In traditional Nubian culture, an important aspect of wedding celebrations was the singing and dancing performed as part of the lengthy ceremonies. Those traditions have been fading, however, as the ways of Old Nubia—before the closing of the Aswan High Dam—increasingly become a remote memory. But at least one group of Nubian performers in Cairo is trying to keep the traditional music alive. An article in a Middle East news source on March 17 celebrated the performers and their cause.

A tambourine duff
A tambourine duff (Photo by adil113 on Flickr, Creative Commons license)

Farah El-Masry is the lead in the group called Aragide, which translated from the Nubian means “joy.” According to the journalist, it is one of the few remaining groups of musicians who are trying to keep alive the traditional dancing and singing that used to characterize Nubian community life. The group uses only their voices and a duff, a large hand-held drum, to make music for dancing.

El-Masry tells the journalist that his real name is Mohamed but the people in his Nubian village nicknamed him “Farah,” which also means “joy” because even as a child he enjoyed singing so much. He told the reporter, “I was singing all the time in all of our occasions.” He explains that his group sings songs from their Nubian heritage but they sing others that are more contemporary. Their aragide tradition suggests that they should sing accompanied only by the duff and not include any other instruments.

The group normally performs without using microphones or sound systems to add to the sense of authenticity. Non-Nubians are quoted as appreciating the performances. A 29-year-old British woman expresses the opinion that her heart starts dancing during the shows. A 50-year old school teacher tells the reporter that he finds the music to be “inspiring and joyful.” Aragide has performed in Europe and the Gulf countries as well as in Egypt.

Music at the Nubian Center—a time to dance
Music at the Nubian Center—a time to dance (Photo by Maria Johnson on Flickr, Creative Commons license)

El-Masry says that the younger generations of Nubians—people younger than 60—don’t know the traditional songs and few even know the spoken languages. His son, being raised in Cairo, hears his native tongue spoken at home but nowhere else. As to the songs, they aren’t written down: they are transferred orally.

He complains that officials of the Egyptian government ignore Nubian music, arts and culture, which have become marginalized. State officials assign projects that involve Nubian arts and culture to non-Nubian Egyptians who don’t really understand them. When satellite broadcasts focus on Upper Egypt, the former Nubian heartland, they rarely include Nubian singers in the shows.

The news story quotes an authority on Nubian heritage, Dr. Mostafa Abdel-Kader, who defines “aragide” as the culture of dancing by Nubians during festivals such as weddings. The music inspires feelings of unity within its dancing audiences, who applaud continuously during the performances. The mood at a performance by the group is also enhanced by the deep, powerful voice of El-Masry as he sways with the rhythms of the songs and taps on his duff.

Nubian performers
Nubian performers (Photo by Dennis Jarvis in Wikimedia, Creative Commons license)

Dr. Abdel-Kader adds that “the Nubian music is known for its African tempo which usually urges whoever listens to it to dance.” The use of the heavy drum, repetitive chants, and the fast pace of the music create a festive and exciting mood. Audiences usually participate in the dancing that the music inspires. El-Masry sums up the experience of the group performances by saying that their songs capture the essence of compassion and love, the Nile River and the harvest season. Singing and dancing express their self-image as Nubians. “Aragide is a way of life rather than just an art. Our whole life as Nubians is Aragide,” he says.

A 1978 article by Samina al-Katsha provided some excellent background about the aragide music, though the scholar spelled it “aragid” rather than “aragide.”  Al-Katsha defined two different styles of aragid music. The first was the ollin aragid or the “clapping dance.” It was one of the traditional dances performed at Nubian weddings. A limited number of people could participate so the dances tended to be brief—10 to 15 minutes or so.

Another, much longer, wedding dance was called the firry aragid. In this dance, the men and musicians formed a long line facing the women who would be dancing in another long line. In the space between the two lines, elderly women from both families involved in the wedding would dance, but they would do so at a faster tempo than in the clapping dance.

A child in the market of Daraw, Egypt
A child in the market of Daraw, Egypt (Photo by Thiery on Flickr, Creative Commons license)

In Kanuba, a resettlement community for Nubians that is part of the market town of Daraw, located about 40 kilometers north of Aswan, the singing and dancing associated with wedding ceremonies still went on when the author visited but they had become changed by 1978. The singing and dancing associated with a wedding still continued until early morning when the groom led a procession with his friends to the bride’s quarters. The procession stopped to perform in front of a few homes but not nearly so many as they would have in Old Nubia. The procession did not stop at the tombs of saints as it would have earlier. The author characterized it as “a much sped-up version of the traditional form [that] does not take more than an hour or two at most to reach its destination [p.192].”

