific and technological development has brought us far ahead in many fields, from
nanotechnology to artificial intelligence. By June 2019, close to 60 percent of the world’s
population was using the internet with over 4.5 billion users (Internet World Stats, 2019)
with Facebook alone having 2.41 billion monthly active users as of June 2019 (Facebook,
2019). Social Networks have increased scientific communication and many organizations
and individuals are now bringing scientific information out to the general public, though
it has also allowed for the fast growth of misinformation (Del Vicario, 2016).
1
I personally heard this from President Evo Morales at a pre-G771China Summit in Santa Cruz, Bolivia,
May 2014 http://www.opinion.com.bo/opinion/articulos/2014/0513/noticias.php?id=127849&calificacion=4.
We are living in a time where human impacts are significantly changing the planet
and while the changes are accelerating and pretty obvious to everyone, it has taken
scientists almost two decades to decide whether we are moving from the Holocene to the
Anthropocene. We are now well into the sixth planetary extinction (Ceballos, 2016), and
the paradox lies in that this is the best scientifically documented planetary extinction in
history; we know exactly what we are doing wrong and what the consequences are. The
disconnect between science and social, political and business decisions is huge. Scientists
are demanded to have total and convincing proof, making it difficult to eliminate phrases
such as “could”, “possibly”, “probably”. While climate change experts are reluctant to
classify current changes as climate change or global change and confuse the public with
“climate variability”, climate change deniers do not hesitate to clearly state that climate
change does not exist, based on all the “evidence”. The lack of clarity of the scientific
community is partially responsible for years of unfruitful climate change negotiations
under the United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change (UNFCCC) –
there was always a small possibility that what 97 percent of scientists were affirming could
be wrong. This was quickly taken by the oil and other industries to make bold political
statements that would block any agreement to curb their business expansion.
Another constraint of modern science and its education is that it must be fact based;
any spiritual or intangible component is traditionally not contemplated. I personally feel
that, without the spiritual component, advancement in solving our complex problems of
today will be slow. Technology, of course, plays an increasing role in solving problems
and is progressing at exponential leaps, but it will not change the way humans behave in
the period required to save life on Earth. In personal discussions with presidents, chancel-
lors and other representatives of well renowned universities from the North, I have seen
reluctance towards spirituality since it cannot be evaluated or measured and thus cannot
be included in the study plans. Nevertheless, most of today’s wrong decisions and actions,
be they individual, corporate or government, originate from a global-wide lack of ethics
and values. What is called corruption in some countries is legal and denominated “lob-
bying” in others – buying a decision from a politician. At the bottom line, many of these
decisions benefit a small group and not the community as a whole.
A key process for future success is that the path from information to knowledge culmi-
nates with wisdom, where we are finally able to convert them into action.
REGENERATIVE DEVELOPMENT
Rodale used the term regenerative agriculture for farming that goes beyond “sustainable”
(Rodale Institute, 2014) based on “continuing organic renewal of the complex living
system . . . as the basis for healthy soil and, in turn, for healthy food and healthy people”
(Mang, 2012).
Today several organizations are working with regenerative agriculture and animal
production including Regenesis Group, Savory Institute, Regeneration International,
Organic India, Alliance for Regeneration, to name just a few. Some other areas are also
developed under the regenerative concept. Capital Institute (2017) published a Field
Guide to a Regenerative Economy under the banner of the “Regenerative Capitalism
Framework”. More applications can be found in areas such as regenerative architecture
(REGENARCH, 2017), the building industry (Sblendorio, 2017) and even regenerative
urban development (Woo, 2013; Girardet, 2010). I published a book chapter in 2017 on
“Regenerative development in higher education: Costa Rica’s perspective” (Müller, 2018).
In my opinion, the use of the term regenerative development goes beyond just another
definition. It is a new way of looking forward. Restoration ecology has to do with trying
to get ecosystems back to the original state. With a rapidly changing planet, I believe
we need to generate the capacity for ecosystems to achieve a functional status, which
probably will be different than the original state. “[R]egenerative development takes a
different approach, by asking the question: How can we re-align human activity with the
evolution of this ecosystem? How can humans be partners in that evolution?” (Regenesis
Group, 2015). Today it is known that indigenous communities have managed ecosystems
for millennia (Levy Tacher, 2012; Ford, 2016; Meggers, 1996) as will be discussed later in
this chapter.
At the University for International Cooperation (UCI) in Costa Rica, we started
working on holistic approaches linked to biosphere reserves under the UNESCO–MAB
(United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization – Man and the
Biosphere) program in 1994, where biodiversity conservation, development, and research
and education have to be integrated in a territorial approach. In practice, the integra-
tion of social, economic and environmental factors – which was the basic concept for
sustainable development in the early 1990s – proved not enough to generate significant
changes that would allow the biosphere reserve concept to be successfully implemented.
We discovered that culture, policy and politics, and spirituality had to be contemplated.
Culture and spirituality are very closely linked and provide the “glue” for societies, giving
distinct identities to people from one country to another and even within regions of a
same country. Politics and policy must be integrated and are a key factor, mostly due to
permanent change in visions, interests and actions.
We must prepare for changes; by now it is clear the planet will never be the same again.
We can regenerate ecosystems and make them productive again, develop more just econo-
mies that strengthen societies to make better choices in politics and bond together with
stronger culture and spirituality. We do not have to reinvent the wheel; we can actually
look how nature works and imitate it in our human world.
These processes have to be looked upon as “layers” or “blankets” that fall onto a given ter-
ritory. They are closely interlinked and cannot be dealt with using disciplinary approaches.
There may be different sequences for action, according to local conditions and challenges.
In one territory, land degradation might be limiting production and services, affecting
the local economy and reducing social resilience. This then generates lack of governance,
exclusion and crime. It will be difficult to work with the communities unless the ecological
systems are regenerated, helping to reverse the process. In other places, for example with
migratory movements as can be observed in the Peruvian jungle, where communities from
the highlands are rapidly spreading through the Amazon region, the natural resource base
is still present – though disappearing quickly – but the cultural attachment to this land is
not present and people don’t recognize the new territories as “home”. I have witnessed dif-
ficulties in trying to get these communities to produce more sustainably; they do not value
the land and live in a sort of “transition” stage – when resources run out they move on to
“new” land. To work with these communities, social, cultural and spiritual approaches are
needed in order for them to develop higher self-esteem, community bonds and solidarism.
The “vertical” links between all six layers are multiple, in direction and strength. They
are also dynamic and change is now a constant, not an exception. We must re-educate
professionals so they can go beyond their “boxes” of knowledge and expertise. One of
the most difficult aspects we have encountered is the process of “unlearning”. We must
“erase” many of the traditional concepts and approaches that have been deeply embedded
through a lifetime education. We need to remove the “blinders” that have been placed,
especially through higher education, much as blinders that are put on horses to pull
wagons, avoiding “distractions”. The ever specialization process that professionals face
today often limits the angle of view.
Socio-economic scenarios are being used in different fields. At UCI we have been
working with the Future Scenarios Project (CCAFS-CGIR, 2016a) in the development
corridors with agriculture results in better pollination, lower temperatures and protection
against pests. Fostering diversity is the key.
Soils are among the planet’s largest carbon reservoirs and represent an important
carbon sink. Increases in soil carbon aid in atmospheric CO2 reduction (Hansen,
2013). The QUIVIRA Coalition states that in the USA, a 2 percent increase in soil
carbon, produced by 2 percent of the population with a cost of 2 percent of the gross
domestic product (GDP) would solve the CO2, water and food problems with concrete
experiences where soil carbon has doubled in less than ten years on a 500-acre organic
operation near San Francisco, California (White, 2015). Cattle are considered the most
important producer of greenhouse gas (GHG) emissions, especially through methane
production, and are responsible for more global warming than the transportation
system (IPCC, 2014). Natural systems thrive because they are regenerative, but for
regeneration to happen, we have to actively support nature, avoiding any future damage
and allowing degraded ecosystems to regenerate on their own or assisting them in the
process.
The modern world has changed societal function significantly. When I was growing up,
our playground was “outside” where we would meet neighbors and invent many different
games, be it running, cycling or swimming. Obesity was an exception; most kids were very
fit. When TV became available, we were allowed one program a day on weekends. Lots
of family time was spent playing table games in the living room. On weekends, a family
outing to a riverside for picnics was frequent, often with more families coming together.
Strong bonds were established. We knew our neighbors well and often organized social
events jointly.
This situation is still around in a few places but is more and more challenged by modern
life. Chats on WhatsApp have replaced conversations; we are overwhelmed with news and
information, much of which we did not actually search for. Attention span has become
shorter. The dynamics of day-to-day life do not allow for “thinking time”. Purchasing
new “stuff ” has replaced lasting happiness with short-term enthusiasm. Family outings
are to the mall where kids are deposited at the movies or the food court to consume junk
food. Overweight from over consumption is a main issue throughout the population with
huge consequences for kids.
Society has to find its track again. I do not think we need to go back to what we had,
but we do need to strive for a social web that will make communities more resilient to
challenges, be these in food, security, health, politics or other. We do not need to restore
societies; we need to regenerate them. We need to move to a stage of “self-awareness”, a
state of deep consciousness, of active and inclusive participation in defining the future
and evolving the present. We need to move from individualism to cooperation, where
community rights are above individual rights. The concept of “the commons” must take
the front stage.
Social transformation will be accelerated by artificial intelligence, changing current
jobs and ways of living. We might be evolving to a society where time to think and live
are made available as work is taken over by robots. The most important principle to
remember is that change is now the rule, not the exception, and it is happening fast,
faster than the adaptive capacity of society as a whole. This might lead to another type of
distortion, such as what happened with the economy, where a small percentage will “own”
the technological advances and have control of society – this has to be avoided! The best
way is to educate and inform, establishing resilient and robust networks for cooperation
and collaboration and, above all, collective decision making, allowing for true democracy.
In the application of social regeneration, the main goal is to empower local communi-
ties in a way that they assume their own development instead of waiting for outside forces
to do so. This means that everybody has to have a voice and this voice has to be heard.
Voices also have to be informed, which requires capacity development, information and
knowledge sharing, co-creation and permanent co-innovation. The final result has to be
collective quality of life – a true state of well-being.
The concept of social capital has been used for many decades to describe different
forms of relationships within civil society (Foley, 1997). It is often seen as the “social
relations that have productive benefits” (Social Capital Research, 2004). The concept of
social regeneration was initially used related to urban development (Ginsburg, 1999).
Other initiatives in social regeneration have specific focus, such as health, education, com-
munity facilities, arts and culture, and family and child well-being (Oireachtas Library
& Research Service, 2011) or are focused on social exclusion in deprived neighborhoods
(Page, 2006). Some deposit the trust of regenerating society in technological innovation
(Social Capital, s.f.).
In our holistic approach to regenerative development, we look at social regeneration
as the advancement of a community or group of communities towards a more cohesive
state where there is bonding and collaboration between people that have affinity but also
and very importantly, the inclusion of people with diverse positions, in other words, full
inclusion of all. I have experienced that even the “enemies” within a group have contribu-
tions to make and not taking them into account usually means that whatever we are trying
to achieve will not happen.
In working with social issues, a key step is to get a community to define a common
vision or goal, something to look forward to. Looking ahead usually makes current
differences less relevant, since future challenges are very similar for all, especially when
threats such as climate change are taken into account. The Local Agenda 21 methodology
(San Roman, 2003) for community strategic planning, often used at municipal level, has
delivered good results over the past two decades. It consists in establishing a joint vision in
all the different aspects that affect society but more importantly, in the dream, especially
the collective dream that can be identified. To reach this stage it is highly important to
have youth involved, who still have the ability to dream. In many cases, my experience tells
me that adults will establish a vision that usually does not go beyond a list of current prob-
lems solved. Youth have the ability to develop more abstract dreams that involve quality
of life, leisure, justice and transparency. After the vision is established, the community
identifies the current situation, usually a set of problems or challenges that pose a burden
to well-being. The key to this is what we define as looking through the “mother-in-law’s
eyeglasses”. This metaphor has to do with the critical look at the surroundings. Often,
due to permanent exposure or slow changes, a community or individuals get used to a
certain aspect and stop noticing it. Good examples are litter within the community, or
sewerage running alongside the road in open creeks or deteriorated facades of buildings
or run-down playgrounds and schools. It is important to get people to see their reality
through these “eyeglasses”. A good tool is handing them cameras or more recently just
getting them to use their cell phones to take pictures of “problems” that are shared among
everybody.
The third step is establishing actions or projects to move from the current status to the
envisioned one. These actions can be ranked according to requirements, be it complexity,
time frame, requirement in human or financial resources, or other aspects. Generally, a
majority of the problems identified can be solved without significant resources and they
should precede other efforts. Getting some of the problems solved allows empowerment,
making it easier to solve more complex problems. Once the solution pathways have been
identified, the community assigns people responsible and a time frame for making them
happen.
Many different approaches have been developed and should be taken into considera-
tion to find the best fit. Successful initiatives such as the Citizen Integration Platform
(Plataforma de Integración Ciudadana, 2017), Community Social Planning (Clague,
1993), and many others can complement the process.
to develop closed loop approaches instead of linear open ones (Pearce, 1989). Again,
the need of a systems approach may explain, in part, why it has not been mainstreamed.
Vested interests, especially of the corporate sector, could also be limiting the adoption.
The circular economy is inspired by nature and its function.
Another dimension that must be mainstreamed to achieve regenerative development is
what is called “internalizing externalities”, which means contemplating the true cost of
nature in economic evaluations. Today, even with all available information, global aware-
ness and changing demands, the value of nature is still not adequately reflected in both
political and economic decisions.
The “Green Economy” was one of the two specific themes for the Rio120 summit
in June 2012 having a focus on how countries can achieve green growth and low carbon
economies (UNDESA, 2012).
Other alternatives seem more promising, such as Christian Felber’s “Economy for the
Common Good” (2015), a holistic vision where success is measured in terms of human
needs, quality of life and fulfillment of fundamental values instead of the accumulation of
money. There are 20 guiding principles; the third principle has to do with the replacement
of GDP by the Common Good Product at the macroeconomic level while the Common
Good Balance Sheet (CGBS) will replace the financial balance sheet for companies.
There is a shift from competition and greed to collaboration and solidarity (Felber, 2015;
Economy for the Common Good, 2013).
The Blue Economy (Pauli, 2010) also lays the ground for innovative approaches
to alternative economies. Pauli talks about Nature’s MBA – “Mastery of Brilliant
Adaptations”. Learning from ecosystems to design new development strategies is the
basis of regenerative development. The Blue Economy book gives 100 examples of true
alternative examples where both humans and nature benefit.
In developing new economic models, we must focus especially on youth. In the past,
most education focused on training young professionals for jobs, which were increasingly
within the corporate world. Diversity will be the key for the future where small and local
will have a huge role, implying that we must develop the basis for entrepreneurship, giving
youth the opportunity for generating their own “jobs” which they can build through
co-creation processes with youth from around the globe.
Business is called to play an active role in correcting the current development path.
Corporate Social Responsibility, which in many cases does not go beyond philanthropy,
will not produce the desirable results in the time frame required. We need companies to
think and act differently. CEOs and shareholders must understand the impending urge
for change but, moreover, business must know what to do and how. We must get nature
into business plans and business must clearly understand the most relevant challenges.
It is our job to offer concrete solutions that will allow any business, independent of
scope or size to be an active leader and promote the transition into a new developmental
paradigm.
An important aspect of working with local people is that we need to bring science
to local knowledge. Climate change, for example, is not embedded into many tradi-
tional knowledge systems. Generally, the opposite occurs, when researchers study local
knowledge to “take it back home”. I have heard renowned scientists affirm that they are
“experts” in local indigenous knowledge, after spending only a couple of months within
a community. In my experience, this superficial understanding leads to communities not
wanting to interact with scientists and I have witnessed how they give wrong information
on purpose.
Daniel Wahl has published one of the best overviews in his highly recommended book
Designing Regenerative Cultures (Wahl, 2016) encompassing some of the most important
concepts of regenerative development.
We stand at a critical moment in Earth’s history, a time when humanity must choose its future.
As the world becomes increasingly interdependent and fragile, the future at once holds great
peril and great promise. To move forward we must recognize that in the midst of a magnificent
diversity of cultures and life forms we are one human family and one Earth community with a
common destiny. We must join together to bring forth a sustainable global society founded on
respect for nature, universal human rights, economic justice, and a culture of peace. Towards this
end, it is imperative that we, the peoples of Earth, declare our responsibility to one another, to
the greater community of life, and to future generations. (The Earth Charter, 2000)
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INTRODUCTION
All natural ecosystems have been influenced directly or indirectly by human activity
(Dudley, 2011); the idea of “untouched wilderness” or “virgin forests” is increasingly
irrelevant. Areas that are popularly assumed to be natural, like the Amazon rainforest, the
savannah plains of Africa, and the interior wilderness of Australia, all bear clear signs of
human management stretching back over millennia (e.g., Norton-Griffiths, 1979; Redford,
2000; Willis et al., 2004). Even in places where humans seldom, if ever, set foot, influences
such as long range air pollution, climate change and invasive species alter the make-up
of natural communities and the way in which ecosystems function. Realisation about the
extent to which we have shaped life on the planet has led some commentators to argue
that the question of naturalness is increasingly irrelevant (Low, 2002), while others seek to
incorporate elements of naturalness in their approaches to land and water management.
This chapter argues that naturalness is a much more important component of sustain-
able development than is generally recognised, but that we need to do some fundamental
rethinking about what we mean by “natural” if it is to remain a meaningful and useful
concept in the future. To focus attention on these changes, use of the concept of authentic-
ity is suggested as an alternative way of viewing the issue more suited for conditions in
the twenty-first century.
219
e lsewhere, sometimes after thousands of years in which the land has been carefully shaped
by human activity. Falling levels of sulphur dioxide pollution in some developed countries
is allowing a return of lichen species absent since the height of the industrial revolution.
So, while natural ecosystems and ecological processes are in general retreating, they are
more generally in flux, ebbing and flowing with the changing pressures from human
society.
This is not solely a function of modernism. Some of the most dramatic changes, includ-
ing large-scale extinction of many large predators, took place long before the beginning of
written history. Homo sapiens, ourselves, either drove other human species to extinction or
somehow interbred and incorporated their genes into our own: scientists are still debating
what happened and we will probably never know for certain (Harari, 2011). Dramatic
changes to vegetation occurred thousands of years ago at the beginning of settled
agriculture, in the so-called Neolithic Revolution (Cunliffe, 2015, p. 44). Many of today’s
“natural” ecosystems evolved in the presence of humans, making a sharp distinction of
“before” and “after” completely meaningless. For example, the “wildwood” of Europe only
re-established after the last ice age, when humans were already present (Mithen, 2006), and
the giant saguaro cactus habitats of the Sonoran desert, iconic of American desert wilder-
ness, did not develop until long after human groups were living in the region (Philips and
Comus, 2000). Furthermore, disruptors such as climate change and invasive species make
the concept of a static ecosystem increasingly irrelevant (Harris et al., 2006; Beaumont et
al., 2007); the “original” ecosystem may no longer suit conditions now existing at the site.
What concern is this to sustainable development? In a world where a billion people
still go hungry, where food and water security are declining and where the richest eight
people on the planet own the same wealth as the poorest half (Oxfam, 2017), is there time
to worry about an apparently academic issue like the level of naturalness? In fact, far
from being the preserve of scientists and dreamers, natural ecosystems are increasingly
recognised as critical to the future of the planet.
Natural ecosystems play a huge role in national consciousness, in cultures, religions,
and spiritual and aesthetic values. But they also have practical and irreplaceable values to
human society. The Millennium Ecosystem Assessment demonstrated the critical role that
ecosystem services play in supporting human society, and also noted that 70 per cent of
these services are declining (Millennium Ecosystem Assessment (MEA), 2005). A growing
body of research suggests that more natural ecosystems have important advantages over
altered and degraded ecosystems in their ability to provide effective ecosystem services
(Díaz et al., 2006; Cardinale et al., 2012) and to demonstrate resilience to pressures such
as climate change (Elmqvist et al., 2003). Amongst the ecosystem functions where natural-
ness plays a critical role (Peterken, 1998) are:
● Ecosystem services: some, although not all, ecosystem services increase with the
naturalness of the ecosystem (Chazdon, 2008; Rey Benayas et al., 2009). This is
particularly true for those drawing on a wide range of genetic material, for instance
crop wild relatives (ICEM, 2014) or pharmaceuticals (Shanley and Luz, 2003), and
those that depend on strong ecosystem functioning, such as the role of mangrove
forests in supporting fish spawning and breeding (Rönnbäck, 1999). There are
uncountable ecosystem services associated with thousands of species and ecological
interactions. Some are recognised at a global scale, while others are known only to
a small group of people who have learned a particular value, such as the medicinal
benefits of a plant that is confined to a small area of the planet. As society becomes
more homogenous, much of this detailed and localised traditional ecological
knowledge is being lost. Additionally, degradation and biodiversity loss leads to
loss of many ecosystem services and to a decline in food and water security (Díaz et
al., 2006), with impacts for instance on crop yield, fodder, fisheries, and the ability
of agricultural systems to resist exotic plant pests and pathogens (Cardinale et al.,
2012), and to a general decline in the resilience of ecosystem functions (Oliver et al.,
2015). This has negative consequences for everyone, but perhaps impacts poorest
people most severely (Agrawal and Redford, 2006). Links between naturalness and
ecosystem services are increasingly recognised.
●● Biodiversity conservation: disturbed and degraded ecosystems tend to lose spe-
cialised species: in forests for example this might include species associated with
old trees, dead wood (Maser et al., 1988) and specialised habitat niches such as
mires. While disturbance can bring an influx of “new” species, these will tend to be
generalist species, such as weed plants and invasive animals (Haeussler et al., 2002),
which are widely distributed. Replacement of natural ecosystems with managed
systems almost invariably results in a decline of species; in the most diverse areas
any significant loss of habitat will likely result in permanent extinction of species
with a very local distribution. Given that scientists believe only a small number
of the world’s total species have yet been described, many losses are taking place
without us even being aware of what is disappearing.
●● Cultural and aesthetic services: in addition to its utilitarian and conservation values,
naturalness is also a significant factor in the way that people perceive and experience
natural habitats and an important component of several aesthetic and cultural
aspects of ecosystems. Natural habitats are important in defining how different
cultures view themselves, informing myths, arts and societies. They are enormously
influential in the appeal of places for tourism and recreation and the way in which
individuals view their own surroundings. Most recreational visitors instinctively
appear to prefer a “natural forest” to a plantation for example, although both can
have aesthetic values, and understanding of the difference between the two is often
very incomplete (Hull et al., 2001). Natural habitats also feature in many faiths,
such as the many forests, lakes and mountains that function as sacred natural sites
(Verschuuren et al., 2010).
●● Resilience: there is an increasing body of evidence suggesting that naturalness is
also closely related to the ability of ecosystems to withstand rapid environmental
change, including climate change (e.g. Peterson et al., 1998; Loreau et al., 2001).
Ecologists distinguish between engineering resilience, the ability of an ecosystem
to return to its pre-disturbance state and ecological resilience, also known as equi-
librium dynamics, the ability of an ecosystem to absorb impacts, change and adapt
to maintain itself below a threshold where the system changes into a different state
altogether (Walker et al., 2004). Engineering resilience becomes less likely under
climate change, while ecological resilience reflects a more approximate process,
perhaps not exactly the same but functioning in much the same way and also
recognises that ecosystems may exist in more than one stable state (Schroder et al.,
2005). The issue of resilience is discussed in greater detail below.
Efforts aimed at maintaining or recovering naturalness are faced with an immediate prob-
lem, which is one of definition, and thus in turn of goals and objectives. “Naturalness” is a
poorly defined concept and is difficult to apply in practice because a combination of data
scarcity, the scale of historical change and rapid altering environmental conditions often
lead to a poor understanding about what constitutes a natural ecosystem in a particular
place. More fundamentally, as hinted at above, there are philosophical challenges in
defining natural. For practical purposes it is often interpreted as the kind of ecosystems
present before human intervention, or, not infrequently in colonised countries before
European intervention, a practice that has been increasingly criticised for ignoring the
management carried out by other cultures (e.g. Bjorkmann and Velland, 2010). Another
approach is to regard a natural ecosystem as one that has evolved through a sequence of
natural succession (Schuck et al., 2002). Anderson (1991) offers a more complete descrip-
tion of a natural forest: (1) the degree to which the system would change if humans were
removed; (2) the amount of cultural energy required to maintain the functioning of the
current ecosystem; and (3) the complement of native species present compared with those
prior to human settlement. This could be applied to any ecosystem. Rossi and Vallauri
(2013) provide detailed guidance on identifying natural temperate forests in the field. But
none of these definitions really tackles the question of how to interpret the impact of
species moved around the world through human actions: places like New Zealand, Fiji
and Hawaii have undergone massive change as a result of both accidental and deliberate
introduction of non-native species and virtually no part of the world is unaffected by this
phenomenon.
As a result, many different interpretations are applied to words like “natural” and
“wild”; this problem multiplies when such words are translated into other languages.
“Natural” and “nature” mean dramatically different things in different cultures, socio-
economic groups and professions, with the emphasis changing from precise descriptions
based around Western science to much more general concepts rooted in culture, mythol-
ogy, and history. All the terms resonate, positively or negatively, with a proportion of
stakeholders, further complicating attempts at definitions.
Due to the focus on forest conservation in the last 20 years, the definitional debate
has been particularly acute regarding natural forests; some attempts at describing
natural forests are given in Table 14.1: despite its length this list is illustrative rather than
comprehensive. It is compiled from the intense debates about forest definitions during
the latter part of the twentieth century and the early twenty-first century. To some extent
this continues today with, for instance, arguments continuing about whether or not a
mono-species plantation should be regarded as a “forest”.
This basket of definitions gives some idea of the many different ways of approaching
the subject. Some draw on a Western scientific perspective by including components
such as species composition or degree of disturbance; some refer back to the history of
an ecosystem and attempt to incorporate social and cultural expectations. Many of the
terms come weighted with preconceptions and expectations: a word like “wilderness” is
controversial, being a powerfully positive image for some conservationists but seen very
negatively by other people, particularly indigenous peoples who see it applied to land
that they have managed for centuries and many farming groups who regard it as a sign of
Table 14.1 Ways of defining naturalness in forests and more generally in ecosystems
having lost control over sound management of land (Cronon, 1996; Callicott, 2000). It is
virtually impossible to find a term that will appeal to everybody.
Definitions of naturalness take on an additional edge when ecological restoration is
considered: can a restored ecosystem ever be considered natural? Wilderness purists would
say no, that once altered the precise mixture of species and ecological interactions will
never be regained. Others adopt a more pragmatic approach. The Society for Ecological
Restoration (SER) refers to restoration as regaining the “historical trajectory” of an
ecosystem, which takes account of the historical ecosystem but recognises that chang-
ing conditions may result in a different ecosystem after restoration (SER International
Science and Policy Working Group, 2004). Richard Hobbs and colleagues go further by
proposing that restoration needs to adapt to the reality of so-called “novel ecosystems”
(Hobbs et al., 2009), and distinguish three states: historical ecosystems, where conditions
remain essentially unchanged; hybrid ecosystems, where there have been significant but
reversible changes; and novel ecosystems, where changes are effectively not irreversible
(Hobbs et al., 2013). Others challenge these concepts (e.g. Murcia et al., 2014). During
a period of intense debate about the goals and objectives of restoration, the role of
“naturalness” in this discussion remains in flux and will be returned to below.
Most the definitions quoted are predicated, at some level, on the assumption that humans
are not part of the ecosystem, defining naturalness as “before humans” or “without
humans”, or similar. Many also assume that there is an “original” habitat that can act
as a baseline to guide restoration efforts. Both these ideas are becoming less tenable as
our understanding grows about the variable nature of ecological systems, the impact of
changing climate and the extent to which human societies have already altered apparently
“natural systems”. As noted above, in many cases we cannot even identify the pre-
disturbance ecosystem. The common use of pre-modern settlement in colonised countries
such as Australia or North America is now recognised as inadequate because earlier
human inhabitants had already made major changes before European settlers arrived
(Flannery, 1994, 2001). Many other “natural” ecosystems have developed since humans
have been present and actively altering ecological processes. For example, some of the
apparently “natural” forests of Borneo have been planted (Marjokorpi and Ruokolainen,
2003). It is increasingly recognised that we need a different and more flexible definition
of naturalness for the ecological conditions existing today, which have been so fundamen-
tally influenced by human activity that some scientists have dubbed the current epoch
the Anthropocene (e.g. Steffen et al., 2007). The term authenticity (Dudley, 1996, 2011)
recognises the importance of naturalness within an altered, and still altering, ecosystem.
A suggested definition of authenticity from an ecological and social perspective is:
a resilient ecosystem with the level of biodiversity and range of ecological interactions that
would be predicted as a result of the combination of historic, geographic and climatic conditions
in a particular location. (Dudley, 2011)
In other words, the term authenticity as used here views naturalness from filters that
incorporate what is known from the ecological history of the site; what can be inferred
from knowledge of geography, soils, climate and conditions in similar ecosystems; and
what can be predicted from projections of future climate change and other environmental
pressures.
The definition emerges from earlier work by IUCN, the World Wildlife Fund (WWF)
and the École Polytechnique Fédérale de Lausanne on forest quality (Dudley et al., 2006).
Proposals from Clewell (2000) that the emphasis of restoration should be to restore to
natural authenticity rather than historical authenticity were also useful in developing
these ideas. Authenticity aims to provide a pragmatic and attainable objective for a range
of situations, from ecosystems which remain relatively unchanged (e.g. climate refugia,
old-growth forests, some remote islands) to those that have already been changed, or
are expected soon to change to a dramatic extent, for example due to changing climate.
Where will species go as their ecological niches move or disappear? How will ecosystems
like forests develop under conditions of dramatically different hydrology, fire frequency
and weather patterns? Authenticity embraces the change and proposes that from the
perspective of biodiversity conservation, the ecosystems which emerge should as far as
possible be managed to retain as full an array of the species present before disturbance
as possible, but accepts that the mixture and location of these species may alter. In other
words, within conservation strategies on a landscape scale (and here “landscape” may be
a very large unit) we should be aiming to minimise loss of species diversity and ecosystem
functions, but on a site scale many ecosystems will inevitably be transformed. Table 14.2
below outlines some critical influencing factors.
Authenticity therefore focuses on broad scale management of flexible, durable and
resilient ecosystems composed of the variety of species that might be predicted from the
past ecological history and the current climatic and geographic conditions. There is less
concern about whether or not those species were present in some (largely hypothetical)
“original” ecosystem. This also results in a different perspective on non-native species,
introduced by humans. In many cases these will make little difference. Sometimes they
will replace an existing species and fulfil much the same ecological function – something
likely to upset wilderness purists but not a change that will undermine or alter a whole
ecosystem. In a minority of cases, a species will be so disruptive that major control efforts
Element Examples
Composition ● Tree species
● Keystone and landscape species
● Microhabitats
● Absence of alien invasive species
Pattern ● Natural mix of vegetation age classes
Functioning ● Hydrological integrity
● Functioning food web
Process ● Disturbance regimes
● Regeneration processes
Resilience ● Pests
● Pollution
● Climate change
Connectivity ● Development of a landscape mosaic
● Protecting the most natural habitats
Resilience ● Ability to withstand ecosystem pressures and change
might be justified, such as those underway in New Zealand to eradicate introduced mam-
mals that are driving (or have already driven) ground nesting bird species to extinction.
If we accept that large natural ecosystems are a critical element of a sustainable society,
we are left with many questions, such as: how much natural ecosystem do we need; how
should these ecosystems be managed; and who makes the decisions? A moment’s consid-
eration will show that most conservation “targets”, such as those set by the Convention
on Biological Diversity, are an uneasy mixture of science, culture and politics; there are
no clear-cut answers. In general, it is accepted that we need to retain a proportion of our
natural ecosystems in as close to their original state as possible, increase the effectiveness
of management on much of the remainder and, increasingly, act to restore ecosystems
that have been altered or degraded to an extent where they no longer function to support
human society. There is a long debate about what proportion of the planet’s land and
water should be under different management regimes, which does not concern us here.
However, the emphasis placed on these various strategies could be heavily influenced by
the way in which concepts of naturalness or authenticity are applied. Table 14.3 contrasts
the approaches.
The concept of authenticity recognises the importance of related concepts such as
intactness and naturalness to biodiversity conservation, ecosystem services and cultural
values, but sets them within a more flexible framework, suitable for a global ecosystem
that has already changed enormously and is likely to change even more in the near future.
Authenticity could thus become an over-arching principle to define some important
aspects of conservation management. We return to these issues below, but first focus on
the opening few words of the definition of authenticity, and discuss what resilience means
in the context of restoration.
Key to conservation management decisions today is the question of how any particular
ecosystem will maintain itself – in other words its resilience – in changed environmental
conditions. We use resilience here to refer to the ability of an ecosystem to maintain its
functions (biological, chemical, and physical) in the face of disturbance (Gunderson,
2000). It is defined variously as: “the amount of change a system can undergo without
changing state” (IPCC TAR, 2001), or: “a tendency to maintain integrity when subject to
disturbance” (UNDP, 2005). Climate change has focused attention on resilience because
conservation biologists are trying to predict what projected changes to ecosystems will
mean to their constituent species and ecological interactions.
A climate resilient ecosystem is more likely to retain its ecological functioning and
ecosystem services in the face of rapid climate change. Adaptation measures such
as ecosystem-based adaptation (Colls et al., 2009), community-based adaptation
(Ayers and Forsyth, 2009) and the more generalised climate adaptation (Lim and
Spanger-Siegfried, 2004, see also Clewell and Aronson, 2013) will all require measures
to maintain the resilience of ecosystems, so that they can continue to supply essential
services and where possible support native biodiversity under new climatic conditions.
However, scientists remain uncertain about the impact of different climate change sce-
narios on ecosystem functioning, due to the complex biological and physical feedback
loops involved. We still have little experience in how to manage ecosystems to maintain
resilience. So while the importance of resilience is increasingly recognised, the practical
implications of including it within ecosystem management objectives remain only very
partially understood.
Nonetheless, the emerging science of resilience has identified several important princi-
ples. One is the link between diversity and resilience: more diverse ecosystems are likely to
be more resilient (Peterson, 1998; Loreau et al., 2001; Carpenter et al., 2006; Thompson et
al., 2009). Next is the observation that, under conditions of rapid climate change, restored
ecosystems in many parts of the world are unlikely to return to their pre-disturbance
state, leading to the conclusion that we need to adopt more open-ended restoration goals
(Heller and Hobbs, 2014).
Findings about resilience fit within a broader understanding about diversity and
ecosystem function. There is growing evidence that diverse, functioning, authentic ecosys-
tems are likely to be efficient at sequestering carbon, supplying other ecosystem services,
and withstanding rapid environmental change. Many researchers propose connections
between high biodiversity and efficient provision of ecosystem services, and between high
biodiversity and high ecosystem productivity (Thompson et al., 2009). There are also sug-
gestions that ecosystems with high carbon often also have high biodiversity (Kapos et al.,
2008). The science of these interactions remains unclear and simplistic links between bio-
diversity and ecosystem function have been criticised (Lasky et al., 2014). One hypothesis
is that species richness increases ecosystem resilience by increasing the interdependencies
and robustness of the system (the stability–diversity hypothesis, Doak et al., 1998). Other
researchers argue that it is not species richness but functional diversity that plays the
pivotal role (Díaz and Cabido, 2001): ecosystems should thus be managed for their func-
tions, and species that maintain biological functions (such as seed dispersers) should be
the target of management. These ideas are still emerging and will become clearer over the
next few years. The concept of authenticity, as applied to biodiversity conservation and
restoration, aims to maintain both overall species diversity and ecosystem functioning in
the wider landscape, while acknowledging and accepting change at the site level; therefore
it addresses resilience under either hypothesis.
CONCLUSIONS
The ecological, social and cultural importance of natural ecosystems is increasingly rec-
ognised (Sarmiento and Hitchner, 2017); conservation is increasingly seen as a necessity
rather than a luxury. But “naturalness” remains a slippery social construct that has many
different interpretations, and remains poorly understood. Some of the older definitions,
which rely on reference to an “original” ecosystem, do not work in the context of our
growing understanding about environmental history and rapid environmental change.
Their application, particularly through top-down processes, has fostered resentment and
resistance.
The definition of authenticity proposed here could provide a useful way of thinking
about managing and measuring components of naturalness at site and landscape scales.
Care will need to be taken to define more precisely what this means in practical manage-
ment terms. For example, it will be important to distinguish between alien species that
are ecologically neutral and not problematic in an authentic ecosystem, and invasive alien
species that are a problem: a cautionary approach is needed along with recognition that
status may change over time. For those wanting to include consideration of naturalness
or authenticity when they are planning or implementing management of land or water,
the following steps may all be useful:
Gap analysis: what components of authenticity does the forest landscape already
1.
contain and what is missing, threatened or scarce? An expanded version of Table 14.2
could be used as a checklist, and various tools for assessing naturalness and authentic-
ity exist (e.g. Dudley, 2011; Rossi and Vallauri, 2013). A clear picture of the status and
ideally the trends in ecosystem authenticity is a necessary perquisite for management
decision and for setting a baseline against which to measure success or failure.
Finding out what people want: to return to the chapter title, the challenge is not just to
2.
create a sustainable ecosystem but to do so in a way that is based around sustainable
relationships. In other words, success isn’t just about the physical aspects of creating
a balanced ecology but also the social and political aspects of doing so in an equitable
manner. Such approaches imply a robust participatory process, negotiations and
trade-offs. Bottom-up approaches increase the time and the expertise needed amongst
the initiators of such projects but also provide a stronger and more durable result.
Management approaches: how can authenticity be retained? The standard conserva-
3.
tion approach to maintaining natural ecosystems is through some form of protected
area, which can range from strictly protected reserves to protected landscapes and
seascapes, including settled human communities and places with management sys-
tems compatible with biodiversity conservation (Dudley, 2008). More recently, other
approaches have also emerged, including “other effective area-based conservation
measures” (Jonas et al., 2014), biological corridors, buffer zones and many forms of
tenure involving indigenous peoples and local communities.
Restoration: if authenticity has been lost, how can the missing elements be returned
4.
most efficiently, at what quantity and scale are they needed, and where best in the
landscape should they be restored? This requires consideration of the main ecosystem
services required and what this implies in terms of total area, type of ecosystem, con-
nectivity between patches of natural habitat, etc. Systematic conservation planning
tools can help to develop restoration plans.
Measuring success: how can protection, management and restoration be monitored
5.
(criteria and indicators)? This will require elements not only of factors such as total
area of remaining habitat, but also changes in biodiversity and ecosystem services.
With the impossibility of measuring everything, it will be important to choose key
indicators that together capture an overall picture of the success or failure of the
project.
Making plans: what steps are needed and in which order? Once needs and objectives
6.
are identified, these should be incorporated into a detailed management plan, with
priorities, costs, necessary skills and equipment, and a realistic timeline.
The world has already accumulated many years of experience in all of the aspects outlined
above. Combining them and applying at scale is still challenging, however; each initiative
is necessarily an experiment. Bringing naturalness or authenticity into the process will in
some cases be an additional but necessary complication.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Parts of this work were drawn together for a project undertaken for IUCN; I am grateful
for the financial and intellectual support.
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INTRODUCTION
The issue of food security, defined by the World Food Summit in Rome (1996) as
promoting sufficient, available, nutritious, safe and preferable food for everyone at all
times, encompasses many challenges. Despite the significant place of food security in
the United Nations Millennium Development Goals (United Nations (UN) Report,
2002), which is also concerned with reducing world poverty and hunger in half by 2015,
many people in developing countries are still food insecure and impoverished. In light
of the 2008 food crisis and the impending challenges of climate change, the subject of
foodstuffs has taken central stage in the international research agenda, which led to the
development of the Committee on World Food Security in 2009 (Gordillo, 2013), and
prompted investment in agricultural research and development funding (Von Braun et
al., 2008). Further steps taken to address the challenges to food security by the FAO
(Branca et al., 2011; de Haen and Stamoulis, 2004) and the UN (UN Report, 2007)
include the necessity of expanding the diversity of plants consumed and grown, and
increasing within-crop genetic diversity. They advocate that more diversity in our diets
will not only improve human health, but also protect environmental quality (Ebert, 2014;
FAO, 2014; Gordillo, 2013).
