horowitz 2008 ssj - micropolitical ecology of conservation

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The Social Science Journal 45 (2008) 258–278

Available online at www.sciencedirect.com

“It’s up to the clan to protect”: Cultural heritageand the micropolitical ecology of

conservation in New Caledonia

Leah S. Horowitz∗

Sustainability Research Institute, School of Earth and Environment, University of Leeds, Leeds LS2 9JT, UK

Abstract

This case study from New Caledonia explores the motivations of local people in initiating co-managed

conservation projects on customary lands. Kanak villagers viewed “conservation” largely as a means

of reinforcing their cultural identity through preservation of their cultural heritage, grounded in the

landscape. However, at the same time, they hoped to promote economic development. Ironically, thus,

they found it necessary to welcome outside influences—to seek visits from non-Kanak tourists andto request financial and technical support from the provincial government, which had been created by

the colonial power. Meanwhile, although a desire to reinforce customary authority structures formed an

importantpartofthissearchforaunifyingculturalidentity,thequestforastable,traditional,shared“past”

created new, micropolitical instabilities within the community, conditioned by expectations of financial

gain and by sources of social status. A “micropolitical ecology” approach revealed that a conservation

program grounded in customary authority would be the only acceptable solution, although it would be

difficult for villagers to agree on who filled customary roles. This study indicates the importance of

gaining a clear understanding of intra-community dynamics and of community members’ perceptions

of external groups, in order to design appropriate strategies for co-management.

© 2008 Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.

1. Introduction

The attempt to merge a Western model of conservation through protected areas, sup-

ported by a central government and including resource use restrictions and tourism, withconservation based in local institutions and customary authority structures is known as “co-

∗ Tel.: +44 113 343 7530. E-mail address: [email protected] .

0362-3319/$ – see front matter © 2008 Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.

doi:10.1016/j.soscij.2008.03.005

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L.S. Horowitz / The Social Science Journal 45 (2008) 258–278 259

management” (Lane, 2001). Skeptics assert that many such attempts are in reality top–down

interventions, continuations of coercive conservation practices based on archaic assumptionsabout “natives” having environmentally destructive tendencies (Goldman, 2003; Neumann,1997). Other authors claim that the strategy has promise, yet (in addition to practical prob-

lems of implementation or distribution of benefits) faces obstacles that mainly stem from three

sources: differences between local residents and government officials or non-governmental

organizations in their perceptions of natural resources and incentives to protect them (e.g.Alexander & McGregor, 2000; Campbell & Vainio-Mattila, 2003; Hviding, 2003; Mayaka,

2002; Prystupa, 1998; Robinson, Smyth, & Whitehead, 2004; Smyth, 2001; Virtanen, 2003;

Worboys, Lockwood, & De Lacy, 2001), tense relationships between communities and gov-ernments (e.g. Alexander & McGregor, 2000; Coombes & Hill, 2005; Horowitz, 1998; Lane,

2002), and internal conflict over the authority to speak for the community as a whole (e.g.

Agrawal & Gibson, 1999; Coombes & Hill, 2005; Lane, 2002; van Sittert, 2003). Becauseland is such an important political, economic and cultural stake, and conservation inherently

involves control over land, co-management may intersect with issues related to land rights

or even political autonomy (e.g. Berkes, Mathias, Kislalioglu, & Fast, 2001; Lane, 2002;Ramutsindela, 2003; van Sittert, 2003). Such concerns may discourage community members

from participating in conservation projects, which they may perceive as a potential threat to

their land claims or authority (Coombes & Hill, 2005; Hughes, 2001).

Despite all these obstacles, the idea, or at least the term, of “co-management” – or

“community-based conservation” – has become so popular that nearly all conservation projectslabel themselves thus, whether or not they empower communities in any meaningful way

(Adams & Hulme, 2001; Hackel, 1999, p. 730). On some occasions, community membersparticipate in, or even initiate, formal conservation measures, which raises the question of

what motivates them to do so. Some authors have emphasized the importance of economic

incentives in enticing local people to participate in co-management conservation efforts (e.g.Gelcich, Edwards-Jones, & Kaiser, 2005; Mayaka, Hendricks, Wesseler, & Prins, 2005; Spiteri

& Nepal, 2005). However, other examples indicate that alternative incentives may be present,

such as a desire for empowerment (Berkes, 2004, p. 627; Campbell & Vainio-Mattila, 2003,

p. 433) or for “democracy, pride, and sense of ownership” (Mayaka, 2002, pp. 2001–2002).This paper explores the question from the perspectives of residents of the Loyalty Islands,