The author emphasized that Nubian wedding singing and dancing by that time was already much changed from how it had been done earlier in Old Nubia. Praise songs for the bride’s and the groom’s families had been replaced by contemporary Arabic songs. Al-Katsha noted that the songs sung by groups were still being sung in Nubian but the themes of the songs were more contemporary—praise songs for the loved one, for instance.

A Nubian wedding
A Nubian wedding (Photo by Hossam el-Hamalawy on Flickr, Creative Commons license)

Also, more Arabic words, as of 1978, were being included in the songs, which also focused on contemporary topics such as the construction of the High Dam, the resettlement, and perhaps even comments about Egyptian national leaders. Older and younger Nubians at the time in Kanuba differed in their opinions about the value of the new songs, the younger ones appreciating the new, the older people making excuses for the disappearance of the traditional songs.

“Some of the more conservative people felt it would be better to omit songs completely rather than institute such innovations,” the scholar wrote [p.194]. However, the traditional dances, the ollin aragid and the firry aragid, were being abandoned since by then the steps had become unfamiliar. People made only clumsy attempts to dance them. At weddings, the Nubians preferred group dances that had faster tempos and that focused attention on young, marriageable women.

While El-Masry’s commitment to keeping the musical and cultural traditions of the Nubians alive is commendable, it appears from al-Katsha’s work as if they have been changing in the past as well as in recent years.

 

A mysterious illness has struck a Batek community in Malaysia and the causes are uncertain. A report in Kosmo, a Malay-language news source, provided the puzzling clues in an article last week.

Batek kids
Batek kids (Photo by HENG FU MING on Flickr, Creative Commons license)

Mamat Potok, the traditional headman in Kuala Koh, told the reporter that the outbreak of the disease began last October when about 50 residents, particularly teenagers, started coming down with the illness. Younger people are quite anxious since there does not seem to be a cure. Since October, the illness has spread to nearly half of the 350 residents in the community.

The illness is characterized by scaly skin and severe itching that makes sleeping difficult. He said that the Batek are not blaming the young people—it is not their fault. The photos of the affected young people that accompany the article show their cracked, scaly skin. They look grim. They have consulted with the staff at the local health clinic without any success, he said.

Yati Ripin, a 29-year old woman, said her three-year old son has scaly skin covering his body, including his face. The people are not eating seafoods such as fish, believing that eating those foods could cause their skin to become infected. The scaly skin in about a week becomes purulent and starts to scab over.

A Batek child in Taman Negara National Park
A Batek child in Taman Negara National Park (Photo by Mohd Fazlin Mohd Effendy Ooi on Flickr, Creeative Commons license)

Maizan Ripin, a 22-year old, told the reporter that the people infected with the disease were taking the trash provided by the health clinic. He added that the people believe it is impossible to treat the infections with either traditional remedies or modern medicines. So most of the infected people were giving up the medical treatments: the infections seem untreatable

A similar story in another Malay news source said that Mamat Potok, the village headman, was hoping the Kelantan state Health Department will be able to inspect the village before more people become infected with the mystery illness.

The day after those news stories appeared, the Kelantan Department of Health released its side of the story. The agency said that the mysterious illness is caused by a skin fungus. It said that the infection spreads easily from contact with contaminated pillows, mattresses and clothing. Anti-fungal medications will be given to the victims. The agency added, in its own defense (and in the wording of the Google translation), that the Batek “were persuaded to be hospitalized but refused to take the bus causing the disease to spread.” But the infected people are willing to be treated, the agency concluded “so that the disease can be addressed.”

Ramli Mohd Nor, a Semai man from the Cameron Highlands who won a by-election to the Malaysian parliament in late January, gave his first official speech last week. According to one of the news accounts of his maiden address, Ramli is the first Orang Asli individual elected to the Dewan Rakyat, the lower house of parliament. It appears as if he will be a strong advocate for the Orang Asli people and their needs.

A Semai man wearing a traditional hat cuts durian fruits
A Semai man wearing a traditional hat cuts durian fruits (Photo by Georg Wittberger on Wikimedia, Creative Commons license)

Ramli dramatized his indigenous heritage by wearing a traditional Orang Asli cap during a speech in which he called on the government to do more for the Orang Asli (Original People). There are 18 different societies in Peninsular Malaysia that are categorized as “Orang Asli,” three of which—the Semai, the Batek, and the Chewong—are included in this website. In his speech, Ramli cited provisions in the constitution of Malaysia specifying that equality must be provided for all Malaysians, including the Orang Asli.

