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In the early 1990s, donors began to implement "integrated conservation and development projects" (ICDPs) ICDPs recruited agrarian labor to groom and police parks and disseminate rules. The labor process creates forms of rain forest value by perpetuating conditions of habitat endangerment.
In the early 1990s, donors began to implement "integrated conservation and development projects" (ICDPs) ICDPs recruited agrarian labor to groom and police parks and disseminate rules. The labor process creates forms of rain forest value by perpetuating conditions of habitat endangerment.
In the early 1990s, donors began to implement "integrated conservation and development projects" (ICDPs) ICDPs recruited agrarian labor to groom and police parks and disseminate rules. The labor process creates forms of rain forest value by perpetuating conditions of habitat endangerment.
and Perversities of Value in Madagascar ABSTRACT In the early 1990s, donors began to implement integrated conservation and development projects (ICDPs) in Madagas- car to stem deforestation, develop ecotourism, and promote forest conservation practices in rural areas. ICDPs recruited agrarian labor to groom and police parks and disseminate rules. In this article, I present a Marxian analysis of biodiversitys value in the global north, focusing on the role of manual workers in a Biosphere Reserve. I argue that ICDPs reliance on cheap local labor has maintained the historical interdependency of slash-and-burn agriculture, wage work, and forest conservation. By facilitating the discovery of species while unintentionally perpetuating the conditions of habitat endangerment, the conservation labor process creates forms of rain forest value. [Keywords: conservation, labor, value, capitalism, ecology] W E SAT ON mats in the smoky kitchen, backs against the split bamboo and ravinala leaf walls. Illuminated by the light of a tin kerosene lamp, Sylvestre was telling me stories about the tour of the d eguerpissement (the forest sweep) that he had conducted recently with his crew mates. When it rained, he hooted, we were up to our asses in leeches! Jafa, another employee of the project overseeing the Mananara-Nord Biosphere Re- serve, also laughed, shaking his head over the miserable days the crew had spent in the thick of the rain forest. Teams of half a dozen menconservation workers and rie- toting gendarmeshad staged descents from various en- try points of the national park searching for conservation scofaws (see Figure 1). Over the course of several weeks between September and October of 2001, the men clam- bered the root-gnarled footpaths of the rain forest by day and camped in villages or on the forest oor by night. Raleva, another conservation agent, as these men were ofcially called, had taken to hiding a pistol in his fanny pack during routine forays into the park. He feared the looming threat of retaliation from peasants who would be forcefully removed by the conservation crew for clearing land in the protected forest. Sometimes peasants refused to leave their hard-toiled plots and inicted curses (mana na aody, lit. to have dangerous medicine) on the gendarmes and conservationagents. Sometimes they wielded machetes to stand their ground. The peasants sometimes get very ag- gressive, very angry, Raleva explained, embarrassed, when AMERICAN ANTHROPOLOGIST, Vol. 111, Issue 4, pp. 443455, ISSN 0002-7294 online ISSN 1548-1433. C 2009 by the American Anthropological Association. All rights reserved. DOI: 10.1111/j.1548-1433.2009.01154.x I spied his gun (conversation with author, February 28, 2001). The experiences of Sylvestre, Raleva, and Jafa serve as a point of departure from which to explore the signicance of labor in Madagascars environmental program. Biodiver- sity protection in Madagascar became a top funding priority for Western donors in the mid-1980s when the rate of de- forestation had reached a peak (Durbin et al. 1993). The island is still designated a biodiversity hotspot because of high rates of habitat loss. Scientists identify shifting swid- den agriculture, known widely as tavy, as the leading cause of deforestation. They predict that, at 1980s rates of ero- sion, the extant rain forests standing on 22 percent of the islands total land area will shrink to cover only the steepest slopes by 2025 (Green and Sussman 1990; IMF 2007:27). Neoliberalization and the greening of development in the late 1980s changed the face of national job markets in sub-Saharan Africa. In Madagascar, citizens with skills in agronomy, agroforestry, conservation biology, and meth- ods of community development sought employment in NGOs and agencies devoted to environmental conservation and development. Locally hired workers of Integrated Con- servation and Development Projects (ICDPs) epitomized the new conguration of developments key players in the global south. Decentralized natural-resource man- agement alongside participatory bottom-up approaches to planning and implementation have helped to dis- solve the conceptual triangulate of First World experts 444 American Anthropologist Vol. 111, No. 4 December 2009 FIGURE 1. Gendarmes and conservation agent traversing the bio- sphere reserve during the 2001 d eguerpissement. (Photograph by Genese Sodikoff, 2001) and nanciers, nation-states, backward places and their backward populations, according to K. Sivaramakrishnan (2000:432). As he notes, however, these conceptual cat- egories never reected reality anyway. The participatory ideal of putting the interests of all stakeholders of con- servation and development interventions on equal footing has obfuscated the enduring inequalities of development bureaucracies (Gezon 1997; Walley 2004). My study of un- skilled manual labor in the transnational conservation bu- reaucracy focuses on the blur between implementer and target of development intervention. It explores the inter- mediary social space in which parks hire people. Decentralized conservation in Madagascar took the form of these NGO-managed ICDPs from the early 1990s to the mid-2000s (Kaufmann 2008). The ICDP model has since disintegrated, insofar as the national park service stopped delivering compensatory development to rural populations and instead allowed donors to contract out these activi- ties to North Americanbased organizations. Nonetheless, the basic social organization of conservation and develop- ment has remained the same. High-end intellectual jobs are delegated to expatriate experts and university-educated na- tionals, while the low-paid jobs go to well-placed members of the grassroots, individuals with at least an elementary- school education and with good standing in their com- munities. Typically, manual-labor conservation workers do not migrate out of their places of residence once they get hired by conservation projects but remain in rural villages as conservation representatives, patrolling the rain forest and disseminating the conservation message to people of their own ilk. As insiders, however, they also maintain their social ties to the moral economy of subsistence (Scott 1976). Their delity to ancestral custom frequently poses conicts of interest to conservation. In this article, I explore how the division of conserva- tion labor in Madagascar perpetuates conditions that have induced rural Betsimisaraka people, who comprise the dom- inant ethnic population of eastern Madagascar, to clear rain forest despite their awareness of the ecological damages. I argue that the repeated failure of conservation efforts