New Caledonia, where I conducted a social feasibility study for a system of protected areas

based on community-initiated conservation projects and supported by the provincial gov-ernment. I found that local people viewed “conservation” largely as a means of reinforcing

their cultural identity through preservation of their cultural heritage, grounded in the land-

scape, and strengthening their customary authority structure by reinstating people’s traditionalguardianship roles. However, at the same time, they hoped to promote economic development

by encouraging tourism at the protected areas, with financial and technical support from the

provincial government. This situation was fundamentally ironic, as this paper describes. In

trying to reassert their cultural identity in the face of what they perceived as encroaching glob-alization and in resistance to colonial domination, local Kanak residents in New Caledonia’s

Loyalty Islands found it necessary to welcome outside influences—to seek visits from non-Kanak tourists and to request financial and technical support from an institution, the provincial

government, that had been created by the colonial power. Their concerns about this necessity



260 L.S. Horowitz / The Social Science Journal 45 (2008) 258–278

were influenced by the Loyalty Islands’ status as a part of France, and by a recent, painful

history of crushed uprisings. This paper also describes a second irony: While a desire to rein-force customary authority structures formed an important part of this search for a unifyingcultural identity, the quest for a stable, traditional, shared “past” created new, micropolitical

instabilities within the community, conditioned by expectations of financial gain and by the

sources of social status within Kanak societies. In analyzing local people’s engagements both

with formal authorities and with each other, I adopt an up-close, micropolitical angle within apolitical ecology framework, in what might be termed “micropolitical ecology.”

2. Micropolitical ecology

When the field of political ecology emerged in the 1970s and then grew in depth and breadth

throughout the 1980s, it took an important step beyond the “closed homeostatic systems” (Peet& Watts, 1996, p. 5) postulated by early versions of ecological anthropology that focused

myopically on the “population” as the privileged unit of analysis (Biersack, 1999, p. 6; Kottak,

1999, p. 25; Orlove, 1980, p. 244). Instead, political ecology applied the framework of political

economy, expanding the focus of attention to encompass political and economic contexts of community–ecosystem relationships and thus providing valuable insights into the interactions,

at multiple scales, among various factors behind environmental issues (Biersack, 1999, pp.

10–11; Blaikie & Brookfield, 1987; Bryant, 1992; Bryant and Bailey, 1997; Escobar, 1998,1999; Neumann, 2005; Paulson & Gezon, 2005; Peet & Watts, 1996; Robbins, 2004; Schmink &

Wood, 1987; Scoones, 1999, p. 485; Watts, 2000, 2001). In doing so, however, political ecology

went perhaps a step too far away from consideration of the local. Thus, it does not alwaysaccount adequately for cultural specificities that may influence people’s relationships with

their surroundings (West, 2005, p. 633), nor for the community-scale politics of competition

over natural resources. Therefore, I argue, political ecological analyses should combine theircharacteristically broad research angle with up-close micropolitical (Barnes, 1962; Dumont,

1980; Fortes & Evans-Pritchard, 1940; Leach, 1994; Macintyre, 2003; Mead, 1961; Strathern,

1979; Turner, 1957) and “actor-oriented” (see also Giddens, 1976, 1979; Long, 1992; Murdoch& Marsden, 1995, p. 371) approaches in order to hone in on local particularities and theimportance of interactions among individuals in influencing environmental outcomes.

In particular, micropolitical theory is useful in analyzing conflicts over resources. Within

each society, subgroups of individuals form nested sets, leading to members having multiple,contingent identities (Robertson, 1984, p. 146). To assert their rights in the face of a power-

ful, formal government, people may create “imagined” communities (Anderson, 1983), based

largely on attachments to “mystical symbols” (Fortes and Evans-Pritchard, 1940) and sharedconventions and principles (Turner, 1957), that encompass an entire nation or ethnic group

(e.g. Amit, 2002; Koentjaraningrat, 1967). Within these communities, however, individuals

will seek to maximize their share of local resources, which include not only material resourcessuch as water, and human resources such as labor (Nicholas, 1966), but also the authority to

control the use and distribution of such resources, and the social status (Bourdieu’s (1986)

“symbolic capital”) that such authority indicates or entails. Inexorably, such aims lead to con-

flicts between community members, each of whom must work within the framework of the




specific rules and structures of his or her society, which make conflict inevitable and constrain

the forms that this conflict may take (Turner, 1957). The approach that I advocate here, whichI call “micropolitical ecology,” entails recognizing such resource conflicts within and betweencommunities, and between communities and the state, while analyzing these tensions within

their broader historical, social and politico-economic context. I argue that applied micropo-

litical ecology can deepen our understandings of people’s engagements with conservation, as

illustrated by this example from New Caledonia.

