The Tributary Fund is thrilled to announce that we have revamped our website so that it is more accessible to us...and more timely for you. And, our blog is now built in so there is no need to visit two sites to check out what we are doing. To keep up with us, go to www.thetributaryfund.org!
Thanks,
Claire
Friday, November 12, 2010
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Community, Culture and Conservation: Forging Ahead
My studies are focused on the roles of religion and science in western culture. It is an immense topic and one that keeps me busy but fascinated. My research has helped to better understand the origins, function, and impact of The Tributary Fund model. Stephen Jay Gould, eminent evolutionary biologist, saw religion and science as non-overlapping magisteria—realms that could reside independently, even compatibly, without interfering with each other. A self-professed agnostic, Gould felt that Abrahamic religions ask that one have faith in the unknown, while science seeks to empirically discover the unknown. Science and religion are both human constructs aimed at understanding our universe and both define our modern perspectives of the world in which we live.
The Tributary Fund works within three fundamental arenas: culture, community and conservation. We understand that culture is a result of layers of influence, including environment, economic opportunities, religion, colonialist influences, education, politics, and generational experiences. Communities are groups of people who live together, sharing a common culture, a set of values, and behaviors. The modern concept of conservation has arisen from our relatively recent understanding of the finite. Water, wildlife, and vegetation are sensitive to over-harvest, climate change, and habitat destruction. The threat of collapse has been made clear through the science of conservation biology, but response to this threat and subsequent behavioral changes haven’t yet permeated the cultures of many communities throughout the world. As we work to protect taimen, trees, or even tigers, we know that people are more likely to change bad habits as communities, together shifting to sustainable traditions and practices,
I read in today’s Wall Street Journal that people are better conservationists through tactics of shame and peer pressure. We all know religion is great at encouraging guilt! But people are social animals and behaviors are changed when leaders adopt new values for others to follow. Local poaching of elk, taimen, and musk deer has virtually stopped in the Eg-Uur because the nomads have their eyes on one another. A herder who killed a snow leopard in Bhutan on the Tibetan border is in jail because neighbors turned him in due to the fear of bad karma. In Washington DC, clean-up crews picked up 66% fewer plastic bags because grocery stores have customers ask for plastic sacks instead of automatically providing them. Community and culture come in all shapes and sizes: in schools, churches, even at the corner store. As science changes our understanding of the world, culture, as forged by everyone from Aristotle to Augustine to Darwin, must adjust to maintain the long-term viability of our oceans, forests, rivers and wildlife.Betsy Gaines Quammen
Friday, July 30, 2010
Oil and Water: My Trip to the Gulf
The Louisiana Flag is emblazoned with a momma brown pelican bleeding from three red cuts as hungry chicks huddle below. The image is known as the “pelican of piety,” a symbol of Christian devotion so deep that a mother would give her own blood to feed her children if she had no other food to offer. Forty thousand browns nest in Louisiana, which has earned it the title of “Pelican State.” Pelecanus occidentalis, the brown pelican, was virtually wiped out a hundred years ago due to human slaughter. The birds were making a comeback but declined in the 1970’s due to the widespread use of DDT. But in the last thirty years, the population rebounded and the state bird was delisted from the Endangered Species Act last year.
Most people with a bit of vacation time before them might opt for a spa or a romantic get-away, but I went to the Pelican State. I needed to witness it, to see first hand the extent of the damage incurred in the largest environmental disaster in this country. I flew to New Orleans and the Gulf Coast in order to interview religious leaders facing the impacts of the oil spill. On my travels I was surprised by the deep scars of tragedy that Katrina left. Boarded up bungalows in the Lower Ninth Ward still bear spray-painted instructions for rescue workers who floated through flooded streets five years ago. Battered shells of shopping centers sit empty, their parking lots left weedy and buckled. Further south, stretches of roads have no commerce, churches or houses in places marked as towns on the map. But despite these deep cuts and the fact that 100,000 people still haven’t returned after fleeing the flooded land, residents of New Orleans and the coast, like the pelicans, have been bouncing back.
This is what makes the April 20 oil rig explosion and spill particularly painful. In the wake of Katrina, Louisiana, like Florida, Alabama and Mississippi, must face the impacts of the largest environmental disaster in US history. In coming to this beleaguered place, I was ready to howl and moan. I expected to meet the betrayed, forlorn people whom I saw every night on the news. But I didn’t find them. Instead I saw people ready to help commercial fishermen struggling to feed their families. I met some folks who were cautiously optimistic that the spill’s legacy would become a teaching moment in deepwater drilling. I met those who were furious at BP, but scared about an offshore oil moratorium. And I met those who thought that Louisianans had only themselves to blame. But the prevailing feeling was “if we survived the hurricane, we can survive this oil spill.”