Indigenous peoples1 and small-scale food systems exhibit much agrobiodiversity
globally, but here the focus will be on the Americas (Altieri et al., 2012; Moreno-Calles et
al., 2010; van der Merwe et al., 2016). Agrobiodiversity refers to the diversity of domes-
ticated, cultivated, and wild plants that thrive in managed systems of cultural landscapes
(Sarmiento, 2008). In the Americas, research on these diverse food systems has shown that
they also enhance local biodiversity, promote resource conservation and environmental
sustainability, and encourage community-scale gains (Altieri et al., 2012; Moreno-Calles
et al., 2010). Indigenous peoples in the Americas have been managing local food and fiber
1
According to the UN and the International Working Group for Indigenous Affairs (IWGIA), important
trademarks of indigenous peoples are self-identification, group acceptance and collective action (de Haen and
Stamoulis, 2004; UN Report, 2007). Some favored terms in the Americas are First Nations (Canada), American
Indian or Native Americans (United States of America) and Pueblos Originarios (Latin America). In light of
this chapter’s focus on food, indigenous peoples’ food systems is defined as retaining “knowledge of the land
and food resources rooted in historical continuity within their region of origin and residence” (Kuhnlein and
Kuhnlein, 2009, p. 2).
235
systems for millennia; however, these food systems have not been without disruption and
change. Environmental adaptation and pre-Hispanic socio-political changes have helped
these systems to evolve, while colonization and globalization have disrupted, and in many
cases detrimentally affected, these food systems (Grey and Patel, 2015; van der Merwe et
al., 2016).
Despite these many challenges and hardships, indigenous and small-scale food systems
contribute substantially to local and national food supplies and rural livelihoods, but
have often been overlooked (Altieri et al., 2012, van der Merwe et al., 2016). Research
suggests that these food systems provide about 70 percent of the world’s food, though
indigenous peoples are still marginalized and impoverished (la Via Campesina, 2014).
Many subsidies, investments, scientific research, access to natural resources, and local
and international policies benefit the neoliberal capitalist agroindustry, while almost no
investment or protection is offered to indigenous and small-scale farmers (Altieri and
Toledo, 2011), hence an emphasis in the area is on food sovereignty.
The success of the agroindustrial food system and its adverse effects on indigenous and
small-scale food systems have resulted in the latter’s strong support of food sovereignty
versus focusing on food security. The concept of food sovereignty, outlined by various
grassroots organizations such as la Via Campesina, is summarized as the “right of
peoples to control their own food systems including markets, production modes, food
cultures and environments” (Wittman, 2010). International organizations such as the la
Via Campesina and International Planning Committee for Food Sovereignty argue that
global food security cannot be attained without first achieving food sovereignty (ICP
Report, 2015).
Food sovereignty also entails the movement away from conventional agriculture
including both industrial (e.g., fossil fuel based) and biological (e.g., genetically
modified organism (GMO)) agricultural production, and the notion that food is just a
commodity (Gordillo, 2013). The movement toward food sovereignty is linked to the
concept of agroecology, which incorporates ecological and agricultural science and
traditional knowledge to promote an alternative food system that is innovative, diverse
and complex, locally based and environmentally and socially sustainable (Altieri and
Toledo, 2011). While supporting the notions of food sovereignty and agroecology, in
this chapter we would like to emphasize the importance of integrating research and
knowledge from various sciences, humanities, and indigenous and small-scale food
systems to ensure success of food and food system diversity and, in particular, the well-
being of indigenous and small-scale societies. Indigenous peoples have contributed to
science, and will continue to do so, by sharing their knowledge, but they also deserve to
benefit from science and technology (Rochmyaningsih, 2015). We also stress the need
to use these interchanges of information to develop policies to protect indigenous food
systems.
This chapter will examine the biocultural diversity of indigenous and small-scale food
systems in the Americas. The main objective is to demonstrate the importance of bringing
together science, humanities, and traditional ecological knowledge (TEK) to increase the
success of indigenous and small-scale food systems in the Americas. Thus far, topics such
as biodiversity and food production have been examined as either social or natural topics
rather than from an integrated approach. Integrating studies of science (e.g., biotechnol-
ogy and ecology), humanities (e.g., anthropology and economics), and TEK has the
BACKGROUND
The push for more variety in our diets is related to the fact that we only consume a
handful of plants that are edible. For instance, of the estimated 7000 plants known to
be consumed somewhere on Earth, 200 are domesticated, and only 20 types dominate
the world market (Medland, 2009; Jaenicke, 2011). Wheat, maize and rice account for 94
percent of all cereal consumption, for example. Maize is now the most commonly grown
crop in the world, 39 percent of which is produced in the United States (The Grains
Council, 2015).
The roots of the current globalized diet, involving reliance on a few grains, go back
hundreds of years (see below). Until around 1800, much of the world’s population was
still rural, and in both urban and rural spaces most people spent their resources on food
acquisition and consumption. By the twentieth century, large-scale investments from
institutions like the World Bank and the Rockefeller Foundation, along with support by
governments, paved the way for industrial-scale agriculture and what became known as
the “Green Revolution” from the 1940s to the1960s (Spiertz, 2014). With these large-scale
investments, developments in food science and agriculture surged, and urbanization
exploded (Spiertz, 2014; Godfray et al., 2010).
Present-day global food production and consumption is dominated by the neoliberal
capitalistic food system, otherwise known as conventional agriculture, which involves
modifying seeds and landscapes to increase productivity and profit (Norris and Kerr,
2009). It has also led to the delocalization of food, a phenomenon linked to industrializa-
tion, urbanization, transportation, and the dominant place of the intermediary distribu-
tors and processers between the farm and store (Katz, 2009; Lang and Barling, 2012). The
industrial and business-like management of the food system has contributed to the loss
of seed, plant, and crop varieties, and an increase in landscape homogeneity; together,
these processes negatively affect human and ecosystem health and well-being. Research
on conventional agriculture has also shown that it causes soil degradation, erosion, and a
decrease in water quality and quantity (Matchett et al., 2006).
Despite the potential to produce large quantities of food in conventional agriculture,
its goal of maximizing profit, rather than maximizing food accessibility and security have
left many people malnourished and has damaged natural resources globally (Allen, 2009).
Food disparities exist within developed and developing countries, but one cannot ignore
the North–South divide that is reflected in high rates of obesity in the global North versus
prevalent and persistent hunger in the global South (Ng et al., 2014). The problems of
both hunger and obesity stem, in part, from the inability of poor people in both rural and
urban contexts to access nutritious foodscapes.
In comparison to the current global industrial food system, indigenous and small-scale
food systems are diverse and complex (Altieri et al., 2012) and involve wild, cultivated,
and managed food and fibers as well as endemic and introduced yet incorporated and
traditional foods (van der Merwe et al., 2016). The variety of indigenous food systems
reflects the different landscapes, food diversity, and ecosystems to which these agrosys-
tems are adapted (Katz, 2009). At a landscape or ecosystem scale, the holistic approach to
an indigenous food system is clearly observed in the inseparable links among a diversified
landscape management program, agrobiodiversity in terms of crop variety, and genetic
diversity within species (Medland, 2009).
Diverse foods, which are maintained by indigenous and small-scale food systems, should
be incorporated into our diets because they provide high nutrition in small amounts, have
the capacity to grow in diverse environments, have multipurpose applications, are resistant
to diseases and pests, and are easily available and processed. For example, scientific stud-
ies of some cultivated and domesticated indigenous cereals such as quinoa and amaranth,
legumes, and fruits have shown that they supply supplementary nutrients or an increased
amount of needed nutrients such as iron, protein, vitamin A, and flavonoids as compared
to already highly utilized plants (Creed-Kanashiro et al., 2009). Foraged and/or managed
plants have the potential to provide an easily available, local supply of various nutrients,
such as loroco (Fernaldia pandurata, Apocynaceae) found in Mesoamerica (Morton et al.,
1990), and the genus Physalis Solaneae, involving 90 species, which is native to North and
South America (Arenas and Kamienkowski, 2013). Increasing the consumption of local,
diverse, traditional foods has been found to increase nutrition in various groups (Roche
et al., 2007; see also Chapter 23 this book).
Seed management, genetic diversity, and crop management also help plants adapt to
different climatic and environmental conditions and to reduce susceptibility of plants
to pathogens and insects, and increase resilience in response to climate change (see
Table 15.1). For example, Melloco, which is developed from native germplasm, has a
wide range of adaptations and is more tolerant to pests and diseases than common,
non-indigenous crop varieties (Nieto, 1993). Some highly nutritious cultivated plants,
such as amaranth have the potential to produce high yields in arid environments, which
is important when considering possible disruptions to food production systems related to
climate change (Barba de la Rosa et al., 2009).
Diverse crop management strategies including crop rotation and intercropping have
been shown to be highly beneficial. Some sequences of crop rotation produced higher
yields using less water compared to only monocropping or only using synthetic herbicides.
In the Andes, for instance, it was found that the sequence of crop rotation involving the
planting of quinoa–potato–lupin–quinoa helped maintain soil fertility, reduced erosion
and leaching, decreased weed growth, and helped control pests (Nieto-Cabrera et al.,
1997). Intercropping strategies practiced in the southeastern United States involved plant-
ing beans and maize in the same field, which complemented each other and aided in their
growth (Janick, 2013). Some farmers allow wild strains to cross-breed with domesticated
varieties, leading to the development of new genetic variants while enhancing established
ethnovarieties. Varieties serve diverse purposes; for example, they have resulted in shorter
Integrated landscape Combined use of fire with weeding, drainage, irrigation, and cultivation
management of trees
Chaco region of Paraguay
(Denevan, 1992; Fowler and Welch, 2015; Arenas and Kamienkowski,
2013)
– Intercropping, mixed-habitat strategy
Southeastern Native American three sisters agriculture (maize, beans,
and squash) (Scarry and Scarry, 2005)
– Combined swidden agriculture, planting, cultivating and managing
gardens, foraging
Brazilian Rainforest (Cavechia et al., 2014)
Bolivian Rainforest (Thomas and Van Damme, 2010)
Maya lands of Guatemala and Mexico (“tapado” strategy) (Diemont
et al., 2006; Kufer et al., 2006)
Biocultural guidance – Agroforesty, foraging, construction materials, selling biproducts,
mythical, etc.
Trees and foraged plants provide multiple functions (many cultures)
(e.g., Vinceti et al., 2013)
– Sacred plants, shifting cultivation systems
Maize and cocoa trees have conceptual link in Mayan cosmology, healthy
crops balanced by healthy forest (Kufer et al., 2006)
preference given to wheat, barley, faba beans, and peas. Losses were also related to the
European ethnocentric viewpoint, which at times mandated planting European crops
(e.g., American chipilin and nightshade were replaced by lettuce and cabbage) using the
European agricultural systems because of its supposed foodscape superiority. There is
some evidence that Europeans also abandoned and destroyed indigenous infrastructure
such as hydraulic works, which were integral to indigenous food production (Scarry and
Scarry 2005; NRC, 1989).
The roots of the current globalized diet, involving reliance on a few grains, and its
effects on diverse indigenous and small-scale food systems go back several centuries and
are linked to European colonization, including in the Americas. Among other things,
colonialism involved the systematic break-up of culture and traditions, including those
of food systems (Grey and Patel, 2015).
Culture, politics, economics, history, environmental degradation and climate change all
contribute to the loss of knowledge about diverse crops and the neglect of agrobiodi-
versity (Skarbø, 2006). The availability of cheaper foreign grains, fruits and legumes,
and ethnocentric or modern viewpoints may result in the abandonment of traditional
food systems by younger generations, hindering rural development with a resulting loss
of local crops and traditions (Skarbø, 2006; Padulosi et al., 2014). In many cases, a lack
of cultural acceptance of diverse local foods is one of the great challenges to overcome
in order to support diverse food systems (van der Merwe et al., 2016). For example,
nutritious foods grown by small-scale and indigenous farming communities, such as
those in the Andes, are underappreciated and scorned by the urbanized society around
them (NRC, 1989).
Another factor resulting in food disparities, especially in the developing world, is the
inability of indigenous or local agricultural-based economies to compete with developed
industrial agricultural products. The decision of what to grow and consume locally by
indigenous and small-scale peoples is intricately linked to the globally expanding market,
the local and global demand, food prices and policy (Winkel et al., 2014). Because only a
few processors and retailers dominate national and global markets, a low price and high
standards are increasingly harder for small farmers to achieve. Furthermore, present food
policy decision-making is linked to power relations within supply chains that are mainly
in the hands of corporate interests, which have a major influence on various governments
(Katz, 2009; Carolan, 2011; Lang and Barling, 2012).
The dilemma for small-scale indigenous and other local farmers is that, on one hand,
they do not have the viability to compete with international large-scale competitors, while,
on the other, they can not be viewed as “guardians” of ancestral folklore and biodiversity
(Winkel et al., 2014). Indigenous and rural folk need money for medicine, education, and
transportation (Skarbø, 2006). They also have the right to be incorporated into the world
market. An overly simplistic view on their role in food security and biodiversity will not
lead to long-term sustainable and economically viable agriculture on a local or global
scale. Food sovereignty, as defined above, also requires protection of the rights to grow
and consume local foods, and associated indigenous and agroecological knowledge. One
drawback of the International Year of Quinoa, for instance, is that it did not include any
regulation or protection for small farmers (Winkel et al., 2014).
Globalized industrial management of food has only amplified the vulnerability of
indigenous food systems to neglect, and of indigenous peoples to extreme poverty,
discrimination and marginalization. Since many indigenous cultures have diverse food
systems and maintain food diversity, effects on their lifestyle directly impact the loss or
decrease of food knowledge (Kuhnlein and Kuhnlein, 2009; Bury et al., 2013).
The negative impacts of many of these factors on health and livelihood are docu-
mented in the Cotacachi communities in Ecuador (Skarbø, 2006), Awajun Territory
in Peruvian Amazonia (Creed-Kanashiro et al., 2009) and in the Ingano communities
of the Colombian Amazon (Correal et al., 2009). In the Colombian Amazon, for
instance, carbonated drinks and refined flour now comprise almost 40 percent or
more of the diets of children and women (Correal et al., 2009). The dominance of
the developed world’s food production and marketing results in the consumption of
monotonous processed food, rich in carbohydrates and fats and low in nutrition, and
the increased consumption of meat, dairy, and soft drinks (e.g., in Brazil and Mexico)
(Katz, 2009).
Increasing variety in food and ensuring food sovereignty should involve integrating
scientific and humanities studies with TEK. Indigenous knowledge and practices can
help diversify food systems and agroecosystems on both global and local scales. However,
since indigenous and small-scale food systems are understudied, these systems and the
roles of science, technology, and humanities that can potentially benefit them must be
better understood. Studies in humanities including anthropology, political sciences,
economics, and geography have the ability to document TEK, to determine how food
systems evolved, to study the cultural framework of food systems, and to outline the
current challenges of indigenous and small-scale societies. Scientific studies such as those
in biotechnology, ecology, and environmental sciences can build upon TEK by focusing
on intra- and inter-plant variation, plant adaptation to various environmental conditions,
the nutrition of different plants, the new uses of plants, and increasing the use of local
resources.
In this section, we will examine how integrating science, humanities and TEK can
help advance indigenous and small-scale food systems and livelihoods, and contribute to
diversifying food and food systems on multiple scales. We look at two examples: the first
involves the integration of indigenous knowledge of seeds, landraces and crop variety
and the application of aspects of biotechnology, while the second example involves
how consumer market choices, ecotourism, and critical input from the humanities can
work toward promoting indigenous foods locally and globally, as well as enhancing local
livelihoods and protecting the environment.
Ex-situ conservation of plant genetic resources such as in seed banks is important, but
more consideration of indigenous crop inventories and the agroecology of the in-situ
preservation of crops must be undertaken by the scientific community (Spiertz 2014). It
is considered best to conserve plant varieties in-situ because such a strategy encompasses
cultural, ecological, geographical, biological, and socio-economic factors, and allows for
further adaptation to changing environmental conditions. In-situ species diversity, and
the source of diversity stored in ex-situ gene banks are mainly controlled by small-scale
poor farmers, therefore incorporating TEK on crop diversity is important to the future
of biotech applications (Jarvis et al., 2011).
One important aspect of agrobiodiversity, is the farmer’s in-depth knowledge of differ-
ent landraces and how this knowledge is related to the management of crops, including
the creation of new breeds and cultivars and the maintenance of diversity (Gibson,
2009). Familial and local trade networks, seed fairs, community seed banks, and local
markets are important because they involve exchanging information along with the seeds
(Coomes, 2010; Jarvis et al., 2011). Traditional farming techniques and management of
seeds allow farmers to select seeds to adapt to new environments, resist pests and diseases,
and at the same time avoid genetic erosion and homozygosity (Gibson, 2009; Coomes,
2010; Jarvis et al., 2011).
Incorporating scientific knowledge with TEK offers multiple benefits including a better
understanding of landrace varieties. For example, biotech investigations, such as genome
sequencing, have the potential to improve plant production and adaptation by reducing
vulnerability to disease and pests (Naylor et al., 2004). Biotechnological studies can be
useful to enhance certain qualities in seeds at a much faster rate than traditional landrace
selection (Mayes et al., 2012). Biotech and breeding methods also work with species vari-
ability before the seed is planted on a large scale.
Participatory Plant Breeding (PPB) is one way that organic and indigenous farmers
have become integrated with science and business to develop new varieties that are
adapted to diverse farming conditions. In this process, farmers are engaged in all major
decisions, including determining what genetic materials and specific traits plant breeders
need to work with, and how the new variety is tested in the farmer’s fields (Ceccarelli and
Grando, 2007). Decentralized participation of breeders and farmers may help crops adapt
to environmental uncertainty, due to increases in crop variety, plant breeding efficiency,
and seed adoption (Wolfe et al., 2008). The TEK concerning landrace diversity must be
understood in conjunction with the needs of indigenous groups if long-term sustainabil-
ity is to be established (Rhoades 2006). When biotech endeavors build on extant breeding
programs they are typically more successful (Dawson et al., 2009).
There are a number of issues concerning the role that biotechnology has or may have
with regards to conserving diversity of local landraces. First, biotech studies have mainly
focused on crops that are already highly modified, such as oilseed rape, maize, potato, rice,
and wheat (Pingali, 2007). Even though thousands of plants have been designated as sig-
nificant by various institutions (e.g., Global Facilitation Unit for Underutilized Species),
a study on the National Center for Biotechnology Information online database indicates
that only a handful of these have been studied more intensively (Dawson et al., 2009).
Indigenous farmers are important producers of crop varieties and landraces, but, cur-
rently, there is no protection of their TEK (Nagoya Protocol; Greiber, 2012). Biopiracy
in medicines and agricultural material has a long history, whereby the indigenous or rural
groups offering the basic information on plants usually do not see any credit or profits
from private or public entities (Clift, 2007).
Some high-tech breeding companies used seed varieties and TEK from Andean farmers
to make new variants that are cultivated in competition with species grown by Andean
farmers. This defeats one of the original purposes of promoting quinoa: to help Andean
farmers make a better livelihood (Winkel et al., 2014).
In the context of sustainable mountain development, as interest in ancient crops
increases, the importance of protecting indigenous knowledge is clear, but defining and
legally protecting indigenous intellectual property is extremely complicated. For example,
indigenous or traditional knowledge is built upon community sharing and open and
public knowledge systems, and developing a legal way to protect community knowledge
may have unintended consequences. Mechanisms such as certification and patents could
constrain knowledge sharing. Conversely, not allowing for patents may reduce investment
and biotech studies on new plants and varieties (Clift 2007).
Consumers have agency over food purchases, and this has many implications for the future
of indigenous foods and agricultural diversity. Domestic consumers can act as food activists
and consciously choose to purchase more environmentally-, labor-, and animal-friendly
products, while boycotting other products they deem unsustainable. This consumer behav-
ior is referred to as “food activism”, which has resulted in changes in markets, products, and
infrastructure, such as the promotion of organic foods (Soper, 2007; Micheletti and Stolle,
2012) and the establishment of farmers markets and other food-hubs.
Similar to food activism, the concept of “alternative hedonism” applies to tourists’
consumption patterns. Alternative hedonism channels consumers’ frustration with the
“inauthentic” nature of modern “Western” life into travel behaviors that involve search-
ing for the authentic aspects of communities and consuming as many local products
as possible (Sims, 2009). Emphasis on local experience centers on regional gastronomy
(Armesto-López and Martin, 2006; Sims, 2009; Everett and Aitchison, 2008; Bazile et
al., 2012). In developed Western countries, consumers may cause indirect change through
choosing whether to purchase certain products.
Consumerism in the form of tourism has much potential to build sustainable com-
munities, help alleviate poverty, aid in protecting the environment, and increase the
socio-political and economic status of rural poor in developing countries (Simpson,
2008; Horton, 2009). Ecotourism also has the potential to increase consumption of
diverse foods locally and globally by promoting indigenous foods. Increasing local foods
for tourist consumption must be done ecologically and not at the expense of other biota
(Wunder, 2000; Coria and Calfucura, 2012). Indigenous food has been a largely ignored
aspect of tourism, even though it is an essential part of traveling and can represent
up to one third of spending on trips. Tourism provides strong economic incentives for
indigenous food cultivation because tourism activities can “become the saviors of small
businesses, not only by helping to make their products more widely known but also by
facilitating self-commercialization, that is, by enabling producers listed in the official
designation of origin registers to sell their products directly” to consumers (Armesto-
López and Martin, 2006).
Sustainable tourism is not only important for the potential of selling local food com-
modities, but also to indigenous food cultivation that promotes a connection with “place,
culture and heritage” (Sims, 2009). These market opportunities brought about through
tourists’ preferences for local foods may be the needed extrinsic incentives to influence
farmers’ preferences back toward indigenous crop cultivation. This type of demand for
indigenous food products goes beyond consumption, and is an essential aspect of the
tourism experience for which tourists are willing to pay more (Bazile et al., 2012). Success
stories in parts of Costa Rica (Horton, 2009) and in the Peruvian Amazon (Homborg and
Hill, 2011) serve as testimonies that, when various sectors of society (private/corporate,
governmental, communal and international) work together, local communities and the
environment can benefit (Simpson, 2008). Implemented carefully, sustainable tourism can
have a positive impact on the environment (Horton, 2009).
While truly sustainable tourism has many potential benefits for indigenous food
cultivation, this tourism is essentially “green capitalism”, which can also be detrimental if
left unchecked and can cause numerous problems such as the break-up of communities,
marginalization of poor people, and cultural and environmental degradation (Simpson,
2008). Criticism of sustainable tourism has highlighted its underlying neoliberal values:
its main goal is to attract tourists and their money and it does not focus on environmental
conservation and enhancing livelihoods of local peoples (West, 2004). While this criticism
may be true, sustainable tourism is still a much better alternative for indigenous crop
cultivation than deforestation, land speculation, or large-scale monocrop agriculture tied
to the global commodities trade network (Pretty, 2009). Those interested in preserving
indigenous food and fibers should consider how these could be better intertwined with
the tourism marketing of a destination to facilitate this potentially lucrative symbiotic
relationship. Attracting tourists and tourists’ spending on indigenous foods has the
potential to provide the economic incentives needed to increase cultivation and counter
competing land interests (Mak et al., 2012).
Non-governmental organizations (NGOs) and other community development programs
attempt to help indigenous and small-scale communities by promoting ecotourism; how-
ever, in many cases this is done using a top down approach (Coria and Calfucura, 2012).
Studies of these interrelationships have shown that a better understanding of the local
culture, community needs, and the inherent ethnocentric views of companies and other
outsiders may impact the success of these types of projects. It is essential to acknowledge
that the community has valuable knowledge of the local ecosystem, and any ecotourism
or food related project should be done as an interchange of information (Rhoades,
2006). Successful outcomes of any sustainable tourism or similar project require training,
infrastructure for the target community, and better design that involves and concerns
CONCLUSION
Choices about growing and eating certain foods over others are intimately linked to the
history of agriculture, lifestyle, and nation building on one hand, and globalization,
science, policy, and capitalism on the other.
Indigenous and small-scale food systems are known for their flexibility and diversity.
These food systems exhibit variety in seed and crop management, which promotes disease
and pest resistance, and plant adaptation to a variety of conditions. Landscape-scale man-
agement strategies foster biodiversity, environmental sustainability, and socio-economic
stability. Diversity in food consumption increases nutrition, as well as providing fibers
and materials that support the communities. These food systems cannot survive or thrive
without the cultural binding that holds them together, which requires and reinforces
community involvement and sharing.
Indigenous and small-scale food systems and their associated TEK have developed
over millennia, and so have been subject to change. Environmental and other factors, in
particular colonialism, have impacted these food systems in many ways. The legacy of
colonialism, observed in ethnocentric views against indigenous peoples and their foods still
endures, and contributes to the decline of these foods and food variety in general. Both
colonialism and the modern conventional agricultural system have led to the marginaliza-
tion of indigenous and small-scale food systems over time. Despite the fact that indigenous
peoples feed much of the world’s population, their food systems are viewed as inferior to
conventional, large-scale agriculture. Indigenous and small-scale food systems and the
biocultural thread that holds these communities together are being lost, resulting in the loss
of food diversity, plant diversity, and biodiversity on both local and global scales.
There is much to learn from indigenous and small-scale agricultural food systems,
including the variety of edible plants available and diverse management strategies of
plants and landscapes. By combining scientific with indigenous and traditional knowl-
edge, it would be possible to assemble a body of knowledge on the vast range of plant
types and land varieties and their traits. This would facilitate evaluation and transfer of
such knowledge to other localities dealing with food security issues, and to develop and
adapt them to a range of environmental conditions. Better understanding of TEK and
the land management strategies associated with certain plant types and environments is
essential to transferring these plants to diverse locations, conserving food variety, and
preserving biodiversity. Offering training and support with respect to new farming tech-
niques or marketing diverse foods will help indigenous farmers adapt their food systems
to changing economic, environmental, and social conditions. Studies of indigenous and
small-scale biocultures are needed to help determine what these societies need, in terms
of support, to enhance their livelihoods. However, without policy and protection of
knowledge, genetic information, soil, and seeds, the disparity between poor, small-scale
and indigenous farmers and rich, large-scale producers will never diminish.
Securing the availability of food while making it sustainable, stable, healthy, accessible,
and fair requires a unified approach that includes both science and humanities to inform
policy on multiple scales, with alternative systems of inquiry. This examination urges
support for the cultivation of more local and indigenous foods and fibers, as they are
essential for global food sovereignty and food diversity. We also strongly promote a more
holistic approach to farming, involving agroscience and local biocultural knowledge
applied within global economic and political contexts. These efforts will contribute to an
efficient, equitable, and sustainable indigenous, local, and global food system.
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INTRODUCTION
This study attempts to open the academic discussion of how to plan the urban expansion
of the city of Cuenca, using case studies from other cities in the world, and reviewing
global urban trends based on statistical and spatial data over time and the prospective
trajectory of urban sustainability in Cuenca, Ecuador. Moreover, the mistakes of the
planning department are studied, not only from a philosophical point of view but also
with technical analyses.
We start by framing the notion of urban expansion and its operational needs for growth
in containment as a proven strategy for city planning, with the establishment of greenbelts
to buffer potential expansion of the urban core and prospective conurbation. Scholars
of urban studies trace this practice to the sixteenth century, when Queen Elizabeth I, in
1580, decided to prevent by decree the growth of the City of London (Baer, 2007) through
coercive ordinances stopping people from building new homes if the distance of the new
house exceeded one mile from the city walls. The monarch was not concerned, however,
about the terrible internal problems in London generated through overcrowding, poverty
and epidemics, as a result of the continued lack of public health policies in crowded
spaces. All the power of a queen was not enough to prevent social trends arising from the
interaction of thousands of individuals finally causing the City of London to expand to
the periphery in the later years of the sixteenth century.
During ensuing centuries, European cities continued to expand gradually, knocking
down their walls, a phenomenon that intensified in the early nineteenth century, as their
defensive–strategic value was lost to powerful military innovations, in particular the
fact that more accurate guns appeared after the Napoleonic Wars (Bell, 2014). In 1902,
Ebenezer Howard (Howard, 2013) published his book Garden Cities of To-morrow, draw-
ing green belts around the imaginary cities. But drawing up a blueprint is not equal to
understanding the processes behind spatial patterns; therefore, this author never thought
that in the future the urban containment applied would, in practice, generate serious
side-effects with unintended consequences. We consider those to be externalities to the
urban planning process that have recently been reassessed in light of new understanding
of environmental principles.
The history is still unfolding in Britain, whose capital was the first city in the world to
contain its expansion through a green belt around its metropolitan area (Thomas, 1963):
in 1938 the County Committee of London began to acquire land surrounding the city
through expropriations with monetary compensation to keep the land free of construc-
tion of any type of urban development. Almost a decade later other British cities through
252
the Planning Law of Peoples and British Country Side (Amati, 2016) would opt for the
same policy of urban containment with green belts around them. The idea would then
spread to other cities in member countries of the British Commonwealth of Nations, so
that urban areas as far apart as Toronto (Tomalty & Komorowski, 2011) in Canada and
Victoria (Tang, Wong, & Lee, 2005) in Hong Kong also decided to establish green belts
around the cities. Many other cities in different countries in the developing world, not
wanting to miss out on such a seductive idea, implemented their own greenbelt plans,
including Seoul in South Korea, Quito in Ecuador, and Santa Cruz de la Sierra, in Bolivia.
Local non-governmental organizations (NGOs), noting the pressure for urbanization on
the outskirts of the city, started the idea of comparing the greenbelts of modernity with
the chastity belts of the middle ages: despite the same intention of inviolability, there
is little protection if power relations allow for either land grabs for speculation or the
occupation of squatted unplanned settlements that, unfortunately, plague major primate
cities in the Americas. A more precise perspective is depicted by Fu and Zhang (2017)
in their bibliometric analysis of the trajectory of urban sustainability and its conceptual
dynamics worldwide.
In the richest countries of the Global North, people have ready access to cars, which,
added to the enormous public investment in new transportation infrastructure, is allowing
cities to expand like never before. They have increasingly formed new suburbs around ever
smaller and less important historical centers, due to a process of decentralization where
the monocentric urban model is replaced by the polycentric city (Bruegmann, 2006b).
The State of Oregon then decided to impose simple limits or Urban Growth Boundaries
(UGB) around their cities with flexible limits that are reviewed and changed every five
years, instead of creating the typical greenbelts with fixed or immovable limits (Weitz &
Moore, 1998). A few years later, a group of researchers developed a master plan for the
University of Oregon, and they indicated that their planning approaches can also be
adapted for small communities. The end result was a book called The Oregon Experiment
(Alexander et al., 1975); this work is the foundation of what later became known as
“Smart Growth”, standing out especially two of the authors: Christopher Alexander and
Shlomo Angel, both of them later along with other scholars published a second book
called The Pattern Language (Alexander, Ishikawa, & Silverstein, 1977); paradoxically,
Alexander together with Léon Krier generated a new school of thought called “new
urbanism”, while Angel became his fiercest critic.
These ideas gain adherents over time, and by 1993 numerous publications in various
universities in the English-speaking world began to appear reinforcing what they called
new urbanism scholarship. The main ideas of this school of thought (Katz, 1993) are:
● Designing cities for people rather than for cars, prioritizing mobility through
public transport, bicycles and walking (Duany, Speck, & Lydon, 2004). The idea of
using metros, buses and trolleybuses is justifiable because they reduce greenhouse
gas emissions, therefore improving the physical health of urban residents, while
allowing pedestrians, cyclists and transit users to do physical exercise, consequently
creating more intense interpersonal bonds that generate a greater sense of what
community life means (Katz, 1993).
● Building neighborhoods with apartment buildings, offices and commercial prem-
ises where residential–commercial-services give rise to mixed-use and public green
spaces instead of private ones (Gehl, 2011). To densify is to prevent the city from
expanding and consequently consuming agricultural and pastoral areas that are
vital for food production (Daniels & Lapping, 2005) and is also intended to reduce
travel distances between home-work and home-shopping.
This new urban paradigm argues that its goal is to find a balance between three key areas:
environmental, social and economic (Deakin et al., 2007) mimicking the three pillars of
sustainability.
Gradually over the years this “new urbanism” school of thought changed its name.
Books and scholarly articles used other names, such as Urban Ecological (Mostafavi &
Doherty, 2010), Sustainable Urban Planning (Farr, 2011), Urban Landscape Planning
(Weller, 2008) and New Pedestrianism (Lund, 2002); the term mostly used today is Smart
Growth (EPA, 2013). It should be noted that there are authors who write about the
differences between these currents (Knaap & Talen, 2005); however, the majority of new
publications about this topic mostly use the ideas mentioned above, without regard to
titling or subtitling their research work using the new urbanism terminology.
Today, world renowned professors, researchers and consultants such as Peter Calthorpe
(Van der Ryn et al., 2008), Andres Duany (Duany, Plater-Zyberk, & Speck, 2010), Colin
Buchanan (Buchanan, 2015) and Stephen Plowden (Plowden, 1983), among others, have
contributed to augmenting literature with Smart Growth theory and case studies; since a
few decades ago they have been promulgating new urbanism or “Smart Growth”, where
urbanite society is supposedly the final beneficiary of this policy.
The city of Cuenca, Ecuador, is located within the Paute River watershed, specifically
in an Andean valley at 2550 meters above sea level, and, therefore, its cold temperature
is ameliorated by sunny mornings and drizzly afternoons. Here, four rivers converge in
the urbanized valley bottom: Tomebamba, Yanuncay, Machángara and Tarqui. Cuenca
is the provincial capital of Azuay, the third largest city of the country by population; its
economic impact is based on trade, services and industry. Many industrial and financial
large companies are headquartered here. Its history dates back to archaeological findings
of ancestral settlements of the Cañari culture; this Andean town was originally called
Guapondelig in Cañari language (Skurdenis, 1987), but when the Inca Empire conquered
territories of present day Ecuador in the fifteenth century, this town was renamed
Tumipamba in Quechua, or Tomebamba in its Castillianized version (Idrovo, 2000).
With the Spanish conquest of Tahuantinsuyo, recognizing its primacy for its indigenous
communities, it was officially founded as the “Muy Noble y Muy Leal Ciudad de Santa
Ana de los Cuatro Ríos de Cuenca”. This noble origin was bestowed by royal decree from
the King of the Spaniards in 1557. To create a new city, it was necessary to follow the
guidelines of Carlos V, which refers to finding a site with a healthy location – not too high
to avoid the wind, and not very low to avoid a hot, humid and unhealthy climate; in addi-
tion, there should be plenty of water, lots of pasture, fertile land and trees for firewood.
Also, these new colonial settlements should have an orthogonal design (Hardoy, 1973)
with streets intersecting at right angles such that its grid configuration would constitute
a checkerboard design. It was known by the census ordered by the Marquis of Cañete
(Brines Tyrer, 1988) that the population of Cuenca in 1561 was approximately 8000 inhab-
itants, maybe 12,000 people in 1740 (Minchom, 1986), approximately 13,000 individuals
in 1776 (De Moreno & Yánez, 1995) and then decreasing in 1825 to just 9000 people.
The wars of independence resulted in deaths, and generated a ruralization or return to
the countryside (Donoso-Correa, 2000). After Independence, its population increased
rapidly to about 17,000 in 1840 (Saint-Geours, 1986) and nearly 20,000 individuals in
1860 (Donoso-Correa, 2000). This continued population growth meant that Cuenca’s
population reached 30,000 in 1920 (Deler, 1994); it should be noted, however, that, even
before 1950, all these demographics were only approximations. Its spatial expansion
over the centuries was through blocks and streets arranged orthogonally in what is now
known as Cuenca’s Historic Center, which was not badly planned during the colonial
era (Márquez Tapia, 1995) and postcolonial decades because city blocks had streets that
crossed orthogonally and were wide enough for them to be used by pedestrians, horses
and carriages in a comfortable manner. The first motor vehicles were introduced in 1913.
Cuenca’s open spaces themselves were small and limited: parks, squares and markets dis-
persed throughout the urban grid, where people were shopping or walking, and children
and youngsters were playing. In addition, on special occasions these public spaces were
used for religious celebrations or events of civic character.
From the second half of the twentieth century onwards, more accurate demographic
information was collected through the Population and Housing Censuses (Lopes, 1974),
which was conducted at national level every decade. Thus, in 1950, Cuenca had 39,983
inhabitants (Saunders, 1959), and began growing its population and urban area as never
before in its history. In the 1940s Ecuador was in the middle stages of its demographic
transition (Donoso-Correa, 2000) (when the difference between birth rates and mortality
are abrupt), and rural to urban migration was an unprecedented process (Larrea, 1991),
because farmers were seeking better opportunities in the cities. This rapid population
growth forced a planned expansion of the city and, in 1947, the first city plan was drawn
up by the Uruguayan architect Gilberto Gatto Sobral (Cabrera & Ismael, 2010), who,
with his modernist conception, intervened in the area of “ejidos” (communal land),
building a city designed with gardens and villas that would be built over time, with linear
parks and other large tracts of open spaces such as the Mother and Paradise parks and
also with a plot that consisted of a system of wide streets and wide avenues designed to
decongest the growing vehicular traffic.
Later, Cuenca doubled in size (Donoso-Correa, 2000) from 50,402 inhabitants in 1962
to 104,470 in 1974; then it went up to 152,406 in 1982, 198,390 in 1990, reaching 278,995
in 2001 and 331,881 in 2010 (Instituto Nacional de Estadísticas y Censos (INEC), 2010);
these data excluded some rural townships that are now built and integrated into the area
occupied by the city metropolitan area. However, notwithstanding the commonly held
belief that high population growth is the main cause of urban disorder and lack of plan-
ning, Cuenca experienced the highest rates of population growth in its history between
1950 and 1982; yet, the city was well planned.
The problems have arisen since the 1980s and more strongly since the 1990s; despite
the creation of a Department of Planning within the Municipality of Cuenca, the city
started to become disorganized, without new parks, without new avenues, without wide
streets that expand from the downtown into the urban periphery; on the other hand, it is
during this time that Cuenca densified through demolition of houses and construction
of tall buildings, increasing the number of residents many fold, while streets and avenues
were not enlarged to accommodate such an increase, making the city daily life increasingly
more congested.
There are many questions that generate concern for the sustainability of the trend:
When was the proper planning of Cuenca lost? Is this new model of urban planning
a local or a global phenomenon? How can a city be planned with so many errors in an
age where technology helps understanding precisely the processes that generate different
spatial patterns? To what extent is our common sense deceived by new theories that are
in direct contrast to social yearnings? Why does dogma prevail over reason in urban
planning of the Global South?
To turn an idea into reality it is important to have the political will at local, regional
or national levels. Many ideas are never implemented and, therefore, it is never known
whether they would work in the real world; others are tested and fail miserably; yet, there
is a group of ideas that, when tested in practice, produce disastrous results, but are not
abolished until many decades later or perhaps never. The reason for this is very simple:
dogma prevails over reason. To objectively analyze what happens within so-called schools
of scientific thought (Kuhn, 1963), one can find omissions or errors of a philosophical
or technical character.
As an example, the design ideas are conceived without prior collection of statistical and
spatial data generated over time (Law, 2004); without this information, the understand-
ing of urban processes is partial and proper planning becomes a very complicated task.
Therefore, it is essential to have several types of chronological inventory of statistical and
spatial data such as maps, images or geospatial models. Only when there are historical and
current full statistical information for various types of attributes is it possible to determine
by regression (Draper & Smith, 1998) the degree of influence of independent variables
over the dependent variables, as well as being able to understand the past trends (Ostrom,
1990) to finally generate future projections. Also, it is essential to associate the databases
to vector maps and to generate relational databases with Geographical Information
Systems (GIS) (Anselin & Getis, 2010); this tool is essential because it contains a lot of
information, including chiefly the following: intra-urban and intercity vehicular traffic
flows (Hanson & Giuliano, 2004); population data and demographic projections (Hertel
& Sprague, 2007); surfaces of cities, urban expansion areas and potential extensions of
developable land (Sudhira, Ramachandra, & Jagadish, 2004); and urban population
densities and total areas for urban uses (Yunping, 1997), among others. It is not only
important to have plenty of data on a particular city plan, but also to know global
trends about cities’ function and form. We tend to think that each urban area is different,
unique; so are their inhabitants and urban planners, although in reality there are many
similarities between the processes and patterns that occur in all cities around the world
(Angel, 2012). The subjective interpretation of the world without the existence of objec-
tive data constantly deceives individuals, creating misperceptions. For example, someone
just visiting Manhattan would think that people in this city move around on foot or use
public transportation; however, the center of New York is less than 10 percent of its met-
ropolitan area, and in its suburbs most flows are based on private vehicles (Bruegmann,
2006a). The same happens in other cities, including Copenhagen and Amsterdam, famous
for their bicycles.
Other mistakes consist of establishing ambiguous relationships between the elements
of urban systems to be studied, because instead of established methods of rigorous test-
ing based on statistics, such as the aforementioned regression analysis, which effectively
demonstrates the causal relationship between the variables of a system, rather loose
theories are formulated on the basis of subjective criteria of relationships that simply
are believed to exist or, even if these relationships are properly established, they give a
subjective percentage of influence, often exaggerated, to some independent variables,
while others receive diminished importance, distorting reality. Malczewski (2000) cites
several examples of these particular types of errors that are constantly made, especially
with regards to the analysis of skills and land use through the application of weights to
different criteria or attributes in GIS.