As might be expected from a new politician from the Barisan Nasional party, Ramli gave credit to the previous BN government for the advances it had promoted for the Orang Asli. The BN party had ruled Malaysia for 60 years but it was defeated in national elections in May 2018. The newly-elected representative made a point of praising the Department of Orang Asli Welfare (JAKOA) for their work on behalf of his people.

He urged the new government to do more for the Orang Asli than even the previous government had done. He was quoted by the newspaper as saying about the new government that “they must achieve more than BN did. Don’t find excuses, tricks, and don’t break your promise to the Orang Asli. Don’t neglect them.”

A Semai child in Kampung Asli Rening
A Semai child in Kampung Asli Rening (Photo by tian yake on Flickr, Creative Commons license)

Ramli elaborated on what he hoped for from the government. The children need to be encouraged to attend schools. Over 900 Orang Asli young people are attending public institutions of higher learning but that number can be further increased if the government makes supporting their studies an even greater priority.

He urged the government to both improve the road infrastructure that serves the rural communities and to support basic necessities such as decent housing. He said that the government needs to provide clean water and electricity to the rural communities. Furthermore, the government should move ahead with gazetting the lands of the Orang Asli to ensure that their rights are protected permanently.

Ramli Mohd Nor
Ramli Mohd Nor (Photo by Ramli Mohd Nor in Wikimedia, Creative Commons license)

Finally, he urged JAKOA to be strengthened with additional financial resources so it can increase the number of people it employs and better protect the Orang Asli. He warned against turning the agency into a dumping ground for civil service employees who have problems in their jobs elsewhere in the government. He added that the number of Orang Asli who are, themselves, employed in civil service positions ought to be increased.

Another news source writing up the same speech quoted Ramli as suggesting that the organizational structure of JAKOA should be improved and strengthened. The workers in the agency should be people of integrity who are dedicated to the wellbeing and progress of the Orang Asli.

Ramli was sworn in on March 12.

 

 

General elections for the Lok Sabha, the parliament of India, are scheduled to be held in phases in the different states over the coming weeks. The first phase on April 11 will include the state of Andhra Pradesh, which this year will include a group of nearly 2,000 new voters from the Yanadi society.

An official puts indelible ink on the finger of a voter in Andhra Pradesh in the April 2009 general election
An official puts indelible ink on the finger of a voter in Andhra Pradesh in the April 2009 general election (Photo by Public.Resource.Org on Flickr, Creative Commons license)

According to an article in The Hindu, the project of enrolling the nomadic Yanadi people in the Krishna district onto the voter roles was accomplished with the help of 10 volunteers from their society. Many of them live in the marshes and mangrove forests, subsisting on fish and wild crabs and moving about as they need to. Their nomadic lifestyle makes the task of the officials who want to register them as voters quite difficult.

The reporter for the newspaper interviewed the leader of the group of volunteers, Nakka Vijaya Babu. The 36-year-old Yanadi man said that their fishing and gathering lifestyle is the major impediment to their taking part in important activities of Indian society, such as voting.

Some Yanadi kids
Some Yanadi kids (Photo by Only the Best on NationMaster.com and copyrighted, but released for all uses without reservation)

Their general lack of education has hampered them from being aware of their right to vote. Almost half of the newly-enrolled voters had only recently become old enough to vote anyway, he said. Vijaya Babu added that many people in the 20 – 40 age group would be going to the poles for the first time in the upcoming election.

The journalist writes that heretofore the political parties in Andhra Pradesh have not bothered very much with the Yanadi. But now, with nearly 2,000 of them added to the voting roles, the parties are more likely to pay attention to them, particularly in the small city of Machilipatnam. But the first Yanadi to actually run for an elected position was Nakka Hanumanthu, a 43-year-old crab hunter who had run for a position in 2013 in Marripalem panchayat.

The story in The Hindu was evidently seen as important enough to Andhra Pradesh for another Indian news source to reprint it almost verbatim.

 

The three Piaroa young men who were arrested by the Venezuelan police on January 23 are still languishing in jail in Amazonas state and the courts are not allowing them to be released. On March 14, El Pitazo, a Venezuelan news website, released a story with updated information about the condition of the three men plus the five other indigenous detainees. Their situation has not improved.

A Piaroa family in the Amazonas state of Venezuela
A Piaroa family in the Amazonas state of Venezuela (Photo by José Mijares that was in Wikimedia with a Creative Commons license)

According to an earlier news report, eight indigenous men and two minors were passing by some street protests in Puerto Ayacucho, the capital of the state, on January 23 when they were arrested by the Bolivarian National Guard for such alleged crimes as terrorism, instigation of public disorder, obstruction of public roads, public incitement, resistance to authority, and association to commit a crime. The two minors were subsequently released.