A hundred days after the explosion of the Deepwater Horizon the cap seems to be holding and the clean-up is progressing in fits and starts. Though surface oil seems to be less evident, efforts will become more erratic as the summer moves further into hurricane season. If everything goes according to the best-case scenario, the spill at 5,000 feet deep and at 50 miles off shore will be broken down largely by the microbes in this dynamic semi-tropical ecosystem. Unlike Alaska’s Exxon Valdez disaster, life in the Gulf is constantly growing, decaying, and renewing. But there has never been a leak so significant on American shores and we have no idea what the long-term impacts will be. Especially in an ecosystem so badly compromised already.
Like the vulning pelican, Louisianans have their own self-inflicted wounds. At the turn of the century, levees were built to allow for navigation between the Mississippi River and the Gulf. This prevented natural flooding of the wetlands, which had always replenished the marshes with fresh water and the mud to anchor large trees and prevent erosion. Mud now flows into the Gulf, along with agricultural run-off, and a dead zone stretches between 6,000 and 7,000 miles beyond the river’s mouth. In addition to the navigation impacts, between 1955 and 1978 the oil industry dredged and drained coastal wetlands in order to build pipelines to carry large deposits of oil and natural gas to refineries just north of the Gulf. Now saline water mixes with freshwater marshes, killing sensitive grasses which again causes erosion. Every year Louisiana looses 20,000 acres of wetlands, contributing to loss of habitat and the last line of defense in the between a raging hurricane and New Orleans.
The first signs I saw of the oil disaster were actually just that, signs. “Save our Seafood,” read banners throughout downtown New Orleans. After several trips to the Big Easy, I can see how much Louisianans love their food. Depriving them of a shrimp po’ boy for lunch is akin to stealing tango from Argentina. In a state where veins of brackish water run through marshes and cypress swamps, the very soul of Louisiana lies embodied in fruits of the sea. Eating is a ritual, a reaffirmation, and a celebration. Every sauce-drenched bite pays homage to Creole and Cajun generations of mamaws and papaws. Since fishing was banned in many areas in the wake of the spill, many restaurants were forced to pull local seafood items from their menus. You could almost hear dem rattlin’ bones of ancestors rolling in their graves.
I met with the religion reporter Bruce Nolan from the New Orleans Times Picayune, the highly awarded newspaper that won twenty Pulitzer Prizes for its coverage of Katrina. He gave me a list of names and numbers of preachers and priests working with fishing communities that have been affected by the spill. Bruce also explained the impacts of Katrina, and gave me a snapshot of post-Katrina New Orleans. I heard about regional reactions to the oil spill and the power of faith leaders in Louisiana, whom so many rely on in times of uncertainty.
Bruce shared one aspect of Katrina that astonished him—the highly coordinated interfaith emergency response. Right after Katrina, different faiths came with their respective aid organizations and instantly asserted themselves in collaborative niches throughout the relief effort. The first on the scene were Southern Baptists who arrived in New Orleans less than 24 hours after Katrina with 18-wheeler mobile kitchens to serve hot meals to the survivors and rescue teams. Next came Catholic Relief and Methodists who worked to council the homeless, hand out vouchers to Wal-Mart and the Family Dollar, and issue checks for utilities bills. Jewish aid groups sent clothing, food, and raised money for community restoration. Mennonites came with their carpentry skills to help rebuild homes. Each denomination had a skill and each worked together through the relief. Bruce marveled at their efficiency and their charity. I couldn’t help but wonder if these coalitions could team up to be proactive, rather than reactive.
After making calls and setting up meetings, I drove down to Chalmette in St. Bernard Parish where the impacts of Katrina were still so raw and evident. Reverend Henry Ballard of Christian Fellowship Church showed me where the water line had been in his church. “About ten feet, where the exit sign was…,” he explained. Henry had organized a daily prayer group for fishing families in St. Bernard Parish, driving 45 minutes to Hopedale where people show up every morning to get hired by BP for the day, laying and repairing boom. “We (local pastors) had been meeting the last three and a half years,” he explained. “We can work together for service projects and prayer. We were an organized group.” Now Henry’s group is taking turns to travel to Shell Beach, Hopedale and Delacroix--the sites of the clean-up operations in Saint Bernard Parish. With catholic Relief Services, they care for the families who are suffering due to restrictions on fishing. But it’s not just fishing families that are suffering. It’s the local guy who sold ice to keep the fish fresh. The trucker who hauled it to New Orleans. The restaurant that served the catch and the laundry service that washed the restaurants linens. Henry even told me that he heard of some churches in Alabama that are filing claims with BP over empty collection plates.