3. Land rights and liberation struggles in the Loyalties

New Caledonia is a Melanesian archipelago located 15,000 km east of Australia and admin-istered by Metropolitan France since 1853 (Mathieu-Daude, 1992 (1989)). Kanak, indigenous

Melanesians, represent approximately 45% of the total population and 97% of the population

of the Loyalty Islands Province (see Fig. 1). Unlike the main island, Grande Terre, where landspoliation occurred widely during the colonial era, the Loyalties were deemed unfavorable

for agriculture, closed to further European settlement by a decree on 6 September 1899 and

declared “Native Reserves,” later to be called “Customary Lands.” Legally, these areas areinalienable and under the collective ownership of the Kanak who inhabit them.

Fig. 1. New Caledonia.




In Kanak societies, as Alban Bensa explains, “[l]and is not sacred as such but it is [ . . .]

charged with a social history where groups establish their identity” (1995, p. 78) . In NewCaledonia, as throughout Melanesia and Australia and indeed much of the South Pacific (Berndt& Berndt, 1952; Bonnemaison, 1987; Crocombe, 1971; Hviding, 1996; Kahn, 1990, 1996;

Malinowski, 1922; Parmentier, 1987; Toren, 1995; Wagner, 1972), landscape features are

believed to have been created by, and thus to mark the passage of, humans or spiritual beings.

For the Kanak, a clan’s name is often the name of the place customarily recognized as the originof its founding ancestor (Bensa & Rivierre, 1982; Leenhardt, 1937). Since they demonstrate

the itineraries of clans’ ancestors, these sites and routes act as “genealogies written in space”

or “living archives,” as they were termed by the late independence leader, Jean-Marie Tjibaou(1996, pp. 69, 110-111). It is not surprising, then, that the landscape plays a prominent role in

formulations of cultural identity, allowing people both to place themselves within the Kanak

social structure and to define their larger ethnic group as distinct from outsiders (Horowitz,2001).

The first clans to occupy an area, known as “masters of the land” (maıtres du terrain), have

a particularly high status. They assert their claims through reference to stories that recount thearrival of their ancestors. However, there almost always are differing versions of the history of

ancestors’ passage through each region (Bensa & Rivierre, 1982; Naepels, 1998, p. 105) and

membership of the first-occupant group is the object of constant, intense competition through

strategic formations of alliances and re-tellings of family histories. On the Loyalties, in addition

to the masters of the land, who have supreme decision-making powers regarding the area overwhich they have influence, there is another category of rights-holders, normally known as

“guardians” (gardiens). They have been granted these rights by the masters of the land, whohave asked them to watch over the areas to ensure that they are used only as authorized by the

land’s first occupants. The position of guardian is associated with a relatively high social status,

as evidenced by the pride descendants took in telling me of their grandfathers’ guardianshipof special areas.

In contrast to the masters of the land, the chief – a title granted by the first occupants, who

could ask the chiefly clan to leave at any time (Dubois, 1981) – was originally seen as an “elder

son” (grand fils) whose “authority is constituted not at all of legal fear, but of a very respectfulbrotherly affection” (Leenhardt, 1937, p. 149; Leenhardt, 1980 (1930)). Meanwhile, the first-

occupant clans retained authority over all land matters (Bensa, 2001, p. 171; Douglas, 1979, p.

21). The chieftainship was in reality a complex, flexible structure (Bensa, 2000; Douglas, 1994,p. 172); moreover, subjects had recourse to sanctions and could even replace or abandon their

chiefs (Douglas, 1978, p. 38; Douglas, 1979, p. 17; Douglas, 1994, p. 173; Guiart, 1956, p.

24). In contrast, the French colonial administration set forth “a rigidly legalistic interpretation”(Bensa, 2000, pp. 10–13; Douglas, 1972, p. 349; see Douglas, 1992, pp. 73–75) when, in

1898, it created the institutions of petit chef (“lesser chief,” responsible for a village; hereafter

“village chief”) and grand chef (“high chief,” with influence over a broader geographical area),

often distributing these titles to loyal Kanak.Loyalty Islanders played an active role in the anti-colonial uprisings that shook New Cale-

donia from 1984 to 1988. In fact, the most tragic of these occurred at Goosana on the mosteasterly of the Loyalties, Ouvea. On April 22, 1988, Kanak militants invaded a local police

station, taking several gendarmes hostage and killing four of them in the process. Thirteen days




posive sampling to speak with the initiators and primary supporters of each project as well

as with people who were recognized as having customary rights or responsibilities regardingthe land in question. I also used stratified random sampling to interview approximately 10%of the population of the village from which each initiative originated. Using the 1996 census,

I created categories based on sex and age, and calculated proportional numbers of people to

interview within each category. I have substituted pseudonyms for the names of all interviewees

and community members.

