Who eats Whom, Sustainability, and Environments

Top photo a selection of Mazatec special foods, Huautla de Jiménez, Oaxaca, Mexico from 1999 Society of Ethnobiology field trip bottom photo Spring (Chinook) salmon hanging in the smokehouse, Moricetown, BC 1984 (AS Gottesfeld photo) Ultimately, trophic relations (who eats whom/what) are fundamental in ecology, and in human relationships to other organisms. Unless we are able to photosynthesize, we must consume something. Some human groups raise food plants and animals. Some gather, hunt or fish. For most peoples, taking the life of animals to use their flesh as sustenance require some kind of spiritual recognition (prayer, offering, thanks, appropriate practices) for the ultimate sacrifice of the life of one creature to sustain another. Indigenous North American cultures are noted for the elaboration of respectful practices in hunting and fishing. Mexican and Central American cultures (among many world-wide) create and plant milpa, and harvest crops, with ceremony and prayer. Contemporary urban Europeans and North Americans are largely insulated from these trophic relations, and pondering carefully the ethical aspects of where our food (both plant and animal) comes from. It comes, as it were, from the store.....and where before that is largely both invisible and out of mind. Some remnants of the cultural significance of the harvest remain in North American Thanksgiving holidays, which I’ve written about before in this blog. This weekend we celebrate the Canadian version, and I will roast a turkey, and make cranberry sauce, pumpkin pie and apple pie from my own apples. Foodways are fundamental to cultures, deeply imbued with meaning. And the ultimate necessity to take in sufficient calories and nutrients, whatever the source(s) is literally vital, necessary to individual human survival. For those of us who have enough (or too much) to eat from the industrial global food system, the notion that one must derive one's food from the local environment is entirely alien. Today I was speaking with a colleague who lamented that in her rural area of northeastern British Columbia, it was impossible to find even fruits and vegetables from western Canada in the local supermarkets; most things come from the United States or South America. I am fortunate that, although I live in one of Canada’s larger cities, it has a large local food movement, and a number of farmer’s markets. In our highly seasonal environment, we are lucky that we have several Farmer’s Markets that run year round, enabling at least regional produce throughout the year (by regional I include Alberta and British Columbia). Really only the fruit comes from as far as southern British Columbia; most of the meat, poultry, grain, potatoes and root vegetables, and the greens and tomatoes come from a radius of a couple of hundred kilometres. Although the food supply is being increasingly globalized, for many people, especially those who live a subsistence lifestyle, the local environment must still supply almost all needs for food, medicines, and material culture. Many of these people live in the tropical and subtropical regions of the world. Being able to conceive of the fauna and flora of these exotic and distant environments in completely non-utilitarian terms (as objects of beauty, pure and unsullied spirits, as vulnerable others we must protect, etc.) is a luxury only possible because these places are not our home, and we are not dependent on these ecosystems for our personal survival. The construction of distant iconic rainforests as pristine reserves of biodiversity, and the lungs of the planet, while erasing the previous history and present reality of human occupance, in a way colonizes these spaces for "our" benefit and enjoyment, and denies the rights, needs and sovereignty of their human inhabitants. While conservation of biodiversity and avoidance of catastrophic anthropogenic climate change are vital global priorities, social justice and creation of sustainable solutions to global problems demand that we attend to the needs of local peoples while seeking to preserve global ecologies, and that we do not sweep aside local systems to serve “structural readjustment” and “debt servicing” of the nation states in which they dwell.

Spring and Oolachans

Apologies for the delay...this was actually written in March 0f 2010 and got lost as a draft. sigh. I got distracted trying to find photos. This one is an overview of the camp at Fishery Bay in spring 1980, showing the drying oolachans hanging on the racks.

Equinox time again...the spring equinox always seems to look forward, while the Fall perhaps look back. As the snows melt and anticipation of spring rises, the air is fresh and wet and full of smells and birdsong, I think about oolachan time. Oolachan, also spelled eulachon (Thalicthys pacificus) are anadromous smelt, rich in oils. In coastal Alaska the same fish are prized, and often termed “Hooligans”. Their arrival in the estuaries of rivers along the coasts of British Columbia and Alaska was widely anticipated and welcomed, as they brought an abundant source of fresh and rich food at a time in the year when stored foods were diminished and declining in quality, and hunting was extremely difficult due to deep wet soft snow. Many years ago my then husband and young daughter canoed to Fishery Bay on the Nass Estuary. The Nass (the name apparently means “belly” and comes from Tlingit) drew people from all the surrounding nations at the time of oolachan harvest in mid March to early April. Cedar dugout canoes made the trip from Haida Gwaii. Tsimshian and Nisga’a converged on their fish camps. Inland Gitksan and Witsuwit’en walked long trails known as “grease trails” through deep melting snows to the head of canoe navigation to come to harvest and trade for grease, the rendered oil that was (and is) the most prized product of the little fish. I was told they carried so much that each leg of the trail had to be walked three times to carry the goods to the coast and then back again with grease and fish. When Allen and Rose and I visited the fish camp of Charlie and Eunice Swanson when Rose was about 3, Eunice told us a story....she said that spring salmon and the oolachan had an argument about who was the saviour of the people....she laughed and said she forgot who won.