Another faulty proposition is the formulation of indicators or indices that have nothing
to do with processes or patterns in the real world. The trend is to think that the bigger the
mathematical formula of an indicator is, it tends to better explain a phenomenon; but, in
reality, the complexity of the urban system depends only on the elements to be analyzed.
The number of elements, the number of interrelationships between them and the mag-
nitude of their different flows are the basic characteristics that determine the degree of
simplicity or complexity of a system (Kendall & Kendall, 2010). Therefore, many scholars
generate complex indices through strange combinations: join several patterns that do not
relate to each other in the real world; mix some processes with other completely different
processes because they are part of separate systems in the real world; or combine patterns
with different processes from where they originated. If science is based on observing and
understanding reality as objectively as possible, then what purpose do certain algebraic
equations have other than clarifying how the real world works, rather than confusing and
disorienting us in our quest for sustainability?
On the other hand, when analyzing technical and technological shortcomings of plan-
ning departments in many local governments of Ecuador, it is observed that they only
use graphic design programs, such as Computer Aided Design (CAD) (Chitchian, Sauren,
& Heeling, 2001), which contain valuable drawing tools, but have severe limitations in
spatial planning. Other departments use GIS (Maguire, Batty, & Goodchild, 2005) that
are designed with algorithms to perform spatial analyses. However, the latter treat time
as an attribute rather than a dimension, without offering the possibility of generating
spatio-temporal models of complex systems. The problem is that dynamic systems
should not be drawn, but simulated (Yuan, 1996). In other words, it is irresponsible to
draw the streets and avenues of a city, then build and finally expect to provide solutions
to real-world problems; the right thing to do is to draw several scenarios, run simulations
(Balmer, Nagel, & Raney, 2004), and only build them after the system works properly in
the virtual stage.
The policy of urban containment is a serious problem for families living in a growing city
(Glaeser, Gyourko, & Saks, 2005), preventing the poorest members from becoming home-
owners, while middle-class households experience enormous difficulties. The problem is
that the largest percentage of equity, from 75 percent to 85 percent, which middle-class
families own is precisely the home where they live (Juster, Smith, & Stafford, 1999). On
the other hand, having to allocate a higher percentage of disposable income to pay the
debt through financial amortization generates lower remaining funds for the purchase
of other goods and services, generating lower levels of consumption and therefore less
money to boost the urban economy (Kotkin, 2007). In addition, the higher percentage
of household income is allocated monthly for their home payments, causing more danger
of falling behind with debts and losing their assets, as the economic situation of families
and businesses changes over time.
All urban planning policy by and large must serve the people. Advocates for policies
pro Smart Growth tout this type of urban planning, creating a balance between the fields
of environmental, social and economic realms, and presenting a Venn diagram of three
circles in articles and lectures, without ever mentioning the serious consequences that
they present in the real world (Jackson, 1987). It is obvious that this paradigm, instead
of presenting this hypothetical equilibrium, rather generates great economic inequalities
between those who can acquire assets and those who cannot; furthermore, those who
already have this net worth increase their added value dramatically; in other words, it
generates more social injustice.
You can analyze the problem of high prices of real estate generated by the policies
of urban containment through the affordability index of buying housing units (Home
Affordability Index (HAI) (Cox, 2002). Its formula is to divide the average price of a typi-
cal house in each city by the average gross annual income of a typical household in the city,
and the result is interpreted as the number of years of effort that each average household
needs to invest to acquire a typical house in each city, without taking into consideration
interest, taxes or spending on other goods and services, all factors that come into play
in reality. One source of this information, the website demographia.com (Bertaud, 2014)
collects data annually for different cities in certain countries. When analyzing this infor-
mation, it clearly shows that the inhabitants of the cities with Smart Growth policies tend
to need more years of effort to acquire a house in relation to those living in cities without
these policies. Also, chronological studies clearly distinguish the time when prices tend
to rise and, in all cases, it coincides with the year in which it was decided to implement
urban containment. It turns out that the more contained and more densified the cities are,
the more they grow in height through buildings, and the harder it becomes to purchase
a home, as in the case of the city of Victoria in Hong Kong (Hui & Yue, 2006), which is
characterized by a green belt and a HAI of 19 years. Also, it draws attention to the cases
of containment policies through greenbelts or UGB in major cities of Australia (Yates,
2008) and some cities in Canada (Moore & Skaburskis, 2004): since there is abundant
space for urban expansion in these two very large countries and population densities are
so low, rates of affordability for buying homes are more than six years in Sydney, Brisbane
or Melbourne in Australia, and Vancouver or Toronto in Canada. Instead, many of the
great cities of the United States (Cox, 2005) where expansion is unrestricted present values
of only three years in relation to their HAI.
Scholars in favor of Smart Growth say that to contain urban sprawl is important because
it generates irreparable damage to the environment, and, specifically, destroys agricultural
(Harvey & Clark, 1965) and natural areas adjacent to it. It is true that, to expand a city,
agricultural and pastoral areas at its periphery will be converted to urban uses, but not
necessarily natural areas if they are protected, except for cities located in countries where
there are weak institutions and laws are transgressed easily. However, arguments in favor
of urban containment ignore the fact that many countries are undergoing a process of
very rapid urbanization. In fact, in rural areas of the poorest countries, millions of people
every year come to live in cities (Angel et al., 2011); it would be more convenient to prepare
urban growth for all these people and, as they will continue coming to the cities, it is
actually a window of opportunity, as Angel (2012) said: “a unique opportunity not to be
lost and must be achieved before the end of the urbanization process in a hundred years”.
The poor migrants from the countryside (Preston, 1969) seeking to improve their living
conditions in cities want a job and, through home ownership, they are able to build their
family heritage; therefore, this right should not be denied, policies cannot go against the
aspirations of the people. Finally, it is necessary to take an inventory of the actual amount
of adjacent land near the cities, to know for sure what is the potential area that has to
be prepared for the expansion of cities. It is known from the Atlas of Urban Expansion,
based on a globally spatial and statistical inventory in 2000 of all cities that occupy only
0.5 percent of the total area of their
countries (Angel, 2012), and when the urbanization
process will be completed in another century, the cities will come to occupy between 2–2.5
percent of the total area of their
countries. Obviously, there are local variations, and there
are countries where their cities occupy 100 percent of their territory, as in the cases of
Monaco or the Vatican, while in Canada, Russia or Australia their cities occupy less than
0.25 percent of their territory (Angel el al., 2010).
Densifying does not imply in any way that city governments do not have to invest in
infrastructure; rather there will be expenses that must necessarily be incurred because they
must break up streets or sidewalks to expand the width of the pipes or expand the network
of electrical and phone cables, etc., repaving or asphalting, and finally must build more
overpasses to relieve the increasing traffic of the congested streets.
Trends show that more and more private vehicles per 1000 people exist every year in
many cities worldwide. Given a strong correlation with improving economic conditions
for the countries, then, they prepare a city for pedestrians, bicycles and public transport
(Tolley, 1990), simply generating growth without wide streets and also with a reduced
number of lanes on the main existing arteries to prioritize other types of mobility. Smart
Growth seeks to densify the city (Schmidt-Thomé et al., 2013) through the construction of
buildings on vacant lots or lots where once there were houses or low villas. The end result
will rather increase vehicular traffic and therefore a more contaminated city (Onursal &
Gautam, 1997).
Indeed, one of the biggest claims made by academics in favor of urban containment is
the environmental pollution caused by industries and vehicles with internal combustion
engines, specifically the CO2 problem that leads to global warming (Intergovernmental
Panel on Climate Change, 2007). While it is true and undeniable that human societies
have contributed to the greenhouse effect, they are not the only ones that emit carbon
dioxide into the atmosphere; all decaying organic matter (Craine, Fierer, & McLauchlan,
2010) is able to generate CO2 (for example, autumn leaves), as well as volcanic eruptions,
which emit it among other gases (Fischer, 2008), and carbon dioxide is also generated (and
sequestered) by the oceans (Takahashi et al., 1999). On the other hand, planet Earth in
its movement, or precession angle, presents cycles (Berger, 1988) of thousands of years in
which there were warmer and colder periods. Finally, the sun shows variation in radiation
intensity, and therefore its heat energy is not constant (Haigh & Cargill, 2015). Thus, one
can say that a lot, but not all, of climate change is anthropogenic; otherwise, how can the
preindustrial phenomena be explained as the little ice age (Mann, 2002) (from 1300 to
1850 approximately) or the medieval warm period (Broecker, 2001) (from 950 to 1250)?
With all the facts mentioned above, it is now possible to analyze what happened with the
planning of the city of Cuenca after architect Gatto Sobral finished his planning project
(Cabrera & Ismael, 2010). First, a few more streets were built, such as the Avenida de las
Americas (also known as the Beltway) and the avenue from Cuenca to Azogues, called
the Freeway (Brito Alemán & Terán Ramos, 1998), both surrounding the city in a loop.
Although, obviously, the city in recent decades has much expanded, leaving the Avenida
de las Americas within it. Apart from these two major arteries, the only street that was
created west of the city was the Avenida Enrique Arízaga Toral, ranging from Cuenca to
San Joaquin and ending in Sayausí. Lately, there has been a project under construction
that would expand Avenida Ordoñez Lasso and another project to create a new outer
Beltway (Solano Jara, 2009).
Regarding the parks, only small parks have been built besides the continuous expansion
of linear parks (Porras López, 2011) along the rivers of the city, as Cuenca expands. In
other words, the city stopped growing without parks and without wide streets due to a
lack of proper planning (Angel, 2008), with local governments not acting in time, and,
therefore, without the possibility of expropriations of important domains when they
still were rural (Fuller & Romer, 2014), This is a totally different way from how the city
used to expand and be built decades ago. The lack of adequate planning simply makes
it impossible to build parks and streets because the municipality needs to recognize not
only the land’s monetary value, but also the value of the built structures. Currently, there
is a project to build a greenbelt, with the aim of getting up to 9 m2 of green area per
capita (Flores-Xolocotzi & de Jesús González-Guillén, 2007), or maybe a little more, and,
thus, to meet the minimum standards recommended by the World Health Organization
(WHO). Regarding the project of this mega park, it is very important to protect all areas
with slopes greater than 30 or 40 degrees surrounding the city; this sloping topography
generates expensive construction costs related to building edifices because they need
deeper foundations, while in rural areas erosional processes (Gray et al., 1982) are
generated. To protect the most vulnerable topographical areas is a brilliant idea, but to
contain the expansion of the city with a greenbelt that encloses the urban areas only will
cause the prices of lots and consequently of houses and apartments to increase further,
as has happened in many cities such as London (Amati, 2016), Hong Kong (Chi-man
Hui & Sze-mun Ho, 2003), Seoul (Green, Malpezzi, & Vandell, 1994), etc. and it must be
remembered that Quito and Cuenca are today dealing with the most expensive real estate
markets in the country.
There are urban myths about the high prices in the city of Cuenca per square meter
of land or housing unit; one of them speaks of the approximately 10,000 foreign retirees
(especially from the USA and to a lesser extent Canada and Europe), who have been
arriving since 2000, as the cause of high real estate prices, and some research has even
been done supporting this hypothesis (Cely et al., 2015). Another myth states that the
high land prices are because the city has occupied all the valley and has no more room to
expand; obviously, it is a city in an enclosed valley between mountains, and consequently
one might think that this hypothesis is true, but when analyzing in detail the maps and
statistics of the Land Use Plan of Canton Cuenca (Municipalidad de Cuenca, 2011), this
plan shows that the extension of the city occupied in the year 2011 only 2 percent of the
area of i ts political jurisdiction (7300 hectares), while the total area of the valleys occupied
20.7 percent of the area of the canton (75.876 hectares). In this plan, maps show large
areas with slopes less than 30 degrees south of the city, especially in the sectors of Tarqui
(Ugalde Sánchez & Quinde Moncayo, 2005) and the sector named El Valle (El Valle,
2011), areas that could be used for future expansion of the city, instead of restricting its
development to a few specific areas as is the case today.
If there are no limits to urban sprawl or a greenbelt does not exist yet, why are the
prices of real estate so high in Cuenca? The answer is very simple and depends on two
phenomena. The observation of orthophotos (Navas & Prieto, 2011) in the urban–rural
periphery demonstrated that, apart from the existence of roads leading to the main towns
in the parish and a few secondary roads, there is a lack of road infrastructure (Barreto &
Díaz, 2007), creating a shortage of potentially buildable lots because of the lack of access
to and infrastructure of basic services. The city is being built almost simultaneously with
the opening of new streets, causing another kind of urban containment, where the land
also rises in value through imbalances between reduced supply and high demand. On the
other hand, the same municipal ordinances have been responsible for increasing the prices
of lands inside the city, allowing the construction of buildings (with all its enormous
associated costs) in areas where there were houses or villas. This means that the expansion
of the city of Cuenca is contained in its periphery by lack of public investment in roads
and other infrastructure, while inside there is a process of densification (Hermida et al.,
2015). This is precisely the ideal recipe to unnecessarily increase the prices of real estate
and generate serious social and economic consequences for all citizens of this city.
With respect to vehicular traffic (Bleviss, 2000), this has steadily increased with the
passing of the years, and its causes depend on the following factors: as already men-
tioned above, the city has grown in recent decades with a lack of new wide streets able
to effectively serve a boost in the flow of cars; on the other hand, some streets have lost
lanes, such as the Avenida April 12, to be replaced by pedestrian paths; Avenida Solano
was also reduced to build bikeways (Villa Uvidia, 2014), Avenida de las Americas has
lost the west two lanes for the new trolley way (Medina et al., 2016), for these reasons,
traffic congestions have increased and the overpasses built have been few in relation to
the real needs of the city. In addition, they have demolished houses and villas in many
parts of the city (for example, in the Ejido and along the Avenida Ordoñez Lasso), to be
replaced by tall buildings, and where there were, for example, two cars, there are now 20
or more, which will have to use the same streets and avenues. In conclusion, a city that was
designed for houses, should not be converted through simple drawings and ordinances to
a city of tall buildings, especially if an adequate road infrastructure did not already exist
to avoid traffic congestion caused by this densification process (O’Toole, 2001). Finally,
it should be noted that since the dollarization of the economy of Ecuador in the year
2000 (Naranjo, 2005), the government has increased investment and public spending
(Moncayo & Solano, 2013) and, through continuous wage increases (Burgos, Nivela, &
Intriago, 2016), the country and thus its cities have gradually generated a middle class in
recent years, both in absolute and percentage terms. It is precisely these households that,
with more income, are likely to take out bank loans and therefore to buy more vehicles,
whether new or used, producing more traffic; as a result, traffic jams have become part
of the everyday life of the city.
Finally, it should be noted that the dense vehicular traffic generates CO2 and other
greenhouse gases, and these same pollutants (Kuniholm, 2011) cause serious health
problems at the local level (Espinoza & Molina, 2014) to the respiratory system (López
Ortiz & Pacheco González, 2015). There are numerous reports about this for the city of
Cuenca, such as respiratory alterations (Pesántez Díaz, 2009), asthma (Maldonado Díaz,
2012), etc. Another serious problem is the noise of the city, which exists in more parts of
this Andean city (Delgado & Martínez, 2015).
CONCLUSIONS
The interaction between different factors is responsible for the failure of urban planning
in many cities around the world, as has happened in the city of Cuenca. Typical problems
are dense urbanization of the central area of the city with a mix of housing, offices and
businesses, and the lack of an adequate transport infrastructure, while its periphery is
mainly occupied by a dense collection of houses. Contrary to the past, when designers
included in urban planning open spaces for gardens and other areas of large parks, urban
policy, design and planning remain outside reality, because urban development is more
dynamic than the adaptation and implementation of proper planning. The main causes
of this phenomenon has been the rapid growth of the urban population, particularly since
the second half of the twentieth century, as a result of a strong migratory movement of the
rural population and the influx of foreigners for leisure and economic development that
have led to the proliferation of apartment blocks, exaggerated real estate prices, and an
explosion in the number of cars, so that the existing road infrastructure is supersaturated,
with a negative impact on the environment, and ultimately undermining the health of
urban dwellers.
The review of the related literature revealed that there is an abundance of recent
literature on how to design urban areas so as to provide a healthy and sustainable environ-
ment for life and work, equipped with open and green spaces, and a variety of forms of
transport infrastructure, ranging from walking, public transport and road infrastructure
for private cars. Moreover, today’s city planners tend to differentiate themselves from
their predecessors in their willingness to have a wide range of technological tools for data
collection and processing, data analysis and design. The reason that there are problems
in planning is probably due to the fact that there is a lack of understanding of how
urban areas should be planned, a lack of experience in the proper use of a wide range of
technological tools, and this results in errors in making the right policy decisions.
It is important that short-term interventions in urban planning are part of a regional
long-term view of the expected dynamics, and different scenarios of possible develop-
ments are studied and analyzed based on profitability and sustainability. Politicians and
urban planners, in cooperation with society, all working together, must in future use
properly the knowledge and modern technologies, taking into serious consideration the
wishes and aspirations of city dwellers, so that Cuenca, Ecuador’s third largest city and
economic center of the southern highlands, can be equipped with an infrastructure that
will ensure a better balance between the different functions of the city.
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COUNTRY EXAMPLES:
NON-TRADITIONAL
ACTORS/TEK
INTRODUCTION
Land cover and land use change (LCLUC) refers to conversion of natural and human-
dominated landscapes through human processes. It is a force of global significance because
local LCLUC processes can impact both regional and global factors such as climate, biodi-
versity, and human health (Foley et al., 2005; Brandt and Townsend, 2006). For example,
emergence of infectious diseases, such as Lyme disease in the northeastern United States,
is strongly linked to wildlife habitat change, including altered breeding sites and changing
vector biodiversity resulting from land use changes (Patz et al., 2008). Further, urbanization
and agricultural expansion are considered among the two most important anthropogenic
factors impacting climate (Kalnay and Cai, 2003). Because of the multifaceted nature of
LCLUC, incorporating both human and environmental systems and their interactions, the
study of LCLUC now forms a cornerstone of sustainability research (Turner et al., 2007).
Within the United States, mountain landscapes, in particular, share complex relation-
ships with land cover change processes (see Messerli and Ives, 1997) given the following
factors: (1) a large portion of US mountain landscapes are designated as public lands,
and are sometimes federally protected; (2) mountainous regions are distinctive by nature
of their many physical and cultural amenities, which attract tourists and new residents
(Glorioso and Moss, 2007); and (3) mountains are vulnerable to landscape change
(Messerli et al., 2004; Dobrowski and Parks, 2016). Further, altitudinal gradients provide
highly varied landscapes through differences in landcover, biota, slope, and exposure,
increasing opportunities for land use changes. Combined, these forces and their interac-
tions have important implications for outcomes of LCLUC on mountain sustainability.
Worldwide, although mountains are strongholds of the remaining ‘protected’ places,
they experience unsustainable rates of change. As of 2001, mountainous landscapes con-
stituted one-third of the earth’s total protected areas (IUCN, 2019). In the United States,
many western mountainous regions were originally designated as national parks based on
spectacular scenery, charismatic wildlife (Sax and Keiter, 2006), and recreational oppor-
tunities (IUCN, 2019). In the 1990s, the concept of integrated ecosystem-based manage-
ment was more readily embraced (Sax and Keiter, 2006) along with the recognition that
ecosystem processes operate independently of ownership or administrative boundaries
(Guercio and Duane, 2009) and are open systems, with feedback among resources,
people, and the environment from local to global scales (Lambin and Meyfroidt, 2011).
Thus, mountain parklands have been increasingly celebrated for integrated attributes of
270
biodiversity (Jenik, 1997; Hannah et al., 2005; Sala et al., 2000), watershed protection,
and critical habitat.
Ironically, protected landscapes often attract behaviors that threaten the purpose
of their preservation, such as the impact of tourists and new residents—often, for the
same reasons they were originally protected. Research shows that preference for specific
landscape characteristics drives rural area migration to mountain areas (Price et al., 1997;
McGranahan, 1999; 2008; Moss, 2006). Such development intensification differs from
previous movement of people into mountain regions, because it is driven by high valuation
of environmental, recreational, and cultural amenities (Price et al., 1997; Glorioso and
Moss, 2007), rather than by resource extraction. Amenity migrants, now permanent new
residents of amenity-rich locales, value leisure opportunities, and aesthetic and cultural
enjoyment. In the Rocky Mountains, attractions include mountain vistas, wildlife, acces-
sibility of public lands, forested landscapes, and relative solitude (Rasker and Hansen,
2000; McGranahan, 2008). Rural landscape preference results in patterns of development
recognizably different than those found in more urban areas. For example, Riebsame et al.
(1996) note that ex-urban (that is, low-intensity) development occurs around public lands
at the wildland–urban interface because of the ease of access to recreational activities and
opportunities. Across the US Intermountain West (Arizona, Colorado, Idaho, Montana,
Nevada, New Mexico, Utah, and Wyoming) low-density residential development has been
advancing at a rapid pace (Alm and Witt, 1995; Riebsame et al. 1996; Rasker and Hansen,
2000). As a result, new land use patterns, including dispersed residential development,
replaced ranches or less-altered landscapes (see Theobald et al., 1996 for Colorado).
By nature of their complex topography, weather, and disturbance processes, mountain
areas are highly sensitive landscapes (Messerli et al., 2004; Dobrowski and Parks, 2016),
especially in the context of a changing climate, and thus are susceptible to intense human
influence. Even the most remote national parks contend with development and related
environmental pressures at their borders (Sax and Keiter, 2006), which may render them
susceptible to biodiversity loss, soil erosion, and increased exposure to natural hazards.
Throughout the Rocky Mountains, activities on lands adjacent to national parks include
timber harvesting, oil and gas development, grazing, agricultural expansion, and
urbanization (Foley et al. 2005). It is likely that many such activities cause both direct
and indirect harm to habitat and wildlife in national parks, in addition to impacts upon
experiences of park visitors. As a result, these ecosystems will be increasingly difficult to
protect in their intact, natural, states (Goetz et al., 2009). Such processes challenge the
concept of ‘protected’ mountainous regions.
affecting highly sensitive ecosystems within GNP, both directly and indirectly. GNP has
been recognized as among the most threatened national parks in the United States, given
surrounding development activities and competing land uses that pressure terrestrial
and aquatic ecological diversity (Omernik, 1987; Sax and Kieter, 2006). Here we are
especially interested in change in forests and agricultural lands, and growth of impervi-
ous surface cover change as a type of LCLUC because these landscape changes often
encapsulate urbanization processes.
Examination of increases in impervious surface cover forms a meaningful marker
of land use change because of its impact upon local hydrology, its contributions to
disruption of the landscape’s thermal balance, and its role as a distinctive indicator of
increasing population density. Although we recognize measurements of LCLUC are not
solely sufficient to provide an understanding of driving forces behind land use change, our
results form the basis for examination of how changing LCLUC is impacting, and may
continue to impact, the GNP region.
For our study area and for the following time periods: 1991–2001, 2001–2011, and
1991–2011, our specific objectives were: (1) to quantify changes in amount, and assess
spatial organization of, impervious surface cover; and (2) to quantify changes in amount,
and assess spatial organization of, forest and agricultural cover.
Study Area
Our study area includes Flathead and Glacier Counties, Montana. These counties lie in
the far northwestern corner of Montana, bordered to the north by Canada. GNP strad-
dles the Continental Divide, which forms the western boundary of Glacier County and
the eastern boundary of Flathead County (Figure 17.1); thus, GNP is included in both
study counties.
With the exception of the far eastern portion of Glacier County, the bulk of our
study area lies within the US portion of the Crown of the Continent Ecosystem (CCE),
a mountainous region considered to be among the most ecologically intact landscapes
within the lower 48 (Carolin et al., 2007). The region is characterized by a complex mosaic
of natural, public, and private lands (Prato and Fagre, 2007). The US portion of the CCE
(~47,200 km2) is comprised of 80 percent federal and state public lands, including GNP
lands managed by the United States Department of Agriculture (USDA) Forest Service
(including Wilderness Areas and National Forests), the Bureau of Indian Affairs, and
Montana State Forests. Private land is largely agricultural or forested landscapes owned
by timber companies. In Flathead County alone, employment growth is found primarily
in trade and service sectors, and real estate and construction. Next to Gallatin County,
Flathead County is the second fastest growing county in Montana; it has grown over 24
percent since 2000—a rate higher than both the state and national averages (Figure 17.2).
Longstanding industries, including agriculture, and wood products manufacturing, are
now generally in decline (Prato and Fagre, 2007), yet remain active in some regions of
the Flathead Valley. In contrast, Glacier County has grown only 3 percent, despite its
relevance as a gateway to GNP. The Blackfeet Reservation encompasses 1.5 million acres
of Glacier County and borders GNP to the east. Tourism, ranching, and farming, plus oil
and natural gas leases, have formed sources of outside income (McNeel, 2015).
Topographic complexity and relief (from ~1000 m on the Blackfeet Indian Reservation in
273
80,000
Population
60,000
40,000
20,000
0
30
40
50
60
70
80
90
00
10
e
at
19
19
19
19
19
19
19
20
20
tim
es
15
20
Source: US Census data.
Figure 17.2 Population trends of Flathead County, Glacier County, and entire study
area, 1920–2015
Methods
Consortium (MRLC, http://www.mrlc.gov/). The 2001 and 2011 NLCD land cover
products use a consistent land cover classification scheme, and classification accuracies
are reasonably high (overall accuracy . 80 percent; Wickham et al. 2010). To extend
our decadal LCLUC analysis to the early 1990s, we downloaded the NLCD 1992/2001
Retrofit Land Cover Change Product, which was designed to provide a consistent com-
parison between 1992 and 2001 NLCD products (Fry et al., 2009).
In order to quantify ex-urban growth, we obtained detailed percent impervious surface
map products for 2001 and 2011 from the MRLC. For these map products, fractional
impervious surface was estimated for each 30 m pixel using regression tree techniques
(Homer et al., 2004). We believe these maps provide better representations of varying
levels of urban intensity than NLCD thematic classes (low to high intensity urban areas),
especially for mountainous regions where impervious surfaces are spatially dispersed
and limited in aggregate area. Thus, direct use of percent impervious surface maps has
advantages for total area estimation and detecting subtle land cover changes associated
with urban development.
For our study there was no ready-to-use impervious surface map product available for
the early 1990s; we thus developed one for our study area using Landsat TM (Thematic
Mapper) images (Path: 41, Row: 26 and 27). Four Landsat images for 1991 and 2001 were
downloaded from the USGS GLOVIS website (http://glovis.usgs.gov/). The 1991 Landsat
images were collected on 21 August and the 2001 images were collected on 16 August.
All selected images have minimal cloud contamination (, 10 percent) and have been
processed to high standards of spectral, radiometric, and geometric integrity.
Table 17.1 Change in area and rate of impervious surface cover change
increase was variable between the two decades of analysis. Overall, there was more urban
development from 1991 to 2001 (1 6.69 km2) than from 2001 to 2011 (1 3.97 km2). The
annual increase rate was ~1.90 percent and 0.95 percent for 1992–2001 and 2001–2011,
respectively.
Despite similarities in both county’s sizes and proximity to GNP, the nature of
impervious surface cover change and change rate was spatially variable between the two
counties. Although communities in the Blackfeet Indian Reservation abutting GNP serve
as important seasonal gateways for park visitors, all four selected pattern indices show
subtler dynamics for the entire study period within Glacier County due to slower rates
of intensification in imperviousness. Sax and Keiter (1987) suggested that the Rocky
Mountain Front range east of GNP is somewhat safeguarded from ‘industrial incursion’
since Blackfeet interests are prioritized on the reservation and relationships between
the Blackfeet and GNP have been strained. A follow-up study (Sax and Keiter, 2006)
reinforced the positive outlook for the Front Range near Glacier Park. The establishment
of a nonprofit land trust to ‘perpetuate respect for the land consistent with culture and
heritage of the Blackfeet’ (Prato and Fagre, 2007) may have helped to advance environ-
mental stewardship and sustainability on the Rocky Mountain Front in Glacier County.
Flathead County had a higher level of imperviousness as well as higher rates of imper-
vious surface intensification than did Glacier County for the 1991–2001 and 2001–2011
study periods. Increase of impervious surfaces outside GNP were almost identical to those
derived for the entire study area, indicating LCLUC in the form of impervious surface
change was minimal inside the park. Inside GNP, total amount of impervious surfaces
was steady, with only a slight growth from 0.46 km2 in 1991 to 0.50 km2 in 2001, and
remaining at 0.50 km2 in 2011.
Percent of landscape (PLAND) values for impervious surfaces was fairly low for all
three analytical areas (the entire study area, Flathead County, and Glacier County), from
1991 to 2011, with highest values (0.63 percent, 0.71 percent, and 0.76 percent for 1991,
2001, and 2001 respectively) observed for Flathead County (Figure 17.3). This trend sug-
gests that the area remains primarily undeveloped, but dynamic. Highest LPI values were
278
0 0 0 0 0 0
1992 2001 2011 1992 2001 2011 1992 2001 2011
Figure 17.3 Spatial organization of impervious surface cover as measured by four pattern indices: PLAND (percent), LPI
(percent), MPS (ha), and PSCOV (no unit)
20/04/2020 14:23
LCLUC in a national park gateway 279
also observed for Flathead County. LPI values for Flathead County increased from 0.15
in 1991 to 0.26 in 2001, and then 0.30 in 2011. For both the entire study area and Flathead
County, MPS values, a measure of size of patches of impervious cover, slightly decreased
from 1991 to 2001, and then increased from 2001 to 2011. Decrease of MPS values from
1991 to 2001 may be attributed to increase of small (and isolated) impervious patches, a
pattern often linked to urban sprawl (Wilson et al., 2003). Subsequent increase of MPS in
the following decade may represent infill urban growth processes, where small impervious
patches were developed to fill vacant lands, and potentially link pre-existing and isolated
impervious patches to larger ones. For both the entire study area and Flathead County,
PSCOV values continued to increase for the whole study period, and a faster increase rate
was observed from 1991 to 2001. PSCOV statistics suggest sizes of impervious patches
became more heterogeneous through time, possibly reflecting infilling and smaller patches
of new urban growth simultaneously.
To illustrate the type and trajectory of change in the region, and those characterized by
the landscape pattern metrics, Figure 17.4 provides a detail of representative urban change
in the northern outskirts of Kalispell, MT (Flathead County), which is a growing amenity
location to the west of GNP. The physical geography of this landscape is largely glacial
outwash, with even terrain, well-drained gravels, sands and silts, with three streams drain-
ing roughly south toward Flathead Lake. Meander scars and oxbow lakes document the
dynamic history of local channel migration. The 1990 image shows a largely agricultural
landscape, cultivating (as documented by the USDA Cropland Data Layer) chiefly canola,
barley, winter wheat, and spring wheat. Kalispell’s residential development occupies the
southern edge of the image as clusters of residential and commercial development, sepa-
rated by small patches of open land. The inset at the lower center of the 1990 image docu-
ments a small region of disturbed terrain—a harbinger of impending land use changes as
residential and commercial development of Kalispell advance toward the northwest.
By 2014, the disturbed lands shown in the earlier image are now occupied by a shopping
center completed from the disturbed land visible in the 2014 image, illustrating the con-
tinuous advance of residential construction. The advance of impervious surfaces into the
former floodplain increases risk of channeling floodwaters further downstream into the
developed regions of Kalispell. Other streams at the eastern edge of the image retain their
floodplains, some sections wooded, forming riparian buffers. The 2014 image also shows
two large golf courses, perhaps to support increased tourism and seasonal residents, and
two large gravel pits, likely associated with increased pace of construction. The northern
and northwestern region of the 2014 image shows largely agriculture land uses, raising
mainly the same crops as in 1990. The downstream reaches of the image are characterized
by more development close to rivers, and more impervious surfaces, as development fills
in gaps visible in the earlier image. Some areas that have been infilling have occurred in
prime winter range for the grizzly bear (Ursus arctos horribilis), underlining, first, how
anthropogenic landscapes often do not mimic actual habitat ranges of GNP wildlife (Sax
and Keiter, 2006) and, second, how the juxtaposition of human and animal ranges is likely
to result in increased (often problematic) human–wildlife encounters.
1990
2014
0 0.5 1 mi
0 0.5 1 km
0 0.5 1 mi
0 0.5 1 km
Source: Image credits: Kalispell 1990, Google Earth; US Geological Survey 30 June 1990. Kalispell 2014,
Google Earth; USDA Farm Service Agency, 20 September 2014.
e xtensive landscape type (the matrix), and, as such, harbor extensive control over eco-
logical processes. Further, in the context of considering land use change, forests embody
amenity values of local residents, since many people are willing to pay to live near certain
landscapes and amenities, including forests (Waltert and Schläpfer, 2010; Gibbons et al.,
2014). Thus, change in forested landscapes is likely to have both ecological and economic
implications. We also consider agricultural landscapes because research across the United
States over the past two decades has reported that agricultural lands contributed as the
main source area for urban change (Zipperer et al., 2000; Maestas et al., 2003; Prato,
2012).
The overall trend for the forest class was decline (Table 17.2). From 1991 to 2011, the
entire study area observed similar rates (‒8.81 to ‒9.94 percent) of forest loss across the
various spatial analytical units; however, there were large differences in forest loss between
the study time periods. Total forest areas remained relatively stable from 1991 to 2001, but
losses increased substantially between 2001 and 2011.
A large portion of Glacier County that is not protected by GNP is agricultural (see
Figure 17.1). Agricultural lands decreased from 1991 to 2011, although at relatively slower
Forest (km2)
Entire study Flathead Glacier Inside Outside
area County County GNP GNP
1991 11644 10179 1465 2655 8989
2001 11467 10014 1453 2647 8820
2011 10503 9167 1336 2397 8104
Forest (% increase or decrease)
Entire study Flathead Glacier Inside Outside
area County County GNP GNP
1991–2001 ‒1.52 ‒1.62 ‒0.82 ‒0.30 ‒1.88
2001–2011 ‒8.41 ‒8.46 ‒8.05 ‒9.44 ‒8.12
1991–2011 ‒9.80 ‒9.94 ‒8.81 ‒9.72 ‒9.85
rates (Table 17.3) than the forest class. The highest decreasing rate (‒27.27 percent) was
observed inside the GNP; however, such a high rate was derived from minimum amount
of agricultural lands (~10 km2) and a small change of total area may lead to high ratio
value.
Overall, our study area has experienced an increase in the number of forest patches
accompanied by a decrease in average forest patch size (Figure 17.5). PLAND values
suggest that forest was the dominant land cover (that is, over 50 percent) of landscape,
although forest percentage was decreasing over time. The largest patch (LPI) of the forest
class decreased from 37 percent of the total study area in 1991 to 32 percent by 2011.
The MPS for forest patches increased slightly 1992–2001, then decreased 2001–2011.
Meanwhile, PSCOV values showed a contrasting reverse change pattern. Increase of
PSCOV values from 2001 to 2011 indicates a higher level of heterogeneity with respect
to forest patch sizes. These results document a process of increasing forest fragmentation
and could indicate a trend of decreasing landscape functionality and connectivity due to
human activities, insect infestations, forest fires, and other disturbances.
The agricultural land cover class displayed large differences of MPS and PSCOV across
time, especially from 1991 to 2001 (Figure 17.5). It should be noted that agricultural
land included both pasture/hay and cultivated crops. Image classification of pasture/hay
2006
2011
0 0.5 1 mi
0 0.5 1 km
0 2 mi 4 mi
0 3 km
Source: Image credits: Red Eagle 2006, Google Earth; USDA Farm Service Agency, 20 June 2006; Red
Eagle 2011, Google Earth; USDA Farm Service Agency, 16 July 2011.
Figure 17.6 Land cover changes south of Saint Mary, MT, 2006 and 2011
The 2006 image shows the region (elevation: about 1798 m), outside the GNP border,
as well-established forested land – at higher elevations, tree species are predominantly
whitebark pine (Pinus albicaulis), subalpine fir (Abies lasiocarpa), and Engelmann
spruce (Picea engelmannii). Lodgepole pine (Pinus contorta), Douglas-fir (Pseudotsuga
menziesii) and quaking aspen (Populus tremuloides) dominate at lower elevations. Large
areas have been selectively logged, visible as open meadows. Logging may have, in part,
supported pencil manufacturing by the Blackfeet Indian Pencil Company, located in
Browning, MT, operating from 1972 to 1992 as a means to generate income for the
Blackfeet Indian Tribe (Selden, 2000). Although not visible in this image, this area is the
scene of multiple natural disturbances that have subsequently impacted this landscape,
including widespread mortality of whitebark pine by white pine blister rust (caused
by the invasive pathogen Cronartium ribicola), and a dramatic rise of western spruce
budworm (Choristoneura occidentalis) in Glacier County in 2012 (USDA Forest Service,
2013).
The 2011 image shows the same scene after the 2006 Red Eagle Fire that burned
about 8806 ha, much shown within this image. The scene shows logging roads, trails
(including informal trails and off-road vehicle trails), and scars from post-Red Eagle Fire
harvesting and lodgepole pine regeneration, often following the same patterns recorded
in pre-fire images. A recent report documents how some tribal natives have supplemented
ranching income by trucking and selling raw logs harvested from tribally-owned lands
on the Blackfeet Reservation in Glacier County to mills in Columbia Falls, Kalispell
(Flathead County). These small mills are increasingly challenged by access restrictions to
raw timber on large, privately owned lots monopolized by large paper companies. Note
in Figure 17.6 how the small region of GNP visible west of Divide Creek is unaltered
between the two time frames. Also, consider the absence of impervious surface cover
in this scene, which lies immediately adjacent to GNP, highlighting that the type and
intensity of LCLUC is spatially variable. As this study and others suggest, landscape
change includes anthropogenic and natural forcings, such as forest fires and native insect
outbreaks, but the trajectory, type, and rates may have long-term and broad spatial
implications (Antrop, 2004). Understanding the intensity, degree of impact, and spatial
extent of these multiple layers of human and natural disturbances provides key ecological
insights into potential park impacts, effects of landscape legacy on biophysical processes
(see Foster et al., 2003), and future LCLUC trajectories.
Despite its comparatively rural location, GNP is no longer isolated from urbanization
and the impacts of landscape change. Other work has qualified landscape change in the
CCE (Sax and Keiter, 2006; Prato and Fagre, 2007); however, this study is the first, to
our knowledge, to quantitatively document the amount and rate of change in impervious
surface cover in forest and in agriculture classes for GNP and neighboring counties. Our
time period (1991–2011) captures change in recent decades since serviced-based econo-
mies supporting tourism or population growth have come to the forefront over extractive
industries in the late 1980s (Prato and Fagre, 2007).
Sustainability research should integrate impacts of key processes from local to global
scales, and the interaction of social and natural systems (Kates et al. 2001). The study of
spatio-temporal landscape change in Flathead and Glacier County will add knowledge
about how long-term trends in environmental change and development may redefine
nature–society interactions within this region (e.g., Clark, 2007). Our results reveal
impervious surface cover change and intensification to be spatially asymmetrical in areas
outside GNP, while little change occurred within the park. For example, we documented
a 30.30 percent increase in impervious surface cover change for the entire study region,
with the bulk of the change concentrated in Flathead County, and the highest change
rates occurring between 1991 and 2001 (Table 17.2). Regarding GNP and its neighboring
counties, Sax and Keiter (2006, 258) noted:
Until quite recently, to the extent there were private lands on its borders, they were of only
minor consequence to the park and its mission. Such lands were mostly undeveloped, in very
low-density agricultural use, or had only a little widely scattered housing.
Land use land cover Potential broad- Evidence of local impacts tied to LCLUC
change measures scale implications (examples from Flathead and Glacier Counties)
Forest fragmentation
Examples: Ecological flow Interior (wolverine) wildlife species habitat quality
Change in patch area and function at risk (Copeland and Yates, 2006).
and edge Altered fire Fire suppression; decline in fire dependent
metrics, spatial dynamics spread ecosystems (Keane and Key 2007).
configuration, of invasive Recurrent insect infestations (Carolin et al., 2007).
patch richness species Altered wildlife (mountain goat) corridors
Habitat function (Pedevillano and Wright, 1987).
Animal behavior Railroad grain spills and collisions with grizzly
bears at southern GNP border (Robbins, 2004).
Altered fire dynamics (Keane et al., 1999).
Mandated reductions in timber harvesting in
Flathead National Forest, due to concern over
grizzly bear habitat security and declining old
growth habitat (Sax and Keiter, 2006).