in Madagascar has not derived solely or even primarily from externalities such as peasant resistance to land enclosure. Instead, the institutional dependence on cheap agrarian labor has meant that conservation internalizes the nega- tive effects of tavy and therefore ensures the endurance of both tavy and conservation and development interven- tions. However, the tasks of low-wage workers have also been directly responsible for slowing the rate of rain for- est erosion and improving tourists experience of national parks. Unexpectedly and perversely, the dynamic of pro- tecting biodiversity while degrading it adds value to rain forest. My data are based on 14 months of structured and unstructured interviews, participant-observation, and mul- tisited eldwork between 2000 and 2002 in the northeast- ern prefecture of Mananara-Nord, where UNESCOcreated a Biosphere Reserve in 1989. The theme developed out of an earlier period of eldwork in the Andasibe-Mantadia Pro- tected Area Complex, where I spent a total of 12 months (199495, 1997, 1999) examining tensions between the ICDP and Betsimisaraka villagers living near a newly desig- nated national park. On one follow-up visit to Andasibe in 1997, I learned that the manual workers of the ICDP had held a strike against the management and had organized a union, the rst of its kind, comprised of contractual work- ers of a foreign NGO. The key organizers of the strike were laid off when the national park service, lAssociation Na- tionale de la Gestion des Aires Proteg ees (ANGAP), assumed control of the ICDP shortly afterward (Sodikoff 2007). U.S. employees of USAID in Madagascar knew about the general problem of ICDP work strikes around the island but had no idea about the union formed by the small contingent from Andasibe. The Mananara-Nord Biosphere Reserve (see Figure 2) presented different circumstances. Conservation agents were in charge of disseminating conservation rules in ru- ral villages, patrolling a terrestrial park and a marine park, grooming trails, building and posting signage, guiding tourists and scientic researchers, monitoring species, and reporting on and routing out delinquents. Unlike the ICDP workers in Andasibe who resided in town, however, Mananara-Nord workers were dispersed over the 124,000 hectares of the protected area. Some lived in town, but most lived in traditional villages. As workers and peasants, they had to negotiate the conicting social values integral to this dual existence (Applebaum 1984). CONSERVATION AND THE LABOR QUESTION The gray literature of development institutions scarcely makes mention of labor tensions in conservation projects or the contributions of manual workers. The silence here reects a development culture that emphasizes success and downplays failure. Project managers seek to safeguard their good standing with funding agencies because their liveli- hoods depend on winning job contracts and renewals. Sodikoff The Low-Wage Conservationist 445 FIGURE 2. Map of the Mananara-Nord Biosphere Reserve, Mada- gascar. (Created by Rutgers Cartography Services, 2009) Their decision to hush up labor disputes is pragmatic. Labor unrest may suggest mismanagement and could jeopardize consultants and managers job prospects. Despite the scope of conservation and development ef- forts in the tropical southern hemisphere, scholarly analy- ses of conservation labor have also been virtually absent. The neglect is not for lack of political sympathy with local labor but, rather, relates to the way conservation has been imagined. Conservation is commonly depicted as the antithesis of production, an imposed abstinence. At the same time, scholars have acknowledged the exis- tence of a conservation workforce. Karl Jacobys (2001) so- cial history of conservation in the United States devotes a chapter to the difcult position of locally hired forest guards in the Adirondacks, who confronted many of the same social pressurestheir neighbors suspicions, resent- ment, and threatsas the Malagasy conservation agents I knew. In her study of an ICDP in Papua New Guinea, Paige West discusses the difculty that residents of the rural set- tlement of Maimafu had in deciphering the work of con- servation (2006:227228). These residents, who were not bona de employees of the ICDP but participated in the project for elusive future gains, could not understand why some conservation work, such as carrying bags and other cargo for scientists; selling net bags to people; protecting certain species, was remunerated while other work, such as building and maintaining the guesthouse, working with the artifact business, and giving their time and money to the project activities was not. Wests ethnography reveals the ways, intuited by Maimafu residents, in which ICDPs extract surplus labor from localities for the global public good. Abody of literature onforestry traces the social world of forest-service bureaucracies, particularly in Southeast Asia. Scholars trace the way foresters perceptions have been shaped by scientic method (Agrawal 2005; Sivaramakrish- nan 1999) as well as howforesters have treated peasants and farmers differentially, based on class, ethnicity, and gender allegiances (see Dove 1992; Robbins 2000). In these works, the roles of forest guards and grassroots labor constitute an intermediate social sphere that clouds insideroutsider categories and typically hinders the goals of state planners or NGO representatives. But one question remains: As a labor process, how is forest conservation productive? The question is signicant because it reveals howconservation and development insti- tutions reproduce the material conditions of the periphery that justify their presence (see Ferguson 1990). The analytic neglect of conservation as a mode of capitalist production may be explained by the intellectual foundations of West- ern environmentalism wherein society was pitted against nature. Richard White (1996:171) argues that most mod- ern environmentalists equate productive work in nature with destruction while a smaller group sentimentalizes ar- chaic forms of farming and other land work. The latter often perceive subsistence practices as fostering a conservation ethic. North American conservation established a model of cordoning off from productive activity those landscapes judged to be exceptionally beautiful and ecologically valu- able, while the violent means of achieving pristine nature have been morally justied and even erased from historical memory (Croll and Parkin 1992; Escobar 1999; Neumann 1998). In Africas colonial history, however, African subsis- tence practices were never much sentimentalized by Euro- peans, who instead favored the policy of fortress conser- vation (Brockington 2002). Part of the civilizing mission of European empires, conservation efforts aimed to recip- rocally valorize African land and labor (Beinart 1984). The biogeography of Africa, perceived as savagely beautiful and primordial, contrasted to a view of African human nature as unevolved and brutish. The French and British believed that only by alienating Africans froma hand-to-mouthexis- tence in nature, on the land, could they instill in them the capitalist values of diligence, industriousness, obedience, and frugality thought to stimulate economic growth. Colo- nial states coerced African subjects into edgling industrial worksites, such as plantations, docks, and mines, by impos- ing head and hut taxes and corv ee (compulsory labor) and by enclosing land for game and nature reserves (Beinart 1989; Conklin 1998; Cooper 1980; MacKenzie 