At the fish camp in Fishery bay the clouds of gulls wheel and fly in every direction, startled into the air by the slightest sound. They are attracted to the fish run, and to the fish meal left over after the grease is rendered. There is plenty of food for the birds. When we visited there some 30 years ago, people harvested some of these fat oolachan fed gulls along with the fish....I had never heard of anyone eating gulls before (nor since), but apparently they are quite palatable when they have been feeding on oolachan. People also hunted seals that came to follow the spawning oolachans.

The three pole frames for air-drying oolachans (digit) are conspicuous features of the oolachan camps. The long hand knotted trawls (long cone shaped nets) hung to dry after use are another conspicuous feature of the camps. These nets were formerly made of nettle fibre twine, and apparently took a year to make....no small amount of labour, given the need to harvest many mature tall nettle stalks and process them into fibre, spin the twine, and then knot the long fine net. It is fortunate that the rich soils fertilized by fish meal around the camp are excellent places to grow good quality nettles...and the investment in time to make the net would be repaid with tons of nutritious fish good for one’s own family use as fresh, dried, and smoked fish, and as fish oil. The fish and oil are valued and valuable for trading and for feasting (potlatching), where consumption and sharing of the grease adds stature to the Chief’s name and House.

Today walking in the ravine in Edmonton, the weather was fresh, and the melting snow and moist air reminded me of northwest BC in March. I found a tall fireweed stalk from last year, which had retted enough over the winter, and which was moist enough to work, and twisted a length of string while I walked. I used to do this with nettle stalks from by our barn when I lived in northwest BC. At the Museum of Civilization last month, I wasn’t able to see the nettle cord net they have in their collection, but I did see two spreading dogbane bana or large dipnets, and a couple of hanks of prepared fibre from dogbane(Apocynum androsimaefolium, related to Indian hemp) , called lekx in Gitksan, ready to twist into twine for netmaking. The dogbane cord in the nets was so well made and uniform I never would have believed it to be locally made cordage if the tag and accompanying fieldnotes hadn’t explicitly identified the material of the cord.

Seasonal knowledge and knowledge of seasonal cycles is vital in traditional life; being able to predict the timing of the spring high tides that will bring the life-giving oolachans was important business that could make a life or death difference to people’s ability to survive the year. Knowing when to start out from inland areas more than 100 kilometres away by trail was an exacting business. One way of coordinating this seasonal round of harvest and trade was by traditional phenological knowledge, such as the song of the robin which to Gitksan means that the steelhead (milit) will be moving in the rivers and can be caught. Another way is by the use of “calendrical sites” where the shift in location of the rising sun is tracked over a period of weeks at a known site to determine when it is time to depart the winter camp to go down river to meet the salmon (the “footprints” on the Sam Goozley territory, a Witsuwit’en clan territory are one such site). Talking to a colleague of mine at Tofino on Vancouver Island a couple of weeks ago I inquired about whether oolachan were on the coast. She replied that there were no longer oolachan runs into rivers on the west coast of Vancouver Island, but that the herring were in. The roe of spawning herring was another important seasonal resource on the coast, and I recall the crunchy salty taste of the roe with fondness.

Equinox...moving into the bright half of the year.