The street protests had formed that day in support of a call by Juan Guaidó to declare the re-election of Nicholas Maduro as illegal. The news at that time indicated that the indigenous people would be held, reportedly in deplorable conditions, for 45 days until a public prosecutor’s office could decide if there was enough evidence to warrant a trial. That 45-day period should have ended on March 9. In his story on March 14, reporter Mickey Véliz writes that to date the relatives of the detainees have not been informed when or if a court hearing would be held regarding the detainees.

Carlos José Lima, the public defender assigned to the case, questions the fact that the police records about the arrests do not mention that the indigenous people did not know one another and that they were detained in different areas of Puerto Ayacucho. Thus, they could not have committed the crime of associating to commit crimes. That charge is arbitrary.

Another defense lawyer, Pablo Tapa from the Amazonian Indigenous Movement of Human Rights, said that the relatives of the arrested people have had access to their family members only a few times and very briefly. The Indigenous Human Rights Movement has denounced the deplorable conditions under which they are being held and the irregularities in the legal process for the indigenous inmates.

The reporter quotes Carolina Rodríguez Bossio, the mother of one of the arrested individuals who is not identified. She says that her son and the others are being detained in terrible conditions and the family members are being restricted to brief, momentary visits, if any. Her son and most of the others were only looking for a way to get out of the city that day in January. In the words of the Google translation, she says “it is not fair that he is imprisoned for something he did not do.”

The Guardian published a travel piece a week ago by a writer/photographer who visited the Amish of Holmes County, Ohio, for several days. Kate Eshelby, her husband and two sons flew into Columbus, Ohio, where they stayed for a couple days. But the focus of her article is on the large Amish settlement in Holmes County, a 90-minute drive away.

She mentions facts about the Amish in the county that might already be familiar to some readers: more Amish live in that Ohio county than in the much better known Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. She signed up for a two-day tour with Shelly Millage, an “English” woman guide who owns the business Amish Heartland.

An Amish buggy ride in Holmes County (Photo by Kathleen & Ryan Rush on Flickr, Creative Commons license)
An Amish buggy ride in Holmes County (Photo by Kathleen & Ryan Rush on Flickr, Creative Commons license)

They meet an Amish farmer named David who takes the family for a ride in a buggy. He gives the two boys turns sitting at the front of the buggy. As they move along the Ohio back roads, David explains that their reason for not owning cars is that they want to avoid the fast pace of modern American life. He says that they also avoid televisions and smartphones because “they tear down family time.”

While they eat home-made pizza and apple pie in the kitchen at David’s house, Shelly explains to the family that the Amish believe the Bible urges people to live simply. Hence, they do not have electricity in their homes. David elaborates: they don’t connect to the power grid and the rest of the world because they want to avoid conforming to it. Most Amish do have lights in their homes but the lighting is provided by kerosene or natural gas lanterns. However, he adds that the Amish are changing when they have to.

They used to all be farmers but increases in the cost of land have forced some of them to change and accept some machines. Some farmers use milking machines, powered by generators, because they do need more money in order to live. If they want their lifestyle to continue, he admits, they must accept some changes.

An Amish farm in Holmes County
An Amish farm in Holmes County (Photo by Alvin Trusty on Flickr, Creative Commons license)

The group drives to another farmhouse where Anna invites them in. The mother of nine children explains that the silver wagon parked in the driveway is one of their church wagons. While Shelly’s two sons join with some of Anna’s kids in a game of football, the Amish woman explains that since they don’t have churches, they hold their worship services in their homes. Each family takes a turn hosting the service each week, she said, and the church wagons are used for carrying the supplies—hymn books, benches, plates—from one host family to the next.

Anna explains that a commitment to following Jesus should only be made by adults, so they believe in adult baptism into the faith. The truck parked outside the house belongs to one of Anna’s sons who is old enough to drive but not old enough to join the group—the so-called “rumspringa” period of running around and experimenting with the English way of life. Shelley explains that with only an education up through eighth grade, young Amish who do decide to go out into the world face many difficulties. Most decide to make a lifetime commitment to join the faith.

A long line of parked buggies in Holmes County
A long line of parked buggies in Holmes County (Photo by Alvin Trusty on Flickr, Creative Commons license)

Ms. Eshelby includes other details about the trip to Holmes County, such as driving past a long line of parked buggies into an auction, a visit to a flea market, and a visit to a farmhouse where handmade baskets are sold. Among the highlights of The Guardian article are the interesting photos taken by the author, such as one of a farmer who is giving one of Ms. Eshelby’s sons a ride behind his team of three horses pulling a farm plow through a field.