Land use conversion
Examples: Erosion Cattle grazing on Blackfeet Indian Reservation
Rural to urban land Altered competes with native wildlife (Presti, 2005).
conversion, Forest biogeochemical Biodiversity, species richness, competition for
to agricultural cycles resources among cervids (Jenkins and Wright,
conversion, Habitat reduction 1988).
Agricultural land to and altered Grizzly bear behavior changes in response to
urban conversion biotic alterations in vegetation cover (McLellan and
interactions Shackleton, 1988).
Climate change Destruction of grasslands breeding success of
Loss of savannah swallows that migrate from the CCE to
biodiversity South America (Long, 2007).
Impervious surface cover change
Examples: New corridors for Recent local reports of landslides (slumps) are
Increased roads, poachers, associated with suburban development (Priddy,
paving roads, hunters, invasive 2014).
subdivision species and Altered mountain goat corridors (Pedevillano
development, human–wildlife and Wright, 1987).
development in encounters Grizzly bear habitat loss with demographic
support of tourism Water and nutrient consequences (McLellan and Shackleton, 1988).
availability Increased helicopter noise from scenic flyovers
Land erosion and (Sax and Keiter, 2006).
degradation Alien flora in grasslands adjacent to roads and
New services that trails (Tyser and Worley, 1992).
are incompatible Rockfall/debris flow hazards associated with
with protected highways adjacent to and within the park (Butler
areas 1990; Wilkerson and Schmidt, 2003).
Animal behavior modification near roadways
(Trombulak and Frissell, 2000).
for the preservation of iconic wildlife species, anthropogenic noise can alter animal behav-
iors, physiology, and ultimately drive species out of a location (Kight and Swaddle, 2011),
altering biodiversity and ecosystem function. Identification of areas heavily impacted by
noise pollution within GNP may serve as an important first step in mitigating the impacts
(e.g., Buxton et al., 2017) and coming to agreements for environmentally compatible
development outside the park.
We can envision more questions to be addressed, with respect to impacts of emerging gate-
ways to protected mountain landscapes. These include establishment of clear connections
between drivers of landscape change and observed LCLUC, so that local tipping points
and human–ecological feedbacks may be identified. Additionally, there is a need to both
parse out, and identify interdependencies between, processes of natural and human-induced
land cover change, so the extent and intensity of their individual impacts may be formally
assessed. Finally, research on directional interrelationships among land cover change
processes (such as determining whether urban change frequently results in fragmentation)
would enable the development of predictive LCLUC models over multiple spatial scales.
We conclude with recognition of an excellent established literature on LCLUC in other
mountainous regions in the US Intermountain West. Much of this work documents
LCLUC in growing metropolitan mountain regions, such as the Colorado Front Range,
that have experienced ongoing LCLUC intensification for several decades (Riebsame et
al., 1996; Theobald et al., 1996). Rapid population increases in rural regions is a rising
phenomenon; these changes, albeit subtler at least initially, are also reflected in the chang-
ing landscape footprint (Theobald, 2000). Thus, LCLUC in rural mountain areas may
be less understood, but no less critical for understanding spatially varying approaches to
sustainable mountain development (see Sarmiento, 2008). By examining rural gateways
to protected landscapes, we may be able to understand how land cover change trajectories
operate at emerging stages.
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● G
enerating and strengthening knowledge about the ecology and sustainable development
of mountain ecosystems.
● Promoting integrated watershed development and alternative livelihood opportunities.
This was confirmed by “Rio 1 10” and the proclamation of the International Year of
Mountains in 2002. The document of the Rio 1 20 Conference (“The Future we Want”)
recognizes once again the importance of mountain ecosystems and the benefits of
mountain resources and services for a large portion of the world’s population (Devenish
and Gianelli 2012). Furthermore, the significance of mountains as a home for indigenous
1
This chapter is dedicated to the memory of the late Robert Rhoades, a highly esteemed colleague and
friend with whom I shared stimulating transdisciplinary views on rural sustainability in the Andes (Rhoades
2006). The book Listening to the Mountains (Rhoades 2007) inspired me to the choice of the title of this
contribution. Rhoades has underlined the important role of mountains in the global struggle to create a
sustainable world, and that we have to “listen to the mountains and their inhabitants” (Rhoades 2007: ix).
Because mountain people have an inherent wisdom and a rich indigenous knowledge, “mountain planners have
much to learn from the very people they claim to serve” (Rhoades 2007: xiii), and “the mountain professional
community should devote a good portion of its energy to creating new ways of thinking and acting for the
direct benefit of mountain people” (2007: xiv).
293
people and local communities has been underlined. On the other hand, the vulnerability
of fragile mountain ecosystems and of marginal mountain communities and their adverse
impacts have been portrayed by the Rio 1 20 Conference (Chand and Leimgruber 2016,
publisher’s summary).
The importance of mountains, their ecosystems, resources and communities have
become the subject of a substantial body of scientific literature, in books (e.g. Messerli
and Ives 1997; Mountain Agenda 2002; CONDESAN 2011; Ariza, Maselli and Kohler
2013; Price et al. 2013; Grover et al. 2014; Chand and Leimgruber 2016), as well as in
numerous journal articles and reports. Even more abundant are the regional studies of
specific mountain realms. Making reference to this vast body of literature would clearly
go beyond the scope of this chapter. The same applies even more so for the abundant
multidisciplinary literature on sustainable development. De Fries and Petersen (2009)
have made an attempt to conceptualize sustainable development and to connect different
values, knowledge, worldviews and scenarios in an innovative assessment methodology.
In a large number of studies, the issues of different spectrums of ecological, economic,
social, cultural and political sustainability have been addressed. This author proposes to
use in many instances the term “sustainability” instead of “sustainable development”,
because sustainability may not necessarily be connected to development.
The literature on sustainable rural development in the Andes is vast and can only be
referred to in a highly selective fashion (Czerny and Córdova 2014; Czerny et al. 2015).
Sustainability may imply conservation, different forms of adaptation to new challenges
and opportunities, mitigation of environmental stress, of vulnerabilities, and of risks and
hazards, and an adherence to traditional practices and livelihoods which may be threatened
by certain forms of development, especially if it is driven by external forces and agents.
This is reflected by the new paradigms of “local development”, “indigenous development”
(Andolina, Laurie and Radcliffe 2009), “indigenous sustainability”, “ethno-sciences”
(Rist and Dahdouh-Guebas 2006), “ethnodevelopment” (Laurie, Andolina and Radcliffe
2005), “participatory development”, or “development with identity” (Rhoades 2006;
Radcliffe, Laurie and Andolina 2009) as alternative forms of development emphasizing
the securing of healthy ecosystems, a safeguarding of the traditional cultural heritage,
grassroot livelihoods with a careful use of local resources, indigenous empowerment and
rights, social equity and consensual and participatory forms of development initiatives.
Mountain realms for a long time have been hotspots of biological diversity, indispens
able water towers for adjacent lowlands, centers of the domestication of plants and
animals and of agricultural innovations, deposits of rich mineral and forest resources,
and in some regions also of advanced civilizations. Yet the resources of mountains tended
to be exploited, and their populations marginalized. Today, mountain environments and
communities are facing an array of changes and transformations resulting from climatic
changes, cultural assimilations, new population dynamics, a changing global economic
order and external political interferences.
Many observers and local mountain people see these profound changes as a threat to
sustainable environments and livelihoods, and undoubtedly there are many examples of
overexploited resources, degraded environments, new and sometimes massive forms of
un-sustainability, and impoverished marginalized mountain people. In some situations,
though, mountain communities have positively responded to the new challenges, seized
new opportunities, “re-discovered” successful traditional social and economic livelihoods,
and made substantial gains in political participation and empowerment. As a result, new
forms and “islands of rural sustainability” (Bebbington 1997) can be detected.
Rist et al. (2011) have pointed out that “endogenous knowledge has become an important
component of bottom-up approaches to strengthening sustainable development” (2011,
119). In contrast to relying solely on techno-rational scientific methods and findings,
endogenous knowledge and development options are rooted in the “wisdom”, experiences
and visions of local people. Endogenous knowledge also promises a new approach to
sustainability and a more diligent use of natural resources (Ploeg and Long 1994; Odora
Hoppers 2002; Haverkort, van’t Hooft and Hiemstra 2003). Endogenous knowledge
tends to be holistic, cumulative and adaptive, and is often rooted in communal practices,
as well as social and economic rituals and traditions. Quite often, there is a close linkage
between the ecological, material, social and spiritual spheres of community livelihoods.
For Devish and Crossman (2002, 108) endogenous development is a “community-, site-
and role specific epistemology governing the structures and development of the cognitive
life, values and practices shared by a particular community and its members in relation to
a specific life-world”. This concept stipulates that any development initiative has to take
into account the framework and facts of the local and regional natural environment and
the cultural traditions, as well as the current economic and social practices and capacities
of local communities (Gibbs and Krueger 2005).
Local people have to be the prime voices and stakeholders in identifying their needs and
priorities, and in deciding whether a new development initiative is warranted and desir-
able; and, if so, whether it will be environmentally compatible and serve the interests of a
majority of local communities, including and foremost those of underprivileged people.
It will often require a patient and fair dialogue to arrive at an acceptable community con-
sensus. At the end of this internal consultative process, the role of outsiders should be one
of offering to local communities an accompanying support and a genuine partnership for
local people’s projects. This is an approach that could be described as “an intrinsic local
development” or a “community-friendly, reflective development and modernization”.
As early as 1992, Agenda 21 of the United Nations had called for methods to link
the scientific findings with indigenous knowledge in development processes (chapter
35.7). Hart (2010) stipulates an “indigenous research paradigm” opposing “Eurocentric”
thought and practices. In a similar vein, Haverkort and Reintjes (2007) postulate
an endogenous development reshaping conventional sciences, policies and practices.
Endogenous development and indigenous development are often used as almost identical
terms. But Rist et al. (2011, 120) have stated that indigenous development tends to exclude
the wide range of local non-indigenous concepts, e.g. those of recent in-migrants.
Today, indigenous development, apart from its ecological, cultural, economic and social
dimensions (Haverkort and Rist 2007; Tapia 2008; Hart 2010), has taken a strong political
affinity in the struggle for political empowerment, self-determination and autonomy.
Indigenous organizations and institutions in many countries are today powerful voices
in claiming land and water rights, and in the governance and management of natural
resources, as well as in the operation of social services. This has become evident in all
Andean countries, particularly in Bolivia and Ecuador, in new constitutions and laws,
and in political-administrative implementations. While endogenous institutions, policies
and practices cannot exist without taking into account national and international power
structures, and cannot ignore economic and social progress and modernization, an
externally imposed modernization and development process may weaken the endogenous
institutions and self-determination.
While not all local communities may necessarily agree with all facets of commonly
accepted criteria of sustainability, indigenous communities in particular are by and large
adhering to the notion of a strong bond between the traditions of past generations,
the adaptive potential of the present, and the aspiration of secure livelihoods of future
generations. Neubert and Macamo (2002, 14) have underlined, that local knowledge
is dynamic in nature and evolving, “transformed by autochtonous innovations, by an
adaptation to changing circumstances, and by an adoption of knowledge, capabilities,
and technologies”. In these “alternative modernities” (Andolina, Laurie and Radcliffe
2009, 11), progress and development are in tune with the cultural values of local societies.
Bebbington (1997) too sees development neither solely rooted in traditional cultural
values, economic pursuits and social customs, nor in an uncritical opening to external
influences, the demands of market economies, modernization and new technologies. For
Bebbington, rural communities represent today “hybrid cultures” with multiple forms
of livelihoods and development potentials in an intricate web of both tradition and
modernity (Bebbington 2000; Bebbington 2001).
In their treaty on endogenous knowledge and sustainable development, Rist et al.
(2011, 136–137) argue that endogenous knowledge plays a fundamental role in the “co-
production of knowledge” as a “pathway for sustainable development”. This requires
processes of joint and interactive knowledge production by scientific and non-scientific
actors:
On the one hand . . . social and natural sciences can learn from the dialogue with endogenous
communities . . . On the other hand, such a learning-oriented dialogue implies the recognition
that actors basing their actions on endogenous knowledge can benefit from the high degree of
reflexivity which is brought into the dialogue by the natural and social sciences. (Rist et al. 2011,
138)
Rural landscapes in the Andes display an impressive diversity of natural and cultural
environments, and offer a rich variety of natural resource assets. In the tropical realm,
the regional differentiation of climatic zones ranges from the permanently humid inner
tropics of the Northern Andes to semi-arid and arid regions at the southern margins of
the outer tropics. Cross-sections from the Pacific Ocean across the different ranges and
inner-Andean valleys and plateaus to the western edge of the savannahs and rainforests
of the Rio Negro/Orinoco and Amazon lowlands offer even more striking contrasts,
sometimes over short horizontal distances. A third form of landscape differentiation
results from the altitudinal ecological zonation from the tierra caliente, to the tierra temp-
lada, tierra fría and the uppermost tierra helada. Micro-relief and the intricate pattern of
ecological niches contribute further to the complex mosaic of Andean landscapes. Human
responses of different indigenous and non-indigenous groups to the natural conditions
have shown great spatial and temporal variations. These “overlapping patchworks” and
“archipelagos” of landscapes (Zimmerer 1999) have always offered rich potentials and
opportunities for Andean people. Zimmerer has argued that the spatial diversity of
agricultural systems is dynamic in nature and subject to changes of biophysical and socio-
cultural factors over time. But humans were also exposed to the risks and uncertainties of
fragile and vulnerable environments. This has at certain times resulted in a destabilization
of livelihoods, and in manifestations of marginality and poverty. In many cases, though,
Andean people have resorted to multiple strategies of resilience, mitigation and adapta-
tion creating “islands of sustainability” of mountain agriculture and rural development
serving as nuclei for a sustainable regional development (Bebbington 1997).
For a long time, the mountainous environments in the Andes have been facing many
changes, resulting both from natural events and from the impacts of human actions. For
centuries, rural people have utilized a wide range of agricultural and non-agricultural
resources, often in sustainable ways, but in some instances in a rather exploitive and
unsustainable fashion. Traditionally, the primary objective of farmers and pastoralists
was to diversify their economic base and to minimize livelihood risks. This has been
achieved by a variety of proven Andean concepts of land utilization and community
living, transmitted from generation to generation.
Regalski (1994) has called this body of knowledge and experiences “sagesse des Andes”;
Gade (1999) and Stadel (2001) have summarized it under the term “Lo Andino” referring
to a body of traditional knowledge, wisdom, philosophy and ethics, as well as agrarian
techniques, water management and community practices. One of the pillars of the
Andean “saber local” (Mathez-Stiefel, Rist and Delgado Burgoa 2013; Martínez-Torres
and Rosset 2014) and agricultural viability is the “complementarity” (complementaridad).
It implies the optimal agricultural use of altitudinal zones, a polyculture and different
forms of crop and field rotations, a combination of agriculture on irrigated and non-
irrigated plots, complementary forms of field cultivation, animal husbandry, pastoralism
and forest use, and a combination of agricultural and non-agricultural activities (e.g.
agro-tourism), as well as exchanges of products between different regions and market
networks (Rist 2000). Another principal traditional concept is that of “reciprocity”
(reciprocidad). This involves a complex system of mutual economic and social obligations
and forms of assistance and rights between family members and the Comunidad. This is
culturally manifested in the special relationship between a rural Andean person (runa) and
nature, in particular the close connection with the native soil (pachamama). Economically,
reciprocity may exist in the exchange of goods, services and labor input on a reciprocal
personal level, and in the form of work for community projects (minga). More recently,
reciprocity manifests itself in the transfer of remittances (remesas) from expatriates to
the families of their native community and to the communities at large in exchange for
maintaining their family bonds and communal links “at home”.
In view of the fragility of the Andean environment and the precarious living conditions,
rural families and mountain societies throughout many centuries have demonstrated
remarkable skills of mitigation, resilience and adaptation facing a host of vulnerabilities,
hazards and socio-economic changes (Stadel 2008). Sustainability in the rural realm
can therefore not be defined as a static adherence to traditional concepts, methods and
strategies, but as a highly fluid and diversified response to changing environmental and
socio-economic conditions (Stadel 2003). This has been particularly the case in recent
times, when the Andes are increasingly affected by rapid climatic change, massive threats
of land and water degradation, continued diverse forms of migration and urbanization,
and an array of external influences and of economic, social, cultural and political globali-
zation processes: “In some more accessible areas, technological innovations and market
developments have stimulated agricultural development and changes in crop patterns,
leading to serious consequences for exchange relationships and trade between zones. In
other zones, people have diversified their livelihood through non-agrarian activities . . .
or have migrated” (Zoomers and Salman 2003, 3).
These transformations have in certain ways eroded the traditional concepts of Lo
Andino, and we have to reformulate some of its elements and practices. But Andean culture
and economic pursuits have never followed static stereotype schemes, and Andean people
have responded in various ways to new challenges and opportunities. Market orientation,
modernization, new technologies, social and spatial mobility, electronic media of infor-
mation and communication have penetrated virtually all corners of the mountains, but
many communities have demonstrated their willingness to maintain certain handed down
social norms and economic pursuits (Stadel 2003). In a similar vein, Radcliffe and Laurie
(2006) have postulated to take “culture seriously in development for Andean indigenous
people”. While some communities, like the entrepreneurial-tourism oriented Otavaleños
are economically global market oriented, they continue to adhere in their dress code and
other forms of cultural manifestations to an authentic heritage. A most essential element
of the traditional Andean identity is the bondage to land, water and the home community.
The traditional wisdom, knowledge and practices can neither be glorified as “beacons of
goodness” (Zoomers and Salman 2003, 5), nor are they per se obstacles for development
and progress. Therefore, it is debatable whether a generalizing model of “Andean-ness”
can reflect the variety of Andean livelihoods over time and also over space, as the natural
settings and cultural contexts exhibit a great variety: Andean identities today are diverse
and dispersed in rural and in urban environments; they are indeed a medley of old and new,
in the diverse pursuit of sustainable livelihood strategies (Zoomers 1999).
Sustainability and sustainable development are terms with complex, equivocal and
in some cases even controversial meanings (Martens 2006). This is evident when one
examines the concepts and strategies of different stakeholders, especially external actors
For Rathgeber (2000/2001, 159) sustainability, in the context of indigenous people, means,
beyond the appropriate use of natural resources, “the reproduction of institutions and
personalities, in order to maintain and develop the specific lifestyle and livelihood accord-
ing to own means and own criteria”. This does imply the dual approach of adhering to
the cultural heritage of the past, and the development of “a set of culturally embedded
practices and meanings” (Radcliffe and Laurie 2006, 231). But it does not exclude new
arenas of self-determination and opportunities of the modern world. This can only be
achieved by an appropriate consensual and dynamic community approach (Figures 18.1
and 18.2). In the wake of the threat of an ubiquitous and massive exploitation of natural
resources by external stakeholders and its accompanying degradation of the environ-
ment, an “erosion” of traditional land and water rights, a pervasive commercialization
of all facets of family and community life, and the neoliberal market-oriented economic
priorities, local communities have recognized that only an effective communal political
organization and self-determination can be a successful strategy to limit and control the
external influences, as Bebbington (Bebbington et al. 2008) has shown for the mining
sector in Peru. For Boelens, Bustamante and de Vos (2007) local water rights in the
Andes are embedded in a complex web of “legal pluralism”. This could be the basis for a
new concept of sustainable etnodesarrollo (“ethnodevelopment”) that is oriented on the
local needs and priorities, and is rooted in the cultural tradition of the region, while not
excluding a genuine partnership-like cooperation with external actors.
In the rural Andes, indigenous development has to address the key problems of poverty,
marginalization, vulnerability and isolation (Radcliffe, Laurie and Andolina 2009, 58).
On the other hand, indigenous campesinos have for a long time proved their abilities for
resilient and adaptive capacities; they are portrayed as being rich in local knowledge,
experiences, skills and successful agricultural techniques, and community-based social
capital, giving them a great potential for endogenous sustainability and development
(Bebbington 1999). In the age of neoliberal paradigms and globalization imperatives, a
focus on indigenous campesino movements may offer an alternative path for alternative
visions of rural development. Andolina, Laurie and Radcliffe (2009, 228) have concluded
that indigenous cultures can be compatible with progress, and new forms of rural
livelihoods. Sustainability does not have to be contradictory to alternative approaches to
economic productivity, new marketing strategies and the adoption of new technical and
managerial skills.
Bebbington (2000 and 2003) points out that both local development and global
networks are shaping today the agendas for Andean rural development. He underlines
that the rural Andes are characterized by diverse “livelihood transitions” and “place
transformations”, and he asks the question whether we can today speak of “Globalized
Andes” (Bebbington 2001). Rhoades (2006) and Copestake (2009) speak of the neces-
sity to link local and global agendas, but sustainability “must account for local values,
perceptions and capabilities, and not just what outsiders or distant policy makers assume
Figure 18.2 Indigenous women participating in local tourism, Colca Canyon, Peru
would be desirable” (Rhoades 2006, 1). Indigenous cultures may survive in spite of
globalization trends; in some cases they have even become revitalized (Stadel 2016).
Examples for this are emerging local eco-, ethno- and agro-touristic ventures, or the
Otavalo “entrepreneurship-with-identity” in Ecuador.
The Cotacachi County in northern Ecuador can be considered as an exemplary
“island of rural sustainability”. The scientific team of Robert Rhoades, in partner-
ship with the indigenous Kichwa community developed in the 1990s the so-called
“Sustainable Agriculture and Natural Resource Management Collaborative Research
Support Program” (SANREM CRSP). The pillar of this holistic multidisciplinary
research and management program was an all-encompassing citizen participation at all
stages of a multi-sector project of environmental conservation and local development.
This participatory research and action process involved being guests in people’s homes or
in community meetings, as well as countless hours of listening, interviewing, discussing,
observing and recording. A major objective of SANREM CRSP was also to arrive at
a symbiosis of ancestral indigenous and “Western” science knowledge. Rhoades (2006)
published the key findings of this collaborative research in his book Development with
Identity, a landmark in the applied research on local community development in the tropi-
cal Andes. In outlining the key approach to this ambitious program, Rhoades (2006, 1)
argues that sustainability science research should “respect open, democratic involvement
of relevant stakeholders from problem diagnosis to action”.
In a conceptual model, the author has attempted to summarize the diverse parameters
impacting on sustainable campesino communities (Figure 18.3). The different com-
ponents of both the natural and human environment may be assets or constraints for
the communities. Furthermore, campesinos are affected by a host of endogenous and
exogenous factors, processes and actors. These various influences may render the rural
people vulnerable and expose them to natural or human stressors, risks and hazards; but
Andean rural societies have also demonstrated remarkable resilience abilities, mitigating
skills and adaptive capacities.
In tune with Andean traditions, community solidarity and the mobilization of local
capabilities and capacities of human resources, together with a strengthening of local
ownership and responsibility are basic postulates for the formation of a democratic civil
society and a participatory sustainable local development. The goal of these efforts has
to be a long-term securing of rural livelihoods, an attenuation of natural and human
risks, economic and social equity and justice, and a respect for the holistic and spiritual
connections of the people to land, water, and nature in general. In this way, the identities,
knowledge, values, interests, needs, capabilities and usos y costumbres of local people form
the core of the indigenous development, in tune with the author’s call for “listening to
the campesinos” as a path for rural sustainability. It is obvious that this approach requires
diverse and distinct development goals, strategies and tools, in contrast to the often
externally designed and implemented general development models, based on the concepts
of growth, efficiency and replication potential.
“Listening to campesinos” as an initial stage and continuous method for responding
to their perceived needs and priorities, taking into account their cultural traditions and
local customs and practices, can be difficult in its implementation, as the expressed
perceptions and needs and suggested strategies and methods may differ between
cultural and social groups, between men and women, or between old and young people.
Therefore, a diligent “listening process” has to include the voices of all segments of the
rural communities including the marginal and remotely located campesinos. It is obvious
that the views, values, experiences and priorities of the different local stakeholders vary a
great deal. The listening process therefore is carried by mutual trust and confidence and
must lead into a sensitive and empathic mediation of the different stakeholders, with the
goal of giving priority to collective communal interests and future visions and scenarios.
Outside scientists can help to discuss and demonstrate the trade-offs and impacts of
various development alternatives, but their role cannot be to unilaterally determine the
path of future development without being accountable to local communities (Agrawal
1995; Funtowicz, Ravetz and O’Connor 1998; Altieri 2004). The challenge of participa-
tory research and action therefore consists in patient negotiations and in most cases in
trade-offs and compromises.
Based on his long-term research in the tropical rural Andes, Stadel proposes the fol-
lowing postulates for a sustainable campesino-oriented development (Borsdorf and Stadel
2015, 313–314):
● Appreciation of the knowledge and experience of campesinos (“saber campesino”); strength-
ening of their cultural pride.
● Esteem for the traditions, cultural values, customs and rituals of local communities (“lo
Andino”).
● Strengthening of communal solidarity and cooperation.
● Respect for nature (“cosmovisión andina”) and an aspiration to harmonize environment and
society.
● Protection or restoration of environmental integrity and quality, especially in fragile ecosys-
tems; careful use of natural resources.
● Exploration of the potentials and limitations of the natural and human environments.
● Strengthening of the resilience and adaptive capacities of the local population facing envi-
ronmental risks, economic and social vulnerabilities, and potential disasters.
● Improvement of the living conditions of the population, with a special focus on poor people;
enhancement of the infrastructures and services in water supply, sanitation, health, educa-
tion, nutrition, and housing.
● Promotion of environmentally compatible and sustainable forms of agriculture (“agro-
ecología”) and silviculture.
● Promotion of agricultural and silvicultural niche products.
● Complementary use of traditional agricultural and artisanal skills and environmentally and
communally acceptable innovations.
● Creation or diversification of alternative income and employment opportunities, e.g. in
eco- or agrotourism.
● Mobilization of local human resources; creation of attractive perspectives for young people
to stem their migration to cities.
● Improved access to micro-loans and other forms of financial and technical support.
● Sensible use of external funds, especially of the remittances, for meaningful types of
investment.
● Safeguards against economic and political discrimination and external exploitation.
● Development emphasis on locally perceived and formulated needs, priorities, and implemen-
tation methods.
● Participation, enablement, empowerment, and ownership of projects by local communities.
● Enhanced communication channels, accessibility and transport facilities.
● Improvement of the quantity and quality of formal and informal education and training.
Andolina, Laurie and Radcliffe (2009, 245) have summed up the challenges and potentials
of local rural development in these words:
Development thus continues to entail border crossings and to form complexes of inclusion
and exclusion. In recent decades, development processes . . . have changed, now comprising a
multi-ethnic mix of transnational actors, a new status awarded to indigenous culture, and altered
prisms of human rights. Within today’s globalized landscapes, these Andean spaces represent
arenas of struggle over meanings and resources, which illuminate not only development’s ongo-
ing embeddedness in markets and states, but also the seizure of opportunities for autonomy and
empowerment by erstwhile marginalized subjects.
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INTRODUCTION
Humans construct, develop, accumulate and re-create spatialized knowledge. With most
ecological processes occurring and interacting with human development at the Earth’s
surface, spatiality is a crucial component of ecological knowledge and its application in
sustainability.
Geographers, geologists, architects, environmental scientists, biologists, ecologists and
land planners specialize in gaining more knowledge about space (Gregory, 2009). They
study it and categorize it into places with different characteristics, such as topography,
areas affected by natural risks, species requirements and range, location of renewable and
non-renewable natural resources, and building and dwelling space. These professionals,
trained in their respective disciplines, rely on different basic assumptions and theories
about the configurations of spatialized processes and tools to assess them. This disunity
of modern science shows that approaches, scales and resolutions to characterize space are
potentially infinite, and there will never be a fully comprehensive way to explain spatial-
ized ecological processes and their interactions with humans. Therefore, knowledge forms
regarding the state of our environment and the values we ascribe to it are necessarily plural
(Lélé and Norgaard, 1996; Norton, 2005).
In the “Global North”, the transdisciplinary perspective has questioned the exclusivity
of modern science and advocates for such knowledge plurality through science–practice–
policy dialogue. This means that holding complex spatial knowledge is not restricted to
the realm of professional specialists. In everyday life, people create, reconstruct and use
spatialized knowledge to orient themselves, remember familiar places or gain knowledge
on the places they are not familiar with through media. Spatialized knowledge is thus also
common knowledge. Those different processes of production of spatialized knowledge
have in common that they conceptualize, locate and construct elements from an undif-
ferentiated spatial dimension into a finite body of knowledge about differentiated places.
In other words, they represent place making processes (Jones and Evans, 2011). I therefore
first maintain that considering sustainability from a transdisciplinary perspective within
geography must engage with the deeply intertwined process of place making and the
construction of ecological knowledge.
Furthermore, I maintain that looking at the co-construction of spatial and ecological
knowledge in a “Global South” context has deep implications for the decolonization
of ecological knowledge. The decolonial movement aims at the emancipation of people
and communities through the deconstruction of colonialities of power (Quijano and
Wallerstein, 1992; Mingolo, 2011). From a Global South perspective, opening up knowl-
307
edge systems is a fundamental step towards decolonization and emancipation (De Souza
Santos et al., 2007). This requires a cognitive justice perspective, which not only tolerates
forms of knowledge that are not controlled by formal science, but also actively recognizes
their diversity through counter-hegemonic engagement (Visvanathan, 1997). For ecologi-
cal knowledge, this implies the deconstruction of “nature” as a resource separated from
human beings (De Souza Santos et al., 2007; Latour, 1999), and also the deconstruction of
“science’s Other” represented by intrinsically inferior “local”, “static”, or “culturally pure”
forms of knowledge (De Souza Santos et al., 2007).
Following De Souza Santos et al. (2007)’s statement that “the structures of power
and knowledge are more visible from the margins”, I focus on ecological knowledge and
place making among rural people and communities of the Central Andes, who identify
themselves with the Quechua and Aymara indigenous groups. These are contexts in which
people partly or completely depend on their immediate environment for their livelihoods,
making the development of knowledge about the location and characteristics of natural
elements – spatialized ecological knowledge – of crucial importance. There, people have
usually lived in the same areas for several generations, and hold a large body of ecological
knowledge, which has evolved independently, in parallel or in interaction with the devel-
opment of spatial knowledge based on modern science.
My study relies on existing literature on the region as well as on my own empirical work
in the Cochabamba Mountain Range in Bolivia in 2003–2006 and 2011–2013. My focus is
not to look at the location and spatial reach of knowledge holders, but to understand the
spatial dimension of the body of this knowledge. In other words, focusing on how space
and its categorization into places is considered within ecological knowledge. I furthermore
engage with deeper ontological and epistemological aspects of place making by extending
my study to religious and spiritual practices linked with places. I then show that such
understanding can bring new insights into contemporary new paradigms in ecology and
ecosystem management and has strong implications on how to think sustainability and
transdisciplinarity from a geographical perspective.
Labels of “local”, “indigenous” or “traditional” ecological knowledge are all subject to the
“science’s Other” critique. Berkes (2008) defines traditional ecological knowledge (TEK)
as a body of knowledge concerning living beings, people and their relationships, which is
at the same time cumulative, handed over through generations, dynamic and adaptive, and
which also includes practices and beliefs. This definition seems to be the least problematic,
since it acknowledges that knowledge is subject to constant change, but also builds on a
long-term relationship between people and their environment.
TEK is not necessarily isolated from or fundamentally opposed to formal science. It can
borrow from it, nurture it and share elements and methods, but its creation and recrea-
tion occurs within a particular group of people who interact with a specific environment
(Agrawal, 1995). Nor it is only “local”, since people from such groups have knowledge
and views on how the whole world works.
Academic inquiry about TEK has evolved in both depth and breadth including more
ethical considerations in the relationships between knowledge holders and researchers,
and also developing more holistic approaches. Berkes (2008) conceptualizes TEK as a
“knowledge–practice–belief complex”. Ethnoecology (Toledo, 2002; Toledo and Barrera-
Bassols, 2010) also expands the study of knowledge of species to include landscape
elements and the natural world in general (the korpus or body of knowledge) and adds the
dimensions of kosmos, an image and representation of nature, and praxis, a set of practi-
cal activities and skills in interacting with nature. Understanding TEK must therefore
not be limited to a decontextualized body of knowledge, but needs to inquire about the
basic assumptions that people make on what their environment is and how it works. This
is the reason why this study accounts for religious and spiritual practices linked to places.
Expanding the study of knowledge about different elements of nature has given rise to
several approaches and sub-disciplines using the prefix ethno, referring to the “way other
people see the world” (Martin, 1996). This includes ethnophysiography (Turk et al., 2011),
which focuses on knowledge of landforms and its meanings, and landscape ethnoecology
(Johnson and Hunn, 2012), which studies the knowledge and interaction of peoples and
landscape. However, these approaches explicitly demarcate themselves from the study of
specific place making processes through the exclusion of toponyms and proper names as
sources of information (Hunn and Meilleur, 2010).
An interesting approach is ethnoscience (Atran, 1991; Rist and Dahdouh-Guebas,
2006), which proposes to use ethnographic approaches to include both traditional and
scientific knowledge as a subject of study. Ethnoscience seeks to understand how humans
– in any context – develop and use forms of knowledge and beliefs (Atran, 1991) and
can thus play a key role in establishing dialogue and highlighting differences, similitudes,
interactions and ruptures between forms of knowledge (Rist and Dahdouh-Guebas,
2006). It builds on the assumption that natural science cannot be completely divorced
from practice, culture and institutions (Pickering, 1992). This is particularly relevant in
the Global South, where scientific knowledge is often highly fragmented and dependent
on international research projects limited in time.
Given the considerations above, I understand the study of spatialized ecological
knowledge as a central inquiry of ethnoscience, which can make the link between different
interacting forms of ecological knowledge and place making processes. My hypothesis is
that starting from the interpretation of space into places without a prior categorization
of ecological elements into biological realms opens up options for the decolonization of
ecological knowledge. I thus address three specific research questions, namely (1) how
Central Andean rural people characterize, categorize and divide space in their construc-
tion of ecological knowledge; (2) how these place making processes are related to religious
practices and beliefs; and (3) what the implications for environmental management,
sustainability and transdisciplinarity are.
My geographical focus spans across the Central Andes, which includes the Andes of
Southern Peru and Bolivia, as well as the northernmost Andean regions of Chile and
Argentina. This choice is motivated by evidence of culturally shared characteristics made
visible by several ethnographic works performed in the region (Fernández Juárez, 1995;
Martínez, 1989; Salas Carreño, 2016; Spedding, 1992). While other indigenous languages
and groups have existed in the area in the past, the quasi totality of the contemporary
rural population of the region either speaks an indigenous language or identifies itself
with an indigenous group belonging to the broad Quechua and Aymara ethnicities and
their subdivisions. Widespread cultural interaction and linguistic mobility has occurred in
the area since at least the fourteenth century through the Inca rule of Tawantinsuyu, the
subsequent Spanish colonization and the independence and consolidation of contempo-
rary South American nation-states. As a consequence, one can find many socio-cultural
concepts and practices that are shared among linguistic groups, especially among the
Quechua and Aymara from Bolivia and Southern Peru (Ticona, 2000).
The contemporary population of the Central Andes entails a continuum between
predominantly indigenous rural and predominantly mestizo urban contexts, none of
which stays without influence of the other and of which processes such as rural-to-urban
migration and social mobility are part. Self-identified indigenous groups of the Central
Andes are thus not isolated, but have interacted with each other and with mestizo and
globalized culture for centuries. In this context, different knowledge systems, narratives
of interpretation, identities and cultural references co-exist. In this chapter, I focus on
concepts of place understood and widespread among rural indigenous people, which,
however, have an influence on urban and mestizo domains as well. I am also focusing on
rural people who religiously self-identify as belonging to the Catholic Church. In practice,
this means that they follow the “Andean” Catholicism, which entails a strongly syncretic
reinterpretation of Catholic Christianity and the incorporation of pre-Hispanic or locally
evolved indigenous belief elements and systems (Van den Berg, 1990; Estermann, 1998).
When I started to carry out research with Quechua-speaking farmers of two communi-
ties from the Cochabamba Mountain Range in 2003, my inquiry was to find out whether
people had some kind of concept that corresponds to the notion of ecosystem and
what this could look like (see Berkes et al., 1998). I therefore started to look for existing
“local classifications” with the lens of landscape ethnoecology and with an emphasis on
vegetation types. The concept of vegetation – as all the plants occurring together in a
given space – was, however, foreign to them. They interpreted it either as individual plant
species, which sometimes dominated a forest or shrub patch, or as the specific places
where those plants grow (Boillat et al., 2013).
Several of my respondents then suggested that I direct my inquiries to those specific
places. We started a participatory process of documenting place names, revealing a very
detailed and large body of knowledge shared among community members, consistent
with the observations made by Martínez (1983, 1989) in the northeastern Andes of
Bolivia and northern Chile. Such place names designate small to very small areas, usu-
ally of a few hectares and are contained within the wider area of the rural community,
representing micro-toponyms (Noël, 1995). Knowledge associated with the place names
included not only the presence of plants and animals, but also ecological processes and
interactions with humans including land use and, sometimes, customary tenure and
dwelling rights. They are, however, not territories in the sense that they are not delimited
by tenure or other institutional aspects.
In 95 percent of the cases, the place names were intelligible in either Quechua or
Spanish and more than half of them included a term referring to topography, while others
focused on flora, soil, rock types or other. Knowledge of places was shared or agreed
among most members of the community who attended the focus group discussions. When
asked to represent places in a map, farmers privileged polygons over points and produced
a quasi wall-to-wall map with place limits – some sharp, others fuzzy – running along main
rivers, watershed and land use divisions. More details about the process of place names
documentation and its interpretation can be found in Boillat et al. (2013).
The emphasis on unique place names did not, however, exclude parallel and overlap-
ping divisions of space such as terms designating altitudinal belts, land ownership and
soil types. Rather than altitudinal belts used in national Peruvian and Bolivian geography,
which sometimes uses terms in native languages (e.g. Pulgar Vidal, 1938[2014]), farmers
preferred to use relative terms such as pata jallp’as (upper lands), chawpi jallp’as (middle
lands) and ura jallp’as (lower lands), or characterize them according to main land use
such as pasture lands, forests, and potato and maize croplands (Boillat, 2014). Yet the
use of concrete place names clearly dominated over more abstract categorical terms in
day-to-day interactions. While they use categorical topographic terms contained in many
place names, farmers clearly tend to attach ecological knowledge such as soil and vegeta-
tion conditions and presence of species to concrete places, making place names “sort of
containers” of spatialized ecological knowledge.
The documentation of place names also quickly led farmers to provide information about
special powers they attribute to certain places. These included high mountains, as well as
lakes, caves, rocks with particular shapes and rivers, which are said to “help” in crop and
livestock production, provide protection and welfare, but also to provoke natural and
climatic disasters such as hail, frost or floods and to make people and livestock sick. There
is a very abundant literature on practice, discourse and narratives related to “sacred”
mountains in the Andes, called apus, wamanis, awkillus, mallkus, achachilas, machulas
(Gil García and Fernández Juárez, 2008), orqos, jurq’os, kawiltus (Platt, 1997) and uywiris
(Martínez, 1989, 1983). Though contexts and interpretations are diverse, there are a few
recurrent characteristics of these practices.
Mountains are, according to existing interpretations, either considered the hosts of
supernatural beings or are those very beings, or both (Gil García and Fernández Juárez,
2008). They are associated with the power of providing water, rain and protection for
crops, people and livestock, as well as the power of punishing them through floods, hail,
frost, drought and disease. To ensure positive interactions with the mountains’ powers,
people perform ritual offerings at specific times of the year in the form of a burnt mixture
of herbs (the “table” or mesa), alcoholic beverages, coca leaves and tobacco (Fernández
Juárez, 1995; Jiménez Sardón, 2003; Rösing, 1992). The offerings may also include animal
sacrifice (usually llamas) and, in the past, have included human sacrifice, as testified by
the mummies dating back to Inca rule found near high Andean peaks of Argentina, Chile
and Peru.
My own observation of ritual offerings and prayers carried out by the members of the
communities from the Cochabamba Mountain Range made clear that these offerings are
not only directed to mountains, but to a much wider community of beings. This includes
the Pachamama, a maternal figure associated with crop production and fertility, but
also illness (Van den Berg, 1990), Catholic saints, mountains and a large array of places
referring to crop fields, dwelling places, forests, streams and rivers (Boillat et al., 2013).
These findings are consistent with the study of Salas Carreño (2016) about places in the
southern Peruvian Andes, which states that any place can have powers and be the object of
an offering and belief, meaning that interpretations of ritual practices and beliefs directed
to mountains can actually apply to any elements of the Andean landscape. In such a view,
there are no “sacred” or “profane” sites, but any place has a certain degree of power that
links spirituality with materiality and sociality.