a Visit to the Salt Steppe in Hungary- ancient cultural landscape

The Salt Steppe (puszta) of the Hortobágy in Eastern Hungary is a wide grass dominated plain of low relief. The Tisza River meanders north and west to it. The local relief, though only a couple of meters, creates subtle and intricate gradients of moisture and salt, with the higher loess dominated areas relatively fertile and the depth to saline layers relatively large. Low lying places are dominated by marsh vegetation and standing water (reeds, bullrushes and the like). The intermediate elevations are alternately wet and dry, and hypersaline, with white salt crusts on the ground between sparse clumps of fescue. My friend and colleague Zsolt Molnár studies the herders’ knowledge of plant communities and environmental variation, matters of deep concern to them because of the subtleties of forage plant value, timing of availability to their herds, quantity and spatial distribution of forage through the year. This open area is also very rich in bird life, and tourists and nature lovers from throughout Europe come to visit this landscape. It has been designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site, and is a National Park within Hungary. This ecosystem has also been home to humans for thousands of years, and the activities of humans have shaped, and continue to shape, the landscape. The activities of pastoralists have pervasive and often subtle effects on the landscapes that are grazed. The traditional knowledge of the behaviour and needs of the flocks and herds, and the nature and response of the vegetation and landscape, are part of what makes the continuing co-existence of people and landscape possible. Heritage breeds of animals, expecially the long horned Hungarian Gray cattle, and the incongruously curly-haired Mangalitza pigs are also conserved in the Hortobágy. It is apparent that herding has been going on in this landscape for a minimum of 1200 years, and likely for far longer. The Magyars were horse riding herding people who settled in the region about 900 AD, coming from Central Asia, and continuing pastoral traditions of that region. Likely herding peoples were in this landscape already before the Magyars settled. The features of the Hortobágy, then, that led to its preservation are born of a continuing relationship of people and land. The disturbance regime, if you will, that creates and maintains this landscape is one of human and animal activity, a pastoral regime, repeated in a sustainable way through time. This interaction is supported by tacit and embodied knowledge, learned through practice and close observation. Herders, Molnár finds, are not learning their trade and practices through formal education. Their knowledge, however, is often not perceived nor valued by formally trained managers, biologists, or park personel. Molnár’s research established that herders and biologists alike recognize the same groupings of grasses, forbs and marshy graminoid plants, and see the same drivers. Their actual classifications differed somewhat, because the herders’ primary concern is forage quality and distribution, where the botanists are more concerned about predicting the distribution of vascular plant species. Maintenance of the land requires the herders, and even the Park staff and managers of the UNESCO site have recognized that traditional herding activities are the best way to maintain the character of the landscape and vegetation. The herders we visited were herding cattle. Jóska is a young herder, bicultural, if you will, in that he was traditionally trained and also formally studied nature conservation. Although there has been a drought and grass growth is much shorter than normal, when we visited, it was pouring rain. Jóska, rain poncho clad, and his two dogs were at work, watching and moving the herd of 187 cows, calves and heifers that he manages for a consortium of 5 owners. His cattle are an all purpose mix, part Hungarian Grey, but also Simmenthal and some other types, resulting in a Hungarian Coloured variety dating from the 19th century. These cattle thrive here, and produce both meat and milk. The cattle are corralled at night next to Jóska’s herder’s hut. The bull is penned separately, and services cows and heifers who come in season each morning. He is fed hay and does not range. When they leave the corral, the cattle choose they way they will go, and Jóska and dogs follow. They move within a large area that is not fenced, and herder and dogs keep the herd together, and keep them moving and feeding, I am not sure if anyone has examined the effects on plant productivity and species mix of this strategy of continuous cropping and movement. I would anticipate that it would reduce overgrazing in specific localities, maintaining high productivity and forage growth. There are seasonal aspects to where they graze too. Some areas are productive in spring, but later barren and saline (pH 9 or 10!). The wetlands are likely grazed at the end of the season when more palatable and nutritious forage is gone. In the past herds were moved from the Hortobagy into the adjacent sand hill area in winter, but owing to changes in land tenure and the policy environment, this no longer occurs, and the herd remains in the Hortobágy to be fed on hay in the winter. There are fewer herds than in the past. Formerly, there were herds of horses, cattle, sheep and swine on the Hortobágy. Herders complain that some areas are becoming overgrown by willows and scrub, especially along the river channel banks, because there is not enough grazing. I found that the way of herding cattle differed significantly from what I have observed and briefly participated in North America. Cattle were not left to roam at will in a large fenced pasture or extensive range, but instead were actively herded and constantly attended during daily bouts of feeding on the pasture. The dogs are mixed breed and highly intelligent working dogs, closely attuned to the herder with whom they work and to the behaviour of the animals. The dogs respond to visual cues from the herder, the position of the staff indicating direction dogs are to go, or that they are to return to the herder. A staff raised to the left means that the dogs go to the left, and contain cattle movement on that side of the herd. The herders may use whistling or voice command, e.g. to send a dog or to restrain an eager dog that wants to engage in a herding movement against the judgement of the herder. But a good herder often directs his dogs with very little movements of hand and barely audible sound. The dogs know how to keep the herd together, turn the herd, and cut off strays or small groups that try to move away from the mass of cattle. Jóska sent both dogs for a large movement of the herd, and only one to contain just a few animals. I'm going to include some photos so you can get a sense of the place, the experience and the way of life.

Hungarian Gray Cattle, a heritage breed. Photo by Leslie Main Johnson

The herder Jóska with his dogs, accompanied by Viktor, Leslie, Anna, and Andras. Photo by Zsolt Molnár. References: Molnár, Zsolt. Forthcoming (2012). Classification of Pasture Habitats by Hungarian Herders in a Steppe Landscape (Hungary). Journal of Ethnobiology and Ethnomedicine (available on-line) Molnár, Zs. (2012). Traditional Ecological Knowledge of Herders on the Flora and Vegetation of the Hortobágy. Hortobágy Természetvédelmi Közalapítvány, Debrecen.