4.1. Taı Sala

ThefirstsiteIstudied,knownasTaı Sala, is a wetland approximately 3.5 km× 500 m, locatedin northern Ouvea. The residents of three villages have the greatest stake in the project. Heo,

also called St. Joseph, has a population of 205 (ITSEE, 1998) and is the closest village to the

marsh, which is just 0.5 km to the south. The nearby village of Weneki (population 239) is thelocation of the Imone chieftainship, a group of clans with customary ownership of the wetland

and surrounding area. This chieftainship was recognized by the local administration in 1989,

but is officially registered as being located at the neighboring village of Goosana (population247). I conducted semi-structured interviews with 18 residents of Heo, four residents of Weneki

who had customary ownership or guardianship of the marsh, and two residents of Goosana

who had a particular interest in the project. The fish within Taı Sala were, at least in theory,

reserved for fishing expeditions that would provide food for guests at customary ceremonies(such as marriages and funerals) involving members of the Imone chieftainship. This activity

would be authorized – and any illegitimate fishing punished – by the most senior male member

of the clan responsible for guarding the marsh. In 2000, this was Daniel Kame, a man in his 60s.However, according to my informants, such an expedition had not been organized since the

1970s. In 1999, a 51-year-old man named Alban Tusi, president of the fishermen’s union and

assistant at the Ouvea town hall, made an official request for the creation of a protected area atTaı Sala. The municipal administration then hired an environmental consultant to research the

ecological significance of the marsh; meanwhile, Alban and his friend Maurice Kibe organized

a series of meetings at which local villagers discussed the idea of a conservation project at thesite.

4.2. Easo

The second potential site for a conservation project was near the coastal village of Easo, with

a population of 83 (ITSEE, 1998), on the island of Lifou. I conducted eight semi-structured

interviews with residents of Easo as well as one with a customary landowner from the nearbyvillage of Hunehmi (pseudonym). The area proposed for protected status comprised only the

small Jinek Bay and the cliffs rising above it. A cruise ship, carrying mainly Australian tourists,

made regular visits to the village where local residents greeted them with traditional dances,offered crafts for sale, and assisted with guided tours arranged by a tourism association located

in We, Lifou’s capital. The idea of creating a protected area was reportedly inspired by the

cruise ship’s stopovers and was first mooted at a visit to Easo by the high chief of Wetr (the

northern district of Lifou).




4.3. Muj

Just north of Easo, still in the district of Wetr on Lifou, was the third study site, withinthe area customarily known as Muj. This area was relatively large, covering a peninsula of

roughly 25 km2. Three villages were located directly east of the site. The closest was Hanawa,

with a population of 121, followed by Hunete (population 163) and Siloam (population 202)(ITSEE, 1998). I interviewed 16 residents of Hunete as well as the chiefs of Hanawa and

Siloam, and one other Siloam resident. This area was believed to be the place where two very

important paths meet: gojeny ip, the domain of ancestral spirits, and gojeny jumek¨ otr , a routeconnecting a series of villages and significant sites (Lenormand & Sam, 1993, pp. 116–118).

The conservation project at Muj was the idea of the chief of Hunete, Ludovic Tixe, which

he expressed at a community meeting that a representative of the Loyalty Islands provincialgovernment happened to be attending, in April 1999.

Despite some differences in local histories and socio-economic conditions across the three

sites, villagers largely shared common expectations of the projects’ implications for their

respective futures. While clearly important, economic benefits were not the only advantagethat Loyalty Islanders foresaw; the projects also represented an opportunity to strengthen their

cultural identity by preserving part of their cultural heritage. First, I will briefly explain how

Kanak define their cultural heritage as well as why they feel it is important to preserve it.

5. Maintenance of cultural heritage and identity

In New Caledonia, the drive to preserve cultural heritage took shape largely as part of theindependence movement. Independence activists at first aimed solely for fuller integration into

formal economic and political structures; demands for respect of specifically Kanak identities

and rights were to emerge, “with a vengeance,” in the late 1960s (Henningham, 1992a, p. 54).

Pro-independence leader Jean-Marie Tjibaou, lamenting the fact that “the sole propositionmade to New Caledonia is that of Western patterns of civilization and culture,” insisted that

“we demand once again our right to exist with our cultural heritage recognized in our owncountry” (Tjibaou, 1996, p. 90). Recent decades have seen Kanak cultural specificities increas-ingly highlighted and celebrated, first by independence activists’ initiatives such as Tjibaou’s