Advancing further this interpretation, one can clearly state that, in the belief system
of Central Andean indigenous peoples, named places are considered living beings with
agency (Boillat et al., 2013), in other words social beings (Salas Carreño, 2016). In such
context, any interaction with the place involving dwelling, travelling, or using and nurtur-
ing natural resources opens up a relational perspective in which human survival and
well-being have to be constantly negotiated with the elements of the environment. Ritual
offerings conceptualized as a “payment” to the place in the form of food, drink and a
shared banquet (see above) find their full sense in these interactions. Far from being sepa-
rated from profane and material life, rituals establish a relation with the places to ensure
very tangible outcomes in terms of individual, familiar and community well-being. In this
view, places located far away from human influence are often qualified as powerful and
dangerous, since they are deemed “hungry” and “not used” to interacting with humans.
Inversely, food production through crops and livestock farming in the Andes becomes
a social interaction with the places without which humans cannot survive. Salas Carreño
(2016) interprets this relation with places as a form of kinship, consistent with the general
notion of kinship in Andean indigenous cultures, which privileges nurturing and feeding
interactions over biological filiation and can thus be dynamic and extended. Places and
their names are also not static. Place identity and names can “reveal themselves” to people
or become forgotten, making visible a dynamic of place making and place extinction in
the body of knowledge shared among households and communities (Boillat, 2018).
Abundant literature on rituals to mountains and the importance of place names
from different study areas within the Central Andes suggest that these views, practices
and narratives are widespread in the region. Yet how far they are being challenged by
increasing urbanization, socio-economic globalization and the conversion of people to
Christian evangelical groups who reject the practice of ritual offerings is unknown. Salas
Carreño (2016) mentions that evangelism does not challenge the view of places as living
beings but rather reframes their relationship to them into a biblical interpretation, and
that some Catholic urban Spanish speakers increasingly take part in rituals linked with
places. These observations support a hypothesis of a widely shared and rather persistent
concept of place in the region.
What are then, the main characteristics and specificities of this “Andean” concept of
place? A central statement, driven from field observations and interpretations of existing
literature, is the living and social character of “the place”, which opens up a relational
perspective. This relational perspective entails a specific and manifold relation of each
human being with each one of the known and experienced places, which can span from
protective kinship to life-threatening animosity. In such perspective, space becomes a
community of social beings, more or less known, with whom one’s relations are good, bad
or changing, as much as they would in a social network.
This link between the understanding of life and a relational perspective has been inter-
preted by Ingold (2006) as an “animic worldview” also found among indigenous peoples of
the Arctic, the Amazon and southeast Asia. The animic worldview must not be confounded
with animism in the sense of imputing life or spirit to inert things, as early ethnographers
have – erroneously – interpreted as being the ontological position of many indigenous
peoples. As Ingold (2006) put it, animism ascribes spirit and agency to materiality. Rather
than this, an animic worldview has a different concept of what life is about, conceptualizing
it as immanent in movement and change, a property of things which precede their differen-
tiation. In such view, entities have no inside or outside, but are constituted by relations and
follow a path of continuous movement and becoming (Ingold, 2006).
Ecological knowledge appears then as a body of knowledge dealing with changing
relationships among entities, including places, rocks, plants, animals, people and higher
spiritual beings. Such ontological interpretation means that spatial ecological knowledge,
i.e. the body of knowledge dealing with the location of ecological phenomena, must be
reinterpreted as an inquiry into the network of places as social beings. Building spatialized
ecological knowledge means, thus, not only observing places, but understanding how they
relate to each other and talking and negotiating one’s livelihood with them – in other
words, to be part of the world of which one seeks knowledge (Ingold, 2006).
In such a relational perspective, there is no boundary between wilderness and cultural
landscapes, nor an ontological distinction between the living and the non-living and
between the sacred and the profane, all beings having ultimately a material, a social and
a spiritual expression through relationship. Conceptualizing places as both social beings
and as “sort of containers” of ecological knowledge loses, then, its apparent duality in the
relational perspective. This challenges the prevalence of the common – the conceptual and
categorical included in a common name – over the proper, specific and unique. Categories
exist, but they are subordinated to the complexity, the uniqueness and the agency of the
place, which stems from the relational perspective of being and moving through a com-
munity of events who populate space.
International policies and the global scientific community widely recognize that
governing and managing ecosystems sustainably requires the recognition of the knowl-
edge, innovations, practices, institutions and values of indigenous peoples and local
communities. This also includes advancing processes of co-production of knowledge
that include and recognize different forms of knowledge, especially indigenous and local
knowledge and education (Intergovernmental Science-Policy Platform on Biodiversity
and Ecosystem Services IPBES, 2019). What, then, would a co-production approach to
ecosystem management look like in a rural setting of the Central Andes?
It is undoubtful that participatory approaches have a long tradition in the region, as
countless integrated development, protected area co-management and community-based
natural resource management programmes using different methods of Participatory
Rural Appraisal (PRA) (Chambers, 1994) have flourished. Yet few of those projects have
made explicit the crucial importance of overlapping and potentially competing views on
how to characterize and categorize space. Though no synthesis exists on the use of PRA
in ecosystem management in the area, taking into account these different views remains a
challenge. I will here consider a hypothetical case in which knowledge from both special-
ized scientific sources and from traditional dwellers are to be co-produced and used to
manage ecosystems in a Bolivian Andean rural community.
In Bolivia, a large body of scientific knowledge about ecosystems has been influenced
by the common use of vegetation classification as a proxy to identify ecosystems and the
methods and concepts driven from phytosociology, i.e. the knowledge of plant species
co-occurrences (Braun-Blanquet, 1964; Ewald, 2003). The phytosociological method is
based on the complete documentation of the flora of sample plots of defined size, the
subsequent classification of the plots into vegetation types and the formal designation
of these types (Kessler and Hensen, 2001). In this framework, nationally authoritative,
widely used classifications and descriptions have been produced (Navarro, 2011; Navarro
and Maldonado, 2002). While the establishment of a formal classification of vegetation
is controversial (Kessler and Hensen, 2001), a phytosciological approach in a broad sense,
based on documenting and classifying flora through multivariate methods, remains the
most appropriate and practical way to delineate, characterize and manage ecosystems
(Ewald, 2003; Kessler and Hensen, 2001).
When applied to a rural community, the classification of vegetation types would typi-
cally yield a map dividing space along croplands, rangelands, native forest and plantation
patches and their gradual transitions to different communities along altitude. This map
would represent a different division of space than the one conceptualized by the com-
munity members, which, as stated above, would privilege the “places” as material–social–
spiritual beings and the partial prevalence of topography to “delineate” them through
more or less fuzzy boundaries. How, then, could a co-produced management plan take
these two maps into account? Fitting the two maps within one another would inevitably
express a power relationship in which one view dominates over the other. Fitting places’
names within the ecosystem defined through vegetation mapping would improve farmers’
understanding of which places need particular protection, but subordinate their division
of space to the one driven from vegetation ecology and thus represent a cognitive injustice.
The inverse process, fitting vegetation types within place names, would give prevalence
to farmers’ view. Although it would face the challenge of managing a very large number
of ecosystems equated to place names, this would not be so problematic when local
c ommunities are given a leading role in governing and managing the ecosystems. In this
sense it would connect cognitive justice to social justice (De Souza Santos et al., 2007).
Any of those overlaps would, however, lack an integrated synthesis and fail to make
conceptual connections between knowledge systems, a fundamental condition to perform
true multidisciplinary and transdisciplinary research (Max-Neef, 2005). This assertion
is true not only in bridging scientific and traditional knowledge, but also in bridging
knowledge from different scientific disciplines, such as, for example, geomorphology and
vegetation ecology, which in this case would mean explaining vegetation with geomorpho-
logic models and yielding a mixed topographic-ecological map. Yet how could conceptual
connections between the “Andean” concept of place and ecosystem management take
place? To do this, my argument is that deeper, ontological considerations on the definition
of life, space and place are needed (Rist et al., 2011).
Bridging ontological aspects of knowledge systems lies within the realm of theoretical
transdisciplinarity. Theoretical transdisciplinarity postulates a general, philosophical
openness to plurality of knowledge due to uncertainties that question the attribution of
science as the only global form of knowledge (Nicolescu, 2006).
If we continue with the example of ecosystem ecology, theoretical transdisciplinarity
would need to consider developments in the understanding of ecosystems and focus on
uncertainties that justify openness to knowledge plurality. In recent decades, theoretical
ecosystem ecology has moved away from a static, mechanistic view of ecological processes
to acknowledge their fundamental complexity and unpredictability. As Jorgensen et al.
(2007) put it, ecosystems are physically and ontically open. They are physically open since
they are always in interaction with their surroundings through flows of matter, energy and
information. They are ontically open in the sense that due to the complexity of interac-
tions at work within ecosystems, it is impossible to predict their exact behaviour.
Expressed in space, physical openness makes any definition of ecosystem boundary
a normative choice. Physical openness applies to vegetation types – identified with
phytosociological methods – watersheds, land use types and, of course, places as
conceptualized and mentally mapped by rural community members. Can ecosystems be
delineated according to place names used by rural Andean dwellers? If the indigenous
delimitation differs from that based on vegetation, doing so would possibly overlook some
ecological interactions that are prevalent within specific vegetation types. It would, how-
ever, highlight interactions between vegetation patches within a named place. Moreover,
such delineation would make interactions with human use in its different tangible and
intangible expressions visible.
Ontic openness implies that ecosystem behaviour is non-deterministic and irreversible.
It cannot be predicted as would be the case for a physical system (Jorgensen et al., 2007).
Ontic openness does not, however, equate to pure random behaviour, which would make
any inquiry into ecological knowledge futile. We might never be sure of what will happen
in an ecosystem, but we know that some processes are more likely to occur than others.
In this sense, ecological science shares the notion of incomplete predictability with the
Andean concept of place-ecosystem. The difference is that this concept of place-ecosystem
would interpret the balance between the likely and the unpredictable as an agency, which
ecology explicitly rejects. Is there, then, a fundamental ontological breach around both
ways of seeing ecosystems?
The reinterpretation of the concept of living and non-living proposed by Ingold (2006)
provides a possible answer. What makes “ascribing life to an ecosystem” problematic?
Such narrative represents indeed an “imputation of file and spirit to an inert thing”,
which corresponds to an erroneous interpretation of indigenous peoples’ worldview as
“animist” by early ethnographers. Animist ontology, as Ingold (2006) put it, is actually a
projection of Western thinking, a kind of “quest for life” that applies to inanimate things,
machines or other planets. Yet if we refine our interpretation of Andean concept of place
as an “animic worldview”, the figure is different. If we define life not as ruled by DNA
and natural selection, but as an intrinsic property of any dynamic and relational being,
then ecosystem unpredictability, stability and resilience can be conceptualized in such
kind of agency.
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CONTEXT
A move towards emphasising human activity – culture – in shaping landscape patterns
arose in the German human geography tradition of the late nineteenth and early twentieth
centuries (Taylor 2012). Recognition of the significance of Kulturlandschaft, as for exam-
ple in the work of Otto Schlüter (1872–1959), is seminal to our present understanding of
human values and meanings in our surroundings. The perceptive and innovative thinking
and practice of Franz Boas (1858–1942), anthropologist and geographer, extended the
new human geography to embrace the idea that different cultures adjusted to similar envi-
ronments and taught the historicist mode of conceptualising environment (Livingstone
1992). It was a philosophy that emphasises culture as context (‘surroundings’), and the
importance of history: a Boasian anthropological approach referred to as historical
particularism. Boas argued that it was important to understand the cultural traits of
societies – their behaviours, beliefs, and symbols – and the necessity for examining them in
their local context. He established the contextualist approach to culture known as cultural
relativism. He also understood that, as people migrate, and as the cultural context changes
over time, the elements of a culture, and their meanings, will change. This led him to
emphasise the importance of studying local histories to aid the analysis of cultures.1 His
teachings and ideas in social anthropology and geography remain central to present-day
interest in the cultural landscape idea where landscape, as Lewis (1979) opines, is a clue
to culture.
It is now over 40 years ago that the seminal text, The Limits to Growth: A Report for the Club
of Rome’s Project on the Predicament of Mankind (Meadows et al. 1972), challenged the
notion that the Earth’s resources were infinite and laid the foundations for the concept of
sustainable development. The book came as a jolt to the wave of optimism in unparalleled
world economic growth that burgeoned in the later 1950s and 1960s. Some 15 years later
(1987) the Brundtland Commission report, Our Common Future (United Nations 1987),
took up the challenge and preached the moral imperative of environmentally sustainable
development, which became characterised by concepts of ecological (environmental),
1
Franz Boas: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Franz_Boas (accessed 2019).
320
e conomic, and social sustainability. To these, Rannikko (1999), added cultural sustain-
ability, although he regarded cultural sustainability as a sub-set of social sustainability. In
fact it is not, it is separate as shown in Box 20.1. In effect, Rannikko (1999) acknowledges
this with the observation that ‘Cultural sustainability requires that the development be
in harmony with the cultures and values of the individuals involved.’ The key word is
values, in that it denotes human values and meanings: people’s behaviours, beliefs, and
symbols in the Boasian tradition. Some years earlier, Norgaard (1988), as Lélé (1991: 615)
posits, ‘argued for cultural sustainability, which includes value and belief systems’. Whilst
Norgaard did not use the term ‘cultural sustainability’, he did articulate that sustainability
does apply to belief systems, ways of thinking and entails fostering of diversity per se and
thereby can reduce the likelihood of valuable traits disappearing prematurely.
By the late 1990s acknowledgment of a fourth separate pillar of sustainability – cultural
sustainability – had evolved and was added to the three pillars of environmental, economic
and social frameworks of sustainability in an overall approach to Ecologically Sustainable
Development (ESD). The rationale for this shift in thinking is lucidly set out by Hawks
(2001: 25) as seen in Box 20.1.
Inherent in the ideas expressed above in relation to thinking on sustainability the fol-
lowing are critical considerations:
Scammon (2012: 3) nicely encapsulates this thinking with the observation that:
Cultural sustainability examines ways to enhance our cultural identity and sense of place
through heritage, shared spaces, public art, social capital, educational opportunities, and public
policies in ways that promote environmental, economic, and social sustainability.
Throsby (2008) reflects in a paper for UNESCO some three years after the Convention
on the Protection and Promotion of the Diversity of Cultural Expression (UNESCO
2005) on the manner in which a broadening occurred in thinking about economics of
● intergenerational equity: development must take a long-term view and not be such
as to compromise the capacities of future generations to access cultural resources
and meet their cultural needs; this requires particular concern for protecting and
enhancing a nation’s tangible and intangible cultural capital.
●● intragenerational equity: development must provide equity in access to cultural
production, participation and enjoyment to all members of the community on a fair
and non-discriminatory basis; in particular, attention must be paid to the poorest
members of society to ensure that development is consistent with the objectives of
poverty alleviation.
●● importance of diversity: just as sustainable development requires the protection of
biodiversity, so also should account be taken of the value of cultural diversity to the
processes of economic, social, and cultural development.
●● precautionary principle: when facing decisions with irreversible consequences such
as the destruction of cultural heritage or the extinction of valued cultural practices,
a risk averse position must be adopted.
●● interconnectedness: economic, social, cultural and environmental systems should
not be seen in isolation; rather, a holistic approach is required, i.e. one that recog-
nises interconnectedness, particularly between economic and cultural development.
Culture
Cultural heritage is the legacy of physical artefacts and intangible attributes of a group or
society that are inherited from past generations, maintained in the present and bestowed
for the benefit of future generations.2 Nevertheless, there is a danger in approaching
heritage with this perspective in mind of thinking that somehow heritage is immutable. It
is not, as Uzzell (2009: 326/327) advises:
The meaning of heritage will vary over time and for different groups of people. It serves social,
cultural and political functions. But the heritage during this process does not remain static and
unchanged . . . We use the heritage in the creation of our own individual, group and national
identities.
A pivotal social advance of the post-Second World War era has been concern for the
world’s cultural heritage, with associated efforts to mobilise professional global agencies
and initiatives to protect it gathering pace in the 1950s. Following this The Venice Charter
of 1964 (International Council on Monuments and Sites (ICOMOS) 1964) offered an
orthodox canon of heritage residing predominantly in the physical fabric of great monu-
ments and sites – and substantively monuments and sites of the Classical (Old) World – as
works of art. The UNESCO World Heritage Convention of 1972 firmly placed cultural
heritage (and natural heritage) conservation on the world stage, and certainly early
inscriptions on the World Heritage List focused on famous monuments and sites, some-
times referred to as the separate dots on a map syndrome. As the management of cultural
heritage resources developed professionally and philosophically a challenge emerged in
the late 1980s and early 1990s to the 1960s and 1970s concept of heritage focusing on great
monuments and archaeological locations, famous architectural ensembles, or historic sites
with connections to the rich and famous. Here was the birth of a different value system,
with attention focused on such issues as cultural landscapes, living history and heritage,
intangible values, and community involvement.
Two particular instruments reflect the changing value systems:
2
http://www.unesco.org/new/en/cairo/culture/tangible-cultural-heritage/ (accessed 2019).
at the interface between nature and culture, tangible and intangible heritage, biological and
cultural diversity – they represent a closely woven net of relationships, the essence of culture
and people’s identity . . . they are a symbol of the growing recognition of the fundamental links
between local communities and their heritage, humankind and its natural environment. (Rössler
2006)
There are now over 114 listed cultural landscapes and the majority are examples of
everyday living landscapes (Taylor 2012).
cultural heritage management approach from solely caring for the physical fabric of herit-
age structures, towards recognising the significance of intangible cultural heritage and
associated values of living communities and the needs and wishes of living communities
who are the custodians of this heritage. Putting them centre-stage, the thinking goes,
ensures a more engaged, better informed and locally rooted conservation management
process, which is thereby more culturally sustainable. Poulios (2014: 28) expresses this in
his three key principles that determine a ‘living heritage approach’:
It can be seen, therefore, central to changes in attitudes to what is heritage is the concept
of intangible cultural heritage (ICH), recognising that value does not reside solely in
tangible/physical expressions of culture. This is critically applicable in Asia, where,
in my view, some of the most outstanding examples of the world’s living history and
heritage reside. In the past communities have evolved traditional management systems
and there is a need to recognise these and encourage their continuity so that heritage
resources can be sustained as change takes place and impacts such as mass domestic and
international tourism gather pace. ICH ‘comprises the living expressions and traditions
that communities, groups and individuals . . . receive from their ancestors and pass on to
their descendants. Constantly recreated and providing its bearers with a sense of identity
and continuity, this heritage is particularly vulnerable’ (UNESCO 2007). Identity is a key
word, crucial to a sense of place where the tangible (physical features and functions) and
intangible (meaning or symbols) coalesce.
From the preceding discussion two approaches to managing cultural heritage can be
identified. The first – conventional approach (UNESCO 2013a) – evolved with the modern
emergence of international concern for protection of the world’s cultural heritage in the
1950s leading to the 1972 World Heritage Convention. Here the focus is on conservation
of materials and fabric from the past. The second and distinctive approach to managing
cultural heritage is the values led approach which blossomed from the post-modern/
post-colonial era of concern for human values and cultural diversity in the increasingly
complex thinking on heritage and what it means. Articles 9 and 11 respectively of the
Nara Document (ICOMOS 1994) succinctly reflect the changing mood: ‘Conservation of
cultural heritage in all its forms and historical periods is rooted in the values attributed to
the heritage’ and ‘the respect due to all cultures requires that heritage properties must be
considered and judged within the cultural contexts to which they belong’. The values led
approach aligns to notions of memory and identity involving conjoined issues of practice,
policy and politics (Isar et al. 2011). It has accelerated beyond acting mainly at local and
national scales to become part of a globalised endeavour where heritage, memory, and
identity can be seen as ‘global scripts’ (Kong 2009 quoted in Isar et al. 2009: 3; see also
Taylor 2014).
It is no accident that emergent ideas on cultural sustainability developed parallel with
a focus on human values in heritage thinking and the concept of cultural significance
of heritage places based on understanding of values. It was a concept promulgated by
Australia ICOMOS with the Burra Charter in 1979 and updated in 1999 and 2013 (see
Australia ICOMOS 2013). There are now internationally available typologies of heritage
values. ‘By use of such a typology – a framework that breaks down significance into con-
stituent kinds of heritage value – the views of experts, citizens, communities, governments,
and other stakeholders can be voiced and compared more effectively’ (Mason, 2002: 9).
In the vein of Uzzell’s (2009) comments, a notable aspect of culture is that cultures and
cultural values change over time in response to cultural context changes as Franz Boas
recognised. The fact of change is recognised in UNESCO (2003), Article 1:
The ‘intangible cultural heritage’ means the practices, representations, expressions, knowledge,
skills – as well as the instruments, objects, artefacts and cultural spaces associated therewith
– that communities, groups and, in some cases, individuals recognize as part of their cultural
heritage. This intangible cultural heritage, transmitted from generation to generation, is con-
stantly recreated by communities and groups in response to their environment, their interaction
with nature and their history, and provides them with a sense of identity and continuity, thus
promoting respect for cultural diversity and human creativity.
Therefore, with change, culture does not vanish nor do the underlying values that inform
culture. To illustrate my point on change and the tenacity and sustainability of culture
is an example by Stevan Harrell (2013) in which he recounts an incident on a field visit
to Bimo Cultural Park associated with The Fourth International Conference on Yi
Studies, Meigu County, Liangshan Yi Autonomous Prefecture, China, concurrent with
a Conference on Tourism and Development and the Yi Cultural Festival. Inside the
park were bimo, Nuosu Yi priests, working part-time performing rituals for visitors and
otherwise continuing what their patrilineal ancestors had done for tens of generations,
doing rituals for the health of the living and the peace of the dead. The bimo demonstrated
in various outdoor ritual spaces and in newly built traditional houses. Harrell reports that
one visitor, a white foreigner, became quite agitated and in approaching a group of visitors
declared this was horrible, the end of Yi culture, pitifully inauthentic in a commercialised
place with no connection to real, continuing culture. A Yi scholar who overheard lectured
her in perfect English that these men (bimo) ‘came here today specifically to do a ritual
for your health and good fortune. Is this how you show your gratitude?’ The point Harrell
makes is that underlying ancient values of such ceremonies continue even though the
context changes and that change is an inherent part of culture. And that anything labelled
as ‘heritage’ mistakenly gets signalled as needing preservation, because it’s done for.
Harrell (2013: 286) makes the following incisive observation in relation to culture as
process and the inevitability of change:
Insofar as we try to preserve anything, to stop the process of cultural change in its tracks, we
are using a kind of cultural formaldehyde that is only suitable for preserving dead things. This is
what bothered the visitor . . . she was not witnessing bimo in their organic setting, but rather in
a setting created by the process of cultural preservation, which indicated that they needed help
in surviving, but could not survive in a meaningful form because they needed help.
In another sense, however, preserved cultural heritages continue to exist, even in changed
form, and we can just as easily see the preservation, too, is part of the process of cultural change,
and that the forms that emerge in the intentional process of preservation are just as much links
in the chain of cultural continuity as are the forms that emerge out of less self-conscious and
more organic processes.
I had a similar experience to the Bimo Cultural Park in 2008 and again in 2017 visiting
Xijiang Thousand Household Miao Village (Qiandongnan Autonomous Prefecture,
Guizhou, China). The eight constituent villages of Xijiang are built on a series of steep
hills on both sides of a river valley with the traditional three-storey stilt houses cascading
picturesquely down the slopes (Figure 20.1) bordered by native forests and agricultural
plots (rice paddies, vegetables, wheat). There are over 1200 families living there with a
Figure 20.2 Traditional dance performance area (2008), Xijiang Miao Village, Guizhou,
China
population of circa 50001. A joint policy by national and provincial governments has
seen financing of various developments in Xijiang to deter rural migration to urban areas,
diversify employment opportunities, encourage local crafts including silver-smithing and
textiles, encourage continuation of ethnic traditions such as festivals and celebrations
– dancing, singing, traditional foods – and open tourism opportunities. In 2008 circa
700,000 tourists visited Xijiang.
In 2008 Xijiang had a tourist lookout atop one the hills giving a panoramic view of
the landscape setting, a parking area capable of taking coaches, a central area for dance
and music performances (Figure 20.2), a museum built by locals housing traditional
textiles and everyday goods such as baskets and silver jewellery. Also by 2008 two new
streets of timber houses had been built to provide shops (Figure 20.3). To support these
initiatives major transport infrastructure projects in the region have made the area acces-
sible and tourists, national and international, have come in increasing numbers. Since
2008 more changes have occurred, including addition of an international style hotel, guest
houses, bars and more shops. By 2017 visitor numbers had exploded to over 3 million
and the resident population had expanded to circa 20,000. There is an entry charge of
100 RMB (US$16), and 20 RMB for a local bus ride from and to the car park. Other
Figure 20.3 Timber houses and shops, Xijiang Miao Village, Guizhou, China
changes have eventuated including the influx of outsiders who have come to share in the
new economic opportunities encouraged by tourism. Tourism is rampant, irrevocably
changing Xijiang’s physical character. The 2008 lookout is now a space where tourists
can dress up for photographs wearing hired Miao costumes The open-air performance
space has been replaced by an auditorium with an additional entry charge, where tourists
watch locals perform. The auditorium has tiered seating and a stage where announcers’
voices – backed by more gaudy electronic screens – boom out through microphones and
loudspeakers (Taylor 2019).
The Xijiang example inevitably takes us into the difficult and contested terrain of
change, but also I would add that it is the terrain of whose values are we, or should we be,
addressing? (Taylor 2014).
It is easy to judge the rampant development that has taken place as crass and destructive of Miao
culture. But do the locals see it in this vein when they have income from heritage tourism that
sustains them, allows them to fund schooling for children and brings jobs? Indeed, in Xijiang and
other villages there is some involvement of local people and communities in tourism management.
If we accept that culture is created by local people and is not static, then who am I to criticise change
that takes place? One thing is certain, and that is that culture changes and will continue to do so
both in spite of management actions as well as because of them. (Taylor 2019: 61)
AN URBAN PERSPECTIVE
Given that a major rationale behind this volume is viewing the sustainability concept
broadly as the integration of quality of life and fundamental human needs associated
with the great human transition to the urban environment, it is appropriate at this stage
to inquire into the association of cultural sustainability and cultural heritage conservation
through the lens of the major march globally into urbanisation. In this regard the question
posed in the following commentary is of critical note:
Current urbanization policies often ignore the importance of cultural heritage preservation and
promotion and the great potential of creativity in addressing social, environmental and economic
urbanization challenges. How does culture weigh in addressing urbanization challenges today?3
Today, for the first time in human history, more than half of the world’s population lives
in cities. According to UN-Habitat, within two decades, five billion people will live in
cities, a majority of them in the Global South. Coincidentally, within the field of cultural
heritage conservation, increasing international interest and attention over the past two
decades has been focused on urban areas. This is timely because pressure for economic
development and the prioritising of engagement with the global economy have accompa-
nied rapid urbanisation. In many societies, and not least in Asia, pressures for economic
development have privileged modernisation efforts leading to the loss of traditional com-
munities. Accompanying this has been a concentration in the field of urban conservation
on famous buildings and monuments rather than seeing cities as communities of people
with values and belief systems that are reflected in the city’s overall setting: its cultural
landscape. As a result an alternative way of seeing cities – the Historic Urban Landscape
(HUL) paradigm – has evolved and it is discourse around this paradigm that I address in
following sections of the chapter.
Embedded in HUL is the recognition of the layering of significances and values in
historic cities, deposited over time by different communities under different contexts
(Bandarin & van Oers 2015). It is an approach that relates closely to the cultural land-
scape concept of layers through time replete with social meanings. Cities may, therefore,
be categorised as a type of cultural landscape (Taylor 2015). The cultural landscape
paradigm can be seen to offer a trajectory of thinking relevant to the historic urban
environment, not least because we are dealing primarily with vernacular culture where
landscape study is a form of social history. Such discourse in turn supports the notion that
views landscape as a cultural construct reflecting human values. The significance of the
cultural landscape concept in the urban sphere is that it allows us to see and understand
the approach to urban conservation that concentrates on an individual building as ‘devoid
of the socio-spatial context . . . contributes to a deterioration of the [wider] urban physical
fabric’ (Punekar 2006: 110). Greffe reinforces this urban landscape way of thinking as
contrary to seeing the city as a closed view of architectural wonders of historic cities, but
rather seeing the ‘postmodern city where we are looking for feelings and emotions. The
landscape then becomes an experience’ (Greffe, 2010: 1). For me as a cultural geographer
3
United Nations Conference on Trade & Development (UNCTAD), ‘Culture vital for development
progress, Deputy Secretary-General tells meeting’. Hangzhou International Congress 2013. http://unctad.org/
en/Pages/AboutUs.aspx H:\Culture, sustainability, heritage\unctad_org (accessed 2016 – no longer available).
and planner the move into landscape linked HUL is welcome, not least in that it builds
on the pioneering work of distinguished geographers in urban studies, including Donald
Meinig, Wilbur Zilenski, Fred Kniffen, John B. Jackson, Peirce Lewis, Arthur E. Smailes,
and Edward Relph.
Central to such a paradigm shift emphasising the need for a cultural landscape
approach is the inalienable role of human values. Continuing this line of thought Punekar
(2006: 111) makes a strong case for adopting a cultural landscape approach in the follow-
ing comments:
A cultural landscape approach enables diverse communities to be seen as part of that landscape.
That is, cultural, historical, and political conditions affecting contemporary communities are
part of the process of human engagement with the place. The cultural landscape approach can
be a means of reuniting fragmented approaches to valuing and constructing the environments
we inhabit, a means of overcoming distinctions between historic environment and new develop-
ment, nature and culture, built heritage and context.
Changes in line with expanded thinking generally on heritage conservation in the later
1980s started to be seen in urban conservation. Reflective, for example, of this are the
1987 ICOMOS Charter for the Conservation of Historic Towns (Washington Charter)
and the 2000 ICOMOS Hoi An Declaration on Conservation of Historic Districts of Asia.
The Washington Charter notes in particular (Article 3) that ‘the participation and the
involvement of the residents are essential for the success of the conservation programme’.
Here came an understanding of the significance of built urban heritage as the places
where people live their everyday lives, where social values and a sense of place exist. In this
connection the perceptive observation by J.B. Jackson (1994: 151) is apposite:
Most of us, I suspect, without giving much thought to the matter, would say that a sense of place,
a sense of being at home in a town or city, grows as we become accustomed to it and learn to
know its peculiarities. It is my belief that a sense of place is something that we ourselves create
in the course of time. It is the result of habit or custom.
The shift to an holistic, contextual view of urban heritage to include the idea of landscape
as setting for people’s lives – and within this the idea of sense of place – is further seen in
the initiative of the Seoul Declaration on Heritage and Metropolis in Asia and the Pacific
((ICOMOS 2007). Notably the Declaration, in relation to a wider understanding of
heritage, proposes (2007: 6) that:
These heritage sites contribute to the life and memory of the metropolitan areas by the diversity
of their uses. . . . Along with geographical features and the living social ecosystem, cultural
heritage contributes strongly to the personality and character of the metropolis. It is a source of
a truly sustainable development of the metropolitan areas in Asia and the Pacific in achieving
their strategic and economic roles.
The concept of the HUL is a major initiative by UNESCO in the field of conservation
of urban areas associated with change that is taking place in the world’s cities. It was first
set out at a UNESCO conference in Vienna,4 May 2005, and advocated in the Vienna
Memorandum on World Heritage and Contemporary Architecture – Managing the Historic
Urban Landscape. It followed concern by the World Heritage Committee about impacts
of modern developments on historic urban areas and compatibility with the protection of
their heritage values. This was particularly so with its proposition of the HUL notion as a
tool to reinterpret the values of urban heritage, and its indication of the need to identify
new approaches and new tools for urban conservation.
Notably The Vienna Memorandum was pivotal to the Declaration on the Conservation of
Historic Urban Landscapes by the General Assembly of UNESCO in October 2005.5 ‘The
Vienna Memorandum [was] not intended as a finalized document that could guide urban
development and conservation for decades to come – it represented a consensus product,
established with the involvement of various professional entities, to serve as a catalyst for
opening up the debate’ (van Oers 2010: 8). In this context its thinking and intention can
be seen to pave the way for reviewing debate on new approaches to urban conservation.
It ‘hints at a vision of human ecology and signals a change towards sustainable develop-
ment and a broader concept of urban space suggested as “landscape” – not so much the
designed and evolved landscapes that are familiar to most conservation specialists, but
rather associative landscapes or “landscapes of the imagination”’ (van Oers 2010: 8).6
The establishment in the Vienna Memorandum of the HUL concept was, in effect, a
high-water mark for the heritage conservation field. It marked the start of a shift away
from the preoccupation with the historic city as visual object to an interest in the historic
environment as a space for ritual and human experience. Van Oers summarises this shift
towards the HUL paradigm in the following definition (van Oers 2010: 14):
Historic Urban Landscape is a mindset, an understanding of the city, or parts of the city,
as an outcome of natural, cultural and socio-economic processes that construct it spatially,
temporally, and experientially. It is as much about buildings and spaces, as about rituals and
values that people bring into the city. This concept encompasses layers of symbolic significance,
intangible heritage, perception of values, and interconnections between the composite elements
of the historic urban landscape, as well as local knowledge including building practices and
management of natural resources. Its usefulness resides in the notion that it incorporates a
capacity for change.
4
International conference on ‘World Heritage and Contemporary Architecture – Managing the Historic
Urban Landscape’, UNESCO World Heritage Centre in cooperation with ICOMOS and the City of Vienna at
the request of the World Heritage Committee, adopted at its 27th session in 2003.
5
http://whc.unesco.org/archive/2005/whc05-15ga-inf7e.pdf (accessed 2019).
6
Designed, evolved and associative landscapes are the three categories of landscape declared for World
Heritage purposes by UNESCO 1992. http://whc.unesco.org/en/culturallandscape/#1 (accessed 2019).
The idea of layering also strikes a chord with, and relates closely to, the cultural landscape
concept. The Recommendation recognises the challenges of urbanisation today, as well as
the importance of cities as engines of growth and centres of innovation and creativity that
provide opportunities for employment and education. The Recommendation identified
urban heritage, including its tangible and intangible components in their natural context,
as a key resource in enhancing the liveability of urban areas and fostering economic
development as well as social cohesion.
places are under threat as Worrasit Tantinipankul (2013: 114) in relation to Thailand
thought provokingly posits:
Historical urban communities in provincial towns across Thailand are facing rapid demolition
as a result of urban development. Comprised of simple wooden shop-houses reflecting humble
architectural craftsmanship, the character of these historical provincial towns is one which
reflects unique patterns of urban livelihood and culture in Thailand. And yet, this provincial
urban cultural landscape does not figure into the official Thai conception of ‘architectural
heritage’.
Tantinipankul further reflects that images of Thai heritage − and also a major focus
of tourism − have since the 1920s centred on famous glittering monuments and sites:
primary cultural heritage attractions such as World Heritage sites and sites on National
Heritage registers that feature in countless glossy magazines, travel brochures, promo-
tional tourism literature and will draw tourists and visitors in their own right (du Cros
2002). They are representative of the conventional approach to heritage conservation and
management standing in contrast to the values led approach focusing on involving com-
munities, cultural and participatory mapping to understand people’s values, intangible
connections to places and sense of identity. In contrast to primary attractions are what
can be termed secondary attractions. Hilary du Cros (2002: 319) reviewing heritage tour-
ism attractions in Hong Kong proposes ‘secondary attractions will appeal to tourists once
they are already at a destination and are examining options for best use of their time and
so become a more discretionary choice’.
Secondary attractions are the places we pass through on the way to primary attractions
or places adjacent to primary attractions as in the case of Tha Tien district of Bangkok
near the Royal Palace and Wat Pho (Pimonsathean 2006, Sirisrisak 2009). It is a lively
and vibrant vernacular streetscape popular with tourists and local people (Figure 20.4)
redolent with interesting and traditional social patterns. Another similar example in
Bangkok is Talud Phlu Canal Community, one of the historic canal communities along
the Chao Praya River. Tantinipankul (2014) as a result of a research project sets out7 that
residents of the area are descendants of Chinese merchants and low-ranking bureaucrats
who served the ruling class of Bangkok before modern development and that the area is
under threat from urban infrastructure developments. The research highlights the social
meaning and identity of Talad Phlu community. It reveals the historic site is an integral
part of the original settlement of Bangkok’s canal communities reflecting living history
of petty bureaucrats, merchants and labourers from the perspective of different ethnic
groups (Thai, Chinese, Mon, Muslim, Malay). The outcome is an inquiry into whether
it is feasible to revive such a community through various cultural heritage tourism
opportunities and networks involving such activities as cycling and walking routes as
well as improvements to canal transport safety and use with the involvement of Bangkok
7
Work carried out as part of a research project funded by National Research Council of Thailand under-
taken by School of Architecture and Design, King Mongkut University of Technology Thonburi.
8
See ‘Amazing Thailand’ https://www.tourismthailand.org/Attraction/Bang-Luang-Market--5138 (accessed
2019).
9
This was a meeting between GIHTA (Guangzhou International Historic Towns Assoc.) and UNESCO
WHITRAP (World Heritage Institute. for Training & Research Asia-Pacific), Shanghai which the author
attended.
a greater effort to reinforce and integrate past heritage with present developments, with
a major turning point being a 1989 planning act amendment (Yuen 2005). This saw the
appointment of a conservation authority and designation of conservation areas with
associated conservation requirements and guidelines. The number of identified conserva-
tion areas has increased to more than 20 (total area 751 ha). Many of these are interpreted
and presented for tourist purposes through attractive, informative trail brochures such
as for Jelan Besar. Involving historic shop-houses being saved from demolition and
specific restoration guidelines with information for owners to help protect authenticity,
these Singapore exemplars demonstrate how change and adaptation towards improved
environmental character underscore how the past should serve the future. Architecturally,
old and new combine to present a lively sense of socially vibrant urban life, rather than
preservation of old areas virtually as museum pieces. The variety of old and new build-
ings, including high-rise framing skyline views, adds diversity and interest.
Nevertheless, the very success of the Singapore examples raises the spectre and criticism
of gentrification changes as articulated in a newspaper opinion piece ‘Do Singapore
neighbourhoods risk death by cappuccino?’ (Pow, 2015). But here we need to ask whose
values are we addressing and to be mindful of the fact that local communities may see
things differently and welcome change that brings economic opportunity. It is also neces-
sary, given that heritage is subject to political considerations, to be mindful of government
policies. Henderson (2012) examines Singapore government policies to show how heritage
in neighbourhoods like Jelan Besar is seen to be multi-functional, not least as a tourist
resource and economic growth driver, giving rise to conflicts between such growth and
heritage conservation.
In dealing with urban heritage conservation it is vital that those involved – whether they
be government, urban planning/urban design agencies, politicians, non-governmental
organisations (NGOs), or inhabitants of cities – understand that historic cities consist
of a plurality of communities. These shift and change through time imposing different
values, thereby contributing to the layering of the city. With this imagery in mind, the idea
of a circumscribed inner area of an historic city, seemingly immutable in time, where rigid
conservation of the architectural fabric may be enforced as a way of attempting to stamp
a sense of local identity irrespective of how social values and ways of living change, is not
necessarily the best model to follow. In this vein Ashworth and Graham (2012: 594) argue
in relation to the post-war European city that if it ‘exists as an idea, then it is composed of
conserved urban forms and the idealized urban form that these contain’. They place this
within the context of vernacularism ‘viewed as a self-conscious and deliberate expression
of localism [where] the conserved historic city has adopted many vernacular elements
drawn from the folk museum’ (2012: 591). The authors then suggest that ‘it is a short
step from the deliberately assembled museum town to the vernacular museumification of
existing towns and districts’ (2012: 591): a chilling thought.
That identity is grounded in heritage is well established. It is part of an inclusive sense
of belonging that is communal and embracing; but it might also be exclusive. For tourism
purposes, for example, inclusivity is central to interpreting and presenting places for
outsiders where, from this knowledge, they could imagine being involved in creating what
it is that constitutes the identity of the place. The hustle and bustle of everyday street
scenes with shop-houses and markets in Asian cities is a cogent example. The streets are
often thriving, living entities where everyday life – real vernacular as opposed to ersatz
vernacular – and sense of living history are palpable. What we see is community identity
grounded in heritage, central to sense of place.
A comparison with the World Heritage city of Vigan, northwestern Philippines, is
perhaps instructive in light of Ashworth and Graham’s critique and the impacts of
tourism. Undoubtedly the town’s economic well-being derives very much from tourism
and conservation of the town’s remarkable collection of buildings and streetscapes.
Nevertheless there is a sense of social cohesion of different groups in the community,
together known as Bigueños, and their shared attachment and palpable pride and sense
of place in their city. The city was laid out on a grid pattern spreading out from a central
park ringed by administrative and religious buildings by the Spanish who arrived in 1572.