Like many comparable travel articles, this one closes by supplying the costs: of a flight from London to Columbus, of overnight lodging at the hotels the family stayed in, and of the charge by the guide (£55 per hour) for the tour of the Holmes County Amish communities.

 

Controlling anger is an important attribute of a peaceful society. The Inuit, who do occasionally experience incidents of violence, are nevertheless included in this website because of their amazing strategies for controlling anger. A news story broadcast on the NPR program “All Things Considered” on March 4 adds to the extensive study of the Inuit approaches to anger control by anthropologist Jean Briggs.

Perhaps the foremost work on the place of anger control in building a peaceful society is Briggs’ fascinating book Never in Anger: Portrait of an Eskimo Family. The anthropologist found that Inuttiaq, the man in her host family in a remote Inuit camp, was an especially affectionate father toward his four daughters.  He never expressed anger toward them and constantly played with and openly showed affection toward them, particularly the younger ones.

Other adults in his family praised him for these attributes. One said, “He loves … his children deeply; he is never angry …with them.” Another told their guest the same thing—that since Inuttiaq never got angry with his children, they loved him very much (p.69). A little farther into the book, Briggs pointed out that the Inuit with whom she was living have absolute control over their emotions so that anger never shows through. Babies are never disciplined:  their selfish demands are always met; they are constantly fondled and loved—they are not believed to possess reason.

An Inuit man, Salomonie, working on a model kayak for the Canadian Handicrafts Guild, with his daughter, Annie, at his side
An Inuit man, Salomonie, working on a model kayak for the Canadian Handicrafts Guild, with his daughter, Annie, at his side (Photographer unknown, National Film Board of Canada on Flickr, Creative Commons license)

Normally, the anthropologist continued, when the child is three years old, the next one is born, and after a period of emotional adjustment, the child accepts its more refined role of reason. Sibling rivalry continues to exist but is usually modified in the presence of adults. The latter, for their part, do not admit that animosities exist among the children and they frequently insist, though gently, that the older children should give way to the younger ones who, they believe, do not yet have reason. Parents, for their part, love their children intensely, though when they’re above three years old the adults don’t demonstrate it as much. Sometimes they feel they love their children too much.

The story last week on “All Things Considered” adds another perspective to the Inuit approaches to developing anger control among their children. The story was reported by science reporter Michaeleen Doucleff and focused on a luncheon at an elder care center in Iqaluit, the capital of Nunavut. Much of the conversation with the old people, who are speaking Inuktitut, is interpreted by Lisa Ipeelie.

Over a lunch of ringed seal, beluga whale, and frozen char, Martha Tikivik, 83, tells Doucleff that the Inuit traditionally did not have the time for anger in their lives. “It just got in their way,” the lady says. She adds that displays of anger didn’t solve problems—they simply hindered other productive activities.

An Inuit girl, Leah, carrying her younger brother, Noah, in her amauti
An Inuit girl, Leah, carrying her younger brother, Noah, in her amauti (Photo by Doug Wilkinson, National Film Board of Canada on Flickr, Creative Commons license)

The reporter mentions that anthropologists—she does not say who—have discussed the calmness that characterizes everyday life among the Inuit. She adds that elders with whom she has discussed the issue blame the “colonization” over the past hundred years that has destroyed the Inuit traditions. So their communities are working to retain their ways by focusing on their styles of child raising.

Doucleff meets a lady named Goota Jaw, who teaches a class in a local college on traditional Inuit parenting. Ms. Jaw cuts to the chase by pointing out that Inuit and European Canadian approaches to parenting are very different. Her husband, who is a Caucasian, will discipline their young child by shouting things like “go to your room.” She strongly disagrees with such displays of anger. She disciplines the child by telling stories, not by yelling.

Four Inuit girls on the coast of Victoria Island
Four Inuit girls on the coast of Victoria Island (Photo by Lachlan T. Burwash, Canada Department of Indian and Northern Affairs on Flickr, Creative Commons license)

The stories told to children are handed down over the generations and designed to mold their behavior into approved patterns. For instance, Jaw tells the reporter that they have stories that they hope will keep their children safe from drowning in the ocean, an ever-present danger for people who live along the coasts. Instead of yelling at their kids to stay away from the water, parents will tell them the story of the sea monster who will put you in a big pouch and drag you down into the ocean.

Myna Ishulutak joins the conversation and relates a story that is told to children who need to learn to wear their hats in the bitter cold winter weather. According to that story, when you go out without a hat, the northern lights will grab your head and play soccer with it. She laughs and says that when she was a kid, she was scared of losing her head if she forgot her hat.