Next stop was Our Lady of Lourdes, a tiny church on a two lane highway, tucked under giant oaks and curtains of Spanish moss, where I met Father John. He ministers to two congregations in St Bernard and 60% of his congregants are fisherman. Set up next to Lourdes is a large mobile Catholic Relief truck. Catholic Relief is issuing vouchers for groceries and giving out small checks for incidentals. The week prior to my visit, Kenneth Feinberg, the man in charge of dividing BP’s $20 billion settlement was in the area meeting people affected by the spill. He has his work cut out for him—those laid off from fishing and the oil industries are simply the tip of the iceberg. The entire economy down here depends on fish and oil. The two are so closely linked that Morgan City, a nearby port, holds the Shrimp and Petroleum Festival every year. This will be its 75th year, and according to the planners, rain or shine or spill, the show will go on from September 2-6.
Lafitte, Louisiana is a town of about 3,000 folks. Until the last few years, most of them fished the coast to make a living, but apparently Chinese imports of shrimp and crabs have priced them out of the market. I was told when I visited St. Anthony’s Church that only a hundred or so families in their community work in the industry. Wearing a giant straw hat over a glistening brow, still wet from mowing the large front lawn of his church, Father Ryan showed me into his tiny, crowded office. Born in Ireland, he had been in Louisiana since 1972, and in Lafitte for almost as long. His town sits below the levees and could easily be wiped out by a big hurricane, but community members can’t decide where to put a levee, he told me, so instead they built a brand new $6,000,000 library in addition to the old one. He points to political corruption, greediness, lack of good education, and the fact that without a repaired coast, southern Louisiana is literally sunk. “I don’t know how many more hits we can take,” he said matter-of-factly.
Though Father Ryan was the reluctant to talk with me when I had called him to set up an appointment, he spent the entire afternoon with me, occasionally telling me, “I only have 10 more minutes, sweetie,” in his Irish brogue. He told me about his hopelessness over the situation and the erosion of the coast due to 10,000 miles of canals in wetlands built for pipelines. When I asked him about a project that bundles Christmas trees from New Orleans, hauling them south and dumping them into eroded areas in the hopes of building buffers, he laughed and shook his head. “Ye blind guides, which strain at a gnat, and swallow a camel,” he says and asks me if I know the passage in the Book of Matthew. I don’t, I admit, but I get the gist. When you focus on petty stuff, you miss the big picture.
When I apologized for all the time I had taken, he turned to me and asked if I’d been to the swamp. “Um, not yet.” It was 97 degrees, muggy, and it was the last place I wanted to go. But I knew this was a great opportunity. And so, even though he had “only ten minutes,” we went to a trail and entered another world. Walking through giant Cypress rooted in murky brown water, he seemed less melancholy. “This is the way it should be,” he said, dodging Spanish moss and slapping deer flies that crowded below the rim of his hat.
I had told him of my interest in bird protection and he suddenly called out, “There, look, it’s one of your friends,” pointing to a white heron as it glided through the gray-green forest. Even if Father Ryan was hopeless about the state of the environment as he pondered it from behind his desk, here he seemed contented amid the buzz of cicadas and the mysterious dull splashes of water in the lagoons. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” he asked me several times. He showed me cypress knees puking up out of the water. “They look like a bunch of old men, don’t they?” he asked. Then he implored me to take home a piece of Spanish moss. When he got to the end of the trail and back to the car, Father Ryan went back to being cynical. “I’m not sure why you wanted to see me. I can’t help much.” But he really did help. I saw his heavy heart lighten in the swamp, and he confirmed for me that nature is a tonic, even to the most hardened. Thoreau said “in wilderness, is the preservation of the world.” I’d like to think it is our salvation as well.