Later, Chinese immigrants intermarrying with local Filipinos formed an affluent group
who built their houses tightly strung along narrow streets in contrast to the grander scale
of the Hispanic houses. Many of the city streets are closed to motorised traffic offering an
attractive sense of being able to wander at will. A visitors’ brochure suggests that ‘Vigan
remains to be the home of proud Bigueños who welcome everyone . . . Images and sounds
of modernity have established their presence, however they are unable to drown the still-
ness and elegance of the past. Vigan has opened itself to change but has not sacrificed the
bountiful wealth of its heritage’. Perhaps the most enduring example of this is the fact that
there is a McDonald’s in the main square and near the 1641 cathedral, although limits to
the height of the building were imposed and McDonald’s trademark arches are absent.
What is apparent is that Vigan is as claimed ‘a Living Historic City’. The participation by
local people in its management is clear. Whilst the architecture and streetscapes are intact,
so is the sense of community and social history.
Examples from Shanghai and one from Beijing are also instructive. The first is the canal
town of Zhuijiajiao near Shanghai where changes have taken place, but they are changes
that can be seen not to be simply touristically fashionable vernacularism. Such towns have
rich histories, traditional architecture, and daily life that make them distinctly and unmis-
takably Chinese. Notably the local community consists of people who have traditionally
lived here for generations; people who want to continue to live here because it is a com-
munity, not merely a population. It is a cogent example of changing social values where
tourism now substantially helps the local economy, but where changes have not destroyed
the place from the point of view of the traditional setting of vernacular buildings and
canals and from the point of view of intangible values (people’s lives, community feeling
and sense of place). Significantly, the place still belongs to them and they belong to it. In
one building you may catch a glimpse of a local aged persons’ group playing mahjong.
Heritage conservation planning addressed the views and feelings of local people who
wanted to stay in their community: here is the essence of the city as cultural landscape.
The Beijing example is the Beijing 798 Art Zone.10 Formerly an industrial area with
a Bauhaus architectural character, it has been transformed into a thriving art zone with
galleries, design and artist studios, art exhibition spaces, fashion shops and a street of
cafes and restaurants. Each September the area hosts the Beijing 798 Art Festival. It has
become a leading exhibition centre of Chinese art and culture and significant focus for
cultural and creative industries.
10
http://www.chinahighlights.com/festivals/beijing-798-art-festival.htm; http://www.travelchinaguide.com/
attraction/beijing/798-art-zone.htm (both accessed 2016).
CONCLUSION
Parallel with the thinking on HUL is the growing recognition of urban areas as drivers of
creative industries and values associated with the notion of cultural capital – economics of
art and culture – linked to cultural value as well as economic value. The creative industries
idea is also linked to poverty alleviation, gender and youth empowerment, and sustainable
use and conservation of natural resources. Petko Draganov11 suggests that considerable
parts of output for creative goods and services are based on local culture where creative
industries are small businesses based on traditional cultural resources operating at low
investment levels. We may see therefore that links between traditional creative industries
with their associated communities and the HUL approach to urban conservation in
developing countries are palpable.
HUL offers a context for a much-needed dialogue with city planners, urban designers,
legal instruments and governments (national and local) on how layered cultural experi-
ences influence perceptions of the urban landscape and why these are important in urban
renewal outcomes. It is important in this dialogue that it is understood that the concept of
urban cultural landscape heritage conservation and the reality of economic and political
influences on city development and expansion are not mutually exclusive, acceding that
change to city form will be inevitable. Critical to HUL is managing this change; recognis-
ing urban heritage is of vital importance for cities because it constitutes a key resource in
enhancing liveability in urban areas. It fosters economic development and social cohesion
with urban heritage acting as a catalyst for socio-economic development treating cities as
dynamic organisms (UNESCO 2013b).
Finally, crucial to the application of HUL are three underlying principles: (1) under-
standing of the city as an evolving process – living entity – not merely a series of objects
(buildings): here the idea of process embraces intangible cultural heritage values, genius
loci, and interaction between culture and nature; (2) respect for the overall morphology
of the city and its landscape setting so that future development does not overwhelm the
landscape physically or its intangible meanings and values; and (3) understanding that
conservation of physical material aspects of urban landscape must be balanced taking
into account immaterial aspects to do with layers of meanings residing in the urban
landscape.
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INTRODUCTION
In 2005, Kerr asks the question “What is small island sustainability all about?” Citing
the forces of globalization and localization, the importance of exogenous factors as
well as local decision-making and governance are described as fundamental multi-scale
forces of change on islands (Hodson et al. 2016, Zhang & Walsh 2018). In severe
contexts and through intensified ways, these multi-scale forces of change may combine
to form new threats to the sustainability of island ecosystems through the coupling of
human–environment interactions and the feedback mechanisms that shape and re-shape
social–ecological systems. Issues of scale of natural and human resources, interactions
among social, terrestrial, and marine sub-systems, and distance and isolation are intrinsic
features of islands that have particular implications for sustainable development. In the
Galapagos Islands of Ecuador, island sustainability is threatened by (1) natural processes,
such as coastal erosion, ocean warming and acidification related to climate change,
tectonics, long- and short-term climate oscillations like El Niño/La Niña events, and
natural hazards, including tsunamis; (2) recent and contemporary social processes, such
as population migration and tourism, urban growth, and deficient infrastructure; and (3)
hybrid or integrated social–ecological processes, such as the introduction of alien species
through the transportation of goods and materials, the decay of critical ecosystem ser-
vices, over-exploitation of fisheries through interaction of local and global processes and
economic incentives, land cover/land use change and alteration of ecosystem goods and
services, and the touristic saturation of terrestrial and marine visitation sites, impacting
amenity resources, iconic species, seascapes, and marine environments. While forces of
change and social–ecological responses are often used to address the impacts of threats to
the environment, the feedback between people, economics, social–ecological disturbances,
and environment offer a more nuanced and integrative approach to assessing changes
on islands through social–ecological dynamics and the imposition of multi-dimensional
threats to island sustainability.
Sustainability is difficult to define, taking many forms for different disciplines. Here,
it may be defined as a socio-ecological process used to maintain critical multi-scale
functions and corresponding ecosystem services through time, often in response to dis-
turbances imposed by human and/or natural processes. Sustainable Systems may require
adaptation to accommodate change without permanently transitioning the system into
an alternate state, thereby requiring interventions to restore it to a previous condition
(e.g., Brown et al. 1987, Gatto 1995, Kerr et al. 2004, Marshall & Toffel 2005). Sustainable
development is a process to improve the quality of life of people, while maintaining the
ability of social–ecological systems to continue to provide valuable ecological services that
342
social systems require. In the Galapagos Islands, the maintenance of amenity resources
to support tourism and the quality of life of residents are explicitly linked to ecosystem
goods and services, particularly the accessibility to high-quality natural environments
and the terrestrial and marine visitation sites that showcase iconic species and iconic
environments. Griggs et al. (2013) state that sustainable development must meet the needs
of the present, while safeguarding the Earth’s life-support system on which the welfare of
current and future generations depends.
While the ecological system is the focal point of much of the international interest in the
Galapagos Islands, the flora and fauna of these “Enchanted Islands” no longer enjoy the
geographic isolation that a distance of 1000 km from the continent of Ecuador formerly
insured. Today, the global forces of change, both social and ecological, have reached the
Galapagos Islands and they are reshaping the environment best known for evolutionary
processes, native and endemic species, and seascape settings that attract global visitors
and an expanding residential population drawn to the islands to work in the burgeoning
tourism industry (Halpern et al. 2008; Farhan & Lim 2012). ENSO (El Niño Southern
Oscillation) events as well as economic development, particularly new construction of
hotels, homes, and service centers, among other facilities, alter the trajectories of change
and influence island and ecosystem sustainability in complex ways.
The expanding human pressure in the Galapagos Islands is a significant problem that
continues to challenge the archipelago and ecosystem sustainability in a world renowned
protected area. Recognized as a serious threat by the United Nations Educational, Scientific
and Cultural Organization (UNESCO), the Galapagos Islands were placed on an “in
danger” list (2007–2010) of World Heritage Sites, signaling that the complex interplay of
human population, economic development, governance, and invasive species is a fundamen-
tal problem that requires continued attention and resolve. Within a coupled natural–human
system in which the direct and indirect consequences of tourists and residents influence the
environment in subtle and conspicuous ways, introduced species are a critical problem that
seems to defy the best intentions of prevention, eradication, and control.
Tourism has become one of the most important economic sectors in recent decades,
and island tourism is one of the main components of world tourism (Josep et al. 2013).
Today, approximately 1.2 billion tourists travel outside their borders, generating revenues
in excess of $1.5 billion, underlining the importance of tourism in the global economy that
accounts for over 12 percent of gross domestic product (GDP) (United Nations World
Tourism Organization 2015). As such, tourism has become an important and dynamic
driver of change on islands (Currie & Falconer 2014), especially those with high-quality
amenity resources and access to iconic species and iconic landscapes, as is the case of the
Galapagos Islands of Ecuador. In the Galapagos, and islands more generally, land use/
land cover change is one of the most distinctive expressions of change, often associated
with deforestation/reforestation, agriculture, invasive species, urbanization, and economic
development (DeFries & Eshleman 2004, Omo-Irabor et al. 2011, Farhan & Lim 2012,
Kumar & Kunte 2012).
In addition, human migration of residents to islands to support the tourism industry,
and the temporary migration of tourists to islands for recreational activities, have brought
profound changes to the natural environment in places like the Hawaiian and Canary
Islands (Cuddihy & Stone 1990, Otto et al. 2007). With the rise in global wealth, pressure
on exotic island ecosystems, such as the Galapagos Islands, will increase as more people
seek to visit and experience these special places, thereby introducing new threats to
island sustainability through the expanding human dimension (Kerr 2005, Metzger et al.
2006, Perry 2011). Acted upon by episodic and continuous forces of change, islands are
impacted by a host of social–ecological forces as well as public policies and management
programs that may be in opposition to sustainability goals. In addition to the direct
consequences of the expanding human dimension in the Galapagos seen, for instance,
through the construction of hotels and commercial enterprises, islands also respond to
indirect effects as well, such as through the transport and importation of people and
products from the mainland.
Politically part of Ecuador, the Galapagos Islands are 1000 km from the mainland.
The population is small but growing and dynamic (~30,000 today versus 3488 in 1972).
Tourism is also growing exponentially. In 1990, 40,000 tourists visited the islands, but
the number of tourists increased to 65,000 in 2000 and 220,000 in 2015. The promise of
outstanding recreational experiences for tourists and economic opportunities for those
seeking better livelihoods leading to in-migration have brought about increased demands
on local resources that significantly change, and often stress and degrade, the social,
terrestrial, and marine sub-systems in fundamental ways. With nearly 2 million visitors
arriving in the Galapagos since 2000, the tourism sector directly employs 60 percent of the
residents (Kerr 2005, Villacis & Carrillo 2013) and represents almost the entire economy.
Although some islands are well protected and do not allow tourists, over 70 percent of
San Cristobal and 50 percent of Santa Cruz, the two most populated islands, have been
dramatically altered by social–ecological dynamics since the 1980s (Percy et al. 2016).
In 1959, the Galapagos National Park (GNP) was formed, and, in 1973, the archi-
pelago was incorporated as the twentieth province of Ecuador. UNESCO designated the
Galapagos as a World Heritage Site in 1978, a designation to honor the “magnificent and
unique” natural features of the Galapagos and to ensure their conservation for future
generations. These islands were further deemed a Biosphere Reserve in 1987, and the
Galapagos Marine Reserve was created in 2001. The Marine Reserve was formed as a
consequence of the 1998 passage of the Special Law for Galapagos by the Ecuadorian
government that was designed to “protect and conserve the marine and terrestrial
resources of the Islands.”
The Galapagos Archipelago encompasses 18 large islands (greater than 1 sq. km) and
216 small islets and rocks totaling approximately 7985 sq. km dispersed throughout the
Marchena
N Urban use zone
Rural use zone
Impact reduction
Complete protection
Santiago
Isabela
Santa Cruz
Fernandina
San Cristobal
Santa Fe
Floreana
0 15 30 60 kilometers
Espanola
Note: Circles indicate the primary urban use zones and the primary coastal communities of Puerto Villamil,
Puerto Ayora, and Puerto Baquerizo Moreno on Isabela, Santa Cruz, and San Cristobal Islands, respectively.
Marine Reserve, an area of 138,000 sq. km (Figure 21.1) (Parque Nacional Galápagos
2012). During the past three decades, dramatic social–ecological changes have threatened
the social, terrestrial, and marine ecosystems of the Galapagos. Beginning in the 1970s,
the islands experienced exponential population growth and development. Thousands of
new residents began to migrate from the mainland attracted by the promise of lucrative
opportunities linked to the islands’ rich marine and terrestrial ecosystems and “pushed”
by the lack of economic opportunity in many parts of mainland Ecuador. The fast-paced
development of the tourism industry also contributed to the growth of the local popula-
tion (Butler 1980, Sarmiento 1987, Agarwal 2002, Villacis and Carrillo 2013). And the
effects of tourism on the environment are changing as an increasing share of tourists stay
in hotels on land as opposed to sleeping on boats that navigate the islands. Day trips and
island hopping have become the rule rather than the exception. The growth in tourism,
especially land-based, in turn has fostered increased migration, both legal and illegal,
by those seeking higher paying jobs in tourism, construction, government, and related
industries (Quiroga 2013, Villacis and Carrillo 2013).
archipelago (Kerr et al. 2004, Taylor et al. 2008). Traversed by cruise ships that transport
tourists and residents to sites across the archipelago for interactions with animals and
environment, boat-based and hotel-based tourism support the needs of visitors and
residents through access and exploration of island ecosystems, accommodated by an
expanding infrastructure (Epler 2007). For instance, airlines fly from the continent to San
Cristobal and Baltra Islands (for direct access to Santa Cruz Island and beyond), inter-
island airlines fly between San Cristobal, Baltra, and Isabela Islands, and cruise boats
and smaller commercial boats (i.e., fibras) ferry passengers (and goods) between islands
in pursuit of tourist destinations through a process known as “island hopping” (Pizzitutti
et al. 2014). The movement of people across the archipelago for work and recreation as
well as for the importation of food, commercial products, and construction materials,
carried mostly on several cargo ships that navigate between the continent and the islands,
have, inadvertently and by design, introduced non-native species to the islands that now
threaten island conservation and ecosystem sustainability. Chief among the threats to the
archipelago are invasive species that are transforming the ecology of human spaces and
protected areas as well (Tye 2001).
Different programs and policies have been created to conserve the Galapagos Islands.
The GNP, the main responsible governmental body, directs various conservation efforts
throughout the Park and the Galapagos Marine Reserve. These management efforts
include programs about tourism and fisheries, determination of access protocols and
permissions, and associated development initiatives and operational programs within
the boundaries of the National Park and the Marine Reserve. The Consejo de Gobierno
(Government Council) and the LOREG 1998 (Special Law for the Galapagos) and its
revised versions (2015 to the present), are central to management decisions and programs
with protected areas in the Galapagos, with implications for the human use zones as
well. Another important tool used for the management of the Galapagos is the Annual
Operational Plan. The plan is used to annually set the agenda for the management of
the Galapagos Islands. There are tensions, however, between the different governmental
offices and institutions that have a stake in the management of the Galapagos Islands.
Probably one of the most conflictive times was in 2009 when the Director of the GNP, at
the time, Raquel Molina, was assaulted by members of the Ecuadorian Navy as she tried
to stop an illegal tourism operation that was being conducted on Baltra Island. Tensions
between the Ministry of Environment and the GNP and some economic sectors, such as
fisheries, persist often around a number of volatile topics related to extraction, quotas,
and human–environment interactions.
Pop. to 2020:
43,778
25,124
18,640
9785
6119
2391 4037
1346
1940 1950 1960 1970 1980 1990 2000 2010 2020 2030
200,000
International tourists
180,000 National tourists
Total tourists
160,000
140,000
120,000
100,000
80,000
60,000
40,000
20,000
0
1979
1981
1983
1985
1987
1989
1991
1993
1995
1997
1999
2001
2003
2005
2007
2009
2011
Figure 21.3 Trends of tourism in the Galapagos (total tourists; international tourists;
national tourists)
1,000,000
High Growth
900,000 Moderate Growth
Tourist Promotion 100k
800,000 Tourist Promotion 400k
Stagnation/Reorientation
700,000 Collapse
Number of Tourists
600,000
500,000
400,000
300,000
200,000
100,000
0
1979
1982
1985
1988
1991
1994
1997
2000
2003
2006
2009
2012
2015
2018
2021
2024
2027
2030
2033
Figure 21.4 Population projections for selected scenarios in the Galapagos Islands
67 percent decline between 2015 and 2021, distributed evenly across the six-year interval;
but tourism doubles in 2022, but not at the levels previously observed, and annual growth
is 2 percent through 2033. Residential population in the Galapagos Islands is driven
primarily by migration from the Ecuadorian mainland to work in the tourism industry,
where nearly 60 percent of residents are employed in the tourism sector (Gonzalez et al.
2008). Ordinary least-squares regression is used to link the number of tourists arriving in
the Galapagos and the growth in the local population.
GOVERNANCE
In the minds of many, the Galapagos Islands are an isolated and pristine place, but in
reality there are many tensions and conflicts between the various stakeholders that voice
opposing conceptions and intentions for the GNP and Galapagos Marine Reserve. In the
past, there has been two different views of the islands: (1) a global construct created at
least since the time of Charles Darwin (he visited the Galapagos Islands in 1835 aboard
the HMS Beagle) that sees the Galapagos as a natural laboratory, where the endemic and
native plants and animals must be preserved; and (2) one that represents the views of
many of the fishermen and local people of the Galapagos, who have colonized the islands
during the last 150 years, and who see the islands as a place to earn their livings through
the exploitation of local resources and development circumstances, now mostly associated
with the tourism industry (Quiroga 2013).
Conflicts are an important part of sustainability in the Galapagos as they can influence
social behaviors and ecological contexts, particularly, when management programs, or
lack of effective management programs, hinder efforts to conserve the environment, sup-
port development and generate income, and sustain the Galapagos for future generations.
In the Galapagos, the conflicts in the 1990s and early 2000s between the fishers and the
GNP and the conservation sector created important challenges to the sustainability of
the archipelago. Conflicts in the Galapagos can be classified as those with external agents,
such as the national government, international and national tour companies, conservation
organizations and the scientific community, and industrial fishing operators, and those
with internal, local agents in which conflicts between local actors, such as between the
Pesca Artisanal (artisanal fishing tourism) and the day tour operators have periodically
erupted. For instance, the tourists in the 1960s were using local boats and knowledge of
the fishermen to tour the archipelago; however, the Charles Darwin Foundation and other
actors created a plan of inviting outside companies to come to the islands with their larger
boats to accommodate a greater number of tourists for touring the archipelago. To a large
extent, this plan of external actors and the importation of their boats into the Galapagos
failed to keep the urban centers from developing in an aggressive and unsustainable way
due to the growth of the tourism industry, and the lack of system transparency led to
mistrust by local people and perceived loss of integrity of local institutions (Reck 2016).
A system was put in place in 1998 (i.e., Participatory Management Board) in which the
stakeholders participated in the management of the Galapagos Marine Reserve. In some
cases, such as the lobster fishery, it was relatively effective in management, but in other
cases, such as the sea cucumber fishery, it failed to control the level of exploitation nor
could it delay or stop actions that led to the collapse of the sea cucumber fishery. More
recently, conflicts associated with the building of tourist hotels, setting tourist quotas for
different tour operators, and identifying and regulating tourist visitation sites where tour-
ists (and the local residential population) visit iconic species and environments reflect the
local perception that local people do not benefit from their efforts, needs, aspirations, and
imposed constraints and limitations, and their actions are often opposed by the governing
and management elites who may be outsiders who conserve the islands without engaging
the local people and acknowledging their needs for jobs, income, and quality of life.
Tourism, which emerged in the 1960s, became a source of conflict and tension, with many
of the same challenges previously seen again repeated. For instance, most of the tourism
dollars generated through land and marine operators do not stay in the Galapagos, but
move to Quito or Guayaquil or even to Miami and New York, where tour operators and/
or facility owners reside. The development of land-based tourism and island hopping that
economically benefit Galapagos residents, as many of these operations are owned by local
residents, has also generated many conflicts between local groups and with outsiders, and
has caused an increase in the numbers of local hotels, speed boats, and use of the limited
resources, a challenge to the long-term sustainability of the archipelago.
Increased human presence has hastened the introduction of species that are now so
prevalent and severe that they threaten the native and endemic flora and fauna of the
islands and significantly impact the human population (Henderson et al. 2006, Trueman
et al. 2010). The problem of introduced and invasive species illustrates the important
feedback between the social and ecological systems. Land use and management practices
reflect human migration patterns, pressures, and economic choices, increasing urbaniza-
tion linked to tourism and other development opportunities, and thereby rendering
agricultural lands in the human use zones of the highlands underutilized and even
abandoned, becoming fertile ground for introduced and invasive species. To the fragile
ecosystems of the Galapagos, these introduced and invasive plants change the biological
diversity, degrade ecological services, reduce the number and coverage of endemic plants,
modify ecological processes, and compete with other species (Charles Darwin Foundation
2014). It is estimated that at least 37 species are considered highly invasive and require
immediate control (Tye 2001), and that 560 introduced plant species have invaded the
Galapagos ecosystem (Tye 2001). Of these species, 34 percent have become “naturalized,”
(Sax and Gaines 2003, 2008) and 45 percent of these have become established as intact
native vegetation (Buddenhagen et al. 2004). It is estimated that on the five populated
islands, 29 percent of the humid and 45 percent of the very humid highlands have been
transformed by the combined presence of invasive plants and agriculture (Watson et al.
2010). The dynamics of plant invasion depend on the combination of species and recipi-
ent environments relative to stochastic events, such as heavy rains associated with ENSO
events in the Galapagos Islands (Itow 2003, Henderson et al. 2006). Over the past three
decades in the Galapagos Islands, the human-assisted introduction rate of introduced
species has been approximately ten species per year or some 100,000 times the natural
arrival rate of introduced species (Tye 2001, 2006). In addition, guava (Psidium guajava),
patches in the human use zone in the agricultural highlands of Isabela Island, for instance,
have consolidated into continuous patches along the borders with the GNP (Walsh et al.
2008). It appears that the occurrence and spread of introduced species in the Galapagos
may depend more on human activities and the nature of managed landscapes than on
human population size per se (Tye 2006). In some cases, the introduced species have
become so prevalent that it has been argued that the best way of dealing with the problem
is to maintain a level of these introduced species. From an economic point of view, the
attempted eradication of some species has cost millions of dollars, and, in the case of
raspberry, the program has been mostly ineffective. This idea is known in the literature
as “novel ecosystems,” which can have important implications for the management of
the Galapagos Islands and sustainability of the islands (Hobbs et al. 2013, Quiroga and
Rivas 2016).
Agricultural lands are important points for invasions for several reasons: farmers cultivate
or otherwise introduce non-native and invasive species; they accidentally bring introduced
and invasive species into an area (sometimes with the species they desire); and activities
such as grazing (including by feral animals) can impact an ecosystem in a way that makes
invasion by plant species easier. Introduced and invasive species, however, also impede
agriculture and farmers must expend effort to eliminate them. Because of the effort
required to maintain agriculture in the face of introduced and invasive species, their pres-
ence could also lead to farm abandonment (Kulmatiski et al. 2006) and the transition of
households to alternative livelihood strategies (Walsh and Mena 2016), including off-farm
employment in tourism, further shaping the areal extent and severity of invasion and the
difficulty and necessity of species prevention, eradication, and control (Hulme 2006). At
the moment, the average age in the agricultural area is 50 years (Reyes et al. 2015), which
means that if the trend continues in the Galapagos, in the future it will have to be managed
as a place where all the products come from outside.
Interactions with cattle throughout the human use zones and in the adjacent GNP,
for example, are most important for the spread of guava, Psidium guajava, a critically
important invasive species in the Galapagos Islands. Guava is a shrub or small tree widely
cultivated for its edible fruit (Ellshoff et al. 1995). In the Galapagos, it is considered a
transformer species (Tye 2006), an invasive species that changes “the character, condi-
tion, form, or nature of ecosystems over substantial areas relative to the extent of that
ecosystem” (Richardson 1999, p. 93). Guava was introduced into the humid highlands
through the agricultural zones, settlement areas completely surrounded by the GNP that
originally consisted of Scalesia forests and the treeless fern-sedge zone (Hamann 1981).
Soil disturbance can improve the introduction of non-native species by relying on plant–
soil feedback or “historical legacies” of agricultural disturbances (Kulmatiski et al. 2006).
Introduced species at community and ecosystem scales can severely hinder conservation
goals (Jager et al. 2009). In the Galapagos, the introduction of a novel tree life form, red
quinine tree (Cinchona pubescens), to a formerly treeless environment led to significant
changes in stand structure and environmental conditions as well as to decreases in species
diversity and cover (Jager et al. 2009). Vegetation–climate interactions affect the trajectory
of plant growth with respect to the process of plant invasion by alien species (Asner et
al. 2008).
Land change science seeks to understand the changing patterns and drivers of land use/
land cover change as a consequence of the complex interplay of multi-thematic and
scale dependent relationships that exist between people and environment as well as their
space–time dynamics (Allen & Barnes 1985, Rindfuss et al. 2004). Pielke (2005), writing
in Science, suggests that understanding land use/land cover change, i.e., its causes and
consequences, involves, at a minimum, individuals, households, and land parcels as well
as an understanding of human–environment interactions. The behavior of individuals
and households and the characteristics of small land parcels and communities are crucial
to understanding the drivers of land dynamics on islands, a relationship not always
visible at more aggregate scales. Questions about individual and household dynamics
and land use/land cover change are at the heart of the evolving research program on
human–environment interactions. In the Galapagos, remotely-sensed data have been used
to characterize land use/land cover change, for instance, by Walsh et al. (2008) to assess
invasive plant species on family farms; Watson et al. (2009) to examine anthropogenic
degradation, i.e., areas transformed by direct human activity of residents and tourists as
well as land areas heavily invaded by introduced plant species; D’ozouville et al. (2008) to
address the lack of fresh water to support people and flora and fauna in the Galapagos;
Brewington (2013) to map vegetation responses to the invasion and eradication of feral
goats; and McCleary (2013) to examine land use/land cover changes related to agricultural
land abandonment, plant invasion, forest expansion, and urban infilling and peripheral
growth in human use zones.
CONCLUSIONS
The introduction of species into the Galapagos Islands has generally occurred at the
expense of native species. Several introduced species have also become invasive, thereby
further transforming the landscape and the ecosystem in which they occur. Species
introduction to the Galapagos is a complex interplay of human–environment interactions
that involves human culture, context, regulation, legacy, and ecosystem (Walsh and Mena
2013b). Human migrants from the Ecuadorian continent have historically transported
plants to the Galapagos as a source of familiar foods, as ornamental plants for their
homes and gardens, and as a seed source for subsistence and commercial agriculture. In
addition to the importation of species by design, introduced species have made their way
to the Galapagos through a less direct human participation, stealing away in the hulls of
ships, hitch-hiking in the soles of shoes, in back-packs, and concealed in containers used
to transport people and produce to the Galapagos by cargo ships, private and commercial
passenger vessels, and airliners that connect the Galapagos to distant places. Human
managed landscapes, certainly within the human settlement areas and the agricultural
highlands, are welcoming settings to introduced species, often out competing native
species as landscapes are transformed, thereby shaping ecosystem goods and services
in subtle and conspicuous ways. Mindful of this challenge to the ecosystems of the
Galapagos, efforts have intensified to control the introduction of species and to mitigate
their areal extent and ecological impact through eradication programs, but a consolidated,
continuous, and strategic program that addresses both the GNP and human use zones
and their spill-over effects across the landscape and at administrative and political borders
has been elusive (World Wildlife Fund 2012, Wardell-Johnson 2011). While the process
of species introduction is complex and linked to human–environment interactions, an
important process involves the “pushes and pulls” of people on the Ecuadorian continent
who migrate to the Galapagos in search of jobs and the movement of people from the
agricultural highlands of the Galapagos to the coastal communities as part of a livelihood
transition to tourism (World Wildlife Fund 2003, 2012).
With the economy of Ecuador historically challenged and open to the vagaries of
national and global forces, certain segments of the population have elected to migrate to
international destinations for jobs in the USA, Spain, and other locations, including the
Galapagos Islands, where higher salaries are set by law beyond those enjoyed on the conti-
nent. As such, migrants, linked to the Galapagos through social networks, migrate for jobs
and travel as tourists and then often stay for jobs, primarily in the more lucrative tourism
industry. Previous migrants to the Galapagos who cultivated the agricultural highlands
and participated in the fisheries industry are also drawn to the coastal communities by
the burgeoning tourism industry in the Galapagos and the higher associated salaries and
improved working conditions (Watkins and Cruz 2007). Pushed by introduced species
that colonize and degrade much of the highlands, the lack of market integration for the
sale of their products, and the difficulty of retaining family labor in agriculture, necessitat-
ing the development of contracts to bring laborers from the continent for limited periods
of time, farm households are being pulled into the tourism industry, particularly, where
personal and household characteristics allow for a successful transition to an alternative
household livelihood option. But these social processes are further linked to policies
and programs that extend across eradication initiatives, development of new economic
opportunities for farmers in the highlands through tourism projects that draw visitors
from the coastal communities, and habitat change through land management efforts and
the implication of disturbance regimes, such as ENSO events that re-shape the landscape
in meaningful ways (Walsh and Mena 2013a).
The Galapagos seascape evolved over a long time without the presence of humans. In
the last century, humans have become a major factor in altering this trajectory. These
complex, unpredictable and dynamic processes require new ways not only of concep-
tualizing the interaction between humans, but also of understanding the unpredictable
implications and complex interactions. Although management plans and actions have
been implemented in the Galapagos to promote sustainability as a larger objective, there
are threats to the stability of this fragile ecosystems that have not been addressed. This is
mostly because of the lack of understanding about how external pressures like tourism
and economic development, population growth and increasing production of waste and
pollution will affect key ecosystems now and into the future.
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INTRODUCTION
Central America’s forest was cleared at an alarming rate from the 1950s through the 1980s
(Myers & Tucker, 1987), due in part to the expanding cattle industry that converted forests
into pasture (Kaimowitz, 1996). Declining forest cover, leading to forest fragmentation
and habitat loss, contributes to the interrelated and global environmental threats of
climate change (Kalnay & Cai, 2003), loss of biodiversity (B. L. Turner, II, Lambin, &
Reenberg, 2007), and decreased environmental services (Vitousek et al., 1997). This triple
threat has led to an increased interest in biological corridors, since wildlife linkages can
help reduce the effects of habitat fragmentation on local fauna and flora (Beier & Noss,
1998; Damschen et al., 2006).
Mesoamerica is one of 25 biodiversity hotspots around the world (Myers et al., 2000).
Despite its size, Costa Rica, which is smaller than the state of West Virginia, is home to
more than 4 percent of described species in the world (Obando, 2007) and is sometimes
described as the world’s laboratory for tropical conservation (Boza, Jukofsky, & Wille,
1995). However, Costa Rica did not always have environmentally friendly policies and
regulation, which can be seen in how much its forest cover has fluctuated in the last 50
years. In 1941, Costa Rica passed a law that permitted possession of up to 300 hectares
of uninhabited public land if the occupant cleared more than half of it and maintained
at least one cow for every 5 hectares (Brockett & Gottfried, 2002). Land ownership was
established by “improving the land,” which often meant converting forest to crops or
pasture. Deforestation increased, reaching its peak in the 1980s, as forest lands were
opened up for agriculture, cattle pasture, and settlement (Evans, 1999). During this
time, approximately two-thirds of the country’s extensive tropical forests were cleared
(Guindon, 1996; Sánchez-Azofeifa , Harriss, & Skole, 2001).
There was a dramatic shift in policy in the late 1980s, starting with the removal of sub-
sidies for agricultural products and promotion of ecotourism (Edelman, 1999). Shortly
after, a series of forestry laws were implemented that stopped settlements, prohibited
deforestation on private lands, and promoted afforestation and reforestation (Brockett
& Gottfried, 2002). Additionally, close to 25 percent of the country’s land area was
designated to promote biodiversity conservation (Sánchez-Azofeifa et al., 2003). In the
359
1990s, a shift toward stronger environmental values began to be evident and predominated
in views of Costa Ricans, which were expressed through their support for new forest
conservation laws (Jantzi, Schelhas, & Lassoie, 1999). In 1994, tourism surpassed the
production of bananas and coffee, and became Costa Rica’s leading source of foreign
exchange (Brockett & Gottfried, 2002).
Costa Rica established a program of payment for environmental services in 1997 as a
way to combat deforestation and promote reforestation by providing compensation to
people who possess forest lands that provide some particular environmental service, which
include climate-change-mitigation services, hydro services, scenic services and biodiver-
sity services (Robalino & Pfaff, 2013). Three laws form the framework that established
the Costa Rican payment for ecosystem services, known in Spanish as Pago por Servicios
Ambientales (PSA). In 1995, the Environmental Law 7554 mandated a “balanced and
ecologically driven environment” for all (Sánchez-Azofeifa et al., 2007). The Forestry
Law 7575 followed in 1996 limiting deforestation even further (Robalino & Pfaff, 2013).
In 1998, the Biodiversity Law focused on rational use of the biodiversity resources along
with their conservation (Sánchez-Azofeifa et al., 2007).
The PSA program is managed by FONAFIFO (Fondo Nacional de Financiamiento
Forestal, which roughly translates to “National Fund for Forest Financing”), a semi-
autonomous government agency with independent legal status that is in charge of
channeling government payments to private forestry owners and protected areas with the
goal of protecting primary forest, allowing secondary forest to recover, and promoting
reforestation of abandoned pasture and degraded lands (Russo & Candela, 2006). The
governing board of FONAFIFO is composed of three representatives of the public sector
(one each from the Ministry of Environment and Energy, the Ministry of Agriculture,
and the National Banking System) and two representatives from the private forest sector
who are appointed by the board of directors of the National Forest Office (Pagiola,
2008). Since 2001, 3.5 percent of the fuel tax revenues have gone to fund FONAFIFO
directly (Muller & Patry, 2011; Sánchez-Azofeifa et al., 2007). Additional resources have
been secured through agreements with hydroelectric companies including Energía Global,
Compañía Nacional de Fuerza y Luz, Hidroeléctrica Platanar and Florida Ice and Farm,
in order to protect water resources (Russo & Candela, 2006).
To help promote biodiversity conservation and reforestation, a network of reserves
covering 12 percent of Costa Rica’s land areas was created (Sánchez-Azofeifa et al., 2003).
In order to better link these protected areas and increase habitat for migratory species or
species that require larger home ranges, 37 corridors were established across the country
(SINAC, 2009). A biological corridor is a swath of connected, linear land areas joining
habitats that facilitate animal movement (Beier, Majka, & Spencer, 2008; Singleton &
McRae, 2013). Additionally, corridors help plant dispersal and retain more native plant
species than isolated patches while not promoting the invasion of exotic species, making
them a great tool for biodiversity conservation (Damschen et al., 2006). El Corredor
Biológico Pájaro Campana (CBPC) of Costa Rica, known in English as the Bellbird
Biological Corridor, is one of those designated conservation areas, encompassing a 664
km sq. swath extending from the continental divide to the western coast of Costa Rica.
Connectivity conservation planning has traditionally relied on a focal species approach,
which builds upon the concept of the umbrella species, like a top predator or endangered
species, whose requirements are believed to include the needs of other species (Lambeck,
1997). The namesake of the CBPC is the threatened Three-Wattled Bellbird (Procnias
tricarunculatus), one of Central America’s largest frugivores with the most complex
migratory pattern recorded for a tropical species (Powell & Bjork, 2004).
RESEARCH GOAL
As awareness of the negative effects of forest fragmentation has grown, so has the demand
for tools to predict, evaluate and manage changes in landscape connectivity (Adriaensen
et al., 2003). Geographic information systems (GIS) and satellite remote sensing are
research techniques that have the capacity to address multiple spatial and temporal scale
research questions in a cost-effective manner. GIS creates a platform that allows for data
to be visualized, analyzed and interpreted in order to understand patterns, trends and
other relationships (Maguire, 1991). Remote sensing is the science of obtaining informa-
tion through a device that is not in contact with the object under investigation (Lillesand,
Kiefer, & Chipman, 2004). In other words, remote sensing provides data, while GIS helps
explore that data’s significance.
The first Landsat satellite was launched in 1972 and since then satellite imagery has
become readily available and an important source of data to help understand human
impacts on the landscape (Baker & Williamson, 2006). The US Landsat Earth observing
satellites have been monitoring landscape changes for over 40 years and since 2009 the
full archive of historical imagery has been released by the US Geological Survey to the
public for free online access (Table 22.1) (Wulder et al., 2012). General land use classes
such as water, agricultural areas and forests can be easily observed and quantified on
Landsat imagery. For the first time in remote sensing history, scientists, policy makers and
resource managers are able to assess changes in land use and land cover, and determine
trends related to human impacts and how it affects agriculture, forestry, water availability
and climate change (Loveland & Dwyer, 2012). Landsat images are regularly used to
track forest cover change since forests are a relatively easy cover type to map (Hansen &
Loveland, 2012). A time series of satellite imagery can be used to identify and prioritize
land areas that should be preserved for conservation and areas that should be restored to
connect ecologically important lands (W. Turner et al., 2003).
The use of satellite imagery, in the form of Landsat imagery, has been used to study the
Costa Rican landscape since the 1960s (Joyce, 2006). Early Multispectral Sensor (MSS)
Landsat imagery has a spatial resolution (pixel size) of 60 × 60 m and, starting in 1984
with the launch of the Thematic Mapper sensor on Landsat 5, the imagery resolution
was improved to 30 × 30 m. Higher resolution imagery such as RapidEye (5-m spatial
resolution) has been used recently by GIZ (The Deutsche Gesellschaft für Internationale
Zusammenarbeit, which is the German counterpart to the US Agency for International
Development (USAID)), to help measure the amount of forest cover in Costa Rica
(SINAC & REDD–CCAD–GIZ, 2015). Unfortunately the cost of RapidEye imagery is
prohibitive to local conservation groups and the CBPC Council.
Effective management and monitoring of land use changes requires spatial-temporal
data in order to incorporate land use patterns, geomorphology, and hydrologic and
vegetation parameters (Huete & Ustin, 2004). Successful corridor design involves
considering a corridor’s functional connectivity (which is connectivity that is based on
species behavior) and its structural connectivity (which is connectivity based on the
landscape structures) (Kindlmann & Burel, 2008). The extensive data set provided by
the Landsat missions can help track forest cover change within the corridor and provide
valuable information in order to assess the structural and functional connectivity of the
corridor.
STUDY AREA
The CBPC is described in Spanish as a puente de vida, “a bridge of life,” since it con-
nects the mountainous Monteverde Cloud Forest Reserve at the continental divide to
the coastal mangrove forest of the Gulf of Nicoya. The CBPC, covering approximately
66,400 hectares (164,000 acres), is delineated by the watersheds of the Aranjuez, Guacimal
and Lagartos Rivers (Figure 22.1). It is extremely rich in biodiversity, providing habitat to
nearly half of all faunal species in Costa Rica, including 47 percent of the reptilian species,
51 percent of avian species, and 48 percent of mammalian species (Welch et al., 2011).
There are 12 distinct Holdridge life zones, or vegetation types, in Costa Rica (Holdridge,
1979) and 11 of those life zones can be found within the CBPC (Haber, Zuchowski, &
Bello, 2000).
The CBPC includes intact and protected cloud forest areas such as the popular tourist
destination of the Monteverde Cloud Forest Reserve with the highest elevation at 1846 m
(Burlingame, 2000). Moving down the elevation gradient to about 1300 m, premontane
forests become more mixed and fragmented as agriculture becomes more common. At
higher elevations, fine-scale agricultural farms and cattle pasture are common in areas
closer to the cloud forest, giving way at lower elevations to broad-scale industrial agricul-
ture. At these lower elevations of approximately 250 m, large-scale pineapple and sugar
cane plantations dominate the landscape, a trend that has increased in the last 20 years
(Fagan et al., 2013). At the lowest elevations near sea level, mangrove forest providing rich
habitat for fish and shellfish can be found along the Gulf of Nicoya. The protected areas
within the CBPC are both government and privately owned and are found at the highest
elevations in the cloud forest (above 1400 m) and the lowest elevations along the man-
groves (just above sea level). The middle elevation areas are particularly underrepresented
nationwide in Costa Rica’s biological reserves (Powell, Barborak, & Rodriguez, 2000).