Two Inuit girls enjoying being together
Two Inuit girls enjoying being together (Photo by Rosemary Gilliat taken in 1960 in Frobisher Bay, now Iqaluit, in Flickr, Creative Commons license)

Ms. Doucleff concludes that the point is not to scare the children needlessly. In fact, the severity of the story—its scariness—should be modified to meet the needs of each child. She introduced scary monsters into her own home, she says, with similar goals as the Inuit. She wanted to make sure her child was learning to share, the goal of the sharing monster. And to urge her 3-year-old daughter, Rosy to get on her shoes, the child has to confront the shoe monster.

So the reporter asks Rosy, who is in the lunchroom with her mother, what the shoe monster would do with kids who resist putting on their shoes. “He comes and takes them down in the hole right there,” the kid replies. The reporter asks her daughter which form of discipline she would prefer, yelling or stories. Stories, the child answers.

Doucleff concludes her report with a statement by a psychologist from Villanova, Deena Weisberg, who says that stories are widely used in many societies to communicate ideas because we learn best through narratives. Stories are the best way to diminish anger, eliminate shouting, and best of all, turn discipline into fun. The Inuit, as well as several of the other peaceful societies, are aware of the value of inflicting scary monsters on their children as discipline for them while avoiding displays of anger as much as possible.

 

Sonam Wangchuk has come up with an approach for promoting the effective conservation of scarce water resources in Ladakh. In 2014, the well-known Ladakhi engineer and his students developed a way for villages to store water from the snows and rains of winter until the planting season of spring when it is really needed. They brought the water down to a village in an underground pipe and let it freeze into a conical shape as it came out. The concept of building “ice stupas”—so-called because the artificial glaciers look like Buddhist monuments—was born. The melt water from the ice cone would be used during the spring for the village crops.

The dedication of the prototype ice stupa in the Phyang Valley of Ladakh, March 5, 2015
The dedication of the prototype ice stupa in the Phyang Valley of Ladakh, March 5, 2015 (Photo Vikalp Sangam website, Creative Commons license)

According to a news story last week, Wangchuk is holding a competition among the Ladakhi villages to see which can build the highest ice stupa this winter. The 12 villages that have entered the competition, located in both the Leh and Kargil districts, are competing for cash awards of 500,000 rupees (US $7,000) first prize, 300,000 rupees for second prize and 200,000 for third prize. The competition began in mid-December and will conclude at the end of March.

Wangchuk told the reporter that each of the villages entered in the competition was building an ice stupa with a theme. The one in Gya Meru has been built with a natural ice café inside it while the one in Shara features ice climbing. The hope of the villagers is to attract tourists and thereby earn some extra money.

Ice stupas near the Phyang Monastery, February 17, 2018
Ice stupas near the Phyang Monastery, February 17, 2018 (Photo by Sumita Roy Dutta in Wikimedia, Creative Commons license)

Wangchuk’s goal in holding the competition is to promote among the villagers the importance of conserving water during the winter for use during the growing season. Local farmers are finding that water is an increasingly scarce resource. Wangchuk’s team started the participants in the villages that entered the competition by providing free pipes, additional necessary materials, and training.

Throughout the winter his team has continued monitoring and mentoring the participants in ice stupa construction. They have found that the unusually cold winter has caused troubles for the contestants as it has led to the water pipes freezing.

 

Out of the 82 communal conservancies established by the government of Namibia, the Nyae Nyae Conservancy of the Ju/’hoansi San is without doubt the most prominent. The nation’s Ministry of Environment and Tourism (MET) has, for 20 years, awarded Nyae Nyae the largest hunting quotas of all the conservancies in the country. The success of their model has been widely touted, but John Grobler decided to ask, how well is it really working? His 5,700 word answer was published on Tuesday last week by the distinguished environmental news website Mongabay.com.

A San hunter in Namibia using his traditional bow and arrow
A San hunter in Namibia using his traditional bow and arrow (Photo by Charles Roffey on Flickr, Creative Commons license)

Grobler provides many details about the Ju/’hoansi, their hunting tradition, and the management of the conservancy. In 2018, he writes, Nyae Nyae received permits to harvest over 1,300 birds and animals, including nine buffalos, nine elephants, seven elands, three leopards, one giraffe, and many smaller animals. According to Stephan Jacobs, a prominent big-game hunter and guide—and the individual with whom Nyae Nyae contracts to handle its allotment of game permits—the conservancy is well-known among trophy hunters as the best hunting area in the world for elephants.