1997). Con- servation legislation regulated the position of agrarian 446 American Anthropologist Vol. 111, No. 4 December 2009 populations within the emerging capitalist social order (Munro 1998:xxxviii). In Madagascar, where colonial settlers complained of the labor shortage, the French state sought to sever the Malagasy peasantry from their means of subsistence by im- posing a ban on tavy in 1896 and commercializing rice, the stable crop (Feeley-Harnik 1984; Jarosz 1993). At the sites of public works and in colonial forest concessions, Mala- gasy workers were expected to nd their own meals as a means of keeping costs low for the state. Entrepreneurs also frequently borrowed the free labor delegated to public works (Sodikoff 2005). Malagasy workers had to rely on their spouses or extended kin networks to feed themselves. In 2001, one of my informants, a man in his late sixties who lived in Varary, a village located near the Biosphere Re- serves national park boundary, recalled the prestation la- bor of the colonial era: They didnt feed you. You had to go get your own food. Ah! You might be away for two daysit took a long time. If someone had a foolish wife here, hed starve to death (conversation with au- thor, February 17, 2001). The states maneuver of banning tavy while forcing labor to rely on tavy to reproduce it- self put Malagasy peasants in a double bind. It also left room for ambiguity about how labors value could be en- hanced as well as how strictly the ban on tavy should be enforced. Forest conservation efforts in Madagascar began in earnest shortly after colonization. Because the colonial for- est service devalued Malagasy labor and sought a science- educated European staff, it never attained the manpower necessary to sufciently curtail tavy and illegal logging in the primary forest. The forest service hired unskilled labor for menial tasks, such as portage and cutting lumber for the locomotives, while European employees suffered the difcult conditions of life in the rain forest and often suc- cumbed to malaria (Sodikoff 2005). After independence in 1960, the Malagasy state maintained forest-service stations staffed by lone functionaries, who allotted forest conces- sions to local residents and entrepreneurs. Gradually, the payroll of the forest service increased signicantly, partic- ularly during Madagascars socialist period that spanned from 1975 to 1980 (Kull 2004:204). During this time, the state had shelved conservation efforts for a program of agricultural self-sufciency involving decentralized, Soviet- style collectives (fokonolona) overseen by councils of vil- lage elders (see Gow 1997:413). The program was never very effective, and the nationalization of major industries nally led to economic crisis. Educational standards dete- riorated, the rural-development schemes failed, and unem- ployed educated graduates joined the overstaffed civil ser- vice (Gow1997:420). Economic crisis forced then-president Didier Ratsiraka to turn to support from the Bretton Woods Institutions. By 1986, liberalization measures were in full force, including deregulation, privatization, the establish- ment of free-trade zones for foreign businesses, a prolifer- ation of USAID-backed conservation and development in- terventions, and decentralization informed by neoliberal economic doctrine (Kull 1996). Today, rural Malagasy people interpret conservation as a proteering land grab by foreigners (vazaha) indis- tinguishable from colonialism (Feeley-Harnik 1995; Harper 2002; Walsh 2005). Unlike colonial conservation, however, ICDPs have introduced into remote, rural villages a ow of foreign ecotourists who also enjoy cultural encounters in Malagasy villages. They also provide environmental les- son plans for primary schools, extension agents who train residents in agroforestry techniques, and open meetings in which residents and ICDP representatives engage in debate and dialogue, not to mention the diverse development ac- tivities geared to win over peasants support for conserva- tion (Hanson 2007). As Arturo Escobar argues: while capitalism in the periphery requires the continu- ous supply of cheap food and cheap labor, it has been development that has brought the peasantry to a promi- nent role in the fulllment of those conditions through the series of discourses and programs produced to deal with their reality. [1988:436] Despite the changes since colonialism and the institutional effort to educate the environmental sensibility of Betsimis- araka peasants, rural residents in Mananara-Nord insisted on the injustice of land expropriation in the name of con- servation. President Marc Ravalomanana, elected in 2001, announced in 2003 a plan to triple the amount of pro- tected areas on the island within ve years. An expansion of this magnitude would enclose ten percent of the islands land in protected areas. More controversially, in January of 2009, Ravalomananas administration considered a pro- posal to lease 1.3 million hectares of arable land to the South Korean company, Daewoo Logistics. The lease would have enabled the company to secure South Koreas food demands through the cultivation of maize and palm oil (Oliver 2008). The potential deal incited mass protests in the capital against a state that, opponents claim, supported neocolonialism for its private gain and starved its cit- izenry. The presidential police force in turn opened re on the demonstrators in early February of 2009. The in- cident led to Ravalomananas ouster and the swearing in of his opponent, Andry Rajoelina, who immediately canceled the deal with Daewoo Logistics. Rajoelina, however, did not rule out selling or renting land to foreign investors if Madagascars constitution were amended to allowit (Lough 2009). The political unrest incited general lawlessness in a few of the islands national parks, including Marojejy and Ma- soala, and forced them to close. Foreign proteers collab- orating with rich local maa looted rosewood and ebony from the parks and paid villagers to collect endangered bushmeat. For a couple of months, between March and May of 2009, park rangers (conservation agents) chose to abandon their posts to escape violence (Braun 2009). Sodikoff The Low-Wage Conservationist 447 CONSERVATION, DEGRADATION, AND VALUE A central dilemma for conservation agents was summed up by Jafa, who in May of 2001 was considering quitting his job with the Biospheres ICDP: Im tired of it. The reason Im tired is because the wage is unacceptable. Its been three years and the wage hasnt moved, hasnt risen, and the work is hard. It was already only like cooked-rice wages. And were stuck. [conversa- tion with author, May 31, 2001] Nearly all of the conservation agents of Mananara-Nord thought seriously at one time or another about quitting their jobs. Cooked-rice wages (karama vary masaka) refers to the bare-minimum amount of cash needed to buy rice for ones householdrice being the foundation of all meals in Madagascar. Jafas metaphor equates the projects salary to the countrys staple crop. Tavy yields a avorful reddish rice varietal preferred by residents of the Mananara-Nord prefecture. Jafas words suggest a paradox: the ability of manual ICDP workers to procure tavy rice or cultivate it themselves has enabled international and Malagasy envi- ronmental planners to keep the operating costs of projects relatively low; conversely, the lowness of the project salary, as well as job insecurity and the negative social conse- quences of conservation work, have motivated manual la- borers to nurture their ties to the subsistence