“Melanesia 2000” festival in 1975 (Tjibaou, 1976), “the first major manifestation of renewed

interest and pride in Melanesian culture” (Henningham, 1992b, p. 78). Customary relationshipsto the land and the resources it contains constitute one of the primary defining characteristics

both of the identities of particular clans within the Kanak social structure (as discussed above)

as well as of a contemporary pan-Kanak identity (see Horowitz, 2001, 2003, pp. 96–99). Thus,local natural resources, areas of land or sea, and knowledge about culturally significant species

and spaces form part of what Kanak refer to as their cultural heritage, as do the customary

structures that have authority over these resources.However, many of the Kanak to whom I spoke lamented the fact that, as they saw it,

many details concerning clan histories and taboo places had been forgotten over the past

few generations due to outside influences and a loss of interest in stories passed on by the

elders. If managed properly, the proposed conservation projects had the potential to contribute




to the preservation of local cultural heritage. At Heo, community members often used the

term “heritage” ( patrimoine) to refer to Taı Sala, citing this as a reason they supported theconservation project. People at Muj and Easo similarly mentioned the “cultural heritage”contained by the areas—either in those very terms or by referring to the significant sites within

the zone and the stories associated with them. Hunete’s chief Ludovic Tixe made it clear that

one of the primary goals of the conservation project was to protect the species that were used

for traditional purposes, as these played an important role in maintaining the basis of a Kanak identity:

It’s linked to our culture, linked to our custom; if tomorrow we have to order wood from Canada

to build the grande chefferie [the high chief’s dwelling], I don’t think that’s right. That’s why

we have to protect that kind of wood. [. . .

] I can’t say, “I am Kanak,” without my taboo nearby,without my symbolic wood, without my symbolic hut, without all that. So for me it’s a heritage

that must be conserved, and above all transmitted to future generations. [. . .]Iftherearenomore

species of sacred fish tomorrow, how will we make our culture live? (personal communication,

August 2000)

If their identity resided, at least in part, in the ceremonial use of particular plants and animals,

then it was logical that the populations of these species needed to be maintained. Ludovic

explained that in his travels outsideNew Caledonia, he had witnessed environmental destruction

and that, to avoid similar problems, local villagers needed to begin “right away” to protect their

own forests and reefs (personal communication, August 2000). Most of the people to whomI spoke on both Lifou and Ouvea supported this idea. How it would be achieved, however,

raised important questions. Local residents viewed the conservation projects simultaneouslyas an opportunity for economic development, primarily through tourism. Clearly, this would

entail an influx of visitors from outside the community, who would want to take walks in the

forests. Within these areas there were taboo places that tourists might pass by. An importantpart of a clan’s identity is the knowledge that it possesses, in the form of stories about the

adventures of mythic ancestors, about the significance of such sites (Bensa, 1990; Bensa &

Rivierre, 1982).

5.1. Tourist visits: revealing the hidden face?

People’s opinions differed as to whether or not tourists should be allowed to visit or even

learn about these sites as this information was normally detained exclusively by the relevantcustomary landowners. At Muj, one man was concerned that the villagers should not “talk

too much with everyone, such as the media” about “taboo things [. . .] so that we keep them”

(personal communication, August 2000). Another insisted that tourists could not visit “sacredplaces” (personal communication, August 2000). However, several others felt that talking

about this cultural heritage with outsiders would be acceptable. Ludovic’s wife enthusiastically

expressed the idea that tourists might be interested in customary stories about sacred sites inthe forest, and suggested that recounting such narratives to visitors might actually provide away to preserve these legends (personal communication, May 1999). A member of one of the

customary landowner clans of the zone articulated a similar idea, even claiming that keeping

these stories secret would represent “a handicap for the future” since if they were lost, Lifou




The tension inherent in villagers’ relationships with the provincial government led some

to mistrust the conservation projects and forced the promoters to insist that they were basedin customary authority structures. Feeling discouraged one day, Hunete’s chief Ludovic com-plained that the villagers “don’t take [the project] seriously” because they associated it with

the local government or with himself as an individual while in reality it was “purely cus-

tomary [. . .] linked to the high chieftainship” (personal communication, August 2000). More

optimistically, Siloam’s chief Marc Dro predicted that once some local people had formedan organization to manage the project, others would feel a greater sense of ownership of the

initiative and would participate in it. Responding to a fellow villager’s comment that “we no

longer trust politicians, we trust custom,” Marc replied that “people will respect the laws [cre-ated in conjunction with the project] because we will work with the customary landowners

as well” (personal communication, August 2000). Thus, Marc implied that local residents felt

alienated from the provincial government and had greater respect for customary than for formalauthority, although both were necessary. Building on this notion, Ludovic often insisted on the

importance of involving clan chiefs and customary landowners in the project, and had called a

meeting of all the chiefs of villages within Muj to present the idea to them. His father-in-law,a customary landowner, affirmed that the project would “not only protect the environment—it

will reinforce, promote the customary structure” (personal communication, August 2000).