My last day, I traveled to Avery Island, home to Henry McIlhenny, a place famous for Tabasco Sauce and its protected coastal birds. Father Ryan had made me promise not to leave Louisiana without going to the rookery, because my dissertation is on pastors in the southern United States working to protect birds during the ravages of the millinery trade. McIlhenny is also known for his books Autobiography of an Egret and Bird City. According to local lore, McIlhenny heard about a Rajah who built a rookery of exotic birds for his queen, and after his death, as the bamboo infrastructure fell into disrepair, the birds continued to nest there, year after year. In 1892, as egrets faced extinction at the hands of the plume traders, McIlhenny went into the swamps and captured seven egrets and put them in a wire cage with artificial nests. When the migratory season arrived, he released them, and to his great delight, they returned in the spring from spending a winter in South America. Today, due to his efforts, 20,000 egrets live in an area called Bird City. The cacophony of their cries is a true celebration of McIlhenny genius. Their boisterous song represents the resilience of nature and the ability of humanity to tackle and solve conservation issue. Unfortunately, we as a species react when things are dire. Extinction gets our attention. Oil-covered birds get our attention. Huddled homeless masses stranded by a monster hurricane gets our attention. In Louisiana, I hope there is some time for careful strategic planning. What if these interfaith coalitions that coalesced during Katrina demanded coastal restoration and new policy for drilling? This team would prove unstoppable!
I flew back on the plane with the state coordinator of International Bird Rescue who was going home to celebrate her mother’s birthday. When I asked her how things were going down on the coast, she was positive, maybe even a bit boastful. She said, and I paraphrase ‘we’ve been through this before. We know what we’re doing. We’ve got birds recovering in facilities all over Florida, Louisiana and Alabama.’ She was reassuring. Yes, our Earth is resilient, but the more damage it incurs, the less it will bounce back.
I’m home in Montana. It’s in the 70’s. The sky is blue. My Spanish moss is laying flat in a notebook. And I feel better than I thought I would with my small exploration in Louisiana. I am left with two distinct impressions. I don’t think things are hopeless, like my friend Father Ryan. But I also don’t think we can count on response teams forever, no matter how well they do their jobs. Louisiana has incredibly impressive, highly skilled and organized teams. But it’s time to get out in front of disaster. The pelican of piety can feed her chicks her own blood when there is no other food around, but eventually she too will run dry no matter how many times we bandage her.
Betsy Gaines Quammen
The Tributary Fund Founder and President
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Compassion & Conservation: Inspiration and Commitment in Mongolia
May 23rd, UB, Mongolia
I hardly recognize this city from my first visit 8 years ago. Cranes and scaffoldings fill the skyline. Traffic lurches and grinds. A cacophony of horns and power tools accompany a burgeoning population increasing daily with nomads who flood the city limits. In fact, last week I read in the Ulaan Baatar Post that UB is now the most polluted city in the world due to the abundance of vehicles and wood burning stoves. When I first visited, it was possible to run for miles on broken sidewalks beside light traffic. My biggest concern then was the chance encounter with foraging packs of dogs. Now, UB has a huge population with a limited infrastructure. Recent émigrés from the steppes come in hopes of a job and an easier urban life. Together we walk through UB’s tangled chaos, dodging busses and gapping manholes; around us foreign money fast at work building structures that scrape the sky.
Because of Mongolia’s rapid development, we are more committed than ever to help Mongolians deal with the accompanying environmental pressures. I’m here for our second annual Compassion and Conservation conference; an effort aimed empowering Mongolian monks to be conservation advocates. Last week, TTF, along with Gandan Monastery, World Bank, NEMO, Alliance of Religions & Conservation (ARC), and the Mongolian Ministry of Nature and Environment hosted over 50 Buddhist nuns and monks from each province in Mongolia to address Mongolia’s environment.
Monks are becoming increasingly active on sustainability issues. As the price of gold continues to rise, the gold mining industry in Mongolia is explosive. Recently in eastern Mongolia, 60 monks staged a sit-in at a sacred site where a Chinese company was illegally mining and stopped the operation. Sacred sites in Mongolia are a top tier priority for the monks and conference dialogue centered on the need for a united front in the protection of these special areas. Conference topics also included: the promotion of traditional construction practices for monasteries; solar energy in monastic communities; ecology and environmental education for young monks and members of the lay community on environmental practices; reducing waste; and looking for the ancient ecological teachings that can be found in the ancient sutras which were hidden during the 60 years of communist rule last century.
The work at last week’s workshop represents a global effort that ARC and the UNDP launched to engage faiths around the world to design and implement strategies for environmental protection and to encourage a global network of believers to improve their relationship to the Earth. At our Compassion and Conservation conference, Mongolia’s Buddhist leaders announced an eight year plan of action for Mongolian environmental protection. Thirty similar plans crafted by a variety of traditions from nine major world faiths were announced at Windsor Castle in November 2009, by Prince Philip, founder of ARC and the Secretary-General of the United Nations, Ban Ki-moon.