economy. Conservations paradox arises from the internal rela- tions of tavy, conservation, and wage work as embodied by conservation agents. Karl Marx conceived capitalism as comprised of mutually constitutive and transformative el- ements or internal relations. Production, consumption, exchange, and distribution, explains David Harvey, are all relevant moments within the social process, each inter- nalizing effects of the others (1996:74). Conservation is only partially a form of capitalist production insofar as it turns forests into experiential commodities for tourism (West and Carrier 2004). Conservation also banks raw ma- terials for potential exploitation. Biotechnology and phar- maceutical rms are particularly interested in the rain for- ests biological resources, including genes, venoms, and per- fumes (Hayden 2003). These late-capitalist industries os- tensibly resolve the erosive effects of mining and logging while accruing rents (nature reserve access fees) for the state (see Coronil 2000). Marx (1976) argued that the exploitation of workers potential labor by capitalists generates value over and above the wage rate. As a meditation on the social relations of la- bor, his theory offers a way to think about the creation of diverse kinds of value (Eiss and Pedersen 2002:286). The capitalist and subsistence processes that inform ecologi- cal conservation entail alternative means of measuring and morally judging labor and its product. The moral and com- modity value of rain forests reects, as a whole, people mak- ing meaning out of the phenomenon of extinction, while the construct of value itself obfuscates the social relation- ships that underlie it (see Graeber 2001). Geographers and anthropologists theorize that space is not an objective reality but, rather, a social product that is also inherently temporal (Coronil 1997; Smith 1984). Spacetime is constituted through interactions among peo- ple, people and nature, and the evolving social constructs and material realities that result (Lefebvre 1992). Marxs conception of value is intrinsically spatiotemporal in that the transference of energy (work) from producer to prod- uct describes a spatial relationship bounded by duration (Turner 2008:52). In Madagascar, time, measured by the rate of species deaths, is running out as tavy consumes rain forest. For Westerners, the social valuation of rain for- est takes shape in part through a selective translation of in- digenous practices and understandings of nature in specic locations (West 2005) and through the identication and parade of endemic species in global media circuits (Lowe 2006). But value also derives from the relations of land- based labor processes and the meanings they hold for work- ers (Feeley-Harnik 1986). Conservation agents in Madagascar groom trails, post signs that identify species names in both Latin and the local language, compile species inventories, guide tourists and researchers over difcult terrain, rehabilitate passage- way houses, port supplies and baggage, and spot and point out wildlife species for tourists (see Figure 3). All this ac- tivity makes the rain forest as commodity more legible to tourists who hope to glimpse the nature they have seen in photographs (Scott 1999:11). However, conserva- tion agents engagement in cash cropping and tavy, hunt- ing and shing, and selective logging for construction ma- terials contributes to the depletion of that now-legible nature. The exploitation of agrarian labor for conservation pur- poses ends up skewing workers productive hours toward subsistence practices. Conservation labor facilitates sustain- able development by extending the life of innitely har- vestable materials, such as genes, essences, aromas, and serums, as well as the living architecture of rain forest. The FIGURE 3. Conservation agent next to a sign staked by his crew in the biosphere reserves national park. (Photograph by Genese Sodikoff, 2001) 448 American Anthropologist Vol. 111, No. 4 December 2009 sensory and aesthetic qualities of nature, so protected, con- stitute the ecotourists purchased experience. Manual labor also performs the tasks of guidance and portage, which fa- cilitate scientic study and widen the exposure of new species in print and visual media. Meanwhile, economic and ecological pressures on the ground compel manual workers to consume the products of their conservation la- bor, all of which describes an interlinked process of accu- mulating value. The dialectic inspires the genre of Edenic narrative found in conservation discourse and travel writing. Can- dace Slater (1996) conceptualizes the genre as simulta- neously restorative and nostalgic. Edenic narratives offer hope of redemption, an opportunity for human beings to unburden themselves of their own histories (Handley 2005:202). They also express longing for premodern land- scapes, and nostalgia is that uniquely modern senti- ment driving the conservationand tourismindustries (Frow 1997). As affective value, environmental nostalgia derives from a contradictory mode of production that brings un- known life forms into our purview as ever-receding objects of desire: extinguishing species, contracting jungles. WORKERS OF THE BIOSPHERE Located along the Antongil Bay of the northeast coast, the Mananara-Nord Biosphere Reserve was established by UN- ESCO and the Dutch and Malagasy governments. The Bio- sphere Reserves protected area consists of 24,000 hectares of lowland tropical rain forest and about 1,200 hectares of marine park. UNESCO and the Dutch and Malagasy states administered both the reserve and the countrys pilot ICDP until December of 2001, at which time ANGAP, the na- tional park service, took over. To decentralize conservation and park management, donors created ANGAP in 1991 to replace the ineffectual Directionof Waters and Forests (Eaux et Forets) and referred to ANGAP as a parastatal organiza- tion. ANGAP administered park-entry fees for tourists and granted authorizations to conduct research in protected ar- eas. ICDPs were the preferred instruments to establish a national park system and expand the countrys ecotourism industry. They sought to alleviate rural poverty as a means of building support for conservation in subsistence-based villages. Ideally peasants support would manifest in their adoption of sustainable agricultural and shing techniques as well as in their efforts to capture revenue from eco- tourism. Donors also promoted participatory methods as a means of garnering the trust and conservation commit- ment of peasants involved in ICDP activities (Ribot 1995). Arguably, the rural residents most deeply invested in the outcomes of development interventions have been those hired by ICDPs and their successor projects, which have fo- cused exclusively on conservation and ecotourism and not on other development activities. The islands pilot ICDP was launched in 1989 in the Mananara-Nord Biosphere Reserve. Until the early 2000s, the biosphere included a settled development zone of ap- proximately 93,000 hectares in which lived approximately 95,000 people. Most of the coastal and montane villages of the district fell within the biosphere reserves peripheral zone. Many protected areas in Madagascar contain similar multiuse zones, in which residents may harvest natural re- sources while obeying rules prohibiting the consumption of endangered species (Nicoll and Langrand 1989; Orlove and Brush 1996). In this zone, the biosphere staff built a num- ber of small dams, tree nurseries, and apiaries in the devel- opment zone and had trained residents