Clearly, in the villagers’ eyes, the proposed conservation projects posed a potential threat to

their autonomy. At the same time, they also represented an opportunity to strengthen, or possibly

reinstate, customary ownership and guardianship of natural resources. These customary rolesformed an important part of their cultural identity. At Taı Sala, most people noted that the

members of the Imone chieftainship were the proprietors of the “heritage” of the area andthus ultimately retained all decision-making rights over its use. Most villagers expressed an

expectation that the project would involve renewed recognition of customary social structures

as a means of controlling access to the marsh. First, the Imone chieftainship would haveto agree, after extensive discussions, to restore protection of the site and spread the word

about their plans. Next, the guardian clan would have to make a renewed effort to enforce

customary regulations. For Maurice Kibe, the conservation project even represented a means

of reinstating customary social structures, roles and practices as part of a “search for identity”(personal communication, July 2000). The problem, as he perceived it, was that illicit fishing

was made possible by the fact that “we have not yet replaced this custom [of protecting the

area] from the time of the elders”; the solution was thus to be found by “putting people back intheir places” as customary guardians. Maurice was confident that people would “understand

that it’s going back like before; they will be afraid to go there because they will see that it’s

well watched over” (personal communication, July 2000).

6. Conflicts over customary ownership

Indeed, since they would involve increased recognition of first-occupant clans, the proposed

conservation projects contained the potential to support, or undermine, clans’ claims to custom-

ary landownership which, as noted above, are intimately linked to social status. One advantage

to having locals rather than outsiders develop Muj, according to a senior member of a custom-




ary landowner clan, was that any profits could be shared with the high chief. Meanwhile, the

chief of Siloam stated that it was “quite natural” that a portion of any tourism revenue shouldbe provided to the customary landowners (Marc Dro, personal communication, August 2000).Not surprisingly, plans for distribution of any financial returns from the conservation projects

added to the micropolitical stakes these represented. These intra-community tensions represent

the second irony that this paper describes: the fact that, in seeking to restore a fixed, customary

authority structure as a vital part of a common Kanak identity based in a shared history, theconservation projects actually created novel micropolitical frictions.

Predictably, then, despite a general consensus as to the economic and cultural benefits the

projects could offer, there was less agreement as to which clans rightfully filled the roles of masters of the land or appointed guardians, at both Taı Sala and Easo. At Easo, a few villagers

referred to “people who live in [the nearby village of] Hunehmi” as the customary protectors

of the site or even named “the Trepen, who live at Hunehmi” as the customary landowners(personal communication, August 2000). The chief of Easo, however, insisted that while “some

people claim that land,” they were “guardians, not landowners” (personal communication, July

2000). A representative of the clan in question, Gerard Trepen, disagreed. He claimed that theland along the coast belonged to his clan and admitted to having some “reserves” about the

project as pre-existing problems had to be “settled first” (personal communication, August

2000). These reported problems corresponded to a series of situations in which his clan’s

land rights had been disregarded as other villagers pursued economic gain. These included the

establishment of a quarry, without his prior knowledge, on land he claimed belonged to hisclan; more importantly, he asserted that the regular arrival of the cruise ship had led his fellow

villagers to “drop the landowners,” ignoring his clan’s right to grant access to the beach andneglecting to provide them with a share of the profits. Gerard affirmed that the conservation

project was a good idea, but explained that he first had to speak with the local village chiefs

in order to resolve current disputes and reach a consensus before proceeding. He expressedconcern that if the project were to go ahead, only a few (and not members of his clan) would

benefit from the expected increase in tourism revenue.

At Taı Sala, Alban Tusi intimated the existence of similar tensions when he mentioned

that “for the project itself everyone is in agreement but there are internal political problems,”adding that any proposal for a development project involving land inevitably revealed “hidden”

disputes (personal communication, July 2000). In this case, the primary disagreement was

between the Kame and the Aeaa, both of whom claimed the customary role of guardian of TaıSala although the Kame were recognized as the current guardians. Brothers Christophe and

Daniel Kame claimed that this responsibility corresponded with their high status as members

of a clan that, traditionally, made statements on behalf of the chief, who was not allowed tospeak publicly (personal communication, July 2000). Daniel categorically denied the claims

of the Aeaa to have once guarded the site, and both men stated that the marsh was owned by

the Imone chieftainship.