The Mongolian plan is focused on several key issued: emphasizing traditional construction practices of monasteries; reviving taboos in sacred places that will discourage digging, polluting rivers, cutting trees, and killing animals; advocating biodegradeable khadags (silk ceremonial scarves tied to trees, rocks and shrines); reduction of incense use; and to continuing to examine sacred texts or sutras on the importance of nature in Mongolian Buddhism. Of Mongolia’s 600 plus sacred sites in Mongolia, at least 280 have rediscovered their own associated sutras.
The outcomes of the conference were really exciting. The monks are issuing an edict to encourage monasteries and temples to save energy and water, and monitor their consumption; develop solar capabilities; expand community gardens and green sites around monasteries; raise public awareness on traditional environmental practices; educate for forest fires prevention and other impacts caused by human factors; and to advocate reduction of plastic bags and bottles. The monks are pursuing campaigns on land and river protection by targeting mining companies without modern technologies or restoration capabilities; introducing an auspicious day of environmental celebration every year; planting trees (learning which species to plant depending on conditions and how to maintain growth); hosting environmental workshops for nomads on grazing practices; and discouraging illegal hunters from killing wildlife.
After the conference, Chimga, Sue and I celebrated the energy in the monk body and their deep commitment. Not only has UB grown since I first arrived, but so have the seeds of passion on the part of the monk body. They are truly motivated--the biggest issue right now is helping them not bite off more than the can chew! During a debriefing, while we were discussing implementation and tying up loss ends with the Buddhist leadership, Sue, Chimga and I were urgently rushed out of a room at the Gandan and handed yellow khadags. Visiting Gandan is the 9th Bogdo, a reincarnate of Zanabazar, the founder of Mongolian architecture and the country’s most celebrated lama and artist. We were whisked into private apartments guarded by several security guards and told to wait. After a few minutes, we kicked off our shoes, shed our purses at the assistance of stern monks, and were ushered into a back room. There sat Zanabazar, living his ninth life on Earth. We received a quick blessing from the ancient man, cross-legged and tired, loudly coughing. This beloved bodhisattva, so revered in Mongolia, is clearly nearing a time when he will depart this life and return again. It was a very special note on which to end our work...
As I pack to return home, I feel inspired in a way that has alluded me recently. Step by step, we see a deepening environmental commitment —incredibly important due to the increasing symptoms of rapid modernization! I leave eager to work on next goals and feel blessed (literally!) to be working with such incredible people. I can say to you with absolute conviction, is that across the planet, in a city that’s bursting at the seams, there is hope for a cleaner, greener world.
Betsy
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Measuring Happiness by the Breadth of a Smile
Nursing a cold, but nothing too bad. I am actually happy to stay in my room today after a rigorous and exhilarating walk yesterday with Patrizia, an Italian who grew up in Afghanistan and Iran, moved to Bhutan in the 80’s and married a Bhutanese man who now serves at the Minister of Foreign Affairs. She is ebullient and full of energy, sharing stories and insights into the people and direction of Bhutan. Her biggest pet peeve is connecting “indicators” to track GNH. This is a philosophy, not statistics, she explained. It was what the King said was the be valued over GNP. She told me that when the Prime Minister heard about linking GNH with measurable outcomes, he said, ‘I measure my happiness by the breadth of my smile.’ But indicators have indeed been established in the interest of foreign aid agencies. These indicators are based on: Time Use (value of civic and voluntary work, value of unpaid housework and child care, value of leisure time, paid work hours); Living Standards (income and its distribution, financial security - debt and assets, economic security index; Natural Capital (soils & agriculture, forests, fisheries and marine resources, energy, air, water); Human Impact on the Environment (solid waste, ecological footprint, greenhouse gas emissions, transportation); Human and Social Capital (population health, costs of crime, educational attainment).
Patrizia’s history is extraordinary. She talked of visiting the Bamyan Valley every year, 143 miles northwest of her former home in Kabul, with her family where they vacationed in the valley of a thousand Buddhas. Once a central stopping point of silk route traders, Bamyan is now famous for the Taliban’s policy to destroy all ‘idols.’ In 2001, after using dynamite, anti-aircraft guns, artillery, and anti-tank mines to chip away at two huge Buddhas (one was 180 feet tall, the other 121) for weeks, men were ultimately lowered down a rock cliff to place explosives into holes in the statue’s faces. Patrizia explained that the valley contained countless states, paintings, and rooms built into the surrounding rock faces. It was a lovely place to vacation and one whose memory continues to captivate her. She recalls being stuck en route to Bamyan as nomads with hundreds of camels lumbered along the road, their possessions piled atop their long-legged beasts of burden. The family sat and watched for two hours as the caravan carefully negotiated the high mountain cliff road until disappearing into the dust.