For this research, I collaborated with representatives of member organizations of the
CBPC Initiative, which is composed of a variety of private reserves, rural communities,
research and environmental institutions, private companies, governmental agencies and
educational institutions, among others. Their mission is to reestablish and maintain
biological connectivity, the conservation of natural resources, and the well-being of local
communities (Welch et al., 2011). In March of 2011, the CBPC Initiative published a
Figure 22.1 Study area: Corredor Biológico Pájaro Campana and its main watersheds
Satellite Imagery
Landsat imagery was obtained at no charge from the US Geological Survey (USGS)
Earth Explorer (available at http://earthexplorer.usgs.gov). Cloud free images were used
when available. In cases where there was cloud cover, images acquired close in time were
mosaicked from different Landsat paths since the CBPC can be found on the western
segment of Landsat tiles corresponding to Path 16 Row 53 and the eastern section of Path
15 row 53 on Landsat images dating from 1984 until the present (Figure 22.2). Being near
the equator, Costa Rica only has two seasons. The sunny, dry season runs from December
to April and the cloudy, wet season runs from May to November (Haber et al., 2000). The
majority of images were captured between January and March in order to minimize cloud
cover (Table 22.2). The study area boundary was adjusted slightly to exclude a small area
in the northeastern section of the CBPC for which cloud free imagery was not available
for the entire time series (Figures 22.3 and 22.4).
After acquiring the images, atmospheric correction was performed by using the Quick
Atmospheric Correction (QUAC, (Bernstein et al., 2012)) tool in ENVI 5.1 (Exelis,
Tysons Corner, Virginia, USA; http://www.exelisvis.com/) as a precaution since our
study site includes cloud forests and cloud were present in all Landsat scenes. The QUAC
process uses an in-scene approach, which only requires approximate specifications of the
sensor band locations and their radiometric calibration (Bernstein et al., 2012). Since no
metadata is required, this process could be applied to all Landsat images, unlike other
common atmospheric correction algorithms.
Note: The CBPC can be found on the western segment of Landsat tiles corresponding to Path 16 Row 53
and the eastern section of Path 15 Row 53 on Landsat images dating from 1984 until the present. Imagery
before 1984 encapsulates the whole in a single tile.
Note: The line outlines the boundary of the CBPC. The area highlighted is the study area that was used for
temporal comparison from 1974 to 2014 due to cloud cover in some of the imagery.
A Wide Dynamic Range Vegetation Index (WDRVI, Gitelson 2004) was used to measure
the amount of forest cover within the CBPC. The WDRVI is a modification of the
Normalized Difference Vegetation Index (NDVI), which has been used to track temporal
changes in biomass (Sader & Winne, 1992). The WDRVI overcomes the saturation seen
in NDVI in areas of high biomass by enhancing the dynamic range while using the same
bands as the NDVI, facilitating vegetation classification (Gitelson, 2004). Through trial
and error, we decided to use a 0.2 coefficient since it provided use with the largest range
for WDRVI values.
0.2*ρNIR 2 ρRED
WDRVI 5 (22.1)
0.2*ρNIR 1 ρRED
Pixels were classified based on their WDRVI values, elevation and shape into one of the
following categories: Forested, Non-Forested, Mangrove, Aquaculture, and Industrial
Agriculture (Figure 22.4). First, WDRVI values were used to separate pixels into three
main categories: Forested, Non-Forested and Aquaculture. Non-Forested areas included
pastures, riverbanks, towns, and small-scale agricultural farms. Mangrove areas were
derived from forested pixels by using the method developed by Long and Skewes (1996)
where class values were re-assigned from Forest to Mangroves based on nearness to the
Gulf of Nicoya, elevation, and visual comparison using current Google Earth Imagery. We
compared our Landsat 2014 imagery with default Google Earth Imagery. WDRVI was not
effective in classifying industrial agricultural areas due to varying levels of WDRVI values
resulting from the type and growth stage of the crops, whether or not the land was tilled,
and the use of fertilizers. When pixel based classification is not effective, like in the case of
industrial agricultural areas, using shape, pattern, and texture can be used to differentiate
between land cover types with similar spectral signatures (Haralick & Shanmugam, 1973;
Van der Werff & Van Der Meer, 2008). Industrial agricultural areas include large-scale
farming and look different than any other land cover based on sharp, straight lines across
the landscape, features that are not present in any other land cover types. Industrial
agricultural areas were digitized based on texture, shape, and pattern. A summary of the
WDRVI values and additional factors used to classify pixels can be found in Table 22.3.
Once classified, the data were imported into ArcMAP 10.3 (ESRI, Redlands, California,
USA; http://www. esri.com/) in order to generate summary statistics for each land use
class and to generate maps for comparison for each year of study. A post classification
change detection was used in ArcMAP to map changes over the landscape. This method
has the advantage of indicating the nature of the change (e.g. forest converted to pasture)
while minimizing the effects of using multi sensor images (Mas, 1999). It is important to
note that in this technique, the final thematic accuracy is dependent on the classification
accuracy of the individual image (Hussain et al., 2013).
Table 22.3 Image classification variable summary: list of WDRVI range and variables
used to classify each of the five classes
E D C
Note: Clockwise from the top: (a) Forest, (b) Non-Forested (e.g. Pasture), (c) Mangrove, (d) Aquaculture,
and (e) Industrial Agriculture.
RESULTS
Accuracy Assessment
Between 1974 and 2014, Non-Forested areas covered most of the CBPC, ranging from
57 percent to 46 percent. The second most abundant class was Forested areas, which had
Table 22.4 Sampling points summary and estimated coverage area per class
Observed
Note: Confusion matrix showing results of an accuracy assessment for the classification of land cover from
the 2014 Landsat imagery. Overall 93.4 percent accuracy between the predicted and observed classes.
Note: With a Kappa value of 0.924, there is a low probability of predicted and observed points agreeing by
chance.
Class/Year 1974 1976 1979 1984 1986 1990 1998 2003 2011 2014
Aquaculture 92 382 457 458 449 435 393 384 414 414
Forest 18,574 18,394 20,555 20,266 19,576 19,839 21,916 22,690 21,567 23,112
Industrial 5497 6383 6267 5239 5507 5616 5999 6776 7193 7544
Agriculture
Mangrove 2872 2823 2715 2614 2634 2561 2578 2503 2578 2584
Non-Forested 35,120 34,269 32,224 33,577 33,997 33,705 31,268 29,805 30,409 28,507
Class/Year 1974 1976 1979 1984 1986 1990 1998 2003 2011 2014
Aquaculture 0 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1
Forest 30 30 33 33 31 32 35 37 35 37
Industrial 9 10 10 8 9 9 10 11 12 12
Agriculture
Mangrove 5 5 4 4 4 4 4 4 4 4
Non-Forested 57 55 52 54 55 54 50 48 49 46
a coverage of about 30 percent and increased to 37 percent of the total area. Industrial
Agricultural was the third most abundant class, covering about 10 percent of the total
area. Mangroves covered about 5 percent of the total area, while aquaculture covered
about 1 percent (Figure 22.5). The total area for each class is summarized in Table 22.7
and the percentage for each class is summarized in Table 22.8.
DISCUSSION
Overall there was a net gain for forest cover, which is also a trend seen across the country
(Sills et al., 2008). This means that even though there are areas where forests are increas-
ing, there are also areas where forest is being lost, as shown through our change detection
analysis (Figure 22.2). According to our results, forest cover accounted for about 30
percent (18,574 ha) of our study area in 1974 (Figure 22.5) and steadily increased to
about 37 percent (23,112 ha) in 2014. There was a dip in forest cover in the 2011 image
40,000
35,000
30,000
25,000
Area (Ha)
20,000
15,000
10,000
5000
0
1974 1976 1979 1984 1986 1990 1998 2003 2011 2014
Year
that was due to a forest fire that spread to surrounding areas determined by our accuracy
assessment (Figure 22.6). There has also been an increase in the amount of industrial
agriculture across the CBPC that covered about 12 percent (7544 ha) of the total area in
2014, up from 9 percent (5497 ha) in 1974.
Our change detection analysis also shows the increase in forested and industrial
agriculture areas is coming from non-forested areas (Figure 22.7). However, despite
the net gain of forest cover, there have been areas that have been deforested. A similar
trend has been observed in the northeastern region of Costa Rica, where there was a
50 percent reduction in deforestation rates after 1996, even though pastures and native
and exotic tree plantations were being converted into pineapple cultivation (industrial
agriculture) (Fagan et al., 2013). In both cases, the amount of non-forested area has
decreased, which has been due in part to stricter environmental laws and the promotion
of ecotourism (Edelman, 1999). The middle elevation portion of the CBPC has increased
in forest cover, which is helping link the cloud forest to the mangrove. This trend is
a crucial in turning the CBPC from a designated conservation area into a functional
wildlife corridor.
There was an increase in area used for aquaculture from 1974 to 1979, at which point
the amount of aquaculture leveled off and remained constant. The amount of mangrove
area has also been constant at about 400 to 450 ha. This is great news since the Pacific
Coast of Costa Rica, in particular the Gulf of Nicoya, has the highest amount of fishery
activity in the country (Cortés & Wehrtmann, 2009) and is one of the most exploited estu-
aries in Central America (Herrera-Ulloa et al., 2011). Apart from storm surge protection
(Das & Vincent, 2009; Zhang et al., 2012), mangroves also provide additional ecosystem
services which include pollution control and also serve as nurseries for a diverse group of
species (Barbier et al., 2011).
Figure 22.7 Burn scar from a wildfire in El Corredor Biológico Pájaro Campana visible
in the 2010 image
This study shows how the NASA Landsat Archive, which covers over 40 years, can be
leveraged to understand changes in landscapes and offers an historical perspective that
might otherwise not be available. There are a few areas where this study can be improved
and expanded. First, looking at how the health of the mangrove has changed over time
can help explore what are the effects of increased industrial agriculture. Second, Landsat
8, which is the newest Landsat satellite launched in 2013, can be used to estimate and
track changes in above ground biomass and tree canopy cover (Dube & Mutanga, 2015;
Karlson et al., 2015). Third, increasing the number of classes used to characterize the land
cover can help understand the changing landscape further and the more recent Landsat
imagery can facilitate this process. Additionally, given the spectral overlap between areas
and industrial agriculture and other classes, object based classification may offer a way
to avoid manually digitizing those areas.
Overall, the results of this historical study are beneficial to the CBPC Council in
aiding it in addressing current environment concerns and in helping with its next stra-
tegic plan. For example, it can see the trends in land use change and identify valuable
adjacent forest patches that should be monitored and protected from future expansion
of industrial agriculture, which is contained in the southeast portion of the CBPC.
The maps and data generated from this study will also help guide reforestation efforts
throughout the CBPC since these results show areas that have recently undergone
deforestation and thus should be considered as areas of concern for future conservation
efforts.
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INTRODUCTION
We seek to create a geographical portrait of the sustainability of traditional and indigenous
communities afflicted with food security issues present in the Andes Mountains, based on
traditional ecological knowledge (TEK) of indigenous people and accumulated wisdom
of traditional agriculturalists who have developed a mixed cultural landscape—with both
native and imported Mediterranean practices—that has created the syncretic foodscapes
of today (Sarmiento 2017). We conceive the appropriated use of local food resources as
both a continuation of ancestral practices with ancient food staples, and the inclusion of
novel usages that respond to colonial influences for substituting American with European
staples known to markets and dissemination of neocolonial pressures of globalization.
According to the United Nations Environment Program (UNEP) and the consultative
group (UNEP-WCMC), there are six classes in which to define mountains in relation to
altitude, slope, and local elevational range. The six resulting classes are:
By following these criteria, the world’s mountains cover nearly 32,000,000 km2 of the
Earth’s surface, which corresponds to 22 percent of the planet. Here, we leave out of
consideration the expansive chains of undersea mountains that cover the majority of the
ocean floor and submarine cordilleras, making up the other 78 percent (Messerli & Ives
1997). Because of its terrestrial signature, mountains are important as an ideal habitat for
people. In fact, in the year 2000 almost 790 million people lived in mountainous areas,
while, according to estimates for the year 2012, this statistic increased to nearly 915 mil-
lion. This last datum represents 13 percent of the human population.
The distribution of the mountainous areas in the world according to the six classes
proposed by UNEP-WCMC are shown in Table 23.1, which shows that Asia is the
378
most representative area of mountains in the world, followed by Latin America and the
Caribbean.
In Latin America and the Caribbean, mountains occupy 15 percent of the total of the
aboveground territory, with some 12 percent found in South America. In this area, there
are some 157 million inhabitants. Because of their altitudinal and latitudinal gradients,
the neotropical mountains harbor one of the highest biodiversity concentrations on the
planet, including several so-called “hot spots” of plants, animals and microbes, represent-
ing a huge natural capital. The mountain biota carry genes that have conferred resistance
on them to many environmental stresses, including a high hydric load, hyper humid
environments, mesic cloud and montane forests, and even xerophytic and desert life forms.
This scalar diversity of ecosystems, landscapes and genes makes Tropandean landscapes
the most diverse in the biosphere (Kapelle & Brown 2001). The stresses created as a result
of the elevated exposure to high ultraviolet radiation (UVß rays) are often augmented
by either a magnification of the filtering of the sun’s rays through the cloud masses that
shroud the cordilleras, or by direct heatwave and illumination of semi-desert ranges and
rain shadows. The stresses created by the thermal differential between night and result
in extremes; the low gas pressure of CO2, which is needed for photosynthesis, allows for
luxuriant vegetation belts. Also, the marginal or poorly developed soils are bounded as
parameters of the rich abiotic influences that explain Tropandean landscape dynamics.
When genotype and environment are related, the importance of evolutionary factors
becomes apparent. In fact, while altitude changes on the slopes, every 100 m variation
on the continual slope exhibits a change in temperature and soil conditions creating an
ecocline that promotes diversity. The adiabatic lapse rate is evident in the Andes, whereby
changes in atmospheric pressure, solar radiation, dew point and indicator species change
in an array that has prompted the notion of altitudinal belts or vegetation zones; they
are also reflected in changes in species composition due to resilience or adaptations of
the mountain organisms that have developed in those environments, driving colonization
and extinction episodes in the so-called “island-like” peaks. Thus, applying critical island
biogeography is a new method for understanding with the new science of mountain stud-
ies: montology (Sarmiento et al. 2017).
Mountains are also climate machines. They regulate the temperature and winds, the
presence of cloudiness or the wind direction. They also provide water to the lower plains
where the lowlanders flourish, and are home to millennial cultures that have adapted
their unique highlander way of life, whether in the Andes, the Himalayas or the Atlas
Mountains, to name a few sites. According to FAO (2015), mountains provide some
60 to 80 percent of the consumed water in the planet. Due to the typical open system
operation (so reminds us of the Pantha Rei or “everything goes” principle of Heraclius
of Ephesus), where exchanges of matter and energy are frequent and constant, the effects
of climate change, accelerated by our civilization, are strongly affecting the mountain
landscape (Odum & Sarmiento 1998). Not only is water capture affected, both in solid
form as in deposition of glacial snow into ice (lirification), or in liquid form, as in brooks
and streams creating river flow, as well as being used for food production and livelihood
development (Sarmiento 2016). This scenario will increasingly challenge food security
in these places. The FAO study (2015) points to 40 percent of mountain dwellers in
developing and transitioning countries being vulnerable to these types of effects. From
this framework, mountains need not only be understood from a holistic viewpoint, but
also from the perspective of deep studies of biodiversity, as “the study of all life forms,
ecosystems and processes.”
Up to now, many biodiversity studies have emphasized species inventories with
presence/absence lists; without a doubt, they are the basis for all resource-management
studies. But it is necessary for montology to use all the factors available, including local
TEK. This integration of non-orthodox angles of environmental cognition will allow
subtle processes, including the flows of matter and energy, that can be verified at all
moments in all known ecosystems. Mountains, despite their deterioration, are still a
source of numerous plant species (such as quinoa, amaranth, Andean potato, beans and
peppers), animals (such as llamas and alpacas) or even microorganisms that could be used
in our industries (González et al. 1987).
The Andes in South America are richer than other mountain chains for their variety of
flora, fauna and microorganisms throughout different altitudinal belts. These elevational
environments of the Andean flank have contributed from ancestral times to maximizing
the agrobiodiversity knowledge-base that has fostered strong biocultural heritage systems,
making strides in favor of food security and sustainability. Moreover, the high percentage
of endemics and rare species informs us that the tropical montane cloud forests (TMCFs)
are the metaphorical Noah’s Ark that, in many ways, offers us alternative scenarios to
ameliorate the effects of global environmental change among those most significant for
the biosphere in the global warming future.
This mountain chain is the longest terrestrial cordillera that runs along the western
edge of the South American continent, from the Costa Rican/Panamanian central high-
lands, throughout Colombia, Ecuador, Peru, Bolivia, Chile and Argentina to the extreme
south of the sub Antarctic region. It is a relatively narrow chain of an average width of
150 km, with some exceptions in segments of the tropical and subtropical spans, where
it subdivides into two parallel chains, separated by wide interandean valleys (Borsdorf
& Stadel 2016). Note that altitude varies according to latitude. Thus, lands found at a
median elevation of more than 4000 m can be found within tropical and subtropical
latitudes down to near 35°S to 40°S. Further south, the altitude of the land decreases to
a median elevation of about 1500 m, but few mountains are found with heights of more
than 3000m.
Taking into account the longitudinal extent of the Andean cordillera, and the continu-
ity and elevational cline on the meridian, it is clear to assume there is an obstacle to the
flow of tropospheric air currents, creating a geographical barrier modifying climate,
which is manifested with different humidity and temperature conditions, both on the
eastern and western slopes. Thus, on the Pacific flank, between 5°S and 30°S of the tropi-
cal and subtropical Andes, dry and cold conditions are prevalent. On the other hand, on
the Amazonian flank, the prevalent conditions are warm and rainy. This gradient of tem-
perature and precipitation is inverted south of parallel 35°S, whereby there are temperate
rain forests on the Pacific slopes and, on the other side, semiarid and dry conditions in
the Patagonian steppe. Therefore, the conjunction of latitude, altitude, climate, soils and
geological periods have modeled a landscape that has not only characterized these spatial
singularities, but also allowed high alpha, beta and gamma biodiversity. Andean people
have known how to use these, both in the past and the present. This utilization also affords
options for future use amidst climate change.
There are numerous examples of domesticated plant species from the Andean world
that have been expanded around the planet (Crosby 2003). When exchanges of plant
and animal species took place between the New World and the Old World, some were
easily integrated and some were even forgotten on both sides of the Atlantic. However,
the rediscovery of the potential of nutritious grains, fruits, tubers and leaves, has been
heightened as of late, such as with quinoa (Chenopodium quinoa), as a multifunctional
food source from an alternative crop for marginal dry lands. See Table 23.2 for a list of
the contributions of Andean species to the world foodscape.
The case of the center of origin versus the center of diffusion debate includes interest-
ing critical biogeographical angles. In many cases domesticates and other cultivars have
received more recognition in faraway places, where they have flourished as diaspora
instead of focal colonization. Take maize, for instance, which is contested as not being
original from the Andean world, but originated from Teozintle in the Mesoamerican
mountains now known as Mexico; however, because it is important not only to consider
the center of origin of the species, but also the place or places of diffusion and differentia-
tion, it is included as staple foodstuff in the Andes. Here, we take into account the interac-
tion of genotype and the environment referred to above. With the goal of establishing
some prospects for Andean foods, we continue to analyze in depth just four exemplars:
maize, beans, potatoes and quinoa. We also analyze an exemplar for construction and/or
communication with the paja ichu.
Table 23.2 List of Andean plant species that have contributed to the world’s foodscape,
collated based on the edible part of the plant, which determines the most
commonly marketable usage
Maize is an important food resource all around the word, especially in Latin America. It
is used not only for human consumption but also as fodder. Maize is harvested in many
mountainous areas but also in flat lowlands or faraway islands. Surprisingly agrodiverse,
just in Latin America there are some 220 geographical races of corn (Goodman & McK
Bird 1977), 64 of which have been listed for Mexico alone, 59 of them considered native
(Goodman & Brown, 1988). In this case, we apply the term race to a population with
common characteristics that occupies a specific geographic locale, selected with precise
utilitarian ends; thus, it exhibits common morphological and physiological characteristics.
Hitherto, diverse geographical races have been identified in the complexes of the high
Andean, Amazonian, Perla, Morocho, Harinoso, the temperate valleys, Pisankalla, and
Cordilleran. The phenotypic plasticity of corn in the Andean region is expressed in the
extraordinary variability in color, size, form, and texture of the grain, cob and husk. In a
more recent study, Vigouroux et al. (2008) showed the huge differentiation of maize from
its center of origin of the Mexican Teozinte and its successive differentiation in varieties
whose lines are now not utilized in agro-improvement programs: “We identify highland
Mexico and the Andes as potential sources of genetic diversity underrepresented among
elite lines used in maize breeding programs” (Vigouroux et al. 2008). This idea is also
expressed in Goodman and Brown (1988) who postulated that from a total of 260 local
races described for Latin America, at least 132 have originated in the Andean world.
This legume (Phaseola vulgaris) is an important cultivar in Latin America. Koenig and
Gepts (1989) argue that there are two great genetic pools: one in Mesoamerica, including
Mexico, Central America and Colombia, and another one in the Andes of southern Peru,
Bolivia and northern Argentina. These two big genetic pools were established on the basis
of alloenzimes, confirming studies made with faseoline, the most significant protein of the
Purutu gene pool (Gepts 1988; Koenig et al. 1990). Both studies suggest that there would
be a transitional geographic zone between Mesoamerica and the Southern Andes, located
along the northern edge of the boundary between Colombia and Peru. These studies
of genetic diversity and patterns of variability in sympatry along the different regions
demonstrate the importance of the genotype–environment relations. In this process of
domestication, attention should be paid to the nutritional aspect, as well as aesthetical
and symbolical aspects.
According to FAO (2015), the story of potatoes started at least 8000 years ago. This
widespread root cultivation would have been used and domesticated by the people who
inhabited the zone currently occupying the zone of Titicaca lake at almost 3800 m above
sea levewl (asl), in the border between Bolivia and Peru. Now it is recognized that Solanum
tuberosum would have originated two subspecies: Solanum tuberosum andigenum, which is
adapted to the shortened days in the altiplano; and Solanum tuberosum tuberosum, which
grows in the Chiloé region of southern Chile. This so-called Papa Chilota is the one found
almost everywhere in the world. It is a misnomer to call it “European potato”: genetic
research has demonstrated that the Papa Chilota was developed after Andean cultivars
that later were introduced in Chile, and from here it was sent to Europe in the nineteenth
century. Despite continued discussions about the relation of these two subspecies, wide
chloroplast DNA (ctDNA) has shown the presence of five genotypes of ctDNA (A,C,S,T
and W) in S. tuberosum within which both subspecies are included. S. andigenum pos-
sesses the five aforementioned haplotypes, while S. tuberosum has only three (A, T and
W) (Hosaka & Hanneman 1988). Further parental debate among populations along the
Andes Mountains is warranted. However, consensus exists on the heterogeneity of the
genotype and considerable endemism (Zimmerer & Douches 1991). To assess the genetic
vigor of the potato, Hawkes (1990) recognized 217 wild species and seven cultivated
potato species with morphological data. On the other side, Spooner and Hijmans (2001)
list 199 wild potato species. It is calculated, however, that in the world there would have
been some 5000 varieties, of which some 4000 exist in Peru alone. At present, potatoes
are cultivated in the whole world, whether in temperate, subtropical or tropical climates.
Even in Bolivia, above 4000 m asl, altiplano farmers cultivate a variety that resists frost.
In another place, in the island of Chiloé in southern Chile, almost at sea level, the inhabit-
ants maintain almost 200 different varieties of potato in a biodiversity protected area
conserved for this purpose. The potato is so strategic for world hunger abatement that it
is ranked number 4 after rice, corn and wheat. The FAO calculated that for the year 2005
a total of 315 million tons of potato were produced, and 210 million tons were directly
eaten (FAO 2015). This gives us an idea of the importance of this tuber as the daily food
of millions of people. These data themselves explain the importance of potato within
humanity’s food security for the future.
The case of quinoa (Chenopodium quinoa Willd) is an example of an ancient crop, with
genetic and physiological characteristics that make it an alternative food source in the face
of planetary climate change (González et al. 2015). This species was under-utilized until
very recently, but it has become clear that it is a promissory species due to its high level
and quality of amino acids (González et al. 2011), especially for resistance to stressful
conditions of high salinity or poor soils in marginal lands. This species can grow from sea
level to around 4000 m asl, it can tolerate poorly developed soils with salinization, high
radiation and is very efficient in water usage; in general, it could easily be considered a
multipurpose plant—grain as food, plant parts as fodder, producer of gluten-free flour,
among others (González et al. 2016). In a few years, quinoa went from being a poorly
known foodstuf developed only in Bolivia, Peru and Ecuador, to a variety used in
adaptation trials and cultivation in the USA, Canada, UK, Denmark, Germany, France
and several Mediterranean countries, including Spain, Italy, Morocco, Egypt and Greece.
This process had its apex in 2013, which the United Nations declared “The International
Year of Quinoa,” recognizing the nutritional value of this species and the peasant com-
munities of the Andes who maintained its cultivation through the centuries. This example
clearly shows the importance of mountain agriculture for preservation and wise use of
species considered “wild” —outside the dominant food hubs— and the role of indigenous
groups in their community-based conservation efforts. The genetic diversity of quinoa
is represented by the diverse populations that are curated and maintained in several
seedbanks around the world, especially those located in Tropandean landscapes. Indeed,
there are some 16,422 accessions of quinoa and its wild relatives, from which about 88
percent are conserved in Andean seed banks built for that purpose in the Andes (Rojas
et al. 2015). The genetic wealth of quinoa, represented by five agroecological groups
(Interandean valleys, altiplano, saltlicks, coastal, and montane or Yungas) (Tapia, 2015),
allows for selection of varieties and cultivars being tested not only in Latin America,
North America, Europe or the Mediterranean, but also in countries such as India, China
and Nepal. Perhaps we need to highlight that, in places where quinoa is being trialed, the
species keeps the same quality of amino acids, so that its contribution to food security is
decisive. Moreover, as a multipurpose plant, quinoa not only produces food for human
consumption, but also for animals, as well as producing specialty flour for celiac disease
patients, and several compounds of value as antioxidants (flavonoids) and natural dyes
(betalains), fatty acids of importance in cholesterol control, and saponines with wide uses
in the pharmaceutical industry, among others (Gallardo et al. 2000).
STRAW ICHU
This grass grows in the Andean altiplano of South America, Mexico and Guatemala; it
is used as feed for camelids, as an additive to mud bricks, for thatch roofing, and for bed-
ding, among other uses. Here we point to a particular usage of the blades to make strong
fibers for the construction of a suspension bridge (Keshwachaka) on the Apurimac river,
in the district of Quehue, province of Canas in the Department of Cuzco, in the south of
highland Peru (Figure 23.1).
The existence of this bridge dates to the pre-Inca era. Its maintenance and renewal
are carried out as ritualized practices by the entire community every year. This involves
communal harvesting of this resource in the grassy highland areas, when young members
of the community go to the mountains and select the straw with the longest blades and
strongest tussocks. They load camelids with bunches of the grass blades and return in a
caravan to the site of the bridge, a precipitous canyon overlooking the Apurimac river.
Instead of using wood as building material, they actually thread the blades and create
strong and long ropes able to withstand the tremendous tension of gravity and the weight
of the people crossing the bridge with their cargo on their back.
At this point, we seek to reflect on the notion of sustainability, asking whether ancient
civilizations had advanced this concept. Indeed, the classical definition of sustainable
development, coined by the Brundtland report (United Nations 1987), established that
“Sustainable Development makes reference to the capacity that the human system has
developed to satisfy the needs of the current generations, without compromising the
resources and opportunities for the growth and development of future generations.” This
definition carries an implicit certainty that natural resources are finite, and recognizes
that when these resources are consumed at greater speeds than their production, they
become scarce and they can even become extinct. The idea of individual effort (llullay),
reciprocity (Ayni) of intergenerational well-being (sumak kawsay) has always been present
in the cosmological vision of the inhabitants of the Andean world, and in certain ways
anticipated the definition of sustainable production in socio-ecological systems. Indeed,
throughout Andean social and economic development there has been a huge respect for
nature, reified in the notion of the deity of nature or Pachamama. This term comprises
two roots that together are translated as “mother Earth” and are generally interpreted
as Pacha (Aymara) as Earth and Mama (Quechua) as Mother. However, other transla-
tions of Pacha include the meaning of “world” or of “universe”. In this manner, a re-
interpretation of the term Pachamama will not be reduced to earth in the sense of soil, but
as the holistic notion of the wide world or universe. With this definition, the cosmovision
of original peoples gets a systems meaning, in the sense of the natural elements united
by processes as a whole, which is the modern concept of ecosystems. On the other side,
with Pachamama it is possible to enter into a dialogue, whether to ask for sustenance, to
give thanks for the bounty received or to ask forgiveness for mistakes made against her.
Andean folk think of her as a benefactor deity that protects, enables life and promotes
fertility and fecundity. But in this concept a reciprocal relation is established: Who receives
favors must correspond with offerings, or pagamentos, making a payment to gratify the
deity for future favors. Without these payments, the Pachamama could be offended and
could provoke disease or reduced productivity of the mountain crop. This reciprocal cor-
respondence between “to take” and at the same time “to give” is almost a referent for the
modern concept of open systems, where exchanges of matter and energy have an implicit
dynamic equilibrium (Odum and Sarmiento 1998). The disruption of the dynamic equi-
librium moves the offense to Pachamama (as it were, the energetics of the system) and the
presence of diseases (as it were, the disturbance in the equilibrium of the system). Hence,
the Andean world understood the natural system to be in a dynamic equilibrium, with
inputs of energy and matter, and outputs (i.e., products or goods/services) that society
can utilize only if the natural cycles are respected to avoid collapsing the system. This
framework is also reminiscent of the General System Theory developed by Bertalanffy
(1976) and especially the open systems where an organism exchanges matter and energy,
and self-organizes in space and time to fulfill its life cycle.
Therefore, Andean societies, with an economic and social development based in
agricultural production, livestock rearing of camelids, small-scale mining activities,
use of fisheries from the lowlands, exchanging produce between the highlands and the
lowlands, along with the integration of political, administrative, socio-economic and
cultural activities allowed by the Inca road (or Kapak Ñan) network of exchange routes
between the north and the south, the east and the west, the highlands and lowlands. This
intricate complex adaptive system of the Andes Mountains shows that sustainability
principles have been present in designing the socio-ecological production landscapes
(SEPL) of the present. A worldwide effort is now underway to research and design
sustainable practices in these landscapes. This is known as the Satoyama Initiative,
led by the Institute of Advance Sustainability Studies of the University of the United
Nations in Tokyo.
CONCLUSION
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POSTCRIPT
INTRODUCTION
We advocate “food sovereignty” rather than “food security” as scholarly and political
terms. Food sovereignty asserts the rights of people to define their own food systems in
ecologically, socially, economically and culturally appropriate ways according to their
context-based circumstances (Nyéléni 2007). In contrast, food security refers to resource
availability for meeting daily dietary needs. According to Rojas et al. (2011), the concept
of food sovereignty has evolved to comprise a broader set of dimensions (e.g. accessibility,
affordability, utilization, stability) such as those interacting in the mountainscapes of the
tropical and temperate Andes.
The strengthening of food sovereignty has been identified as one of the most important
efforts of the development agenda for the world (UNDP 2014). The realization of such
a critical challenge has often been guided by statistics of food production and consump-
tion of staple grains and other plant and animal protein sources in agricultural practices
embedded in traditional ecological knowledge (TEK) (Edelman et al. 2014). TEK, as a
complex and situated body of knowledge, practices and beliefs handed down through
generations, has historically generated resilient societies because of people’s observance
of communal purposes guided by the ability of what to produce and consume locally, how
to produce it within reasonable safety margins for both humans and their environment,
and why to emphasize one cultigen or heirloom variety over others (Zimmerer 2002). In
a pragmatic vein, the issues associated with the availability of food via agricultural inten-
sification, energy intensive storage and distribution methods, and sale and final ingestion
of mass produced foodstuff have been linked only to socio-economic indicators of the
modern world, particularly Western societies (Von Braun et al. 2008). A clear dilemma
has been sketched by the binary of locally grown, extensive, organic food products and
the mass produced, intensive, agrochemical and bioengineered, genetically modified
organisms (GMOs) that are now used in most of the world (Holdridge et al., this volume),
particularly in mega-diversity countries.
1
Note that ethnic names (mostly Kichwa and Mapuche) and scientific notations are given in italics. Spanish
names are given in ‘single’ quotation marks. Emphasis or contested meaning is given in “double” quotation
marks.
391
The future of the traditional species and varieties (e.g. landraces) used for food in
mountain areas is indeed at a crossroad (FAO 2015). Andean indigenous traditions have
gradually been transformed, from the colonial era with the introduction of Catholicism
(MacCormack 1993), the implementation of uniform clothing to ethnic communities in
different valleys (Phipps et al. 2004), the popularization of the Spanish language (Ramírez
1998), the imposition of national schooling and food programs (Barreau et al. 2019),
rural exodus (Barreau et al. 2019, Jacques-Coper et al. 2019), to the increasing presence
and influence of the Pentecostal Church in rural areas (Guth et al. 1995, Jacques-Coper
et al. 2019). Nowadays, indigenous communities have experienced the benefits and detri-
mental consequences of globalization due to road construction (Harvey & Knox 2008),
electrification (Kyle 2000) and mobile phone and internet networks (Salvador Agra &
Suárez 2017). Associated with this globalization, for example, young people in indigenous
villages and dispersed peasant populations are losing Kichwa (for the Kichwa people) and
the Mapudungun (for the Mapuche people) as their mother tongue (Hornberger & King
2001). As a consequence of the ongoing processes of the commodification of nature, the
goods it produces are no longer considered as something sacred (Huber 2002, Cortés et
al. 2019), increasing the importance of placing food sovereignty on top of the agenda for
sustainable mountain development.
Concomitant with changes in food systems due to industrialization and globalization,
there is a clear tendency to return to the basics of food production, noticed mainly with
the young generation of citizens and suburbanites who claim a healthier, safer, and fairer
food system for the future (Zimmerer & de Hann 2017). Sustainability scientists are
now incorporating spiritual and mental fulfillment as a condition of progress towards
a better future; climate scientists are just recently emphasizing the human dimension
of environmental change and claim the need to understand the vagaries of weather and
climate also with social science inputs. Furthermore, geographers of late are incorporating
both the physical and human dimensions to understand changing mountain landscapes,
as exemplified with the acceptance of the transdisciplinary science of montology (Klein
2008, Sarmiento et al. 2017). The search for integrative approaches for a sustainable
stewardship of mountain foodscapes has led to an increasing interest in montology, which
aims to integrate both the “transdisciplinary study of the physical, chemical, geological,
and biological aspects of mountain regions” and the “study of lifestyles and economic
concerns of people living in these regions” (OED 2002). The transdisciplinary nature of
montology allows for integrative understanding of foodscapes in mountain regions.
In this chapter, we seek to create a geographical portrait of food sovereignty for the
Andes Mountains, based on TEK of indigenous peoples. Using montology, we highlight
that these peoples and their associated systems of knowledge, practices and beliefs have
developed a mixed cultural landscape with both native and imported Mediterranean
practices that created the syncretic foodscapes of today (Sarmiento 2017) in both tropical
and temperate Andean regions. We conceive the appropriated use of local food resources
as both a continuation of traditional practices with ancient food staples, and the inclusion
of novel usages that respond to colonial influences, substituting vernacular with foreign
foodstuff as a means of building resilience in Andean foodscapes subjected to the pres-
sures of globalization and environmental change. We finally highlight a few key elements
that should be considered in a research agenda of montology in the foodscapes of the
Andes.
MOUNTAIN FOODSCAPES
It is in the mountains that traditional societies domesticated the majority of the food sta-
ples used by the world today, whether it be wheat, rice, corn, potatoes, beans, peppers, or
many more cultivars (Janick 2013). Older descriptions of mountains described these foods
as simply there, facilitated by the specific conditions of orographic rain, temperature and
catenary soil conditions (Wezel et al. 2018). Newer descriptions of mountain foodscapes
describe sacred foods as a manifestation of the intricate relation of nature and culture,
a symbiotic and time-tested interaction that has been able to secure the best possible
nutrition with the best possible crop as per situ conditions. Many mountainous countries
do take pride in their food staples, such as registering them as AOC (from Appellation
d’Origine Contrôlée), branding them as specific mountain products with DGTG
(Denominación Geográfica Típica Garantizada) or by legally controlled trademark by
zones and harvest times. Other mountainous countries in South America have gone one
step further, by recognizing “sacred grain” of Kinwa – Chenopodium quinoa (or quinoa
in English) – in Bolivia; the “sacred vine” –Banisteriopsis caapi – or yagué (ayahuasca in
the Castillianized version) – in Perú ; the “sacred seed” of ngülliw or ‘piñón’ – Araucaria
araucana (Pewen in the Mapuche language, Mapudungun) – in Chile; the “sacred drink”
chicha de kura – Zea mays (big yellow corn beer) – in Ecuador; the “sacred root” or
chuñu – Solanum tuberosum (freeze-dried potato in the Quechua version) – in Peru, and
the “sacred fruit” or Parchita – Passiflora edulis (Maracujá in Portuguese) – of northern
Argentina. Moreover, the “sacred leaf ” of the kuka plant –Erytroxylum coca (or coca) – is
being recognized as an identity marker in the Andean imaginary of the food collective,
not only in the ‘cocaleros’ guild of Peru and Bolivia (Salomon 2018).
Many of the foodstuffs derived from tropical and temperate mountain farming are
hybrid cultigens and many are wild edibles with high nutritional values, either as a
complete meal, or as individual components of the diet. For instance, the concentration
of protein in kinwa is between 12 and 28 percent and includes all amino acids available
for a complete human diet, unlike other foodstuffs like wheat or corn, not to mention
its saponines, which could be used with a multitude of purposes. The protein digest-
ibility of purutu – Phaseolus vulgaris – is second to none. The flavor and medicinal
properties of the “sacred drink” – Passiflora tripartite (Curuba, the national fruit of
Colombia) – is without equal. The relative high anthocyanin content of the maqui
berry (Aristotelia chilensis) makes it a strong antioxidant (Escribano-Bailón et al. 2006).
The consistency of sugars in the “sacred dessert” – Vasconcellea x hellboni – babacu,
the unique Ecuadorian mountain papaya, is paralleled, as the high concentrations of
alkaloids in the legendary and revered fruit of the Inka, the tree tomato or “tamarillo”
– Cyphomandra betacea – from the cloud forest belt. Lastly, even botanists recognized
the sacred dimension of cacao from the flanks of the Andean/Amazonian crescent that
its scientific nomenclature (Theobroma sp) literally means the “Food of the Gods.” The
interlinked cultural, social, nutritional, geographic, ecological, economic and sacred
dimensions of these foods are evidence of the complex systems they are part of, as well
as the importance of looking at them through a transdisciplinary lens to understand
them.
A better interpretation of the syncretic nature of sacred practices and foodscapes in the
temperate Andes arises from the Mapuche’s consumption of the seeds of the pewen or
monkey-puzzle tree (Araucaria araucana) – ngüilliu (in Mapudungun) or ‘piñones’ (in
Spanish) – and other wild edible plants in the mountains of southern Chile. Just like
with some grains of the altiplano in the northern Andes, the ngüilliu collected from the
pewen, is generally considered a “sacred food” and it is still consumed with respect to the
ancestors and spirits of nature (Herrmann 2005). The seed is utilized in multiple tradi-
tional and modern preparations (Cortés et al. 2019). Trips to high-elevations in order to
gather piñones are instances for learning and interacting with each other. Some Mapuche
people remember that elders would tell stories (epew) or historic narratives (ngütram)
as a way of teaching children about life and especially how to behave in these forests,
teaching philosophies of respect and values for other life-forms (Barreau 2014). Currently,
gathering, uses and commercialization processes associated with the ngüilliu have two
main components that establish a continuous dialogue: an economic component, in the
commercial and livelihood vein, and a biocultural component, in the spiritual, social,
ecological and food sense (Cortés et al. 2019).
The Mapuche food system has faced a process of biocultural homogenization (i.e.
both the diversity and quality of local food-related practices and foodstuff have been
increasingly replaced by fewer market-based foods; Barreau et al. 2019). In the southern
Andes, land tenure, lack of access to local ecosystems and formal schooling are key
to understanding this process of biocultural homogenization of the local food system
and the disruption of foodways knowledge transmission (Barreau et al. 2016). As food
acquisition, including the collection and use of seeds of the pewen, is at the center of
human interaction with the landscape, traditional food systems offer a direct way of
understanding the implications of land conflicts. This can be analyzed not only in terms
of subsistence, but along many dimensions of culture such as identity, social dynamics,
institutions, health, and cosmology.