The Aeaa, on the other hand, either claimed outright customary ownership of Taı Sala – onemember maintained that her clan had given the land to the Imone chieftainship for the Kame

to guard – or at least insisted upon a privileged role in relation to the high chief, allowingthem a measure of control over how the land would be used. Two clan members insisted that

their father or grandfather had previously guarded the site. The reactions of members of this




clan to the proposed conservation project varied, depending on their sense of whether it would

strengthen or weaken their claims. One woman, concerned about what she saw as threats toher clan’s authority over the marsh, displayed anger at what she perceived as meddling:

It’s up to the [Aeaa] clan to protect – what’s the provincial government interfering for? Maurice

[Kibe] organized a meeting? He has nothing [no customary land rights] over there – why didn’t

they contact the landowners? They are the ones who will make the decisions. (Raymonde Aeaa,

personal communication, July 2000)

Another Aeaa clan member was much more supportive, as long as the clan were called

together to discuss the idea and decide how the land should be used.The opinions of their fellow community members were similarly divided. The village chief

sided with the Aeaa, backing their claims to customary ownership while not questioning the

fact that the Kame were at least the recognized guardians of the site (personal communica-tion, July 2000). Others, however, indicated that the responsibility of guarding the marsh had

been transferred to the Kame because the Aeaa had not adequately fulfilled their role; this

had surfaced at the recent village meeting to discuss the conservation project. Maurice Kibesimilarly noted that the Kame had been named as guardians because of “too much fraud.”

Nonetheless, he advocated giving “the responsibilities to people that they had before,” such

as to the Aeaa, insisting that “we have to go backwards again” to restore proper social order(personal communication, July 2000).

7. Conclusions

The integration of micropolitical theories with a political ecology perspective, or “microp-

olitical ecology,” was useful in analyzing the engagements of Kanak villagers with

locally-initiated conservation projects. In striving to maintain their cultural heritage and author-

ity over their natural resources, Loyalty Islanders invoked a pan-Kanak identity – an “imaginedcommunity” (Anderson, 1983) grounded in beliefs about sacred species and taboo places

(Fortes and Evans-Pritchard’s (1940) “mystical symbols”) – that united them as a rights-holdinggroup in contrast to Western tourists or the provincial government. Within the local communitiesthemselves, however, conflicts soon arose over symbolic capital (Bourdieu, 1986). Predictably

(see Turner, 1957), people claimed rights to social status within the existing social framework,

in which authority resided in the ability to claim customary ownership of the lands in question.Despite the seriousness of these intra-community tensions, villagers made it clear that they

would need to resolve the problems on their own, without interference from the government,

with which they had a recent history of violent conflict. Nor, clearly, would they accept the gov-ernment’s setting or enforcement of regulations. They thus viewed the projects as representing

both opportunity and risk; the possibility of safeguarding their cultural heritage and benefiting

financially was counterbalanced by the dangers of being forced to reveal their secret knowledgeto outsiders and allowing the provincial government more control over their land. However,despite the double bind in which they found themselves – in having to solicit assistance, for a

project designed to reinforce their cultural identity, from the hegemonic power against which

they sought to define themselves – Loyalty Islanders saw a clear solution: The administration




could simply offer financial support and technical assistance for the conservation projects,

particularly in facilitating and encouraging tourism. This activity would in turn require certainsecrets – a vital part of a clan’s cultural identity – to be revealed, yet in doing so might help topreserve them.

This brings us back to the question of what motivates participation in, or initiation of, conser-

vation projects co-managed by local communities and formal administrative structures. Like

other studies (e.g. Gelcich et al., 2005; Mayaka et al., 2005; Spiteri & Nepal, 2005), the presentanalysis found that economic incentives were very important in convincing local people to par-

ticipate in co-managed conservation efforts. Indeed, this desire for financial gain necessitated

(somewhat reluctant) cooperation with the provincial government, which possessed the capitaland technical know-how required to launch tourism ventures. Beyond this, however, Loyalty

Islanders hoped that the conservation projects would help them to maintain the landscape

features, species and social roles that were crucial to their sense of cultural identity.The will to preserve the markers of cultural identity is in fact a growing trend on a global scale.

Many ethnic groups around the world have begun to perceive a gradual erosion of their cultural

traditions and knowledge, largely facilitated by the flows of information and technology oftenreferred to as “globalization,” and they may try to stem this tide by reviving their traditions. In

many cases, the dominance, past or present, of colonial powers has both accelerated cultural

loss, through the imposition of alien languages, mores and habits upon subjugated peoples, and

inadvertently encouraged the assertion of ethnic identities distinct from that of the colonizer.

The N´ egritude movement of Africa and the Caribbean (e.g. Cesaire, 1983 (1939); Damas,1956, 1972; Fanon, 1952; Senghor, 1964), as well as similar activities in other regions of

the globe (e.g. Bebbington, 1996; Glowczewski, 1998; Souza, 1998), have countered colonialcultural hegemony by reflecting on their own histories and taking a renewed pride in their

ethnic distinctiveness. This is achieved partly in order to avoid “a too servile imitation of the

West” (Bastide, 1998 (1971), p. 42). However, it is also, more positively, an effort to restore along-suppressed dignity by lamenting and then subverting tropes of dominance embedded in

the collective consciousness (Hall, 1990). Indeed, the very assertion of an alternative identity

may be a type of resistance and a way to reclaim that identity as worthy (Bebbington, 1996).