in improved agri- cultural and shing technologies. The staff also began the onerous work of preparing the site for ecotourism, which, it was thought, would improve the lives of villagers while protecting an extant rain forest and coral reef system. In Madagascar, the protected areas system generated $6 mil- lion in net revenues per year according to 2001 estimates (Christie and Crompton 2003). The International Finance Corporation (IFC), a group member of the World Bank, hopes to increase the number of visitors to the island and to attract annual investments of $500 to the sector by 2012 (International Finance Corporation n.d.). The staff of the Mananara-Nord Biosphere Reserve project, as well as government ministers, NGO represen- tatives, and planners involved, used the term Biosph` ere to denote the physical space of the reserve and the organized relationships of the project. The majority of the Mananara- Nord prefecture identies ethnically as Betsimisaraka. Most residents describe themselves with the synonyms peasant (tantsaha), cultivator (mpamboly), and landworker (mpiasa- tany). Peasants vehemently opposed the creation of the biosphere in 1989, claiming their property had been cons- cated for the national park. Many deed conservation rules by secretly clearing plots in the protected rain forest. At Mananara-Nord, conservation agents were the struc- tural counterparts of the development agents, who car- ried out the poverty-alleviationmeasures, including the cre- ation of tree nurseries, building dams for irrigation, and training villagers in bee keeping, sustainable-shing tech- niques, and child nutrition. These activities for the most part stagnated after the rst couple of years and were then phased out when ANGAP took over in 2002. Plagued by budget decits in the early 1990s, and in spite of its promise to village communities that 50 percent of park-ticket en- try fees would fund local development activities, ANGAP eliminated the development component of all ICDPs over which it assumed control. Donors delegated the tasks of agricultural and infrastructural development around pro- tected areas to a Washington, D.C.-based NGO, Chemon- ics, throughthe Landscape Development Interventions pro- gram, funded by USAID. In addition, NGOs have organized community conservation efforts in which village associ- ations may obtain statutory forest commons from the state if they sustainably manage the natural resources. Although this initiative has shown promise, it is limited in scope by the relatively small amount of primary forest unincorpo- rated into the protected area system. Sodikoff The Low-Wage Conservationist 449 To diffuse opposition to the Biosphere Reserve, the ICDP administrators in Mananara-Nord heeded politi- cians call to ll positions with local Betsimisaraka people. This meant they should not employ Me- rina people, whose natal territory lies in the cen- tral High Plateaus. Prior to French colonization, the Merina Kingdom colonized other polities on the island, subjecting and enslaving coastal populations (c otiers; see Cole 2001). C otiers despise Merina for their historical role as slave masters and later abettors of French colonialism. In todays conservation bureaucracy, Merina individuals oc- cupy most ICDP directorships and other high-level admin- istrative positions. For the Biosphere project, it was critical that the director of the project be a zanatany (child of the land or local), because that individual would assume full control once the Dutch technical consultant departed. The chosen director came from the neighboring district of Maroantsetra. Although suspiciously light skinnedhe was said to be part vazaha (white foreigner, outsider)he was accepted by Mananara-Nords residents as sufciently of the people. In the early 2000s, the structural positions and pay scales of the biosphere reserves project workers depended on their educational level, relevant experiences, and train- ing. The ICDP employed approximately 57 people. The Dutch representative for UNESCO served as the technical consultant in charge of the budget. His Malagasy counter- part was the national director of the project. Each man on the conservation crew had achieved at least a junior high school level of education and had obtained the BEPC (brevet d etudes du premier cycle) certicate. Each possessed a lifetimes worth of regional ecological knowledge or else some practical experience in agricultural technologies or forestry. Men with higher levels of educationjunior high school level plus certied technical trainingcould hold positions as crew leaders or special trainers of community forest-management schemes with salaries twice as large as regular conservation agents. Project workers closely guarded the amount of their salaries. People around the Mananara-Nord region were generally reluctant to say howmuchmoney they made, and the conservation agents were no exception. When I asked conservation agents, they would often laugh, embarrassed, avert their eyes, laugh again, and either shake their heads to say, no, I wont answer that or would give me a range of wagesbetween 350,000 to 500,000 FMG (approxi- mately $56 to $80) per month for conservation agents in 2000 and 2001. Aculture of secrecy about salaries prevented me from getting salary gures for administrators, but in the mid-1990s, expatriate ICDP workers at Andasibe-Mantadia earned between $55,000 and $90,000 tax free annually. Based on my knowledge of workers salaries between 2000 and 2002, I estimate the total low-wage conservation staff in 2002 was paid about $2 million in annual wages for policing six million hectares (14,826,000 acres) of land and raising the environmental consciousness of subsistence farmers. As the direct recipients of grant money, NGOs have absorbed most foreign aid for environment and develop- ment projects. The bulk of funds allocated to individual projects gets eaten up by physical capital purchases and the salaries and fees of foreign and national experts (Ferraro 2001:996). Over the course of my research, the number of con- servation agents in the biosphere reserve project varied be- tween 9 and 18 men because of resignations and new hires. Most ranged in age from their mid-twenties to early thirties and identied as northern Betsimisaraka. In addition to pa- trolling the terrestrial and marine reserves of the Biosphere, they sporadically had to catalogue extant species in the reserve, report on law breakers, maintain trails and signs, accompany and carry supplies for tourists and researchers, and conduct forest sweeps. A couple of themwere delegated the task of training village residents in setting up associa- tions for community forestry. Between 2000 and 2002, most conservation agents in the biosphere reserve participated in both project wage work and subsistence horticulture. Not all conservation agents engaged directly in the ritual work of tavy, but vir- tually the whole crew relied to some extent on obtaining a share of kins harvests. Zalahely, for example, was a bio- sphere conservation agent assigned to work in the western side of the biosphere reserve near the national park. His wife resided there, but he actually spent most of his time in the town of Mananara-Nord, estranged from his wife. He claimed initially that the project wages are my only source of revenue but soon admitted that his wife owned land on which they both cultivated rice and other crops. The wages are not sufcient, he said with reference to his ICDP work (conversation with author, November 28, 2001). Stationed in a roadside