Our caravan consisted of two women and a sweet natured little black dog, named Chu-Shon or “small face” (forgive all spelling and recollection of Dzonka!). We three walked the steep trail, winding through lush rhododendron trees and pines draped in soft gray-green mossy-lichen. Yaks walked unyoked, wandering vertically up and down the mountain, jangling musical bells tied to their necks. We stuck to the rutted switch backs, carved for centuries by monks, pilgrims, and long-dead yaks, who no doubt provided the genetic material of the off-duty off-spring clanking through the trees today. It snowed lightly on us as we passed chortens (small monuments), picked up garbage left by careless hikers (most likely the monks themselves!) and talked of Patrizia’s two children, the difficult birth of her first born, and her passion for Bhutan. She had no tolerance for ineffectual foreigners with good intentions but bad ideas.
“They cannot make mistakes here. The Bhutanese are allowed the occasional mistake, but foreigners who come to help, have to make Bhutan the priority, not their own interests. We can not afford the mistakes of outsiders.”
When we reached the monasteries (were there ten? twelve?), we rested, drank water and watched the children of the yak herders playing with wooden darts. Dogs barked and chased one another as puppies yelped for milk from their skinny mother. We looked down at Thimpu, a city modernizing at an alarming rate, from a vantage point seemingly a thousand miles and years away.
Our trip down was quick and we arrived at Patrizia’s car at dusk with a bag of trash and made our way back to her house. Her husband, Ugen Tserling, the Minister, had just returned from India on business. He was getting a cold, and seemed quite tired; after being diagnosed with Parkinson’s the year before, everyday is a struggle for him. He was beyond kind and gentle, and I shared an early dinner with him, Patrizia and their fourteen year old daughter Laura, home for the holidays from a Thai boarding school.
Patrizia told me that Ugen had finally opened up about his condition to Michael J. Fox, a fellow sufferer, who visited Bhutan looking for clues to happiness and exploring optimism for a documentary. In Bhutan, while there are people fighting Parkinson’s, apparently no one discusses it openly. Ugen was able to share his experience with perhaps the most famous, and certainly most well traveled (he’s gone back to the future in a nuclear Delorean!), person in the world. Patrizia said that this meeting offered Ugen a great deal of comfort.
And so here I am, listening to the deep notes of the long Tibetan Buddhist horns being blown, punctuated with the crash of cymbals. It’s impossible to escape Buddhism here, not that I’d want to. The smell of incense, the ready smiles, the deep earthly bellowing chants, and the dry rattle of pray beads are enveloping. So many travel here to understand what makes this place so magical. I hope TTF can, in a small way, show Patrizia that we’ll heed her warning and do good here. She did laughingly ask if she could open TTF’s Bhutan office. Not a bad idea!
~ Betsy
Friday, December 18, 2009
The Youngest and Most Reluctant Democracy in the World
Today is National Day and the stragglers still in the country after last’s weeks GNH conference piled into a bus and drove to the stadium for the morning’s festivities. We were ushered onto the field, carefully avoiding the rice designs covering the red carpet, and seated in reserved aisles set aside for civil servants and visiting guests. Before us were placed plates of candy and beetle nut, the latter a mild intoxicant that is chewed in leaves and responsible for red teeth and crimson spittle all over the sidewalks. The occasion was full of pomp and circumstance, with elegant lamas in red silk and the military in full dress uniforms. A marching band performed as the King’s father arrived. K4, as he’s affectionately called, abdicated his throne last year to his son, the fifth king. This esteemed member of the Wangchuk dynasty also brought democracy to this country by holding elections in Dec of 2007, making it both the youngest and most reluctant democracy in the world.
According to writer Kavi Chongkittavorn, “Before the poll, Bhutan had been governed - for the past 129 years - by an absolute monarch. But a few years ago the former King Jigme Wangchuk Namgyal decided to transform his Himalayan kingdom and began preparing for democracy.
Unlike other new democracies elsewhere, Bhutan's democratic transition was smooth and peaceful, as it was bestowed willingly by the king. The elected members of both houses of parliament,” he continues, “ amount to less than 100 of the kingdom's total population of 680,000. The success or failure of democratization in Bhutan will depend solely on their cooperation and professionalism.”