Relationships to land are nearly always a crucial component of cultural identity, which inturn plays a vital role in constructions of ethno-nationalism (e.g. Anderson, 1983; Conklin &

Graham, 1995; Graham, Ashworth, & Tunbridge, 2000; Jacobs, 1988; Kecmanovic, 1996; Li,

2000; Merlan, 1998; Morris-Suzuki, 1998; Smith, 1991; Warren, 1998; Zimmerer, 1996). InOceania, for instance, many of the nationalist identities being forged are based on statements

about the importance of the customary relationship to land (Otto & Thomas, 1997; Rumsey &

Weiner, 2001, p. 38). These land-based identities are based on long-standing beliefs and socialstructures, yet are constantly being rethought and reconstructed in the contemporary context

of unprecedented economic, political and cultural change. In the contemporary Melanesian

context, “[l]and [. . .] becomes an aspect of a new identity” (Guddemi, 1997, p. 641) and

Melanesian groups learn to think of themselves as people who are distinguished from othernations or races by their singular physical and emotional relationship to “the land” which all

of them possess (Filer, 1997, p. 165).“The land” thus becomes a crucial stake in political struggles (Ballard, 1997). In demanding

land rights, people may expect not only economic benefits but also a reinforcement of the




knowledge and practices linked to particular sites or to natural resource management, as well

as an opportunity for increased political autonomy (Young, 1992). If identity is linked to land,or at least to certain landscape features, it follows logically that these cultural resources mustbe protected from destruction. In many cases, customary management systems – whether or

not designed for this purpose – function de facto to protect areas and the natural resources they

contain (Aswani, 2005; Hviding, 2006; McCay & Acheson, 1987; Ostrom, 1990; Ostrom et

al., 2002). However, these systems often lose their protective role in the face of contemporarysocial, economic and political changes as newly-arrived groups may not respect local land

management traditions, opportunities for individuals to sell common property resources on

the market result in unsustainable exploitation, and unsympathetic governments undermineinformal institutions (e.g. Ashenafi & Leader-Williams, 2006; Cinner, Marnane, McClanahan,

Clark, & Ben, 2005; Thorburn, 2000).

As these tendencies co-evolve, with both natural resources and the customary mechanismsfor managing them increasingly under threat in the face of “globalization,” while at the same

time people desire increasingly to preserve these distinguishing features of their cultural iden-

tity, more groups may look favorably upon co-managed conservation projects. Governmentsand communities will therefore need to negotiate the different roles to be played by each. The

model proposed by Loyalty Islanders, in which customary authorities would set and enforce

all regulations, and in which resources would be reserved for a particular group, was in many

ways at odds with classical Western models of conservation based on formal regulations and

the protection of flora and fauna from all exploitation. Moreover, the two approaches werefounded on very different understandings of and motivations for conservation. Nonetheless,

applied micropolitical ecology, in examining recent political history and local social struc-tures, revealed that a conservation program grounded in customary authority would be the

only acceptable solution for villagers on the Loyalty Islands, although it would be difficult

in some cases for them to agree on who exactly filled these customary roles. If the provin-cial government could accept both the necessity of allowing customary authorities to set and

enforce regulations and that of waiting patiently while the community resolved disputes over

the identity of those with rights to control natural resources, then there would be scope for

collaboration between the two authority systems, formal and informal.In this particular example, the opportunity to trial such an approach did not arise. The

government official who had commissioned the study that I executed was obliged, due to a

convergence of political and personal reasons, to leave the Loyalty Islands, and without astrong advocate within the government, the project had to be tabled. Nonetheless, this study

points to the importance, for conservationists and others working with local communities, of

gaining a clear understanding of intra-community dynamics as well as of community members’perceptions of external groups such as formal government structures, in order to design the

most appropriate strategies for working together on projects of mutual interest.

Acknowledgements

I am grateful, first and foremost, to the residents of the Loyalty Islands who gave so gener-

ously of their time and hospitality. In particular, I wish to thank Bassie Ijezie and the late Gerard




Ouckewen. I am also grateful to the provincial government of the Loyalty Islands for giving me

the opportunity to conduct this research. The School of Resources, Environment and Societyof the Australian National University partially funded my time on the Loyalties. Finally, I wishto acknowledge the insightful comments of Yuri Saalmann and two anonymous Social Science

Journal reviewers. Any errors of fact or interpretation remain, of course, exclusively my own

responsibility.

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