village on the western ank of the biosphere reserve, Stanislas and Thomas instead sold crops on the side for extra income. In the roadside village of Antanambaobe, they shared a simple, wooden house that served as a biosphere reserve information center. Fifty-year- old Stanislas was trained in the cultivation of cash crops and rice varietals and was in charge of training peasants in improved agricultural techniques. He bought rice rela- tively cheaply in the villages where he did extension work and sold it in the roadside village market of Antanambaobe. Thomas sold greens and other crops in the town market- place. Conservation agents based in villages near the national park, such as Sylvester and Jafa, directly engaged in subsis- tence agriculture, cash cropping, hunting, and shing (see Figures 4 and 5). I observed that they devoted more man hours to subsistence labor than to unsupervised conserva- tion duties. They were not necessarily stealing time from the ICDP. Apart from sporadic forest sweeps or other activi- ties, ICDP bosses failed to coordinate the monthly task load so there were long stretches of downtime. In Varary village, Sylvestre was the head of the national park, the point man for tourists passing through with their guides. He was 450 American Anthropologist Vol. 111, No. 4 December 2009 FIGURE 4. Conservation agent leaving his tavy at the end of a work day. (Photograph by Genese Sodikoff 2001) also the son of the tangalamena, a Betsimisaraka honorary title for a spiritual leader who presides over commemorative rituals to ancestors. Sylvestre would inherit this position on his fathers death. Jafas father was also an elder of the vil- lage who deeply resented the biosphere project for expropri- ating his ancestral land. He also resented the tangalamena, his cousin, because he, too, had vied for the position. Iron- ically, although Sylvestres parents claimed to fully endorse the biosphere reserve and its project, the family owned plots of tavy at the fringe of the national park. And Jafa, whose father was adamantly opposed to conservation and the bio- sphere reserve and quite open about it, did not own tavy land but cultivated parcels of paddy rice (h oraka), in which he had laboriously carved terraces to prevent erosion. In other words, each conservation agents demonstration of commitment to conservation was inversely related to his parents expression of support. The ICDP bosses expected conservation agents to ad- here to animplicit honor code by whichthey would enforce conservation rules in the village without being supervised. In reality, village-based conservation agents had to respect FIGURE 5. Conservation agent laboring his terraced rice plot with zebu. (Photograph by Genese Sodikoff, 2001) their moral obligations to kin members and neighbors in matters of agricultural and ritual labor. The ability of low- wage workers to reproduce themselves through rice farm- ing, cultivating vanilla and cloves, selling surplus crops, and hunting wild animals were the very sorts of activities that threatened the integrity of the protected rain forest. Not only did many subsistence activities break conserva- tion rules, they also reinforced the social bonds of the vil- lage. Moreover, the cultivation of rice and cash crops (par- ticularly cloves and vanilla) occupied conservation agents energy during certain periods. Conservation agents delity to their own people, reliance on group labor for agricultural tasks, and energy spent on subsistence tasks opened win- dows of opportunity for others to clear land in the national park or extract resources, such as timber, plants, and pro- tein, without fear of reprisal. For example, on a hot day in March of 2001, the time of year when peasants spent time weeding elds, weaving mats and baskets, and building houses, Sylvestre guided me from his village into the protected core of the reserve. Our view of the village and surrounding lands widened as we ascended the trail until we gazed on a panorama of shorn mountains and valleys with occasional clumps of forest. These were remains of the parks earlier limits, explained Sylvestre. In the years following the establishment of the Biosphere Reserve in 1989, Betsimisaraka rice peasants had cut and burned the Verezanantsoro forest to its current di- mensions. The path led us into the cool woods. We passed green and yellow signs, constructed and staked by the conser- vation crew, that noted the distance to a waterfall, the Latin name of a massive thicket of bamboo, and the el- evation of the highest peak. Clove trees and red bands of paint around the tree trunks of one side of the trail marked the boundary between buffer zone, in which we walked, and the ofcial park. The clove trees on the parks boundary symbolized the workerpeasant dualism of con- servation labor. They had been planted by members of the conservation crew, who had formed a secret clove cooperative (unknown to the ICDP bosses). Because the trees belonged to none of them individually, the men col- lectively agreed to harvest the buds and split the earn- ings. Sylvestre stopped to pluck a leaf from a sapling on the path. He crushed it to extrude the licorice-scented sap. This is mamitranjetry, or Vipris lindriana, he an- nounced, exhibiting his knowledge of the vernacular and Latin names of ora. He crushed a different leaf between his ngers. This ones lemony. Its tolongoala. Vipris nitida. He was literally reading nature to me, making biodiversity legible. But to my eyes, the surrounding forest looked parched, monotonous, and thinly populated with trees, like a newly planted suburban woods. No rivulets or creeks, no owers. In one area, a stand of trees stood tall and leaess, killed by re. Here and there, the steep narrow trail was strewn with reddish wood chips. There was some life: birds, enormous Sodikoff The Low-Wage Conservationist 451 re-orange millipedes, and giant green beetles. The melo- dious wail of indri lemurs echoed from the canopy. Then came the sound of chopping. We approached a young couple. The woman sat at the edge of a thick, fallen nanto tree nursing her baby, and the man, clutching an axe, stood on a blanket of wood chips. He was hacking away at the outer bark of the fallen tree to get at the heartwood, good for construction. He greeted Sylvestre, and the two exchanged friendly small talk. I asked the man if I could take their photograph and promised to give him a copy, to which he gladly consented as long as I did not reveal him to the biosphere reserve project bosses. We then left the couple and ascended a crest on the trail at the forest edge. Sylvestre said that Mananara-Nords na- tional park had no buffer zone, so there had been no reason to reprimand the woodcutter. Everything beyond and inte- rior to the red-banded trees along the trail was protected, he gestured, and everything exterior to the border was open to exploitation. The biosphere project maps did in fact depict a buffer zone around the park in which extracting timber was prohibited. More important to Sylvestre, however, was maintaining good relations in his village. To report on this young family collecting wood would expose Sylvestre to the anger of residents of the village, to ostracism, to theft, and potentially to sorcery. Sylvestres moment of compro- mise reects the more generalized problem for workers of wishing to keep the peace in their resident villages by show- ing leniency to their kin and neighbors. The social value of havana na, familial relations, is central to agrarian life throughout Madagascar and is opposed to the