Democracy has not been easy in Bhutan. The monarchy is so well-loved that the Bhutanese didn’t understand the need for an elected government. But democracy prevailed and Prime Minister Jigmi Y. Thinley was sworn in to office in April, 2008.
Explains the PM Thinley,
“The people were, yes, apprehensive. (About democracy) The people were not keen on bringing the kind of change that, in their eyes and in their mind, could not be very different from what they saw in the world at large and in particular in our neighboring countries in South Asia. In many of the countries, democracy had failed or was in the process of failing, and leading to tremendous upheavals, strife among the people. In some cases, they have seen so much violence that people felt that under the benevolent rule of a king, who was so very popular, who was revered, loved, and adored by the people, they had the best. And they were not about to give up the best that they had for something that, as I said, could perhaps not be different from what they saw elsewhere. So they were anxious. But the king prevailed over them, saying that even though the final choice must be theirs, they must realize that the king becomes the leader only by the accident of birth and not by merit or by virtue, and that to place the future of a country in the hands of such a person is not in the long-term interest of the country.”
Change is happening so fast in Bhutan. Chongkittavorn mentions, “In 2003, the kingdom had no mobile phones; now one-third of the population has a mobile phone while there are only 25,000 fixed lines. With the proliferation of satellite dishes and cable and direct TV, even the remote villages hidden in the mountains now have access to hundreds of channels - and the means to get more of the information they will need to make democracy work.” Of course that access also creates a corrosion in traditional values. Without a great deal of media literacy, TV will of course cause more problems than it may be cure.
But enough about that! Back to the event...
The fifth king arrived at last draped in a gold sash. Regaled by bodyguards over whom he towered, the young monarch was resplendent. With his arrival, the program commenced with prayers. Then the King gave an address in Dzonka, the national language, after which he offered numerous awards to notable citizens. Then the dances began with whirling “heroes” in colorful silks, beautiful “angels” running to protect their kingdom, and school children performing folk dances. I caught a few snippets on a very crude video camera—I'll post later. The program ended with tug-of-war, tae kwon do, and a national dance in which we all participated, three giant circles slowly moving clockwise and as we shifted our hands up and down. It was a ball!
Oh, almost forgot to mention—I spoke with the King. (I actually didn’t forget at all—I met the KING!!!) He was so tall and striking. He came over to the small knot of GNH participants and chatted us up. He was so gracious, articulate, and handsome--distinctions that have earned him a very large following of teen-aged Asian girls. As the youngest monarch in the world, he is also amazingly humble and committed to Bhutan. Here is an excerpt from his coronation address:
"Throughout my reign I will never rule you as a King. I will protect you as a parent, care for you as a brother and serve you as a son. I shall give you everything and keep nothing; I shall live such a life as a good human being that you may find it worthy to serve as an example for your children; I have no personal goals other than to fulfill your hopes and aspirations. I shall always serve you, day and night, in the spirit of kindness, justice and equality."
Friday:
Today will be quiet, but tomorrow I join my friend Patrizia for a day long hike up to a monastery. Should be a good work out—a climb to 13,000!
~ Betsy
300 Cranes Providing Mood Music
Monday morning, early!
I’m here in spectacular Phobjikha Valley, home to black-necked cranes, tigers, Himalayan black bear, leopards, boar, red fox, sambars, muntjaks, and lots of dogs. It’s the site of our first Bhutanese project with the Royal Society for Protection of Nature (RSPN).
Yesterday I drove here in a new pick-up truck with RSPN staff members Richen, Jigme, and Chetan. We stopped along the way for lunch and vegetable shopping and bought buckets of chilies, a Bhutanese favorite. An old woman who measured the red and green thumb sized fruits (veggies?) on old fashioned hand held scales. We also stopped for some peppery lettuce from a road side stand, where the attending father and daughter carefully wrapped a head in newspaper and informed us that they were not charging for the produce. When I asked why these people, who weren’t rich by any stretch, were giving their crops away, Richen shrugged and said, “It’s so normal in Bhutan. When we go to buy vegetables, if we only buy one thing, the farmer sometimes says, ‘It’s so little, just take it.’ People here give so much away...” Another example of Gross National Happiness in practice!
This morning, I’m finishing a breakfast of rice and beans (a standard the world over, like corn flakes, which have also been offered to me every morning). I’m waiting for Richen to come and help dress me. Tserling, another RSPN staff in Thimphu, took me shopping for a half kira to wear while I’m in the field. I’ve been told that the Bhutanese really like to see foreigners in Bhutanese traditional costume, though many visitors wear jeans, even to monasteries. So today I will break-out my ankle length wrap-around skirt to show some R-E-S, P-E-C-T!