The conservancy model that Namibia touts as beneficial for both the local communities and for wildlife gives the conservancies the option of selling most of their allotments to big game hunters for cash, as Nyae Nyae does with Jacobs. Those business owners then sell trophy hunts to rich international people who will pay very large sums of money to stay in lodges or tent camps and have a chance to bag a highly-desirable prize, such as an elephant.

Elephants in Namibia
Elephants in Namibia (Photo by Frank Vassen on Flickr, Creative Commons license)

While the San people living in the Nyae Nyae have other sources of income, such as gathering and selling Devil’s Claw tubers, trophy hunting provides 86 percent of the total income of the people—about $120 is shared annually to each of its 1,500 members. The income from trophy hunting also allows the conservancy to have an office and to provide a small salary to 27 permanent staff members. The funds also help provide both water to communities and basic social services for the people.

In theory it should be a successful model—local people controlling their destiny, getting the money they need from the local resource, yet managing it well so that the resource (the wildlife) doesn’t unduly suffer. Well-managed trophy hunting is the key to successful development and conservation, the reasoning goes. The author finds that it is not working as well as the hype of its promoters would have us outsiders believe.

Oryx hunting in Namibia
Oryx hunting in Namibia (Photo by Fieldsports Channel on Flickr, Creative Commons license)

The management strategy was instituted enthusiastically by the new government of Namibia after independence from South Africa in 1990. It was a bottom-up management approach called Community-Based Natural Resource Management (CBNRM) in which local people control the hunting and stand to benefit from wise harvesting of the resource. With the support of WWF and financial assistance from USAID, the Ju/’hoansi started forming the first communal conservancy, Nyae Nyae, in 1996.

Grobler spent a lot of time interviewing Kiewiet, an elderly but well-known Ju/’hoan hunter, plus other Ju/’hoansi and various officials during a week-long visit to the conservancy recently. He relentlessly asks questions of everyone to see how well the oft-touted hunting strategy used by the conservancy and promoted by the government is really working. How much are the San benefiting from the hunting program and how well are the wildlife doing?

The writer builds his case for local involvement in decision-making. He visits a cultural center built in the middle of nowhere. Funded by foreign aid money, four buildings have sat abandoned since funding dried up in 2014, their roofs removed by local people who prize the galvanized sheets for their own homes. But why was the cultural center started in the first place? No one seems to know. Perhaps local people should have been consulted.

But Grobler notices more than just the absence of tourists in the area. He also notes the almost complete absence of wildlife. The major signs of animal life are the droppings of cattle. Other than a few sand grouse and harlequin quails drinking from small spots of water in post holes and a duiker that dashes off when their vehicle approaches, there is no wildlife to be seen. The area in the conservancy that he is visiting has been designated as free of farming and livestock—a core conservation area where the game is supposed to be left undisturbed.

An aerial view of part of Tsumkwe in 2008
An aerial view of part of Tsumkwe in 2008 (Photo by David Barrie on Flickr, Creative Commons license)

Dunny Coma, his guide provided by the conservancy, tells him that getting the owners of the cattle to remove their herds is a difficult issue. They live in Tsumkwe, the town that serves as the center for the Nyae Nyae, and claim they can’t control the grazing habits of their cattle. Some of them are well-connected people who have fenced, illegally, significant tracts of land. The one game warden was also farming cattle so no one seems willing to try to enforce the laws protecting wildlife from the livestock.

Grobler devotes space to his discussions with Kiewiet, the elderly San hunter who lives in the village of Makuri, about 12 miles from Tsumkwe. He tells the author that he saw flaws in the approach that John Marshall, the famed film maker, was making in his approach to the future of the Ju/’hoansi. Marshall advocated that his San friends should give up their traditional hunting and gathering and convert their economy to herding cattle. Kiewiet observed that the income from the livestock was quickly being converted into alcohol. But the hunter says he saw the value to the community-based CBNRM approach.

Cattle farmers in a conservancy in the Caprivi Strip
Cattle farmers in a conservancy in the Caprivi Strip (Photo by USAID Biodiversity & Forestry on Flickr, Creative Commons license)

Now in his late 80s, Kiewiet recalls visiting the early prototype of a community-based approach for game management in the Caprivi Strip, about 300 miles northeast of Tsumkwe in the early 1990s. Giving the local people control of their game resources struck him as a very appropriate approach, especially after decades of apartheid-style management under South African rule. “We live with [wild] animals,” he tells Grobler in fluent Africans, so “to us the animals are like our cattle.” He became a promoter of the CBNRM concept.

Then, when the Nyae Nyae Conservancy was formally set up by representatives of the villages within it, Kiewiet became the first chair of the conservancy management committee. But, he argues to the author, troubles began in 2009 when the office of the conservancy was moved from Baraka, a village which is close to the border with Botswana, to the regional center, Tsumkwe.