concept of individualism. Greediness (ti-hina na, to be hungry), or stinginess, was generally derided by village residents. Individuals who acquired extra cash from a lucrative clove or vanilla har- vest tended to either deny themselves creature comforts by hiding their wealth, a suspicion that neighbors whis- pered behind their backs, or else aunted their wealth (mit- era manambola, to show one has money) in public acts of excessive generosity, such as buying food and drink for large crowds at village celebrations. Betsimisaraka ethnog- rapher Eugene Mangalaza writes that, in Betsimsaraka vil- lages, each individual may count on his network of ha- vana na [familial relations] to accumulate necessary goods. In turn, this capital may not be used for simple capitalist accumulation. Those who helped create surplus must be able to participate in the expedient of ostentatious prac- tices, where the essential aim is to reinforce havana na (1994:4041). The social value of havana na made it pos- sible for conservation agents to make a living but also un- dercut the idea of long-term planning inherent in the con- servationist ethos. DILEMMAS OF THE NEW WORKERPEASANT The rain forest is at times impenetrably darka total eclipse! in the words of one conservation agent who sought to make light of his and coworkers fears during their search for park trespassers in September of 2001. Con- servation agents dreaded the chore of rustling up forest clearers (mpiteviala) and bringing them to court in the town of Mananara-Nord, where a judge imposed terms of community service or jail time. The d eguerpissement, the forest sweep, was mainly why peasants detested the biosphere. Betsimisaraka peasants considered conservation agents participation in the d eguerpissement a betrayal of kin and kind and a capitulation to vazaha (foreigners). The d eguerpissement was supposed to take place every year, but public outcry induced the ICDP bosses to cancel the sweeps for three successive years. The long hiatus be- tween sweeps had emboldened peasants to clear land in the national park. During the d eguerpissements, most conser- vation agents took on an identity of strict enforcer. Despite their leniency at other times, the transfer of the project to ANGAP was imminent in September of 2001, and conser- vation agents worried about being retained. Yet they also avoided coming across as too harsh, which would make life in the village difcult afterward. Their conict of interest shaped their interpretation of conservations failures. Conservation agents complained of bosses decision to conduct d eguerpissements in September as being too late, because many peasants had already cleared land by then or were in the process of doing so. Conservation agents also complained that when the last sweep took place in 1998, local ofcials did not enforce conservation laws or sentences against delinquents. I dont like the corruption of the state, said one conservation agent. Reports are falsi- ed, especially at court. People are let off. Nothing changes. The forest clearers dont get enough punishment. Thats what makes me bitter (conversation with author, October 26, 2001). Their vain social sacrices made conservation agents feel devalued. The construction of deforestation as a failure of state authority justied and absolved the other- wise counter-conservationist practices of ICDP workers. The d eguerpissement in September of 2001 was staged to rid the national park of rule breakers before ANGAP, the park service, would take over the biosphere reserve and project. Conservation agents at this time fretted about their prospects of being retained by ANGAP. For many, resign- ing from the project was appealing. It would relieve stress on their aging bodies, for one. It would also defuse ten- sions with neighbors, allowing them to carry out their sub- sistence labors without interruptions due to ICDP duties, which sometimes kept them away from their villages for weeks. Conservation agents tried to warn people in the vil- lages of their approach during a period of d eguerpissement. They wanted to give peasants ample time to evacuate any settlements in the national park. When reporting forest clearers, moreover, a conservation agent confessed that he didnt write down peoples actual names (conversa- tion with author, November 8, 2001). Instead, he went through the motions, hoping fear would be enough to im- pel villagers to abandon their plots. Conservation agents justied stealing time from the ICDP and practicing 452 American Anthropologist Vol. 111, No. 4 December 2009 leniency. They pointed out the unfair allocation of ben- ets and due credit by the conservation bureaucracy as well as the harm to their social lives caused by the d eguerpissements and their association with conservation authorities. They reasoned that if the project bosses were unorganized and unwilling to heed their input regarding the timing of d eguerpissements, if bosses arbitrarily reas- signed workers to distant stations without their prior con- sent, and if local ofcials cared more about holding their ofces and reaping bribes than enforcing penalties, then why should they have to suffer the social consequences of cracking down on rule breakers? Despite their efforts to soften hardships on peasants, the conservation agents were scorned and ostracized by vil- lagers of the biosphere reserve after the d eguerpissement in September of 2001. One conservation agent explained: If a lot of people manage to cut down the forest, then a lot of these forest clearers get penalties. . . . [Those who] are really angry, theyd refuse me a drink of water. [con- versation with author, November 29, 2001] Other agents, like Jafa, suffered nancially. Varary resi- dents shunned his small store. Such behavior by neighbors put conservation agents on the defensive. They know the rules, Sylvestre said rmly (conversation with author, Oc- tober 29, 2001). For as long as they worked in teams with the gendarmes, the conservationagents expressed righteous indignation at the behavior of their fellowvillagers. As time passed, however, and conservation agents returned to their everyday lives, devoting most of their time to tavy pro- duction and cash cropping, their air of self-righteousness mellowed, as did the resentment of their neighbors. The transfer of the ICDP from UNESCOs control to ANGAP, the park service, caused intense anxiety in conser- vation agents because ANGAP might dismiss any employ- ees they deemed as disloyal to conservations mandates. At the end of 2001, biosphere conservation agents were fac- ing relocation by ANGAP to another sector of the reserve, a management decision toward which they voiced anger and disbelief. Sylvestre was devastated that ANGAP would relocate him from his home village to the other side of the reserve. The director tried to x his mind (manambao- tra saina)that is, to console him by promising his station would not be permanent. But in the meantime, Sylvestres disappointment made him more candid then usual about his job. He claimed that among all the biosphere employ- ees, conservation agents work the hardest. He went on to say: Its like nothing is planned. No program, just the d eguerpissements, which agitate the population and do not promote awareness about the environment. . . . In the beginning, we were doing [conservation] conscious- ness raising every month, but it has had no effect. And the law isnt supported by the state. The work we do is not supported. [conversation with author, November 8, 2001] He worried that ANGAP had not yet mapped out a