Monday evening:
Sitting down to a warm fire and a cold “Druk 11000, Super Strong Beer!” The beer doesn’t seem strong, but I’m at 9,500 feet and I’ve been working since the crack of dawn, so I’d better write this fast, because, given time, the Druk (Dragon!) 11000 is going to sap me of my already limited cognitive abilities. Today was so full. I visited two monasteries and met with Phobjikha Valley’s governance board, which included two county “headmen,” the head of the agricultural unit, the head of the forestry unit, and the valley’s leaders of Bhutan’s opposing political parties. These opposition leaders are two middle aged women who are best friends. The national newspaper did an article on them last year, explaining how opposing political views should not cause friction. These ladies have been touted nationally for their exemplary Bhutanese behavior, serving as role models in promoting productive relationships between citizens with differing views.
Phobjikha Valley is absolutely glorious. “On the western slopes of the Black Mountains, bordering the Jigme Singye Wangchuch National Park, this valley is one of the most important wildlife preserves in the country,” reads my Lonely Planet Bhutan guide books. On this particular day, the sun filters through clouds that hem the valley, shining down on prayer flags whipped by winds. The songs of the three hundred cranes provide mood music as we walk through the hummocky wetlands to pay visits to the local people.
At the Gangte Goemba, we arrived at lunchtime (much to our embarrassment—so presumptuous!), and were guided to tables heaped with Bhutanese red rice, sliced pork fat, and ema datse—the ketchup of Bhutan—chilies and cheese. The food was delicious! The Khenpo (head lama) was incredibly friendly and wants very much to work on conservation. He has just started a nature club, but is hungry for activities, curricula and training. I’m meeting with him next week to follow-up, but I am thrilled to say, “we’ve got game in Bhutan!” This monastery is perfect to begin monastery eco-clubs and he is also quite keen on bringing in ecology studies. I left him with first aid kits and some over-the-counter medicine. Before I walked out into the cold sunshine, Khenpo had a band-aid on his finger. Not sure if it was for an old cut or just for decoration.
The Phobjikha Valley, in addition to its abundant wildlife, also provides a home to a potato farming community. According to local sources, once upon a time, a wild boar and a snake had a race to determine the crop that the valley could grow. If the snake won, the valley could grow rice; if the boar crossed the finish line first, the valley would grow potatoes. It seems that boar won. The valley now grows potatoes for export to India.
As the population has increased in Phobjikha and potato production has increased, chemical fertilizers and pesticides have found their way into the valley wetland, Bhutan’s largest. There is a real concern that these chemicals will destroy the crane habitat along with the valley’s drinking water. The valley residents understand the issue, but there is no market for organic potatoes in Bhutan or in Indian towns near the Bhutanese border. Without economic incentive, there is no interest in changing agricultural practices. But, there is one idea that Phobjikha’s Governing Board is eager to explore—organic potato chip production. They are very enthusiastic about producing organic potato chips and are eager for TTF to help them explore options. They feel that organic boutique potato chips might find a market in India and China. When I get back, I promised to convene our business committee and look into this idea—it seems very doable. Training and a market would encourage all of the valley farmers to go organic!
As is the issue with agricultural runoff, human waste is a huge issue in the valley. Sanitation is becoming an increasingly difficult issue and if I heard the word toilet once, I heard it a thousand times. I was told that the other valley monastery is desperate for green toilets for a dorm they are building in the middle of the wetland. When I asked why the structure was in the middle of the wetland, it was explained to me that the dorm is next to their monastery, also in the middle of the wetland. Why is this monastery in the middle of a wetland, I wondered. Well, it seems that about 600 years ago one of Bhutan’s most famous monks, Lama Drukpa Kunley, “the divine madman,” dreamed that a monastery should be built on this spot. And it was built here, about 600 years ago. I guess it’s hard to argue with a lama who blessed people with a wooden phallus, a practice that Lama Drukpa Kunley was famous for, and one that accounts for the penises painted on houses and shops throughout the country. And so I promised to research toilets and sanitation in wetland areas when I returned.
I’m taking my last sip of Druk 11000 and heading to bed. To sum up: This valley is so critical to the black necked crane, that if we could put some thought into altering farming methods, building composting toilets designed for areas of high water tables, training programs for the Khenpo and monks on water quality and wildlife conservation, and piggy-backing on active environmental education programs that RSPN has already rolled out, we could make Phobjikha a model community for harmonious human-wildlife relationships in critical habitat. Could be cool!
~ Betsy
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