A shebeen in Namibia
A shebeen in Namibia (Photo by Carsten ten Brink on Flickr, Creative Commons license)

The move fostered a change to a cash culture and the unraveling of the communal character on which the conservancy was founded. Everyone needed money for everything, it seemed. And the local social scene in Tsumkwe shifted to the shebeens, the cheap bars. If you couldn’t come up with the cash to pay your debts for the alcohol, the owners of the bars would gladly accept your cattle as payment.

Grobler analyzes many issues related to the community conservancy model exemplified by Nyae Nyae. A brief review can only touch on a few of them. For instance, the communal model calls, in part, for the distribution of meat gathered from the game animals shot by the foreign hunters. But elephant meat is especially tough to chew and the elderly informants of the author, such as Kiewiet, protest volubly that they have a hard time eating the elephant meat they receive.

The author also expresses a lot of concern that the allocation of permits by species is not effective. Jacobs, the big game hunter and holder of the Nyae Nyae contract to manage the hunts by foreign tourists, focuses on his business model—he can charge a hunter $50,000 for a couple weeks of elephant hunting but only get $500 for a gemsbok hunt. In a subsequent phone call, he blames the problems of inadequate numbers of animals on the Ju/’hoansi themselves. They are “poaching the hell [out] of everything,” he tells Grobler.

The children in a small San community in Namibia
The children in a small San community in Namibia (Photo by Nicolas M. Perrault in Wikipedia, Creative Commons license)

The MET, which is supposed to be managing the whole operation to protect the resource—the animals—is unable to do its job properly. It employs one warden, stationed at Tsumkwe, to do such things as monitor the game counts at 19 waterholes spread out over about 9,000 square kilometers, a logistical impossibility, the author observes. The future of the Ju/’hoansi San may be at risk.

And so on he goes, applauding the intent of the community hunting preserves and the goal of local management but undercutting the self-promoting hype. It’s not working perfectly and by pointing out the imperfections his analysis might help the Namibians and the Ju/’hoansi to improve the local model and star performer, the Nyae Nyae Conservancy. Mr. Grobler and Mongabay.com should be applauded for publishing this excellent report.

Grobler, John. 2019. “It Pays but Does It Stay? Hunting in Namibia’s Community Conservation System.” Mongabay.com, 26 February

 

Two weeks ago the New Straits Times (NST), a major Malaysian newspaper, published a report about the environmental degradation of Tasik Chini, the second largest lake in Malaysia. The health of the lake and the surrounding forest ecosystem is important to the Orang Asli villages around it—mostly Jakun people but also some Semai. A news story about the lake over two years ago expressed optimism that the pollution affecting it and its inhabitants—human and wildlife—was beginning to improve. This current report is not as hopeful.

Tasik Chini
Tasik Chini (Both photos by Rubenjoker on Wikimedia, Creative Commons licenses)

The lake, located in Pahang State about 80 miles east of Kuala Lumpur, has a “bleak future” according to the journalist, which of course will have an impact on the gathering, fishing, and hunting by the Orang Asli villagers living in the forested lakeshore ecosystem.

The alarm was raised by Dr. Mushrifah Idris, the former director of the Tasik Chini Research Centre at the Universiti Kebangsaan Malaysia (UKM).  She told the reporter that the major problems in the ecosystem are mining and clearing the forests, and she added that “past attempts to address the issue had fallen on deaf ears.”

In contrast, two years ago she had said that the water quality in the lake was improving, which was fostering other recovery efforts such as reintroducing lotus plants, preventing sediments from entering the lake, and reducing erosion from tributary river banks. She was still director of the research lab at the time.

Tasik Chini
Tasik Chini

The current NST news story quotes a 2010 UKM report that had raised alarms about the health of the lake, which it said was “dying.” That report prompted a variety of organizations to start campaigns to save the lake. The lake provides the home for a rich diversity of flora and fauna, including 87 species of freshwater fish, 189 species of birds, and 25 of aquatic plants. The lake includes a number of unique habitats.

The 200 hectare lake is formed by 12 interconnected bodies of water surrounded by 700 more hectares of swamp forest and freshwater swamps. The surface of the lake is transformed in August and September into a floating locus garden, their pink and white blossoms covering the water surface. UNESCO has designated the lake as a Biosphere Reserve, though the problems with the lake may threaten that designation.

The 2016 news story indicated that as of 2014, 429 Orang Asli lived in the villages surrounding the lake, of whom 12 percent were Semai and the rest Jakun. This current NST article reports that about 800 Orang Asli live along the shores of Tasik Chini.