The resilience of the food system of this mountain Mapuche foodscape has been
sustained despite all odds. Through the deliberate continuity of practices such as wild
foraging and the tending of home gardens in Mapuche lands, the situated knowledge
associated with food collection, production and preparation biocultural memory stays
current and dynamic. As a type of collective memory, biocultural memory refers
specifically to the human historical and contemporary reliance on intergenerational
relationships, not only to one another but within territories (Nazarea 1998, Toledo and
Barrera-Bassols 2008). Along with the physicality of agricultural ecosystems, materials,
symbolic meanings and institutions join to constitute biocultural memory (Barthel et al.
2010). This would constitute the basis to recover situated knowledge about food-related
practices and rituals associated with the seeds of the pewen and other multiple wild edibles
and cultivars. However, these practices cannot overlook wider and basic pre-conditions
for biocultural diversity to thrive. Access to fertile land, non-hybrid seeds and water are
the elements of mountain foodscapes on which the continuity of small-scale agriculture
as well as biocultural memories related to food rely in the temperate Andes.
cemetery and the preparation of the corn beer or chicha ‘morada’, by using purple corn
and blueberries or ‘mortiño’ (Vaccinium meridionale) collected in the nearby ‘páramo’,
could still be catalogued as “sacred food,” as it is only prepared to pay respect to death on
November 1 of each year. Another staple in the “sacred food” category is the preparation
of the chicha de kura and the llapingachukuna or potato patties made with fresh cheese and
red coloring from achiuti (Bixa orellana) to consume during the celebrations of the solar
solstice or Inti Raymi each June. Although not as strongly felt as in Bolivia or Peru, the
preparation of kinwa as a “sacred grain” is evident in some families who keep the tradi-
tion of having kinwa soup or kinwa salad as a Sunday food, after returning from mass.
Moreover, the red die obtained from the coating of dark quinoa (whether black, blue,
maroon, brown, or yellow) often is used to give coloration to the belts (watu) or other tex-
tiles that decorate an altar’s statuettes. With the advent of ecotourism and ethnotourism,
many have incorporated healthy recipes into their diets, such as preparing ‘empanadas’
made out of kinwa flour filled with organic vegetables directly harvested from the house
garden and served in colorful arrays with a hot sauce (ají or rukutu) and ‘encebollado’.
Another element of the sacred foodscape is the preparation of dried, fried corn kernels
(saramishki or ‘tostado’) and fresh, boiled lupinus beans (tarwi or ‘chocho’) that are eaten
together in a symbolic consumption of the dark with the light, the dry with the wet, and
the old with the new in a satisfying snacking throughout the day (kukayu), particularly
after laboring (chaucha) in the fields nearby (chakra). In the ceremony of the chaya or
‘pagamento’ blessings are sought for starting a new job, with a tribute to compensate
for good will in favor of the soon-to-be-started project: the corn beer (and increasingly
nowadays with a potent moonshine alcohol) is ceremoniously thrown to the ground,
sharing it with Mother Earth (Pachamama) to ensure the success of the enterprise.
Conversely, after an arduous trial or a difficult project is concluded, a wasishka or ‘paga-
mento’ or payment for allowing a good conclusion is required. In most cases, after finishing
the daily tasks at hand, some bread is made with the flour of dry sap from the Pinllu tree.
This species is key in the pantheon of the local mythology of the Imbakucha watershed.
Growing strongly at the highest point of the interior valley, dividing the actual lake area
with the periurban and exurban areas of ‘Otavalo’, and nested between the telluric presence
of the two tallest volcanoes (Tayta Imbabura and Mama Kutacachi), the Otavalo’s sacred
gum tree, known as ‘pinllucruz’ or ‘lechero’ (Euphorbia latifolia) stands atop of the pukara
of ‘Reyloma’, a hilltop fortress made out of blocks of hard tuffa or cangawa. The white sap
of the gum tree is considered a mythical symbol of renewal, sanation and purity, making
it a key pilgrimage place for couples to be wedded, or newlyweds to pray for good fortune
for their marriage and healthy, robust (and numerous) progeny. ‘Pagamentos’ to the sacred
tree were made in form of coins inserted into the bark of the old tree, until they discon-
tinued this practice after sacrilege and stolen tokens. However, the burial of birth-labor
byproducts, including placentas and other bloody materials, and sometimes even fetuses
and dead pets were respectfully deposited around the sacred tree. At present, the sacred tree
has attracted tourists who enjoy a half-day’s trek atop the pyramidal pukara, visiting the
sacred waterfall of Piguchi along the way. Also, the ubiquitous ‘eucalipto’ trees (Eucalyptus
globulus) have obscured the pre-eminence of the gum tree. Now, distracted hikers have
started fire pits on ‘Reyloma,’ even at the base of the tree. This is a flagrant risk to the
spiritual dimension of the mountainscape of the Utawallu runakuna, which fortunately
stopped an effort from the non-indigenous municipality of the city of Otavalo to install a
The Kañary people settled in southern Ecuador. This ethnic confederacy inhabited much
of today’s Azuay province (Rojas 2003). The presence of Kañary in Ecuador dates from
the Regional Development period (3000–1500 bp) to the arrival of the Europeans in
1532. The Kañary nation had capitals in Hatun Kañar (currently, Ingapirca near the city
of Cañar) and Shabalula (currently, city of Sígsig). They appeared at the time of the
Inka conquest, after an alliance of the Wankabamba, and Palta ethnic groups and the
Saraguru who were brought from south of Cuzco to populate these newly gained territory
for the Inkas. Since the Kañary were first reported, they were presented as a formidable
indigenous nation centered on their capital city of Guapondelec, the site that was bloodily
conquered and transformed into the Inka city. Thus, the Kañary allied with Waskar, the
Sapa Inka heir from Cuzco, to oppose Atawallpa the Sapa Inka heir from Kitu in the
northern Tawantinsuyu. The kingdom of Kañar was largely equated to that of ‘Quito’
(or Kitu), in the sense of a confederation of some 25 indigenous tribes (González-Suárez
1878, in Oberem 1981). With the Inka alliance and the primacy it acquired, Guapondelec
was improved and fortified as an Inka capital, Tumipampa, known as the “Second Cuzco.”
At present, the indigenous of Cañar and Azuay provinces reflect consequences
of different historical processes that modified their social and cultural composition
under hegemonic colonial powers. The Spaniards built on the ruins of Tumipampa and
constructed a magnificent Andean town, the royal entitled city ‘Muy Noble y Muy Leal
Ciudad de Santa Ana de los Cuatro Ríos de Cuenca,’ which, with such a noble origin by
royal decree from Spain, demonstrated the important hierarchy of such indigenous settle-
ment at the time of the European colonization. Now, UNESCO has declared the city of
Cuenca a World Cultural Heritage Site. However, the Kañary’s ancestral roots mean that
they have not yet cracked their cosmological relationship with their territory. The Kañary
made ‘páramos’ a socio-ecological production landscape (sensu Saito et al. 2019) and
manufactured an anthrome with a rich biocultural heritage. Their products vary between
potatoes (Solanum tuberosum), melloco (Ullucus tuberosus), uca (Cucurbita maxima),
mashua (Tropaeolum tuberosum), quinoa (Chenopodium quinoa), beans (Phaseolus vul-
garis) and corn (zea mays). All these products were and are the base of dietary traditions.
Maize is also called “mama sara” by the Kañary and constitutes their favorite sacred grain.
In some Kañary villages, when corn is sprouting, people walk slowly because they believe
that the land is pregnant (Quinde 2001). They are socio-ecological production landscapes
that help conserve biodiversity (Sarmiento et al., 2018).
Reflecting the wealth of foodstuff produced along the elevational gradient of the Andean
Amazonian flank, an important ethnic group developed in the cloud forest belt of
If all the foodstuffs originate in the primary sector, it is evident that this sector has a tran-
scendental importance in the economy (Anderson et al. 2006). This occurs in developed
countries (Bale & Lutz 1981) such as the USA, members of the European Union (Rizov
et al. 2013), Japan (Mulgan 2013), Australia (Chisholm 1992), and some developing
countries like China (Gale et al. 2005) and Brazil (Clover 2003). These countries maintain
different types of subsidies to companies that extract or exploit natural resources, in order
to guarantee the food security of their population, in addition to reducing the cost of raw
materials at the origin of the production and distribution chains. However, for the poor-
est countries of the planet, such as most of the nations of sub-Saharan Africa (Clover
2003) and South Asia, it is impossible for them to subsidize the primary sector, since
agricultural activities are too high a percentage of the population with their low gross
domestic product (GDP) (World Bank Group 2012). This occurs because populations in
the poorest countries are still mostly rural (Angel 2012) and it becomes impossible to use
the low amounts of taxes collected (Auriol & Warlters 2005) in weak industrial sectors and
tertiary sectors, characterized by underemployment and informality in both commerce
and services, to subsidize primary sectors (characterized by smallholdings, microfundia
and low productivity) that constitute close to 50 percent or more in their economies.
We note that large estates, smallholdings and micro-funds are serious socio-economic
problems, since large ‘haciendas’ generate poor distribution of rural land (Griffin et al.
2002), while small property often corresponds to subsistence agriculture (Clark & Haswell
1964), generating low levels of income and profits (Binswanger et al. 1993), which are
primarily destined for family survival. On many occasions there is an absence of property
titles and access to credit is more difficult and generally very limited (Gilbert 2002), so
there is low re-investment in inputs, technology and infrastructure, although there is a
group of authors (Bardhan 1973, Berry & Cline 1979, Cornia 1985, Ghose 1979, Taslim
1989) who show that, in some developing countries, the smaller the size of the property,
the greater the productivity. What is clear is that medium property tends to have similar
productivity (production per hectare) (Gardner 2009) to the large Agricultural Production
Units (APUs), since, in both cases, productivity depends on biological cycles of growth
of animals and plants, and both medium and large APUs, by having more access to
capital (either by income or credit), can buy better animals and seeds, food and fertilizers,
pharmaceuticals and chemicals to counteract diseases and pests, buy machinery or other
agricultural technologies, and build infrastructure for maintaining their profitability. Based
on the above, it is recommended that agrarian reforms be carried out (expropriating and
compensating the large and small owners) aimed at generating an agrarian structure based
on medium-sized APUs for reasons concerning social justice and improving productivity.
Obviously, it is necessary to indicate that what is considered medium property will depend
not only on the size of the plots of rural land, but also on the average profits generated
by the different crops or land uses per hectare. Thus, for example, 1 ha of roses could
theoretically generate profits similar to 5 ha of bananas or 25 ha of cattle. Laws should
also be created similar to those that occurred in many states of India (Mearns 1999) from
1956 to 1986 (Land Reforms Acts) and Nepal (Regmi 1976) (Land Act 1964) aimed at
preventing fragmentation (Niroula & Thapa 2005), as well as laws similar to those enacted
in Japan (Hayami 1988) (Land Law 1962) and Taiwan (Tai 1974) (Land Act 1953) to avoid
the serious consequences of a subsequent unification of plots.
The Andes have been and continue to be a source of genetic agrobiodiversity that has
yet to be valued in its entirety. If we take only the genus Chenopodium as an example,
there are 16,422 accessions deposited in 59 seed banks in the world. With regard to food
sovereignty and security, it is clear that while 88 percent of those collections reside in
Andean countries, the rest is distributed in other countries, including Norway, Brazil,
Canada, the USA, Uruguay, Germany, Austria, the Slovak Republic, Spain, Hungary, the
Czech Republic, Portugal, the UK, Sweden, Turkey, Romania, Ethiopia, Kenya, Lesotho,
Zambia, South Africa, India, Japan, Jordan and Australia. Not only is this germplasm
distributed around the world, but also many improved varieties adapted to diverse climates
have been obtained. Without a doubt, the preservation of the genus Chenopodium, and
particularly of Ch. quinoa, have to be tackled with international legislation or agreements
that ensure tangible benefits return to the Andean world. These recommendations should
also be applied to other species, whether for their nutritional value or for other purposes,
such as a source of dyes, basic pharmaceuticals, ethnomedicinal icons, fodder for Andean
livestock of llamas and alpacas, and their intangible symbolic and sacred value. In this
sense, these agrobiodiversity promotions via rescuing TEK, or via strategic alliances for
ecophysiology and genetic research, or via the legal framework of protective legislation
against biopiracy as well as the equitable benefit sharing mechanisms (CBD 2011) become
a priority. At the local level, there are other tools that can be used to recover and ensure
the continued use of the Andean sacred foods so that their sustainability is assured in the
future, namely: local governance mechanisms to ensure local access to traditional and
economically important foods such as ‘piñones’ and kinwa, and local refuges for heirloom
seeds where not only genetic but cultural associated knowledge about their meaning and
care are stored and transmitted through culturally appropriate means.
We highlighted the importance of food geographies in the tropical and temperate Andes
to develop management practices based on sound scientific understanding of mountain
food hubs. The pursuit of food sovereignty in mountain foodscapes and the conserva-
tion of biocultural heritage in the Andes requires approaches that remain conscious
of the local and global drivers of biocultural homogenization and erosion of situated
knowledge loss. By maintaining the practice of respect for the sacred landscape features
of the Imbakucha watershed, the possibility is assured for a likely sustainable future
of heirloom practices associated with food production and consumption of the sacred
foods of the mountain communities of northern Ecuador, particularly of the Utawallu
runakuna. As a manifestation of the changing patterns of the socio-ecological system of
the tropical Andes, and most iconic in the territory of the Otavaleños (Utawallumanta),
an active strategy for keeping the sacred foods associated with the indigenous identity
is the best management practice required to favor food sovereignty for the mountain
people; at the same time, it remains a source of flexible cash flow through subsistence
agricultural practices for local people. These approaches will aim at multifunctional
agriculture becoming the model for sustainability in the tropical and temperate Andes
(Sarmiento et al. 2013).
An adequate agrarian reform is only the beginning of what should be done; it is also
necessary for governments to help the primary sector in the following ways: (1) generating
credit with low long-term interest rates (Yaron 1994) and subsidizing inputs, technologies,
energy and transport (Alston 2007) so that primary production of staple foods and pro-
teins remains economically viable for local farmers; (2) another way of achieving this goal
is for governments to set minimum reference prices that intermediaries or industrialists
must pay for goods from the agro-livestock and mining sectors, as happens with export
products such as bananas in many countries of the world (Donoso-Correa 1996), thus
guaranteeing sufficient profits for the shareholders of companies or families, and the
existence of capital to re-invest in technologies that increase productivity. Obviously, these
higher prices would affect the industries and households that consume these products,
which is why the government must subsidize consumers (merchants, industries and
households) of primary sector goods (Schwartz & Clements 1999). The mechanisms to
generate food sovereignty in the countries that decide to implement these policies would,
thus, enhance accessibility to local producers and consumers, not only to those who can
afford to pay for luxury products.
Every foodscape of the Andes exemplified in this work is a sample of a complex system
that has remained resilient through centuries of colonization and, more recently, to
processes of commodification. As such, the perspective we propose to understand these
systems refers to the local and global mechanisms that can enhance local food sovereignty
through strategies able to embrace diversity, memory, resilience and food justice.
CONCLUSION
This chapter has highlighted the significance of montology for understanding mountain
foodscapes. Accordingly, changes in the direction of research projects are anticipated,
mainly to understand mountains as a policy framework to foment heirloom polycrop
cultivation instead of massive monocropping of transgenic varieties. Particularly in
the Andes region, the notion of food sovereignty will be pursued as a trend to protect
and to maintain the vitality of the intangible heritage and recover the resilience of past
landscapes affected by the food security mode of the Western science (WS) modern world
(Redman & Kinzig 2003). The basic premise of integration towards transdisciplinary
research would require a dialogue of knowledge between global WS and traditional eco-
logical or situated knowledge, in horizontal or rhizomic participatory approaches, using
multi-method foci for integration and observing respect of this diversity of views and
knowledge production forms (Sarmiento et al. 2013). Dynamic in-situ agrobiodiversity
conservation, implementation of memory banks (Nazarea 1998), revival of rearing prac-
tices in rural settings, appraisal of farmscape transformation, among others, are part of
the development toolbox suggested by the International Satoyama Initiative (Satoyama
Initiative 2016) to secure productive mountain landscapes.
We also suggest increasing funding for mountain research associated with discovery
of principal agents of plant and animal products often used in situated knowledge
and their potential applicability as non-traditional market innovations to promote
local adaptations to climate change, as with the Field Schools of the TESAC project in
Colombia (Ortega 2017) and food sovereignty education (Meek et al. 2019) approaches
of late, where facilitators guide a re-appreciation process of local and traditional foods,
emphasizing nutritional importance and cultural meanings to counter balance the trend
of providing the best production to the foreign market at the expense of local diets.
Soon, a lot more indigenous foodstuff will be available and affordable to local consumers
adding an element of food sovereignty and justice to the menu of choice in sophisticated
foodscapes worldwide, for the benefit of all.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
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INTRODUCTION
Cooperation Industry Earth 2300 is an “all hands on deck” proposition to engage
humanity’s community motive (Leopold 1991 [1944]) to meet the challenge of achieving a
sustainable relationship between the natural and built environments in order to perpetuate
human civilization for the whole Earth, our local planet. A planetary greater community
(Summers 2009) is a social potential inherent in humanity, though cooperation is not a
no-brainer response to either opportunities or problems. Cooperation Industry Earth is
offered as a framework for geography’s contributions from its broad base and role as a sci-
entific integrator of knowledge in support of planning processes whose implementation
by public and private governing bodies affects the built and natural environments. This
challenge will soon be recognized as being so great that boundaries between disciplines,
trades and skills, nations and peoples will have to be crossed to solve the sustainability
challenges. Planning, informed by greater science and real world experience, will have to
network even more broadly, becoming more comprehensive, so implementation will be
more effective at all levels and in all circumstances. The deepest, most basic community
motive can be brought forth at a greater level for action, as individuals and groups
understand the need of human civilization for sustainability long term. This is the level
of understanding this volume supports. The future of geography is sustainability.
Sustainability in its current use is a relatively new term according to the research by
Charles V. Kidd (1992):
Six separate but related strains of thought have emerged prominently since 1950 in discussions
of such phenomena as the interrelationships among rates of population growth, resource use,
and pressure on the environment. They are the ecological/carrying capacity root, the resources/
environment root, the biosphere root, the critique of technology root, the “no growth”/“slow
growth” root, and the ecodevelopment root.
the word “sustainability” was first used in 1972 in the context of man’s future, in a British book,
Blueprint for Survival . . . in 1974 in the United States to justify a “no growth” economy . . . in a
United Nations document in 1978 . . . [and after] the term “sustainability” began to be used not
only in technological articles and reports but also in policy documents culminating in the use of
the term in the report of the summit meeting of the Group of Seven [G-7] in 1989.
The broad concept of sustainability is not likely to disappear. Those who prefer to define
sustainability in value-free ecological terms first used the word only after those who incorporated
406
systems of values in their definition of sustainability. Those who define sustainability in essen-
tially ecological terms do not deny the importance of values in defining the goals of society. They
simply maintain that both research and debate will be better defined and more productive if the
questions of values are discussed so far as possible apart from sustainability. Those who prefer
to incorporate a system of values in the definition of sustainability maintain that it is wrong and
some say potentially disastrous to ignore those wider issues of values.
These views are rooted so deeply in contrasting philosophies that it seems unlikely that a
single definition of sustainability will be universally accepted. This is not necessarily bad
if those who use the term take pains to state explicitly what they mean by sustainability . . .
Geography and geographers, not being limited by spatial scale, the whole Earth or a
small plot of land, would make clear their own use of the term. In this chapter we are
considering at the planetary scale long term.
In 2017, the major focus of the world is a return to worldwide gross domestic product
(GDP) growth, which went negative in 2009 as a result of the financial crisis of 2008. The
United Nations Paris Agreement on Climate adopted in 2015 went into effect in December
2016 and the eight Millennium Development Goals for 2015 were revised and expanded in
2016, becoming 17 Sustainable Development Goals for 2030 (United Nations 2016). On
paper, plans indicate that sustainability is achievable and economic growth can continue.
To what degree is the Earth currently sustainable? The Earth Overshoot Day organiza-
tion determined that: “On August 8, 2016, we began to use more from nature than our
planet can renew in the whole year.” An Overshoot Day has computed for every year,
beginning with 1971, when the shortfall was seven days. As of 2016 the overshoot was
145 days. The process resets to zero each year. In multi-year financial budgeting, a deficit
is carried forward to be dealt with. Ending up in the red can only last so long for an
enterprise. When this is applied to the Overshoot Day data, the cumulative shortfall in
2016 is 3901 days, or 10.7 years. See Table 25.1.
By this calculation humanity’s use of Earth resources has been unsustainable for more
than a decade as of 2017. For someone with no exposure to the issue, this is a shocking,
if not unbelievable situation. For other lifelong geographers and observers of the Earth
and its environment, it may be an expansion or confirmation of the need for a whole
Earth approach set out in the opening paragraph. Still, the world has not fallen into
complete ruin. The notion of sustainability can apply to many things, large lawns in a
drought; fertilizer, equipment and fuel for industrialized agriculture; or loss of habitat for
endangered species. Brown grass is one problem; a food shortage due to a poor harvest is
of another magnitude; and extinction of a species a sustainability failure.
One does not have to look far to find negative impacts of human development that
impact environments and affect sustainability:
1. New roads pushing into previously roadless areas impact sustainability. Roads frag-
ment landscapes and trigger human colonization and degradation of ecosystems, to the
detriment of biodiversity and ecosystem functions. The planet’s remaining large and
ecologically important tracts of roadless areas sustain key refugia for biodiversity and
provide globally relevant ecosystem services . . . About 80 percent of Earth’s terrestrial
surface remains roadless, but this area is fragmented into ~ 600,000 patches, more than
half of which are , 1 km2 and only 7 percent of which are larger than 100 km2. Global
protection of ecologically valuable roadless areas is inadequate (Ibisch et al., 2016).
Table 25.1 Cumulative Earth Overshoot Day calculation – 10.7 years as of 2016
2. The world’s oceans have large concentrations of plastic that affect wildlife, yet
what has been estimated is only a small part of what the world produces. Based on
our model results, we estimate that at least 5.25 trillion plastic particles weighing
268,940 tons are currently floating at sea . . . Our estimate of the global weight
of plastic pollution on the sea surface, from all size classes combined, is only 0.1
percent of the world annual production. However, we stress that our estimates are
highly conservative, and may be considered minimum estimates. Our estimates of
macroplastic are based on a limited inventory of ocean observations, and would be
vastly improved with standardization of methods and more observations. They also
do not account for the potentially massive amount of plastic present on shorelines,
on the seabed, suspended in the water column, and within organisms (Eriksen et al.,
2014).
3. Loss of vertebrate biodiversity is increasing with loss of habitat. The Living Planet
Index, which measures biodiversity abundance levels based on 14,152 monitored
populations of 3706 vertebrate species, shows a persistent downward trend. On
average, monitored species population abundance declined by 58 percent between
1970 and 2012. Monitored species are increasingly affected by development pressures,
such as: unsustainable agriculture, fisheries, mining and other human activities that
contribute to habitat loss and degradation, overexploitation, climate change and
pollution. In a business-as-usual scenario, this downward trend in species popula-
tions continues into the future. United Nations targets that aim to halt the loss of
biodiversity are designed to be achieved by 2020; but by then species populations may
have declined on average by 67 percent over the last half-century.
Since entering in a global overshoot situation in 1971, humanity’s demand for the
Earth’s regenerative capacity has steadily increased. Under a business-as-usual path
for the underlying drivers of resource consumption, assuming current population and
income trends remain constant, human demand on the Earth’s regenerative capacity
is projected to continue growing steadily and to exceed such capacity by about 75 per
cent by 2020.
Much more research could be added to this list and is in this volume. Clearly non-human
lifeforms on this, our local planet, are challenged, but why has recognition and corrective
action by humans been slow to materialize? What is the fundamental challenge?
Considering the many aspects of sustainability for this chapter, I drew on my experience
as a planner, going back to an insight in the 1980s, and my whole Earth perspective, which
began to form in the 1960s, catalyzing with my first Whole Earth Catalog in 1968. In pre-
paring materials for the Clarke County, Virginia, Planning Commission’s Comprehensive
Plan Update, it struck me that the Plan and any recommendations from it were to manage
the built environment. These were changes to the natural environment made by humans
such as land subdivision, roads, and building construction, with attention to homes as
well as agricultural, commercial and industrial buildings. The impact of the built environ-
ment on the natural environment was another level of concern that was approached
differently by the other counties in the region, but for Clarke, preservation and protection
of the land and waters was important. While my insight occurred in isolation long ago,
differentiating between the built and natural environments became common parlance in
geography and planning.
Where exactly is the built environment in terms of the Earth system and its subsystems:
the geosphere, hydrosphere, atmosphere and biosphere? The biosphere is the overlapping
area of the geosphere, hydrosphere and atmosphere in which living organisms are found
– what is equivalent to the natural environment. It has been an expanding territory, as organ-
isms are found in areas of the base spheres that were not considered to be life supporting
in the past. In this approach, the technosphere, a term first used in the 1960s according to
the Oxford online dictionary, is defined as: “The sphere or realm of human technological
activity; the technologically modified environment” (Naveh & Liebermann 1984).
In the current period, technology may commonly be thought of as consumer electron-
ics, self-driving vehicles and robotic manufacturing, as well as futuristic buildings powered
by the sun and topped with a green roof. In the 1968 movie, 2001: A Space Odyssey, the
screen play written by Stanley Kubrick and Arthur C. Clarke pictured pre-human events
where a bone became a hunting tool and then a weapon. Millions of years of both human
and technological evolution were collapsed, as the bone shape became a space station
circling the Earth in the year 2001. To understand what happened in that long stretch of
time, one can consider the development history of 70 types of ancient world technologies,
organized in six categories for the period up through 1500 ad. Archaic predecessors of
the modern human pioneered the technologies of stone knapping 2.5 million years ago
and use of fire 1.5 million years ago. Relative to shelter, which also tracks settlements,
Table 25.2 lists shelter type and time of emergence (Fagan 2004).
Also in the shelter category, which is paired with subsistence, are stone temples,
pyramids, canals, sewage systems, gardens and public baths. Other categories include
transportation; hunting, warfare & sport; art & science; and adorning the person. The
technologies category, beginning with stone tools and fire, includes woven cloth, pottery,
copper, use of baskets, metalurgy and glass.
These technologies are so old we do not think of them as such. In Be a City, Serve a
Region: A Built-environment Scaled Network Vision for City-Region-Local Planet Earth
(Christoffel, 2016), I argued that the progression of human technological invention
enabled settlements, shifting from hunter-gatherers to agriculturalists and city dwellers in
the process. The leisure enabled by adequate food and security enabled specialization and
development of more and better art and crafts. In simple terms, technologies led to the
city, which is where civilization was invented, maintained and advanced.
For today, then, as a planner, my idea is, first be a city, which is the built-environment
technology. I’m not a fan of the word “urbanization”; what I am suggesting here is that
the city is applied settlement technology, which has evolved higher forms as specialization
increased and the city is where civilization was invented and continues to evolve.
Second, the city’s a politically defined territory, a municipal corporation which is
self-perpetuating and self-governing, within the criteria of the state. And, third, that the
city’s value is an outcome of its organization, cumulative investments, technologies and
services. So cities are high-value and they’re also high-maintenance and high-cost. Cities,
I would say, have always been smart and they are the original development district. “This
is settlement technology, which builds cities.” So my idea is, first of all, be a city, which is
the built-environment technology. A city’s a place organized to implement and maintain
settlement technologies for human civilization.
Though a regional planner from 1973 to 2008, and a student of geography since I began
collecting stamps at age 10, I did not know that I was a geographer until I attended the
then Association of American Geographers 2010 Annual Conference. With over 8000
attendees and hundreds of presentations, I was impressed by the breadth and depth of
topics. A member of the American Planning Association throughout my career, I had
joined the Regional Studies Association (RSA) in 2005 to find out, as a practitioner,
where American regional policy was coming from. It did not seem to be responding to the
challenges faced by my regional council, the Lord Fairfax Planning District Commission
in Front Royal, Virginia, serving 20 local governments of the Northern Shenandoah
Valley.
My experience with RSA and at US Regional Science events was that academic research
was oriented to Metropolitan Statistical Areas, federally designated programs like the
Appalachian Regional Commission, States and Counties. No one seemed to be aware
of the networks of regional councils like the one in Virginia where I worked and the 21
others that had been a statewide system since 1968. Regional Science, I observed, sought
to do economic analysis that was free of politics. RSA, on the other hand, acknowledged
the existence of politics in decision making, primarily seeking effective economic develop-
ment strategy with the goal of improving quality of life for a region’s citizens.
During Session 4538 – “Planning and Geography: kindred souls or ships passing in the
night”, organized by Amy Glasmeier, Pennsylvania State University, panelist Michael
Storper, London School of Economics, lamented the lack of results in the built environ-
ment, given all of the planning theory work done by geographers. At the time I did offer
some comment about the challenges of changing minds and implementing policy, given
the requirement that, in Virginia, a Dillon Rule state, local governments could only do
that which was permitted by state legislation. Whether or not something could be done
could be obtained by an Attorney General’s opinion. If negative, a legislation was needed
which might result in a narrow permission for the jurisdiction(s) requesting it. Should
it prove successful, it might later be extended to all localities. Doing research for my
Master of Urban Affairs thesis in 1972, I was told: “Planners need to look at what the
Code allows”, by Stanley S. Kidwell, Jr., of the Virginia Division of State Planning and
Community Affairs. Taking this advice to heart enabled me to be an effective planner,
recognizing that in the US, planners are always advisory to Elected Officials who approve
and budget for programs.
This event led to the idea of Cooperation Industry – added to the work since 1998 that
preceded it, which taken together are means of working together for sustainability, the
relationship between the built and natural environments.
Once on the job at the Lord Fairfax Planning District Commission in Front
Royal, Virginia, the importance of the Code of Virginia (2017) in a Dillon Rule state
(DeVoursney 1992) became evident. If an activity was not specifically permitted in the
Code, a change had to be initiated through legislation by the General Assembly. At the
same time, existing options, such as joint Town–County planning Commissions, were
permitted, but unused. In 2017, the Sustainability for the Earth in 2017 is the notion
that economic development for all on the planet can progress under the United Nations
Sustainable Development Goals to a balanced and equitable planet by 2030 (United
Nations 2016). At the same time, environmental quality will be restored. Though this
planning, which began in 1987, recognizes humanity’s challenges, it is a denial of the
necessity at hand, while the goal for human civilization to see itself as a single race on its
local planet remains unfulfilled.
CONCLUSION
Economic growth has been challenging for nations and the world since the financial crisis
of 2008, a series of events that brought into question the economic theories that had been
the nominal basis for growth since the end of the Second World War. Having retired from
my work as a regional planner in Virginia’s Northern Shenandoah Valley from 1973 to
2008, I spent my time trying to understand what had happened. Sustainable economic
development had been a goal of the localities in the region and throughout the world, but
the many positive actions taken were rewarded with this financial collapse.
In discussions with others, neither solutions nor corrections were forthcoming. I
would end that part of the conversation by saying, “well, community will take care of
it”. No one has ever disagreed with that statement (Dossa & Kaeufer 2014). There is an
inherent sense that there is problem solving power in community. Community is mostly
applied to small groups and rarely to states, nations or the entire human race, except as
some poetic ideal. My perspective on community was the result of my 35 years of work
as a regional planner.
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EPILOGUE
When we began down the road to making this Companion book, we had mapped out a
route, but knew not where the journey would take us. With final proofs in front of us,
we face V.S. Naipaul’s “Enigma of Arrival,” knowing that the larger journey has only
just begun (Naipaul 2012). However, if a lesson has emerged from these pages, it is the
power of geographic metaphor for guiding our thoughts and actions regarding sustain-
ability, most of them paradigmatic binaries in a dichotomy mindscape constructed in our
Western thought. Geography, as the environmental science “par excellence” assimilates
every aspect of who we are, and the spaces that we inhabit, providing a powerfully
rooted blueprint for teaching and learning about sustainability. The connection between
geography and sustainability is strong.
What is the primal attraction of a map? Is it not perhaps the original communication—the
way that people came to explain themselves, and where they found themselves in their
space? On the one hand, the map strives to represent an exact portrayal of a given reality
that perfectly represents the space we confront. And yet, inherent in its construction is
the fact that it will change, as it is made, as it is used, as it is revised, and as the spaces are
influenced by our own inhabitation. Isn’t this at the essence of sustainability education—
portraying where we are at now, and mapping a future that brings greater fulfillment, in a
cartography that is ever changing? Some of our contributing authors, bring us traditional
landscape maps, looking for the factors in their environments of interest that might bring
better livelihood to the multiple peoples of the earth. Others give us a conceptual guide to
sustainability. We have blueprints for better-built designs and many case studies of local
landscapes that look to improve our human spaces. We even map the inner geography of
the mindscape that comes to us with each breath.
Scale is not about size, but about perspective, and again geography provides sound
metaphors at either level in the seascape or in terrestrial ecosystems. Of course,
sustainability is global, and we see this aphorism in the “grand questions” about
climate change, food provisioning and poverty. But, we also see the wonderfully useful
application of sustainability concepts in the classroom or in the public sphere. Whereas
scale can be a purely mathematical concept, as the geographer’s map scale tool shows
us, scale also takes us into a myriad of worldviews where, the “–scape” in front of us
depends on the size of our own thinking. Switching between those boundaries, the
415
Geography, with its emphasis on spaces and “–scapes”, stands out at the threshold of
every discipline—neither science nor humanity, neither art nor engineering, geography
embraces all. We are delighted that this book includes engineers and architects, environ-
mental scientists, social justice proponents, and many cross-disciplinary workers of all
kinds, not to mention the geographers themselves. The trope of the different geographies,
to incorporate hybrid approaches of the physical and the cultural realms under one
comfortable canopy where people in their dendritic spaces perform the rhyzomic function
of planetary well-being, is what counts. From an educational viewpoint, geography brings
all these perspectives together in a way that makes sense for sustainability, emphasizing
the notion of semi-permeability of the communicating membranes of the cellularity of
landscape fabric.
We tell a “Tale of Two Sustain Abilities” where there is a dramatic difference between
a Northern “developed” notion of sustainability as it relates to minimizing human
impact on the environment, with a Southern “underdeveloped” desire for sustaining the
fundamental necessities of life. This lesson, above all others, emerges as one reads through
the pages of the book, and we come to grips with the multiple perspectives, the many
maps, and the different scales that form the topography of current societies and create
the fabric of each of our lives. In this regard, the emerging great lesson from the Global
South, especially in the Americas, “El Buen Vivir”—the notion of finding life fulfillment
in every aspect of what we do and how we interact—challenges preconceived notions of
sustainable living in the Global North.
The process of finding and enhancing sustainability then becomes one of organizing
and moving through the spaces in a way that contributes to their richness—not such a
bad way to live on any level, from the interior intellectual mindscape to the homefront
and our local landscapes, to the political–ecological lifescapes of our neighborhoods
and countries, to the greatest expanses of our continental worldscapes. The many maps
we build will change as we navigate through them, adapting to change in a positive way,
or, as Carol Harden so eloquently puts it in her chapter, “dancing” with the lightest of
footprints.
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aquaculture 368–72 401
Arab Spring 214 biodiversity 7, 24, 49, 54, 57, 61, 83, 96–7, 101,
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artificial intelligence 44, 201, 209 177–80, 202, 206–7, 221, 223, 225–30,
artisan economy 106–7 235–6, 240–42, 247, 270–71, 274, 285–8,
ASEAN 322 314, 322, 346, 359–60, 363, 365, 379–81,
Ashworth, G.J. 337 384, 388, 398, 407, 409
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Astier, M. 87 biopiracy 166, 245, 400
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Atlas Mountains 68, 70–75, 380 Boas, F. 320–21, 326
419
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Holocene 68, 71–2, 205 International Union for the Conservation of
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Hong Kong 253, 259, 261, 334 International Year of Quinoa 243, 384
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Howard, E. 252 invasive species 202, 219–20, 226, 228, 286–7,
human capital 3, 118 343–4, 347, 350, 352–4
human impact 24–5, 75, 119, 205, 286, 362, Irish Potato Famine 39–40
416 Islam 21, 99
human rights 126, 129, 215, 304 island sustainability 342, 344, 348
human sacrifice 311 Italy 142–3, 147–8, 163, 384
human settlements see settlements Ives, J.D. 16–17, 20, 23, 140
human–environment 15, 50, 79, 86, 89, 125,
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hunger 3, 59, 98, 101, 235, 237, 384 Jordan 400
Hurni, H. 20 Jorgensen, S.E. 315
hydroelectric power 81, 175, 360 Jura 63
hyperglobalization 122
Kapos, V. 141
IAASTD 95 Keiter, R.B. 277, 285
ICCROM 324 Kenya 158, 400
Ichikawa, K. 5 Kerr, S.A. 342
ICOMOS 326 Kidd, C.V. 406
icons 400 Kidwell, S.S. 412
India 9, 112, 121, 146, 385, 400 Kirchberg, V. 213
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industrialization 37, 119, 122, 132, 144, 157, Krier, L. 253
237, 392 Kubrick, S. 410
Ingold, T. 313, 316 Kulturlandschaft 320
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Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change 374
112 Landschaftökologie see geoecology
Intergovernmental Platform on Biodiversity landslides 143, 148, 286–7
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International Commission for the Protection languages 173–4, 177–9, 183–5, 310, 392
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International Council for Local Environmental Lasanta-Martinez, T. 20
Initiatives 60 Laurie, N. 298, 300, 304
International Geographical Union 26, 140 LED light bulbs 9, 85
International Monetary Fund 95 Lélé, S.M. 321
International Mountain Society 17, 20 Lesotho 400
Organisation for Economic Co-operation and protected areas 6, 10, 167, 176, 190–99, 208,
Development 211 230, 270, 284–7, 314, 343, 347, 360, 363,
Orlove, B. 17 384
O’Rorke, D. 120 protectionism 121
Otavaleños 298 public transport 34, 85, 151, 253, 257, 260, 263
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Pyrenees 63, 142
Pachamama 11, 24, 183, 298, 312, 387, 397
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Ecosystem Services (EPS) 360 151, 183–4, 210–12, 260, 298, 330, 342–3,
palaeoecology 10, 67–74 351, 411
Paris Agreement 110, 112–13, 119, 130, 407 quantum mechanics 1–2
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Participatory Rural Appraisal 314
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Perlik, M. 145, 148 Rannikko, P. 321
perpetuity 190, 196–7 Rathgeber, T. 299
Peru 142, 145–7, 155, 163–8, 207, 243, 299, reciprocity 297–8
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pesticides 100, 111, 203 recycling 9, 85, 89, 126, 350
Petersen, A.C. 294 reductionism 16
philanthropy 212 reforestation 343, 359–60, 365, 374
Philippines 338 Regalski, P.A. 297
Piaget, J. 17 Regeneration International 206
Pielke, R.A. 353 regenerative development 7, 201–15
place-ecosystem 312–13, 315–17 Regenesis Group 206
planetary boundaries approach 202–4 Regional Studies Association 411
plastic pollution 409 reified beliefs 387
Pleistocene 70, 143 Rein, M. 54
Plowden, S. 254 Reintjes, C. 295
Poland 142, 145 religion 3, 10–11, 21, 23, 35–6, 46, 215, 310–12,
policy mobilities 58, 60 326, 386, 392, 394, 396–8
popular culture 4 Relph, E. 331
population growth 6, 41, 80, 84, 88, 140, 255, renewable energy 89, 100–101, 106, 108, 151,
284, 344, 346, 348–50 see also hydroelectric power; solar energy
Portugal 145, 400 resiliency 7, 10, 17, 19, 57, 59, 85, 87, 89–90,
Posey, D. 179 97, 99, 111, 113, 130, 132, 151, 156, 158–9,
Post-Growth Economy 123 162, 195, 198, 204, 207–10, 213, 220–21,
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Poulios, I. 325 379, 391–2, 395, 401–2
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123, 204, 235, 243, 245, 252 resource management 61, 84, 89, 155, 167, 301,
power relations 1, 24, 27, 41–3, 53, 90, 120, 314, 362, 380
127, 195–6, 308, 388 Rhoades, R.E. 17, 140, 299–301
precautionary principle 322 Riebsame, W.E. 271
Price, M.F. 17 Rif Mountains 70–72, 74
pristine 2, 5–8, 23, 36, 98–9, 174, 213, 223, Rist, S. 295–6, 299
350 Rockefeller Foundation 237
production landscape 5, 155–8, 162–3, 165, Rockström, J. 83
167–8, 387, 398 Rocky Mountains 142, 271