work plan for the agents nor had their monthly wages arrived. He dreaded walking seven hours from his new station in Antanambe into town every month to collect his wages. He complained that it was also too far, too difcult, for tourists to enter the park from Antanambe. Bitter about his job and prospects for skill development, and pragmatic about peasants refusal to abandontavy inthe rainforest, he predicted that in ten more years, the little bit of park that remains will be gone (conversation with author, December 13, 2001). The next month, I visited the home of Raleva, who in my mind was the most committed conservationist of the crew. He had been laid up at home for weeks, his legs swollen and aching from what he said was rheumatism or a problem of his veins (conversation with author, January 15, 2002). Each rheumatic crisis would trigger a malarial fever. He rst experienced this disability in 1996. He g- ured it was caused by the long treks through the forest. He said, I need to get treated in Tana [Antananarivo] but the paperwork with ANGAP isnt all set up yet for me to get my medical expenses reimbursed. He could not afford to pay out of pocket, so he suffered in bed. He was distraught that ANGAP decided to transfer him to another sector of the biosphere reserve. His children were in school full-time in the town of Mananara-Nord, so this posed a great incon- venience. Because his wife worked in Antananarivo, Raleva took care of his children by himself. Theyre my future, he said. I cant spend three months in the forest doing patrols any more. If thats what ANGAP wants, Ill have to quit. But salaried jobs that could offer wages and benets com- parable to those of an international NGO or the national park service were rare, and he could not afford to resign. He believed conservation and development were moral prac- tices that would bring modernization to the countryside. Raleva also recognized the relative inequalities intrinsic to the conservation bureaucracy, where an employees value was determined by his or her nationality, ethnicity, class, gender, and social capital (education, access to telecommu- nications, contacts in the NGO and development world, etc.). As a symbol of these historical inequalities, he saw that the ICDP nurtured in Betsimisaraka peasants the post- colonial sensibility, whether or not it could also cultivate environmentalism. CONCLUSION Marx (1976:283) believed that the labor process not only transformed external, physical nature but also the per- ceptions, desires, aspirations, and moral imaginations of workers. In Madagascar, the transformation of forest-based capitalism into a proenvironment mode of production has placed new ethical expectations on agrarian labor, and lower-tier ICDP workers seemed at times to embrace tenets of environmentalism. This was most evident dur- ing d eguerpissements, when conservation agents spoke pe- joratively about the problem of delinquents in the park, Sodikoff The Low-Wage Conservationist 453 a psychologically defensive strategy, perhaps, to bear the task of arresting neighbors. It was also evident during village meetings, where conservation agents took on a teacherly role, enumerating the benets of community- forest management. However, frustrations with ICDP work also checked workers endorsement of conservation as a way of life. Their wages were low relative to the difculty of their task load. They resented their lack of voice in work meetings, the reneged promises of bosses to provide train- ing to enhance their skills, the poor coordination of tasks, and the denial of medical benets to family members. Job insecurity made them reluctant to abandon the practices and mores of village life. Their engagement in agricultural work diverted their attention from illicit goings-on in the national park, toward which they preferred to turn a blind eye most of the time anyway. The moral idiom of famil- iality compelled their leniency toward rule breakers and guaranteed that they had extra hands when they needed help sowing and reaping their rice plots or preparing ritual feasts for the ancestors. Since the recent strife in Madagascar last spring, tourism is recovering. Marojejy National Park, hit hard by the rosewood maa, reopened in May of 2009, according to its website (Marojejy.com n.d.). If tourist revenue in- creases to the point where ANGAPrenamed Madagascar National Parks Association in 2008can offer substantial raises to park staff, conservation agents might be induced to more rigorously enforce conservation rules and suffer ostracism in their communities. But these changes would not necessarily resolve the contradictions inherent in the division of conservation labor. First, the very thing that makes conservation agents effective emissaries of conserva- tion, their insiderness, would weaken as other peasants identied them as more staunchly in the camp of vazaha (foreigners). Second, a better-paid but still-understaffed conservation crew would not logically cultivate the en- vironmental subjectivity of the Betsimisaraka peasantry (Agrawal 2005). Heavier penalization might aggravate acts of delinquency beyond the means of the conservation crew to handle them. Although community conservation initiatives in villages located next to unclassied primary forest have shown promise of success, state-classied pro- tected areas are not open to such schemes. The states pol- icy of devoting a greater percentage of land to conservation and, possibly, foreign agribusiness paints a dim future. The practices of conservation and subsistence labor appear to cancel each other out. What appears counter- productive is simultaneously productive. An analysis of conservation as an evolving capitalist mode of production sheds light on the internal coherence of degrading sub- sistence practices and sustainable capitalism. These coter- minous labor processes produce a timespace continuum in which extinction events are suspended but not perma- nently evaded as well as produce value that exceeds the ecological services or utilitarian value of forest. The work of identifying oral and faunal species and making forest space more accessible to Western tourists and scientists di- rects global attention to Madagascars threatened wildlife. On the face of it, conservation is a project to rescue nonhu- man nature and redeem humanitys history. As the value of rare biodiversity rises, so does the scale of conservation and development intervention. And as aid agencies and orga- nizations reinvent their relevance, they help engineer the very brink of extinction that capitalism now claims to repair. GENESE SODIKOFF Department of Sociology and Anthro- pology, Rutgers, The State University of New Jersey, Newark, NJ 07102-1801; sodikoff@andromeda.rutgers.edu NOTE Acknowledgments. This article is based on 14 months of ethno- graphic research in Madagascar (200002), funded by Fulbright- Hays, the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation for the Social Science Research Council, and the Department of Anthropology and the Program in Labor and Global Change of the International Labor and Industrial Relations Department at the University of Michi- gan. The Wenner-Gren Foundation provided a Hunt Postdoctoral Fellowship. I am grateful for their support. I am indebted to the staff of the Mananara-Nord Biosphere Reserve, whose members are given pseudonyms in this article, as well as to residents of Varary, to Samy, Tiana, and Misa Ranaivoson, to Zosy Gabrielle, and to Haja Rakotoniasy and family. 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